"Good-bye, princess," I said. "I don't know if we shall ever see you again, but if not, we thank you for your politeness to us, though we can't pretend to say we love you as much as our new princess."

"It isn't her fault, poor thing," added Tib, "she can't help being only a picture instead of a living person. And, Gussie, she must have been a living person once; I mean there must have been a person just like her, and that person must have been very like Regina. Isn't it sad to think that there's nothing left of her except this cold picture, always smiling the same, whatever happens?"

"It's no more sad about her than about any other picture," I said, rather crossly. Sometimes I do get cross with Tib when she is sentimental. I'm sure I don't know why--it _is_ ill-natured. "I wonder," I went on, more eagerly, "I wonder if possibly she could be the portrait of the oldish lady--when the oldish lady was young, you know, Tib, for she is so like Regina."

It was Tib's turn to snub _me_ now.

"The portrait of _that_ lady," she said. "My goodness, Gussie! for it to be her portrait she would need to be about a hundred and twenty years old. Can't you tell that by the dress, and the _look_ of the picture?"

"Well, never mind," I said. "We can't find out anything about her, so it's no use squabbling. We must go, Tib; I'm sure it's late; and we don't want to do anything that could vex nurse just as grandpapa's coming, for you know he always asks her if we've been good."

"Come along, then," said Tib.

We walked slowly down the long pa.s.sage and into the conservatory, where everything looked just exactly the same as the first day we had seen it.

"Oh dear, I am so unhappy!" said Gerald, again. "I've got a _feeling_ that all the nice has finished."

"Open the door quick, Gerald, or let me do it, and don't make things worse by talking nonsense."

Gerald turned to the door--the key was sticking in the lock, as I said--Gerald always left it _after_ locking it.

"Do be quick," said Tib, impatiently.

Whether it was her hurrying him that made him awkward or jerky, or whether it was just that something had gone wrong with the lock or the key--you remember we had noticed it was stiffer than usual when we came in--I can't say. But, however that may have been, this is what happened.

The key wouldn't turn in the lock! Gerald fumbled at it for some time, then Tib and I got impatient.

"What _is_ the matter?" said Tib.

"What _are_ you doing?" said I; and we both ran forward, pushing poor Gerald aside, and each trying to get hold of the key. We each took a turn at it, like the first day, only now our flurry and fear made us less cool and careful. It was no use; we pressed, and pulled, and tugged, we took the key out, and rubbed it and cleaned it as if we had been Bluebeard's wife, and put it back again to try afresh. No use!

"I really think keys have got spirits in them sometimes," said Tib.

"They _are_ so contrary."

And then, hot and worried, beginning to be frightened too, we looked at our sore fingers, which the horrid key had bruised and scratched, and asked ourselves what to do.

Tib started forward again--she had spied a strong bit of stick in a corner.

"I believe it's only stiffness, after all," she said. "There _can't_ be anything the matter with the key."

She seized the stick--it _was_ a very stout one--ran it through the ring of the key, and before Gerald and I really knew what she was doing, she had grasped the two ends with her two hands, and was turning vigorously.

"Ah! I told you so," she cried, as she felt that the stick _did_ turn, "it only wanted some strength. But oh, Gussie! oh, Gerald!" she screamed the next moment, "see, see!"

She drew back a little--we did see--the key had _broken_, not turned!

the ring was still hanging on the stick; the useless end of the key stuck out of the lock as if in mockery.

"Oh, Tib!" I cried, for somehow one's first feeling always is to blame some one, "why were you so hasty? Oh dear! what _shall_ we do?"

Tib was too subdued to resent my blame.

"It wouldn't turn before," she said meekly. "Perhaps we are no worse off than before."

"Yes, we are," I said angrily. "Then, at least, we could take the key out and shout through the key-hole. Now we can't even do that," for I had tried, and found that there was now no moving the key the least little bit. There really was _nothing_ to be done. But we did not realise that all at once. We set to work shouting and kicking on the door, in hopes that somebody might be pa.s.sing by the tangle, though nothing was more unlikely. We climbed up on the shelves of the conservatory, in hopes somebody might be in that garden--the garden of the old house, as we now knew it to be. But very little was to be seen--only some gra.s.s stretching towards a belt of trees, and no sign of anybody--it wasn't till afterwards that we knew there _was_ another door into the conservatory, concealed in a corner--a door for gardeners to come in by, but it hadn't been used for many years, and the key was lost, so the knowledge wouldn't have done us much good--and we gave up that hope in despair.

