removing his face from inside a wide-bitten crescent of melon-rind:
“Your feast’s as good as the feast of the Immortals, almost.”
“Explain your recondite allusion,” said the grey-flannelled host; and Jimmy, understanding him to say, “What do you mean?” replied with the whole tale of that wonderful night when the statues came alive, and a banquet of unearthly splendour and deliciousness was plucked by marble hands from the trees of the lake island.
When he had done the bailiff said: “Did you get all this out of a book?”
“No,” said Jimmy, “it happened.”
“You are an imaginative set of young dreamers,. aren’t you?” the bailiff asked, handing the plums to Kathleen, who smiled, friendly but embarrassed. Why couldn’t Jimmy have held his tongue?
“No, we re not,” said that indiscreet one obstinately; “everything I’ve told you did happen, and so did the things Mabel told you.”
The bailiff looked a little uncomfortable. “All right, old chap,” he said. And there was a short, uneasy silence. “Look here,” said Jimmy, who seemed for once to have got the bit between his teeth, “do you believe me or not?”
“Don’t be silly, Jimmy!” Kathleen whispered. “Because, if you don’t I’ll make you believe.”
“Don’t!” said Mabel and Kathleen together.
“Do you or don’t you?” Jimmy insisted, lying on his front with his chin on his hands, his elbows on a moss-cushion, and his bare legs kicking among the beech leaves.
“I think you tell adventures awfully well,” said the bailiff cautiously.
“Very well,” said Jimmy, abruptly sitting up, “you don’t believe me. Nonsense, Cathy! he’s a gentleman, even if he is a bailiff.”
“Thank you!” said the bailiff with eyes that twinkled.
“You won’t tell, will you?” Jimmy urged.
“Tell what?”
“Anything.”
“Certainly not. I am, as you say, the soul of honour.”
“Then Cathy, give me the ring.”
“Oh, no!” said the girls together.
Kathleen did not mean to give up the ring; Mabel did not mean that she should; Jimmy certainly used no force. Yet presently he held it in his hand. It was his hour. There are times like that for all of us, when what we say shall be done is done.
“Now,” said Jimmy, “this is the ring Mabel told you about. I say it is a wishing-ring. And if you will put it on your hand and wish, whatever you wish will happen.”
“Must I wish out loud?”
“Yes I think so.”
“Don’t wish for anything silly,” said Kathleen, making the best of the situation, “like its being fine on Tuesday or its being your favourite pudding for dinner tomorrow. Wish for something you really want.”
“I will,” said the bailiff. “I’ll wish for the only thing I really want. I wish my I wish my friend were here.”
The three who knew the power of the ring looked round to see the bailiff’s friend appear; a surprised man that friend would be, they thought, and perhaps a frightened one. They had all risen, and stood ready to soothe and reassure the newcomer. But no startled gentleman appeared in the wood, only, coming quietly through the dappled sun and shadow under the beech-trees, Mademoiselle and Gerald, Mademoiselle in a white gown, looking quite nice and like a picture, Gerald hot and polite.
“Good afternoon,” said that dauntless leader of forlorn hopes. “I persuaded Mademoiselle “
That sentence was never finished, for the bailiff and the French governess were looking at each other with the eyes of tired travellers who find, quite without expecting it, the desired end of a very long journey.
And the children saw that even if they spoke it would not make any difference.
“You!” said the bailiff.
“Mais . . . c’est donc vous,” said Mademoiselle, in a funny choky voice.
And they stood still and looked at each other, “like stuck pigs” , as Jimmy said later, for quite a long time.
“Is she your friend?” Jimmy asked.
“Yes oh yes,” said the bailiff. “You are my friend, are you not?”
“But yes,” Mademoiselle said softly. “I am your friend.”
“There! you see,” said Jimmy, “the ring does do what I said.”
“We won’t quarrel about that,” said the bailiff. “You can say it’s the ring. For me it’s a coincidence the happiest, the dearest ,”
“Then you ?” said the French governess.
“Of course,” said the bailiff. “Jimmy, give your brother some tea. Mademoiselle, come and walk in the woods: there are a thousand things to say.”
“Eat then, my Gerald,” said Mademoiselle, now grown young, and astonishingly like a fairy princess. “I return all at the hour, and we re-enter together. It is that we must speak each other. It is long time that we have not seen us, me and Lord Yalding!”
“So he was Lord Yalding all the time,” said Jimmy, breaking a stupefied silence as the white gown and the grey flannels disappeared among the beech trunks. “Landscape painter sort of dodge silly, I call it. And fancy her being a friend of his, and his wishing she was here! Different from us, eh? Good old ring!”
“His friend!” said Mabel with strong scorn; “Don’t you see she’s his lover? Don’t you see she’s the lady that was bricked up in the convent, because he was so poor, and he couldn’t find her. And now the ring’s made them live happy ever after. I am glad! Aren’t you, Cathy?”
“Rather!” said Kathleen; “it’s as good as marrying a sailor or a bandit.”
“It’s the ring did it,” said Jimmy. “If the American takes the house he’ll pay lots of rent, and they can live on that.”
