THREE STARLINGS.
"'I can't get out; I can't get out,' said the starling.
'God help thee,' said I; 'but I'll let thee out.'"
_Sentimental Journey._
She didn't come the next day, but instead of her we actually found three
little packets of butter-scotch tied up in white paper, with a different
coloured ribbon on each: mine was pink, and Tib's blue, and Gerald's
green. I think nothing that had happened to us pleased Gerald as much
as this, though he couldn't pretend to think it had come from Fairyland.
And two days after that, the girl herself came again, and we had another
merry afternoon of games and fun. How we laughed! there never was any
one as clever as our new princess at games. And when we were all too
tired and hot to play any more, she told us to sit down quietly to rest,
and to shut our eyes, and pretend to go to sleep for five minutes. And
when we did so we heard a little faint rustling, and if we had not
promised I am sure we should have opened our eyes, we were so afraid
she was tricking us, and running away without saying good-bye.
But in a minute we heard the rustling again.
"Open your eyes," said her voice, and when we opened them, lo and
behold! there was a glass jug filled with lemonade--it was so good--and
four little tumblers, and sponge cakes. The tumblers were red and of a
queer shape, and so was the big jug.
"These might have come from Fairyland," I said. "You know, Regina"--for
she would make us call her so--"Gerald won't give up about you being a
fairy; only when it came to packets of butter-scotch----"
"Even he couldn't believe there were butter-scotch manufactories in
Fairyland," said she, laughing. And then we all laughed just because we
were so happy.
"We've never laughed so much in our lives before, I don't think," said
Tib.
"Poor little pets," said Regina, "it won't do you any harm. It should do
the old house good too--it's many a long day since it heard any merry
voices."
"The old house," said I; "what do you mean?"
"Why, the old house we're in--the place where you are. Where do you
suppose yourself to be at this moment?" she asked, seeing I looked more
and more puzzled.
"I don't know," I said. "We thought it was perhaps just this room, or
else that it was a sort of a palace. We never thought of it as a regular
house."
"A pavilion of some kind, I suppose you mean," said she.
"Why do you call it the _old house_? Is it very old?" asked Tib.
"Yes," said Regina, "it is. It has got into being called the old house
because it is the oldest anywhere about, I suppose. And then, you see,
when people haven't lived in a place for very, very long, they get into
that way of speaking of it--out of a sort of affection--just as one
speaks of the old days, you know, when one speaks of long ago."
"Did you live here long ago, and then not for a great while?"
"No, I never lived here, and then I'm not so old as all that. I heard
about the old days of course from----" but then she got red, and stopped
suddenly. "I think it's time to go," she said.
"Wait a minute," said I; "will you show us some of the rooms of the
house? We should so like to see them."
The new princess hesitated. Then she shook her head. "No, dears," she
said, "I'd better not. Just try to keep to your old fancies, and take
Gerald's way: it's the best just now. And now listen: this is Wednesday.
I can't come to-morrow. You'll promise to come on Friday?"
"Yes," we all said.
"I particularly want you to come on Friday," she went on, and her face
grew a little sad, "though I can't quite explain why--except--just that
after that perhaps I can't see you for a good while."
"Oh! don't say that," we all cried together; "do try and not let it be
that way. We will come on Friday, you may be sure."
"But don't expect me very early," she said. "I may not be able to come
till pretty late."
And then she kissed us all again, and she went her way, and we ours.
It happened very well that she had asked us to come on Friday, and not
on Thursday, for on Thursday it was so _extra_ pouring wet that nurse
wouldn't let us go out at all. And we were exceedingly anxious on Friday
morning to see what the weather was going to be, and we were all
delighted to see it was fine.
"We must have a long afternoon to ourselves, nurse," we said. "It's
horrid to be cooped up in the house all day."
"Well, I'm sure, my dears, I'm as sorry as you can be when it has to be
so," said nurse. "But it's very wet everywhere still to-day. It did pour
so yesterday. You must be sure to take your goloshes, and to come in at
once if you feel chilly or shivery. I wouldn't for anything have you
take cold."
"We never do, nurse," Tib said. "You must allow that we don't give you
much trouble about our being ill."
