Mrs. Molesworth - The Boys and I - A Child's Story for Children

"My poor little Audrey."

I pressed my arms still tighter round her.

"Mother," I said, "I heard you say something about me. Mother, I do love you – you said I wasn't affectionate, but I'm sure I love you."

"Poor little Audrey," she said again. "I am sorry you heard that. You must not think I meant that you don't love me. I cannot quite make you understand how I meant, but I did not mean that. And oh, Audrey, how glad I am to think that you love the boys so much. You are a very kind sister to them, and you do not know what a comfort it is to me just now to think of that."

"Do you mean because of your going away, mother?" I asked. "Will you really go away? Will it be for a long time, mother? As long as a month, or two months?"

"Yes," said mother, "quite as long as that I am afraid. But you must go to sleep now, dear. You are not quite well yet, you know, and you will be so tired to-morrow if you don't have a good night. Try and not think any more about what you heard to-night; and to-morrow, or as soon as I can, I will tell you more."

"I did hear more," I said in a low voice, "I heard about our going to uncle Geoff's. Mother, is uncle Geoff nice?"

"Very," said mother. "But, Audrey, you must go to sleep, dear."

"Yes, mother, I will in one minute," I said. "But do tell me just one thing, please do."

Mother turned towards me again. She had just been preparing to lift Racey.

"Well, dear?" she said.

"I do so want to know what suits the boys would travel in," I said. "I have my big, long coat, but they haven't got such big ones. Mother, don't you think they should have new ulsters?"

Mother gave a little laugh that was half a sigh.

"Audrey," she said, "what a queer child you are! – But perhaps," she added to herself in a low voice, "perhaps it is as well."

I heard the words, and though I could not quite see that there was anything queer in my thinking about new ulsters for the boys, I did not tease mother any more about them just then. She kissed me again quite kindly, and then carried Racey away. He just woke up a very little as she lifted him, and gave a sort of cross wriggle – poor little boy, he had been so comfortably asleep. But when he saw that it was mother who was lifting him, he left off being cross in one moment.

"Dear little muzzie," he said, and though he was too sleepy to open his eyes again, he puckered up his little red lips for a kiss. "Muzzie," was what the boys called mother sometimes for a pet name. It wasn't very pretty, but she didn't mind.

"My darling little Racey," she said, as she kissed him; and somehow the way she said "darling" made me wish just a little that I was Racey instead of myself. Yet I didn't think about it much. My fancy would go running on about going to uncle Geoff's, and the journey, and how I would take care of the boys and all that; and when I went to sleep I had such queer dreams. I thought uncle Geoff had a face like Pierson when she was cross, and that he wore a great big ulster buttoned all down the back instead of the front, because, he said, that was the fashion in China.

I woke very early the next morning – for after all it had not been at all late when I fell asleep. I woke very early, but Tom was awake before me, for when I looked across to his bed, even before I had time to say "Tom, are you awake?" very softly, to which if he was still feeling sleepy he sometimes answered, "No, I'm not" – before I had even time to say that, I saw that his bright dark eyes were wide open.

There was a night-light on the little table between our cots. Mother had let us have it since we were ill. By rights the cot I was sleeping in was Racey's, for I had a little room to myself, but Tom and I had been put together because of the measles. I could not have seen Tom's face except for the light, for it was still quite dark outside, just beginning to get a very little morning.

"Tom," I said softly, "do you know what o'clock it is?"

"Yes," said Tom, "I think it's six. Just as I woke I heard the stair clock striking. I only counted four, but in my sleep I'm sure there had been two."

"Tom," I said again.

"Well," said Tom.

"Tom," I repeated. "I wish you could come into my bed or that I could get into yours. I do so want to speak to you, and I don't like to speak loud for fear of Pierson hearing." Pierson slept in a little room next ours.

"Pierson's asleep," said Tom. "I heard her snoring a minute ago. We mustn't get into each other's beds. Mother said we must promise not, for fear of catching cold."

"I know, but it's a pity," I said. "Tom, do you know – oh, Tom, do you know?"

"What?" said Tom.

"Something so wonderful, I don't know if I should tell you, but mother didn't say I wasn't to. Tom, what should you say if we were to go away – a long way away in the railway?"

"I'd say it was vrezy nice," said Tom. "If it was all of us together, of course."

"Ah, but if it wasn't all of us – what would you say then?"

Tom stared at me.

"What do you mean, Audrey?" he said. "We always does go all away together, if we go away at all."

"Oh yes – going to the sea-side and like that. But I mean something quite different from that. Suppose, Tom, that you and me and Racey had to go away somewhere by ourselves, what would you think of that?"

Tom's dark eyes stared at me more puzzledly than before.

"Audrey," he said, "what can you mean?" He looked quite startled and frightened. "Audrey," he said, suddenly jumping out of bed, "I must get into your bed. I'm sure I won't catch cold, and I want to whisper to you."

I could not help making room for him in my cot, and then we put our arms round each other, and Tom said to me in a very low voice – "Audrey, do you mean that Racey and you and me are all going to die ?"

Poor Tom, he looked so pitiful when he said that I was so sorry for him.

"Oh no, Tom dear. Of course I don't mean that. What could have made you think so?" I said.

"Because unless it was that I don't see how we could go away alone. Papa and mother would never let us. We're too little."

"I didn't mean that we'd really go alone in the railway," I explained, "somebody would go with us – Pierson perhaps, if she wasn't married. But still in a way it would be going away alone. Oh Tom, I have felt so funny all night – as if I couldn't believe it."

Then I told him what I had heard and what mother had told me; and all the time we held each other tight. We felt so strange – the telling it to Tom made it seem more real to me, and poor Tom seemed to feel it was real at once. When I left off speaking at last, he stared at me again with his puzzled-looking eyes, but he didn't seem as if he was going to cry.

"Audrey," he said at last, starting up, "don't you think if we were all to pray to God for papa and mother not to go away that that would be the best plan?"

I didn't quite know what to say. I knew it was always a good thing to pray to God, but yet I didn't feel sure that it would stop papa and mother's going away. I was rather puzzled, but I didn't quite like to say so to Tom.

"Audrey," he said, jigging me a little, "speak, be quick. Wouldn't that be a good plan? Perhaps then a letter would come at breakfast to say they weren't to go – wouldn't they be pleased?"

"I don't know," I said at last. "I almost think, for some things, papa wants to go, and that it's a good thing for him, and if it's a good thing for him I dare say God wouldn't unsettle it."

"But if it isn't a good thing for us ?" said Tom, "and it can't be a good thing for us – I'm sure God would unsettle it then."