The Story of Charles Strange: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3) — John Shaqi
The Story of Charles Strange: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)Wood, Henry, Mrs.
General
The Story of Charles Strange: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)
Wood, Henry, Mrs.
Fiction
"But you are not going away, Leah."
"I don't know that. We are to have changes here, it seems, and I'm not
sure that they will suit me."
"What changes?" I asked.
She sat at the nursery window, which had the same aspect as the
drawing-room below, darning my socks; I knelt on a chair, looking out.
It was a rainy day, and the drops pattered thickly against the panes.
"Well, there's going to be--some company in the house," said Leah,
taking her own time to answer me. "A _lot_ of them. And I think
perhaps there'll be no room for me."
"Oh, yes there will. Who is it, Leah?"
"I shouldn't wonder but it's those people over yonder," pointing her
long darning-needle in the direction of the dingle.
"There's nothing there but mosses and trees, Leah. No people."
"There _is_ a little farther off," nodded Leah. "There's Mrs. Heriot
and her two children."
"Oh, do you say they are coming here!--do you mean it?" I cried in
ecstasy. "Are they coming for a long visit, Leah?--to have breakfast
here, and dine and sleep? Oh, how glad I am!"
"Ah!" groaned Leah; "perhaps you may be glad just at first; you are
but a little shallow-sensed boy, Charley: but it may turn out for
better, or it may turn out for worse."
To my intense astonishment, she dropped her work, burst into tears,
and threw her hands up to her face. I felt very uncomfortable.
"What is it, Leah?"
"Well, it is that I'm a silly," she answered, looking up and drying
her eyes. "I got thinking of the past, Master Charley, of your dear
mamma, and all that. It _is_ solitary for you here, and perhaps you'll
be happier with some playfellows."
I went on staring at her.
"And look here, Master Charles, don't repeat what I've said; not to
anybody, mind; or perhaps they won't come at all," concluded Leah,
administering a slight shaking by way of enforcing her command.
There came a day--it was in that same week--when everything seemed to
go wrong, as far as I was concerned. I had been at warfare with Leah
in the morning, and was so inattentive (I suppose) at lessons in the
afternoon that papa scolded me, and gave me an extra Latin exercise to
do when they were over, and shut me up in the study until it was
done. Then Leah refused jam for tea, which I wanted; saying that jam
was meant for good boys, not for naughty ones. Altogether I was in
anything but an enviable mood when I went out later into the garden.
The most cruel item in the whole was that I could not see _I_ had been
to blame, but thought everyone else was. The sun had set behind the
trees of the dingle in a red ball of fire as I climbed into my
favourite seat--the fork of the pear-tree. Papa had gone to attend a
vestry meeting; the little bell of the church was tinkling out, giving
notice of the meeting to the parish.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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