“Not much better, I fear: but no worse, I am thankful to say.”
“Let us sit here awhile, and have a quiet chat,” she said. The calmness—almost indifference—of her manner quite took me by surprise. I little guessed what a fierce restraint she was putting upon herself.
“One can be so quiet here,” she resumed. “I come here every—every day.”
“It is very peaceful,” I said.
“You got my letter?”
“Yes, but I delayed writing. It is so hard to say—onpaper—”
“I know. It was kind of you. You were with us when we saw the last of——” She paused a moment, and went on more hurriedly. “I went down to the harbour several times, but no one knows which of those vast graves it is. However, they showed me the house he died in: that was some comfort. I stood in the very room where—where——.” She struggled in vain to go on. The flood-gates had given way at last, and the outburst of grief was the most terrible I had ever witnessed. Totally regardless of my presence, she flung herselfdown on the turf, burying her face in the grass, and with her hands clasped round the little marble cross, “Oh, my darling, my darling!” she sobbed. “And God meant your life to be so beautiful!”
IN THE CHURCH-YARDIN THE CHURCH-YARD
IN THE CHURCH-YARD
I was startled to hear, thus repeated by Lady Muriel, the very words of the darling child whom I had seen weeping so bitterly over the dead hare. Had some mysterious influence passed, from that sweet fairy-spirit, ereshe went back to Fairyland, into the human spirit that loved her so dearly? The idea seemed too wild for belief. And yet, are there not ‘more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy’?
“Godmeantit to be beautiful,” I whispered, “and surely itwasbeautiful? God’s purpose never fails!” I dared say no more, but rose and left her. At the entrance-gate to the Earl’s house I waited, leaning on the gate and watching the sun set, revolving many memories—some happy, some sorrowful—until Lady Muriel joined me.
She was quite calm again now. “Do come in,” she said. “My father will be so pleased to see you!”
The old man rose from his chair, with a smile, to welcome me; but his self-command was far less than his daughter’s, and the tears coursed down his face as he grasped both my hands in his, and pressed them warmly.
My heart was too full to speak; and we all sat silent for a minute or two. Then Lady Muriel rang the bell for tea. “Youdotake five o’clock tea, I know!” she said to me,with the sweet playfulness of manner I remembered so well, “even though youca’n’twork your wicked will on the Law of Gravity, and make the teacups descend into Infinite Space, a little faster than the tea!”
This remark gave the tone to our conversation. By a tacit mutual consent, we avoided, during this our first meeting after her great sorrow, the painful topics that filled our thoughts, and talked like light-hearted children who had never known a care.
“Did you ever ask yourself the question,” Lady Muriel began,à proposof nothing, “what is thechiefadvantage of being a Man instead of a Dog?”
“No, indeed,” I said: “but I think there are advantages on theDog’sside of the question, as well.”
“No doubt,” she replied, with that pretty mock-gravity that became her so well: “but, onMan’sside, the chief advantage seems to me to consist inhaving pockets! It was borne in upon me—uponus, I should say; for my father and I were returning from a walk—only yesterday. We met a dog carrying homea bone. What it wanted it for, I’ve no idea: certainly there was nomeaton it——”
A strange sensation came over me, that I had heard all this, or something exactly like it, before: and I almost expected her next words to be “perhaps he meant to make a cloak for the winter?” However what she really said was “and my father tried to account for it by some wretched joke aboutpro bono publico. Well, the dog laid down the bone—notin disgust with the pun, which would have shown it to be a dog of taste—but simply to rest its jaws, poor thing! Ididpity it so! Won’t you join myCharitable Association for supplying dogs with pockets? How wouldyoulike to have to carry your walking-stick in your mouth?”
Ignoring the difficult question as to theraison d’êtreof a walking-stick, supposing one had nohands, I mentioned a curious instance, I had once witnessed, of reasoning by a dog. A gentleman, with a lady, and child, and a large dog, were down at the end of a pier on which I was walking. To amuse his child, I suppose, the gentleman put down on theground his umbrella and the lady’s parasol, and then led the way to the other end of the pier, from which he sent the dog back for the deserted articles. I was watching with some curiosity. The dog came racing back to where I stood, but found an unexpected difficulty in picking up the things it had come for. With the umbrella in its mouth, its jaws were so far apart that it could get no firm grip on the parasol. After two or three failures, it paused and considered the matter.
