STEPPED OUT OF THE FRAME.
"And, even as one on household stairs,
Who meets an angel unawares,
Might hold his breath; in silent awe
We stood."
_The Unknown Portrait_--SIR NOEL PATON.
We saw very little of grandpapa during this visit, and not as much of
Mr. Truro as we would have liked. For it was some very bothering time
about government things, and everybody that had to do with them was
very busy. We came in to dessert, as we always did, and grandpapa
was kind in his own way. He seemed pleased that we were such good
friends with Mr. Truro. I remember he said something to him about his
having done already what _he_--grandpapa--had not been able to do
himself--"gained our hearts," or something like that. And Mr. Truro
answered. "You could if you would, sir, or probably you _have_ if you
would but think so." But grandpapa only shook his head, though he smiled
a little in a nice way.
And then they began talking again about all the papers and writings they
had to do, and we got tired of sitting still, and fidgeted with the wine
glasses and things on the table, so that grandpapa told us we had better
go to bed.
The next day, Sunday, was pouring wet.
We didn't see either grandpapa or our cousin till we were sitting in
church. We had come with nurse in the one-horse fly, which knew it
always had to come for us on wet Sundays, and we didn't hear anything of
the two gentlemen. We couldn't bear the long drive in the stuffy fly,
and we did not like the church, for the clergyman was old, and mumbled
his words, and the music wasn't nice nor anything else.
"If we might only go to the pretty church in the village!" we whispered
to each other, as we whispered every Sunday. For this about the church
was the thing we disliked at Rosebuds, and at Ansdell we loved going to
church. It was so nice; beautiful hummy music and lovely singing, and
all so pretty. And the clergyman with a nice clear voice, and not too
long sermons. And--perhaps you will be shocked at this--everybody at
Ansdell knew us, and there was always a little sort of rustle when we
went in, and I could almost hear the school-girls talking in whispers
about "our young ladies' hats;" and if we happened to see one of them we
knew, and gave her a little nod and smile, she looked as proud as proud!
It was just as different as could be from this ugly, stupid little
church that grandpapa had taken it into his head to make us go to here,
and we were very pleased when we saw Mr. Truro coming up the aisle after
grandpapa, both of them looking so nice and grand, even though in a way
we felt ashamed for our cousin to see what an ugly little church it was.
"He'll see for himself," I whispered to Tib, "and perhaps he'll say
something to grandpapa."
For we were beginning to think of Mr. Truro as a sort of good fairy who
was to put everything right.
Grandpapa and he had driven over in the dog-cart of course; they didn't
mind the rain, though I'm sure _we_ didn't mind it either, for that
matter--we should only have been too happy to drive over in the dog-cart
under waterproofs and mackintoshes; and when we were getting into the
fly after church, Gerald looked so woebegone, that Mr. Truro took pity
on him, and picked him out again.
"I'll find a corner for you where you shan't get wet," he said, in his
nice, bright way.
Lucky Gerald! we heard him chattering as he went off in Mr. Truro's
arms. "You know it _is_ worstest for me, isn't it? for I'm only seven,
and it does make my head ache so."
I suppose he had--what is it you call it?--squeams of conscience, is
that the word? I must ask Re--oh, how stupid I am! that it was selfish
of him to desert us. He always takes refuge in his being the youngest
and "only seven," as it was _then_, when he is afraid he is going to be
blamed.
But, after all, it was a good deal better in the fly without him. Nurse
doesn't think it rude of us to whisper when we are alone with her, so
Tib and I could say anything we liked to each other all the way home,
without Gerald's rosy round face poking in between us every moment to
say, "_What_ did you say, Tib?" "I can't hear, Gussie!"
What we did keep saying to each other was mostly about Mr. Truro. What
was he going to fix we should do? Would he "think it over" till he found
out we should tell grandpapa at once; and if grandpapa were worried, and
said in a hurry we must never go to our palace any more, how horrible
it would be!
"I don't _think_ he will," said Tib. "He's so very understanding. If
he could only see the place himself, he would quite understand that we
can't get any harm there, or do any mischief."
