Chapter Nine.The Christmas Surprise.For some days the story of the bewitched Princess gave Rafe and Alix enough to talk about, and to play at too, for they invented a game in which Alix was supposed to fall into an enchanted sleep if Rafe succeeded in touching her with a branch of leaves, which represented snowflakes; and as she was a very quick runner it was not so easy as it sounds.Besides, by this time the Easter holidays were over and lessons had begun again. The children had nottoomany lessons, however, and always a good part of the afternoon to themselves, and they remained faithful to the old garden as their favourite playground. So some hours of every day—of every fine day at least—were spent there, and though they had not seen the old caretaker a second time, nor ever managed to find the concealed door in the rough stone wall again, hunt for it as they would, still they had sometimes a queer, mysterious, pleasant feeling that she knew about them—knew they were there, and was perhaps even peeping out at them through some hidden hole.It would have been a great sorrow to them if they had had to give up their visits to the garden. But fortunately their nurse rather approved of their playing there. There was something that brought good luck with it about the Lady wood grounds. No ill-chance ever happened to them there, no tumbles or sprained ankles, or torn clothes, or such not uncommon misfortunes when children are by themselves. Best of all, they almost never quarrelled when in the old garden, and perhapsthathad a good deal to do with the keeping clear of other troubles.They were growing “quite to be trusted,” nurse told their mother, and it scarcely seemed needful for them to go regular walks now, which nurse was very glad of, as it left her free to get on nicely with all the needlework, in which—next to a baby, and there had been no new baby since Alix—her heart delighted.So the discovery of the pleasures of the deserted manor suited everybody.But after a while, the children began to think it was time to have another story, and to wonder if their old friend had forgotten them, or possibly gone away. There was no use hunting any more for the hidden door; they had hurt their fingers and tired themselves to no purpose in doing so already. And at last they came to the conclusion that if Mrs Caretaker didn’t want them to find it, it was no use trying, and that if shedid, she would soon find ways and means of fetching them.“Unless, of course,” said Alix, “she has gone. Perhaps she’s like the birds, you know—only turned the other way. I mean perhaps she goes off in the summer, once she’s started everything, and all the plants and thingsaregrowing beautifully now, in their wild way. You see she’s not like a regular trim gardener—she doesn’t want them to grow all properly like you can see anywhere.”“Still she must take great care of them somehow,” said Rafe thoughtfully, “for you know people often notice how few weeds there are about Ladywood, and in full summer the wild flowers are quite wonderful. And the birds—it’s always here the nightingales are heard the best.”Alix looked up. They were sitting in their favourite place, at the foot of some very tall trees.“If we’d had any sense,” she said, “we might almost have seen for ourselves long ago that there was something fairy about the place, even before the wren led us here.”The mention of the wren made her remember something she had noticed.“Rafe,” she went on, “do you know I’ve seen a little robin hopping about us the last day or two, and chirping in atalkingsort of way. I forgot to tell you. I wonder if he has anything to say to us, for you know there weretwobirds that wanted to tell us stories.”“Per—” began Rafe in his slow fashion.But before he had time to get to “haps” his sister caught hold of his arm.“Hush!” she whispered, “there he is.”Yes, there he was, and “he”wasa robin.He hopped about in front of them for a minute or two, now and then cocking his head on one side and looking at them over his shoulder, as it were, as if to see whether he had caught their attention. Then he flew up a little way, and settled himself on a branch not far from them, with a peculiar little chirp.“I believe,” said Alix, still in a whisper, “I believe he wants us to speak to him.”“Try,” replied Rafe.“Robin,” said Alix, clearly though softly, “robin, have you come to see us? Have you got a message for us from Mrs Caretaker, perhaps?”The bird looked at her reproachfully. I don’t know that she could see it wasreproachfully, but from the way he held his head it was plain to any one that he was not altogether pleased.Then came a succession of chirps, and gradually, just as had happened before, by dint of listening very attentively and keeping quite, quite quiet, bits of words and then words themselves began to grow out of the chirping. To tell the truth, if any one had passed that way, he or she would have imagined Rafe and Alix were asleep. For there they sat, like a picture of the babes in the wood—Alix’s head resting on her brother’s shoulder, and his arm thrown round her—quitemotionless. But they weren’t asleep, of course, for their two pairs of eyes were fixed on the little red-breasted fellow up above them.“So you had forgotten all about me,” in a melancholy tone, quite unlike a cheery little robin. “I gave up to that other fellow and let him tell his story first. I suppose you don’t care to hear mine.”“Oh, dear robin, of course we do,” said Alix. “But you see we didn’t understand.”“I’ve been following you about all these days. I’m sure you might have seen me, and I’ve been asking you over and over again if you didn’t want to listen.”“But you see, dear robin, we couldn’t understand what you said. It takes a good while to get used to—to your way of speaking, you know,” said Alix. She was desperately afraid of hurting his feelings still more.“I am afraid that is not the real reason. You think a robin’s story is sure to be stupid. You see I am not one of those fine travelled fellows—the swallows and the martins, and all the rest of them—who spend the winter in the south and know such a lot of the world. I’m only a home bird. Here I was hatched and here I have lived, and mean to live till I die. It’s quite true that my story is a very stupid one. I’ve made no fine acquaintances such as kings and queens and princesses, and I’ve never visited at court, north or south either, so you know what you have to expect.”He seemed rather depressed, but less offended than he had been.“Please begin,” said Rafe. “I’m sure we shall like your story. We don’t want always to hear the same kind.” The robin cleared his throat.“Such as it is,” he began, “I can vouch for the truth of it, as it happened to be my own self. I didn’t ‘have it’ from any one else. And in my own mind I have given it the name of ‘The Christmas Surprise.’”And after he had cleared his throat again for the last time, he went straight on.“I have often noticed,” he began, “that whatever we have not got, whatever is not ours or with us at the present moment, is the thing we prize the most. This applies both to birds and human beings, and it is often the case about the seasons of the year. There is a great charm about absence. In the winter we are always looking forward to the spring and the summer; in the hot summer we think of the cool shady days of autumn, of the cheerful fires and merry doings that come with Christmas. I am speaking especially of men and women and children just now, but there is a good deal of the same kind of thing among us birds, though you mightn’t think it. And of all birds, I think we robins have the most sympathy with human folk. We really love Christmas time; it is gratifying to know how much we are thought of at that season—how our portraits are sent about by one friend to another, how our figures are placed on your Christmas trees, and how every one thinks of us with kindness. And except byverythoughtless people we are generally cared for well. During a hard winter it is seldom that our wants are forgotten. I myself,” and here he plumed himself importantly, “I myself have been most fortunate in this respect. There are at least a dozen houses within easy flight of Ladywood where I am always sure of a good breakfast of crumbs.”“But,” began Alix, rather timidly, “please don’t mind my interrupting you, but doesn’t Mrs Caretaker look after you? I thought that was what she was here for, to take care of all the living creatures in this garden.”“Exactly so, exactly so,” said the robin, hastily, “far be it from me to make any complaint. I would not change my home for the garden of a palace. But, as I have said, I think we robins have much sympathy with your race. Human beings interest me extremely. I like to study their characters. So I go about in my own part of the country a good deal, and thus I know the ways of many of my wingless neighbours pretty intimately. Thus comes it that I have stories to tell, all from my own observation, you see. Well, as I was remarking, we often love to dwell in fancy on what is not ours at present, so as it is really like a summer day, quite hot for the time of year, I daresay it will amuse you to transport your thoughts to Christmas time. Most of my human stories belong to that season, for it is then we have so much to do with you. The Christmas of which I am going to tell you was what is called an ‘old-fashioned one,’—though it strikes me that snowy, frosty, very cold Christmases are fast becoming new-fashioned again—ah, itwascold! I was a young bird then; it was my first experience of frost and snow, and in spite of my feathers I did shiver, I can tell you. Still I enjoyed it; I was strong and hearty, and I began to make acquaintance with the houses in the neighbourhood, at several of which one was pretty sure of a breakfast in front of some window.“There was a very large house which had been shut up for some time, as the owners were abroad. It had a charming terrace in front, and my friends and I often regretted that it was not inhabited. For the terrace faced south and all the sunshine going was sure to be found there, and it would have been a pleasant resort for us. And one morning our wishes were fulfilled. I met a cousin of mine flying off in great excitement.”‘The Manor House is open again,’ he told me. ‘Come quickly. Through the windows on to the terrace, fires are to be seen in all the rooms, and they are evidently preparing for a merry Christmas. No doubt they will not forget us, but it is as well to remind them that we should be glad of some crumbs.’“I flew off with him, and found it just as he had said. The house had quite a different appearance; it looked bright and cheery, and in one room a large party was assembled at breakfast. We—for several of us were there—hopped up and down the terrace for some little time, but no notice was taken of us. So one by one my companions flew away, remarking that it was no use wasting their time; they would look in again some other day when perhaps the new-comers would have thought of them. But I remained behind; I was not very busy, being a young bird, and I felt a wish to see something of the family who had been so long absent, for I am of what some people call a ‘curious’ disposition; I myself should rather describe it as observant and thoughtful.“I perched close beside the dining-room window and peeped in. There were several grown-up people, but only two children; two little girls, very prettily dressed, but thin and pale, and with a somewhat discontented expression of face. After a while, when the meal was over and all had risen from the table, the children came to the window with a young lady and stood looking out.