Then it put down the umbrella and began with the parasol. Of course that didn’t open its jaws nearly so wide, and it was able to get a good hold of the umbrella, and galloped off in triumph. One couldn’t doubt that it had gone through a real train of logical thought.
“I entirely agree with you,” said Lady Muriel: “but don’t orthodox writers condemn that view, as putting Man on the level of the lower animals? Don’t they draw a sharp boundary-line between Reason and Instinct?”
“That certainlywasthe orthodox view, a generation ago,” said the Earl. “The truth of Religion seemed ready to stand or fall withthe assertion that Man was the only reasoning animal. But that is at an end now. Man can still claimcertainmonopolies—for instance, such a use oflanguageas enables us to utilise the work of many, by ‘division of labour.’ But the belief, that we have a monopoly ofReason, has long been swept away. Yet no catastrophe has followed. As some old poet says, ‘God is where he was.’”
“Most religious believers wouldnowagree with Bishop Butler,” said I, “and not reject a line of argument, even if it led straight to the conclusion that animals have some kind ofsoul, which survives their bodily death.”
“Iwouldlike to knowthatto be true!” Lady Muriel exclaimed. “If only for the sake of the poor horses. Sometimes I’ve thought that, if anythingcouldmake me cease to believe in a God of perfect justice, it would be the sufferings of horses—without guilt to deserve it, and without any compensation!”
“It is only part of the great Riddle,” said the Earl, “why innocent beingseversuffer. Itisa great strain on Faith—but not abreakingstrain, I think.”
“The sufferings ofhorses,” I said, “are chiefly caused byMan’scruelty. Sothatis merely one of the many instances of Sin causing suffering to others than the Sinner himself. But don’t you find agreaterdifficulty in sufferings inflicted by animals upon each other? For instance, a cat playing with a mouse. Assuming it to have nomoralresponsibility, isn’t that a greater mystery than a man over-driving a horse?”
“I think itis,” said Lady Muriel, looking a mute appeal to her father.
“What right have we to make that assumption?” said the Earl. “Manyof our religious difficulties are merely deductions from unwarranted assumptions. The wisest answer to most of them, is, I think, ‘behold, we know not anything.’”
“You mentioned ‘division of labour,’ just now,” I said. “Surely it is carried to a wonderful perfection in a hive of bees?”
“So wonderful—so entirely super-human—” said the Earl, “and so entirely inconsistent with the intelligence they show in other ways—that I feel no doubt at all that it ispureInstinct, andnot, as some hold, a very high order of Reason. Look at the utter stupidity of a bee, trying to find its way out of an open window! Itdoesn’ttry, in any reasonable sense of the word: it simply bangs itself about! We should call a puppyimbecile, that behaved so. And yet we are asked to believe that its intellectual level is above Sir Isaac Newton!”
“Then you hold thatpureInstinct contains noReasonat all?”
“On the contrary,” said the Earl, “I hold that the work of a bee-hive involves Reason of thehighestorder. But none of it is done by theBee.Godhas reasoned it all out, and has put into the mind of the Bee theconclusions, only, of the reasoning process.”
“But how do their minds come to worktogether?” I asked.
“What right have we to assume that theyhaveminds?”
“Special pleading, special pleading!” Lady Muriel cried, in a most unfilial tone of triumph. “Why, you yourself said, just now, ‘the mind of the Bee’!”
“But I didnotsay ‘minds,’ my child,” the Earl gently replied. “It has occurred to me, as the most probable solution of the ‘Bee’-mystery, that a swarm of Beeshave only one mind among them. We often see one mind animating a most complex collection of limbs and organs,when joined together. How do we know that any material connection is necessary? May not mere neighbourhood be enough? If so, a swarm of bees is simply a single animal whose many limbs are not quite close together!”
“It is a bewildering thought,” I said, “and needs a night’s rest to grasp it properly. Reason and Instinctbothtell me I ought to go home. So, good-night!”
