open door, where never door had been known to be. It stood ajar, and
dimly visible inside was a narrow staircase winding upward.
"The hole of the Bogie!" gasped Hexie, clutching at Rafe's arm. He
started, and felt for the sword. It rattled fearfully, and the sound
completed Hexie's terror. She burst away, flew like a scared lapwing
down the gallery, along the passages, and never stopped till she reached
the nursery and her own bed, where, with two pillows and the quilt drawn
over her head, she lay sobbing bitterly at the thought of Ralph left
behind, to be eaten perhaps by the Bogie! Poor little Hexie!
Ralph, meanwhile, stood his ground. His heart beat very fast, but he
would not run away,--that was for girls. It must be owned, however, that
when a moment later the sound of muffled voices became audible down the
stairs, he trembled extremely, and was guilty of the unmanlike act of
hiding behind the curtain. He was only ten years old, which must plead
his excuse with bigger boys who are confident that they could never,
under any circumstances, hide themselves or be afraid.
The voices drew nearer, steps sounded, and two figures came out of the
narrow doorway. Could there be two Bogies? No wonder they ate so much.
But in another minute all thought of Bogies vanished from Ralph's mind,
for in one of the figures he recognized his own sister Winifred.
Her companion was a man. There was something familiar in his form. It
moved forward, and Ralph jumped so that the big sword rattled again.
Bogie number two was his brother Humphrey, mourned as dead ever since
the summer before, when so many brave gentlemen gave up their lives for
King Charles at the battle of Naseby.
"What noise was that?" whispered Winifred, fearfully.
"Some sound from below," replied Humphrey, after listening a moment.
"Must you go, Winnie?"
"I must, dear Humphrey. I dare not absent myself longer lest I be missed
and suspected. Oh, if to-morrow were but over, and you safe on the
French lugger and over the sea! I cannot breathe while this hiding and
danger go on."
"I suppose I ought to be glad also," said Humphrey, ruefully; "but to me
that French lugger means exile, and loneliness, and poverty, for the
rest of my life, perhaps. Better have laid down my life with the rest at
Naseby, in striking one last blow for the king."
"Don't, don't speak so!" protested Winifred, tearfully. "You are alive,
thank God; and once these wars are over we may rejoin you, and have a
happy home somewhere, if not in the land of our fathers. Now, dear
Humphrey, have you all you need for the night?"
"Christmas cheer," said Humphrey, in a would-be cheerful voice. "Beef
and ale,--what better fare could be? You are a gallant provider, my
Winnie, and there is need, for since I have lain in that hole with
nothing else to do, my appetite has raged like a wolf. That sheep's-head
was wondrous savory. I say though, Winnie, what do the servants think of
the famine I create in the larder?"
"Oh, the stupid things fancy that a Bogie has taken up his residence
here. A very hungry Bogie, Joyce calls the creature!"
The brother and sister laughed; then they kissed each other.
"Good-night, dearest Winifred."
"Good-night, brother." And Humphrey vanished up the stairs. Winifred
lingered a moment; then, as if remembering something, opened the door
again and ran after him. Ralph marked that she laid her hand on a
particular boss in the carved wainscot, and pressed it in hard, whereon
the door sprang open. He stole out, laid his hand on the same boss, and
felt the spring give way under his touch. Some undefined idea of
stealing in later, to make Humphrey a visit, was in his head; but he
heard Winifred returning, and hurried out of the gallery. Putting back
the sword in its place, he entered the nursery. No Hexie was visible,
but a sobbing sound drew his attention to a tumbled heap on the bed.
"Is that you, Hexie? Why, what are you crying about?" pulling away the
pillow, which she held tight.
"Oh, Rafe! Then the Bogie didn't eat you, after all!" And Hexie buried
her tear-stained face in his shoulder.
"Bogie! Nonsense! There are no such things as Bogies!"
"What was it, then, that lived up that dreadful stairs?"
"I can't tell you; only it was nothing at all dreadful. And, Hexie,
don't say a word about that door to any one, will you? It might make
great trouble if you did."
"I did tell Deborah, when she fetched the candle and asked why I cried,
that I saw a strange door in the gallery," faltered Hexie, truthful,
though penitent.
"Oh! Hexie, how could you? I don't like Deborah, and her father is a
crop-eared knave. Humphrey said so one day. How could you talk to her
about the door, Hexie?"
"I--don't know. I was frightened, and she asked me," sobbed Hexie.
