said.
What we call our gargoyle is really just a carved stone head high above the kitchen fireplace. Father thinks the castle chapel was up there, because there are some bits of fluted stonework and a niche that might have been for holy water. The old wall has been white washed so often that the outlines are blurred now.
“The ladder wouldn’t reach, Miss Rose,” said Stephen, “and the Vicar says that’s the head of an angel.”
“Well, it’s got a devilish expression now,” said Rose, “and the Devil was a fallen angel.”
We all stared up at the head and it did look a bit devilish;
its curls had been broken and the bits that were left were horns.
“Perhaps it would be extra potent if you wished on an angel and thought of the Devil,” I suggested, “like witches saying mass backwards.”
“We could haul you up on the drying-rack, Rose,” said Thomas.
The rack was pulled up high with the dyed sheets on it. Rose told Stephen to let it down, but he looked at me to see if I wanted him to.
She frowned and went to the pulley herself. I said:
“If you must fool about with it, let me get the sheets off first.”
So she lowered them and Stephen helped me to drape them over two clothes-horses. Thomas held the rope while she sat on the middle of the rack and tested its strength.
“The rack’ll bear you,” said Stephen.
“I helped make it and it’s very strong. I don’t know about the rope and pulleys.” I went and sat beside her, feeling that if the weight of both of us didn’t break anything it would be safe for her alone. I knew from the look in her eye and her deep flush that it wasn’t any use trying to dissuade her. We bounced about a bit and then she said:
“Good enough. Pull me up.”
Stephen went to help Thomas.
“But not you, Miss Cassandra,” he said, “it’s dangerous.”
“I suppose you don’t mind me breaking my neck,” said Rose.
“Well, I’d rather you didn’t,” said Stephen, “but I know you wouldn’t stop for the asking. Anyway, it’s you who want to wish on the angel, not Miss Cassandra.”
I’d have been glad to wish on anything, but I wouldn’t have gone up there for a pension.
“It’s a devil, not an angel, I tell you,” said Rose. She sat swinging her legs a minute, then looked round at us all.
“Does anyone dare me?”
“No!” we all shouted, which must have been very irritating. She said: “Then I dare myself. Haul me up.”
Thomas and Stephen hauled. When she was about ten feet from the floor, I asked them to stop a minute.
“How does it feel, Rose?” I said.
“Peculiar, but a nice change. Go on, boys.”
They pulled again. The carved head must be over twenty feet up and as she rose higher and higher I had an awful feeling in my stomach—I don’t think I had realized until then how very dangerous it was. When she was within a few feet of the head, Stephen called up: “That’s as high as the rack’ll go.”
She reached up but couldn’t touch the head. Then she called down: “There’s a foothold here—it looks as if there were steps once.”
The next second she had leaned forward, grasped a projecting stone and stepped on to the wall. The lamp on the table didn’t throw much light up there, but it looked terribly dangerous to me.
“Hurry up and get it over,” I called. The backs of my legs as well as my stomach were most uncomfortable.
She only had to take one step up the wall to reach the head.
“He’s no beauty at close quarters,” she said.
“What shall I say to him, Cassandra?”
“Pat him on the head,” I suggested.
“It must be hundreds of years since anyone showed him any affection.”
Rose patted him. I got the lamp and held it high, but it was still shadowy up there. She looked extraordinary, almost as if she were flying up the wall or had been painted on it. I called out:
Heavenly devil or devilish saint, Grant our vish, hear our plaint.
Godsend Castle a godsend craves-and then I got stuck.
“If
What we call our gargoyle is really just a carved stone head high above the kitchen fireplace. Father thinks the castle chapel was up there, because there are some bits of fluted stonework and a niche that might have been for holy water. The old wall has been white washed so often that the outlines are blurred now.
“The ladder wouldn’t reach, Miss Rose,” said Stephen, “and the Vicar says that’s the head of an angel.”
“Well, it’s got a devilish expression now,” said Rose, “and the Devil was a fallen angel.”
We all stared up at the head and it did look a bit devilish;
its curls had been broken and the bits that were left were horns.
“Perhaps it would be extra potent if you wished on an angel and thought of the Devil,” I suggested, “like witches saying mass backwards.”
“We could haul you up on the drying-rack, Rose,” said Thomas.
The rack was pulled up high with the dyed sheets on it. Rose told Stephen to let it down, but he looked at me to see if I wanted him to.
She frowned and went to the pulley herself. I said:
“If you must fool about with it, let me get the sheets off first.”
So she lowered them and Stephen helped me to drape them over two clothes-horses. Thomas held the rope while she sat on the middle of the rack and tested its strength.
“The rack’ll bear you,” said Stephen.
“I helped make it and it’s very strong. I don’t know about the rope and pulleys.” I went and sat beside her, feeling that if the weight of both of us didn’t break anything it would be safe for her alone. I knew from the look in her eye and her deep flush that it wasn’t any use trying to dissuade her. We bounced about a bit and then she said:
“Good enough. Pull me up.”
Stephen went to help Thomas.
“But not you, Miss Cassandra,” he said, “it’s dangerous.”
“I suppose you don’t mind me breaking my neck,” said Rose.
“Well, I’d rather you didn’t,” said Stephen, “but I know you wouldn’t stop for the asking. Anyway, it’s you who want to wish on the angel, not Miss Cassandra.”
I’d have been glad to wish on anything, but I wouldn’t have gone up there for a pension.
“It’s a devil, not an angel, I tell you,” said Rose. She sat swinging her legs a minute, then looked round at us all.
“Does anyone dare me?”
“No!” we all shouted, which must have been very irritating. She said: “Then I dare myself. Haul me up.”
Thomas and Stephen hauled. When she was about ten feet from the floor, I asked them to stop a minute.
“How does it feel, Rose?” I said.
“Peculiar, but a nice change. Go on, boys.”
They pulled again. The carved head must be over twenty feet up and as she rose higher and higher I had an awful feeling in my stomach—I don’t think I had realized until then how very dangerous it was. When she was within a few feet of the head, Stephen called up: “That’s as high as the rack’ll go.”
She reached up but couldn’t touch the head. Then she called down: “There’s a foothold here—it looks as if there were steps once.”
The next second she had leaned forward, grasped a projecting stone and stepped on to the wall. The lamp on the table didn’t throw much light up there, but it looked terribly dangerous to me.
“Hurry up and get it over,” I called. The backs of my legs as well as my stomach were most uncomfortable.
She only had to take one step up the wall to reach the head.
“He’s no beauty at close quarters,” she said.
“What shall I say to him, Cassandra?”
“Pat him on the head,” I suggested.
“It must be hundreds of years since anyone showed him any affection.”
Rose patted him. I got the lamp and held it high, but it was still shadowy up there. She looked extraordinary, almost as if she were flying up the wall or had been painted on it. I called out:
Heavenly devil or devilish saint, Grant our vish, hear our plaint.
Godsend Castle a godsend craves-and then I got stuck.
“If
Similar Books
