The Rectory Children
M >> Mrs Molesworth >> The Rectory ChildrenTHE RECTORY CHILDREN
BY MRS MOLESWORTH
ILLUSTRATED BY
WALTER CRANE
[Illustration: 'It's the sun going to bed, you know, dear.' P. 37.]
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1897
TO
MY NIECE AND GOD-DAUGHTER
Helen Louisa Delves Walthall
85 LEXHAM GARDENS
_Shrove Tuesday_, 1889.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
THE PARLOUR BEHIND THE SHOP 1
CHAPTER II
THOSE YOUNG LADIES 18
CHAPTER III
A TRYING CHILD 34
CHAPTER IV
BIDDY HAS SOME NEW THOUGHTS 51
CHAPTER V
CELESTINA 66
CHAPTER VI
THE WINDOW IN THE WALL 83
CHAPTER VII
ON THE SEASHORE 99
CHAPTER VIII
A NICE PLAN 117
CHAPTER IX
A SECRET 134
CHAPTER X
BIDDY'S ESCAPADE 151
CHAPTER XI
AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 169
CHAPTER XII
ANOTHER BIRTHDAY 186
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
'----and--oh, Alie, I have so torn my frock, and it's my
afternoon one--my new merino' 27
'Little girl,' she called, when she got close to the
other child 75
'It's like a magic-lantern; no, I mean a peep-show' 89
'I would like to go there,' she said 115
A secret 148
----carrying between them a little dripping figure, with
streaming hair, white face, and closed eyes 161
'Now, Biddy. Open your eyes' 195
'O little hearts! that throb and beat,
With such impatient, feverish heat,
Such limitless and strong desires.'--LONGFELLOW.
THE RECTORY CHILDREN
CHAPTER I
THE PARLOUR BEHIND THE SHOP
'I was very solitary indeed.'
(_Visit to the Cousins_).--MARY LAMB.
The blinds had been drawn down for some time in the back parlour behind
Mr. Fairchild's shop in Pier Street, the principal street in the little
town of Seacove. And the gas was lighted, though it was not turned up
very high. It was a great thing to have gas; it had not been known at
Seacove till recently. For the time of which I am writing is now a good
many years ago, thirty or forty at least.
Seacove, though a small place, was not so out-of-the-way in some
respects as many actually larger towns, for it was a seaport, though not
a very important one. Ships came in from all parts of the globe, and
sailed away again in due course to the far north, and still farther off
south; to the great other world of America, too, no doubt, and to the
ancient eastern lands. But it was the vessels going to or coming from
the strange mysterious north--the land of everlasting snow, where the
reindeer and, farther north still, the white bear have their home, and
where the winter is one long, long night--it was somehow the thought of
the north that had the most fascination for the little girl who was
sitting alone in the dull parlour behind the shop this late November
evening. And among the queer outlandish-looking sailors who from time to
time were to be seen on the wharf or about the Seacove streets, now and
then looking in to buy a sheet of paper and an envelope in her father's
shop, it was the English ones belonging to the whalers or to the herring
smacks bound for the north who interested Celestina by far the most.
This evening she was not thinking of sailors or ships or anything like
that; her mind was full of her own small affairs. She had got two new
dolls, quite tiny ones--Celestina did not care for big dolls--and long
as the daylight lasted she had been perfectly happy dressing them. But
the daylight was gone now--it was always rather in a hurry to say
good-night to the back parlour--and the gas was too dim for her to see
clearly by, even if she had had anything else to do, which she had not,
till mother could give her a scrap or two for the second dolly's frock.
It was mother she was longing for. She wanted to show her the hats and
cloaks she had made out of some tiny bits for both the dollies--the
cloaks, that is to say, for the hats were crochet-work, crocheted in
pink cotton. Celestina's little fingers were very clever at crochet.
'Oh, mother, mother,' she said half aloud, '_do_ come.'
She had drawn back the little green baize curtain which hung before the
small window between the shop and the parlour, and was peering in, her
nose flattened against the glass. She was allowed to do this, but she
was not allowed to run out and in of the shop without leave, and at this
time of the day, or evening, even when there were few customers, she
knew that her father and mother were generally busy. There were late
parcels to put up for the little errand-boy to leave on his way home;
there was the shop to tidy, and always a good many entries to make in
the big ledger. Very often there were letters to write and send off,
ordering supplies needed for the shop, or books not in stock, which some
customer had asked for.
