Said Peter ‘I am well awareMine is a state of happiness:And yet how gladly could I spareSome of the comforts I possess!Whatyoucall healthy appetiteIfeel as Hunger’s savage tooth:And, when no dinner is in sight,The dinner-bell’s a sound of ruth!
Said Peter ‘I am well aware
Mine is a state of happiness:
And yet how gladly could I spare
Some of the comforts I possess!
Whatyoucall healthy appetite
Ifeel as Hunger’s savage tooth:
And, when no dinner is in sight,
The dinner-bell’s a sound of ruth!
‘No scare-crow would accept this coat:Such boots as these you seldom see.Ah, Paul, a single five-pound-noteWould make another man of me!’Said Paul ‘It fills me with surpriseTo hear you talk in such a tone:I fear you scarcely realiseThe blessings that are all your own!
‘No scare-crow would accept this coat:
Such boots as these you seldom see.
Ah, Paul, a single five-pound-note
Would make another man of me!’
Said Paul ‘It fills me with surprise
To hear you talk in such a tone:
I fear you scarcely realise
The blessings that are all your own!
‘You’re safe from being overfed:You’re sweetly picturesque in rags:You never know the aching headThat comes along with money-bags:And you have time to cultivateThat best of qualities, Content—For which you’ll find your present stateRemarkably convenient!’
‘You’re safe from being overfed:
You’re sweetly picturesque in rags:
You never know the aching head
That comes along with money-bags:
And you have time to cultivate
That best of qualities, Content—
For which you’ll find your present state
Remarkably convenient!’
Said Peter ‘Though I cannot soundThe depths of such a man as you,Yet in your character I’ve foundAn inconsistency or two.You seem to have long years to spareWhen there’s a promise to fulfil:And yet how punctual you wereIn calling with that little bill!’
Said Peter ‘Though I cannot sound
The depths of such a man as you,
Yet in your character I’ve found
An inconsistency or two.
You seem to have long years to spare
When there’s a promise to fulfil:
And yet how punctual you were
In calling with that little bill!’
‘One can’t be too deliberate,’Said Paul, ‘in parting with one’s pelf.With bills, as you correctly state,I’m punctuality itself.A man may surely claim his dues:But, when there’s money to belent,A man must be allowed to chooseSuch times as are convenient!’
‘One can’t be too deliberate,’
Said Paul, ‘in parting with one’s pelf.
With bills, as you correctly state,
I’m punctuality itself.
A man may surely claim his dues:
But, when there’s money to belent,
A man must be allowed to choose
Such times as are convenient!’
It chanced one day, as Peter satGnawing a crust—his usual meal—Paul bustled in to have a chat,And grasped his hand with friendly zeal.‘I knew,’ said he, ‘your frugal ways:So, that I might not wound your prideBy bringing strangers in to gaze,I’ve left my legal friend outside!
It chanced one day, as Peter sat
Gnawing a crust—his usual meal—
Paul bustled in to have a chat,
And grasped his hand with friendly zeal.
‘I knew,’ said he, ‘your frugal ways:
So, that I might not wound your pride
By bringing strangers in to gaze,
I’ve left my legal friend outside!
‘You well remember, I am sure,When first your wealth began to go,And people sneered at one so poor,Inever used my Peter so!And when you’d lost your little all,And found yourself a thing despised,I need not ask you to recallHow tenderly I sympathised!
‘You well remember, I am sure,
When first your wealth began to go,
And people sneered at one so poor,
Inever used my Peter so!
And when you’d lost your little all,
And found yourself a thing despised,
I need not ask you to recall
How tenderly I sympathised!
‘Then the advice I’ve poured on you,So full of wisdom and of wit:All given gratis, though ’tis trueI might have fairly charged for it!But I refrain from mentioningFull many a deed I might relate—For boasting is a kind of thingThat I particularly hate.
‘Then the advice I’ve poured on you,
So full of wisdom and of wit:
All given gratis, though ’tis true
I might have fairly charged for it!
But I refrain from mentioning
Full many a deed I might relate—
For boasting is a kind of thing
That I particularly hate.
‘I WILL LEND YOU FIFTY MORE!’‘I WILL LEND YOU FIFTY MORE!’
‘I WILL LEND YOU FIFTY MORE!’
‘How vast the total sum appearsOf all the kindnesses I’ve done,From Childhood’s half-forgotten yearsDown to that Loan of April One!That Fifty Pounds! You little guessedHow deep it drained my slender store:But there’s a heart within this breast,AndI will lend you fifty more!’
