The Green Casket, and other stories

by Mrs. Molesworth

CHAPTER II.—GRANNY AND THE CHILDREN.

Two days later, in the dusk of a mid-winter afternoon, they were all arriving at Baronscourt. The ground was white with snow.

'What a storm there must have been here,' said the children's father. 'The snow is quite deep, much deeper than with us.' For their home was at some hours' distance, and farther south.

'Do you fink anybody will be lost in the snow, Nettie?' whispered Denis to his sister.

They two were seated opposite their father and mother in their grandmother's brougham, which had been sent to the station to meet them, with a large covered wagonette for the rest of the party.

Nettie smiled at Denis.

'Not here, Den,' she said. 'It's very seldom people are lost in the snow in England. It's in far-away hilly countries like Switzerland.'

'Was it there that mother was reading about?' asked Denis, only half satisfied.

'Yes,' said Nettie. 'It's there that they have the great big dogs that are so good, going looking for the poor people in the snow.'

'I shouldn't like to live in that country, though I would love the dogs,' said Denis. And then jumping up in his seat with a scream of delight, 'O Nettie, O Nettie,' he cried, 'look, look! There's dear little Prin coming to meet us all in the snow; dear little Prin; oh, I hope he won't get covered up. Mayn't we stop to take him in?'

'We're quite close to the house, dear,' said his mother, smiling at his pleasure. 'Prin will be all right. Granny will not let him go far alone, you may be sure.'

And as she said so, Prince, whose little smooth, jet-black body looked very funny in the snow, turned round after two or three sharp barks of welcome, and made for the house again.

'He's gone to tell them we're come,' said Denis; 'isn't he a sensible dog, Nettie? I don't think I love anybody better than Prin,' he said, ecstatically.

They were at the front door by this time, and there, a little way back in the shelter of the hall, for it was very cold, and she was no longer a young lady, stood dear Granny waiting to welcome them.

Granny, I must tell you, was not the children's grandmother, but the great-aunt of their mother. She seemed, therefore, a kind of great-grandmother to Denis and his brothers and sisters, and to have called her 'Aunt,' or anything else but 'Granny,' would have been impossible. She was old; very old, I daresay she seemed to the children, but yet there was a delightful sort of youngness about her, which made them feel as if they could tell her anything, with a certainty of being understood. And of all the children she loved and who loved her, I don't think any felt this beautiful sort of sympathy more than quiet little Denis. It was a long time—in child life a very long time—since he had seen her, six months ago, a tenth part of the whole time which Denis had spent in this world—but when he saw dear Granny standing there in the doorway, her sweet gentle old face all over smiles of pleasure, it seemed to him that he had never been away from her at all.

'Dear Granny,' he said softly, when his turn came to be kissed, 'dear Granny, I do 'amember you so well—you and Prin;' and he was not at all offended when the others laughed at his funny little speech—a long speech for Den; he thought they were only laughing because they all felt so pleased to be back with Granny and Prin again.

'My dear little boy,' Granny said, as she kissed him, 'this is very sweet of you. And you may be sure Granny and Prin haven't forgotten you.'

And Denis, looking up, thought that Granny was the prettiest lady in the world, 'next to mother.' She was very pretty, at least in the sight of those who do not think beauty is only to be found in the bright eyes and fresh roses of youth. And, indeed, Granny's eyes were bright still, and when she was very pleased, or sometimes when she was very vexed—for Granny could be vexed when it was right she should be—her cheeks, soft and withered as they were, would grow rosy as when she was a girl. They were rosy just now, with pleasure, of course, and perhaps with a little tiredness; for there were a great many people staying in the house, and large as Granny's heart was, it was rather tiring to so old a lady to attend to so many guests.

'I am so glad you have come, my dear,' she whispered to Denis's mother. 'You will help me better than anyone. It was right I think to fill the old house again this Christmas, but my heart fails me sometimes when I think of those who are no longer among us. And yet they are among us—just at these times, my dear, all the old faces seem to be smiling back at me, the last of the generation. The house seems filled with their presence to me as much as with the living friends who are about me.'

The children's mother pressed Granny's arm.