"Will it do any harm, Rafe?"
"It may," said Rafe, gloomily. "But don't cry, Hexie. You meant no harm,
at all events."
"Oh, don't speak so gravely and so like Joyce," said Hexie, much
troubled. She cried herself to sleep that night. Deborah, who undressed
her, asked many questions about the gallery and the door.
"It was very dark, and perhaps I mistook,"--that was all Hexie could be
made to say. Ralph was disturbed and wakeful, and slept later than usual
next morning. He jumped up in a hurry and made what haste he could with
dressing and breakfast, but it seemed as though they never took so much
time before; and all the while he ate he was conscious of a stir and
bustle in the house, which excited his curiosity very much.
Knocking--the sound of feet--something unusual was going on.
As soon as possible he slipped away from nurse and ran to the gallery.
The door was half open. He looked in, and stood still with terror. Men
in brown uniforms and steel caps were there sounding the walls and
tapping the floor-boards with staves. The gallery seemed full of them,
though when Rafe counted there were but five.
"This man of iron was, in all likelihood, a Malignant also," he heard
one of them say, striking the armor with his fist.
"He is somewhat old for that. Methinks that is armor of the time of that
man of blood, Harry the Eighth. Move it aside, Jotham, that we may
search the farther panel."
So the heavy figure was thrust into a corner, and the men went on
tapping with their wands. Rafe groaned within himself when he heard them
declare that the wall sounded hollow, and saw them searching for a
spring. Twenty times it seemed as though they must have lighted on the
right place. Twenty times they just missed it.
"We were ill advised to come without tools," declared the man who seemed
leader of the party. "Come thou to my shop, Peter Kettle, and thou,
Bartimeus and Zerubbabel, and we will fetch such things as are needful.
Jotham, stay thou here, to see that no man escapeth from the concealment
behind the wall."
So four of the men went away, leaving Jotham striding up and down as on
guard. Presently came a shout from beneath the window,--
"Jotham! our leader hath dropped his pouch in which are the keys of the
smithy. Hasten and bring it to the outer door."
"Aye, aye!" answered Jotham, and, pouch in hand, he ran down the stairs.
Now was Rafe's opportunity. Like a flash he was across the gallery, his
hand on the boss. The door flew open, and he fell into the arms of
Humphrey, who, sword in hand and teeth set, stood on the lower step of
the staircase, prepared to sell his liberty as dearly as possible.
"Rafe! little Rafe!" he exclaimed.
"Hush! The man will come back," panted Rafe. "Come away--hide--oh,
where?" Then with a sudden inspiration he dragged his brother toward the
iron man. "Get inside," he cried. "They will never think of searching
there! Oh, Humphrey--make haste! Get inside!"
There was no time to be lost. With the speed of desperation, Humphrey
unscrewed, lifted, stepped inside the armor. Rafe slipped the fastenings
together, whispered "Shut your eyes," and flew back to his hiding-place.
Just in time, for Jotham's step was on the stair, and next moment he
entered the gallery, and resumed his march up and down, little dreaming
that the man sought for was peeping through the helmet holes at him, not
three feet away.
Presently the other soldiers came back with hammers and wrenches, and in
a short time the beautiful wainscot, split into pieces, lay on the
floor. Suddenly there was a shout. The secret door had flown open, and
the staircase stood revealed. Four of the men, with pikes and pistols,
prepared to ascend, while the fifth guarded the opening below.
At that moment Winifred entered the gallery from the farther end. She
turned deadly pale when she saw the open door and the men.
"Oh! Heaven have mercy!" she cried, and dropped half fainting into a
chair.
Rafe darted across the floor and seized her hand.
"Hush," he whispered. "Don't say a word, sister. _He_ is safe."
"He? Who?" cried the amazed Winifred.
But now voices sounded from above. The men were coming down. Winifred
rallied her courage, rose, and went forward. She was very white still,
but she spoke in a steady voice. Her two brothers, Humphrey in his
hiding-place and little Rafe by her side, both admired her greatly.
"What is the meaning of this, Jotham Green?" she demanded. "By what
warrant do you enter and spoil our house?"
"By the warrant which all true men have to search for traitors," said
Jotham.
"You will find none such here," responded Winifred, firmly.
"We find the lurking-place in which one such has doubtless lain," said
Zerubbabel. "Where holes exist, look out for vermin."
