THE FEUDAL CASTLE
The early days of the children’s new life were so full of interest and
discoveries that even Emmeline did not manage to be nearly as homesick as
she fancied she was.
To begin with, they had explored the whole house, a good deal of the
wood, and every inch of the garden. They had discovered, moreover, that
the said garden was the most delightful of play-places, chiefly because
it was splendid for story games. It owed its excellence from this point
of view to the fact that it contained a summer-house and a wood-pile,
either or both of which could serve if need were as houses for the story
people to live in, which, as Kitty remarked, ‘made things seem ever so
much realer.’ To be sure, there were times when they had to pretend
a good deal about the wood-pile; it just depended how Mr. Brown, the
gardener, had arranged it, but it usually did for desert islands, where
the dwellings might be supposed to be rather rough and ready, and if the
worst came to the worst there was always the summer-house.
For the whole of one glorious red-letter afternoon, indeed, the story
people had revelled in the run of yet a third house. Just outside the
back-yard was a little shed, always respectfully referred to by Micky
and Kitty as ‘Mr. Brown’s study,’ that being the place where he was
accustomed to black the boots and clean the knives. On the afternoon in
question Mr. Brown had stayed at home for some reason, so that his study
was left undefended from the twins, who entered in and took possession.
It made an even more desirable abode than the summer-house, for not only
was it pervaded by a delicious smell of knife-powder and boot-blacking
and mustiness, but also it was much better furnished; there were stools,
and shelves, and knives, and boots, and packets of seeds and queer little
pots, with nice messy stuff inside them, whereas in the summer-house
there was nothing at all except a wooden bench, which was fixed to the
wall and ran round three sides of it. So the story people lived there
for the whole of that afternoon with great satisfaction to themselves,
but, unhappily, not with any satisfaction at all to Jane when she came to
fetch them in to tea and found Mr. Brown’s usually neat ‘study’ turned
almost inside out, and Micky and Kitty all over boot-blacking. Aunt
Grace and Emmeline returned from a garden-party to find not only the
twins, but Alice, the little day-girl who had been inveigled into joining
the game, in the deepest disgrace, and Jane muttering terrible things
about ‘warnings.’ Fortunately the affair passed off without such dire
consequences, but from that time forward Mr. Brown’s study was forbidden
ground.
It was a great disappointment; but consolation was not long in coming,
for it was only a very few days later that they discovered the Feudal
Castle.
Aunt Grace had gone to a garden-party, and the three children were
spending a blissful afternoon in the wood. Emmeline had curled herself up
comfortably with a story-book, but the twins happened to be Red Indians
that day, and had gone off on a desperate expedition against the Pale
Faces. Before long they came rushing back to Emmeline, and insisted on
dragging her off to see ‘something wonderful.’
‘Something wonderful’ proved to be merely an empty cottage, hardly
more than a hut, indeed, which, from its broken windows, torn thatch,
worm-eaten door, and altogether forlorn appearance, looked as if it had
been deserted for several years. Emmeline grasped its capabilities at
first sight, and when the twins led her inside and triumphantly displayed
a three-legged chair with a broken seat, and part of what had once been
a table—when she saw the grate, rusty and cobwebbed with disuse, but a
real grate nevertheless, she was quite ready to agree with them that the
story people had found their ideal house at last.
‘Isn’t this perfectly lovely?’ said Kitty, dancing about. ‘And, Emmeline,
it has two rooms. Come and see the other one.’
The other room contained nothing at all except somebody’s very old boot,
and a straw hat with the crown almost out, both of which Kitty pointed
out as great finds. Emmeline, however, was left cold by these treasures.
‘They look as if they had belonged to rather dirty people,’ she said. ‘I
think we’d better clear them out. Besides,’ she added, as Kitty looked
disappointed, ‘this is a Feudal Castle, and they are not the sort of
things people in Feudal Castles would wear.’
From that time forward the empty cottage was always known as the Feudal
Castle. It was felt to be a most brilliant suggestion of Emmeline’s.
It would have quite spoilt the romance of the Feudal Castle if it had
become a place of common resort, so from the very first the Bolton
children bound themselves by a solemn pledge of secrecy not to reveal its
existence to anyone. It was in an unfrequented part of the wood, where
they themselves never happened to have gone before, and it did not strike
them that perhaps other people might have done so.
