Terry
R >>
Rosa Mulholland >> Terry
They got safely across the yard, gained the door, and went up the stone
stair, leaving streams of muddy water on all the steps behind them.
Arrived at the top, Terry looked round for a mat, but there was nothing
just at that spot except the carpet, so she took out her
pocket-handkerchief and wiped Vulcan's feet with it.
"It makes no difference to his wetness," she said, "but that does not
matter. His feet will get dry by degrees."
"We have made a mess on the stairs," said Turly, looking back.
"Yes, I don't know how we ever got so wet," said Terry; "but stone stairs
dry up so quickly. Come along now, Vulcan, you are not to bark a word or
you may frighten your grandma!"
Vulcan was quite in the spirit of the adventure, and trotted quietly along
with the children into the nursery.
Then the door was shut and the merriment began.
First of all the children took each one of his fore-paws and danced with
him many times round the room. Vulcan enjoyed the dance for a time, and
bore it patiently for another time, but at last he conveyed by a short
significant bark that he had had enough of it.
"Is he getting cross?" said Turly.
"No, but I'll tell you what it is," said Terry. "He gets tired sooner than
we do because we are accustomed to have only two legs to go with and he is
used to four. And we have taken away two of his legs. We have been making
arms of them."
"Yes indeed," said Turly, dropping the dog's paw.
"There now, Vulcan," said Terry, "you have got back all your legs, so don't
be grumbling. And don't let me hear you give that bark again or there will
be a fuss."
"What are you going to do with him now?" said Turly. "If he can't dance
about or bark what's the good of him?"
"I'll show you," said Terry. "Now, Vulcan, darling, you are going to sit
down in this nice large basket-chair, Nursey's chair, you know, and I'm
going to change you into such a dear old woman. You can't have a nursery,
you know, without a nurse, and you're going to be our nurse. Mind him,
Turly, until I get a few things. Here is Nurse Nancy's gown, not her best
stuff, nor her clean cotton, but the cotton she had on yesterday morning.
And here's her cap, the one she has put away for the wash, and yet it's
nice enough. Now sit up, Vulcan, and let me dress you!"
"You are taking away two of his legs again, and he won't like it," said
Turly.
"Oh! he won't care now, because he is sitting. He doesn't want four legs to
sit with. Dancing was different. Now, Vulcan, hold yourself straight, old
fellow! There, doesn't the dress fit him nicely, at least when I turn up
the sleeves over his paws and tie an apron round his body to make him a
waist? Dear old Nursey hasn't got much of a waist neither; now, has she,
Turly? Vulcan, Vulcan, let me tie your cap-strings!"
Vulcan, who was more disturbed by his head-dress than by any other part of
his costume, made a great effort to be patient while his shaggy ears were
covered up in a forest of muslin frills. At last he was completely dressed,
and licked the end of Terry's little nose as she bent over him to put the
finishing touches to her work.
"Now, it's all right except the spectacles. Turly, Turly, look about for
Nurse's spectacles. Oh, there they are on the chimney-piece! Take them out
of the case quick, and give them to me."
The next minute Vulcan's patience met with its severest trial, when Terry
insisted on adjusting the spectacles on his eyes and nose regardless of his
growls of remonstrance.
"Now, Vulcan, darling, you know you couldn't be a proper nurse without your
glasses. How could you read the newspaper or your prayer-book, or sew on
the buttons? It is a pity your nose is so wide at the top, and your eyes go
so far round the corners, but it can't be helped. I'm afraid I shall have
to tie them on--"
At this moment the door opened and Nurse Nancy appeared.
"Oh, Nursey, isn't he lovely? Look at him!" cried Terry, running to her.
But Vulcan seemed to know he was now to be put in the wrong. He jumped up,
floundering about in Nurse Nancy's cotton gown, which had got caught from
the front so as to enable him to run.
Once out of the room, he vaulted over the little gate, and tumbled down the
first flight of stairs, the children hurrying after him in spite of Nurse
Nancy's imploring appeals.
Nurse herself was obliged to follow, and, descending, saw him rolling
along, tearing her gown into holes in his efforts to get on, the children
pursuing him with peals of delighted laughter.
Finally, the excited dog escaped through the open back-door into the yard,
where he flopped across, the paving-stones flowing with rain, dragging
Nurse's skirts behind him and buffeting her cap with his paws till he got
rid of it by rending it into a hundred fragments.
At last Vulcan settled himself back in his kennel with the drenched and
ragged remains of Nurse's gown and apron rolled around him, and with an air
of thankfulness for his escape from persecution.