“I’ll ‘set’ you part of the way,” said Lady Muriel. “I’ve had no walk to-day. It will do me good, and I have more to say to you. Shall we go through the wood? It will be pleasanter than over the common, even though itisgetting a little dark.”
We turned aside into the shade of interlacing boughs, which formed an architecture of almost perfect symmetry, grouped into lovely groinedarches, or running out, far as the eye could follow, into endless aisles, and chancels, and naves, like some ghostly cathedral, fashioned out of the dream of a moon-struck poet.
“Always, in this wood,” she began after a pause (silence seemed natural in this dim solitude), “I begin thinking of Fairies! May I ask you a question?” she added hesitatingly. “Do you believe in Fairies?”
The momentary impulse was so strong to tell her of my experiences in this very wood, that I had to make a real effort to keep back the words that rushed to my lips. “If you mean, by ‘believe,’ ‘believe in theirpossibleexistence,’ I say ‘Yes.’ For theiractualexistence, of course, one would needevidence.”
“You were saying, the other day,” she went on, “that you would acceptanything, on good evidence, that was notà prioriimpossible. And I think you namedGhostsas an instance of aprovablephenomenon. WouldFairiesbe another instance?”
“Yes, I think so.” And again it was hard to check the wish to say more: but I was not yet sure of a sympathetic listener.
“And have you any theory as to what sort of place they would occupy in Creation? Do tell me what you think about them! Would they, for instance (supposing such beings to exist), would they have any moral responsibility? I mean” (and the light bantering tone suddenly changed to one of deep seriousness) “would they be capable ofsin?”
“They can reason—on a lower level, perhaps, than men and women—never rising, I think, above the faculties of a child; and they have a moral sense, most surely. Such a being, withoutfree will, would be an absurdity. So I am driven to the conclusion that theyarecapable of sin.”
“You believe in them?” she cried delightedly, with a sudden motion as if about to clap her hands. “Now tell me, have you any reason for it?”
And still I strove to keep back the revelation I felt sure was coming. “I believe that there islifeeverywhere—notmaterialonly, not merely what is palpable to our senses—but immaterial and invisible as well. We believe in our own immaterial essence—call it ‘soul,’or ‘spirit,’ or what you will. Why should not other similar essences exist around us,notlinked on to a visible andmaterialbody? Did not God make this swarm of happy insects, to dance in this sunbeam for one hour of bliss, for no other object, that we can imagine, than to swell the sum of conscious happiness? And where shall we dare to draw the line, and say ‘He has made all these and no more’?”
“Yes, yes!” she assented, watching me with sparkling eyes. “But these are only reasons for notdenying. You have more reasons than this, have you not?”
“Well, yes,” I said, feeling I might safely tell all now. “And I could not find a fitter time or place to say it. I haveseenthem—and in this very wood!”
Lady Muriel asked no more questions. Silently she paced at my side, with head bowed down and hands clasped tightly together. Only, as my tale went on, she drew a little short quick breath now and then, like a child panting with delight. And I told her what I had never yet breathed to any other listener, of my double life, and, more than that (forminemight have been but a noonday-dream), of the double life of those two dear children.
And when I told her of Bruno’s wild gambols, she laughed merrily; and when I spoke of Sylvie’s sweetness and her utter unselfishness and trustful love, she drew a deep breath, like one who hears at last some precious tidings for which the heart has ached for a long while; and the happy tears chased one another down her cheeks.
“I have often longed to meet an angel,” she whispered, so low that I could hardly catch the words. “I’msoglad I’ve seen Sylvie! My heart went out to the child the first moment that I saw her—— Listen!” she broke off suddenly. “That’s Sylvie singing! I’m sure of it! Don’t you know her voice?”
“I have heardBrunosing, more than once,” I said: “but I never heard Sylvie.”
“I have only heard heronce,” said Lady Muriel. “It was that day when you brought us those mysterious flowers. The children had run out into the garden; and I saw Eric coming in that way, and went to the window to meet him: and Sylvie was singing, underthe trees, a song I had never heard before. The words were something like ‘I think it is Love, I feel it is Love.’ Her voice sounded far away, like a dream, but it was beautiful beyond all words—as sweet as an infant’s first smile, or the first gleam of the white cliffs when one is cominghomeafter weary years—a voice that seemed to fill one’s whole being with peace and heavenly thoughts—— Listen!” she cried, breaking off again in her excitement. “Thatisher voice, and that’s the very song!”
