CHAPTER XII · Part 1

CHAPTER XII

MISS CROSS-AT-FIRST'S FUR CAPE

I couldn't help it, even though it was in church, I felt so boiling. I jumped up and caught hold of Serry's arm and pulled her out into the porch. Poor Maud came too of herself, and when we got outside into the light, I saw that she looked pale and frightened. Then Anne appeared, quite puzzled and dazed, for she'd been all up in the music and had almost forgotten where she was, or if she was anywhere, as she does sometimes.

_I_ was all there though. I closed the door so that our voices couldn't possibly be heard from the inside, and then I faced round upon Serry.

'What's the meaning of this?' I said. 'The very moment nurse's back is turned you begin disobeying her?'

Serena's eyes sparkled. She has very funny eyes. Sometimes, when she's very mischievous, they look really green, though sometimes they're very pretty.

'Then you shouldn't go plotting for you and Anne to have treats, and to keep us out of them,' she said.

'"Treats,"--nonsense,' said. 'As if it was a _treat_. A simple thing like this, coming down to listen to the organ.'

'Well, why shouldn't Maud and I have a simple pleasure too?'

'You don't care for music, at least you hate sitting still, and Maud was quite happy at the farm. _She_ didn't want to come.'

'No, Jack, truly I didn't,' said Maud almost crying. 'But Serry said if I didn't she'd run off into the wood and hide herself so that we couldn't find her. And she told the servant to tell Mrs. Parsley we'd gone with you after all, and we'd be all home soon. And Mrs. Parsley was upstairs, and she called down, "All right, my dears," and Serry said if I said anything she'd----' I never knew what Serry had said she'd do, for now Maud began crying, and Anne put her arms round her, and kissed and comforted her.

Then Anne and I looked at each other. What should we do? After all it wasn't a very big thing; it wouldn't do any harm for them to sit listening to the music too if Serry would be quiet. And perhaps she would be, to make up for having been so naughty. So I said, 'As you are here, you had better stay. Take Maud into the church, Anne. I'll look after Serry.'

But when I was going to take hold of Serry she slipped away.

'I won't be pulled and dragged about,' she said. 'I'll go into a corner and be quite quiet if you'll leave me alone, but I'll scream if you don't.'

Just then the singing began. I _didn't_ want to miss any of it, and Serry was more likely to be quiet if I gave in. So I let her go; she went in before me very quickly, right into a corner as she said, and she gave me a sort of a nod over her shoulder. I hoped it meant she was going to be sensible.

[Illustration: 'We all three sat listening and listening.'--c. xii. p. 175.]

The singing was most beautiful that night. We all three sat listening and listening. I think Anne soon went up into the clouds again and forgot everything else. Maudie liked it too; she leant against me, but every now and then I felt her shiver, and little sobs went through her. Maud scarcely ever cries, but when she does it seems to tire her out. And Serry had worried her very badly.

'Are you cold, dear?' I whispered, and she said she was a little. Serry had hurried her out without seeing that she was properly wrapped up, and it was a chilly evening, I forgot to say. Perhaps it would have been better if I had made them all come away then, but it did seem such a pity to miss the singing. I think it was 'Angels ever bright and fair,' but I'm not sure. We've heard so many of her beautiful songs since then that I'm not sure which it was.

Suddenly we heard the door pushed open, and some one came into the church. It was a girl; she came in very quickly, and hurried up the aisle and in through a door or a curtain somewhere at the side. It was already darker than when we came. A minute after, we heard talking--the singing had stopped, I forgot to say--and then two people came out at the side, and hurried back again down the aisle and out at the door. It was the person who had been playing, and the girl who had come evidently to fetch her.

They didn't shut the door to, only closed it a little.

'What a pity,' said Anne, 'she's been fetched away.'

'Yes,' said I, 'but Maudie's rather cold. Perhaps it's best for us to go home,' and we got up and went towards the door.