“Oh, how cold it is,” said one of them shivering, “I wish papa and mamma had not come back to England. I liked India much better.”“So did I,” said the other little girl. “I don’t want to go a walk when it’s so cold. Need we go, Miss Meadows? And yet I don’t know what to do in the house. I’m tired of all our toys. We shall have new ones next week when Christmas Day comes; that’s a good thing.”The young lady they called Miss Meadows looked rather troubled. In her heart she thought the children had far too many toys already, and she felt sure they would get tired of the new ones before they had had them long.“I don’t care much for Christmas except for the toys,” said the first little girl. “Do you, Miss Meadows?”“Yes, indeed I do, Norna dear,” she said. “And I think in your heart you really care for it too—and Ivy also. You both knowwhyit should be so cared for.”“Oh, yes; in that sort of a way, I know it would be naughty not to care for it,” said Norna, looking a little ashamed. “But it’s different when you’ve lived in England, I suppose. Mamma has told us stories of Christmas when she was little, that sounded very nice—all about carols, and lots of cousins playing together, and presents, and school feasts. But we haven’t any cousins to play with. Had you, Miss Meadows, at your own home?”Miss Meadows’ eyes looked rather odd for a moment. She turned away for half an instant and then she seemed all right again.“I had lots of brothers and sisters,” she said, “and that’s even better than cousins.”It was her first Christmas away from home, and she had only been a few days with Norna and Ivy.“I wish we had!” sighed Norna, who always wanted what she had not got.“But surely there are some things you can have that would cheer you up,” said Miss Meadows. “Perhaps it is too soon to settle about school feasts just yet, but have you no presents to get ready for any one?”“No,” sighed Ivy. “Mamma has everything she wants; and so have we. It’s rubbish giving each other presents just to say they’re presents.”“Yes,” said Miss Meadows. “I think it is. But—”She said no more, for just then Ivy touched her, and whispered softly,—“I do believe there’s a real little robin redbreast. Don’t let’s frighten him away.”The child’s eyes sparkled with pleasure; she looked quite different.“It’s the firstrealone we’ve ever seen,” said she and Norna together.“Poor little man!” said their governess; “he must be hungry to be so tame. Let us throw crumbs every morning, children. I am sure your mamma won’t mind. This terrace is a splendid place.”The idea pleased them mightily. I hid myself in the ivy for a few moments, and when I came out again, there was a delightful spread all ready. So I flew down and began to profit by it, expressing my thanks, of course, in a well-bred manner. The window was still open, and I heard some words that Miss Meadows murmured to herself:“I wish I could find out some little service for others that they could do, even this first Christmas,” she said.“They would be so much happier, poor little things! Dear robin, I am even grateful to you for making me think of throwing out crumbs.”She looked so sweet that my heart warmed to her, and I wished I could help her. And at that moment an idea struck me. You will soon hear what it was.I had another visit to pay that morning; indeed I had been on my way to do so when the exciting news about the Manor House attracted me thither. But now I flew off, to the little home where I was always welcome. It was a very small cottage at the outskirts of the same village of which the home of the newly-returned family was the great house. In this cottage lived a couple and their two children—a boy and a girl. They had always been poor, but striving and thrifty, so that the little place looked bright and comfortable though so bare, and the children tidy and rosy. But now, alas! things had changed for the worse. A bad accident to the father, who was a woodcutter, had entirely crippled him; and though some help was given them, it was all the poor mother could do to keep out of the workhouse. I made a point of visiting the cottage every day; it cheered them up, and there were generally some crumbs for me. But this morning—not that it mattered to me after my good breakfast at the Manor House—there were none; and as I alighted on the sill of the little kitchen and looked in, everything was dull and cheerless. No fire was lighted; the two children, Jem and Joyce, sat crouched together on the settle by the empty grate as if to gain a little warmth from each other. They looked blue and pinched, and scarcely awake; but when they saw me at the window they brightened up a little.“There’s robin,” said Joyce. “Poor robin! we’ve nothing for you this morning.”A small pane was broken in the window and pasted over with paper, but a corner was torn, and so I could hear what they said.“No indeed,” said Jem; “we’ve had nothing ourselves—not since yesterday at dinner time. And it is so cold.”I stood still on one leg, and chirped that I was very sorry. I think they understood me.“Mother’s gone to Farmer Bantry’s,” said Joyce, as if she was glad to have some one—“even a bird,” some folk who know precious little about us would say—to tell her troubles to. “They’re cleanin’ up for Christmas, and she’ll get a shilling and maybe some broken victuals, she said. So we’re tryin’ to go to sleep again to make the time pass.”“There was two sixpences yesterday,” said Jem, mournfully; “and one would ’a got some coal, and t’other some bread and tea. But the doctor said as father must have somefin’—” (Jem was only five and Joyce eight)—“queer stuff—I forget the name—to wunst. So mother she went to the shop, and father’s got the stuff, and he’s asleep; but we’ve not had nuffin’.”“And Christmas is coming next week, mother says,” Joyce added. “Last Christmas we had new shoes, and meat for dinner.”I was sadly grieved for them. Joyce spoke in a dull, broken sort of tone that did not sound like a child. But I hoped to serve them better than by standing there repeating my regret; so, after a few more chirps of sympathy, I flew off.“Robin doesn’t care to stay,” said Jem, dolefully.Later in the day I met the children’s mother trudging home. She looked tired; but she had a basket on her arm, so I hoped the farmer’s wife had given them some scraps which would help them for the time.Now I had a plan in my head. Late that afternoon, after flying all round the Manor House and peeping in at a great many windows, I perched in the ivy—there was ivy over a great part of the walls—just outside one on the first floor. It was the children’s bedroom. I waited anxiously, afraid that I might have no chance of getting in; but fortunately for me the fire smoked a little when it was lighted in the evening for the young ladies to be dressed by, and the nurse opened the window a tiny bit, so in I flew, very careful not to be seen, you may be sure. I found a very cosy corner on the edge of a picture in a dark part of the room, and there I had time for a nap before Norna and Ivy came to bed. Then when all was silent for the night, I flew down and took up my quarters on the rail at the head of Norna’s bed; and when I had spent an hour or so beside her, I gently fluttered across to her sister; and though I was chirping nearly all the time, my voice was so low that no one entering the room would have noticed it; or if they had done so, they would probably have thought it a drowsy cricket, half aroused by the pleasant warmth of the fire.But my chirping did more than soothe my little friends’ slumbers (and here the robin cocked his head afresh and looked very solemn). Children (he said), human beings know very little about themselves. You don’t know, for instance, anything at all about yourselves when you’re asleep, or what dreams really are. You speak of being “sleepy,” or half-asleep, as if it meant something very stupid; whereas, sometimes when you are whole asleep, you are much wiser than when you are awake. Now it is not my business to teach you things you’re perhaps not meant to understand at present, but this I can tell you—if I perched on your pillows at night when you’re asleep, and chirped in my own way to you, you’d have no difficulty in understanding me. And this was what happened to the two little maidens a few nights before their first Christmas in England. They thought they had had a wonderful dream—each of them separately, and they never knew that the robin who flew out of the window early in the morning before any one noticed him, had had anything to do with it.I (for it was I myself, of course) perched again in the ivy beside the dining-room window,partly, I allow, with a view to breakfast; partly and principally to see what would happen.They did not forget me—us, perhaps I should say, for several other birds collected on the terrace, thanks to the news I had scattered about—and as soon as those within had risen from table, Miss Meadows and her two little companions came to the window, which they opened, and threw out a splendid plateful of crumbs. It was not so cold this morning. I hopped close to them, for I wanted to hear what they were saying as they stood by the open window-door, all the grown-up people having left the room.The pale little faces looked bright and eager, and very full of something their owners were relating.“Yes, Miss Meadows; it was quite wonderful. Ivy dreamed it, and I dreamed it. I believe it was a fairy dream.”“And please do let us try to find out if there are any poor children like that near here,” said Ivy. “I don’t think therecouldbe; do you, Miss Meadows?”Miss Meadows shook her head.“I’m afraid, dear, it is not uncommon in either town or country to find children quite as poor as those you dreamt of. But when we go out a walk to-day, we’ll try and inquire a little. It would be nice if you could do something for other people even this first Christmas in England.”She looked quite bright and eager herself; and as the three started off down the drive about an hour later, on their way to the village, I noticed that they were all talking eagerly, and that Norna and Ivy were giving little springs as they walked along one on each side of their kind governess; and I must confess I felt pleased to think I had had some hand in this improvement.Miss Meadows had lived most of her life in the country, and she was accustomed to country ways. So she meant to go to the village, and there try to pick up a little information about any of the families who might be very poor this Christmas time. But I had no intention of letting them go so far—no indeed—I knew what I was about.The cottage of my little friends, Joyce and Jem, was about half-way between the Manor House and the village, and the village was a good mile from the great house. A lane led from the high road to the cottage. Just as the three reached the corner of the lane, Ivy gave a little cry.“Miss Meadows, Norna,” she said, “there is the robin. I’m sure it’s our robin. Don’t you think it is, Miss Meadows?”The governess smiled.“There are a great many robins, Ivy dear. It’s not very likely it’s the same one. We human beings are too stupid to tell the difference between birds of the same kind, you see.”But, asyouknow, Ivy was right.“Do let’s follow him a little way down the lane,” she said. “He keeps hopping on and then looking back at us. I wonder if his home is down here.”No, it was notmyhome, but it was my little friends’ home; and soon I managed to bring the little party to a standstill before the cottage gate, where I had perched.