'Her grandmother ... went quietly out of the pew without a notion but that the child was beside her.'—c. x. p. 153.'Her grandmother ... went quietly out of the pew without a notion but that the child was beside her.'—c. x. p. 153.
'So, with the hope of getting home again before the Sunday evening,little Maggie started. She was a gentle, quiet child, and the old people had no idea but that she was quite happy and liked the long hours in the church as much as they did. She went to church alone with her grandmother and the farm-man who drove the cart, and they took with them a packet of bread-and-butter, or bread-and-jam maybe—what was called "a piece"—to eat outside the church between the two services. There was only an hour between them. Maggie looked out for her own people before she and her grandmother went back into the church again, but they must have been a little late, and the old lady liked to be in her place in good time, so the child did not see them. But she thought to herself she'd be sure to meet them after church, and this thought kept her quiet, though she couldn't possibly get a glimpse of them from hercorner of the high pew, even if she had dared to look about. She must have been very tired, and she had cried in bed the night before, and I daresay the cold air outside made it feel warm in the church, anyway this was what happened. The poor little thing fell fast asleep. And her grandmother, who was very blind except with her glasses on—and she always took them off and put them away when the last psalm had been sung—went quietly out of the pew without a notion but that the child was beside her.
'When Maggie woke it was quite dark, the church had been shut up ever so long; there was no evening service. At first she thought she was in bed, and that the clothes had tumbled off her, then feeling about, she found she had her frock and cape and bonnet on, and everything near her was hard and cold, not like bed at all. And by bits it all came back to her mind—her last waking thoughts in church, and how she was hoping to see her mother,—and she began to take in where she was. I've always thought it was really dreadful for her, and she must have been a brave, sensible child— I know she grew up a brave, sensible woman. For, though she couldn't help crying at first with loneliness and cold and the queer sort of fear, she soon settled to do the bestshe could. There was some moonlight coming in at one window, though not much, but enough to make her see where the pulpit was, and up into the pulpit Maggie climbed, because she had an idea she'd be safer there; and it certainly was warmer, for it was a sort of little box with a door to it, and there were one or two stools and cushions and some red cloth hanging round the top, which Miss Maggie ventured to pull down and wrap round her. And there she composed herself to sleep, and sleep she did, in spite of her loneliness and hunger—oh, I forgot to say she found a wee bit of her "piece" still in her pocket,—till the sunshine woke her up the next morning, for luckily it was a bright mild day. Then down she came, and walked up and down the aisles as fast as she dared, considering it was a church, to get her cramped legs warm again, and just as she was thinking what she was to do to get out, the door opened, to her delight, and in came the man who had care of the church—what we call a verger—followed by the old body who cleaned and swept it.
'Theywereastonished, as you can fancy; such a thing had never happened before within the memory of man.
'Old Peter took her off with him to his cottage,and his wife gave her some hot breakfast, and then he borrowed a cart and drove Maggie home—straight home to Muirness, not to Oldbiggins. It was home Maggie wanted to go, you may be sure, and when Peter heard the story, he declared her granny deserved a good fright for not looking after her better.
"P'raps she thought I'd run off to mother and the boys," said Maggie.
'And that was just what it turned out to be.
'The old lady, instead of being frightened, was very angry. She had stayed talking to some friend at the church door, and somehow her daughter and the boys had fancied she and Maggie had driven off, not seeing them about. Maggie's mother was in a hurry to get home to the one that was ill, and just thought the little girl had gone back quietly with her grandmother till the next morning. And when the granny had missed the child,shethought Maggie had run off to her mother—for some one called out that Mistress Gray and her children had driven off,—and was too offended to send to Muirness to ask!
'And at home they hadn't missed her of course. So, after all, Maggie wasn't made much of a heroine of, for all she'd been so brave and sensible.
'But I'm sure she never minded that, so glad wasshe to be in her own dear home again, safe and sound. And you may be sure her mother petted her enough to make up all she could for the poor little thing's disagreeable adventure. It was talked of through the country-side for many a day after that. Maybe it is still.'
'And I hope they never let her go back to that horrid old grandmother again,' said Anne.
'Nay, my dear, she wasn't so bad as that. But old people have their ways.'
'I think our gran ismuchnicer than that,' said Maud in her clear little voice.
And I'm sure we all agreed with her.
But we all thanked nurse very nicely for telling us the story, which was really very interesting.
And it gave us a good deal to talk about.
Yes, it gave us a good deal to talk about. Stories that do that are much the nicest; they seem to make themselves over and over, and to last so long. We talked for some days after that, about what we'd each of us do ifwewere locked up all night alone in a church, and we made ever so many plans. And the next Sunday—that was our first one at Mossmoor,—when we all came home from church and were at dinner, Serena astonished us very much, when nurse said she'd been a very good girl, for she's generally a dreadful fidget, by saying quite coolly—
'Oh, I didn't mind the sermon a bit to-day, though it was very long. For I was settling all the time what I'd do if I was like Maggie inthatchurch. And I know quite well, only I won't tell any of you. So if everI'mlost on a Sunday you'll have a nice hunt.'
