The Hawthorns | Page 4

were about a certain
lumber-room in the vicarage which was called the "Garret." They were
also the most dreadful and thrilling, for there was something about the
garret which lent itself readily to tales 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