AT The Pines, during Pet’s absence, the summer days passed swiftly and joyously; joyously at least for all but one of the party. Tom was no longer the bright, merry, mischievous Tom of old. He joined in the sports and rambles of the others, it is true, but with a sober face and lagging step quite unnatural for him; and he was often away from the house, alone. As these strange ways grew more marked, Randolph tried to get at the source of the boy’s trouble. But Tom shrugged his cousin’s arm off from his shoulders where it had been affectionately laid, and told him gruffly to “let a fellow alone—nothing was the matter!”
It was almost time for Pet to return. The young people had arranged to ride over to the railroad and meet her, with Ruel and the big wagon. They had received a letter from her, telling a little about her experience at the fire, and they were extremely anxious to hear the whole story, and to see little Bridget, the heroine of the occasion. Mr. Waldron, with his great, kindly heart, had given Miss Augusta all the aid she asked, and more; so there was no obstacle in the way of Bridget’s coming, unless it were aunt Puss. And the idea of aunt Puss being an obstacle—!
On the day before, Kittie and the captain had planned to go into the woods and gather oak leaves for trimming, to decorate Pet’s room. What was their dismay, on waking that morning, to hear the rain pouring steadily on the shingles over their heads.
“Now we can’t get any leaves!” exclaimed Bess sorrowfully, as she stood at the window, looking out at the blurred landscape and the slanting lines of rain between her and the wood-lot. “What ever shall we do, all day?”
“O, I don’t know,” laughed Kittie, giving her sister’s long brown hair a toss up backward and down over her eyes. “Uncle Percival will think of something nice, I guess. And I’m glad the storm didn’t come to-morrow, anyway!”
“Perhaps it will.”
“Perhaps it won’t!” Kittie’s face and voice were full of sunshine.
“That’s right, Kittlin’,” said aunt Puss, coming in at that moment, and kissing the girls. “That’s right, dear, always look on the bright side; and if you can’t find it in to-day, borrow it from to-morrow. The Bible doesn’t anywhere say, ‘sufficient unto the day is the good thereof.’”
“Please, ma’am,” said Kittie, returning the kiss affectionately, “what did you call me?”
“It’s the old Scotch form of ‘kitten,’” said aunt Puss, smiling. “I first came across it in George MacDonald’s story of Alec Forbes—which you both must read before you’re much older.”
The sunshine from Kittie’s face began to rest on Bess, and to shine back a little.
“That’s what Kit always does, auntie,” she declared; “looks on the bright side. When anybody’s sick at our house, and there’s no particular change, she always says to people that inquire, ‘No worse, thank you!’ instead of ‘No better,’ the way some folks do.”
At the kitchen table, the subject was started up again, and Randolph volunteered one of the little rhymes his brother had written. It was as follows:
THE WEST WINDOW.
DANDELION.
A dandelion in a meadow grew
Among the waving grass and cowslips yellow;
Dining on sunshine, breakfasting on dew,
He was a right contented little fellow.
Each morn his golden head he lifted straight
To catch the first sweet breath of coming day;
Each evening closed his sleepy eyes, to wait
Until the long, dark night should pass away.
One afternoon, in sad, unquiet mood,
I passed beside this tiny, bright-faced flower,
And begged that he would tell me, if he could,
The secret of his joy through sun and shower.
He looked at me with open eyes, and said:
“I know the sun is somewhere shining clear,
And when I cannot see him overhead,
I try to be a little sun, right here!”
When the applause had ceased, and the talk had drifted in other directions, Mr. Percival looked around the circle and with a twinkle in his eye proposed that after breakfast the young people should make him a visit in his den.
“And we’ll have a rag fire,” he added soberly.
“A rag fire?”
“Yes. In the summer time I rarely burn anything but rags in the den.”
Now this “Den” was a most mysterious locality, which they had often heard alluded to, but where little company was admitted. Mr. Percival, I should add, was, as you may have guessed from aunt Puss’ remarks about the “kittlin’,” a most earnest reader and lover of George MacDonald’s books, which perhaps accounts for the curious arrangement I am about to describe.
“Are we to put on our wraps, Uncle?” asked Kittie, in some doubt whether the Den was out-of-doors. “O, I wish Pet was here!”
