An Adventure
The transference of Tony cemented the friendship between Gwethyn and
Githa. With such a precious bond to unite them, intimacy followed as a
matter of course. On closer acquaintance the little Toadstool proved
quite an interesting companion; she was humorous and amusing, and though
not demonstrative, seemed to have a store of affection hidden behind the
barrier of her reserve. She was seldom confidential, but every now and
then she would open her heart the least little bit, and give Gwethyn a
peep at her real feelings.
"Why did you take such a spite against me when first I came?" asked the
latter in one of these rare moments.
"I don't know! I liked you and yet I hated you! I think it was because
you and Katrine sprung yourselves so suddenly on me that morning in the
orchard. You caught me in my old pinafore feeding the fowls. You both
looked so smart, and you marched up so confidently asking for milk, and
evidently taking me for a farm girl. I could have thrown stones at you!
I thought you were conceited, and I'd try and take you down a peg."
"You certainly did your best. You were absolutely vitriolic!"
"Well, I'm sorry. No, I'm not! You were rather conceited at first. You
and Katrine thought you'd just run the show at Aireyholme. You're ever
so much nicer now. Don't be offended! I always say what I think. You
know that by this time."
The Toadstool was certainly apt to carry the virtue of frankness beyond
all bounds, and to allow it to degenerate into a vice. Gwethyn, however,
was a very even-tempered girl, and instead of taking offence she only
laughed good-humouredly at most of Githa's remarks, and told her not to
be a little wasp. In the circumstances it was the best possible
treatment. People who are fond of making smart and stinging remarks are
always disconcerted if they fall flat. Gwethyn's good-natured toleration
made Githa rather ashamed of herself. Insensibly she was catching her
new friend's tone. The habit of perpetually sharpening her wit upon her
companions began to slip away; not all at once, for habits are a strong
growth, but by distinctly perceptible degrees. Even the girls noticed a
difference. "Spitfire isn't half so venomous as she used to be," was the
general verdict.
Though Githa might practise plain speaking where other people were
concerned, she was extremely reserved on the subject of her own affairs.
Only very occasionally would she wax confidential and talk about her
home life. Even then the scraps of information seemed to escape her
unwillingly. From the few hints thus dropped, and from what the other
girls could tell, Gwethyn pieced together the main outline of her
friend's childhood. It was a sad little story. Lilac Grange had been
full of tragedy. Six years ago, when on a visit there, Githa's father,
mother, and two elder sisters had fallen victims to a virulent outbreak
of diphtheria, and had died within a few days of one another. The boy
and girl, the sole survivors of the family, were adopted by their
grandfather, and had lived with him at the Grange until his sudden death
three years afterwards. Old Mr. Ledbury had often mentioned that he
meant to make provision for his two grandchildren, but apparently he had
allowed the months to slip by without fulfilling his intention. When his
affairs were investigated, the only will which could be discovered was
one dated ten years back, in which he left his entire fortune to his
elder son, Wilfred Ledbury. At that time he had quarrelled with his
daughter, Githa's mother, but a reconciliation had followed shortly
afterwards, and the Hamiltons had stayed at the Grange on quite friendly
terms. Mr. Ledbury had had another son, Frank, a headstrong, unsettled
fellow, who had also quarrelled with his hot-tempered father and had
gone away to America. That Frank should be entirely cut out of any
inheritance, though unjust, was not surprising; but the neighbourhood
agreed that to leave the orphan grandchildren penniless was an open
scandal, and that old Mr. Ledbury had failed in his duty by neglecting
to make a will in their favour.
Ill-natured people even whispered sometimes that Mr. Wilfred Ledbury,
who had been on the spot at the time of his father's death, had spent
the night hunting through his papers, and had probably suppressed any
document that was not to his advantage. Such stories, however, were only
in the nature of gossip. Nothing could be proved. Nobody had seen, or
witnessed, a later will, and Mr. Wilfred Ledbury stepped unchallenged
into his heritage. After all, it was not as good as he had expected. A
number of securities, which he had believed his father to possess,
turned out to have been disposed of beforehand, though what had become
of the purchase-money it was impossible to tell. Old Mr. Ledbury had
been fond of speculating on the Stock Exchange, and he had probably lost
it in some unlucky venture. Mrs. Wilfred, thinking the Grange unhealthy,
had refused to go and live there, so the furniture was sold, and the old
house was to let, though so far no tenant had yet been found to take it.
