THERE SHE STOOD
I dare say you will think us too silly when I tell you that for about half a second wedidthink the princess had really stepped down out of the frame. It wassolike her. There she stood, quite still, but smiling at us as if she had expected us. Her hair was dark—like Tib's and like the picture's—her eyes just the same as both of theirs; but she was far, far prettier than either! She was dressed in something white, and there was some pink about it, too; and though of course it wasn't really made the same way as the dress in the picture, it was like enough to give a confused feeling at the first of being the same. And she was standing a little in the same way, and a hat—a black hat with drooping feathers—was slung on her arm.
We three just stood and gaped, and stared as if our eyes would come out of our heads. And she stood, still smiling, but perfectly motionless.
Gerald was the first to come to his senses. He ran forward a little towards the end of the room where the portrait was—it was still there; it was only that one of the blinds had been drawn down so as to cast it into shade—and glancing up at the wall, he called out,
"It's still there—it isn'tit. It's another princess."
And at his words a peal of laughter—not very loud, but such pretty clear laughter, I wish you could hear it!—rang through the room, and the new princess, the living, moving princess, came forward to us, holding out her hands.
"So you have come at last," she said; "I expected you this morning. I knew you heard me at the door yesterday, and I thought your curiosity would bring you early."
I didn't quite like her calling us "curious." It wasn't quite the right word to use for all our pretty fancies about the princess, and even about the mystery.
"We never can come in the morning," I said, "because of our lessons. And—it wasn'tcuriosity."
"Indeed!" she replied, a tiny little bit mockingly; "not curiosity. What shall I call it, then, your inquiring minds, eh?"
I felt my face get red, and I felt that Tib's was getting red too.
"I don't know who you are," I burst out, "and if you don't choose to tell us, I am not going to ask.Thatisn't curiosity. But I wish you hadn't come; you've spoilt it all. Our own princess," and I glanced up at the portrait, looking, I could not but confess, like a washed-out doll beside the brilliant living beauty of the girl beside us, "our own princess is much nicer than you. And if we had been so curious we might have tried to find out things in pokey ways. We've never done that."
I looked, I suppose ready to cry. The lady's face changed, and then I knew that while she had been talking in that half teasing way, something in her voice and smile had reminded me of grandpapa—of grandpapa, I mean, when he was in that sort of laughing-at-us way that we couldn't bear. Perhaps this had made us all feel more vexed at her than she really deserved us to be. But when her face changed, and a soft, sorry look came over it, she reminded me ofmorethan any real face I had ever seen—she reminded me of all the prettiest and nicest fancies I had ever had; the sweet look in her eyes wassosweet, that I wished I might put my arms round her and kiss her. And Tib told me afterwards that she had felt exactly the same.
"I'm very sorry," she said, simply; "I didn't come here to hurt your feelings. Good fairies never do that, unless to very naughty children, whose feelings need to be hurt. And yours don't need to be hurt, for I know you're not naughty children—very far from it. Of course you wouldn't try to find out things in any way that wasn't nice, I know that. But wouldn't you like to know my name?"
"If you like to tell it," we said, smiling up at her.
"Or would you rather count me a sort of a fairy?" she went on.
"Areyou one?" said Gerald, softly stroking the pretty soft stuff of which her dress was made.
"Perhaps," she said, smiling again. "I shouldn't wonder if you could decide that better than I can. Try to find out—think of some things I couldn't know unless I were a fairy."
"I know," said Gerald; "ournames. Youcouldn'tknow them if you weren't a fairy, or—or if perhaps you knowed some fairies who had told you them," he added, getting a little muddled.
"If I had a fairy godmother, for instance, who had told me them," she said.
"Yes—that might be it," said Gerald.
"Well, then—dear me, I mustn't make any mistake, or my godmother would be very angry, after all her teaching," she said, pretending to look very trying-to-remember, like Gerald when he stops at "eight times nine," and screws up his mouth and knits his brows. "Well, to begin with, the eldest. This is Tib—but her real name is Mercedes Regina; this is Gustava; and this is Gerald Charles. And Gustava is generally called 'Gussie.' Now, have I said my lesson rightly?"
We all stared at her.
"You must be a fairy," said Gerald. But Tib and I felt too puzzled to say anything.
"What shall we call you?" I asked.
"Anything you like. I've got a lot of names. One of them, curious to say, is the same as the name scribbled on the portrait just above the name of the painter. Did you ever notice it?"
"Do you mean the same name as Tib's second one?" I asked; "Regina?"
The young lady nodded her head.
"That's very funny," we said. "That's the name in the book in London too."
"What book?" she asked, quickly.
I hesitated a moment. Then I thought as I had said so much it would be stupid not to explain. So I told her. She looked sad and thoughtful as she listened.
