For some days the story of the bewitched Princess gave Rafe and Alix
enough to talk about, and to play at too, for they invented a game in
which Alix was supposed to fall into an enchanted sleep if Rafe
succeeded in touching her with a branch of leaves, which represented
snowflakes; and as she was a very quick runner it was not so easy as it
sounds.
Besides, by this time the Easter holidays were over and lessons had
begun again. The children had not _too_ many lessons, however, and
always a good part of the afternoon to themselves, and they remained
faithful to the old garden as their favourite playground. So some hours
of every day--of every fine day at least--were spent there, and though
they had not seen the old caretaker a second time, nor ever managed to
find the concealed door in the rough stone wall again, hunt for it as
they would, still they had sometimes a queer, mysterious, pleasant
feeling that she knew about them--knew they were there, and was perhaps
even peeping out at them through some hidden hole.
It would have been a great sorrow to them if they had had to give up
their visits to the garden. But fortunately their nurse rather approved
of their playing there. There was something that brought good luck with
it about the Lady wood grounds. No ill-chance ever happened to them
there, no tumbles or sprained ankles, or torn clothes, or such not
uncommon misfortunes when children are by themselves. Best of all, they
almost never quarrelled when in the old garden, and perhaps _that_ had a
good deal to do with the keeping clear of other troubles.
They were growing "quite to be trusted," nurse told their mother, and it
scarcely seemed needful for them to go regular walks now, which nurse
was very glad of, as it left her free to get on nicely with all the
needlework, in which--next to a baby, and there had been no new baby
since Alix--her heart delighted.
So the discovery of the pleasures of the deserted manor suited
everybody.
But after a while, the children began to think it was time to have
another story, and to wonder if their old friend had forgotten them, or
possibly gone away. There was no use hunting any more for the hidden
door; they had hurt their fingers and tired themselves to no purpose in
doing so already. And at last they came to the conclusion that if Mrs
Caretaker didn't want them to find it, it was no use trying, and that if
she _did_, she would soon find ways and means of fetching them.
"Unless, of course," said Alix, "she has gone. Perhaps she's like the
birds, you know--only turned the other way. I mean perhaps she goes off
in the summer, once she's started everything, and all the plants and
things _are_ growing beautifully now, in their wild way. You see she's
not like a regular trim gardener--she doesn't want them to grow all
properly like you can see anywhere."
"Still she must take great care of them somehow," said Rafe
thoughtfully, "for you know people often notice how few weeds there are
about Ladywood, and in full summer the wild flowers are quite wonderful.
And the birds--it's always here the nightingales are heard the best."
Alix looked up. They were sitting in their favourite place, at the foot
of some very tall trees.
"If we'd had any sense," she said, "we might almost have seen for
ourselves long ago that there was something fairy about the place, even
before the wren led us here."
The mention of the wren made her remember something she had noticed.
"Rafe," she went on, "do you know I've seen a little robin hopping about
us the last day or two, and chirping in a _talking_ sort of way. I
forgot to tell you. I wonder if he has anything to say to us, for you
know there were _two_ birds that wanted to tell us stories."
"Per--" began Rafe in his slow fashion.
But before he had time to get to "haps" his sister caught hold of his
arm.
"Hush!" she whispered, "there he is."
Yes, there he was, and "he" _was_ a robin.
He hopped about in front of them for a minute or two, now and then
cocking his head on one side and looking at them over his shoulder, as
it were, as if to see whether he had caught their attention. Then he
flew up a little way, and settled himself on a branch not far from them,
with a peculiar little chirp.
"I believe," said Alix, still in a whisper, "I believe he wants us to
speak to him."
"Try," replied Rafe.
"Robin," said Alix, clearly though softly, "robin, have you come to see
us? Have you got a message for us from Mrs Caretaker, perhaps?"
The bird looked at her reproachfully. I don't know that she could see
it was _reproachfully_, but from the way he held his head it was plain
to any one that he was not altogether pleased.
