WHAT GERALD FOUND.
"Give a little love to a child, and you get a great deal
back."--RUSKIN.
It was very funny, after all poor Tib's great preparations, when she
really saw grandpapa that she seemed as if she could say nothing. I had
already run forward, and quite without thinking of pleasing him, or of
anything except that I was awfully glad he was there, because I _was_ so
tired of sitting still and squabbling, I called out quite loudly--
"Oh, grandpapa, I _am_ so glad you've come!"
He was just getting down from the dog-cart--he had had it and a horse
and groom sent down to Rosebuds to be ready for taking him to and from
the station; the old one-horse fly wouldn't have suited grandpapa, I can
assure you!--and when he heard me he turned round with quite a nice, not
the least "making-fun-of-you," smile on his face. I don't think I had
ever before seen his face look so nice. "Are you really glad I have
come, Gussie? I'm sure I feel very flattered."
I felt both pleased and vexed. I did so wish I could have let him go on
thinking I meant it that way, and I felt myself getting very red as I
blurted out--
"Yes, grandpapa, I am--we are all glad you've come. But I meant,
perhaps, partly that we've been dressed and waiting for you _such_ a
time, and we were all getting rather cross."
A slight look of disappointment--it was really disappointment, and it
made me feel still more sorry--crossed grandpapa's face at my words.
Then he smiled again, but this time I was sorry to see there _was_ a
little of the old smile in it.
"You are candid, at least, my dear granddaughter. Ah, well! we must take
the goods the gods send us, and not expect impossibilities, I suppose!
And that any one should be glad to see _me_, in the ordinary acceptation
of the words, comes within that category, naturally."
He used such long words, he puzzled me. (I must tell you that I have
been helped here and there to write things that grandpapa said by some
one who knows quite well his sort of way, otherwise I couldn't have got
it quite right, though I remember it all in my own way.) I looked up and
said, "Grandpapa, I don't understand you."
Then his face grew nicer again, and he stooped down to kiss us in his
usual way, saying to me as he did so, "Never mind; such understanding
comes soon enough."
And Tib, who, I suppose, had been gathering courage all this time, then
looked up, and said very prettily--Tib _is_ very pretty, you know, and
that makes what she says pretty too, I think--
"Grandpapa, perhaps we could understand some things--nice things--better
than you think. We do understand that you're very good to us--it was
very good of you to let us come here. We are so happy!"
Grandpapa put his hand under Tib's chin, and raised her face so that he
could see straight into her blue eyes.
"Has any one been putting that into your head, Mercedes?" he said,
almost sternly. "The truth, now, child--for Heaven's sake let me see if
you are true! _Can_ she be with those eyes--those very same eyes?" he
added to himself, so low that no one but I--for I have dreadfully quick
ears--heard it. Tib didn't; she told me so afterwards, but that was
perhaps because she was thinking so what she should answer. But she
looked up fearlessly, and she didn't get red.
"Mrs. Munt has been speaking to us very nicely, grandpapa," she said.
"But she didn't tell me to say anything to you--oh no, grandpapa. All
she did was to make us think perhaps better than we have ever done
before how very good you are to us;" and then, with the last words
Tib's courage began to go away, and the tears came welling up into her
eyes.
Grandpapa looked at her still for a minute, and then he said quietly--
"What I do is no more than you have a right to. Still, at your age the
less thought about rights--and wrongs too--the better, no doubt. And so
you are happy here?"
"Very," we all replied, heartily. And then Gerald--oh, that tiresome
boy!--must needs add--
"And it is _so_ nice without Miss Evans!"
Grandpapa laughed at this, really laughed; but Tib and I could have
pinched Gerald. For, alas! grandpapa added--
"That's right--not to have let me forget about finding a new Miss
Evans;" and if he saw--which I don't know--Tib's and my faces when he
said that, he must have been satisfied that we could _look_ what we felt
very candidly.