I could distinguish no words, but there was a dreamy sense of music in the air that seemed to grow ever louder and louder, as if coming nearer to us. We stood quite silent, and in another minute the two children appeared, coming straight towards us through an arched opening among the trees. Each had an arm round the other, and the setting sun shed a golden halo round their heads, like what one sees in pictures of saints. They were looking in our direction, but evidently did not see us, and I soon made out that Lady Muriel had for once passed into a condition familiar tome, that we were both of us ‘eerie,’ and that, though we could see the children so plainly, we were quite invisible tothem.
A FAIRY-DUETA FAIRY-DUET
A FAIRY-DUET
The song ceased just as they came into sight: but, to my delight, Bruno instantly said “Let’s sing it all again, Sylvie! Itdidsound so pretty!” And Sylvie replied “Very well. It’syouto begin, you know.”
So Bruno began, in the sweet childish treble I knew so well:—
“Say, what is the spell, when her fledgelings are cheeping,That lures the bird home to her nest?Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,To cuddle and croon it to rest?What’s the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?”
“Say, what is the spell, when her fledgelings are cheeping,
That lures the bird home to her nest?
Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,
To cuddle and croon it to rest?
What’s the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,
Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?”
And now ensued quite the strangest of all the strange experiences that marked the wonderful year whose history I am writing—the experience offirsthearing Sylvie’s voice in song. Her part was a very short one—only a few words—and she sang it timidly, and very low indeed, scarcely audibly, but thesweetnessof her voice was simply indescribable; I have never heard any earthly music like it.
“’Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low—And the name of the secret is Love!”
“’Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low—
And the name of the secret is Love!”
On me the first effect of her voice was a sudden sharp pang that seemed to pierce through one’s very heart. (I had felt such a pang only once before in my life, and it had been fromseeingwhat, at the moment, realised one’s idea of perfect beauty—it was in a London exhibition, where, in making my way through a crowd, I suddenly met, face to face, a child of quite unearthly beauty.) Then came a rush of burning tears to the eyes, as though one could weep one’s soul away for pure delight. And lastly there fell on me a sense of awe that was almost terror—some such feeling as Moses must have had when he heard the words “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.” The figures of the children became vague and shadowy, like glimmering meteors: while their voices rang together in exquisite harmony as they sang:—
“For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!”
“For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!”
By this time I could see them clearly once more. Bruno again sang by himself:—
“Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning,Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearningFor the brotherly hand-grip of peace?Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrillsAround us, beneath, and above?”
“Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning,
Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?
That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearning
For the brotherly hand-grip of peace?
Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrills
Around us, beneath, and above?”
Sylvie sang more courageously, this time: the words seemed to carry her away, out of herself:—
“’Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, how it goes:But the name of the secret is Love!”
“’Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, how it goes:
But the name of the secret is Love!”
And clear and strong the chorus rang out:—
“For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!”
“For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!”
Once more we heard Bruno’s delicate little voice alone:—
“Say whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,Like a picture so fair to the sight?That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,Till the little lambs leap with delight?”
“Say whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,
Like a picture so fair to the sight?
That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,
Till the little lambs leap with delight?”
And again uprose that silvery voice, whose angelic sweetness I could hardly bear:—
“’Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,Though ’tis sung, by the angels above,In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear—And the name of the secret is Love!”
“’Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,
Though ’tis sung, by the angels above,
In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear—
And the name of the secret is Love!”
And then Bruno joined in again with
“For I think it is Love,For I feel it is Love,For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!”
“For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!”
“Thatarepretty!” the little fellow exclaimed, as the children passed us—so closely that we drew back a little to make room for them, and it seemed we had only to reach out a hand to touch them: but this we did not attempt.
“No use to try and stop them!” I said, as they passed away into the shadows. “Why, they could not evenseeus!”
