‘Oh, not for very long,’ she told him. ‘My poor aunt Sophia is very delicate, and it is necessary for my uncle to take her on a voyage south for her health, so they will be leaving very soon after I get there. My poor cousin Bonnie, how she will miss them! But we shall have a governess who is related to us, and of course there are many servants there to look after us. And I hope that Aunt Sophy will soon be better and come back to England – Aunt Jane says that she is so pretty and kind!’
He nodded again.
Afternoon was now come upon them – grey, with promise of more snow. The train had left the levels and was running into more upland country – waste, wide, and lonely, with not a living thing stirring across its bare and open expanses. It was bleak and forbidding, and Sylvia shivered a little, thinking what a long way there was yet to go before she reached her unknown destination.
The day dragged on. To her relief Mr Grimshaw presently fell asleep again and sat snoring in his corner. Sylvia took out Annabelle once more and showed her the landscape – it seemed to her that the poor doll looked somewhat startled and dismayed at the dreary prospect, which was not surprising, since her painted eyes had never before surveyed anything wilder than Hyde Park on a sunny morning.
‘Never mind, Annabelle,’ Sylvia said, comforting her, ‘we’ll be there soon, and there will be warm fires and many beautiful things to look at. I expect Bonnie will have many doll-friends for you to play with. Oh dear, I only hope they won’t laugh at you in your funny little old pelisse!’
She felt rather self-reproachful about Annabelle’s old clothes, but there really had not been a scrap of the white curtain left by the time her own outfit had been completed. She consoled herself and the doll as best she could, and presently sang some quiet songs in an undertone when it seemed fairly sure, judging by the loudness of Mr Grimshaw’s snores, that she would not wake him with her singing.
At length darkness came, and poor Sylvia was dismayed by the sight, while it was yet dusk, of many animal shapes streaming in a broken formation across the snow. She heard again that lonely, heart-shaking cry of the wolves and wondered whether to waken Mr Grimshaw and tell him.
But the train chugged on its way without slowing, and the wolves came and went in the shadows of the trees, never approaching very near, so that she felt it would be cowardly to disturb him, and as long as there was no immediate danger she greatly preferred to let him sleep on.
It was now quite dark, and Sylvia wished very much that she had some means of knowing the time. Mr Grimshaw had a great gold watch in his waistcoat, but this was covered up, and she could not tell whether she was likely soon to reach her journey’s end. She had been in readiness since twilight, with the last little hard roll eaten and the carpet-bag buckled up, and Annabelle safely tucked away under her cloak once more.
All at once there was a grinding jerk and the train came with violent abruptness to a halt, the wheels screeching in protest and the windows almost starting from their frames.
‘Oh, what has happened? What can it be?’ cried Sylvia.
Mr Grimshaw leapt to his feet and reached upwards to pull down his portmanteau from the rack. But either from clumsiness or on account of the jolt with which the next coach struck theirs as it slid to a halt, he gave the case too vigorous a tug. It toppled forward and fell with a most appalling crash directly upon his head, felling him to the floor. He lay apparently stunned.
Sylvia was terrified. She sat utterly fixed for two or three seconds, and then rushed to the window, which had fallen open when the train stopped, and thrust out her head to see if there was anyone to whom she might appeal for help.
Greatly to her relief and joy, she discovered that they had actually stopped at a little forest station. Her portion of the train was at the extreme end of the platform, and the wildly swinging and flickering lamps did not enable her to read the name upon the notice-board, but she saw that a little group of persons carrying lamps and bundles were rapidly approaching down the length of the station, appearing to glance into each compartment in turn as they proceeded. She could not distinguish individuals of the group, but gathered an impression of urgency from their manner, an impression which was intensified by some indistinguishable shouts from the engine-driver, borne back on the wind.
‘Help!’ called Sylvia, leaning from her window. ‘Help, please!’
She was afraid that her faint cry would not be heard, but at least one member of the group responded to it, for there was an answering halloo, and a small figure detached itself from the rest and darted forward.
‘Sylvia! Is it you?’
Sylvia had hardly time to register more than a pair of bright, dark eyes, rosy cheeks, black locks escaping from under a little fur cap, before with a cry of ‘Mind, now, Miss Bonnie, don’t get so far ahead!’ a man had come up and was busy undoing the fastening of the compartment door.
