The Boys and I: A Child's Story for Children

"That would give Racey a half more than us--at least a quarter more. No, it wouldn't be a quarter either. Any way, that wouldn't do," I said. "Let's cut each slice into three bits and each take two."

"And how can we cut without a knife?" said Tom.

"'How can he marry without a wife?'" I quoted out of the nursery rhyme, which set us all off laughing, so that we didn't hear a terrible sound steadily approaching the door. Stump, stump, it came, but we heard nothing till the door actually opened, and even then we didn't stop laughing all at once. We were excited by our toast-making; it was the first time since we were in London that our spirits had begun to recover themselves, and it wasn't easy to put them down again in a hurry. Even the sight of Mrs. Partridge's _very_ cross face at the door didn't do so all at once.

I dare say we looked very wild, we were very buttery and jammy, and our faces were still broiling, our hair in confusion and our pinafores crumpled and smeared. Then the fender was pulled away from the fire, and the poker, tongs, and shovel strewed the ground, and somehow or other we had managed to burn a little hole in the rug. There was a decidedly burny smell in the room, which we ourselves had not noticed, but which, it appeared, had reached Mrs. Partridge's nose in Uncle Geoff's bedroom on the drawing-room floor, where, unfortunately, she had come to lay away some linen. And she had really been seriously frightened, poor old woman.

Being frightened makes some people cross, and finding out they have been frightened for no reason makes some people _very_ cross. Mrs. Partridge had arrived at being cross on her way up-stairs; when she opened the nursery door and saw the confusion we had made, and heard our shouts of laughter, she naturally became _very_ cross.

She came into the room and stood for a minute or two looking at us without speaking. And in our wonder--for myself I can't say "fear," I was too ready to be angry to be afraid, but poor Tom and Racey must have been afraid, for they got down from their chairs and stood close beside me, each holding me tightly--in our wonder as to what was going to happen next, our merriment quickly died away. We waited without speaking, looking up at the angry old woman with open-mouthed astonishment. And at last she broke out.

"Oh, you naughty children, you naughty, naughty children," she said. "To think of your daring to behave so after my kindness in sending you jam for your tea, and the whole house upset to take you in. How dare you behave so? Your poor uncle's nice furniture ruined, the carpet burnt to pieces as any one can smell, and the house all but set on fire. Oh, you naughty, _naughty_ children! Come away with me, sir," she said, making a dive at Tom, who happened to be the nearest to her, "come away with me that I may take you to your uncle and tell him what that naughty sister of yours has put into your head--for that it's all her, I'm certain sure."

Tom dodged behind me and avoided Mrs. Partridge's hand. When he found himself at what he considered a safe distance he faced round upon her.

"Audrey isn't naughty, and you sha'n't say she is. None of us is naughty--not just now any way. But if it was naughty to make toast, it was me, and not Audrey, that thought of it first."

"You _impertinent_ boy," was all Mrs. Partridge could find breath to say. But she did not try to catch Tom again, and indeed it would have been little use, for he began a sort of dancing jig from side to side, which would have made it very difficult for any one but a very quick, active person to get hold of him. "You rude, impertinent boy," she repeated, and then, without saying anything more, she turned and stumped out of the room.

Tom immediately stopped his jig.

"I wonder what she's going to do, Audrey," he said.

"To call Uncle Geoff, I expect," I said quietly. "He must be in, because she said something about taking you down to him."

Tom looked rather awestruck.

"Shall you mind, Audrey?" he asked.

"No, not a bit. I hope she has gone to call him," I said. "We've _not_ done anything naughty, so I don't care."

"But if she makes him think we have, and if he writes to papa and mother that we're naughty, when they did so tell us to be good," said Tom, very much distressed. "Oh, Audrey, wouldn't that be dreadful?"

"Papa and mother wouldn't believe it," I persisted. "We've _not_ been naughty, except that we quarrelled a little this afternoon. I'll write a letter myself, and I know they'll believe me, and I'll get Pierson to write a letter too."

"But Pierson's away," said Tom.

"Well, I can write to her too."

This seemed to strike Tom as a good idea.

"How lucky it is you've got your desk and paper, and embelopes and everything all ready," he said. "You can write without anybody knowing. If I could make letters as nice as you, Audrey, I'd write too."

"Never mind. I can say it all quite well," I said, "but I won't do it just yet for fear Mrs. Partridge comes back again."