Mr. Wilfred Ledbury was a solicitor in Carford, and owned a pretty house
in a much more open and airy situation four miles beyond Heathwell. His
daughter was married (to his partner in the firm), and his sons were
grown up, one practising at the Bar in London, and the other a professor
at Cambridge. His whole interest was centred in his own children and
their prospects. He had taken charge of his nephew and niece after his
father's death, and gave them a home and education, but he let them feel
that he considered them an encumbrance. The boarding-school which he
chose for Cedric was not altogether suitable, but he would not listen to
the boy's complaints, or inquire into the justice of his grievances.
Githa he simply ignored. He paid the bills for her schooling and
clothes, but took no notice of her. She kept out of his way as much as
possible, and rarely spoke to him unless he asked her a question.
Mrs. Ledbury was not unkind, but did not care to be troubled with her
niece. She left Githa almost entirely to her own devices. Except when
her brother came back for the holidays the poor child led a lonely life
at her uncle's home. She amused herself mostly out of doors. She was
fond of animals, kept a few rabbits and white mice in a disused stable,
and liked to help to look after the poultry. In the house she was
suppressed and quiet, generally with her nose buried in a book. Her aunt
said that she was a most unresponsive, tiresome, and unaccountable
child, with no sense of gratitude for all that was done for her. The one
person in the world whom Githa worshipped was her brother Cedric. She
lived for his return from school, and the holidays spent with him were
her landmarks for the year. At present she bestowed the wealth of her
surplus affection upon Tony. He was a fascinating little dog, and so
well-behaved that Mrs. Ledbury offered no objections to his temporary
adoption. She was really kind to her niece in the matter of allowing her
to keep pets. Tony took to his new mistress with an enthusiasm that
would have disgusted Gwethyn, had she seen it. But Githa was discreet
enough not to descant too much upon his blandishments, and keep his
affection as a delightful secret between herself and him.
"I took you first of all to please Gwethyn, you precious!" she would
say, kissing his silky head; "but now you're like my own, and what I'll
do when I've got to give you up I don't know!"
Gwethyn, ignorant of the fickle Tony's lightly transferred allegiance,
would ask eagerly for news of him each morning. She kept a snapshot of
him on her dressing-table, and urged Githa to take the earliest
opportunity of smuggling him to school for a day. But Githa, under the
plea of the gardener's lack of connivance, and fear of Mrs. Franklin's
wrath, always managed to find some excuse, and put the matter off to a
future date.
The Marsdens had been again to the Grange with Miss Aubrey, and had
finished their sketches of the dovecot. It was a pretty subject, and the
result was quite successful. Katrine, contemplating her canvas in the
studio on the following afternoon, was frankly pleased.
"We're both improving," she said to Gwethyn (the two girls had the room
to themselves for once). "I like Miss Aubrey's style of teaching
immensely. It's just what I wanted. She's helped me enormously. By the
by, I lost my best penknife at the Grange yesterday. I must have dropped
it somewhere by my camp-stool."
"What a nuisance! But you have another?"
"Not so good. I don't mean to abandon that dear little pearl-handled
one. Will you come with me now, and we'll go and look for it?"
"Right-o! The Grange is out of bounds, but who cares?"
"Certainly I don't! Mrs. Franklin's rules are ridiculous for a girl of
my age. Surely I can go and fetch my penknife? Besides, we needn't go by
the road. If we climb the fence in the orchard we can cut across the
fields as the crow flies, and get into the lane by the big gate of the
Grange."
"I'm your girl! Let's toddle off at once. If any one croaks I'm sure we
can call the fields within bounds."
"I'm not going to be bound by bounds. Mrs. Franklin is a bounder!"
retorted Katrine grandly.
Nevertheless, she did not make her exit over the orchard fence until she
was sure no one was watching. Choosing a suitable moment, the girls
scaled the low bars, then skirted round by the hedge along the field
till they were out of sight of Aireyholme. By this short cut it was only
a few minutes' walk to the Grange.
The old house seemed more than ever like a story-book palace with an
enchanted garden. The lilacs were fading, but the tangle of greenery had
grown taller and wilder, and even the very windows were invaded and half
covered by long trails of bindweed and traveller's joy that stretched
out quickly spreading shoots and clinging tendrils, and threatened to
bury everything in a mass of vegetation.