“I wonder if they’ll be married tomorrow!” said Mabel.
“Wouldn’t if be fun if we were bridesmaids,” said Cathy.
“May I trouble you for the melon,” said Gerald. “Thanks! Why didn’t we know he was Lord Yalding? Apes and moles that we were!”
“I’ve known since last night,” said Mabel calmly; “only I promised not to tell. I can keep a secret, can’t I?”
“Too jolly well,” said Kathleen, a little aggrieved.
“He was disguised as a bailiff,” said Jimmy; “that’s why we didn’t know.”
“Disguised as a fiddle-stick-end,” said Gerald. “Ha, ha! I see something old Sherlock Holmes never saw, nor that idiot Watson, either. If you want a really impenetrable disguise, you ought to disguise yourself as what you really are. I’ll remember that.”
“It’s like Mabel, telling things so that you can’t believe them,” said Cathy.
“I think Mademoiselle’s jolly lucky,” said Mabel.
“She’s not so bad. He might have done worse,” said Gerald. “Plums, please!”
There was quite plainly magic at work. Mademoiselle next morning was a changed governess. Her cheeks were pink, her lips were red, her eyes were larger and brighter, and she had done her hair in an entirely new way, rather frivolous and very becoming.
“Mamselle’s coming out!” Eliza remarked.
Immediately after breakfast Lord Yalding called with a wagonette that wore a smart blue cloth coat, and was drawn by two horses whose coats were brown and shining and fitted them even better than the blue cloth coat fitted the wagonette, and the whole party drove in state and splendour to Yalding Towers.
Arrived there, the children clamoured for permission
to explore the castle thoroughly, a thing that had never yet been possible. Lord Yalding, a little absent in manner, but yet quite cordial, consented. Mabel showed the others all the secret doors and unlikely passages and stairs that she had discovered. It was a glorious morning. Lord Yalding and Mademoiselle went through the house, it is true, but in a rather half-hearted way. Quite soon they were tired, and went out through the French windows of the drawing-room and through the rose garden, to sit on the curved stone seat in the middle of the maze, where once, at the beginning of things, Gerald, Kathleen, and Jimmy had found the sleeping Princess who wore pink silk and diamonds.
The children felt that their going left to the castle a more spacious freedom, and explored with more than Arctic enthusiasm. It was as they emerged from the little rickety secret staircase that led from the powdering-room of the state suite to the gallery of the hall that they came suddenly face to face with the odd little man who had a beard like a goat and had taken the wrong turning yesterday.
“This part of the castle is private,” said Mabel, with great presence of mind, and shut the door behind her.
“I am aware of it,” said the goat-faced stranger, “but I have the permission of the Earl of Yalding to examine the house at my leisure.”
“Oh!” said Mabel. “I beg your pardon. We all do. We didn’t know.”
“You are relatives of his lordship, I should surmise?” asked the goat-faced.
“Not exactly,” said Gerald. “Friends”.
The gentleman was thin and very neatly dressed; he had small, merry eyes and a face that was brown and dry-looking.
“You are playing some game, I should suppose?”
“No, sir,” said Gerald, “only exploring.”
“May a stranger propose himself as a member of your Exploring Expedition?” asked the gentleman, smiling a tight but kind smile.
The children looked at each other.
“You see,” said Gerald, “it’s rather difficult to explain but you see what I mean, don’t you?”
“He means,” said Jimmy, “that we can’t take you into an exploring party without we know what you want to go for.”
“Are you a photographer?” asked Mabel, “or is it some newspaper’s sent you to write about the Towers?”
“I understand your position,” said the gentleman. “I am not a photographer, nor am I engaged by any journal. I am a man of independent means, travelling in this country with the intention of renting a residence. My name is Jefferson D. Conway.”
“Oh!” said Mabel; “then you’re the American millionaire.”
“I do not like the description, young lady,” said Mr. Jefferson D. Conway. “I am an American citizen, and I am not without means. This is a fine property a very fine property. If it were for sale ,”
“It isn’t, it can’t be,” Mabel hastened to explain. “The lawyers have put it in a tale, so Lord Yalding can’t sell it. But you could take it to live in, and pay Lord Yalding a good millionairish rent, and then he could marry the French governess “
“Shish!” said Kathleen and Mr. Jefferson D. Conway together, and he added: “Lead the way, please; and I should suggest that the exploration be complete and exhaustive.”
Thus encouraged, Mabel led the millionaire through all the castle. He seemed pleased, yet disappointed too.
“It is a fine mansion,” he said at last when they had come back to the point from which they had started; “but I should suppose, in a house this size, there would mostly be a secret stairway, or a priests hiding place, or a ghost?”
“There are,” said Mabel briefly, “but I thought Americans didn’t believe in anything but machinery and newspapers.” She touched the spring of the panel behind her, and displayed the little tottery staircase to the American. The sight of it worked a wonderful transformation in him. He became eager, alert, very keen.
“Say!” he cried, over and over again, standing in the door that led from the powdering-room to the state bed-chamber. “But this is great great!”
