The Green Casket Part 8

'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 pa.s.sing 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s. 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 pa.s.sage 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.

CHAPTER III.--THE PICTURE GALLERY.

Linda and Nettie turned to go back to the nursery, where tea was waiting for them. Denis took hold of Nettie's hand to go too, but Alex and Lambert remained behind to explore further their new quarters.

'Nettie,' said Denis, pulling his little sister back a little. 'I wish I might have slept in the old nursery with nurse and baby.'

'Why, Denis dear?' said Nettie in surprise; 'your little room is so pretty, and I never knew you were frightened of sleeping alone.'

'I'm not,' said Denis. 'It's not that.'

'What is it, then?' said Nettie. 'It's such a pity you don't like it, when Granny's planned it so to please us. We should seem pleased, Denis, for you know Granny is rather sad. Last Christmas she was too sad to have anybody, for poor old uncle had died, you know. And it's _so_ good of her to have us all this Christmas. Mother says Granny's only pleasure is to make other people happy.'

'I do love Granny,' said Denis.

'Well then, don't you think you should try to be pleased with what she's planned for us--with your nice little room?'

'I _are_ pleased with my room,' replied Denis. 'I like it werry much.'

Nettie stared at him as if she thought he was losing his senses.

'Then what _do_ you mean?' she asked.

Denis looked round. They were still in the picture gallery. He pulled Nettie on, and when they were in the pa.s.sage on to which at this end the gallery opened, he shut the door and drew his sister into a corner.

'Nettie,' he said, 'you won't never tell, will you?'

'No,' said Nettie, rather rashly.

'I wouldn't tell anybody but you, Nettie. Linda can't hear, can she?'

'Oh no, she's run on to the nursery.'

'Nettie,' he continued, 'it's not my room. It's the picshurs,' here he shook his head solemnly. 'It's having to pa.s.s the picshurs. It's dreadful. But, O Nettie, don't tell. It began last year when we was here. They try to catch me, Nettie. I'm almost sure they do. They come down off the wall and run after me--at least I _fink_ they do.'

'But they _can't_,' said Nettie, very much impressed, but still full of common sense; 'they _can't_, Denis. Pictures is pictures--they can't walk or run. Just think, they're not alive--they're not even like dolls.