by Joan Smith
“Oh, no! I was very busy all day with my bookkeeping, you recall, and getting settled in.”
“You will soon make new friends, to call on you and to visit in turn. It is the mourning that keeps our circle so close at this time.”
She had not the least desire to see the cozy circle enlarged by so much as one. “I suppose so,” she answered.
“For the present, you must feel free to visit Aunt Jane if you are lonesome, or bring Bobbie to me, as I mentioned. I am home a good deal in this weather.”
“I won’t be lonesome,” she said, and smiled softly to herself. How wonderful to have whole days to herself, with no school. It was like a long, perpetual holiday. “Oh, but I didn’t mean to be unsociable. I shall take Bobbie to Lady Jane, of course.”
“Also to her Uncle Max, I hope. I mentioned two homes where you will always be welcome, cousin.”
Twice he had mentioned it. She hardly knew what to say to so much condescension, and said, “Thank you.”
“I did not mean to give the impression I was bestowing a favor. Quite the contrary. I am sometimes lonesome too.”
It was a novel thought to ponder, that deVigne, with his mansion and his carriages and his arrogant face, should ever be lonesome, but perhaps he was. Still, she could not quite envision herself walking boldly to his front door and asking for him.
When they reached the Cottage, the house was in utter darkness, looking strangely ominous, with the untrimmed shrubbery reaching black arms into the path, and with the building itself a black hulk, lightened by the irregular paler shapes of the plaster in the half-timbering. She was reluctant to enter; “I should have told them to leave some lights burning,” she said. More inexperience on her part.
“It should not have been necessary. Any sane servant should have known enough. You’ll have a job on your hands reforming the Bristcombes, it seems. At least they have not locked you out. The door is on the latch.”
They entered into a perfectly black hallway, where deVigne fumbled at the table to light a lamp. Of the Bristcombes not a sign was to be seen. “I wonder if he locked up before going to bed,” Max said. A check of the side door in the study revealed it was locked, and they assumed the kitchen quarters to be safe as well. Delsie locked the front door after him and took the lamp up the stairs to light her way. Even with her lamp, she found it rather frightening to be going alone down the black hallway, in a strange house. She peeped into Bobbie’s room, to see the child sleeping soundly, looking so innocent and vulnerable, with her little hands, open palms up, on the pillow. The child was her responsibility now, an awesome task, really. Strange how she was coming to love her, yet she had the very eyes of her father.
She went into her own room, lit another lamp, and prepared for bed. She took up a volume of poetry from Louise’s bookshelf and brought the lamp to her bedside table to read. It was with a feeling of sheer luxury that she looked at her watch, read the hour as well after eleven, and knew it was not too late. There was no need to be up at seven. She would read till midnight. She was relaxed, happy, looking forward to the shopping trip tomorrow, when she extinguished her lamp at midnight and fell into that light doze that precedes sleep. Before she was quite unconscious, her arm was rudely jostled. She jumped in her bed, her heart pounding.
“They’re back,” a soft voice said, giggling at her alarm.
“Oh, it’s you, Bobbie,” Delsie said, shaking herself awake. “You frightened the life out of me. Who is back? What’s the matter?” she asked, thinking in her confusion that the Bristcombes had been out, and that was why the house had been plunged into darkness when she returned.
“The pixies,” Bobbie said.
“Poor dear, you’ve had a bad dream. There are no pixies tonight. Were you frightened? Come and get into bed with me if you like. There’s plenty of room.”
Bobbie took immediate advantage of this tempting suggestion, and popped in with her stepmother. They were both sleepy, and were about to nod off when a slight sound was heard from the window. “It’s the pixies, Mama. I told you they were back,” Bobbie said, yawning in mid-sentence, as she snuggled deeper into the bed, no longer afraid of the pixies when she had protection.