The children had followed him to the kennel, and stood dancing round him in
the pouring rain. Nurse Nancy stood at the door exhorting them to come back
to her.
"You bad childher, you dreadful childher! Miss Terry, I command you to come
in out o' the pours of rain."
"It doesn't hurt, Nursey dear; indeed it doesn't," said Terry, as soon as
her excitement allowed her to hear the voice; and she came running
obediently across the yard.
"Hurt!" cried Nurse angrily, and seized a hand of each of the dripping
children, marching them up the stairs in silence and into the nursery,
where she deposited them on two chairs and stood looking at them in
speechless indignation.
Turly looked defiant; Terry gazed at Nurse with dismay and bewilderment.
"You wicked little girl! I know it was you that did it. Turly would never
have dared to."
"Yes, I would!" said Turly.
"No, indeed, he wouldn't, Nurse. It was all me. But you don't mean that
I've been really wicked. Nurse, do you?"
"Don't I indeed? And my good gown in rags, and my cap in smithereens!"
"I'm very sorry about that, Nursey dear, indeed I am. I couldn't have
believed Vulcan could be so stupid as to end it all that way. He just got
in a fright when he saw you coming in. And I thought you would have been so
delighted with the fun. And Gran'ma will get you a new gown and a new cap
when I tell her all about it."
Nurse took no notice of her protests.
"Both of you drenched to the skin! Let me feel your things! Every stitch on
you sopping with wet! I'll have to get a warm bath ready for you, and put
you in bed. And it's well if I can let you up to see your gran'mama at
tea-time."
"Oh, Nurse, and I did so want to show her the things I worked for her! She
wouldn't be angry; not if I told her myself. I know it would make her
laugh--"
"'Deed, and you sha'n't tell her a word of it, Miss Terry. If she was
asleep and didn't hear the scrimmage, we'll just leave her in peace about
it."
"Oh, is it as bad as that?" said Terry. "So bad that I am not to tell
Gran'ma?"
"It is as bad as bad--as that it couldn't be badder!" cried Nurse Nancy.
"My gown and cap ruinated, my nursery spattered with mud, the back stairs
like a street with clay an' rain, yourselves drenched an' drownded, an'
your clothes spoiled. And into the bargain," added Nancy, with a quaver in
her voice, "my spectacles broken into smash, an' I without e'er another
pair to see my way about the house with!"
[Illustration]
"Your spectacles!" cried Terry, now at last stricken with remorse. "Oh,
Nursey, do you really mean that your spectacles are broken?"
Nurse Nancy answered by holding up an empty rim from which all trace of
glasses had departed.
Then Terry said no more, but crept meekly into her little bed, burrowed
into the pillows, and wept.
CHAPTER IV
DREADFULLY GOOD
The destruction of Nurse Nancy's spectacles was a real tragedy. Between the
hills and the sea spectacles are not found growing like limpets on the
rocks, or shaking on the wind like the bog-flowers. The rule in Trimleston
House with regard to these necessary articles was that Granny's cast-off
spectacles fell to Nancy, who was younger than her mistress, and who was
nicely suited by glasses that had ceased to be powerful enough for Madam.
"Has Granny none to give you, Nursey?" asked Terry, with repentant eyes
fixed on Nancy's small brown orbs so deeply set in wrinkles.
"No, child, no. She got her new ones from Dublin only a week ago. And
myself got the ould ones. Suited me nicely, they did. And now I may sit
down and wait till Madam's eyes require another new pair."
"But can't we write for some for you, Nursey, as Granny did?"
"Well, now! Just as if they had my name and my number in Dublin, same as
your gran'mama's, an' her a great lady! Sure, poor people do have to walk
into a shop, and just try and try till they get a pair to fit them."
Terry sat on the old woman's knee, and threw her arms round her neck.
"I'll darn the stockings, and sew on the strings and buttons, and read your
prayer-book to you, and read the newspaper to you after Grandma has done
with it. Is there anything else I can do for you, Nursey darling?"
"Nothing in the world, except try to be good an' keep out of mischief, Miss
Terry."
"But I do so want to be good always, Nancy. And I never would be in
mischief if I knew it was mischief. It looks so right while I'm doing it,
and I don't know how it can be that all of a sudden it goes wrong--"
"Not all of a suddent, Miss Terry. It's always wrong from the beginning
with you. If you would only stop and ask your elders at first 'Is this
wrong?' before you go at it--"
"But I couldn't do that, unless I had an idea that it was going to be
wrong, even perhaps. It always seems to me the rightest, sweetest,
loveliest thing in the world--"
"Now, Terry, how can you look me in the face and say you thought it was
right to take a big, wet, lumbering watch-dog out of his kennel on a wet
day and bring him upstairs to your nursery, dripping his wet over
everything, and then dress him up--"
"Oh, Nancy!" cried Terry, splitting into laughter and putting her hands
before her face. "Oh, now, wasn't it simply deliciously funny? If you had
only been there before he jumped! His eyes were so sweet under your frills,
and his paws were so enchanting coming out of your sleeves. And if it
hadn't been for your spectacles--Now, tell me a story, Nancy, till it is
time to go to Gran'ma."