Unfortunately they could not spend as much time in the Feudal Castle as
they would have liked, for lessons began again the very day after it was
discovered. In themselves lessons were pleasanter than they had ever
been before, for Miss Miller, their new governess, who bicycled over
each morning from one of the neighbouring villages, was brighter and
more interesting than old-fashioned Miss Rogers. To be sure, Emmeline
was at first inclined to resent it as a slight to Miss Rogers when she
found herself expected to do by short division sums she had ‘always been
taught’ to do by long; but she was a sensible girl on the whole, and
when once she had thoroughly mastered the new method, and found out how
much quicker and neater it was than the old one, she began to take quite
a pride in working her sums by it, and altogether became so docile and
well-behaved a pupil that Miss Miller soon shared the general opinion
that she was a model child.
To Emmeline’s relief, and possibly also a little to her disappointment,
she was not required to depart from the ways in which she had been
brought up in any more important respects than that question of short
division _versus_ long. So far from amusing herself all Sunday, as
Emmeline had a vague impression that fashionable people did, Aunt Grace
attended more services than Mary herself had done, and was certainly
just as particular with regard to the children’s Sunday observances;
indeed, in some ways she was even more so, for instead of being content
with a bare repetition of the Catechism, she insisted on seeing that they
clearly understood its meaning. And whereas Emmeline had formerly learned
merely a verse or two of a hymn, Aunt Grace now expected her to learn
the Collect and Gospel for the week, which was a far more serious task.
Emmeline could not well grumble at it openly, but at the bottom of her
heart she was possibly a little irritated with Aunt Grace for behaving so
very differently from what she had pictured.
‘There is going to be a Meeting in the village schoolroom to-night,’
said Aunt Grace as she was pouring out tea one fine Saturday evening in
September, about a month after the children’s arrival at Woodsleigh. ‘Mr.
Faulkner—that’s Mrs. Robinson’s clergyman brother—is going to speak about
the work of a Home for poor friendless boys and girls, of which he is the
Chaplain. I wonder if you three would like to come.’
‘I should like it very much,’ said Emmeline.
‘Will it be all talking, or will there be a magic lantern?’ asked Micky,
cautious before committing himself.
‘Will it keep us up lovely and late?’ cried Kitty.
‘I believe there’s to be a magic lantern, and we shan’t be back till
about ten, I suppose,’ said Aunt Grace; whereupon Kitty gave such a
bound of delight that she nearly upset her tea, and Micky graciously
expressed his opinion that the Meeting wouldn’t be half bad.
‘Work among children is always particularly interesting,’ said Emmeline;
‘their characters are still so plastic that they can be moulded into
whatever shape you want.’ She had once heard a visitor make the remark,
and had treasured it up for future use.
‘I didn’t know you had had such a wide experience in bringing up young
people, Emmeline,’ said Aunt Grace, with a twinkle in her eye; and
Emmeline grew rather red.
‘The only condition I make to the twins’ going is that they shall lie
down after tea till it is time to start,’ went on Aunt Grace after a
moment, ‘else they will be so very tired to-morrow morning.’
The twins looked rather blank at this. ‘Will there be supper when we come
home?’ asked Micky.
‘Yes,’ said Aunt Grace, with a smile.
‘Oh well, then, we’ll lie down if you really want us to,’ said Micky, and
as it never occurred to Kitty to dispute what he had decided, the matter
was regarded as settled.
On their way to the Meeting Aunt Grace told the children a little about
the lecturer, whom she had already met in London. For several years he
had worked so devotedly in one of the very worst parts of the great city
that at last his health had given way, and the doctors had said that for
the present, at all events, it would be madness to take any but light
country duty. At the time the verdict had almost broken his heart, for he
was quite wrapped up in his people, above all in the poor little children
of the parish, many of whom were being brought up as pickpockets. It
had been a great consolation to him, however, when he was offered the
Chaplaincy of this Home, where he knew that his work would still lie
among children like those he had left.
‘Some of them, indeed, are the very same,’ added Aunt Grace. ‘For
instance, I know of one boy there—that is, I think he is there still,
though he must be about the age for leaving by now—whose life Mr.
Faulkner once saved. He wasn’t a clergyman then, but a doctor, and this
boy was lying at death’s door with diphtheria. He had been horribly
neglected by some cruel people with whom he lived, and by the time Mr.