The hopes of everyone ran high. It seemed almost certain that the castle would be let for a millionairish rent and Lord Yalding be made affluent to the point of marriage.
“If there were a ghost located in this ancestral pile, I’d close with the Earl of Yalding today, now, on the nail,” Mr. Jefferson D. Conway went on.
“If you were to stay till tomorrow, and sleep in this room, I expect you’d see the ghost,” said Mabel.
“There is a ghost located here then?” he said joyously.
“They say,” Mabel answered, “that old Sir Rupert, who lost his head in Henry the Eighth’s time, walks of a night here, with his head under his arm. But we’ve not seen that. What we have seen is the lady in a pink dress with diamonds in her hair. She carries a lighted taper,” Mabel hastily added. The others, now suddenly aware of Mabel’s plan, hastened to assure the American in accents of earnest truth that they had all seen the lady with the pink gown.
He looked at them with half-closed eyes that twinkled.
“Well,” he said, “I calculate to ask the Earl of Yalding to permit me to pass a night in his ancestral best bed- chamber. And if I hear so much as a phantom footstep, or hear so much as a ghostly sigh, I’ll take the place.”
“I am glad!” said Cathy.
“You appear to be very certain of your ghost,” said the American, still fixing them with little eyes that shone. “Let me tell you, young gentlemen, that I carry a gun, and when I see a ghost, I shoot.”
He pulled a pistol out of his hip-pocket, and looked at it lovingly.
“And I am a fair average shot,” he went on, walking across the shiny floor of the state bed-chamber to the open window. “See that big red rose, like a tea-saucer?”
They saw.
The next moment a loud report broke the stillness, and the red petals of the shattered rose strewed balustrade and terrace.
The American looked from one child to another. Every face was perfectly white.
“Jefferson D. Conway made his little pile by strict attention to business, and keeping his eyes skinned,” he added. “Thank you for all your kindness.”
“Suppose you’d done it, and he’d shot you!” said Jimmy cheerfully. “That would have been an adventure, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m going to do it still,” said Mabel, pale and defiant. “Let’s find Lord Yalding and get the ring back.”
Lord Yalding had had an interview with Mabel’s aunt, and lunch for six was laid in the great dark hall, among the armour and the oak furniture a beautiful lunch served on silver dishes. Mademoiselle, becoming every moment younger and more like a Princess, was moved to tears when Gerald rose, lemonade-glass in hand, and proposed the health of “Lord and Lady Yalding”.
When Lord Yalding had returned thanks in a speech full of agreeable jokes the moment seemed to Gerald propitious, and he said:
“The ring, you know you don’t believe in it, but we do. May we have it back?”
And got it.
Then, after a hasty council, held in the panelled jewel-room, Mabel said: “This is a wishing-ring, and I wish all the American’s weapons of all sorts were here.”
Instantly the room was full six feet up the wall of a tangle and mass of weapons, swords, spears, arrows, tomahawks, fowling pieces, blunderbusses, pistols, revolvers, scimitars, kreeses every kind of weapon you can think of and the four children wedged in among all these weapons of death hardly dared to breathe.
“He collects arms, I expect,” said Gerald, “and the arrows are poisoned, I shouldn’t wonder. Wish them back where they came from, Mabel, for goodness sake, and try again.”
Mabel wished the weapons away, and at once the four children stood safe in a bare panelled room. But
“No,”, Mabel said, “I can’t stand it. We’ll work the ghost another way. I wish the American may think he sees a ghost when he goes to bed. Sir Rupert with his head under his arm will do.”
“Is it tonight he sleeps there?”
“I don’t know. I wish he may see Sir Rupert every night that’ll make it all serene.”
“It’s rather dull,” said Gerald; “we shan’t know whether he’s seen Sir Rupert or not.”
“We shall know in the morning, when he takes the house.”
This being settled, Mabel’s aunt was found to be desirous of Mabel’s company, so the others went home.
It was when they were at supper that Lord Yalding suddenly appeared, and said: “Mr. Jefferson Conway wants you boys to spend the night with him in the state chamber. I’ve had beds put up. You don’t mind, do you? He seems to think you’ve got some idea of playing ghost-tricks on him.”
It was difficult to refuse, so difficult that it proved impossible.
Ten o clock found the boys each in a narrow white bed that looked quite absurdly small in that high, dark chamber, and in face of that tall gaunt four-poster hung with tapestry and ornamented with funereal-looking plumes.
“I hope to goodness there isn’t a real ghost,” Jimmy whispered.
“Not likely,” Gerald whispered back.
“But I don’t want to see Sir Rupert’s ghost with its head under its arm,” Jimmy insisted.
“You won’t. The most you’ll see’ll be the millionaire seeing it. Mabel said he was to see it, not us. Very likely you’ll sleep all night and not see anything. Shut your eyes and count up to a million and don’t be a goat!”
As soon as Mabel had learned from her drab-haired aunt that this was indeed the night when Mr. Jefferson D. Conway would sleep at the castle she had hastened to add a wish, “that Sir Rupert and his head may appear tonight in the state bedroom.”
