GERALD'S WHEELBARROW
"It really looks quite nice and comfortable," Tib said. "I really think to-morrow the baron may carry her off to the tower—he's to pretend, you know, to be only taking her out a walk in her litter."
"Awalkin a litter," I said; "why, a litter's a lying-down-in thing, and we haven't got anything the least like one."
"Well, then, a walk on her feet," said Tib, testily; "that did very well the other day," for you must understand that we had acted it all several times, and then we found what was wanting in the way of scenery, &c.
"If only we had the dungeon," she went on. "It's a very poor pretence to call those steps the dungeon—besides, they're horribly damp and dirty."
"Oh, for that part of it, all the better," I said. "Dungeons always are damp and dirty."
"But my frock?" said Tib, ruefully. "Ican'tsit down on those steps without getting it horribly spoilt. If we could but get into the tool-house!"
Gerald, who was standing beside us—we were close to the door in the wall—gave a sudden exclamation and darted off. Tib and I looked at each other in surprise. "What's the matter with him?" we said. But he was back again in a moment, holding something in his hand. As he came near us he put both his hands behind his back.
"I've got something," he said. "I'd forgot about it. It was the day you teased me I found it. And I hid it, and I was afraid it was lost among the leaves, and all that, but it wasn't. I'd hidden it safe. Guess what it is."
We tried, but we couldn't. Gerald raised his hand slowly. "Shut your eyes," he said; and we shut them. "Now open them;" we opened them. "What is it?" we said, breathlessly.
"The key of the door!" he said, solemnly.
"The key of the tool-house!" exclaimed Tib. "How do you know it is it? Where did you find it?"
"I found it among the prickly things on the floor of the summer-house," he replied. "It's quite dry and clean, see!" and so it was, as if it had been packed in sawdust.
"But how do you know what key it is?" we asked.
"I tried it—I stayed behind a minute that day; you didn't notice. It is the key. It fitspairfittly," said Gerald. "Only it's very stiff, and my hands wasn't quite strong enough. If we all try, perhaps."
He put the key into the lock. Yes, it was evident itwasthe key, lost for who knows how many years. How queer that no one had ever had another made; there was another tool-house, and one was enough, perhaps. But still, it did seem queer. First Tib, then I, tried to turn it, but it was no use.
"If we put a stick through the end of the key, we might turn it that way."
"But it might break it; don't you remember we broke the nursery door key in London by trying to turn it with a tooth-brush handle?" I said. "It wants oiling, Tib—that's it; not the key, perhaps, but the lock. We must wait till to-morrow, and get some oil in one of the doll's cups, and a feather, and then I'm sure it'll do. But what a bother to have to wait till to-morrow!"
There was no help for it, however. Wait till to-morrow we must.
"I know thee not; but well my heartInterprets, darling, what thou art;Light of some old ancestral hall,Queen-gem of some proud coronal!For, certes, such a perfect grace,Such lustrous loveliness of face,Such artless majesty as thineProclaims thee of no sordid line!"The Unknown Portrait—Sir Noel Paton.
IT
here was time the next morning, before Mr. Markham came, for coaxing a little oil out of Mrs. Munt, and fetching a feather from the poultry-yard, but for no more. For Mrs. Munt, kind as she was, very naturally objected to giving us the oil in one of the best tea-cups, which Gerald had brought for the purpose, thinking it must be "an old one," which it was indeed, though not in his sense of the word. So Tib ran off to the princess's tower for one of the doll ones, and Gerald and I went in the other direction for a long feather. And by the time that we were ready for operations, it was within a quarter of an hour of lessons, and being rather sensible children in some ways—we had early learnt experience and responsibility in our own affairs, having no one to advise or arrange for us in such matters—we decided it was better to wait till we were sure of plenty of, and uninterrupted, time.
"You see, if Fanny came shouting for us just as we had got into the tool-house, she might see it, and it would be no longer a private place of our own; we must keep it quite for our own," I said.
"Certainly," said Tib. "You know I asked grandpapa about it, and he didn't seem to mind."
But lessons that morning did go very slowly. Once or twice Mr. Markham had to call us to attention, and there was even a slight threat on his part of "extra work to be done for to-morrow," if the rest of our preparation should not prove better done. It was not the fault of the preparation—which had been done as well as usual—it was that our heads were all agog over the tool-house! But we pulled up after this, and things ended fairly well.
And at last—though not till after our dinner, for we were never allowed more than "a run," and that well within view of the schoolroom window, between lessons and dinner—we found ourselves again in safety before the door in the wall—oil-cup and feather in hand.
We set to work methodically—with the help of nurse's largest scissors and a skewer—how Gerald had got the skewer I don't know: we raked out all the little bits of dirt and rubbish that had collected in the lock; then we oiled it as thoroughly as we knew how, though under the circumstances this was certainly a process of working in the dark. Then we carefully inserted the key—it went in to perfection, but we all looked at each other, and grew hot with excitement when it came to the moment for trying to turn it.
Tib as the eldest had the first try—a barren honour; she hurt her hands over it, but it would not move—not a hair's breadth! Then it came to me. I have larger hands than Tib, and stronger muscles; I fancy I set to work in a more business-like manner. With me the key turned—with groans and grunts, it must be allowed—but still it turned—half-way! then I too looked blank. Fortunately it did not refuse to turn back again, and then I took it out and looked at it reproachfully.