Then another idea struck us--we ran back to the saloon to try the door by which Regina came in. If _possibly_ she hadn't locked it, we might get into the house, and out through it, and so home. But no--the great double doors were as firm as a rock. Regina had locked them only too securely!

"She might have left it unlocked," we said, in a sort of unreasonable rage; "she might have thought perhaps we might need to get out this way." And then we remembered that she had been used to see us coming in and out quite easily. She had had no reason for any misgiving.

"But there may be some one in the house," said Tib. So again we set to work calling, and knocking, and banging at the doors. In vain--in vain!

We were completely locked in, and evidently there was no one near enough to hear us.

Tired out at last, we sat down, huddled together, on one of the arm-chairs, where we had sat so happily with Regina.

"We must stay all night," I said.

"Till the dusting person comes in the morning," said Tib.

"Any way, it's a good thing we had some afternoon luncheon," said Gerald, though even this consoling reflection did not prevent the tears rolling down his poor fat cheeks.

We didn't as yet feel hungry--nor did we feel exactly frightened, though it did begin to feel "eerie." But very soon we felt very cold. It is strange how cold an unused room gets to feel as soon as the bright daylight goes. We had our jackets on, fortunately, and we took some of the linen covers off the chairs, and wrapped them round us, so that we looked like ghosts or dancing dervishes. And thus enveloped, we huddled together as close as we could.

And the last thing we saw as the light faded, so that everything in the room grew dim and shadowy, was the calmly smiling face of the "old princess" up above us on the wall.

I never see it now without remembering that strange evening.

CHAPTER XI.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

"For this relief, much thanks."--_Hamlet._

My story is getting rather difficult to manage now. Indeed, I don't quite see how to do. I _think_, if I had known how long it would be, and what a lot of half-holidays I should have to stay in to write it, I _think_ I would never have begun it. But I won't be laughed at for "beginning, and not ending." And if I get it rather muddley, and can't do it the way authors do who know how to plan stories, and write them so that they seem all to come of themselves, like flowers growing, you good people, whoever you are, that come to read it must forgive me and believe I did my best.

But I can't go on regularly the "I" way now. That is what puzzles me. I have to be, as it were, in three places at once. First of all--we three are all locked up in the old house now--I must tell you what was happening at Rosebuds.

Nurse didn't miss us for a good while; she was busy helping Mrs. Munt, as there was always a good deal of fuss when grandpapa was expected. And just as they were getting things pretty ready, and nurse _would_ have begun seeing about our tea, up comes a man from the telegraph office at Welford with the usual brown envelope and pink paper inside, addressed to Mrs. Munt, to say that grandpapa was coming _that_ evening, would be there about eight o'clock. Immediately, of course, all the bustle and fuss began over again, only twice as bad; for Mrs. Munt had to get a dinner ready all in a hurry, and to send one running this way and another that way for all the things needed. Nurse went with her to the kitchen, calling to f.a.n.n.y to take up our tea, and see that we got it properly; you can understand that, just thinking of us as at play in the garden, it never occurred to nurse to ask if we were in, or to feel the least anxious. f.a.n.n.y, on her side, wasn't at all given to being anxious about anything except her own bonnets and caps, so she merely set the tea, and then, "supposing" we were up stairs, and would come down when we heard the bell, off she went to her own room and her bonnets.

But the tea got cold in the teapot, the bread-and-b.u.t.ter was untouched, the honey was at the disposal of all the flies who chose to sip it--we three never came! And when nurse, after helping Mrs. Munt till the two old bodies were satisfied that all would be right, trotted up to the schoolroom to put _us_ in order next, there was no one to be seen! Just at first, I fancy, she was more vexed than frightened.

"Dear, dear!" says I (this is nurse, you understand, telling it over to me afterwards), "where can they be, the naughty children? But I wasn't not to say afraid of anything wrong. I called f.a.n.n.y, idle girl that she is, and sent her out into the garden to look for you, never doubting but that in two minutes she'd be back with you all."

But when f.a.n.n.y, after considerably more than two minutes, reappeared with the news that we were nowhere to be seen, then poor nurse was dreadfully upset. She ran to Mrs. Munt, and the two trotted everywhere about the grounds, giving the alarm to the gardener and his boy, who joined them in the search.

It was getting near the time for grandpapa's arrival. The dog-cart had started for the station before our absence had been discovered, and to add to her own great anxiety, nurse had the fear of grandpapa's driving in every moment and demanding what was the matter. It must really have been a terrible evening for both nurse and Mrs. Munt; and as time pa.s.sed and grandpapa did not come, their fear of his displeasure gave way to the wish that he were there to advise and direct them what to do.