Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online Distributed
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THE
PALACE IN THE GARDEN.
BY
MRS. MOLESWORTH,
AUTHOR OF "CARROTS," "SILVERTHORNS," "FOUR WINDS FARM," ETC.
LONDON:
HATCHARDS, PICCADILLY.
1887.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
WE THREE 1
CHAPTER II.
THE SCORED-OUT NAME 22
CHAPTER III.
"ROSEBUDS" 50
CHAPTER IV.
THE DOOR IN THE GARDEN WALL 73
CHAPTER V.
WHAT GERALD FOUND 99
CHAPTER VI.
OPEN, SESAME 124
CHAPTER VII.
GRANDPAPA'S SECRETARY 146
CHAPTER VIII.
STEPPED OUT OF THE FRAME 172
CHAPTER IX.
OUR FAIRY 198
CHAPTER X.
THREE STARLINGS 223
CHAPTER XI.
BROTHER AND SISTER 248
CHAPTER XII.
THE STORY OF THE OLD HOUSE 272
THE PALACE IN THE GARDEN.
CHAPTER I.
WE THREE.
"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?"
I think the best beginning is the morning that grandpapa sent for us
to come down to the study. Tib and Gerald, don't think so. They say I
should begin by telling our names, and how old we were, and all that--at
least, Gerald says so; Tib isn't quite sure. Tib very often isn't quite
sure. She has got too grand ideas, and if she were going to write a
story, she would make it like poetry, very difficult to understand, and
awfully long words, and lots about feelings and sorrows and mysteries.
I like mysteries, too--I think they are very interesting, and I _have_
one to tell about, as you will see, only I must tell it my own way,
and after all, as this story is only to be read by Tib and Gerald--and
our children--we have settled that when we are all three grown-up and
married, and have children, it shall be made into a book for them--I
daresay it doesn't much matter how it is told.
Well, that morning we were all poking our heads as far as we dared out
of the school-room window--Miss Evans hadn't yet come--to see the first
primrose man that had passed that year. We heard his "All a blowing, all
a growing," far off down the street, but we hadn't yet seen him and his
basket with the beautiful light yellow bunches at the top, and we were
wondering if we could get Fanny to run out and buy us twopence-worth,
when Bland stuck his solemn and rather crabbed-looking face in at the
door. Bland is grandpapa's "own man," as they say, and his name doesn't
suit him at all--at least, it didn't then--he's not so bad now we're
older.
"Young ladies and Master Gerald," he said, "my master wishes you all to
come down stairs to speak to him before he goes out."
Down we all tumbled from the window-sill. Tib and I began smoothing our
aprons and tugging at each other's hair--grandpapa was very particular.
Gerald only looked at his hands.
"They are rather dirty," he said seriously. "But I did wash them so
very well this morning, and it's not ten o'clock yet. Do you think,
Gussie----?"
I knew what he was going to say, so I cut him short.
"Yes, I do think you'd better run and wash them _at once_--why, you
might have had them done by now--they are just perfectly grimy."
For Gerald would any day talk for ten minutes about why he _needn't_
wash his hands rather than run off and do them. I am afraid he was
rather a dirty little boy--he'll be very angry if he sees that, for he
is now getting to be very particular indeed--for though he liked bathing
in the sea, he would do anything to avoid washing--regular good soapy
washing. But he was too afraid of grandpapa to stand out when I said
his hands were as bad as "grimy;" so off he went.
"Are we to come down at once?" asked Tib.
"Yes, miss. Your grandpapa has ordered the brougham to be round in ten
minutes," Bland graciously informed us as Gerald started off.
"I wonder what it's about?" said Tib. "I hope he's not vexed with us."
For it wasn't often that grandpapa sent for us in the morning, except on
birthdays or Christmas Day, when he had presents for us. He never forgot
about that, I must say.
"Why should he be vexed with us?" I said. "We've not done anything
naughty;" for Tib was standing there with the tears on their way to
her big blue eyes, as I could see quite well--and I've no patience
with people who look as if they had been naughty when they haven't.
"Well, you go in first, then, Gussie," said Tib. "I wish I wasn't
frightened, but I can't help it."
By this time we were on the stairs, not far from the study door, and
Gerald had run after us, with very red shiny paws, you may be sure, and
in another moment we were all three in "the august presence," as Tib
called it afterwards.
Grandpapa had just finished his breakfast. He used often to have it
like that, just on a little tray in the study. It didn't look very
comfortable, and he might quite as well have had it in the dining-room
all nicely set out, and Tib and me to pour out his coffee in turns. But
he did not think of it, I suppose, and at that time I don't think we
did, either. We had never seen any other "ways;" we didn't know how
other families lived--families where there were mammas, or any way
grandmammas, or aunts, as well as children, and we were so young that we
just took things as we found them. I think children are generally like
that, especially if they see very little outside their own homes.
