For some moments the children stared at the young man without saying a word—they were so surprised at finding him there; and he scowled back at them fiercely, as though he thought they had no right to have come under the ash-tree at all.
"We came to look for my hedgehog," said Una at last, making just the suspicion of a curtsey as she spoke, for this young man was so much younger than most of her father's visitors that she was not quite sure whether her old nurse would have told her to curtsey to him or not.
The young man looked at her, then muttered something to himself in a strange language, and shook his head.
Then Una spoke in French.
"We came to look for the little animal there," she said, pointing to the hedgehog; and the young man smiled as he pushed it gently with his foot and rolled it towards her.
He looked so much nicer when he smiled that the children began to feel more at ease with him, and to think that he was not such an ugly young man after all; but very soon the gloomy look came back to his face, and he pushed his way out through the branches, as if anxious to get away from the shade of tree and his own thoughts at the same time.
The children followed him out into the sunshine, and the young man looked down at them with a queer sort of expression in his black eyes; then he said something quickly in the strange language in which he had spoken before, and looked at Una as if he thought she would understand; but the little girl stared blankly back at him, and he saw that she did not know what he had said.
"The children followed him out into the sunshine.""The children followed him out into the sunshine."
"The children followed him out into the sunshine.""The children followed him out into the sunshine."
It was not the first time Una had heard that language, however. Her father had sometimes talked to her like that in soft caressing tones as she sat on his knee before the fire, or when they walked together in the garden; but he had always laughed when Una had asked him what he was saying, and had told her that she would understand some day. The only other people whom she had heard speak in that tongue were the strange gentlemen who sometimes came to stay in the house.
Then the young man began to speak in French—a little slowly at first, as if he were not at all sure that his listeners would understand; but when he saw that Una understood quite well, he brightened up and began to speak quickly, pouring out such a torrent of words that Tom and Norah and Dan had not the least idea what he was talking about, and wondered how it was possible for Una to understand what he said.
That Una did understand was quite certain, for her little face paled and flushed at the young man's words; her dark eyes grew big with fear, then filled with tears, and by-and-by a little sob broke from her throat, and the children saw that she was crying bitterly—not loudly, but very, very sadly, as if she could not help it and really hardly knew that she was crying at all.
When the young man saw Una's tears he suddenly stopped talking, and looked uncomfortable; then he softly stroked the little girl's fair hair, and whispered something to her so gently and kindly that Una smiled at him through her tears, and the children felt that they liked him a little bit after all; though just before, Tom had been wishing very much that he were quite big, so that he could knock the strange man down for making Una cry.
Then the young man turned to go, but came back to ask Una a question; and the little girl answered him eagerly in French, repeating something several times over, and nodding her head firmly as if she were making a promise. The young man smiled at her once more, and then went away into the house.
"Well!" Tom burst out as soon as the stranger was out of hearing, "I should like to know what all that gibberish was about, Una."
"And me, too," said Norah. "Please tell us, Una. I couldn't understand one word he said."
"Nor anyone else," said Tom; "at least—I forgot—Una did. I suppose that's because you gabble such a lot of French to Marie, isn't it, Una? Marie talks as fast as seven cats all rolled into one."
"Cats don't talk!" said Una, smiling; then she grew very grave. "Oh Tom," she said, "I don't feel a bit like laughing, really. He told me such sad, sad things, that man. He said there is a country, a long way off, where the little children are quite miserable—not happy and laughing like us. He said that it was seeing us all playing and laughing just now made him feel quite cross and angry with us, because it made him think of his little brothers and sisters—at least, I am not quite sure if he did say his little brothers and sisters, or some other little children he knows.
"They have been turned out of their home and have to live in a nasty, cold, snowy country with no friends, except their mother; yes, she is there; but their father has to work in a horrid sort of prison, and he hasn't done anything wrong—thatisn't why he's being punished. And he says—the man I mean—that there are lots of little children like that in that country, and they are all sad and cold and hungry and miserable.
