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Ebook has 895 lines and 81941 words, and 18 pages

A WET HALF-HOLIDAY

LADY GREENSLEEVES' STORY

LADY GREENSLEEVES' STORY

THE MAIDS OF TAUNTON

BLUE-COAT'S STORY

THE MAID OF HONOUR'S STORY

UNCLE ALGERNON'S LAST STORY

THE OAK STAIRCASE.

A WET HALF-HOLIDAY.

It was the opinion of Robin Dalrymple that Mangnall was a humbug. Such, at least, was the fact that he announced, in tones both loud and decided, as he closed a somewhat battered copy of that author's works with a tremendous clap, and tossed it contemptuously on the table. Lessons were over in the schoolroom at Horsemandown; and Miss Gregory, at the writing-table in her own peculiar corner, was doing her best to be deaf for a few moments to her pupils' clamour, while she tried to finish a letter in time for the post. Now the Horsemandown schoolroom was hardly the place one would choose for the purpose of writing a letter at any time--much less at four o'clock in the afternoon, when the operation of 'clearing away' was taking place. Fortunately, however, Miss Gregory was used to it; and her pen continued to scratch away valiantly, in spite of the opening and shutting of drawers, the tumbling of books or slates on the floor, the heavy bang of the piano lid, and the uproar of shrill voices that almost drowned the rest of the clatter around her. 'Yes,' repeated Robin, taking up a perilous position on the table between two inkstands: 'Mangnall is a humbug! Silvia, don't you agree with me?'

But Silvia was busily engaged with a sponge and a gallipot of water, generally known in the family as 'the schoolroom jam-pot;' and as she never could answer when appealed to suddenly, she was obliged to pause in her occupation of washing the slates, and lean both elbows on the table in order to meditate. Whereupon Sydney burst in: 'Humbug, of course! All lessons are humbug, except perhaps geography. That's the only one that has something like sense in it.'

Robin raised his eyebrows incredulously. 'Sense in geography! Why, Syd, if there is a thing that's utterly abominable and senseless, that's it. To have to remember what's the capital of what, and where rivers "take their source," and to find out the latitude and longitude of wretched places where one never goes, and never wants to go!'

'But that is the very thing,' said Sydney. 'I do want to go there; and, what is more, I mean to go some day when I'm a sailor, and sail round the world. I want to go to China and India and South America--Egypt, of course .'

'Oh Syd!' interrupted Silvia's deliberate little voice. 'Not care to see Edinburgh or Rome! Think of Horatius. Don't you care to see places where things happened long ago, or where celebrated people used to live? I did so like going over the Tower last year, and seeing where the poor little princes were murdered, and where Sir Walter Raleigh was imprisoned, and putting my hand on the very same stone that perhaps his had been on.'

Silvia could not tell why. She could only knit her brows, and repeat in a meditative tone her favourite phrase, 'Somehow--I don't know,' till Sydney grew tired of waiting for an answer, and began again.

'Well, all that I can say is, that I don't care a farthing for the Tower of London, or Horatius, or Sir Walter Raleigh, or any of those people. I never can remember which is which, or what they did. I want to travel, and discover new countries, and fight wild beasts and savages, and see all sorts of extraordinary plants and animals, and forests full of poisonous snakes and fire-flies, and tremendously big ferns, and humming-birds, and get into all sorts of dangers, and go where no one has ever been before. Oh, that would be glorious!'

'Somehow,' began Silvia, rousing herself from a reverie, and going on rather languidly with her slate-cleaning duties--'I don't know--. I mean to say, I should like to have the "goloshes of fortune."'

'What! Like the people in Robin's fairy-book?' said little Dolly.

'Yes: who always got whatever they wished for, directly they put the goloshes on. I should like to jump back into the Middle Ages, like the old Professor.'

'But you know, Silvia,' Robin remarked, with a very sagacious look in his round brown eyes: 'you know how much the Professor hated the Middle Ages when he got into them.'

'Yes. And only imagine,' said Sydney, 'how Queen Elizabeth would open her eyes when you told her about railways, and the penny post, and balloons, and photographs, and velocipedes!'

'Oh, Syd, I wish you wouldn't! As if I should tell her anything about those stupid things! Of course I shouldn't talk about what wasn't invented--then-a-days,' finished Silvia, after pausing in vain for a suitable expression.

'Well, do you know,' announced Robin, putting his hands in his pockets, and nodding his head emphatically, 'I think the "goloshes of fortune" would be awfully wasted on you two. Such stupid things to wish! I know what would be much jollier than journeying back into the Middle Ages among all those ridiculous people in Mangnall; or going to places where one never can find their latitude or longitude.'

'My dear Robin,' cried Christie, 'your grammar is getting perfectly wild.'

'Oh Silvia, and have a portrait like this!' cried Robin, opening the ill-used book at a page where Miss Mitford was depicted in company with other worthies, whose heads had been adorned by Sydney with cocked hats, and whose eyes had been altered by Robin to a size and blackness appalling to behold.

'Come, boys,' said Christie, after there had been a general laugh at Silvia's ambition, 'make haste and finish putting away, and then we'll go and have some fun in the long garret.'

