Boys and I: A Child's Story for Children

  Produced by Annie McGuire

  The Boys and I

  Mrs. Molesworth

  Illustrated by Lewis Baumer

  "Oh, young man, this house is to be sold, I hear!"--PAGE32.]

  The Boys and I

  A Child's Story forChildren

  byMrs. Molesworth

  Illustratedby Lewis Baumer

  E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY, NEW YORKW. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED.LONDON AND EDINBURGH.

  CONTENTS.

  CHAP. PAGE

  I. OUR FIRST SORROW 7

  II. REAL AND PLAY 23

  III. THREE LITTLE TRAVELLERS 40

  IV. THE AIR-GARDEN 62

  V. A NEW TROUBLE 85

  VI. WE TRY TO BE GOOD 106

  VII. TOAST FOR TEA 127

  VIII. WANTED A STAMP 149

  IX. MISS GOLDY-HAIR 173

  X. TOM'S SORE THROAT 195

  XI. OUR TEA-PARTY 216

  XII. THE WHITE DOVE 238

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

  PAGE

  "Oh, young man, this house is to be sold, I hear?" _Frontispiece_.

  Miss Goldy-hair 39

  "Dear me," said Mrs Partridge at once, "what weak eyes he has!" 57

  "May we come near the fire, if you please?" 67

  "London isn't a very nice place, is it?" 83

  For his hair was very tuggy this morning 97

  He was not a very amusing person 107

  We made holes at the crusty side of the slices, and tied them with string 135

  "Has any one attended to you, my dear?" 169

  We thanked him, and ran off 172

  "Can't you trust me, Audrey?" 193

  In walked Miss Goldy-hair herself! 209

  Read to him over and over again all the stories I could find 215

  Two muffins would be exquisite 227

  "Wait for the first moonlight night and you will see," said the dove, and then it flew off 243

  Racey was really rather frightened of him, he looked so black and queer 259

  The Boys and I]

  CHAPTER I.

  OUR FIRST SORROW.

  "O, it is trouble very bad, Which causes us to weep; All last night long we were so sad, Not one of us could sleep."

  Sometimes they called us all three just "the boys." But I don't thinkthat was fair. I may have been rather a _tom_boy, but I wasn't quite sobad as to be called a "boy." I was nine then-- I mean I was nine at thebeginning of the time I am going to tell you about, and now I amfourteen. Afterwards, I will tell you what put it into my head to writeit down. If I told you now you wouldn't understand--at least not withoutmy telling you things all out of their places--ends at the beginning,and middles at the end; and mother says it's an awfully bad habit to dothings that way. It makes her quite vexed to see any one read the end ofa book before they have really got to it. There aren't many things thatmake her really vexed, but that's one, and another is saying "awfully,"and I've just said it, or at least written it. And I can't score itthrough--I've promised not to score through anything, and just to leaveit as it came into my head to write it all down.

  I was nine that year, and Tom was seven, and little Racey six. Iremember it quite well, for that year a lot of things happened. Tom andI had the measles, and how it was Racey didn't have them too I don'tknow, but he didn't. And just when we were getting better, the firstvery big thing that we had ever known about, happened. Papa was orderedto go to China! (I dare say it seems funny to you that we call him"papa" and mother "mother." I can't tell you how it was, but we alwaysdid it, and Tom and I used to like to hear Racey say "papa." He said itin such a sweet way, more like the way little French children say it.)

  Papa wasn't a soldier, or a sailor, as you might think. He was somethingvery clever, with letters after his name, and he had to go to Chinapartly because of that. Now that I am big I understand about it, but Ineed not say exactly, because then you might find out who he was, andthat wouldn't be nice. It would be like as if I thought we were clevereror nicer than other people, and I don't think that--at least not in astuck-up way, and _of course_, not at all about myself. It isn't anyharm to think it a little about one's father or mother, I don't think,but of course not about one's-self.

