"I should have told you that we had two children then."
"I did not know you had any family," interposed the colonel.
"Yes, we had two then. One of them is now in India, and the other was not long out of heaven.—Well, I was glad when my friend stopped the carriage, and got out with the children, to take them close to the water's edge, and let them feed the swans. I liked better to sit in the carriage alone—an ungrateful creature, in the midst of causes for thankfulness. I did not care for the beautiful things about me; and I was not even pleased that other people should enjoy them. I listlessly watched the well-dressed ladies that passed, and hearkened contemptuously to the drawling way in which they spoke. So bad and proud was I, that I said in my heart, 'Thank God! I am not like them yet!' Then came nursemaids and children; and I did envy the servants, because they had work to do, and health to do it, and wages for it when it was done. The carriage was standing still all this time, you know. Then sickly-looking men passed, with still more sickly-looking wives, some of them leading a child between them. But even their faces told of wages, and the pleasure of an evenings walk in the park. And now I was able to thank God that they had the parks to walk in. Then came tottering by, an old man, apparently of eighty years, leaning on the arm of his grand-daughter, I supposed—a tidy, gentle-looking maiden. As they passed, I heard the old man say: 'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters.' And his quiet face looked as if the fields were yet green to his eyes, and the still waters as pleasant as when he was a little child.
"At last I caught sight of a poor lad, who was walking along very slowly, looking at a gay-coloured handkerchief which he had spread out before him. His clothes were rather ragged, but not so ragged as old. On his head was what we now call a wide-awake. It was very limp and shapeless; but some one that loved him had trimmed it with a bit of blue ribbon, the ends of which hung down on his shoulder. This gave him an odd appearance even at a distance. When he came up and I could see his face, it explained everything. There was a constant smile about his mouth, which in itself was very sweet; but as it had nothing to do with the rest of the countenance, the chief impression it conveyed was of idiotcy. He came near the carriage, and stood there, watching some men who were repairing the fence which divided the road from the footpath. His hair was almost golden, and went waving about in the wind. His eye was very large and clear, and of a bright blue. But it had no meaning in it. He would have been very handsome, had there been mind in his face; but as it was, the very regularity of his unlighted features made the sight a sadder one. His figure was young; but his face might have belonged to a man of sixty.
"He opened his mouth, stuck out his under jaw, and stood staring and grinning at the men. At last one of them stopped to take breath, and, catching sight of the lad, called out:
"'Why, Davy! is that you?'
"'Ya-as, it be,' replied Davy, nodding his head.
"'Why, Davy, it's ever so long since I clapped eyes on ye!' said the man. 'Where ha' ye been?'
"'I 'aint been nowheres, as I knows on.'
"'Well, if ye 'aint been nowheres, what have ye been doing? Flying your kite?'
"Davy shook his head sorrowfully, and at the same time kept on grinning foolishly.
"'I 'aint got no kite; so I can't fly it.'
"'But you likes flyin' kites, don't ye?' said his friend, kindly.
"'Ya-as,' answered Davy, nodding his head, and rubbing his hands, and laughing out. 'Kites is such fun! I wish I'd got un.'
"Then he looked thoughtfully, almost moodily, at the man, and said:
"'Where'syourkite? I likes kites. Kites is friends to me.'
"But by this time the man had turned again to his work, and was busy driving a post into the ground; so he paid no attention to the lad's question."
"Why, Mrs. Bloomfield," interrupted the colonel, "I should just like you to send out with a reconnoitring party, for you seem to see everything and forget nothing."
"You see best and remember best what most interests you, colonel; and besides that, I got a good rebuke to my ingratitude from that poor fellow. So you see I had reason to remember him. I hope I don't tire you, Miss Cathcart."
"Quite the contrary," answered our hostess.
"By this time," resumed Mrs. Bloomfield, "another man had come up. He had a coarse, hard-featured face; and he tried, or pretended to try, to wheel his barrow, which was full of gravel, over Davy's toes. The said toes were sticking quite bare through great holes in an old pair of woman's boots. Then he began to tease him rather roughly. But Davy took all his banter with just the same complacency and mirth with which he had received the kindliness of the other man.
"'How's yer sweetheart, Davy?' he said.
"'Quite well, thank ye,' answered Davy.
"'What's her name?'
"'Ha! ha! ha! I won't tell ye that.'
"'Come now, Davy, tell us her name.'
"'Noa.'
"'Don't be a fool.'
"'I aint a fool. But I won't tell you her name.'
"'I don't believe ye've got e'er a sweetheart. Come now.'
"'I have though.'
"'I don't believe ye.'
"'I have though. I was at church with her last Sunday.'
"Suddenly the man, looking hard at Davy, changed his tone to one of surprise, and exclaimed:
"'Why, boy, ye've got whiskers! Ye hadn't them the last time I see'd ye. Why, yeareset up now! When are ye going to begin to shave? Where's your razors?'
"''Aint begun yet,' replied Davy. 'Shall shave some day, but I 'aint got too much yet.'
"As he said this, he fondled away at his whiskers. They were few in number, but evidently of great value in his eyes. Then he began to stroke his chin, on which there was a little down visible—more like mould in its association with his curious face than anything of more healthy significance. After a few moments' pause, his tormentor began again:
"'Well, I can't think where ye got them whiskers as ye're so fond of. Do ye know where ye got them?'
"Davy took out his pocket-handkerchief, spread it out before him, and stopped grinning.
"'Yaas; to be sure I do,' he said at last.
"'Ye do?' growled the man, half humorously, half scornfully.
"'Yaas,' said Davy, nodding his head again and again.
"'Did ye buy 'em?'
"'Noa,' answered Davy; and the sweetness of the smile which he now smiled was not confined to his mouth, but broke like light, the light of intelligence, over his whole face.
"'Were they gave to ye?' pursued the man, now really curious to hear what he would say.
"'Yaas,' said the poor fellow; and he clapped his hands in a kind of suppressed glee.
"'Why, who gave 'em to ye?'
"Davy looked up in a way I shall never forget, and, pointing up with his finger too, said nothing.
"'What do ye mean?' said the man. 'Who gave ye yer whiskers?'
"Davy pointed up to the sky again; and then, looking up with an earnest expression, which, before you saw it, you would not have thought possible to his face, said,
"'Blessed Father.'
