GRANDPAPA'S SECRETARY.
... "Children are the best judges of character at first
sight in the world."--HOGG.
Grandpapa did not come down to Rosebuds again for three or four weeks.
Mrs. Munt wrote to him regularly to tell him how we were, and we, once
or twice--it was she who put it in our heads, I must confess--wrote a
little scrap to put inside hers, for which he told her to thank us when
he wrote back to her, but he never sent _us_ any letter.
We didn't mind his not coming, except that now and then we thought we
should like to tell him of our discovery, and hear what he said about
it. But we were very happy; we never cared to go out for walks, which I
don't think nurse regretted; we always said we were much happier playing
about. And the conservatory and the saloon became our regular haunts
every, or almost every, afternoon. No one ever disturbed us--we never
heard the slightest sound in the house where the big drawing-room was;
indeed, for all we knew, it might not have been a house at all, but
just that one large room, for the other door--the proper door of the
room--was never opened. We tried it two or three times; it was always
firmly locked. But still it was clear that somebody came to dust the
room and the conservatory, if not every day, at least two or three
times a week, for they were not allowed to get any dustier.
It was a good thing we were quiet children, not given to mischief, or
rough and wild, otherwise we might have done harm in some way, such
as breaking the glass in the conservatory, or spoiling the beautiful
"parquet" floor. And we certainly would have been discovered. It was
partly the fear of this that made us so careful, as well as a queer
fancy we had that the picture on the wall--the princess, as we still
called her--watched all we did, and that she would be very vexed if we
were not quite good.
"Of course," Tib used to say, "it's a great honour to be allowed to play
in a palace, and we must show we are to be trusted."
For after a while we got tired of our play-story about the baron and the
humpback and all the rest of it, and then we pretended that we came to
visit the princess in her beautiful palace, and that she was very kind
to us indeed.
Sometimes we brought our books and work with us; on a rainy day we
always found it difficult to get to our secret haunts, for of course we
wouldn't tell stories about it, and nurse naturally didn't approve of
our going out in the damp. But after a while, when nurse found that we
came in quite dry, and that we never caught cold even when she left us
to our own devices on a wet day, she gave up being so fidgety, and so we
often did get to our palace all the same.
One Friday at last there came a letter, saying grandpapa would be down
the next day and a gentleman with him.
"What a bore that he's not coming alone," said I. "We shan't have a
word with him, and the gentleman's sure to be one of those stupid
Parliamentary people that talk to grandpapa about 'the House,' and
'so-and-so's bill,' all the time." For we had had some experience of
grandpapa's friends sometimes at Ansdell, when we had come in to dessert
and heard them talking. "I wonder if they go on all day long in the
'House' about bills, Tib? There must be a fearful lot of people who
never pay theirs if it takes all those clever gentlemen all their time
to be settling about them in the 'House.'" We were rather proud of
knowing what the "House" meant, you see. We thought from grandpapa's
being in it, that we knew all about the government things.
Tib looked rather solemn.
"I suppose it's because of the National Debt," she said. "It shows how
careful people should be not to spend too much, doesn't it, Gussie? But
I'm not sure that I care to speak to grandpapa more than usual. I'm so
awfully afraid of his stopping us going to the palace."
"_Are_ you?" said I. "I'm not. That is to say, if I thought he'd mind
it, I wouldn't go there. What I want is to _find out_ about it from him.
I have still such an idea that it has something to do with the old
mystery."
"If I thought that," said Tib, "I'd be far too frightened to tell him
about it."
We spent a long time that afternoon in the big drawing-room. When we
were coming away, we all somehow felt a little melancholy.
"We are pretty sure not to be able to come to-morrow, and certainly not
on Sunday," said Tib, sadly. "Dear princess," she went on, looking at
the portrait, "you mustn't forget us if we don't come to see you for a
few days. It won't be _our_ fault, you may be sure;" and really we could
have fancied that the sweet face smiled at us as we turned to go.
