The Girls and I Part 17

Parsley till we come back.'

Maud began gathering up the cards and counters and things we'd been playing with, and putting them together tidily--she's always so tidy,--but Serry had got a 'patience' half set out.

'Do let me finish this,' she said, 'and then I promise you I'll go into Mrs. Parsley's kitchen.'

'You promise,' I said. By this time Anne had come downstairs with her hat and jacket on, and I was standing by the door with my cap in my hand.

'Promise,' said Serena, 'word of honour.'

Well, she's not a story-teller after all, and she wouldn't break a right-down promise like that, so I thought it was all right.

'We shan't be long,' I said, and off we set, Anne and I, thinking we had managed beautifully.

It was very nice and peaceful outside; Anne is really very jolly when you get her alone and she isn't thinking of some book or other she's reading, and we quite enjoyed the little walk. The church was open as usual, but there was no sound of music yet, only there was a light up in the organ loft, which I was sure showed the lady was coming, though Anne thought it was perhaps only a reflection of the evening light through the window. But I knew by this time that it was always pretty dark up by the organ, except perhaps in the very middle of the day in very bright weather.

We didn't stay in the porch like I'd done at first. I had found a nice little corner just inside, where we could hear beautifully, and yet slip out in a moment, _in case_ any one came and found fault. And there we sat quite happily, and in a minute or two we heard a hum beginning and then some notes, and then the playing started properly. It was beautiful. Anne squeezed my hand, and I felt quite proud of having found it out--like a showman, you know. But 'wait till you hear her singing,' I whispered.

She was still only playing, _luckily_, when, what _do_ you think happened? The big door behind us was slowly pushed openly, and in walked, as cool as twenty cuc.u.mbers, two small figures, giving us--no that was only Serry--a condescending little nod and smile as they slipped into a seat almost alongside ours.

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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: '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.'