LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      So you see it was all right in the end. But if one does that sort of thing, one has to be careful to do it in the right way. For, as Mr. Perks said, when he had time to think it over, it’s not so much what you do, as what you mean.

      CHAPTER X

      The terrible secret

      When they first went to live at Three Chimneys, the children had talked a great deal about their Father, and had asked a great many questions about him, and what he was doing and where he was and when he would come home. Mother always answered their questions as well as she could. But as the time went on they grew to speak less of him. Bobbie had felt almost from the first that for some strange miserable reason these questions hurt Mother and made her sad. And little by little the others came to have this feeling, too, though they could not have put it into words.

      One day, when Mother was working so hard that she could not leave off even for ten minutes, Bobbie carried up her tea to the big bare room that they called Mother’s workshop. It had hardly any furniture. Just a table and a chair and a rug. But always big pots of flowers on the window-sills and on the mantelpiece. The children saw to that. And from the three long uncurtained windows the beautiful stretch of meadow and moorland, the far violet of the hills, and the unchanging changefulness of cloud and sky.

      “Here’s your tea, Mother-love,” said Bobbie; “do drink it while it’s hot.”

      Mother laid down her pen among the pages that were scattered all over the table, pages covered with her writing, which was almost as plain as print, and much prettier. She ran her hands into her hair, as if she were going to pull it out by handfuls.

      “Poor dear head,” said Bobbie, “does it ache?”

      “No—yes—not much,” said Mother. “Bobbie, do you think Peter and Phil are forgetting Father?”

      “No,” said Bobbie, indignantly. “Why?”

      “You none of you ever speak of him now.”

      Bobbie stood first on one leg and then on the other.

      “We often talk about him when we’re by ourselves,” she said.

      “But not to me,” said Mother. “Why?”

      Bobbie did not find it easy to say why.

      “I—you—” she said and stopped. She went over to the window and looked out.

      “Bobbie, come here,” said her Mother, and Bobbie came.

      “Now,” said Mother, putting her arm round Bobbie and laying her ruffled head against Bobbie’s shoulder, “try to tell me, dear.”

      Bobbie fidgeted.

      “Tell Mother.”

      “Well, then,” said Bobbie, “I thought you were so unhappy about Daddy not being here, it made you worse when I talked about him. So I stopped doing it.”

      “And the others?”

      “I don’t know about the others,” said Bobbie. “I never said anything about that to them. But I expect they felt the same about it as me.”

      “Bobbie dear,” said Mother, still leaning her head against her, “I’ll tell you. Besides parting from Father, he and I have had a great sorrow—oh, terrible—worse than anything you can think of, and at first it did hurt to hear you all talking of him as if everything were just the same. But it would be much more terrible if you were to forget him. That would be worse than anything.”

      “The trouble,” said Bobbie, in a very little voice—“I promised I would never ask you any questions, and I never have, have I? But—the trouble—it won’t last always?”

      “No,” said Mother, “the worst will be over when Father comes home to us.”

      “I wish I could comfort you,” said Bobbie.

      “Oh, my dear, do you suppose you don’t? Do you think I haven’t noticed how good you’ve all been, not quarrelling nearly as much as you used to—and all the little kind things you do for me—the flowers, and cleaning my shoes, and tearing up to make my bed before I get time to do it myself?”

      Bobbie had sometimes wondered whether Mother noticed these things.

      “That’s nothing,” she said, “to what—”

      “I must get on with my work,” said Mother, giving Bobbie one last squeeze. “Don’t say anything to the others.”

      That evening in the hour before bed-time instead of reading to the children Mother told them stories of the games she and Father used to have when they were children and lived near each other in the country—tales of the adventures of Father with Mother’s brothers when they were all boys together. Very funny stories they were, and the children laughed as they listened.

      “Uncle Edward died before he was grown up, didn’t he?” said Phyllis, as Mother lighted the bedroom candles.

      “Yes, dear,” said Mother, “you would have loved him. He was such a brave boy, and so adventurous. Always in mischief, and yet friends with everybody in spite of it. And your Uncle Reggie’s in Ceylon—yes, and Father’s away, too. But I think they’d all like to think we’d enjoyed talking about the things they used to do. Don’t you think so?”

      “Not Uncle Edward,” said Phyllis, in a shocked tone; “he’s in Heaven.”

      “You don’t suppose he’s forgotten us and all the old times, because God has taken him, any more than I forget him. Oh, no, he remembers. He’s only away for a little time. We shall see him some day.”

      “And Uncle Reggie—and Father, too?” said Peter.

      “Yes,” said Mother. “Uncle Reggie and Father, too. Good night, my darlings.”

      “Good night,” said everyone. Bobbie hugged her mother more closely even than usual, and whispered in her ear, “Oh, I do love you so, Mummy—I do—I do—”

      When Bobbie came to think it all over, she tried not to wonder what the great trouble was. But she could not always help it. Father was not dead—like poor Uncle Edward—Mother had said so. And he was not ill, or Mother would have been with him. Being poor wasn’t the trouble. Bobbie knew it was something nearer the heart than money could be.

      “I mustn’t try to think what it is,” she told herself; “no, I mustn’t. I am glad Mother noticed about us not quarrelling so much. We’ll keep that up.”

      And alas, that very afternoon she and Peter had what Peter called a first-class shindy.

      They had not been a week at Three Chimneys before they had asked Mother to let them have a piece of garden each for their very own, and she had agreed, and the south border under the peach trees had been divided into three pieces and they were allowed to plant whatever they liked there.

      Phyllis had planted mignonette and nasturtium and Virginia Stock in hers. The seeds came up, and though they looked just like weeds, Phyllis believed that they would bear flowers some day. The Virginia Stock justified her faith quite soon, and her garden was gay with a band of bright little flowers, pink and white and red and mauve.

      “I can’t weed for fear I pull up the wrong things,” she used to say comfortably; “it saves such a lot of work.”

      Peter sowed vegetable seeds in his—carrots and onions and turnips. The seed was given to him by the farmer who lived in the nice black-and-white, wood-and-plaster house just beyond the bridge. He kept turkeys and guinea fowls, and was a most amiable man. But Peter’s vegetables never had much of a chance, because he liked to use the earth of his garden for digging canals, and making forts and earthworks for his toy soldiers. And the seeds of vegetables rarely come to much in a soil that is constantly disturbed for the purposes of war and irrigation.

      Bobbie planted rose-bushes in her garden, but all the little new leaves of the rose-bushes

Скачать книгу