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"For this relief, much thanks."—Hamlet. |
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y story is getting rather difficult to manage now. Indeed, I don't quite see how to do. I think, if I had known how long it would be, and what a lot of half-holidays I should have to stay in to write it, I think I would never have begun it. But I won't be laughed at for "beginning, and not ending." And if I get it rather muddley, and can't do it the way authors do who know how to plan stories, and write them so that they seem all to come of themselves, like flowers growing, you good people, whoever you are, that come to read it must forgive me and believe I did my best.
But I can't go on regularly the "I" way now. That is what puzzles me. I have to be, as it were, in three places at once. First of all—we three are all locked up in the old house now—I must tell you what was happening at Rosebuds.
Nurse didn't miss us for a good while; she was busy helping Mrs. Munt, as there was always a good deal of fuss when grandpapa was expected. And just as they were getting things pretty ready, and nurse would have begun seeing about our tea, up comes a man from the telegraph office at Welford with the usual brown envelope and pink paper inside, addressed to Mrs. Munt, to say that grandpapa was coming that evening, would be there about eight o'clock. Immediately, of course, all the bustle and fuss began over again, only twice as bad; for Mrs. Munt had to get a dinner ready all in a hurry, and to send one running this way and another that way for all the things needed. Nurse went with her to the kitchen, calling to Fanny to take up our tea, and see that we got it properly; you can understand that, just thinking of us as at play in the garden, it never occurred to nurse to ask if we were in, or to feel the least anxious. Fanny, on her side, wasn't at all given to being anxious about anything except her own bonnets and caps, so she merely set the tea, and then, "supposing" we were up stairs, and would come down when we heard the bell, off she went to her own room and her bonnets.
But the tea got cold in the teapot, the bread-and-butter was untouched, the honey was at the disposal of all the flies who chose to sip it—we three never came! And when nurse, after helping Mrs. Munt till the two old bodies were satisfied that all would be right, trotted up to the schoolroom to put us in order next, there was no one to be seen! Just at first, I fancy, she was more vexed than frightened.
"Dear, dear!" says I (this is nurse, you understand, telling it over to me afterwards), "where can they be, the naughty children? But I wasn't not to say afraid of anything wrong. I called Fanny, idle girl that she is, and sent her out into the garden to look for you, never doubting but that in two minutes she'd be back with you all."
But when Fanny, after considerably more than two minutes, reappeared with the news that we were nowhere to be seen, then poor nurse was dreadfully upset. She ran to Mrs. Munt, and the two trotted everywhere about the grounds, giving the alarm to the gardener and his boy, who joined them in the search.
It was getting near the time for grandpapa's arrival. The dog-cart had started for the station before our absence had been discovered, and to add to her own great anxiety, nurse had the fear of grandpapa's driving in every moment and demanding what was the matter. It must really have been a terrible evening for both nurse and Mrs. Munt; and as time passed and grandpapa did not come, their fear of his displeasure gave way to the wish that he were there to advise and direct them what to do.
They had exhausted all their energies when at last—about nine o'clock—the dog-cart appeared with him. He had missed the train which stopped at our little station, and had come on by the next—an express, by which he was obliged to get out at Welford. So he had telegraphed to the groom to drive on, and meet him there instead.
Mrs. Munt met him at the door; a moment before, she had been at the gate, but when she heard the dog-cart approaching, she hurried back to the house. Not even her fears of every kind could set aside her ideas of what was proper and respectful.
"God grant Mr. Truro may be with master!" she said to herself, and her heart sank still lower when she saw that grandpapa was alone.
"Good evening, Mrs. Munt," he said, as he got down; "you will have been wondering what has become of me," and then he quickly explained what had happened. But receiving no distinct reply, he looked at her, and saw that she was crying.
"What's the matter?" he said. "Are the children ill?"
"Oh, sir!" she exclaimed, "oh, my dear master, I only wish I knew!" and then she told him of our strange disappearance.
He listened, but for some time he could not believe it was quite as she said.
"They are hiding somewhere to trick you, you may be sure," he said.
"But they'd never keep it up so long, sir," she replied. "Nine o'clock at night—their bedtime, and had nothing to eat since their dinner at one. Oh no, sir—I wish I could think it—but it's not in the nature of children to keep it up so long. And not of those dear children: they'd have come out wherever they were, on hearing poor nurse and me a-praying and a-begging of them to come out."
Grandpapa did not speak, but Mrs. Munt saw that he began to take it seriously. He would not go into the house till every corner of the grounds had again been searched under his own eye. And not the grounds only, but the house; and when at last there was nowhere else to look, and grandpapa had shouted to us in every tone—scolding, appealing, entreating—fancy him entreating—us to give some sign of life, promising not to be angry, never again to be vexed with us whatever we did, if we would but answer: when everywhere had been searched, and everything said and done that could be thought of, poor grandpapa, looking quite old and shaky all of a sudden, sat down by the table in the dining-room, where his dinner was so neatly set out, and buried his face in his hands.
