"'Of such is the kingdom of Heaven'."
"'Of such is the kingdom of Heaven'."
"With bolted doors and windows wedged,The care was all in vain;For there were noises in the nightWhich nothing could explain."Grandmamma and the Fairies
"With bolted doors and windows wedged,The care was all in vain;For there were noises in the nightWhich nothing could explain."
Grandmamma and the Fairies
The children had gone quietly to bed the evening before when grandmother had finished the reading of her story. They just kissed her and said, "Thank you,deargrandmother," and that was all. But it was all she wanted.
"I felt, you know," said Molly to Sylvia when they were dressing the next morning, "I felt a sort of feeling as if I'd been in church when the music wasawfullylovely. A beautiful feeling, but strange too, you know, Sylvia?Particularlyas Uncle Jack died too. When did he die? Do you know, Sylvia? Was it at that place?"
"What place?" said Sylvia curtly. When her feelings were touched she had a way of growing curt and terse, sometimes even snappish.
"That hot place—without trees, and all so dusty and dirty—Kadi—Kadi—I forget."
"Oh! you stupid girl Kadikoi was only one little wee village. You mean the Crimea—the Crimea is the name of all the country about there—where the war was."
"Yes, of course. Iamstupid," said Molly, but not at all as if she had any reason to be ashamed of the fact. "Did he never come home from the Crimea?"
"No," said Sylvia, curtly again, "he never came home."
For an instant Molly was silent. Then she began again.
"Well, I wonder how the old lady, that poor nice man's mother, I mean—I wonder how she got the money and all that, that Uncle Jack was to settle for her. Shall we ask grandmother, Sylvia?"
"No, of course not. What does it matter to us? Of course it was all properly done. If it hadn't been, how would grandmother have known about it?"
"I never thought of that. Still I would like to know. I think," said Molly meditatively, "I think I could get grandmother to tell without exactly asking—for fear, you know, of seeming to remind her about poor Uncle Jack."
"You'd much better not," said Sylvia, as she left the room.
But once let Molly get a thing well into her head, "trust her," as Ralph said, "not to let it out again till it suited her."
That very evening when they were all sitting together again, working and talking, all except aunty, busily writing at her little table in the corner, Molly began.
"Grandmother dear," she said gently, "wasn't the old ladydreadfullysorry when she heard he was dead?"
For a moment grandmother stared at her in bewilderment—her thoughts had been far away. "What are you saying, my dear?" she asked.
Sylvia frowned at Molly across the table. Too well did she know the peculiarly meek and submissive tone of voice assumed by Molly when bent on—had the subject been any less serious than it was, Sylvia would have called it "mischief."
"Molly," she said reprovingly, finding her frowns calmly ignored.
"What is it?" said Molly sweetly. "I mean, grandmother dear," she proceeded, "I mean the mother of the poor nice man that uncle was so good to. Wasn't shedreadfullysorry when she heard he was dead?"
"I think she was, dear," said grandmother unsuspiciously. "Poor woman, whatever her mistakes with her children had been, I felt dreadfully sorry for her. I saw her a good many times, for your uncle sent me home all the papers and directions—'in case,' as poor Sawyer had said of himself—so my Jack said it."
Grandmother sighed; Sylvia looked still more reproachfully at Molly; Molly pretended to be threading her needle.
"And I got it all settled as her son had wished. He had arranged it so that she could not give away the money during her life. Not long after, she went to America to her other son, and I believe she is still living. He got on very well, and is now a rich man. I had letters from them a few years ago—nice letters. I think it brought out the best of them—Philip Sawyer's death I mean. Still—oh no—they did not care for him, alive or dead, as such a man deserved."
"What a shame it seems!" said Molly. "WhenIhave children," she went on serenely, "I shall love them all alike—whether they're ugly or pretty, ifanythingperhaps the ugliest most, to make up to them, you see."
"I thought you were never going to marry," said Ralph. "For you're never going to England, and you'll never marry a Frenchman."
"Englishmen might come here," replied Molly. "And when you and Sylvia go to England, you might take some of my photographs to show."
This was too much. Ralph laughed so that he rolled on the rug, and Sylvia nearly fell off her chair. Even grandmother joined in the merriment, and aunty came over from her corner to ask what it was all about.
"I have finished my story," she said. "I am so glad."
"And when, oh, when will you read it?" cried the children.
"On the evening of the twenty-second of December. I fixed that while I was writing it, for that was the day it happened on," said aunty. "That will be next Monday, and this is Friday. Not so very long to wait. And after all it's a very short story—not nearly so long as grandmother's."
"Never mind, we'll make it longer by talking about it," said Molly. "That's how I did at home when I had a very small piece of cake for tea. I took one bite of cake to three or four of bread and butter. It made it seem much more."
"I can perfectly believe thatyouwill be ready to provide the necessary amount of 'bread and butter' to eke out my story," said aunty gravely.
And Molly stared at her in such comical bewilderment as to what she meant, that she set them all off laughing again.
Monday evening came. Aunty took her place at the table in front of the lamp, and having satisfied herself that Molly's wants in the shape of needles and thread, thimble, etc., were supplied for the next half-hour at least, she began as follows:—
"A Christmas Adventure.
"On the twenty-second of December, in the year eighteen hundred and fifty——" "No," said aunty, stopping short, "I can't tell you the year. Molly would make all sorts of dreadful calculations on the spot, as to my exact age, and the date at which the first grey hairs might be looked for—I will only say eighteen hundred andsomething."