She tossed back her head the way she does when she means to be aggravating.
'You silly girl,' said Maud in her superior way, 'you couldn't hide in that church not to be found. You're so boasty. And if you did, there'd be no fun in it.'
Serry gave another toss, and a particular sort of a smile. That smile meant mischief.
'Miss Serena's certainly very clever at hiding places,' said nurse. 'But there couldn't be very much cleverness wanted to hide in a church; it's not like finding out queer places you'd never think of in a house. Now, I daresay, Miss Serry, if it came a very wet day again while we're here and Mrs. Parsley let you have a good game, as I've no doubt she would, I daresay you'd keep us hunting like anything.'
'I daresay I could,' said Serry.
But I knew by her voice thatsheknew that nurse was speaking that way on purpose to put hiding in the church out of her head. For, as I've said, Serry's very queer; for all she's so changeable and flighty, there are times that if she takes up a thing,nothingwill get it from her—make her drop it, I mean,—till she's done it. And she'd gone on so about hiding in the church that I think nurse was a little uncomfortable.Perhaps she began to wish she hadn't told us the story of her mother, but I wouldn't say so, for I didn't want to vex her. She'd been really so very kind.
After that Sunday, however, for some weeks nothing more was said about it, and we left off talking of the Maggie story. We had so many other things to do and to speak about. The weather got all right again, even better than before, for every day now was getting us nearer and nearer into the real summer; though, of course, even in the middle of summer there do come cold wet bits, just like our first day at Mossmoor. But for some time we had nothing but lovely weather.
It's a very drying soil all about Fewforest; after two or three fine days, even in the woods, the ground is so dry that you'd think it hadn't rained since the world was made. It's partly with the trees being mostly firs which are so neat and bare low down—no mess of undergrowth about them. And the soil is very nice, so beautifully clean and crunchy to walk on, for it's made of the pricks that fall off the firs, in great part. It's perfectly splendid to lie on—springy and yielding and not a bit dirty—your things don't get soiled in the least.
They say, too, that the scent or breath of pines and firs—I think it's rather nice to think it's the sweet breath of the trees, don't you?—is awfully good for coughs or illnesses to do with coughs. So it suited us very well indeed to spend a great part of our time in the woods. And certainly the girls' coughs soon went quite away. I was glad. I really couldhardlyhelp hitting them sometimes when they would go on barking and whooping, even though I suppose they couldn't stop it. They still coughed a little if they ran too fast, or if they got excited or angry. I do believe Serry pretended it sometimes just to be aggravating, for she was in rather an aggravating humour at that time. I think it was partly from not having Hebe, who has such a good way with her, and as Anne and Maud always stick together, you see Serena was rather left to me, and I don't pretend to have a good way with her at all, she makes me so angry. Though we get on a good deal better now than we did then.
Still, on the whole, we were very happy indeed. We did a little lessons—at least Anne and I did regularly. Miss Stirling had set me some Latin and French, and Anne didn't want to get behind me in Latin, so she did it with me, and she was verygood in helping me with my French, for she's much farther on than me in French.
That was in the mornings, for an hour or so. Then we used to go what nurse calls a 'good bracing walk,' right over the heath that edges the woods, for two or three miles sometimes. We used to come in for dinner pretty hungry, I can tell you. But Mrs. Parsley didn't mind how much she had to cook for us. She was as pleased as if you'd given her a present when nurse said she never had known our appetites so good.
Sometimes we met the getting-well children from the Home. But I rather fancy the people there had heard about the whooping-cough; for though the young lady who was with them smiled at us very nicely always, she rather shoo'd them away from us. And it was always the same round-faced, beamy-looking girl—not Miss Cross-at-first, certainly.
Then in the afternoons we mostly played or sat about the woods, coming in for tea, and sometimes, when it was very fine and mild, nurse let us go out again a little after tea. But if it was the least chilly or windy or anything, she wouldn't let the girls go out, and then we sat all together playing games, ornow and then telling stories till bed-time. Very often dear Mrs. Parsley would come in, and we always made her sit down and talk to us. And sometimes I'd go out a stroll by myself in the evening—towards the village generally, for there was often a letter to post or some little message for nurse to the shop. And then I got another reason for walking that way in the evening, which I'll tell you about directly.