It was terrible, both nurse and the old housekeeper told us—terrible to see the cold, strong man so overcome, and to hear what he murmured to himself.
"All that I had left—all," he said. "My own children, for she was as my daughter to me, and my poor boy—one gone, one to have deceived me. And now, in my old age, these little creatures whom I was learning to love! Is it my fault? Was I too harsh to them? Did I neglect them? Why is it that all belonging to me seem doomed in some way?"
And then he raised his poor white face, and told what he was thinking.
"Munt," he said, abruptly, "I have refused to allow the idea in my mind—but it must be the truth. I have tried not to entertain it, for I knew if it were the case, there was nothing to be done. It is so dreadfully deep——" and he gave a little shudder. "They must have fallen into the pits at the corner of the Old House fields. I had a presentiment of it from their first coming here. Tell the man to fetch the ropes—there must be the right thing in the village, for cows have fallen in before now; those pools must be dragged."
Mrs. Munt gave a little scream. Then she grew quiet again.
"No, sir," she said, "the dear children are too obedient for that. They remembered what you said to them about not going to those pits, and they repeated their promise to nurse only a day or two ago."
Grandpapa looked up with a gleam of hope. But it faded again, and he only repeated the words—
"Those pools must be dragged. Send the men. I can do no more."
Then he half fell back upon his chair, and stayed thus—almost unconscious, Mrs. Munt thinks—while she went away to obey his orders, till——
But now I must take up another end of the story.
The family at the Rectory went early to bed as a rule, even when they had visitors with them. This eventful evening they and their two visitors were just standing about the drawing-room, preparing to say good-night and to light their bed-room candles, when they were startled by a loud violent ringing at the door.
"Dear me," said they all, "what can that be? So late, too; it is past ten."
"Some one ill, and wanting me, possibly," said the rector, and he went out to the hall, where the footman was already at the door, leaving the four ladies—his mother-in-law, and Mrs. Lauriston, his wife, and the two visitors—looking at each other rather startledly. Still, there was no reason to expect anything wrong—all the young Lauristons were upstairs safe in bed their mother remembered with satisfaction.
They heard voices at the door—then the rector came back, looking shocked and troubled.
"I must go out," he said; "a sad, a terribly sad thing is supposed to have happened."
"Where? Any of our people?" exclaimed his wife.
Mr. Lauriston hesitated—he glanced at the two stranger ladies—at the elder one especially—the lady Tib and I had seen from the Rectory gate.
"You must hear it sooner or later," he said; "I'm very sorry to have to tell it. It is at—at Rosebuds—the children there, poor Gerald's children—are missing, and it is feared they have fallen into the pits—near—near your house, Mrs. Mowbray. They have sent to me for the things to drag with." (There was a pond almost big enough to be called a little lake in the Rectory grounds: that was how they had ropes there.)
Mrs. Mowbray gave a scream.
"The children—drowned!" she cried in an agony. "Oh, Edith! oh, William! if it is so, it is my fault. I should not have left these pits to be filled up by Farmer Jackman when he buys the place. The moment I knew the children were at Rosebuds, I should have done it. Oh God! it is too awful, and too cruel—just when I was beginning, faintly beginning, to hope."
She seemed as if she were going to faint. But her daughter, our Regina, our dear fairy, darted from the room, calling out as she did so—
"Wait a moment, dear mamma. Don't be so miserable. It may be a mistake."
She rushed to the hall, where stood the Rectory servants in a group, and Barstow, grandpapa's very spruce, stuck-up London groom, who had come to ask for the ropes, with a very solemn face, but very proud, all the same, to be the centre of information. Regina seized hold of him by the coat collar, I believe; he told nurse afterwards that the young lady shook him, shook him hard, "as if it was all my fault," he said to nurse.
"Leave off chattering and gossiping," she said, for our princess can be very determined when she likes, "and attend to me. Are the children known to be in the pool? Were they seen near there? or heard? or how is it?"
"Oh no, bless you, Miss," said Barstow, shaking himself free rather resentfully. "It's only that they're not to be found nowhere else. They've been out a-playing in the garden, as everybody thought, since two or three o'clock, and they've never come home, and they're nowhere to be found; and my master—Gerald Ansdell, Esq., M.P., if you please, Miss,"—for Regina and all the Rectory folk were perfect strangers to him "my master has got it in his head that the young ladies and Master Gerald is—has—must be drowned, Miss, to speak plain."
Regina dashed back to the drawing-room.
"Mamma darling, it's all right. Mr. Lauriston, Mrs. Lauriston, all of you, help me to explain. I know where the children are—they're locked in, in the Old House—that's all that's wrong—I'm sure of it. It was a little plan of Charles Truro's and mine; we thought if I got to know the dear little things it might lead to something—to a reconciliation. They had found their way there by themselves, and told him about it. But I must go at once to let them out, the poor darlings. And, mamma, mamma, take courage—seize the moment. While I fetch them, you go to Uncle Ansdell and tell him the good news. You may never have such a chance again. Don't you think so, Mr. Lauriston—you who know the whole story—oh, do say you think she should do it?" and Regina wrung her hands in her eagerness.