"'Who?' shouted the man.
"'Blessed Father,' Davy repeated, once more pointing upwards.
"'Blessed Father!' returned the man, in a contemptuous tone; 'Blessed Father!—I don't know whothatis. Where does he live? I never heerd onhim.'
"Davy looked at him as if he were sorry for him. Then going closer up to him, he said:
"'Didn't you though? He lives up there'—again pointing to the sky. 'And he is so kind! He gives me lots o' things.'
"'Well!' said the man, 'I wish he'd give me thing's. But you don't look so very rich nayther.'
"'Oh! but he gives me lots o' things; and he's up there, and he gives everybody lots o' things as likes to have 'em.'
"'Well, what's he gave you?'
"'Why, he's gave me some bread this mornin', and a tart last night—he did.'
"And the boy nodded his head, as was his custom, to make his assertion still stronger.
"'But you was sayin' just now, you hadn't got a kite. Why don't he give you one?'
"'He'llgive me one fast 'nuff,' said Davy, grinning again, and rubbing his hands.
"Miss Cathcart, I assure you I could have kissed the boy. And I hope I felt some gratitude to God for giving the poor lad such trust in Him, which, it seemed to me, was better than trusting in the three-per-cents, colonel; for you can draw upon him to no end o' good things. So Davy thought anyhow; and he had got the very thing for the want of which my life was cold and sad, and discontented. Those words,Blessed Father, and that look that turned his vacant face, like Stephen's, into the face of an angel, because he was looking up to the same glory, were in my ears and eyes for days. And they taught me, and comforted me. He was the minister of God's best gifts to me. And to how many more, who can tell? For Davy believed that God did care for his own children.
"Davy sauntered away, and before my friend came back with the children, I had lost sight of him; but at my request we moved on slowly till we should find him again. Nor had we gone far, before I saw him sitting in the middle of a group of little children. He was showing them the pictures on his pocket-handkerchief. I had one sixpence in my purse—it was the last I had, Mr. Smith."
Here, from some impulse or other, Mrs. Bloomfield addressed me.
"But I wasn't so poor but I could borrow, and it was a small price to give for what I had got; and so, as I was not able to leave the carriage, I asked my friend to take it to him, and tell him that Blessed Father had sent him that to buy a kite. The expression of childish glee upon his face, and the devout God bless you, Lady, upon his tongue, were strangely but not incongruously mingled.
"Well, it was my last sixpence then, but here I and my husband are, owing no man anything, and spending a happy Christmas Day, with many thanks to Colonel and Miss Cathcart."
"No, my good Madam," said the colonel; "it is we who owe you the happiest part of our Christmas Day. Is it not, Adela?"
"Yes, papa, it is indeed," answered Adela.
Then, with some hesitation, she added,
"But do you think it was quite fair? It wasyou, Mrs. Bloomfield, who gave the boy the sixpence."
"I only said God sent it," said Mrs. Bloomfield.
"Besides," I interposed, "the boy never doubted it; and I think, after all, with due submission to my niece, he was the best judge."
"I should be only too happy to grant it," she answered, with a sigh. "Things might be all right if one could believe that—thoroughly, I mean."
"At least you will allow," I said, "that this boy was not by any means so miserable as he looked."
"Certainly," she answered, with hearty emphasis. "I think he was much to be envied."
Here I discovered that Percy was asleep on a sofa.
Other talk followed, and the colonel was looking very thoughtful. Tea was brought in, and soon after, our visitors rose to take their leave.
"You are not going already?" said the colonel.
"If you will excuse us," answered the schoolmaster. "We are early birds."
"Well, will you dine with us this day week?"
"With much pleasure," answered both in a breath.
It was clear both that the colonel liked their simple honest company, and that he saw they might do his daughter good; for her face looked very earnest and sweet; and the clearness that precedes rain was evident in the atmosphere of her eyes.
After their departure we soon separated; and I retired to my room full of a new idea, which I thought, if well carried out, might be of still further benefit to the invalid.
But before I went to bed, I had made a rough translation of the following hymn of Luther's, which I have since completed—so far at least as the following is complete. I often find that it helps to keep good thoughts before the mind, to turn them into another shape of words.
From heaven above I come to you,To bring a story good and new:Of goodly news so much I bring—I cannot help it, I must sing.
To you a child is come this morn,A child of holy maiden born;A little babe, so sweet and mild—It is a joy to see the child!
'Tis little Jesus, whom we needUs out of sadness all to lead:He will himself our Saviour be,And from all sinning set us free.
Here come the shepherds, whom we know;Let all of us right gladsome go,To see what God to us hath given—A gift that makes a stable heaven.
Take heed, my heart. Be lowly. SoThou seest him lie in manger low:That is the baby sweet and mild;That is the little Jesus-child.
Ah, Lord! the maker of us all!How hast thou grown so poor and small,That there thou liest on withered grass—The supper of the ox and ass?
Were the world wider many-fold,And decked with gems and cloth of gold,'Twere far too mean and narrow all,To make for Thee a cradle small.
Rough hay, and linen not too fine,The silk and velvet that are thine;Yet, as they were thy kingdom great,Thou liest in them in royal state.
And this, all this, hath pleased Thee,That Thou mightst bring this truth to me:That all earth's good, in one combined,Is nothing to Thy mighty mind.
Ah, little Jesus! lay thy headDown in a soft, white, little bed,That waits Thee in this heart of mine,And then this heart is always Thine.
Such gladness in my heart would makeMe dance and sing for Thy sweet sake.Glory to God in highest heaven,For He his son to us hath given!
The new doctor.
Next forenoon, wishing to have a little private talk with my friend, I went to his room, and found him busy writing to Dr. Wade. He consulted me on the contents of the letter, and I was heartily pleased with the kind way in which he communicated to the old gentleman the resolution he had come to, of trying whether another medical man might not be more fortunate in his attempt to treat the illness of his daughter.
"I fear Dr. Wade will be offended, say what I like," said he.
"It is quite possible to be too much afraid of giving offence," I said; "But nothing can be more gentle and friendly than the way in which you have communicated the necessity."
"Well, it is a great comfort you think so. Will you go with me to call on Mr. Armstrong?"
"With much pleasure," I answered; and we set out at once.
