Mrs. Baker put them way for safety. I want to unpack them and put them back where they used to be. Will you help me?”
Edith was transformed. The sun bursting out from behind a cloud, or a leaping lark exploding into song could scarcely have been more miraculously lovely than the change from misery to joy in her face. “Hurry!” she said, tugging at Mary’s hand.
They ran across the lawn together, Edith racing ahead. Mary had opened the parlor window at the bottom that morning and the child was in the room and dancing with impatience by the time she had reached the conservatory. The night before she had found the glass case and the stand and put them on the table but she had waited for the daylight to unpack the little things. “They’re here,” she said, pulling out the top drawer of the escritoire. But it held only a collection of shabby leather-covered books that looked like old diaries. The two cardboard boxes containing the little things were in the second drawer.
“You have one box to unpack and I’ll have the other,” she said to Edith.
She lifted the glass case off the stand and they sat down together on the floor and began slowly to undo the tissue paper and cotton wool in which Mrs. Baker had wrapped the little things. It was hard to tell which of them was the more excited. One by one they appeared, the treasures of silver and gold, of jade, pinchbeck, glass, ebony and ivory, and Edith greeted each of them with delighted recognition. “Here’s the mandarin who nods his head. Here’s the peacock and the ivory mouse. Here’s the little thimble and scissors in the silver basket. Here’s the bluebird in the cage of golden wire. The lantern with the ruby glass. The dwarf with the red cap. The telescope with Brighton Pier at the end when you look through it. The elephant with a house on his back.” Her voice murmured on in a happy monotone as she deftly put the little things back on the black velvet of the shelves. When Mary placed anything there she immediately altered the position, but without rudeness, and smiling shyly at Mary. Only she knew where they all had to be.
“Did Miss Lindsay show you her little things, Edith?” asked Mary.
Edith shook her head. “No. I never came into the house. I used to look at them through the window. By myself. Rose and Jeremy haven’t seen them.”
“I must have been about your age when I first saw them,” said Mary, and she told Edith about that day of her childhood, making a story of it, remembering for Edith’s benefit how the trees had seemed to move and the old wall and the door had looked like a painted picture. Edith listened gravely and when Mary had finished she said, “Yes, the trees move. I’ve never gone inside the green door, up the steps. I’ve never rung the bell.”
“I’ll ask you and Rose and Jeremy to tea with me,” said Mary. “And you shall ring the bell and come in through the green door.”
She had said the wrong thing. For the first time Edith’s fingers fumbled and a minute tortoiseshell cat with emerald eyes fell to the carpet. Stooping to pick it up she whispered, “By myself.”
“I must ask the others too,” said Mary. “The first time. Other times we will be by ourselves. But if you want the little things to be a secret between you and me for the present, I’ll put them out of sight in my bedroom when you all come.”
Edith looked up. “Not for the present. Always.”
“It’s not right to possess beautiful things by oneself,” said Mary, “and presently you will want to share them.”
“I won’t!” said Edith.
Mary changed the subject. “We’ve unpacked them all,” she said. “But I’m afraid my old cousin must have given some of them away. The things I loved best when I was a child aren’t here. There was a tea set of clear blue glass and a wonderful ivory coach with Queen Mab inside. They were the best of all. You would have loved them, Edith. I wish they were still here.”
Edith’s head
Edith was transformed. The sun bursting out from behind a cloud, or a leaping lark exploding into song could scarcely have been more miraculously lovely than the change from misery to joy in her face. “Hurry!” she said, tugging at Mary’s hand.
They ran across the lawn together, Edith racing ahead. Mary had opened the parlor window at the bottom that morning and the child was in the room and dancing with impatience by the time she had reached the conservatory. The night before she had found the glass case and the stand and put them on the table but she had waited for the daylight to unpack the little things. “They’re here,” she said, pulling out the top drawer of the escritoire. But it held only a collection of shabby leather-covered books that looked like old diaries. The two cardboard boxes containing the little things were in the second drawer.
“You have one box to unpack and I’ll have the other,” she said to Edith.
She lifted the glass case off the stand and they sat down together on the floor and began slowly to undo the tissue paper and cotton wool in which Mrs. Baker had wrapped the little things. It was hard to tell which of them was the more excited. One by one they appeared, the treasures of silver and gold, of jade, pinchbeck, glass, ebony and ivory, and Edith greeted each of them with delighted recognition. “Here’s the mandarin who nods his head. Here’s the peacock and the ivory mouse. Here’s the little thimble and scissors in the silver basket. Here’s the bluebird in the cage of golden wire. The lantern with the ruby glass. The dwarf with the red cap. The telescope with Brighton Pier at the end when you look through it. The elephant with a house on his back.” Her voice murmured on in a happy monotone as she deftly put the little things back on the black velvet of the shelves. When Mary placed anything there she immediately altered the position, but without rudeness, and smiling shyly at Mary. Only she knew where they all had to be.
“Did Miss Lindsay show you her little things, Edith?” asked Mary.
Edith shook her head. “No. I never came into the house. I used to look at them through the window. By myself. Rose and Jeremy haven’t seen them.”
“I must have been about your age when I first saw them,” said Mary, and she told Edith about that day of her childhood, making a story of it, remembering for Edith’s benefit how the trees had seemed to move and the old wall and the door had looked like a painted picture. Edith listened gravely and when Mary had finished she said, “Yes, the trees move. I’ve never gone inside the green door, up the steps. I’ve never rung the bell.”
“I’ll ask you and Rose and Jeremy to tea with me,” said Mary. “And you shall ring the bell and come in through the green door.”
She had said the wrong thing. For the first time Edith’s fingers fumbled and a minute tortoiseshell cat with emerald eyes fell to the carpet. Stooping to pick it up she whispered, “By myself.”
“I must ask the others too,” said Mary. “The first time. Other times we will be by ourselves. But if you want the little things to be a secret between you and me for the present, I’ll put them out of sight in my bedroom when you all come.”
Edith looked up. “Not for the present. Always.”
“It’s not right to possess beautiful things by oneself,” said Mary, “and presently you will want to share them.”
“I won’t!” said Edith.
Mary changed the subject. “We’ve unpacked them all,” she said. “But I’m afraid my old cousin must have given some of them away. The things I loved best when I was a child aren’t here. There was a tea set of clear blue glass and a wonderful ivory coach with Queen Mab inside. They were the best of all. You would have loved them, Edith. I wish they were still here.”
Edith’s head
Similar Books
