Milly and Olly Part 12

"Well, we're a long way off that yet, Olly. It will take a good many days' rain to flood the roads so deep that we can't get along them, and this is only the second rainy day. Come, I don't think we've got much to complain of. Now suppose, instead of doing all your lessons this morning, you were presently to write to Jacky and Francis--you write to Jacky, Milly, and Olly to Francis. Don't you think that would be a good thing?"

"Oh yes, yes!" cried Milly, shutting up her copybook in a great hurry.

"They'll be so much astonished, mother, for we didn't _promise_ to write to them. I don't believe they ever get any letters."

The children had a great deal of affection and some secret pity for these playfellows of theirs, who had a sick mother, and who did not get half the pleasures and amus.e.m.e.nts that they did. And, as I have already told you, they could not bear Miss Chesterton, the little boys' aunt, who lived with them. They felt sure that Jacky and Francis must be unhappy, only because they had to live with Miss Chesterton.

This was Milly's letter when it was done. Milly could only write very slowly, in rather big hand, so that her letters were never very long:

MY DEAR JACKY--Don't you think it very odd getting a letter from me? It is nearly a fortnight since we came here. At first it was _very_ nice. We went up the mountains, and Aunt Emma took us in a boat on the lake. And we gathered some wild strawberries, only some of them were quite white--not red a bit. But now it has begun to rain, and we don't like it at all. Perhaps we sha'n't be able to get home because the rain will cover up the roads. It is _very_ dull staying in, only mother makes us such nice plays.

Good-bye, Jacky. I send my love to Francis. Mind you don't forget us.

Your loving little friend, MILLY.

Olly wrote a much longer letter, that is to say, mother wrote for him, and he told her what to say, and as this was a much easier way of writing than Milly's way, he got on very fast, and Mrs. Norton had to write as quickly as she could, to keep up with him. And this was what Olly had to say:

MY DEAR FRANCIS--I wonder what you'll say to-morrow morning when the postman brings you this letter. I hope you'll write back, because it won't be fair if you don't. It isn't such fun here now because it does rain so. Milly and I are always telling the rain to go away, but it won't--though it did at home. Last week we went out in a boat, and I rowed. I rowed a great way, much farther than Milly. We went very slow when Milly rowed. It was very jolly at the picnic. Aunt Emma gave me some cake, and mother gave me some bread and jam. Nana won't let us have cake and jam both, when we have tea at home. Aunt Emma told us a story about King Arthur. I don't believe you ever heard it. The water-fairies took him away, and his friend wanted to go too, but the king said 'No! you must stop behind.' Milly cried because she felt sad about the king. I didn't cry, because I'm a little boy. Mother says you won't understand about the story, and she says we must tell it you when we get home. So we will, only perhaps we sha'n't remember. Do you do lessons now? We don't do any--only when it rains. Milly's writing a letter to Jacky--mine's much longer than hers.

Your little friend, OLLY.

Then came the putting up the letters, addressing them, and stamping them, all of which the children enjoyed very much, and by the time they were laid on the hall table ready to go to the post it was nearly dinner-time.

How the beck did roar that afternoon. And when the children looked out from the drawing-room window they could see a little flood on the lawn, where the water had come over the side of the stream. While they were having their tea, with mother sitting by, working and chattering to them, they heard a knock at the door, and when they opened it there was father standing in the unused kitchen, with the water running off his waterproof coat, making little streams all over the stone floor.

"I have been down to look at the river," he said to Mrs. Norton. "Keep off, children! I'm much too wet to touch. Such rain! It does know how to come down here! The water's over the road just by the stepping-stones. John Backhouse says if it goes on another twenty-four hours like this, there'll be no getting to Wanwick by the road, on foot."

"Father," said Milly, looking at him with a very solemn face, "wouldn't it be dreadful if it went on raining and raining, and if the river came up and up, right up to the drive and into the hall, and we all had to sit upstairs, and the butcher couldn't bring us any meat, and John Backhouse couldn't bring us any milk, and we all _died_ of hunger."