"Yes," I said, "I wish we could have shown it him. Besides, if he's our
cousin, and has heard about 'Reginas,' he _might_ find out something
about our princess."
But Tib didn't care about this idea.
"I don't want it spoilt," she said; "I've got used to her being just our
princess, and to there being a mystery. I don't want to undo it."
It didn't look very like undoing it. We never saw Mr. Truro all that
afternoon, and it was one of the longest I ever remember. It cleared up
about tea-time, and we went three times round the lawn, on the gravel
path, of course, and we saw grandpapa at the drawing-room window, which
he had thrown open for some air, as we came in, and he asked us if we
had seen Mr. Truro. And when we said no, he turned away, saying, rather
crossly, "I wish he'd be quick; I'm sure it's not a very tempting day
for a long walk," and Tib and I rather agreed with Gerald that we
shouldn't much care to be grandpapa's "Scretchetary."
But late that evening--near bed-time it was--we heard a quick step
coming to the schoolroom door.
"May I come in?" said Mr. Truro's voice.
We all jumped up to welcome him, and nurse discreetly retired.
"I can't stay long, dears," he said, "and we are off first thing
to-morrow morning. But listen; I don't think you need speak to your
grandfather about your discovery just now. Wait till he comes back the
next time, a fortnight hence. I shall come with him, and he will not
then be nearly so busy. I have satisfied myself that you cannot come to
any harm in your palace, and I am sure you will do no mischief there."
"No; and _perhaps_ grandpapa knew of it--what do you think?--the day he
said we might go through the door in the wall if we could. And he only
forbade us making friends with people."
"Not with portraits," said Mr. Truro, with a smile. "Well, good-bye, my
dear little cousins. I can't tell you how pleased I am to have made
friends with you."
He stooped and kissed us all, hurriedly, for we heard doors opening,
and a voice in the distance, which we were quite sure was grandpapa's,
"Where is Mr. Truro?" and then he was gone, and we didn't see him again
the next morning.
It almost seemed like a dream his having been at Rosebuds at all,
especially when we again found ourselves in the saloon that afternoon,
our dear princess smiling down at us as usual.
"You don't know, princess, what a nice new cousin we have got," we said
to her, for we had got into the way of telling her everything that
interested us; "I'm sure you'd like him, and I'm sure he'd like _you_,"
Tib went on, and we really could have fancied the sweet, proud face gave
a little amused smile. "I think he was very sorry not to come to see
you, but perhaps he will the next time he's here."
Then we went on with some of our usual plays, and we were as happy as
could be. It seemed somehow a good long while since we had been in the
palace, though in reality it was only three days, and we were tempted
to stay a little later than usual. But just as we were thinking we must
go, a rather queer thing happened. You remember my telling you that the
other door of the saloon, the real big door, which must have been the
regular way of coming into the room from the rest of the house--if there
was a house--I don't think we had really ever thought seriously if there
was a house, or if the saloon was a sort of pavilion in a garden all by
itself--well, this door was locked, firmly locked; we had tried it two
or three times, but it was quite fast. Not stuck or stiff, or anything
like that, but quite locked. But this day, just as we were coming away,
we heard a little, very little, faint squeak, like some one trying to
open or shut a door very, very softly, and looking at the big heavy gilt
handles--it was a double door, with two sets of handles and all that,
you understand--we distinctly saw one of them turn, and then all was
quiet and motionless again.
We looked at each other, and then we all darted forward--I think it
_was_ rather brave of us--and seized _the_ handle. It turned certainly,
easily enough, as door handles generally do, but that was all. The door
didn't open; it was as firmly fastened as before.
"If we hadn't _all_ seen it," said Tib, "I should have thought it was
fancy."
But we were satisfied that it wasn't.
"Whoever turned the handle must have locked the door again on the other
side as quick as thought," I said. "They must have been peeping in at us
without our hearing, and then when they heard the squeak the handle made
as they were closing the door again, they must have quietly locked it,
expecting us to come to see who was there. I wonder who it was!"
We all wondered, but in vain.
"It _may_ have only been the person who comes in to dust," said Tib;
"there must be such a person, unless the princess herself comes out
of her frame in the night to do it. Only if it were that person, most
likely she'd have come in and asked us who we were, and what business we
had there; it's very queer."