"Fiftysomething," said Molly promptly. "You did say that, aunty."
"Terrible child!" said aunty. "Well, never mind, I'll begin again. On the twenty-second of December, in a certain year, I, Laura Berkeley, set out with my elder sister Mary, on a long journey. We were then living on the western coast of England, or Wales rather; we had to cross the whole country, for our destination was the neighbourhood, a few miles inland, of a small town on theeasterncoast. Our journey was not one of pleasure—we were not going to spend 'a merry Christmas' with near and dear friends and relations. We were going on business, and our one idea was to get it accomplished as quickly as possible, and hurry home to our parents again, for otherwise their Christmas would be quite a solitary one. And as former Christmases—before we children had been scattered, before there were vacant chairs round the fireside—had been among the happiest times of the year in our family, as in many others, we felt doubly reluctant to risk spending it apart from each other, we four—all that were left now!
"'It is dreadfully cold, Mary,' I said, when we were fairly off, dear mother gazing wistfully after us, as the train moved out of the station and her figure on the platform grew smaller and smaller, till at last we lost sight of it altogether. 'It is dreadfully cold, isn't it?'
"We were tremendously well wrapped up—there were hot-water tins in the carriage, and every comfort possible for winter travellers. Yet it was true. It was, as I said, bitterly cold.
"'Don't say that already, Laura,' said Mary anxiously, 'or I shall begin to wish I had stood out against your coming with me.'
"'Oh, dear Mary, you couldn't have come alone,' I said.
"I was only fifteen. My accompanying Mary was purely for the sake of being a companion to her, though in my own mind I thought it very possible that, considering the nature of the 'business' we were bent upon, I might prove to be of practical use too. I must tell you what this same 'business' was. It was to choose a house. Owing to my father's already failing health, we had left our own old home more than a year before, and till now we had been living in a temporary house in South Wales. But my father did not like the neighbourhood, and fancied the climate did not suit him, and besides this we could not have had the house after the following April, had we wished it. So there had been great discussions about what we should do, where we should go rather, and much consultation of advertisement sheets and agents' lists. Already Mary had set off on several fruitless expeditions in quest of delightful 'residences' which turned out very much the reverse. But she had never before had to go such a long way as to East Hornham, which was the name of the post-town near which were two houses to let, each seemingly so desirable that we really doubted whether it would not be difficult to resist takingboth. My father had known East Hornham as a boy, and though its neighbourhood was not strikingly picturesque, it was considered to be eminently healthy, and he was full of eagerness about it, and wishing he himself could have gone to see the houses. But that was impossible—impossible too for my mother to leave him even for three days; there was nothing for it but for Mary to go, and at once. Our decision in the case of one of the houses must not be delayed a day, for a gentleman had seen it and wanted to take it, only as the agent in charge of it considered that we had 'the first refusal,' he had written to beg my father to send some one to see it at once.
"And thus it came about that Mary and I set off by ourselves in this dreary fashion only two days before Christmas! Mother had proposed our taking a servant, but as we knew that the only one who would have been any use to us was the one ofmostuse to mother, we declared we should much prefer the 'independence' of going by ourselves.
"By dint of much examination of Bradshaw we had discovered that it was possible, just possible, to get to East Hornham the same night about nine o'clock.
"'That will enable us to get to bed early, after we have had some supper, and the next day we can devote to seeing the two houses, one or other of whichmustsuit us,' said Mary, cheerfully. 'And starting early again the next day we may hope to be back with you on Christmas eve, mother dear.'
"The plan seemed possible enough,—one day would suffice for the houses, as there was no need as yet to go into all the details of the apportionment of rooms, and so on. That would be time enough in the spring, when we proposed to stay at East Hornham for a week or two at the hotel there, and arrange our new quarters at leisure. It was running it rather close, however; the least hitch, such as failing to catch one train out of the many which Mary had cleverly managed to fit in to each other, would throw our scheme out of gear; so mother promised not to be anxious if we failed to appear, and we, on our part, promised to telegraph if we met with any detention.
"For the first half—three-quarters, I might say—of our journey we got on swimmingly. We caught all the trains; the porters and guards were civility itself; and as our only luggage was a small hand-bag that we carried ourselves, we had no trouble of any kind. When we got to Fexel Junction, the last important station we were to pass, our misfortunes began. Here, by rights, we should have had a full quarter of an hour to wait for the express which should drop us at East Hornham on its way north; but when the guard heard our destination he shook his head.
"'The train's gone,' he said. 'We are more than half an hour late.'
"And so it proved. A whole hour and a half had we to sit shivering, in spite of the big fire, in the Fexel waiting-room, and it was eleven at night before, in the slowest of slow trains, we at last found ourselves within a few miles of East Hornham.
"Our spirits had gone down considerably since the morning. We were very tired, and that hasverymuch more to do with people's spirits than almost any one realises.
"'It wouldn't matter if we were going to friends,' said Mary. 'But it does seem very strange and desolate—we two poor things, two days before Christmas, arriving at midnight in a perfectly strange place, and nowhere to go to but an inn.'
"'But think how nice it will be, getting home to mother again—particularly if we've settled it all nicely about the house,' I said.
"And Mary told me I was a good little thing, and she was very glad to have me with her. It was not usual for me to be the braver of the two, but you see I felt my responsibilities on this occasion to be great, and was determined to show myself worthy of them.