"It was scored out, you said?" she asked.
"Yes, with a thick black stroke, as if somebody had been very angry when they did it," I said. "If we hadn't known the name, from its being Tib's, I don't think we could ever have made it out."
"Ah," said the young lady, and it sounded like a sigh. But in a moment she smiled again.
"I didn't come here to make you sad," she said. "Won't you tell me about the games you play, and let me play with you. Perhaps my fairy godmother has taught me some that you don't know and that you would like to learn."
But we didn't feel quite ready for playing games yet. There were two or three things on our minds. The new princess saw that we looked uncertain.
"What is it?" she said. "You look as if you were afraid of me."
"No," said Tib, and "No," said I. "It isn't that, but there are some things we want to ask you."
"Ask them. I won't call you curious, I prom——"
But just that moment a bell rang—not loudly, but she heard it at once, and started up. She had been sitting on one of the old couches, with us all about her. "I must go," she said. "Come to-morrow and I will tell you all I can. Good-bye; good-bye till to-morrow," and in half an instant—I never saw any one move so quick—she had gone. We heard a key turn in the lock of the double door outside, and that was all!
We looked at each other again without speaking. Surely she must be a fairy of some kind, after all!
"A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food."Wordsworth.
I
t seemed a very long time to the next afternoon, and if Liddy hadn't been the most unnoticing old woman in the world, she would certainly have seen that there was something unusual in our heads. We could think of nothing but our new friend the fairy, or "the other princess," as Gerald would call her. Who could she be? where had she come from? how—and this, perhaps, was the thing we wondered most about—how in the world did she know all about us, or our names, even down to our pet names, any way?
Then another thought was in my mind and Tib's. Grandpapa had told us to make no friends with the neighbours. Would it be disobeying him to go to meet the young lady in the saloon and play with her, as she had asked us?
"Is she a neighbour?" said Tib. "We don't know—we don't know if she lives there, or where she lives, or anything."
"We must ask her," I said; "any way, we must go and see her again to ask her. We must go to see heronce, and we will tell her what grandpapa said."
"I think she is a fairy, and that she lives in Fairyland; and grandpapa didn't say we weren't to speak to fairies," said Gerald.
"Oh! how I wish Mr. Truro was here; we could ask him about it," I said.
"And there's another thing," said Tib: "we almost promised Mr. Truro we wouldn't say anything about the palace and all that to grandpapa just now—not till they came again. It's rather a muddle altogether, don't you think, Gussie?"
"I dare say she—we must get a name for her, Tib——"
"We'd better just call her Regina," Tib said. "She said it was her name."
"Well, I dare say Regina will tell us what she thinks we should do. Any way, as you say, we must go to see her once to tell her about it. I wonder what the bell was that rang, and made her rush off in such a hurry. That part of it was really very like a fairy story."
"If only she had left a slipper behind her, it would have been a little like Cinderella," I said; "though the deserted, quiet rooms, and that part of it, is more like the Sleeping Beauty."
"And the first day, when we were trying to get in at the door in the wall, was like one of the stories of dwarfs and gnomes in the woods, wasn't it?" said Tib. "We've really had a good many adventures at Rosebuds."
This conversation took place the morning after we had first seen Regina. We were in the schoolroom, waiting for Mr. Markham. It was a little past his usual time when he came in.
"I'm a little late, I fear," he said. "I had to go to the Rectory to settle about giving some holiday lessons to one of the boys there. It will be Whit-week holidays soon, you know."
We didn't care very much; Whit-week would make no difference to us. Indeed, Christmas itself we didn't look forward to inthosedays, as most children do. It brought no happy family meetings, no Christmas-trees, or merry blind-man's buff and snap-dragon to us. But we knew too little about these things in other homes to think about what we missed, and grandpapa always gave us a pound each to spend as we chose. And at Ansdell, the Christmases we happened to be there, the servants had a party, and we used to watch them from the gallery that runs round the big hall. But Whit-week we cared nothing about.
"We're not to have holidays, then, are we?" I asked.
"Oh, no; Mr. Ansdell has said nothing about it," Mr. Markham replied. "By the by, Miss Gussie, you don't know when he will be coming down again, do you?"
"No," I said. "It won't be next Saturday, and perhaps not the Saturday after."
"Ah well! I can write to him. I thought perhaps he would say something for me to the rector—you don't know the family at the Rectory, I think?"
"No," said Tib.
"It is curious," said Mr. Markham—he was rather talkative this morning; perhaps it had put him into an extra good humour to have the hope of some more pupils—"it is curious—I saw a young lady there this morning that I could really have thought was an elder sister of Miss Tib's—she was so very like her."
We were all ears and attention now.
"So like Tib?" said Gerald and I.
"So like me?" said Tib.
"Yes," repeated Mr. Markham, "exceedingly like."