Jimmy shut his eyes and began to count a million. Before he had counted it he fell asleep. So did his brother.
They were awakened by the loud echoing bang of a pistol shot. Each thought of the shot that had been fired that morning, and opened eyes that expected to see a sunshiny terrace and red-rose petals strewn upon warm white stone.
Instead, there was the dark, lofty state chamber, lighted but little by six tall candles; there was the American in shirt and trousers, a smoking pistol in his hand; and there, advancing from the door of the powdering-room, a figure in doublet and hose, a ruff round its neck and no head! The head, sure enough, was there; but it was under the right arm, held close in the slashed-velvet sleeve of the doublet. The face looking from under the arm wore a pleasant smile. Both boys, I am sorry to say, screamed. The American fired again. The bullet passed through Sir Rupert, who advanced without appearing to notice it.
Then, suddenly, the lights went out. The next thing the boys knew it was morning. A grey daylight shone blankly through the tall windows and wild rain was beating upon the glass, and the American was gone.
“Where are we?” said Jimmy, sitting up with tangled hair and looking round him. “Oh, I remember. Ugh! it was horrid. I’m about fed up with that ring, so 1 don’t mind telling you.”
“Nonsense!” said Gerald. “I enjoyed it. I wasn’t a bit frightened, were you?”
“No,” said Jimmy, “of course I wasn’t.
“We’ve done the trick,” said Gerald later when they learned that the American had breakfasted early with Lord Yalding and taken the first train to London; “he’s gone to get rid of his other house, and take this one. The old ring’s beginning to do really useful things.”
“Perhaps you’ll believe in the ring now,” said Jimmy to Lord Yalding, whom he met later on in the picture-gallery; “it’s all our doing that Mr. Jefferson saw the ghost. He told us he’d take the house if he saw a ghost, so of course we took care he did see one.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” said Lord Yalding in rather an odd voice. “I’m very much obliged, I’m sure.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Jimmy kindly. “I thought you’d be pleased and him too.”
“Perhaps you’ll be interested to learn,” said Lord Yalding, putting his hands in his pockets and staring down at Jimmy, “that Mr. Jefferson D. Conway was so pleased with your ghost that he got me out of bed at six o clock this morning to talk about it.”
“Oh, ripping!” said Jimmy. “What did he say?”
“He said, as far as I can remember,” said Lord Yalding, still in the same strange voice “he said: “My lord, your ancestral pile is Al. It is, in fact, The Limit. Its luxury is palatial, its grounds are nothing short of Edenesque. No expense has been spared, I should surmise. Your ancestors were whole-hoggers. They have done the thing as it should be done every detail attended to. I like your tapestry, and I like your oak, and I like your secret stairs. But I think your ancestors should have left well enough alone, and stopped at that.” So I said they had, as far as I knew, and he shook his head and said:
“No, Sir. Your ancestors take the air of a night with their heads under their arms. A ghost that sighed or glided or rustled I could have stood, and thanked you for it, and considered it in the rent. But a ghost that bullets go through while it stands grinning with a bare neck and its head loose under its own arm and little boys screaming and fainting in their beds no! What I say is, If this is a British hereditary high-toned family ghost, excuse me!” And he went off by the early train.
“I say,” the stricken Jimmy remarked, “I am sorry, and I don’t think we did faint, really I don’t but we thought it would be just what you wanted. And perhaps someone else will take the house.”
“I don’t know anyone else rich enough,” said Lord Yalding. “Mr. Conway came the day before he said he would, or you’d never have got hold of him. And I don’t know how you did it, and I don’t want to know. It was a rather silly trick.”
There was a gloomy pause. The rain beat against the long windows.
“I say” Jimmy looked up at Lord Yalding with the light of a new idea in his round face “I say, if you’re hard up, why don’t you sell your jewels?”
“I haven’t any jewels, you meddlesome young duffer,” said Lord Yalding quite crossly; and taking his hands out of his pockets, he began to walk away.
“I mean the ones in the panelled room with the stars in the ceiling,” Jimmy insisted, following him.
“There aren’t any,” said Lord Yalding shortly; “and if this is some more ring-nonsense I advise you to be careful, young man. I’ve had about as much as I care for.”
“It’s not ring-nonsense, said Jimmy: “there are shelves and shelves of beautiful family jewels. You can sell them and ,”
“Oh, no!” cried Mademoiselle, appearing like an oleograph of a duchess in the door of the picture-gallery; “don’t sell the family jewels “
“There aren’t any, my lady,” said Lord Yalding, going towards her. “I thought you were never coming.”
“Oh, aren’t there!” said Mabel, who had followed Mademoiselle. “You just come and see,”
“Let us see what they will to show us,” cried Mademoiselle, for Lord Yalding did not move; “it should at least be amusing.”
“It is,” said Jimmy.
So they went, Mabel and Jimmy leading, while Mademoiselle and Lord Yalding followed, hand in hand.
“It’s much safer to walk hand in hand,” said Lord Yalding; “with these children at large one never knows what may happen next.”