"He told me the name of that country, too," the little girl went on; "but I mustn't tell you, because it is a secret and I promised not to. Oh, dear! I hope it is not naughty of me to have told you all this," cried Una, suddenly bursting into tears. "I do hope I'm not letting out any of father's secret; but it made me feel so sad all that the man told me, and I wanted to talk to someone about it, and—and I never thought of it being anything to do with—Oh, dear! oh, dear! now I'm letting out more and making it worse!"
"Never mind, Una! Don't cry. We won't tell, anyone, we promise faithfully we won't," cried the children, much distressed at Una's tears; and soon the little girl dried her eyes and was at last satisfied by their promise not to tell anyone about the poor little unhappy children she had told them of. She bade her little friends good-bye then, and carried "Snoozy" away rather sadly to his home in the kitchen garden—a disused cucumber frame, where he was generally put for safety when his little mistress was not with him in the garden.
Una met the black-haired young man several times after that in the house and garden, but he did not talk to her again about the little boys and girls who lived in that other country, which was so different from kind, peaceful old England. After a time he went away, and no more strange gentlemen came to the house. And then, one day, Una's father went away also.
This was not one of Monsieur Gen's usual visits to London, when he stayed sometimes one night, sometimes two, or even came back the very same day to Haversham. This time he would be away for some weeks, perhaps a month, perhaps longer, he said, as he kissed his little girl one sunny June morning; and now August had come, and Una's father had not come back again, and the little girl felt very lonely as she wandered among the weedy flower-beds in the rose-garden.
There were not many roses out that morning, and the few that still bloomed on the bushes were poor specimens compared with the beauties that used to scent the air in that old garden. For years the Grange roses had been noted for miles around; but it was long since pruning shears had touched those branches, or since care of any sort had been shown to the Grange grounds, and it was only the children who thought the flower-beds beautiful and the garden itself a play-ground of bliss.
It was indeed a pleasant place to them, that overgrown old garden; for no gardener looked askance when they dug holes in the gravel paths, or turned the rockery into a grotto large enough to get into themselves and play at elves and witches and mermaids and other delightful games; and no one said them nay when they built a hut upon the lawn—with willow branches and rushes from beside the pond—where they "camped out" many a long summer afternoon, pretending to be gipsies, or soldiers, or Ancient Britons, whichever their fancy pleased.
The days did not pass quite so happily, just now, for Una. Philip and Stephen Carew had brought home a boy friend with them from school, and Tom liked to play cricket with the elder boys in the vicarage meadow, while Mary and Ruth and Norah were generally asked to field, and Dan looked on and clapped encouragement from the bank where he usually sat to watch the players.
The little foreign girl was therefore left rather to herself, for a time, and used to listen to the sounds of merriment which sometimes reached her from the vicarage garden, as she wandered by herself in the wood, with rather a wistful look on her little pale face.
If only she had brothers and sisters of her own, Una thought to herself, how happy she would be! And then she would go back to the garden to play with "Snoozy," and to wonder how long it would be before her father came home again.
Then one day he came.
Una heard the sound of wheels as she sat by herself in the little hut on the lawn, and she ran across the grass and peeped through the laurel hedge to see who was in the carriage; and when she caught sight of her father's sad, tired face, and deep-set eyes looking out through the open window, she gave a great shout of joy and pushed her way through the hedge, quite forgetting her usual little formal curtsey as she scrambled into the carriage and up on to her father's knee, as soon as the coachman had pulled up the horses and Monsieur Gen had opened the door.
"Why, my little girl, how glad you are to see me again!" he said, kissing her as she threw her arms round his neck and rubbed her cheek fondly against his.
"Oh, so glad; so very, very glad!" Una sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder.
Then she sprang out into the porch, clapping her hands with delight that she had really got her father back again!
But there was something the matter with her father, Una thought, as she followed him across the hall to the library. He walked so slowly, and stopped every now and then as if in pain; and when he sat down in the big writing-chair by the table he looked so tired and sad—paler even than usual, the little girl thought, as she looked anxiously into his face with the big eyes so like her father's own.