He didn't add, as I have done, "only a great deal prettier." Perhaps it is because Tib is my own sister, and I'm always seeing her and know her face so well, that I don't think her as pretty as other people do—or rather, I don't think about it. When you love people dearly you don't think about whether they're pretty or not—even now with Reg——Oh! I am too stupid again.
"It is very funny," we said, in which Mr. Markham agreed. He was thinking, of course, that the likeness was curious;wewere thinking of far more than that—of how strange it would be if our mysterious lady was staying at the Rectory. If so, how did she get into the saloon?—how did she know our names?—how did she know that we went there to play?
"Yes, I should like you to see it for yourselves. But you don't know the family there?"
"No," repeated Tib, rather sharply, "we don't. Grandpapa doesn't wish us to make any friends here."
"Oh, exactly—I beg your pardon," said poor Mr. Markham. Probably grandpapa had said something about it to our tutor himself, which for the moment he had forgotten, for he got rather red, poor young man, and began rather hurriedly to get the books ready. "We mustn't waste any more time," he said, and, as we were sorry to see him looking uncomfortable, we didn't remind him, as we might have done, that it was he, and not we, who had begun the conversation.
It was a little later than usual when we got out that afternoon. Nurse had kept us to try on some new frocks she was making for us, and we were very cross about it, I remember. But after all, it didn't matter. When we found ourselves at last in the saloon, and looked round eagerly, there was no one to greet us, but the smiling face of the portrait—the same which we had before thought so lovely, but which now seemed uninteresting and disappointing compared to the living, changing, half-mischievous, half-tender face, which already I really believe we had learnt to love.
NOSEGAYS AND BOOKS
"She'll be coming soon, I dare say," said Tib. "Let's sit down quietly, and think of all we want to ask her, in case she makes off in a hurry like yesterday," and we were turning towards the end of the room where stood all the old chairs and couches, when something on one of the marble consols caught our eyes. It was something lightly covered with a sheet of white tissue-paper, and lifting it up, there were three little nosegays of lovely flowers—delicate, brilliant hot-house flowers they were, and each nosegay lay on a book, and a card with writing on it was put so that it could be seen at once on the middle nosegay. The words on the card were these:—
"For Tib, Gussie, and Gerald. I am so sorry I cannot come to-day. The books are to amuse you instead, and I will come again the first day I can."R."
"For Tib, Gussie, and Gerald. I am so sorry I cannot come to-day. The books are to amuse you instead, and I will come again the first day I can.
"R."
We were very disappointed. Still, it was very nice and funny to receive messages and presents in this mysterious way. The flowers were really beautiful, and the books were chosen as if she had known us all our lives. We knew at once which was for which, by the way they were lying on the table. Gerald's was about animals—stories, I mean—and Tib's was Lamb'sTales from Shakespeare, and mine wasThe Wonder Book.
We sat down and looked at our books, and scented our flowers—don't you think it's very ugly to talk ofsmellingflowers?wealways say "scenting," though somebody laughs at us for it, and says it isn't the proper meaning of the word—and then we all three made ourselves very comfortable in different corners of the arm-chairs and couches, and read our new stories. And thus we spent the afternoon. It wasn't as long a one as usual, for we had come so late. But before we went away we got into a great puzzle about how to thank her for the books and flowers.
"It would be rude to go away and leave no message," said Tib. "And she doesn't say she'll come to-morrow, only 'The first day I can.' Perhaps she'll come in the morning, and look to see if we've taken the books."
But not one of us had a pencil or a scrap of paper in our pockets, though we turned them inside out. Gerald had a top and some nails, and an awful little pink and white grimy ball that he called his "handkercher"; and Tib had her garden gloves, and a rather clean handkerchief, and some red wool with a crochet needle stuck in it, as she was learning to crochet; and I had nothing at all. What was to be done?
"I know," I said; "you don't mind using your wool, do you, Tib? Well, look here, we'll write with it on the white marble," and I set to work, and very soon I had written the words, "Thank you, kind fairy," to which Gerald made me add, "Come soon," and our initials, "T" and two "G's." It really looked quite pretty, and one comfort was, there was no fear of any one spoiling it before Regina saw it.
And then we went home, but we left our new books in the conservatory, because we shouldn't have known what to say if nurse had asked us about them.
The next day, to our great vexation, something prevented our going at all—I forget what it was—oh no! I remember. It was that nurse took us to the little town where Mr. Markham came from, to get us spring hats. She had got grandpapa's leave to take us when he was at Rosebuds, and she hadn't told us—poor old Liddy!—because she thought it would be such a delightful surprise.
It would have been a great treat if we hadn't had our heads so full of Regina, and wanting to see her again. But we were not so unkind and selfish as not to look pleased when nurse told us about it.
