OPEN, SESAME.
"I know thee not; but well my heart
Interprets, darling, what thou art;
Light of some old ancestral hall,
Queen-gem of some proud coronal!
For, certes, such a perfect grace,
Such lustrous loveliness of face,
Such artless majesty as thine
Proclaims thee of no sordid line!"
_The Unknown Portrait_--SIR NOEL PATON.
There was time the next morning, before Mr. Markham came, for coaxing
a little oil out of Mrs. Munt, and fetching a feather from the
poultry-yard, but for no more. For Mrs. Munt, kind as she was, very
naturally objected to giving us the oil in one of the best tea-cups,
which Gerald had brought for the purpose, thinking it must be "an old
one," which it was indeed, though not in his sense of the word. So Tib
ran off to the princess's tower for one of the doll ones, and Gerald and
I went in the other direction for a long feather. And by the time that
we were ready for operations, it was within a quarter of an hour of
lessons, and being rather sensible children in some ways--we had early
learnt experience and responsibility in our own affairs, having no one
to advise or arrange for us in such matters--we decided it was better to
wait till we were sure of plenty of, and uninterrupted, time.
"You see, if Fanny came shouting for us just as we had got into the
tool-house, she might see it, and it would be no longer a private place
of our own; we must keep it quite for our own," I said.
"_Certainly_," said Tib. "You know I asked grandpapa about it, and he
didn't seem to mind."
But lessons that morning did go very slowly. Once or twice Mr. Markham
had to call us to attention, and there was even a slight threat on
his part of "extra work to be done for to-morrow," if the rest of our
preparation should not prove better done. It was not the fault of the
preparation--which had been done as well as usual--it was that our heads
were all agog over the tool-house! But we pulled up after this, and
things ended fairly well.
And at last--though not till after our dinner, for we were never allowed
more than "a run," and that well within view of the schoolroom window,
between lessons and dinner--we found ourselves again in safety before
the door in the wall--oil-cup and feather in hand.
We set to work methodically--with the help of nurse's largest scissors
and a skewer--how Gerald had got the skewer I don't know: we raked out
all the little bits of dirt and rubbish that had collected in the
lock; then we oiled it as thoroughly as we knew how, though under the
circumstances this was certainly a process of working in the dark. Then
we carefully inserted the key--it went in to perfection, but we all
looked at each other, and grew hot with excitement when it came to the
moment for trying to turn it.
Tib as the eldest had the first try--a barren honour; she hurt her hands
over it, but it would not move--not a hair's breadth! Then it came to
me. I have larger hands than Tib, and stronger muscles; I fancy I set
to work in a more business-like manner. With me the key turned--with
groans and grunts, it must be allowed--but still it turned--half-way!
then I too looked blank. Fortunately it did not refuse to turn back
again, and then I took it out and looked at it reproachfully.
Gerald laid hands on it. It was _his_ turn, but what I had failed in, it
was not likely his little, fat, stumpy paws would achieve. But Gerald is
sharp in some ways. He first examined the key all over. Then he took up
the oily feather again.
"See here," he said, "some parts of the key are quite oily, but some,
inside, are quite dry. We should have oiled the key as well as the
lock."
He was right; his small grasp did what ours had failed in. Grunting and
groaning still, but forced to obey, the old key woke from its sleep of
thirty or forty years and did the work it was made for. And in another
minute we had tugged at the door till it moved on its rusty hinges--you
will understand afterwards how they came to be no rustier--slowly
opening and revealed--
What did it reveal? For a few minutes we were too dazzled to
tell--really dazzled--as well as amazed. A perfect flood of light seemed
to pour out upon us, and instead of the dingy, musty tool-house we had
been expecting, we found ourselves standing at what at first sight
appeared like the entrance to some fairy palace of brightness and
brilliance. We stood, dazed, rubbing our eyes and looking at each other.
_Was_ it magic? Had we chanced upon some such wonder of old world
times as our little heads were stuffed with? Tib--and Gerald too,
perhaps--would have been ready to believe it. Had the door there and
then shut upon us, leaving us but the remembrance of the vision, they
would have lived upon beautiful fancies for the rest of their lives.
But I--practical I--did not long stand bewildered. A slight creak of the
door brought me back to common-place.
"Come inside, quick!" I said, pulling at the others--we were all huddled
together on the steps--"shut the door, or else some one will see the
light through the trees," for I have told you how _very_ dark the tangle
is, even on a bright day. "Stay--dare we shut the door? Is there a
keyhole on the inside? Oh, yes; and not rusty at all," and quick as
thought I drew the key out and fitted it in to the other side; it turned
now with ease. "That's right;" and before Tib or Gerald had found out
for certain whether they were awake or dreaming, we were all three safe
inside the enchanted palace, at liberty to look about us and find out
where we really were.
I feel in a way sorry to explain it. But this is not a fairy story; and
in the end I think you will allow, when you have come to know the whole,
that it _is_ very interesting, perhaps more interesting than a fairy
story after all. So I will go on without leaving you in perplexity any
more.