“Pet shall come too, the very first rainy day. No; you’ll need no wraps, dear. Only follow me softly, and don’t speak aloud!” And his eyes twinkled again as he led the way out of the kitchen, and toward the front part of the house.
I have already, in the former volume of this series, partly described this old “mansion-house” which the Percivals had occupied for generations. The earliest of the family, Sir Richard Percyvalle, came over from the north of England in 1690 or thereabouts. Half a Scotchman, he brought with him alike the love of wild country, and of the ancient castles and baronial halls so dear to the Englishman. This “mansion-house,” as it was called throughout the county, situated in the heart of a pine forest, near rugged hills and dancing brooks, was the result. And here some branch of the Percival stock had lived contentedly ever since, respected and loved by their few neighbors; some, indeed, finding their way to the great cities and universities and even back across the Atlantic, in pursuit of their education and professional studies; but at least one manly representative of the family always inhabiting the old house, which stood as stanchly as ever against the blasts of the North Wind and the rigors of the New England winter. It had all sorts of wings, ells and additions built on, extending the original structure as the occupant’s whims or needs demanded. The portion in actual use by the family throughout the year was but a small fraction of the whole house.
The injunction not to speak aloud considerably increased the fun as well as the awe of the occasion, as Randolph, with his cousins, followed their uncle in a dumb but not altogether silent row.
Leaving the kitchen, they crossed a narrow passage-way leading into the sitting-room. Beyond this was a sort of closet or cloak-room, and then the front entry, a cold, cheerless place with a green fan-light over the door which was now entirely disused.
“Here the carriages used to drive up in ancient days,” said Mr. Percival, “the postilions cracking their whips and the clumsy wheels lumbering heavily over the driveway. Then elegant ladies would alight, and passing through the open door ascend that staircase, their long gowns, stiff with silk and brocade, trailing behind them. Hark! Do you hear them rustling past us and up the stairs?”
The girls listened, partly for the fun of the thing, and partly because of the impressiveness of their uncle’s manner. The rain beat drearily upon the door, and long, hanging vines brushed against it on the outside. Within, it was so dark that they could scarcely distinguish the staircase.
On they went again, up the very stairs the bygone beauties had ascended, through two broad chambers whose shutters were closed and nailed tight. Then down again, over a narrow flight of steps, and along a crooked passage, so dark that they had to feel their way.
Kittie laughed nervously, as she clutched Bessie’s hand.
“Did you ever see anything like it!” she whispered. “I feel exactly as if I were in a story.”
“I wish we’d stayed in the kitchen,” said Tom. “What’s the good of coming into this dark hole? I’m going back.” And in spite of the remonstrances of the others, he turned and retraced his steps.
The sound of his footfalls, echoing down the passage, made the place drearier than ever.
“Hush!” said Mr. Percival, out of the darkness. “Listen!”
They paused and strained their ears to catch a sound above that of the storm, whose dull roar beat indistinctly, like ocean waves, on the gables overhead.
“I hear something!” exclaimed Randolph under his breath, entering fully into the spirit of the adventure.
“So do I!” said both girls at once. “It’s a kind of creaking, snapping noise!”
“Here,” added Mr. Percival solemnly, throwing open a door they had not before perceived, “is the entrance to the Den.”
The room into which they now emerged from the narrow entry was apparently once intended for a dining-hall, though the young people had never before known of even its existence. It was of oblong shape, and had at one end a huge fireplace. The windows were heavily shuttered; the air was damp and musty. In the dim light they could make out clusters of old-fashioned candelabra, projecting here and there from the walls like spectral arms.
“Come on!” said Mr. Percival, advancing toward the end of the shadowy room. To the surprise of all three, he walked straight into the fireplace, stooping but slightly to avoid the mantel. The rest followed him, wondering. The snapping noise was now louder than ever. Outside, the wind moaned drearily.
Mr. Percival now turned sharply to the left and pressed with the flat of his hand against a projecting brick upon that side of the fireplace.
What was the utter amazement of Randolph and the girls, as they crowded up to discover what he was about, to see—not a brick wall where had been one a moment before, but mere black space.