Grandpapa was not old-looking at all--not the least like the pictures in
old-fashioned books of a very aged man, with a gentle and rather silly
face, and a white beard, and a stick, sitting in a big arm-chair by the
fire, and patting a very curly-haired grandchild on the head. I'm quite
sure grandpapa never patted any of us on the head; and _now_, of course,
we're too big. But I didn't mind his not being like the pictures of
grandpapas, and now I mind it still less, for I'm really proud of his
being so nice-looking. That morning I can remember quite well how he
looked as he sat by the table, with the tray pushed away, and a whole
bundle of letters before him. He glanced up at us as we came trooping
in, with his bright dark eyes and a half smile on his face. We were not
very fond of that half smile of his: it made it so difficult to tell if
he was in fun or earnest.
"Well, young people," he said, "and how does the wind blow this
morning?"
He looked at Gerald as he spoke. Gerald was staring at his red hands.
"I don't know, grandpapa," he said; and then seeing that grandpapa's
eyes were still fixed on him, he got uncomfortable, and tugged Tib,
who was next him. "Tib knows, p'r'aps," he said. "I'm only seven,
grandpapa."
Grandpapa moved his eyes to Tib.
"It strikes me," he said, "that you're getting too big, young woman, to
be spoken of as if you were a kitten. You must call your sister by her
proper name, Gerald."
"It's hard for him to say, grandpapa," said Tib. "That's why Gussie and
he always say Tib, instead of Mercedes."
"Umph!--yes--Tom-fool name!" said grandpapa, which made me rather angry.
"No, grandpapa, it's not a Tom-fool name," I said. "It's Spanish; and it
was because our papa and mamma lived in Spain that they called it her."
I daresay I spoke pertly. Any way, I was punished, for my words had the
effect of bringing the eyes upon me in my turn.
"Called it her? called it her?" he repeated slowly. "What English! Miss
Evans is to be congratulated on her success! So Mercedes is a Spanish
name, is it? Thank you--thank you very much indeed for the information.
Now perhaps you will all be good enough to listen to some information
from me."
I had got very red while grandpapa was speaking, quite as much from
anger as from shame, for I wasn't so easily put down as Tib and Gerald;
I had a quicker temper. But when grandpapa spoke of having information
to give us, I felt so curious to know what it could be that I tried to
look as if I hadn't minded what he said. So he went on:
"I'm going to send you all off to the country next week; I don't want
to keep this house open. I am very busy, and I would rather live at my
club." Grandpapa stopped a minute. I think he wanted to see what we
would say.
"Are we to go to Ansdell Friars so soon?" I said. I suppose I didn't
seem very pleased, and no more did Tib or Gerald. It wasn't very
long--only three or four months--since we had come from there, and there
was nothing at Ansdell we much cared about. We knew it all so well. It
was a regular big, grand country house; but its bigness was not much
good to us, as we were strictly shut up in our own rooms, and sharply
scolded if we were found out of them; and there was nothing amusing or
interesting there. The country is not pretty, and the walks are not to
be compared with those at--never mind where; I shall tell you the name
of the place in a little while. So we had no particular reason for being
glad to go back there; on the whole, I think we liked London better. We
had less of Miss Evans in London, for she only came every day; but at
Ansdell Friars she lived with us. Grandpapa had persuaded her to do so,
but she didn't like it, and we didn't like it, so we were not very happy
together. She didn't like children, and was only a governess because she
had to be, not because she liked it, and she was always telling us so.
I used to think then all governesses were the same, but I know better
now. There are some _awfully_ nice, who really like teaching, and aren't
always scolding the children, as if it was their own fault that they are
children and have to be taught.
"And is Miss Evans coming?" said Gerald, dolefully.
"You are not going to Ansdell Friars at all; and, I am sorry to say,"
grandpapa went on, "Miss Evans is not able to go with you. Nurse will
have to look after you till I can find another Miss Evans."
Our faces fell, I have no doubt, at the last sentence. Another Miss
Evans! Still, it was very nice to think there'd be _no_ Miss Evans for
a while. Nurse looking after us meant, as we knew very well, that we
should do pretty much as we liked; for nurse spoiled us most horribly.
It was a very delightful prospect.
"We'll try to be very good, grandpapa," said Tib.
"Umph!" said grandpapa.
"And when are we going, please?" I could not resist putting in. I was
burning with curiosity, and so, I am sure, were the others, though they
were afraid to ask. Grandpapa looked at me.
"Upon my word, Gustava," he said, "I think you might give me time to
tell you. When I was young, children were not allowed to cross-question
their elders. You are going to a little country house I have which
you have never seen nor heard of. It is much nearer town than Ansdell
Friars, so I shall be able to come down every now and then to see you,
and to hear if you are behaving properly. It is a much smaller place
than Ansdell--in fact, it's quite a small house. But there's a good
garden; you will have plenty of space to play in. Only I wish you
to understand one thing: there are other houses near--it isn't like
Ansdell, all alone in a park--and neighbours, of course. Now, I won't
have you make friends with any one unless I tell you you may. You are
not to go into other people's houses or to chatter to strangers. Do
you understand?"