“What a nice cottage,” said Norna; and so it looked at the first glance. But in a moment or two she added: “Oh, do look at that little girl; how very thin and pale she is!”It was Joyce. Miss Meadows called to her; and in her kind way soon got the little girl to tell her something of their troubles. Things were even worse with them to-day; for Jem’s feet were so bad with chilblains that he could not get about at all. The governess satisfied herself that there was no illness in the cottage that could hurt Norna and Ivy, and then they all went in to see poor Jem; and Miss Meadows went upstairs to speak to the bedridden father. When she came down again her face looked very sad, but bright too.“Children,” she said, as soon as they were out on the road again, “I don’t think we need go on to the village. We have found what we were looking for.”Then she went on to tell them that she had left a message with the woodcutter, asking his wife to come up to speak to her that evening at the Manor House.“I know your mamma won’t mind,” she said. “I will tell her all about it as soon as we get home. She will like you to try to do something for these poor children,”—which was quite true. The lady of the Manor was kind and gentle; only, you see, many years in India had got her out of English ways.So that evening, when the woodcutter’s wife came up to the great house, there was a grand consultation. And for some days to come, for Christmas was very near, Ivy and Norna were so busy that they had no time to grumble at the cold or to wish they were back in India, though they did find time to skip and dance along the passages, and to sing verses of the carols Miss Meadows was teaching them.Things improved at the cottage from that day. But it is about Christmas morning I want to tell you.Joyce and Jem woke early—long before it was light—but they lay still and spoke in a whisper, not to wake their poor father or their tired mother. There was no one to hear except a little robin, who had managed to creep in the night before.“It’s Christmas, Jem,” said Joyce; “and we shall have a nice fire. They’ve sent mother some coals from the great house; and Ibelievewe’re going to have meat for dinner.”Jem sighed with pleasure. He could scarcely believe it.“Shall we go to church like last Christmas, Joyce?” he asked. “My boots is so drefful bad, I don’t know as I could walk in them.”“So’s mine,” said Joyce. “But p’r’aps if the roads is very dry, we might manage.”And so they chattered, till at last the first rays of winter daylight began to find their way into the little room. The children looked about them—somehow they had a feeling that things could not lookquitethe same on Christmas morning! But what they did see was something very wonderful. On the floor near the window were twoverybig brown paper parcels; and Joyce jumping out of bed to see what they were, saw that to each was pinned a card; and on one card was written, “Joyce,” on the other, “Jem.”“Jem,” she cried, “it must be fairies,” and with trembling fingers they undid the packages.It is difficult to tell you their delight!There was a new frock of warm linsey for Joyce, and a suit of corduroy for Jem, boots for both—stockings and socks—two splendid red comforters, one knitted by Ivy and one by Norna; a picture book for each, a bag of oranges, and a beautiful home-made cake.Never were children so wild with joy; never had there been such a Christmas surprise.I was so pleased that I could not remain hidden any longer. Out I came, and perching on the window-sill, warbled a Christmas carol in my own way. And I must say children are very quick.“Dear robin,” said Joyce; “do you know, Jem, I do believe he’s a fairy! I shouldn’t wonder if he’d somehow told the kind little young ladies to come and see us.”There was a pause. Rafe and Alix waited a moment to make sure that the robin had quite finished; then they looked up. He was not in such a hurry to fly off as the other bird had been.“Thank youverymuch, dear robin,” they said. “It is a very pretty story indeed; and then it’s so nice to know it’s quite true.”The robin looked pleased.“Yes,” he said, “there’s that to be said for it. It’s a very simple, homely story; but it’s my own experience. But now I think I must bid you good-bye for the present, though there’s no saying but what we may meet again.” He flew off.“Rafe,” said Alix, “besides all the things mamma does and lets us help in sometimes for the poor people, wouldn’t it be nice if we found some children we could do things for, more our own selves, you know?”“Yes,” Rafe agreed, “I think it would be.”
For some days the story of the bewitched Princess gave Rafe and Alix enough to talk about, and to play at too, for they invented a game in which Alix was supposed to fall into an enchanted sleep if Rafe succeeded in touching her with a branch of leaves, which represented snowflakes; and as she was a very quick runner it was not so easy as it sounds.
Besides, by this time the Easter holidays were over and lessons had begun again. The children had nottoomany lessons, however, and always a good part of the afternoon to themselves, and they remained faithful to the old garden as their favourite playground. So some hours of every day—of every fine day at least—were spent there, and though they had not seen the old caretaker a second time, nor ever managed to find the concealed door in the rough stone wall again, hunt for it as they would, still they had sometimes a queer, mysterious, pleasant feeling that she knew about them—knew they were there, and was perhaps even peeping out at them through some hidden hole.
It would have been a great sorrow to them if they had had to give up their visits to the garden. But fortunately their nurse rather approved of their playing there. There was something that brought good luck with it about the Lady wood grounds. No ill-chance ever happened to them there, no tumbles or sprained ankles, or torn clothes, or such not uncommon misfortunes when children are by themselves. Best of all, they almost never quarrelled when in the old garden, and perhapsthathad a good deal to do with the keeping clear of other troubles.
They were growing “quite to be trusted,” nurse told their mother, and it scarcely seemed needful for them to go regular walks now, which nurse was very glad of, as it left her free to get on nicely with all the needlework, in which—next to a baby, and there had been no new baby since Alix—her heart delighted.
So the discovery of the pleasures of the deserted manor suited everybody.
But after a while, the children began to think it was time to have another story, and to wonder if their old friend had forgotten them, or possibly gone away. There was no use hunting any more for the hidden door; they had hurt their fingers and tired themselves to no purpose in doing so already. And at last they came to the conclusion that if Mrs Caretaker didn’t want them to find it, it was no use trying, and that if shedid, she would soon find ways and means of fetching them.
“Unless, of course,” said Alix, “she has gone. Perhaps she’s like the birds, you know—only turned the other way. I mean perhaps she goes off in the summer, once she’s started everything, and all the plants and thingsaregrowing beautifully now, in their wild way. You see she’s not like a regular trim gardener—she doesn’t want them to grow all properly like you can see anywhere.”
“Still she must take great care of them somehow,” said Rafe thoughtfully, “for you know people often notice how few weeds there are about Ladywood, and in full summer the wild flowers are quite wonderful. And the birds—it’s always here the nightingales are heard the best.”
Alix looked up. They were sitting in their favourite place, at the foot of some very tall trees.
“If we’d had any sense,” she said, “we might almost have seen for ourselves long ago that there was something fairy about the place, even before the wren led us here.”
The mention of the wren made her remember something she had noticed.
“Rafe,” she went on, “do you know I’ve seen a little robin hopping about us the last day or two, and chirping in atalkingsort of way. I forgot to tell you. I wonder if he has anything to say to us, for you know there weretwobirds that wanted to tell us stories.”
“Per—” began Rafe in his slow fashion.
But before he had time to get to “haps” his sister caught hold of his arm.
“Hush!” she whispered, “there he is.”
Yes, there he was, and “he”wasa robin.
He hopped about in front of them for a minute or two, now and then cocking his head on one side and looking at them over his shoulder, as it were, as if to see whether he had caught their attention. Then he flew up a little way, and settled himself on a branch not far from them, with a peculiar little chirp.
“I believe,” said Alix, still in a whisper, “I believe he wants us to speak to him.”
“Try,” replied Rafe.
“Robin,” said Alix, clearly though softly, “robin, have you come to see us? Have you got a message for us from Mrs Caretaker, perhaps?”
The bird looked at her reproachfully. I don’t know that she could see it wasreproachfully, but from the way he held his head it was plain to any one that he was not altogether pleased.
Then came a succession of chirps, and gradually, just as had happened before, by dint of listening very attentively and keeping quite, quite quiet, bits of words and then words themselves began to grow out of the chirping. To tell the truth, if any one had passed that way, he or she would have imagined Rafe and Alix were asleep. For there they sat, like a picture of the babes in the wood—Alix’s head resting on her brother’s shoulder, and his arm thrown round her—quitemotionless. But they weren’t asleep, of course, for their two pairs of eyes were fixed on the little red-breasted fellow up above them.
“So you had forgotten all about me,” in a melancholy tone, quite unlike a cheery little robin. “I gave up to that other fellow and let him tell his story first. I suppose you don’t care to hear mine.”
“Oh, dear robin, of course we do,” said Alix. “But you see we didn’t understand.”
“I’ve been following you about all these days. I’m sure you might have seen me, and I’ve been asking you over and over again if you didn’t want to listen.”
“But you see, dear robin, we couldn’t understand what you said. It takes a good while to get used to—to your way of speaking, you know,” said Alix. She was desperately afraid of hurting his feelings still more.
“I am afraid that is not the real reason. You think a robin’s story is sure to be stupid. You see I am not one of those fine travelled fellows—the swallows and the martins, and all the rest of them—who spend the winter in the south and know such a lot of the world. I’m only a home bird. Here I was hatched and here I have lived, and mean to live till I die. It’s quite true that my story is a very stupid one. I’ve made no fine acquaintances such as kings and queens and princesses, and I’ve never visited at court, north or south either, so you know what you have to expect.”
He seemed rather depressed, but less offended than he had been.
“Please begin,” said Rafe. “I’m sure we shall like your story. We don’t want always to hear the same kind.” The robin cleared his throat.
“Such as it is,” he began, “I can vouch for the truth of it, as it happened to be my own self. I didn’t ‘have it’ from any one else. And in my own mind I have given it the name of ‘The Christmas Surprise.’”
And after he had cleared his throat again for the last time, he went straight on.