Gerald laid hands on it. It washisturn, but what I had failed in, it was not likely his little, fat, stumpy paws would achieve. But Gerald is sharp in some ways. He first examined the key all over. Then he took up the oily feather again.
"See here," he said, "some parts of the key are quite oily, but some, inside, are quite dry. We should have oiled the key as well as the lock."
He was right; his small grasp did what ours had failed in. Grunting and groaning still, but forced to obey, the old key woke from its sleep of thirty or forty years and did the work it was made for. And in another minute we had tugged at the door till it moved on its rusty hinges—you will understand afterwards how they came to be no rustier—slowly opening and revealed—
What did it reveal? For a few minutes we were too dazzled to tell—really dazzled—as well as amazed. A perfect flood of light seemed to pour out upon us, and instead of the dingy, musty tool-house we had been expecting, we found ourselves standing at what at first sight appeared like the entrance to some fairy palace of brightness and brilliance. We stood, dazed, rubbing our eyes and looking at each other.Wasit magic? Had we chanced upon some such wonder of old world times as our little heads were stuffed with? Tib—and Gerald too, perhaps—would have been ready to believe it. Had the door there and then shut upon us, leaving us but the remembrance of the vision, they would have lived upon beautiful fancies for the rest of their lives. But I—practical I—did not long stand bewildered. A slight creak of the door brought me back to common-place.
"Come inside, quick!" I said, pulling at the others—we were all huddled together on the steps—"shut the door, or else some one will see the light through the trees," for I have told you howverydark the tangle is, even on a bright day. "Stay—dare we shut the door? Is there a keyhole on the inside? Oh, yes; and not rusty at all," and quick as thought I drew the key out and fitted it in to the other side; it turned now with ease. "That's right;" and before Tib or Gerald had found out for certain whether they were awake or dreaming, we were all three safe inside the enchanted palace, at liberty to look about us and find out where we really were.
I feel in a way sorry to explain it. But this is not a fairy story; and in the end I think you will allow, when you have come to know the whole, that itisvery interesting, perhaps more interesting than a fairy story after all. So I will go on without leaving you in perplexity any more.
The place where we found ourselves was a conservatory: it was prettily built in a high, round-roofed sort of way, so as to catch all the light and sun-heat possible. It was, to begin with, a very bright afternoon; then the shrubbery on our side wasverydark; high up in the conservatory there was a band of coloured glass, rich red, and little bits of every colour at the edge, like a strip of rainbow, through which the light came in gleams of all sorts of beautiful tints. You can easily see how startlingly brilliant it had seemed to us; and besides this, the conservatory itself was not at all in a neglected state. There were fewpotsof flowers; the shelves were mostly empty; but there were plants growing in earth borders along the sides, which were evidently cared for, as they twined up the walls luxuriantly. And the whole place was heated, though not very much.That, you see, was how the door and the lock remained in such good condition.
We found out all these particulars for ourselves by degrees; and gradually we noticed other things. The conservatory had evidently, at some time or other, been a favourite place to sit in. There was a littleveryold and shaky rustic table, and two or three seats to match; there was a little corner shelf on which still lay two or three old books. After we had got over our first surprise, we were conscious of something about the whole place which made the tears come to our eyes. But our spirits soon rose again.
"Whata bower for the princess!" exclaimed Tib.
I felt quite out of patience with her.
"Rubbish!" I said, "I can't think any more of the princess or any make-up things. This isfarmore interesting. I want to find out all about what place it is, and why it is shut up and deserted, as it evidently is."
"Perhaps it's been shut up for hundreds of years," suggested Gerald.
"That'srubbish, if you like," answered Tib. "It doesn't look as if anybody lived here, but it's not dirty—scarcely even dusty."
"There must be some other way of getting into it besides our door, then," I said, "for certainly thedoorhasn't been opened for a great many years. If we look about, perhaps we'll find some other entrance."
At first sight there was no appearance of any, and we began to think the conservatory must, after all, belong to Rosebuds, and that from time to time the gardenerdidopen the door and get in to clean it. Only why, then, was it always locked up? Just as we were feeling quite puzzled, Gerald called out—
"Oh! see here, Tib and Gussie, this is another door—here in the glass; here's a handle that turns. Why, see, it's a door made of looking-glass!"
That was why we had not noticed it. It was cleverly managed to imitate panes, like the rest of the conservatory, and it was somewhat in the shade in one corner. There was no lock to this door; it opened at once, and before us we saw a long, rather narrow, covered passage, lighted by a skylight roof. It was all growing more and more mysterious; half frightened, but too eager and curious to think of being afraid, on we ran. The passage ended in a short flight of steps, at the top of which was another door, a regular proper door this time, with a handle and a lock, but no key in the lock.
"Oh! supposing it's locked," I cried, excitedly; "it will be too bad. We can't find out any more."
But it wasn't. The key, as we afterwards found, was inside, and not turned in the lock. They were evidently not very afraid of robbers. All the years the house had stood empty, no one had ever broken into it; we were the first intruders.