Shown into the doctor's dining-room, I took a glance at the books lying about. I always take advantage of such an opportunity of gaining immediate insight into character. Let me see a man's book-shelves, especially if they are not extensive, and I fancy I know at once, in some measure, what sort of a man the owner is. One small bookcase in a recess of the room seemed to contain all the non-professional library of Mr. Armstrong. I am not going to say here what books they were, or what books I like to see; but I was greatly encouraged by the consultation of the auguries afforded by the backs of these. I was still busy with them, when the door opened, and the doctor entered. He was the same man whom I had seen in church looking at Adela. He advanced in a frank manly way to the colonel, and welcomed him by name, though I believe no introduction had ever passed between them. Then the colonel introduced me, and we were soon chatting very comfortably. In his manner, I was glad to find that there was nothing of the professional. I hate the professional. I was delighted to observe, too, that what showed at a distance as a broad honest country face, revealed, on a nearer view, lines of remarkable strength and purity.
"My daughter is very far from well," said the colonel, in answer to a general inquiry.
"So I have been sorry to understand," the doctor rejoined. "Indeed, it is only too clear from her countenance."
"I want you to come and see if you can do her any good."
"Is not Dr. Wade attending her?"
"I have already informed him that I meant to request your advice."
"I shall be most happy to be of any service; but—might I suggest the most likely means of enabling me to judge whether I can be useful or not?"
"Most certainly."
"Then will you give me the opportunity of seeing her in a non-professional way first? I presume, from the fact that she is able to go to church, that she can be seen at home without the formality of an express visit?"
"Certainly," replied the colonel, heartily. "Do me the favour to dine with us this evening, and, as far as that can go you will see her—to considerable disadvantage, I fear," he concluded, smiling sadly.
"Thank you; thank you. If in my power, I shall not fail you. But you must leave a margin for professional contingencies."
"Of course. That is understood."
I had been watching Mr. Armstrong during this brief conversation, and the favourable impressions I had already received of him were deepened. His fine manly vigour, and the simple honesty of his countenance, were such as became a healer of men. It seemed altogether more likely that health might flow from such a source, than from thepudgey, flabby figure of snuff-taking Dr. Wade, whose face had no expression except a professional one. Mr. Armstrong's eyes looked you full in the face, as if he was determined to understand you if he could; and there seemed to me, with my foolish way of seeing signs everywhere, something of tenderness about the droop of those long eyelashes, so that his interpretation was not likely to fail from lack of sympathy. Then there was the firm-set mouth of his brother the curate, and a forehead as broad as his, if not so high or so full of modelling. When we had taken our leave, I said to the colonel,
"If that man's opportunity has been equal to his qualification, I think we may have great hopes of his success in encountering this unknown disease of poor Adela."
"God grant it!" was all my friend's reply.
When he informed Adela that he expected Mr. Henry Armstrong to dinner, she looked at him with a surprised expression, as much as to say—"Surely you do not mean to give me into his hands!" but she only said:
"Very well, papa."
So Mr. Armstrong came, and made himself very agreeable at dinner, talking upon all sorts of subjects, and never letting drop a single word to remind Adela that she was in the presence of a medical man. Nor did he seem to take any notice of her more than was required by ordinary politeness; but behavior without speciality of any sort, he drew his judgments from her general manner, and such glances as fell naturally to his share, of those that must pass between all the persons making up a small dinner-company. This enabled him to see her as she really was, for she remained quite at such ease as her indisposition would permit. He drank no wine at dinner, and only one glass after; and then asked the host if he might go to the drawing-room.
"And will you oblige me by coming with me, Mr. Smith? I can see that you are at home here."
Of course the colonel consented, and I was at his service. Adela rose from her couch when we entered the room. Mr. Armstrong went up to her gently, and said:
"Are you able to sing something, Miss Cathcart? I have heard of your singing."
"I fear not," she answered; "I have not sung for months."
"That is a pity. You must lose something by letting yourself get out of practice. May I play something to you, then?"
She gave him a quick glance that indicated some surprise, and said:
"If you please. It will give me pleasure."
"May I look at your music first?"
"Certainly."
He turned over all her loose music from beginning to end. Then without a word seated himself at the grand piano.
Whether he extemporized or played from memory, I, as ignorant of music as of all other accomplishments, could not tell, but even to stupid me, what he did play spoke. I assure my readers that I hardly know a term in the whole musical vocabulary; and yet I am tempted to try to describe what this music was like.
In the beginning, I heard nothing but a slow sameness, of which I was soon weary. There was nothing like an air of any kind in it. It seemed as if only his fingers were playing, and his mind had nothing to do with it. It oppressed me with a sense of the common-place, which, of all things, I hate. At length, into the midst of it, came a few notes, like the first chirp of a sleepy bird trying to sing; only the attempt was half a wail, which died away, and came again. Over and over again came these few sad notes, increasing in number, fainting, despairing, and reviving again; till at last, with a fluttering of agonized wings, as of a soul struggling up out of the purgatorial smoke, the music-bird sprang aloft, and broke into a wild but unsure jubilation. Then, as if in the exuberance of its rejoicing it had broken some law of the kingdom of harmony, it sank, plumb-down, into the purifying fires again; where the old wailing, and the old struggle began, but with increased vehemence and aspiration. By degrees, the surrounding confusion and distress melted away into forms of harmony, which sustained the mounting cry of longing and prayer. Then all the cry vanished in a jubilant praise. Stronger and broader grew the fundamental harmony, and bore aloft the thanksgiving; which, at length, exhausted by its own utterance, sank peacefully, like a summer sunset, into a grey twilight of calm, with the songs of the summer birds dropping asleep one by one; till, at last, only one was left to sing the sweetest prayer for all, before he, too, tucked his head under his wing, and yielded to the restoring silence.
Then followed a pause. I glanced at Adela. She was quietly weeping.
But he did not leave the instrument yet. A few notes, as of the first distress, awoke; and then a fine manly voice arose, singing the following song, accompanied by something like the same music he had already played. It was the same feelings put into words; or, at least, something like the same feelings, for I am a poor interpreter of music:
Rejoice, said the sun, I will make thee gayWith glory, and gladness, and holiday;I am dumb, O man, and I need thy voice.But man would not rejoice.
