Elizabeth Houghton sat on a big stone beside the road, just where the highway forked, her school books still tucked under her arm. Her round blue eyes stared straight before her, as she tried, with one last effort, to make up her mind. For a whole week she had been attempting to reach a decision: that very morning she had told herself sternly that the matter must be settled to-day, yet still she had kept on debating inwardly, hour after hour, saying, one moment, “I will,” and the next, “I won’t.” In the late afternoon she had set out for Aunt Susan’s to announce her decision, but here she was pausing at the turn of the way, still irresolute.
If she went onward by the broad highroad that stretched before her, she would come to the big country-house where her aunt lived and where, once inside the door, all her doubts and hesitations would be swept away by Aunt Susan’s forcible arguments. On the other hand, if she climbed the hill up the narrower branch of the way, Somerset Lane, she would come, she knew, to the white cottage beside the road where lived Miss Miranda Reynolds, a friend of her father’s whom she had been bidden to go to see. When she set forth after school she had purposed vaguely going to one place or the other. If to Miss Reynolds’, it would be putting off the moment of her decision a little longer, if to Aunt Susan’s, it would end in settling the matter once for all.
She turned about on the stone and looked up the crooked path of Somerset Lane, winding steeply up the slope above her and ending before a great stone entrance-way with barred iron gates. Beyond the gates she could catch further glimpses of rising ground, groups of trees and, at the very summit of the hill, the broken walls of a ruined building. It must have been a fire, she concluded, after staring upward for some minutes, that had so blackened the stone walls and left them standing, empty and desolate, with here and there a blank window or the part of an arched doorway. For very weariness with pondering her own problem, she began to let her mind wander away in vague curiosity as to how such destruction had come about and how the fire had looked as it had swept blazing across the long roofs until they crashed and fell, had glowed behind the empty windows and had gone up in columns of sparks and flame above the dark trees. Her father had told her nothing of this big ruined house at the top of the hill, he had merely directed her to look for the Reynolds cottage half way up the slope among the maple trees. No doubt, Elizabeth thought, Miss Reynolds could give her an account of the fire. This idea gave some point to a visit in which she had felt very little interest until now. She had a twinge of conscience as she sat looking up the lane remembering how long it was since she had promised her father to go, and how she should have climbed that steep way many days before.
Elizabeth had not lived very long in this neighborhood, for this was early spring and it had been only at Christmas time that she and her father and Irish Anna, who kept house for them, had come to Harwood to settle down in what had been Mr. Houghton’s old home. Even here, after many other moves, the question of uprooting soon came up again, for in March her father had been summoned to England to spend six months.
“I wish it were not going to be so lonely for you, Betsey,” he had said as he made preparations to go, “but at least you will be busy. I am glad that we have found such a good school for you at last. A few more changes, and your education would have been wrecked entirely.”
Betsey had always meant to go to college and was now in the last half-year of her preparation. Transfers from one school to another had indeed resulted in so much lost time that she was already a little behind her proper class and would, so she agreed with her father, lose all chances of fulfilling her plans should she change again. She sighed deeply as she thought of it, sitting there upon the stone, for it was this very question that was casting shadows over a very brilliant prospect.
Very soon after Mr. Houghton’s departure, Betsey’s Aunt Susan, growing weary of the life of her quiet country place, big and luxurious though it was, had pressed upon her niece a dazzling invitation. It was to accompany her on a journey that would include Bermuda, Panama, California, and, when hot weather came, the Canadian Rockies. It became difficult for Elizabeth even to think of more months of plodding study, when, sitting at her desk, she could picture the flowers and palms of Bermuda, its coral caves with floors of rippling water, or the lazy breakers tumbling in on some California beach. But to go would mean giving up college, that was certain. And Elizabeth’s mother, who had died five years before, had always wanted her to go to college!