I had hardly said the words when we heard a quick, firm step coming up-stairs. We looked at each other; we knew who it must be.

Uncle Geoff threw open the door and walked in.

"Children," he said, "what is all this I hear? I am very sorry that all of you--you Audrey, especially, who are old enough to know better, and to set the boys a good example--should be so troublesome and disobedient. I cannot understand you. I had no idea I should have had anything like this."

He looked really puzzled and worried, and I would have liked to say something gentle and nice to comfort him. But I said to myself, "What's the use? He won't believe anything but what Mrs. Partridge says," and so I got hard again and said nothing.

"Where is the burnt carpet?" then said Uncle Geoff, looking about him as if he expected to see some terrible destruction.

I stooped down on the floor and poked about till I found the little round hole where the spark had fallen.

"There," I said, "that's the burnt place."

Uncle Geoff stooped too and examined the hole. The look on his face changed. I could almost have fancied he was going to smile. He began sniffing as if he did not understand what he smelt.

"_That_ can't have made such a smell of burning," he said.

"No, it was the slice of toast that fell into the fire that made most of the smell," I said. "It had some butter on. We were toasting our bread--that was what made Mrs. Partridge so angry."

"How did you toast it?"

Tom, who was nearest the fireplace, held up the poker and tongs, on which still hung some bits of string.

"We made holes in the bread and tied it on," he said.

At this Uncle Geoff's face really did break into a smile. All might have ended well, had it not unfortunately happened that just at this moment Mrs. Partridge--who had taken till now to arrive at the top of the stairs--came stumping into the room. Her face was very red, and she looked, as she would have said herself, very much "put about."

"Oh dear, sir," she exclaimed, when she saw Uncle Geoff on his knees on the floor, "oh dear, sir, you shouldn't trouble yourself so."

"I wanted to see the damage for myself," he said, getting up as he spoke, "it isn't very bad after all. Your fears have exaggerated it, Partridge."

Mrs. Partridge did not seem at all pleased.

"Well, sir," she said, "it's natural for me to have felt upset. And even though not much harm may have been done to the carpet, think what might be, once children make free with the fire. And it isn't even that, I feel the most, sir--children will be children and need constant looking after--but it's their rudeness, sir--the naughty way they've spoken to me ever since they came. From the very first moment I saw that Miss Audrey had made up her mind to take her own way, and no one else's, and it's for their own sake I speak, sir. It's a terrible pity when children are allowed to be rude and disobedient to those who have the care of them, and it's a thing at my age, sir, I can't stand."

Uncle Geoff's face clouded over again. Mrs. Partridge had spoken quite quietly and seemingly without temper. And now that I look back to it, I believe she did believe what she said. She had worked herself up to think us the naughtiest children there ever were, and really did not know how much was her own prejudice. No doubt it had been very "upsetting" to her to have all of a sudden three children brought into the quiet orderly house she had got to think almost her own, even though of course it was really Uncle Geoff's, and no doubt too, from the first, which was partly Pierson's fault, though she hadn't meant it, the boys and I had taken a dislike to her and had not shown ourselves to advantage. I can see all how it was quite plainly now--now that I have so often talked over this time of troubles with mother and with aunt--(but I am forgetting, I mustn't tell you that yet). But at the time, I could see no excuse for Mrs. Partridge. I thought she was telling stories against us on purpose, and I hated her for telling them in the quiet sort of way she did, which I could see made Uncle Geoff believe her.

All the smile had gone out of his face when he turned to us again.

"Rudeness and disobedience," he repeated slowly, looking at us--at Tom and me especially, "what an account to send to your parents! I do not think there is any use my saying any more. I said all I could to you, Audrey, this morning, and you are the eldest. I _trusted_ you to do your utmost to show the boys a good example. Partridge, we must do our best to get a firm, strict nurse for them at once. I cannot have my house upset in this way."

He turned and went away without saying a word--without even wishing us good night. It was very, very hard upon us, and I must say hard on me particularly, for I _know_ I had been trying my best--trying to be patient and cheerful and to make the little boys the same. And now to have Uncle Geoff so entirely turned against us, and worst of all to think of him writing to papa and mother about our being naughty! What _would_ they think?--that we had not even been able to be good for one week after they had left us would seem so dreadful. I did not seem as if I wanted to write to papa and mother _myself_--it would have been like complaining of Uncle Geoff, and besides, saying of myself that I had been trying to be good wouldn't have seemed much good. But I felt more and more that some one must write and tell them the truth, and the only person I could think of to do so was Pierson. So I settled in my own mind to write to her as soon as I could; that was the only thing I could settle.