I looked round for Serry. She wasn't in the corner we had seen her in.

'I expect Serry's outside in the porch,' I said to Anne. But no, she wasn't.

'She was sitting in the same place just before the girl came in,' said Anne. 'I saw her.'

'She can't have gone home,' I said. 'She's not very fond of walking about alone. She must be somewhere in the church.'

And then all of a sudden there came over me the remembrance of her boast about being able to hide in the church so that we couldn't find her. Was that what she had been after? Was that her reason for following us, that she thought it would be a good chance for playing us this trick? It was too bad. There was poor Maud tired and cold, and Anne and me who had been worried enough already. I really felt as if I couldn't stand it.

I asked Maud what she thought, but of course Serry hadn't said a word to her about hiding. It wasn't likely she would, but every minute we got surer that she _was_ hiding.

You can't shout out in a church, and yet it wasn't easy to hunt. We began; we poked into any of the dark corners we could think of, and behind the doors and curtains, and even in the pulpit, though it was a sort of open-work that a mouse could scarcely have hidden in--not like the one in the 'Maggie' story. But it was all no use, and it was more provoking than you can fancy to know that all the time the naughty child was hearing us, and laughing at us. We went on for a quarter of an hour or more, I daresay; then I determined I'd bother no more.

'Stop, Anne,' I said, in a low voice, 'I'm not going to----' but Anne interrupted me.

'I hear something,' she said. 'Listen; what is it?'

There was a little sound of footsteps, but not inside the church, I thought. Still it _might_ be Serry; she might have slipped out to baffle us. But first I thought I'd try my new idea. I slipped out as near the middle as I could, and then I said, loud and clear, though not shouting, of course--do you know I felt quite frightened when I heard my own voice so loud, it seemed so unreverent--

'Serena'--this was what I said--'you can hear me quite well, I know, so I give you fair warning that if you don't come out before I finish counting twelve we'll go home, and leave you to yourself--to stay here all night if you choose.'

Then I began, 'One, two, three, four'--was it fancy, or did I hear a little smothered laugh just as I was going to say 'five?'--but then all was still again, and I went on, till, just as I was, you may say, on the stroke of 'twelve,' there came a flutter and rush down the aisle, and there was Miss Serry, tossing her hair back, her eyes looking, I am sure, if there had been light enough to see them by, very bright green indeed. But, just as she appeared, there came another sound--a harsh, rasping, grating sound,--a queer feeling went through me as I heard it, only I was so taken up with Serry that I didn't seem to have attention to spare, and I didn't really take in for the moment what it meant.

There was Serry as triumphant as could be.

'I don't mind coming out now,' she said. 'I've proved that you couldn't find me.'

'You have been about as naughty as you could be,' said Anne, 'and whether Jack tells mother all about it or not, I know _I_ shall.'

Serena did not answer. She really seemed startled. It is not often that Anne takes that tone. She used to be so constantly in scrapes herself--about carelessness, and forgettings, and losings, and all that sort of thing--that I think she felt as if she had no right to find fault with others. But after a moment Serry got back her coolness.

'Well, anyway I've gained,' she said. 'You don't know where I was hidden, and you'd never have found me.'

And to this day she has never told us!

'Let us get home now as fast as we can,' said Anne; 'there is poor Maudie shivering with cold. I'm afraid she's got a chill.'

We turned towards the door, but suddenly the remembrance of the sound I had heard came back to me, and a great fear went through me. I hurried on. Yes, it was too true; the door was locked, locked from the outside, and we were prisoners--prisoners pretty certainly for the night! I faced round upon the girls and told them.

'I remember hearing the sound of locking,' I said.