  I shall never forget the day I heard about papa's going away. I keepsaying "papa's going away," because you see it had to do with him, butit was even worse than his going, though that would have been badenough. It was just as we were getting better of the measles, and we hadbeen very happy all day, for mother had been telling us stories, and wehad had quite a "feast" tea--sponge-cakes and ladies' bread and butter;and I had poured out the tea, for mother had put a little table onpurpose close to my bed, and Racey had been the footman to wait upon Tomand give him all he wanted, as the table wasn't so near his bed as mine.Tom had fallen asleep--poor Tom, he had had the measles worse than I. Iam so awfully strong, even though I'm only a girl, and boys always thinkthemselves stronger. And little Racey had fallen asleep too, lying atthe foot of my bed. He hadn't been kept away from us because of what Tomcalled the "affection" of the measles, for the old doctor said he hadbetter get it too and have it over. But he didn't get it, and if ever Ihave children I shall not do that way with them. I'll try and keep themfrom having any illnesses at all, for I don't believe we're _forced_ tohave them. I think mother thought so too, but she didn't like tocontradict the doctor; because he was so old she thought he must knowbest. And after all it didn't matter, as Racey didn't get the measles. Ireally must try to go straight on-- I keep going back when other thingscome into my head, so it isn't so easy to write things down nicely as Ithought it was.

  Well, Tom was asleep--he looked so nice; he always does when he'sasleep, he has such a white forehead, and such rosy cheeks, and prettydark hair. I remember, because of what came after, how pretty he lookedthat evening. And dear Racey--he looked so pretty too, though generallyhe isn't counted so nice-looking as Tom, for his hair is a _little_ red,and he is rather too pale for a boy. Well, the boys were both asleep andI was _nearly_ asleep, when I heard some one come into the room. Ithought it was the nurse come to undress Racey and put him to bedproperly, and as I was in that nice, only half-awake way when it's agreat trouble to speak, I thought I'd pretend to be quite asleep, and soI did.

  But it was not the nurse who came into the room--it was two people, notone, and I very soon found out, even without opening my eyes, who thetwo people were. They were papa and mother. They came in quite softlyand sat down near the fire. It was the month of October, and rathercold.

  "Are they all asleep, Marie?
" said papa. I must tell you that thoughmother is quite English, her name is "Marie." I think it was because shehad a French godmother, and I do think it is such a pretty name.

  Mother glanced round at us.

  "Yes," she said, in a low voice, "they are all asleep. Oh, Horace, mydarlings!"

  At first when I heard mother say "yes," I laughed a little to myself. Ididn't mean to listen in any mean way, of course, and a comical ideacame into my head that it was just like the ogre and his wife in thefairy tale.--"'Wife, are they all asleep?' said the ogre. 'All fastasleep,' said the ogre's wife." Only poor papa wasn't at all like anogre, and _dear_ mother wasn't a bit like the ogre's wife, though she_was_ much nicer than her husband. I was nearly laughing out loud whenthis fancy came into my head, but before I had time to laugh mother'snext words quite changed my feeling, and all in a minute I gotfrightened somehow. It is so queer--isn't it?--how quickly fancies runthrough one's mind. The one about the ogre and his wife came into myhead and out again between mother's saying "asleep," and "Oh, Horace."And then, all in a moment again, came a number of other fancies.Something must be the matter for mother to speak like that. What couldit be? I thought of all sorts of things. Could papa have lost all hismoney? I had heard of such things, but I did not think I should mind itso very much. It would be rather nice to live in a cottage, and have noservants, and do the cooking and the washing ourselves, I thought;though very likely mother would not think so. Could anything havehappened to Uncle Geoff? Oh no, it couldn't be that, for that would notmake mother say "my darlings," in that way. And poor little mother hadno near relations of her own whom she could have had bad news of to makeher unhappy. What _could_ be the matter? I was so frightened and anxiousto hear more, that I really quite forgot I was doing wrong inlistening, and when I heard mother give a sort of little sob, I gotstill more frightened. I have often wondered since that I did not jumpout of bed and run to mother to see if I could comfort her, but a queer_stopped_ sort of feeling seemed to have come over me. I could donothing but listen, and though it is now so many years ago--five yearsago!--I can remember all the words I heard.

  My father did not answer at first. Whatever was the matter, it seemed tohave been something he did not find it easy to say any comforting wordsabout. And mother spoke again.

  "Oh, Horace, how _can_ I leave them?"

  "My poor Marie," said papa. "What is to be done? I cannot give itup--nor without you can I undertake it. Bertram would have got it if hehad had a wife, but it is never given to an unmarried man."

  "I know," said mother. "I know all you can say. It is just because thereis nothing else to be done that I am so miserable. I cannot help itto-night--to-morrow I will try to be braver; but--oh, I have been sohappy with them to-day, and so glad they were getting better and thatdear little Racey had not got it--for whatever Dr. Nutt says, I cannothelp being glad of that--oh, I have been so happy with them."

  "Perhaps it was cruel of me to tell you to-night," said papa verysorry-ly.