‘How vast the total sum appears
Of all the kindnesses I’ve done,
From Childhood’s half-forgotten years
Down to that Loan of April One!
That Fifty Pounds! You little guessed
How deep it drained my slender store:
But there’s a heart within this breast,
AndI will lend you fifty more!’
‘Not so,’ was Peter’s mild reply,His cheeks all wet with grateful tears:‘No man recalls, so well as I,Your services in bygone years:And this new offer, I admit,Is very very kindly meant—Still, to avail myself of itWould not be quite convenient!’
‘Not so,’ was Peter’s mild reply,
His cheeks all wet with grateful tears:
‘No man recalls, so well as I,
Your services in bygone years:
And this new offer, I admit,
Is very very kindly meant—
Still, to avail myself of it
Would not be quite convenient!’
You’ll see in a moment what the difference is between ‘convenient’ and ‘inconvenient.’ You quite understand it now, don’t you?” he added, looking kindly at Bruno, who was sitting, at Sylvie’s side, on the floor.
“Yes,” said Bruno, very quietly. Such a short speech was very unusual, for him: but just then he seemed, I fancied, a little exhausted. In fact, he climbed up into Sylvie’s lap as he spoke, and rested his head against her shoulder. “What a many verses it was!” he whispered.
The Other Professor regarded him with some anxiety. “The smaller animal ought to go to bedat once,” he said with an air of authority.
“Whyat once?” said the Professor.
“Because he can’t go at twice,” said the Other Professor.
The Professor gently clapped his hands. “Isn’t hewonderful!” he said to Sylvie. “Nobody else could have thought of the reason, so quick. Why,of coursehe ca’n’t go at twice! It would hurt him to be divided.”
This remark woke up Bruno, suddenly and completely. “I don’t want to bedivided,” he said decisively.
“It does very well on adiagram,” said the Other Professor. “I could show it you in a minute, only the chalk’s a little blunt.”
“Take care!” Sylvie anxiously exclaimed, as he began, rather clumsily, to point it. “You’ll cut your finger off, if you hold the knife so!”
“If oo cuts it off, will oo give it tome, please?” Bruno thoughtfully added.
“It’s like this,” said the Other Professor, hastily drawing a long line upon the black board, and marking the letters ‘A,’ ‘B,’ at the two ends, and ‘C’ in the middle: “let me explain it to you. IfABwere to be divided into two parts atC——”
“It would be drownded,” Bruno pronounced confidently.
The Other Professor gasped. “Whatwould be drownded?”
“Why the bumble-bee, of course!” said Bruno. “And the two bits would sink down in the sea!”
Here the Professor interfered, as the Other Professor was evidently too much puzzled to go on with his diagram.
“When I said it wouldhurthim, I was merely referring to the action of the nerves——”
The Other Professor brightened up in a moment. “The action of the nerves,” he began eagerly, “is curiously slow in some people. I had a friend, once, that, if you burnt him with a red-hot poker, it would take years and years before he felt it!”
“And if you onlypinchedhim?” queried Sylvie.
“Then it would take ever so much longer, of course. In fact, I doubt if the manhimselfwould ever feel it, at all. His grandchildren might.”
“I wouldn’t like to be the grandchild of a pinched grandfather, wouldyou, Mister Sir?” Bruno whispered. “It might come just when you wanted to be happy!”
That would be awkward, I admitted, taking it quite as a matter of course that he had so suddenly caught sight of me. “But don’t youalwayswant to be happy, Bruno?”
“Notalways,” Bruno said thoughtfully. “Sometimes, when I’stoohappy, I wants to be a little miserable. Then I just tell Sylvie about it, oo know, and Sylvie sets me some lessons. Then it’s all right.”
“I’m sorry you don’t like lessons,” I said. “You should copy Sylvie.She’salways as busy as the day is long!”
“Well, so amI!” said Bruno.
“No, no!” Sylvie corrected him. “You’reas busy as the day isshort!”
“Well, what’s the difference?” Bruno asked. “Mister Sir, isn’t the day as short as it’s long? I mean, isn’t it thesamelength?”
Never having considered the question in this light, I suggested that they had better ask the Professor; and they ran off in a moment to appeal to their old friend. The Professor left off polishing his spectacles to consider. “My dears,” he said after a minute, “the day is the same length as anything that is the same length asit.” And he resumed his neverending task of polishing.
The children returned, slowly and thoughtfully, to report his answer. “Isn’the wise?”Sylvie asked in an awestruck whisper. “IfIwas as wise asthat, I should have a head-ache all day long. IknowI should!”