“No use at all,” Lady Muriel echoed with a sigh. “One wouldliketo meet them again, in living form! But I feel, somehow,thatcan never be. They have passed out ofourlives!” She sighed again; and no more was said, till we came out into the main road, at a point near my lodgings.
“Well, I will leave you here,” she said. “I want to get back before dark: and I have a cottage-friend to visit, first. Good night, dear friend! Let us see you soon—and often!” she added, with an affectionate warmth that went to my very heart. “For those are few we hold as dear!”
“Good night!” I answered. “Tennyson said that of a worthier friend than me.”
“Tennyson didn’t know what he was talking about!” she saucily rejoined, with a touch of her old childish gaiety; and we parted.
My landlady’s welcome had an extra heartiness about it: and though, with a rare delicacy of feeling, she made no direct allusion to the friend whose companionship had done so much to brighten life for me, I felt sure that it was a kindly sympathy with my solitary state that made her so specially anxious to do all she could think of to ensure my comfort, and make me feel at home.
The lonely evening seemed long and tedious: yet I lingered on, watching the dying fire, and letting Fancy mould the red embers into theforms and faces belonging to bygone scenes. Now it seemed to be Bruno’s roguish smile that sparkled for a moment, and died away: now it was Sylvie’s rosy cheek: and now the Professor’s jolly round face, beaming with delight. “You’re welcome, my little ones!” he seemed to say. And then the red coal, which for the moment embodied the dear old Professor, began to wax dim, and with its dying lustre the words seemed to die away into silence. I seized the poker, and with an artful touch or two revived the waning glow, while Fancy—no coy minstrel she—sang me once again the magic strain I loved to hear.
“You’re welcome, little ones!” the cheery voice repeated. “I told them you were coming. Your rooms are all ready for you. And the Emperor and the Empress—well, I think they’re rather pleased than otherwise! In fact, Her Highness said ‘I hope they’ll be in time for the Banquet!’ Those were her very words, I assure you!”
“Will Uggug be at the Banquet?” Bruno asked. And both children looked uneasy at the dismal suggestion.
“Why, of course he will!” chuckled the Professor. “Why, it’s hisbirthday, don’t you know? And his health will be drunk, and all that sort of thing. What would the Banquet be withouthim?”
“Ever so much nicer,” said Bruno. But he said it in averylow voice, and nobody but Sylvie heard him.
The Professor chuckled again. “It’ll be a jolly Banquet, nowyou’vecome, my little man! Iamso glad to see you again!”
“I ’fraid we’ve been very long in coming,” Bruno politely remarked.
“Well, yes,” the Professor assented. “However, you’re very short now you’re come: that’ssomecomfort.” And he went on to enumerate the plans for the day. “The Lecture comes first,” he said. “Thatthe Empressinsistson. She says people will eat so much at the Banquet, they’ll be too sleepy to attend to the Lecture afterwards—and perhaps she’s right. There’ll just be a littlerefreshment, when the people first arrive—as a kind of surprise for the Empress, you know. Ever since she’s been—well, notquiteso clever as sheonce was—we’ve found it desirable to concoct little surprises for her.Thencomes the Lecture——”
“What? The Lecture you were getting ready—ever so long ago?” Sylvie enquired.
“Yes—that’s the one,” the Professor rather reluctantly admitted. “Ithastaken a goodish time to prepare. I’ve got so many other things to attend to. For instance, I’m Court-Physician. I have to keep all the Royal Servants in good health—and that reminds me!” he cried, ringing the bell in a great hurry. “This is Medicine-Day! We only give Medicine once a week. If we were to begin giving it every day, the bottles wouldsoonbe empty!”
“But if they were ill on theotherdays?” Sylvie suggested.
“What, ill on the wrongday!” exclaimed the Professor. “Oh, that would never do! A Servant would be dismissedat once, who was ill on the wrong day! This is the Medicine fortoday,” he went on, taking down a large jug from a shelf. “I mixed it, myself, first thing this morning. Taste it!” he said,holding out the jug to Bruno. “Dip in your finger, and taste it!”
Bruno did so, and made such an excruciatingly wry face that Sylvie exclaimed, in alarm, “Oh, Bruno, you mustn’t!”
“It’s welly extremely nasty!” Bruno said, as his face resumed its natural shape.