We pressed forward. First we found ourselves in a sort of little ante-room, very small, hardly bigger than a closet, and out of this, through another door, opened a very large and handsome drawing-room. It had a row of windows at one side looking out upon a terrace, and a large bow window at one end, with closely-drawn blinds—we could not see what it looked on to; the floor was of beautifully polished wood, inlaid in a pattern such as you see more often in French houses than in English ones; the two mantelpieces were very high, and beautifully carved, and from the centre of the ceiling hung an immense gilt and crystal chandelier, covered up in muslin. There was not much furniture in the room, and what there was looked stiff and cold: two or three great cabinets against the walls, and some gilt consol-tables, and in one corner a group of sofas, and chairs, and arm-chairs all drawn together, and all in white linen covers. Everything was handsome, and stately, and melancholy; the very feeling of the room told you it had not been really lived in for many a day.
But the one thing which caught our attention was a life-size portrait hanging at the end of the room opposite the bow window. It was the only picture of any kind, and even though we were ignorant children, we could see in a moment that it was a very beautiful one. It represented a young girl, richly dressed in the fashion of a hundred years ago or more, with long-waisted bodice, and skirt of white satin, looped up over an under-one of rose-coloured brocade. She was standing on a terrace—this very terrace we afterwards found—her hat hanging on her arm, and a greyhound beside her. It was all pretty much the same as one often sees in portraits of that time, but her face wassocharming! And immediately we saw it, both Gerald and I exclaimed—
LOOKING AT THE PORTRAITThe one thing which caught our attention was a life-size portrait.Click toENLARGE
"Oh, Tib, she is exactly like you!" and going close to examine it more particularly, I saw some letters in one corner, and, to my immense surprise, they were those of the name scored out in the old book, "Ornaments Discovered," and of Tib's second name also—"Regina." The initials of the artist—"L.K.," I think—were there also.
"It is my name," said Tib, opening her eyes in astonishment; "how very strange! Can it be the picture of some great-great-grandmother of ours, I wonder? But this is not grandpapa's house. How could any portrait of our family be here?"
We were completely puzzled, but, children-like, we did not think very much more about it. It was such fun to slide up and down the polished floor, or to climb over among the shrouded chairs and sofas, and make ourselves a comfortable nest among them. For it was plain that our discoveries were not to go further—the large double doors of this drawing-room were securely locked from the outside.
We went close up to this door, putting our ears to the keyhole even, and listened, but not the least sound was to be heard.
"The house must be shut up," I said. "There is certainly no one moving about in it."
"Perhaps it is enchanted," said Gerald, in an awe-struck tone. "Perhaps that lady isreallyalive, and the fairies have fastened her up into that picture till—till—" and he hesitated; his imagination had come to an end of its flight.
Tib and I looked at each other without speaking. We did not snub Gerald as we often did for such speeches—somehow it didn't seem so very impossible! Everything was so strange; the room itself so unlike anything we had ever seen, the mysterious way into it, the silence and desertedness, yet the signs of care; above all, the portrait so wonderfully like Tib, and actually bearing her name. There was no explaining it by anything we could think of or imagine.
"We may as well use it all to make a play of," said Tib, at last, returning to her favourite idea. "We can pretend that the lady in the portraitisthe princess something, as Gerald says. Yes, it would be still nicer to make her be enchanted instead of only shut up, and then, Gussie, you must help me to plan how she's to be got out."
"But, Tib," I said, "do you think we can come here again? Don't you think grandpapa would mind, after all he said to us about not making friends, or going into any houses in the village?"
"And are we making friends?" said Tib. "Unless the portrait comes out of its frame some day, and begins talking to us, there's certainly nobody else to talk to here."
"Do you think there's nobody living in the house?" I said, doubtfully.
"I'm sure there's not. Most likely some one comes to dust it every now and then."
"And don't you remember," said Gerald, "that last Sunday I asked grandpapa if we might come through the door in the wall if wecould, and he said 'yes'? P'r'aps he knew about this place, and didn't mind if we did come here to play."
"Perhaps," I said; "anyway we can ask him the next time he comes."
"We needn't say anything about it to Mrs. Munt, or nurse," said Tib, decidedly. "As long as we haven't been toldnotto come, we're not disobeying, and it's much nicer not to ask any one but grandpapa himself."
With that I quite agreed, especially as I felt sure grandpapa himself would like it better. We knew we were doing no mischief; there was nobody to speak to, as Tib had said, so we felt quite at ease, and spent a most agreeable afternoon. When we had examined everything there was in the big drawing-room, or saloon, as Tib preferred to call it—and that did not take us very long; there were no curiosities or small ornaments about, as in the Rosebuds drawing-room—we began to plan again about our play story. We arranged it most beautifully, and the portrait was a great help, for it almost gave us another actor, as we could always pretend it was the princess, when Tib was wanted for another person. And it was such a wonderfully life-like picture—you could really have fancied its expression changed as we talked to it.
But at last we began to get frightened that we should be missed at home if we stayed any longer.
"We must go, Gussie," said Tib, "let us all say good-night to the princess. It is sad to leave you alone here, princess," she went on, turning to the portrait, and speaking in the tone of one of the ladies in the play, who were going to help her to escape, "but, alas, there is no other way to do. If we stayed longer we should only be suspected of plotting, so we must resign ourselves."
"And I dare say you're pretty well accustomed to being left alone by this time. You must be nearly a hundred years old, though you look so young," said Gerald, as he bowed to her. I could not help laughing, though Tib was rather vexed.