“You appear to be talking to somebody—that isn’t here,” the Professor said, turning round to the children. “Who is it?”
Bruno looked puzzled. “I never talks to nobody when he isn’t here!” he replied. “It isn’t good manners. Oo should always wait till he comes, before oo talks to him!”
The Professor looked anxiously in my direction, and seemed to look through and through me without seeing me. “Then who are you talking to?” he said. “There isn’t anybody here, you know, except the Other Professor—andheisn’t here!” he added wildly, turning round and round like a teetotum. “Children! Help to look for him! Quick! He’s got lost again!”
The children were on their feet in a moment.
“Where shall we look?” said Sylvie.
“Anywhere!” shouted the excited Professor. “Only be quick about it!” And he began trotting round and round the room, lifting up the chairs, and shaking them.
Bruno took a very small book out of the bookcase, opened it, and shook it in imitation of the Professor. “He isn’there,” he said.
“Heca’n’tbe there, Bruno!” Sylvie said indignantly.
“Course he ca’n’t!” said Bruno. “I should have shooked him out, if he’d been in there!”
“Has he ever been lost before?” Sylvie enquired, turning up a corner of the hearth-rug, and peeping under it.
“Once before,” said the Professor: “he once lost himself in a wood——”
“And couldn’t he find his-self again?” said Bruno. “Why didn’t he shout? He’d be sure to hear his-self, ’cause he couldn’t be far off, oo know.”
“Let’s try shouting,” said the Professor.
“What shall we shout?” said Sylvie.
“On second thoughts,don’tshout,” the Professor replied. “The Vice-Warden might hear you. He’s getting awfully strict!”
This reminded the poor children of all the troubles, about which they had come to their old friend. Bruno sat down on the floor and began crying. “Heisso cruel!” hesobbed. “And he lets Uggug take awayallmy toys! And such horrid meals!”
“What did you have for dinner to-day?” said the Professor.
“A little piece of a dead crow,” was Bruno’s mournful reply.
“He means rook-pie,” Sylvie explained.
“Itwerea dead crow,” Bruno persisted. “And there were a apple-pudding—and Uggug ate it all—and I got nuffin but a crust! And I asked for a orange—and—didn’t get it!” And the poor little fellow buried his face in Sylvie’s lap, who kept gently stroking his hair, as she went on. “It’s all true, Professor dear! Theydotreat my darling Bruno very badly! And they’re not kind tomeeither,” she added in a lower tone, as ifthatwere a thing of much less importance.
The Professor got out a large red silk handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. “I wish I could help you, dear children!” he said. “But whatcanI do?”
“We know the way to Fairyland—where Father’s gone—quite well,” said Sylvie: “if only the Gardener would let us out.”
“Won’t he open the door for you?” said the Professor.
“Not forus,” said Sylvie: “but I’m sure he would foryou. Do come and ask him, Professor dear!”
“I’ll come this minute!” said the Professor.
Bruno sat up and dried his eyes. “Isn’the kind, Mister Sir?”
“He isindeed,” said I. But the Professor took no notice of my remark. He had put on a beautiful cap with a long tassel, and was selecting one of the Other Professor’s walking-sticks, from a stand in the corner of the room. “A thick stick in one’s hand makes people respectful,” he was saying to himself. “Come along, dear children!” And we all went out into the garden together.
“I shall address him, first of all,” the Professor explained as we went along, “with a few playful remarks on the weather. I shall then question him about the Other Professor. This will have a double advantage. First, it will open the conversation (you can’t even drink a bottle of wine without opening it first): and secondly, if he’s seen the Other Professor,we shall find him that way: and, if he hasn’t, we sha’n’t.”
On our way, we passed the target, at which Uggug had been made to shoot during the Ambassador’s visit.
“See!” said the Professor, pointing out a hole in the middle of the bull’s-eye. “His Imperial Fatness had onlyoneshot at it; and he went in justhere!”
Bruno carefully examined the hole. “Couldn’t go inthere,” he whispered to me. “He are toofat!”
We had no sort of difficulty infindingthe Gardener. Though he was hidden from us by some trees, that harsh voice of his served to direct us; and, as we drew nearer, the words of his song became more and more plainly audible:—
“He thought he saw an AlbatrossThat fluttered round the lamp:He looked again, and found it wasA Penny-Postage-Stamp.‘You’d best be getting home,’ he said:‘The nights are very damp!’”