It was a bookseller's and stationer's shop; the only one worthy of the
name at Seacove. And Mr. Fairchild did a pretty good business, though
certainly, as far as the actual _book_ part of it was concerned, people
read and bought far fewer books thirty years ago than now. And books
were much dearer. People wrote fewer letters too; paper and envelopes
were dearer also. Still, one way and another it was not a bad business
of its kind in a modest way, though strict economy and care were
required to make a livelihood out of it. And some things had made this
more difficult than would otherwise have been the case. Delicate health
perhaps most of all. Mr. Fairchild was not very strong, and little
Celestina had been fragile enough as a baby and a tiny girl, though now
she was growing stronger. No wonder that a great share of both work and
care fell on Celestina's mother, and this the little girl already
understood, and tried always to remember.
But it was dull and lonely sometimes. She had few companions, and for
some months past she had not gone to school, as a rather serious illness
had made her unable to go out in bad weather. She did not mind this
much; she liked to do lessons by herself, for father or mother to
correct when they had time, and there was no child at school she cared
for particularly. Still poor Celestina was pining for companionship
without knowing it. Perhaps, though mother said little, she understood
more about it than appeared.
And 'Oh, mother, mother, _do_ come,' the child repeated, as she peered
through the glass.
There were one or two customers in the shop still. One of them Celestina
knew by sight. It was Mr. Redding, the organist of the church. He was
choosing some music-paper, and talking as he did so, but the pair of
ears behind the window could not hear what he said, though by his manner
it seemed something not only of interest to himself but to his hearers
also.
'I wish I could hear what he's saying,' thought the little maiden, 'or
most of all, I _wish_ he'd go and that other man too--oh, he's going,
but Mr. Redding is asking for something else now! Oh, if only mother
would come, or if I might turn on the gas higher. I think it would be
nicer to have candles, like Fanny Wells has in her house. Gas is only
nice when it's very high turned on, and mother says it costs such a lot
then. I _do_ so want to show mother the cloaks and hats.'
She turned back at last, wearied of waiting and watching. The fire was
burning brightly, that was some comfort, and Celestina sat down on the
rug in front of it, propping her two little dolls against the fender.
'To-morrow,' she said to herself, 'as soon as I've made a frock for
Eleanor, I'll have a tea-party. Eleanor and Amy shall be new friends
coming to tea for the first time--if _only_ the parlour chairs weren't
too big for the table!' she sighed deeply. 'They can't look nice and
_real_, when they're so high up that their legs won't go underneath.
People don't make our tables and chairs like that--I don't see why they
can't make doll-house ones properly. Now, if I was a carpenter I'd make
a doll-house just like a real house--I could make it so nice.'
She began building doll-houses--her favourite castles in the air--in
imagination. But now and then she wanted another opinion, there were
knotty points to decide. As 'all roads,' according to the old proverb,
'lead to Rome,' so all Celestina's meditations ended in the old cry, 'If
only mother would come.'
The door opened at last--gently, so gently that the little girl knew it
could be no one else but mother. She sprang up.
'Oh, mother, I am so glad you've come. I've been so tired waiting. I do
so want to show you the cloaks and hats, and _can_ you give me a bit to
make Amy's frock? She looks so funny with a cloak and hat and no frock.'
'I will try to find you a scrap of something when I go upstairs,' mother
replied. 'But just now I must see about getting tea ready. Father is
tired already, and he has a good deal to do this evening still. Yes, you
have made the cloaks very nice, and the little hats too. I'll turn up
the gas so as to see better.'
Celestina gave in without a murmur to waiting till after tea for the
piece of stuff she longed for so ardently, and she set to work in a
neat, handy way to help her mother with the tea-table. They understood
each other perfectly, these two, though few words of endearment passed
between them, and caresses were rare. People were somewhat colder in
manner at that time than nowadays perhaps; much petting of children was
not thought good for them, and especially in the case of an only child,
parents had great fear of 'spoiling.' But no one who looked at Mrs.
Fairchild's sweet face as her eyes rested lovingly on her little girl
could have doubted for a moment her intense affection. She had a very
sweet face; Celestina thought there never could be anybody prettier than
mother, and I don't know that she was far wrong. If she ever thought of
herself at all--of her looks especially--it was to hope that some day
she might grow up to be 'like mother.'