“Come on!” said their uncle again, stepping into the opening.
Randolph went in after him, and the girls next, not without their misgivings.
“It’s exactly like a dream!”
“Or the Arabian Nights. Pinch me, Bess, to see if I’m asleep!”
As soon as they found themselves in the new passage, they heard the wall close behind them. Half a dozen steps further, and—
“This is my Den!” said Mr. Percival.
The girls rubbed their eyes, and stared silently. This is what they saw:
A small room, perhaps ten feet square. One window, with a deep casement, making a window-seat at least two feet wide. A warm-tinted carpet on the floor, where three Maltese kittens tumbled over each other in solemn play; walls lined with books from floor to ceiling; an open fire of twigs and stiff birch bark, blazing cheerily in a wee fireplace—and in front of it, rocking serenely to and fro with her knitting, aunt Puss! She looked up with her pleasant smile as the young people entered.
“He gave you a good surprise this time, dears, didn’t he?”
“I never saw anything like it!” they exclaimed in a breath. “How in the world did you get here, ma’am?”
Mrs. Percival looked at her husband, who took his seat in the large, old-fashioned arm-chair which played an important part during the “Pine Cone stories” in the winter; at the same time motioning to the others to lie down on a bear-skin rug, before the fire. It must be borne in mind that in Northern Maine it is cool enough for fires, on stormy days, throughout the year.
“I suppose,” he began, “it’s of no use making a mystery of it any longer. The fact is, you are in a chimney at this minute. Look!”
He pointed to the ceiling, which they now noticed was of some dark wood. In the centre, or nearly so, was an opening, about eighteen inches square and cased in the same wood, through which they could see the sky. The opening was covered at the top, far above the level of the ceiling, by a dull, glazed window, which could be raised or closed from below by means of strong cords.
“But what—what has become of the fire and the bricks, and all that, sir?”
“I’ll tell you,” said uncle Will, stooping to pick up two of the kittens in one hand. “In old times, when my great-grandfather lived here, there was always danger of attack of some kind. The woods were full of Indians, though most of them hereabout were friendly, and there was a large Indian village on the shores of the pond, where the old gentleman and his family were held in equal love and respect. However, roving bands were likely to turn up at any time, with tomahawk and scalping-knife. Then there were privateering squads of outlaw French and Canadians, who made raids on the frontier; and as we were always stanch Whigs, the family was not safe even from the English, the royalist partisans having suspicions of a spy in this locality.”
“I thought ‘Whigs’ were the government party in England,” put in Randolph.
“So they are, to-day; but in the old Revolutionary times the Tories were for the king, and the Whigs for independence. Well, for all these reasons, it was thought best to have some secret hiding-place and way of escape, in case of need. Where we are now, stood a huge chimney, some eight feet square, supported on stone-and-brick arches in the cellar. Around this chimney, as a precaution against fire, was left a space of two or three feet between the bricks and the wall of the house on that side where you see my little window. A sliding door was constructed in the side of the dining-hall fireplace, by which one could enter this space, and from that a trap-door opened upon a rough staircase, into the cellar under the masonry.”
“It doesn’t seem possible that such things can really be, right here in Maine!” exclaimed Bess. “It’s like stories.”
“If they can really be—as they are—in thousands of ancient dwellings in Europe and the East, why not in America, where the dangers were quite as terrible? Besides, dear, you will find out some day that the real life of people going on everywhere around you is much more strange than any story-book you ever read.”
“But please, wouldn’t one starve or smother in that place down cellar?”
“From the narrow space under the arches, I am told there led a long, underground passage-way, which came to the surface within a quarter of a mile of the house. I always fancied it was in the pasture, but never could find it. This end was tightly closed up—if indeed the whole passage-way was not an empty tale—years before I was born.”
“And what has become of the chimney?”
“It was taken out as useless and unsafe, when I was a boy. A few years ago it occurred to me to wall in and fit up the space as a little study. The ordinary entrance is from the sitting-room closet, only ten feet from where you sit now. That is the way your aunt Puss came in.”
The girls gave a relieved laugh as the vague terrors of the winding and shadowy halls melted.
“It’s as cosey as it can be,” said Kittie, stroking one of her namesakes, and glancing over the books, the writing desk in one corner, and the dancing flames.