“He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage-Stamp.
‘You’d best be getting home,’ he said:
‘The nights are very damp!’”
‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ALBATROSS’‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ALBATROSS’
‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ALBATROSS’
“Would it be afraid of catching cold?” said Bruno.
“If it gotverydamp,” Sylvie suggested, “it might stick to something, you know.”
“Andthatsomefin would have to go by the post, whatever it was!” Bruno eagerly exclaimed. “Suppose it was a cow! Wouldn’t it bedreadfulfor the other things!”
“And all these things happened tohim,” said the Professor. “That’s what makes the song so interesting.”
“He must have had a very curious life,” said Sylvie.
“You may say that!” the Professor heartily rejoined.
“Of course she may!” cried Bruno.
By this time we had come up to the Gardener, who was standing on one leg, as usual, and busily employed in watering a bed of flowers with an empty watering-can.
“It hasn’t got no water in it!” Bruno explained to him, pulling his sleeve to attract his attention.
“It’s lighter to hold,” said the Gardener. “A lot of water in it makes one’s arms ache.” And he went on with his work, singing softly to himself
“The nights are very damp!”
“The nights are very damp!”
“In digging things out of the ground—which you probably do now and then,” the Professor began in a loud voice; “in making things into heaps—which no doubt you often do; and in kicking things about with one heel—which you seem never to leave off doing; have you ever happened to notice another Professor, something like me, but different?”
“Never!” shouted the Gardener, so loudly and violently that we all drew back in alarm.
“There ain’t such a thing!”
“We will try a less exciting topic,” the Professor mildly remarked to the children. “You were asking——”
“We asked him to let us through the garden-door,” said Sylvie: “but he wouldn’t: but perhaps he would foryou!”
The Professor put the request, very humbly and courteously.
“I wouldn’t mind lettingyouout,” said the Gardener. “But I mustn’t open the door forchildren. D’you think I’d disobey theRules? Not for one-and-sixpence!”
The Professor cautiously produced a couple of shillings.
“That’ll do it!” the Gardener shouted, as he hurled the watering-can across the flower-bed, and produced a handful of keys—one large one, and a number of small ones.
“But look here, Professor dear!” whispered Sylvie. “He needn’t open the door forus, at all. We can go out withyou.”
“True, dear child!” the Professor thankfully replied, as he replaced the coins in his pocket. “That saves two shillings!” And he took the children’s hands, that they might all go outtogether when the door was opened. This, however, did not seem a very likely event, though the Gardener patiently tried all the small keys, over and over again.
At last the Professor ventured on a gentle suggestion. “Why not try thelargeone? I have often observed that a door unlocksmuchmore nicely with itsownkey.”
The very first trial of the large key proved a success: the Gardener opened the door, and held out his hand for the money.
The Professor shook his head. “You are acting byRule,” he explained, “in opening the door forme. And now it’s open, we are going out byRule—the Rule ofThree.”
The Gardener looked puzzled, and let us go out; but, as he locked the door behind us, we heard him singing thoughtfully to himself
“He thought he saw a Garden-DoorThat opened with a key:He looked again, and found it wasA Double Rule of Three:‘And all its mystery,’ he said,‘Is clear as day to me!’”
“He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
‘And all its mystery,’ he said,
‘Is clear as day to me!’”
“I shall now return,” said the Professor, when we had walked a few yards: “you see, it’s impossible to readhere, for all my books are in the house.”
But the children still kept fast hold of his hands. “Docome with us!” Sylvie entreated with tears in her eyes.
“Well, well!” said the good-natured old man. “Perhaps I’ll come after you, some day soon. But Imustgo backnow. You see I left off at a comma, and it’s so awkward not knowing how the sentence finishes! Besides, you’ve got to go through Dogland first, and I’m always a little nervous about dogs. But it’ll be quite easy to come, as soon as I’ve completed my new invention—for carrying one’s-self, you know. It wants just alittlemore working-out.”
“Won’t that be very tiring, to carryyourself?” Sylvie enquired.
“Well, no, my child. You see, whatever fatigue one incurs bycarrying, one saves bybeing carried! Good-bye, dears! Good-bye, Sir!” he added to my intense surprise, giving my hand an affectionate squeeze.
“Good-bye, Professor!” I replied: but my voice sounded strange and far away, and the children took not the slightest notice of our farewell. Evidently they neither saw me nor heard me, as, with their arms lovingly twined round each other, they marched boldly on.