Then came a succession of chirps, and gradually, just as had happened
before, by dint of listening very attentively and keeping quite, quite
quiet, bits of words and then words themselves began to grow out of the
chirping. To tell the truth, if any one had passed that way, he or she
would have imagined Rafe and Alix were asleep. For there they sat, like
a picture of the babes in the wood--Alix's head resting on her brother's
shoulder, and his arm thrown round her--_quite_ motionless. But they
weren't asleep, of course, for their two pairs of eyes were fixed on the
little red-breasted fellow up above them.
"So you had forgotten all about me," in a melancholy tone, quite unlike
a cheery little robin. "I gave up to that other fellow and let him tell
his story first. I suppose you don't care to hear mine."
"Oh, dear robin, of course we do," said Alix. "But you see we didn't
understand."
"I've been following you about all these days. I'm sure you might have
seen me, and I've been asking you over and over again if you didn't want
to listen."
"But you see, dear robin, we couldn't understand what you said. It
takes a good while to get used to--to your way of speaking, you know,"
said Alix. She was desperately afraid of hurting his feelings still
more.
"I am afraid that is not the real reason. You think a robin's story is
sure to be stupid. You see I am not one of those fine travelled
fellows--the swallows and the martins, and all the rest of them--who
spend the winter in the south and know such a lot of the world. I'm
only a home bird. Here I was hatched and here I have lived, and mean to
live till I die. It's quite true that my story is a very stupid one.
I've made no fine acquaintances such as kings and queens and princesses,
and I've never visited at court, north or south either, so you know what
you have to expect."
He seemed rather depressed, but less offended than he had been.
"Please begin," said Rafe. "I'm sure we shall like your story. We
don't want always to hear the same kind." The robin cleared his throat.
"Such as it is," he began, "I can vouch for the truth of it, as it
happened to be my own self. I didn't `have it' from any one else. And
in my own mind I have given it the name of `The Christmas Surprise.'"
And after he had cleared his throat again for the last time, he went
straight on.
"I have often noticed," he began, "that whatever we have not got,
whatever is not ours or with us at the present moment, is the thing we
prize the most. This applies both to birds and human beings, and it is
often the case about the seasons of the year. There is a great charm
about absence. In the winter we are always looking forward to the
spring and the summer; in the hot summer we think of the cool shady days
of autumn, of the cheerful fires and merry doings that come with
Christmas. I am speaking especially of men and women and children just
now, but there is a good deal of the same kind of thing among us birds,
though you mightn't think it. And of all birds, I think we robins have
the most sympathy with human folk. We really love Christmas time; it is
gratifying to know how much we are thought of at that season--how our
portraits are sent about by one friend to another, how our figures are
placed on your Christmas trees, and how every one thinks of us with
kindness. And except by _very_ thoughtless people we are generally
cared for well. During a hard winter it is seldom that our wants are
forgotten. I myself," and here he plumed himself importantly, "I myself
have been most fortunate in this respect. There are at least a dozen
houses within easy flight of Ladywood where I am always sure of a good
breakfast of crumbs."
"But," began Alix, rather timidly, "please don't mind my interrupting
you, but doesn't Mrs Caretaker look after you? I thought that was what
she was here for, to take care of all the living creatures in this
garden."
"Exactly so, exactly so," said the robin, hastily, "far be it from me to
make any complaint. I would not change my home for the garden of a
palace. But, as I have said, I think we robins have much sympathy with
your race. Human beings interest me extremely. I like to study their
characters. So I go about in my own part of the country a good deal,
and thus I know the ways of many of my wingless neighbours pretty
intimately. Thus comes it that I have stories to tell, all from my own
observation, you see. Well, as I was remarking, we often love to dwell
in fancy on what is not ours at present, so as it is really like a
summer day, quite hot for the time of year, I daresay it will amuse you
to transport your thoughts to Christmas time. Most of my human stories
belong to that season, for it is then we have so much to do with you.