We had been five weeks at the farm when one day we got very jolly news from mums. The news had been pretty jolly all the time; Hebe had gone on getting better, though the doctor at Ventnor had thought her very weak at first, and so she and mums had stayed on longer than they'd expected they would. But this letter told that they had really fixed a day for coming back to London, and that the nice Ventnor doctor said no air could be better for Hebe now than Fewforest, and so mums was going to bring her down the very next Friday to be with us for the last three weeks. Mums was coming herself too, to stay from Friday to Monday, for father had to be away with gran those two days. Gran was at Brighton, I think, but he was coming back now mums would be there. There was a postscriptto the letter—it was to Anne,—in which mums said she might perhaps want nurse to come up to London for a few hours to see about clothes or something. 'If I do,' she wrote, 'do you think I can trust you and Jack to take care of the two little ones? I am sure Mrs. Parsley would be most kind, but of course I do not want to give her more trouble than we can help.'
'Oh,' said Serena, when Anne had read all that aloud—I wished she had stopped before the postscript—'that would be fun. We'd lead old Jack a dance wouldn't we, Maud? As for Anne, we'd find her a new book, and then she wouldn't trouble us.'
Maud looked at her with scorn, but would not condescend to speak. I do believe from that moment Serry settled to play some kind of trick if wewereleft alone. But when I said to Anne that I hoped to goodness we shouldn't be left in charge of Serry, she only said it would be all right; Serry made herself out worse than she was, and so on. Anneisso easygoing.
Now I must tell you why I liked strolling down to the church in the evenings. It only began the week before Hebe and mums were to come. I happened to have gone to the village rather late witha letter, and, coming back, I noticed that there was some light in the church, even though it wasn't the time for any service. And, standing still for a moment, suddenly I heard the organ begin. Some one was playing it. The door was a little open, and I went inside the porch and found I could hear quite well. It was beautiful, far nicer than on Sundays, and after a while I heard singing too. Such lovely singing—it was a woman's voice—and she sang some of the things I liked best, and I stayed there listening as long as I dared. The next evening I couldn't come, but the one after that I did, and she was there again, and I listened ever so long. After that I came whenever I could; sometimes she was there and sometimes not,—it was rather fun wondering if she would be. I told Anne about it, and she said she'd like awfully to come with me one evening, but we didn't know how to manage it, for we really couldn't tell Serry. She'd have teased so to come too, and she'd have spoilt it all with her fidgeting, and if we'd told nurse and asked her to let us go without the little ones, Serry would have made some sort of a fuss I'm sure. So I just kept on going whenever I could, though very often there was no music. And I promised Anne that the first chance I could see I'd take her too.
Mums wrote for nurse to go up to London on the Thursday—just the day before she and Hebe were coming. Nurse was to go up by an afternoon train, and she'd get back about nine in the evening, mums wrote; and we—Anne and I—might help to put the little ones to bed, and then we might sit up till nurse came back. There was really nothing to be anxious about, Mrs. Parsley was so kind, and really we were old enough to be left an hour or two by ourselves. Still nurse seemed a little uneasy. I'm sure it was all about Serena. Anne and I promised her we'd be awfully careful and good.
'I know I can depend upon you, Master Jack,' said nurse. We were alone at the time—she and I—'and really Miss Anne is wonderfully improved. Since the diamond ornament was lost, and it being partly through her fault, she's hardly like the same young lady. It's an ill wind that does nobody any good, they say; perhaps Miss Serry will take a sensible turn after a while.'
'I hope it won't have to cost another diamond ornament, and us all having whooping-cough again—no, I suppose you can't have it twice, but I daresay there are plenty of other illnesses just as horrid or horrider,' I said rather grumpily.
'I hope not,' said nurse, 'though I would really be thankful if Miss Serry would take thought. There's never any saying what she'll be after next. The rest of the nursery work all put together isn't above half what the mending and tidying up of her things alone is.'
Serry could take thought if she chose; she had an uncommonly, good memory when it suited her.
This was the day before nurse was going. I had found out by now that the music at the church was mostly every other evening, and as I'd heard it the night before, very likely the lady would be playing and singing again the next day. So all of a sudden I thought I'd better tell nurse about it, and get leave to go if it was a fine evening with Anne, and Mrs. Parsley would take care of the little ones.
Nurse wasn't sure about it, but when I told her very likely Serry would be better alone with Maud and Mrs. Parsley than if we were all together the whole long evening, she gave in.
'Very well,' she said, 'but don't you and Miss Anne stay out late—not above half an hour.'
I promised her we wouldn't.
Anne was very pleased, only she said wouldn't it perhaps be better if we all four went; it would be alittle treat for Serry to look forward to, and perhaps it would keep her good the rest of the time.
I thought afterwards Anne had been right, but I wouldn't agree with her when she said it. I didn't want Serry at all; I wouldn't have minded Maud, but I knew Serry would spoil it all. So I said to Anne it would never do; they'd fidget or make a noise, and the lady who was playing might hear us and be vexed, and it would be horrid to have any fuss in a church, we might get scolded by the verger or possibly even the clergyman,—whatwouldfather and mother and gran think of such a thing?
