THE PORTRAIT
There were now two things for the three C.’s to look forward to: the
return of Rupert and Lord Andore’s coming-of-age party. The magic of
the waxen man had ended so seriously that no one liked to suggest the
trying of any new spells, though Charlotte still cherished the hope
that it might some day seem possible to try a spell for bringing the
picture to life. There were no directions for such a spell in any of
the books.
‘But,’ she thought, ‘considering all the experience we’ve had, we ought
to be able to invent something.’
But the banishment of Rupert had left a kind of dull blankness which
made it difficult to start new ideas. There was a sort of feeling
like a very wet Sunday when there is some one ill in the house and
you can’t go to church. In Caroline and Charlotte there was a deep
unacknowledged feeling that they ought to be very good in order to
make up for ‘poor Rupert.’ And Charles cared little for anything but
swimming, in which art he was progressing so far that he sometimes
knew, even in the water, which were his arms and which were his legs,
and could at least imagine that he was making the correct movements
with all four.
Uncle Charles was less frequently visible even than at first, though
when he did appear he was more like an uncle and less like a polite
acquaintance. The books the children had discovered had meant a very
great deal to him. He told them so more than once. He went away now,
almost every other day, to London to the British Museum, to Canterbury
to its Library, and once, for two days, to look up some old parchments
in the Bodleian Library, which, as of course you know, meant going to
Oxford. Mr. Penfold was very kind, and the children did quite a lot of
building under his directions, but altogether it was a flattish time.
Then suddenly things began to grow interesting again. What began it was
the visit of a tall gentleman in spectacles. He had a long nose and a
thin face with a slow, pleasant smile. He called when the Uncle was out
and left a card. Caroline heard Harriet explaining that the Master was
out, and rushed after the caller in hospitable eagerness.
‘I’m sure uncle wouldn’t like you to go away without resting,’ she said
breathlessly, when he stopped at the sound of her pattering feet on the
gravel, and she caught up with him, ‘after you’ve come such a long way
and such a hot day, too.’
‘After you’ve brought me out so far and made me trot so quick,’ he
answered. And after that of course one could no longer regard him as a
stranger. Charlotte and Charles, in the meantime, had hastily examined
the gentleman’s card in the Russian bowl on the hall table.
‘Mr. Alfred Appleby,’ it said, and added, as Charlotte said, ‘most of
the alphabet,’ beginning with F.R.S., F.S.A., and this mingled with his
name so that when Caroline privately asked them what was on the card,
they could only think of Mr. Alphabet.
Mr. Appleby accepted Caroline’s invitation and turned back with her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘that I can’t take you straight into the
drawing-room, but if you don’t mind waiting in the dining-room a
minute, I’ll get the drawing-room key and take you in there, only I’m
afraid the dining-room’s rather awful, because we’ve been thinking of
playing Red Indians, and the gum is drying on the scalps on most of
the chairs.’
Mr. Appleby declined the drawing-room at any price, and was able to
tell them several things they did not know about Red Indians, wampum,
moccasins, and war-paint. He was felt to be quite the nicest thing that
had happened since what Caroline and Charlotte in private conversation
always spoke of as ‘that awful image day.’ When Mrs. Wilmington came
in to see what those children were up to, Mr. Appleby won her heart by
addressing her as Mrs. Davenant. ‘Took me for the lady of the house at
once,’ she told Harriet. And Mrs. Wilmington drew Caroline aside and
said:
‘If you’d like to ask the gentleman to lunch, Miss Caroline, please
yourself. There’s fowls, as it happens, and a Paradise pudding, and
peas. Perhaps your uncle would wish it.’
So the gentleman stayed to luncheon, and very good company they found
him. He told the most amusing stories, all new to the hearers. He
carved the fowls in a masterly way and had two goes of pudding. And all
the time he looked with exactly the right admiration and wonder at the
portrait of Dame Eleanour in her ruff, with her strange magic philtres
and her two wonderful books.
‘We found those books, Mr. Alphabet,’ said Charlotte. And then the
whole story had to be told. Mr. Alphabet—for so we may call him now—was
deeply interested, and nodded understandingly as the tale of the
different spells unfolded itself to his intelligent questioning.
‘And do you propose to continue your experiments?’ he asked, when he
had heard the tale of the leopard, the last of the adventures which
_could_ be told, for the affair of the wax man was of course a thing
that could never be disclosed.
‘There’s nothing particular that we want to do a spell about, just
now,’ said Caroline. ‘I did think of trying to do one to get father and
mother home, but it might be very inconvenient to them to leave India
just now. You never know, and we shouldn’t like to work a spell that
would only be a worry to them.’
Mr. Alphabet said, ‘Quite so!’
‘What _I_ keep on wanting to try,’ said Charlotte, ‘is to make _her_
come alive,’ she nodded towards the picture; ‘only there doesn’t
seem to be any spell for that in any of the books. She looks such a
dear, doesn’t she? Suppose she made a spell herself and did something
magic to that picture, so that it should come alive if some one in
nowadays-times got hold of the other end of the spell; you know what I
mean?’
