Milly and Olly - Mrs. Humphry Ward (interesting books to read in english .TXT) 📗

butter when I'm not looking, and I don't like it, not a bit."

"No, Olly dear, she shan't," said Milly, taking his hand and fondling it, as if she were at least twenty years older. "I'll sit on one side of you and Becky on the other," a prospect with which Olly was apparently satisfied, for he made no more objections.

"Well, you must ask Mrs. Backhouse yourselves," said Mrs. Norton. "And if it is her washing-day, or inconvenient to her at all, you mustn't think of going, you know."

So early next morning, Milly and Nana and Olly went up to the farm, and came back with the answer that Mrs. Backhouse would be very pleased to see them at tea on Thursday, the 15th, and that John Backhouse would have cut the hay-field by the river by then, and they could have a romp in the hay afterwards.

Wednesday was a deeply interesting day to Olly. He and his mother went over by themselves to Wanwick, and they bought something which the shopwoman at the toy-shop wrapped up in a neat little parcel, and which Olly carried home, looking as important as a little king.

"Milly," he began at dinner, "_wouldn't_ you like to know about your presents? But of course I shan't tell you about mine. Perhaps I'm not going to give you one at all. Oh, mother," in a loud whisper to Mrs. Norton, "did you put it away safe where she can't see?"

"Oh, you silly boy," said Milly, "you'll tell me if you don't take care."

"No, I shan't. I wouldn't tell you if you were to go on asking me all day. It isn't very big, you know, Milly, and--and--it isn't pretty outside--only--"

"Be quiet, chatterbox," said Mr. Norton putting his hand over Olly's mouth, "you'll tell in another minute, and then there'll be no fun to-morrow."

So Olly with great difficulty kept quiet, and began eating up his pudding very fast, as if that was the only way of keeping his little tongue out of mischief.

"Father," he said after dinner, "do take Milly out for a walk, and mother shall take me. Then I can't tell, you know."

So the two went out different ways, and Olly kept away from Milly all day, in great fear lest somehow or other his secret should fly out of him in spite of all his efforts to keep it in. At night the children made nurse hurry them to bed, so that when mother came to tuck them up, as she generally did, she found the pair fast asleep, and nothing left to kiss but two curly heads buried in the pillows.

"Bless their hearts," said nurse to Mrs. Norton, "they can think of nothing but to-morrow. They'll be sadly disappointed if it rains."

But the stars came out, and the new moon shone softly all night on the great fir trees and the rosebuds and the little dancing beck in the Ravensnest garden; and when Milly awoke next morning the sun was shining, and Brownholme was towering up clear and high into the breezy blue sky, and the trees were throwing cool shadows on the dewy lawn around the house.

"Oh dear!" said Milly, jumping up, her face flushing with joy "it's my birthday, and it's fine. Nana, bring me my things, please.--But where's Olly?"

Where indeed was Olly? There was his little bed, but there was a nightdress rolled up in it, and not a wisp of his brown curls was to be seen anywhere.

"Why, Miss Milly, are you woke up at last? I hardly thought you'd have slept so late this morning. Many happy returns of the day to you," said nurse, giving her a hearty hug.

"Thank you, _dear_ nurse. Oh, it is so nice having birthdays. But where can Olly be?"

"Don't you trouble your head about him," said nurse mysteriously, and not another word could Milly get out of her. She had just slipped on her white cotton frock when mother opened the door.

"Well, birthday-girl! The top of the morning to you, and many, many happy returns of the day."

Whereupon Milly and mother went through a great deal of kissing which need not be described, and then mother helped her brush her hair, and put on her ribbon and tie her sash, so that in another minute or two she was quite ready to go down.

"Now, Milly, wait one minute till you hear the bell ring, and then you may come down as fast as you like."

So Milly waited, her little feet dancing with impatience, till the bell began to ring as if it had gone quite mad.

"Oh, that's Olly ringing," cried Milly, rushing off. And sure enough when she got to the hall there was Olly ringing as if he meant to bring the house down. He dropped the bell when he saw Milly, and dragged her breathlessly into the dining-room.

And what did Milly see there I wonder? Why, a heap of red and white roses lying on the breakfast table, a big heap, with odd corners and points sticking up all over it, and under the roses a white napkin, and under the napkin treasures of all sorts--a book from father, a little work-box from mother, with a picture of Windermere on the outside, and inside the most delightful cottons and needles and bits of bright-coloured stuffs; a china doll's dinner-service from Aunt Emma, a mug from nurse, a little dish full of big red strawberries from gardener, and last, but not least, Olly's present--a black paint-box, with colours and brushes and all complete, and tied up with a little drawing-book which mother had added to make it really useful. At the top of the heap, too, lay two letters addressed in very big round hand to "Miss Milly Norton," and one was signed Jacky and the other signed Francis. Each of these presents had neat little labels fastened on to them, and they were smothered in roses--deep red and pale pink roses, with the morning dew sprinkled over them.