We were playing on the lawn when grandpapa arrived the next day. Nurse
had intended to have us all solemnly prepared, like the last time, but
he came by an earlier train, and somehow she didn't know about it early
enough, so we were all in our garden things quite comfortably messy,
when we heard the sound of wheels, and looking round, saw to our
astonishment that it was the dog-cart.
There was no help for it; we hadn't even time to wash our hands,
and there was no use trying to get out of the way, for to have gone
hurry-skurrying off as if we were ashamed would have vexed grandpapa
more than anything, especially as he had a friend with him. So we
marched boldly across the lawn and stood waiting, while the gentlemen
got down.
"How do you do, grandpapa?" I said. "We didn't expect you quite so
soon."
"Indeed," said he, as he kissed us in his usual cool sort of way, "an
unwelcome surprise--eh?"
Tib got red at this, and looked as if she were going to cry. But I
didn't feel inclined to be put down like that, before a stranger, too.
"No, grandpapa; it's not an unwelcome surprise, but we would have liked
to have been tidier; you know we generally are _quite_ tidy when you see
us."
"For my part, I prefer to see small people when they're _not_ very
tidy," said a pleasant, hearty voice; and then the owner of it came
round from the other side of the dog-cart where he had jumped down. "You
must introduce me, Mr. Ansdell, please, to my--small, I was going to
say, but I'm surprised to see the word would be almost a
libel--cousins."
"Umph," said grandpapa, "'cousins,' in the Scotch sense; how many
degrees removed, it would be difficult to say."
"_I've_ not been taught to count you so very far away," said the
gentleman, good-humouredly, but with something in his tone that showed
he wasn't the sort of person to be very easily put down; "besides, sir,
as I'm your _godson_ as well as your cousin----"
"I might be a little more civil, eh, Charles?" said grandpapa, laughing
a little. "Ah, well, I'm too old to learn, I fear. Nevertheless, I have
no objection to your calling each other cousins if you choose. Mercedes,
Gustava, and Gerald--your cousin, Mr. Charles Truro."
We looked at him, and he looked at us. What we saw was a well-made,
pleasant-looking young man, not very tall, though not short, with
merry-looking grey eyes, close cut brown hair, and a particularly kindly
expression, a great improvement upon most of grandpapa's gentlemen
friends, who never looked at us as if they saw us.
"Mercedes and Gustava," he repeated, slowly. "I thought one of them was
called Re----"
But grandpapa interrupted him.
"Mercedes is an absurd name for an English child," he said. "It was a
fancy of poor Gerald's--they were in Spain, you know."
"But you needn't call Tib 'Mercedes,' unless you like," I said,
boldly--I don't really know what spirit of defiance, perhaps of
curiosity, made me say it--"she has another name; her second name is
Regina, like----"
Would you believe it? I was on the point of saying "like the picture;"
but I cut myself short before I said more, and even had I not stopped,
grandpapa's tone would have startled me into doing so.
"Will you be so good, Gustava, as to answer questions and remarks that
are addressed to you, and those only?" he said, in his horrible, icy
way.
_I_ felt myself getting red now, especially as I was certain Mr. Truro
was looking at me. I made a silent vow that I wouldn't try to be nicer
to grandpapa, and that I would _certainly_ not tell him about our
secret. This comforted me a little, and I glanced up, to find that the
stranger was looking at me, but in such a nice way that I couldn't have
felt vexed if I had tried.
"Will you take me round the garden?" he said. "I am quite stiff with
sitting so long."
He spoke to us all, but I think he meant it most for me. Grandpapa
didn't seem to mind. I think that when he had said anything very
crabbed, he _was_ sorry, though he wouldn't say so.
"Don't be very long, Charles," he said, as he went into the house and we
turned the other way, "I shall want you to look over those papers."
"All right, sir, I won't be long," Mr. Truro called back in his cheery
tone.
"Why does he want you to do his papers?" I asked.
Mr. Truro laughed.
"Because I'm acting as Mr. Ansdell's secretary just now," he said.
Tib looked disappointed.
"Oh," she said, "I thought you were a----" and she stopped.
"Say on," said Mr. Truro.
"A--a gentleman," said Tib.
"Well, I hope I am," he said, smiling.