Anne gave in. But I gave in to her a bit too. She said it was much best to make no mystery about it. Serry was as sharp as a needle about mysteries, and she'd only set herself to find out. So that Thursday morning at breakfast—the day nurse was to be away—I said quietly, 'Anne and I are going to church this evening for half an hour. Nurse, please tell Serry that she and Maud may stay with Mrs. Parsley in her kitchen while we're out.'
'Yes,' said nurse. 'You hear, Miss Serry and Miss Maud. It'll make a little change for you.'
'I like being in Mrs. Parsley's kitchen for a while in the evening very much, don't you, Serry?' said Maud.
But Serry did not answer. I think she pretended not to hear. Still she couldn't make out now that she hadn't been properly told.
Well, with many charges and warnings, poor nurse set off. The red-eared boy drove her to the station, and we ran over the fields by a short cut to a stile on to the road, where we could see her pass, and there we shouted out again all our messages to mums and Hebe—nurse couldn't possibly have remembered all the things we told her to say, and it didn't matter certainly, considering we were going to see them the very next day.
The first part of the afternoon we got on all right. We'd had dinner earlier than usual, so that nurse should be in time for the train, and after she was fairly off we went out into the woods with baskets to get all the flowers we could for mums and Hebe—I mean to make the rooms look nice for them.
There weren't very many, for of course the spring flowers were over, and it was too early for the regular summer ones. Besides, the spring is always the best time for flowers that grow in the woods. Still we got some, pretty nice, and some trails of ivy and these pretty reddy leaves that you can find most of the year. And we got a lot of fir cones too—mumsdoes so love the scent of them in the fire, and as people often feel a little chilly when they first come out to the country, we fixed we'd have a nice fire in the evening, and make it nearly all of the cones.
After that we went in and arranged our flowers; there's always lots of moss in the woods, and with moss you can make a good show even with very little.
Then there came tea-time. We were a good while over tea, for even though Serry had been all right so far, both Anne and I felt a little fidgety— Serry was almosttoogood, if you understand.
It was half-past five, or nearer six than that, I daresay, when we had finished tea. Anne and I wanted to go to the church about a quarter to seven, meaning to be back before half-past, which was the two little ones' bed-time, so that we could help Mrs. Parsley if she needed us.
Mrs. Parsley looked rather worried when she came in to take away the tea things—notcrosslyworried, for she was as kind as could be, but just troubled. And afterwards we knew that the reason was that an old aunt of theirs who lived a mile or two off was very ill, and had sent for her, but shedidn't like to go because of leaving us. She didn't tell us; I almost think it would have been better if she had, for then Anne and I would have given up going out and have looked after Serry and Maud till nurse came back. Only, if wehaddone that, very likely nothing would have happened the same, and the wond——no, I must go straight on.
Well, we played 'patience,' and did everything we could to please Serry till about half-past six. Did I tell you that there's a very jolly old clock in the Parsley's summer kitchen?—so we always know the time. Then I said to Anne I thought she might go and get ready, and we might as well start, and 'you two,' I said to Serry and Maud, 'can go to Mrs. Parsley till we come back.'
Maud began gathering up the cards and counters and things we'd been playing with, and putting them together tidily—she's always so tidy,—but Serry had got a 'patience' half set out.
'Do let me finish this,' she said, 'and then I promise you I'll go into Mrs. Parsley's kitchen.'
'You promise,' I said. By this time Anne had come downstairs with her hat and jacket on, and I was standing by the door with my cap in my hand.
'Promise,' said Serena, 'word of honour.'
Well, she's not a story-teller after all, and she wouldn't break a right-down promise like that, so I thought it was all right.
'We shan't be long,' I said, and off we set, Anne and I, thinking we had managed beautifully.
It was very nice and peaceful outside; Anne is really very jolly when you get her alone and she isn't thinking of some book or other she's reading, and we quite enjoyed the little walk. The church was open as usual, but there was no sound of music yet, only there was a light up in the organ loft, which I was sure showed the lady was coming, though Anne thought it was perhaps only a reflection of the evening light through the window. But I knew by this time that it was always pretty dark up by the organ, except perhaps in the very middle of the day in very bright weather.
We didn't stay in the porch like I'd done at first. I had found a nice little corner just inside, where we could hear beautifully, and yet slip out in a moment,in caseany one came and found fault. And there we sat quite happily, and in a minute or two we heard a hum beginning and then some notes, and then the playing started properly. It was beautiful. Anne squeezed my hand, and I felt quite proud of havingfound it out—like a showman, you know. But 'wait till you hear her singing,' I whispered.
She was still only playing,luckily, when, whatdoyou think happened? The big door behind us was slowly pushed openly, and in walked, as cool as twenty cucumbers, two small figures, giving us—no that was only Serry—a condescending little nod and smile as they slipped into a seat almost alongside ours.