"How absolutely still and quiet it is!" said Katrine. "I don't suppose a
soul ever comes near except ourselves. It doesn't look as if a footstep
had been across the grass for a long time. Why, here's my penknife, on
the walk. I must have dropped it out of my painting-bag. I'm so glad
I've found it."
"It's well we came this afternoon. It would have rusted if it had lain
there much longer. I wonder what the old house is like inside?"
"Probably very dark and damp, with the windows shaded and unopened."
"It looks gloomy--as if people had died there."
"It is sad to see it so neglected and overgrown. One feels Nature has
been too exuberant, she doesn't care about our little lives and
tragedies, it doesn't matter to her what has been suffered here. She
just pushes that all to one side and forgets, and goes on making fresh
shoots as if nothing had happened."
"I think it's kind of her to try and throw a lovely green veil over the
place. It's like charity covering a multitude of sins. She's doing her
best in her own way to soften down the tragedy. I'm going to lift her
veil and take a peep inside," and Gwethyn pulled back a mass of
succulent briony and peered through the dim glass.
"Can you see anything?"
"Yes, I can see a hall and long passage. It looks interesting. This
window is not latched. I believe I could push it up if you'd help me.
Heave-o! There, it's actually open."
The girls found themselves peering into a small room, which was
apparently the vestibule of a hall. The window was not placed very high,
so low indeed that Gwethyn scrambled without much difficulty on to the
sill.
"I'm going in!" she declared. "It will be ever such fun to explore. I
always wondered what the inside was like."
She dropped quite easily on to the floor within, and gave a hand to
Katrine, who was not slow in following. Both felt it would be an
adventure to investigate the interior of the old house. They stood still
for a moment, listening, but not a sound was to be heard, so they
ventured to go forward.
"I believe we have the place absolutely and entirely to ourselves,
unless there are a few ghosts flitting about the passages! They'd seem
more suitable inhabitants than human beings!" proclaimed Gwethyn.
Several sitting-rooms led from the hall, which by their decorations
proclaimed their use. The one with the rosewood fittings was undoubtedly
the dining-room, the larger one with the big bow window could not fail
to be the drawing-room, and the one to the back, with the oak panelling,
must surely be a study or library. The wall-papers were very faded and
dilapidated, and the paint dingy; there was an air of shabbiness about
everything, the numerous damp-stains, the cobwebs, the odd heaps of
straw and the thick dust helped to render it unattractive, and the
general impression was forlorn in the extreme.
"I don't wonder nobody takes it," said Gwethyn. "I should say it will be
to let for years and years. Why doesn't Mr. Ledbury tidy it up?"
"Perhaps he thinks it's no use spending the money unless he has a
possible tenant. Even if he papered and painted it, it would soon get
into the same state if no one lived here."
"He might have a caretaker."
"Yes, I wonder he doesn't. I expect it's so far away from the village
that nobody would come without being very highly paid, and he couldn't
afford that when he's getting no rent."
How large the place seemed! The girls peeped into empty room after empty
room, their footsteps echoing in that strange hollow fashion that is
only noticed in deserted houses.
"It gives me the shivers, it's so wretched," said Gwethyn. "I certainly
shouldn't like to live here. I think we've been nearly all round. Shall
we go downstairs again? Wait! There's just this one passage that leads
somewhere."
"Haven't you seen enough?"
"My curiosity is insatiable."
Katrine hesitated. One room was exactly like another. It did not seem
worth while to explore further. She half turned in the direction of the
stairs; then noticing that the passage was panelled, and thinking that
the room at the end might therefore be older and quainter than the rest,
she changed her mind. After all, it was disappointing, as bare and empty
as the others, with torn paper hanging in strips from the damp walls.
"There's a fine view of the dovecot though," said Katrine. "I can see
the carving on the gable beautifully from here."
She flung the window open wide. The fresh wholesome outside air came
rushing in. The draught banged the door, and a sound of something
falling followed, but the girls were too occupied to take any notice.
They were leaning out of the window trying to decipher the date on the
worn piece of carving.
"It looks like 1600," opined Gwethyn.
"More likely 1690. The tail of the nine is cracked away. It's older than
the house at any rate. I wish I had my sketch-book here, and I'd have
copied it. Have you a note-book in your pocket?"
"No; and I shouldn't lend it to you if I had. We must be going at once,
or we shall be late for prep."
