Anne's Terrible Good Nature (Collection)/Anne's Terrible Good Nature

upon a time there was a little girl named Anne Wilbraham Bayes, Wilbraham being after her grandfather on the mother's side, a very clever gentleman living at Great Malvern, and writing books on Roman history, who has, however, nothing whatever to do with this story. This story is about Anne and her perfectly appalling good nature.

Where Anne's good nature came from no one ever could guess, for her father had little enough, always insisting on silence at breakfast while he read the paper and ate the biggest egg; and her mother had little enough, too, never seeing her children without being reminded of something which she wanted from the top left-hand drawer in her bedroom; while Anne's brothers and sisters had so little that they always forced Anne to be the one who should go on these boring errands. And so far as I have been able to discover, none of Anne's grandparents were particularly good-natured either, for old Mr. Bayes had a barbed-wire fence all round his estate in west Surrey, near Farnborough, and old Mrs. Bayes would not allow any fruit to be picked except by the gardeners; while old Mr. Wilbraham, in consequence of writing his Roman history all day long, insisted on perfect quietness, so that whenever the children were at Great Malvern they had to play only at those games with no noise in them, which are hardly worth calling games at all; and as for old Mrs. Wilbraham, she was dead. It looks, therefore, very much as if Anne either inherited her wonderful and embarrassing good nature from a distant ancestor too far back to be inquired into, or that it was a totally new kind, beginning with herself. For she would do the most dreadful things—things to make the hair of ordinarily good-natured people stand on end.

For instance, this is what she did once. She heard her mother complain to a visitor one January afternoon that there were no flowers in the garden at that time of year, and it made the view from the sitting-room window very depressing. After lying awake most of the night thinking how she might improve this view and make it more cheerful for her mother's eyes, Anne got up very early, while it was still dark, and went to the conservatory, and chose from it by candlelight a number of gay flowers, and these she carefully planted in the bed just in front of her mother's window. It was raining a little, and bitterly cold, and Anne's fingers became numb, and her feet like stones, and her nose pink, but she went right through with it without faltering until the bed was as gay as summer.

That was good nature, if you like, but no one seemed to think so. Mrs. Bayes, when she looked out of the window, instead of being cheered, screamed out "Oh!" and sent for her smelling salts, and then became quite tearful over the ruin of her pet geraniums, freesias, carnations, cyclamens, and genistas. Mr. Bayes was perfectly furious, and said so several times in different ways, each more cutting than the last; while Anne's brothers and sisters thought it the greatest joke against Anne possible.

"You didn't really think they'd live, did you?" they asked her. "How absolutely dotty!"

Directly after breakfast the gardener dug them all up again and put them back in their hot-house pots. Anne was not punished for her folly in any other way than by want of appreciation; but if any one had seen her crying by herself in her bedroom they might have thought that she had been.

However, when Valentine's Day came round, which was about three weeks later, and all the little Bayeses found a parcel on their plates at breakfast—their Aunt Margaret being one of those few eccentric persons left who remember St. Valentine's Day—Anne's package was found to be twice as good as any of the others, containing as it did not only the ordinary present, but a gold bangle as well, with a little piece of blue turquoise hanging from it (from Liberty's probably), and this inscription on a tiny label: "From St. Valentine to the little girl who tried to make her mother's garden bright in winter and was only laughed at and chidden for her pains."

So Anne really scored, you see; but, of course, it was a ridiculous thing to do, wasn't it? Just think of supposing that hot-house flowers would grow out of doors in January! It shows how perfectly absurd Anne's good nature could be.

That is one case. Now I will tell you of another.

One day the whole Bayes family were going to London—they lived near Leatherhead—for the day. They were going to Cousin Alice's wedding in the morning, and afterwards to the Hippodrome matinee. Marceline, it is true, was not there any longer, but it was a wonderful programme, Mr. Bayes said, and they were all immensely excited. Besides, they had bunches of flowers to throw at the bride, rice having now gone out on account of its being dangerous for the eyes and very smartful generally.