"As if I'd grudge any trouble, my dear," said Liddy--she was very matter
of fact. "But it's true you've given no trouble of any kind since you've
been here, and so I shall tell your dear grandpapa--and so, I'm sure,
will Mrs. Munt. She thinks there never were such children. But do be
careful now, dears, not to catch cold just as your dear grandpapa's
coming?"
"Grandpapa coming! You never told us," we exclaimed. "When is he
coming?"
"To-morrow; and Mr. Truro too. At least, Mrs. Munt's sure it's him,
though Mr. Ansdell only says to prepare the same rooms as last time. I
meant to tell you when we began speaking--Mrs. Munt just got the letter
this morning."
"What a good thing he's not coming to-day," we said to ourselves. "Nurse
would never have let us out at all, or else we would have had to come in
early, and _she_ said she couldn't come early. I wonder, Tib," I went
on, "I wonder if somehow her wanting us so much to-day, and what she has
said, has anything to do with grandpapa's coming?"
"How could _she_ know he was coming before we knew it ourselves, even?
Gussie, it's not _me_ that's too fanciful nowadays," said Tib. "Of
course, on _our_ side, knowing he was coming might have made us say
perhaps it would be the last time. You know we've promised her and
ourselves to tell Mr. Truro all about her, and then he or we must tell
grandpapa, and who knows what he'll say? It's to be hoped he's not so
busy and worried as he was when he was here before."
But the thought that it _might_ be the last time we should see our
pretty princess--that grandpapa might even forbid our ever going to our
palace, as we still called it, at all, made us rather sad and subdued,
and it was not as merrily as usual that we ran through the tangle to the
door in the wall.
"Be quick, Gerald," I said, when he had got the key in the lock, and was
turning it--he always counted it his business; "what are you pulling
at?"
"It's stiff to-day--it may have got rusty with it raining so yesterday,"
he said. For we still always left the key in the summer-house--we were
afraid to take it into the house. "It needs oiling again, perhaps;" but
he had managed to open the door by this time, and he took the key out of
the lock as he spoke, and we all passed through, Gerald locking the door
again _inside_, and leaving the key in the lock, as we always did.
Regina was not yet there, but we were not surprised: she had said she
might be late of coming, and we had not waited, just _for fear_ of nurse
stopping us at the last minute. We amused ourselves with some of the
puzzles she had brought and left for us to play with when we were not
inclined for noisier games, and in about an hour, to our delight, we
heard the key turn in the big door, and in came our princess, a basket
on her arm, which she set down on the floor, while she locked the door
inside, and put the key in her pocket.
"You needn't do that," said Tib and I, rather offended; "we're not going
to try to go out of the room, since you told us you didn't want us to."
"I did it without thinking," said Regina. "I know I can trust you. Now
kiss me, darlings, and let us be as happy as we can."
"But we're not very happy," we answered; and then we told her that
grandpapa and Mr. Truro were coming the next day, and that perhaps we
wouldn't be allowed to come to see her any more. She looked sorry, but
not very surprised.
"We must hope the best," she said. "Mr. Truro is so kind, you say. Won't
_he_, perhaps, be able to get your grandpapa to let you come?"
"Perhaps," we said. But it was only "perhaps."
But Regina wouldn't let us be sad. She opened her basket, which was
filled with things she thought would please us, and we had our afternoon
luncheon, as Gerald called it, together. Then as we weren't much in the
humour for games, she sat and told us stories--such pretty ones, I wish
I could write some of them down, for I believe she made them up out of
her head--till, feeling afraid it was getting late, she looked at her
watch, and jumped up in a fright, like Cinderella again.
"Darlings, darlings!" she cried, "I must go," and she kissed us very
lovingly, but very hurriedly.
"And when are we to see you again?"
Regina shook her head.
"That is more for you to know than for me," she said. "We must leave it
this way--if you _can_ come again, you'll find some message from me,
and you can leave one for me, and then I'll come."
"But listen," I said; "the other day you said you weren't sure that
_you_ could come, and to-day you didn't seem surprised that perhaps _we_
can't come. Regina, tell me, did you know grandpapa was coming before we
did? _Are_ you a fairy?"
She shook her head, laughing, but she would say nothing, and in another
moment she was gone.
We sat still, talking, for some time after she had gone--we couldn't
help feeling dull and sad. We were so afraid of what grandpapa might
say.
