Silverthorns

“Oh no, Aunt Mildred, not if you wished it,” Claudia replied.

“I suppose the truth is, all places would seem much the same to you so long as they were not Britton-Garnett,” Lady Mildred observed, with a touch of acrimony in her tone. But Claudia understood her better now. She only smiled.

“I should not like to be there this Christmas, Aunt Mildred, if you were to be here alone. It would be awfully nice to be all together, of course, but it would be nicest if you were with us too.”

Lady Mildred sighed.

“I am afraid merry Christmasses are quite over for me. It is very dull here; it seems a sort of mockery for a poor old woman like me to be the centre of things, giving tenants’ dinners and school-feasts, and all the rest of it. I have not the heart for any up-stairs festivities,” and she sighed again. “After all, I dare say it would be less dreary in London. What has put it into my head is a letter from the lawyers saying that they may be wanting to see me on business.”

“Would you be going soon?” asked Claudia.

“I don’t know. It would not matter if you lost a week or two at school – you have been working hard lately.”

“No,” said Claudia, “it would not matter.” And the thought passed through her mind that if her aunt carried out this plan, it would remove all difficulties in the way of her not trying for the prize.

“No one would ever know that I meant to give it up at any rate,” she thought with a slight, a very slight touch of bitterness.

But at that moment the front door-bell rang violently. Both the ladies started.

“What can that be?” said Lady Mildred. “Not a telegram surely. Mr Miller would never think of sending a telegram on a Saturday evening, whatever the business may be that he wants to see me about.”

“Shall I run and see what it is,” said Claudia. For though there was a sound of voices and footsteps dimly in the distance, no servant appeared to explain matters.

“Yes, go,” Lady Mildred was saying, when the door opened and Ball, followed by a footman, appeared.

“If you please, my lady,” the butler began, “it’s Rush from the lodge. He begs pardon for ringing so loud at the front, but he thought it would be quicker. They’ve found a child, if you please, my lady, a boy, dead in the snow down the road. A farm-lad passing – the snow’s not so heavy now – found him and ran for Rush. But Mrs Rush is that frightened she’s lost her head, and their baby’s ill. So Rush thought he’d best come on here.”

A smothered cry broke from Claudia.

“Charlotte’s poor little brother,” she said.

But no one noticed her words. Lady Mildred had already started to her feet.

“Dead, do you say, Ball?” she exclaimed. “How do you know he is dead? He may be only unconscious.”

“That’s just it,” said Ball.

“Then don’t stand there like a couple of fools. You’re as bad as that silly Mrs Rush. Bring the poor child in at once – to the servants’ hall or the kitchen, or wherever there’s a good fire; I will come myself as soon as the front door is shut, I feel the cold even here,” and the old lady began to cough. “Claudia – ” turning round, but Claudia was off already.

She met the little group in the front hall. There were Rush and another man carrying something between them, and several other persons seemed standing about or emerging from different doorways, for even the best of servants dearly love a sensation. Claudia for one instant turned her eyes away – she dreaded to recognise the thin little face, whose blue eyes had sought hers so appealingly but an hour or two ago. Then she chid herself for her weakness.

“Carry him at once into the kitchen,” she said. “Her ladyship wishes it.”

Her voice sounded authoritative, and was immediately obeyed. Some blankets appeared from somewhere in a mysterious manner, and in another minute the small figure was deposited upon them before the friendly glow of the fire, and Claudia knelt down to examine the child more closely. Her eyes filled with tears as she saw that it was indeed “the little Waldron boy.” But even at that moment she had presence of mind enough to respect his secret.

“I don’t know what is best to do,” she said appealingly. “He is not a country boy – do you see, he is a gentleman?” she added, as Ball’s wife, the housekeeper, hurried forward. “But surely, oh, surely he is not dead!”

He looked sufficiently like death to make every one hesitate to answer. He had seemed pale and delicate that afternoon, but in comparison with the ghastly colourlessness now, Claudia could have described him as then florid and rosy! His eyes were closed, his arm dropped loosely when Claudia lifted it, his breath, if indeed it were there, was inaudible.

“Let me get to him, missy, please,” said the housekeeper, “and all of you gaping there, just get you gone. Here’s my lady herself – she’ll send you to the right-about. Ball, heat some water, and mix a drop or two of brandy. Then we’ll undress him and get him to bed. The chintz room’s always aired. Martha, light the fire at once and put some hot-water bottles in the bed. Dead! no, no. Let my lady see him.”

