A CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE.--PART II.
"And as for poor old Rover,
I'm sure he meant no harm."
OLD DOGGIE.
"Molly is too sharp by half," said aunty, the following evening, when
she was preparing to go on with her story. "We _had_ to stay there all
night--that was the result of Mary's conversation with the driver, the
details of which I may spare you. Let me see, where was I? 'The driver
scratched his head,'--no,--ah, here it is! 'He was waiting downstairs to
speak to us; 'and the result of the speaking I have told you, so I'll go
on from here----
"It was so cold downstairs in the fireless, deserted house, that Mary and
I were glad to come upstairs again to the little room where we had been
sitting, which already seemed to have a sort of home-like feeling about
it. But once arrived there we looked at each other in dismay.
"'Isn't it dreadful, Mary?' I said.
"'And we shall miss the morning train from East Hornham--the only one by
which we can get through the same day--that is the worst of all,' she
said.
"'Can't we be in time? It is only two or three miles from here to East
Hornham,' I said.
"'Yes, but you forget I _must_ see Mr. Turner again. If I fix to take
this house, and it seems very likely, I must not go away without all the
particulars for father. There are ever so many things to ask. I have a
list of father's, as long as my arm, of questions and inquiries.'
"'Ah, yes,' I agreed; 'and then we have to get our bag at the hotel, and
to pay our bill there.'
"'And to choose rooms there to come to at first,' said Mary. 'Oh yes, our
getting away by that train is impossible. And then the Christmas trains
are like Sunday. Even by travelling all night we cannot get home, I fear.
I must telegraph to mother as soon as we get back to East Hornham.'
"The young woman had not returned. We were wondering what had become of
her when she made her appearance laden with everything she could think
of for our comfort. The bed, she assured us, could not be damp, as it had
been 'to the fire' all the previous day, and she insisted on putting on a
pair of her own sheets, coarse but beautifully white, and fetching from
another room additional blankets, which in their turn had to be subjected
to 'airing,' or 'firing' rather. To the best of her ability she provided
us with toilet requisites, apologising, poor thing, for the absence of
what we 'of course, must be used to,'--as she expressed it, in the shape
of fine towels, perfumed soap, and so on. And she ended by cooking us a
rasher of bacon and poached eggs for supper, all the materials for which
refection she had brought from her own cottage. She was so kind that I
shrank from suggesting to Mary the objection to the proposed arrangement,
which was all this time looming darkly before me. But when our friend was
about to take her leave for the night I could keep it back no longer.
"'Mary,' I whispered, surprised and somewhat annoyed at my sister's
calmness, 'are you going to let her go away? You and I _can't_ stay here
all night alone.'
"'Do you mean that you are frightened, Laura dear?' she said kindly, in
the same tone. 'I don't see that there is anything to be frightened of;
and if there were, what good would another girl--for this young woman is
very little older than I--do us?'
"'She knows the house, any way, and it wouldn't seem so bad,' I replied,
adding aloud, 'Oh, Mrs. Atkins'--for I had heard the driver mention her
name--'can't you stay in the house with us? We shall feel so dreadfully
strange.'
"'I would have done so most gladly, Miss,' the young woman began, but
Mary interrupted her.
"'I know you can't,' she said; 'your husband is ill. Laura, it would be
very wrong of us to propose such a thing.'
"'That's just how it is,' said Mrs. Atkins. 'My husband has such bad
nights he can't be left, and there's no one I could get to sit with him.
Besides, it's such a dreadful night to seek for any one.'
"'Then the driver,' I said; 'couldn't he stay somewhere downstairs? He
might have a fire in one of the rooms.'
"Mrs. Atkins wished it had been thought of before. 'Giles,'--which it
appeared was the man's name--would have done it in a minute, she was
sure, but it was too late. He had already set off to seek a night's
lodging and some supper, no doubt, at a little inn half a mile down the
road.
"'An inn?' I cried. 'I wish we had gone there too. It would have been far
better than staying here.'
"'Oh, it's a very poor place--'The Drover's Rest,' they call it. It would
never do for you, Miss,' said Mrs. Atkins, looking distressed that all
her efforts for our comfort appeared to have been in vain. 'Giles might
ha' thought of it himself,' she added, 'but then you see it would never
strike him but what here--in the Grange--you'd be as safe as safe. It's
not a place for burglaries and such like, hereabouts.'
