Concerns a Camera
Winona went home at Christmas with a whole world of new experiences to
call her own. Her first term had indeed been an epoch in her life, and
though the holidays were naturally welcome, she felt that she could look
forward with pleasure to the next session of school. Her family received
her with a certain amount of respect. The younger ones listened
enviously to her accounts of hockey matches and symposiums, and began to
wish Fate had wafted their fortunes to Seaton. They had left Miss
Harmon's little school, and next term were expecting, with some
apprehension, a governess whom Aunt Harriet had recommended. Winona, who
after thirteen weeks at Abbey Close found the home arrangements rather
chaotic, could not help privately endorsing Miss Beach's wisdom in
instituting such a change. Poor Mrs. Woodward had been greatly out of
health for the last few months, and kept much to her bedroom, while the
children had been running wild in a quite deplorable fashion. Letty, who
ought to have had some influence over the others, was the naughtiest of
all, and the ringleader in every mischievous undertaking. Having
occupied the position of "eldest" for thirteen weeks, she was not at all
disposed to submit to her sister's authority, and there were many
tussles between the two.
"You'll _have_ to do as your governess tells you, when she comes!"
protested Winona on one particularly urgent occasion.
"All right, Grannie!" retorted Letty pertly. "I'll settle that matter
with the good lady herself, and in the meantime I'm not going to knuckle
under to you, so don't think it! You needn't come back so precious high
and mighty from your High School, and expect to boss the whole show
here. So there!"
And Winona, who aforetime had been able to subdue her unruly sister,
found herself baffled, for their mother was ill, and must not be
disturbed, and Percy, who might have been on her side, would only lie on
the sofa and guffaw.
"Fight it out, like a pair of Kilkenny cats!" was his advice. "I'll
sweep up the fragments that remain of you afterwards. No, I'm not going
to back either of you. Go ahead and get it over!"
Percy had grown immensely during this last term. He was now seventeen,
and very tall, though at present decidedly lanky. The Cadet Corps at his
school absorbed most of his interests. He held emphatic opinions upon
the war, and aired them daily to his family over the morning paper.
According to his accounts, matters seemed likely to make little progress
until he and his contemporaries at Longworth College should have reached
military age, and be able to take their due part in the struggle, at
which happy crisis the Germans would receive a setback that would
astonish the Kaiser.
"Our British tactics have been all wrong!" he declared. "I can tell you
we follow things out inch by inch at Longworth, and you should just hear
what Johnstone Major has to say. Some of those generals at the Front are
old women! They ought to send them home, and set them some knitting to
do. If I'd the ordering of affairs I'd give the command to fellows under
twenty-five! New wine should be in new bottles."
The younger children listened with admiration to Percy's views on war
topics, much regretting that the Government had not yet obtained the
benefit of his advice. Godfrey even hoped that the war would not be over
before there was a chance for precept to be put into practice, and
already, in imagination, saw his brother in the uniform of a Field
Marshal. Winona smiled tolerantly. She took Percy's opinions for what
they were worth. If his school report was anything to go by, he had
certainly not won laurels at Longworth this term, in the direction of
brainwork, and the headmaster's comment: "Lacking in steady
application," had probably been amply justified.
Winona was not altogether happy about Percy, these holidays. Jack
Cassidy was spending Christmas at the Vicarage, and claimed much of his
time, and the influence was not altogether for good. Young Cassidy had
already given the Vicar, his guardian and former tutor, considerable
trouble. At twenty-two he had run through a large proportion of the
money which had come to him at his majority, though fortunately he could
not touch the bulk of his property till he should be twenty-five. At
present he was waiting for a commission, and amusing himself as best he
could in the village until the welcome missive should arrive. For lack
of other congenial companions he sought Percy's society. Neither Mr.
James, the Vicar, nor Mrs. Woodward realized how much the two young
fellows were together, or they certainly would not have encouraged the
intimacy. Winona, who was just old enough to recognize certain
undesirable features, tackled Percy in private.
"Mother wouldn't like your going into 'The Blue Harp,' and playing
billiards with Jack!" she remonstrated. "You were there hours yesterday.
Doesn't it cost a lot?"
"Oh, Jack pays for it! At least he settles with old Chubbs. I have a bit
on the score, of course, but he says that can wait a while. I'm
improving, and I'll beat him yet, and win my own back."
"You promised mother you wouldn't bet again, after what happened last
Easter."
"Now don't you go jaw-wagging!"