"How are we to go to the station?" I asked, for nurse had said it was two stations off by train, and when she said we should walk to the station—it was quite fine, and if it hadn't been fine we would have had to wait for another day—we were very pleased.
"We can peep in at the Rectory garden as we pass," I said to Tib, "and perhaps we'll see the lady that's like you, whoever she is. Iwonderif she is Regina?"
"So do I," said Tib; "I wonder about it altogether."
But though we stared in with all our eyes at the garden of the pretty house next the church, on our way to the station, there was nobody to be seen.
"That is the Rectory, isn't it, nurse?" Tib asked her.
"I suppose so, my dears," she replied, rather nervously. "But I couldn't say for certain, having been so little in the village."
She was always in such a fright, for fear of getting to know any one or anything in the village. It was rather stupid of her to show it so, for it only put all grandpapa's funny ways about it more into our heads, but we didn't like to tease her, so we said no more.
But on the way home we took another peep in at the Rectory gates. Nurse was a little way behind, loaded with parcels which shewouldn'tlet us help her to carry; and we ran on a little. It was easy to peep in without being seen, but what we saw added to our puzzle. A lady was walking up and down the avenue with a book in her hand which she was reading, and as she turned our way, we saw her face clearly.
"Tib," I whispered, "she'slike you, and she's like Regina, too—only she's old.And, Tib, she's like grandpapa."
So she was. She had the same straight-up, rather proud way of holding herself as he has, dark hair, which was beginning to get grey, and those pretty blue eyes with the bright eager look which all the blue eyes among us have—yes, she was like themall—the portrait, too. And just as we were staring, there came a call from the house, and an old, quite old, lady came to a glass door which opened on to the terrace. I knew afterwards that this old lady was the clergyman's mother or his wife's mother, who lived with them, and they have all lived there a very long time.
"Regina, Queenie, my dear," the old lady called out, "tea is ready. Frances wants you to come in."
The lady turned quickly.
"I'm coming, Mrs. Leslie," she said, and then she walked quickly to the house.
"Regina, another Regina!" we exclaimed. "And Queenie: what a pretty name for a pet name! I wonder our Regina didn't tell us to call her 'Queenie.'"
For of course, as we had learned a little Latin, we knew that Regina meant "queen."
"We must ask her why she didn't," said Gerald.
You can fancy how we looked forward to the next afternoon, and how we hoped our pretty lady would be there.
It all went right for once. Nurse was more busy than usual about all the things she had bought for us at Welford, and very glad to get rid of us as soon as we had had our dinner. For, happily, she had no trying-on to do to-day.
"You may have a good long afternoon in the garden," she said. "I must say you're wonderful good children for amusing yourselves. There's never any tease-teasing, like with some I've known—'What shall we do, nurse?' or, 'We've nothing to play at.' And you're getting very good, too, about never getting into mischief. You'remuchbetter, Miss Gussie, than you were last year at Ansdell: for it was you as was the ringleader."
"Yes," said I, not very much ashamed of the distinction. "Do you remember the day I took grandpapa's new railway rug to make a carpet to our tent, and left it out all night, and it rained and all the colour ran? And do you remember when I pushed Gerald into the pond to catch the little fishes, and how he stood shivering and crying?"
"Ah, yes, indeed," said nurse. "But speaking of ponds—the one at Ansdell was nothing; but those nasty pits or pools in the fields near by: you never go near them? Your grandpapa has a real fear of them, and he told me not to let you forget what he'd said."
"No fear," we all answered, "we never go near them. We promised him we wouldn't, nurse."
Then off we ran.
"Even if she isn't there, she's sure to have left some message for us, like the last time," said Gerald as we ran. "I wish she'd bring us some butter-scotch."
"Gerald!" exclaimed Tib and I, "what sort of ideas have you? Fairies and butter-scotch mixed in the same breath. I only hope," Tib went on, "that she won't think we're ungrateful for the books, or that we don't care for them, because we had to leave them in the conservatory."
"If only she's there, we can explain everything," said I.
And shewasthere.
Not waiting in the saloon this time, but running down the long passage to meet us as soon as she heard our steps, looking prettier, and merrier, and sweeter than ever.DearRegina!
I have never minded her teasing since that first day, when I really didn't understand her. I shall never mind it again, I am sure.
She led us into the big drawing-room, where she had prepared another little surprise for us. She was as pleased about it as we were ourselves. It was more of Gerald's kind of treat this time—not butter-scotch, but fruit—grapes, and beautiful little Tangiers oranges, and little cakes and biscuits of ever so many kinds. They were so nice, and we ate such a lot of them, and Regina ate a good many herself.
"You see, though I am a fairy, I like nice things," she said.
"Do you have afternoon luncheon every day?" asked Gerald. "Oh, how I would like to be you."