It would be interesting, no doubt, to describe the feelings of Lord Yalding as he followed Mabel and Jimmy through his ancestral halls, but I have no means of knowing at all what he felt. Yet one must suppose that he felt something: bewilderment, perhaps, mixed with a faint wonder, and a desire to pinch himself to see if he were dreaming. Or he may have pondered the rival questions, “Am I mad? Are they mad?” without being at all able to decide which he ought to try to answer, let alone deciding what, in either case, the answer ought to be. You see, the children did seem to believe in the odd stories they told and the wish had come true, and the ghost had appeared. He must have thought but all this is vain; I don’t really know what he thought any more than you do.
Nor can I give you any clew to the thoughts and feelings of Mademoiselle. I only know that she was very happy, but anyone would have known that if they had seen her face. Perhaps this is as good a moment as any to explain that when her guardian had put her in a convent so that she should not sacrifice her fortune by marrying a poor lord, her guardian had secured that fortune (to himself) by going off with it to South America. Then, having no money left, Mademoiselle
had to work for it. So she went out as governess, and took the situation she did take because it was near Lord Yalding’s home. She wanted to see him, even though she thought he had forsaken her and did not love her any more. And now she had seen him. I dare say she thought about some of these things as she went along through his house, her hand held in his. But of course I can’t be sure.
Jimmy’s thoughts, of course, I can read like any old book. He thought, “Now he’ll have to believe me.” That Lord Yalding should believe him had become, quite unreasonably, the most important thing in the world to Jimmy. He wished that Gerald and Kathleen were there to share his triumph, but they were helping Mabel’s aunt to cover the grand furniture up, and so were out of what followed. Not that they missed much, for when Mabel proudly said, “Now you’ll see, and the others came close round her in the little panelled room, there was a pause, and then nothing happened at all!
“There’s a secret spring here somewhere,” said Mabel, fumbling with fingers that had suddenly grown hot and damp.
“Where?” said Lord Yalding.
“Here,” said Mabel impatiently, “only I can’t find it.”
And she couldn’t. She found the spring of the secret panel under the window all right, but that seemed to everyone dull compared with the jewels that everyone had pictured and two at least had seen. But the spring that made the oak panelling slide away and displayed jewels plainly to any eye worth a king’s ransom this could not be found. More, it was simply not there. There could be no doubt of that. Every inch of the panelling was felt by careful fingers. The earnest protests of Mabel and Jimmy died away presently in a silence made painful by the hotness of one’s ears, the discomfort of not liking to meet anyone’s eyes, and the resentful feeling that the spring was not behaving in at all a sportsmanlike way, and that, in a word, this was not cricket.
“You see!” said Lord Yalding severely. “Now you’ve had your joke, if you call it a joke, and I’ve had enough of the whole silly business. Give me the ring it’s mine, I suppose, since you say you found it somewhere here and don’t let’s hear another word about all this rubbish of magic and enchantment.”
“Gerald’s got the ring,” said Mabel miserably.
“Then go and fetch him,” said Lord Yalding “both of you.”
The melancholy pair retired, and Lord Yalding spent the time of their absence in explaining to Mademoiselle how very unimportant jewels were compared with other things.
The four children came back together.
“We’ve had enough of this ring business,” said Lord Yalding. “Give it to me and we’ll say no more about it.”
“I I can’t get it off,” said Gerald. “It it always did have a will of its own.”
“I’ll soon get it off,” said Lord Yalding. But he didn’t. “We’ll try soap,” he said firmly. Four out of his five hearers knew just exactly how much use soap would be.
“They won’t believe about the jewels,” wailed Mabel, suddenly dissolved in tears, “and I can’t find the spring. I’ve felt all over we all have it was just here, and ”
Her fingers felt it as she spoke; and as she ceased to speak the carved panels slid away, and the blue velvet shelves laden with jewels were disclosed to the unbelieving eyes of Lord Yalding and the lady who was to be his wife.
“Jove!” said Lord Yalding.
“Misericorde!” said the lady.
“But why now?” gasped Mabel. “Why not before?”
“I expect it’s magic,” said Gerald. “There’s no real spring here, and it couldn’t act because the ring wasn’t here. You know Phoebus told us the ring was the heart of all the magic.”
“Shut it up and take the ring away and see.
They did, and Gerald was (as usual, he himself pointed out) proved to be right. When the ring was away there was no spring; when the ring was in the room there (as Mabel urged) was the spring all right enough.
“So you see,” said Mabel to Lord Yalding.
“I see that the spring’s very artfully concealed,” said that dense peer. “I think it was very clever indeed of you to find it. And if those jewels are real ,”
“Of course they’re real,” said Mabel indignantly.
“Well, anyway,” said Lord Yalding, “thank you all very much. I think it’s clearing up. I’ll send the wagonette home with you after lunch. And if you don’t mind, I’ll have the ring.”
Half an hour of soap and water produced no effect whatever, except to make the finger of Gerald very red and very sore. Then Lord Yalding said something very impatient indeed, and then Gerald suddenly became angry and said: “Well, I’m sure I wish it would come off,” and of course instantly, “slick as butter” , as he later pointed out, off it came.
“Thank you,” said Lord Yalding.