"Well, I must say something! If Mr. Joynson--"
"Old Joynson may go and boil his head! I'm seventeen now. Look here,
Win, if you're going to turn sneak--"
"Sneak, indeed! Do I ever tell your secrets? Think what you did at Aunt
Harriet's!"
Percy changed color.
"You've not breathed a word about that?"
"Of course I haven't, but I'm always terrified that she'll find out."
"It was a rocky little business. I say, Win, I was looking up wills in
'Every Man his Own Lawyer.' If Aunt Harriet died intestate all her
estate would go to her next-of-kin, and that's Uncle Herbert Beach out
in China. The mater wouldn't have a look-in, because her mother was only
Aunt Harriet's half-sister. Uncle Herbert would just get the lot. She
ought to make another will at once."
"Had you better tell, then?" faltered Winona.
"Tell? Certainly not! But you might very well suggest it to her. You've
plenty of opportunities, as you're living there. Bring the conversation
round to wills, and ask casually if she's made hers."
"Oh, I couldn't!"
"Yes, you could. You ought to do it, Winona. The mater stands to lose
everything as it is. It would probably make Aunt Harriet look inside the
drawer, and then she'd see her paper was gone."
"And suspect us!"
"Why should she know we'd had anything to do with it? The servants might
have been rummaging. I certainly think it's your duty, Win, to take some
steps."
It was rather fine to hear Percy preaching duty on a subject in which he
was so plainly a defaulter. Winona at first indignantly repudiated the
task he wished to impose upon her. Nevertheless, the idea kept returning
and troubling her. She was sure Aunt Harriet ought to know that the will
had been destroyed, and if it was impossible to tell her outright, this
would certainly be a means of putting her on the track. Winona's whole
soul revolted from the notion of speculating upon possible advantages to
be gained from a relative's death. She would rather let Uncle Herbert
inherit everything than interfere for herself. But for her mother it was
a different matter. Aunt Harriet might wish her goddaughter to receive
part of her fortune, and to conceal the destruction of the will might
mean depriving Mrs. Woodward of a handsome legacy. How to make Miss
Beach realize the loss of the paper without getting Percy into trouble
was a problem that might have perplexed older and wiser heads.
Meanwhile it was holiday time, and there were many more pleasant
subjects to think about. Winona's Christmas present had been a small
hand camera, the very thing for which she had longed during the whole of
the past term. She contemplated it with the utmost satisfaction. Now she
would be able to join the Photographic Club at school, to go out on some
of the Saturday afternoon expeditions, and to have a few of her prints
in the Exhibition. She could take snap-shots of the girls and the
classroom, and make them into picture postcards to send to her mother,
and she could make a series of home photos to hang up in her bedroom at
Abbey Close. There seemed no limit indeed to the possibilities of her
new camera. She guarded it jealously from the prying fingers of the
younger members of the family.
"Paws off!" she commanded. "Anybody who interferes with this Kodak will
quarrel with me, so I give you full and fair warning! Oh, yes, Dorrie!
I dare say you'd just like to press the button! I'd guarantee your fairy
fingers to smash anything! It's 'mustn't touch, only look' where this is
concerned. No personal familiarities, please!"
December and January were scarcely propitious months for the taking of
snap-shots, but Winona attempted some time exposures, with varying
results. It was difficult to make the children realize the necessity of
keeping absolutely still, and they spoilt several of her plates by
grinning or moving. She secured quite a nice photo of the house,
however, and several of the village, and promised herself better luck
with family portraits when the summer came round again. She turned a
large cupboard in the attic into her dark-room, and spent many hours
dabbling among chemicals. She had urgent offers of help, but rejected
them steadfastly, greatly to the disappointment of her would-be
assistants. Her sanctum became a veritable Bluebeard's chamber, for to
prevent possible accidents she locked the door, and kept the key
perpetually in her pocket during the day time, sleeping with it under
her pillow at night. In the summer she meant to try all kinds of
experiments. She had visions of rigging up a shelter made of leaves and
branches, and taking a series of magnificent snap-shots of wild birds
and animals, like those in the books by Cherry Kearton, and she
certainly intended to secure records of the sports at school. In the
meantime she must content herself with landscape and still life. "I'll
have one of the de Claremont tomb, at any rate," she resolved.
