Page 63 of Threads that Remain

“To London?” said Mrs. Smith.

“They will be home in October. Margaret says so. It is a house in Bloomsbury, where Simon is to give a set of lectures at London University. She says that the house is quite full of crates, and Simon has a set of rooms at the top for his rocks, and there is a room for me, on the second floor, which has a view of a garden.” She put on her bonnet. “I shall go on the twelfth. I shall take a hamper. I do not think that she has any idea how to keep a house, and I should like to see it with my own eyes; and besides, I have not seen Simon’s hand.” Her chin trembled. “I wish to be sure that it has been put to rights again.”

She went up on the mail. It was her custom, in the years that followed, to go twice in the twelvemonth, in the spring and the autumn, and to stay for about a month; and the house in Bloomsbury, in which she was thus, for a period of each year, established, came to be reckoned among the settled institutions of the family. It was a tall, dark, thin, high-roofed house, with a great many stairs, and a smell of camphor, and a passage on the second floor that was full of the skulls of extinct animals; and there, in the midst of it all, in a small back bedroom, with a fire and a rocking-chair and a large, framed map of the Pacific, Mrs. Dashwood was the happiest woman in London. She sat up late. She listened to stories. She held forth, at breakfast, to anyone who would attend, upon the dangers of the sea; and it was observed by Cecilia Wren, who came round from Portman Square most mornings with her little girl who loved her Aunt Margaret, and was doted on by Mrs. Dashwood, and a basket of toys that were never once played with, that in all the years of their acquaintance she had never seen the old lady look younger.

The cold winter day was keeping the younger members of the households indoors. For Anne Brandon and Sarah Ferrars, however, the weather presented no particular hardship. Sarah had put on her boots and bundled up in her warmest wool coat and walked and ran by turns to Delaford. They were now twelve years old and had been friends for so long that they could find entertainment in almost anything, provided they were together.

They had settled themselves in the drawing-room, where a comfortable fire burned against the damp chill of the afternoon. Anne sat near the window with a sketchbook upon her lap, while Sarah occupied the sofa in a manner that suggested she had no intention of remaining still for very long.

Henry was still with his tutor, and Sarah had already enquired three times whether he might not reasonably be considered sufficiently instructed for one day.

“He has been at it for nearly two hours,” she declared, twisting about to look at Anne. “Two hours, Anne! I am certain that if a boy is not clever after two hours of Latin, he will never be clever at all. And Henry is clever, so what possible good can another hour do him?”

“Perhaps his tutor does not agree with you,” Anne replied, carefully drawing the outline of Sarah’s face.

“Then his tutor is a very stubborn man.”

Anne smiled without looking up.

Sarah leaned forward to inspect the sketch. “Are you drawing me again?”

“I am trying to.”

“Trying? That sounds most unpromising. I should like to be drawn properly, if you please. You have made my nose too small.”

“I have scarcely begun your nose.”

“Then you have made a poor beginning of it.”

Anne laughed softly and continued drawing.

Sarah settled back against the sofa, apparently satisfied that she had offered all the artistic criticism required of her. She lasted perhaps half a minute before she began again.

“Do you know what Ned did yesterday?”

Anne shook her head.

“He took my ribbon. My blue ribbon, the one I had laid out for Sunday, and tied it about his wooden horse because he said the creature looked shabby. Shabby! As though my ribbon were some old piece of string that had been lying about the stable.”

“Perhaps his horse wished to look its best.”

“Anne, you are not to take his side. He is nine years old and already has the manners of a highwayman.”

“What did you do?”

Sarah’s eyes brightened.

“I waited until he had gone to dinner. Then I took his favourite wooden soldier and placed it upon the mantelpiece in Papa’s study, directly beneath the clock. He spent nearly an hour looking for it.”

Anne glanced up. “And you knew where it was all the time?”

“Of course. I put it there.”

“But how did Ned not see it?”

“Because he is nine, and when Ned wants something, he becomes so busy looking for it that he cannot see anything else. He searched beneath chairs, behind curtains, inside cupboards, and even in the coal scuttle.”

Anne’s pencil stopped.