‘Miss Sylvia, is it, miss? We’ll soon have you out of there,’ he called cheerily, wrestling with the frozen and snow-covered handle, while Bonnie somewhat impeded his activities, dancing up and down, blowing kisses to Sylvia, and crying, ‘Poor dear Sylvia, you must be frozen! Never mind, you’ll soon be warm and snug, we have a foot-warmer and ever so many blankets in the carriage. Oh, how I am going to love you! What fun we shall have!’
Sylvia responded heartily to these overtures, and then exclaimed urgently to the man, who had now undone the door, ‘There is a gentleman here in need of assistance. I greatly fear that he has been stunned by his suitcase. Pray, pray, can you help him?’
‘Let’s have a look at him, then, miss,’ the man said. ‘You pop out with Miss Bonnie and let James take you back to the carriage. That will be safest for you.’
But Bonnie exclaimed, all interest, ‘A man hurt? Oh, the poor fellow! We must help him, Solly. We had better take him home.’
The other members of the group had come up by now, and there was clamour and discussion.
‘What’s to be done? Can’t leave the poor gentleman in the train like that, ’tis another two hours to Blastburn and like as not he’d freeze to death.’
‘Well, whatever you do,’ said a whiskered man in a flat cap who appeared to be the station-master, ‘do it quick, or the wolves’ll settle the matter. Hark, I hear them now! We’ve not a moment to spare.’ And an anxious toot from the engine-driver’s whistle seemed to indicate that he was likewise of this opinion.
‘Take him out, then,’ cried Bonnie, ‘put him in the carriage! I am sure my father would wish it.’ And James and Solly agreeing, Mr Grimshaw and his luggage were lifted forth, together with Sylvia’s carpet-bag, the door was slammed, and the guard waved his green lamp. Smoke and sparks puffed back on the wind as the engine heaved itself under way and the train slowly ground forward, the guard nimbly swung himself on board as the rear of the train passed them, and Sylvia, glancing back as she was hurried along the platform by Bonnie’s eager hand, saw its serpent-line of lights disappear winding through the trees. Now the grinding and hissing of the engine was gone, Sylvia could hear the howls of wolves, distinct and frightening, and she understood the haste of the party to be gone.
She received a confused impression of the small station building, with its fringed canopy and scarlet-painted seats, as she was hustled through, and then they came to the neat little carriage in front of which six black horses were steaming, stamping, and shivering under their rugs, as impatient as the humans to be off.
‘Lay him on the seat!’ cried Bonnie. ‘That’s it, James! Now wrap a rug over him, so – is his luggage all there? Capital. Now Sylvia, spring in!’ But poor Sylvia was too exhausted and cold to manage it, and James the footman lifted her carefully up and deposited her on the opposite seat, wrapping her in a beautiful soft blue merino rug and placing her feet upon a foot-warmer. Bonnie snuggled in beside her and cried, ‘Now we can go!’
And indeed, it was only just in time. As James and Solly swung themselves up and the station staff dashed inside their little edifice, there was a c
horus of yelps and howls, and the first of a considerable pack of wolves came loping into the station yard. There was a flash and a deafening report as James fired his musket among them. Solly whipped up the horses, who needed no whipping, and the carriage seemed almost to spring off the ground, so rapid was the motion with which it left the building and lights behind.
There had been a new fall of snow and their progress was silent as they flew over the carpeted ground, save for the muffled hoof-beats and the cry of the wolves behind them.
‘Those poor men in the station!’ exclaimed Sylvia. ‘Will they be safe?’
‘Oh yes,’ Bonnie told her reassuringly. ‘They have plenty of ammunition. We always bring them some when we come, and food too – and the wolves can’t get in. It’s only troublesome when a train has to stop and people get out. But tell me about that poor man – what is the matter with him? Was he taken ill?’
‘No, it was his portmanteau that fell on him and knocked him unconscious,’ Sylvia explained. ‘The train stopped with such a jerk.’