Rejoice in thyself said he, O sun;For thou thy daily course dost run.In thy lofty place, rejoice if thou can:For me, I am only a man.
Rejoice, said the wind, I am free and strong;I will wake in thy heart an ancient song.In the bowing woods—hark! hear my voice!But man would not rejoice.
Rejoice, O wind, in thy strength, said he,For thou fulfillest thy destiny.Shake the trees, and the faint flowers fan:For me, I am only a man.
I am here, said the night, with moon and star;The sun and the wind are gone afar;I am here with rest and dreams of choice.But man would not rejoice.
For he said—What is rest to me, I pray,Who have done no labour all the day?He only should dream who has truth behind.Alas! for me and my kind!
Then a voice, that came not from moon nor star,From the sun, nor the roving wind afar,Said, Man, I am with thee—rejoice, rejoice!And man said, I will rejoice!
"A wonderful physician this!" thought I to myself. "He must be a follower of some of the old mystics of the profession, counting harmony and health all one."
He sat still, for a few moments, before the instrument, perhaps to compose his countenance, and then rose and turned to the company.
The colonel and Percy had entered by this time. The traces of tears were evident on Adela's face, and Percy was eyeing first her and then Armstrong, with some signs of disquietude. Even during dinner it had been clear to me that Percy did not like the doctor, and now he was as evidently jealous of him.
A little general conversation ensued, and the doctor took his leave. The colonel followed him to the door. I would gladly have done so too, but I remained in the drawing-room. All that passed between them was:
"Will you oblige me by calling on Sunday morning, half an hour before church-time, colonel?"
"With pleasure."
"Will you come with me, Smith?" asked my friend, after informing me of the arrangement.
"Don't you think I might be in the way?"
"Not at all. I am getting old and stupid. I should like you to come and take care of me. He won't do Adela any good, I fear."
"Why do you think so?"
"He has a depressing effect on her already. She is sure not to like him. She was crying when I came into the room after dinner."
"Tears are not grief," I answered; "nor only the signs of grief, when they do indicate its presence. They are a relief to it as well. But I cannot help thinking there was some pleasure mingled with those tears, for he had been playing very delightfully. He must be a very gifted man."
"I don't know anything about that. You know I have no ear for music.—That won't cure my child anyhow."
"I don't know," I answered. "It may help."
"Do you mean to say he thinks to cure her by playing the piano to her?If he thinks to come here and do that, he is mistaken."
"You forget, Cathcart, that I have had no more conversation with him than yourself. But surely you have seen no reason to quarrel with him already."
"No, no, my dear fellow. I do believe I am getting a crusty old curmudgeon. I can't bear to see Adela like this."
"Well, I confess, I have hopes from the new doctor; but we will see what he says on Sunday."
"Why should we not have called to-morrow?"
"I can't answer that. I presume he wants time to think about the case."
"And meantime he may break his neck over some gate that he can't or won't open."
"Well, I should be sorry."
"But what's to become of us then?"
"Ah! you allow that? Then you do expect something of him?"
"To be sure I do, only I am afraid of making a fool of myself, and that sets me grumbling at him, I suppose."
Next day was Saturday; and Mrs. Cathcart, Percy's mother, was expected in the evening. I had a long walk in the morning, and after that remained in my own room till dinner time. I confess I was prejudiced against her; and just because I was prejudiced, I resolved to do all I could to like her, especially as it was Christmas-tide. Not that one time is not as good as another for loving your neighbour, but if ever one is reminded of the duty, it is then. I schooled myself all I could, and went into the drawing-room like a boy trying to be good; as a means to which end, I put on as pleasant a face as would come. But my good resolutions were sorely tried.
* * * * *
These asterisks indicate the obliteration of the personal description which I had given of her. Though true, it was ill-natured. And besides, so indefinite is all description of this kind, that it is quite possible it might be exactly like some woman to whom I am utterly unworthy to hold a candle. So I won't tell what her features were like. I will only say, that I am certain her late husband must have considered her a very fine woman; and that I had an indescribable sensation in the calves of my legs when I came near her. But then, although I believe I am considered a good-natured man, I confess to prejudices (which I commonly refuse to act upon), and to profound dislikes, especially to certain sorts of women, which I can no more help feeling, than I can help feeling the misery that permeates the joints of my jaws when I chance to bite into a sour apple. So my opinions about such women go for little or nothing.
When I entered the drawing-room, I saw at once that she had established herself as protectress of Adela, and possibly as mistress of the house. She leaned back in her chair at a considerable angle, but without bending her spine, and her hands lay folded in her lap. She made me a bow with her neck, without in the least altering the angle of her position, while I made her one of my most profound obeisances. A few common-places passed between us, and then her brother-in-law leading her down to dinner, the evening passed by with politeness on both sides. Adela did not appear to heed her presence one way or the other. But then of late she had been very inexpressive.
Percy seemed to keep out of his mother's way as much as possible. How he amused himself, I cannot imagine.
Next morning we went to call on the doctor, on our way to church.
"Well, Mr. Armstrong, what do you think of my daughter?" asked the colonel.
"I do not think she is in a very bad way. Has she had any disappointment that you know of?"
"None whatever."
"Ah—I have seen such a case before. There are a good many of them amongst girls at her age. It is as if, without any disease, life were gradually withdrawn itself—ebbing back as it were to its source. Whether this has a physical or a psychological cause, it is impossible to tell. In her case, I think the later, if indeed it have not a deeper cause; that is, if I'm right in my hypothesis. A few days will show me this; and if I am wrong, I will then make a closer examination of her case. At present it is desirable that I should not annoy her in any such way. Now for the practical: my conviction is that the best thing that can be done for her is, to interest her in something, if possible—no matter what it is. Does she take pleasure in anything?"
"She used to be very fond of music. But of late I have not heard her touch the piano."
"May I be allowed to speak?" I asked.
"Most certainly," said both at once.