This suggestion cleared the room very speedily; for the long garret was much esteemed by the young Dalrymples, on a wet afternoon like the present, as a capital substitute for the garden or the park. Here they had a long and exciting game of hide-and-seek; and it was not till the autumn afternoon was near its close, and twilight was gradually creeping on and filling the corners of the garret with gloom, that Silvia, the least active of the party, and tired of the sport, stole away by herself to one of her favourite haunts. This was the top step of the fine old oak staircase, which formed one of the chief beauties of the house of Horsemandown. From there she could peep through the carved, twisted bannisters, and watch whatever went on in the hall below. Sometimes it was Sir Bernard Dalrymple's brown setter and Robin's little rough terrier romping on the mat by the hall door which engaged her attention; sometimes it was her mother watering the flowers, that seemed to bloom perpetually in the sunny hall window; and sometimes it was Sydney and Christie having one of their most exciting games of battledore, which were really worth looking at, so well did they both play.

On the present occasion Silvia was not left long in undisturbed possession of her favourite nook, for on the dispersion of the garret-party she was joined by Robin; who, after remarking with a yawn that prisoners'-base indoors was decidedly slow, tried to get rid of his superfluous energy by sliding down the bannisters to the bottom of the staircase. Silvia felt obliged to put down her book, and watch him as he climbed slowly up again outside the railing, and felt much relieved when he appeared at the top.

'What book are you poring over now?' he inquired with some contempt, peeping over his sister's shoulder. 'History! Oh Silvia, how can you--in play-time?'

'It's not history; it's a story,' said Silvia indignantly; 'at least it is just like a story. And it is so interesting.'

'But it's all true?' said Robin, with a face of great disgust.

'Well, it is just as nice as if it wasn't,' replied his sister. 'And besides, I think I rather like books to be true, or, at any rate, to think that they might be true. I can't think why you hate all the people in history so, Robin!'

'I don't hate them all,' said Robin, after pondering the subject with a very grave face. 'I like them when they do something uncommonly jolly; and, besides, there certainly are some that I want to know about very much indeed. One's own relations, I mean. I know they are in history books--that is, some of them: relations who lived a long time ago. What do you call them?'

'Ancestors do you mean?' said Silvia. 'I want to know about them too; for Uncle Algernon once told me that there were some very curious stories about the pictures in this house, especially those on the staircase.'

'Did he?' said Robin. 'Then that's what papa meant when I asked who that boy was.' 'He said I must ask Uncle Algernon, for he was a namesake of his, and knew all about him. I always call him "Bluecoat," and I want to know about him more than any of them.'

Silvia surveyed the picture in question with a great deal of interest. It represented a boy of about Robin's age, with dark, bright eyes, handsome features and chestnut curls, which hung down as low as the rich lace scarf which was tied round his neck. He wore lace ruffles at his wrists, and the blue velvet coat which had earned him Robin's nickname was adorned with the most elaborate embroidery.

'I wonder when he lived,' said Silvia thoughtfully. 'But, Robin, I should like to know still better about that little girl next him. Do you think she is his sister?'

'Yes; I found that out long ago. I always call her "Lady Greensleeves,"' replied Silvia.

'She is very pretty, I think, in spite of that funny dress. But she looks very proud and dignified.'

'I suppose she was some grand lady. How she stares at one!' added Silvia, hastily turning her eyes away, but only to meet the gaze of other generations of Dalrymples, who frowned or smiled on her in all directions. 'It is very odd that they should look at one so hard, isn't it?' she said in a half-whisper to Robin. 'I always notice it, especially when I am coming up to bed.'

'Yes,' replied her brother, 'It was Bluecoat staring at me so, that first made me notice him; and now I don't mind it a bit, but always nod to him and say good-night when I come up-stairs. I wish I knew all about him. Now, if we had but the goloshes of fortune, Silvia, what fun it would be! We would make all the pictures tell us their stories.'

'How would it be if I was to ask them?' said a voice just above the children.

Silvia started and looked round. Some one was leaning over the balustrade in the passage behind them.

'Why, Uncle Algernon!' exclaimed Robin after a pause of surprise; 'you haven't heard all we have been saying?'

'Oh Uncle Algernon, do you think us very silly? But papa says you know their stories. Do you really? And how did you find them out?'

'How do you know that I haven't a pair of those goloshes hidden away in that cupboard in my dressing-room?'

'Well, but if you do know the stories, why shouldn't you tell them to us?' suggested Robin. 'It would be almost as jolly as if the pictures were to speak themselves; wouldn't it, Silvia?'

'Ah, but then they would talk in an old way, like the people in history books,--"hath," and "natheless," and "by my halidome." I can't bear coming to those kind of words in Mrs. Markham.'

'Well, Silvia, what do you say to this?' said Uncle Algernon after a moment's silence, during which he had seated himself between his nephew and niece on the broad step. 'Lady Greensleeves and I are very old friends. I am going to take down her portrait to-night and clean it in my dressing-room. Now, suppose I were to ask her, as a very particular favour, to tell her story to you and Robin in her own words.'

'Oh uncle!' cried both children at once; 'how delightful! Will you really? But what do you mean? How can she, in her own words?'

'Never mind,' quoth Uncle Algernon, nodding significantly. 'As I said before, she is a very old friend of mine, and I have a strong persuasion that she won't refuse me this; besides, you forget the goloshes of fortune. Nothing can be refused to one, you know, when one has those goloshes on.'

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