"You are less than civil, neighbor. An old house like this has many
strange nooks and corners of which the inhabitants may have neither use
nor knowledge. If your search is done, I will beg you to make good the
damage you have caused as best you may, and with as little noise as
possible, that my mother be not alarmed. Jotham Green, you are a good
workman, I know. I recollect how deftly you once repaired that cabinet
for us."
All the men knew Winifred, and her calm and decided manner made its
impression. Jotham slowly picked up the fragments of the panelling and
began to fit them together. The rest consulted, and at last rather
sheepishly, and with a muttered half apology about "wrong information,"
went away, taking with them the injured woodwork, which Jotham undertook
to repair. Rafe's first words after they disappeared were,--
"Winifred, you must dismiss Deborah. It is she that has betrayed us."
"How do you know that, Rafe?"
Then it all came out. Winifred listened to the tale with streaming
tears.
"Oh, Rafe, my darling, how brave you were! You played the man for us
to-day, and have saved--I trust you have saved--our Humphrey. The men
will not return to-day, and to-night the lugger sails."
And Humphrey was saved. Before morning, well disguised, he had made his
way across country to a little fishing-port, embarked, and reached
France without further accident.
So that strange Christmas adventure ended happily. It was all long, long
ago. Humphrey and Winifred and Rafe lived their lives out, and lay down
to rest a century and a half since under the daisy-sprinkled English
sod. Little Hexie died an aged woman, before any of us was born. But
still the beautiful old manor-house stands amid its gardens and pasture
lands, with the silvery look of time on its gray walls. Still the armed
figure keeps guard beside the secret staircase, the tapestry hangs in
the old heavy folds, evening reddens the cedar walls and the polished
floor, and everything occupies the same place and wears the same look
that it did when little Rafe played the man in that gallery, and saved
his brother Humphrey, more than two hundred years ago.
THE TWO WISHES.
PIEROT and Pierotte were a small brother and sister who were always
wishing to be something that they were not, or to have something which
they had not. They were not unhappy or discontented children,--far from
it. Their home, though poor, was comfortable; their parents, though
strict, were kind: they were used to both, and desired nothing better.
Wishing with them was a habit, an idle game which they were forever
playing. It meant little, but it sounded ill; and a stranger, listening,
would have judged them less well-off and cheerful than they really were.
"I wish I needn't wake up, but might lie still all day," was Pierotte's
first thought every morning; while Pierot's was, "I wish Pierotte
wasn't such a sleepy-head, for then we could get out before sunrise, and
gather every mushroom in the meadow while the Blaize children are still
snoring in their beds." Then later, at breakfast, Pierotte would say, "I
wish I were the Princess, to have coffee and white bread for my
_dejeuner_, instead of tiresome porridge. I am tired of porridge. White
bread and coffee must be better,--much better!" But all the time she
spoke, Pierotte's spoon, travelling between her bowl and mouth, conveyed
the "tiresome" porridge down her throat as rapidly as though it were the
finest Mocha; and Pierotte enjoyed it as much, though she fancied that
she did not.
"I wish I were the young Comte Jules," Pierot would next begin in his
turn. "No fagots to bind, no cow to fodder, no sheep to tend. Ah! a fine
life he leads! Beautiful clothes, nothing to do. Six meals a day, two of
them dinners, a horse to ride,--everything! I wish--"
"And a nice yellow skin and eyes like boiled gooseberries," chimed in
his mother. "Better wish for these while you are about it. Much you know
of noblemen and their ways! Didst ever have an indigestion? Tell me
that. When thou hast tried one, wish for it again, if thou canst."
Then Pierot would laugh sheepishly, shoulder his hatchet, and go off
after wood, the inseparable Pierotte trotting by his side. As they went,
it would be,--
"I wish I were a bird," or "I wish we could jump like that grasshopper;"
or, "Pierotte, I wish our godfather had left us his money. We should be
rich then."
For the children had the same godfather. Pierotte first, and then Pierot
having been named after their father's cousin, a well-to-do peasant, who
it was expected would remember his little relatives in his will. This
hope had been disappointed, and the children's regrets were natural and
excusable, since even the wise dame, their mother, did not conceal her
opinion of Cousin Pierre's conduct, which she considered irregular and
dishonest. Children soon learn to join in chorus with older voices, and
Pierot and Pierotte, in this case, found it particularly easy, as it
chimed with the habit of their lives.
One warm July morning their mother roused them for an early breakfast,
and sent them into the forest after wood.
"My last fagot is in," she said. "You must bind and tie smartly to-day.
