Читать книгу: «Hoodie», страница 5

CHAPTER V.
STORIES TELLING

 
"This is the cock that crowed in the morn."
 

Late that night, no, very early the next morning, just as dawn was breaking, the peacefully sleeping inhabitants of Mr. Caryll's house were awakened by strange and alarming sounds which seemed to come from the direction of the nursery. The children's mother was one of the first to wake, and yet the sounds which had roused her having been heard indistinctly through her sleep, she was not able to say what they were.

"It must be one of the children with croup – I am sure it sounded like what I have heard croup described, or like that dreadful illness they call the crowing cough," she said to Mr. Caryll, as she rushed out of the room in a fright.

She had only got to the end of the long passage leading to the children's rooms when she ran against Miss King, closely followed by her maid and one, two, three other servants all pale and alarmed.

"What can it be?" each said to the other.

"Martin, Martin," cried Mrs. Caryll, "are you there? What is the matter?"

But before any Martin was to be seen, again the sounds shrilled through the house.

"Kurroo – kurallarrallo-oo-ook!" with a queer sudden sort of pull-up at the end, it seemed to sound.

They all turned to look at each other.

"It must be a real cock," said Miss King, looking less frightened.

"It certainly doesn't sound like croup," said Mrs. Caryll.

"It's just one of them mischievous bantams, ma'am," said the cook, a countrywoman who had made a study of cocks and hens. "They always give that sort of catchy croak at the end of their crows. But, to be sure, what a fright it's gave us all! And where can the creature be?"

As she spoke, Martin appeared at the end of the passage, a basket in her arms, her face pale, leading by the hand a small figure in a white nightgown, a figure that pulled and pushed and kicked valiantly in its extreme reluctance to come any farther.

"I won't be takened to Mamma. I won't, I won't. I'm not naughty. It's zou that's ugly and naughty," it screamed.

Mrs. Caryll gave a despairing glance at her cousin.

"Hoodie again!" she said.

Martin hastened forward as fast as she could, considering the difficulties in her way.

"Oh, ma'am," she exclaimed, looking nearly ready to cry, "I am so sorry, so sorry and ashamed to have such an upset in the house at this time of the night, or morning, I should say. It really must seem with all these troubles as if I wasn't fit to manage the children. And just as Miss King has come, too. But oh dear, ma'am, I don't know what to do with Miss Hoodie and her queer ways."

"But what is it, Martin? What has Hoodie been doing?" said Mrs. Caryll, rather impatiently. "Stop crying, Hoodie. You must," she added sternly, turning to the little girl, who was now regularly set agoing on one of her roars.

Hoodie took not the slightest notice, but roared on. Her mother turned again to Martin, shaking her head.

"No, ma'am," said Martin, "it's not the least use speaking to her. She has wakened all the others, of course – first with that nasty creature and then with her screaming."

"What nasty creature? For goodness' sake explain yourself, Martin."

"The cock, ma'am – the bantam cock," replied Martin, seeming quite astonished that Mrs. Caryll did not know all about it by instinct. "Miss Hoodie fetched it in in her basket, unbeknown to me, last night, and had it hidden under her bed. The creature was quite quiet all night, as is its nature, I suppose, and very likely frightened and not knowing where it was. But this morning all of a sudden it started the most awful screeching; it really sounded much worse than common crowing, or else it was hearing it half in one's sleep like. I thought, to be sure, one of those dear boys had got some awful fit. And to think it was nothing but Miss Hoodie's naughtiness – real mischievous naughtiness." Martin stopped, quite out of breath, and Hoodie's roars increased in violence.

"Had she really no reason for it but mischief?" said Miss King.

Martin hesitated.

"She did begin some nonsense, ma'am, about having brought it in to lay an egg, or something like that."

"Hoodie," said Magdalen, "can't you leave off screaming and tell us about it?"

"No," said Hoodie, stopping at once and with perfect ease, "I can't leave off sc'eaming, and I won't. But I'll tell zou, 'cos it was for zou. I brought the little cock in to lay a egg for zour breakfast, 'cos zou said zou likened zem kite fresh, and now Martin's spoilt it all. Of course it c'owed to tell me it was going to lay the egg, and now it won't. It's all spoilt, and I must sc'eam."