The train was full, but Mr. Bayes, by mentioning the fact overnight, had had a third-class compartment guarded for him by a porter, and into this they all climbed: Mr. Bayes, Mrs. Bayes, Arthur Lloyd Bayes, Gerald Gilmer Bayes, Marion Lease Bayes, Meta Cleghorn Bayes, and Anne Wilbraham Bayes. There were also two friends from Leatherhead who knew Cousin Alice, making nine in all.

Anne sat next the window, on the platform side.

All went well until the train drew up at the next station, but there an unfortunate thing happened. Scores of people were waiting to get in, and they began to push round the third-class carriage doors. Several came to the Bayeses' compartment, but, seeing that it was all one family in their best clothes, they had consideration and passed on.

Gradually every one found a seat, either in the thirds or the seconds, and even the first—all except a poor shabby old woman in a shawl, with a big basket, who tottered piteously up and down trying in vain to find a place. Anne saw her pass and peer into their carriage with an anxious and even tearful look, but Mr. Bayes frowned so forbiddingly that she hurried on.

At this moment Anne's terrible good nature overpowered her, and she leaned out of the window and cried invitingly: "Come in here—quick! There's room for one."

"Nonsense," said Mr. Bayes; "it's full."

"Oh no," said Anne—"look! It says, 'To seat five persons on each side,' and we're only nine altogether. Come in here," she cried again to the old woman.

"But she's dirty," said Mrs. Bayes; "she'll spoil your frocks."

"Very likely got something catching," said Mr. Bayes.

"What a rotter you are, Anne!" said the others.

But meanwhile a porter had opened the door and pushed the old woman in. Anne stood up to give her her place; the others moved to the other end; and Mr. Bayes, who, after all, was a very good father and exceedingly keen about health, let down the window with a bang and hid behind his paper.

"I'm sure," said the old woman to Anne, "I'm very much obliged to you, missy."

She got out at the next station, and as she did so she handed Anne a little paper article from her basket, for she was a pedlar, and said it was a present for her for being so good-natured; and so saying she hobbled off, and Mr. Bayes blew hard through his lips, as if he had come up from a long dive, and Mrs. Bayes made the children smell at her salts.

When Anne looked at her present she found it was a halfpenny row of pins, and this made every one laugh and quite happy again. Anne put them in her pocket and laughed too, although how she could find it in her heart to laugh, after ruining the railway journey like that by her unfortunate trick of good nature, I can't think.

The wedding was a great success until Cousin Alice, the bride—and a very pretty bride too—was coming down the aisle on Captain Vernon's arm (and the Captain looked every inch a soldier, and had across his forehead the nicest brown line, which he had brought back with him from Egypt, where he had been on duty before he hurried home to marry Cousin Alice); all went well until a silly boy, in his desire to cross the church and get to the door first and begin to throw confetti, stepped on Cousin Alice's beautiful white satin train and tore a yard or two nearly off.

She was as sweet about it as only Cousin Alice could be, but she stopped and picked it up, and looked round imploringly for help. And then happened that which I need hardly tell you, for you have guessed it already. The only person that had any pins was Anne, who stepped out of her pew and handed her little halfpenny row to Captain Vernon; and there and then, several people helping, the beautiful white satin train was made all right again, at least for the time being, and the bride and bridegroom walked on, smiling to right and left, and ducked their heads outside as the flowers and confetti rained on them, and got into the brougham, and the coachman cracked his whip with the white rosette on it, and they were driven to Uncle Maurice's house, where Cousin Alice used to live, but where she would now live no more.

After a while the Bayes family, with many other guests, arrived there too, to stay for a few minutes to see the presents and say good-bye to the bride. It was a morning wedding, because they were going on a very long journey.

When Anne came at last face to face with Cousin Alice and Captain Vernon, Captain Vernon, who had suddenly become Cousin Phil, took out of his pocket a piece of money, and, holding it tight in his hand, said to Anne: "I owe you this."