Tea was ready--neatly arranged on the table, though all was of the
plainest, a little carefully-made toast to tempt father's uncertain
appetite the only approach to luxury--when Mr. Fairchild came in and sat
down in the one arm-chair rather wearily. He was a tall thin man, and he
stooped a good deal. He had a kindly though rather nervous and careworn
face and bright intelligent eyes.
'Redding is full of news as usual,' he said, as Mrs. Fairchild handed
him his tea. 'He is a good-natured man, but I wish he wouldn't talk
quite so much.'
'He had some excuse for talking this evening,' said Celestina's mother;
'it is news of importance for every one at Seacove, and of course it
must affect Mr. Redding a good deal. I shall be glad if the new
clergyman is more hearty about improving the music.'
Celestina so far had heard without taking in the drift of the
conversation, but at the last words she pricked up her ears.
'Is there going to be a new clergyman--is old Dr. Bunton going away,
mother?' she asked eagerly, though the moment after she reddened
slightly, not at all sure that she was not going to be told that 'little
girls should not ask questions.' But both Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were
interested in the subject--I think for once they forgot that Celestina
was only 'a little girl.'
'Yes,' the mother replied; 'he is giving up at last. That has been known
for some weeks, but it is only to-day that it has been known who is to
succeed him. Mr. Vane, that is the name, is it not?' she added, turning
to her husband.
'The Reverend Bernard Vane, at present vicar of St. Cyprian's, somewhere
in the west end of London--that is Redding's description of him,' Mr.
Fairchild replied. 'I don't know how a fashionable London clergyman
will settle down at Seacove, nor what his reasons are for coming here,
I'm sure. I hope the change will be for good.'
But his tone showed that he was not at all certain that it would prove
so.
'Is he married?' asked Celestina's mother. 'Oh yes, by the bye, I
remember Mr. Redding spoke of children, but old Captain Deal came in
just as he was telling more and I could not hear the rest.'
'There are several children and Mrs. Vane a youngish lady still, he
said. The old Rectory will want some overhauling before they come to it,
I should say,' remarked Mr. Fairchild. 'It must be nigh upon forty years
since Dr. Bunton came there, and there's not much been done in the way
of repairs, save a little whitewashing now and then. The doctor and Mrs.
Bunton haven't needed much just by themselves--but a family's different;
they'll be needing nurseries and schoolrooms and what not, especially if
they have been used to grand London ways.'
Celestina had been turning her bright brown eyes from one parent to
another in turn as they spoke.
'Is London much grander than Seacove?' she asked. 'I thought the Rectory
was such a fine house.'
Mrs. Fairchild smiled.
'It might be made very nice. There's plenty of room any way. And many
clergymen's families are very simple and homely.'
'I wonder if there are any little girls,' said Celestina. 'And do you
think they'll go to Miss Peters's to school, mother?'
Her father turned on her rather sharply.
'Dear me, no, child. Of course not,' he said. 'Miss Peters's is well
enough for plain Seacove folk, but don't you be getting any nonsense in
your head of setting up to be the same as ladies' children. Mrs. Vane
comes of a high family, I hear; there will be a French ma'amselle of a
governess as like as not.'
Celestina looked at her father with a world of puzzle in her eyes, her
little pale face with a red spot of excitement on each cheek. But she
was not the least hurt by her father's words. She simply did not
understand them: what are called 'class distinctions' were quite unknown
to her innocent mind. Had she been alone with her mother she might have
asked for some explanation, but she was too much in awe of her father to
question him.
Her mother turned to her somewhat abruptly.
'I want some more water; the kettle, Celestina love,' she said; and as
the little girl brought it, 'I will explain to you afterwards, but don't
say any more. Father is tired,' she whispered.
And Celestina quickly forgot all about it; the sight of Eleanor and Amy
still reposing on the hearthrug as she replaced the kettle drove out of
her mind all thoughts of the possible little Misses Vane.
After tea, when the things were cleared away and Celestina had helped
her mother to make the room look neat and comfortable again, fox the
little servant in the kitchen was seldom seen in the parlour, as she
fidgeted Mr. Fairchild by her awkward clattering ways, Mrs. Fairchild
went upstairs to fetch some sewing that needed seeing to.
'I will look for a scrap or two for you,' she said to Celestina as she
went. 'But I'm not sure that you should sew any more to-night. It's
trying for your eyes.'
'And what about your sums, child?' said her father. 'Have you done all I
set you?'
'Yes, father, and I've read the chapter of _Little Arthur's History_
too,' Celestina replied.
