Grandmother Dear: A Book for Boys and Girls Read online

  CHAPTER XII.

  A CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE.

  "With bolted doors and windows wedged, The care was all in vain; For there were noises in the night Which nothing could explain."

  GRANDMAMMA AND THE FAIRIES

  The children had gone quietly to bed the evening before when grandmotherhad finished the reading of her story. They just kissed her and said,"Thank you, _dear_ grandmother," and that was all. But it was all shewanted.

  "I felt, you know," said Molly to Sylvia when they were dressing the nextmorning, "I felt a sort of feeling as if I'd been in church when themusic was _awfully_ lovely. A beautiful feeling, but strange too, youknow, Sylvia? _Particularly_ as Uncle Jack died too. When did he die? Doyou know, Sylvia? Was it at that place?"

  "What place?" said Sylvia curtly. When her feelings were touched she hada way of growing curt and terse, sometimes even snappish.

  "That hot place--without trees, and all so dusty and dirty--Kadi--Kadi--Iforget."

  "Oh! you stupid girl Kadikoi was only one little wee village. You meanthe Crimea--the Crimea is the name of all the country about there--wherethe war was."

  "Yes, of course. I _am_ stupid," said Molly, but not at all as if she hadany reason to be ashamed of the fact. "Did he never come home from theCrimea?"

  "No," said Sylvia, curtly again, "he never came home."

  For an instant Molly was silent. Then she began again.

  "Well, I wonder how the old lady, that poor nice man's mother, I mean--Iwonder how she got the money and all that, that Uncle Jack was to settlefor her. Shall we ask grandmother, Sylvia?"

  "No, of course not. What does it matter to us? Of course it was allproperly done. If it hadn't been, how would grandmother have known aboutit?"

  "I never thought of that. Still I would like to know. I think," saidMolly meditatively, "I think I could get grandmother to tell withoutexactly asking--for fear, you know, of seeming to remind her about poorUncle Jack."

  "You'd much better not," said Sylvia, as she left the room.

  But once let Molly get a thing well into her head, "trust her," as Ralphsaid, "not to let it out again till it suited her."

  That very evening when they were all sitting together again, working andtalking, all except aunty, busily writing at her little table in thecorner, Molly began.

  "Grandmother dear," she said gently, "wasn't the old lady _dreadfully_sorry when she heard he was dead?"

  For a moment grandmother stared at her in bewilderment--her thoughts hadbeen far away. "What are you saying, my dear?" she asked.

  Sylvia frowned at Molly across the table. Too well did she know thepeculiarly meek and submissive tone of voice assumed by Molly when benton--had the subject been any less serious than it was, Sylvia would havecalled it "mischief."

  "Molly," she said reprovingly, finding her frowns calmly ignored.

  "What is it?" said Molly sweetly. "I mean, grandmother dear," sheproceeded, "I mean the mother of the poor nice man that uncle was so goodto. Wasn't she _dreadfully_ sorry when she heard he was dead?"

  "I think she was, dear," said grandmother unsuspiciously. "Poor woman,whatever her mistakes with her children had been, I felt dreadfully sorryfor her. I saw her a good many times, for your uncle sent me home all thepapers and directions--'in case,' as poor Sawyer had said of himself--somy Jack said it."

  Grandmother sighed; Sylvia looked still more reproachfully at Molly;Molly pretended to be threading her needle.

  "And I got it all settled as her son had wished. He had arranged it sothat she could not give away the money during her life. Not long after,she went to America to her other son, and I believe she is still living.He got on very well, and is now a rich man. I had letters from them a fewyears ago--nice letters. I think it brought out the best of them--PhilipSawyer's death I mean. Still--oh no--they did not care for him, alive ordead, as such a man deserved."

  "What a shame it seems!" said Molly. "When _I_ have children," she wenton serenely, "I shall love them all alike--whether they're ugly orpretty, if _anything_ perhaps the ugliest most, to make up to them,you see."

  "I thought you were never going to marry," said Ralph. "For you're nevergoing to England, and you'll never marry a Frenchman."