"Oh no," said Anne, "you don't. How could you?"

"How could I?" said Cousin Phil. "Why, I bought a row of pins from you this morning."

"Oh no!" said Anne again. "I was very glad to have them for Cousin Alice to use."

"You may say what you like, Anne," said Cousin Phil, "but I consider that you sold them to me, and I intend to pay for them; and here you are, and you shall give me a receipt for it." And so saying, he stooped down, and Anne kissed him, and he kissed Anne; and then Cousin Alice kissed Anne and Anne kissed Cousin Alice; and then other people pressed forward and Anne walked away. And when she looked at the piece of money in her hand it was a sovereign.

All's well that ends well, says Shakespeare, but of course it was very unwise and very unnecessary of Anne to have leaned out of the window of that nice clean family compartment and invited into it a dirty old pedlar woman, even if she was very infirm and unhappy and there was no room anywhere else. We must, as Mr. Bayes remarked on the way home—his words not very clear by reason of his eating all the time one of the chocolate creams which Anne had bought with part of her sovereign for the family at the Hippodrome. "We must," said Mr. Bayes—and the others all agreed with him—"we must, dear Anne, be a little careful how we exercise even so amiable a quality as kindness of heart. I am very glad to see you always so ready to be nice and helpful to others, but your brain has been given you to a large extent to control your impulses. Never forget that."

Here Mr. Bayes took another chocolate, and very soon afterwards their station was reached.

But did Anne profit by her father's excellent advice? We shall soon see, for now I come to the worst adventure into which her terrible good nature has ever led her.

You must know that the Bayeses were not rich, although they had rich relations and really never wanted for anything. But they lived on as little as possible, and on two or three mornings every week Mr. Bayes, after reading his letters, would remark that all his investments were going wrong and they would soon be in the workhouse. That was, of course, only his way; but they could not have many treats, or many visitors, and it caused them to look with very longing eyes on the young Calderons, the children of the gentleman that had taken the Hall, the great house near by, for August and September, who used to gallop by on their ponies, and play golf and cricket in their park, and who never seemed to want for anything.

To know the Calderon family was the Bayeses' great desire, but their mother explained that it would not be right to call on strangers staying for so short a time, and nothing therefore could be done: which was particularly trying because, owing to the absence of something called dividends, the visit to Sea View, said Mr. Bayes, was this year an impossibility.

Such was the state of affairs on the morning of August 21, when Anne was working in her garden just under the wall which separated Mr. Bayes's property from the high road. She was steadily pulling up weeds after the rain, and thinking how nice the sun made the earth smell, when she heard the beating of hoofs, and the scrunching of wheels on the road, and a murmur of happy voices young and old. And then she heard a man's voice call out "Stop!" and the horses were pulled up.

"What is it, father?" she heard a girl's voice say.

And then the man's voice replied, "We shall have to go back. I've just remembered that no cups and saucers were put in."

"Oh no, don't let's go back," said one child's voice after another. "It's so hot, and it doesn't really matter. We can drink out of the glasses."

"No," said the father's voice again, "we must go back. You forget that the Richardsons are going to meet us there, and they will want tea and want it properly served. We must have at least six cups and saucers. Turn round, John!"



By this time, Anne, who had been struggling to set a ladder against the wall, had got it to stand still and climbed to the top, and just as John began to turn the horses of the carriage she called out:

"Please don't trouble to go back. I'll lend you the cups and saucers. I won't be gone a minute"; and before anyone could reply she was down the ladder and running to the house.

Perhaps if she had not been in such a hurry, and had not been so genuinely troubled to think of the picnic party spoiling their pleasure by going back to the Hall (a horrid thing to do, as Anne remembered, after leaving it so gaily), she would have asked herself several questions—such as, "What right have I to offer to lend strangers cups and saucers belonging to my parents?" and "Is my head properly controlling my impulse?" and so forth. But Anne had no time for inquiries like that: all she could think of was getting the cups and saucers as soon as possible, and returning with them so as to save those nice picnic people from having to go back again.