"Isn'the a greedy boy?" I said; and then I told her about the butter-scotch, and somehow the butter-scotch led to our talking of grandpapa—you remember about Gerald wishing he'd bring us some—and then we all got rather grave, for we had a great deal to tell our new princess, and to ask her.
We sat together in a little group on one of the arm-chairs, and Regina listened to us very attentively. We told her all that grandpapa had said to us before we came to Rosebuds, and all about the book in the library in London, and how we wanted to love grandpapa better, as Mrs. Munt had told us we should, but that it was rather difficult. We told her all we had told Mr. Truro, only more, for we had to tell her all about him as well. And then we asked her if she thought it was disobeying grandpapa for us to come to see her; and when we had told her all we could think of, we waited very anxiously to hear what she would say. Her face looked grave, though not exactly sad.
"Your friend—Mr. Truro—told you to wait till he came back again?" she said.
"Yes, but that was only about coming in here to play. We hadn't seen you then—and grandpapa told us not to make friends with any of the neighbours. Are you a neighbour? Do you live here?"
"No," said Regina. "I live far from here."
"And how can you come so often to see us, then?" we asked.
She smiled.
"Can't you fancy I come on a sunbeam, or a cloud, or on a broomstick if you like? Or if I had only thought of taking the picture away, you might really have thought I had come out of the frame! No children, I'm not going to tell you where I come from, or how I come, oranything. Then you can feel you're not hearing from me anything your grandfather would not wish you to hear, and when he and Mr. Truro come here again, you can tell them all—everything, and see what they say. You can bring Mr. Truro here to see me, if you like, and we'll talk it over. Now, as who knows how seldom we may see each other again, suppose we make the best use of our time. I've got some games to teach you—new games. Let us be as happy and merry as we can be while wearetogether."
And you cannot fancy what fun we had.
She kept us playing, and guessing tricks and riddles, and even singing little glees—she had such a pretty voice—so busily that we hadn't time to ask her any more questions, and indeed forgot to do so. So that when it grew late and we had to go home, and Regina kissed us and said good-bye, we knew as little about her, or where she had come from or was going to, as if she had really flown down to us from some fairy country invisible to mortal eyes.
"And will you come again soon?" we asked.
"Whenever I can, but that is all I can promise," she said, and then she disappeared behind the heavy doors, and we heard the key turn in the lock on the other side.
And we went home, wishing it were to-morrow.
"No, not to-morrow—she's sure not to come so soon again, but, all the same, we must come and see."
"'I can't get out; I can't get out,' said the starling.'God help thee,' said I; 'but I'll let thee out.'"Sentimental Journey.
"'I can't get out; I can't get out,' said the starling.'God help thee,' said I; 'but I'll let thee out.'"
Sentimental Journey.
S
he didn't come the next day, but instead of her we actually found three little packets of butter-scotch tied up in white paper, with a different coloured ribbon on each: mine was pink, and Tib's blue, and Gerald's green. I think nothing that had happened to us pleased Gerald as much as this, though he couldn't pretend to think it had come from Fairyland.
And two days after that, the girl herself came again, and we had another merry afternoon of games and fun. How we laughed! there never was any one as clever as our new princess at games. And when we were all too tired and hot to play any more, she told us to sit down quietly to rest, and to shut our eyes, and pretend to go to sleep for five minutes. And when we did so we heard a little faint rustling, and if we had not promised I am sure we should have opened our eyes, we were so afraid she was tricking us, and running away without saying good-bye.
But in a minute we heard the rustling again.
"Open your eyes," said her voice, and when we opened them, lo and behold! there was a glass jug filled with lemonade—it was so good—and four little tumblers, and sponge cakes. The tumblers were red and of a queer shape, and so was the big jug.
"These might have come from Fairyland," I said. "You know, Regina"—for she would make us call her so—"Gerald won't give up about you being a fairy; only when it came to packets of butter-scotch——"
"Even he couldn't believe there were butter-scotch manufactories in Fairyland," said she, laughing. And then we all laughed just because we were so happy.
"We've never laughed so much in our lives before, I don't think," said Tib.
"Poor little pets," said Regina, "it won't do you any harm. It should do the old house good too—it's many a long day since it heard any merry voices."
"The old house," said I; "what do you mean?"
"Why, the old house we're in—the place where you are. Where do you suppose yourself to be at this moment?" she asked, seeing I looked more and more puzzled.
"I don't know," I said. "We thought it was perhaps just this room, or else that it was a sort of a palace. We never thought of it as a regular house."
"A pavilion of some kind, I suppose you mean," said she.
"Why do you call it theold house? Is it very old?" asked Tib.