“And I believe now he thinks I kept it on on purpose,” said Gerald afterwards when, at ease on the leads at home, they talked the whole thing out over a tin of preserved pineapple and a bottle of ginger-beer apiece. “There’s no pleasing some people. He wasn’t in such a fiery hurry to order that wagonette after he found that Mademoiselle meant to go when we did. But I liked him better when he was a humble bailiff. Take him for all in all, he does not look as if we should like him again.
“He doesn’t know what’s the matter with him,” said Kathleen, leaning back against the tiled roof) “it’s really the magic it’s like sickening with measles.”
Don’t you remember how cross Mabel was at first about the invisibleness?”
“Rather!” said Jimmy.
“It’s partly that,” said Gerald, trying to be fair, “and partly it’s the being in love. It always makes people like idiots a chap at school told me. His sister was like that . quite rotten, you know. And she used to be quite a decent sort before she was engaged.”
At tea and at supper Mademoiselle was radiant as attractive as a lady on a Christmas card, as merry as a marmoset, and as kind as you would always be yourself if you could take the trouble. At breakfast, an equal radiance, kindness, attraction, merriment. Then Lord Yalding came to see her. The meeting took place in the drawing-room; the children with deep discreetness remained shut in the school-room till Gerald, going up to his room for a pencil, surprised Eliza with her ear glued to the drawing-room key-hole.
After that Gerald sat on the top stair with a book.
He could not hear any of the conversation in the drawing-room, but he could command a view of the door, and in this way be certain that no one else heard any of it. Thus it was that when the drawing-room door opened Gerald was in a position to see Lord Yalding come out. “Our young hero, as he said later, “coughed with infinite tact to show that he was there,” but Lord Yalding did not seem to notice. He walked in a blind sort of way to the hat-stand, fumbled clumsily with the umbrellas and macintoshes, found his straw hat and looked at it gloomily, crammed it on his head and went out, banging the door behind him in the most reckless way.
He left the drawing-room door open, and Gerald, though he had purposely put himself in a position where one could hear nothing from the drawing-room when the door was shut, could hear something quite plainly now that the door was open. That something, he noticed with deep distress and disgust, was the sound of sobs and sniffs. Mademoiselle was quite certainly crying.
“Jimminy!” he remarked to himself, “they haven’t lost much time. Fancy their beginning to quarrel already! I hope I’ll never have to be anybody’s lover.”
But this was no time to brood on the terrors of his own future. Eliza might at any time occur. She would not for a moment hesitate to go through that open door, and push herself into the very secret sacred heart of Mademoiselle’s grief. It seemed to Gerald better that he should be the one to do this. So he went softly down the worn green Dutch carpet of the stairs and into the drawing-room, shutting the door softly and securely behind him.
“It is all over,” Mademoiselle was saying, her face buried in the beady arum-lilies on a red ground worked for a cushion cover by a former pupil: “he will not marry me!”
Do not ask me how Gerald had gained the lady’s confidence. He had, as I think I said almost at the beginning, very pretty ways with grown-ups, when he chose. Anyway, he was holding her hand, almost as affectionately as if she had been his mother with a headache, and saying “Don’t!” and “Don’t cry!” and “It’ll be all right, you see if it isn’t” in the most comforting way you can imagine, varying the treatment with gentle thumps on the back and entreaties to her to tell him all about it.
This wasn’t mere curiosity, as you might think. The entreaties were prompted by Gerald’s growing certainty that whatever was the matter was somehow the fault of that ring. And in this Gerald was (“once more, as he told himself) right.
The tale, as told by Mademoiselle, was certainly an unusual one. Lord Yalding, last night after dinner, had walked in the park “to think of ”
“Yes, I know,” said Gerald; “and he had the ring on. And he saw “
“He saw the monuments become alive,” sobbed Mademoiselle; “his brain was troubled by the ridiculous accounts of fairies that you tell him. He sees Apollon and Aphrodite alive on their marble. He remembers him of your story. He wish himself a statue. Then he becomes mad imagines to himself that your story of the island is true, plunges in the lake, swims among the beasts of the Ark of Noe, feeds with gods on an island. At dawn the madness become less. He think the Pantheon vanish. But him, no he thinks himself statue, hiding from gardeners in his garden till nine less a quarter. Then he thinks to wish himself no more a statue and perceives that he is flesh and blood. A bad dream, but he has lost the head with the tales you tell. He say it is no dream but he is fool mad how you say? And a mad man must not marry. There is no hope. I am at despair! And the life is vain!”
“There is,” said Gerald earnestly. “I assure you there is hope, I mean. And life’s as right as rain really. And there’s nothing to despair about. He’s not mad, and it’s not a dream. It’s magic. It really and truly is.”
“The magic exists not,” Mademoiselle moaned; “it is that he is mad. It is the joy to re-see me after so many days. Oh, la-la-la-la-la!”
“Did he talk to the gods?” Gerald asked gently.
“It is there the most mad of all his ideas. He say that Mercure give him rendezvous at some temple tomorrow when the moon raise herself.”
