"'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.
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 the old 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 so extra pouring 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, and she said 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 could she know he was coming before we knew it ourselves, even? Gussie, it's not me that's too fanciful nowadays," said Tib. "Of course, on our side, 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 it might be 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 again inside, 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, just for fear of 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't he, perhaps, be able to get your grandpapa to let you come?"
"Perhaps," we said. But it was only "perhaps.”
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Then as we weren't much in the humour for games, |
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 you can come 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 that you could come, and to-day you didn't seem surprised that perhaps we can't come. Regina, tell me, did you know grandpapa was coming before we did? Are you 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'm only 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 "old house" 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—it is ill-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 snub me now.
"The portrait of that lady," 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 the look of 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 a feeling that 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 it after locking 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.
"What is the matter?" said Tib.
"What are you 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. "They are so 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. "There can't be anything the matter with the key."
She seized the stick—it was a 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 stick did turn, "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 had broken, 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! what shall we 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 was nothing to 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 there was another 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. If possibly she 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.