"'And of course we shall be quite safe,' said Mary. 'Laura dear, what has
made you so nervous all of a sudden?'
"I did not answer, for I was ashamed to speak of Mrs. Atkins' story of
the strange noises she had heard the previous night, which evidently Mary
had forgotten, but I followed the young woman with great eagerness, to
see that we were at least thoroughly well defended by locks and bolts in
our solitude. The tapestry room and that in which we were to sleep could
be locked off from the rest of the empty house, as a door stood at the
head of the little stair leading up to them--so far, so well. But Mrs.
Atkins proceeded to explain that the door at the _outside_ end of the
other passage, leading into the garden, could not be locked except from
the outside.
"'I can lock you in, if you like, Miss,' she said, 'and come round first
thing in the morning;' but this suggestion did not please us at all.
"'No, thank you,' said Mary, 'for if it is fine in the morning I mean to
get up very early and walk round the gardens.'
"'No, thank you,' said I, adding mentally, 'Supposing we _were_
frightened it would be too dreadful not to be able to get out.'--'But we
can lock the door from the tapestry room into the passage, from our side,
can't we?' I said, and Mrs. Atkins replied 'Oh yes, of course you can,
Miss,' turning the key in the lock of the door as she spoke. 'Master
never let the young gentlemen lock the doors when they were boys,' she
added, 'for they were always breaking the locks. So you see, Miss,
there's a hook and staple to this door, as well as the lock.'
"'Thank you, Mrs. Atkins,' said Mary, 'that will do nicely, I am sure.
And now we must really not keep you any longer from your husband.
Good-night, and thank you very much.'
"'Good-night,' I repeated, and we both stood at the door of the passage
as she made her way out into the darkness. The snow was still falling
very heavily, and the blast of cold wind that made its way in was
piercing.
"'Oh, Mary, come back to the fire,' I cried. 'Isn't it _awfully_ cold?
Oh, Mary dear,' I added, when we had both crouched down beside the
welcome warmth for a moment, 'won't it be _delicious_ to be back with
mother again? We never thought we'd have such adventures, did we? Can you
fancy this house ever feeling _home-y_, Mary? It seems so dreary now.'
"'Yes, but you've no idea how different it will seem even to-morrow
morning, if it's a bright day,' said Mary. 'Let's plan the rooms, Laura.
Don't you think the one to the south with the crimson curtains will be
best for father?'
"So she talked cheerfully, more, I am sure--though I did not see it at
the time--to encourage me than to amuse herself. And after awhile, when
she saw that I was getting sleepy, she took a candle into the outer room,
saying she would lock the door and make all snug for the night. I heard
her, as I thought, lock the door, then she came back into our room and
also locked the door leading from it into the tapestry room.
"'You needn't lock that too,' I said sleepily; 'if the tapestry door is
locked, we're all right!'
"'I think it's better,' said Mary quietly, and then we undressed, so far
as we could manage to do so in the extremely limited state of our toilet
arrangements, and went to bed.
"I fell asleep at once. Mary, she afterwards told me, lay awake for an
hour or two, so that when she did fall asleep her slumber was unusually
profound. I think it must have been about midnight when I woke suddenly,
with the feeling--the indescribable feeling--that something had awakened
me. I listened, first of all with _only_ the ear that happened to be
uppermost--then, as my courage gradually returned again, I ventured to
move slightly, so that both ears were uncovered. No, nothing was to be
heard. I was trying to compose myself to sleep again, persuading myself
that I had been dreaming, when again--yes most distinctly--there _was_ a
sound. A sort of shuffling, scraping noise, which seemed to come from
the direction of the passage leading from the tapestry room to the
garden. Fear made me selfish. I pushed Mary, then shook her gently, then
more vigorously.
"'Mary,' I whispered. 'Oh, Mary, _do_ wake up. I hear such a queer
noise.'
"Mary, poor Mary awoke, but she had been very tired. It was a moment or
two before she collected her faculties.
"'Where are we? What is it?' she said. Then she remembered. 'Oh yes--what
is the matter, Laura?'
"'Listen,' I said, and Mary, calmly self-controlled as usual, sat up in
bed and listened. The sound was quite distinct, even louder than I had
heard it.