‘Yes, the drivers always do that. You see, if the wolves notice a train slowing down, they are on the alert at once, and all start to run towards the station, so as to be there when the passengers get out. Consequently, if a train has to stop here, the driver goes as fast as he can till the very last moment, in order to deceive them into thinking that he is going straight through. But now tell me about yourself,’ said Bonnie, affectionately passing an arm round Sylvia and making sure that she was well wrapped up. ‘Did you have a pleasant journey? Are you hungry? Or thirsty?’
‘Oh no, thank you. I had some provisions with me for the train. We had quite a pleasant journey. A wolf jumped into our compartment last night, but Mr Grimshaw – that gentleman – stabbed it to death and we moved into another compartment.’
‘Is he a friend of yours?’ Bonnie said, nodding over this incident.
‘Oh dear no! I had never seen him before. Indeed, I did not like him very much,’ Sylvia confessed. ‘He seemed so strange, although I believe he meant to be kind.’
The two children were silent for a moment or two, as the carriage galloped on its way. The soft rugs were delicious to Sylvia, and the grateful warmth of the foot-warmer as it struck upwards, gradually thawing her numbed and chilled feet, but the sweetest thing of all was the friendly pressure of Bonnie’s hand and the loving brightness of her smile as she turned, every now and then, to scan her cousin.
‘I can’t believe you are really here at last!’ she said. ‘I wonder which of us is the taller? What delightful times we shall have! Oh, I can’t wait to show you everything – the ponies – my father has bought a new little quiet one for you, in case you are not used to riding – and the hot-house flowers, and my collections, and the wolf-hounds. We shall have such games! And in the summer we can go for excursions on the wolds with the pony-trap. If only Mamma and Papa did not have to go away it would be quite perfect.’
She sighed.
‘Poor Bonnie,’ said Sylvia impulsively, squeezing her cousin’s hand. ‘Perhaps it will not have to be for very long.’ She received a grateful pressure in return, and they were silent again, listening to the crunch of the wheels on the snow and the cry of the wolf-pack, now becoming fainter behind them in the distance.
There was something magical about this ride which Sylvia was to remember for the rest of her life – the dark, snow-scented air blowing constantly past them, the boundless wold and forest stretching away in all directions before and behind, the tramp and jingle of the horses, the snugness and security of the carriage, and above all Bonnie’s happy welcoming presence beside her.
After a time Bonnie said, ‘I wonder how that poor man is. What did you say was his name?’
‘Mr Grimshaw.’
Bonnie leaned across and plucked gently at his hand. ‘Mr Grimshaw? Mr Grimshaw? Are you any better?’ But there was no reply. ‘He must be unconscious still,’ she said. ‘I wish we had some restoratives to give him – however, we shall be at home in another hour. Pattern and Mrs Shubunkin will know what to do for him. Pattern is my maid – and oh! such a dear – and Mrs Shubunkin is the housekeeper.’
Presently Sylvia began to nod, and found her eyelids closing despite all her efforts to keep awake. But she had hardly more than dozed off when the carriage stopped with a clattering and a barking of dogs, and many shouts of greeting. Looking eagerly out of the window, she saw the great, rosy, glittering facade of Willoughby Chase, with every window shining a golden welcome. They had arrived.
Bonnie did not wait for James to open the carriage door. She had it unlatched in a moment and leaped out into the snow, turning to help her cousin with affectionate care. Sylvia was stiff and dazed with fatigue, and as Bonnie led her tenderly up the great curving flight of steps and into the hall she received only a vague impression of many lights and much warmth, people rushing hither and thither, and a kindly voice (that of Pattern, the maid) saying, ‘Poor little dear, she is wearied to death. James, do you carry her upstairs while I ask Mrs Shubunkin for a posset.’
The posset came, steaming, sweet, and delicious, and Pattern’s gentle hands removed Sylvia’s travelling clothes. Sylvia was too sleepy to study her surroundings before she was placed between soft, smooth sheets and sank deep into dreamless slumber.
Later in the night she awoke, and saw stars shining beyond the white curtain at her bed’s foot. Suddenly she recalled Aunt Jane’s voice, teaching her astronomy: ‘There is Orion, Sylvia dear, and the constellation resembling a W is Cassiopeia.’ Oh, poor Aunt Jane! Would she be lying awake too, watching the stars? Would she be warm enough under the jet-trimmed mantle? What would she do at breakfast-time with no niece to warm the teapot, brew the Bohea, and make the toast-gruel?