The Christmas of which I am going to tell you was what is called an
`old-fashioned one,'--though it strikes me that snowy, frosty, very cold
Christmases are fast becoming new-fashioned again--ah, it _was_ cold! I
was a young bird then; it was my first experience of frost and snow, and
in spite of my feathers I did shiver, I can tell you. Still I enjoyed
it; I was strong and hearty, and I began to make acquaintance with the
houses in the neighbourhood, at several of which one was pretty sure of
a breakfast in front of some window.
"There was a very large house which had been shut up for some time, as
the owners were abroad. It had a charming terrace in front, and my
friends and I often regretted that it was not inhabited. For the
terrace faced south and all the sunshine going was sure to be found
there, and it would have been a pleasant resort for us. And one morning
our wishes were fulfilled. I met a cousin of mine flying off in great
excitement.
"`The Manor House is open again,' he told me. `Come quickly. Through
the windows on to the terrace, fires are to be seen in all the rooms,
and they are evidently preparing for a merry Christmas. No doubt they
will not forget us, but it is as well to remind them that we should be
glad of some crumbs.'
"I flew off with him, and found it just as he had said. The house had
quite a different appearance; it looked bright and cheery, and in one
room a large party was assembled at breakfast. We--for several of us
were there--hopped up and down the terrace for some little time, but no
notice was taken of us. So one by one my companions flew away,
remarking that it was no use wasting their time; they would look in
again some other day when perhaps the new-comers would have thought of
them. But I remained behind; I was not very busy, being a young bird,
and I felt a wish to see something of the family who had been so long
absent, for I am of what some people call a `curious' disposition; I
myself should rather describe it as observant and thoughtful.
"I perched close beside the dining-room window and peeped in. There
were several grown-up people, but only two children; two little girls,
very prettily dressed, but thin and pale, and with a somewhat
discontented expression of face. After a while, when the meal was over
and all had risen from the table, the children came to the window with a
young lady and stood looking out.
"Oh, how cold it is," said one of them shivering, "I wish papa and mamma
had not come back to England. I liked India much better."
"So did I," said the other little girl. "I don't want to go a walk when
it's so cold. Need we go, Miss Meadows? And yet I don't know what to
do in the house. I'm tired of all our toys. We shall have new ones
next week when Christmas Day comes; that's a good thing."
The young lady they called Miss Meadows looked rather troubled. In her
heart she thought the children had far too many toys already, and she
felt sure they would get tired of the new ones before they had had them
long.
"I don't care much for Christmas except for the toys," said the first
little girl. "Do you, Miss Meadows?"
"Yes, indeed I do, Norna dear," she said. "And I think in your heart
you really care for it too--and Ivy also. You both know _why_ it should
be so cared for."
"Oh, yes; in that sort of a way, I know it would be naughty not to care
for it," said Norna, looking a little ashamed. "But it's different when
you've lived in England, I suppose. Mamma has told us stories of
Christmas when she was little, that sounded very nice--all about carols,
and lots of cousins playing together, and presents, and school feasts.
But we haven't any cousins to play with. Had you, Miss Meadows, at your
own home?"
Miss Meadows' eyes looked rather odd for a moment. She turned away for
half an instant and then she seemed all right again.
"I had lots of brothers and sisters," she said, "and that's even better
than cousins."
It was her first Christmas away from home, and she had only been a few
days with Norna and Ivy.
"I wish we had!" sighed Norna, who always wanted what she had not got.
"But surely there are some things you can have that would cheer you up,"
said Miss Meadows. "Perhaps it is too soon to settle about school
feasts just yet, but have you no presents to get ready for any one?"
"No," sighed Ivy. "Mamma has everything she wants; and so have we.
It's rubbish giving each other presents just to say they're presents."
"Yes," said Miss Meadows. "I think it is. But--"