"I have had a little talk with Miss Cathcart, and I am entirely of Mr. Armstrong's opinion," I said. "And with his permission—I am pretty sure of my old friend's concurrence—I will tell you a plan I have been thinking of. You remember, colonel, how she was more interested in the anecdotes our friend the Bloomfields told the other evening, than she has been in anything else, since I came. It seems to me that the interest she cannot find for herself, we might be able to provide for her, by telling her stories; the course of which everyone should be at liberty to interrupt, for the introduction of any remark whatever. If we once got her interested in anything, it seems to me, as Mr. Armstrong has already hinted, that the tide of life would begin to flow again. She would eat better, and sleep better, and speculate less, and think less about herself—notofherself—I don't mean that, colonel; for no one could well think less of herself than she does. And if we could amuse her in that way for a week or two, I think it would give a fair chance to any physical remedies Mr. Armstrong might think proper to try, for they act most rapidly on a system in movement. It would be beginning from the inside, would it not?"
"A capital plan," said the doctor, who had been listening with marked approbation; "and I know one who I am sure would help. For my part, I never told a story in my life, but I am willing to try—after awhile, that is. My brother, however, would, I know, be delighted to lend his aid to such a scheme, if colonel Cathcart would be so good as to include him in the conspiracy. It is his duty as well as mine; for she is one of his flock. And he can tell a tale, real or fictitious, better than any one I know."
"There can be no harm in trying it, gentlemen—with kindest thanks to you for your interest in my poor child," said the colonel. "I confess I have not much hope from such a plan, but—"
"You must not let her know that the thing is got up for her," interrupted the doctor.
"Certainly not. You must all come and dine with us, any day you like. I will call on your brother to-morrow."
"This Christmas-tide gives good opportunity for such a scheme," I said. "It will fall in well with all the festivities; and I am quite willing to open the entertainment with a funny kind of fairy-tale, which has been growing in my brain for some time."
"Capital!" said Mr. Armstrong. "We must have all sorts."
"Then shall it be Monday at six—that is, to-morrow?" asked the colonel. "Your brother won't mind a short invitation?"
"Certainly not. Ask him to-day. But I would suggest five, if I might, to give us more time afterwards."
"Very well. Let it be five. And now we will go to church."
The ends of the old oak pews next the chancel were curiously carved. One had a ladder and a hammer and nails on it. Another a number of round flat things, and when you counted them you found that there were thirty. Another had a curious thing—I could not tell what, till one day I met an old woman carrying just such a bag. On another was a sponge on the point of a spear. There were more of such carvings; but these I could see from where I sat. And all the sermon was a persuading of the people that God really loved them, without anyiforbut.
Adela was very attentive to the clergy man; but I could see her glance wander now and then from his face to that of his brother, who was in the same place he had occupied on Christmas-day. The expression of her aunt's face was judicial.
When we came out of church, the doctor shook hands with me and said:
"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Smith?"
"Most gladly," I answered. "Your time is precious: I will walk your way."
"Thank you.—I like your plan heartily. But to tell the truth, I fancy it is more a case for my brother than for me. But that may come about all in good time, especially as she will now have an opportunity of knowing him. He is the best fellow in the world. And his wife is as good as he is. But—I feel I may say to you what I could not well say to the colonel—I suspect the cause of her illness is rather a spiritual one. She has evidently a strong mental constitution; and this strong frame, so to speak, has been fed upon slops; and an atrophy is the consequence. My hope in your plan is, partly, that it may furnish a better mental table for her, for the time, and set her foraging in new direction for the future."
"But how could you tell that from the very little conversation you had with her?"
"It was not the conversation only—I watched everything about her; and interpreted it by what I know about women. I believe that many of them go into a consumption just from discontent—the righteous discontent of a soul which is meant to sit at the Father's table, and so cannot content itself with the husks which the swine eat. The theological nourishment which is offered them is generally no better than husks. They cannot live upon it, and so die and go home to their Father. And without good spiritual food to keep the spiritual senses healthy and true, they cannot see the thing's about them as they really are. They cannot find interest in them, because they cannot find theirownplace amoungst them. There was one thing though that confirmed me in this idea about Miss Cathcart. I looked over her music on purpose, and I did not find one song that rose above the level of the drawing-room, or one piece of music that had any deep feeling or any thought in it. Of course I judged by the composers."
"You astonish me by the truth and rapidity of your judgements. But how did you, who like myself are a bachelor, come to know so much about the minds of women?"
"I believe in part by reading Milton, and learning from him a certain high notion about myself and my own duty. None but a pure man can understand women—I mean the true womanhood that is in them. But more than to Milton am I indebted to that brother of mine you heard preach to-day. If ever God made a good man, he is one. He will tell you himself that he knows what evil is. He drank of the cup, found it full of thirst and bitterness; cast it from him, and turning to the fountain of life, kneeled and drank, and rose up a gracious giant. I say the last—not he. But this brother kept me out of the mire in which he soiled his own garments, though, thank God! they are clean enough now. Forgive my enthusiasm, Mr. Smith, about my brother. He is worthy of it."
I felt the wind cold to my weak eyes, and did not answer for some time, lest he should draw unfair conclusions.
"You should get him to tell you his story. It is well worth hearing; and as I see we shall be friends all, I would rather you heard it from his own mouth."
"I sincerely hope I may call that man my friend, some day."
"You may do so already. He was greatly taken with you on the journey down."
"A mutual attraction then, I am happy to think. Good-bye, I am glad you like my plan."
"I think it excellent. Anything hearty will do her good. Isn't there any young man to fall in love with her?"
"I don't know of any at present."
"Only thebestthing will make her well; but all true things tend to healing."
"But how is it that you have such notions—so different from those of the mass of your professional brethren?"
"Oh!" said he, laughing, "if you really want an answer, be it known to all men that I am a student of Van Helmont."
He turned away, laughing; and I, knowing nothing of Van Helmont, could not tell whether he was in jest or in earnest.
At dinner some remark was made about the sermon, I think by our host.
"You don't call that the gospel!" said Mrs. Cathcart, with a smile.
"Why, what do you call it, Jane?"
"I don't know that I am bound to put a name upon it. I should, however, call it pantheism."
"Might I ask you, madam, what you understand bypantheism?"
"Oh! neology, and all that sort of thing."
"And neology is—?"
"Really, Mr. Smith, a dinner-table is not the most suitable place in the world for theological discussion."
"I quite agree with you, madam," I responded, astonished at my own boldness.—I was not quite so much afraid of her after this, although I had an instinctive sense that she did not at all like me. But Percy was delighted to see his mother discomfited, and laughed into his plate. She regarded him with lurid eyes for a moment, and then took refuge in her plate in turn. The colonel was too polite to make any remark at the time, but when he and I were alone, he said:
"Smith, I didn't expect it of you. Bravo, my boy!"