“There’s a house, away there to the left,” said Sylvie, after we had walked what seemed to me about fifty miles. “Let’s go and ask for a night’s lodging.”
“It looks a very comfable house,” Bruno said, as we turned into the road leading up to it. “I doos hope the Dogs will be kind to us, Iisso tired and hungry!”
A Mastiff, dressed in a scarlet collar, and carrying a musket, was pacing up and down, like a sentinel, in front of the entrance. He started, on catching sight of the children, andcame forwards to meet them, keeping his musket pointed straight at Bruno, who stood quite still, though he turned pale and kept tight hold of Sylvie’s hand, while the Sentinel walked solemnly round and round them, and looked at them from all points of view.
THE MASTIFF-SENTINELTHE MASTIFF-SENTINEL
THE MASTIFF-SENTINEL
“Oobooh, hooh boohooyah!” He growled at last. “Woobah yahwah oobooh! Bow wahbah woobooyah? Bow wow?” he asked Bruno, severely.
Of courseBrunounderstood all this, easily enough. All Fairies understand Doggee—that is, Dog-language. But, asyoumay find it a little difficult, just at first, I had better put it into English for you. “Humans, I verily believe! A couple of stray Humans! What Dog do you belong to? What do you want?”
“We don’t belong to aDog!” Bruno began, in Doggee. (“Peoplesneverbelongs to Dogs!” he whispered to Sylvie.)
But Sylvie hastily checked him, for fear of hurting the Mastiff’s feelings. “Please, we want a little food, and a night’s lodging—if there’s room in the house,” she added timidly. Sylvie spoke Doggee very prettily: but I think it’s almost better, foryou, to give the conversation in English.
“Thehouse, indeed!” growled the Sentinel. “Have you never seen aPalacein your life? Come along with me! His Majesty must settle what’s to be done with you.”
They followed him through the entrance-hall, down a long passage, and into a magnificent Saloon, around which were grouped dogs of all sorts and sizes. Two splendid Blood-houndswere solemnly sitting up, one on each side of the crown-bearer. Two or three Bull-dogs—whom I guessed to be the Body-Guard of the King—were waiting in grim silence: in fact the only voices at all plainly audible were those of two little dogs, who had mounted a settee, and were holding a lively discussion that looked very like a quarrel.
“Lords and Ladies in Waiting, and various Court Officials,” our guide gruffly remarked, as he led us in. Ofmethe Courtiers took no notice whatever: but Sylvie and Bruno were the subject of many inquisitive looks, and many whispered remarks, of which I only distinctly caughtone—made by a sly-looking Dachshund to his friend—“Bah wooh wahyah hoobah Oobooh,hahbah?” (“She’s not such a bad-looking Human,isshe?”)
Leaving the new arrivals in the centre of the Saloon, the Sentinel advanced to a door, at the further end of it, which bore an inscription, painted on it in Doggee, “Royal Kennel—Scratch and Yell.”
Before doing this, the Sentinel turned to the children, and said “Give me your names.”
“We’d rather not!” Bruno exclaimed, pulling Sylvie away from the door. “We want them ourselves. Come back, Sylvie! Come quick!”
“Nonsense!” said Sylvie very decidedly: and gave their names in Doggee.
Then the Sentinel scratched violently at the door, and gave a yell that made Bruno shiver from head to foot.
“Hooyah wah!” said a deep voice inside. (That’s Doggee for “Come in!”)
“It’s the King himself!” the Mastiff whispered in an awestruck tone. “Take off your wigs, and lay them humbly at his paws.” (Whatweshould call “at hisfeet.”)
Sylvie was just going to explain, very politely, that really theycouldn’tperformthatceremony, because their wigs wouldn’t come off, when the door of the Royal Kennel opened, and an enormous Newfoundland Dog put his head out. “Bow wow?” was his first question.
“When His Majesty speaks to you,” the Sentinel hastily whispered to Bruno, “you should prick up your ears!”
Bruno looked doubtfully at Sylvie. “I’d rather not, please,” he said. “It would hurt.”
THE DOG-KINGTHE DOG-KING
THE DOG-KING
“It doesn’t hurt a bit!” the Sentinel said with some indignation. “Look! It’s like this!” And he pricked up his ears like two railway signals.
Sylvie gently explained matters. “I’m afraid we ca’n’t manage it,” she said in a low voice. “I’m very sorry: but our ears haven’t got the right—” she wanted to say “machinery” in Doggee: but she had forgotten the word, and could only think of “steam-engine.”
The Sentinel repeated Sylvie’s explanation to the King.