  "Englishmen might come here," replied Molly. "And when you and Sylvia goto England, you might take some of my photographs to show."

  This was too much. Ralph laughed so that he rolled on the rug, and Sylvianearly fell off her chair. Even grandmother joined in the merriment, andaunty came over from her corner to ask what it was all about.

  "I have finished my story," she said. "I am so glad."

  "And when, oh, when will you read it?" cried the children.

  "On the evening of the twenty-second of December. I fixed that while Iwas writing it, for that was the day it happened on," said aunty. "Thatwill be next Monday, and this is Friday. Not so very long to wait. Andafter all it's a very short story--not nearly so long as grandmother's."

  "Never mind, we'll make it longer by talking about it," said Molly."That's how I did at home when I had a very small piece of cake for tea.I took one bite of cake to three or four of bread and butter. It made itseem much more."

  "I can perfectly believe that _you_ will be ready to provide thenecessary amount of 'bread and butter' to eke out my story," said auntygravely.

  And Molly stared at her in such comical bewilderment as to what shemeant, that she set them all off laughing again.

  Monday evening came. Aunty took her place at the table in front of thelamp, and having satisfied herself that Molly's wants in the shape ofneedles and thread, thimble, etc., were supplied for the next half-hourat least, she began as follows:--

  "A CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE.

  "On the twenty-second of December, in the year eighteen hundred andfifty----" "No," said aunty, stopping short, "I can't tell you the year.Molly would make all sorts of dreadful calculations on the spot, asto my exact age, and the date at which the first grey hairs might belooked for--I will only say eighteen hundred and _something_."

  "_Fifty_ something," said Molly promptly. "You did say that, aunty."

  "Terrible child!" said aunty. "Well, never mind, I'll begin again. On thetwenty-second of December, in a certain year, I, Laura Berkeley, set outwith my elder sister Mary, on a long journey. We were then living on thewestern coast of England, or Wales rather; we had to cross the wholecountry, for our destination was the neighbourhood, a few miles inland,of a small town on the _eastern_ coast. Our journey was not one ofpleasure--we were not going to spend 'a merry Christmas' with near anddear friends and relations. We were going on business, and our one ideawas to get it accomplished as quickly as possible, and hurry home to ourparents again, for otherwise their Christmas would be quite a solitaryone. And as former Christmases--before we children had been scattered,before there were vacant chairs round the fireside--had been among thehappiest times of the year in our family, as in many others, we feltdoubly reluctant to risk spending it apart from each other, we four--allthat were left now!

  "'It is dreadfully cold, Mary,' I said, when we were fairly off, dearmother gazing wistfully after us, as the train moved out of the stationand her figure on the platform grew smaller and smaller, till at lastwe lost sight of it altogether. 'It is dreadfully cold, isn't it?'

  "We were tremendously well wrapped up--there were hot-water tins in thecarriage, and every comfort possible for winter travellers. Yet it wastrue. It was, as I said, bitterly cold.

  "'Don't say that already, Laura,' said Mary anxiously, 'or I shall beginto wish I had stood out against your coming with me.'

  "'Oh, dear Mary, you couldn't have come alone,' I said.

  "I was only fifteen. My accompanying Mary was purely for the sake ofbeing a companion to her, though in my own mind I thought it verypossible that, considering the nature of the 'business' we were bentupon, I might prove to be of practical use too. I must tell you what thissame 'business' was. It was to choose a house. Owing to my fathe
r'salready failing health, we had left our own old home more than a yearbefore, and till now we had been living in a temporary house in SouthWales. But my father did not like the neighbourhood, and fancied theclimate did not suit him, and besides this we could not have had thehouse after the following April, had we wished it. So there had beengreat discussions about what we should do, where we should go rather, andmuch consultation of advertisement sheets and agents' lists. Already Maryhad set off on several fruitless expeditions in quest of delightful'residences' which turned out very much the reverse. But she had neverbefore had to go such a long way as to East Hornham, which was the nameof the post-town near which were two houses to let, each seemingly sodesirable that we really doubted whether it would not be difficult toresist taking _both_. My father had known East Hornham as a boy, andthough its neighbourhood was not strikingly picturesque, it wasconsidered to be eminently healthy, and he was full of eagerness aboutit, and wishing he himself could have gone to see the houses. But thatwas impossible--impossible too for my mother to leave him even for threedays; there was nothing for it but for Mary to go, and at once. Ourdecision in the case of one of the houses must not be delayed a day, fora gentleman had seen it and wanted to take it, only as the agent incharge of it considered that we had 'the first refusal,' he had writtento beg my father to send some one to see it at once.