‘Quite so,’ said the visitor; ‘why not?’
‘It wouldn’t be the real her, I suppose?’ said Charlotte, ‘but it might
be like a cinematograph and a phonograph mixed up. I want to see her
move and hear her speak, like she did when she was alive.’
And again the gentleman said, ‘Why not?’
‘If only we could find out the proper spell,’ said Charles. ‘You see,
everything came right that we’ve done, from the fern-seed on. Only we
can’t.’
‘I must think it over,’ said Mr. Alphabet; ‘and now I think as I’ve
stayed so long, I’ll take the liberty of inviting myself to stay till
your uncle returns. I should very much like to see this Wonderful
Garden. And perhaps you’ll permit me to smoke an after-dinner pipe
there?’
The afternoon passed delightfully. Mr. Alphabet was one of those people
with whom you feel comfortable from the first. He understood what you
said, which is one of the two feet on which comfortable companionship
stands; and he said nothing that you could not understand if you really
used your brains, and that is the other foot. He told them the names
of many flowers which had been strangers to them, and he talked of
magic—Indian magic and Chinese magic, the magic of Egypt and of Ceylon,
of Australia and of Mexico; and they listened and longed for more, and
got more to listen to. When, after tea, the Uncle returned, and having
warmly greeted Mr. Alphabet took him away to his study, the children
agreed that their new friend was the ‘right sort,’ and that they hoped
they would see him again often.
‘Once a week, at least,’ said Caroline.
‘Once a day,’ said Charles.
They saw him once again, and once only.
And that was when, he and the Uncle having come out of the study
together, the Uncle went to see William about putting the horse in
to drive Mr. Alphabet to the station, and Mr. Alphabet came into the
dining-room to say good-bye to the children.
‘I’ve been thinking over what you said about Dame Eleanour,’ he said
to Charlotte, ‘and I’ll tell you what. You ask your uncle to allow
you to hang a green curtain over her, frame and all, and then make
garlands of suitable flowers. Then hang the garlands across the picture
and wait. You must never lift the curtain, of course, and the curtain
must be green. And you must wish very much to see her move and to hear
her speak. And I shall be very much surprised if you don’t in—let me
see—in about three weeks. The curtain must be green, mind. Nothing else
will do. Don’t let your housekeeper fob you off with a red moreen or an
old blue damask. Green’s the colour.’
‘And do you really think?’ asked Charlotte with gleaming eyes.
‘Well, with any one else I shouldn’t dare to think anything. But you’ve
been so exceptionally fortunate hitherto, haven’t you? With _you_ I
should think there could be no doubt of success. I don’t say you’ll see
her _here_, mind you. I don’t say how or when you will see her. These
things are among the great mysteries. Perhaps one day when you’re at
breakfast, you’ll see the curtain move slightly, and at first you’ll
think it is the air from the open window, and then you’ll see a bulge
in the green curtain—don’t forget it’s to be green—and then a white
hand will draw it back, and she will come stepping down out of her
frame on to the nearest chair, with her rustling silk petticoat and her
scarlet high-heeled shoes. Perhaps that’s how she’ll come. I only say
“perhaps,” mind. Because, of course, you might meet her in the wood,
or in some scene of gay revelry, or in the Wonderful Garden itself—her
garden, which is kept just as she planted it. There’s an old document
your uncle’s been showing me—she leaves her blessing to the family so
long as the garden’s kept as it was in her time—with a long list of the
flowers and a plan of the garden with the proper places for the flowers
all marked. Did you know that? No? I must get your uncle to show you. I
should think she would be very likely to appear in the garden.’
‘You’re not kidding us?’ Charles asked suddenly.
‘Could you think it of me? No, I see you couldn’t. You try my spell,
and write and tell me how it works. All right, Davenant—coming. Where’s
my hat?—oh, outside, yes—and my umbrella, right. Good-bye, all of you.
Thank you very much for a most delightful day.’
‘Thank you,’ said Caroline, and they all said, ‘Good-bye, and come
again soon!’
‘Don’t forget green!’ were this amiable gentleman’s parting words as
he climbed into the dogcart beside William and waved a cheery farewell
with his umbrella to the party at the front door (at the side).
Uncle Charles, when the matter was laid before him, raised no objection
to the curtaining of the picture. He even drove with them to
Maidstone and bought a special curtain for the purpose, soft, wide,
green woollen stuff it was, very soft, very wide, very green. Mrs.
Wilmington hemmed the curtain, and the Uncle himself, tottering on the
housemaid’s steps, hung the curtain in place.
[Illustration: ‘Take your last look,’ he said.]
‘Take your last look,’ he said, coming down the steps and holding the
green curtain aside so that Dame Eleanour looked out of the dusk of the
curtain almost as if she were alive. ‘Take a good look at her, so that
you will know her again if you do see her.’
‘“If”?’ said Charlotte.
