by E. Nesbit
MOLLY, THE MEASLES, AND THE MISSING WILL
We all think a great deal too much of ourselves. We all believe--everyman, woman, and child of us--in our very insidest inside heart, that noone else in the world is at all like us, and that things happen to usthat happen to no one else. Now, this is a great mistake, becausehowever different we may be in the colour of our hair and eyes, theinside part, the part that we feel and suffer with, is pretty much alikein all of us. But no one seems to know this except me. That is whypeople won't tell you the really wonderful things that happen to them:they think you are so different that you could never believe thewonderful things. But of course you are not different really, and youcan believe wonderful things as easily as anybody else. For instance,you will be able to believe this story quite easily, for though itdidn't happen to you, that was merely an accident. It might havehappened, quite easily, to you or any else. As it happened, it happenedto Maria Toodlethwaite Carruthers.
You will already have felt a little sorry for Maria, and you will havethought that I might have chosen a prettier name for her. And so Imight. But I did not do the choosing. Her parents did that. And theycalled her Maria after an aunt who was disagreeable, and would have beenmore disagreeable than ever if the baby had been called Enid or Elaineor Vivien, or any of the pretty names that will readily occur to you.She was called Toodlethwaite after the eminent uncle of that name whohad an office in London and an office in Liverpool, and was said to berolling in money.
'I _should_ like to see Uncle Toodlethwaite rolling in his money,' saidMaria, 'but he never does it when I'm about.'
The third name, Carruthers, was Maria's father's name, and she oftenfelt thankful that it was no worse. It might so easily have been Snooksor Prosser.
Of course no one called Maria Maria except Aunt Maria herself. Her AuntEliza, who was very refined, always wrote in the improving books thatshe gave Maria on her birthday, 'To dearest Marie, from her affectionateAunt Elise,' and when she spoke to her she called her Mawrie. Herbrothers and sisters, whenever they wanted to be aggravating, called herToodles, but at times of common friendliness they called her Molly, andso did most other people, and so shall I, and so may you.
Molly and her brothers and sisters were taken care of by a young womanwho was called a nursery-governess. I don't know why, for she did notnurse them, and she certainly did not govern them. In her last situationshe had been called a lady-help--I don't know the why of that, either.Her name was Simpshall, and she was always saying 'Don't,' and 'Youmustn't do that,' and 'Put that down directly,' and 'I shall tell yourmamma if you don't leave off.' She never seemed to know what you oughtto do, but only what you oughtn't.
One day the children had a grand battle with all the toy soldiers, andthe little brass cannons that shoot peas, and the other kind that shootpink caps with '_Fortes Amorces_' on the box.
Bertie, who always liked to have everything as real as possible, didnot like the soldiers to be standing on the bare polished mahogany ofthe dining-table.
'It's not a bit like the field of glory,' he said. And indeed it wasnot.
So he borrowed the large kitchen knife-box and went out, and brought itin full of nice real clean mould out of the garden. Half a dozenknife-box-fulls were needed to cover the table. Then the children madeforts and ditches, and brought in sprigs of geranium and calceolaria andbox and yew and made trees and ambushes and hedges. It was a lovelybattlefield, and would have melted the heart of anyone but anursery-governess.
But she just said, 'What a disgusting mess! How naughty you are!' andfetched a brush and swept the field of glory away into the dustpan.There was only just time to save the lives of the soldiers.
And then Cecily put the knife-box back without saying what it had beenused for, and the knives were put into it, so that at dinner everythingtasted of earth, and the grit got between people's teeth, so that theycould not eat their mutton or potatoes or cabbage, or even their gravy.
This, of course, was entirely Miss Simpshall's fault. If she had notbehaved as she did Bertie or Eva would have remembered to clean out theknife-box. As it was, the story of the field of glory came out over thegritty mutton and things, and father sent all the battlefield-makers tobed.
Molly was out of this. She was staying with Aunt Eliza, who was kind, ifrefined. She was to come back the next day. But as mother was on her wayto the station to meet Aunt Maria for a day's shopping, she met atelegraph boy, who gave her a telegram from Aunt Eliza saying:
'Am going to Palace to-day instead of to-morrow. Fetch Marie.--ELISE.'
So mother fetched her from Aunt Eliza's flat in Kensington and took hershopping with Aunt Maria. There were hours of shopping in hot, stuffyshops full of tired shop-people and angry ladies, and even the new hatand jacket and the strawberry ice at the pastrycook's in Oxford Streetdid not make up to Molly for that tiresome day.
Still, she was out of the battlefield row. Only as she did not know thatit could not comfort her.
