_Mr Papingay’s House in the Orange Wood_
As soon as the children entered the wood all sounds of life seemed
to die away, and everything was still. No birds sang or fluttered
overhead; no little wood animals scurried through the dry, dead
leaves on the ground; no breeze rustled the golden leaves on the
trees; the sun shone softly through the branches and cast a strange
orange-coloured shimmer over the scene—which accounted for the name
by which the wood was known. As Jack and Molly went along they found
themselves talking to each other in whispers, afraid to disturb the
brooding quietness of the wood; the sound of their footsteps on the
path seemed unusually loud.
“I say, Molly, what do you say if we keep to the footpath and go
straight to Mr Papingay’s house as quickly as possible and see if
it really is the Leaf? Then we can search the rest of the wood
afterward—if it isn’t,” suggested Jack.
Molly agreed readily. Remembering that it was rumoured that the wood
was full of the Pumpkin’s spies, the children had great hopes that it
was the Black Leaf in Mr Papingay’s plant-pot; for the spies would
surely be stationed all around the place where the Black Leaf grew, to
guard it.
“Thank goodness we know we can trust Mr Papingay,” said Molly. “If
we can only find him. Oh, Jack, if only it is the Leaf, won’t it be
splendid!” Molly broke off and glanced over her shoulder. “How awfully
quiet everything is, Jack—just as if the wood were _listening_!... Oh!
What was that!”
“It wasn’t anything. Don’t, Molly. You gave me quite a jump,” Jack said
unsteadily, looking over his shoulder too. The light in the wood was
beginning to fade, and under the distant trees dim shadows gathered.
“I thought I heard some twigs crackling—a snapping sound,” said Molly,
wide-eyed.
“Well, you needn’t say so, Moll, if you did. But anyway, I’m not
afraid—if you are.” Nevertheless Jack quickened his pace to a sharp
trot, and Molly had some difficulty in keeping up with him.
“I’m not afraid, either,” she gasped.
“Nor am I,” repeated Jack, and went a little faster.
Then they both began to run.
“Of course—we ought—to—get there—as quick—as—we can—so—as not
to—waste—any—time,” Molly jerked out, apologizing as it were to
herself and to Jack for their sudden haste.
They ran along the footpath for a short distance until, a little way
ahead of them, they saw an open space in the wood, in the centre of
which stood a house.
“Let’s—stop—Molly,” said Jack, breathlessly. They both pulled up
and stood still for a few moments. “It wouldn’t—do—for—us—to run
in—on—on—him like this. It might look as if—as if we were—as
if——oh, well, it would look funny, you know.”
Molly agreed. So they waited until they had got their breath again,
then they walked casually out into the open space. The trees stood
round the clearing in a wide circle, and above the house was a big
expanse of sky. It seemed quite light out here after the dim light of
the wood.
It was a queer-looking house that faced them, but what it was about
the house that made it queer Jack and Molly could not at first make
out. Around it was a square of asphalt, and drawing nearer they saw
that on the asphalt, all round the four sides, were rows of narrow
white streaks, that looked like railings lying down flat; and this is
what they actually proved to be—only they were not real railings,
they were painted on the ground with white paint. The children looked
up, and then they realized what it was that made the house look funny.
Nearly everything on it and about it was _not real_ but painted. The
house itself was real, and so was the front door; but the knocker and
handle and letter-box were all painted on. Three of the windows seemed
real, but there were three more that were obviously painted on, and
were obviously the work of some one not greatly skilled in the art of
painting. There was a large tree painted on the asphalt, and a row of
tulips, and a path bordered by painted stones that led up to the front
door.
The children were gazing at these things in astonishment when the
front door suddenly opened, and the owner of the house appeared on the
threshold.
“Come inside,” he called affably, peering at them over the top of his
spectacles. “The latch on the gate pulls downward. Don’t be afraid of
the dog; he won’t hurt you if I speak to him. There, Percy, there!