The de Claremont tomb was the glory of Ashbourne Church. It was of white
marble, and beautifully sculptured. Sir Guy de Claremont lay represented
in full armor, with his lady in ruff and coif by his side. Six sons and
four daughters, all kneeling, were carved in has relief round the side
of the monument. Long, long ago, in the Middle Ages, the de Claremonts
had been the great people of the neighborhood. They had fought in the
Crusades, had taken their part in the wars of the Barons, had declared
for the White Rose in the struggle with the House of Lancaster, and cast
in their lot for the King against Oliver Cromwell. The family was
extinct now, and their lands had passed to others, but a few tattered
banners and an old helmet still hung on the wall of the side chapel,
above the tomb, testifying to their former achievements. From her seat
in church Winona had a good view of the monument. She admired it
immensely, and had often woven romances about the good knights of old
who had carried those banners to the battle-field. She felt that she
would like to secure a satisfactory photo. She started off one morning
at about half-past eleven, when the light was likely to be best.
It was a sunny day, and wonderfully bright for January. She had meant to
go alone, but the children were on the look-out, and tracked her, so she
arrived at the church door closely followed by Letty, Mamie, Godfrey,
Ernie and Dorrie. She hesitated for a moment whether to send them
straight home or not, but the church was a mile from Highfield, and the
mill weir, a place of fascination to Ernie, lay on the way, so she
decided that it would be safest to let well alone.
"They're imps, but they'll have to behave themselves decently in
church," she said to herself.
At present the conduct of the family was exemplary. They walked in on
tip-toe, and talked in whispers. Mamie, indeed, cast an envious eye
towards the forbidden ground of the pulpit, into which it was her
ambition some day to climb, and wave her arms about in imitation of the
Vicar, but she valiantly restrained her longings, and kept from the
neighborhood of the chancel. Letty took a surreptitious peep at the
organ, and was disappointed to find it locked, as was also the little
oak door that led up the winding staircase to the bell tower. She
decided that the parish clerk was much too attentive to his duties.
"Come along over here, can't you?" said Winona suspiciously. "Leave
those hymn-books alone, and tell Dorrie she's not to touch the font, or
I'll stick her inside and pop the lid on her. Go and sit down, all of
you, in that pew, while I take the photo."
The family for once complied obediently, if somewhat reluctantly. It was
better to play the part of spectators than to be left out of the
proceedings altogether. In the circumstances they knew Winona had the
whip-hand, and that if she ordered them from the church there would be
no appeal. They watched her now with interest and enthusiasm.
It took her a long time to fix her camera in good position. It was
difficult to see properly in the viewfinder, and she wanted to be quite
sure that when the head of Sir Guy was safely in the right-hand corner,
his feet were not out of the picture at the left, to say nothing of the
ten kneeling children underneath.
"It's impossible to get the wall above if I'm to take the inscription on
the monument," she declared, "and yet I mustn't leave out the old helmet
on any account. I shall take it down, and put it at the bottom of the
tomb while I photograph it. It ought to come out rather well there."
Rejecting eager offers of help from Mamie and Ernie, Winona climbed up
on to the stately person of Dame Margaret de Claremont, and managed to
take the helmet from the wooden peg on which it was suspended. She posed
it at the foot of the monument, on the right hand side.
"There's a splendid light from this window--full sunshine! I think if I
give it five minutes' exposure, that ought to do the deed. Now don't any
of you so much as cough, or you'll disturb the air."
The family felt _that_ five minutes the very limit of endurance. The
moment it was ended they dispersed to ease their strained feelings.
Letty and Ernie walked briskly up the nave. Mamie went to investigate
the stove. Winona herself took the camera to the opposite side of the
church to photograph a Jacobean tablet. Six-year-old Dorrie remained
sitting on a hassock in the pew. She had a plan in her crafty young
mind. She wanted to examine the helmet, and she knew Winona would be
sure to say "Paws off!" or something equally offensive and
objectionable. She waited till her sister was safely out of the way,
then she stole from her cover, grabbed the helmet, and returned to the
shelter of the pew. It made quite an interesting and fascinating
plaything in her estimation. She amused herself with it for a long time,
until she heard Winona's voice proclaiming that if they didn't trot home
quickly they'd be late for dinner, whereupon she popped it under the
seat, and joined the others. Winona, of course, ought to have replaced
it on its peg on the wall, but her memory was far from perfect, and she
completely forgot all about it.