"And when we did get to the inn, the welcome we received was worthy of Dr. Johnson's praise of inns in general. The fire was so bright, the little table so temptingly spread that the spirits—seldom long depressed—of one-and-twenty and fifteen rose at the sight. For we were hungry as well as tired, and the cutlets and broiled ham which the good people had managed to keep beautifully hot and fresh for us—possibly they were so accustomed to the railway eccentricities that they had only cooked them in time for our arrival by the later train, for we were told afterwards that no one everdidcatch the express at Fexel Junction,—the cutlets and ham, as I was saying, and the buttered toast, and all the other good things, weresogood that we made an excellent supper, and slept the sleep of two tired but perfectly healthy young people till seven o'clock the next morning.
"We awoke refreshed and hopeful. But alas! when Mary pulled up the blind what a sight met her eyes! snow—snow everywhere.
"'Whatshallwe do?' she said. 'We can never judge of the houses in this weather. And how are we to get to them? Dear me! how unlucky!'
"'But it has left off, and it can't be very thick in these few hours,' I said, 'If only it keeps off now, we could manage.'
"We dressed quickly, and had eaten our breakfast by half-past eight; for at nine, by arrangement, the agent was to call for us to escort us on our voyage of discovery. The weather gave promise of improving, a faint wintry sunshine came timidly out, and there seemed no question of more snow. When Mr. Turner, the agent, a respectable fatherly sort of man, made his appearance, he altogether pooh-poohed the idea of the roads being impassable; but he went on to say that, to his great regret, it was perfectly impossible for him to accompany us. Mr. H——, Mr. Walter H——, that is to say, the younger son of the owner of the Grange, the larger of the two houses we were to see, had arrived unexpectedly, and Mr. Turner was obliged to meet him about business.
"'I have managed the business about here for them since they left the Grange, and Mr. Walter is only here for a day,' said the communicative Mr. Turner. 'It is most unfortunate. But I have engaged a comfortable carriage for you, Miss Berkeley, and a driver who knows the country thoroughly, and is a very steady man. And, if you will allow me, I will call in this evening to hear what you think of the houses—which you prefer.' He seemed to be quite sure we should fix for one or other.
"'Thank you, that will do very well,' said Mary,—not in her heart, to tell the truth, sorry that we were to do our house-hunting by ourselves. 'We shall get on quite comfortably, I am sure, Mr. Turner. Which house shall we go to see first?'
"'The farthest off, I would advise,' said Mr. Turner. 'That is Hunter's Hall. It is eight miles at least from this, and the days are so short.'
"'Is that the old house with the terraced garden?' I asked.
"Mr. Turner glanced at me benevolently.
"'Oh no, Miss,' he said. 'The terraced garden is at the Grange. Hunter's Hall is a nice little place, but much smaller than the Grange. The gardens at the Grange are really quite a show in summer.'
"'Perhaps they will be too much for us,' said Mary. 'My father does not want a very large place, you understand, Mr. Turner—not being in good health he does not wish to have the trouble of looking after much.'
"'I don't think you would find it too much,' said Mr. Turner. 'The head gardener is to be left at Mr. H——'s expense, and he is very trustworthy. But I can explain all these details this evening if you will allow me, after you have seen the house,' and, so saying, the obliging agent bade us good morning.
"'I am sure we shall like the Grange the best,' I said to Mary, when, about ten o'clock, we found ourselves in the carriage Mr. Turner had provided for us, slowly, notwithstanding the efforts of the two fat horses that were drawing us, making our way along the snow-covered roads.
"'I don't know,' said Mary. 'I am afraid of its being too large. But certainly Hunter's Hall is a long way from the town, and that is a disadvantage.'
"Averylong way it seemed before we got there.
"'I could fancy we had been driving nearly twenty miles instead of eight,' said Mary, when at last the carriage stopped before a sort of little lodge, and the driver informed us we must get out there, there being no carriage drive up to the house.
"'Objection number one,' said Mary, as we picked our steps along the garden path which led to the front door. 'Father would not like to have to walk along here every time he went out a drive. Dear me!' she added, 'how dreadfully difficult it is to judge of any place in snow! The house looks so dirty, and yet very likely in summer it is a pretty bright white house.'
"It was not a bad little house: there were two or three good rooms downstairs and several fairly good upstairs, besides a number of small inconvenient rooms that might have been utilised by a very large family, but would be no good at all to us. Then the kitchens were poor, low-roofed, and straggling.
"'It might do,' said Mary doubtfully. 'It is more the look of it than anything else that I dislike. It does not look as if gentle-people had lived in it—it seems like a better-class farm-house.'
"And so it proved to be, for on inquiry we learnt from the woman who showed us through, that it never had been anything but a farm-house till the present owner had bought it, improved it a little, and furnished it in a rough-and-ready fashion for a summer residence for his large family of children.
"'We should need a great deal of additional furniture,' said Mary. 'Much of it is very poor and shabby. The rent, however, is certainly very low—to some extent that would make up.'
"Then we thanked the woman in charge, and turned to go. 'Dear me!' said Mary, glancing at her watch, 'it is already half-past twelve. I hope the driver knows the way to the Grange, or it will be dark before we get there. How far is it from here to East Hornham?' she added, turning again to our guide.
"'Ten miles good,' said the woman.
"'I thought so,' said Mary. 'I shall have a crow to pluck with that Mr. Turner for saying it was only eight. And how far to the Grange?'
"'Which Grange, Miss? There are two or three hereabouts.'
"Mary named the family it belonged to.
"'Oh it is quite seven miles from here, though not above two from East Hornham.'