“Right,” cried Gerald, “righto! Dear nice, kind, pretty Mademoiselle Rapunzel, don’t be a silly little duffer” he lost himself for a moment among the consoling endearments he was accustomed to offer to Kathleen in moments of grief and emotion, but hastily added: “I mean, do not be a lady who weeps causelessly. Tomorrow he will go to that temple. I will go. Thou shalt go he will go. We will go you will go let ’em all go! And, you see, it’s going to be absolutely all right. He’ll see he isn’t mad, and you’ll understand all about everything. Take my handkerchief, it’s quite a clean one as it happens; I haven’t even unfolded it. Oh! do stop crying, there’s a dear, darling, long-lost lover.”
This flood of eloquence was not without effect. She took his handkerchief, sobbed, half smiled, dabbed at her eyes, and said: “Oh, naughty! Is it some trick you play him, like the ghost?”
“I can’t explain,” said Gerald, “but I give you my word of honour you know what an Englishman’s word of honour is, don’t you? even if you are French that everything is going to be exactly what you wish. I’ve never told you a lie. Believe me!”
“It is curious,” said she, drying her eyes, “but I do.” And once again, so suddenly that he could not have resisted, she kissed him. I think, however, that in this her hour of sorrow he would have thought it mean to resist.
“It pleases her and it doesn’t hurt me much,” would have been his thought.
And now it is near moonrise. The French governess, half-doubting, half-hoping, but wholly longing to be near Lord Yalding even if he be as mad as a March hare, and the four children they have collected Mabel by an urgent letter-card posted the day before are going over the dewy grass. The moon has not yet risen, but her light is in the sky mixed with the pink and purple of the sunset. The west is heavy with ink-clouds and rich colour, but the east, where the moon rises, is clear as a rock-pool.
They go across the lawn and through the beech wood and come at last, through a tangle of underwood and bramble, to a little level tableland that rises out of the flat hill-top one tableland out of another. Here is the ring of vast rugged stones, one pierced with a curious round hole, worn smooth at its edges. In the middle of the circle is a great flat stone, alone, desolate, full of meaning a stone that is covered thick with the memory of old faiths and creeds long since forgotten. Something dark moves in the circle. The French girl breaks from the children, goes to it, clings to its arm. It is Lord Yalding, and he is telling her to go.
“Never of the life!” she cries. “If you are mad I am mad too, for I believe the tale these children tell. And I am here to be with thee and see with thee whatever the rising moon shall show us.”
The children, holding hands by the flat stone, more moved by the magic in the girl’s voice than by any magic of enchanted rings, listen, trying not to listen.
“Are you not afraid?” Lord Yalding is saying.
“Afraid? With you?” she laughs. He put his arm round her. The children hear her sigh.
“Are you afraid,” he says, “my darling?”
Gerald goes across the wide turf ring expressly to say: “You can’t be afraid if you are wearing the ring. And I’m sorry, but we can hear every word you say.”
She laughs again. “It makes nothing,” she says “you know already if we love each other.”
Then he puts the ring on her finger, and they stand together. The white of his flannel coat sleeve marks no line on the white of her dress; they stand as though cut out of one block of marble.
Then a faint greyness touches the top of that round hole, creeps up the side. Then the hole is a disc of light a moonbeam strikes straight through it across the grey green of the circle that the stones mark, and as the moon rises the moonbeam slants downward. The children have drawn back till they stand close to the lovers. The moonbeam slants more and more; now it touches the far end of the stone, now it draws nearer and nearer to the middle of it, now at last it touches the very heart and centre of that central stone. And then it is as though a spring were touched, a fountain of light released. Everything changes or, rather, everything is revealed. There are no more secrets. The plan of the world seems plain, like an easy sum that one writes in big figures on a child’s slate. One wonders how one can ever have wondered about anything. Space is not; every place that one has seen or dreamed of is here. Time is not; into this instant is crowded all that one has ever done or dreamed of doing. It is a moment and it is eternity. It is the centre of the universe and it is the universe itself. The eternal light rests on and illuminates the eternal heart of things.
None of the six human beings who saw that moon-rising were ever able to think about it as having anything to do with time. Only for one instant could that moon-ray have rested full on the centre of that stone.
And yet there was time for many happenings.
From that height one could see far out over the quiet park and sleeping gardens, and through the grey green of them shapes moved, approaching.
The great beasts came first: strange forms that were when the world was new gigantic lizards with wings dragons they lived as in men’s memories mammoths, strange vast birds, they crawled up the hill and ranged themselves outside the circle. Then, not from the garden but from very far away, came the stone gods of Egypt and Assyria bull-bodied, bird-winged, hawk-headed, cat-headed, all in stone, and all alive and alert; strange, grotesque figures from the towers of cathedrals figures of angels with folded wings, figures of beasts with wings wide spread; sphinxes; uncouth idols from Southern palm-fringed islands; and, last of all, the beautiful marble shapes of the gods and goddesses who had held their festival on the lake-island, and bidden Lord Yalding and the children to this meeting.