I couldn't help it, even though it was in church, I felt so boiling. I jumped up and caught hold of Serry's arm and pulled her out into the porch. Poor Maud came too of herself, and when we got outside into the light, I saw that she looked pale and frightened. Then Anne appeared, quite puzzled and dazed, for she'd been all up in the music and had almost forgotten where she was, or if she was anywhere, as she does sometimes.
Iwas all there though. I closed the door so that our voices couldn't possibly be heard from the inside, and then I faced round upon Serry.
'What's the meaning of this?' I said. 'The very moment nurse's back is turned you begin disobeying her?'
Serena's eyes sparkled. She has very funny eyes. Sometimes, when she's very mischievous,they look really green, though sometimes they're very pretty.
'Then you shouldn't go plotting for you and Anne to have treats, and to keep us out of them,' she said.
'"Treats,"—nonsense,' said. 'As if it was atreat. A simple thing like this, coming down to listen to the organ.'
'Well, why shouldn't Maud and I have a simple pleasure too?'
'You don't care for music, at least you hate sitting still, and Maud was quite happy at the farm.Shedidn't want to come.'
'No, Jack, truly I didn't,' said Maud almost crying. 'But Serry said if I didn't she'd run off into the wood and hide herself so that we couldn't find her. And she told the servant to tell Mrs. Parsley we'd gone with you after all, and we'd be all home soon. And Mrs. Parsley was upstairs, and she called down, "All right, my dears," and Serry said if I said anything she'd——' I never knew what Serry had said she'd do, for now Maud began crying, and Anne put her arms round her, and kissed and comforted her.
Then Anne and I looked at each other. What should we do? After all it wasn't a very big thing;it wouldn't do any harm for them to sit listening to the music too if Serry would be quiet. And perhaps she would be, to make up for having been so naughty. So I said, 'As you are here, you had better stay. Take Maud into the church, Anne. I'll look after Serry.'
But when I was going to take hold of Serry she slipped away.
'I won't be pulled and dragged about,' she said. 'I'll go into a cornerand be quite quiet if you'll leave me alone, but I'll scream if you don't.'
Just then the singing began. Ididn'twant to miss any of it, and Serry was more likely to be quiet if I gave in. So I let her go; she went in before me very quickly, right into a corner as she said, and she gave me a sort of a nod over her shoulder. I hoped it meant she was going to be sensible.
'We all three sat listening and listening.'—c. xii. p. 175.'We all three sat listening and listening.'—c. xii. p. 175.
The singing was most beautiful that night. We all three sat listening and listening. I think Anne soon went up into the clouds again and forgot everything else. Maudie liked it too; she leant against me, but every now and then I felt her shiver, and little sobs went through her. Maud scarcely ever cries, but when she does it seems to tire her out. And Serry had worried her very badly.
'Are you cold, dear?' I whispered, and she said she was a little. Serry had hurried her out without seeing that she was properly wrapped up, and it was a chilly evening, I forgot to say. Perhaps it would have been better if I had made them all come away then, but it did seem such a pity to miss the singing. I think it was 'Angels ever bright and fair,' but I'm not sure. We've heard so many of her beautiful songs since then that I'm not sure which it was.
Suddenly we heard the door pushed open, and some one came into the church. It was a girl; she came in very quickly, and hurried up the aisle and in through a door or a curtain somewhere at the side. It was already darker than when we came. A minute after, we heard talking—the singing had stopped, I forgot to say—and then two people came out at the side, and hurried back again down the aisle and out at the door. It was the person who had been playing, and the girl who had come evidently to fetch her.
They didn't shut the door to, only closed it a little.
'What a pity,' said Anne, 'she's been fetched away.'
'Yes,' said I, 'but Maudie's rather cold. Perhaps it's best for us to go home,' and we got up and went towards the door.
I looked round for Serry. She wasn't in the corner we had seen her in.
'I expect Serry's outside in the porch,' I said to Anne. But no, she wasn't.
'She was sitting in the same place just before the girl came in,' said Anne. 'I saw her.'
'She can't have gone home,' I said. 'She's not very fond of walking about alone. She must be somewhere in the church.'
And then all of a sudden there came over me the remembrance of her boast about being able to hide in the church so that we couldn't find her. Was that what she had been after? Was that her reason for following us, that she thought it would be a good chance for playing us this trick? It was too bad. There was poor Maud tired and cold, and Anne and me who had been worried enough already. I really felt as if I couldn't stand it.
I asked Maud what she thought, but of course Serry hadn't said a word to her about hiding. It wasn't likely she would, but every minute we got surer that shewashiding.