The room was soon cleared of all but two or three. Then they undressed the boy, whose frozen, snow-covered clothes were now dripping wet, and rolled him in the blankets. And in a few minutes, thanks to the warmth, and the chafing and friction which Mrs Ball kept up, the first faint signs of returning life began to appear, and they got him to swallow a spoonful of brandy and water.

“Feel in his pockets, Claudia,” said Lady Mildred, “and see if there is any letter or paper to show who he is. His people must be in cruel anxiety.”

Claudia did so, feeling herself a sort of hypocrite for not at once telling all she knew. To her great relief she came upon a pocket-handkerchief marked “Waldron,” and a neat little memorandum-book, for poor Jerry was the most methodical of boys, with “Gervais Waldron, 19, Norfolk Terrace, Wortherham” on the first page.

“Aunt Mildred,” she said quietly, “it is one of the Waldrons – the lawyer’s children, you know. His sister is at school with me.”

Lady Mildred started, and made some little exclamation under her breath which Claudia did not catch.

“He is coming round nicely, my lady,” said Mrs Ball. “The doctor will think he need not have been fetched,” for a groom had already been sent to a village much nearer than Wortherham, where a doctor was to be found.

“It is better to let him see the boy,” said Lady Mildred. “He looks such a delicate child,” she added, speaking in a low voice, for Jerry was now opening his eyes, and showing signs of coming to life in every sense of the word.

“Shall we send to let his people know that he is safe?” said Claudia.

“I suppose so,” said Lady Mildred. “Tell Ball to send the groom on to Wortherham as soon as he comes back from Crowby. And – ”

“Would it do for me to write a note? I could write it to the sister I know?” asked Claudia.

Lady Mildred hesitated.

“Yes,” she replied; “I dare say you might.”

“And, my lady,” said Mrs Ball, “I’ll have the young gentleman carried up-stairs and put to bed. It will be just as well for him to find himself there when he quite wakes up, as it were.”

Lady Mildred stooped again and looked at the boy closely. His eyes were closed. She saw nothing that struck her in the little thin pale face, for it was the blue eyes that were its one beauty – the very blue eyes characteristic of the Osberts.

“Very well. Come to the drawing-room, Claudia, and write the note. I should think the groom will be back directly. I will see the child again after the doctor has been.”

“Aunt Mildred is really kind,” thought Claudia. But she had to exercise considerable self-control during the writing of the note. She would have made it friendly and hearty in tone, but this did not suit Lady Mildred’s ideas at all, and it was a rather stiff and formal production when finished, ending with a half-permission, half-invitation to the boy’s parents to come and see him the next morning.

“My aunt feels sure the doctor will wish your brother to stay in bed all to-morrow,” wrote Claudia, “and he will be taken every care of. But should Mr and Mrs Waldron feel uneasy, she begs them not to hesitate to come to see him for themselves.”

The doctor came, and confirmed the good account of the patient which Mrs Ball had already sent down-stairs.

“He will take no harm I fancy,” he said. “But he is evidently a delicate child, and he has had a narrow escape. He would have been dead long before morning.”

“Does he seem frightened?” asked Lady Mildred.

“No,” the doctor replied. “I don’t think his nerves have suffered. He is still sleepy and confused, and of course he feels sore and aching. But he can remember nothing very distinctly, I fancy.”

“I will go up and see him,” said Lady Mildred. “It must be past dinner-time, Claudia. This affair has made the servants forget everything.”

The doctor took his leave, promising to look in again the next morning. Lady Mildred went up to the chintz room and Claudia ran after her.

“Mayn’t I come in and see him too, aunt,” she said; “I’d like to see him looking better. He did look so dreadful when they first brought him in,” and she gave a little shudder.

Jerry was looking very far from dreadful by this time; he was half-sitting up in bed, with more colour than usual on his face, his eyes very bright and blue. Lady Mildred’s face changed as she looked at him.

“I hope you are feeling better, my dear,” she said quietly. “The doctor is sure you will be quite well to-morrow.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Jerry. “I’m nearly quite well now, I think, except that I’m aching rather. If you please,” and he hesitated, “you don’t think I could go home to-night? I don’t know what o’clock it is – it isn’t the middle of the night, is it? Oh,” as Claudia just then came forward, “I – ”

“This is my niece,” said Lady Mildred. “She was anxious to know how you were.”