'Well, then,' said Mr. Fairchild, drawing his chair nearer to the table
again--he had pushed it close to the fire--'bring your slate and your
books. I'll correct the sums and set you some more, and then we'll have
a little history. I will question you first on the chapter you have read
to yourself.'
Celestina could not help an appealing glance at her mother--she had the
two little dolls in her hand, poor Amy still looking very deplorable in
her skirt-less condition. Mrs. Fairchild understood her though no word
was spoken.
'I thought you were going back to write in the shop,' she said gently to
her husband. 'The stove is still hot.'
'I am too tired,' he replied, and indeed he looked so. 'There is nothing
so very pressing, and it's too late for the London post. No--I would
rather take Celly's lessons; it will be a change.'
Mrs. Fairchild said no more, nor did Celestina--father's word was law.
The little girl did not even look cross or doleful, though she gave a
tiny sigh as she fetched her books. She was a docile pupil, thoughtful
and attentive, though not peculiarly quick, and Mr. Fairchild, in spite
of his rather nervously irritable temper, was an earnest and intelligent
teacher. The sums were fairly correct and the multiplication table was
repeated faultlessly. But when it came to the history Celestina was less
ready and accurate in her replies.
'My dear,' said her mother, who had sat down beside them with her sewing
by this time, 'you are not giving your full attention. I can see you are
thinking of something else. If it is anything you do not understand ask
father to explain it.'
'Certainly,' Mr. Fairchild agreed. 'There is nothing worse than giving
half attention. What are you thinking about, child?'
Celestina looked up timidly.
'It wasn't anything in the lesson--at least not exactly,' she said. 'But
when father asked me who was the king of France then, it made me think
of what father said about a French ma'amselle, and I wondered what it
meant.'
'Ma'amselle,' said her father, 'is only our English way of saying
"mademoiselle," which means a miss, a young lady.'
'But those young ladies, the Rectory young ladies, aren't French,'
Celestina said.
'Of course not. What I meant was that very likely they have a French
governess. It's the mode nowadays when every one wants to speak French
well.'
'Oh,' said Celestina, 'I didn't understand. I'd like to hear somebody
speak French,' she added. 'Did you ever hear it, mother?'
'Yes,' Mrs. Fairchild replied. 'When I was a girl there was a French
lady came to live near us that I was very fond of; and she was very kind
to us. She sent me a beautiful present when I married. I called you
after her, you know, Celestina--I'm sure I've told you that before. Her
name was Celestine.'
'I remember,' the little girl replied; 'but I forgot about her being
French. I would like to see her, mother.'
'I do not know if she is still alive,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'She must be
an old lady by now, if so. She went back to France many years ago; she
was in England with her husband, who had some business here. They had no
children, and she was always asking mother to let her adopt me. But
though there were so many of us, mother couldn't make up her mind to
spare one.'
'Things would have turned out pretty different for you, Mary, if she
had. You'd have been married to a French "mounseer" by now,' and he
laughed a little, as if there was something exceedingly funny in the
idea. Mr. Fairchild did not often laugh.
'Maybe,' his wife replied, smiling.
'I do hope they'll have a French governess,' said Celestina.
'Who? oh, the Miss Vanes,' said her father. 'Why, you _are_ putting the
cart before the horse, child! We don't even know that the new clergyman
has any daughters--his family may be all boys. Besides, I don't know
when you'd be likely to see them or their governess either.'
'They'd be sure to come to the shop sometimes, father,' Celestina
replied eagerly. 'Even old Mrs. Bunton does--I've often seen her. And
there's no other shop for books and stationery at Seacove.'
Mr. Fairchild smiled at the pride with which she said this.
'It would be a bad job for me if there were,' he said, 'for as it is
there's barely custom for a shop of the kind,' and an anxious look came
over his face. But Mrs. Fairchild reminded him that if they did not
finish the chapter of _Little Arthur_ quickly, it would be Celestina's
bedtime, so the talk changed to the Black Prince and his exploits.
CHAPTER II
THOSE YOUNG LADIES
'Leave me alone--I want to cry;
It's no use trying to be good.'--ANON.
Six weeks or so later--Christmas and New Year's day were past; it was
the middle of January by this time--a little group of children might
have been seen standing on the shore about half a mile from Seacove.