In punishment, I suppose, for our having been--as she called it--"so naughty," Mrs. Partridge sent Sarah to put us to bed extra early that evening. Sarah was very kind and sympathising, but I now can see that she was not very sensible. She was angry with Mrs. Partridge herself, and everything she said made us feel more angry.

"I hope it will be fine to-morrow, so that I can take you out a walk," she said, when she had put us all to bed and was turning away. "By the day after I suppose the new nurse will be coming."

We all three started up at that.

"_Will_ she, Sarah?" we said. "What have you heard about her?"

"Oh, I don't know anything settled," Sarah replied, "but I believe Mrs. Partridge is going into the country to-morrow to see some one, and to hear her talk you'd think her only thought was to get some one as hard and strict as can be. 'Spare the rod and spoil the child,' and such like things she's been saying in the kitchen this evening. A nice character she'll give of you to the new nurse. My word, but I should feel angry if I saw her dare to lay a hand on Master Tom or Master Racey."

I beckoned to Sarah to come nearer, and spoke to her in a whisper for the boys not to hear.

"Sarah," I said, "do tell me, do you really think Mrs. Partridge will tell the new nurse to whip Tom and Racey? They have never been whipped in their lives, and I think it would kill them, Sarah."

"Oh no, Miss Audrey, not so bad as that," said Sarah. "But still, from what I've seen of them, I shouldn't say they were boys to be whipped. It would break Master Tom's spirit, and frighten poor Master Racey out of all his pretty ways. And if you take my advice, Miss Audrey, you'll make a regular complaint to your uncle if such a thing ever happens."

"It would be no use," I said aloud, but to myself I said in a whisper, "I shouldn't wait for that."

It was quite evident to me from what Sarah had said that she did think the new nurse would not only be allowed, but would be ordered to whip us--the boys at least--if they were what Mrs. Partridge chose to call naughty. And it was quite evident to me that any nurse who agreed to treat children so could not be a nice person. There was no use speaking to Uncle Geoff, he could only see things as Mrs. Partridge put them, and of course I could not say she told actual stories. She did worse, for she told things _her_ way. There was only one thing I was sure of. Mother certainly did not want her dear little boys to be whipped by _any_ nurse, and she had left them in my charge and trusted me to make them happy.

All sorts of plans ran through my head as I lay trying not to go to sleep, and yet feeling sleep coming steadily on me in spite of my troubles.

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CHAPTER VIII.

WANTED A STAMP.

"I am so old, so old, I can write a letter."

I had meant, you will remember, to write my letter to Pierson late at night when everybody was in bed. I had been afraid of writing it till I was sure everybody was asleep, for if the light in the nursery had been seen, there was no saying what Mrs. Partridge might not have done, she would have been so angry. So I settled in my own mind to get up in the middle of the night--quite in the middle--to write it. But nobody--no big person at least--will be surprised to hear that for all my plans and resolutions I never woke! The beginning and the middle of the night passed, and the end came, and it was not till the faint winter dawn was trying to make its way through the smoky London air that I woke up, to find it was morning--for a few minutes later I heard the stair clock strike seven.

At first I was dreadfully vexed with myself, then I began to think perhaps it was better. Even in the very middle of the night I might have been seen, and, after all, the letter would not have gone any sooner for having been written in the night instead of in the day-time. And in the day-time it was easy for me to write without minding any one seeing me, for Tom and I had our lessons to do for our tutor for the next day.

As soon as he had gone, therefore, I got my paper and set to work. I am not going to tell you just yet what I wrote to Pierson. You will know afterwards. You see I want to make my story as like a proper one as I can, _in case_ aun---- oh, there I am again, like a goose, going to spoil it all! I meant to say, that I have noticed that in what I call proper stories, real book, printed ones, though it all seems to come quite smooth and straight, it is really arranged quite plannedly--you are told just a bit, and then you are quietly taken away to another bit, and though you never think of it at the time, you find it all out afterwards. Well, I wrote my letter to Pierson after Tom and I had finished our lessons for our tutor. I told Tom I had written it, and then--the next thing was how to get it stamped and taken to the post.