You can't shout out in a church, and yet it wasn't easy to hunt. We began; we poked into any of thedark corners we could think of, and behind the doors and curtains, and even in the pulpit, though it was a sort of open-work that a mouse could scarcely have hidden in—not like the one in the 'Maggie' story. But it was all no use, and it was more provoking than you can fancy to know that all the time the naughty child was hearing us, and laughing at us. We went on for a quarter of an hour or more, I daresay; then I determined I'd bother no more.
'Stop, Anne,' I said, in a low voice, 'I'm not going to——' but Anne interrupted me.
'I hear something,' she said. 'Listen; what is it?'
There was a little sound of footsteps, but not inside the church, I thought. Still itmightbe Serry; she might have slipped out to baffle us. But first I thought I'd try my new idea. I slipped out as near the middle as I could, and then I said, loud and clear, though not shouting, of course—do you know I felt quite frightened when I heard my own voice so loud, it seemed so unreverent—
'Serena'—this was what I said—'you can hear me quite well, I know, so I give you fair warning that if you don't come out before I finish counting twelve we'll go home, and leave you to yourself—to stay here all night if you choose.'
Then I began, 'One, two, three, four'—was it fancy, or did I hear a little smothered laugh just as I was going to say 'five?'—but then all was still again, and I went on, till, just as I was, you may say, on the stroke of 'twelve,' there came a flutter and rush down the aisle, and there was Miss Serry, tossing her hair back, her eyes looking, I am sure, if there had been light enough to see them by, very bright green indeed. But, just as she appeared, there came another sound—a harsh, rasping, grating sound,—a queer feeling went through me as I heard it, only I was so taken up with Serry that I didn't seem to have attention to spare, and I didn't really take in for the moment what it meant.
There was Serry as triumphant as could be.
'I don't mind coming out now,' she said. 'I've proved that you couldn't find me.'
'You have been about as naughty as you could be,' said Anne, 'and whether Jack tells mother all about it or not, I knowIshall.'
Serena did not answer. She really seemed startled. It is not often that Anne takes that tone. She used to be so constantly in scrapes herself—about carelessness, and forgettings, and losings, and all that sort of thing—that I think she felt as if shehad no right to find fault with others. But after a moment Serry got back her coolness.
'Well, anyway I've gained,' she said. 'You don't know where I was hidden, and you'd never have found me.'
And to this day she has never told us!
'Let us get home now as fast as we can,' said Anne; 'there is poor Maudie shivering with cold. I'm afraid she's got a chill.'
We turned towards the door, but suddenly the remembrance of the sound I had heard came back to me, and a great fear went through me. I hurried on. Yes, it was too true; the door was locked, locked from the outside, and we were prisoners—prisoners pretty certainly for the night! I faced round upon the girls and told them.
'I remember hearing the sound of locking,' I said.
But at first they wouldn't believe me; I could scarcely believe it myself. We rattled and shook at the door in the silly way people do in such cases; of course it was no use. Then we made journeys round the church to all the other doors; none of them had been open in the daytime, so it wasn't likely they would be now. Then we considered together if it would be any use shouting, but wewere sure it wouldn't be. There was no house very near the church; the Convalescent Home, on rising ground a little behind it, was about the nearest, and we knew our voices could never be heard there. And we were too far back from the road to hope that any passer-by would hear us; beside which, unluckily, it was a windy night—the wind had risen a good deal since we had come out. We could hear it outside, and it almost sounded as if it was raining too.
'There is nothing for it,' I said at last, 'but to stay quietly and make ourselves as comfortable as we can till some one comes to let us out. Mrs. Parsley is sure to miss us and send, as she knows where we are. The great thing is to keep poor Maud from catching cold.'
I wasn't cold myself; I had been moving about, and then I wasn't getting well of an illness like the girls. So I took off my ulster and made Maudie put it on. There were no cushions in the church, but we collected all the hassocks we could, and built up a sort of little nest, and then we all huddled in together. It was fast getting dark, and after we had been sitting there a while we heard the clock outside strike eight.
I couldn't make it out; theymusthave missed us at the farm before this. But they hadn't, and I may as well explain here—a lot of explainings together at the end are so confusing, I think—how it was. You remember my saying Mrs. Parsley had had bad news that day. Well, just as Serry called out to her that she and Maud were coming with us after all, another message had come that shemustgo at once to the old lady who was so ill. There was no choice, she had to go, so the horse was put to and the red-eared boy drove her off. Mr. Parsley hadn't come in, so all she could do was to tell the servant we'd all be in soon, and she must tell us what had happened, and that she'd send the cart back to the station to meet nurse at nine. Now, the servant was very stupid; she got 'nine' into her head, and when Mr. Parsley came in about half-past seven she told him we were all to be in at nine; and he said afterwards he'd got some vague idea that we had all gone in the cart to meet nurse. Anyhow, he wasn't a bit uneasy, and after he'd had his supper he set off walking to the old aunt's to see how she was, and to arrange about Mrs. Parsley staying all night if she had to.