And I, John Smith, felt myself a hero.
The light princess.
Five o'clock, anxiously expected by me, came, and with it the announcement of dinner. I think those of us who were in the secret would have hurried over it, but with Beeves hanging upon our wheels, we could not. However, at length we were all in the drawing-room, the ladies of the house evidently surprised that we had come up stairs so soon. Besides the curate, with his wife and brother, our party comprised our old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield, whose previous engagement had been advanced by a few days.
When we were all seated, I began, as if it were quite a private suggestion of my own:
"Adela, if you and our friends have no objection, I will read you a story I have just scribbled off."
"I shall be delighted, uncle."
This was a stronger expression of content than I had yet heard her use, and I felt flattered accordingly.
"This is Christmas-time, you know, and that is just the time for story-telling," I added.
"I trust it is a story suitable to the season," said Mrs. Cathcart, smiling.
"Yes, very," I said; "for it is a child's story—a fairy tale, namely; though I confess I think it fitter for grown than for young children. I hope it is funny, though. I think it is."
"So you approve of fairy-tales for children, Mr. Smith?"
"Not for children alone, madam; for everybody that can relish them."
"But not at a sacred time like this?"
And again she smiled an insinuating smile.
"If I thought God did not approve of fairy-tales, I would never read, not to say write one, Sunday or Saturday. Would you, madam?"
"I never do."
"I feared not. But I must begin, notwithstanding."
The story, as I now give it, is not exactly as I read it then, because, of course, I was more anxious that it should be correct when I prepared it for the press, than when I merely read it before a few friends.
"Once upon a time," I began; but I was unexpectedly interrupted by the clergyman, who said, addressing our host:
"Will you allow me, Colonel Cathcart, to be Master of the Ceremonies for the evening?"
"Certainly, Mr. Armstrong."
"Then I will alter the arrangement of the party. Here, Henry—don't get up, Miss Cathcart—we'll just lift Miss Cathcart's couch to this corner by the fire.—Lie still, please. Now, Mr. Smith, you sit here in the middle. Now, Mrs. Cathcart, here is an easy chair for you. With my commanding officer I will not interfere. But having such a jolly fire it was a pity not to get the good of it. Mr. Bloomfield, here is room for you and Mrs. Bloomfield."
"Excellently arranged," said our host. "I will sit by you, Mr.Armstrong. Percy, won't you come and join the circle?"
"No, thank you, uncle," answered Percy from a couch, "I am more comfortable here."
"Now, Lizzie," said the curate to his wife, "you sit on this stool by me.—Too near the fire? No?—Very well.—Harry, put the bottle of water near Mr. Smith. A fellow-feeling for another fellow—you see, Mr. Smith. Now we're all right, I think; that is, if Mrs. Cathcart is comfortable."
"Thanks. Quite."
"Then we may begin. Now, Mr. Smith.—One word more: anybody may speak that likes. Now, then."
So I did begin—
"Title: THE LIGHT PRINCESS.
"Second Title: A FAIRY-TALE WITHOUT FAIRIES."
"Author: JOHN SMITH, Gentleman.
"Motto:—'Your Servant, Goody Gravity.'
"From—SIR CHARLES GRANDISON."
"I must be very stupid, I fear, Mr. Smith; but to tell the truth,Ican't make head or tail of it," said Mrs. Cathcart.
"Give me leave, madam," said I; "that is my office. Allow me, and I hope to make both head and tail of it for you. But let me give you first a mere general, and indeed a more applicable motto for my story. It is this—from no worse authority than John Milton:
'Great bards besideIn sage and solemn times have sungOf turneys and of trophies hung;Of forests and enchantments drear,Where more is meant than meets the ear.'
"Milton here refers to Spencer in particular, most likely. But what distinguishes the true bard in such work is, thatmore is meant than meets the ear; and although I am no bard, I should scorn to write anything that only spoke to theear, which signifies the surface understanding."
General silence followed, and I went on.
"Once upon a time, so long ago, that I have quite forgotten the date, there lived a king and queen who had no children.
"And the king said to himself: 'All the queens of my acquaintance have children, some three, some seven, an some as many as twelve; and my queen has not one. I feel ill-used.' So he made up his mind to be cross with his wife about it. But she bore it all like a good patient queen as she was. Then the king grew very cross indeed. But the queen pretended to take it all as a joke, and a very good one, too.
"'Why don't you have any daughters, at least?' said he, 'I don't say sons; that might be too much to expect.'
"'I am sure, dear king, I am very sorry,' said the queen.
"'So you ought to be,' retorted the king; 'you are not going to make a virtue ofthat, surely.'
"But he was not an ill-tempered king; and, in any matter of less moment, he would have let the queen have her own way, with all his heart. This, however, was an affair of state.
"The queen smiled.
"'You must have patience with a lady, you know, dear king,' said she.
"She was, indeed, a very nice queen, and heartily sorry that she could not oblige the king immediately.
"The king tried to have patience, but he succeeded very badly. It was more than he deserved, therefore, when, at last, the queen gave him a daughter—as lovely a little princess as ever cried."
* * * * *
"The day drew near when the infant must be christened. The king wrote all the invitations with his own hand. Of course somebody was forgotten.
"Now, it does not generally matter if somebody is forgotten, but you must mind who. Unfortunately, the king forgot without intending it; and the chance fell upon the Princess Makemnoit, which was awkward. For the Princess was the king's own sister; and he ought not to have forgotten her. But she had made herself so disagreeable to the old king, their father, that he had forgot her in making his will; and so it was no wonder that her brother forgot her in writing his invitations. But poor relations don't do anything to keep you in mind of them. Why don't they? The king could not see into the garret she lived in, could he? She was a sour, spiteful creature. The wrinkles of contempt crossed the wrinkles of peevishness, and made her face as full of wrinkles as a pat of butter. If ever a king could be justified in forgetting anybody, this king was justified in forgetting his sister, even at a christening. And then she was so disgracefully poor! She looked very odd, too. Her forehead was as large as all the rest of her face, and projected over it like a precipice. When she was angry, her little eyes flashed blue. When she hated anybody, they shone yellow and green. What they looked like when she loved anybody, I do not know; for I never heard of her loving anybody but herself, and I do not think she could have managed that, if she had not somehow got used to herself. But what made it highly imprudent in the king to forget her, was—that she was awfully clever. In fact, she was a witch; and when she bewitched anybody, he very soon had enough of it; for she beat all the wicked fairies in wickedness, and all the clever ones in cleverness. She despised all the modes we read of in history, in which offended fairies and witches have taken their revenges; and therefore, after waiting and waiting in vain for an invitation, she made up her mind at last to go without one, and make the whole family miserable, like a princess and a philosopher.