But at first they wouldn't believe me; I could scarcely believe it myself. We rattled and shook at the door in the silly way people do in such cases; of course it was no use. Then we made journeys round the church to all the other doors; none of them had been open in the daytime, so it wasn't likely they would be now. Then we considered together if it would be any use shouting, but we were sure it wouldn't be. There was no house very near the church; the Convalescent Home, on rising ground a little behind it, was about the nearest, and we knew our voices could never be heard there. And we were too far back from the road to hope that any passer-by would hear us; beside which, unluckily, it was a windy night--the wind had risen a good deal since we had come out. We could hear it outside, and it almost sounded as if it was raining too.

'There is nothing for it,' I said at last, 'but to stay quietly and make ourselves as comfortable as we can till some one comes to let us out. Mrs. Parsley is sure to miss us and send, as she knows where we are. The great thing is to keep poor Maud from catching cold.'

I wasn't cold myself; I had been moving about, and then I wasn't getting well of an illness like the girls. So I took off my ulster and made Maudie put it on. There were no cushions in the church, but we collected all the hassocks we could, and built up a sort of little nest, and then we all huddled in together. It was fast getting dark, and after we had been sitting there a while we heard the clock outside strike eight.

I couldn't make it out; they _must_ have missed us at the farm before this. But they hadn't, and I may as well explain here--a lot of explainings together at the end are so confusing, I think--how it was. You remember my saying Mrs. Parsley had had bad news that day. Well, just as Serry called out to her that she and Maud were coming with us after all, another message had come that she _must_ go at once to the old lady who was so ill. There was no choice, she had to go, so the horse was put to and the red-eared boy drove her off. Mr. Parsley hadn't come in, so all she could do was to tell the servant we'd all be in soon, and she must tell us what had happened, and that she'd send the cart back to the station to meet nurse at nine. Now, the servant was very stupid; she got 'nine' into her head, and when Mr. Parsley came in about half-past seven she told him we were all to be in at nine; and he said afterwards he'd got some vague idea that we had all gone in the cart to meet nurse. Anyhow, he wasn't a bit uneasy, and after he'd had his supper he set off walking to the old aunt's to see how she was, and to arrange about Mrs. Parsley staying all night if she had to.

So you see, till nurse got back, there was no one to be uneasy about us.

But _we_ didn't know it, and there we sat, more and more puzzled, and even frightened in a strange sort of way. It seemed as if we'd dropped out of the world and nobody cared.

'At the worst,' I whispered to Anne, 'when nurse comes they'll hunt us up. She knows we were to be in the church, and she'll think of the Maggie story.'

'Only,' said Anne, '_suppose_ she misses her train, or that it's very late. It's Maudie I'm so unhappy about, Jack. Hush----'

For we heard a little sob, and we didn't want to wake her. She had fallen asleep, and Anne and I were both cuddling her close to keep her warm.

'Is she waking?' I said, very low.

But Anne pinched my hand. The sob wasn't from Maud, it was from Serry. I must say I was rather glad. It was about time for her to sob and cry, I thought.

We waited on and on. After a bit I think Anne and Serry too got drowsy, and perhaps I did myself. Anyhow, I grew stupid, and as if I didn't care; but I was very cold too.

It seemed such a tremendous time. I heard a story not long ago of a man who got shut in somewhere--I think it was in the catacombs, or some place like that--who went through, as he thought, days of it. He grew terribly hungry, for one thing, and ate his candle, and was released just when he believed he was at the last gasp, and after all he'd only been there three hours! It did seem absurd, but I can quite believe it. He'd lost all sense of time, you see. Well, I suppose it was rather like that with us. I know, when at last we heard the clock strike, I was _sure_ it was going on to twelve. I couldn't _believe_ it was only nine!

'Anne,' I whispered, 'are you awake? How ever are we to wait here till to-morrow morning? It's only nine o'clock!'

'Nurse will be coming home soon then,' said Anne, hopefully; 'she'll _never_ wait till to-morrow morning to find us.'

'I don't know,' I said. 'I can't make anything out. I think it's as if we were all dead and buried, and nobody cares.'

