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"Give a little love to a child, and you get a great deal back."—Ruskin. |
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t was very funny, after all poor Tib's great preparations, when she really saw grandpapa that she seemed as if she could say nothing. I had already run forward, and quite without thinking of pleasing him, or of anything except that I was awfully glad he was there, because I was so tired of sitting still and squabbling, I called out quite loudly—
"Oh, grandpapa, I am so glad you've come!"
He was just getting down from the dog-cart—he had had it and a horse and groom sent down to Rosebuds to be ready for taking him to and from the station; the old one-horse fly wouldn't have suited grandpapa, I can assure you!—and when he heard me he turned round with quite a nice, not the least "making-fun-of-you," smile on his face. I don't think I had ever before seen his face look so nice. "Are you really glad I have come, Gussie? I'm sure I feel very flattered."
I felt both pleased and vexed. I did so wish I could have let him go on thinking I meant it that way, and I felt myself getting very red as I blurted out—
"Yes, grandpapa, I am—we are all glad you've come. But I meant, perhaps, partly that we've been dressed and waiting for you such a time, and we were all getting rather cross."
A slight look of disappointment—it was really disappointment, and it made me feel still more sorry—crossed grandpapa's face at my words. Then he smiled again, but this time I was sorry to see there was a little of the old smile in it.
"You are candid, at least, my dear granddaughter. Ah, well! we must take the goods the gods send us, and not expect impossibilities, I suppose! And that any one should be glad to see me, in the ordinary acceptation of the words, comes within that category, naturally."
He used such long words, he puzzled me. (I must tell you that I have been helped here and there to write things that grandpapa said by some one who knows quite well his sort of way, otherwise I couldn't have got it quite right, though I remember it all in my own way.) I looked up and said, "Grandpapa, I don't understand you."
Then his face grew nicer again, and he stooped down to kiss us in his usual way, saying to me as he did so, "Never mind; such understanding comes soon enough."
And Tib, who, I suppose, had been gathering courage all this time, then looked up, and said very prettily—Tib is very pretty, you know, and that makes what she says pretty too, I think—
"Grandpapa, perhaps we could understand some things—nice things—better than you think. We do understand that you're very good to us—it was very good of you to let us come here. We are so happy!"
Grandpapa put his hand under Tib's chin, and raised her face so that he could see straight into her blue eyes.
"Has any one been putting that into your head, Mercedes?" he said, almost sternly. "The truth, now, child—for Heaven's sake let me see if you are true! Can she be with those eyes—those very same eyes?" he added to himself, so low that no one but I—for I have dreadfully quick ears—heard it. Tib didn't; she told me so afterwards, but that was perhaps because she was thinking so what she should answer. But she looked up fearlessly, and she didn't get red.
"Mrs. Munt has been speaking to us very nicely, grandpapa," she said. "But she didn't tell me to say anything to you—oh no, grandpapa. All she did was to make us think perhaps better than we have ever done before how very good you are to us;" and then, with the last words Tib's courage began to go away, and the tears came welling up into her eyes.
Grandpapa looked at her still for a minute, and then he said quietly—
"What I do is no more than you have a right to. Still, at your age the less thought about rights—and wrongs too—the better, no doubt. And so you are happy here?"
"Very," we all replied, heartily. And then Gerald—oh, that tiresome boy!—must needs add—
"And it is so nice without Miss Evans!"
Grandpapa laughed at this, really laughed; but Tib and I could have pinched Gerald. For, alas! grandpapa added—
"That's right—not to have let me forget about finding a new Miss Evans;" and if he saw—which I don't know—Tib's and my faces when he said that, he must have been satisfied that we could look what we felt very candidly.
Grandpapa only stayed two days; but his visit was really much nicer than we had fancied it would be. He took us to church on Sunday himself. But, rather to our disappointment, not to the pretty old church we had passed on first entering the village, but to one at least three miles off, which was not at all pretty nor interesting. There was nobody at all there except very stupid-looking, poor country people, and the sermon was very long, and the clergyman very dull and stupid himself. To be sure, the driving there and back in the dog-cart a little made up for it; but still, we were very vexed when grandpapa said we were to come to this church every Sunday, if it was fine, in the dog-cart, Tib in front beside Reeves the groom, and me behind with nurse, and Gerald stuck in beside Tib; and if it was rainy, in the old fly from the inn in the village.