  "And thus it came about that Mary and I set off by ourselves in thisdreary fashion only two days before Christmas! Mother had proposed ourtaking a servant, but as we knew that the only one who would have beenany use to us was the one of _most_ use to mother, we declared we shouldmuch prefer the 'independence' of going by ourselves.

  "By dint of much examination of Bradshaw we had discovered that it waspossible, just possible, to get to East Hornham the same night about nineo'clock.

  "'That will enable us to get to bed early, after we have had some supper,and the next day we can devote to seeing the two houses, one or other ofwhich _must_ suit us,' said Mary, cheerfully. 'And starting early againthe next day we may hope to be back with you on Christmas eve, motherdear.'

  "The plan seemed possible enough,--one day would suffice for the houses,as there was no need as yet to go into all the details of theapportionment of rooms, and so on. That would be time enough in thespring, when we proposed to stay at East Hornham for a week or two at thehotel there, and arrange our new quarters at leisure. It was running itrather close, however; the least hitch, such as failing to catch onetrain out of the many which Mary had cleverly managed to fit in to eachother, would throw our scheme out of gear; so mother promised not to beanxious if we failed to appear, and we, on our part, promised totelegraph if we met with any detention.

  "For the first half--three-quarters, I might say--of our journey we goton swimmingly. We caught all the trains; the porters and guards werecivility itself; and as our only luggage was a small hand-bag that wecarried ourselves, we had no trouble of any kind. When we got to FexelJunction, the last important station we were to pass, our misfortunesbegan. Here, by rights, we should have had a full quarter of an hour towait for the express which should drop us at East Hornham on its waynorth; but when the guard heard our destination he shook his head.

  "'The train's gone,' he said. 'We are more than half an hour late.'

  "And so it proved. A whole hour and a half had we to sit shivering, inspite of the big fire, in the Fexel waiting-room, and it was eleven atnight before, in the slowest of slow trains, we at last found ourselveswithin a few miles of East Hornham.

  "Our spirits had gone down considerably since the morning. We were verytired, and that has _very_ much more to do with people's spirits thanalmost any one realises.

  "'It wouldn't matter if we were going to friends,' said Mary. 'But itdoes seem very strange and desolate--we two poor things, two days beforeChristmas, arriving at midnight in a perfectly strange place, and nowhereto go to but an inn.'

  "'But think how nice it will be, getting home to motheragain--particularly if we've settled it all nicely about the house,'I said.

  "And Mary told me I was a good little thing, and she was very glad tohave me with her. It was not usual for me to be the braver of the two,but you see I felt my responsibilities on this occasion to be great,and was determined to show myself worthy of them.

  "And when we did get to the inn, the welcome we received was worthy ofDr. Johnson's praise of inns in general. The fire was so bright, thelittle table so temptingly spread that the spirits--seldom longdepressed--of one-and-twenty and fifteen rose at the sight. For we werehungry as well as tired, and the cutlets and broiled ham which the goodpeople had managed to keep beautifully hot and fresh for us--possiblythey were so accustomed to the railway eccentricities that they had onlycooked them in time for our arrival by the later train, for we weretold afterwards that no one ever _did_ catch the express at FexelJunction,--the cutlets and ham, as I was saying, and the buttered toast,and all the other good things, were _so_ good that we made an excellentsupper, and slept the sleep of two tired but perfectly healthy youngpeople till seven o'clock the next morning.

  "We awoke refreshed and hopeful. But alas! when Mary pulled up the blindwhat a sight met her eyes! snow--snow everywhere.