True to her determination she set to work again and roared so that it was almost impossible to hear one's voice.

"What shall we do with her?" said her mother.

"May I take her to my room?" said Cousin Magdalen. "It is farther away from the other children, so she can't disturb them even if she screams all day."

Hoodie stopped again as suddenly as before.

"I won't go to zour room," she said. "I don't like zou now – not one bit."

Magdalen glanced at Mrs. Caryll.

"May I take my own way with her!" her glance seemed to say. Mrs. Caryll nodded her head, and notwithstanding Martin's whispered warning, "Oh, Miss King, you don't know what a work you'll have with her," Magdalen turned to Hoodie, and before the child in the least understood what she was about, she had picked her up in her strong young arms and was half way down the passage before Hoodie's surprise had given her breath to begin her roars again.

She was opening her mouth to do so, when her cousin stopped for a moment.

"Now, Hoodie," she said, "listen. It was kind of you to want to get me a quite fresh egg for my breakfast, but it isn't kind of you at all to make that disagreeable noise, and to kick and fight so because I want to take you to my room."

"I don't care," said Hoodie, "I don't like zou, and I will cry if I like. I don't like any people."

"I am very sorry to find you are so silly," said Cousin Magdalen. "If you were older and understood better you would not talk like that."

"I would if I liked," persisted Hoodie. "Big peoples can do whatever zey likes, and if I was big I could too."

"Big people can't do whatever they like," said Miss King, "and nice big people never like to do things that other people don't like too."

"Don't zey?" said Hoodie, meditatively. By this time they were safely shut into Miss King's room and Hoodie was plumped down into the middle of her cousin's bed – "Don't zey? Zen I don't want to be a nice big people. I want to be the kind that does whatever zey likes zerselves."

Miss King gave a slight sigh – half of amusement, half of despair. She was beginning to understand that Hoodie's reformation was indeed no easy matter.

"Very well, then. You had better go on screaming if you like it so much," she said, sitting down on the side of the bed and wondering to herself what would become of the world, if all the children in it were as tiresome to manage as Hoodie. In at the window the daylight was creeping timidly; all kinds of pretty colours were to be seen in the sky, and the birds were beginning their cheerful chatter. Still it was very early, and poor cousin Magdalen was sleepy. Was there anything that could make Hoodie go to sleep for an hour or two?

"The little birds in the nests are kind to each other. They don't wake each other up in the night and scream so that there is no peace. I wonder why children can't be good too," she said.

"I'm not sc'eaming," said Hoodie indignantly. "I've stoppened."

"I'm glad to hear it. But if I get into bed and lie down and try to go to sleep, perhaps you'll begin again, as you don't care for what other people like."

Hoodie was silent for a minute.

"Does you want to go to sleep?"

"Yes," said Magdalen. "I'm very tired."

"Zen I won't sc'eam."

Her cousin felt inclined to clap her hands, but wisely forbore.

"Thank you," she said quietly, as she lay down.

Hoodie wriggled.

"No, zou isn't to say zank zou," she said. "I don't like zou. I don't like any people, 'cos they stopped my getting zat nice fresh egg. I won't get zou eggs no more. I don't like zou."

"Very well," said her cousin.

Some minutes' quiet followed. Then Hoodie's voice again.

"When will zou tell us that story?" she inquired coolly.

"What story?"

"Zat story about oldwashion fairies, or some'sing like zat."

"Oh, I said I'd try to think of a story for you," said Miss King, sleepily. "Well, I won't forget."

"Zou must get it ready quick," said Hoodie. "Zou must tell it me, zou know, 'cos I've been so good about not sc'eaming."

"But not now. You don't want me to tell you stories now," said her cousin in alarm.

"No, zou may go to sleep now," replied Hoodie, condescendingly, adding after a moment's pause, "I can tell stories, lovely stories."

"Can you? well, you had better think of one, and have it all ready," said Magdalen in fresh alarm.

"Mine's is always zeady, but zou may go to sleep now," was the reply, to her great relief, the truth being that Hoodie herself was as sleepy as she could be, for in two minutes her soft even breathing told that for a while her fidgety little spirit was at rest.