We heard grandpapa giving these orders to Reeves on the way home.
"Oh, grandpapa!" I said—I was sitting on the back seat, so I felt more courageous, I suppose—"must we go every Sunday to that stupid little church? I'm sure the one in the village is much nicer."
"Have you been there?" said grandpapa, very sharply.
"No, grandpapa," I replied; "we've not been anywhere at all in the village. But we saw the church the day we came."
"Then you cannot possibly know anything about it; and if you were even capable of having an opinion, it would not make the slightest difference to mine," he said, in his very horridest cold way.
But he got nicer again after a bit. He even took us a little walk with him in the afternoon, round a very pretty way, going away down the lane into which the gate of Rosebuds opens, and into some woods and copsey sort of places that were awfully nice. Grandpapa was very quiet, and didn't speak much; but he wasn't sharp or catching up. Once or twice he stood still, and looked about him with an expression on his face I had never seen there before, and he said to us—
"I remember these woods—every tree in them, I believe—as long as I remember myself;" and then he gave a little sigh.
"Do you really, grandpapa?" we said. "Won't you tell us a little about when you were a little boy?"
"Can you remember so long ago? Was it as much as a hundred years ago?" asked Gerald, opening his mouth very wide.
"Not quite so long—but too long ago to tell you stories about," he replied, and then he walked on without speaking.
Grandpapa had taken us an in-and-out sort of way—we hadn't exactly noticed where we were going, and we were surprised to find ourselves suddenly quite near home again. We had come up another lane, on the other side of Rosebuds, as it were; this lane was skirted by a high stone wall, a wall that looked something like the one that bordered our "tangle."
"Is inside there our garden, then?" asked Tib, for grandpapa had just said to us we were close to home.
"No," said grandpapa, but without looking in the direction she pointed, "that is not the Rosebuds' garden yet."
"Then what's behind there, please?" said Gerald, in his slow way. I didn't expect grandpapa to take the trouble of answering him, but he did.
"There is another garden behind there," he replied, "the garden of another house, that is to say. But it is a house that has been uninhabited for a great number of years—the garden must be a perfect wilderness by now—the place is going to be sold immediately, and the house pulled down most likely, or else turned into a mere farmhouse—the owner of the farm over there," and he pointed over our heads, "wants to buy it. So much the better."
There was a sort of dreaminess in the way grandpapa spoke, as if his thoughts were looking back somehow far beyond his words.
"May we play in that garden if there's nobody there?" asked Gerald.
"Why should you want to play there?" said grandpapa. "It does not belong to me."
"And I'm sure we couldn't have a nicer garden than our own, and it's very big too," said I.
"We may go anywhere we like in our garden, mayn't we?" said Gerald.
"Yes," said grandpapa.
"And if we could get through the door in the wall, we might, mightn't we?" Gerald continued in his slow, drawly way. He speaks better now, but then he had a way of going on once he began, all in the same tone so that you really hardly noticed that he was talking. I have thought since that grandpapa didn't in the least know what he was consenting to, when for the second time he replied "yes."
Gerald would have gone on, no doubt, but Tib interrupted him.
"Does that door lead into a tool-house, grandpapa?" she said. Her voice was soft and gentle. It was only I that had a quick, sharp way of speaking.
"A tool-house?" repeated grandpapa, "oh, yes, I fancy so." He must have thought that Tib was asking him if there was a tool-house in the garden.
"Oh," she said in a rather disappointed tone. There wasn't much mystery about a tool-house!
Just then the lane stopped, and we came out on a path bordered by a field on one side, and on the other by a wall which was that of our own garden. Very near the foot-path in the field lay two or three ponds or pools of water close together, and on one of them floated some large leaves looking like water-lily leaves, with some bushy high-growing green among them. Tib darted forward.
"Oh, look, Gussie," she said, "there'll be the most lovely water forget-me-nots here in the summer, and—" But she stopped short in a fright, for grandpapa had caught her by the arm and was pulling her back.
"Child, take care," he said sharply, "another minute, and you would have been in the water. The edge is as slippery as glass. If the field were mine, I would soon have these pits filled in," he went on, looking round as if he wished there were some one at hand to give the order to on the spot.
"But they are such little pools, grandpapa, they don't take up much room," I objected, "and if there were water-lilies, and forget-me-nots there in the summer, it would be a dreadful pity to take them away."
