A Little Mother to the Others, L. T. Meade [readict .txt] 📗

soft voice; "but, Apollo, I have something else to do." And then she added, lowering her tones, "You know, I can't be sorry about mother herself. I can only be glad about her."

"Glad about mother! Glad that she is dead!" said the boy.

"Oh, I don't think about that part," said Iris. "She is not dead—not really. She is only away up above the stars and the blue sky, and she will never have any more suffering, and she will always be as happy as happy can be, and sometime or other, Apollo, I think she will be able to come back; and, if she can, I am sure she will. Yes, I am quite sure she will."

"If she comes back we shall see her," said Apollo; "but she can't come back, Iris. Dead people can't come back."

"Oh, please, don't call her that," said Iris, with a note of great pain in her voice.

"But Fortune says that mother is dead, just like anybody else, and in a few days she will be put into the ground. Oh, Iris! I am frightened when I think of it. Mother was so lovely, and to think of their putting her into the ground in a box just like—like we put the poor innocent and the other creatures, and if that is the case she can never come back—never, never, never!"

The little boy buried his black head of curling hair[23] on his sister's knee, and gave vent to a great burst of tears.

"But it is not true, Apollo," said Iris. "I mean in one way it is not true—I can't explain it, but I know. Let us forget all the dark, dreadful part—let us think of her, the real mother, the mother that looked at us out of her beautiful eyes; she is not dead, she has only gone away, and she wants us all to be good, so that we may join her some day. She called me after the rainbow, and after the messenger of the gods; and you, Apollo, after the bravest and the most beautiful boy that was supposed ever to live; and Diana, too, was called after a great Greek goddess; and Orion after the most lovely star in all the world. Oh, surely we four little children ought to try to be great, and good, and brave, if we are ever to meet our mother again!"

"Well, it is all very puzzling," said Apollo, "and I can't understand things the way you can, Iris, and I have an awful ache in my throat. I am hungry, and yet I am not hungry. I love strawberries as a rule, but I hate them to-day. If only father would come and talk to us it would not be quite so bad; but Fortune said we were not to go to him, that he was shut up in his study, and that he was very unhappy. She said that he felt it all dreadfully about mother."

"Iris," said Diana's voice at that moment, "we are not surely to have any lessons to-day?"

She had come to the door of the summer-house, and was looking in.

"Lessons?" said Iris. She put up her hand to her forehead in a dazed manner.

"Yes; do be quick and say. Miss Stevenson is coming down the garden path. I do think that on[24] the very day when mother has gone away it would be hard if we were to have lessons; and if what you say is true, Iris, and mother is happy, why, it does not seem fair; does it? We ought to have a whole holiday to-day, ought we not? Just as if it was a birthday, you know."

"I think so too," said Orion, with a shout. "I don't think we need be bothered with old Stevie to-day." He raised his voice, and ran to meet her. "You are not to give us any lessons to-day, Stevie," he said. "It is a holiday, a great, big holiday—it is a sort of birthday. We were all eating strawberries, for Iris said we were not to go back to the house."

"Oh, my poor, dear, little boy!" said Miss Stevenson. She was a kind-hearted, although old-fashioned, governess. She bent down now and kissed Orion, and tried to take one of his very dirty little hands in hers.

"My dear little children—" she began again.

"Please, Miss Stevenson, don't pity us," said Iris.

Miss Stevenson started.

"My dear Iris," she said, "you don't realize what it means."

"I do," answered Iris stoutly.

"And I know what Iris means," said Apollo; "I know quite well. I feel miserable; I have got a pain in my throat, and I cannot eat my strawberries; but Iris says we ought not fret, for mother is much better off."

"Then, if mother is much better off, we ought to have a holiday, same as if it was a birthday; ought we not, Miss Stevenson?" said Diana, puckering up her face and looking, with her keen black eyes, full at her governess.[25]

"You poor little innocents, what is to become of you all?" said Miss Stevenson.

She entered the summer-house as she spoke, sank down on the nearest chair, and burst into tears. The four children surrounded her. They none of them felt inclined to cry at that moment. Orion, after staring at her for some little time, gave her a sharp little tap on her arm.

"What are you crying about?" he said. "Don't you think you are rather stupid?"

"You poor innocents!" said Miss Stevenson.

"Please don't call us that," said Diana; "that is our name for the worms. Worms can't see, you know, and they are not to blame for being only worms, and sometimes they get trodden on; and Iris thought we might call them innocents, and we have always done so since she gave us leave; but we would rather not be called by quite the same name."

Miss Stevenson hastily dried her eyes.

"You certainly are the most extraordinary little creatures," she said. "Don't you feel anything?"

"It would be horrid selfish to be sorry," said Diana "Iris says that mother is awfully happy now."

Miss Stevenson stared at the children as if they were bewitched.

"And we are not to have lessons, Stevie," said Orion; "that's settled, isn't it?"

"Oh, my dear little child! I was not thinking of your lessons. It is your terrible—your terrible loss that fills my mind; that and your want of understanding. Iris, you are ten years old; I am surprised at you."