"It's a very good thing Mr. Truro's coming," said Tib. "It would have
been too dreadful to have had to tell grandpapa ourselves."
"I don't see that," I said. "You speak as if we had done something very
naughty, that we should be ashamed of telling. I'm not a bit afraid of
telling grandpapa, in that way; _I'm_ only afraid for fear he should
forbid us ever to come to the old house again;" we had left off calling
it the palace, since Regina had explained it was really a house, and the
"_old_ house" sounded nice, somehow.
"Well, yes," said Tib, "that's what I'm the most afraid of too, of
course."
"And there's something we can't understand altogether," I went on. "Why
did grandpapa stop us knowing anybody here? I'm sure the people at the
Rectory would be kind to us, and I daresay there are other nice people.
Then, who is Regina? and how does she know about us? and whose house is
this? and why is it shut up? and----" I stopped, out of breath.
"And who is the portrait? and why is it like her, and like me? And the
lady at the Rectory--the oldish lady, and the young one Mr. Markham
spoke of--who are they? Oh yes, there are just thousands of things we
don't understand. I don't think I shall ever wish for mysteries again,"
said Tib, dolefully. "Just because Regina is so fond of us, and we are
so fond of her--just because of that you may be sure we shall never see
her again."
At these words Gerald began to cry. I was half vexed with him, and half
sorry for him.
"Don't cry, Gerald," I said; "though, all the same, Tib, I don't see why
you need always make the worst of things. It may be all right, Gerald
dear--perhaps grandpapa may not mind. And just think how nice it would
be to be able to have her to come to see us at Rosebuds!"
Gerald began drying his eyes, for which purpose another little grimy
ball--this time blue and white--was brought into requisition.
"I'm sure I love her the best of us all," he said, as a sort of apology.
"You can't love her more than we do," said Tib and I, rather grumpily.
Then we began to think perhaps we had better be going home. We had some
lessons still to do for Mr. Markham, and it must be near tea-time,
though we weren't very hungry, on account of the afternoon luncheon we
had had.
We left the saloon with a lingering look at all, especially at the old
princess, as we now called her--our first friend, whom we felt we had
rather neglected of late. There she was, smiling as usual, with the
sweet, but slightly contemptuous smile she had always worn--as if she
knew herself to be above all foolish weaknesses and changeablenesses,
and could afford to smile at them amiably.
"Good-bye, princess," I said. "I don't know if we shall ever see you
again, but if not, we thank you for your politeness to us, though we
can't pretend to say we love you as much as our new princess."
"It isn't her fault, poor thing," added Tib, "she can't help being only
a picture instead of a living person. And, Gussie, she must have been a
living person once; I mean there must have been a person just like her,
and that person must have been very like Regina. Isn't it sad to think
that there's nothing left of her except this cold picture, always
smiling the same, whatever happens?"
"It's no more sad about her than about any other picture," I said, rather
crossly. Sometimes I do get cross with Tib when she is sentimental. I'm
sure I don't know why--it _is_ ill-natured. "I wonder," I went on, more
eagerly, "I wonder if possibly she could be the portrait of the oldish
lady--when the oldish lady was young, you know, Tib, for she is so like
Regina."
It was Tib's turn to snub _me_ now.
"The portrait of _that_ lady," she said. "My goodness, Gussie! for it to
be her portrait she would need to be about a hundred and twenty years
old. Can't you tell that by the dress, and the _look_ of the picture?"
"Well, never mind," I said. "We can't find out anything about her, so
it's no use squabbling. We must go, Tib; I'm sure it's late; and we
don't want to do anything that could vex nurse just as grandpapa's
coming, for you know he always asks her if we've been good."
"Come along, then," said Tib.
We walked slowly down the long passage and into the conservatory, where
everything looked just exactly the same as the first day we had seen it.
"Oh dear, I am so unhappy!" said Gerald, again. "I've got a _feeling_
that all the nice has finished."
"Open the door quick, Gerald, or let me do it, and don't make things
worse by talking nonsense."
Gerald turned to the door--the key was sticking in the lock, as I
said--Gerald always left it _after_ locking it.
"Do be quick," said Tib, impatiently.
Whether it was her hurrying him that made him awkward or jerky, or
whether it was just that something had gone wrong with the lock or the
key--you remember we had noticed it was stiffer than usual when we came
in--I can't say. But, however that may have been, this is what happened.