"'Seven and two make nine,' said Mary. 'Why didn't you bring us here past the Grange? It is a shorter way,' she added to the driver, as we got into the carriage again.
"The man touched his hat respectfully, and replied that he had brought us round the other way that we might see more of the country.
"We laughed to ourselves at the idea of seeing the country, shut up in a close carriage and hardly daring to let the tips of our noses peep out to meet the bitter, biting cold. Besides, what was there to see? It was a flat, bare country, telling plainly of the near neighbourhood of the sea, and with its present mantle of snow, features of no kind were to be discerned. Roads, fields, and all were undistinguishable.
"'I wonder he knows his way,' we said to each other more than once, and as we drove on farther we could not resist a slight feeling of alarm as to the weather. The sky grew unnaturally dark and gloomy, with the blue-grey darkness that so often precedes a heavy fall of snow, and we felt immensely relieved when at last the carriage slackened before a pair of heavy old-fashioned gates, which were almost immediately opened by a young woman who ran out from one of the two lodges guarding each a side of the avenue.
"The drive up to the house looked very pretty even then—or rather as if it would be exquisitely so in spring and summer time.
"'I'm sure there must be lots and lots of primroses and violets and periwinkles down there in those woody places,' I cried. 'Oh Mary, Mary,dotake this house.'
"Mary smiled, but I could see that she too was pleased. And when we saw the house itself the pleasant impression was not decreased. It was built of nice old red stone, or brick, with grey mullions and gables to the roof. The hall was oak wainscotted all round, and the rooms that opened out of it were home-like and comfortable, as well as spacious. Certainly it was too large, a great deal too large, but then we could lock off some of the rooms.
"'People often do so,' I said. 'I think it is a delicious house, don't you, Mary?'
"One part was much older than the other, and it was curiously planned, the garden, the terraced garden behind which I had heard of, rising so, that after going upstairs in the house you yet found yourself on a level with one part of this garden, and could walk out on to it through a little covered passage. The rooms into which this passage opened were the oldest of all—one in particular, tapestried all round, struck me greatly.
"'I hope it isn't haunted,' I said suddenly. Mary smiled, but the young woman looked grave.
"'You don't mean to say itis?' I exclaimed.
"'Well, Miss, I was housemaid here several years, and I certainly never saw nor heard nothing. But the young gentlemen did used to say things like that for to frighten us, and for me I'm one as never likes to say as to those things that isn't for us to understand.'
"'I do believe itishaunted,' I cried, more and more excited, and though Mary checked me I would not leave off talking about it.
"We were turning to go out into the gardens when an exclamation from Mary caught my attention.
"'It is snowing again andsofast,' she said, 'and just see how dark it is.'
"''Twill lighten up again when the snow leaves off, Miss,' said the woman. 'It is not three o'clock yet. I'll make you a bit of fire in a minute if you like, in one of the rooms. In here——' she added, opening the door of a small bedroom next to the tapestry room, 'it'll light in a minute, the chimney can't be cold, for there was one yesterday. I put fires in each in turns.'
"We felt sorry to trouble her, but it seemed really necessary, for just then our driver came to the door to tell us he had had to take out the horses and put them into the stable.
"'They seemed dead beat,' he said, 'with the heavy roads. And besides it would be impossible to drive in the midst of such very thick falling snow. 'Twould be better to wait an hour or two, till it went off. There was a bag in the carriage—should he bring it in?'
"We had forgotten that we had brought with us some sandwiches and buns. In our excitement we had never thought how late it was, and that we must be hungry. Now, with the prospect of an hour or two's enforced waiting with nothing to do, we were only too thankful to be reminded of our provisions. The fire was already burning brightly in the little room—'Mr. Walter's room' the young woman called it—'That must be the gentleman that was to be with Mr. Turner to-day,' I whispered to Mary—and she very good-naturedly ran back to her own little house to fetch the necessary materials for a cup of tea for us.
"'It is a fearful storm,' she informed us when she ran back again, white from head to foot, even with the short exposure, and indeed from the windows we could see it for ourselves. 'The snow is coming that thick and fast, I could hardly find my own door,' she went on, while she busied herself with preparations for our tea. 'It is all very well in summer here, but it is lonesome-like in winter since the family went away. And my husband's been ill for some weeks too—I have to sit up with him most nights. Last night, just before the snow began, I did get such a fright—all of a sudden something seemed to come banging at our door, and then I heard a queer breathing like. I opened the door, but there was nothing to be seen, but perhaps it was that that made me look strange when Miss here,' pointing to me, 'asked me if the house was haunted. Whatever it was that came to our door certainly rushed off this way.'
"'A dog, or even a cat, perhaps,' said Mary.
"The woman shook her head.
"'A cat couldn't have made such a noise, and there's not a dog about the place,' she said.
"I listened with great interest—but Mary's thoughts were otherwise engaged. There was not a doubt that the snow-storm, instead of going off, was increasing in severity. We drank our tea and ate our sandwiches, and put off our time as well as we could till five o'clock. It was now of course perfectly dark but for the light of the fire. We were glad when our friend from the lodge returned with a couple of tallow candles, blaming herself for having forgotten them.
"'I really don't know what we should do,' said Mary to her. 'The storm seems getting worse and worse. I wonder what the driver thinks about it. Is he in the house, do you know?'
"'He's sitting in our kitchen, Miss,' replied the young woman. 'He seems very much put about. Shall I tell him to come up to speak to you?'
"'Thank you, I wish you would,' said Mary. 'But I am really sorry to bring you out so much in this dreadful weather.'