"She put on her best gown, went to the palace, was kindly received by the happy monarch, who forgot that he had forgotten her, and took her place in the procession to the royal chapel. When they were all gathered about the font, she contrived to get next to it, and throw something into the water. She maintained then a very respectful demeanour till the water was applied to the child's face. But at that moment she turned round in her place three times, and muttered the following words, loud enough for those beside her to hear:
'Light of spirit, by my charms,Light of body, every part,Never weary human arms—Only crush thy parents' heart!'
"They all thought she had lost her wits, and was repeating some foolish nursery rhyme; but a shudder went through the whole of them. The baby, on the contrary, began to laugh and crow; while the nurse gave a start and a smothered cry, for she thought she was struck with paralysis: she could not feel the baby in her arms. But she clasped it tight, and said nothing.
"The mischief was done."
Here I came to a pause, for I found the reading somewhat nervous work, and had to make application to the water-bottle.
"Bravo! Mr. Smith," cried the clergyman. "A good beginning, I am sure; for I cannot see what you are driving at."
"I think I do," said Henry. "Don't you, Lizzie?"
"No, I don't," answered Mrs. Armstrong.
"One thing," said Mrs. Cathcart with a smile, not a very sweet one, but still a smile, "one thing, I must object to. That is, introducing church ceremonies into a fairy-tale."
"Why, Mrs. Cathcart," answered the clergyman, taking up the cudgels for me, "do you suppose the church to be such a cross-grained old lady, that she will not allow her children to take a few gentle liberties with their mother? She's able to stand that surely. They won't love her the less for that."
"Besides," I ventured to say, "if both church and fairy-tale belong to humanity, they may occasionally cross circles, without injury to either. They must have something in common. There is theFairy Queen, and thePilgrim's Progress, you know, Mrs. Cathcart. I can fancy the pope even telling his nephews a fairy-tale."
"Ah, the pope! I daresay."
"And not the archbishop?"
"I don't think your reasoning quite correct, Mr. Smith," said the clergyman; "and I think moreover there is a real objection to that scene. It is, that no such charm could have had any effect where holy water was employed as the medium. In fact I doubt if the wickedness could have been wrought in a chapel at all."
"I submit," I said. "You are right. I hold up the four paws of my mind, and crave indulgence."
"In the name of the church, having vindicated her power over evil incantations, I permit you to proceed," said Mr. Armstrong, his black eyes twinkling with fun.
Mrs. Cathcart smiled, and shook her head.
* * * * *
"Her atrocious aunt had deprived the child of all her gravity. If you ask me how this was effected, I answer: In the easiest way in the world. She had only to destroy gravitation. And the princess was a philosopher, and knew all theinsandoutsof the laws of gravitation as well as theinsandoutsof her boot-lace. And being a witch as well, she could abrogate those laws in a moment; or at least so clog their wheels and rust their bearings, that they would not work at all. But we have more to do with what followed, than with how it was done.
"The first awkwardness that resulted from this unhappy privation was, that the moment the nurse began to float the baby up and down, she flew from her arms towards the ceiling. Happily, the resistance of the air brought her ascending career to a close within a foot of it. There she remained, horizontal as when she left her nurse's arms, kicking and laughing amazingly. The nurse in terror flew to the bell, and begged the footman who answered it, to bring up the house-steps directly. Trembling in every limb, she climbed upon the steps, and had to stand upon the very top, and reach up, before she could catch the floating tail of the baby's long clothes.
"When the strange fact came to be known, there was a terrible commotion in the palace. The occasion of its discovery by the king was naturally a repetition of the nurse's experience. Astonished that he felt no weight when the child was laid in his arms, he began to wave her up and—not down; for she slowly ascended to the ceiling as before, and there remained floating in perfect comfort and satisfaction, as was testified by her peals of tiny laughter. The king stood staring up in speechless amazement, and trembled so that his beard shook like grass in the wind. At last, turning to the queen, who was just as horror-struck as himself, he said, gasping, staring, and stammering:
"'Shecan'tbe ours, queen!'
"Now the queen was much cleverer than the king, and had begun already to suspect that 'this effect defective came by cause.'
"'I am sure she is ours,' answered she. 'But we ought to have taken better care of her at the christening. People who were never invited ought not to have been present.'
"'Oh, ho!' said the king, tapping his forehead with his forefinger, 'I have it all. I've found her out. Don't you see it, queen? Princess Makemnoit has bewitched her.'
"'That's just what I say,' answered the queen.
"'I beg your pardon, my love; I did not hear you. John! bring the steps I get on my throne with.'
"For he was a little king with a great throne, like many other kings.
"The throne-steps were brought, and set upon the dining-table, and John got upon the top of them. But he could not reach the little princess, who lay like a baby-laughter-cloud in the air, exploding continuously.
"'Take the tongs, John,' said his majesty; and getting up on the table, he handed them to him.
"John could reach the baby now, and the little princess was handed down by the tongs.
* * * * *
"One fine summer day, a month after these her first adventures, during which time she had been very carefully watched, the princess was lying on the bed in the queen's own chamber, fast asleep. One of the windows was open, for it was noon, and the day so sultry that the little girl was wrapped in nothing less etherial than slumber itself. The queen came into the room, and not observing that the baby was on the bed, opened another window. A frolicsome fairy wind which had been watching for a chance of mischief, rushed in at the one window, and taking its way over the bed where the child was lying, caught her up, and rolling and floating her along like a piece of flue, or a dandelion-seed, carried her with it through the opposite window, and away. The queen went down stairs, quite ignorant of the loss she had herself occasioned. When the nurse returned, she supposed that her majesty had carried her off, and, dreading a scolding, delayed making inquiry about her. But hearing nothing, she grew uneasy, and went at length to the queen's boudoir, where she found her majesty.
