The Hawthorns | Page 4

of mystery and horror. The very air there was always murky and dim, and no sunlight could steal through the tiny lattice window which came poking out from the roof like a half-shut eyelid. Dust and cobwebs had covered the small leaded panes so thickly that a dusky gloom always dwelt there, and gave an unnatural and rather awful look to the various objects. And what a strange collection it was! Broken spindle-legged chairs, rickety boxes, piles of yellow old music-books and manuscripts, and in one corner an ancient harp in a tarnished gilt frame. Poor deserted dusty old things! They had had their day in the busy world once, but that was over now, and they must stay shut up in the silent garret with no one to see them but the spiders and the children. For these last came there often; treading on tiptoe they climbed the steep stairs and unlatched the creaky door and entered, bold but breathless, and casting anxious glances over their shoulders for strange things that might be lurking in the corners. They never saw any, but still they came half hoping, half fearing; and they had, besides, another object in their visits, which was a great great secret, and only known to Pennie, Nancy, and Ambrose. It was indeed a daring adventure, scarcely to be spoken of above a whisper, and requiring a great deal of courage. This was the secret:
They had one day succeeded in forcing open the rickety lattice, which was fastened by a rusty iron hasp, and looked out. There was a steep red-tiled piece of roof covered with little lumps of lichen which ended in a gutter and a low stone balustrade; there were tall crooked chimneys, and plenty of places where cats and children could walk with pleasure and safety. Soon it was impossible to resist the temptation, and one after the other they squeezed themselves through the narrow window, and wriggled cautiously down the steep roof as far as the balustrade. It scraped the hands and knees a good deal to do this, and there was always the danger of going down too fast, but when once the feet arrived safely against the stone coping, what a proud moment it was!
Standing upright, they surveyed the prospect, and mingled visions of Robinson Crusoe, Christopher Columbus, and Alexander Selkirk floated across their brains. "I am monarch of all I survey," said Pennie on the first occasion. And so she was, for everything seen from that giddy height looked strange and new to her, and it was quite like going into another country.
The old church tower with the chattering jackdaws flying round it, the pear-tree near the nursery window, the row of bee-hives in the kitchen-garden, the distant fields where the cows were no bigger than brown and white specks, all were lifted out of everyday life for a little while. No one had forbidden this performance, because no one knew of it, and the secrecy of it added to the mystery which belonged to everything in the garret.
It was not difficult to keep it hidden from the elders, for they did not go into the lumber-room from year's end to year's end; so the spiders and the children had it all to themselves, and did just as they liked there, and wove their cobwebs and their fancies undisturbed. Now, amongst Pennie's listeners when she told her tales of what went on in the garret after nightfall, Ambrose was the one who heard with the most rapt attention and the most absolute belief. He came next to Nancy in age, and formed the most perfect contrast to her in appearance and character, for Nancy was a robust blue-eyed child, bold and fearless, and Ambrose was a slender little fellow with a freckled skin and a face full of sensitive expression. He was full of fears and fancies, too, poor little Ambrose, and amongst the children he was considered not far short of a coward; it had become a habit to say, "Ambrose is afraid," on the smallest occasions, and if they had been asked who was the bravest amongst them, they would certainly have pointed out Nancy. For Nancy did not mind the dark, Nancy would climb any tree you liked, Nancy could walk along the top of a high narrow wall without being giddy, Nancy had never been known to cry when she was hurt, therefore Nancy was a brave child. Ambrose, on the contrary, did mind all these things very much; his imagination pictured dangers and terrors in them which did not exist for Nancy, and what she performed with a laugh and no sense of fear, was to him often an occasion of trembling apprehension. And then he was so afraid of the dark! That was a