"I wish I had thought of buying a stamp when we were out this morning," I said. I have forgotten to tell you that in the morning, early, we had been out a short walk with Sarah. Only a very short one however, for Sarah had to hurry back, because of course Mrs. Partridge said she needed her, and our tutor was coming at eleven. Still we were very glad to go out at all.

"Sarah would have known; would you have minded?" said Tom.

Somehow it made me feel sorry and puzzled to hear him talk like that. We had always been used to being quite open about everything--we had never thought about any one knowing or not knowing about anything we did, except of course surprises about birthday presents and those kind of things. And now in one short week Tom seemed to have got into little underhand ways--of not wanting people to know, and that kind of thing. I had too, but somehow it made me more sorry for Tom than for myself--it was so unlike his bright open way.

"No," I said, "I wouldn't have minded. At least not for myself, only perhaps Mrs. Partridge would have scolded Sarah if she had found out we had been to the post-office."

"How _shall_ we get it posted?" said Tom. "If we had a stamp I could run with it. I saw a box for letters a very little way round the corner."

"Did you?" I said. "That's a good thing. Let's wait a little, and perhaps there'll come some chance of getting out. I should think we could get a stamp at some shop--there were shops round the corner too."

It was a great satisfaction to have got the letter written. I looked at it with a good deal of pride--the address I was sure was right, I had copied it so exactly from the one at the end of Pierson's letter. Though the boys did not know exactly what I had written to Pierson, they seemed to feel happier since knowing I had written something, and they had a vague idea that somehow or other brighter days would come for us in consequence.

Uncle Geoff had not been up to see us this morning--nor had he sent for us to go down. I was very glad, and yet I did not think it was at all kind. I did not know till a good while afterwards that he had not been at home since the day before, as he had been sent for to a distance to see somebody who was very ill.

At one o'clock we had had our dinner--it was not as nice a one as we had had the other days, and we said to each other it was because Mrs. Partridge was angry still about the toast. We said so to Sarah too, and though she made no reply we could see she thought the same.

"And we shall have no strawberry jam for tea to-night," said Tom, sadly.

"No 'tawberry dam," said Racey, and the corners of his mouth went down as if he were going to cry. He had been thinking of the strawberry jam, I dare say, as a sort of make up for the dry rice pudding at dinner--quite dry and hard it was, not milky at all, and Mrs. Partridge knew we liked milky puddings.

"Don't be so sure of that," said Sarah, who was taking away the things. "If you are all very good this afternoon I dare say you will have strawberry jam for tea. Mrs. Partridge is going out at three o'clock, and she won't be back till six, so the tea will be my business."

The boys were quite pleased to have something to look forward to, and I, for my own reasons, was glad to hear Mrs. Partridge was going out.

It was, for November, a bright afternoon, much brighter than we had had yet. Tom, who was standing at the window looking out, gave a great sigh.

"What's the matter, Master Tom?" said Sarah.

"I would so like to go out and play in the garden," said poor Tom. "What a horrid house this is, to have no garden! Sarah, aren't you going to take us a walk this afternoon?"

Sarah shook her head. "I can't, Master Tom," she said; "Mrs. Partridge is in such a fuss about going out herself as never was, and I've got a great deal to do. But if you'll try to amuse yourselves till tea-time, I'll see if I can't think of something to please you after that."

"It's _so_ long to tea-time," said Tom, discontentedly; "one, two, three hours--at least two and a half."

"Couldn't we have tea sooner, Sarah," I said; "as soon as ever Mrs. Partridge goes? We've not had a very good dinner, and I'm sure we shall be hungry."

Sarah considered.

"Well, I'll see if I can't get it for you by half-past three," she said.

Two hours even to half-past three! And the more tempting look of the day outside made it more tiresome to have to stay in. We really didn't know _what_ to do to pass the time. I couldn't propose telling stories again, for we had had so much of them the day before. Racey, as usual, seemed content enough with his everlasting horses, but Tom got very tiresome. I was trying to make a new lining to Lady Florimel's opera cloak with a piece of silk I had found among my treasures. It was rather difficult to do it neatly, and I had no one to help me, and as it was Tom's fault that the other one had been spoilt, I really did think he might have been nice and not teasing. But he was really _very_ tiresome--he kept pulling it out of my hands, and if ever I turned round for a moment, some of my things--my scissors or thimble or something--were sure to have disappeared. At last I got so angry that I could be patient no longer.