Terry was so true to her word, did so much reading and stitching and
searching about for little things that were lost, that Granny and Nancy
agreed to think her real conversion had begun through the breaking of the
spectacles. For Nancy had allowed Terry to confess to having broken the
glasses, though she would not have dear old Madam disturbed by a
description of the pranks with the dog. So long as Nursey had to go groping
about as if in the dark, putting her nose to the carpet in search of the
dressing-comb she had dropped out of her hand, feeling all over the
pin-cushion for a pin, and shaking out the newspaper with an expression on
her face which told that it was a perfectly blank sheet to her: while this
state of things went on, Terry had no time to think of fresh adventures, so
eager was she to come to Nursey's relief with her sharp young eyes and her
quick little fingers.
However, a more thorough relief was at hand, and it happened in this way.
Walsh, the old steward at Trimleston, was the same age as Nancy, and the
same kind of spectacles suited him. He sometimes went a journey to a town
about thirty miles away to pay bills for Madam, and to order things that
were wanted about the place. Granny suddenly discovered that he might as
well take the journey now as wait for the spring. She gave him a long list
of matters to be attended to for her, and then she said:
"And you had better go to the optician's, Walsh, and choose a pair of
spectacles to suit yourself, and bring them to me for Nurse Nancy."
As soon as Terry saw Nursey's keen brown eyes looking at her through the
familiar little glass windows once more, she felt her remorse slip away
from her, and her liberty return.
"Nursey is able to take care of herself now," she thought, "and I have
nothing to do. I wish I cared about reading, but I don't. I like people to
tell me stories, but nobody has more than a few, and you get to know them
all off by heart. The books always say such a lot between the happening
parts, and if you skip too much you lose part of the story. The story
people all sit down and fold their hands, and wait till the close thick
pages of prosy prosy are over, and when they get up again and go on they
have forgotten their parts. Pappy says I shall like reading when I'm older;
but I'm not older, and I don't like it. I just like to be doing something,
and oh, dear, there is nothing to do!"
Terry was sitting at the nursery fire waiting to be summoned to Granny's
sitting-room. She had on her pretty white frock, her gold curls were all
brushed up into a thousand shining rings, and her blue silk work-bag was
hanging by its ribbons from her arms. She had been extremely good and quiet
all day, and she was intending to behave nicely to Gran'ma during the
evening. She knew exactly all that would happen. There would be a good tea;
oh, yes, Granny did give such good teas, dear old Gran'ma! And then Terry
would sit on a stool beside her, and embroider a letter on one of Granny's
new cambric pocket-handkerchiefs. After that Terry would read aloud, poetry
such as Gran'ma liked, and Terry did not much object to that, for she
loved musical rhythm, only Granny always chose and marked the pieces, and
Terry would rather have tossed over the leaves till she found a poem that
she could make a favourite of for herself. She hoped it would be Longfellow
to-night. She liked that one:
"A little face at the window
Peers out into the night".
Oh, yes; she would be as good as good! And Terry heaved a long-drawn sigh.
"Turly," she said suddenly, "do you never get tired lying flat on the
floor, playing with soldiers and bricks, and things?"
"No," said Turly, "I've done such a day's work. I've built a whole city of
streets out of this one brick-box."
"You ridiculous boy! The box only holds enough bricks to build one house
with."
"I know that," said Turly placidly. "I build one house at a time, and I
count the houses I've built till I know there is a street."
"Oh, you silly! You are building the same house every time, and taking it
down again. How can you be so baby as to call that building a street."
"No matter," said Turly, "I have the street in my head. I see all the
houses I built, though they had to come down. It's a grand city."
"Whereabouts is it in the world!" asked Terry, a little interested in spite
of herself.
"Oh, it's a city I read about in the _Arabian Nights_! I think they call it
Ispahan. I intend to go there some day. There are magicians living in it."
"Oh, that's better!" cried Terry. "You must take me with you, Turly."
"Girls don't ever grow up into famous travellers," said Turly, as he packed
his bricks solidly back into their box.