Down, sir! There’s a good dog!”
Jack and Molly looked round wonderingly, but could not see any signs
of a dog, till their eyes caught sight of a black smudge of paint,
which proved on closer acquaintance to be a black dog chained to a red
kennel—both painted flat on the ground a few feet inside the gate. The
children gazed at each other questioningly; then Glan’s words came back
to them, “Humour him, he’s a queer old soul.”
So Molly bent down and pretended to pull the latch on the gate down;
she and Jack walked carefully on to the asphalt over the flat gate,
then she turned and pretended to close and latch the gate again. As
they passed the painted dog, she had another happy idea. “Good dog.
Good dog,” she said, and stooped and patted the asphalt.
The old man beamed down upon her. “He’s quite harmless when I tell him
it’s all right,” he confided, “but you should just see him when he’s
roused. Stand on the step and I’ll tell him there’s a bath-chair round
the corner. He hates ’em.”
The children could not see a real step, but spying a painted white
square by the front door, they stood on that.
“Now then,” cried the old man, “at ’em, Percy, at ’em! There’s a
bath-chair a-comin’ round the corner!”
There was a dead silence while the painted dog gazed with unseeing eyes
up at the sky, and a little breeze rustled in the tree-tops.
“Isn’t he furious?” chuckled the old man, beaming proudly from the dog
to the children. “Go it, old boy! Give it ’em!”
As he seemed to expect an answer to his question, Molly said:
“He—he—certainly looks very fierce, doesn’t he?”
“That’s nothing to what he can look,” said Mr Papingay, obviously
delighted at Molly’s reply. “But, come inside, come inside.”
So the children entered the narrow, dark hall and Mr Papingay shut the
front door behind them.
“This way,” he said, crushing past them and throwing open a door on the
right. “Come inside and sit down a bit. This is my study. What do you
think of it?”
As the question was asked before Jack and Molly were inside the room
there was naturally a short interval before Molly could reply, politely:
“What a very—er—uncommon room.”
“All done by myself,” said the old man, waving his hand with a sweeping
movement toward the walls.
The children followed the hand-sweep and saw rows upon rows of books
painted round the walls. There was no doubt about them being painted.
And they noticed also that the carpet, chairs, tables, curtains, and
even the fireplace were all painted in this amazing room. Jack’s eyes
travelled rapidly over the room, but not a single real thing could
he see in it except himself, and Molly, and the old man standing in
front of him; and he looked at the latter twice to make sure that he
was real and not simply made of paint like the other things. But Mr
Papingay was real enough with his spectacles and bald head. The only
hair he possessed grew like a fringe at the back of his head, low down,
just above the nape of his neck—and under his chin a little fringe of
whiskers appeared; he had round, blue eyes and eyebrows set high that
gave him a look of continual surprise; over a dark-coloured suit he
wore a brown plaid dressing-gown, with long cord and tassels, and on
his feet were a pair of very old red felt carpet slippers. And then
Jack’s roving eye noticed that the buttons on his dressing-gown were
painted on; but that was the only bit of paint about Mr Papingay.
“You see, it’s so handy making my own things,” he was explaining to
Molly. “I can have any kind of things I like and change them as often
as I like.”
“Don’t you find the chairs rather awkward to sit on?” inquired Jack.
“Not at all. Why should I?” replied the old man, slightly offended.
“Well—I—er—well, you see—they’re not real, are they?” Jack
blundered on.
“Not real! What do you mean?” snapped Mr Papingay. “Of course they’re
real. Sit on one and see.”
“Don’t be silly, Jack,” Molly broke in. “They certainly look most
comfortable. I do think it is clever of you to make them,” she said to
the old man.
“Oh, no, no. Not at all. Simple enough,” said Mr Papingay airily,
appeased at once. “But you try one. They may look comfortable, but it’s
nothing to what they are to sit on. You try one,” he urged.