And, Pierotte, help thy brother all that thou canst, for the father
cannot spare him to go again this week, and on Saturday is the
sennight's baking."
So they set forth. The sun was not fairly risen, but his light went
before his coming, and even in the dim forest-paths it was easy to
distinguish leaf from flower. Shadows fell across the way from the
trees, which stood so motionless that they seemed still asleep. Heavy
dew hung on the branches; the air was full of a rare perfume, made up
of many different fragrances, mixed and blended by the cunning fingers
of the night. A little later, and the light broadened. Rays of sun
filtered through the boughs, a wind stirred, and the trees roused
themselves, each with a little shake and quiver. Somehow, the forest
looked unfamiliar, and like a new place to the children that morning.
They were not often there at so early an hour, it is true, but this did
not quite account for the strange aspect of the woods. Neither of them
knew, or, if they knew, they had forgotten, that it was Midsummer's Day,
the fairies' special festival. Nothing met their eyes, no whir of wings
or sparkle of bright faces from under the fern-branches, but a sense of
something unusual was in the air, and the little brother and sister
walked along in silence, peering curiously this way and that, with an
instinctive expectation of unseen wonders.
"Isn't it lovely?" whispered Pierotte, at last. "It never looked so
pretty here as it does to-day. See that wild-rose,--how many flowers it
has! Oh! what was that? It waved at me!"
"What waved?"
"The rose. It waved a white arm at me!"
"Nonsense! It was the wind," replied Pierot, sturdily, leading the way
into a side-path which led off from the rose-bush.
"Is it much farther where we get the wood?" asked Pierotte, for the
children had been walking a considerable time.
"Father said we were to go to the hazel copse," answered Pierot. "We
must be almost there."
So for half an hour longer they went on and on, but still no sign of
fallen trees or wood-choppers appeared, and Pierot was forced to confess
that he must have mistaken the road.
"It is queer, too," he said. "There was that big red toadstool where the
paths joined. I noticed it the other day when I came with the father.
What's the matter?" for Pierotte had given a sudden jump.
"Some one laughed," said Pierotte, in an awe-struck tone.
"It was a cricket or tree-toad. Who is here to laugh?"
Pierotte tried hard to believe him, but she did not feel comfortable,
and held Pierot's sleeve tight as they went. He felt the trembling of
the little hand.
"Pierotte, thou art a goose!" he said; but all the same he put his arm
round her shoulders, which comforted her so that she walked less
timorously.
One path after another they tried, but none of them led to the cleared
spot where the fallen trees lay. The sun rose high, and the day grew
warmer, but in the forest a soft breeze blew, and kept them cool. Hour
after hour passed; the children had walked till they were tired. They
rested awhile, ate half their dinner of curds and black bread, then they
went on again, turned, twisted, tried paths to right and paths to left,
but still the dense woods closed them in, and they had no idea where
they were or how they should go.
Suddenly the track they were following led to a little clearing, in
which stood a tiny hut, with a fenced garden full of cherry-trees and
roses. It was such a surprise to find this fertile and blooming spot in
the heart of the wild wood, that the children stood still with their
mouths open, to stare at it.
"How strange!" gasped Pierot, when at last he found his voice. "The
father always said that ours was the only hut till you got to the other
side the forest."
"Perhaps this _is_ the other side," suggested Pierotte.
An odd chuckling laugh followed this remark, and they became aware of an
old woman sitting at the window of the cottage,--a comical old woman,
with a stiff square cap on her head, sharp twinkling eyes, and a long
hooked nose. As the children looked, she laughed again, and, extending
her finger, beckoned them to come nearer.
Timidly they obeyed, setting down their big wood-basket at the gate. The
old woman leaned over the window to await them, her hand on a square
glass jar full of yellow liquid, in which floated what seemed to be a
pickled serpent with his tail in three coils, and the tip in his mouth.
Pierotte shuddered at the serpent, but Pierot was bolder.
"Did you want us, good madam?" he asked.
"Want you? No," replied the "good madam." "How should I want you? I saw
you staring at my house as if your eyes would pop out of your heads, and
I thought, perhaps, you wanted me."
"It was only--we were only--surprised," stammered Pierot. "Because we
didn't know that there was a house here."
"There was none last night, and there won't be any to-morrow morning--at
least--none for children to stare at," replied the old woman, coolly.
"What _do_ you mean?" cried Pierot, astonished beyond measure. "How can
a house be built in one night? And why won't it be here to-morrow?"