"Oh, you stupid! don't they? As if I couldn't run about as well as a person
who lies on the floor all day and calls it travelling."
"I didn't," said Turly, "I said I intended to go and see that city some
day, and find out all about everything that is in it. I am afraid the
magicians are dead."
But here Granny's tea-bell rang, and the children hastened away to their
honey and tea-cakes. And there they had a delightful surprise, for two
little new kittens, a white Persian and a black velvet creature with yellow
eyes, were curled up on the hearth at Gran'ma's feet.
CHAPTER V
"BAD AGAIN!"
When tea, and reading, and sewing were all over, the children were allowed
to play with the new kittens, and Granny presented a kitten to each child,
Turly choosing the black and Terry the white one. They were each of a very
aristocratic cat race, and had been sent a great many miles as a present to
Madam. Terry named her kitten Snow, and Turly gave his the name of Jet.
Nurse Nancy had provided a ribbon and a little tinkling bell for each. Jet
had a scarlet ribbon and a gold bell, and Snow a blue ribbon and a silver
bell. Nancy also produced two balls of knitting worsted, and it was very
funny to see the kitties frisking about the floor after the dangling balls.
This gave a pleasantly exciting finish to the evening, and the play went on
until Gran'ma began to look tired.
As Nancy was tying the blue ribbon round Snow's white, furry neck, Terry
holding her up by her fore-paws while a pretty knot was being made between
her ears, Terry heard Nancy say to Granny:
"I think you are very tired, madam. I believe you miss your new-laid egg
in the mornings; sure I know you do, madam."
[Illustration]
"Why don't you have your new-laid egg in the mornings, Granny?" asked
Terry, putting Snow down on the floor, and nestling up to her grandmother.
"Because, darling, the hens don't choose to lay, this cold weather."
"Do they never lay in cold weather? Are there no hens who will lay eggs for
Gran'ma, Nursey dear?" urged Terry.
"I believe there's a few down at Connolly's farm," said Nancy; "at least
I've heard so. I've a mind to send down and enquire."
Then Granny went off with Nancy to her bedroom, and the children were left
in the sitting-room playing with the kittens.
"Turly," said Terry, "I want to speak to you. Put the kittens in their
basket and come here."
Turly came directly and they sat on two little stools and looked into the
fire.
"What is it about, Terry?" asked Turly. He was always ready for any
startling plot or plan that Terry might propose to him.
"Did you hear Nancy saying Granny was getting weak for want of her new-laid
eggs, and that the hens wouldn't lay them for her?"
"No," said Turly.
"Well, she did."
"We can't help it," said Turly.
"You can't, dear; but I can. I'm older than you."
"The hens won't do it for you, no matter how old you are," said Turly.
"Oh!" said Terry impatiently, "that is not what I mean! There's a few hens
down at Connolly's farm, and Nancy thinks they lay."
"Where is Connolly's farm?"
"I'm sure I don't know, but there are hens there, real industrious hens,
and I want to get their eggs for Gran'ma."
"You can't," said Turly.
"Wait till you see," said Terry.
Turly looked at his sister admiringly, but went on piling up the
difficulties she was going to surmount.
"You don't know where Connolly's farm is. And when you do, the hens are not
yours. Connolly wants to eat his own eggs. Perhaps he's got a gran'ma."
"No, he hasn't. And he would rather have money than eggs. At least poor
people generally do."
"How do you know he is poor?"
"Oh, Turly, how you do keep contradicting! Now I'll tell you what I am
going to do. I'll just get out the pony quite early in the morning and ride
to Connolly's farm, and be back with the eggs for Gran'ma's breakfast."
Turly opened his eyes wide with admiration, but he was not convinced.
"Somebody will be sure to be angry," he said, "and there will be a row."
"But you know it couldn't be wrong, Turly, because it is for Gran'ma. And
I'm not going to bring the pony up the stairs, and it won't be wet, because
it's just nice frosty weather--"
"Connolly's farm is awfully far away. I'm sure it is," said Turly. "You'll
never get back here for breakfast."
"But I shall start quite, quite early."
"It will be dark."
"There's ever so much moonlight at six," said Terry. "I was awake this
morning, and I saw it. I was just longing to get up and go off for a ride,
and now there will be a real reason for doing it."
"I will go with you," said Turly, suddenly changing his front.
"Oh, no, you couldn't, Turly! There is only one pony. You must stay behind,
and if there's any fuss because I'm a little late or something, you can
tell them I've gone for the eggs and will be back directly."
Nurse came in and took them off to bed, but Terry kept thinking of her
morning adventure. She did not think of it as an adventure, but as a
delightful surprise for Gran'ma.