Just before she reached the house, however, she remembered that old Martha, the cook, was in a very bad temper that morning, and would certainly refuse to give them up; but Anne also remembered at the same instant that there was in the drawing-room a cabinet full of cups and saucers, which no one ever used, but which now and then a visitor took out and examined underneath, and she decided to take six of these instead—so hastily seizing a basket from a hook in the hall she took what she wanted from the cabinet and ran back panting to the gate leading to the road.

To her immense delight the carriage was still standing there, and she hastened to hand the basket to the gentleman who was waiting in the road to receive it.

"Well, you are a little brick," he said, "and how hot it has made you.'

Anne gasped out something in reply, but not at all comfortably, because for one thing she was out of breath, and for another the children in the carriage were all looking at her very hard. But at this moment the gentleman, who had been examining the basket, gave a low whistle and then called to one of the ladies to come and speak to him. She got out of the carriage and walked a little way apart with the gentleman, who showed her something in the basket and talked very earnestly. Then all of a sudden he called to the children to get out and play for a little while until he and their mother came back, and taking Anne's hand he asked her if she would lead him and his wife to her mother, as he had something to say to her, and they all three went off through the gate to the house.

The gentleman talked gaily as they went, and the lady held Anne's other hand very softly, and so they came to Mr. Bayes's study, where he was writing, Mrs. Bayes and the other children being in Leatherhead shopping. The gentleman and Mr. Bayes then talked together, while Anne led the lady about the garden until she was suddenly sent for to change her clothes—why, you shall hear.

What happened at the interview between Mr. Bayes and the gentleman can best be told by repeating the conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Bayes and the children at lunch.

"But where's Anne?" said Mrs. Bayes, as the servant removed the cover from the joint.

"Anne," said Mr. Bayes, "Anne? Oh, yes, Anne has gone for a picnic."

"For a picnic!" cried the whole family.

"Yes," said Mr. Bayes, "for a picnic with the people staying at the Hall."

Mrs. Bayes sat back with a gasp, and the children's mouths opened so wide you could have posted letters in them.

"Yes," said Mr. Bayes. "She was working in her garden when she heard Mr. Calderon order the driver to go back because cups and saucers had been forgotten. He is a very nice fellow, by the way. I find we were at Oxford together, although I did not know him there, but he has been intimate with Charley for years. It is the same Calderon, the architect, that built your uncle's house at Chichester."

"Do go on, father," said the children.

"Well," said Mr. Bayes, "what does that little duffing Anne do but sing out that they were not to go back, but wait a minute, and she would lend them the cups and saucers."

"Yes, yes, go on!'

"Well, and fearing that Martha—very properly—wouldn't let her have any for the party, what does she do but take six of the very best of my Crown Derby from the cabinet in the drawing-room and scamper back with them!"

"My love," said Mrs. Bayes, "the Crown Derby that Uncle Mortimer left us?"

"Yes, the Crown Derby, valued only a month ago at two apiece. Off she runs with it in a basket and hands it over to Mr. or Mrs. Calderon. Mrs. Calderon, by the way, I like. She wants you to call. I said you'd go to-morrow."

"Do go on, father!"

"Well, where was I? Oh yes. The Calderons no sooner saw the china than they realized what had happened, and brought it back to me. By a miracle there wasn't a chip on it. Of course, I said I was very much obliged to them, and I offered some ordinary crockery, but Calderon said they would take it only on condition that Anne accompanied it in the capacity of caretaker and brought it back. So she went"

"I hope she changed her frock," said Mrs. Bayes.

"I believe she did," said Mr. Bayes. "They've gone to Chidley Woods, where the Richardsons will meet them, and they won't be back till six. Now perhaps I may get on with my lunch."

By the following Saturday evening, I may add, the Bayes children and the Calderon children were very friendly, and Arthur Lloyd Bayes had fallen off Harold Armiger Calderon's pony twice.