"Because to-morrow won't be Midsummer's Day--and to-day is," replied the
old woman; "and a fairy-house is visible to mortal eyes at that time,
and no other."
"Fairy-house!" faltered Pierot; while Pierotte, jumping more rapidly to
a conclusion, fairly screamed: "Oh, Pierot! Madam, then, is a fairy! A
real fairy! Pierot, think of it, only think of it!"
"Very much at your service," said the old woman, with a malicious smile.
"Do you like fairies, then? Do you admire my pickled snake? Would you
wish to pull some flowers?"
Something in the smile made Pierotte draw back; but Pierot said
politely,--
"One rose, perhaps--since Madam is so good."
The fairy leaned out and plucked a rose from the vine which grew on the
wall close by.
"Now listen," she said. "Each of my roses encloses a wish. You are great
wishers, I know;" and her eyes twinkled queerly. "This time the wish
will come true, so take care what you are about. There will be no coming
to get me to undo the wish, for I shan't be visible again till this time
next year on Midsummer's Day,--you know."
"Oh, Pierot! what shall we wish for?" cried Pierotte, much excited; but
the old woman only repeated, "Take care!" drew her head in at the
window, and all in a minute--how, they could not explain--the cottage
had vanished, the garden, the gate,--they were in the wood again, with
nothing but trees and bushes about them; and all would have seemed like
a dream, except for the red and fragrant rose which Pierot held in his
hand.
"What shall we wish for?" repeated Pierotte, as they seated themselves
under a tree to talk over this marvellous adventure.
"We must be very careful, and ask for something nice," replied Pierot.
"It would be better to wait and think for a long time first," suggested
Pierotte.
"Thou art right. We will. Art thou not hungry?"
"Oh, so hungry! Let us eat the rest of our bread now. I can't wait any
longer."
So Pierot produced the big lump of bread, and divided it into two equal
portions.
"Look, look!" cried Pierotte, as her teeth met in the first mouthful. "A
cherry-tree, brother,--a real cherry-tree here in the woods! And with
ripe cherries on it! How good some would be with our bread!"
"First-rate!" cried Pierot; and, putting their bread carefully on the
grass, both ran to the tree. Alas! the boughs grew high, and the
cherries hung far beyond their reach. Pierot tried to climb the tree,
but the stem was both slight and slippery. Then they found a forked
stick, but vainly attempted to hook and draw down a branch.
"Oh, dear! I wish we were both grown up," cried Pierot, panting with
exertion.
"So do I. If we were as old as father and mother, we could reach the
boughs without even getting on tiptoe," chimed in Pierotte.
Luckless words! As Pierot spoke, the rose, which he had stuck in his
cap, shrivelled and faded, while a queer sensation as if he were being
carried up into the air swept over him. He clutched at something to hold
himself down. That something was the cherry-tree bough! He could reach
it now, and as his eyes turned with dismay toward Pierotte, there she
stood, also holding a twig of the tree, only two or three inches lower
than his own. Her pretty round cheeks and childish curls were gone, and
instead of them he beheld a middle-aged countenance with dull hair, a
red nose, and a mouth fallen in for lack of teeth. She, on her part,
unconscious of the change, was staring at him with a horrified
expression.
"Why, Pierot!" she cried at last, in a voice which sounded as old as
her face, "how queer you look! You've got a beard, and your forehead is
all criss-cross and wrinkly, and your chin rough. Dear me, how ugly you
are! I never thought you could be so ugly."
"Ugly, eh! Perhaps you would like to see your own face," said Pierot,
enraged at this flattering criticism. "Just wait till we get home, and I
show you the old looking-glass. But stay, we needn't wait;" and he
dragged Pierotte to the side of a little pool of still water, which had
caught his eye among the bushes. "Here's a looking-glass ready made," he
went on. "Look, Pierotte, and see what a beauty you have become."
Poor Pierotte! She took one look, gave a scream, and covered her face
with her hands.
"That me?" she cried. "Oh! I never, never will think it! What is the
matter with us, Pierot? Was it that horrid fairy, do you think? Did she
bewitch us?"
"The wish!" faltered Pierot, who at that moment caught sight of the
faded rose in his cap. "I wished that we were both grown up, don't you
remember? Oh, what a fool I was!"
"You horrid boy! You have gone and wished me into an ugly old woman!
I'll never forgive you!" sobbed Pierotte.