Not a word was spoken. Each stone shape came gladly and quietly into the circle of light and understanding, as children, tired with a long ramble, creep quietly through the open door into the firelit welcome of home.
The children had thought to ask many questions. And it had been promised that the questions should be answered. Yet now no one spoke a word, because all had come into the circle of the real magic where all things are understood without speech.
Afterwards none of them could ever remember at all what had happened. But they never forgot that they had been somewhere where everything was easy and beautiful. And people who can remember even that much are never quite the same again. And when they came to talk of it next day they found that to each some little part of that night’s great enlightenment was left.
All the stone creatures drew closer round the stone the light where the moonbeam struck it seemed to break away in spray such as water makes when it falls from a height. All the crowd was bathed in whiteness. A deep hush lay over the vast assembly.
Then a wave of intention swept over the mighty crowd. All the faces, bird, beast, Greek statue, Babylonian monster, human child and human lover, turned upward, the radiant light illumined them and one word broke from all.
“The light!” they cried, and the sound of their voice was like the sound of a great wave; “the light! the light “
And then the light was not any more, and, soft as floating thistle-down, sleep was laid on the eyes of all but the immortals.
The grass was chill and dewy and the clouds had veiled the moon. The lovers and the children were standing together, all clinging close, not for fear, but for love.
“I want,” said the French girl softly, “to go to the cave on the island.”
Very quietly through the gentle brooding night they went down to the boat-house, loosed the clanking chain, and dipped oars among the drowned stars and lilies. They came to the island, and found the steps.
“I brought candles,” said Gerald, “in case.”
So, lighted by Gerald’s candles, they went down into the Hall of Psyche! and there glowed the light spread from her statue, and all was as the children had seen it before.
It is the Hall of Granted Wishes.
“The ring,” said Lord Yalding.
“The ring,” said his lover, “is the magic ring given long ago to a mortal, and it is what you say it is. It was given to your ancestor by a lady of my house that he might build her a garden and a house like her own palace and garden in her own land. So that this place is built partly by his love and partly by that magic. She never lived to see it; that was the price of the magic.”
It must have been English that she spoke, for otherwise how could the children have understood her? Yet the words were not like Mademoiselle’s way of speaking.
“Except from children,” her voice went on, “the ring exacts a payment. You paid for me, when I came by your wish, by this terror of madness that you have since known. Only one wish is free.”
“And that wish is ,”
“The last,” she said. “Shall I wish?”
“Yes wish,” they said, all of them.
“I wish, then,” said Lord Yalding’s lover, “that all the magic this ring has wrought may be undone, and that the ring itself may be no more and no less than a charm to bind thee and me together for evermore.”
She ceased. And as she ceased the enchanted light died away, the windows of granted wishes went out, like magic-lantern pictures. Gerald’s candle faintly lighted a rudely arched cave, and where Psyche’s statue had been was a stone with something carved on it.
Gerald held the light low.
“It is her grave,” the girl said.
Next day no one could remember anything at all exactly. But a good many things were changed. There was no ring but the plain gold ring that Mademoiselle found clasped in her hand when she woke in her own bed in the morning. More than half the jewels in the panelled room were gone, and those that remained had no panelling to cover them; they just lay bare on the velvet-covered shelves. There was no passage at the back of the Temple of Flora. Quite a lot of the secret passages and hidden rooms had disappeared. And there were not nearly so many statues in the garden as everyone had supposed. And large pieces of the castle were missing and had to be replaced at great expense.
From which we may conclude that Lord Yalding’s ancestor had used the ring a good deal to help him in his building.
However, the jewels that were left were quite enough to pay for everything.
The suddenness with which all the ring-magic was undone was such a shock to everyone concerned that they now almost doubt that any magic ever happened.
But it is certain that Lord Yalding married the French governess and that a plain gold ring was used in the ceremony, and this, if you come to think of it, could be no other than the magic ring, turned, by that last wish, into a charm to keep him and his wife together for ever.
Also, if all this story is nonsense and a make-up if Gerald and Jimmy and Kathleen and Mabel have merely imposed on my trusting nature by a pack of unlikely inventions, how do you account for the paragraph which appeared in the evening papers the day after the magic of the moon-rising?
“MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A WELL-KNOWN CITY MAN,”
it said, and then went on to say how a gentleman, well known and much respected in financial circles, had vanished, leaving no trace.
“Mr. U. W. Ugli,” the papers continued, “had remained late, working at his office as was his occasional habit. The office door was found locked, and on its being broken open the clothes of the unfortunate gentleman were found in a heap on the floor, together with an umbrella, a walking stick, a golf club, and, curiously enough, a feather brush, such as housemaids use for dusting. Of his body, however, there was no trace. The police are stated to have a clew.”
If they have, they have kept it to themselves. But I do not think they can have a clew, because, of course, that respected gentleman was the Ugly-Wugly who became real when, in search of a really good hotel, he got into the Hall of Granted Wishes. And if none of this story ever happened, how is it that those four children are such friends with Lord and Lady Yalding, and stay at The Towers almost every holidays?
It is all very well for all of them to pretend that the whole of this story is my own invention: facts are facts, and you can’t explain them away.