"Are you ill, father?" she asked gently.
"Yes, dear, I am afraid I am. I have been worried, Una, very worried," he said; as he leant his head rather wearily on his hand; and presently Una stole away and came back by-and-by, followed by old Marie carrying a little tray, with nicely scented tea, freshly cut slices of lemon and crisp dry toast, just as her father liked it to be served.
Monsieur Gen smiled, and tried to eat; but he soon gave up the attempt and said that he would go and lie down for a time.
Then followed sad, dark days for little Una—days when all the sunshine seemed gone out of her life; and Marie moved about the house with slow, silent steps, and her stern old face puckered up into a hundred wrinkles with worry and anxious thought.
Monsieur Gen refused to have a doctor to see him; he wanted no strange faces about the place, he said. And all through those hot August days he lay quite still in his bedroom, with the blinds down to keep out the glare of the sun; while Una sat beside him fanning him with a palm-leaf fan, or bathing his forehead with Eau de Cologne and moistening his lips with ice, which Marie obtained from the town.
"Una sat beside him, fanning him.""Una sat beside him, fanning him."
"Una sat beside him, fanning him.""Una sat beside him, fanning him."
Then one evening, just as it was getting dark, her father opened his eyes and looked at her with a smile.
There had been a slight thunderstorm during the afternoon, and the rain was still falling; and Una thought that perhaps the cooler weather had made her father feel better.
"Are you better, father?" she whispered.
"Darling, I want you to do something for me," he said. "Go to Mr. Carew, and ask him to come and see me this evening."
Una slipped from her chair at once. She had wanted so often to fetch the Vicar to see her father, but had not liked to do so without permission; and now here was her father asking her to go. With a glad heart the little girl hurried downstairs and passed out through the front door.
She knew the way to the vicarage quite well, for she had once or twice been along the road with Marie, since the day she had first seen the little Carews through the gate, and had often watched from the Grange garden while the vicarage children ran along the little lane. But the lane looked strangely unfamiliar tonight, with the dark clouds scudding across the face of the moon overhead.
Presently rain began to fall heavily once more, and Una, who had not waited to put on hat or coat, was drenched to the skin before she reached the vicarage.
Mr. Carew was sitting writing at his study table when he heard a quick tap on the window. For a moment he raised his eyes, then, thinking it was only the branch of a tree tapping against the glass, he went on writing.
The quick "tap, tap, tap," began again, however; and going to the window he saw a pale, frightened little face gazing at him from the other side of the glass.
In a moment he had opened the window and taken poor, wet little Una in his arms.
"I saw your light burning, and I tapped; and father wants you," she said, all in one breath; and although Mr. Carew wanted her to stay and change into dry clothes, nothing would induce her to wait, and he had to content himself with wrapping her in a warm shawl and carrying her back in his arms through the rain.
Then he handed her over to Marie's care, telling her that the little girl had better have a hot bath and something nice and hot to drink as soon as possible, while he went straight to Monsieur Gen's room.
An hour later, while Una lay in bed listening for the slightest sound from her father's room, the Vicar fetched her to say good-night to him.
"Good-bye, darling," said her father. "God bless you, little one."
"Good-night, father—dear father!" said the child, crying softly, she knew not why; and then Mr. Carew carried her back to bed, and she slept soundly until awakened the next morning by the sunshine pouring through the window on to her bed.
But, although the sun shone brightly out of doors and birds sang gaily in the trees, it was a sad, sad day within the house, for Monsieur Gen had died during the night, and little Una was an orphan.
Oh, how slowly the hours of that day dragged by for Una! No one had much time to spare for the little girl, and she walked drearily from room to room, feeling that it was cruel of the sun to shine and the birds to sing so merrily when her father was dead and she would never, on earth, hear him speak again.
She fell asleep at last—curled up in one of the large study chairs—worn out with crying and want of sleep; for often during the last fortnight she had kept herself awake in case her father should want anything and call for her in the night.