Katrine consulted her watch, and turned to the door. Then she gave a cry
of consternation. It was impossible to open it. The knob had been
loose, and when the door banged the whole handle had fallen out into the
passage. They were shut in as securely as if by bolt and bar. Here was a
dilemma, indeed! They looked at one another in consternation.
"What are we to do?" faltered Gwethyn.
Katrine was trying to wedge the handle of her penknife into the empty
socket, but the effort was useless. It went in a little way, but would
not turn. Her attempt to slip back the catch with the blade was equally
futile. The unpleasant truth was hopelessly plain--they were prisoners
in the empty house.
The prospect was appalling. The Grange was in such a secluded spot that
nobody might come near for days. No doubt they would soon be missed at
Aireyholme, but would Mrs. Franklin think of looking for them here? They
shouted and called out of the window, but only the birds twittered in
reply. They were in the upper story, a good height from the ground, and
much too far to jump. The creepers were too frail to offer any adequate
support.
They turned to the door again, and tried to break through one of the
panels, but the wood was well-seasoned oak and resisted their kicks and
blows. Were ever two girls in such a desperate situation? The tears were
raining down Gwethyn's cheeks.
"Shall we have to stop here all night?" she sobbed. "I wish we'd never
come near the wretched place!"
"We're trapped like rats in a cage!" declared Katrine, pacing
distractedly up and down their prison. She paused at the window.
"Gwethyn! I do believe somebody is in the garden! The blackbirds are
making such a fuss!"
"Perhaps it's a cat or a hawk that's frightening them."
"Perhaps. But let us call in case it's a human being. Even a burglar
would be welcome!"
"We're rather like burglars ourselves!" said Gwethyn, her sense of
humour triumphing over her tears. "Only there certainly isn't anything
here to burgle."
The girls leaned from the window and shouted with all the power of their
lungs. Then they waited and listened anxiously. Was that a footstep
crunching on the gravel.
"O jubilate! somebody's coming!" gasped Katrine. "Let's shout again! Oh,
the angel!"
It was Mr. Freeman, sketching paraphernalia in hand, who stepped round
the corner of the dovecot--a guardian angel in tweed knickers, smoking a
most unangelic briar pipe. He looked about to see whence the noise
proceeded, and, spying the girls, waved his hand.
"We're in an awful fix!" called Katrine. "We're locked into this room.
Will you please climb in through the vestibule window--it's open--and
let us out?"
"All right! I'll be up in half a jiff," replied Mr. Freeman, laying his
painting traps on the dovecot steps.
In a few minutes they could hear him tramping up the stairs. He soon
picked up the handle, fitted it in its socket, and opened the door. He
regarded the girls with an amused smile of accusation.
"It strikes me you young ladies ought to be at school instead of
exploring old houses on your own," he ventured in reply to their
overwhelming thanks.
"We're going back now, and a jolly scrape we shall get into if we're not
quick about it," said Gwethyn. "The Great Panjandrum will jaw us no
end."
"Is your teacher capable of scolding?"
"Rather! You should just hear her!"
"She doesn't look it."
"Oh, you don't know her! She's all right in public, but she can be a
Tartar in private!"
A shade passed over Mr. Freeman's face. He seemed disappointed.
"Oh, I don't mean Miss Aubrey!" put in Gwethyn quickly. "She's a
darling. It's Mrs. Franklin I'm talking about. She's an absolutely
different kind of person."
"Well, I'm glad to know somebody keeps you in order, for you seem to
need it," laughed Mr. Freeman. "Have you heard from your father and
mother again?"
"We had a letter on Sunday. They're getting on splendidly," replied
Katrine. "Gwethyn, we must bolt!"
[Illustration: "THE UNPLEASANT TRUTH WAS HOPELESSLY PLAIN--THEY WERE
PRISONERS IN THE EMPTY HOUSE!"]
With renewed thanks and a hasty good-bye to their rescuer, the girls
made their exit, and tore back over the fields to Aireyholme. They did
not deserve any luck, but they managed to arrive in the very nick of
time, and walked into their classrooms just as the preparation bell
stopped ringing. The teachers, supposing them to be in the garden, had
not noticed their absence. They had agreed to keep the adventure to
themselves in case it should reach the ears of the monitresses, so
Gwethyn heroically refrained from relating her thrilling experience to
Rose or Susie. She had learnt by this time not to trust their tongues
too far.