"I wish you wouldn't think it clever to turn everything into ridicule, Gerald," but he looked up with such a surprised face that we saw he hadn't been in fun at all.
"There's one thing we'd better do if we want ever to get in here again," I said. "We must hide the key of the door leading from the passage. I dare say the person who comes to dust will never notice it's not there. They can't be in the habit of locking it regularly; but it's as well to hide it," and so saying, I took the key out of the lock and slipped it inside a drawer of one of the big cabinets, where it may be lying still, for all I know (I must look, by the by: writing this all out has reminded me of several things I had forgotten).
Then we closed the door carefully and ran down the passage to the conservatory again, where we found everything just as we had left it—ourkey, as we called it, sticking in the lock inside. It was still rather stiff to turn—and the next morning we oiled it again—but we managed to unlock it, and then to lock the door again on the outside.
And Gerald ran off with the key to hide it again in the summer-house; only we wrapped it up in paper before burying it in the fir dust.
"Who would have thought," said Tib, as we ran in, "whocouldhave thought, what we should find this afternoon?"
But our surprises, as you shall hear, were not yet at an end.
…. "Children are the best judges of character at first sight in the world."—Hogg.
G
randpapa did not come down to Rosebuds again for three or four weeks. Mrs. Munt wrote to him regularly to tell him how we were, and we, once or twice—it was she who put it in our heads, I must confess—wrote a little scrap to put inside hers, for which he told her to thank us when he wrote back to her, but he never sentusany letter.
We didn't mind his not coming, except that now and then we thought we should like to tell him of our discovery, and hear what he said about it. But we were very happy; we never cared to go out for walks, which I don't think nurse regretted; we always said we were much happier playing about. And the conservatory and the saloon became our regular haunts every, or almost every, afternoon. No one ever disturbed us—we never heard the slightest sound in the house where the big drawing-room was; indeed, for all we knew, it might not have been a house at all, but just that one large room, for the other door—the proper door of the room—was never opened. We tried it two or three times; it was always firmly locked. But still it was clear that somebody came to dust the room and the conservatory, if not every day, at least two or three times a week, for they were not allowed to get any dustier.
It was a good thing we were quiet children, not given to mischief, or rough and wild, otherwise we might have done harm in some way, such as breaking the glass in the conservatory, or spoiling the beautiful "parquet" floor. And we certainly would have been discovered. It was partly the fear of this that made us so careful, as well as a queer fancy we had that the picture on the wall—the princess, as we still called her—watched all we did, and that she would be very vexed if we were not quite good.
"Of course," Tib used to say, "it's a great honour to be allowed to play in a palace, and we must show we are to be trusted."
For after a while we got tired of our play-story about the baron and the humpback and all the rest of it, and then we pretended that we came to visit the princess in her beautiful palace, and that she was very kind to us indeed.
Sometimes we brought our books and work with us; on a rainy day we always found it difficult to get to our secret haunts, for of course we wouldn't tell stories about it, and nurse naturally didn't approve of our going out in the damp. But after a while, when nurse found that we came in quite dry, and that we never caught cold even when she left us to our own devices on a wet day, she gave up being so fidgety, and so we often did get to our palace all the same.
One Friday at last there came a letter, saying grandpapa would be down the next day and a gentleman with him.
"What a bore that he's not coming alone," said I. "We shan't have a word with him, and the gentleman's sure to be one of those stupid Parliamentary people that talk to grandpapa about 'the House,' and 'so-and-so's bill,' all the time." For we had had some experience of grandpapa's friends sometimes at Ansdell, when we had come in to dessert and heard them talking. "I wonder if they go on all day long in the 'House' about bills, Tib? There must be a fearful lot of people who never pay theirs if it takes all those clever gentlemen all their time to be settling about them in the 'House.'" We were rather proud of knowing what the "House" meant, you see. We thought from grandpapa's being in it, that we knew all about the government things.
Tib looked rather solemn.
"I suppose it's because of the National Debt," she said. "It shows how careful people should be not to spend too much, doesn't it, Gussie? But I'm not sure that I care to speak to grandpapa more than usual. I'm so awfully afraid of his stopping us going to the palace."
"Areyou?" said I. "I'm not. That is to say, if I thought he'd mind it, I wouldn't go there. What I want is tofind outabout it from him. I have still such an idea that it has something to do with the old mystery."
"If I thought that," said Tib, "I'd be far too frightened to tell him about it."
We spent a long time that afternoon in the big drawing-room. When we were coming away, we all somehow felt a little melancholy.
"We are pretty sure not to be able to come to-morrow, and certainly not on Sunday," said Tib, sadly. "Dear princess," she went on, looking at the portrait, "you mustn't forget us if we don't come to see you for a few days. It won't beourfault, you may be sure;" and really we could have fancied that the sweet face smiled at us as we turned to go.
We were playing on the lawn when grandpapa arrived the next day. Nurse had intended to have us all solemnly prepared, like the last time, but he came by an earlier train, and somehow she didn't know about it early enough, so we were all in our garden things quite comfortably messy, when we heard the sound of wheels, and looking round, saw to our astonishment that it was the dog-cart.
There was no help for it; we hadn't even time to wash our hands, and there was no use trying to get out of the way, for to have gone hurry-skurrying off as if we were ashamed would have vexed grandpapa more than anything, especially as he had a friend with him. So we marched boldly across the lawn and stood waiting, while the gentlemen got down.