So Molly pretended to sit down on one of the painted chairs. It was a
most curious sensation. Although she knew there was no chair there she
felt somehow as if she really were sitting on a chair; so that when the
old man asked her, with a self-conscious smile on his face, “Now, isn’t
it comfortable?” she could answer truthfully, “Yes, it really is.”
Yet, afterward, Jack told her that he had tried one of the chairs when
she and the old man were not looking, and had nearly fallen on the
floor. “I found it anything but comfortable—the silly old ass,” he
said.
When they had admired the study to the old man’s content he led them
out into the hall again and up the stairs to a curious little room he
called his visitors room. As they went upstairs Molly tried to tell
their host who they were and how they knew Glan and his father, but he
kept up a constant stream of conversation himself and took no notice of
her remarks.
The children found the visitors room more difficult than ever to be
truthful and yet polite in. It had been hard to pretend the painted
stair-carpet was soft and real, and that the books in the study could
be taken out and read; but these things were nothing compared to the
difficulties in the visitors room. It was a small, high-ceilinged
room, furnished with painted chairs and tables; only, in addition to
the painted furniture were painted people. Round the walls and on the
floor, people standing, people sitting, ladies, gentlemen, girls and
boys; some with hats on as if paying an afternoon call, some with hats
off as if they had come to spend the day. But one and all, without
exception, were simply painted people. On the panes of one of the real
windows was painted the figure of a sandy-haired man, back view; this
gentleman, who was dressed in a dull grey suit and a high white collar,
was apparently looking out of the window.
[Illustration: ONE AND ALL WERE SIMPLY PAINTED PEOPLE]
As the children glanced round at these queer silent people,
hesitating what to do, they became aware that the old man was murmuring
some kind of introduction to a painted lady in bright purple.
“This is my dear friend, Mrs Pobjoy,” he was saying. “Mrs Pobjoy, allow
me to introduce you to my two little friends—er—what are your names,
by the way?”
The children told him, and took this opportunity of explaining who they
were and how they knew Glan.
“Dear me, dear me!” said Mr Papingay. “How very extraordinary!” and
he shook hands affably, and then he introduced them to Mr Pobjoy—a
red-faced gentleman painted on the wall beside his wife.
Molly bowed politely. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, and
gave Jack a nudge with her elbow.
“Howjer do?” said Jack, feeling an awful ass.
The painted lady in bright purple stared vacantly down at the two
children.
“Mrs Pobjoy’s always delighted to see new faces, aren’t you, ma’m?
Ah, ha! A regular butterfly. A regular butterfly. What do you say,
Pobjoy?” and Mr Papingay gave the painted figure of Mr Pobjoy a dig
in the ribs, then turned from one to the other of his painted visitors
chattering and laughing, and shaking his head. “And here’s little
Maudie. Well, and how is Maudie to-day?” and he stooped and playfully
flicked the cheeks of a fat-faced little girl with yellow hair and
a pink frock who was leaning against a painted sideboard. “Here’s a
little girl to see you, Maudie. You’ll like that, won’t you?” He turned
to the children. “I’m afraid she’s rather peevish this evening. She is
sometimes. It’s best to take no notice—she’ll come round presently.
Here’s Mr Waffer, here by the window—I won’t introduce you to him just
at present, he’s probably just got an inspiration I should think, by
the way he stands absorbed in the scenery outside. He’s a poet, you
know.... But come over here and let Lizzie and her sister see you.” He
bundled away across the room followed by the two children.
“I say, Molly,” whispered Jack, “do you think we should see the front
of Mr Waffer through the window if we went outside and looked up. I
_would_ like to see his face.”
“Why?” asked Molly with interest.
“Because I don’t believe he has one. Do remind me to look as we go
out,” said Jack.