"Yes," said Regina, "it is. It has got into being called the old house because it is the oldest anywhere about, I suppose. And then, you see, when people haven't lived in a place for very, very long, they get into that way of speaking of it—out of a sort of affection—just as one speaks of the old days, you know, when one speaks of long ago."
"Did you live here long ago, and then not for a great while?"
"No, I never lived here, and then I'm not so old as all that. I heard about the old days of course from——" but then she got red, and stopped suddenly. "I think it's time to go," she said.
"Wait a minute," said I; "will you show us some of the rooms of the house? We should so like to see them."
The new princess hesitated. Then she shook her head. "No, dears," she said, "I'd better not. Just try to keep to your old fancies, and take Gerald's way: it's the best just now. And now listen: this is Wednesday. I can't come to-morrow. You'll promise to come on Friday?"
"Yes," we all said.
"I particularly want you to come on Friday," she went on, and her face grew a little sad, "though I can't quite explain why—except—just that after that perhaps I can't see you for a good while."
"Oh! don't say that," we all cried together; "do try and not let it be that way. We will come on Friday, you may be sure."
"But don't expect me very early," she said. "I may not be able to come till pretty late."
And then she kissed us all again, and she went her way, and we ours.
It happened very well that she had asked us to come on Friday, and not on Thursday, for on Thursday it was soextrapouring wet that nurse wouldn't let us go out at all. And we were exceedingly anxious on Friday morning to see what the weather was going to be, and we were all delighted to see it was fine.
"We must have a long afternoon to ourselves, nurse," we said. "It's horrid to be cooped up in the house all day."
"Well, I'm sure, my dears, I'm as sorry as you can be when it has to be so," said nurse. "But it's very wet everywhere still to-day. It did pour so yesterday. You must be sure to take your goloshes, and to come in at once if you feel chilly or shivery. I wouldn't for anything have you take cold."
"We never do, nurse," Tib said. "You must allow that we don't give you much trouble about our being ill."
"As if I'd grudge any trouble, my dear," said Liddy—she was very matter of fact. "But it's true you've given no trouble of any kind since you've been here, and so I shall tell your dear grandpapa—and so, I'm sure, will Mrs. Munt. She thinks there never were such children. But do be careful now, dears, not to catch cold just as your dear grandpapa's coming?"
"Grandpapa coming! You never told us," we exclaimed. "When is he coming?"
"To-morrow; and Mr. Truro too. At least, Mrs. Munt's sure it's him, though Mr. Ansdell only says to prepare the same rooms as last time. I meant to tell you when we began speaking—Mrs. Munt just got the letter this morning."
"What a good thing he's not coming to-day," we said to ourselves. "Nurse would never have let us out at all, or else we would have had to come in early, andshesaid she couldn't come early. I wonder, Tib," I went on, "I wonder if somehow her wanting us so much to-day, and what she has said, has anything to do with grandpapa's coming?"
"How couldsheknow he was coming before we knew it ourselves, even? Gussie, it's notmethat's too fanciful nowadays," said Tib. "Of course, onourside, knowing he was coming might have made us say perhaps it would be the last time. You know we've promised her and ourselves to tell Mr. Truro all about her, and then he or we must tell grandpapa, and who knows what he'll say? It's to be hoped he's not so busy and worried as he was when he was here before."
But the thought that itmightbe the last time we should see our pretty princess—that grandpapa might even forbid our ever going to our palace, as we still called it, at all, made us rather sad and subdued, and it was not as merrily as usual that we ran through the tangle to the door in the wall.
"Be quick, Gerald," I said, when he had got the key in the lock, and was turning it—he always counted it his business; "what are you pulling at?"
"It's stiff to-day—it may have got rusty with it raining so yesterday," he said. For we still always left the key in the summer-house—we were afraid to take it into the house. "It needs oiling again, perhaps;" but he had managed to open the door by this time, and he took the key out of the lock as he spoke, and we all passed through, Gerald locking the door againinside, and leaving the key in the lock, as we always did.
Regina was not yet there, but we were not surprised: she had said she might be late of coming, and we had not waited, justfor fearof nurse stopping us at the last minute. We amused ourselves with some of the puzzles she had brought and left for us to play with when we were not inclined for noisier games, and in about an hour, to our delight, we heard the key turn in the big door, and in came our princess, a basket on her arm, which she set down on the floor, while she locked the door inside, and put the key in her pocket.
"You needn't do that," said Tib and I, rather offended; "we're not going to try to go out of the room, since you told us you didn't want us to."
"I did it without thinking," said Regina. "I know I can trust you. Now kiss me, darlings, and let us be as happy as we can."
"But we're not very happy," we answered; and then we told her that grandpapa and Mr. Truro were coming the next day, and that perhaps we wouldn't be allowed to come to see her any more. She looked sorry, but not very surprised.