The whole thing seemed a most trivial incident, but it had an amazing
sequel. On Saturday afternoons Mrs. Fisher, the caretaker, always came
to sweep and tidy up the church in preparation for Sunday. She was a
little, thin, sharp-nosed, impulsive woman, and just at present her
nerves were rather in a shaky condition for fear of Zeppelins. She lived
in perpetual terror of bombs or German spies, and always slept with half
her clothing on, in case she should be forced to get up in a hurry and
flee for her life. On this particular Saturday afternoon Mrs. Fisher, as
was her wont, washed the pavement of the nave, and then took her broom
and her duster into the side chapel. Nobody sat there as a rule, so she
did not give it very much attention. She flicked the duster over the
monument, hastily swept the floor in front, and was just about to turn
away, having done her duty, when she caught sight of something under
the seat of a pew. She put her hand to her heart, and turned as white as
her own best linen apron. She divined instantly what it must be. With
great presence of mind she stole softly away on tip-toe. Once outside
the church she indulged in a comfortable little burst of hysterics. Then
she felt better, and went to tell the parish clerk. Before evening the
news had spread all over the village.
"It was brought in a motor car," Mrs. Pikes at the shop informed her
customers, "and Wilson's little boy says he heard them talking German."
"There was a foreign-looking sort of a chap rode past our house on a
bicycle the other day," volunteered the blacksmith's assistant.
"You never know where you are with strangers in war time," said another.
Everybody agreed that it was a mercy Mrs. Fisher had seen it when she
did, and they were glad the church was a goodish way from the village.
The Woodward family generally started off for service almost directly
after the bells began to ring. On the following Sunday morning, however,
they were considerably perplexed. The familiar "ding-dong, ding-dong"
which ought to have been pealing forth was not to be heard. They
listened in vain, and consulted all the clocks in the house.
"It's certainly after ten," said Mrs. Woodward. "I'm afraid something
must have happened! I hope Mr. James isn't ill. Well, we'd better go at
any rate, and see what's the matter."
So the family, which was ready in its best Sunday garments, sallied
forth. Ashbourne Church stood a whole mile away from the village, in a
lonely spot with only a couple of cottages near it. The Woodwards took a
short cut across the common from Highfield, so that they did not pass
any houses or meet any neighbors by the way. They arrived at the church
to find the door locked, and the Vicar and his family standing in
consternation outside. Mr. James hailed them with relief.
"So it _is_ Sunday!" he exclaimed. "I began to think we must have
mistaken the day! I can't understand what's the matter. Nobody's here
except ourselves. What's becomes of Stevens?"
It was certainly an unprecedented circumstance to find choir,
congregation, organist, organ-blower, bell-ringer and verger all
conspicuous by their absence. Mr. James went to the cottages near to
make inquiries as to the cause. The first was locked up, but by knocking
long and loudly at the door of the second, he at last succeeded in
rousing Jacob Johnson, a deaf old man of eighty-three.
"Nobody come to church!" he repeated, when after some difficulty and
much shouting the situation had been explained: "Well, 'tain't likely
there should be! I'm told there's a German bomb there, one of the
dangerous sort for going off. Some men brought it yesterday in a motor
car. Spies of the Kaiser, they were. It may explode any minute, they
say, and wreck the church and everything near. The Greenwoods next door
locked up the house, and went to their aunt's in the village. My
daughter came over here asking me to go home with her, but I said I'd
stay and risk it. At eighty-three one doesn't care to move!"
"Where is this bomb?" asked Mr. James.
"In a pew nigh the old monument, so I'm told." At this juncture Jack
Cassidy, who when the church was first found to be locked had
volunteered to run back to the Vicarage and fetch the Vicar's own key,
now arrived after a record sprint.
"Give me a bucket of water, and I'll go and investigate," said Mr.
James.
He came out of the church in the course of a few minutes, holding in his
hand--the old helmet!
"This is the nearest approach to a bomb of any description that I've
been able to discover," he announced. "I'm going to carry it to the
village to convince the wiseacres there. Perhaps Stevens will pluck up
courage to ring the bell for afternoon service. If not, I'll ring it
myself."
Winona's share in the business might have remained concealed but for the
indiscretion of Mamie, who by an incautious remark gave the show away
entirely.
"You little silly!" scolded Winona afterwards. "What possessed you to go
and say anything at all? Mr. James will never forgive me! I could see it
in his eye. And Mrs. James was ice itself! I've never felt so horrible
in all my life. If you'd only had the sense to keep mum, they might
never have found out. You kids are the most frightful nuisance! If I'd
had my choice given me when I was born, I wouldn't have been an eldest
sister."