"'Oh, Mary!' I cried. 'Somebody's trying to get in. Oh, Mary, what
_shall_ we do? Oh, I am so frightened. I shall die with fright. Oh, I
wish I had never come!'
"I was on the verge of hysterics, or something of the kind.
"Mary, herself a little frightened, as she afterwards confessed--in the
circumstances what young girl could have helped being so?--turned to me
quietly. Something in the very tone of her voice seemed to soothe me.
"'Laura dear,' she said gravely, 'did you say your prayers last night?'
"'Oh yes, oh yes, indeed I did. But I'll say them again now if you like,'
I exclaimed.
"Even then, Mary could hardly help smiling.
"'That isn't what I meant,' she said. 'I mean, what is the _good_ of
saying your prayers if you don't believe what you say?'
"'But I do, I do,' I sobbed.
"'Then why are you so terrified? You asked God to take care of you. When
you said it you believed He would. Why not believe it now? _Now_, when
you are tried, is the time to show if you do mean what you say. I am sure
God _will_ take care of us. Now try, dear, to be reasonable, and I will
get up and see what it is.'
"'But don't leave me, and I will try to be good,' I exclaimed, jumping
out of bed at the same moment that she did, and clinging to her as she
moved. 'Oh, Mary, don't you think perhaps we'd better go back to bed and
put our fingers in our ears, and by morning it wouldn't seem anything.'
"'And fancy ever after that there had been something mysterious, when
perhaps it is something quite simple,' said Mary. 'No, I shouldn't like
that at all. Of course I won't do anything rash, but I would like to find
out.'
"'The fire, fortunately, was not yet quite out. Mary lighted one of the
candles with a bit of paper from a spark which she managed to coax into a
flame. The noise had, in the meantime, subsided, but just as we had got
the candle lighted, it began again.
"'Now,' said Mary, 'you stay here, Laura, and I'll go into the next room
and listen at the passage door.' She spoke so decidedly that I obeyed in
trembling. Mary armed herself with the poker, and, unlocking our door,
went into the tapestry room, first lighting the second candle, which she
left with me. She crossed the room to the door as she had said. _I_
thought it was to listen; in reality her object was to endeavour to turn
the key in the lock of the tapestry room door, which she had _not_ been
able to do the night before, for once the door was shut the key would not
move, and she had been obliged to content herself with the insecure hold
of the hook and staple. Now it had struck her that by inserting the poker
in the handle of the key she might succeed in turning it, and thus
provide ourselves with a double defence. For if the intruder--dog, cat,
whatever it was--burst the outer door and got into the tapestry room, my
fears, she told me afterwards, would, she felt sure, have become
uncontrollable. It was a brave thing to do--was it not? She deserved to
succeed, and she did. With the poker's help she managed to turn the key,
and then with a sigh of relief she stood still for a moment listening.
The sounds continued--whatever it was it was evidently what Mrs. Atkins
had heard the night before--a shuffling, rushing-about sound, then a sort
of impatient breathing. Mary came back to me somewhat reassured.
"'Laura,' she said, 'I keep to my first opinion. It is a dog, or a cat,
or some animal.'
"'But suppose it is a _mad_ dog?' I said, somewhat unwilling to own that
my terrors had been exaggerated.
"'It is possible, but not probable,' she replied. 'Any way it can't get
in here. Now, Laura, it is two o'clock by my watch. There is candle
enough to last an hour or two, and I will make up the fire again. Get
into bed and _try_ to go to sleep, for honestly I do not think there is
any cause for alarm.'
"'But Mary, I _can't_ go to sleep unless you come to bed too, and if you
don't, I can't believe you think it's nothing,' I said. So, to soothe me,
she gave up her intention of remaining on guard by the fire, and came to
bed, and, wonderful to relate, we both went to sleep, and slept soundly
till--what o'clock do you think?
"It was _nine_ o'clock when I awoke; Mary was standing by me fully
dressed, a bright frosty sun shining into the room, and a tray with a cup
of tea and some toast and bacon keeping hot by the fire.
"'Oh, Mary!' I cried, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.
"'Are you rested?' she said. 'I have been up since daylight--not so very
early _that_, at this season--Mrs. Atkins came and brought me some
breakfast, but we hadn't the heart to waken you, you poor child.'
"'And oh, Mary, what about the noise? Did she hear it?'