“Can’t prick up their ears without a steam-engine!” His Majesty exclaimed. “Theymustbe curious creatures! I must have a look at them!” And he came out of his Kennel, and walked solemnly up to the children.
What was the amazement—not to say the horror—of the whole assembly, when Sylvie actuallypatted His Majesty on the head, while Bruno seized his long ears and pretended to tie them together under his chin!
The Sentinel groaned aloud: a beautiful Greyhound—who appeared to be one of the Ladies in Waiting—fainted away: and all theother Courtiers hastily drew back, and left plenty of room for the huge Newfoundland to spring upon the audacious strangers, and tear them limb from limb.
Only—he didn’t. On the contrary his Majesty actuallysmiled—so far as a Dogcansmile—and (the other Dogs couldn’t believe their eyes, but it was true, all the same) his Majestywagged his tail!
“Yah! Hooh hahwooh!” (that is “Well! I never!”) was the universal cry.
His Majesty looked round him severely, and gave a slight growl, which produced instant silence. “Conductmy friendsto the banqueting-hall!” he said, laying such an emphasis on “my friends” that several of the dogs rolled over helplessly on their backs and began to lick Bruno’s feet.
A procession was formed, but I only ventured to follow as far as thedoorof the banqueting-hall, so furious was the uproar of barking dogs within. So I sat down by the King, who seemed to have gone to sleep, and waited till the children returned to say good-night, when His Majesty got up and shook himself.
“Time for bed!” he said with a sleepy yawn. “The attendants will show you your room,” he added, aside, to Sylvie and Bruno. “Bring lights!” And, with a dignified air, he held out his paw for them to kiss.
But the children were evidently not well practised in Court-manners. Sylvie simply stroked the great paw: Bruno hugged it: the Master of the Ceremonies looked shocked.
All this time Dog-waiters, in splendid livery, were running up with lighted candles: but, as fast as they put them upon the table, other waiters ran away with them, so that there never seemed to be one forme, though the Master kept nudging me with his elbow, and repeating “I ca’n’t let you sleephere! You’re not inbed, you know!”
I made a great effort, and just succeeded in getting out the words “I know I’m not. I’m in an arm-chair.”
“Well, forty winks will do you no harm,” the Master said, and left me. I could scarcely hear his words: and no wonder: he was leaning over the side of a ship, that was miles away from the pier on which I stood. The shippassed over the horizon, and I sank back into the arm-chair.
The next thing I remember is that it was morning: breakfast was just over: Sylvie was lifting Bruno down from a high chair, and saying to a Spaniel, who was regarding them with a most benevolent smile, “Yes, thank you, we’ve had averynice breakfast. Haven’t we, Bruno?”
“There was too many bones in the——” Bruno began, but Sylvie frowned at him, and laid her finger on her lips, for, at this moment, the travelers were waited on by a very dignified officer, the Head-Growler, whose duty it was, first to conduct them to the King to bid him farewell, and then to escort them to the boundary of Dogland. The great Newfoundland received them most affably, but, instead of saying “good-bye,” he startled the Head-Growler into giving three savage growls, by announcing that he would escort them himself.
“It is a most unusual proceeding, your Majesty!” the Head-Growler exclaimed, almost choking with vexation at being set aside, for he had put on his best Court-suit, made entirely of cat-skins, for the occasion.
“I shall escort them myself,” his Majesty repeated, gently but firmly, laying aside the Royal robes, and changing his crown for a small coronet, “and you may stay at home.”
“Iareglad!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie, when they had got well out of hearing. “He were sowellycross!” And he not only patted their Royal escort, but even hugged him round the neck in the exuberance of his delight.
His Majesty calmly wagged the Royal tail. “It’s quite a relief,” he said, “getting away from that Palace now and then! Royal Dogs have a dull life of it, I can tell you! Would you mind” (this to Sylvie, in a low voice, and looking a little shy and embarrassed) “would you mind the trouble of just throwing that stick for me to fetch?”
Sylvie was too much astonished to do anything for a moment: it sounded such a monstrous impossibility that aKingshould wish to run after a stick. ButBrunowas equal to the occasion, and with a glad shout of “Hi then! Fetch it, good Doggie!” he hurled it over a clump of bushes. The next moment the Monarch of Dogland had bounded over thebushes, and picked up the stick, and came galloping back to the children with it in his mouth. Bruno took it from him with great decision. “Beg for it!” he insisted; and His Majesty begged. “Paw!” commanded Sylvie; and His Majesty gave his paw. In short, the solemn ceremony of escorting the travelers to the boundaries of Dogland became one long uproarious game of play!