Faulkner discovered him the illness had been allowed to get such a hold
that the child would probably have been choked by some horrible stuff
that was growing in his throat if Mr. Faulkner hadn’t sucked up the
poisonous stuff through a tube which he put into the throat. Of course,
it was a terribly dangerous thing to do—indeed, he caught the illness
through doing it—but it saved the boy’s life. Before that time he had
been one of the most abandoned little child-thieves in the parish, but
ever since he has been absolutely devoted to Mr. Faulkner, and he is now
growing up into a very fine character. I believe he hopes to go out as a
Missionary one day, which would be a wonderful end for anyone who began
as a little pickpocket.’
‘Mr. Faulkner must be a saint,’ said Emmeline.
‘So he is,’ agreed Aunt Grace heartily; ‘but I don’t know,’ she added,
with a whimsical little smile, ‘whether he’ll any more fit your idea of a
saint than Fir-tree Cottage did that of a cottage.’
Aunt Grace was right. Emmeline could not help feeling a little shock of
surprise when, soon after they had taken their seats in the schoolroom, a
curly-haired little man, with a round, merry face, came and stood before
the great white lantern-sheet, and she realised that this must be the
Lecturer.
‘Why, that man’s a little boy!’ remarked Kitty, in a stage whisper.
And, indeed, there was something very boyish in his appearance. Not that
they had much time to study it, for in another moment the lights were
lowered, a hymn appeared on the lantern-sheet, and after it had been
sung through lustily the lecture began.
The first picture shown represented a room in London—such a filthy,
miserable room as the children could never even have imagined. On a
ragged mattress in one corner lay a little boy, so thin that he was more
like a skeleton than a child. He had been almost dying, it appeared, when
he had been discovered by the Society to which the Home belonged, and
rescued from death, or worse, for the room had been kept by a wicked man
who was bringing up this child and a number of others to a life of crime.
The next picture was far less harrowing to the feelings of the audience,
for it showed the same boy fat, and clean and comfortable after a few
years spent in the beautiful Home among the Surrey hills, where Mr.
Faulkner was now Chaplain. He had since joined the Royal Navy, said the
clergyman, and was now learning to serve his King and country as a brave
man should, instead of making a livelihood by robbery.
‘Perhaps he’ll be one of my men some day,’ whispered Micky, who had every
intention of ending his life as an Admiral.
Picture followed picture, showing tragic scenes of child life in darkest
London, varied from time to time by groups of prosperous children whom
the Society had adopted. On the whole it was much like other lectures of
its kind, but the Bolton children, who had been at nothing of the sort
before, listened and gazed entranced, and felt very regretful when it
was over, and a final hymn and a collection brought the proceedings to a
close.
Mrs. Robinson, the Vicar’s wife, hurried forward to speak to Aunt Grace
as soon as the lights were turned up and people were beginning to
disperse.
‘You’ll come to supper with us to-morrow, won’t you?’ she said; ‘I know
my brother is much looking forward to meeting you again.’
A pretty rosy colour came into Aunt Grace’s cheeks. ‘Thank you; I shall
be delighted to come,’ she said, and she looked as though she meant it.
The Lecturer himself came up to them the next moment, and greeted Aunt
Grace as a friend.
‘You’ll let me see you home?’ he asked, eagerly; ‘that lane is so long
and dark—I know it of old.’
‘Thank you; but, you see, I have a very sufficient bodyguard in two
nieces and a nephew,’ said Aunt Grace, laughing, ‘and I hear Mrs.
Robinson just inviting the churchwarden and his wife to go home with her
for the express purpose of meeting you, so I’m afraid it wouldn’t do to
take you away from them.’
‘Well, I shall come to-morrow, then,’ said Mr. Faulkner. ‘I want to be
introduced to your bodyguard’; and he gave the children a mischievous
look that made him appear more like a schoolboy than ever.
‘I do love people who have twinkly smiles,’ remarked Kitty to Micky, on
the way home after the meeting in the village schoolroom.
Micky’s great blue eyes had a rapt, far-away expression.
‘I wonder if it’s worth while,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘If what’s worth while?’ asked Kitty.
‘To be so horrid and clean as those children were in the Homes, even if
you do get plenty to eat.’