"Then they would put us into some black boxes," said Olly, cheerfully, with his mouth full of bread and b.u.t.ter, "and they would put the black boxes into some boats, and take us right away and bury us krick--wouldn't they, mother?"

"Well, but--" said Mr. Norton, who had by this time got rid of his wet coat, and was seated by Milly, helping himself to some tea, "suppose we got into the boats before we were dead, and rowed away to Windermere station?"

"Oh no! father," said Milly, who always liked her stories to be as gloomy as possible, "they wouldn't know anything about us till we were dead you know, and then they'd come and find us, and be _very_ sorry for us, and say, 'Oh dear! oh dear! what a pity!'"

Olly began to look so dismal as Milly's fancies grew more and more melancholy, that Mrs. Norton took to laughing at them all. What did they know about Westmoreland rain indeed. This was nothing--just nothing at all; she _could_ remember some floods in the wintertime, when she was a little girl, and used to stay with Aunt Emma and great-grandmamma; but as for this, why, it was a good summer wetting, and that was all.

A romp sent the children to bed in excellent spirits again. This time both Milly and Olly stood at the window together, and told the rain to be sure to go to Spain that night, and never come back again while they were at Ravensnest.

"Or you might go to Willingham, you know, dear Mr. Rain," said Milly; "I daresay mother's flowers want a good watering. And there's Spot--you might give her a good was.h.i.+ng--she _can_ wash herself, but she won't.

Only we don't want you here, Mr. Rain."

But what an obstinate disagreeable Mr. Rain it was! All that night it went on pouring, till the little beck in the garden was so full it was almost choked, and could only get along by sputtering and foaming as if some wicked water-fairies were driving it along and tormenting it. And all the little pools on the mountain, the "tarns," as Becky and Tiza called them, filled up, and the rain made the mountain itself so wet that it was like one big bog all over.

When the children woke up the flood on the lawn was growing bigger, and it seemed to them as if the house and garden were all wrapped up in a wet white cloud-blanket. They could not see the mountain at all from the window, it was all covered with a thick white mist, and the dark fir trees in the garden looked sad and drooping, as if the weight of raindrops was too much for them to carry.

The children had made up their minds so completely the night before that it _couldn't_ rain more than two days running, that they felt as if they could hardly be expected to bear this third wet morning cheerfully.

Nurse found them cross and out of spirits at breakfast. Even a prospect of asking Becky and Tiza to tea did not bring any smiles to their forlorn little faces. It would be no fun having anybody to tea. They couldn't go out, and there was nothing amusing indoors.

After breakfast, Olly set to work to get into mischief, as he generally did when he felt dull. Nurse discovered him smearing Katie's cheeks with raspberry jam "to make them get red kricker" as he said, and alas! some of the jam had stuck to the new silk frock, and spoilt all its smart fresh look.

When Milly found it out she began to cry, and when Mrs. Norton came in she saw a heap on the floor, which was Milly, sobbing, while Olly sat beside her with his mouth wide open, as if he was a good deal astonished at the result of his first attempt at doctoring.

"Pick up the pieces, old woman," said Mrs. Norton, taking hold of the heap and lifting it up. "What's the matter with you both?"

"Olly's spoilt my doll," sobbed Milly, "and it _will_ go on raining--and I feel so--so--dull."

"I didn't spoil her doll, mother," cried Olly, eagerly. "I only rubbed some jam on its cheeks to make them a nicey pink--only some of it _would_ sticky her dress--I didn't mean to."

"How would you like some jam rubbed on your cheeks, sir?" said Mrs.

Norton, who could scarcely help laughing at poor Katie's appearance when nurse handed the doll to her. "Suppose you leave Milly's dolls alone for the future; but cheer up, Milly! I think I can make Katie very nearly right again. Come upstairs to my room and we'll try."