Gervais looked up at Claudia, and a glance of understanding passed like lightning between them.

“I’m all right, thank you,” he said to her.

“How was it?” said Claudia. “Did you lose your way in the snow?”

“I suppose so,” said Jerry. “I was going along the road past the ‘Jolly Thrashers’ the last thing I remember. I thought I should have met our dog-cart, but I didn’t, and I walked on as fast as I could, but it snowed dreadfully heavily, and I got so tired I had to rest a little. I’m lame, you know,” he added, flushing a little. “I knew one should never go to sleep in the snow, and I only meant to rest a minute. But I suppose I went to sleep – I remember a very nice feeling coming over me, and then I don’t remember anything else.”

“Ah,” said Lady Mildred. “You have had a narrow escape, my dear.”

“I’m very sorry to have given you so much trouble,” Jerry went on penitently. “But if I could go home – they’ll all be so frightened.”

“Your going home to-night is out of the question, my dear,” said Lady Mildred; “but we have already sent a groom to tell your family that you are quite safe.”

“Thank you very much. I’m very sorry to have given you so much trouble,” Jerry repeated.

“Well, then, take care to give no one any more, by getting well as quickly as ever you can,” said Lady Mildred kindly. “Try to go to sleep, so that you may wake quite well in the morning. Good night, my dear.”

“Good night, Lady Mildred,” said the boy.

But Claudia, who had already learnt to know his face and its expressions, detected an uneasy look, and when her aunt had left the room she lingered a moment behind.

“Gervais,” she said, – “I know your name, you see – are you uncomfortable? Is there anything the matter – anything to do with what we were speaking of this afternoon?”

Jerry looked up wistfully.

“No,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll never tell any one – will you?”

“Oh, no; I will keep my promise exactly; and whenever I can do so without betraying you in the least, I will let Charlotte know that I am not going to try for the prize.”

“Thank you, oh, thank you so very much,” said Jerry fervently. “I know you will do it nicely.”

“It may be quite easy,” Claudia went on. “I am not sure but that we shall be going away very soon, and that I couldn’t try for it even if I wanted,” and she smiled a half-sad little smile.

“But I shall always know how good you were,” said Jerry, as if that should console her for all other misapprehension.

Claudia smiled again.

“Thank you,” she said; “and good night.”

But Jerry still fidgeted about.

“I am afraid I can’t go to sleep,” he said; “I am so aching all over, and it seems so strange. Isn’t this the chintz room?”

“Yes,” said Claudia, a little surprised. “How did you know it?”

“Oh, I – I heard the name,” he said. “Is it far away from everybody else’s rooms?”

“No; mine is very near. There is a swing door across the passage, and mine is the first door through it. But some one – Mrs Ball or some one – will sit up with you if you would the least like it.”

“No, no,” said Jerry. “I told them not to. I wouldn’t like it at all. Miss Meredon,” he went on, beginning to laugh, “don’t I look like Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, rather, with all these fussy things round my neck?”

Claudia burst out laughing too. She saw what made the child look so comical. He was enveloped in one of her own nightgowns with voluminous frills.

“Is it one of yours?” said Jerry gravely, tugging at the frills and solemnly regarding them. “I don’t like wearing girls’ things, but I don’t mind so much if it is yours.”

At this moment Mrs Ball returned.

“Miss Meredon, my dear,” she said, “the young gentleman must really go to sleep. My lady wouldn’t be pleased if she knew you were still here talking to him.”

“We couldn’t help laughing at the nightgown, Mrs Ball,” said Claudia. “It’s one of mine, isn’t it?”

“Yes, we made so bold. It was the nearest his size you see, missy dear.”

“Well, good night again, Gervais,” said Claudia as she left the room. “I do hope you will sleep well.” Jerry smiled back a good night. He seemed in better spirits now.

“Isn’t he a nice little fellow?” she could not help saying to Mrs Ball.

“And quite the little gentleman,” said the housekeeper. “But he seems delicate, poor child. Just to think of it – what a mercy that Stobbs’s boy was coming up that way, and that he had a lantern. For all that the snow had stopped, he’d have been dead before morning. I don’t like to think of it – at our very door, so to say, Miss Claudia, and us with no thought of it. But there – my lady’s just going down to dinner.”