"The young woman laughed cheerfully.
"'I don't mind it a bit, Miss,' she said; 'if you only knew how glad I shall be if you come to live here. Nothing'd be a trouble if so be as we could get a kind family here again. 'Twould be like old times.'
"She hastened away, and in a few minutes returned to say that the driver was downstairs waiting to speak to us——"
"Laura, my dear," said grandmother, "do you know it is a quarter to ten. How much more is there?"
Aunty glanced through the pages—
"About as much again," she said. "No, scarcely so much."
"Well then, dears, it must wait till to-morrow," said grandmother.
"Oh, grandmother!" remonstrated the children.
"Aunty said it was a shorter story than yours, grandmother," said Molly in a half reproachful voice.
"And are you disappointed that it isn't?" said aunty, laughing. "I really didn't think it was so long as it is."
"Oh! aunty, I only wish it wastwentytimes as long," said Molly. "I shouldn't mind hearing it all over again this minute, only you see I do dreadfully want to hear the end. I am sure they had to stay there all night, and that something frightens them. Oh it's 'squisitely delicious," she added, "jigging" up and down on her chair.
"You're a 'squisitely delicious little humbug," said aunty, laughing. "Now good-night all three of you, and get to bed as fast as you can, as I don't want 'grandmother dear' to scold me for your all being tired and sleepy to-morrow."
"And as for poor old Rover,I'm sure he meant no harm."Old Doggie.
"And as for poor old Rover,I'm sure he meant no harm."
Old Doggie.
"Molly is too sharp by half," said aunty, the following evening, when she was preparing to go on with her story. "Wehadto stay there all night—that was the result of Mary's conversation with the driver, the details of which I may spare you. Let me see, where was I? 'The driver scratched his head,'—no,—ah, here it is! 'He was waiting downstairs to speak to us; 'and the result of the speaking I have told you, so I'll go on from here——
"It was so cold downstairs in the fireless, deserted house, that Mary and I were glad to come upstairs again to the little room where we had been sitting, which already seemed to have a sort of home-like feeling about it. But once arrived there we looked at each other in dismay.
"'Isn't it dreadful, Mary?' I said.
"'And we shall miss the morning train from East Hornham—the only one by which we can get through the same day—that is the worst of all,' she said.
"'Can't we be in time? It is only two or three miles from here to East Hornham,' I said.
"'Yes, but you forget Imustsee Mr. Turner again. If I fix to take this house, and it seems very likely, I must not go away without all the particulars for father. There are ever so many things to ask. I have a list of father's, as long as my arm, of questions and inquiries.'
"'Ah, yes,' I agreed; 'and then we have to get our bag at the hotel, and to pay our bill there.'
"'And to choose rooms there to come to at first,' said Mary. 'Oh yes, our getting away by that train is impossible. And then the Christmas trains are like Sunday. Even by travelling all night we cannot get home, I fear. I must telegraph to mother as soon as we get back to East Hornham.'
"The young woman had not returned. We were wondering what had become of her when she made her appearance laden with everything she could think of for our comfort. The bed, she assured us, could not be damp, as it had been 'to the fire' all the previous day, and she insisted on putting on a pair of her own sheets, coarse but beautifully white, and fetching from another room additional blankets, which in their turn had to be subjected to 'airing,' or 'firing' rather. To the best of her ability she provided us with toilet requisites, apologising, poor thing, for the absence of what we 'of course, must be used to,'—as she expressed it, in the shape of fine towels, perfumed soap, and so on. And she ended by cooking us a rasher of bacon and poached eggs for supper, all the materials for which refection she had brought from her own cottage. She was so kind that I shrank from suggesting to Mary the objection to the proposed arrangement, which was all this time looming darkly before me. But when our friend was about to take her leave for the night I could keep it back no longer.
"'Mary,' I whispered, surprised and somewhat annoyed at my sister's calmness, 'are you going to let her go away? You and Ican'tstay here all night alone.'
"'Do you mean that you are frightened, Laura dear?' she said kindly, in the same tone. 'I don't see that there is anything to be frightened of; and if there were, what good would another girl—for this young woman is very little older than I—do us?'
"'She knows the house, any way, and it wouldn't seem so bad,' I replied, adding aloud, 'Oh, Mrs. Atkins'—for I had heard the driver mention her name—'can't you stay in the house with us? We shall feel so dreadfully strange.'
"'I would have done so most gladly, Miss,' the young woman began, but Mary interrupted her.
"'I know you can't,' she said; 'your husband is ill. Laura, it would be very wrong of us to propose such a thing.'
"'That's just how it is,' said Mrs. Atkins. 'My husband has such bad nights he can't be left, and there's no one I could get to sit with him. Besides, it's such a dreadful night to seek for any one.'
"'Then the driver,' I said; 'couldn't he stay somewhere downstairs? He might have a fire in one of the rooms.'
"Mrs. Atkins wished it had been thought of before. 'Giles,'—which it appeared was the man's name—would have done it in a minute, she was sure, but it was too late. He had already set off to seek a night's lodging and some supper, no doubt, at a little inn half a mile down the road.
"'An inn?' I cried. 'I wish we had gone there too. It would have been far better than staying here.'
"'Oh, it's a very poor place—'The Drover's Rest,' they call it. It would never do for you, Miss,' said Mrs. Atkins, looking distressed that all her efforts for our comfort appeared to have been in vain. 'Giles might ha' thought of it himself,' she added, 'but then you see it would never strike him but what here—in the Grange—you'd be as safe as safe. It's not a place for burglaries and such like, hereabouts.'