"'She wasn't sure. She half fancied she did, and then she thought she
might have been imagining it from the night before. But get up, dear. It
is hopeless to try for the early train; we can't leave till to-night, or
to-morrow morning; but I am anxious to get back to East Hornham and see
Mr. Turner. And before we go I'd like to run round the gardens.'
"'But, Mary,' I said, pausing in my occupation of putting on my
stockings, 'are you still thinking of taking this house?'
"'Still!' said Mary. 'Why not?'
"'Because of the noises. If we can't find out what it is, it would be
very uncomfortable. And with father being so delicate too, and often
awake at night!'
"Mary did not reply, but my words were not without effect. We ran round
the gardens as she had proposed--they were lovely even then--took a
cordial farewell of Mrs. Atkins, and set off on our return drive to East
Hornham. I must not forget to tell you that we well examined that part of
the garden into which the tapestry room passage led, but there were no
traces of footsteps, the explanation of which we afterwards found to be
that the snow had continued to fall till much later in the night than the
time of our fright.
"Mr. Turner was waiting for us in considerable anxiety. We had done, he
assured us, the most sensible thing possible in the circumstances. He had
not known of our non-arrival till late in the evening, and, but for his
confidence in Giles, would have set off even then. As it was, he had sent
a messenger to Hunter's Hall, and was himself starting for the Grange.
"Mary sent me out of the room while she spoke to him, at which I was not
over well pleased. She told him all about the fright we had had, and
that, unless its cause were explained, it would certainly leave an
uncomfortable feeling in her mind, and that, considering our father's
invalid state, till she had talked it over with our mother she could not
come to the decision she had hoped.
"'It may end in our taking Hunter's Hall,' she said, 'though the Grange
is far more suitable.'
"Mr. Turner was concerned and perplexed. But Mary talked too sensibly to
incline him to make light of it.
"'It is very unfortunate,' he said; 'and I promised an answer to the
other party by post this evening. And you say, Miss Berkeley, that Mrs.
Atkins heard it too. You are _sure_, Miss, you were not dreaming?'
"'_Quite_ sure. It was my sister that heard it, and woke me,' she
replied; 'and then we both heard it.'
"Mr. Turner walked off, metaphorically speaking, scratching his head, as
honest Giles had done literally in his perplexity the night before. He
promised to call back in an hour or two, when he had been to the station
and found out about the trains for us.
"We packed our little bag and paid the bill, so that we might be quite
ready, in case Mr. Turner found out any earlier train by which we might
get on, for we had telegraphed to mother that we should do our best to be
back the next day. I was still so sleepy and tired that Mary persuaded me
to lie down on the bed, in preparation for the possibility of a night's
journey. I was _nearly_ asleep when a tap came to the door, and a servant
informed Mary that a gentleman was waiting to speak to her.
"'Mr. Turner,' said she carelessly, as she passed into the sitting-room.
"But it was not Mr. Turner. In his place she found herself face to face
with a very different person--a young man, of seven or eight and twenty,
perhaps, tall and dark--dark-haired and dark-eyed that is to say--grave
and quiet in appearance, but with a twinkle in his eyes that told of no
lack of humour.
"'I must apologise for calling in this way, Miss Berkeley,' he said at
once, 'but I could not help coming myself to tell how _very_ sorry I am
about the fright my dog gave you last night at the Grange. I have just
heard of it from Mr. Turner.'
"'Your dog?' repeated Mary, raising her pretty blue eyes to his face in
bewilderment.
"'Yes,' he said, 'he ran off to the Grange--his old home, you know--oh, I
beg your pardon! I am forgetting to tell you that I am Walter H----,--in
the night, and must have tried to find his way into my room in the way he
used to do. I always left the door unlatched for him.'
"Instead of replying, Mary turned round and flew straight off into the
room where I was.
"'Oh, Laura,' she exclaimed, 'it _was_ a dog; Mr. Walter H---- has just
come to tell us. Are you not delighted? Now we can fix for the Grange at
once, and it will all be right. Come quick, and hear about it.'