‘I mean when,’ said the Uncle, letting the long straight folds of the
curtain fall into place.
The question of garlands now occupied all thoughts, even those of the
Uncle’s.
‘Arbor vitæ,’ said he, ‘means tree of life.’
‘Then we’ll have that,’ said Caroline, ‘especially as it means
“unchanging friendship,” too.’ She thought of Rupert. ‘I hope Rupert’s
back before she appears,’ she added; ‘_that_ would make him believe in
magic, wouldn’t it?’
The Uncle, for the first time, was introduced to the _Language Of_, and
he seemed much struck by the literary style of that remarkable work.
‘“Never did the florographist select from cunning Nature’s wonderous
field a more appropriate interpreter of man’s innermost passions than
when he chose the arbor vitæ to formulate the significance, ‘Live for
me.’” I was not aware that human beings _could_ write like that,’
he said, ‘and I thought you said arbor vitæ meant something quite
different.’
‘They often do,’ said Caroline. ‘We used to think the book didn’t know
its own mind, but we think now it put in new meanings when it found
them out. It’s rather confusing at first. But “live for me” is fine.
It’s just what we want the picture to do, isn’t it? What else?’
‘I leave it to you,’ said the Uncle, laying down the book. ‘Your
author’s style is too attractive. I could waste all the rest of the
daylight on him. Farewell. If I can be of any assistance in hanging the
garlands, let me know.’
They thanked him warmly and hesitated. Then Charles said, ‘It was us
that she was to come alive to, so I expect it had better be us to hang
the garlands.’
‘We,’ said the Uncle gently, ‘not us.’
‘But I meant us,’ said Charles. ‘Not we with you in it.’
‘I was trying to correct your grammar, not your statement,’ said the
Uncle; ‘but never mind. Good-bye.’
Nobody was quite sure what a garland was, because in books people
sometimes wore garlands on their heads, when of course they would be
wreaths, and sometimes twined them round pillars, in which case they
would be like Christmas decorations.
‘We had better have both kinds,’ said Caroline, ‘to be quite sure.’
On a foundation of twigs of the arbor vitæ, twined round with Jaeger
wool originally bought for Caroline to knit a vest for her Aunt
Emmeline (‘but I know I shall never finish it,’ she said), symbolic
flowers were tied, some in circlets or wreaths, others on long straight
lengths. ‘Rye grass which means “a changeable disposition,”’ was
suggested by Charlotte, ‘because we do want her to change: from paint
to alive,’ she said; ‘and pink verbena means “family reunion,” and she
is a relation, after all. Besides pink’s such a pretty colour.’
Caroline ascertained that yew meant life; but Charles was considered to
have made the hit of the afternoon by his discovery that Jacob’s ladder
meant ‘come down,’ which was, of course, exactly what they wanted the
lady to do.
The gardener knew what Jacob’s ladder was, though the children did
not; and their fear that it might be a dull shrub with invisible
flowers was dispelled when they beheld its blue brightness.
‘We ought to wear coronilla ourselves,’ said Caroline—‘a new piece
every day. It means “success attend your wishes.”’ But the gardener
had not heard of coronilla. ‘The book says it’s “a flowering shrub
of the pea family,”’ Caroline read from the _Language Of_, which,
as usual, she had been carrying under her arm, ‘“with small pinnate
leaves”—whatever they are. “An elegant bush with reddish-brown blossoms
when first expanded, varying to yellow at a later period of their
graceful existence.”’
‘Oh, that!’ said the gardener, ‘that’ll be scorpion’s senna. That’s
what that be. Something to do with the shape of the stars in the sky.
Old women sells it for a charm for shy sweethearts.’
‘In our book it says, “Success crown your wishes.”’
‘Just so,’ said the gardener, ‘and she names the day. That’s it, along
there.’
The garlands looked very handsome and the wreaths very beautiful. It
was Caroline who made this distinction. And their dark foliage and the
bright pink and blue and yellow of their flowers showed charmingly
against the green curtain.
‘And now,’ said Caroline, ‘we’ve just got to wait, and Charlotte and
I must stick to our glove and handkerchief cases if they’re going to
be ready to go in time for mother’s birthday. And, Charles, if I were
you, I should get Mr. Penfold to show you chip-carving like he offered
to, and do a box for her. And we mustn’t forget that we’re not to look
behind the curtain.’
‘I shan’t forget that,’ said Charlotte. ‘What I should like to forget’s
my head. It feels twice its proper size.’
‘I’ve got a headache too,’ said Caroline. ‘I expect it’s the sun.’
‘If it was the sun, mine would ache too,’ said Charles, ‘but with me
it’s the nose. I’ve had four hankies since breakfast; and one of those
was the Wilmington’s.’
‘Well, let’s go and get on with our embroidery. All my silks are
frightfully tangled.’
They were not disentangled that day. The headaches were worse. I will
not dwell on the development of the catastrophe. The doctor put it in a
few brief, well-chosen words the next day:
‘The girls have got measles right enough, and the boy hasn’t yet.’