"Yes, grandpapa," we all three replied, feeling rather frightened. I
don't think we did quite understand, for we never had made friends with
any one. We had lived very solitary lives, without any companions of
our own age--for we had scarcely any relations, and none that we knew
anything of. And as people don't miss what they have never had, I don't
think it would ever have come into our heads to do what grandpapa was so
afraid of. He certainly made us think more about other people than we
had ever done before.
"What is the name of the place, please, grandpapa?" asked Tib in her
soft voice.
If it had been _me_ that had asked it, he would have snubbed me again.
But it was certainly true, as the servants all said, that he favoured
Tib the most. Perhaps it was that she was so pretty--perhaps it was for
a reason that I can't tell just yet.
"The name of the place," he repeated--"of the house, I suppose you mean?
The name of the place does not matter to you. You will not have to take
your own tickets at the station. The house has an absurd name, but as
it has always been called so, it is no use thinking of changing it. It
is called 'Rosebuds.'"
Grandpapa stood up as he spoke, and just then Bland opened the door to
announce the carriage. So we all said good-bye to him and trotted off.
We knew we should probably not see him again for two or three days, but
we were so used to it we did not care; and we had plenty to interest our
minds and give us something to talk of.
"What a very pretty name 'Rosebuds' is," Tib exclaimed, as soon as we
were safely out of hearing. "I'm sure it must be a very pretty place
to have such a name. I daresay it's a white cottage, with beautiful
old-fashioned windows, and roses climbing all over."
"I don't like cottages with roses growing over them," said Gerald.
"There are always witches living in cottages like that, in the fairy
tales. There is in _Snow-white and Rose-red_."
"Well," said Tib, "it would be rather fun to have a witch at Rosebuds.
I do hope there'll be something interesting and out of the common
there--something _romantic_." Tib said the last word rather slowly. I
don't think she was quite sure how to say it, and I am quite sure none
of us knew what it meant.
"I hope there'll be nice hide-and-seek places in the garden, and nice
trees for climbing up, and perhaps grassy hills for rolling down," said
I. "If grandpapa only comes to see us now and then, and there's no Miss
Evans, and only old Liddy"--old Liddy was nurse--"it _will_ be very
jolly. I shouldn't wonder--I really shouldn't--if it was more jolly than
we've ever had anything in our lives--more like how the children in
story-books are, you know, Tib."
For about this time we had begun to read a good deal more to ourselves,
and among the old books in grandpapa's library we had found a nest
which contained great treasures; many of the volumes had belonged to
our father when he was a boy, and some even had been grandpapa's own
childish books. Grandpapa had given us leave to read them, and you can
fancy what a treat it was to us, who had had so little variety in our
lives, to get hold of _Holiday House_, and the _Swiss Family Robinson_,
and the _Parent's Assistant_, and best of all perhaps, the dearest
little shabby, dumpy, dark-brown book of real old-fashioned fairy
tales. I have it still--no shabbier for all our thumbing of it: it
is so strongly bound, though it is so plain and dingy-looking, and
I mean to keep it for my children.
"But grandpapa said he was going to find another Miss Evans, Gussie,"
said Gerald.
"Never mind. She isn't found yet; and I don't believe there _could_ be
another quite as bad as this one," I said, consolingly.
But a brilliant idea struck Tib. She stopped short on the top step but
one--we were climbing up stairs by this time--before the school-room
landing, and turned round so as to face us two--Gerald and me.
"I tell you what, Gussie and Gerald," she said: "suppose we were to be
very, just _dreadfully_ good at our lessons for a little, don't you
think it _might_ make Miss Evans tell grandpapa that she really thought
we should be the better for a holiday. I should think even _she_ would
like to do something good-natured before she left."
Gerald and I stood listening. It was a grave matter, and we did not want
to commit ourselves hastily.
"Do you mean being very quiet in the school-room, never whispering to
each other, or making even the least little bit of funny faces when
she's not looking? or do you mean doing our lessons for her just awfully
well?"
"Both," said Tib, solemnly.
"Oh, I don't think I _could_," I replied. "It is so very nice to be
naughty sometimes."
"But, Gussie," said Gerald, "any way, you might settle to do our lessons
terribly well. Don't you see, if we did them quite well Miss Evans might
think we knew everything, and she might tell grandpapa we didn't need to
learn anything more."
"And you might settle to be naughty with _us_ or with Liddy," said Tib,
persuasively. "Gerald and I will promise not to mind, won't we, Gerald?
And we'll explain to Liddy."
"I'll think about it," was all I could say.