"But doesn't he," I said, nodding my head towards the house, for I
perfectly understood what Tib meant, "pay you for being that?"
"In point of fact Mr. Ansdell does _not_ pay me," he said. "What I learn
from being with him is far more valuable than money to me. But all the
same, if your grandfather _did_ pay me for my services, _that_ would not
make me less of a gentleman!" and Mr. Truro stood erect, and gave a
little toss to his head, which showed he could be in earnest when he
liked. But then he laughed again, and we saw he was not really vexed.
"May I make a remark in turn?" he said. "Are you young people in the
habit of talking of Mr. Ansdell as 'he' and 'him?' 'She,' I know, is
'the cat.' I have yet to learn who 'he' is."
We laughed, but we blushed too, a little.
"We don't always," said Tib; "but you see you _are_ a cousin; mayn't we
tell him things?" she exclaimed, impulsively, turning to Gerald and me.
"He's got such a kind face, and--and we haven't anybody like other
children."
Mr. Truro turned his face away for half a second. I fancy he didn't want
us to see how sorry he looked. By this time we had sauntered round to
the other side of the lawn, out of sight of the house almost. There was
a garden seat near where we stood. Mr. Truro took Tib and me by the
hand, and Gerald trotted after.
"Let's sit down," he said. "Now, that's comfortable. Yes, dears, I
_am_ a cousin, and I think you'll find me a faithful one. Do tell me
'things.' I won't let you say anything not right of your grandfather;
there is no man living I respect more. But perhaps I may help you to
understand him better."
"Is he never cross to you?" asked Tib; "at least, not so much cross as
that horrid laughy-at-you-way--laughy without being funny or nice, you
know."
"Yes, I do know," he answered. "I think Mr. Ansdell is inclined to be
that way to everybody a little. I wish you could hear how he makes some
of them smart now and then in the House."
"The people who don't pay their bills--the people who make the National
Debt, do you mean?" I asked.
"The how much?" asked our new cousin in his turn, opening his eyes very
wide.
And when I explained what I meant, about all the talk we had heard about
_bills_, and how Tib had read something about the National Debt, and
thought it must mean that, you should have seen how he laughed; not a
bit like grandpapa, but just _roaring_. I know better now, of course. I
know that there are different kinds of bills, and that the ones we had
heard of being talked about in Parliament are new plans or proposals
that the gentlemen there--"members," like grandpapa--want to have made
into laws, because they think they would be good laws. I know, too,
pretty well--at least a little--about the National Debt, and that
somehow it isn't a bad thing, though little debts are very bad things.
I don't see how, but I suppose I shall understand when _I'm_ big, that
things that are bad when they're little aren't always bad when they're
very big.
When Mr. Truro had finished laughing, he began to listen to all we had
to tell him. You would hardly believe how much we told him. Indeed, when
we thought it over afterwards we could hardly believe it ourselves; to
think that here was a strange gentleman we hadn't known an hour, whose
name we had never heard in our lives, and that we were talking to him
as we had never before talked to anybody. He had such a way of looking
as if he really _cared_ to hear. I think it was that that made it so
easy to talk to him; and then, of course, his being a cousin made a
difference. He wasn't a very near one, but I have noticed that sometimes
rather far-off cousins care for you quite as much or more than much
nearer ones. And anything in the shape of a cousin was a great deal to
us; we had never heard of having any at all.
After we had chattered away for some time, some little remark, I forget
what exactly, something about what we did with ourselves all day after
lessons were over, seeing that we had no friends or companions, for we
had told him about grandpapa's not allowing us to know any neighbours;
something of that kind brought us dreadfully near the subject of our
discovery. We had already said _something_, though very little, about
the old book with the scored-out name, and Mr. Truro listened eagerly,
though it struck me afterwards more than at the time that he had not
seemed very surprised.
And when we did not at once answer about how we amused ourselves, he
repeated the question. We looked at each other. Then Tib got rather red,
and said, quietly,
"We can't tell you all we do, at least, I don't think we can," she said,
glancing at Gerald and me.
Mr. Truro looked a little startled.