"How do you do, grandpapa?" I said. "We didn't expect you quite so soon."
"Indeed," said he, as he kissed us in his usual cool sort of way, "an unwelcome surprise—eh?"
Tib got red at this, and looked as if she were going to cry. But I didn't feel inclined to be put down like that, before a stranger, too.
"No, grandpapa; it's not an unwelcome surprise, but we would have liked to have been tidier; you know we generally arequitetidy when you see us."
"For my part, I prefer to see small people when they'renotvery tidy," said a pleasant, hearty voice; and then the owner of it came round from the other side of the dog-cart where he had jumped down. "You must introduce me, Mr. Ansdell, please, to my—small, I was going to say, but I'm surprised to see the word would be almost a libel—cousins."
"Umph," said grandpapa, "'cousins,' in the Scotch sense; how many degrees removed, it would be difficult to say."
"I'venot been taught to count you so very far away," said the gentleman, good-humouredly, but with something in his tone that showed he wasn't the sort of person to be very easily put down; "besides, sir, as I'm yourgodsonas well as your cousin——"
"I might be a little more civil, eh, Charles?" said grandpapa, laughing a little. "Ah, well, I'm too old to learn, I fear. Nevertheless, I have no objection to your calling each other cousins if you choose. Mercedes, Gustava, and Gerald—your cousin, Mr. Charles Truro."
We looked at him, and he looked at us. What we saw was a well-made, pleasant-looking young man, not very tall, though not short, with merry-looking grey eyes, close cut brown hair, and a particularly kindly expression, a great improvement upon most of grandpapa's gentlemen friends, who never looked at us as if they saw us.
"Mercedes and Gustava," he repeated, slowly. "I thought one of them was called Re——"
But grandpapa interrupted him.
"Mercedes is an absurd name for an English child," he said. "It was a fancy of poor Gerald's—they were in Spain, you know."
"But you needn't call Tib 'Mercedes,' unless you like," I said, boldly—I don't really know what spirit of defiance, perhaps of curiosity, made me say it—"she has another name; her second name is Regina, like——"
Would you believe it? I was on the point of saying "like the picture;" but I cut myself short before I said more, and even had I not stopped, grandpapa's tone would have startled me into doing so.
"Will you be so good, Gustava, as to answer questions and remarks that are addressed to you, and those only?" he said, in his horrible, icy way.
Ifelt myself getting red now, especially as I was certain Mr. Truro was looking at me. I made a silent vow that I wouldn't try to be nicer to grandpapa, and that I wouldcertainlynot tell him about our secret. This comforted me a little, and I glanced up, to find that the stranger was looking at me, but in such a nice way that I couldn't have felt vexed if I had tried.
"Will you take me round the garden?" he said. "I am quite stiff with sitting so long."
He spoke to us all, but I think he meant it most for me. Grandpapa didn't seem to mind. I think that when he had said anything very crabbed, hewassorry, though he wouldn't say so.
"Don't be very long, Charles," he said, as he went into the house and we turned the other way, "I shall want you to look over those papers."
"All right, sir, I won't be long," Mr. Truro called back in his cheery tone.
"Why does he want you to do his papers?" I asked.
Mr. Truro laughed.
"Because I'm acting as Mr. Ansdell's secretary just now," he said.
Tib looked disappointed.
"Oh," she said, "I thought you were a——" and she stopped.
"Say on," said Mr. Truro.
"A—a gentleman," said Tib.
"Well, I hope I am," he said, smiling.
"But doesn't he," I said, nodding my head towards the house, for I perfectly understood what Tib meant, "pay you for being that?"
"In point of fact Mr. Ansdell doesnotpay me," he said. "What I learn from being with him is far more valuable than money to me. But all the same, if your grandfatherdidpay me for my services,thatwould not make me less of a gentleman!" and Mr. Truro stood erect, and gave a little toss to his head, which showed he could be in earnest when he liked. But then he laughed again, and we saw he was not really vexed. "May I make a remark in turn?" he said. "Are you young people in the habit of talking of Mr. Ansdell as 'he' and 'him?' 'She,' I know, is 'the cat.' I have yet to learn who 'he' is."
We laughed, but we blushed too, a little.
"We don't always," said Tib; "but you see youarea cousin; mayn't we tell him things?" she exclaimed, impulsively, turning to Gerald and me. "He's got such a kind face, and—and we haven't anybody like other children."
Mr. Truro turned his face away for half a second. I fancy he didn't want us to see how sorry he looked. By this time we had sauntered round to the other side of the lawn, out of sight of the house almost. There was a garden seat near where we stood. Mr. Truro took Tib and me by the hand, and Gerald trotted after.
"Let's sit down," he said. "Now, that's comfortable. Yes, dears, Iama cousin, and I think you'll find me a faithful one. Do tell me 'things.' I won't let you say anything not right of your grandfather; there is no man living I respect more. But perhaps I may help you to understand him better."
"Is he never cross to you?" asked Tib; "at least, not so much cross as that horrid laughy-at-you-way—laughy without being funny or nice, you know."
"Yes, I do know," he answered. "I think Mr. Ansdell is inclined to be that way to everybody a little. I wish you could hear how he makes some of them smart now and then in the House."
