Chapter VIII: Introduces Miss Goodwin

"DORA and I passed Haresdown House this morning," Dinah Mickle informed her mother one afternoon early in the new year; "the windows were all wide open, and there were people at work inside, papering and painting."

The Christmas holidays were nearly at an end, and Dinah was assisting Mrs. Mickle in the making of some garments for her sister and herself, whilst the other children had gone off on pleasure bent, Dora and Tom for a long walk, and Gilbert on his own account, for he seldom fraternized with his juniors.

"There were two men in the garden pruning the shrubs and turning up the ground," the little girl proceeded, "so I expect Mr. Bailey will soon be here himself; don't you think so?"

"Yes," Mrs. Mickle replied; "in fact, I know your father heard from him a few days ago, and he then wrote that he hoped shortly to be at Wreyford."

"I wonder if he is very rich," Dinah said meditatively; "Gilbert says Colonials generally are. Do you know, mother?"

"No, my dear; but I imagine he must be very well off. Your father says he means to spare no expense in doing up Haresdown House; and, as you know, he has subscribed largely to several Wreyford charities this Christmas."

"He will have a big house to live in!" Dinah exclaimed.

"I think his buying it was entirely a matter of sentiment; you see, it was his childhood's home, and it is curious how elderly people like to return to the scenes of their youth, even when—" Mrs. Mickle paused abruptly, and listened to the sound of voices on the staircase. "I believe Miss Goodwin is coming," she said, a slightly amused smile crossing her face.

The next moment the parlour-maid announced "Miss Goodwin!" and a queer-looking little person stepped into the room, and paused irresolutely, with her head on one side.

She was clad in an old-fashioned brown silk gown and a circular brown cloak, whilst a poke bonnet covered her head, the hair on which was as white as snow and arranged in little corkscrew curls. Her figure was slight, and as upright as a dart; her eyes singularly blue and clear, and so youthful in expression that they contrasted oddly with her wrinkled countenance, which was one network of fine lines. It was difficult to guess from her appearance what age she was, but she was known to be nearer ninety than eighty; she never thought of herself as old, though, and was so lively in her manner, and juvenile in her conversation at times, that she often proved a puzzle to new acquaintances.

"Do I intrude?" she asked in a high piping voice, as she stood just within the room, looking at the table laden with working materials. "If so, I will go, and call upon you at a more convenient season."

"We are very pleased to see you, dear Miss Goodwin," Mrs. Mickle said cordially, as she took her visitor's little hand, encased in a baggy, brown kid glove, and pressed it kindly. "Come near the fire, and warm yourself; I am sure you must be cold."

"Oh no, not very," Miss Goodwin responded; nevertheless, she allowed herself to be placed in an easy chair by the fireside. "I left my waterproof and goloshes in the hall," she explained, for it was one of her peculiarities, however fine the weather might be, to be prepared for rain. "The sun is shining brightly now," she went on, "but who can say how long it will be before the clouds come? We never know."

"No, never," Mrs. Mickle agreed, smiling pleasantly.

"I remember once going to a picnic attired in a muslin gown," Miss Goodwin continued, looking thoughtful, "and before the day was over the rain descended in torrents, drenching me to the skin; I had foolishly omitted taking my waterproof and goloshes with me. I learnt a lesson then which I have never forgotten, for I caught a severe cold, and spoilt my gown—a new one."

Dinah could not restrain a slight laugh, for she had heard this story so many times before; Miss Goodwin had a number of stock tales which she was in the habit of telling over and over again.

"Dinah, my dear child, you have not spoken to me yet!" the old lady exclaimed, as the little girl's laugh attracted her attention.

"I am waiting to do so, Miss Goodwin," Dinah answered, feeling rather ashamed of her merriment, though the visitor was quite unconscious of its cause. She bent and kissed the other's wrinkled cheek. "How do you do?" she said.

"I am very well, thank you, my dear. I need not inquire how you are, for you look blooming. Such a rosy face! Such bright eyes! Dear me, Mrs. Mickle, how old these young people make us feel!"

It was another of Miss Goodwin's peculiarities that she always spoke of herself as a contemporary of Mrs. Mickle's; and although she talked of feeling old, that was certainly not the case, for to the end of her days she was always young in heart.

"It is very nice for me that Dinah is of an age to be helpful," Mrs. Mickle remarked, with a smiling glance at her daughter; "she has remained at home this afternoon to assist me with this needlework."