"We got all those roses, mother and me, this morning, when you was fast asleep, Milly," shouted Olly, who was capering about like a mad creature. "Mother pulled me out of bed ever so early, and I putted on my goloshes, and didn't we get wet just! Milly, _isn't_ my paint-box a beauty?"

But it's no good trying to describe what Milly felt. She felt as every happy little girl feels on a happy birthday, just a little bit bewitched, as if she had got into another kind of world altogether.

"Now," said father, after breakfast, "I'm yours, Milly, for all this morning. What are you going to do with me?"

"Make you into a tiger, father, and shoot you," said Olly, who would have liked to play at hunting and shooting games all day long.

"I didn't ask you, sir," said Mr. Norton, "I'm not yours, I'm Milly's. Now, Milly, what shall we do?"

"Will you take us right to the top of Brownholme, father? You know we haven't been to the very top yet."

"Very well, we'll go if your legs will carry you. But you must ask them very particularly first how they feel, for it'll be stiff work for them."

Not very long after breakfast, and before they started for their walk, Aunt Emma's pony carriage came rattling up the drive, and she, too, brought flowers for Milly, above all a bunch of water-lilies all wet from the lake; and then she and mother settled under the trees with their books and work while the children started on their walk.

But first Milly had drawn mother into a corner where no one could see, and there, with a couple of tears in her two blue eyes, she had whispered in a great hurry, so that Mrs. Norton could scarcely hear, "I don't want to have everything just as _I_ like, to-day, mother. Can't I do what somebody else likes? I'd rather."

Which means that Milly was a good deal excited, and her heart very full, and that she was thinking of how, a year before, her birthday had been rather spoilt toward the end of it by a little bit of crossness and self-will, that she remembered afterward with a pang for many a long day. Since then, Milly had learnt a good deal more of that long, long lesson, which we go on learning, big people and little people, all our lives--the lesson of self-forgetting--of how love brings joy, and to be selfish is to be sad; and her birthday seemed to bring back to her all that she had been learning.

"Dear little woman," said Mrs. Norton, putting back her tangled hair from her anxious little face, "go and be happy. That's what we all like to-day. Besides, you'll find plenty of ways of doing what other people like before the end of the day without my inventing any. Run along now, and climb away. Mind you don't let Olly tumble into bogs, and mind you bring me a bunch of ferns for the dinner-table--and there'll be two things done at any rate."

So away ran Milly; and all the morning she and Olly and father scrambled and climbed, and raced and chatted, on the green back of old Brownholme. They went to say good-morning to John Backhouse's cows in the "intake," as he called his top field, and they just peeped over the wall at the fierce young bull he had bought at Penrith fair a few days before, and which looked as if, birthdays or no birthdays, he could have eaten Milly at two mouthfuls, and swallowed Olly down afterwards without knowing it.

Then they climbed and climbed after father, till, just as Olly was beginning to feel his legs to make sure they weren't falling off, they were so tired and shaky--there they were standing on the great pile of stones which marks the top of the mountain--the very tip-top of all its green points and rocks and grassy stretches. By this time the children knew the names of most of the mountains around, and of all the lakes. They went through them now like a lesson with their father; and even Olly remembered a great many, and could chatter about Helvellyn, and Fairfield, and Langdale Pikes, as if he had trudged to the top of them all himself.

Then came the getting down again. Father and Milly and Olly hand-in-hand, racing over the short fine grass, startling the little black-faced sheep, and racing down the steep bits, where Milly and Olly generally tumbled over in some sort of a heap at the bottom. As for the flowers they gathered, there were so many I have no time to tell you about them--wood-flowers and bog-flowers and grass-flowers, and ferns of all sizes to mix with them, from the great Osmunda, which grew along the Ravensnest Beck, down to the tiny little parsley fern. It was all delightful--the sights and the sounds, and the fresh mountain wind that blew them about on the top so that long afterward Milly used to look back to that walk on Brownholme when she was seven years old as one of the merriest times she ever spent.

Dinner was very welcome after all this scrambling; and after dinner came a quiet time in the garden, when father read aloud to mother and Aunt Emma, and the children kept still and listened to as much as they could understand, at least until they went to sleep, which they both did lying on a rug at Aunt Emma's feet. Milly couldn't understand how this had happened at all,