"The people who don't pay their bills—the people who make the National Debt, do you mean?" I asked.
"The how much?" asked our new cousin in his turn, opening his eyes very wide.
And when I explained what I meant, about all the talk we had heard aboutbills, and how Tib had read something about the National Debt, and thought it must mean that, you should have seen how he laughed; not a bit like grandpapa, but justroaring. I know better now, of course. I know that there are different kinds of bills, and that the ones we had heard of being talked about in Parliament are new plans or proposals that the gentlemen there—"members," like grandpapa—want to have made into laws, because they think they would be good laws. I know, too, pretty well—at least a little—about the National Debt, and that somehow it isn't a bad thing, though little debts are very bad things. I don't see how, but I suppose I shall understand whenI'mbig, that things that are bad when they're little aren't always bad when they're very big.
When Mr. Truro had finished laughing, he began to listen to all we had to tell him. You would hardly believe how much we told him. Indeed, when we thought it over afterwards we could hardly believe it ourselves; to think that here was a strange gentleman we hadn't known an hour, whose name we had never heard in our lives, and that we were talking to him as we had never before talked to anybody. He had such a way of looking as if he reallycaredto hear. I think it was that that made it so easy to talk to him; and then, of course, his being a cousin made a difference. He wasn't a very near one, but I have noticed that sometimes rather far-off cousins care for you quite as much or more than much nearer ones. And anything in the shape of a cousin was a great deal to us; we had never heard of having any at all.
After we had chattered away for some time, some little remark, I forget what exactly, something about what we did with ourselves all day after lessons were over, seeing that we had no friends or companions, for we had told him about grandpapa's not allowing us to know any neighbours; something of that kind brought us dreadfully near the subject of our discovery. We had already saidsomething, though very little, about the old book with the scored-out name, and Mr. Truro listened eagerly, though it struck me afterwards more than at the time that he had not seemed very surprised.
And when we did not at once answer about how we amused ourselves, he repeated the question. We looked at each other. Then Tib got rather red, and said, quietly,
"We can't tell you all we do, at least, I don't think we can," she said, glancing at Gerald and me.
Mr. Truro looked a little startled.
"Why not?" he said. "I am sure, at least I think I may be, that you wouldn't do anything you shouldn't. If, for example, you had been tempted to make friends with any of the village children, it would be much better to tell your grandfather; he might not mind if they were good children, even if they were not of the same class as you. But it would be wrong not to tell him."
We began to feel a little frightened, and for the first time a misgiving came over us that perhaps grandpapa might be angry at our having played in the palace. I suppose our faces grew so solemn that Mr. Truro felt more uneasy.
"Come now," he said, "can't you tell me all about it? I don't look very ogre-y, do I? That is, if you've no real objection to telling me before you tell Mr. Ansdell."
"We meant to tell him; we were going to tell him to-day," I said. "Indeed, we, at least I,wantedto tell him. I thought perhaps he'd explain, or that we'd find out about it. But he isn't as kind this time as he was the last, and perhaps he'd be angry, really angry. I never thought before that it was a thing he could be angry about, did you, Tib?"
"No," said Tib, faintly; "and it would be so dreadful not to go there any more."
Gerald began to cry.
Mr. Truro's face grew graver and graver.
"My dear children," he began, "my dear little cousins, I must speak very earnestly to you. You must tell this secret, whatever it is, to your grandfather. It might not make him angry just now, but if you didnottell him, I very much fear it might."
"But he is so very sharp to-day," said Tib; "you could see he was. And when he is like that we can't tell things properly, and it somehow seems as if we were naughty when we aren't really. We can't tell himto-day, can we?"
Mr. Truro reflected.
"It is true," he said, "that Mr. Ansdell isparticularlybusy and worried. He has been terribly overworked lately; indeed, he came down here expressly to be able to work without interruption. Can't you confide in me, children? I promise to advise you to the very best of my ability."
"And you wouldn't tell him—grandpapa, I mean," said Tib, correcting herself, "withouttellingus you were going to?"
"Certainly not. I should have no right to tell him without your leave," he replied.
We all looked at each other again.
"I suppose we'd better, then," I said. "You begin, Tib. It's rather difficult to think where it began," I went on. "It had to do with grandpapa telling us so about not knowing the neighbours, or making friends with any one, and we had never heard of Rosebuds before, you know, and then I remembered seeing it in the book, and Tib likes mysteries so, and——"
"Take breath, Gussie, there's no such dreadful hurry," said Mr. Truro, and his face grew more smiling as I went on.
"We fixed to make a story about it. It didn't seem like prying to play at it that way," said Tib.
And then we went on to tell all about the imprisoned princess, and the old arbour, and the supposed tool-house, which was to be a dungeon, and Gerald finding the key, and just everything—all that I have written; I needn't tell it all again. And with every word Mr. Truro's kind face grew kinder and brighter; all the grave, uneasy look went quite out of it, and this, of course, made it much easier to tell it all quite comfortably. By the time we had quite finished—it took a good while, for Geraldwouldinterrupt to tell thathehad found the key, andhehad made it turn when Tib and Gussie couldn't—Mr. Truro's face had grown more than bright, it looked quite beaming.
TALKING TO MR. TRURO"I would like best of all to call you 'Regina'."Click toENLARGE
"And the portrait of the princess is like Tib, you say—Mercedes, Ishouldsay? I would like best of all to call you 'Regina';" and he passed his hand softly over Tib's dark hair.