  "'What _shall_ we do?' she said. 'We can never judge of the houses inthis weather. And how are we to get to them? Dear me! how unlucky!'

  "'But it has left off, and it can't be very thick in these few hours,'I said, 'If only it keeps off now, we could manage.'

  "We dressed quickly, and had eaten our breakfast by half-past eight; forat nine, by arrangement, the agent was to call for us to escort us on ourvoyage of discovery. The weather gave promise of improving, a faintwintry sunshine came timidly out, and there seemed no question of moresnow. When Mr. Turner, the agent, a respectable fatherly sort of man,made his appearance, he altogether pooh-poohed the idea of the roadsbeing impassable; but he went on to say that, to his great regret, it wasperfectly impossible for him to accompany us. Mr. H----, Mr. WalterH----, that is to say, the younger son of the owner of the Grange, thelarger of the two houses we were to see, had arrived unexpectedly, andMr. Turner was obliged to meet him about business.

  "'I have managed the business about here for them since they left theGrange, and Mr. Walter is only here for a day,' said the communicativeMr. Turner. 'It is most unfortunate. But I have engaged a comfortablecarriage for you, Miss Berkeley, and a driver who knows the countrythoroughly, and is a very steady man. And, if you will allow me, I willcall in this evening to hear what you think of the houses--which youprefer.' He seemed to be quite sure we should fix for one or other.

  "'Thank you, that will do very well,' said Mary,--not in her heart, totell the truth, sorry that we were to do our house-hunting by ourselves.'We shall get on quite comfortably, I am sure, Mr. Turner. Which houseshall we go to see first?'

  "'The farthest off, I would advise,' said Mr. Turner. 'That is Hunter'sHall. It is eight miles at least from this, and the days are so short.'

  "'Is that the old house with the terraced garden?' I asked.

  "Mr. Turner glanced at me benevolently.

  "'Oh no, Miss,' he said. 'The terraced garden is at the Grange. Hunter'sHall is a nice little place, but much smaller than the Grange. Thegardens at the Grange are really quite a show in summer.'

  "'Perhaps they will be too much for us,' said Mary. 'My father does notwant a very large place, you understand, Mr. Turner--not being in goodhealth he does not wish to have the trouble of looking after much.'

  "'I don't think you would find it too much,' said Mr. Turner. 'Thehead gardener is to be left at Mr. H----'s expense, and he is verytrustworthy. But I can explain all these details this evening if you willallow me, after you have seen the house,' and, so saying, the obligingagent bade us good morning.

  "'I am sure we shall like the Grange the best,' I said to Mary, when,about ten o'clock, we found ourselves in the carriage Mr. Turner hadprovided for us, slowly, notwithstanding the efforts of the two fathorses that were drawing us, making our way
along the snow-covered roads.

  "'I don't know,' said Mary. 'I am afraid of its being too large. Butcertainly Hunter's Hall is a long way from the town, and that is adisadvantage.'

  "A _very_ long way it seemed before we got there.

  "'I could fancy we had been driving nearly twenty miles instead ofeight,' said Mary, when at last the carriage stopped before a sort oflittle lodge, and the driver informed us we must get out there, therebeing no carriage drive up to the house.

  "'Objection number one,' said Mary, as we picked our steps along thegarden path which led to the front door. 'Father would not like to haveto walk along here every time he went out a drive. Dear me!' she added,'how dreadfully difficult it is to judge of any place in snow! The houselooks so dirty, and yet very likely in summer it is a pretty bright whitehouse.'

  "It was not a bad little house: there were two or three good roomsdownstairs and several fairly good upstairs, besides a number of smallinconvenient rooms that might have been utilised by a very large family,but would be no good at all to us. Then the kitchens were poor,low-roofed, and straggling.

  "'It might do,' said Mary doubtfully. 'It is more the look of it thananything else that I dislike. It does not look as if gentle-people hadlived in it--it seems like a better-class farm-house.'

  "And so it proved to be, for on inquiry we learnt from the woman whoshowed us through, that it never had been anything but a farm-house tillthe present owner had bought it, improved it a little, and furnished itin a rough-and-ready fashion for a summer residence for his large familyof children.