“Nasty?” said the Professor. “Why, ofcourseit is! What would Medicine be, if it wasn’tnasty?”
“Nice,” said Bruno.
“I was going to say—” the Professor faltered, rather taken aback by the promptness of Bruno’s reply, “—thatthatwould never do! Medicinehasto be nasty, you know. Be good enough to take this jug, down into the Servants’ Hall,” he said to the footman who answered the bell: “and tell them it’s their Medicine fortoday.”
“Which of them is to drink it?” the footman asked, as he carried off the jug.
“Oh, I’ve not settledthatyet!” the Professor briskly replied. “I’ll come and settle that, soon. Tell them not to begin, on any account, till I come! It’s reallywonderful,”he said, turning to the children, “the success I’ve had in curing Diseases! Here are some of my memoranda.” He took down from the shelf a heap of little bits of paper, pinned together in twos and threes. “Just look atthisset, now. ‘Under-Cook Number Thirteen recovered from Common Fever—Febris Communis.’ And now see what’s pinned to it. ‘Gave Under-Cook Number Thirteen a Double Dose of Medicine.’That’ssomething to be proud of,isn’tit?”
“But which happenedfirst?” said Sylvie, looking very much puzzled.
The Professor examined the papers carefully. “They are notdated, I find,” he said with a slightly dejected air: “so I fear I ca’n’t tell you. But theybothhappened: there’s no doubt ofthat. TheMedicine’sthe great thing, you know. TheDiseasesare much less important. You can keep aMedicine, for years and years: but nobody ever wants to keep aDisease! By the way, come and look at the platform. The Gardener asked me to come and see if it would do. We may as well go before it gets dark.”
“We’d like to, very much!” Sylvie replied. “Come, Bruno, put on your hat. Don’t keep the dear Professor waiting!”
“Ca’n’t find my hat!” the little fellow sadly replied. “I were rolling it about. And it’s rolled itself away!”
“Maybe it’s rolled inthere,” Sylvie suggested, pointing to a dark recess, the door of which stood half open: and Bruno ran in to look. After a minute he came slowly out again, looking very grave, and carefully shut the cupboard-door after him.
“It aren’t in there,” he said, with such unusual solemnity, that Sylvie’s curiosity was roused.
“Whatisin there, Bruno?”
“There’s cobwebs—and two spiders—” Bruno thoughtfully replied, checking off the catalogue on his fingers, “—and the cover of a picture-book—and a tortoise—and a dish of nuts—and an old man.”
“An old man!” cried the Professor, trotting across the room in great excitement. “Why, it must be the Other Professor, that’s been lost for ever so long!”
THE OTHER PROFESSOR FOUNDTHE OTHER PROFESSOR FOUND
THE OTHER PROFESSOR FOUND
He opened the door of the cupboard wide: and there he was, the Other Professor, sitting in a chair, with a book on his knee, and in the act of helping himself to a nut from a dish, which he had taken down off a shelf just within his reach. He looked round at us, but said nothing till he had cracked and eaten the nut. Then he asked the old question. “Is the Lecture all ready?”
“It’ll begin in an hour,” the Professor said, evading the question. “First, we must have something to surprise the Empress. And then comes the Banquet——”
“The Banquet!” cried the Other Professor, springing up, and filling the room with a cloudof dust. “Then I’d better go and—and brush myself a little. What a state I’m in!”
“Hedoeswant brushing!” the Professor said, with a critical air, “Here’s your hat, little man! I had put it on by mistake. I’d quite forgotten I hadoneon, already. Let’s go and look at the platform.”
“And there’s that nice old Gardener singing still!” Bruno exclaimed in delight, as we went out into the garden. “I do believe he’s been singing that very song ever since we went away!”
“Why, of course he has!” replied the Professor. “It wouldn’t be the thing to leave off, you know.”
“Wouldn’t bewhatthing?” said Bruno: but the Professor thought it best not to hear the question. “What are you doing with that hedgehog?” he shouted at the Gardener, whom they found standing upon one foot, singing softly to himself, and rolling a hedgehog up and down with the other foot.