“But business is business!” the Dog-King said at last. “And I must go back to mine. I couldn’t come any further,” he added, consulting a dog-watch, which hung on a chain round his neck, “not even if there were aCatin sight!”
They took an affectionate farewell of His Majesty, and trudged on.
“Thatwerea dear dog!” Bruno exclaimed. “Has we to go far, Sylvie? I’s tired!”
“Not much further, darling!” Sylvie gently replied. “Do you see that shining, just beyond those trees? I’m almostsureit’s the gate of Fairyland! I know it’s all golden—Father told me so—and so bright, so bright!” she went on dreamily.
“It dazzles!” said Bruno, shading his eyes with one little hand, while the other clung tightly to Sylvie’s hand, as if he were half-alarmed at her strange manner.
For the child moved on as if walking in her sleep, her large eyes gazing into the far distance, and her breath coming and going in quick pantings of eager delight. I knew, by some mysterious mental light, that a great change was taking place in my sweet little friend (for such I loved to think her) and that she was passing from the condition of a mere Outland Sprite into the true Fairy-nature.
Upon Bruno the change came later: but it was completed in both before they reached the golden gate, through which I knew it would be impossible formeto follow. I could but stand outside, and take a last look at the two sweet children, ere they disappeared within, and the golden gate closed with a bang.
And withsucha bang! “It neverwillshut like any other cupboard-door,” Arthur explained. “There’s something wrong with the hinge. However, here’s the cake and wine. And you’ve had your forty winks. So youreallymustget off to bed, old man! You’re fit for nothing else. Witness my hand, Arthur Forester, M.D.”
By this time I was wide-awake again. “Notquiteyet!” I pleaded. “Really I’m not sleepy now. And it isn’t midnight yet.”
“Well, I did want to say another word to you,” Arthur replied in a relenting tone, as he supplied me with the supper he had prescribed. “Only I thought you were too sleepy for it to-night.”
We took our midnight meal almost in silence; for an unusual nervousness seemed to have seized on my old friend.
“What kind of a night is it?” he asked, rising and undrawing the window-curtains, apparently to change the subject for a minute. I followed him to the window, and we stood together, looking out, in silence.
“When I first spoke to you about——” Arthur began, after a long and embarrassing silence, “that is, when we first talked about her—for I think it wasyouthat introduced the subject—my own position in life forbade me to do more than worship her from a distance:and I was turning over plans for leaving this place finally, and settling somewhere out of all chance of meeting her again. That seemed to be my only chance of usefulness in life.”
“Would that have been wise?” I said. “To leave yourself no hope at all?”
“Therewasno hope to leave,” Arthur firmly replied, though his eyes glittered with tears as he gazed upwards into the midnight sky, from which one solitary star, the glorious ‘Vega,’ blazed out in fitful splendour through the driving clouds. “She was like that star to me—bright, beautiful, and pure, but out of reach, out of reach!”
He drew the curtains again, and we returned to our places by the fireside.
“What I wanted to tell you was this,” he resumed. “I heard this evening from my solicitor. I can’t go into the details of the business, but the upshot is that my worldly wealth is much more than I thought, and I am (or shall soon be) in a position to offer marriage, without imprudence, to any lady, even if she brought nothing. I doubt if there would be anything onherside: the Earl is poor, Ibelieve. But I should have enough for both, even if health failed.”
“I wish you all happiness in your married life!” I cried. “Shall you speak to the Earl to-morrow?”
“Not yet awhile,” said Arthur. “He is very friendly, but I dare not think he means more than that, as yet. And as for—as for Lady Muriel, try as I may, Icannotread her feelings towards me. If thereislove, she is hiding it! No, I must wait, I must wait!”
I did not like to press any further advice on my friend, whose judgment, I felt, was so much more sober and thoughtful than my own; and we parted without more words on the subject that had now absorbed his thoughts, nay, his very life.
The next morning a letter frommysolicitor arrived, summoning me to town on important business.
For a full month the business, for which I had returned to London, detained me there: and even then it was only the urgent advice of my physician that induced me to leave it unfinished and pay another visit to Elveston.
Arthur had written once or twice during the month; but in none of his letters was there any mention of Lady Muriel. Still, I did not augur ill from his silence: to me it looked like the natural action of a lover, who, even while his heart was singing “She is mine!”, would fear to paint his happiness inthe cold phrases of a written letter, but would wait to tell it by word of mouth. “Yes,” I thought, “I am to hear his song of triumph from his own lips!”