  "'We should need a great deal of additional furniture,' said Mary. 'Much of it is very poor and shabby. The rent, however, is certainlyvery low--to some extent that would make up.'

  "Then we thanked the woman in charge, and turned to go. 'Dear me!' saidMary, glancing at her watch, 'it is already half-past twelve. I hope thedriver knows the way to the Grange, or it will be dark before we getthere. How far is it from here to East Hornham?' she added, turning againto our guide.

  "'Ten miles good,' said the woman.

  "'I thought so,' said Mary. 'I shall have a crow to pluck with that Mr.Turner for saying it was only eight. And how far to the Grange?'

  "'Which Grange, Miss? There are two or three hereabouts.'

  "Mary named the family it belonged to.

  "'Oh it is quite seven miles from here, though not above two from EastHornham.'

  "'Seven and two make nine,' said Mary. 'Why didn't you bring us here pastthe Grange? It is a shorter way,' she added to the driver, as we got intothe carriage again.

  "The man touched his hat respectfully, and replied that he had brought usround the other way that we might see more of the country.

  "We laughed to ourselves at the idea of seeing the country, shut up in aclose carriage and hardly daring to let the tips of our noses peep out tomeet the bitter, biting cold. Besides, what was there to see? It was aflat, bare country, telling plainly of the near neighbourhood of the sea,and with its present mantle of snow, features of no kind were to bediscerned. Roads, fields, and all were undistinguishable.

  "'I wonder he knows his way,' we said to each other more than once, andas we drove on farther we could not resist a slight feeling of alarm asto the weather. The sky grew unnaturally dark and gloomy, with theblue-grey darkness that so often precedes a heavy fall of snow, and wefelt immensely relieved when at last the carriage slackened before a pairof heavy old-fashioned gates, which were almost immediately opened by ayoung woman who ran out from one of the two lodges guarding each a sideof the avenue.

  "The drive up to the house looked very pretty even then--or rather as ifit would be exquisitely so in spring and summer time.

  "'I'm sure there must be lots and lots of primroses and violets andperiwinkles down there in those woody places,' I cried. 'Oh Mary, Mary,_do_ take this house.'

  "Mary smiled, but I could see that she too was pleased. And when we sawthe house itself the pleasant impression was not decreased. It was builtof nice old red stone, or brick, with grey mullions and gables to theroof. The hall was oak wainscotted all round, and the rooms that openedout of it were home-like and comfortable, as well as spacious. Certainlyit was too large, a great deal too large, but then we could lock off someof the rooms.

  "'People often do so,' I said. 'I think it is a delicious house, don'tyou, Mary?'

  "One part was much older than the other, and it was curiously planned,the garden, the terraced garden behind which I had heard of, rising so,that after going upstairs in the house you yet found yourself on a levelwith one part of this garden, and could walk out on to it through alittle covered passage. The rooms into which this passage opened were theoldest of all--one in particular, tapestried all round, struck megreatly.

  "'I hope it isn't haunted,' I said suddenly. Mary smiled, but the youngwoman looked grave.

  "'You don't mean to say it _is_?' I exclaimed.

  "'Well, Miss, I was housemaid here several years, and I certainly neversaw nor heard nothing. But the young gentlemen did used to say thingslike that for to frighten us, and for me I'm one as never likes to sayas to those things that isn't for us to understand.'

  "'I do believe it _is_ haunted,' I cried, more and more excited, andthough Mary checked me I would not leave off talking about it.

  "We were turning to go out into the gardens when an exclamation from Marycaught my attention.

  "'It is snowing again and _so_ fast,' she said, 'and just see how dark itis.'

  "''Twill lighten up again when the snow leaves off, Miss,' said thewoman. 'It is not three o'clock yet. I'll make you a bit of fire in aminute if you like, in one of the rooms. In here----' she added, openingthe door of a small bedroom next to the tapestry room, 'it'll light in aminute, the chimney can't be cold, for there was one yesterday. I putfires in each in turns.'