'Hush,' said a clear little voice; 'that's not good, Jack. _God_ cares, always.'

'It was poor little Maudie, and again I heard the choky sob from Serena.

Just then, as if in answer to Maud, _at last_ we heard a sound, or sounds--voices and footsteps, and then the grating of the key in the lock.

'They've come for us, they've come for us!' we cried, and up we all jumped. It was quite dark, but as the door opened a light came in; the people, whoever they were, had a lantern. But it wasn't Mr. Parsley, nor his wife, nor the red-eared boy, nor any one we knew--at least, not any one we expected. It was--the light was full in her face, and she was frowning just the sort of way I remembered--it was Miss Cross-at-first!

And just fancy what I did? I ran at her, I was so confused and stupid, calling her _that_!

'Oh, Miss Cross-at-first,' I said, 'please let us out! We've been locked in, hours, and Maud is so cold!'

It must have been awfully muddling for _her_. She frowned worse than ever, and turned to the girl with her--a girl about fifteen, not a lady, but very nice.

'Who are they, Linny?' she said. 'Do you know?'

But Linny shook her head.

'Some mistake,' she began, but I interrupted her.

'I'll tell you who we are,' I said. 'You know us, and we know you, but I can't remember your proper name,' and then it flashed upon me what I had called her, and I got scarlet.

'My name isn't "Crossley," or whatever you said,' she began (oh, how thankful I was she hadn't heard properly! _Afterwards_ we told her the name we'd given her, and she didn't mind a bit), 'but I seem to know you. I'm staying at the Home here. I left my music in church, for I went off in a hurry. But what in the world were you all doing here?'

'We came to listen to you,' I said, and then Anne went on to explain. She did it so nicely, not exactly putting the blame on Serry, which would not have been kind just then, but she quite made Miss Merthyr understand.

'You poor little souls!' she exclaimed. 'Of course, I remember hearing you were somewhere down here, but I've been away. I only came back again a few days ago. And Maud, poor child, you _do_ look blue. I'll tell you what, come back to the Home with me and get warm. Linny, run back and tell them to heat some milk, and then Linny and I will wrap you up and take you home.'

'But,' said a little voice, 'won't the getting-well children catch the whooping-cough?'

Judith--that's what we always call her now--couldn't help laughing. It was Maud who had said it.

'The Home children are all in bed and asleep long ago,' she said. 'They'll run no risk, and I've not heard any of you coughing. I'm sure the infection's over. So come along. Oh, my music! Linny, take the lantern; oh no, she's gone! Never mind, I'll get it on my way home. I don't want the organist to confuse it with his.'

And in five minutes we found ourselves in the kitchen at the Home, in front of a jolly fire, and with nice hot milk to drink. For it really was a cold night; it had been raining, too, pretty sharply. The other ladies at the Home--there were two, and two servants--were very nice to us. But Maud kept hold of Miss Cross-at-first's hand as if she couldn't let go.

'Now, we must get you home,' said Judith. 'Let's see, how can we wrap you up? Why, this is your brother's jacket. My boy, _you_ must have been cold! Here, put on your coat, and I'll fetch some shawls and things. I have a bundle I have never undone since I came, for it hasn't been cold till now.'

She flew upstairs, and was down again in a moment.

'Here's a shawl for each of you,' she said to Anne and Serry; 'and here, oh yes, this short fur tippet will be just the thing for Maud. I didn't know I'd got it here.'

It was a nice little cape, with a hood at the back.

She opened it out and gave it a shake, as people often do when a thing has been folded up, and--something hard dropped out of it and rolled on to the stone floor with a clatter.

'What's that?' said Judith. 'There must have been some pin or something caught in the fur. I haven't worn it for ever so long--not since----'

She stooped and looked about a little on the floor. But she is near-sighted--that's why she frowns so,--and she didn't see anything.

'Never mind, I daresay it was only a safety-pin,' she said. 'Here, Maudie, dear,' and she held out the cape.