  "Oh no, it was much better," said mother, quickly. "There is so littletime, and so much to settle. Besides, you couldn't have kept it from me,Horace. I should have been sure to find out there was something thematter. Tell me what is the latest we should have to go."

  "Six or seven weeks hence. I don't think it could possibly be madelater," said papa. And then he went on to explain things to mother,which at that time I couldn't understand (though I dare say I shouldnow), and therefore have forgotten--about the work he would have to do,and the money he would get, and all that.

  But I had heard enough. My heart seemed as if it was going to stop.Mother going away--to have to live without mother--it didn't seem to meso much a grief, as an impossibility. I think I was rather a babyishchild for my age in some ways. I was very fond of the boys, and I wasvery unhappy if ever I was away from them, but I don't think I had everthought much about whether I loved anybody or not. And I know thatsometimes people said I wasn't affectionate. Things hadn't happened tomake me think about anything in any deep way. We had always lived in thesame house--even in the same rooms--and we had had our breakfasts anddinners and teas with the same plates and cups and saucers, and motherhad always been there, just like the daylight to us. I couldn't _fancy_being without her, and so just at first I couldn't tell if I wasdreadfully unhappy or not. I was too startled to know. But I think inanother moment I would have jumped out of bed and rushed to mother, if Ihadn't heard just then something which I quite understood, and which Ilistened to with the greatest interest and curiosity.

  "Yes," mother was saying, for, for a minute or two, you understand, Ihadn't been listening. "Yes, I see no better plan. It isn't as if eitheryou or I had had a mother or sisters to send them to. And as you say,with Geoffrey, their _health_ will be thoroughly looked after, and hewill be very kind to them, and we can depend on his telling us the truthabout them. Anything is better than sending them to strangers."

  "That's what he said," replied papa. "He was quite full of it when Iwent to-day to tell him of this most unexpected proposal. He is so veryeager for me to accept it that he would do anything. His house islarge, much larger than he needs; and of course he knows more aboutchildren than most unmarried men, through seeing them so constantly whenthey are ill. And then, Marie, there is Partridge--that is a greatthing."

  "Yes," said mother, gently, but not very eagerly. I knew the tone of hervoice when she spoke that way--I could feel that she was smiling alittle--she always did when she didn't want to seem to disagree withpapa and yet didn't quite agree with him, for papa always gets so eagerabout things, and is sure they'll all come right. "Yes," said mother,"I'm sure Partridge is very good and kind, but she's old, you know,Horace. Audrey and the boys must have a young nurse, besides--I wishPierson were not going to be married."

  Pierson was the nurse we had just then--she was going to be married in afortnight, but we didn't much care. She had only been about a year withus, and we counted her rather a grumpy nurse. She always thought that weshould catch cold if we ran into the garden without being all muffledup, or that we should break our necks even if we climbed _tiny_ trees.

  "I don't know," said papa. "She would never have got on with Partridge.A younger one would be better."

  "Perhaps," said mother. But her tone had grown dreadfully low and sadagain. It almost seemed as if she could not speak at all. Only in aminute or two I heard her say again, still _worse_ than before, "Oh, mydarlings! Oh, Horace, I don't think I _can_ bear it. Think of dearlittle Racey, and my pretty Tom, and poor Audrey--though I don't knowthat she is naturally so affectionate as the boys--think of them all,Horace--alone without us, and us _so_ far away."

  "I know," said papa, sadly. "I know it all. It is terribly hard for you.But let us try not to talk any more about it this evening. To-morrow youmay feel more cheerful--I don't know about Audrey not being soaffectionate as the boys," he added, after a little pause; "perhaps itis that she's older and more reserved. They are such little chaps. She'svery good and motherly to them any way, and that's one comfort."

  "Indeed it is," said mother. "She's a queer little girl, but she's verygood to the boys. We must go down-stairs now," she went on, "and I mustsend Pierson to carry Racey to his own bed. I am so afraid of wakingAudrey and Tom, perhaps I had better carry him myself."

  She came towards my bed as she spoke, and after seeming to hesitate alittle, stepped close up to the side. Poor mother! I didn't understandit then, but afterwards, when I thought over that strange evening, as Iso often did, I seemed to know that she had been _afraid_ of looking atus--that she could not bear to see our happy sleeping faces with whatshe knew, in her heart. It is funny, but lots of things have come to melike that. I have remembered them in my mind without understanding them,like parrot words, with no meaning, and then long afterwards a meaninghas come into them, and that I have never forgotten. It was a littlethat way with what I overheard that evening--the meaning that came intoit all afterwards made such a mark on my mind that even though I may nothave told you just
exactly the words papa and mother said, I am sure Ihave told you the sense of them rightly.