“I have often noticed,” he began, “that whatever we have not got, whatever is not ours or with us at the present moment, is the thing we prize the most. This applies both to birds and human beings, and it is often the case about the seasons of the year. There is a great charm about absence. In the winter we are always looking forward to the spring and the summer; in the hot summer we think of the cool shady days of autumn, of the cheerful fires and merry doings that come with Christmas. I am speaking especially of men and women and children just now, but there is a good deal of the same kind of thing among us birds, though you mightn’t think it. And of all birds, I think we robins have the most sympathy with human folk. We really love Christmas time; it is gratifying to know how much we are thought of at that season—how our portraits are sent about by one friend to another, how our figures are placed on your Christmas trees, and how every one thinks of us with kindness. And except byverythoughtless people we are generally cared for well. During a hard winter it is seldom that our wants are forgotten. I myself,” and here he plumed himself importantly, “I myself have been most fortunate in this respect. There are at least a dozen houses within easy flight of Ladywood where I am always sure of a good breakfast of crumbs.”
“But,” began Alix, rather timidly, “please don’t mind my interrupting you, but doesn’t Mrs Caretaker look after you? I thought that was what she was here for, to take care of all the living creatures in this garden.”
“Exactly so, exactly so,” said the robin, hastily, “far be it from me to make any complaint. I would not change my home for the garden of a palace. But, as I have said, I think we robins have much sympathy with your race. Human beings interest me extremely. I like to study their characters. So I go about in my own part of the country a good deal, and thus I know the ways of many of my wingless neighbours pretty intimately. Thus comes it that I have stories to tell, all from my own observation, you see. Well, as I was remarking, we often love to dwell in fancy on what is not ours at present, so as it is really like a summer day, quite hot for the time of year, I daresay it will amuse you to transport your thoughts to Christmas time. Most of my human stories belong to that season, for it is then we have so much to do with you. The Christmas of which I am going to tell you was what is called an ‘old-fashioned one,’—though it strikes me that snowy, frosty, very cold Christmases are fast becoming new-fashioned again—ah, itwascold! I was a young bird then; it was my first experience of frost and snow, and in spite of my feathers I did shiver, I can tell you. Still I enjoyed it; I was strong and hearty, and I began to make acquaintance with the houses in the neighbourhood, at several of which one was pretty sure of a breakfast in front of some window.
“There was a very large house which had been shut up for some time, as the owners were abroad. It had a charming terrace in front, and my friends and I often regretted that it was not inhabited. For the terrace faced south and all the sunshine going was sure to be found there, and it would have been a pleasant resort for us. And one morning our wishes were fulfilled. I met a cousin of mine flying off in great excitement.
”‘The Manor House is open again,’ he told me. ‘Come quickly. Through the windows on to the terrace, fires are to be seen in all the rooms, and they are evidently preparing for a merry Christmas. No doubt they will not forget us, but it is as well to remind them that we should be glad of some crumbs.’
“I flew off with him, and found it just as he had said. The house had quite a different appearance; it looked bright and cheery, and in one room a large party was assembled at breakfast. We—for several of us were there—hopped up and down the terrace for some little time, but no notice was taken of us. So one by one my companions flew away, remarking that it was no use wasting their time; they would look in again some other day when perhaps the new-comers would have thought of them. But I remained behind; I was not very busy, being a young bird, and I felt a wish to see something of the family who had been so long absent, for I am of what some people call a ‘curious’ disposition; I myself should rather describe it as observant and thoughtful.
“I perched close beside the dining-room window and peeped in. There were several grown-up people, but only two children; two little girls, very prettily dressed, but thin and pale, and with a somewhat discontented expression of face. After a while, when the meal was over and all had risen from the table, the children came to the window with a young lady and stood looking out.
“Oh, how cold it is,” said one of them shivering, “I wish papa and mamma had not come back to England. I liked India much better.”
“So did I,” said the other little girl. “I don’t want to go a walk when it’s so cold. Need we go, Miss Meadows? And yet I don’t know what to do in the house. I’m tired of all our toys. We shall have new ones next week when Christmas Day comes; that’s a good thing.”
The young lady they called Miss Meadows looked rather troubled. In her heart she thought the children had far too many toys already, and she felt sure they would get tired of the new ones before they had had them long.
“I don’t care much for Christmas except for the toys,” said the first little girl. “Do you, Miss Meadows?”
“Yes, indeed I do, Norna dear,” she said. “And I think in your heart you really care for it too—and Ivy also. You both knowwhyit should be so cared for.”
“Oh, yes; in that sort of a way, I know it would be naughty not to care for it,” said Norna, looking a little ashamed. “But it’s different when you’ve lived in England, I suppose. Mamma has told us stories of Christmas when she was little, that sounded very nice—all about carols, and lots of cousins playing together, and presents, and school feasts. But we haven’t any cousins to play with. Had you, Miss Meadows, at your own home?”
Miss Meadows’ eyes looked rather odd for a moment. She turned away for half an instant and then she seemed all right again.
“I had lots of brothers and sisters,” she said, “and that’s even better than cousins.”
It was her first Christmas away from home, and she had only been a few days with Norna and Ivy.
“I wish we had!” sighed Norna, who always wanted what she had not got.
“But surely there are some things you can have that would cheer you up,” said Miss Meadows. “Perhaps it is too soon to settle about school feasts just yet, but have you no presents to get ready for any one?”
“No,” sighed Ivy. “Mamma has everything she wants; and so have we. It’s rubbish giving each other presents just to say they’re presents.”
“Yes,” said Miss Meadows. “I think it is. But—”
She said no more, for just then Ivy touched her, and whispered softly,—
“I do believe there’s a real little robin redbreast. Don’t let’s frighten him away.”
The child’s eyes sparkled with pleasure; she looked quite different.
“It’s the firstrealone we’ve ever seen,” said she and Norna together.
“Poor little man!” said their governess; “he must be hungry to be so tame. Let us throw crumbs every morning, children. I am sure your mamma won’t mind. This terrace is a splendid place.”
The idea pleased them mightily. I hid myself in the ivy for a few moments, and when I came out again, there was a delightful spread all ready. So I flew down and began to profit by it, expressing my thanks, of course, in a well-bred manner. The window was still open, and I heard some words that Miss Meadows murmured to herself:
“I wish I could find out some little service for others that they could do, even this first Christmas,” she said.
“They would be so much happier, poor little things! Dear robin, I am even grateful to you for making me think of throwing out crumbs.”
She looked so sweet that my heart warmed to her, and I wished I could help her. And at that moment an idea struck me. You will soon hear what it was.
I had another visit to pay that morning; indeed I had been on my way to do so when the exciting news about the Manor House attracted me thither. But now I flew off, to the little home where I was always welcome. It was a very small cottage at the outskirts of the same village of which the home of the newly-returned family was the great house. In this cottage lived a couple and their two children—a boy and a girl. They had always been poor, but striving and thrifty, so that the little place looked bright and comfortable though so bare, and the children tidy and rosy. But now, alas! things had changed for the worse. A bad accident to the father, who was a woodcutter, had entirely crippled him; and though some help was given them, it was all the poor mother could do to keep out of the workhouse. I made a point of visiting the cottage every day; it cheered them up, and there were generally some crumbs for me. But this morning—not that it mattered to me after my good breakfast at the Manor House—there were none; and as I alighted on the sill of the little kitchen and looked in, everything was dull and cheerless. No fire was lighted; the two children, Jem and Joyce, sat crouched together on the settle by the empty grate as if to gain a little warmth from each other. They looked blue and pinched, and scarcely awake; but when they saw me at the window they brightened up a little.
“There’s robin,” said Joyce. “Poor robin! we’ve nothing for you this morning.”
A small pane was broken in the window and pasted over with paper, but a corner was torn, and so I could hear what they said.
“No indeed,” said Jem; “we’ve had nothing ourselves—not since yesterday at dinner time. And it is so cold.”
I stood still on one leg, and chirped that I was very sorry. I think they understood me.
“Mother’s gone to Farmer Bantry’s,” said Joyce, as if she was glad to have some one—“even a bird,” some folk who know precious little about us would say—to tell her troubles to. “They’re cleanin’ up for Christmas, and she’ll get a shilling and maybe some broken victuals, she said. So we’re tryin’ to go to sleep again to make the time pass.”
“There was two sixpences yesterday,” said Jem, mournfully; “and one would ’a got some coal, and t’other some bread and tea. But the doctor said as father must have somefin’—” (Jem was only five and Joyce eight)—“queer stuff—I forget the name—to wunst. So mother she went to the shop, and father’s got the stuff, and he’s asleep; but we’ve not had nuffin’.”
“And Christmas is coming next week, mother says,” Joyce added. “Last Christmas we had new shoes, and meat for dinner.”
I was sadly grieved for them. Joyce spoke in a dull, broken sort of tone that did not sound like a child. But I hoped to serve them better than by standing there repeating my regret; so, after a few more chirps of sympathy, I flew off.
“Robin doesn’t care to stay,” said Jem, dolefully.
Later in the day I met the children’s mother trudging home. She looked tired; but she had a basket on her arm, so I hoped the farmer’s wife had given them some scraps which would help them for the time.