Grandpapa only stayed two days; but his visit was really much nicer than
we had fancied it would be. He took us to church on Sunday himself. But,
rather to our disappointment, not to the pretty old church we had passed
on first entering the village, but to one at least three miles off,
which was not at all pretty nor interesting. There was nobody at all
there except very stupid-looking, poor country people, and the sermon
was very long, and the clergyman very dull and stupid himself. To be
sure, the driving there and back in the dog-cart a _little_ made up for
it; but still, we were very vexed when grandpapa said we were to come to
this church every Sunday, if it was fine, in the dog-cart, Tib in front
beside Reeves the groom, and me behind with nurse, and Gerald stuck in
beside Tib; and if it was rainy, in the old fly from the inn in the
village.
We heard grandpapa giving these orders to Reeves on the way home.
"Oh, grandpapa!" I said--I was sitting on the back seat, so I felt more
courageous, I suppose--"must we go every Sunday to that stupid little
church? I'm sure the one in the village is much nicer."
"Have you been there?" said grandpapa, very sharply.
"No, grandpapa," I replied; "we've not been anywhere at all in the
village. But we saw the church the day we came."
"Then you cannot possibly know anything about it; and if you were even
capable of having an opinion, it would not make the slightest difference
to mine," he said, in his very horridest cold way.
But he got nicer again after a bit. He even took us a little walk with
him in the afternoon, round a very pretty way, going away down the lane
into which the gate of Rosebuds opens, and into some woods and copsey
sort of places that were awfully nice. Grandpapa was very quiet, and
didn't speak much; but he wasn't sharp or catching up. Once or twice he
stood still, and looked about him with an expression on his face I had
never seen there before, and he said to us--
"I remember these woods--every tree in them, I believe--as long as I
remember myself;" and then he gave a little sigh.
"Do you really, grandpapa?" we said. "Won't you tell us a little about
when you were a little boy?"
"Can you remember so long ago? Was it as much as a hundred years ago?"
asked Gerald, opening his mouth very wide.
"Not quite so long--but too long ago to tell you stories about," he
replied, and then he walked on without speaking.
Grandpapa had taken us an in-and-out sort of way--we hadn't exactly
noticed where we were going, and we were surprised to find ourselves
suddenly quite near home again. We had come up another lane, on the
other side of Rosebuds, as it were; this lane was skirted by a high
stone wall, a wall that looked something like the one that bordered
our "tangle."
"Is inside there our garden, then?" asked Tib, for grandpapa had just
said to us we were close to home.
"No," said grandpapa, but without looking in the direction she pointed,
"that is not the Rosebuds' garden yet."
"Then what's behind there, please?" said Gerald, in his slow way. I
didn't expect grandpapa to take the trouble of answering him, but he
did.
"There is another garden behind there," he replied, "the garden
of another house, that is to say. But it is a house that has been
uninhabited for a great number of years--the garden must be a perfect
wilderness by now--the place is going to be sold immediately, and the
house pulled down most likely, or else turned into a mere farmhouse--the
owner of the farm over there," and he pointed over our heads, "wants to
buy it. So much the better."
There was a sort of dreaminess in the way grandpapa spoke, as if his
thoughts were looking back somehow far beyond his words.
"May we play in that garden if there's nobody there?" asked Gerald.
"Why should you want to play there?" said grandpapa. "It does not belong
to me."
"And I'm sure we couldn't have a nicer garden than our own, and it's
very big too," said I.
"We may go anywhere we like in _our_ garden, mayn't we?" said Gerald.
"Yes," said grandpapa.
"And if we _could_ get through the door in the wall, we might, mightn't
we?" Gerald continued in his slow, drawly way. He speaks better now, but
then he had a way of going on once he began, all in the same tone so
that you really hardly noticed that he was talking. I have thought since
that grandpapa didn't in the least know what he was consenting to, when
for the second time he replied "yes."
Gerald would have gone on, no doubt, but Tib interrupted him.
"Does that door lead into a tool-house, grandpapa?" she said. Her voice
was soft and gentle. It was only I that had a quick, sharp way of
speaking.
"A tool-house?" repeated grandpapa, "oh, yes, I fancy so." He must have
thought that Tib was asking him if there was a tool-house in the garden.