So long did she sit there on the stone under the big oak tree, hesitating and debating, that presently there was a rumble of thunder, followed by the sharp spatter of rain on the little new leaves above her head. The low-hanging branches sheltered her like a roof so that she had only to sit there with her hands clasped about her knee, waiting for the shower to pass and for her puzzled thoughts to set themselves in order. She was wishing greatly for her father’s advice, but that it would be impossible to get in time. Anna, good-natured and interested as she was, could offer little more than, “Sure it would be grand to go to college and learn so much,” or, if the talk happened to turn in another direction, “Sure it would be grand to go to California and see all the pretty flowers,” so that her opinions were of no very great help.
Elizabeth could see below her, as she sat there, rolling stretches of field and meadow and patches of woodland turning from brown to fresh spring green. Almost too far away to be visible on this day of fitful lights and shadows, were the crowded roofs and spires of a distant town and, to the east of them, the high, gray towers of that very college about which her dreams and ambitions had clustered so long.
“But it will be so lonely here!” she cried almost aloud, all her thoughts rising to sudden protest. She had friends of her own age at school, plenty of them, but what older person was there to whom she could go in doubt or difficulty, who was there to give her help or advice when she should need it? She felt lost and helpless at the thought and utterly forlorn. No, she could not bear it, she would go with Aunt Susan, her choice would be for change and travel and the seeing of beautiful things instead of the long empty road of hard work that stretched before her. Her battered geometry and Latin books slipped from her knee and lay, face downward and unheeded, on the grass. She had made up her mind—almost.
The shower had cleared and the clouds were sweeping away in rolling thunderheads of gray and shining silver. The moving sunlight touched the roofs of the town and lit, at last, the slim towers of the college so that they showed white and glittering against the dark background of the trees. Usually they seemed dim and distant, Elizabeth had thought, and never, as to-day, so near, so clear, possessed of such dignity of grace and beauty. She could not quite tell what it was, curiosity, doubt, hesitation, or all three at once that made her, when she got up to go, turn into Somerset Lane instead of along the highway, and that caused her to put off again the moment of letting Aunt Susan convince her that she should go to Bermuda.
She began to feel, as she climbed the hill, a good deal of curiosity concerning this Miss Miranda of whom her father had said so much and whom she should have gone to see long ago. Would she be all stiff manners and critical eyes, she wondered, the kind of person to make you feel awkward and tongue-tied the moment you crossed the threshold? It was the feeling that she must be something of the sort that had kept Betsey from coming for all this time. For some distance the lane wound and twisted so that she could not catch any glimpse of the white cottage that she sought. Once she stopped where a side path, a mere rough track bordered by Lombardy poplars, led away to the left. Could that be the way, she wondered, but no, it must lead only to the fields beyond, for here was a heavy white farm horse, evidently just come from plowing, turning into the path through a gap in the hedge. The big creature lifted his feet slowly, seeming comfortably tired after a well-spent day among the furrows, as he trudged leisurely along under the slender shadows of the wet poplar trees. He bore an equally weary rider, a boy of about Elizabeth’s own age, who was perched sideways on the broad back, his legs swinging with every lurch of the horse’s shoulders, his hat held on his knee so that Elizabeth could see plainly his hot, sunburned face and his rumpled, red-brown hair. He did not observe her, for he was looking away across the valley toward that same group of towers that she herself had been watching, as though the distant college held a fascination for him as well as for her. She thought for a moment of waiting to ask him the way, but her eye caught sight, just then, of a green roof above her among the trees and she went onward.
As she opened the gate beside the lane and walked up the path to the house, she felt, almost in spite of herself, an immediate liking for the place. It was a tiny white cottage with a wide-eaved roof, with two big red brick chimneys that told of broad hearthstones inside, with swinging windows and clambering vines and a square lawn skirted at one side by a high stone wall. Beyond this wall she could see again the blackened ruins that had aroused her curiosity as she sat at the crossroads below. What a wide and stately house it must have been there at the top of the hill and how strange it was that it had never been rebuilt! She must be sure to ask Miss Reynolds about it, for there was, somehow, a spell of haunting mystery about those roofless walls and empty windows that seemed to stare away across the wide view spread out below them. There was time for her to observe all these things as she stood upon the doorstep for, although she rang the bell twice, no one came to admit her.