“This,” the old man was saying as they came up to him, “is Lizzie and
here’s her sister. Very bright girls, both of them,” he added in an
undertone so that the green-frocked Lizzie should not hear. And so
he moved on introducing them to one after the other, and it began to
look as if he would never tear himself away from the visitors room. At
length Molly told him that they would not be able to stay much longer
as they wished to get out of the Orange Wood before darkness came down.
“Oh, you mustn’t go yet,” he protested. “I’ve got a lot more to show
you yet.... Ah! and that reminds me.... But first you must come and
see my kitchen arrangements; they are absolutely first-rate; and
then I have something very exciting to tell you.” He nodded his head
mysteriously.
Jack and Molly exchanged significant glances. As they followed him
downstairs it struck them that although he was introducing them to
everything and everybody in his house, yet he had never troubled to
introduce himself. He had forgotten about that. He led the way to the
kitchen, and the children noticed, in passing, a servant carrying a
tray, painted on the passage wall a few yards from the kitchen door.
(“How tiresome it must be for her never to get any farther,” thought
Molly, but she didn’t say anything.)
The kitchen was very like the other rooms, nearly all paint. It worried
Molly a little to notice that the sink was painted on the wall, and she
wondered however Mr Papingay managed to wash up the cups and saucers in
the tin bowl that was painted inside the sink; especially as the taps
and cups and saucers appeared to be real. But she was afraid to ask any
questions in case it delayed the “exciting” news that they were longing
to hear.
A quick glance at the kitchen window sill on entering the room showed
them that there was no plant-pot there now. After Mr Papingay had
taken them a tour of the kitchen and they had admired everything from
the oven with the painted round of beef on the shelf to the painted
egg-whisk hanging on the dresser, their host bade them be seated on a
bench by the kitchen window—which happened to be a real bench, much to
Jack’s relief—and then he said:
“There is something I think you ought to know.” He shut the kitchen
door carefully so that the servant painted in the passage should not
hear, while the children’s hearts began to beat rapidly. Mr Papingay
came back and stood before them.
“The Grey Pumpkin has returned to this land,” he said solemnly, then
waited for the exclamations of amazement which did not come.
“Of course, we know,” said Jack, after a short pause.
Mr Papingay looked both surprised and offended. “Why, how’s this?” he
asked.
And the children told him, and explained about the search they were
making.
“Well, well, well,” he said at length. “I’ve been searching for the
Black Leaf too. I searched every inch of the Orange Wood thoroughly,
directly I heard the Pumpkin was back again. _And_—this is what I
really wanted to tell you—what do you think I did when I found that
the Black Leaf wasn’t anywhere in the wood?” he asked excitedly.
“What?” cried both children together.
“Painted a Black Leaf,” he said triumphantly, beaming with joy. “And
here it is.”
He opened a cupboard door behind him and disclosed a plant-pot (which
was real) in which grew a black leaf (which was painted). In fact it
was so entirely artificial that it wasn’t even a real leaf coloured
black: it was cut out of newspaper, and painted with a thick black
paint.
Jack and Molly did not speak for a moment or two. They could not. They
were so thoroughly disappointed. Had they wasted all this valuable time
‘humouring’ Mr Papingay for nothing more than this? They had hardly
realized how high their hopes had been, until now, when they were flung
to the ground. It was with an effort that Molly kept back her tears; as
for Jack, he felt he would like to kick something.
Meanwhile, Mr Papingay was perplexed at their silence. He lifted the
pot down and set it on the floor in front of the bench.
“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Jack.
“I will tell you,” said Mr Papingay. “I have decided that you shall
have the leaf and take it back to the City. I was wondering, only
yesterday, whom I could send it by. It isn’t time for my yearly visit
to the City yet, and besides, Percy has rather a nasty little cough—I
can’t leave him till he’s better, poor old chap.”
“But it won’t be—be the same as the real Black Leaf,” said Jack.
“Why not? Why not?” asked the old man touchily.
“Well—it isn’t magic, is it?” objected Jack. “It won’t have any power
over the Pumpkin.”