Now I had a plan in my head. Late that afternoon, after flying all round the Manor House and peeping in at a great many windows, I perched in the ivy—there was ivy over a great part of the walls—just outside one on the first floor. It was the children’s bedroom. I waited anxiously, afraid that I might have no chance of getting in; but fortunately for me the fire smoked a little when it was lighted in the evening for the young ladies to be dressed by, and the nurse opened the window a tiny bit, so in I flew, very careful not to be seen, you may be sure. I found a very cosy corner on the edge of a picture in a dark part of the room, and there I had time for a nap before Norna and Ivy came to bed. Then when all was silent for the night, I flew down and took up my quarters on the rail at the head of Norna’s bed; and when I had spent an hour or so beside her, I gently fluttered across to her sister; and though I was chirping nearly all the time, my voice was so low that no one entering the room would have noticed it; or if they had done so, they would probably have thought it a drowsy cricket, half aroused by the pleasant warmth of the fire.
But my chirping did more than soothe my little friends’ slumbers (and here the robin cocked his head afresh and looked very solemn). Children (he said), human beings know very little about themselves. You don’t know, for instance, anything at all about yourselves when you’re asleep, or what dreams really are. You speak of being “sleepy,” or half-asleep, as if it meant something very stupid; whereas, sometimes when you are whole asleep, you are much wiser than when you are awake. Now it is not my business to teach you things you’re perhaps not meant to understand at present, but this I can tell you—if I perched on your pillows at night when you’re asleep, and chirped in my own way to you, you’d have no difficulty in understanding me. And this was what happened to the two little maidens a few nights before their first Christmas in England. They thought they had had a wonderful dream—each of them separately, and they never knew that the robin who flew out of the window early in the morning before any one noticed him, had had anything to do with it.
I (for it was I myself, of course) perched again in the ivy beside the dining-room window,partly, I allow, with a view to breakfast; partly and principally to see what would happen.
They did not forget me—us, perhaps I should say, for several other birds collected on the terrace, thanks to the news I had scattered about—and as soon as those within had risen from table, Miss Meadows and her two little companions came to the window, which they opened, and threw out a splendid plateful of crumbs. It was not so cold this morning. I hopped close to them, for I wanted to hear what they were saying as they stood by the open window-door, all the grown-up people having left the room.
The pale little faces looked bright and eager, and very full of something their owners were relating.
“Yes, Miss Meadows; it was quite wonderful. Ivy dreamed it, and I dreamed it. I believe it was a fairy dream.”
“And please do let us try to find out if there are any poor children like that near here,” said Ivy. “I don’t think therecouldbe; do you, Miss Meadows?”
Miss Meadows shook her head.
“I’m afraid, dear, it is not uncommon in either town or country to find children quite as poor as those you dreamt of. But when we go out a walk to-day, we’ll try and inquire a little. It would be nice if you could do something for other people even this first Christmas in England.”
She looked quite bright and eager herself; and as the three started off down the drive about an hour later, on their way to the village, I noticed that they were all talking eagerly, and that Norna and Ivy were giving little springs as they walked along one on each side of their kind governess; and I must confess I felt pleased to think I had had some hand in this improvement.
Miss Meadows had lived most of her life in the country, and she was accustomed to country ways. So she meant to go to the village, and there try to pick up a little information about any of the families who might be very poor this Christmas time. But I had no intention of letting them go so far—no indeed—I knew what I was about.
The cottage of my little friends, Joyce and Jem, was about half-way between the Manor House and the village, and the village was a good mile from the great house. A lane led from the high road to the cottage. Just as the three reached the corner of the lane, Ivy gave a little cry.
“Miss Meadows, Norna,” she said, “there is the robin. I’m sure it’s our robin. Don’t you think it is, Miss Meadows?”
The governess smiled.
“There are a great many robins, Ivy dear. It’s not very likely it’s the same one. We human beings are too stupid to tell the difference between birds of the same kind, you see.”
But, asyouknow, Ivy was right.
“Do let’s follow him a little way down the lane,” she said. “He keeps hopping on and then looking back at us. I wonder if his home is down here.”
No, it was notmyhome, but it was my little friends’ home; and soon I managed to bring the little party to a standstill before the cottage gate, where I had perched.
“What a nice cottage,” said Norna; and so it looked at the first glance. But in a moment or two she added: “Oh, do look at that little girl; how very thin and pale she is!”
It was Joyce. Miss Meadows called to her; and in her kind way soon got the little girl to tell her something of their troubles. Things were even worse with them to-day; for Jem’s feet were so bad with chilblains that he could not get about at all. The governess satisfied herself that there was no illness in the cottage that could hurt Norna and Ivy, and then they all went in to see poor Jem; and Miss Meadows went upstairs to speak to the bedridden father. When she came down again her face looked very sad, but bright too.
“Children,” she said, as soon as they were out on the road again, “I don’t think we need go on to the village. We have found what we were looking for.”
Then she went on to tell them that she had left a message with the woodcutter, asking his wife to come up to speak to her that evening at the Manor House.
“I know your mamma won’t mind,” she said. “I will tell her all about it as soon as we get home. She will like you to try to do something for these poor children,”—which was quite true. The lady of the Manor was kind and gentle; only, you see, many years in India had got her out of English ways.
So that evening, when the woodcutter’s wife came up to the great house, there was a grand consultation. And for some days to come, for Christmas was very near, Ivy and Norna were so busy that they had no time to grumble at the cold or to wish they were back in India, though they did find time to skip and dance along the passages, and to sing verses of the carols Miss Meadows was teaching them.
Things improved at the cottage from that day. But it is about Christmas morning I want to tell you.
Joyce and Jem woke early—long before it was light—but they lay still and spoke in a whisper, not to wake their poor father or their tired mother. There was no one to hear except a little robin, who had managed to creep in the night before.
“It’s Christmas, Jem,” said Joyce; “and we shall have a nice fire. They’ve sent mother some coals from the great house; and Ibelievewe’re going to have meat for dinner.”
Jem sighed with pleasure. He could scarcely believe it.
“Shall we go to church like last Christmas, Joyce?” he asked. “My boots is so drefful bad, I don’t know as I could walk in them.”
“So’s mine,” said Joyce. “But p’r’aps if the roads is very dry, we might manage.”
And so they chattered, till at last the first rays of winter daylight began to find their way into the little room. The children looked about them—somehow they had a feeling that things could not lookquitethe same on Christmas morning! But what they did see was something very wonderful. On the floor near the window were twoverybig brown paper parcels; and Joyce jumping out of bed to see what they were, saw that to each was pinned a card; and on one card was written, “Joyce,” on the other, “Jem.”
“Jem,” she cried, “it must be fairies,” and with trembling fingers they undid the packages.
It is difficult to tell you their delight!
There was a new frock of warm linsey for Joyce, and a suit of corduroy for Jem, boots for both—stockings and socks—two splendid red comforters, one knitted by Ivy and one by Norna; a picture book for each, a bag of oranges, and a beautiful home-made cake.
Never were children so wild with joy; never had there been such a Christmas surprise.
I was so pleased that I could not remain hidden any longer. Out I came, and perching on the window-sill, warbled a Christmas carol in my own way. And I must say children are very quick.
“Dear robin,” said Joyce; “do you know, Jem, I do believe he’s a fairy! I shouldn’t wonder if he’d somehow told the kind little young ladies to come and see us.”
There was a pause. Rafe and Alix waited a moment to make sure that the robin had quite finished; then they looked up. He was not in such a hurry to fly off as the other bird had been.
“Thank youverymuch, dear robin,” they said. “It is a very pretty story indeed; and then it’s so nice to know it’s quite true.”
The robin looked pleased.
“Yes,” he said, “there’s that to be said for it. It’s a very simple, homely story; but it’s my own experience. But now I think I must bid you good-bye for the present, though there’s no saying but what we may meet again.” He flew off.
“Rafe,” said Alix, “besides all the things mamma does and lets us help in sometimes for the poor people, wouldn’t it be nice if we found some children we could do things for, more our own selves, you know?”
“Yes,” Rafe agreed, “I think it would be.”