"And when the lilies and forget-me-nots come out, what is more likely than that you or Mercedes should be stretching over to get them and fall in," said grandpapa.
"But if we did it wouldn't hurt us," said I. "If Tib fell in, I would pull her out, and if I fell in, she would pull me out."
"And if both Tib and Gussie fell in I would pull them both out," said Gerald, feeling, I suppose, that he had been left rather out in the cold.
Grandpapa, who had been poking at the back of the pit with his stick, turned sharp round upon us. "Children," he said, "listen to me. If one of you, or two of you, or all of you fell into one of those ponds, you would be drowned—as certainly as that I am standing here, you would be drowned. They are very, very deep—there would be no chance of saving you, far less than in a larger piece of water, even if it were as deep. I cannot have the pits filled up nor railed round, for the place does not belong to me, and I cannot ask anything of the person it does belong to. All I can do is to make you promise—to make you give your word of honour, if you know what that means—that you will never come here alone, and never try to reach flowers; if you come this way with nurse, you must pass by as quickly as possible. Now, do you hear? Do you quite understand? Have I your promise?"
We all stood still, looking and feeling rather frightened.
"Do you promise?" repeated grandpapa.
"Yes, grandpapa," we all said together, "we do promise."
"That's right," he said, and then we all walked on in silence. Grandpapa's earnestness had impressed us. I think the same thought was in all our minds: "He must love us, after all, or he would not be so afraid of our being drowned." I don't think we had ever felt ourselves of so much consequence before.
"Was ever anybody drowned in those pools, please, grandpapa?" I ventured to ask.
"Not that I know of," he said; "but two or three cows have been drowned there. The place is exceedingly dangerous—it is a shame to leave it so. I shall speak to Farmer Blake about it when he comes into possession."
Then we went in to tea, and early the next morning grandpapa went back to London.
But oh! I am forgetting—before he went he told us another thing. Our holidays were over already. He had found us another Miss Evans! No; I am joking. It was not quite so bad as that. He couldn't find another Miss Evans, so he had had to make another plan. We were to have a tutor instead of a governess; and I don't think we were sorry to hear it. The tutor was a young man living in the town, two stations from our station, and he was to come every morning, except Saturday, for two hours. That wasn't so bad, was it? He wasn't to come before half-past ten, so we could have an hour and a half's play in our dear garden before he came, and all the afternoons to ourselves; for we were quite sure we could do all the preparing of our lessons in the evening, and grandpapa had always been very sensible about not wanting us to have too many lessons to do.
It turned out very well. Mr. Markham began to come that very week, but he was really very nice, and he didn't give us too much to do, though what he did give was pretty hard, for he would have it done very well. Only when we did try he was pleased, and told us so. But of course we did not see very much of him, as he was very busy at his home, and he had to leave as soon as ever lessons were over, to get back in time.
We went on with our fancy play in the tangle. In the mornings it was hardly worth while beginning it, for if you have ever played at that sort of game you will know that it needs a comfortable feeling of plenty of time before you can get into it properly. We should have liked to dress up a little for it, but nurse wouldn't let us do so till the weather was warmer, and we were obliged to promise her never to take off our hats and jackets in the garden for fear of catching cold. We were more in danger of "catching hot," Gerald told her, for we really worked pretty hard, particularly at getting the summer-house into order. We got some nails and a hammer from Mrs. Munt, and hammered the broken seats together again; we fastened on the door rather cleverly by making hinges of an old leather belt of Gerald's, and we put up one or two shelves on the walls, as we called them, on which the princess, or heiress—we called her sometimes one, and sometimes the other—could keep her tea-cups and saucers in her tower. These tea-cups and saucers were the remains of an old toy set, which Mrs. Munt had found and given us to play with—no doubt, Tib and I said to each other, the "young ladies" had played with them long ago!
Then we "carted" heaps of dry leaves from one corner, where they were really dry and not sodden, to make a bed for her. This carting was an uncertain sort of business, for we had to be content with Gerald's wheelbarrow, which was painfully low and little, except when we could get hold of the gardener's standing about. And his was, on the contrary, disagreeably heavy and big. But at last, one fine afternoon we came to an end of our labours, and stood surveying them with considerable satisfaction.
"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."
"A walk in 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. "I can't sit 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 fits pairfittly," 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 it was the 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.