“Well, I wanted fur to know what hedgehogs lives on: so I be a-keeping this here hedgehog—fur to see if it eats potatoes——”
“Much better keep a potato,” said the Professor; “and see if hedgehogs eat it!”
“That be the roight way, sure-ly!” the delighted Gardener exclaimed. “Be you come to see the platform?”
“Aye, aye!” the Professor cheerily replied. “And the children have come back, you see!”
The Gardener looked round at them with a grin. Then he led the way to the Pavilion; and as he went he sang:—
“He looked again, and found it wasA Double Rule of Three:‘And all its Mystery,’ he said,‘Is clear as day to me!’”
“He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
‘And all its Mystery,’ he said,
‘Is clear as day to me!’”
“You’ve beenmonthsover that song,” said the Professor. “Isn’t it finished yet?”
“There be only one verse more,” the Gardener sadly replied. And, with tears streaming down his cheeks, he sang the last verse:—
“He thought he saw an ArgumentThat proved he was the Pope:He looked again, and found it wasA Bar of Mottled Soap.‘A fact so dread,’ he faintly said,‘Extinguishes all hope!’”
“He thought he saw an Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
‘A fact so dread,’ he faintly said,
‘Extinguishes all hope!’”
Choking with sobs, the Gardener hastily stepped on a few yards ahead of the party, to conceal his emotion.
“Didhesee the Bar of Mottled Soap?” Sylvie enquired, as we followed.
“Oh, certainly!” said the Professor. “That song is his own history, you know.”
Tears of an ever-ready sympathy glittered in Bruno’s eyes. “I’swellysorry he isn’t the Pope!” he said. “Aren’tyousorry, Sylvie?”
“Well—I hardly know,” Sylvie replied in the vaguest manner. “Would it make him any happier?” she asked the Professor.
“It wouldn’t make thePopeany happier,” said the Professor. “Isn’t the platformlovely?” he asked, as we entered the Pavilion.
“I’ve put an extra beam under it!” said the Gardener, patting it affectionately as he spoke. “And now it’s that strong, as—as a mad elephant might dance upon it!”
“Thank youverymuch!” the Professor heartily rejoined. “I don’t know that we shall exactly require—but it’s convenient to know.” And he led the children upon the platform, to explain the arrangements to them. “Here arethree seats, you see, for the Emperor and the Empress and Prince Uggug. But there must be two more chairs here!” he said, looking down at the Gardener. “One for Lady Sylvie, and one for the smaller animal!”
“And may I help in the Lecture?” said Bruno. “I can do some conjuring-tricks.”
“Well, it’s not exactly aconjuringlecture,” the Professor said, as he arranged some curious-looking machines on the table. “However, what can you do? Did you ever go through a table, for instance?”
“Often!” said Bruno. “Haven’tI, Sylvie?”
The Professor was evidently surprised, though he tried not to show it. “This must be looked into,” he muttered to himself, taking out a note-book. “And first—what kind of table?”
“Tell him!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie, putting his arms round her neck.
“Tell him yourself,” said Sylvie.
“Ca’n’t,” said Bruno. “It’s abonyword.”
“Nonsense!” laughed Sylvie. “You can say it well enough, if you only try. Come!”
“Muddle—” said Bruno. “That’s a bit of it.”
“Whatdoes he say?” cried the bewildered Professor.
“He means the multiplication-table,” Sylvie explained.
The Professor looked annoyed, and shut up his note-book again. “Oh, that’squiteanother thing,” he said.
“It are ever so many other things,” said Bruno. “Aren’tit, Sylvie?”
A loud blast of trumpets interrupted this conversation. “Why, the entertainment hasbegun!” the Professor exclaimed, as he hurried the children into the Reception-Saloon. “I had no idea it was so late!”
A small table, containing cake and wine, stood in a corner of the Saloon; and here we found the Emperor and Empress waiting for us. The rest of the Saloon had been cleared of furniture, to make room for the guests. I was much struck by the great change a few months had made in the faces of the Imperial Pair. A vacant stare was now theEmperor’susual expression; while over the face of theEmpressthere flitted, ever and anon, a meaningless smile.