"'And of course we shall be quite safe,' said Mary. 'Laura dear, what has made you so nervous all of a sudden?'
"I did not answer, for I was ashamed to speak of Mrs. Atkins' story of the strange noises she had heard the previous night, which evidently Mary had forgotten, but I followed the young woman with great eagerness, to see that we were at least thoroughly well defended by locks and bolts in our solitude. The tapestry room and that in which we were to sleep could be locked off from the rest of the empty house, as a door stood at the head of the little stair leading up to them—so far, so well. But Mrs. Atkins proceeded to explain that the door at theoutsideend of the other passage, leading into the garden, could not be locked except from the outside.
"'I can lock you in, if you like, Miss,' she said, 'and come round first thing in the morning;' but this suggestion did not please us at all.
"'No, thank you,' said Mary, 'for if it is fine in the morning I mean to get up very early and walk round the gardens.'
"'No, thank you,' said I, adding mentally, 'Supposing wewerefrightened it would be too dreadful not to be able to get out.'—'But we can lock the door from the tapestry room into the passage, from our side, can't we?' I said, and Mrs. Atkins replied 'Oh yes, of course you can, Miss,' turning the key in the lock of the door as she spoke. 'Master never let the young gentlemen lock the doors when they were boys,' she added, 'for they were always breaking the locks. So you see, Miss, there's a hook and staple to this door, as well as the lock.'
"'Thank you, Mrs. Atkins,' said Mary, 'that will do nicely, I am sure. And now we must really not keep you any longer from your husband. Good-night, and thank you very much.'
"'Good-night,' I repeated, and we both stood at the door of the passage as she made her way out into the darkness. The snow was still falling very heavily, and the blast of cold wind that made its way in was piercing.
"'Oh, Mary, come back to the fire,' I cried. 'Isn't itawfullycold? Oh, Mary dear,' I added, when we had both crouched down beside the welcome warmth for a moment, 'won't it bedeliciousto be back with mother again? We never thought we'd have such adventures, did we? Can you fancy this house ever feelinghome-y, Mary? It seems so dreary now.'
"'Yes, but you've no idea how different it will seem even to-morrow morning, if it's a bright day,' said Mary. 'Let's plan the rooms, Laura. Don't you think the one to the south with the crimson curtains will be best for father?'
"So she talked cheerfully, more, I am sure—though I did not see it at the time—to encourage me than to amuse herself. And after awhile, when she saw that I was getting sleepy, she took a candle into the outer room, saying she would lock the door and make all snug for the night. I heard her, as I thought, lock the door, then she came back into our room and also locked the door leading from it into the tapestry room.
"'You needn't lock that too,' I said sleepily; 'if the tapestry door is locked, we're all right!'
"'I think it's better,' said Mary quietly, and then we undressed, so far as we could manage to do so in the extremely limited state of our toilet arrangements, and went to bed.
"I fell asleep at once. Mary, she afterwards told me, lay awake for an hour or two, so that when she did fall asleep her slumber was unusually profound. I think it must have been about midnight when I woke suddenly, with the feeling—the indescribable feeling—that something had awakened me. I listened, first of all withonlythe ear that happened to be uppermost—then, as my courage gradually returned again, I ventured to move slightly, so that both ears were uncovered. No, nothing was to be heard. I was trying to compose myself to sleep again, persuading myself that I had been dreaming, when again—yes most distinctly—therewasa sound. A sort of shuffling, scraping noise, which seemed to come from the direction of the passage leading from the tapestry room to the garden. Fear made me selfish. I pushed Mary, then shook her gently, then more vigorously.
"'Mary,' I whispered. 'Oh, Mary,dowake up. I hear such a queer noise.'
"Mary, poor Mary awoke, but she had been very tired. It was a moment or two before she collected her faculties.
"'Where are we? What is it?' she said. Then she remembered. 'Oh yes—what is the matter, Laura?'
"'Listen,' I said, and Mary, calmly self-controlled as usual, sat up in bed and listened. The sound was quite distinct, even louder than I had heard it.
"'Oh, Mary!' I cried. 'Somebody's trying to get in. Oh, Mary, whatshallwe do? Oh, I am so frightened. I shall die with fright. Oh, I wish I had never come!'
"I was on the verge of hysterics, or something of the kind.
"Mary, herself a little frightened, as she afterwards confessed—in the circumstances what young girl could have helped being so?—turned to me quietly. Something in the very tone of her voice seemed to soothe me.
"'Laura dear,' she said gravely, 'did you say your prayers last night?'
"'Oh yes, oh yes, indeed I did. But I'll say them again now if you like,' I exclaimed.
"Even then, Mary could hardly help smiling.
"'That isn't what I meant,' she said. 'I mean, what is thegoodof saying your prayers if you don't believe what you say?'
"'But I do, I do,' I sobbed.
"'Then why are you so terrified? You asked God to take care of you. When you said it you believed He would. Why not believe it now?Now, when you are tried, is the time to show if you do mean what you say. I am sure Godwilltake care of us. Now try, dear, to be reasonable, and I will get up and see what it is.'
"'But don't leave me, and I will try to be good,' I exclaimed, jumping out of bed at the same moment that she did, and clinging to her as she moved. 'Oh, Mary, don't you think perhaps we'd better go back to bed and put our fingers in our ears, and by morning it wouldn't seem anything.'