After a good deal of sponging and rubbing, and careful drying by the kitchen fire, Katie came very nearly right again, and then Mrs. Norton tried whether some lessons would drive the rain out of the children's heads. But the lessons did not go well. It was all Milly could do to help crying every time she got a figure wrong in her sum, and Olly took about ten minutes to read two lines of his reading-book. Olly had just begun his sums, and Milly was standing up to say some poetry to her mother, looking a woebegone little figure, with pale cheeks and heavy eyes, when suddenly there was a noise of wheels outside, and both the children turned to look out of the window.

"A carriage! a carriage!" shouted Olly, jumping down, and running to the window.

There, indeed, was one of the shut-up "cars," as the Westmoreland people call them, coming up the Ravensnest drive.

"It's Aunt Emma," said Mrs. Norton, starting up, "how good of her to come over on such a day. Run, children, and open the front door."

Down flew Milly and Olly, tumbling over one another in their hurry; but father had already thrown the door open, and who should they see stepping down the carriage-steps but Aunt Emma herself, with her soft gray hair s.h.i.+ning under her veil, and her dear kind face as gentle and cheery as ever.

"Aunt Emma! Aunt Emma!" shouted Olly, dancing up to her, and throwing his arms round her, "_are_ you come to tell us about old Mother Quiverquake?"

"You gipsy, don't strangle me! Well, Lucy dear, here I am. Will you have me to dinner? I thought we'd all be company for each other this bad day.

Why, Milly, what have you been doing to your cheeks?"

"She's been crying," said Olly, in spite of Milly's pulling him by the sleeve to be quiet, "because I stickened her doll."

"Well, and quite right too. Dolls weren't made to be stickied. But now, who's going to carry my bag upstairs? Take it gently, Milly, it's got my cap inside, and if you crumple my cap I shall have to sit with my head in a bandbox at dinner. Old ladies are _never_ seen without their caps you know. The most dreadful things would happen if they were! Olly, you may put my umbrella away. There now, I'll go to mother's room and take off my things."

CHAPTER VII

A STORY-TELLING GAME

When Aunt Emma was safely settled, cap and all, in one of the drawing-room arm-chairs, it seemed to the children as if the rain and the gray sky did not matter nearly so much as they had done half an hour before. In the first place, her coming made something new and interesting to think about; and in the second place, they felt quite sure that Aunt Emma hadn't brought her little black bag into the drawing-room with her for nothing. If only her cap had been in it, why of course she would have left it in mother's bedroom. But here it was in her lap, with her two hands folded tight over it, as if it contained something precious! How very puzzling and interesting!

However, for a long time it seemed as if Aunt Emma had nothing at all to say about her bag. She began to tell them about her drive--how in two places the horse had to go splas.h.i.+ng through the water, and how once, when they were crossing a little river that ran across the road, the water came so far up the wheels that "I put my head out of the window,"

said Aunt Emma, "and said to my old coachman, 'Now, John, if it's going to get any deeper than this, you'd better turn him round and go home, for I'm an old woman, not a fish, and I can't swim. Of course, if the horse can swim with the carriage behind him it's all right, but I have my doubts.' Now John, my dears, has been with me a great many years, and he knows very well that I'm rather a nervous old woman. It's very sad, but it is so. Don't you be nervous when you're old people. So all he said was 'All right, ma'am. Bless you, he can swim like a trout.' And crack went the whip, splash went the water! It seemed to me it was just going to come in under the door, when, lo and behold! there we were safe and sound on dry ground again. But whether my old horse swam through or walked through I can't tell you. I like to believe he swam, because I'm so fond of him, and one likes to believe the creatures one loves can do clever things."

"I'll ask John when he comes to take you away, Aunt Emma," said Olly. "I don't believe horses can swim when they're in a carriage."

"You're a matter-of-fact monkey," said Aunt Emma. "Dear me, what's that?"

For a loud squeak had suddenly startled the children, who were now looking about them everywhere in vain, to find out where it came from.

Squeak! again. This time the voice certainly came from near Aunt Emma's chair, but there was nothing to be seen.