Chapter Ten.The Magic Rose.The days and weeks and months went on, till it was full summer time again; more than full summer indeed. For it was August, and in a day or two Rafe and Alix were to go to the seaside for several weeks. They were very pleased of course, but still there is always alittlesad feeling at “going away,” especially from one’s own home, even though it is only for a short time. They went all round the garden saying good-bye, as well as to the stables and the poultry yard and all the familiar places.Then a sudden thought struck Alix.“Rafe,” she said—it was the very evening before they left—“do let’s say good-bye to the old garden too. And perhaps if we stood close to the corner of the wall and called through very loud,perhapsMrs Caretaker would hear us. It seems so funny that we’ve never seen her again. I think shemustbe away.”“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Rafe replied.“I’ve sometimes had a feeling like you, Alix, that she was there all the time.”“And of course it was she who made the birds tell us their stories,” said Alix, “so we really should be very much obliged to her. Just think what nice games we’ve made out of them; and what nice things we’ve begun to get ready for the poor children next Christmas. I do think, Rafe, we’veneverfelt dull since we’ve played so much in the Lady wood garden.”Rafe quite agreed with her, and they made their way down the lane and through the well-known old gateway. It was the first time they had been in the deserted grounds so late of an evening. For they had had tea long ago, and it was not soveryfar off bedtime: already the bushes and shrubs began to look shadowy and mysterious in the twilight, and the moon’s profile—for it was about half-way to full—to gleam pearl-like up among the branches.“We mustn’t stay very long,” said Rafe.“Nurse won’t mind our being a little later than usual, as she’s busy packing,” said Alix. “And it’s still so hot, indoors at least. Last night Icouldn’tget to sleep, though I pushed off everything except one sheet. I was just boiling. And when I told mamma she said it was no use going to bed only to toss about, and that we might as well sit up a little later.”“I hope it will be cooler at the seaside,” said Rafe.“It’s pretty sure to be,” Alix replied. “If it was just about as cool as it is here just now. Isn’t it lovely? And that breeze is so refreshing.”They were standing near the walled-up mound as she spoke, and the wind came with a long sighing sound through the trees. It seemed at first like a sigh, but by degrees it changed into a soft kind of laughter, which did not fade away, but grew, as they listened, more and more distinct. And then it sounded as if coming not from up among the trees overhead, but from somewhere underground. And it was not the wind after all, for by this time everything was perfectly, strangely still. The children looked at each other; they were used to odd things happening in the garden. They just stood still and waited to see what was going to take place.The laughing ceased, and there came a voice instead, and the voice grew clearer as the hidden door in the wall which they had sought for so often, swung round, and out from the dark passage came the small figure, red cloak, hood, and all, of Mrs Caretaker. She was still laughing just a little, and her laugh was so bright and rippling that it made the children laugh too, though they did not know why.“And so you are going away, my dears,” said their old friend. How she got up so quickly to where they stood they did not see, but there she was, as alert as possible. And again she laughed.“If you please, if it’s not rude, we’d like to know what you’re laughing at,” said Alix, not quite sure if she was pleased or not.“Only a little joke, my dear; only a little joke I was having all to myself. I hear so many funny stories, you see. They all have to tell me them: the wind and the rain often chatter to me, as well as the birds and the bees and all the others thatyoucall living creatures. And the sea, ah! the sea has grand stories to tell sometimes.”“We’re going to the seaside,” said Rafe.Mrs Caretaker nodded.“I know,” she said, “I know most things about my friends. I thought you would come to say good-bye before you left. I’ve been waiting for you. And if there is anything you would like me to take care of for you while you’re away, you have only to tell me.”“Thank you,” said the children. But Alix did not feel quite pleased yet.“Mrs Caretaker,” she said, “you shouldn’t speak as if this was the only time we’ve come to see you. We’ve been and beeneverso often, but we never could find the door. And we’ve always kept saying how kind you’d been; making the birds tell us stories too.”“It’s all right, my dear,” said the old woman. “Yes, I heard you on the other side of the wall. But I’m very busy sometimes; too busy for visitors. I’m not busy to-night though, and it’s getting chilly out here. Come inside with me for a while, and tell me about where you’re going to.”“We mustn’t stay long,” said the children. “It’s later than usual for us to be out, but it’s been so hot all day; we got leave to stay a little longer.”“I will see you home. Don’t be uneasy,” said Mrs Caretaker. She led the way to the wall—almost without her seeming to touch it, the door opened, and they followed her along the little passage into the kitchen.The fire was pleasantly low; the curtains were drawn back, and through the open window the moonlight, much clearer and fuller than in the garden outside, fell on a little lake of water, where two or three snow-white swans were floating dreamily. Rafe and Alix almost screamed with surprise, but Mrs Caretaker only smiled.“You didn’t know what a view I had out of my window,” she said, as she seated herself in her rocking-chair, and drew forward two stools—one on each side for the children. “Yes, it is beautiful with the moon on it; and to-morrow night you will be looking at a still more beautiful sight—the great sea itself.”“Do you love the sea?” they asked.“Sometimes,” Mrs Caretaker replied. “You said it told you stories,” said Alix. “Will you tell us one of them? Just for a treat, you know, as we are going away, and we can think of it when we are walking along the shore watching the waves coming in.”Mrs Caretaker did not speak for a moment.Then she said—and her voice sounded rather sad—“I can’t tell you one of the stories the sea tells me. They’re not of the laughing kind, and it’s best for you to hear them for yourselves when you are older. But I will tell you a little story, if you like, of some of the folk that live in the sea. Did you ever hear tell of mermaids?”“Oh yes!” cried the children, eagerly; “often. There are lovely stories about them in some of our fairy books; and when we are at the seaside we dosowish we could see them.”Mrs Caretaker smiled.“I can’t promise you that you ever will,” she said; “but you shall have my story. Yes; sit closer, both of you, and rest your heads on my knees.”“You’re not knitting to-night,” said Alix. “The last time the needles made us hear the story better somehow; it was like as if you took us a long way off, and the story came so clear and distinct.”“It will be all right, never fear,” said the old woman. And as she spoke, she gently stroked the children’s heads. Then the same strange feeling came over them; they felt as if they were far away; they forgot all about its being nearly bedtime and about going away to-morrow; they just lived in the story which Mrs Caretaker’s clear voice began to tell.“It is called ‘The Magic Rose,’” said she; “but it is a story of those that live in the sea. Down, deep down below the waves, all is calm and still, and there is the country of the mermen. Strange things have happened before now down there among the sea-folk. Some who have been thought drowned have been cared for there, and lived their lives long after those who had known them up above were past and gone. For the mer-folk are long-lived; what men count age is to them but youth; their days follow each other in a calm that human beings could scarce imagine. They live now in these stirring times as their forbears lived when men and women had their homes in the forests, long before there were houses or towns, or roads, or any of the things which you now think the commonest necessities.“But the sea-folk have their troubles too, sometimes; and my story has to do with trouble. The Queen—the beautiful Queen of the sea-country—was ill, and the King was in despair. Now I must tell you that the Queen was not quite one of the sea race—so at least it was believed. Her grandmother—or her great-grandmother, maybe—was a maiden of the land, who had fallen into the sea as a little baby, and had been brought back to life and cared for by the mer-folk; and when she grew up, a great lord among them loved her for her beauty and made her his bride. She had no memory of her native land, of course; but still there were strange things about her and her children, and their children again, which told whence they had come.“And now that the young Queen was so ill, one of these old feelings had awakened.”“I shall die,” she said. “I shall surely die unless I can smell the scent of a rose—a deep-red rose, such as the land maidens love. It has come to me in my dreams. Though I have never seen one, I know what it must be like, and I feel that life would return—life and strength that are fast fading away—if I could breathe its exquisite fragrance and bury my face among its soft petals.”They were amazed to hear her speak thus. The great court physicians at first said she was wandering in her mind, and no attention should be paid to her. But she kept on ever the same entreaty; and the King, who loved her devotedly, at last could bear it no longer.“It all comes of her ancestor having been so foolish as to wed a human bride,” said one of the doctors, feeling in a very bad temper, as they all were.The sea-doctors are not very wise, I fear, because they have so very little experience. It happens so rarely that any of the mer-folk fall ill. And so, as they had nothing to propose, the most sensible thing to do was to get angry. But the King was not to be so put off.“Whatever it comes from,” he said, “I am determined that the Queen’s wish shall be complied with if it is in any way possible. What is this thing she is longing for?—what is a rose?”The doctors did not know; but seeing that the King was so much in earnest they agreed that they would try to find out. And after a great deal of consultation together, and looking up in their learned books, they did find out something. The Queen, meanwhile, soothed by her husband’s promise that all was being done to carry out her entreaty, grew a shade better; at least for some days she did not get any worse, which was always something. And on the fourth day the wise men asked for an audience of the King in order to tell him what they had discovered.The King awaited them eagerly.“Well,” he said, “have you found out what the Queen means by a rose? And if so, how is one to be procured?”Yes; they were able to describe pretty well what a rose was; for of course, down below, they are not without gardens and flowers, though of very different kinds from ours. But a great difficulty remained. Even if any one was daring enough to swim up to the surface and venture on land in search of the flower, and even if it was procured, how could it be brought, alive and fragrant, to the Queen?“Why not?” asked the King. For he had never been up to the surface of the sea. It is one of the sea-people’s laws that their royal folk must stay down below, so he knew nothing of the land or the things that grow there.The learned men explained to him that, without air, and exposed to the salt water of the ocean, a flower of the earth must quickly fade and die; and as the King listened, his face grew sadder and sadder. But after a few moments’ silence, one of the doctors spoke again. They were never in a hurry, you see, and they felt that it added dignity to their words to dole them out sparingly.“It has occurred to us,” he said, “that it might be well to consult the wise woman of the sea—the ancient mermaid who lives in the Anemone Cave. Not that as a rule, the advice of a member of her sex is of much use, but the ancient mermaid has lived long and—”“Of course! of course!” exclaimed the King, impatiently; “she is the very person. Why did I not think of her before? Why—the story goes that she nursed the Queen’s human ancestress when, as a baby, she came among us.”