The Girls and I: A Veracious History

'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.'

'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 scrapes 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 shivering 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 passer-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 cushions in the church, but we collected all the hassocks 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 nobody 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 nobody cares.'

'Hush,' said a clear little voice; 'that's not good, Jack. God 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?'