Lady Mildred was very silent that evening. Her mind seemed full of many things, and Claudia, after one or two attempts at conversation, thought it best to give it up. Not very long after dinner the groom returned from Wortherham with a note addressed to Miss Meredon. He had found, so he informed his friends in the servants’ hall, the family at Norfolk Terrace in a fine taking about the boy.

“They were sending out in all directions,” he said. “The poor lady looked like dead, and the young ladies were crying fit to break their hearts. I never see such a sight. The other young gentlemen had been out skating on Gretham pond, and they thought as this one had got home hours before, as he should have done. I’m almost sure as it was he as stopped our young lady when we was a-driving home this afternoon.”

“Stopped our young lady!” exclaimed Ball in surprise.

“Oh, it was just some message about the school. The Waldron young ladies goes where Miss Meredon does,” said the groom. And as no more was said about the matter, Jerry’s and Claudia’s secret remained their own.

The note was from Charlotte. It scarcely bore traces of the agitation described by the groom.

“Dear Miss Meredon,” it began, —

“My father and mother wish me to thank Lady Mildred most sincerely for her kindness to my brother Gervais. They also thank you for writing to tell us of his safety. We were becoming very uneasy about him. My father will go out early to-morrow, and hopes to be able to bring him home in a close carriage. He and my mother regret exceedingly the trouble all this must have caused you.

“I remain, —

“Yours sincerely, —

“Charlotte Waldron.”

Claudia handed it to her aunt.

“Humph!” said Lady Mildred, “a very school-girl production, dictated by her papa and mamma, I suppose.”

“Not stiffer than mine was,” thought Claudia to herself.

“That little fellow up-stairs has something original about him. I have rather taken a fancy to him,” said Lady Mildred.

“Yes,” Claudia responded warmly; “I think he’s a dear little fellow.”

“But he can’t be the eldest son; there must be one nearly grown-up, I fancy,” said Lady Mildred, with a little sigh.

Claudia looked up. What was Lady Mildred thinking of? What could it matter to her, or to any one, or to themselves even, whether Gervais was eldest or youngest of the Waldrons? A country lawyer’s family heirs to nothing.

“Aunt Mildred must be half asleep,” thought Claudia. “She might as well talk as if it mattered which of us was the eldest.”

Chapter Twelve

The Owls Recognise one of the Family

It seemed late to Claudia when she went up to bed that night, though in reality it was not much past ten o’clock. But so much had happened since dark, and it had grown dark so early with the snow-storm, that it would have been easy to fancy it was already long past midnight.

Claudia went to the window and drew back one of the curtains. The snow overhead had quite disappeared, but down below, it lay like a carpet of white, glistening faintly in the moonlight.

“How cold it looks,” thought the girl with a little shiver, and Mrs Ball’s words returned to her. Yes, it was dreadful to think that but for what seemed a mere accident, Gervais Waldron would by this time have been lying dead under the snow. And had it been so, it seemed to Claudia that she would always have felt or fancied cause for self-blame.

“How thankful I am he is not the worse for it,” she said to herself. “Poor little fellow – I would have insisted on sending him home if he had not said he was to be met. He was so anxious to get away once he had achieved his purpose. He is very anxious still to get away. I wonder if he can go home to-morrow. I am afraid he is rather unhappy at having to stay here – all night. By the bye,” and Claudia started as a thought struck her, “I hope he has not heard anything about the haunted room, and all that story. It was curious that he knew the name of the chintz room. I dare say the story is gossiped about by some of the old people in the neighbourhood, and he may have heard it.”

She did not like to disturb him again, and she hoped that by this time he was fast asleep. But she went out of her room as far as the spring door, between the old and new parts of the house, near which, on opposite sides, were both her room and Jerry’s. She propped the door open with a chair, so that if the boy were by any chance afraid and came to look for her, he should at once see where he was. For a small lamp burned all night on a side-table on the large landing, and even a little light goes a long way when all around is darkness. And as she made her way back again, she glanced up the old staircase to where in the gloom was the door of the tower room.

“I wonder if the ghost is awake to-night,” she thought, half-laughingly. “I always seem to think of the story on moonlight nights – perhaps because it is then that one is tempted to look out of the window, and that reminds me of the view from the tower room, right down the drive.”