“I won’t guarantee that it isn’t magic, though it may not have the same
power over the Pumpkin,” the old man admitted. “But what’s the odds!
They won’t know—the people won’t know—and anyway it’s very handsome
to look at—and just think of how surprised everybody will be....”
The children could see that it was no use arguing the matter. Mr
Papingay was beginning to look quite hurt and annoyed, and so to humour
him and to save any further delay the children thanked him and said
they would be pleased to take it with them. (They little guessed then
how glad they would be later on that they had taken it with them.)
“It’s very clever of you to make it,” said Molly.
Immediately Mr Papingay’s ill-humour vanished, and he smiled down at
the leaf in an affectionate manner.
“Oh, I don’t know about being clever,” he said. “Well—it’s not a bad
piece of work,” he admitted modestly.
“Well now—I think we really must be going,” said Molly, “or else it
will be too dark in the wood for us to find our way. Shall we pick the
leaf and take it with us, then?”
“It looks so well in the pot—I like it best in the pot—take the
plant-pot, too,” said Mr Papingay. “I shall be coming to the City in a
few days and then you must tell me all about it—what the people said
when they saw it and—I suppose you _are_ going straight back to the
City?” he inquired. “You won’t want to bother to search for the other
Black Leaf now, until you see what the people say to this one, I’m
sure.”
Self-centred Mr Papingay! He actually thought the children would be
more anxious to hear what people said about his leaf, than to continue
their search for the real Leaf. But the children were quite determined
about continuing their work and at length made him understand that they
must go on; but they were hoping, they said, to return to the City
shortly when they would be very pleased to show his leaf. Mr Papingay
cheered up a bit at this, and said they had better take it then, as
they would be bound to reach the City before him. Then he asked them
where they were going to search next.
“You needn’t bother about this wood—I’ve searched it from end to end,
thoroughly—as I told you. And besides,” said Mr Papingay, “it isn’t
wise to linger in this wood just now. The Pumpkin has spies about all
over the place. Of course, they never touch me—Percy wouldn’t let
them—but you two—! And I’m quite certain the Leaf isn’t in this
wood—or I’d have had it before now.”
The children had not much faith in Mr Papingay’s careful searching, but
glancing through the window they saw that it was now getting too dark
to search the wood that night. They had better get out of it as quickly
as possible, even if they had to return and search it in the morning.
They became aware of Mr Papingay murmuring something in the way of
an apology for not asking them to stay over night there—but he was
already overcrowded with visitors, the Pobjoys and others, he said.
He knew of a nice little farmhouse outside the wood where they would
be comfortable. The children were pleased to know of the farmhouse;
not for worlds would they have spent a night in this silent wood.
Mr Papingay was so careless, he would be sure to leave a window
unfastened, and the Pumpkin’s spies would creep out from the trees and
get into the house. At least, this is what the children felt, but they
thanked Mr Papingay and told him not to apologize at all as they really
couldn’t stay, but must go along.
“I’ll tell you what, then,” said Mr Papingay. “I’ll just get my lantern
and come along with you and show you the quickest way out of the wood
to the farmhouse.”
The children were much relieved at this, feeling that company and a
light in the dusky wood before them was an unexpected blessing. After
a great deal of fuss and bustle he found his lantern and escorted
them through the front door—calling some final words of instruction
to Percy (who remained gazing pensively up at the evening sky); they
passed through the gate, or rather, stepped off the asphalt, and
started out. Mr Papingay insisted on carrying his plant-pot and leaf
until he should have to part with it at the end of the wood; so with
this under his left arm, and his lantern swinging in his right hand he
strode ahead of the children, crying cheerily:
“Come along, come along. I’ll show you a short cut out of the wood. Ah!
I’m glad I brought my lantern—it’ll be dark enough in some parts of
the wood.”
The children followed, gazing with puzzled expressions at his lantern.
Then they understood. There would be no light from it in the darkest
parts of the wood, for it was only a painted lantern.