"Awfully like Tib, only prettier," I said, bluntly. But Tib didn't mind. Something in Mr. Truro's tone had caught her attention.
"Did you ever know any one called Regina?" she asked. "You seem to like it so."
Mr. Truro did not answer for a moment. Then he said, quietly, "It is a family name with me, too. I have heard it all my life. You know I am your cousin."
"Oh, of course," we all said.
Then he went on to talk of what we had been telling him.
"Will you let me think over about it?" he said. "I am the last person to advise you not to tell your grandfathereverything, but I do not think it would be wise to tell him anything just now, as he is extremely busy and worried. I will tell you what I think you should do before I go."
Of course we agreed readily to what he said.
"And, even as one on household stairs,Who meets an angel unawares,Might hold his breath; in silent aweWe stood."The Unknown Portrait—Sir Noel Paton.
W
e saw very little of grandpapa during this visit, and not as much of Mr. Truro as we would have liked. For it was some very bothering time about government things, and everybody that had to do with them was very busy. We came in to dessert, as we always did, and grandpapa was kind in his own way. He seemed pleased that we were such good friends with Mr. Truro. I remember he said something to him about his having done already whathe—grandpapa—had not been able to do himself—"gained our hearts," or something like that. And Mr. Truro answered. "You could if you would, sir, or probably youhaveif you would but think so." But grandpapa only shook his head, though he smiled a little in a nice way.
And then they began talking again about all the papers and writings they had to do, and we got tired of sitting still, and fidgeted with the wine glasses and things on the table, so that grandpapa told us we had better go to bed.
The next day, Sunday, was pouring wet.
We didn't see either grandpapa or our cousin till we were sitting in church. We had come with nurse in the one-horse fly, which knew it always had to come for us on wet Sundays, and we didn't hear anything of the two gentlemen. We couldn't bear the long drive in the stuffy fly, and we did not like the church, for the clergyman was old, and mumbled his words, and the music wasn't nice nor anything else.
"If we might only go to the pretty church in the village!" we whispered to each other, as we whispered every Sunday. For this about the church was the thing we disliked at Rosebuds, and at Ansdell we loved going to church. It was so nice; beautiful hummy music and lovely singing, and all so pretty. And the clergyman with a nice clear voice, and not too long sermons. And—perhaps you will be shocked at this—everybody at Ansdell knew us, and there was always a little sort of rustle when we went in, and I could almost hear the school-girls talking in whispers about "our young ladies' hats;" and if we happened to see one of them we knew, and gave her a little nod and smile, she looked as proud as proud! It was just as different as could be from this ugly, stupid little church that grandpapa had taken it into his head to make us go to here, and we were very pleased when we saw Mr. Truro coming up the aisle after grandpapa, both of them looking so nice and grand, even though in a way we felt ashamed for our cousin to see what an ugly little church it was.
"He'll see for himself," I whispered to Tib, "and perhaps he'll say something to grandpapa."
For we were beginning to think of Mr. Truro as a sort of good fairy who was to put everything right.
Grandpapa and he had driven over in the dog-cart of course; they didn't mind the rain, though I'm surewedidn't mind it either, for that matter—we should only have been too happy to drive over in the dog-cart under waterproofs and mackintoshes; and when we were getting into the fly after church, Gerald looked so woebegone, that Mr. Truro took pity on him, and picked him out again.
"I'll find a corner for you where you shan't get wet," he said, in his nice, bright way.
Lucky Gerald! we heard him chattering as he went off in Mr. Truro's arms. "You know itisworstest for me, isn't it? for I'm only seven, and it does make my head ache so."
I suppose he had—what is it you call it?—squeams of conscience, is that the word? I must ask Re—oh, how stupid I am! that it was selfish of him to desert us. He always takes refuge in his being the youngest and "only seven," as it wasthen, when he is afraid he is going to be blamed.
But, after all, it was a good deal better in the fly without him. Nurse doesn't think it rude of us to whisper when we are alone with her, so Tib and I could say anything we liked to each other all the way home, without Gerald's rosy round face poking in between us every moment to say, "Whatdid you say, Tib?" "I can't hear, Gussie!"
What we did keep saying to each other was mostly about Mr. Truro. What was he going to fix we should do? Would he "think it over" till he found out we should tell grandpapa at once; and if grandpapa were worried, and said in a hurry we must never go to our palace any more, how horrible it would be!
"I don'tthinkhe will," said Tib. "He's so very understanding. If he could only see the place himself, he would quite understand that we can't get any harm there, or do any mischief."
"Yes," I said, "I wish we could have shown it him. Besides, if he's our cousin, and has heard about 'Reginas,' hemightfind out something about our princess."
But Tib didn't care about this idea.
"I don't want it spoilt," she said; "I've got used to her being just our princess, and to there being a mystery. I don't want to undo it."
It didn't look very like undoing it. We never saw Mr. Truro all that afternoon, and it was one of the longest I ever remember. It cleared up about tea-time, and we went three times round the lawn, on the gravel path, of course, and we saw grandpapa at the drawing-room window, which he had thrown open for some air, as we came in, and he asked us if we had seen Mr. Truro. And when we said no, he turned away, saying, rather crossly, "I wish he'd be quick; I'm sure it's not a very tempting day for a long walk," and Tib and I rather agreed with Gerald that we shouldn't much care to be grandpapa's "Scretchetary."