So you see, till nurse got back, there was no one to be uneasy about us.
Butwedidn't know it, and there we sat, more and more puzzled, and even frightened in a strange sort of way. It seemed as if we'd dropped out of the world and nobody cared.
'At the worst,' I whispered to Anne, 'when nurse comes they'll hunt us up. She knows we were to be in the church, and she'll think of the Maggie story.'
'Only,' said Anne, 'supposeshe misses her train, or that it's very late. It's Maudie I'm so unhappy about, Jack. Hush——'
For we heard a little sob, and we didn't want to wake her. She had fallen asleep, and Anne and I were both cuddling her close to keep her warm.
'Is she waking?' I said, very low.
But Anne pinched my hand. The sob wasn't from Maud, it was from Serry. I must say I was rather glad. It was about time for her to sob and cry, I thought.
We waited on and on. After a bit I think Anne and Serry too got drowsy, and perhaps I did myself. Anyhow, I grew stupid, and as if I didn't care; but I was very cold too.
It seemed such a tremendous time. I heard a story not long ago of a man who got shut in somewhere—Ithink it was in the catacombs, or some place like that—who went through, as he thought, days of it. He grew terribly hungry, for one thing, and ate his candle, and was released just when he believed he was at the last gasp, and after all he'd only been there three hours! It did seem absurd, but I can quite believe it. He'd lost all sense of time, you see. Well, I suppose it was rather like that with us. I know, when at last we heard the clock strike, I wassureit was going on to twelve. I couldn'tbelieveit was only nine!
'Anne,' I whispered, 'are you awake? How ever are we to wait here till to-morrow morning? It's only nine o'clock!'
'Nurse will be coming home soon then,' said Anne, hopefully; 'she'llneverwait till to-morrow morning to find us.'
'I don't know,' I said. 'I can't make anything out. I think it's as if we were all dead and buried, and nobody cares.'
'Hush,' said a clear little voice; 'that's not good, Jack.Godcares, always.'
'It was poor little Maudie, and again I heard the choky sob from Serena.
Just then, as if in answer to Maud,at lastweheard a sound, or sounds—voices and footsteps, and then the grating of the key in the lock.
'They've come for us, they've come for us!' we cried, and up we all jumped. It was quite dark, but as the door opened a light came in; the people, whoever they were, had a lantern. But it wasn't Mr. Parsley, nor his wife, nor the red-eared boy, nor any one we knew—at least, not any one we expected. It was—the light was full in her face, and she was frowning just the sort of way I remembered—it was Miss Cross-at-first!
And just fancy what I did? I ran at her, I was so confused and stupid, calling herthat!
'Oh, Miss Cross-at-first,' I said, 'please let us out! We've been locked in, hours, and Maud is so cold!'
It must have been awfully muddling forher. She frowned worse than ever, and turned to the girl with her—a girl about fifteen, not a lady, but very nice.
'Who are they, Linny?' she said. 'Do you know?'
But Linny shook her head.
'Some mistake,' she began, but I interrupted her.
'I'll tell you who we are,' I said. 'You know us, and we know you, but I can't remember your propername,' and then it flashed upon me what I had called her, and I got scarlet.
'My name isn't "Crossley," or whatever you said,' she began (oh, how thankful I was she hadn't heard properly!Afterwardswe told her the name we'd given her, and she didn't mind a bit), 'but I seem to know you. I'm staying at the Home here. I left my music in church, for I went off in a hurry. But what in the world were you all doing here?'
'We came to listen to you,' I said, and then Anne went on to explain. She did it so nicely, not exactly putting the blame on Serry, which would not have been kind just then, but she quite made Miss Merthyr understand.
'You poor little souls!' she exclaimed. 'Of course, I remember hearing you were somewhere down here, but I've been away. I only came back again a few days ago. And Maud, poor child, youdolook blue. I'll tell you what, come back to the Home with me and get warm. Linny, run back and tell them to heat some milk, and then Linny and I will wrap you up and take you home.'
'But,' said a little voice, 'won't the getting-well children catch the whooping-cough?'
Judith—that's what we always call her now—couldn'thelp laughing. It was Maud who had said it.
'The Home children are all in bed and asleep long ago,' she said. 'They'll run no risk, and I've not heard any of you coughing. I'm sure the infection's over. So come along. Oh, my music! Linny, take the lantern; oh no, she's gone! Never mind, I'll get it on my way home. I don't want the organist to confuse it with his.'
And in five minutes we found ourselves in the kitchen at the Home, in front of a jolly fire, and with nice hot milk to drink. For it really was a cold night; it had been raining, too, pretty sharply. The other ladies at the Home—there were two, and two servants—were very nice to us. But Maud kept hold of Miss Cross-at-first's hand as if she couldn't let go.