"'And fancy ever after that there had been something mysterious, when perhaps it is something quite simple,' said Mary. 'No, I shouldn't like that at all. Of course I won't do anything rash, but I would like to find out.'
"'The fire, fortunately, was not yet quite out. Mary lighted one of the candles with a bit of paper from a spark which she managed to coax into a flame. The noise had, in the meantime, subsided, but just as we had got the candle lighted, it began again.
"'Now,' said Mary, 'you stay here, Laura, and I'll go into the next room and listen at the passage door.' She spoke so decidedly that I obeyed in trembling. Mary armed herself with the poker, and, unlocking our door, went into the tapestry room, first lighting the second candle, which she left with me. She crossed the room to the door as she had said.Ithought it was to listen; in reality her object was to endeavour to turn the key in the lock of the tapestry room door, which she hadnotbeen able to do the night before, for once the door was shut the key would not move, and she had been obliged to content herself with the insecure hold of the hook and staple. Now it had struck her that by inserting the poker in the handle of the key she might succeed in turning it, and thus provide ourselves with a double defence. For if the intruder—dog, cat, whatever it was—burst the outer door and got into the tapestry room, my fears, she told me afterwards, would, she felt sure, have become uncontrollable. It was a brave thing to do—was it not? She deserved to succeed, and she did. With the poker's help she managed to turn the key, and then with a sigh of relief she stood still for a moment listening. The sounds continued—whatever it was it was evidently what Mrs. Atkins had heard the night before—a shuffling, rushing-about sound, then a sort of impatient breathing. Mary came back to me somewhat reassured.
"'Laura,' she said, 'I keep to my first opinion. It is a dog, or a cat, or some animal.'
"'But suppose it is amaddog?' I said, somewhat unwilling to own that my terrors had been exaggerated.
"'It is possible, but not probable,' she replied. 'Any way it can't get in here. Now, Laura, it is two o'clock by my watch. There is candle enough to last an hour or two, and I will make up the fire again. Get into bed andtryto go to sleep, for honestly I do not think there is any cause for alarm.'
"'But Mary, Ican'tgo to sleep unless you come to bed too, and if you don't, I can't believe you think it's nothing,' I said. So, to soothe me, she gave up her intention of remaining on guard by the fire, and came to bed, and, wonderful to relate, we both went to sleep, and slept soundly till—what o'clock do you think?
"It wasnineo'clock when I awoke; Mary was standing by me fully dressed, a bright frosty sun shining into the room, and a tray with a cup of tea and some toast and bacon keeping hot by the fire.
"'Oh, Mary!' I cried, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.
"'Are you rested?' she said. 'I have been up since daylight—not so very earlythat, at this season—Mrs. Atkins came and brought me some breakfast, but we hadn't the heart to waken you, you poor child.'
"'And oh, Mary, what about the noise? Did she hear it?'
"'She wasn't sure. She half fancied she did, and then she thought she might have been imagining it from the night before. But get up, dear. It is hopeless to try for the early train; we can't leave till to-night, or to-morrow morning; but I am anxious to get back to East Hornham and see Mr. Turner. And before we go I'd like to run round the gardens.'
"'But, Mary,' I said, pausing in my occupation of putting on my stockings, 'are you still thinking of taking this house?'
"'Still!' said Mary. 'Why not?'
"'Because of the noises. If we can't find out what it is, it would be very uncomfortable. And with father being so delicate too, and often awake at night!'
"Mary did not reply, but my words were not without effect. We ran round the gardens as she had proposed—they were lovely even then—took a cordial farewell of Mrs. Atkins, and set off on our return drive to East Hornham. I must not forget to tell you that we well examined that part of the garden into which the tapestry room passage led, but there were no traces of footsteps, the explanation of which we afterwards found to be that the snow had continued to fall till much later in the night than the time of our fright.
"Mr. Turner was waiting for us in considerable anxiety. We had done, he assured us, the most sensible thing possible in the circumstances. He had not known of our non-arrival till late in the evening, and, but for his confidence in Giles, would have set off even then. As it was, he had sent a messenger to Hunter's Hall, and was himself starting for the Grange.
"Mary sent me out of the room while she spoke to him, at which I was not over well pleased. She told him all about the fright we had had, and that, unless its cause were explained, it would certainly leave an uncomfortable feeling in her mind, and that, considering our father's invalid state, till she had talked it over with our mother she could not come to the decision she had hoped.
"'It may end in our taking Hunter's Hall,' she said, 'though the Grange is far more suitable.'
"Mr. Turner was concerned and perplexed. But Mary talked too sensibly to incline him to make light of it.
"'It is very unfortunate,' he said; 'and I promised an answer to the other party by post this evening. And you say, Miss Berkeley, that Mrs. Atkins heard it too. You aresure, Miss, you were not dreaming?'
"'Quitesure. It was my sister that heard it, and woke me,' she replied; 'and then we both heard it.'
"Mr. Turner walked off, metaphorically speaking, scratching his head, as honest Giles had done literally in his perplexity the night before. He promised to call back in an hour or two, when he had been to the station and found out about the trains for us.
"We packed our little bag and paid the bill, so that we might be quite ready, in case Mr. Turner found out any earlier train by which we might get on, for we had telegraphed to mother that we should do our best to be back the next day. I was still so sleepy and tired that Mary persuaded me to lie down on the bed, in preparation for the possibility of a night's journey. I wasnearlyasleep when a tap came to the door, and a servant informed Mary that a gentleman was waiting to speak to her.
"'Mr. Turner,' said she carelessly, as she passed into the sitting-room.