We decided when we went home that the next day we should make our way
in as quietly as we possibly could, so that if any one were there, they
shouldn't hear us in time to run away.
"And we'll sit quite still all the afternoon," said Gerald; "we won't
make the least bit of noise, so that they'll think we're not there, and
then they'll come straight in."
"They must have known we were there to-day; it's not likely they'll
come straight in if they don't want us to see them," said Tib. "I can't
make it out; whoever they are, they've more right there than we have. I
think the only way is to take our books to-day and sit quietly reading;
and we had better hide ourselves as much as we can, so that we shouldn't
be seen all at once."
"Aren't you at all frightened?" said Gerald. "S'pose it was some kind of
robbers?"
"Nonsense," said I. "Mr. Truro said he was satisfied we couldn't
come to any harm there: I believe what he said. I'm not going to be
frightened--are you Tib?"
"N--no. I don't think so," she replied, rather doubtfully. "Any way, I
shouldn't at all like never to go there again."
But we all three did feel very excited the next afternoon, and I
think all our hearts were beating a good deal faster than usual as we
noiselessly made our way out of the conservatory and along the passage
now so familiar to us, through the little anteroom, and then, as quietly
as possible, opened the door into the saloon. And then--
You know, I dare say--big people must know all about these things better
than children--how _very_ quickly thoughts, or feelings, or something
not exactly either--since I wrote that, a big person has told me that
the word that best says what I mean is _impressions_: I am not sure that
it says it to me; but that is, perhaps, because I have never thought of
the word in that way before--You must know how _very_ quickly one seems
to know a thing sometimes, before there could have been time, even, to
get to know it by any regular way of hearing or seeing. Well, that was
how it was with us that day. The very instant the door opened we knew
there was something different in the room--it seemed warmer, more alive,
there was more feeling in it; and yet it was darker than we had ever
seen it before--at least, that end of the room where our princess was
had got into the shade somehow. _Her_ face was not the first thing that
caught our eyes, as it usually was; or _was_ it her face?
I dare say you will think us too silly when I tell you that for about
half a second we _did_ think the princess had really stepped down out
of the frame. It was _so_ like her. There she stood, quite still, but
smiling at us as if she had expected us. Her hair was dark--like Tib's
and like the picture's--her eyes just the same as both of theirs; but
she was far, far prettier than either! She was dressed in something
white, and there was some pink about it, too; and though of course it
wasn't really made the same way as the dress in the picture, it was like
enough to give a confused feeling at the first of being the same. And
she was standing a little in the same way, and a hat--a black hat with
drooping feathers--was slung on her arm.
We three just stood and gaped, and stared as if our eyes would come out
of our heads. And she stood, still smiling, but perfectly motionless.
Gerald was the first to come to his senses. He ran forward a little
towards the end of the room where the portrait was--it was still there;
it was only that one of the blinds had been drawn down so as to cast it
into shade--and glancing up at the wall, he called out,
"It's still there--it isn't _it_. It's another princess."
And at his words a peal of laughter--not very loud, but such pretty
clear laughter, I wish you could hear it!--rang through the room, and
the new princess, the living, moving princess, came forward to us,
holding out her hands.
"So you have come at last," she said; "I expected you this morning. I
knew you heard me at the door yesterday, and I thought your curiosity
would bring you early."
I didn't quite like her calling us "curious." It wasn't quite the right
word to use for all our pretty fancies about the princess, and even
about the mystery.
"We never can come in the morning," I said, "because of our lessons.
And--it wasn't _curiosity_."
"Indeed!" she replied, a tiny little bit mockingly; "not curiosity. What
shall I call it, then, your inquiring minds, eh?"
I felt my face get red, and I felt that Tib's was getting red too.
"I don't know who you are," I burst out, "and if you don't choose to
tell us, I am not going to ask. _That_ isn't curiosity. But I wish you
hadn't come; you've spoilt it all. Our own princess," and I glanced up
at the portrait, looking, I could not but confess, like a washed-out
doll beside the brilliant living beauty of the girl beside us, "our own
princess is much nicer than you. And if we had been so curious we might
have tried to find out things in pokey ways. We've never done that."