Mrs. Grayshott listened, soon incontrovertibly aware that something was going forward in the orchard beyond her window. That it was either pixies or the ghost of her late husband never so much as occurred to her. It was only the ignorant, superstitious folks such as the Bristcombes who believed in pixies and putting a dish of salt by a corpse to prevent its rising. The sounds obviously came from a live, human trespasser, whose identity interested her.
She slid quietly from her bed to avoid waking the child, who was already breathing deeply, asleep. Tiptoeing to the window, she pulled back the curtains and strained her eyes out into the darkness. Nothing was visible. There was no moon, and the phalanx of low, spreading apple trees successfully concealed whatever was causing the noise. For some minutes Delsie remained, looking and wondering. She quietly opened the casement window and stuck her head out. The noises were more easily audible now, though they were still low noises, as of stealthy movement. She could hear the rattle of a harness, or chain, and the soft clop of hooves, moving slowly forward. Some indistinguishable sounds of human voices too, male voices, she knew. Men were in the orchard, with a horse or horses. What could it mean? The only conclusion she could come to was that some poor neighbors were stealing apples. The crop surely had been harvested by such a late date, but the windfalls perhaps were being taken up by some poor family. With a shrug of her shoulders, she closed the window and climbed back into the warm bed, not unduly disturbed, but determined to check the next morning to see if she could discover trace of the intruders. Familiar with the pinch of poverty, she did not begrudge the taking of the apples, but she would prefer in future that permission be asked. Foolish of them to have waited so long, too— December. The apples must be inedible by now.
There was no sleeping in, the next morning, with a wide-awake six-year-old in her bed, eager to be up and doing. The girl was up bright and early. Glancing at her watch, Delsie saw it was only seven. How quickly she had become accustomed to the luxury of sleeping in! But rest was impossible with the wiggling child hinting every minute that it was bright, so she dragged herself out of bed, and put on her frock while Bobbie skipped down the hall to dress herself. With a pang of sympathy for the lower orders, she told the girl not to awaken her governess. However, when Bobbie returned to her, her braids were neatly made up, and clearly it had not been her own childish fingers that had formed them so well.
They went belowstairs, to find no breakfast awaiting them at such an hour. Mrs. Bristcombe seemed startled to be run to earth in her kitchen, a single glimpse of which quite revolted Delsie for the filth all around. Another battle to come over this before the day was done. The kettle was not even on the boil. Mrs. Bristcombe was given orders to have breakfast ready by eight, and the ladies of the Cottage went outdoors for a walk. With a memory of the commotion in the orchard the night before, Delsie elected to walk there, though she would not disturb the child with an account of what had occurred.
To call it an orchard was really to overstate the case. There were only thirty trees, six rows of five. From the number of apples on the ground, and the state of them, it seemed highly unlikely it was this that had drawn the intruders. The apples were beyond eating, for the most part. They had been through several frosts, leaving them brown and withered. A few still clung to the branches, their skins puckered.
This waste shocked the thrifty ex-teacher. It was too late to save them this fall, but next year they would be gathered before they had turned. She observed that two trees growing in the midst of the others were dwarfed for some reason—noticeably runted compared to the rest. The apples did not appear to be of any different kind, so that could not account for it. She looked about her for signs of intruders. Clearly the men had not come for apples, so what had brought them? She could see no wheel tracks in the grass. Ther
e were considerable signs of traffic, the grass well trampled, with here and there in the earth the outline of what might have been horseshoes.
Bobbie was playing about, looking for edible apples on the ground. “Why are those two trees smaller than the others, do you know?” Delsie asked her.
“Those are the pixie trees,” the child answered.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s what Mrs. Bristcombe calls them, the pixie trees. They are the best ones in the orchard too, even though the smallest. She says they are worth more than all the others put together.”