‘But, Micky, we are clean—sometimes,’ said Kitty. It was just as well she
qualified the statement.
‘Yes, but we are used to it,’ said Micky; ‘things aren’t half as bad when
you are used to them.’
‘What part of the lecture did you like best?’ asked Kitty of Emmeline,
who was walking along in dreamy silence.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Emmeline. She spoke without thinking, for
she did know perfectly well. Mr. Faulkner had spoken of a little
twelve-year-old girl named Kathleen, whose pocket-money had been the
very first subscription towards the building of the particular Home where
he was Chaplain. The heart of this child had become so full of noble pity
for her poor little brothers and sisters of the slums that she spent most
of her playtime working among them and for them, and came to have such a
wonderful influence on them, that they looked upon her more as an angel
than an ordinary human girl. The story had fired Emmeline’s imagination,
and she was dreaming over it still.
‘Didn’t you enjoy the meeting, Aunt Grace?’ asked Kitty, taking her
aunt’s hand.
‘Yes, dear. Why do you ask?’
‘Because you seem so grave, somehow—like when we’ve been naughty.
‘I was thinking, I suppose,’ said Aunt Grace, laughing, and for the rest
of the walk she chatted merrily about all kinds of things.
‘It’s easy to see _she_ doesn’t care much about the poor children,’
thought Emmeline, feeling well satisfied with herself; ‘if she did, she
wouldn’t make so many jokes.’
All the way home, and while they were having supper afterwards, Emmeline
went on thinking of the little girl who had spent her pocket-money and
her playtime on the poor.
‘Do you know,’ she said abruptly, in the middle of her basin of soup, ‘I
think it would be very nice if we had a collecting-box for that Home.
I’ve got a shilling in my money-box upstairs which I’ll put in for a
start. I did mean to have saved up to buy “Queechy,” but I’ll gladly give
that up for the sake of the poor little children. Kitty and Micky, if you
were unselfish you’d give up your money too.’
The twins looked blank, and instead of being touched at Emmeline’s
self-sacrifice Aunt Grace said rather sharply, ‘Really, Emmeline, it is
not your business to settle what the twins ought to give. Start a box if
you like, but I can’t have you forcing the others to contribute to it.’
Emmeline tried to reflect that this was only what she might have
expected; people’s worldly relations always did persecute them when they
wanted to do anything specially beautiful or unselfish; but she could not
help looking hurt, and Kitty, who never could bear anyone to be snubbed,
broke in:
‘Oh, but she didn’t mean to force us, Aunt Grace. It was only a
suggestion. You shall have my sixpence, Emmeline—at least, threepence of
it will be from me and the other threepence from Micky. Then it won’t
matter his saving his own money for a new gun. You see, it’s really
_necessary_ he should have one that’s not broken when he sleeps in such a
lonely part of the house.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Aunt Grace, smiling, as she twisted one of Kitty’s
long curls between her fingers. ‘Should you like to ask Mr. Faulkner for
a collecting-box when he calls to-morrow, Emmeline?’ she added, in an
unusually kind voice for a persecuting relation.
‘No; my extra money-box will do quite well,’ said Emmeline shortly.
The extra money-box had been given her by Micky on her last birthday.
Having dropped a carefully treasured sixpence down that same mouse-hole
which had been fatal to so many of his marbles, Micky had been at his
wits’ end what to give Emmeline till the happy thought had struck him of
presenting her with his own money-box, then standing empty and useless.
Emmeline had thanked him for it graciously at the time, but Micky had
always had an uneasy feeling that it was rather a mean makeshift of a
present, so he was delighted to find it turning out at last to be really
of some use.
‘I think that’s a splendid plan,’ he said; ‘you’ll be able to open it
whenever you want to count how much money you’ve got, which you can’t do
with the ordinary stupid sort of missionary-box.’
‘There’s a good deal in that,’ said Aunt Grace. ‘See, here’s a bright new
shilling as a contribution to the extra money-box’s first meal. And now I
think it’s time all you young people went to bed.’
For some time after she had got into bed that evening Emmeline lay
awake dreaming day-dreams of that twelve-year-old girl who had been so
wonderfully good to the poor. Strangely enough, however, the child of
her visions was no longer a stranger, but Emmeline herself—Emmeline, who
had mysteriously become ennobled, and who was known to everyone as ‘the
saintly Lady Emmeline.’