But she looked out of the window no more to-night. She was tired, and fell asleep almost immediately she got into bed.

Her dreams were, as might have been expected, somewhat disturbed and confused. She had kaleidoscope visions of herself and Charlotte and Jerry, and a snow-man shaking white flakes over them all, which, on close examination, proved to be leaves of an exercise-book, covered with the German prize essay. Then looking up to complain, she saw that the snow-man had turned into Herr Märklestatter, who was running after Lady Mildred with a very angry face, while Lady Mildred called for help, screaming out, “It is the ghost, it is the ghost.” Claudia half woke up, roused, as it seemed to her in her dream, by her aunt’s cries. But all was silent, and she turned round, half-smiling to herself sleepily at her foolish fancies, and was all but dreaming again, when again a sound something between a sob and a low wail, penetrated to her brain, this time effectually, for she started up, quite awake, and listened in the darkness.

She had not long to wait. A low sound, this time translatable into words, reached her ears.

“Miss Meredon! oh, Miss Meredon! are you there?” said a most doleful voice. And then came a sort of sob or groan of intense distress, the same sound as that which had awakened her.

A faint, very faint light came from the direction of the door, showing her that it was slightly open. For the light could only come from the little lamp on the landing outside. But Claudia had a candle and matches on a table close at hand.

“Who is it? what is it?” she exclaimed, trembling a little in spite of herself, while she struck a match.

“It’s me, it’s only me,” was the answer. “I’m so ashamed. I hope you’ll forgive me. I hope you won’t think me very rude for waking you up, but I’m so dreadfully frightened. There’s been some one or something crying and sobbing for such a time near my room. I tried to think it was my fancy, or the wind, or the owls, as papa said. But at last I couldn’t bear it. I’m almost sure it must be the ghost.”

And by the candle which Claudia had succeeded in lighting, a queer, grotesque, but most pitiful little object revealed itself. It was Jerry of course – standing there with his poor white face, looking almost as pallid as when they had drawn him out of the snow the evening before, his blue eyes feverishly dark and bright, Claudia’s nightgown a mile too big for him trailing on the ground, and its frills standing up round his neck and sweeping over his hands.

“I am so sorry, Gervais, so very sorry,” Claudia exclaimed, almost as if it was all her fault. “Wait a moment, dear. I’ll put on my dressing-gown. Here,” and she flung him a shawl which was hanging on a chair close by, “wrap yourself up. You are shivering so. Is the fire quite out?”

“It’s not quite out in my room,” said poor Jerry. “I kept seeing little bits of light in it, and I think it made it worse, for once I thought I saw a shadow pass between it and me,” and he shivered again violently. “Oh, Miss Meredon,” he half sobbed, “I do wish you had let me go home last night.”

“But it was impossible – it really was,” said Claudia. “You will make me blame myself for all your troubles, Gervais. I should not have let you set out to walk home in the snow.”

“No, no, it wasn’t your fault,” said Jerry.

“Then try and leave off shivering, and tell me what frightened you so. And who can have been mischievous enough to tell you all that nonsense about the ghost?” she added indignantly.

“It wasn’t any one here,” said Jerry. “I’ve known it a long time, and I never was frightened before. It was papa who told it us – he stayed here once when he was a little boy, and he was frightened himself. And he slept in the very room where I am now – that is how I knew the name.”

“Well, if your father knows the whole story he might have told you that the ghost never appears to or is heard by any one but a member of the Osbert family, which shows you couldn’t have heard it, my dear Gervais,” said Claudia smiling, in order to comfort him, though to tell the truth her own heart was beating a good deal faster than usual.

Jerry’s face cleared.

“I didn’t know that,” he said. “I am very glad.”

“But what am I to do?” said Claudia. “I must get you warm again. I suppose I had better call up Mrs Ball or some one.”

“Oh, no, please don’t,” Jerry entreated. “I should be so ashamed. I’ll try and not mind now, if you’d let me have the candle to go back to my room with.”

But his wan face and trembling voice belied his words – though Claudia respected him the more for his struggle to overcome his fears.

“I’ll go with you to your room,” she said, “and we’ll try to make up the fire. It would be much cheerier with a good blaze, wouldn’t it?”