“But the rags, the rags!” cried Bess. “You said you only burned rags, Uncle. Now I’ve caught you!”
“Randolph,” remarked Mr. Percival, without directly answering her question, “will you please hand me that small book on the third shelf behind you—no, the next—that’s it.”
He ran the leaves over rapidly, and handed the book back, open, to the boy. “Please read that verse. The writer, who you will see is Mr. Trowbridge, is supposed to be searching the woods for a bird whose song he has just heard.”
Randolph turned his back a little to the fire, as he lay on the bear-skin, and read as follows:
Long-drawn and clear its closes were—
As if the hand of Music through
The sombre robe of silence drew
A thread of golden gossamer;
So pure a flute the fairy blew.
Like beggared princes of the wood,
In silver rags the birches stood;
The hemlocks, lordly counselors,
Were dumb; the sturdy servitors,
In beechen jackets patched and gray,
Seemed waiting spell-bound all the day
That low, entrancing note to hear,—
“Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!”
The reader looked up, and seeing the interested faces of his listeners, begged leave to read two more verses, they were so quaintly lovely:
I quit the search, and sat me down
Beside the brook, irresolute,
And watched a little bird in suit
Of sombre olive, soft and brown,
Perched in the maple branches, mute;
With greenish gold its vest was fringed,
Its tiny cap was ebon tinged,
With ivory pale its wings were barred,
And its dark eyes were tender-starred.
“Dear bird,” I said, “what is thy name?”
And twice the mournful answer came,
So faint and far, and yet so near,—
“Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!”
For so I found my forest bird,—
The pewee of the loneliest woods,
Sole singer in these solitudes,
Which never robin’s whistle stirred,
Where never blue-bird’s plume intrudes.
Quick darting through the dewy morn,
The redstart trilled his twittering horn
And vanished in thick boughs; at even
Like liquid pearls fresh showered from heaven,
The high notes of the lone wood-thrush
Fell on the forest’s holy hush;
But thou all day complainest here,—
“Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!”
“It is lovely!” said Bess.
“There’s one word in it that I don’t like, though,” remarked aunt Puss, making her needles gleam in the firelight as they flew faster than ever.
“I know,” cried Kittie, catching her eye, “it’s ‘complainest’!”
Just then Tom came in, evidently from the guidance of Ruel, outside. His sisters were too much interested in the room and the poem to notice that his clothes were wet, as if he had been in the rain.
“Better come up by the fire, old fellow,” said Randolph, so quietly that the others did not hear. Tom started, but did as his cousin suggested, without a word.
“You are right, dear,” continued aunt Puss, “no bird ever ‘complains’.”
“Oh! but it’s just poetry, you know, Aunt,” said Bess eagerly. “Of course the birds don’t really complain—”
“Good poetry is always true,” said Mr. Percival. “Your aunt seems to me quite right, my girl. The lovely things that our Father has made should not be described as ‘complaining,’ even in fancy. After what is said in the Book, about sparrows, surely no bird ought to complain even of falling to the ground. The real secret of it was, I suspect, that the writer was himself in an unquiet mood, and made the ‘little bird in suit of sombre olive’ sing out his own discontent—as we are very apt to do.”
“But the rags—O, I see, I see, it’s just birch bark hanging on the trunks and boughs of the trees!”
“Let me see,” said uncle Percival, smiling, “whose favorite tree was the white birch, when we were talking around our pine-cone fire last winter?”
“Mine,” said Bess. “But I never thought of the bark as ‘silver rags’; nor of the trees as princes.”
“Why not have a silver-rag story as well as pine-cone stories?” asked Randolph. “We can throw on bits of bark to keep the fire up, just as we did the cones; we only want a little blaze, anyway.”
“I was afraid of it, I was afraid of it!” exclaimed Mr. Percival in mock dismay. “I think I have an engagement in the lower pasture!”
An immediate assault followed, from which the good-natured old man rescued himself at last, breathless and rumpled, on promise of a story. Several broad sheets of birch bark were drawn from a little cupboard beside the fireplace and given to the girls, who tore them into thin, silky strips, to be tossed on the fire during the progress of the story.