It took a little cross-questioning to make them understand all; but Regina got her way. Barstow, to keep him quiet, was allowed to go off with the gardener to get the drags, and in less time than you would have thought it possible they all set off—Mr. Lauriston, Regina, and her mother. But at the gate of Rosebuds they separated. Regina hurried on down the lane with the rector, her mother with trembling, shaking steps, went in and made her way up to the porch.
The front door stood open; in the confusion and excitement nobody had thought of closing it.
Grandpapa—poor grandpapa—was sitting as Mrs. Munt had left him when she went off to give orders about dragging the pools. A little noise, the door softly opening and closing again, made him look up. A tall figure, all dressed in black, with a white, sweet, anxious face and blue eyes, like Tib's and grandpapa's own, streaming with tears, stood beside him. He stared at it half stupefied. I think he thought he was dreaming. But it spoke.
"Brother, dear, dear brother, it is I. Do you know me—will you forgive me at last? Oh, dear, dear brother, forgive me."
He gazed at her as if he did not see her.
"I do not know why you have come," he said. "Do you know what has happened? My children—poor Gerald's children—are drowned, all of them. I am quite alone in the world."
"No, no," she cried, "they are not drowned. They will be here in a few minutes. It was that gave me courage to come—to bring you the good news. Gerald, for their sake, for the dear children's sake, won't you at last forgive me and let me help you with them? Oh, I will love them so if you will let me. Brother, say quick before they come—say you will forgive me at last. I have so suffered, I have been punished so long. Brother, say you forgive your poor Queenie."
She half knelt, half sank down beside him—all I am writing is from what Regina has told me, and her mother herself told her—grandpapa stretched out his arms, and she flung herself into them.
"Queenie, my little Queenie," he said, "you have brought me the good news—is it true, quite true?"
Auntie—that is, of course, what she is to us—auntie was almost frightened. He was so gentle, so clinging, and unlike his usual cold decided self. And a sort of terror went through her for a moment, "Suppose it didn't turn out to be true that we were safe."
"I should never forgive myself, never," she thought, "if I have raised his hopes only for them to be dashed again;" and even while she went on repeating that it was true, he would see us directly, she trembled.
But there came a noise—a very slight, distant sound at first—of many voices and steps approaching. Auntie's ears are quick, and that evening they were quicker than usual, even. She heard it ever so far off, long before grandpapa heard anything. And she listened, trembling. Were the voices cheerful?—was it all right?
I have so often heard all the story of that evening—of other people's part of it, I mean—that I seem to be able to see it all for myself as it must have looked to them. I can so picture auntie standing there, scarcely daring to breathe in her anxiety to hear! And the first thing that quite reassured her was Regina's voice speaking in a pitying, petting, yet laughing way to Gerald.
"My poor old man! no one will be vexed with you for crying, for, as you say, you are only seven years old." Of course, in Gerald's troubles he had begun his old cry!
And in another moment the dining-room door opened and a queer-looking group appeared. There was Regina in a shawl thrown over her head, she had not waited to put on her hat; there was Mr. Lauriston and two or three gardeners and people we had gathered on the way—for, of course, we had come round by the proper entrance to the Old House, and had found them all at the pit—and in the middle of the crowd three very dishevelled-looking little figures, with eyes swollen with crying, and now blinking at the sudden light, who rushed forward to grandpapa, calling out all together—
"Oh! dear grandpapa, please forgive us. We didn't mean to disobey you."
And before we knew where we were he had us all in his arms at once, and he was hugging us as he had never hugged us before.
"My children," he said, "my dear little children."
But when he looked up and saw Regina, he really did start.
"Is it——?" he began, and then he looked round at auntie. "It is yourself over again," he said, "it is you, Queenie—as I last saw you."
Fancy that; fancy the years and years that had gone by since they had met! How very, very strange it must have seemed.
But auntie explained who Regina was, and then grandpapa kissed her too, with a curious wistful look in his eyes. And then came hurrying in nurse and Mrs. Munt, whom the good news of our return had just reached, and we were bundled off to bed, where we each had some nice hot stuff to drink, and Regina explained all the queer story to the two old servants, while down stairs grandpapa and auntie were together alone. And all that they had to tell and ask of course we would never expect to hear, but still, we had enough told to us to make all that had puzzled us plain, and to clear away all remains of our family "mystery."
This I will tell you in the next chapter. And I will also explain to you how Regina had come to know of our having found our way into the Old House, the hopes that this had put into her head—hopes which had been more than fulfilled, thanks to the accident with the key, which had so strangely turned to good.