The key wouldn't turn in the lock! Gerald fumbled at it for some time,
then Tib and I got impatient.
"What _is_ the matter?" said Tib.
"What _are_ you doing?" said I; and we both ran forward, pushing poor
Gerald aside, and each trying to get hold of the key. We each took a
turn at it, like the first day, only now our flurry and fear made us
less cool and careful. It was no use; we pressed, and pulled, and
tugged, we took the key out, and rubbed it and cleaned it as if we had
been Bluebeard's wife, and put it back again to try afresh. No use!
"I really think keys have got spirits in them sometimes," said Tib.
"They _are_ so contrary."
And then, hot and worried, beginning to be frightened too, we looked at
our sore fingers, which the horrid key had bruised and scratched, and
asked ourselves what to do.
Tib started forward again--she had spied a strong bit of stick in a
corner.
"I believe it's only stiffness, after all," she said. "There _can't_ be
anything the matter with the key."
She seized the stick--it _was_ a very stout one--ran it through the ring
of the key, and before Gerald and I really knew what she was doing, she
had grasped the two ends with her two hands, and was turning vigorously.
"Ah! I told you so," she cried, as she felt that the stick _did_ turn,
"it only wanted some strength. But oh, Gussie! oh, Gerald!" she screamed
the next moment, "see, see!"
She drew back a little--we did see--the key had _broken_, not turned!
the ring was still hanging on the stick; the useless end of the key
stuck out of the lock as if in mockery.
"Oh, Tib!" I cried, for somehow one's first feeling always is to blame
some one, "why were you so hasty? Oh dear! what _shall_ we do?"
Tib was too subdued to resent my blame.
"It wouldn't turn before," she said meekly. "Perhaps we are no worse off
than before."
"Yes, we are," I said angrily. "Then, at least, we could take the key
out and shout through the key-hole. Now we can't even do that," for I
had tried, and found that there was now no moving the key the least
little bit. There really was _nothing_ to be done. But we did not
realise that all at once. We set to work shouting and kicking on the
door, in hopes that somebody might be passing by the tangle, though
nothing was more unlikely. We climbed up on the shelves of the
conservatory, in hopes somebody might be in that garden--the garden
of the old house, as we now knew it to be. But very little was to be
seen--only some grass stretching towards a belt of trees, and no sign of
anybody--it wasn't till afterwards that we knew there _was_ another door
into the conservatory, concealed in a corner--a door for gardeners to
come in by, but it hadn't been used for many years, and the key was
lost, so the knowledge wouldn't have done us much good--and we gave up
that hope in despair.
Then another idea struck us--we ran back to the saloon to try the door
by which Regina came in. If _possibly_ she hadn't locked it, we might
get into the house, and out through it, and so home. But no--the great
double doors were as firm as a rock. Regina had locked them only too
securely!
"She might have left it unlocked," we said, in a sort of unreasonable
rage; "she might have thought perhaps we might need to get out this
way." And then we remembered that she had been used to see us coming
in and out quite easily. She had had no reason for any misgiving.
"But there may be some one in the house," said Tib. So again we set to
work calling, and knocking, and banging at the doors. In vain--in vain!
We were completely locked in, and evidently there was no one near enough
to hear us.
Tired out at last, we sat down, huddled together, on one of the
arm-chairs, where we had sat so happily with Regina.
"We must stay all night," I said.
"Till the dusting person comes in the morning," said Tib.
"Any way, it's a good thing we had some afternoon luncheon," said
Gerald, though even this consoling reflection did not prevent the tears
rolling down his poor fat cheeks.
We didn't as yet feel hungry--nor did we feel exactly frightened, though
it did begin to feel "eerie." But very soon we felt very cold. It is
strange how cold an unused room gets to feel as soon as the bright
daylight goes. We had our jackets on, fortunately, and we took some of
the linen covers off the chairs, and wrapped them round us, so that we
looked like ghosts or dancing dervishes. And thus enveloped, we huddled
together as close as we could.
And the last thing we saw as the light faded, so that everything in the
room grew dim and shadowy, was the calmly smiling face of the "old
princess" up above us on the wall.
I never see it now without remembering that strange evening.