“I don’t want to come all this way for nothing,” she thought; “I will go to the side door and find some way of leaving word that I have been here.”
Following the pathway of flagstones, she turned the corner of the house and found that a wing of the cottage extended at right angles before her and that in it was a door, standing open. She stopped a moment to examine some crocuses that were pushing up through the new grass, but she was interrupted and startled by the sound of some one speaking, apparently to her.
“Good morning,” a voice was saying, a harsh rough voice with a rasp and a squeak in it such as she had never before heard. “Good morning, good morning!”
She looked about, but could see no one. Evidently the sound came from within the open door, so she ran to it quickly and peeped inside.
A white-haired man sat at a table with his back to her, so intent upon what he was doing that it could not have been he who had spoken. She had expected to see a kitchen, but found instead that the place was some sort of a workshop with strange intricate pieces of machinery standing, some of them under glass cases, on benches and shelves along the walls. The man must be Miss Miranda’s father, she concluded. She had heard her own father speak of him as quite a famous person, a scientist of long standing reputation. Yet it seemed a tiny, shabby place in which to find a great man! As she stood, wondering, upon the step, there came a hoarse chuckling from the shadows in the corner of the room and out came strutting and fluttering a big, black crow. He was not trying to talk now, but was cawing softly and clucking to himself as he advanced sideways, half spreading his wings and cocking his eye, first at the old gentleman, then at Betsey standing in the doorway. He had evidently some plot brewing in his wicked black head, for he fluttered to the edge of the table, sidled nearer and nearer and finally, with a sudden dart, pounced upon a pair of spectacles that lay on the blotter and flew out of the door over Elizabeth’s head.
The old gentleman looked up, startled and blinking.
“Miranda, oh Miranda,” he called helplessly. “That wretched Dick has stolen my spectacles again!”
Miss Miranda came running in from what must have been the kitchen, for she wore a blue apron and had a measuring cup still in her hand. Elizabeth saw at a glance that she was very pretty, with brown hair that curled and crinkled in spite of a streak or two of gray, and with cheeks that were pink from the heat of the fire.
“And I believe, my dear,” her father added vaguely, as she came in, “that there is some one at the door.”
It was astonishing to see what a strange effect this simple statement had, for Miss Miranda’s face turned suddenly white and she looked toward the door with startled, frightened eyes. Her smile, when she saw who it was, seemed as bright with relief as it was with welcome.
“I think your crow has carried the spectacles up into that apple tree,” announced Elizabeth, who had been watching the black thief and now saw him rocking on a high bough, cawing his triumph. “I can climb up and get them for you.”
She dropped her school books on the step and ran across the grass quite forgetting to explain who she was or why she had come.
The branches of the tree were so low that the climb was no difficult one for a person as agile as Betsey. The wicked Dick fluttered about her head, rasping out his harsh protests, as she clambered higher and higher, but he had wedged his prize so firmly in a crotch that he could not get it out and was forced to see her carry it away. He was too well-trained a pet to attempt to peck her, but he sat on the wall and voiced his loud displeasure long after she had disappeared into the house.
The old gentleman put on the spectacles and returned to his work very placidly, as though such robberies were too frequent for comment. Miss Miranda led Elizabeth away toward her own little sitting room above her father’s workshop.
“Won’t you tell me about that house,” Betsey began promptly, afraid that she might miss obtaining the information that she desired, “that place there beyond the wall that looks as if a fire—”
The glass cup that Miss Miranda still carried dropped clattering to the floor and shivered into a dozen pieces with a startling crash.
“How very awkward of me,” she exclaimed apologetically as she stooped to gather up the fragments. Betsey, however, as she helped to collect the broken glass, had a vague realization that the awkwardness may have lain in her own blunt question and followed her new friend upstairs with no effort to follow her inquiries farther.
“There is another shower coming up,” Miss Miranda said, “so we will light the fire here and be very cozy until it passes. I have just baked some gingerbread and some one really must try it while it is still fresh.”