"Please do not let me interrupt. Pray proceed with your work, and I will converse with you meanwhile." Then, as her companions complied with her wish, the old lady added: "I have just come from Haresdown House."

"Indeed!" Mrs. Mickle exclaimed. "Did you go inside?"

"I did, from curiosity I must admit, to see what the new owner is having done. I knew him when he was a boy, you understand; a masterful youth he was, but the owner of a kind and generous heart. Has he made his fortune, do you know?"

"I imagine he has, Miss Goodwin. He lived many years in Australia, it seems."

"Ah, I cannot keep count of time. Yes, Edward Bailey was a fine lad, and so was his brother. One went to Australia; the other became a clergyman, he always reminded me of that Nathanael Jesus loved, the one in whom there was no guile. He died, leaving a widow and one child—a son."

"That must be the father of the little girl Mr. Bailey brought here with him," Mrs. Mickle said, her face full of interest. "I believe I told you how we became acquainted with them. You will like to meet Mr. Bailey again, I am sure."

"It will give me great pleasure to do so. I remember him so well— a tall, slight, fair-haired boy."

"But he is elderly now," Mrs. Mickle reminded her visitor gently; "some people would, I have no doubt, call him an old man."

"He is younger than me," Miss Goodwin said; "indeed, I can remember the birth of himself and his brother. I do not think any one could call him old."

There was a note of reproach in the clear, piping voice, which Mrs. Mickle was quick to remark; she hastened to change the conversation.

"You will remain to tea, will you not?" she asked brightly. "Oh, do! The children will be here presently, and you may rely upon Tom to see you home safely in the evening."

"Let me take off your bonnet and cloak," Dinah said; and after feebly protesting, Miss Goodwin gave in, and allowed the little girl to have her way.

"I am a very frequent visitor," the old lady remarked half-apologetically as she patted her snowy curls, "but you are such hospitable people, and so very kind, that I never can refuse your invitations. I am glad I put a clean tucker to my dress," she continued artlessly, "for, at any rate, I have the satisfaction of being certain I look tidy. It is another lesson to show that one ought always to be ready for any emergency."

"And how are they getting on at Haresdown House?" Mrs. Mickle inquired. "Will the workmen soon finish?"

"Oh, not for some weeks, I imagine," Miss Goodwin responded. "I went into every room, and looked at the wall-papers; and the workmen were most polite. They gave me all the information I wanted."

"Yes?"

"The house is to be thoroughly repaired and renovated. Dear me, it will be like old times to see the place occupied once more. It always made me sad to see it looking so neglected and desolate."

After a little further conversation, Dora and Tom arrived upon the scene. Their bright faces broke into smiles of welcome at the sight of the visitor, for she was a great favourite with all the children; even Gilbert generally laid a restraint upon his sharp tongue in her presence. But this afternoon Gilbert did not put in an appearance till tea was nearly over; he apologized for being so late, but promptly snubbed his brother for asking him where he had been all the afternoon.

"You needn't be so nasty," Tom said, adding in the teazing way which was always particularly irritating to Gilbert's touchy temper, "I suppose you've been up to no good, or you wouldn't make a mystery."

"I don't know what you mean," Gilbert retorted hotly. "I'm making no mystery."

"What do you call it, then? Dora and I have been for a fine walk across country, over hedges and ditches, and have had a simply splendid time. We don't mind telling where we've been and what we've been doing. Isn't father coming up to tea, mother?"

"No, my dear," Mrs. Mickle answered. "I believe he has a client with him; he told me after dinner that he would be particularly engaged this afternoon, so I have promised Miss Goodwin that you will see her home by-and-by."

"So I will!" Tom cried gaily. "I'll take good care of you, Miss Goodwin."

"I am sure you will, Tom," the little lady replied, her eyes dwelling admiringly on the boy's healthy, honest face. "What a blessing it is to be young and strong," she continued; "a little bird told me you were one of the best football players at the Grammar School."

Tom flushed with pleasure, and laughed in a flattered, self-conscious manner, which made his brother look at him with a sneer.

"Come and see me play in the next match, Miss Goodwin," the younger boy said eagerly, not noticing the expression on Gilbert's face.

"But I was never at a football match in my life," she told him. "I am not certain that I should like to see a game played. It would make me nervous."

"Yes, I expect it would," Mrs. Mickle agreed. Then, glancing at her elder son, she said, "You are eating nothing, Gilbert."

"I am not hungry, mother."

"I should have thought the keen air would have given you an appetite."

"I have not been out of doors."