The night I arrived we had much to say on other matters: and, tired with the journey, I went to bed early, leaving the happy secret still untold. Next day, however, as we chatted on over the remains of luncheon, I ventured to put the momentous question. “Well, old friend, you have told me nothing of Lady Muriel—nor when the happy day is to be?”
“The happy day,” Arthur said, looking unexpectedly grave, “is yet in the dim future. We need to know—or, rather,sheneeds to knowmebetter. I knowhersweet nature, thoroughly, by this time. But I dare not speak till I am sure that my love is returned.”
“Don’t wait too long!” I said gaily. “Faint heart never won fair lady!”
“Itis‘faint heart,’ perhaps. But really Idarenot speak just yet.”
“But meanwhile,” I pleaded, “you are running a risk that perhaps you have not thought of. Some other man——”
“No,” said Arthur firmly. “She is heart-whole: I am sure of that. Yet, if she loves another better than me, so be it! I will not spoil her happiness. The secret shall die with me. But she is my first—and myonlylove!”
“That is all very beautifulsentiment,” I said, “but it is notpractical. It is not likeyou.
He either fears his fate too much,Or his desert is small,Who dares not put it to the touch,To win or lose it all.”
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his desert is small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.”
“Idarenot ask the question whether there is another!” he said passionately. “It would break my heart to know it!”
“Yet is it wise to leave it unasked? You must not waste your life upon an ‘if’!”
“I tell you Idarenot!”
“MayIfind it out for you?” I asked, with the freedom of an old friend.
“No, no!” he replied with a pained look. “I entreat you to say nothing. Let it wait.”
“As you please,” I said: and judged it best to say no more just then. “But this evening,” I thought, “I will call on the Earl. I may beable toseehow the land lies, without so much as saying a word!”
It was a very hot afternoon—too hot to go for a walk or do anything—or else it wouldn’t have happened, I believe.
In the first place, I want to know—dear Child who reads this!—why Fairies should always be teachingusto do our duty, and lecturinguswhen we go wrong, and we should never teachthemanything? You can’t mean to say that Fairies are never greedy, or selfish, or cross, or deceitful, because that would be nonsense, you know. Well then, don’t you think they might be all the better for a little lecturing and punishing now and then?
I really don’t see why it shouldn’t be tried, and I’m almost sure that, if you could only catch a Fairy, and put it in the corner, and give it nothing but bread and water for a day or two, you’d find it quite an improved character—it would take down its conceit a little, at all events.
The next question is, what is the best time for seeing Fairies? I believe I can tell you all about that.
The first rule is, that it must be averyhot day—that we may consider as settled: and you must be just alittlesleepy—but not too sleepy to keep your eyes open, mind. Well, and you ought to feel a little—what one may call “fairyish”—the Scotch call it “eerie,” and perhaps that’s a prettier word; if you don’t know what it means, I’m afraid I can hardly explain it; you must wait till you meet a Fairy, and then you’ll know.
And the last rule is, that the crickets should not be chirping. I can’t stop to explain that: you must take it on trust for the present.
So, if all these things happen together, you have a good chance of seeing a Fairy—or at least a much better chance than if they didn’t.
The first thing I noticed, as I went lazily along through an open place in the wood, was a large Beetle lying struggling on its back, and I went down upon one knee to help the poor thing to its feet again. In some things, you know, you can’t be quite sure what an insect would like: for instance, I never could quite settle, supposing I were a moth, whether I would rather be kept out of the candle, or beallowed to fly straight in and get burnt—or again, supposing I were a spider, I’m not sure if I should bequitepleased to have my web torn down, and the fly let loose—but I feel quite certain that, if I were a beetle and had rolled over on my back, I should always be glad to be helped up again.
So, as I was saying, I had gone down upon one knee, and was just reaching out a little stick to turn the Beetle over, when I saw a sight that made me draw back hastily and hold my breath, for fear of making any noise and frightening the little creature away.
Not that she looked as if she would be easily frightened: she seemed so good and gentle that I’m sure she would never expect that any one could wish to hurt her. She was only a few inches high, and was dressed in green, so that you really would hardly have noticed her among the long grass; and she was so delicate and graceful that she quite seemed to belong to the place, almost as if she were one of the flowers. I may tell you, besides, that she had no wings (I don’t believe in Fairies with wings), and that she had quantitiesof long brown hair and large earnest brown eyes, and then I shall have done all I can to give you an idea of her.