It was certainly delightful to sit in a cushioned chair by the wide fireplace where a few sticks were burning, to drink cool milk and eat new gingerbread and to hear the rain drumming on the tiles outside the casement window. Miss Miranda, sitting opposite with her knitting, was asking questions about Elizabeth’s father, about her work and her school and her plans for college, in which she seemed to be much interested. But she did not force the talk and left her guest leisure to lean back in her chair, sip her milk and watch, through the rain-spattered glass, a wet robin taking refuge from the rain below the dormer window ledge.
“Yes,” Betsey assented, in answer to one of the last questions, “I like the school work well enough, but sometimes it seems very long and hard and I cannot help thinking about—other things. I begin to believe these last months of the term will never end.”
Miss Miranda had risen to fetch another ball of yarn and was standing now by the big mahogany secretary beyond the fireplace. Elizabeth was just beginning to notice what a wonderful old piece of furniture it was, so large that it occupied almost all of one side of the room. It had brass-handled drawers below and, above, glass doors that opened upon a perfect labyrinth of shelves, recesses and deep pigeonholes. She caught sight of something glittering on the topmost shelf.
“Oh, please, could I see what that is?” she begged. “The little tree—and oh, that silver figure just below. I never saw anything quite like them before.”
Most willingly Miss Miranda threw both the doors wide open.
“This is the family toy-cupboard,” she said. “The desk itself belonged to my great-grandfather, who was an officer in the Navy, and who used it to hold such treasures as he brought home from beyond the seas. Since his time every one of us who has something precious that he wants to keep or that has a story connected with it, puts it on these shelves. Many things have found their way here that I love dearly.”
She set upon the table a row of strangely fashioned objects, a gold lacquer box with a trail of white wistaria across its lid, a big silver bowl with Moorish carvings, a long steel dagger with a thin blade and a twisted handle—a bewildering number of odd and beautiful treasures. It was over the last one that Betsey exclaimed aloud in delight. It was a little pine tree in a pot, twisted and gnarled and crooked, such as grows in Japanese or Chinese gardens, the whole not more than six inches high. At first she thought it was real and growing, but, on looking closer, saw that it was made of carved jade and enamel, set in a pot of gleaming yellow and white porcelain.
“Oh, where was it ever found?” she asked. “Who could have made anything so little and so lovely?”
Miss Miranda nodded, smiling.
“That is my favorite too,” she said. “Would you think that human fingers, and they were old, stiff ones at that, could have carved anything so tiny as those perfect little needles and the brown cones? It was one of my great-grandfather’s treasures; there are many things of his here, all of them a hundred years old. But here are some that are newer and this, the newest of all, is a silver medal my brother sent me from France, from the Jeanne d’Arc church in Domremy. He went overseas at the beginning of the war and, even now that it is over, still finds work to keep him, so that we do not know when he will come home. This silver figure that you asked about belongs to him, it is an image of Saint Christopher. An Irishman, Michael Martin, whom my brother Ted first knew when he visited some cousins in Montana and whom he afterward persuaded my father to bring here to work for us, gave him the little statue. Michael said that Ted was bound to be a wanderer and that Saint Christopher is especially good to travelers, that he keeps them from dangers by fire, storm, earthquake and such perilous things. But Ted, to Michael’s great grief, never pays much attention to charms, and left Saint Christopher behind when he went to France, so I put it here for safe keeping in the toy cupboard.”
Elizabeth was turning the little, shining figure over and over in her hand.
“It must have been Michael’s most precious treasure,” Miss Miranda went on. “He loved my brother so dearly that he wanted to give him the best he had. He is very old now and lives in a little house down the lane. He helps me with the garden still and is the most faithful and devoted friend that ever a family knew. I believe I must tell you how Ted first came to know him and of the adventure they had together that resulted in the coming of Michael and Saint Christopher into our household.”
Elizabeth drew a deep sigh of satisfaction and settled down more comfortably among the cushions. Miss Miranda stirred the fire a little and took up her knitting.
“It all happened a great many years ago,” she said, “but like all real stories it has not ended yet, nor will it until, as Michael claims, the spell of Saint Christopher brings my brother safe home again.”