Magdalen lay awake some time longer. In a half-dreamy way she was thinking over in her own mind the old fairy tales she had loved as a little girl – with them there mingled in her fancy the scenes and memories of her own childhood. She was glad to find Hoodie so eager for stories, it might be one way of winning the strange-tempered little creature's confidence, and she tried to call to mind some of the tales most likely to interest her. And somehow, "between sleeping and waking," there came back to her mind the shadow of a fanciful little story she had either read or heard or imagined long ago, and as she fell asleep she said to herself, "Yes, that will do. I will tell them the story of 'The Chintz Curtains.'"

When Magdalen awoke again that morning it was, as might have been expected, a good deal later than usual. Hoodie was still sleeping soundly. Magdalen got up and dressed quietly. She was nearly quite ready when Hoodie awoke. A little movement in the bed caught Miss King's notice: she turned round. There was Hoodie, staring at her with wide-open eyes.

"Well, Hoodie," she said, "how are you this morning?"

Hoodie did not reply, but continued staring, so her cousin went on fastening up her hair. In a minute or two there came a remark, or question rather.

"Has zou had a nice sleep?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Has zou thinkened of a story?"

"Yes," said Magdalen. "I almost think I have."

"I has too," said Hoodie, with a queer twinkle in her eyes.

"Have you," said her cousin, "that's very clever of you."

"Yes," replied the little girl, "zou didn't know Hoodie was so c'ever, did zou?"

"You'd better tell me the story first, and then I'll say what I think of it," said Magdalen.

"Now?" inquired Hoodie, "sall I tell it now? It isn't a long one."

"If you like," replied Magdalen, "you can tell it me while I finish doing my hair."

"Well," began Hoodie, solemnly, "just a long time ago – oh no, that's a mistake, it should be just 'onst– '"

"Or 'once,'" corrected her cousin, "'once' is a proper word, and 'onst' isn't."

"I don't care," said Hoodie, frowning. "I like to say 'onst.' If zou don't zink my words pretty you'll make one come, and if one comes I can't tell you stories."

"Very well," said Magdalen, remembering Maudie's explanation of the mysterious phrase, "very well. I won't interrupt you. You may say any words you like."

"Well then," began Hoodie again. "Onst there was a little girl. She was called – no, I won't tell zou what she was called – she had a papa and mamma and bruvvers and a sister, but zey didn't like her much."

She stopped.

"Dear me," said Magdalen, finding she was expected to say something, "that was very sad."

"Yes," said Hoodie, "vezy sad."

"Why didn't they like her?"

"'Cos zey thoughtened she was naughty. Zey was alvays saying she was naughty."

"Perhaps she was," said Magdalen.

"Nebber mind," said Hoodie, "I want to go on. One day a lady comed what wasn't hern godmozer, so she didn't like her, and she toldened her she was ugly. But zen – oh zen she founded out that she wasn't ugly but she was pretty, vezy, vezy pretty – oh, she was so nice, and the little girl liked her vezy much – wasn't zat a nice story?"

"Beautiful," said Miss King. "All except the part about her papa and mamma and sister and brothers not liking her. I don't like that part."

"Nebber mind," replied Hoodie again. "Nebber mind about zat part zen. Doesn't zou like about the lady? Can zou guess who it was?"

"Let me see," said Magdalen, solemnly. "I must think. A lady came that wasn't her godmother – dear me, who could it be?"

"It was zou; it was zou," cried Hoodie, jumping up in bed and rushing at her cousin. "And the little girl was Hoodie, 'cos I do like zou now. I do, I do, and I'll be vezy good all day, to please you."

"That's my dear little girl," said Cousin Magdalen, really gratified. "But won't you try to be good to please your papa and mamma too – and most of all, Hoodie dear, to please God."

She lowered her voice a little, and Hoodie looked at her gravely.

"I don't know," she said. "I couldn't try such a long time and zey alvays says I'm naughty. No, I'll just please zou; nobody else, and if zou aren't pleased, I'll sc'eam. I can sc'eam in a minute."

Magdalen grew alarmed.