'Dear Granny,' she said, 'don't talk like that. We couldn't do without you yet awhile. You are tired, dear Granny. Now it will be all right. I shall do all, and you must rest.'

Denis had been standing close beside them. He heard what Granny said without understanding thoroughly what she meant, and a very grave, awe-struck look came over his face.

'Does Granny mean that they come out really?' he said to himself with a little shiver. 'Granny doesn't seem frightened,' he added. 'I mustn't be frightened, but I'm so glad I'm to sleep in nurse's room.'

Poor little man. There was disappointment in store for him. His mother would not let Granny go up-stairs to show them their rooms as she wished to do.

'No, no, Granny,' she said, 'I know them all quite well. Take Granny back to the library, Edith,' she added to one of the young ladies staying in the house. 'I'll come down in five minutes when I have settled the children in the nursery.'

Granny's maid met them at the top of the first stair, and went with them to their rooms.

'Yes,' said the children's mother, 'that will all do beautifully. Linda and Nettie in the room beside me, nurse and baby in the old nursery, the boys in one of the turret rooms, and Denis—let me see—isn't there to be a little bed for him in the nursery?'

They were on their way from the nursery to the boys' room when she said this; Denis beside his mother still, holding her hand.

'No, ma'am,' said Tanner, the maid, 'my lady thought Master Denis would be better in the little room beside his brothers'. It's a very little room, but big enough, I daresay, for such a little gentleman. It would not have been easy to put another bed in the nursery, without filling it up so. And my lady thought Master Denis would be proud to have a room of his own.'

'Yes, indeed,' said his mother; 'how kind of her.'

They were passing along the picture gallery. All of them together, except nurse and baby, who had stayed behind by the nursery fire. Linda, Alex, Lambert, and Nettie in front; mother and Denis and Tanner behind. Denis tightened his hold of his mother's hand, but said nothing.

'I wish we had one of the turret rooms,' said Linda; 'this gallery is so lovely to run along every time one goes to one's room. I like this gallery the best of anything in the house.'

'And best of all in the moonlight,' said Alex. 'Don't you remember, Linda? For my part I prefer it in the day-time, or well lit up, like just now.'

'What a goose you are!' said Linda. 'Do you mean to say you'd be afraid to come here in the moonlight?'

'Hush, children, don't talk so foolishly,' said their mother, for she never liked that silly kind of talk, especially before the little ones. 'I quite agree with you, Linda, about this gallery being charming.'

They all stood for a moment—they were close to the end door by now, the door that opened into the anteroom, from whence opened the turret rooms—and looked back. It was worth looking at. Lighted by the old-fashioned lamps that hung at intervals from the dark oak ceiling, which reflected their rays like a black mirror, the old gallery, with its coloured glass windows at one side, the small, leadened panes looking quaint and mysterious, though their tints could not, of course, be seen, and the rows and rows of silent portraits looking down upon you from the other side, seemed like a dream of a long-ago world, the merry voices and bright glances of the children striking one as almost out of place, and the grave faces appearing to gaze at them in disapproval.

'It was not meant for a picture gallery long ago,' said their mother: 'if it had been, these windows would not have been placed so, and they certainly would not have had coloured glass. These portraits used to be in the large saloon and the drawing-room, but they made them look so gloomy that Granny's father hung them up here,' and so saying she opened the door and crossed the passage to the boys' room, followed by all the five.

'How jolly!' said Alex and Lambert in a breath, and with good reason, for their room looked the picture of comfort, with its deep window-seats and wainscoted walls, and the radiance of the brightly-burning fire over all.

'The boys don't have fires in their bedroom at home,' observed Linda.

'And they need not have one here every day,' said their mother. 'It's just for a welcome at the beginning.'

'And because it really is so cold. I hardly think my lady would be pleased if they hadn't one,' said Tanner with a smile, which made Alex and Lambert think she was very kind indeed.

Then they all turned to look at Denis's little room. It was very snug and cosy, though very tiny. It did not open into his brothers', but was just across the little anteroom.

'You will be very happy in here, won't you, Den?' said his mother brightly; and not noticing that the little fellow did not reply, she hurried away, for she was anxious to go down to the library and help Granny with afternoon tea for her guests.