"Oh," she said in a rather disappointed tone. There wasn't much mystery
about a tool-house!
Just then the lane stopped, and we came out on a path bordered by a
field on one side, and on the other by a wall which _was_ that of our
own garden. Very near the foot-path in the field lay two or three ponds
or pools of water close together, and on one of them floated some large
leaves looking like water-lily leaves, with some bushy high-growing
green among them. Tib darted forward.
"Oh, look, Gussie," she said, "there'll be the most lovely water
forget-me-nots here in the summer, and--" But she stopped short in a
fright, for grandpapa had caught her by the arm and was pulling her
back.
"Child, take care," he said sharply, "another minute, and you would have
been in the water. The edge is as slippery as glass. If the field were
mine, I would soon have these pits filled in," he went on, looking round
as if he wished there were some one at hand to give the order to on the
spot.
"But they are such little pools, grandpapa, they don't take up much
room," I objected, "and if there were water-lilies, and forget-me-nots
there in the summer, it would be a dreadful pity to take them away."
"And when the lilies and forget-me-nots come out, what is more likely
than that you or Mercedes should be stretching over to get them and fall
in," said grandpapa.
"But if we did it wouldn't hurt us," said I. "If Tib fell in, I would
pull her out, and if I fell in, she would pull me out."
"And if both Tib and Gussie fell in I would pull them both out," said
Gerald, feeling, I suppose, that he had been left rather out in the
cold.
Grandpapa, who had been poking at the back of the pit with his stick,
turned sharp round upon us. "Children," he said, "listen to me. If one
of you, or two of you, or all of you fell into one of those ponds, you
would be drowned--as certainly as that I am standing here, you would be
drowned. They are very, _very_ deep--there would be no chance of saving
you, far less than in a larger piece of water, even if it were as deep.
I cannot have the pits filled up nor railed round, for the place does
not belong to me, and I cannot ask anything of the person it does belong
to. All I can do is to make you promise--to make you give your word of
honour, if you know what that means--that you will never come here
alone, and never try to reach flowers; if you come this way with nurse,
you must pass by as quickly as possible. Now, do you hear? Do you quite
understand? Have I your promise?"
We all stood still, looking and feeling rather frightened.
"Do you promise?" repeated grandpapa.
"Yes, grandpapa," we all said together, "we do promise."
"That's right," he said, and then we all walked on in silence.
Grandpapa's earnestness had impressed us. I think the same thought was
in all our minds: "He must love us, after all, or he would not be so
afraid of our being drowned." I don't think we had ever felt ourselves
of so much consequence before.
"Was ever anybody drowned in those pools, please, grandpapa?" I ventured
to ask.
"Not that I know of," he said; "but two or three cows have been drowned
there. The place is exceedingly dangerous--it is a shame to leave it so.
I shall speak to Farmer Blake about it when he comes into possession."
Then we went in to tea, and early the next morning grandpapa went back
to London.
But oh! I am forgetting--before he went he told us another thing. Our
holidays were over already. He had found us another Miss Evans! No; I
am joking. It was not quite so bad as that. He _couldn't_ find another
Miss Evans, so he had had to make another plan. We were to have a tutor
instead of a governess; and I don't think we were sorry to hear it.
The tutor was a young man living in the town, two stations from _our_
station, and he was to come every morning, except Saturday, for two
hours. That wasn't so bad, was it? He wasn't to come before half-past
ten, so we could have an hour and a half's play in our dear garden
before he came, and all the afternoons to ourselves; for we were quite
sure we could do all the preparing of our lessons in the evening, and
grandpapa had always been very sensible about not wanting us to have too
many lessons to do.
It turned out very well. Mr. Markham began to come that very week, but
he was really very nice, and he didn't give us too much to do, though
what he did give was pretty hard, for he would have it done very well.
Only when we did try he was pleased, and told us so. But of course we
did not see very much of him, as he was very busy at his home, and he
had to leave as soon as ever lessons were over, to get back in time.