"Please don't," she said. "I'll be very pleased if you don't. And when you see how nice it is to please me, perhaps you'll go on trying to please everybody."

Hoodie shook her head.

"Zey alvays says I'm naughty," she repeated.

Just then there came a knock at the door, and Martin put her head in.

"Is Miss Hoodie awake yet, ma'am?" she inquired. "And I do hope she's let you have some sleep?"

"Oh, yes indeed, thank you, Martin," said Miss King, cheerfully. "We have got on very well, haven't we, Hoodie? And I think you are going to have a very good little girl in the nursery to-day."

"I hope so, I'm sure, ma'am," said Martin, rather dolefully. Her tone did not sound as if her hopes were very high, and Hoodie's next remark did not make them higher.

"Yes," she said, "I is going to be good – vezy, vezy good, too good. But it isn't to please zou, Martin. It's all to please her," pointing to Miss King, "and not zou, one bit. 'Cos I like her; she didn't scold me about the cock – she zanked me, and she's going to tell me a story."

"Hoodie," said Magdalen gravely, "I don't call it beginning to be good to tell Martin you don't care to please her one bit."

"Can't please ev'ybody," said Hoodie, with a toss of her shaggy head; "takes such a long time."

"But speaking that way to Martin doesn't please me," persisted Magdalen.

"Very well zen, I won't," said Hoodie, with unusual amiability. "I'll give Martin a kiss if you like. Only you must have the story ready the minute moment Maudie's done her letsons – will zou?"

"Yes," said Magdalen, "it'll be quite ready."

So Hoodie went off triumphantly in Martin's arms, things looking so promising that by the time they reached the nursery, the two were the best of friends.

And, "what a nice little young lady you might be, Miss Hoodie," said Martin, encouragingly, "if you was always good."

Magdalen was ready for the children as she had promised. It was such a mild beautiful day, though only April, that she got leave to take them out-of-doors for the story-telling, and in a favourite corner, sunny yet sheltered, they settled their little camp-stools in a circle round her and prepared to listen.

"Only," said wise Maudie, "if Hec and Duke get very tired they may run about a little, mayn't they, Cousin Magdalen?"

"If even they get a little tired they may run about," said her godmother. "But I don't think they will. It is a sort of nonsense story, not clever enough to tire any of you."

"What's it called, please?" said Maudie.

"I'm not sure that it has a name," said Magdalen, "but if you'd rather it had one, we'll call it 'The Chintz Curtains.'"

"Please begin then, and say it in very little words for Hec and Duke to understand, won't you?"

Magdalen nodded her head, and began.

"Once," she said, "once there was a little girl."

"That's how my story began," said Hoodie, with the funny twinkle in her eyes again.

"Never mind, don't interrumpt," said Maudie.

"Well," Magdalen went on, "this little girl had no brothers or sisters, and though her father and mother were very kind to her she was sometimes rather lonely. And she often wished for other children to play with her. It happened one winter that she got ill – I am not sure what the illness was – measles, or something like that, it wasn't anything very, very bad, but still she was ill enough to be several days quite in bed, and several more partly in bed, and even after that a good many more before she could get up early to breakfast as usual, and do her lessons and run about in the garden, and play like well children. She didn't much mind being ill, not as much as you would, I don't think. For, you see, except just for the few days that she felt weak and giddy and really ill, staying in bed didn't seem to make very much difference to her, indeed in some ways it was rather nicer. She had lots of storybooks to read – several of her friends sent her presents of new ones – and certainly more dainty things to eat than when she was well – "

"Delly?" said Hec. "Duke and me had delly when we was ill."

"Yes," said Maudie, "last winter Hec and Duke had the independent fever, and they had to have jelly and beef-tea and things like that to make them strong again."

"Yes," said Magdalen, "that was why Lena – I forgot to tell you that that was the little girl's name – that was why they gave all those nice things to little Lena. But the worst of it was she didn't like them nearly as much as when she was well, and she often wished they would give her just common things, bread and butter and rice-pudding, you know, when she was ill, and keep all the very nice things for a treat when she was well and could enjoy them. She was getting well, of course; by the time it comes to thinking about what you have to eat, children generally are getting well; but she was rather slow about it, and even when she was up and about again as usual, she didn't feel or look a bit like usual. She was thin and white, and whatever she did tired her. Something queer seemed to have come over all her dolls and toys; they had all grown stupid in some tiresome way, and when she tried to sew, which she was generally rather clever at, all her fingers seemed to have turned into thumbs."