But late that evening—near bed-time it was—we heard a quick step coming to the schoolroom door.
"May I come in?" said Mr. Truro's voice.
We all jumped up to welcome him, and nurse discreetly retired.
"I can't stay long, dears," he said, "and we are off first thing to-morrow morning. But listen; I don't think you need speak to your grandfather about your discovery just now. Wait till he comes back the next time, a fortnight hence. I shall come with him, and he will not then be nearly so busy. I have satisfied myself that you cannot come to any harm in your palace, and I am sure you will do no mischief there."
"No; andperhapsgrandpapa knew of it—what do you think?—the day he said we might go through the door in the wall if we could. And he only forbade us making friends with people."
"Not with portraits," said Mr. Truro, with a smile. "Well, good-bye, my dear little cousins. I can't tell you how pleased I am to have made friends with you."
He stooped and kissed us all, hurriedly, for we heard doors opening, and a voice in the distance, which we were quite sure was grandpapa's, "Where is Mr. Truro?" and then he was gone, and we didn't see him again the next morning.
It almost seemed like a dream his having been at Rosebuds at all, especially when we again found ourselves in the saloon that afternoon, our dear princess smiling down at us as usual.
"You don't know, princess, what a nice new cousin we have got," we said to her, for we had got into the way of telling her everything that interested us; "I'm sure you'd like him, and I'm sure he'd likeyou," Tib went on, and we really could have fancied the sweet, proud face gave a little amused smile. "I think he was very sorry not to come to see you, but perhaps he will the next time he's here."
Then we went on with some of our usual plays, and we were as happy as could be. It seemed somehow a good long while since we had been in the palace, though in reality it was only three days, and we were tempted to stay a little later than usual. But just as we were thinking we must go, a rather queer thing happened. You remember my telling you that the other door of the saloon, the real big door, which must have been the regular way of coming into the room from the rest of the house—if there was a house—I don't think we had really ever thought seriously if there was a house, or if the saloon was a sort of pavilion in a garden all by itself—well, this door was locked, firmly locked; we had tried it two or three times, but it was quite fast. Not stuck or stiff, or anything like that, but quite locked. But this day, just as we were coming away, we heard a little, very little, faint squeak, like some one trying to open or shut a door very, very softly, and looking at the big heavy gilt handles—it was a double door, with two sets of handles and all that, you understand—we distinctly saw one of them turn, and then all was quiet and motionless again.
We looked at each other, and then we all darted forward—I think itwasrather brave of us—and seizedthehandle. It turned certainly, easily enough, as door handles generally do, but that was all. The door didn't open; it was as firmly fastened as before.
"If we hadn'tallseen it," said Tib, "I should have thought it was fancy."
But we were satisfied that it wasn't.
"Whoever turned the handle must have locked the door again on the other side as quick as thought," I said. "They must have been peeping in at us without our hearing, and then when they heard the squeak the handle made as they were closing the door again, they must have quietly locked it, expecting us to come to see who was there. I wonder who it was!"
We all wondered, but in vain.
"Itmayhave only been the person who comes in to dust," said Tib; "there must be such a person, unless the princess herself comes out of her frame in the night to do it. Only if it were that person, most likely she'd have come in and asked us who we were, and what business we had there; it's very queer."
We decided when we went home that the next day we should make our way in as quietly as we possibly could, so that if any one were there, they shouldn't hear us in time to run away.
"And we'll sit quite still all the afternoon," said Gerald; "we won't make the least bit of noise, so that they'll think we're not there, and then they'll come straight in."
"They must have known we were there to-day; it's not likely they'll come straight in if they don't want us to see them," said Tib. "I can't make it out; whoever they are, they've more right there than we have. I think the only way is to take our books to-day and sit quietly reading; and we had better hide ourselves as much as we can, so that we shouldn't be seen all at once."
"Aren't you at all frightened?" said Gerald. "S'pose it was some kind of robbers?"
"Nonsense," said I. "Mr. Truro said he was satisfied we couldn't come to any harm there: I believe what he said. I'm not going to be frightened—are you Tib?"
"N—no. I don't think so," she replied, rather doubtfully. "Any way, I shouldn't at all like never to go there again."
But we all three did feel very excited the next afternoon, and I think all our hearts were beating a good deal faster than usual as we noiselessly made our way out of the conservatory and along the passage now so familiar to us, through the little anteroom, and then, as quietly as possible, opened the door into the saloon. And then—
You know, I dare say—big people must know all about these things better than children—howveryquickly thoughts, or feelings, or something not exactly either—since I wrote that, a big person has told me that the word that best says what I mean isimpressions: I am not sure that it says it to me; but that is, perhaps, because I have never thought of the word in that way before—You must know howveryquickly one seems to know a thing sometimes, before there could have been time, even, to get to know it by any regular way of hearing or seeing. Well, that was how it was with us that day. The very instant the door opened we knew there was something different in the room—it seemed warmer, more alive, there was more feeling in it; and yet it was darker than we had ever seen it before—at least, that end of the room where our princess was had got into the shade somehow.Herface was not the first thing that caught our eyes, as it usually was; orwasit her face?