"We must hope the best," she said. "Mr. Truro is so kind, you say. Won'the, perhaps, be able to get your grandpapa to let you come?"
"Perhaps," we said. But it was only "perhaps."
SHE TOLD US STORIESThen as we weren't much in the humour for games,she sat and told us stories.Click toENLARGE
But Regina wouldn't let us be sad. She opened her basket, which was filled with things she thought would please us, and we had our afternoon luncheon, as Gerald called it, together. Then as we weren't much in the humour for games, she sat and told us stories—such pretty ones, I wish I could write some of them down, for I believe she made them up out of her head—till, feeling afraid it was getting late, she looked at her watch, and jumped up in a fright, like Cinderella again.
"Darlings, darlings!" she cried, "I must go," and she kissed us very lovingly, but very hurriedly.
"And when are we to see you again?"
Regina shook her head.
"That is more for you to know than for me," she said. "We must leave it this way—if youcancome again, you'll find some message from me, and you can leave one for me, and then I'll come."
"But listen," I said; "the other day you said you weren't sure thatyoucould come, and to-day you didn't seem surprised that perhapswecan't come. Regina, tell me, did you know grandpapa was coming before we did?Areyou a fairy?"
She shook her head, laughing, but she would say nothing, and in another moment she was gone.
We sat still, talking, for some time after she had gone—we couldn't help feeling dull and sad. We were so afraid of what grandpapa might say.
"It's a very good thing Mr. Truro's coming," said Tib. "It would have been too dreadful to have had to tell grandpapa ourselves."
"I don't see that," I said. "You speak as if we had done something very naughty, that we should be ashamed of telling. I'm not a bit afraid of telling grandpapa, in that way;I'monly afraid for fear he should forbid us ever to come to the old house again;" we had left off calling it the palace, since Regina had explained it was really a house, and the "oldhouse" sounded nice, somehow.
"Well, yes," said Tib, "that's what I'm the most afraid of too, of course."
"And there's something we can't understand altogether," I went on. "Why did grandpapa stop us knowing anybody here? I'm sure the people at the Rectory would be kind to us, and I daresay there are other nice people. Then, who is Regina? and how does she know about us? and whose house is this? and why is it shut up? and——" I stopped, out of breath.
"And who is the portrait? and why is it like her, and like me? And the lady at the Rectory—the oldish lady, and the young one Mr. Markham spoke of—who are they? Oh yes, there are just thousands of things we don't understand. I don't think I shall ever wish for mysteries again," said Tib, dolefully. "Just because Regina is so fond of us, and we are so fond of her—just because of that you may be sure we shall never see her again."
At these words Gerald began to cry. I was half vexed with him, and half sorry for him.
"Don't cry, Gerald," I said; "though, all the same, Tib, I don't see why you need always make the worst of things. It may be all right, Gerald dear—perhaps grandpapa may not mind. And just think how nice it would be to be able to have her to come to see us at Rosebuds!"
Gerald began drying his eyes, for which purpose another little grimy ball—this time blue and white—was brought into requisition.
"I'm sure I love her the best of us all," he said, as a sort of apology.
"You can't love her more than we do," said Tib and I, rather grumpily.
Then we began to think perhaps we had better be going home. We had some lessons still to do for Mr. Markham, and it must be near tea-time, though we weren't very hungry, on account of the afternoon luncheon we had had.
We left the saloon with a lingering look at all, especially at the old princess, as we now called her—our first friend, whom we felt we had rather neglected of late. There she was, smiling as usual, with the sweet, but slightly contemptuous smile she had always worn—as if she knew herself to be above all foolish weaknesses and changeablenesses, and could afford to smile at them amiably.
"Good-bye, princess," I said. "I don't know if we shall ever see you again, but if not, we thank you for your politeness to us, though we can't pretend to say we love you as much as our new princess."
"It isn't her fault, poor thing," added Tib, "she can't help being only a picture instead of a living person. And, Gussie, she must have been a living person once; I mean there must have been a person just like her, and that person must have been very like Regina. Isn't it sad to think that there's nothing left of her except this cold picture, always smiling the same, whatever happens?"
"It's no more sad about her than about any other picture," I said, rather crossly. Sometimes I do get cross with Tib when she is sentimental. I'm sure I don't know why—itisill-natured. "I wonder," I went on, more eagerly, "I wonder if possibly she could be the portrait of the oldish lady—when the oldish lady was young, you know, Tib, for she is so like Regina."
It was Tib's turn to snubmenow.
"The portrait ofthatlady," she said. "My goodness, Gussie! for it to be her portrait she would need to be about a hundred and twenty years old. Can't you tell that by the dress, and thelookof the picture?"
"Well, never mind," I said. "We can't find out anything about her, so it's no use squabbling. We must go, Tib; I'm sure it's late; and we don't want to do anything that could vex nurse just as grandpapa's coming, for you know he always asks her if we've been good."