"She does so much for us," thought Terry, "and we can do so little for her!
And she will find it so nice to have a good fresh egg for breakfast!"
Still Terry felt it would never do to tell Nursey of her intentions. She
would be sure to think that everything would go wrong. Rain would come on,
or Connolly's really wouldn't have any eggs, or the pony would go lame. But
won't she smile up all over when she sees Gran'ma eating her fresh egg at
breakfast-time!
The greatest dread Terry felt was of oversleeping herself. She fell asleep
as soon as her head was on the pillow, but wakened with a start as the
clock was striking three. She could hear Nurse snoring through the wall,
and Nurse Nancy had a most peculiar snore, first a long-drawn note, as of a
horn, and then a little whistle.
"I wonder how she does it," said Terry to herself, and tried to imitate the
sounds. "I couldn't. It's awfully clever of her. And when you see her going
about in the daytime you would never think she could do it."
Terry thought it would be quite easy to lie awake, waiting, for three
hours. However, after listening for about five minutes to Nursey's snoring,
and blowing through her own little nose to try to do the same, she was fast
asleep again.
She wakened again exactly at a quarter to six. The moonlight was now
pouring into the room, and she could see everything as well as if by day.
She got up and went out to the landing to look at the clock, and stood
there in her white night-dress, with her little bare toes on the carpet,
gazing at the solemn white face of the tall brown clock which Granny said
had stood there just as she was for quite two hundred years. It was
impossible not to think of this clock as a personage, and she was
accustomed to change her character very much as Terry changed her moods.
Sometimes she was a cheery old creature, hurrying on the time with her
pleasant chimes, coaxing round the sunshine out of the dark, and bringing
back the cosy bed-time when children were tired. At other times she had the
air of a stern prophetess, with a threat in every "tick, tick", and a hint
of doom in the striking of every hour. As she stood now in her brown cloak
darkened by the moonlight, and her round meaningless face whitened by it,
she recalled to Terry a remark once made by Granny, "Many a life she has
ticked away out of this house, and out of this world, has that old
great-grandfather's clock, my children!"
"She sha'n't tick my life away," thought Terry. "I hope she won't tick away
Gran'ma's and Nursey's! But that is nonsense, of course. Granny couldn't
have meant that she had anything to do with it, for that is only God's
business!"
These ideas just flashed through Terry's little head as she stared at the
clock and heard her give that curious snarl with which she always warned
one that there were but three minutes left of the passing hour. And the
hour hand was at six.
It was just the time for Terry. She dressed quickly, putting on the little
riding-skirt that she had brought from Africa. It was some inches shorter
than it had been then; but never mind, it was all right.
"I don't believe anybody gets up till seven these winter mornings," she
reflected, and certainly the house was quite still as she slipped out, and,
knowing where to find the stable-keys, she was soon in the stable. She put
her own little saddle on the pony and led him from the yard, leaving the
keys in the doors, because it was morning, and there was no more use in
locking up the places.
Away went Terry trotting down the avenue, full of the enthusiasm of her
good intentions. She was soon out on the high-road. There was a crisp,
white frost on the grass, but the middle of the road was not at all slippy.
The pony went at a good pace, and soon carried her a couple of miles away
from home. All this time Terry thought of nothing but the enjoyment of her
ride, and of that basket of eggs she was going to carry home to Gran'ma.
Presently the moon set, and there was scarcely a glimmer of daylight, but
a great deal of frosty fog. Up to this Terry had been allowing the highway
to carry her anywhere it pleased, but now at last she came to four
cross-roads, all seeming to lead into fogland, and she stopped short.
[Illustration]
"Now I wonder where is Connolly's farm!" she said; but the pony only tossed
his head and shook his ears, and was not able to help her.
"I was quite sure it was just about here, because Nursey said 'down at
Connolly's farm', and her head shook in this direction. I thought I saw it
quite plainly when she was speaking. It ought to be here, and yet I can't
see it. This is down, for it has been a little bit downhilly all the way.
I'm sure I could see it if the fog would only get away. There! it is
getting a little more daylight, and I'll just take this road because it
still seems to be going down."
She started off again; but as she went the fog grew thicker and thicker,
and Terry soon became aware that it was freezing hard. The pony began to
stumble, and several times he nearly fell, for Terry found it hard to hold
him up with her little frost-bitten fingers. She worked bravely, but felt
that the road was indeed downhill, and all the more difficult in its
present state of slipperiness. Still there was no house in sight, and so
thick was the fog that unless the door of the farmhouse had been just at
hand, it would not have been visible to her.