Iris stood, looking very grave and silent, a step or two away.[26]

"Please, Miss Stevenson," she said, after a long pause, "don't try to understand us, for I am afraid it would be of no use. Mother talked to me yesterday, and I know quite what to do. Mother asked me to be a mother to the others, so I have no time to cry, nor to think of myself at all. If you will give us a holiday to-day, will you please go away and let us stay together, for I think I can manage the others if I am all alone with them?"

Miss Stevenson rose hastily.

"I thought you would all have been overwhelmed," she said. "I thought if ever children loved their mother you four did. Oh! how stunned I feel! Yes, I will certainly go—I don't profess to understand any of you."

[27]

CHAPTER III. THE ARRIVAL OF THE AUNT.

About a week after the events related in the last chapter, on a certain lovely day in June, a hired fly might have been seen ascending the steep avenue to Delaney Manor. The fly had only one occupant—a round, roly-poly sort of little woman. She was dressed in deep mourning, and the windows of the fly being wide open, she constantly poked her head out, now to the right and now to the left, to look anxiously and excitedly around her.

After gazing at the magnificent view, had anyone been there to look, they might have observed her shaking her head with great solemnity. She had round black eyes, and a rather dark-complexioned face, with a good deal of color in her cheeks. She was stoutly built, but the expression on her countenance was undoubtedly cheerful. Nothing signified gloom about her except her heavy mourning. Her eyes, although shrewd and full of common sense, were also kindly; her lips were very firm; there was a matter-of-fact expression about her whole appearance.

"Now, why does David waste all those acres of splendid land?" she muttered angrily to herself. "The whole place, as far as I can see, seems to be laid out in grass. I know perfectly well that this is an agricultural country, and yet, when produce is so precious, what do I see but a lawn here and another lawn[28] there, and not even cows feeding on them. Oh, yes! of course there is the park! The park is right enough, and no one wants to interfere with that. But why should all the land in that direction, and in that direction, and in that direction"—here she put out her head again and looked frantically about her—"why should all that land be devoted to mere ornament? It seems nothing more nor less than a tempting of Providence." Here she suddenly raised her voice. "Driver," she said, "have the goodness to poke up your horse, and to go a little faster. I happen to be in a hurry."

"'Orse won't do it, ma'am," was the response. "Steep 'ill this. Can't go no faster."

The little lady gave an indignant snort, and retired once more into the depths of the gloomy fly. Presently a bend in the avenue brought the old manor house into view. Once more she thrust out her head and examined it critically.

"There it stands," she said to herself. "I was very happy at the Manor as a girl. I wonder if the old garden still exists. Twenty to one it has been done away with; there's no saying. Evangeline had such dreadfully queer ideas. Yes, there stands the house, and I do hope some remnants of the garden are in existence; but the thing above all others to consider now is, what kind these children are. Poor David, he was quite mad about Evangeline—not that I ever pretended to understand her. She was an American, and I hate the Americans; yes, I cordially hate them. Poor David, however, was devoted—oh, it was melancholy, melancholy! I suppose it was on account of Evangeline that all this splendid land has been allowed to lie fallow—not even cows, not even a stray[29] sheep to eat all that magnificent grass. Wherever I turn I see flower-beds—flower-beds sloping away to east and west, as far almost as the eye can travel. And so there are four children. I have no doubt they are as queer, and old-fashioned, and untrained as possible. It would be like their mother to bring them up in that sort of style. Well, at least I am not the one to shirk my duty, and I certainly see it now staring me in the face. I am the wife of a hard-working vicar; I work hard myself, and I have five children of my own; but never mind, I am prepared to do my best for those poor deserted orphans. Ah, and here we are at last! That is a comfort."

The rickety old fly drew up with a jerk opposite the big front entrance, and Mrs. Dolman got out. She was short in stature, but her business-like manner and attitude were unmistakable. As soon as ever she set foot on the ground she turned to the man.

"Put the portmanteau down on the steps," she said. "You need not wait. What is your fare?"

The fly-driver named a price, which she immediately disputed.

"Nonsense!" she said. "Eight shillings for driving me from the station here? Why, it is only five miles."

"It is nearly seven, ma'am, and all uphill. I really cannot do it for a penny less."

"Then you are an impostor. I shall complain of you."

At this moment one of the stately footmen threw open the hall door and stared at Mrs. Dolman.

"Take my portmanteau in immediately, if you please," she said, "and pray tell me if your master is at home."[30]

"Yes, madam," was the grave reply. "But Mr. Delaney is not seeing company at present."

"He will see me," said Mrs. Dolman. "Have the goodness to tell him that his sister has arrived, and please also see that my luggage is taken to my room—and oh, I say, wait one moment. What is the fare from Beaminster to Delaney Manor?"

The grave-looking footman and the somewhat surly driver of the cab exchanged a quick glance. Immediately afterwards the footman named eight shillings in a voice of authority.

"Preposterous!" said Mrs. Dolman, "but I suppose I