  "We felt sorry to trouble her, but it seemed really necessary, for justthen our driver came to the door to tell us he had had to take out thehorses and put them into the stable.

  "'They seemed dead beat,' he said, 'with the heavy roads. And besides itwould be impossible to drive in the midst of such very thick fallingsnow. 'Twould be better to wait an hour or two, till it went off. Therewas a bag in the carriage--should he bring it in?'

  "We had forgotten that we had brought with us some sandwiches and buns.In our excitement we had never thought how late it was, and that we mustbe hungry. Now, with the prospect of an hour or two's enforced waitingwith nothing to do, we were only too thankful to be reminded of ourprovisions. The fire was already burning brightly in the littleroom--'Mr. Walter's room' the young woman called it--'That must be thegentleman that was to be with Mr. Turner to-day,' I whispered toMary--and she very good-naturedly ran back to her own little houseto fetch the necessary materials for a cup of tea for us.

  "'It is a fearful storm,' she informed us when she ran back again, whitefrom head to foot, even with the short exposure, and indeed from thewindows we could see it for ourselves. 'The snow is coming that thick andfast, I could hardly find my own door,' she went on, while she busiedherself with preparations for our tea. 'It is all very well in summerhere, but it is lonesome-like in winter since the family went away. Andmy husband's been ill for some weeks too--I have to sit up with him mostnights. Last night, just before the snow began, I did get such afright--all of a sudden something seemed to come banging at our door, andthen I heard a queer breathing like. I opened the door, but there wasnothing to be seen, but perhaps it was that that made me look strangewhen Miss here,' pointing to me, 'asked me if the house was haunted.Whatever it was that came to our door certainly rushed off this way.'

  "'A dog, or even a cat, perhaps,' said Mary.

  "The woman shook her head.

  "'A cat couldn't have made such a noise, and there's not a dog about theplace,' she said.

  "I listened with great interest--but Mary's thoughts were otherwiseengaged. There was not a doubt that the snow-storm, instead of going off,was increasing in severity. We drank ou
r tea and ate our sandwiches, andput off our time as well as we could till five o'clock. It was now ofcourse perfectly dark but for the light of the fire. We were glad whenour friend from the lodge returned with a couple of tallow candles,blaming herself for having forgotten them.

  "'I really don't know what we should do,' said Mary to her. 'The stormseems getting worse and worse. I wonder what the driver thinks about it.Is he in the house, do you know?'

  "'He's sitting in our kitchen, Miss,' replied the young woman. 'He seemsvery much put about. Shall I tell him to come up to speak to you?'

  "'Thank you, I wish you would,' said Mary. 'But I am really sorry tobring you out so much in this dreadful weather.'

  "The young woman laughed cheerfully.

  "'I don't mind it a bit, Miss,' she said; 'if you only knew how glad Ishall be if you come to live here. Nothing'd be a trouble if so be as wecould get a kind family here again. 'Twould be like old times.'

  "She hastened away, and in a few minutes returned to say that the driverwas downstairs waiting to speak to us----"

  "Laura, my dear," said grandmother, "do you know it is a quarter to ten.How much more is there?"

  Aunty glanced through the pages--

  "About as much again," she said. "No, scarcely so much."

  "Well then, dears, it must wait till to-morrow," said grandmother.

  "_Oh_, grandmother!" remonstrated the children.

  "Aunty said it was a shorter story than yours, grandmother," said Mollyin a half reproachful voice.

  "And are you disappointed that it isn't?" said aunty, laughing. "I reallydidn't think it was so long as it is."

  "Oh! aunty, I only wish it was _twenty_ times as long," said Molly. "Ishouldn't mind hearing it all over again this minute, only you see I dodreadfully want to hear the end. I am sure they had to stay there allnight, and that something frightens them. Oh it's 'squisitely delicious,"she added, "jigging" up and down on her chair.

  "You're a 'squisitely delicious little humbug," said aunty, laughing."Now good-night all three of you, and get to bed as fast as you can, as Idon't want 'grandmother dear' to scold me for your all being tired andsleepy to-morrow."