When Aunt Maria had been put into her train, mother and Molly went home.As their cab stopped, Miss Simpshall rushed out between the two dustylaburnums by the gate.
'Don't come in!' said Miss Simpshall wildly.
'My dear Miss Simpshall----' said mother.
The hair of the nursery-governess waved wildly in the evening breeze.She shut the ornamental iron gate in mother's face.
'Don't come in!' said Miss Simpshall again. 'You shan't, youmustn't----'
'Don't talk nonsense,' said mother, looking very white. 'Have you gonemad?'
Miss Simpshall said she hadn't.
'But what's the matter?' said mother.
'Measles,' said Miss Simpshall; 'it's all out on them--thick.'
'Good gracious!' said mother.
'And I thought you'd perhaps just as soon Molly didn't have it, Mrs.Carruthers. And this is all the thanks I get, being told I'm insane.'
'I'm sorry,' said mother absently. 'Yes, you were quite right. Keep thechildren warm. Has the doctor seen them?'
'Not yet; I've only just found it out. Oh, it's terrible! Their handsand faces are all scarlet with purple spots.'
'Oh dear, oh dear! I hope it's nothing worse than measles! I'll call inand send the doctor,' said mother; 'I shall be home by the last train.It's a blessing Molly's clothes are all here in her box.'
So Molly was whisked off in the cab.
'I must take you back to your aunt's,' said mother.
'But Aunt Eliza's gone to stay at the Bishop's Palace,' said Molly.
'So she has; we must go to your Aunt Maria's. Oh dear!'
'Never mind, mother,' said Molly, slipping her hand into mother's;'perhaps they won't have it very badly. And I'll be very good, and trynot to have it at all.'
This was very brave of Molly; she would much rather have had measlesthan have gone to stay at Aunt Maria's.
Aunt Maria lived in a lovely old house down in Kent. It had beautifulfurniture and beautiful gardens; in fact, as Bertie said, it was a place
'Where every prospect pleases, And only aunt is vile.'
Molly and her mother arrived there just at supper-time. Aunt Maria wasvery surprised and displeased. Molly went to bed at once, and hersupper was brought up on a tray by Clements, aunt's own maid. It wascold lamb and mint-sauce, and jelly and custard.
'Your aunt said to bring you biscuits and milk,' said Clements, 'but Ithought you'd like this better.'
'You're a darling!' said Molly; 'I was so afraid you'd be gone for yourholiday. It's not nearly so beastly when you're here.'
Clements was flattered, and returned the compliment.
'And you aren't so bad when you're good, miss,' she said. 'Eat it up.I'll come back and bring you a night-light by-and-by.'
One thing Molly liked about Aunt Maria's was that there were nochildren's bedrooms--no bare rooms with painted furniture and Dutchdrugget. All the rooms were 'best rooms', with soft carpetsand splendid old furniture. The beds were all four-posters with carvedpillars and silk damask cur
tains, and there were sure to be theloveliest things to make believe with in whatever room you happened tobe put into. In this room there were cases of stuffed birds, and astuffed pike that was just like life. There was a wonderful oldcabinet, black and red and gold, very mysterious, and oak chests, andtwo fat white Indian idols sitting cross-legged on the mantelpiece. Itwas very delightful; but Molly liked it best in the daytime. And she wasglad of the night-light.
She thought of Bertie, and Cicely, and Eva, and baby, and Vincent, andwondered whether measles hurt much.
Next day Aunt Maria was quite bearable. The worst thing she said wasabout people coming when they weren't expected, and upsettingeverything.
'I'll try not to upset anything,' said Molly, and went out and got thegardener to put up a swing for her.
Then she upset herself out of it, and got a bump on her forehead thesize of a hen's egg, and that, as Aunt Maria very properly said, kepther out of mischief for the rest of the day.
Next morning Molly had two letters. The first was from Bertie. It said:
'DEAR MOLLY,
'It is rough lines on you, but we did not mean to keep it up, and it is your fault for coming home the day before you ought to have. We did it to kid old Simpshall, because she was so beastly about us making a real battlefield. We only painted all the parts of us that show with vermilion, and put spots--mixed crimson lake and Prussian blue--all over, and we pulled down the blinds and said our heads ached, and so they did with crying--I mean the girls cried. She was afraid to come near us; but she was sorry she had been such a beast. And when she had come to the door and said so through the keyhole we owned up, but you had gone by then. It was a rare lark, but we've got three days bedder for it. I shall lower this on the end of a fishingline to the baker's boy, and he will post it. It is like a dungeon. He is going to bring us tarts, like a faithful page.
'Your affectionate bro., 'BERTRAND DE LISLE CARRUTHERS.'