We went on with our fancy play in the tangle. In the mornings it was
hardly worth while beginning it, for if you have ever played at that
sort of game you will know that it needs a comfortable feeling of plenty
of time before you can get into it properly. We should have liked to
dress up a little for it, but nurse wouldn't let us do so till the
weather was warmer, and we were obliged to promise her never to take off
our hats and jackets in the garden for fear of catching cold. We were
more in danger of "catching hot," Gerald told her, for we really worked
pretty hard, particularly at getting the summer-house into order. We got
some nails and a hammer from Mrs. Munt, and hammered the broken seats
together again; we fastened on the door rather cleverly by making hinges
of an old leather belt of Gerald's, and we put up one or two shelves on
the walls, as we called them, on which the princess, or heiress--we
called her sometimes one, and sometimes the other--could keep her
tea-cups and saucers in her tower. These tea-cups and saucers were the
remains of an old toy set, which Mrs. Munt had found and given us to
play with--no doubt, Tib and I said to each other, the "young ladies"
had played with them long ago!
Then we "carted" heaps of dry leaves from one corner, where they were
really dry and not sodden, to make a bed for her. This carting was an
uncertain sort of business, for we had to be content with Gerald's
wheelbarrow, which was painfully low and little, except when we could
get hold of the gardener's standing about. And _his_ was, on the
contrary, disagreeably heavy and big. But at last, one fine afternoon
we came to an end of our labours, and stood surveying them with
considerable satisfaction.
"It really looks quite nice and comfortable," Tib said. "I really think
to-morrow the baron may carry her off to the tower--he's to pretend, you
know, to be only taking her out a walk in her litter."
"A _walk_ in a litter," I said; "why, a litter's a lying-down-in thing,
and we haven't got anything the least like one."
"Well, then, a walk on her feet," said Tib, testily; "that did very well
the other day," for you must understand that we had acted it all several
times, and then we found what was wanting in the way of scenery, &c.
"If only we had the dungeon," she went on. "It's a very poor pretence to
call those steps the dungeon--besides, they're horribly damp and dirty."
"Oh, for that part of it, all the better," I said. "Dungeons always are
damp and dirty."
"But my frock?" said Tib, ruefully. "I _can't_ sit down on those steps
without getting it horribly spoilt. If we could but get into the
tool-house!"
Gerald, who was standing beside us--we were close to the door in the
wall--gave a sudden exclamation and darted off. Tib and I looked at each
other in surprise. "What's the matter with him?" we said. But he was
back again in a moment, holding something in his hand. As he came near
us he put both his hands behind his back.
"I've got something," he said. "I'd forgot about it. It was the day you
teased me I found it. And I hid it, and I was afraid it was lost among
the leaves, and all that, but it wasn't. I'd hidden it safe. Guess what
it is."
We tried, but we couldn't. Gerald raised his hand slowly. "Shut your
eyes," he said; and we shut them. "Now open them;" we opened them. "What
is it?" we said, breathlessly.
"The key of the door!" he said, solemnly.
"The key of the tool-house!" exclaimed Tib. "How do you know it is it?
Where did you find it?"
"I found it among the prickly things on the floor of the summer-house,"
he replied. "It's quite dry and clean, see!" and so it was, as if it had
been packed in sawdust.
"But how do you know what key it is?" we asked.
"I tried it--I stayed behind a minute that day; you didn't notice. It is
the key. It fits _pairfittly_," said Gerald. "Only it's very stiff, and
my hands wasn't quite strong enough. If we all try, perhaps."
He put the key into the lock. Yes, it was evident it _was_ the key, lost
for who knows how many years. How queer that no one had ever had another
made; there was another tool-house, and one was enough, perhaps. But
still, it did seem queer. First Tib, then I, tried to turn it, but it
was no use.
"If we put a stick through the end of the key, we might turn it that
way."
"But it might break it; don't you remember we broke the nursery door key
in London by trying to turn it with a tooth-brush handle?" I said. "It
wants oiling, Tib--that's it; not the key, perhaps, but the lock. We
must wait till to-morrow, and get some oil in one of the doll's cups,
and a feather, and then I'm sure it'll do. But what a bother to have to
wait till to-morrow!"
There was no help for it, however. Wait till to-morrow we must.