"I jumped up, and, without even waiting to smooth my hair, hurried back
into the sitting-room with Mary. Our visitor, very much amused at our
excitement, explained the whole, and sent downstairs for 'Captain,' a
magnificent retriever, who, on being told to beg our pardon, looked up
with his dear pathetic brown eyes in Mary's face in a way that won her
heart at once. His master, it appeared, had been staying at East Hornham
the last two nights with an old friend, the clergyman there. Both nights,
on going to bed late, he had missed 'Captain,' whose usual habit was to
sleep on a mat at his door. The first night he was afraid the dog was
lost, but to his relief he reappeared again early the next morning; the
second night, also, his master happening to be out late at Mr. Turner's,
with whom he had a good deal of business to settle, the dog had set off
again on his own account to his former quarters, with probably some misty
idea in his doggy brain that it was the proper thing to do.
"'But how did you find out where he had been?' said I.
"'I went out early this morning, feeling rather anxious about 'Captain,''
said our visitor; 'and I met him coming along the road leading from the
Grange. Where he had spent the night after failing to get into his old
home I cannot tell; he must have sheltered somewhere to get out of the
snow and the cold. Later this morning I walked on to the Grange, and,
hearing from Ruth Atkins of your fright and her own, I put 'two and two
together,' and I think the result quite explains the noises you heard.'
"'Quite,' we both said; 'and we thank you so much for coming to tell us.'
"'It was certainly the very least I could do,' he said; 'and I thank you
very much for forgiving poor old Captain.'
"So we left East Hornham with lightened hearts, and, as our new friend
was travelling some distance in our direction, he helped us to accomplish
our journey much better than we could have managed it alone. And after
all we _did_ get back to our parents on Christmas day, though not on
Christmas eve."
Aunty stopped.
"Then you did take the Grange, aunty?" said the children.
Aunty nodded her head.
"And you never heard any more noises?"
"Never," said aunty. "It was the pleasantest of old houses; and oh, we
were sorry to leave it, weren't we, mother?"
"Why did you leave it, grandmother dear?" said Molly.
"When your grandfather's health obliged him to spend the winters abroad;
then we came here," said grandmother.
"Oh yes," said Molly, adding after a little pause, "I _would_ like to see
that house."
Aunty smiled. "Few things are more probable than that you will do so,"
she said, "provided you can make up your mind to cross the sea again."
"Why? how do you mean, aunty?" said Molly, astonished, and Ralph and
Sylvia listened with eagerness to aunty's reply.
"Because," said aunty,--then she looked across to grandmother. "Won't you
explain to them, mother?" she said.
"Because, my darlings, that dear old house will be your home--your happy
home, I trust, some day," said grandmother.
"Is my father thinking of buying it?" asked Ralph, pricking up his ears.
"No, my boy, but some day it will be his. It is your uncle's now, but he
is _much_ older than your father, and has no children, so you see it will
come to your father some day--sooner than we have thought, perhaps, for
your uncle is too delicate to live in England, and talks of giving it up
to your father."
"But _still_ I don't understand," said Ralph, looking puzzled. "Did my
_uncle_ buy it?"
"No, no. Did you never hear of old Alderwood Grange?"
"Alderwood," said Ralph. "Of _course_, but we never speak of it as 'The
Grange,' you know, and I have never seen it. It has always been let since
I can remember. I never even heard it described. Papa does not seem to
care to speak of it."
"No, dear," said aunty. "The happiest part of his life began there, and
you know how all the light seemed to go out of his life when your mother
died. It was there he--Captain's master--got to know her, the 'Mary' of
my little adventure. You understand it all now? He was a great deal in
the neighbourhood--at the little town I called East Hornham--the summer
we first came to Alderwood. And there they were married; and there, in
the peaceful old church-yard, your dear mother is buried."
The children listened with sobered little faces. "Poor papa!" they said.
"But some day," said grandmother, "some day I hope, when you three are
older, that Alderwood will again be a happy home for your father. It is
what your mother would have wished, I know."
"Well then, you and aunty must come to live with us there. You must.
Promise now, grandmother dear," said Molly.
Grandmother smiled, but shook her head gently.
"Grandmother will be a _very_ old woman by then, my darling," she said,
"and perhaps----"
Molly pressed her little fat hand over grandmother's mouth.
"I know what you're going to say, but you're _not_ to say it," she said.
"And _every_ night, grandmother dear, I ask in my prayers for you to live
to be a hundred."
Grandmother smiled again.
"Do you, my darling?" she said. "But remember, whatever we _ask_, God
knows best what to _answer_."