  Well, mother came up to my bedside and stood looking at us--Racey andme. I _fancied_ she looked at Racey most--he was her "baby" you know,and I didn't mind even if sometimes it seemed as if she cared more forTom and him than for me. They were such dear little boys to kiss, andthey had such a pretty way of petting mother. I knew I hadn't suchloving ways, and that sometimes it seemed as if I didn't care formother--when I wanted to say nice words they wouldn't come. But I neverminded a bit, however much mother petted the boys-- I felt as if I waslike her in that--we were like two mothers to them I sometimes pleasedmyself by fancying.

  Mother stood looking at us. For a minute or two I still kept my eyesshut as if I were asleep. We often played with each other atthat--"foxing," we used to call it. But generally we couldn't manage itbecause of bursting out laughing. To-night it wasn't _that_ feeling thatmade it difficult for me to go on "foxing." It was quite a differentone. Yet I was, too, a very little afraid of mother knowing I had beenlistening--it began to come into my mind that it was not a nice thing todo--a little like telling stories--and I almost am afraid I should nothave had courage to tell mother if it had not been that just then as shestood there looking at us I heard her give a little sob. _Then_ I couldbear it no longer. I jumped up in bed and threw my arms round her neck.

  "Mother, mother," I cried, "I have _heard_. I wasn't really asleep. Ididn't mean to listen, but I couldn't help it. Oh, mother, mother, areyou going away? You _can't_ go away--what should we do?"

  Mother did not answer. She just held me close in her arms--very close,but without speaking. At last, after what seemed quite a long time, shesaid very softly,

  "My poor little Audrey."

  I pressed my arms still tighter round her.

  "Mother," I said, "I heard you say something about me. Mother, I do loveyou--you said I wasn't affectionate, but I'm sure I love you."

  "Poor little Audrey," she said again. "I am sorry you heard that. Youmust not think I meant that you don't love me. I cannot quite make youunderstand how I meant, but I did not mean that. And oh, Audrey, howglad I am to think that you love the boys so much. You are a very kindsister to them, and you do not know what a comfort it is to me just nowto think of that."

  "Do you mean because of your going away, mother?" I asked. "Will you_really_ go away? Will it be for a long time, mother? As long as amonth, or two months?"

  "Yes," said mother, "quite as long as that I am afraid. But you must goto sleep now, dear. You are not quite well yet, you know, and you willbe so tired to-morrow if you don't have a good night. Try and not thinkany more about what you heard to-night; and to-morrow, or as soon as Ican, I will tell you more."

  "I did hear more," I said in a low voice, "I heard about our going touncle Geoff's. Mother, is uncle Geoff nice?"

  "Very," said mother. "But, Audrey, you must go to sleep, dear."

  "Yes, mother, I will in one minute," I said. "But do tell me just onething, _please_ do."

  Mother turned towards me again. She had just been preparing to liftRacey.

  "Well, dear?" she said.

  "I do _so_ want to know what suits the boys would travel in," I said. "Ihave my big, long coat, but they haven't got such big ones. Mother,_don't_ you think they should have new ulsters?"

  Mother gave a little laugh that was half a sigh.

  "Audrey," she said, "what a queer child you are!-- But perhaps," sheadded to herself in a low voice, "perhaps it is as well."

  I heard the words, and though I could not quite see that there wasanything queer in my thinking about new ulsters for the boys, I did nottease mother any more about them just then. She kissed me again quitekindly, and then carried Racey away. He just woke up a very little asshe lifted him, and gave a sort of cross wriggle--poor little boy, hehad been so comfortably asleep. But when he saw that it was mother whowas lifting him, he left off being cross in one moment.

  "Dear little muzzie," he said, and though he was too sleepy to open hiseyes again, he puckered up his little red lips for a kiss. "Muzzie," waswhat the boys called mother sometimes for a pet name. It wasn't verypretty, but she didn't mind.

  "My darling little Racey," she said, as she kissed him; and somehow theway she said "darling" made me wish just a little that I was Raceyinstead of myself. Yet I didn't think about it much. My fancy would gorunning on about going to uncle Geoff's, and the journey, and how Iwould take care of the boys and all that; and when I went to sleep I hadsuch queer dreams. I thought uncle Geoff had a face like Pierson whenshe was cross, and that he wore a great big ulster buttoned all down theback instead of the front, because, he said, that was the fashion inChina.