The place where we found ourselves was a conservatory: it was prettily
built in a high, round-roofed sort of way, so as to catch all the light
and sun-heat possible. It was, to begin with, a very bright afternoon;
then the shrubbery on our side was _very_ dark; high up in the
conservatory there was a band of coloured glass, rich red, and little
bits of every colour at the edge, like a strip of rainbow, through which
the light came in gleams of all sorts of beautiful tints. You can easily
see how startlingly brilliant it had seemed to us; and besides this, the
conservatory itself was not at all in a neglected state. There were few
_pots_ of flowers; the shelves were mostly empty; but there were plants
growing in earth borders along the sides, which were evidently cared
for, as they twined up the walls luxuriantly. And the whole place was
heated, though not very much. _That_, you see, was how the door and the
lock remained in such good condition.
We found out all these particulars for ourselves by degrees; and
gradually we noticed other things. The conservatory had evidently, at
some time or other, been a favourite place to sit in. There was a little
_very_ old and shaky rustic table, and two or three seats to match;
there was a little corner shelf on which still lay two or three old
books. After we had got over our first surprise, we were conscious of
something about the whole place which made the tears come to our eyes.
But our spirits soon rose again.
"_What_ a bower for the princess!" exclaimed Tib.
I felt quite out of patience with her.
"Rubbish!" I said, "I can't think any more of the princess or any
make-up things. This is _far_ more interesting. I want to find out all
about what place it is, and why it is shut up and deserted, as it
evidently is."
"Perhaps it's been shut up for hundreds of years," suggested Gerald.
"_That's_ rubbish, if you like," answered Tib. "It doesn't look as if
anybody lived here, but it's not dirty--scarcely even dusty."
"There must be some other way of getting into it besides our door,
then," I said, "for certainly the _door_ hasn't been opened for a great
many years. If we look about, perhaps we'll find some other entrance."
At first sight there was no appearance of any, and we began to think the
conservatory must, after all, belong to Rosebuds, and that from time to
time the gardener _did_ open the door and get in to clean it. Only why,
then, was it always locked up? Just as we were feeling quite puzzled,
Gerald called out--
"Oh! see here, Tib and Gussie, this is another door--here in the
glass; here's a handle that turns. Why, see, it's a door made of
looking-glass!"
That was why we had not noticed it. It was cleverly managed to imitate
panes, like the rest of the conservatory, and it was somewhat in the
shade in one corner. There was no lock to this door; it opened at once,
and before us we saw a long, rather narrow, covered passage, lighted
by a skylight roof. It was all growing more and more mysterious; half
frightened, but too eager and curious to think of being afraid, on we
ran. The passage ended in a short flight of steps, at the top of which
was another door, a regular proper door this time, with a handle and a
lock, but no key in the lock.
"Oh! supposing it's locked," I cried, excitedly; "it will be too bad. We
can't find out any more."
But it wasn't. The key, as we afterwards found, was inside, and not
turned in the lock. They were evidently not very afraid of robbers. All
the years the house had stood empty, no one had ever broken into it; we
were the first intruders.
We pressed forward. First we found ourselves in a sort of little
ante-room, very small, hardly bigger than a closet, and out of this,
through another door, opened a very large and handsome drawing-room. It
had a row of windows at one side looking out upon a terrace, and a large
bow window at one end, with closely-drawn blinds--we could not see what
it looked on to; the floor was of beautifully polished wood, inlaid in
a pattern such as you see more often in French houses than in English
ones; the two mantelpieces were very high, and beautifully carved,
and from the centre of the ceiling hung an immense gilt and crystal
chandelier, covered up in muslin. There was not much furniture in the
room, and what there was looked stiff and cold: two or three great
cabinets against the walls, and some gilt consol-tables, and in one
corner a group of sofas, and chairs, and arm-chairs all drawn together,
and all in white linen covers. Everything was handsome, and stately, and
melancholy; the very feeling of the room told you it had not been really
lived in for many a day.
But the one thing which caught our attention was a life-size portrait
hanging at the end of the room opposite the bow window. It was the only
picture of any kind, and even though we were ignorant children, we
could see in a moment that it was a very beautiful one. It represented
a young girl, richly dressed in the fashion of a hundred years ago or
more, with long-waisted bodice, and skirt of white satin, looped up
over an under-one of rose-coloured brocade. She was standing on a
terrace--this very terrace we afterwards found--her hat hanging on her
arm, and a greyhound beside her. It was all pretty much the same as one
often sees in portraits of that time, but her face was _so_ charming!
And immediately we saw it, both Gerald and I exclaimed--
"Oh, Tib, she is exactly like you!" and going close to examine it more
particularly, I saw some letters in one corner, and, to my immense
surprise, they were those of the name scored out in the old book,
"Ornaments Discovered," and of Tib's second name also--"Regina." The
initials of the artist--"L.K.," I think--were there also.