"But it was not Mr. Turner. In his place she found herself face to face with a very different person—a young man, of seven or eight and twenty, perhaps, tall and dark—dark-haired and dark-eyed that is to say—grave and quiet in appearance, but with a twinkle in his eyes that told of no lack of humour.
"'I must apologise for calling in this way, Miss Berkeley,' he said at once, 'but I could not help coming myself to tell howverysorry I am about the fright my dog gave you last night at the Grange. I have just heard of it from Mr. Turner.'
"'Your dog?' repeated Mary, raising her pretty blue eyes to his face in bewilderment.
"'Yes,' he said, 'he ran off to the Grange—his old home, you know—oh, I beg your pardon! I am forgetting to tell you that I am Walter H——,—in the night, and must have tried to find his way into my room in the way he used to do. I always left the door unlatched for him.'
"Instead of replying, Mary turned round and flew straight off into the room where I was.
"'Oh, Laura,' she exclaimed, 'itwasa dog; Mr. Walter H—— has just come to tell us. Are you not delighted? Now we can fix for the Grange at once, and it will all be right. Come quick, and hear about it.'
"I jumped up, and, without even waiting to smooth my hair, hurried back into the sitting-room with Mary. Our visitor, very much amused at our excitement, explained the whole, and sent downstairs for 'Captain,' a magnificent retriever, who, on being told to beg our pardon, looked up with his dear pathetic brown eyes in Mary's face in a way that won her heart at once. His master, it appeared, had been staying at East Hornham the last two nights with an old friend, the clergyman there. Both nights, on going to bed late, he had missed 'Captain,' whose usual habit was to sleep on a mat at his door. The first night he was afraid the dog was lost, but to his relief he reappeared again early the next morning; the second night, also, his master happening to be out late at Mr. Turner's, with whom he had a good deal of business to settle, the dog had set off again on his own account to his former quarters, with probably some misty idea in his doggy brain that it was the proper thing to do.
"'But how did you find out where he had been?' said I.
"'I went out early this morning, feeling rather anxious about 'Captain,'' said our visitor; 'and I met him coming along the road leading from the Grange. Where he had spent the night after failing to get into his old home I cannot tell; he must have sheltered somewhere to get out of the snow and the cold. Later this morning I walked on to the Grange, and, hearing from Ruth Atkins of your fright and her own, I put 'two and two together,' and I think the result quite explains the noises you heard.'
"'Quite,' we both said; 'and we thank you so much for coming to tell us.'
"'It was certainly the very least I could do,' he said; 'and I thank you very much for forgiving poor old Captain.'
"So we left East Hornham with lightened hearts, and, as our new friend was travelling some distance in our direction, he helped us to accomplish our journey much better than we could have managed it alone. And after all wedidget back to our parents on Christmas day, though not on Christmas eve."
Aunty stopped.
"Then you did take the Grange, aunty?" said the children.
Aunty nodded her head.
"And you never heard any more noises?"
"Never," said aunty. "It was the pleasantest of old houses; and oh, we were sorry to leave it, weren't we, mother?"
"Why did you leave it, grandmother dear?" said Molly.
"When your grandfather's health obliged him to spend the winters abroad; then we came here," said grandmother.
"Oh yes," said Molly, adding after a little pause, "Iwouldlike to see that house."
Aunty smiled. "Few things are more probable than that you will do so," she said, "provided you can make up your mind to cross the sea again."
"Why? how do you mean, aunty?" said Molly, astonished, and Ralph and Sylvia listened with eagerness to aunty's reply.
"Because," said aunty,—then she looked across to grandmother. "Won't you explain to them, mother?" she said.
"Because, my darlings, that dear old house will be your home—your happy home, I trust, some day," said grandmother.
"Is my father thinking of buying it?" asked Ralph, pricking up his ears.
"No, my boy, but some day it will be his. It is your uncle's now, but he ismucholder than your father, and has no children, so you see it will come to your father some day—sooner than we have thought, perhaps, for your uncle is too delicate to live in England, and talks of giving it up to your father."
"ButstillI don't understand," said Ralph, looking puzzled. "Did myunclebuy it?"
"No, no. Did you never hear of old Alderwood Grange?"
"Alderwood," said Ralph. "Ofcourse, but we never speak of it as 'The Grange,' you know, and I have never seen it. It has always been let since I can remember. I never even heard it described. Papa does not seem to care to speak of it."
"No, dear," said aunty. "The happiest part of his life began there, and you know how all the light seemed to go out of his life when your mother died. It was there he—Captain's master—got to know her, the 'Mary' of my little adventure. You understand it all now? He was a great deal in the neighbourhood—at the little town I called East Hornham—the summer we first came to Alderwood. And there they were married; and there, in the peaceful old church-yard, your dear mother is buried."
The children listened with sobered little faces. "Poor papa!" they said.
"But some day," said grandmother, "some day I hope, when you three are older, that Alderwood will again be a happy home for your father. It is what your mother would have wished, I know."
"Well then, you and aunty must come to live with us there. You must. Promise now, grandmother dear," said Molly.
Grandmother smiled, but shook her head gently.
"Grandmother will be averyold woman by then, my darling," she said, "and perhaps——"
Molly pressed her little fat hand over grandmother's mouth.
"I know what you're going to say, but you'renotto say it," she said. "Andeverynight, grandmother dear, I ask in my prayers for you to live to be a hundred."
Grandmother smiled again.
"Do you, my darling?" she said. "But remember, whatever weask, God knows best what toanswer."