There, some hours later, Mr. Carew found her—fast asleep, and with her arms tightly folded round one of her father's coats.
Very gently he lifted the little girl in his arms and carried her down the lane to the vicarage; and when Una awoke she found herself in Norah's little bed, with Mrs. Carew bending over her with loving looks and tender words of sympathy.
She was to live with them always now, Mrs. Carew told the little girl, and she must try and be as happy as she could among them, and look upon Norah and Dan and Mary and Ruth and Tom and Philip and Stephen as her own brothers and sisters.
In a few days' time, as soon as the little girl was well enough for the journey, she was sent with old Marie to stay at a little seaside place called Bembies. Dan went with them also, partly because Mrs. Carew had thought that it would be good for Una to have a child's company, and partly because the little boy really needed a change.
And at Bembies Una told Dan her father's secret.
What it was must be kept for a new chapter.
At the top of a high six-barred gate sat Tom, swinging his legs and whistling softly in a thoughtful kind of way, while he watched Una and Dan, who were seated below him on the grass, making a wreath of red berries, hops and nuts.
The Harvest Thanksgiving was to be held at the little church the following evening, and Ruth—like her namesake of long ago—was gathering the few stray ears of corn left among the stubble. She was helping to make a sickle to hang in front of the pulpit.
"Una," began Tom hesitatingly, "you said once—before you went away—that when you came back again you'd tell us about your father's secret. Will you?"
"Oh, will you, Una?" asked Norah, who had just joined the others with a fresh supply of berries and hops from the hedge.
Dan said nothing; for had not Una talked to him often about her father when they had sat on the bench at Bembies, or side by side in the deep window-seat overlooking the quaint little western bay? The little boy remembered all that she had told him, and often thought to himself that he too would try and do some good in the world, even though he would never be able to run so fast as Tom, or to play football or cricket like Stephen and Philip.
Una looked up from the wreath with a sad little smile on her face.
"It is funny you should ask me just now," she said; "I was just thinking about it, and wondering if I should tell you."
"'I was just wondering if I should tell you,' said Una.""'I was just wondering if I should tell you,' said Una."
"'I was just wondering if I should tell you,' said Una.""'I was just wondering if I should tell you,' said Una."
"Will you tell us, then?" said Tom, as he swung himself off the gate and sat down on the grass by Una's side.
"Father used to tell me about it when he was so ill," said the little girl. "I used to sit in his room, you know, in case he wanted anything; and sometimes I thought he was asleep, and then he would open his eyes all at once and begin to talk to me; and he told me lots and lots of things he had never told me before—about things he had done, I mean, and about my mamma—and——"
A big tear rolled down Una's cheek and splashed on to the bunch of crimson berries she was holding.
"Don't tell us, Una, if you would rather not," said Norah softly.
"Oh, yes," said Una, "I do want to tell you—only I thought of papa then, and just how he used to look. His face looked always so tired, Norah, so very tired; and his voice used to get tired too, and then he would shut his eyes and go to sleep again. But he told me so many things, I don't know where to begin."
The little girl was silent for some moments.
"I know! I will begin about the man in the garden!" she said suddenly. "You remember the black-haired young man whom we found under the ash-tree, the day 'Snoozy' was lost?"
"Yes, I remember," said Tom.
"Oh, yes, Una!" chimed in Norah. "Can you tell us now what he told you? It was a secret then, you know."
"Yes," said Una. "I couldn't tell you then, because it was part of papa's secret, you know. But now it doesn't matter, it isn't a secret any more—not papa's, I mean.
"Isn't it? Are you sure, Una?" asked Norah.
"Quite sure. I said to papa: 'Is it a secret?' And he said: 'Not when I'm gone, little one.' So you see I may tell you now," said Una sadly.
"Will you tell us who the man was, then, Una?" asked Tom after a little pause.
"He was a Russian," said Una. "So was papa; and that sad country, a long, long way off, which he told me about, was Russia. Do you remember?"