I looked, I suppose ready to cry. The lady's face changed, and then I
knew that while she had been talking in that half teasing way, something
in her voice and smile had reminded me of grandpapa--of grandpapa, I
mean, when he was in that sort of laughing-at-us way that we couldn't
bear. Perhaps this had made us all feel more vexed at her than she
really deserved us to be. But when her face changed, and a soft, sorry
look came over it, she reminded me of _more_ than any real face I had
ever seen--she reminded me of all the prettiest and nicest fancies I had
ever had; the sweet look in her eyes was _so_ sweet, that I wished I
might put my arms round her and kiss her. And Tib told me afterwards
that she had felt exactly the same.
"I'm very sorry," she said, simply; "I didn't come here to hurt your
feelings. Good fairies never do that, unless to very naughty children,
whose feelings need to be hurt. And yours don't need to be hurt, for
I know you're not naughty children--very far from it. Of course you
wouldn't try to find out things in any way that wasn't nice, I know
that. But wouldn't you like to know my name?"
"If you like to tell it," we said, smiling up at her.
"Or would you rather count me a sort of a fairy?" she went on.
"_Are_ you one?" said Gerald, softly stroking the pretty soft stuff of
which her dress was made.
"Perhaps," she said, smiling again. "I shouldn't wonder if you could
decide that better than I can. Try to find out--think of some things I
couldn't know unless I were a fairy."
"I know," said Gerald; "_our_ names. You _couldn't_ know them if you
weren't a fairy, or--or if perhaps you knowed some fairies who had told
you them," he added, getting a little muddled.
"If I had a fairy godmother, for instance, who had told me them," she
said.
"Yes--that might be it," said Gerald.
"Well, then--dear me, I mustn't make any mistake, or my godmother would
be very angry, after all her teaching," she said, pretending to look
very trying-to-remember, like Gerald when he stops at "eight times
nine," and screws up his mouth and knits his brows. "Well, to begin
with, the eldest. This is Tib--but her real name is Mercedes Regina;
this is Gustava; and this is Gerald Charles. And Gustava is generally
called 'Gussie.' Now, have I said my lesson rightly?"
We all stared at her.
"You must be a fairy," said Gerald. But Tib and I felt too puzzled to
say anything.
"What shall we call you?" I asked.
"Anything you like. I've got a lot of names. One of them, curious to
say, is the same as the name scribbled on the portrait just above the
name of the painter. Did you ever notice it?"
"Do you mean the same name as Tib's second one?" I asked; "Regina?"
The young lady nodded her head.
"That's very funny," we said. "That's the name in the book in London
too."
"What book?" she asked, quickly.
I hesitated a moment. Then I thought as I had said so much it would be
stupid not to explain. So I told her. She looked sad and thoughtful as
she listened.
"It was scored out, you said?" she asked.
"Yes, with a thick black stroke, as if somebody had been very angry
when they did it," I said. "If we hadn't known the name, from its being
Tib's, I don't think we could ever have made it out."
"Ah," said the young lady, and it sounded like a sigh. But in a moment
she smiled again.
"I didn't come here to make you sad," she said. "Won't you tell me about
the games you play, and let me play with you. Perhaps my fairy godmother
has taught me some that you don't know and that you would like to
learn."
But we didn't feel quite ready for playing games yet. There were two
or three things on our minds. The new princess saw that we looked
uncertain.
"What is it?" she said. "You look as if you were afraid of me."
"No," said Tib, and "No," said I. "It isn't that, but there are some
things we want to ask you."
"Ask them. I won't call you curious, I prom----"
But just that moment a bell rang--not loudly, but she heard it at once,
and started up. She had been sitting on one of the old couches, with
us all about her. "I must go," she said. "Come to-morrow and I will
tell you all I can. Good-bye; good-bye till to-morrow," and in half an
instant--I never saw any one move so quick--she had gone. We heard a
key turn in the lock of the double door outside, and that was all!
We looked at each other again without speaking. Surely she must be a
fairy of some kind, after all!