"Come along, then," said Tib.
We walked slowly down the long passage and into the conservatory, where everything looked just exactly the same as the first day we had seen it.
"Oh dear, I am so unhappy!" said Gerald, again. "I've got afeelingthat all the nice has finished."
"Open the door quick, Gerald, or let me do it, and don't make things worse by talking nonsense."
Gerald turned to the door—the key was sticking in the lock, as I said—Gerald always left itafterlocking it.
"Do be quick," said Tib, impatiently.
Whether it was her hurrying him that made him awkward or jerky, or whether it was just that something had gone wrong with the lock or the key—you remember we had noticed it was stiffer than usual when we came in—I can't say. But, however that may have been, this is what happened. The key wouldn't turn in the lock! Gerald fumbled at it for some time, then Tib and I got impatient.
"Whatisthe matter?" said Tib.
"Whatareyou doing?" said I; and we both ran forward, pushing poor Gerald aside, and each trying to get hold of the key. We each took a turn at it, like the first day, only now our flurry and fear made us less cool and careful. It was no use; we pressed, and pulled, and tugged, we took the key out, and rubbed it and cleaned it as if we had been Bluebeard's wife, and put it back again to try afresh. No use!
"I really think keys have got spirits in them sometimes," said Tib. "Theyareso contrary."
And then, hot and worried, beginning to be frightened too, we looked at our sore fingers, which the horrid key had bruised and scratched, and asked ourselves what to do.
Tib started forward again—she had spied a strong bit of stick in a corner.
"I believe it's only stiffness, after all," she said. "Therecan'tbe anything the matter with the key."
She seized the stick—itwasa very stout one—ran it through the ring of the key, and before Gerald and I really knew what she was doing, she had grasped the two ends with her two hands, and was turning vigorously.
"Ah! I told you so," she cried, as she felt that the stickdidturn, "it only wanted some strength. But oh, Gussie! oh, Gerald!" she screamed the next moment, "see, see!"
She drew back a little—we did see—the key hadbroken, not turned! the ring was still hanging on the stick; the useless end of the key stuck out of the lock as if in mockery.
"Oh, Tib!" I cried, for somehow one's first feeling always is to blame some one, "why were you so hasty? Oh dear! whatshallwe do?"
Tib was too subdued to resent my blame.
"It wouldn't turn before," she said meekly. "Perhaps we are no worse off than before."
"Yes, we are," I said angrily. "Then, at least, we could take the key out and shout through the key-hole. Now we can't even do that," for I had tried, and found that there was now no moving the key the least little bit. There really wasnothingto be done. But we did not realise that all at once. We set to work shouting and kicking on the door, in hopes that somebody might be passing by the tangle, though nothing was more unlikely. We climbed up on the shelves of the conservatory, in hopes somebody might be in that garden—the garden of the old house, as we now knew it to be. But very little was to be seen—only some grass stretching towards a belt of trees, and no sign of anybody—it wasn't till afterwards that we knew therewasanother door into the conservatory, concealed in a corner—a door for gardeners to come in by, but it hadn't been used for many years, and the key was lost, so the knowledge wouldn't have done us much good—and we gave up that hope in despair.
Then another idea struck us—we ran back to the saloon to try the door by which Regina came in. Ifpossiblyshe hadn't locked it, we might get into the house, and out through it, and so home. But no—the great double doors were as firm as a rock. Regina had locked them only too securely!
"She might have left it unlocked," we said, in a sort of unreasonable rage; "she might have thought perhaps we might need to get out this way." And then we remembered that she had been used to see us coming in and out quite easily. She had had no reason for any misgiving.
"But there may be some one in the house," said Tib. So again we set to work calling, and knocking, and banging at the doors. In vain—in vain! We were completely locked in, and evidently there was no one near enough to hear us.
Tired out at last, we sat down, huddled together, on one of the arm-chairs, where we had sat so happily with Regina.
"We must stay all night," I said.
"Till the dusting person comes in the morning," said Tib.
"Any way, it's a good thing we had some afternoon luncheon," said Gerald, though even this consoling reflection did not prevent the tears rolling down his poor fat cheeks.
We didn't as yet feel hungry—nor did we feel exactly frightened, though it did begin to feel "eerie." But very soon we felt very cold. It is strange how cold an unused room gets to feel as soon as the bright daylight goes. We had our jackets on, fortunately, and we took some of the linen covers off the chairs, and wrapped them round us, so that we looked like ghosts or dancing dervishes. And thus enveloped, we huddled together as close as we could.
And the last thing we saw as the light faded, so that everything in the room grew dim and shadowy, was the calmly smiling face of the "old princess" up above us on the wall.
I never see it now without remembering that strange evening.