'Now, we must get you home,' said Judith. 'Let's see, how can we wrap you up? Why, this is your brother's jacket. My boy,youmust have been cold! Here, put on your coat, and I'll fetch some shawls and things. I have a bundle I have never undone since I came, for it hasn't been cold till now.'
She flew upstairs, and was down again in a moment.
'Here's a shawl for each of you,' she said to Anne and Serry; 'and here, oh yes, this short fur tippet will be just the thing for Maud. I didn't know I'd got it here.'
It was a nice little cape, with a hood at the back.
She opened it out and gave it a shake, as people often do when a thing has been folded up, and—something hard dropped out of it and rolled on to the stone floor with a clatter.
'What's that?' said Judith. 'There must have been some pin or something caught in the fur. I haven't worn it for ever so long—not since——'
She stooped and looked about a little on the floor. But she is near-sighted—that's why she frowns so,—and she didn't see anything.
'Never mind, I daresay it was only a safety-pin,' she said. 'Here, Maudie, dear,' and she held out the cape.
But Anne had been looking about on the floor too, and suddenly she made a dive under a table standing at one side. When she stood up again her face looked all—I don't know how.
'Jack,' she said, as if she were choking, 'it's——' and she held out her hand. There, on her palm—looking not quite so bright as the last time we hadseen it, but otherwise none the worse—laythe diamond ornament, gran's curious old-fashioned treasure, which had caused poor mums and Anne, and indeed all of us, so much trouble and distress.
I gasped. I couldn't speak. Judith stared.
'What is it?' she said.
Then I tried to get my voice.
'It's the thing that was lost,' I said, 'worth ever so much, and an heirloom too. Didn't you know? Cousin Dorothea knew. Mother lost it the day of the Drawing-room. Oh,' as light began to break in upon me, 'it must have dropped on to your cape and caught in the fur—it is very fuzzy fur—and there it's been ever since! Oh, to think of it!'
'Yes,' said Judith, 'there it has been ever since. I've never had on the cape since, and my maid put it in with these shawls when I was coming down here. I remember her saying it might be cold here sometimes. No, I never heard a word about the ornament being lost. You know I didn't come back to your house that day; I went straight home. I wonder I never heard of it. But I've been in Germany till lately; and if I had heard of it I don't think I would ever have thought of this little cape. It must have fallen into the hood of my cape in thecarriage. I remember I sat beside Mrs. Warwick. It is really wonderful!'
Wasn't it? We could talk of nothing else all the way to the farm, for we set off almost at once, and we only got there in time to prevent poor nurse and Mrs. Parsley from being most terribly frightened about us, as they had just arrived, Mrs. Parsley having driven to the station to pick up nurse on her own way home, as the old aunt was a little better, and she'd got a neighbour to come in for the night.
Nurse was rather uneasy when she heard from Mrs. Parsley that she'd had to leave us, still Fanny, the servant, was very good-natured, and, as Mrs. Parsley said, it was difficult to think what harmcouldcome to us in a couple of hours.
Certainly, getting locked up in church was a very out-of-the-way sort of accident to happen!
But the finding the diamond brooch seemed to put everything else out of our heads. I don't know how late we didn't sit up talking. Maudie grew quite bright again, and I think the excitement kept her from catching cold. Serry, for a wonder, was the quietest of all. She told me afterwards that she was more thankful than she could say that hernaughtiness hadn't done Maud any harm, and she told it all to mother—all of her own self. I think that was good of her. The only thing she kept up her mischief about was that sheneverhas told us where she hid.
We made a beautiful plan with Miss Cross-at-first—Judith, I mean. She was to go with us to the station the next morning to meet mums and Hebe, with the diamond brooch in a nice little box she found for it. And we carried out the plan exactly. Motherwasastonished when she saw Judith, and very pleased even before she knew what had happened. And she thought us all lookingsowell. No wonder we were all so happy, just bursting to tell her.
And Ican'ttell you how delighted she was, and how wonderful she thought it. She sent off a telegram that minute—we went to the post office on purpose—to gran, for he had really been so good about it. It really seemed too much happiness to be all together again, and dear old Hebe looking so well, and poor little sweet mums so bright and merry.
The rest of the time at Fewforest passed very jollily, though we had no particular adventures.We've been there two or three times since, and we like it extra much if it happens to be Miss Cross-at-first's turn at the getting-well Home, for we've grownawfullyfond of her. We count her one of our very most particular friends, and she singssobeautifully.
That's all I have to write about just now. It seems to finish up pretty well. I daresay I shall write more some day, for things are always happening, unless being at school gets me out of the way of it. Perhaps even if it does I'll write stories like father when I'm a man. If ever I do, and if people like them (I'm afraid they'd never be anything like his), it would be rather funny to remember that I was only eleven when I wrote my first one—about the girls and me!
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