There was a Pig, that sat alone,Beside a ruined Pump.By day and night he made his moan:It would have stirred a heart of stoneTo see him wring his hoofs and groan,Because he could not jump.
Would you call that a tune, Professor?” he asked, when he had finished.
The Professor considered a little. “Well,” he said at last, “some of the notes are the same as others and some are different but I should hardly call it a tune.”
“Let me try it a bit by myself,” said the Other Professor. And he began touching the notes here and there, and humming to himself like an angry bluebottle.
“How do you like his singing?” the Professor asked the children in a low voice.
“It isn't very beautiful,” Sylvie said, hesitatingly.
“It's very extremely ugly!” Bruno said, without any hesitation at all.
“All extremes are bad,” the Professor said, very gravely. “For instance, Sobriety is a very good thing, when practised in moderation: but even Sobriety, when carried to an extreme, has its disadvantages.”
“What are its disadvantages?” was the question that rose in my mind—and, as usual, Bruno asked it for me. “What are its lizard bandages?'
“Well, this is one of them,” said the Professor. “When a man's tipsy (that's one extreme, you know), he sees one thing as two. But, when he's extremely sober (that's the other extreme), he sees two things as one. It's equally inconvenient, whichever happens.
“What does 'illconvenient' mean?” Bruno whispered to Sylvie.
“The difference between 'convenient' and 'inconvenient' is best explained by an example,” said the Other Professor, who had overheard the question. “If you'll just think over any Poem that contains the two words—such as—”
The Professor put his hands over his ears, with a look of dismay. “If you once let him begin a Poem,” he said to Sylvie, “he'll never leave off again! He never does!”
“Did he ever begin a Poem and not leave off again?” Sylvie enquired.
“Three times,” said the Professor.
Bruno raised himself on tiptoe, till his lips were on a level with Sylvie's ear. “What became of them three Poems?” he whispered. “Is he saying them all, now?”
“Hush!” said Sylvie. “The Other Professor is speaking!”
“I'll say it very quick,” murmured the Other Professor, with downcast eyes, and melancholy voice, which contrasted oddly with his face, as he had forgotten to leave off smiling. (“At least it wasn't exactly a smile,”) as Sylvie said afterwards: “it looked as if his mouth was made that shape.”
“Go on then,” said the Professor. “What must be must be.”
“Remember that!” Sylvie whispered to Bruno, “It's a very good rule for whenever you hurt yourself.”
“And it's a very good rule for whenever I make a noise,” said the saucy little fellow. “So you remember it too, Miss!”
“Whatever do you mean?” said Sylvie, trying to frown, a thing she never managed particularly well.
“Oftens and oftens,” said Bruno, “haven't oo told me 'There mustn't be so much noise, Bruno!' when I've tolded oo 'There must!' Why, there isn't no rules at all about 'There mustn't'! But oo never believes me!”
“As if any one could believe you, you wicked wicked boy!” said Sylvie. The words were severe enough, but I am of opinion that, when you are really anxious to impress a criminal with a sense of his guilt, you ought not to pronounce the sentence with your lips quite close to his cheek—since a kiss at the end of it, however accidental, weakens the effect terribly.
“As I was saying,” the other Professor resumed, “if you'll just think over any Poem, that contains the words—such as,
'Peter is poor,' said noble Paul,'And I have always been his friend:And, though my means to give are small,At least I can afford to lend.How few, in this cold age of greed,Do good, except on selfish grounds!But I can feel for Peter's need,And I WILL LEND HIM FIFTY POUNDS!'How great was Peter's joy to findHis friend in such a genial vein!How cheerfully the bond he signed,To pay the money back again!'We ca'n't,' said Paul, 'be too precise:'Tis best to fix the very day:So, by a learned friend's advice,I've made it Noon, the Fourth of May.
{Image...'How cheefully the bond he signed!'}
But this is April! Peter said.'The First of April, as I think.Five little weeks will soon be fled:One scarcely will have time to wink!Give me a year to speculate—To buy and sell—to drive a trade—'Said Paul 'I cannot change the date.On May the Fourth it must be paid.''Well, well!' said Peter, with a sigh.'Hand me the cash, and I will go.I'll form a Joint-Stock Company,And turn an honest pound or so.''I'm grieved,' said Paul, 'to seem unkind:The money shalt of course be lent:But, for a week or two, I findIt will not be convenient.'So, week by week, poor Peter cameAnd turned in heaviness away;For still the answer was the same,'I cannot manage it to-day.'And now the April showers were dry—The five short weeks were nearly spent—Yet still he got the old reply,'It is not quite convenient!'The Fourth arrived, and punctual PaulCame, with his legal friend, at noon.'I thought it best,' said he, 'to call:One cannot settle things too soon.'Poor Peter shuddered in despair:His flowing locks he wildly tore:And very soon his yellow hairWas lying all about the floor.The legal friend was standing by,With sudden pity half unmanned:The tear-drop trembled in his eye,The signed agreement in his hand:But when at length the legal soulResumed its customary force,'The Law,' he said, 'we ca'n't control:Pay, or the Law must take its course!'Said Paul 'How bitterly I rueThat fatal morning when I called!Consider, Peter, what you do!You won't be richer when you're bald!Think you, by rending curls away,To make your difficulties less?Forbear this violence, I pray:You do but add to my distress!'