"How dedful," said Hoodie, stretching out her two chubby hands and gravely gazing at them. "All zumbs wouldn't look pretty at all. I hope mine won't never be like that if I get ill."

"My dear Hoodie," said Magdalen, as soon as she could speak for laughing. "I didn't mean it that way. Not really. I just meant that her fingers had got clumsy, you know, with her being weak and ill. It is just a way of speaking."

"Oh!" said Hoodie, rather mystified still, "I'm glad them wasn't zeally all zumbs."

"Only, Hoodie, I do wish" – began Maudie, but Magdalen went on before she had time to finish her sentence.

"And as the days went on and she didn't seem to be getting back to be like herself, her mother grew rather anxious about her.

"'We must do something about Lena,' she said to her father, 'she is not getting strong again. The doctor says she should have a change of air, but I don't see how to manage it. I cannot leave home while my mother is so ill,' – for Lena's grandmother lived with them and was rather an old and delicate lady – 'and you, of course, cannot.'

"Lena's father was always very busy. It was seldom he could leave home, not very often, indeed, that he had time to see much of his little girl, even at home. But he was very fond of her, and anxious to do everything for her good. So he and her mother talked it well over together, and at last they thought of a good plan, and when it was all settled her mother told Lena about it.

"She called her to her one day when the little girl was sitting rather sadly trying to amuse herself with her dolls. But her head ached, and all her ideas seemed to have gone out of her mind. She could not think of any new plays for them, and she began to fancy their faces looked stupid.

"'I almost think I'm getting too big for dolls,' she was saying to herself, when she heard her mother's voice calling her. And she slowly got down from her chair and went up-stairs to the drawing-room, where her mother was sitting writing.

"'Are you very tired, dear?' she said kindly.

"'Yes, mamma, I think so,' said Lena, as if she didn't much care whether she was tired or not.

"'You seem often tired now, my poor little girl,' said her mother. 'I think it is that you have not got properly strong since you were ill. The doctor says a change of air would be the best thing for you, but just now neither your father nor I can leave home. Would you mind very much going away for a little without us?'

"'Would it be very far, mamma?' said Lena. She liked the idea of going away, she had not often left home, and she had a great fancy for travelling, but still you can understand to go quite away without either her father or mother seemed rather lonely."

"Hadn't she a nice nurse?" asked Maudie.

"No, she hadn't a nurse quite all for herself. She was the only child, you know, and her father and mother were not very rich people, so the maid who waited on her had other work to do too. Her mother went on to explain to her that it was not to any very far-away place they thought of her going. It was to a pretty little sheltered village near the sea, where in an old-fashioned farmhouse there lived a very kind old woman who had been her mother's nurse long before Lena was born. Lena had seen her two or three times and liked her very much, and Mrs. Denny, that was the old nurse's name, had often told her about her pretty home where she lived with her son, who had never married, and for many years had taken care of this farm for the gentleman it belonged to. Mrs. Denny had promised Lena that if she came to see her she should have as much new milk as she could drink, and plenty of quite fresh eggs, and all sorts of nice country things. She had also promised her a particular bedroom all to herself – and Lena had forgotten none of these things, so that when her mother told her that it was to Rockrose Farm they were thinking of sending her, Lena, in her quiet way, felt quite pleased. She was not a little girl that made a fuss about things – she had lived too much alone to be anything but quiet – and just now she felt too tired to seem very eager. But her mother was pleased to see the bright look that came into her eyes, and to hear the cheerful sound in her voice when she replied, 'Oh, if it is to Mrs. Denny's, mamma, I should like to go very much. And I wonder if she will let me sleep in the room where the bed has such beautiful chintz curtains, all covered with pictures, mamma?'

"Her mother smiled.

"'I daresay she will, dear,' she said. 'I'm just writing to nurse now, and if you like I'll ask her to be sure to let you have the bedroom – with – '"