"Not been out of doors!" Mrs. Mickle echoed in surprise. "Do you mean you have been in the house all the afternoon?"

Gilbert nodded, and looked as though he would rather not be questioned further. Tom stared at him in wide-eyed astonishment, for being open concerning his own doings, he never could understand his brother's more reserved disposition.

"I know where he's been!" the younger boy cried at length. "I have it now. He must have spent all the afternoon in the attic. He was there yesterday, I know, because the door was locked, and—"

"Well, what if it was?" Gilbert demanded crossly. "I didn't want you poking and prying about the place. I locked the door to keep you out."

"Don't wrangle, boys," Mrs. Mickle interposed pacifically. "I wish, Gilbert," she said with a slight sigh, "that you would get out more this fine weather. Soon you will be back at school again, and then you will be obliged to remain indoors."

Shortly after tea Miss Goodwin left, and was escorted home by Tom, who carried her waterproof and goloshes, and made himself a most entertaining companion by good-humouredly listening to the little lady's chatter. She lived in a small, detached house close to the town, at the bottom of the road leading up Haresdown Hill, so they had not far to go. It stood in a sheltered spot, and a large myrtle flourished against the wall close to the front door, hence the name of the house, Myrtle Villa.

Whilst Tom was seeing Miss Goodwin home, Mrs. Mickle and Gilbert had been left in the sitting-room together, the little girls having gone upstairs to their own room. For a while there was silence between mother and son, but at last the former spoke.

"You must have been nearly frozen in the attic this afternoon," she said gently. "Why do you make a mystery about what you do there?"

The boy made no reply. He had flung himself into an easy chair, and was gazing gloomily into the fire. Mrs. Mickle repeated her question, speaking sharply this time, annoyed at his silence.

"I beg your pardon, mother," he cried hastily. "I was doing no harm in the attic."

"I never imagined that for a moment. But why not be open? It is not nice of you to be so secretive."

"Tom humbugs so. If he knew what I was doing he would be always worrying around me."

"But what were you doing, my dear?"

Thus pressed Gilbert confessed that he had turned a part of the attic into a sort of studio, and was trying to learn to draw and paint.

"I did not want any one to know about it," he explained, "because Tom chatters so, and the girls are so inquisitive, and father wants me to be a lawyer. I don't want to be a lawyer. I would far rather be an artist."

Mrs. Mickle's face was expressive of anxious thought. She knew Gilbert had a liking for painting, and drew very well; but he was quite self-taught, and she did not know if he possessed real talent or not. Her husband had always intended the boy should follow his own profession, and hitherto Gilbert had raised no objection to the plan.

"I wish you were more open with your father and me," she said presently, "but you wrap yourself up in yourself, and seldom confide in us. If we were unsympathetic parents it would be different. I cannot understand why you do not open your mind to us, Gilbert. You know how dear you are to us, and how there is nothing, in reason, we would not do for your happiness. Why cannot you be frank with us?"

"I don't know, mother," the boy answered. "I think I am frank with you generally, because you're more patient with me than I deserve; and so is father, too, for that matter. But I hate Tom and the girls to know all I'm doing."

"Tom is a great tease," Mrs. Mickle allowed, "but he is a well-meaning boy and as honest and open as the day."

"I know he is, mother, and I'm not. Every one likes Tom, even little Miss Goodwin, and no one cares about me—I mean, no outsiders."

"Don't you think that's your own fault? You cannot expect people to like you if you persist in showing them the worst side of your character; if you are unsociable and reserved, no one will want to be friendly with you. Why did you not say how you were employing your time in the attic? The others would not have intruded on you if you had asked them not to. Instead of explaining, you act so as to arouse their curiosity. Oh, you foolish boy!"

Gilbert flushed, and looked rather ashamed of himself, but he did not resent his mother's plain speaking. His face softened as she continued talking to him, and presently he looked at her with a smile in his usually sombre eyes.

"Gilbert," she said tenderly, "I wish you had found the secret of happiness; perhaps you will some day. I pray you may. If only you could learn to put your faith in God, to forget yourself and think of others more!"

The boy made no answer in words, but he laid his hand on one of the crutches which rested against the arm of his chair, and his mother understood the action as a reminder of the heavy cross he had to bear. The tears rushed to her eyes, but did not fall. It was minutes before she could be certain of speaking steadily; then, when she could control her voice, she laid her hand on his, which rested on the crutch, and smiled into his face.

"Remember, dear," she said earnestly, "no cross, no crown."