“I wish she had stayed away,” muttered the wisest of the wise men, though he spoke too low for the King to hear.Then the King ordered his chariot and his swiftest steeds—they were dolphins—to be got ready at once, and off he set.It was rather a long swim to the Anemone Cave. I wish I could give you any idea of the wonderful things the King passed by on his way—the groves of coral and forests of great branching seaweeds of all shapes and colour, the strangely formed creatures whom he scarcely glanced at. For of course it was not wonderful to him, and to-day his mind was so full of his trouble that he would have found it difficult to notice or admire anything.The wise woman of the sea was at home. The King’s heart beat faster than usual as he was ushered into her presence, not from cowardice, but because he was feeling so very anxious about his dearly-loved wife. And King though he was, he made as low an obeisance before the ancient mermaid as if he had been one of the humblest of his own subjects.She was very strange to behold. Mermaids, as your stories tell you, are often very beautiful, and possibly this aged lady may have been so in her day, but now she was so very old that she looked like the mummy of a mermaid; her hair was like a thin frosting of hoar on a winter morning; her eyes were so deep down in her head that you could scarcely see them; the scales on her tail had lost all their glitter. Still there was something dignified about her, and she received the King as if quite prepared for his visit. She was not the least surprised. Very wise people, whether on land or in the sea, never are, and she listened to the King’s story as if she knew all about it.“Yes,” she replied, in a thin croaking voice like a frog’s, “you have done well to come to me. When the human baby, the great-grandmother of the Queen, was confided to my charge, I studied her fate and that of her descendants. The sea-serpent was an admirer of mine in those days, and he was very obliging. He noted the position of the stars when he went up above, and reported them to me. Between us we found out some of the future. I read that a descendant of the stranger should be seized with mortal illness while still young, and that her life should only be saved by the breath of an earth-flower that they call the rose, but that great difficulties would attend the procuring it for her, and that some conditions attach to the matter which I was unable to understand fully. All I know is this, the flower must be sought for by a beautiful and youthful mermaid, but the first efforts will not succeed. Now you know all I have to tell you. Farewell, you have no time to lose.”And not another word would the wise mermaid say.The King had to take leave. His dolphins conducted him home again still more quickly than they had brought him, for the words rang in his ears, “You have no time to lose.” Yet he knew not what to do. The conditions he had already been told were difficult enough, for it was not a very easy task to swim to the surface, as, calm though the ocean always is down below in the sea-folks’ country, there is no telling how stormy and furious it may be up above. And for a young and beautiful mermaid to undertake such an adventure would call for great courage. It was quite against the usual customs of the sea-people.For the old stories and legends we hear about troops of lovely creatures seen floating on the water, combing their hair and singing strange melodies, were only true in the very-long-ago days. Now that mankind has spread and increased so that there are but few solitary places in the world, few shores where only the sea-gull and the wild mew dwell, the daughters of the ocean stay in their own domain, whence it comes that in these modern times many people do not believe in their existence at all.The King went straight to the Queen’s bower, where she lay surrounded by her ladies. She was sleeping, and though so pale and thin, her face was very sweet and lovely, her golden hair sparkling on the soft cushions of sea moss on which she lay. Even as she was, she was more beautiful than any of the mermaids about her.Yet some of them were very beautiful. The King’s glance fell especially on two who were noted as the most charming among the Queen’s attendants. Their names were Ila and Orona. A sudden idea struck the King.“I will cause it to be announced that a great reward shall be given to any young and beautiful mermaid who will undertake the quest of the red rose on which depends the Queen’s recovery,” he thought, and the idea raised his hopes. And as he stooped over the sleeping Queen, she smiled and whispered something as if she were dreaming.“The gift of love,” were the only words he could distinguish. But he took the smile as a good omen.The next morning there was great excitement amongst the fair young mermaids. For it was announced that whoever of them should succeed in bringing, blooming and fragrant, a red rose to the suffering Queen, should be rewarded by the gift of a pearl necklace, which was considered one of the most precious of the crown jewels, and that furthermore the fortunate mermaid should take the highest rank of all the sea-ladies next to the Queen herself.Ila and Orona were both beautiful and courageous, and before the day was many hours older they had offered themselves for the task. The King was delighted, and as Ila was the elder of the two it was decided that she must be the first to try. She received many compliments on her daring, and the King thanked her most warmly. She accepted all that was said to her, but to Orona, who was her chosen confidante, she owned that she would never have dreamt of making the attempt but for her intense wish to possess the necklace, which she had often admired on the young Queen’s fair skin.“I would do anything to win it,” she said. “There is nothing in the world I admire so much as pearls, but if I gain it, Orona, I promise to lend it to you sometimes.”“Many thanks,” Orona replied, “but I do not care for jewels as you do. IfIhave the chance of seeking the rose—that is to say if you fail—my motive will not be to gain the necklace, but to win the position of the highest rank next to the Queen.ThatI should care far more for.”Both mermaids, however, kept their ambitions secret from every one else, and calmly accepted the praises showered upon them.And the very next day Ila started on her upward journey.
The days and weeks and months went on, till it was full summer time again; more than full summer indeed. For it was August, and in a day or two Rafe and Alix were to go to the seaside for several weeks. They were very pleased of course, but still there is always alittlesad feeling at “going away,” especially from one’s own home, even though it is only for a short time. They went all round the garden saying good-bye, as well as to the stables and the poultry yard and all the familiar places.
Then a sudden thought struck Alix.
“Rafe,” she said—it was the very evening before they left—“do let’s say good-bye to the old garden too. And perhaps if we stood close to the corner of the wall and called through very loud,perhapsMrs Caretaker would hear us. It seems so funny that we’ve never seen her again. I think shemustbe away.”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Rafe replied.
“I’ve sometimes had a feeling like you, Alix, that she was there all the time.”
“And of course it was she who made the birds tell us their stories,” said Alix, “so we really should be very much obliged to her. Just think what nice games we’ve made out of them; and what nice things we’ve begun to get ready for the poor children next Christmas. I do think, Rafe, we’veneverfelt dull since we’ve played so much in the Lady wood garden.”
Rafe quite agreed with her, and they made their way down the lane and through the well-known old gateway. It was the first time they had been in the deserted grounds so late of an evening. For they had had tea long ago, and it was not soveryfar off bedtime: already the bushes and shrubs began to look shadowy and mysterious in the twilight, and the moon’s profile—for it was about half-way to full—to gleam pearl-like up among the branches.
“We mustn’t stay very long,” said Rafe.
“Nurse won’t mind our being a little later than usual, as she’s busy packing,” said Alix. “And it’s still so hot, indoors at least. Last night Icouldn’tget to sleep, though I pushed off everything except one sheet. I was just boiling. And when I told mamma she said it was no use going to bed only to toss about, and that we might as well sit up a little later.”
“I hope it will be cooler at the seaside,” said Rafe.
“It’s pretty sure to be,” Alix replied. “If it was just about as cool as it is here just now. Isn’t it lovely? And that breeze is so refreshing.”
They were standing near the walled-up mound as she spoke, and the wind came with a long sighing sound through the trees. It seemed at first like a sigh, but by degrees it changed into a soft kind of laughter, which did not fade away, but grew, as they listened, more and more distinct. And then it sounded as if coming not from up among the trees overhead, but from somewhere underground. And it was not the wind after all, for by this time everything was perfectly, strangely still. The children looked at each other; they were used to odd things happening in the garden. They just stood still and waited to see what was going to take place.
The laughing ceased, and there came a voice instead, and the voice grew clearer as the hidden door in the wall which they had sought for so often, swung round, and out from the dark passage came the small figure, red cloak, hood, and all, of Mrs Caretaker. She was still laughing just a little, and her laugh was so bright and rippling that it made the children laugh too, though they did not know why.
“And so you are going away, my dears,” said their old friend. How she got up so quickly to where they stood they did not see, but there she was, as alert as possible. And again she laughed.
“If you please, if it’s not rude, we’d like to know what you’re laughing at,” said Alix, not quite sure if she was pleased or not.
“Only a little joke, my dear; only a little joke I was having all to myself. I hear so many funny stories, you see. They all have to tell me them: the wind and the rain often chatter to me, as well as the birds and the bees and all the others thatyoucall living creatures. And the sea, ah! the sea has grand stories to tell sometimes.”
“We’re going to the seaside,” said Rafe.
Mrs Caretaker nodded.
“I know,” she said, “I know most things about my friends. I thought you would come to say good-bye before you left. I’ve been waiting for you. And if there is anything you would like me to take care of for you while you’re away, you have only to tell me.”
“Thank you,” said the children. But Alix did not feel quite pleased yet.
“Mrs Caretaker,” she said, “you shouldn’t speak as if this was the only time we’ve come to see you. We’ve been and beeneverso often, but we never could find the door. And we’ve always kept saying how kind you’d been; making the birds tell us stories too.”
“It’s all right, my dear,” said the old woman. “Yes, I heard you on the other side of the wall. But I’m very busy sometimes; too busy for visitors. I’m not busy to-night though, and it’s getting chilly out here. Come inside with me for a while, and tell me about where you’re going to.”
“We mustn’t stay long,” said the children. “It’s later than usual for us to be out, but it’s been so hot all day; we got leave to stay a little longer.”
“I will see you home. Don’t be uneasy,” said Mrs Caretaker. She led the way to the wall—almost without her seeming to touch it, the door opened, and they followed her along the little passage into the kitchen.
The fire was pleasantly low; the curtains were drawn back, and through the open window the moonlight, much clearer and fuller than in the garden outside, fell on a little lake of water, where two or three snow-white swans were floating dreamily. Rafe and Alix almost screamed with surprise, but Mrs Caretaker only smiled.
“You didn’t know what a view I had out of my window,” she said, as she seated herself in her rocking-chair, and drew forward two stools—one on each side for the children. “Yes, it is beautiful with the moon on it; and to-morrow night you will be looking at a still more beautiful sight—the great sea itself.”
“Do you love the sea?” they asked.
“Sometimes,” Mrs Caretaker replied. “You said it told you stories,” said Alix. “Will you tell us one of them? Just for a treat, you know, as we are going away, and we can think of it when we are walking along the shore watching the waves coming in.”
Mrs Caretaker did not speak for a moment.
Then she said—and her voice sounded rather sad—“I can’t tell you one of the stories the sea tells me. They’re not of the laughing kind, and it’s best for you to hear them for yourselves when you are older. But I will tell you a little story, if you like, of some of the folk that live in the sea. Did you ever hear tell of mermaids?”
“Oh yes!” cried the children, eagerly; “often. There are lovely stories about them in some of our fairy books; and when we are at the seaside we dosowish we could see them.”
Mrs Caretaker smiled.