Tears began to run down Sylvia’s cheeks and she drew a long breath, trying to suppress her silent sobs.
The next moment she heard feet patter across the carpet, and two small, comforting arms came round her neck. A cheek was rubbed lovingly against her wet one.
‘What is it, Sylvia dear? Are you homesick? Shall I come into bed with you?’
Sylvia was on the point of revealing her worries about Aunt Jane. Then she realized that she must not. Aunt Jane’s pride would not let her accept help from her brother, and so Sylvia must not disclose that she was lonely and cold and poor. But oh, somehow she must find a means of helping her aunt – she must! She must!
‘Don’t cry,’ Bonnie whispered. ‘This is your home now, and we shall do such delightful things together. I am sure I can make you happy.’ She hugged Sylvia again, and, slipping into the bed, began telling her of all the plans she had, for sledging and skating, and picking primroses in spring, and days on the moors in summer. Sylvia could not help being cheered by this happy prospect, and soon both children fell asleep, the dark head and the fair on one pillow.
4
NEXT MORNING THE children had breakfast together in the nursery, which was gay with the sunshine that sparkled on crystal and silver and found golden lights in the honey and quince preserve.
Miss Slighcarp, it seemed, was to take her meals in her own apartments, and of this Sylvia was glad, for when she met the governess after breakfast she found her a somewhat frightening lady, cold and severe and forbidding. However, Aunt Jane had taught Sylvia well, and in many respects it was found that she was ahead of Bonnie.
‘You will have to work, miss,’ said Miss Slighcarp curtly to Bonnie. ‘You will have to work hard to catch up with your cousin.’
‘I am glad,’ said Bonnie, hugging Sylvia. ‘I want to work hard. It is delightful that you are so clever, we shall study all sorts of interesting things, botany and Greek and the use of the globes.’
They did not do many lessons that morning. After they had lain on their backboards while Miss Slighcarp read them a short chapter of Egyptian history, they were dismissed to their own devices. Sir Willoughby and Lady Green would be departing at midday, and he wanted to instruct Miss Slighcarp in various matters relati
ng to the running of the estate and household, of which she was to be in charge while he was away.
‘Let us go and see how poor Mr Grimshaw is this morning,’ Bonnie proposed. ‘I am longing to take you to Mamma and Papa, but Miss Slighcarp is with them now. We will wait until she comes back.’
They ran along to the chamber where the unfortunate traveller had been placed, and found there an elderly whiskered gentleman, Dr Morne, in consultation with round, rosy Mrs Shubunkin, the housekeeper. They curtsied to the doctor, who patted their heads absently.
‘It is a most unusual case,’ he was saying to Mrs Shubunkin. ‘The poor gentleman has recovered consciousness, but he has clean lost all recollection of his name and address and who he is. I have ordered him some medicines, and he must be kept very quiet and remain in bed until his memory returns. I will go and speak to Sir Willoughby on the matter.’
‘Perhaps if he were to see Sylvia he would remember the train journey,’ Bonnie suggested. ‘He told you his name, did he not, Sylvia?’
‘Yes – Mr Grimshaw, Josiah Grimshaw.’
‘It would be worth a trial,’ the doctor agreed, and, a footman just then arriving to inform him that Sir Willoughby was at liberty, he left them, while the children ventured unescorted into Mr Grimshaw’s chamber.
What was their surprise to discover that the patient was not in bed but up and standing by the fire, wrapped in a crimson plush dressing-gown! Moreover, he seemed to have been burning papers, for the fireplace was full of black ash, and the room of blue smoke. He started violently as they entered, slammed shut the lid of a small dispatch-box, and flung himself back into bed.
‘What the deuce are you doing here?’ he growled. Who are you?’
‘Don’t you remember Sylvia, Mr Grimshaw?’ said Bonnie. ‘I am Bonnie Green, and Sylvia is my cousin who travelled with you on the train yesterday.’
‘Never seen her in my life before. And name’s not Grimshaw,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t know what it is, but not Grimshaw.’