Again Delsie looked at the apples still remaining on the dwarf trees, comparing them to those on the others. She picked one in better preservation than the others and tasted it. It was a plain pippin, tasty but not delicious. She walked to the other small tree and examined it. It too was just an ordinary tree, dwarfed for some reason. The soil perhaps was not good in these two spots, though it seemed odd, right in the middle of the small orchard, that some different soil should occur. Rocks beneath the ground, she thought, might account for it. The roots could have hit rock and not been allowed to flourish properly.
She was just turning to leave when her eye fell on a small canvas bag. Thinking she had discovered some clue left by the intruders, she picked it up with great curiosity. It was heavy and jingled with pieces of metal. Opening it, she was stunned to see it held a quantity of guineas. Bobbie was off throwing apples at a tree. Delsie decided to keep her discovery a secret from the child. She concealed it under her pelisse, but was highly curious to get to her room and count the guineas. What could account for it? What sort of intruders came and took nothing, so far as she could see, but left a bag of gold worth a great deal?
“Shall we pick some of these pretty ox-eye daisies and corn marigolds before we go in?” she asked. Together they went to the orchard’s edge to gather these late-blooming wildflowers, before going inside for breakfast. They took them to their rooms to arrange in a vase. Once she achieved privacy, Delsie emptied the canvas bag on the counterpane, marveling at the quantity of gold pieces—one hundred in all. One hundred gold guineas—more than a year’s salary. Her first inclination was to run to deVigne with the bag and ask his opinion, but Lady Jane was coming to call for her soon, and it would have to wait till after the shopping trip.
Afraid to leave such a fortune in her room, where she was by no means sure it would be safe from prying eyes after her departure, she put it in her reticule and took it to the table with her. Miss Milne and Bobbie soon joined her. The three were in no hurry to dispatch their breakfast, but could not make it last till nine-thirty, at which time Lady Jane was to arrive. Bobbie was taken, unwilling, to the schoolroom for a lesson, while Mrs. Grayshott sat going over her list, adding a new item at every spot where her eye fell. Beeswax and turpentine to remove the dust and grime from the saloon, more candles, a great deal of them as the house was so gloomy, embroidery woolens, and backing for her tambour frame. The items wanted seemed endless. She was still busy at this chore when the knocker sounded. As Bristcombe was still invisible, she went herself to answer it. DeVigne stood at the door, his carriage waiting on the roadside.
“Good morning, cousin,” he said brightly. “Still playing butler, I see. Did you speak to Bristcombe about leaving lights burning for you at night?”
“No, I spoke to his wife—but I never see him. I’m not sure I want to. Come in.”
“He was in the orchard just now as I came along the road. I made sure you had set him to gather the withered apples. They won’t be good for anything but pig feed, but I know your aversion to waste.”
“I must speak to you,” she said, ignoring this banter. She took him to the saloon, with a question as to why it was himself who had come in lieu of Lady Jane.
“We are to meet her in the village. With five of us, one carriage will not hold all your purchases on the return voyage, if you are the enthusiastic shopper most ladies are. I have business there, and shall bring Sir Harold back with me, leaving you three ladies to shop to your hearts’ content. But surely that is not what you meant to ask me. From the size of your eyes, I hoped for missing knives or forks at the least.”
“Nothing is missing,” she said with an air of vast importance. “Au contraire.”
“You have found the vanishing linens?” he asked, taking up a seat on the sofa.
“Nothing so paltry. I have found a bag of gold!” she announced.
“Congratulations. Was it a large bag of gold?”
She fished it out from the bottom of her reticule and handed it to him. “It is one hundred guineas!” she said importantly.
‘That should take care of the butcher,” he said, hefting the bag, and shaking a couple of pieces out into his hand. “They seem genuine. Where did you find them?”
“You will think it incredible, but it’s true! I found them under an apple tree in the orchard this morning. What can it mean?”
He looked at her, not at all so impressed as she had thought he would be with her find. “There haven’t been any rainbows lately, so that cannot account for it—the pot of gold.”
“Do be serious!”
“Perhaps Andrew, in one of those drunken ambulations you spoke of, dropped it one night, though I still can’t credit he ever left the house, with Samson and Bristcombe here to watch him.”
