They were standing, as I said, not many yards from the end of the wall, and thither the sound seemed to lead them. When they got quite to the corner the tapping had stopped. But the children were not discouraged.
“That’s what fairies do,” said Alix, as if all her life she had lived on intimate terms with the beings she spoke of. “They show you a bit, and then they leave you to find out a bit for yourself. We must poke about now and see what we can find.”
Rafe had already set to work in this way: he was feeling and prodding the big, solid-looking stones which finished off the corner.
“Alix,” he exclaimed, “one of these stones shakes a little; let’s push at it together.”
Yes, there was no doubt that it yielded a little, especially at one side. The children pushed with all their might and main, but for some time an uncertain sort of wobbling was the only result. Rafe stood back a little to recover his breath, and to look at the stone more critically.
“There may be some sort of spring or hinge about it,” he said at last. “Give me the parasol again, Alix.”
He then pressed the point of it firmly along the side of the stone, down the seam of mortar which appeared to join it to its neighbour in the wall. He need not have pressed so hard, for when he got to the middle of the line the stone suddenly yielded, turning inwards so quickly and sharply that Rafe almost fell forward on the parasol, and a square dark hole was open before them.
Alix darted forward and peeped in.
“Rafe,” she cried, “there’s a sort of handle inside; shall I try to turn it?”
She did so without waiting for his answer. It moved quite easily, and then they found that the two or three stones completing the row to the ground, below the one that had already opened, were really only thin slabs joined together and forming a little door. It was like the doors you sometimes see in a library, which on the outside have the appearance of a row of books.
The opening was now clear before them, and they did not hesitate to pass through. They had to stoop a little, but once within, it was easy to stand upright, and even side by side. Alix caught hold of Rafe’s hand.
“Let’s keep fast hold of each other,” she whispered.
For a few steps they advanced in almost total darkness, for the door behind them had noiselessly closed. But this was in the nature of things, and quite according to Alix’s programme.
“I only hope,” she went on, “that we haven’t somehow or other got inside the cave where the pied piper took the children. It might have an opening into England somehow, even though I think Hamelin was in Germany; but, of course, there’s nothing to be frightened at, is there, Rafe?” though her own heart was beating fast.
Rafe’s only answer was a sort of grunt, which expressed doubt, though we will not say fear. Perhaps it was the safest answer he could make under the very peculiar circumstances. But no doubt it was a great relief to both when, before they had time really to ask themselves whether they were frightened or not, a faint light showed itself in front of them, growing stronger and brighter as they stepped on, till at last they could clearly make out in what sort of a place they were.
It was a short, fairly wide passage, seemingly hollowed out of the ground, and built up in the same way as the wall outside into the soil – in fact it was like a small tunnel. The light was of a reddish hue, and soon they saw the reason of this. It came from an inner room, the door of which was half open, where a fire was brightly burning, and by the hearth sat a small figure.
The children looked at each other, then they bent forward to see more. Noiseless though they were, the little person seemed to know they were coming. She lifted her head, and though her face was partly hidden by the hood of the scarlet cloak which covered her almost entirely, they saw that it was that of a very old woman.
“Welcome, my dears,” she said at once. “I have been looking for you this long time.”
Her voice, though strange – in what way it was strange the children could not have told, for it seemed to come from far away, and yet it seemed to them that they had often heard it before – encouraged them to step forward.
“Good-morning,” Alix began, but then she hesitated. Was it morning, or evening, or night, or what? It was difficult to believe that only a few minutes ago they had been standing outside in the warm sunshine, with the soft spring breeze wafting among the fresh green leaves, and the birds singing overhead. That all seemed a dream. “I beg your pardon,” the little girl began again; “I don’t quite know what I should say, but thank you for speaking so kindly. How did you know we were coming?”
“I heard you,” replied the old woman. “I heard your little footsteps up to the gateway yesterday, and I knew you’d come again to-day.”
By this time Rafe had found his tongue too.
“Did you send the wren?” he said.
“Never mind about that just now,” she answered. “I’ve many a messenger; and what’s better still, I’ve quick eyes, and even quicker ears, for all that I’m so very old. I know what you want of me, and if you’re good children you shall not be disappointed. I’ve been getting ready for you in more ways than one.”
“Do you mean you’ve got stories to tell us?” exclaimed the children eagerly.
“Of course,” she replied, with a smile.
“I wouldn’t be much good if I hadn’t stories for you.”
All this time, I must tell you, the old woman had been busily knitting. Her needles made a little silvery click, but there was nothing fidgeting about this sound; now and then her words seemed to go in a sort of time with it. What she was knitting they could not see.
Alix gave a deep sigh of satisfaction.
“How beautiful!” she said; “and may we come every day, and may we stay as long as we like, and will you sometimes invite us to tea, perhaps? and – ”
“Alix!” said Rafe, in a tone of reproval.
“Nay, nay,” said their hostess. “Let her chatter. All in good time, my love,” she added to Alix, and the click of the needles seemed to repeat the words, “All in good time,” like a little song.
Rafe’s eyes, which were sometimes more observant than Alix’s, as his tongue did not use up so much of his attention as hers, had meanwhile been wandering round the room. It can, I think, be best described as a very cosy kitchen, but, unlike many kitchens, it was fresh and not the least too hot. There was a strange, pleasant fragrance in the air that made one think of pine woods. Afterwards the children found out that this came from the fire, for it was entirely of fir-cones, of which a large heap stood neatly stacked in one corner.
Along chain hung down the chimney, with a hook at the end, to which a bright red copper pan was fastened; a little kettle of the same metal stood on the hearthstone, which was snowy white. The walls of the room were of rough stone, redder in colour than the wall outside, or else the firelight made them seem so. Behind where the old woman sat hung a grass-green curtain, closely drawn; there was no lamp or candle, but the firelight was quite enough. A wooden dresser ran along one side, and on its shelves were arranged cups and plates and jugs of the queerest shapes and colours you could imagine. I must tell you more about these later on. There was a settle with a very curious patchwork cushion, but besides this and the rocking-chair on which sat the old woman – I forgot to say that she was sitting on a rocking-chair – the only seats were two little three-legged stools. The middle of the floor was covered by matting of a kind the children had never seen; it was shaded brown, and made you think of a path strewn over with fallen leaves in autumn.
The old woman’s kindly tone encouraged Rafe to speak in his turn.
“May I ask you one or two things,” he said, “before you begin telling us the stories?”
“As many as you like, my boy,” she replied cheerfully. “I don’t say I’ll answer them all – that’s rather a different matter