"Why not?" he said. "I am sure, at least I think I may be, that you
wouldn't do anything you shouldn't. If, for example, you had been
tempted to make friends with any of the village children, it would be
much better to tell your grandfather; he might not mind if they were
good children, even if they were not of the same class as you. But it
would be wrong not to tell him."
We began to feel a little frightened, and for the first time a misgiving
came over us that perhaps grandpapa might be angry at our having played
in the palace. I suppose our faces grew so solemn that Mr. Truro felt
more uneasy.
"Come now," he said, "can't you tell me all about it? I don't look very
ogre-y, do I? That is, if you've no real objection to telling me before
you tell Mr. Ansdell."
"We meant to tell him; we were going to tell him to-day," I said.
"Indeed, we, at least I, _wanted_ to tell him. I thought perhaps he'd
explain, or that we'd find out about it. But he isn't as kind this time
as he was the last, and perhaps he'd be angry, really angry. I never
thought before that it was a thing he could be angry about, did you,
Tib?"
"No," said Tib, faintly; "and it would be so dreadful not to go there
any more."
Gerald began to cry.
Mr. Truro's face grew graver and graver.
"My dear children," he began, "my dear little cousins, I must speak very
earnestly to you. You must tell this secret, whatever it is, to your
grandfather. It might not make him angry just now, but if you did _not_
tell him, I very much fear it might."
"But he is so very sharp to-day," said Tib; "you could see he was. And
when he is like that we can't tell things properly, and it somehow seems
as if we were naughty when we aren't really. We can't tell him _to-day_,
can we?"
Mr. Truro reflected.
"It is true," he said, "that Mr. Ansdell is _particularly_ busy and
worried. He has been terribly overworked lately; indeed, he came down
here expressly to be able to work without interruption. Can't you
confide in me, children? I promise to advise you to the very best
of my ability."
"And you wouldn't tell him--grandpapa, I mean," said Tib, correcting
herself, "without _telling_ us you were going to?"
"Certainly not. I should have no right to tell him without your leave,"
he replied.
We all looked at each other again.
"I suppose we'd better, then," I said. "You begin, Tib. It's rather
difficult to think where it began," I went on. "It had to do with
grandpapa telling us so about not knowing the neighbours, or making
friends with any one, and we had never heard of Rosebuds before, you
know, and then I remembered seeing it in the book, and Tib likes
mysteries so, and----"
"Take breath, Gussie, there's no such dreadful hurry," said Mr. Truro,
and his face grew more smiling as I went on.
"We fixed to make a story about it. It didn't seem like prying to play
at it that way," said Tib.
And then we went on to tell all about the imprisoned princess, and the
old arbour, and the supposed tool-house, which was to be a dungeon, and
Gerald finding the key, and just everything--all that I have written; I
needn't tell it all again. And with every word Mr. Truro's kind face
grew kinder and brighter; all the grave, uneasy look went quite out
of it, and this, of course, made it much easier to tell it all quite
comfortably. By the time we had quite finished--it took a good while,
for Gerald _would_ interrupt to tell that _he_ had found the key, and
_he_ had made it turn when Tib and Gussie couldn't--Mr. Truro's face had
grown more than bright, it looked quite beaming.
"And the portrait of the princess is like Tib, you say--Mercedes, I
_should_ say? I would like best of all to call you 'Regina';" and he
passed his hand softly over Tib's dark hair.
"Awfully like Tib, only prettier," I said, bluntly. But Tib didn't mind.
Something in Mr. Truro's tone had caught her attention.
"Did you ever know any one called Regina?" she asked. "You seem to like
it so."
Mr. Truro did not answer for a moment. Then he said, quietly, "It is a
family name with me, too. I have heard it all my life. You know I am
your cousin."
"Oh, of course," we all said.
Then he went on to talk of what we had been telling him.
"Will you let me think over about it?" he said. "I am the last person to
advise you not to tell your grandfather _everything_, but I do not think
it would be wise to tell him anything just now, as he is extremely busy
and worried. I will tell you what I think you should do before I go."
Of course we agreed readily to what he said.