“They would not let him take so much money out with him in any case. What should I do? Ought I to advertise it, do you think? Oh, and I forgot to tell you, I know where it came from.”
“An advertisement seems superfluous in that case,” he suggested.
“Well it is not, because I don’t know who was there, but someone was in the orchard last night very late, with a horse or horses. At least two men. I heard them talking.”
“After you returned from the Hall?”
“Much later—not long before one o’clock, I think. I made sure it was only someone stealing the apples, and hardly gave it a thought, till I went into the orchard this morning and saw how far the fruit had deteriorated. Besides, it stands to reason anyone reduced to stealing half-rotten apples would not have a hundred guineas to lose.”
“Are you quite sure you heard someone?”
“Absolutely. I am not at all imaginative. Bobbie heard them too. She thought it was the pixies.” She sat thinking about it, then went on. “So it seems the pixies she was told about were not her papa in a drunken stupor after all. And that, you know, was the reason I held to account for her being put on the west side of the house, so she would not hear her father ranting about. DeVigne, is it possible there has been someone coming regularly into the orchard for years, ever since Bobbie was removed from the nursery? Only think, if they have been leaving bags of guineas for all that time, there must be a fortune about the house somewhere. I shall institute a search the moment I get back from the village,”
“You do rather leap to conclusions. Still, it is mighty curious. In the orchard, eh? Let’s have a look.”
“It’s no good. I went out bright and early, and couldn’t find a single thing, except the bag of gold, that is. But what shall I do about it? I cannot keep it.”
“Keep it for the time being. If it was lost by any innocent person, he won’t be long coming to look for it.”
“The horrid thought raises its head that innocent persons do not lurk about gardens and orchards that do not belong to them, carrying large sums of money. It must have been a criminal, and I know he will come back for it too. Have you heard any account of a robbery in the neighborhood?”
“No, nor can I conceive of any reason he should be in your orchard. Still, I’ll inquire in the village this morning—discreetly. It will be best to keep this to ourselves.”
“You do think there’s something odd going on, don’t you? Oh, what have you gotten me into?” she worried, wringing her hands.
“To date, the worst I have gotten you into is a bag of gold guineas. That should merit gratitude, not a scold. The only inconvenience
to yourself has been a night’s disturbed sleep. You make too much of it, cousin.”
“Yes, a bag of gold belonging to some cutthroat burglar or smuggler, who will doubtless come after it in the night with a knife between his teeth. A mere bagatelle. I can’t imagine why I tremble every time I think of it. I must put them somewhere for safekeeping. Will you take charge of them for me?”
“Not at all imaginative, you say?” he asked, with a quizzing smile. “The knife between the teeth, surely...” She stuffed the bag into his hands, for he had placed it on the sofa between them after examining it. “There is a vault in the study. Let us put it there for the present.”
When they went to this room, there was no key in the vault, so deVigne carried the money into town, in a pocket of his carriage. This was done surreptitiously to keep it from Bobbie, who went with them. The child regaled her uncle along the way with the story of the pixies, while the widow stared at him with an “I told you so” look.
Delsie felt very much like a princess from a fairy tale when she first wafted into the village inside the crested carriage, with every head turning toward it. The carriage stopped outside the Venetian Drapery Shoppe, the one good store in the village. It was frequented only by the gentry, as the articles within and, more particularly, their prices were beyond the range of mere working mortals. Delsie had occasionally entered to buy a bit of lace or ribbon, and to admire the larger items. Her real purchases were made at Bolton’s, a less-elevated emporium across the street. She always felt she was encroaching to enter the former establishment. On her few forays, the salesman had looked down his nose at her and demanded in a supercilious tone if she wanted anything, or was “just looking.” Today the same toplofty person was bowing and simpering, for deVigne had said at the carriage he would just step in with her and Bobbie and wait till Jane arrived.