But Anne had been looking about on the floor too, and suddenly she made a dive under a table standing at one side. When she stood up again her face looked all--I don't know how.

'Jack,' she said, as if she were choking, 'it's----' and she held out her hand. There, on her palm--looking not quite so bright as the last time we had seen it, but otherwise none the worse--lay _the diamond ornament_, gran's curious old-fashioned treasure, which had caused poor mums and Anne, and indeed all of us, so much trouble and distress.

I gasped. I couldn't speak. Judith stared.

'What is it?' she said.

Then I tried to get my voice.

'It's the thing that was lost,' I said, 'worth ever so much, and an heirloom too. Didn't you know? Cousin Dorothea knew. Mother lost it the day of the Drawing-room. Oh,' as light began to break in upon me, 'it must have dropped on to your cape and caught in the fur--it is very fuzzy fur--and there it's been ever since! Oh, to think of it!'

'Yes,' said Judith, 'there it has been ever since. I've never had on the cape since, and my maid put it in with these shawls when I was coming down here. I remember her saying it might be cold here sometimes. No, I never heard a word about the ornament being lost. You know I didn't come back to your house that day; I went straight home. I wonder I never heard of it. But I've been in Germany till lately; and if I had heard of it I don't think I would ever have thought of this little cape. It must have fallen into the hood of my cape in the carriage. I remember I sat beside Mrs. Warwick. It is really wonderful!'

Wasn't it? We could talk of nothing else all the way to the farm, for we set off almost at once, and we only got there in time to prevent poor nurse and Mrs. Parsley from being most terribly frightened about us, as they had just arrived, Mrs. Parsley having driven to the station to pick up nurse on her own way home, as the old aunt was a little better, and she'd got a neighbour to come in for the night.

Nurse was rather uneasy when she heard from Mrs. Parsley that she'd had to leave us, still Fanny, the servant, was very good-natured, and, as Mrs. Parsley said, it was difficult to think what harm _could_ come to us in a couple of hours.

Certainly, getting locked up in church was a very out-of-the-way sort of accident to happen!

But the finding the diamond brooch seemed to put everything else out of our heads. I don't know how late we didn't sit up talking. Maudie grew quite bright again, and I think the excitement kept her from catching cold. Serry, for a wonder, was the quietest of all. She told me afterwards that she was more thankful than she could say that her naughtiness hadn't done Maud any harm, and she told it all to mother--all of her own self. I think that was good of her. The only thing she kept up her mischief about was that she _never_ has told us where she hid.

We made a beautiful plan with Miss Cross-at-first--Judith, I mean. She was to go with us to the station the next morning to meet mums and Hebe, with the diamond brooch in a nice little box she found for it. And we carried out the plan exactly. Mother _was_ astonished when she saw Judith, and very pleased even before she knew what had happened. And she thought us all looking _so_ well. No wonder we were all so happy, just bursting to tell her.

And I _can't_ tell you how delighted she was, and how wonderful she thought it. She sent off a telegram that minute--we went to the post office on purpose--to gran, for he had really been so good about it. It really seemed too much happiness to be all together again, and dear old Hebe looking so well, and poor little sweet mums so bright and merry.

The rest of the time at Fewforest passed very jollily, though we had no particular adventures. We've been there two or three times since, and we like it extra much if it happens to be Miss Cross-at-first's turn at the getting-well Home, for we've grown _awfully_ fond of her. We count her one of our very most particular friends, and she sings _so_ beautifully.

That's all I have to write about just now. It seems to finish up pretty well. I daresay I shall write more some day, for things are always happening, unless being at school gets me out of the way of it. Perhaps even if it does I'll write stories like father when I'm a man. If ever I do, and if people like them (I'm afraid they'd never be anything like his), it would be rather funny to remember that I was only eleven when I wrote my first one--about the girls and me!

THE END