"'Please your majesty, shall I take the baby?' said she.
"'Where is she?' asked the queen.
"'Please forgive me. I know it was wrong.'
"'What do you mean?' said the queen, looking grave.
"'Oh! don't frighten me, your majesty!' exclaimed the nurse, clapping her hands.
"The queen saw that something was amiss, and fell down in a faint. The nurse rushed about the palace, screaming, 'My baby! my baby!'
"Every one ran to the queen's room. But the queen could give no orders. They soon found out, however, that the princess was missing, and in a moment the palace was like a bee-hive in a garden. But in a minute more the queen was brought to herself by a great shout and a clapping of hands. They had found the princess fast asleep under a rose-bush, to which the elvish little wind-puff had carried her, finishing its mischief by shaking a shower of red rose-leaves all over the little white sleeper. Startled by the noise the servants made, she woke; and furious with glee, scattered the rose-leaves in all directions, like a shower of spray in the sunset.
"She was watched more carefully after this, no doubt; yet it would be endless to relate all the odd incidents resulting from this peculiarity of the young princess. But there never was a baby in a house, not to say a palace, that kept a household in such constant good humour, at least below stairs. If it was not easy for her nurses to hold her, certainly she did not make their arms ache. And she was so nice to play at ball with! There was positively no danger of letting her fall. You might throw her down, or knock her down, or push her down, but you couldn'tlether down. It is true, you might let her fly into the fire or the coal-hole, or through the window; but none of these accidents had happened as yet. If you heard peals of laughter resounding from some unknown region, you might be sure enough of the cause. Going down into the kitchen, orthe room, you would find Jane and Thomas, and Robert and Susan, all and sum, playing at ball with the little princess. She was the ball herself, and did not enjoy it the less for that. Away she went, flying from one to another, screeching with laughter. And the servants loved the ball itself better even than the game. But they had to take care how they threw her, for if she received an upward direction, she would never come down without being fetched.
* * * * *
"But above stairs it was different. One day, for instance, after breakfast, the king went into his counting-house, and counted out his money. The operation gave him no pleasure.
"'To think,' said he to himself, 'that every one of these gold sovereigns weighs a quarter of an ounce, and my real, live, flesh-and-blood princess weighs nothing at all!'
"And he hated his gold sovereigns, as they lay with a broad smile of self-satisfaction all over their yellow faces.
"The queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey. But at the second mouthful, she burst out crying, and could not swallow it. The king heard her sobbing. Glad of anybody, but especially of his queen, to quarrel with, he clashed his gold sovereigns into his money-box, clapped his crown on his head, and rushed into the parlour.
"'What is all this about?' exclaimed he. 'What are you crying for, queen?'
"'I can't eat it,' said the queen, looking ruefully at the honey-pot.
"'No wonder!' retorted the king. 'You've just eaten your breakfast—two turkey eggs, and three anchovies.'
"'Oh! that's not it!' sobbed her majesty. 'It's my child, my child!'
"'Well, what's the matter with your child? She's neither up the chimney nor down the draw-well. Just hear her laughing.' Yet the king could not help a sigh, which he tried to turn into a cough, saying,
"'It is a good thing to be light-hearted, I am sure, whether she be ours or not.'
"'It is a bad thing to be light-headed,' answered the queen, looking with prophetic soul, far into the future.
"''Tis a good thing to be light-handed,' said the king.
"''Tis a bad thing to be light-fingered,' answered the queen.
"''Tis a good thing to be light-footed,' said the king.
"''Tis a bad thing,' began the queen; but the king interrupted her.
"'In fact,' said he, with the tone of one who concludes an argument in which he has had only imaginary opponents, and in which, therefore, he has come off triumphant—'in fact, it is a good thing altogether to be light-bodied.'
"'But it is a bad thing altogether to be light-minded,' retorted the queen, who was beginning to lose her temper.
"This last answer quite discomfited his majesty, who turned on his heel, and betook himself to his counting-house again. But he was not halfway towards it, when the voice of his queen overtook him:
"'And it's a bad thing to be light-haired,' screamed she, determined to have more last words, now that her spirit was roused.
"The queen's hair was black as night; and the king's had been, and his daughter's was, golden as morning. But it was not this reflection on his hair that troubled him; it was the double use of the wordlight. For the king hated all witticisms, and punning especially. And besides he could not tell whether the queen meant light-hairedor light-heired; for why might she not aspirate her vowels when she was ex-asperated herself?"
"Now, really," interrupted the clergyman, "I must protest. Mr. Smith, you bury us under an avalanche of puns, and, I must say, not very good ones. Now, the story, though humorous, is not of the kind to admit of such fanciful embellishment. It reminds one rather of a burlesque at a theatre—the lowest thing, from a literary point of view, to be found."
"I submit," was all I could answer; for I feared that he was right. The passage, as it now stands, is not nearly so bad as it was then, though, I confess, it is still bad enough.
"I think," said Mrs. Armstrong, "since criticism is the order of the evening, and Mr. Smith is so kind as not to mind it, that he makes the king and queen too silly. It takes away from the reality."
"Right too, my dear madam," I answered.
"The reality of a fairy-tale?" said Mrs. Cathcart, as if asking a question of herself.
"But will you grant me the justice," said I, "to temper your judgments of me, if not of my story, by remembering that this is the first thing of the sort I ever attempted?"
"I tell you what," said the doctor, "it's very easy to criticise, but none of you could have written it yourselves."
"Of course not, for my part," said the clergyman.
Silence followed; and I resumed.
"He turned upon his other heel, and rejoined her. She looked angry still, because she knew that she was guilty, or, what was much the same, knew that he thought so.
"'My dear queen,' said he, 'duplicity of any sort is exceedingly objectionable between married people, of any rank, not to say kings and queens; and the most objectionable form it can assume is that of punning.'
"'There!' said the queen, 'I never made a jest, but I broke it in the making. I am the most unfortunate woman in the world!'
"She looked so rueful, that the king took her in his arms; and they sat down to consult.
"'Can you bear this?' said the king.
"'No, I can't,' said the queen.
"'Well, what's to be done?' said the king.