The Rectory Children.

by Mrs Molesworth.

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 princ.i.p.al 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 sc.r.a.p 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 gla.s.s. 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 gla.s.s.

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 f.a.n.n.y 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 sc.r.a.p 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 pa.s.sed 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 appet.i.te 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 'cla.s.s 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 sc.r.a.p 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?'