"It is my name," said Tib, opening her eyes in astonishment; "how very
strange! Can it be the picture of some great-great-grandmother of ours,
I wonder? But this is not grandpapa's house. How could any portrait of
our family be here?"
We were completely puzzled, but, children-like, we did not think very
much more about it. It was such fun to slide up and down the polished
floor, or to climb over among the shrouded chairs and sofas, and make
ourselves a comfortable nest among them. For it was plain that our
discoveries were not to go further--the large double doors of this
drawing-room were securely locked from the outside.
We went close up to this door, putting our ears to the keyhole even,
and listened, but not the least sound was to be heard.
"The house must be shut up," I said. "There is certainly no one moving
about in it."
"Perhaps it is enchanted," said Gerald, in an awe-struck tone. "Perhaps
that lady is _really_ alive, and the fairies have fastened her up into
that picture till--till--" and he hesitated; his imagination had come to
an end of its flight.
Tib and I looked at each other without speaking. We did not snub Gerald
as we often did for such speeches--somehow it didn't seem so very
impossible! Everything was so strange; the room itself so unlike
anything we had ever seen, the mysterious way into it, the silence
and desertedness, yet the signs of care; above all, the portrait so
wonderfully like Tib, and actually bearing her name. There was no
explaining it by anything we could think of or imagine.
"We may as well use it all to make a play of," said Tib, at last,
returning to her favourite idea. "We can pretend that the lady in the
portrait _is_ the princess something, as Gerald says. Yes, it would be
still nicer to make her be enchanted instead of only shut up, and then,
Gussie, you must help me to plan how she's to be got out."
"But, Tib," I said, "do you think we can come here again? Don't you
think grandpapa would mind, after all he said to us about not making
friends, or going into any houses in the village?"
"And are we making friends?" said Tib. "Unless the portrait comes out of
its frame some day, and begins talking to us, there's certainly nobody
else to talk to here."
"Do you think there's nobody living in the house?" I said, doubtfully.
"I'm sure there's not. Most likely some one comes to dust it every now
and then."
"And don't you remember," said Gerald, "that last Sunday I asked
grandpapa if we might come through the door in the wall if we _could_,
and he said 'yes'? P'r'aps he knew about this place, and didn't mind if
we did come here to play."
"Perhaps," I said; "anyway we can ask him the next time he comes."
"We needn't say anything about it to Mrs. Munt, or nurse," said Tib,
decidedly. "As long as we haven't been told _not_ to come, we're not
disobeying, and it's much nicer not to ask any one but grandpapa
himself."
With that I quite agreed, especially as I felt sure grandpapa himself
would like it better. We knew we were doing no mischief; there was
nobody to speak to, as Tib had said, so we felt quite at ease, and spent
a most agreeable afternoon. When we had examined everything there was in
the big drawing-room, or saloon, as Tib preferred to call it--and that
did not take us very long; there were no curiosities or small ornaments
about, as in the Rosebuds drawing-room--we began to plan again about
our play story. We arranged it most beautifully, and the portrait was
a great help, for it almost gave us another actor, as we could always
pretend it was the princess, when Tib was wanted for another person.
And it was such a wonderfully life-like picture--you could really have
fancied its expression changed as we talked to it.
But at last we began to get frightened that we should be missed at home
if we stayed any longer.
"We must go, Gussie," said Tib, "let us all say good-night to the
princess. It is sad to leave you alone here, princess," she went on,
turning to the portrait, and speaking in the tone of one of the ladies
in the play, who were going to help her to escape, "but, alas, there is
no other way to do. If we stayed longer we should only be suspected of
plotting, so we must resign ourselves."
"And I dare say you're pretty well accustomed to being left alone by
this time. You must be nearly a hundred years old, though you look so
young," said Gerald, as he bowed to her. I could not help laughing,
though Tib was rather vexed.
"I wish you wouldn't think it clever to turn everything into ridicule,
Gerald," but he looked up with such a surprised face that we saw he
hadn't been in fun at all.
"There's one thing we'd better do if we want ever to get in here again,"
I said. "We must hide the key of the door leading from the passage. I
dare say the person who comes to dust will never notice it's not there.
They can't be in the habit of locking it regularly; but it's as well to
hide it," and so saying, I took the key out of the lock and slipped it
inside a drawer of one of the big cabinets, where it may be lying still,
for all I know (I must look, by the by: writing this all out has
reminded me of several things I had forgotten).
Then we closed the door carefully and ran down the passage to the
conservatory again, where we found everything just as we had left
it--_our_ key, as we called it, sticking in the lock inside. It was
still rather stiff to turn--and the next morning we oiled it again--but
we managed to unlock it, and then to lock the door again on the outside.
And Gerald ran off with the key to hide it again in the summer-house;
only we wrapped it up in paper before burying it in the fir dust.
"Who would have thought," said Tib, as we ran in, "who _could_ have
thought, what we should find this afternoon?"
But our surprises, as you shall hear, were not yet at an end.