Though midwinter, it was not very cold. There is a theory that it never
is very cold at the seaside. I cannot say that I have always found this
the case, but it was so at Seacove. It lay in a sheltered position, out
of the way of the east wind, and this was one reason why Mr. Vane had
decided to make it for a time the home of himself and his family.
These were his children--the group on the seashore. Rumour had
exaggerated a little in saying he had 'several.' There were but three of
them, and of these three two were girls. So Celestina Fairchild's
thoughts about them had some foundation after all.
'It looks just a little, a very little dreary,' said the eldest of the
three, a girl of thirteen or so, slight and rather tall for her age,
with a pretty graceful figure and pretty delicate features; 'but then of
course it's the middle of winter. Not that spring or summer would make
much difference here; there are so very few trees.'
She glanced round her as she spoke. It was a bare, almost
desolate-looking stretch of country, down to the sea, which was still
and gray-looking this morning. Yet there was a strange charm about it
too--the land, though by no means hilly, was undulating. Not far from
where the children stood there was a grand run of sand-hills, with
coarse, strong grass and a few hardy thistles, and, in its season,
bindweed with its white and pinky flowers, growing along their summit.
Farther off was a sort of skeleton-like erection, looking not unlike the
gaunt remains of a deserted sail-less ship: this was a landmark or
beacon, placed there to point out a sudden turn in the coastline. And
out at sea, a mile or so distant, stood a lighthouse with a revolving
lantern; three times in each minute the bright light was to be seen as
soon as night fell. A kind of natural breakwater ran out in a straight
line to the lighthouse, so that in low tides--and the tides are
sometimes very low at Seacove--it was difficult to believe but that you
could get on foot all the way to the lighthouse rock.
But all these interesting particulars were not as yet known to Mr.
Vane's children. They had arrived at Seacove Rectory only the night
before.
The boy--he was next in age to his elder sister Rosalys--followed the
direction of her glance.
'No,' he said, 'there's very few trees, certainly. But I think it's
going to be very jolly all the same. When I get my pony _I'll_ be all
right any way; and on Saturdays, or odd half-holidays--there always are
odd half-holidays at every school, you know--I'll take you girls out a
drive in that funny little donkey-chaise, or whatever it is, that's
standing in the coach-house.'
'I don't fancy there are many places to drive to,' Rosalys replied.
'Papa said there would be no use in having any sort of proper carriage.
The only good road is the one to your school, Rough, and you'll have
enough of that morning and evening.'
'Papa said Seacove was a--I can't remember the word--something
French--cool--cul----'
'_Cul-de-sac_,' said Rosalys; 'leading to nowhere, that means.'
'Except to the sea, I suppose,' added the little girl who had stumbled
at the French word. 'It would be nice to have a ship of our own instead
of a carriage. Don't you think we might ask papa to get us one?'
'A _ship_, Biddy--I suppose you mean a boat,' said Rosalys, in a rather
'superior' tone. 'No; I don't fancy papa would trust us to go about in a
boat. Mamma would be frightened out of her wits about us.'
'The sea looks _so_ quiet,' said Bridget, gazing out at it. 'I don't
think it could ever be tossy and soapy here like it used to be at
Rockcliffe.'
'Couldn't it just?' said Randolph. 'Wait a bit, Bride. It may look quiet
on a day like this, and inside the shelter of the bay, but I can tell
you there's jolly rough work outside there sometimes. I was talking to
an old sailor this morning when I ran out before breakfast.'
'I'd like to see a shipwreck--I mean,' as she caught sight of a shocked
expression on her sister's face--'I mean of course one that nobody would
be drowned in.'
'But how could any one be sure of that? You should be more careful what
you say, Bride; you are so heedless.'
Bridget's face puckered up. It was rather given to puckering up, funny
little face that it was. She was eight years old, short and rather
stout, with thick, dark hair and a freckled complexion. Her nose turned
up and her mouth was not small. But she was not ugly; she had merry gray
eyes and very white teeth. Somehow, thorough little English girl though
she was, she reminded one of the small Savoyard boys one sees with a box
of marmots slung in front of them, or a barrel organ and a monkey.
'I didn't mean to say anything naughty, Alie,' she began, in a plaintive
tone. 'I'm always----'
'Oh, come now, Biddy, stop that, do,' said her brother; 'don't spoil the
first morning by going off into a howl for nothing. No one supposes you
wanted to drown a lot of people for the sake of watching a shipwreck,
only, as Alie says, you should be more careful. Strangers might think
you a very queer little girl if they heard you say such a thing.'