“I can’t promise you that you ever will,” she said; “but you shall have my story. Yes; sit closer, both of you, and rest your heads on my knees.”
“You’re not knitting to-night,” said Alix. “The last time the needles made us hear the story better somehow; it was like as if you took us a long way off, and the story came so clear and distinct.”
“It will be all right, never fear,” said the old woman. And as she spoke, she gently stroked the children’s heads. Then the same strange feeling came over them; they felt as if they were far away; they forgot all about its being nearly bedtime and about going away to-morrow; they just lived in the story which Mrs Caretaker’s clear voice began to tell.
“It is called ‘The Magic Rose,’” said she; “but it is a story of those that live in the sea. Down, deep down below the waves, all is calm and still, and there is the country of the mermen. Strange things have happened before now down there among the sea-folk. Some who have been thought drowned have been cared for there, and lived their lives long after those who had known them up above were past and gone. For the mer-folk are long-lived; what men count age is to them but youth; their days follow each other in a calm that human beings could scarce imagine. They live now in these stirring times as their forbears lived when men and women had their homes in the forests, long before there were houses or towns, or roads, or any of the things which you now think the commonest necessities.
“But the sea-folk have their troubles too, sometimes; and my story has to do with trouble. The Queen—the beautiful Queen of the sea-country—was ill, and the King was in despair. Now I must tell you that the Queen was not quite one of the sea race—so at least it was believed. Her grandmother—or her great-grandmother, maybe—was a maiden of the land, who had fallen into the sea as a little baby, and had been brought back to life and cared for by the mer-folk; and when she grew up, a great lord among them loved her for her beauty and made her his bride. She had no memory of her native land, of course; but still there were strange things about her and her children, and their children again, which told whence they had come.
“And now that the young Queen was so ill, one of these old feelings had awakened.”
“I shall die,” she said. “I shall surely die unless I can smell the scent of a rose—a deep-red rose, such as the land maidens love. It has come to me in my dreams. Though I have never seen one, I know what it must be like, and I feel that life would return—life and strength that are fast fading away—if I could breathe its exquisite fragrance and bury my face among its soft petals.”
They were amazed to hear her speak thus. The great court physicians at first said she was wandering in her mind, and no attention should be paid to her. But she kept on ever the same entreaty; and the King, who loved her devotedly, at last could bear it no longer.
“It all comes of her ancestor having been so foolish as to wed a human bride,” said one of the doctors, feeling in a very bad temper, as they all were.
The sea-doctors are not very wise, I fear, because they have so very little experience. It happens so rarely that any of the mer-folk fall ill. And so, as they had nothing to propose, the most sensible thing to do was to get angry. But the King was not to be so put off.
“Whatever it comes from,” he said, “I am determined that the Queen’s wish shall be complied with if it is in any way possible. What is this thing she is longing for?—what is a rose?”
The doctors did not know; but seeing that the King was so much in earnest they agreed that they would try to find out. And after a great deal of consultation together, and looking up in their learned books, they did find out something. The Queen, meanwhile, soothed by her husband’s promise that all was being done to carry out her entreaty, grew a shade better; at least for some days she did not get any worse, which was always something. And on the fourth day the wise men asked for an audience of the King in order to tell him what they had discovered.
The King awaited them eagerly.
“Well,” he said, “have you found out what the Queen means by a rose? And if so, how is one to be procured?”
Yes; they were able to describe pretty well what a rose was; for of course, down below, they are not without gardens and flowers, though of very different kinds from ours. But a great difficulty remained. Even if any one was daring enough to swim up to the surface and venture on land in search of the flower, and even if it was procured, how could it be brought, alive and fragrant, to the Queen?
“Why not?” asked the King. For he had never been up to the surface of the sea. It is one of the sea-people’s laws that their royal folk must stay down below, so he knew nothing of the land or the things that grow there.
The learned men explained to him that, without air, and exposed to the salt water of the ocean, a flower of the earth must quickly fade and die; and as the King listened, his face grew sadder and sadder. But after a few moments’ silence, one of the doctors spoke again. They were never in a hurry, you see, and they felt that it added dignity to their words to dole them out sparingly.
“It has occurred to us,” he said, “that it might be well to consult the wise woman of the sea—the ancient mermaid who lives in the Anemone Cave. Not that as a rule, the advice of a member of her sex is of much use, but the ancient mermaid has lived long and—”
“Of course! of course!” exclaimed the King, impatiently; “she is the very person. Why did I not think of her before? Why—the story goes that she nursed the Queen’s human ancestress when, as a baby, she came among us.”
“I wish she had stayed away,” muttered the wisest of the wise men, though he spoke too low for the King to hear.
Then the King ordered his chariot and his swiftest steeds—they were dolphins—to be got ready at once, and off he set.
It was rather a long swim to the Anemone Cave. I wish I could give you any idea of the wonderful things the King passed by on his way—the groves of coral and forests of great branching seaweeds of all shapes and colour, the strangely formed creatures whom he scarcely glanced at. For of course it was not wonderful to him, and to-day his mind was so full of his trouble that he would have found it difficult to notice or admire anything.
The wise woman of the sea was at home. The King’s heart beat faster than usual as he was ushered into her presence, not from cowardice, but because he was feeling so very anxious about his dearly-loved wife. And King though he was, he made as low an obeisance before the ancient mermaid as if he had been one of the humblest of his own subjects.
She was very strange to behold. Mermaids, as your stories tell you, are often very beautiful, and possibly this aged lady may have been so in her day, but now she was so very old that she looked like the mummy of a mermaid; her hair was like a thin frosting of hoar on a winter morning; her eyes were so deep down in her head that you could scarcely see them; the scales on her tail had lost all their glitter. Still there was something dignified about her, and she received the King as if quite prepared for his visit. She was not the least surprised. Very wise people, whether on land or in the sea, never are, and she listened to the King’s story as if she knew all about it.
“Yes,” she replied, in a thin croaking voice like a frog’s, “you have done well to come to me. When the human baby, the great-grandmother of the Queen, was confided to my charge, I studied her fate and that of her descendants. The sea-serpent was an admirer of mine in those days, and he was very obliging. He noted the position of the stars when he went up above, and reported them to me. Between us we found out some of the future. I read that a descendant of the stranger should be seized with mortal illness while still young, and that her life should only be saved by the breath of an earth-flower that they call the rose, but that great difficulties would attend the procuring it for her, and that some conditions attach to the matter which I was unable to understand fully. All I know is this, the flower must be sought for by a beautiful and youthful mermaid, but the first efforts will not succeed. Now you know all I have to tell you. Farewell, you have no time to lose.”
And not another word would the wise mermaid say.
The King had to take leave. His dolphins conducted him home again still more quickly than they had brought him, for the words rang in his ears, “You have no time to lose.” Yet he knew not what to do. The conditions he had already been told were difficult enough, for it was not a very easy task to swim to the surface, as, calm though the ocean always is down below in the sea-folks’ country, there is no telling how stormy and furious it may be up above. And for a young and beautiful mermaid to undertake such an adventure would call for great courage. It was quite against the usual customs of the sea-people.
For the old stories and legends we hear about troops of lovely creatures seen floating on the water, combing their hair and singing strange melodies, were only true in the very-long-ago days. Now that mankind has spread and increased so that there are but few solitary places in the world, few shores where only the sea-gull and the wild mew dwell, the daughters of the ocean stay in their own domain, whence it comes that in these modern times many people do not believe in their existence at all.
The King went straight to the Queen’s bower, where she lay surrounded by her ladies. She was sleeping, and though so pale and thin, her face was very sweet and lovely, her golden hair sparkling on the soft cushions of sea moss on which she lay. Even as she was, she was more beautiful than any of the mermaids about her.
Yet some of them were very beautiful. The King’s glance fell especially on two who were noted as the most charming among the Queen’s attendants. Their names were Ila and Orona. A sudden idea struck the King.
“I will cause it to be announced that a great reward shall be given to any young and beautiful mermaid who will undertake the quest of the red rose on which depends the Queen’s recovery,” he thought, and the idea raised his hopes. And as he stooped over the sleeping Queen, she smiled and whispered something as if she were dreaming.
“The gift of love,” were the only words he could distinguish. But he took the smile as a good omen.
The next morning there was great excitement amongst the fair young mermaids. For it was announced that whoever of them should succeed in bringing, blooming and fragrant, a red rose to the suffering Queen, should be rewarded by the gift of a pearl necklace, which was considered one of the most precious of the crown jewels, and that furthermore the fortunate mermaid should take the highest rank of all the sea-ladies next to the Queen herself.
Ila and Orona were both beautiful and courageous, and before the day was many hours older they had offered themselves for the task. The King was delighted, and as Ila was the elder of the two it was decided that she must be the first to try. She received many compliments on her daring, and the King thanked her most warmly. She accepted all that was said to her, but to Orona, who was her chosen confidante, she owned that she would never have dreamt of making the attempt but for her intense wish to possess the necklace, which she had often admired on the young Queen’s fair skin.
“I would do anything to win it,” she said. “There is nothing in the world I admire so much as pearls, but if I gain it, Orona, I promise to lend it to you sometimes.”
“Many thanks,” Orona replied, “but I do not care for jewels as you do. IfIhave the chance of seeking the rose—that is to say if you fail—my motive will not be to gain the necklace, but to win the position of the highest rank next to the Queen.ThatI should care far more for.”
Both mermaids, however, kept their ambitions secret from every one else, and calmly accepted the praises showered upon them.
And the very next day Ila started on her upward journey.