"Yes, the country where the little children are sometimes quite sad and miserable because their fathers are taken away from them, and their homes are taken away from them too," said Norah.
"Yes," said Una. "Well, that man had done all he could to try and make the people who look after the country be kinder to the poor people, and it would have been all right if he could have gone to the King himself—no, I don't mean the King, I mean the——"
"I know," exclaimed Dan. "You mean the Czar. It's the 'Czar' of Russia, and the 'King' of England, and the 'Emperor' of Germany, and——"
"Don't, Dan! Let Una go on," said Tom impatiently. "Why didn't the man go to the Czar himself, Una?"
"Because there are a lot of men—noblemen, and people like that—who do the Czar's business for him, only they don't do it well at all; many of them are bad, wicked men, really, and they only think about what they can do for themselves, and don't mind a bit about the poor people being in trouble and being treated badly—and when they found that this man was trying to do things for the poor people they were angry, and they made up a lot of stories about him and had him put in prison."
"Oh, Una, how wicked of them!" cried Norah.
"And then," said Una, sitting up very straight, with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks: "papa got him out of prison again. That was papa's secret! When people were put in prison, in Russia, when they hadn't really done anything wrong, papa used to help them to get free again, and he used to write letters to the Czar and tell him how his poor people were being treated, and he used to write books too—big books—to send all over the world, so that everyone should know what sad, sad lives many of the people in Russia led, and should try and help them if they could."
"And the yellow country at the top of Russia, Una? You haven't told about that," said Dan.
"The yellow country? What do you mean?" said Tom.
"He means Siberia; it's yellow on the map I showed to him," said Una. "Yes, very often people are sent to live in that cold country—not because they have done anything wrong, but because there are lots of salt mines there and they can't get people to go and live there and work in the mines. And so they send men to live there who don't want to go at all, and they have to leave their wives and children and go and live in that cold country, and work in the mines without getting any money for doing it."
"But, Una, couldn't the wives and children go and live in that country too?" asked Norah.
"Oh, yes," said Una; "very often they do go and live there, but it is hundreds and hundreds of miles away from their homes, and they have to walk all the way; no one pays for their journey or gives them homes when they get there."
"Oh, Una, it's dreadful!" said Norah. "And did your father help the man to get away from prison, and from that horrid, cold country? But how could he, when he was in England?"
"Papa used to help them to get away when he lived in other countries nearer Russia," said Una. "And he used to let them come and live in his house until they were well again, because they often got quite ill in that country, with having only poor food to eat and being treated so badly; and then papa used to fetch their wives and families out of Russia and give them enough money to begin to earn their own living again in another country.
"But often the cruel people I told you about used to find out where papa was living and prevent him helping the poor people to escape, and then we used to have to go and live in another country until he was found out again; and then at last he got ill and came to live in England, and could only write books and have the poor prisoners to stay here and get strong and well again; and other people had to help them to get away from Siberia and from prison."
"It sounds like a story out of a book," said Tom.
"What a rich man your father must have been," said Norah. "It must be very nice to have lots of money, and be able to help people."
"It wasn't all papa's own money," said Una. "Papa belonged to what he called a society, and that society used to give him money to give to the poor people. Someone in that society has found homes for Ivan and Peter, our old servants, you know, who used to live here. It is very nice that Marie is going to live with me always," added the little girl.
Norah drew a long breath.
"So that was your father's secret, Una?" she said. "It's a very nice one."
"Papa would have helped the poor Russian people somehow," said Una, with a wise little nod of her head, "even if he hadn't had any money. Papa said once that everybody ought to try and help other people somehow."
The children walked back across the fields and through the woods—not talking much, but thinking of all that Una had told them—until they came to the gap in the fence and saw that it had been boarded up.
"Oh, Una, look!" cried Tom.
"We shan't have any more picnics," said Norah dolefully.
Dan leant out of his small carriage and put his hand into Una's with a happy little laugh.
"I don't mind a bit about the gap," he said. "We've got Una on this side of it now."
THE END.
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