The Girls and I Part 18

'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 sc.r.a.pes 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 s.h.i.+vering 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 pa.s.ser-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 cus.h.i.+ons in the church, but we collected all the ha.s.socks 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 n.o.body 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 n.o.body cares.'

'Hush,' said a clear little voice; 'that's not good, Jack. _G.o.d_ 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.