“So you’re come at last!” the Emperor sulkily remarked, as the Professor and the children took their places. It was evident that he wasverymuch out of temper: and we were not long in learning the cause of this. He did not consider the preparations, made for the Imperial party, to be such as suited their rank. “A common mahogany table!” he growled, pointing to it contemptuously with his thumb. “Why wasn’t it made of gold, I should like to know?”
“It would have taken a very long——” the Professor began, but the Emperor cut the sentence short.
“Then the cake! Ordinary plum! Why wasn’t it made of—of——” He broke off again. “Then the wine! Merely old Madeira! Why wasn’t it——? Then this chair! That’s worst of all. Why wasn’t it a throne? Onemightexcuse the other omissions, but Ica’n’tget over the chair!”
“WhatIca’n’t get over,” said the Empress, in eager sympathy with her angry husband, “is thetable!”
“Pooh!” said the Emperor.
“It is much to be regretted!” the Professor mildly replied, as soon as he had a chance of speaking. After a moment’s thought he strengthened the remark. “Everything,” he said, addressing Society in general, “isvery muchto be regretted!”
A murmur of “Hear, hear!” rose from the crowded Saloon.
There was a rather awkward pause: the Professor evidently didn’t know how to begin. The Empress leant forwards, and whispered to him. “A few jokes, you know, Professor—just to put people at their ease!”
“True, true, Madam!” the Professor meekly replied. “This little boy——”
“Pleasedon’t make any jokes aboutme!” Bruno exclaimed, his eyes filling with tears.
“I won’t if you’d rather I didn’t,” said the kind-hearted Professor. “It was only something about a Ship’s Buoy: a harmless pun—but it doesn’t matter.” Here he turned to the crowd and addressed them in a loud voice. “Learn your A’s!” he shouted. “Your B’s! Your C’s! And your D’s!Thenyou’ll be at your ease!”
There was a roar of laughter from all the assembly, and then a great deal of confused whispering. “Whatwas it he said? Something about bees, I fancy——.”
The Empress smiled in her meaningless way, and fanned herself. The poor Professor looked at her timidly: he was clearly at his wits’ end again, and hoping for another hint. The Empress whispered again.
“Some spinach, you know, Professor, as a surprise.”
The Professor beckoned to the Head-Cook, and said something to him in a low voice. Then the Head-Cook left the room, followed by all the other cooks.
“It’s difficult to get things started,” the Professor remarked to Bruno. “When once we get started, it’ll go on all right, you’ll see.”
“If oo want to startle people,” said Bruno, “oo should put live frogs on their backs.”
Here the cooks all came in again, in a procession, the Head-Cook coming last and carrying something, which the others tried to hide by waving flags all round it. “Nothing but flags, Your Imperial Highness! Nothing but flags!” he kept repeating, as he set it before her. Then all the flags were dropped in a moment, as the Head-Cook raised the cover from an enormous dish.
‘HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS IS SURPRISED!’‘HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS IS SURPRISED!’
‘HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS IS SURPRISED!’
“What is it?” the Empress said faintly, as she put her spy-glass to her eye. “Why, it’sSpinach, I declare!”
“Her Imperial Highness is surprised,” the Professor explained to the attendants: and some of them clapped their hands. The Head-Cook made a low bow, and in doing so dropped a spoon on the table, as if by accident, just within reach of the Empress, who looked the other way and pretended not to see it.
“Iamsurprised!” the Empress said to Bruno. “Aren’t you?”
“Not a bit,” said Bruno. “I heard——” but Sylvie put her hand over his mouth, and spoke for him. “He’s rather tired, I think. He wants the Lecture to begin.”
“I want thesupperto begin,” Bruno corrected her.
The Empress took up the spoon in an absent manner, and tried to balance it acrossthe back of her hand, and in doing this she dropped it into the dish: and, when she took it out again, it was full of spinach. “How curious!” she said, and put it into her mouth. “It tastes just likerealspinach! I thought it was an imitation—but I do believe it’s real!” And she took another spoonful.
“It wo’n’t be real much longer,” said Bruno.
But the Empress had had enough spinach by this time, and somehow—I failed to notice the exact process—we all found ourselves in the Pavilion, and the Professor in the act of beginning the long-expected Lecture.