{Image...'Poor peter shuddered in despair'}
'Not willingly would I inflict,'Said Peter, 'on that noble heartOne needless pang. Yet why so strict?Is this to act a friendly part?However legal it may beTo pay what never has been lent,This style of business seems to meExtremely inconvenient!'No Nobleness of soul have I,Like some that in this Age are found!'(Paul blushed in sheer humility,And cast his eyes upon the ground)'This debt will simply swallow all,And make my life a life of woe!''Nay, nay, nay Peter!' answered Paul.'You must not rail on Fortune so!'You have enough to eat and drink:You are respected in the world:And at the barber's, as I think,You often get your whiskers curled.Though Nobleness you ca'n't attainTo any very great extent—The path of Honesty is plain,However inconvenient!'“Tis true, 'said Peter,' I'm alive:I keep my station in the world:Once in the week I just contriveTo get my whiskers oiled and curled.But my assets are very low:My little income's overspent:To trench on capital, you know,Is always inconvenient!''But pay your debts!' cried honest Paul.'My gentle Peter, pay your debts!What matter if it swallows allThat you describe as your “assets”?Already you're an hour behind:Yet Generosity is best.It pinches me—but never mind!I WILL NOT CHARGE YOU INTEREST!''How good! How great!' poor Peter cried.'Yet I must sell my Sunday wig—The scarf-pin that has been my pride—My grand piano—and my pig!'Full soon his property took wings:And daily, as each treasure went,He sighed to find the state of thingsGrow less and less convenient.Weeks grew to months, and months to years:Peter was worn to skin and bone:And once he even said, with tears,'Remember, Paul, that promised Loan!'Said Paul' I'll lend you, when I can,All the spare money I have got—Ah, Peter, you're a happy man!Yours is an enviable lot!
{Image...Such boots as these you seldom see}
'I'm getting stout, as you may see:It is but seldom I am well:I cannot feel my ancient gleeIn listening to the dinner-bell:But you, you gambol like a boy,Your figure is so spare and light:The dinner-bell's a note of joyTo such a healthy appetite!'Said Peter 'I am well awareMine is a state of happiness:And yet how gladly could I spareSome of the comforts I possess!What you call healthy appetiteI feel 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!'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!'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!''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 be lent,A man must be allowed to chooseSuch 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!'You well remember, I am sure,When first your wealth began to go,And people sneered at one so poor,I never 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!'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 relateFor boasting is a kind of thingThat I particularly hate.
{Image...'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,And I 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!'
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 bed at once,” he said with an air of authority.
“Why at once?” said the Professor.
“Because he can't go at twice,” said the Other Professor.
The Professor gently clapped his hands. “Isn't he wonderful!” he said to Sylvie. “Nobody else could have thought of the reason, so quick. Why, of course he 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 be divided,” he said decisively.
“It does very well on a diagram,” 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 to me, 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. If AB were to be divided into two parts at C—”
“It would be drownded,” Bruno pronounced confidently.
The Other Professor gasped. “What would 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 would hurt him, 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 only pinched him?” queried Sylvie.
“Then it would take ever so much longer, of course. In fact, I doubt if the man himself would ever feel it, at all. His grandchildren might.”
“I wouldn't like to be the grandchild of a pinched grandfather, would you, 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 you always want to be happy, Bruno?”
“Not always,” Bruno said thoughtfully. “Sometimes, when I's too happy, 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's always as busy as the day is long!”
“Well, so am I!” said Bruno.
“No, no!” Sylvie corrected him. “You're as busy as the day is short!”
“Well, what's the difference?” Bruno asked. “Mister Sir, isn't the day as short as it's long? I mean, isn't it the same length?”
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 as it.” And he resumed his never-ending task of polishing.
The children returned, slowly and thoughtfully, to report his answer. “Isn't he wise?”
Sylvie asked in an awestruck whisper. “If I was as wise as that, I should have a head-ache all day long. I know I 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 and he isn'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't here,” he said.
“He ca'n't be 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.”
“Lets try shouting,” said the Professor.
“What shall we shout?” said Sylvie.
“On second thoughts, don't shout,” 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. “He is so cruel!” he sobbed. “And he lets Uggug take away all my 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.
“It were a 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! They do treat my darling Bruno very badly! And they're not kind to me either,” she added in a lower tone, as if that were 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 what can I 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 for us,” said Sylvie: “but I'm sure he would for you. Do come and ask him, Professor dear!”
“I'll come this minute!” said the Professor.
Bruno sat up and dried his eyes. “Isn't he kind, Mister Sir?”
“He is indeed,” 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 only one shot at it; and he went in just here!”
Bruno carefully examined the hole. “Couldn't go in there,” he whispered to me. “He are too fat!”
We had no sort of difficulty in finding the 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!'”
{Image...He thought he saw an albatross}
“Would it be afraid of catching cold?” said Bruno.
“If it got very damp,” Sylvie suggested, “it might stick to something, you know.”
“And that somefin would have to go by the post, what ever it was!” Bruno eagerly exclaimed. “Suppose it was a cow! Wouldn't it be dreadful for the other things!”
“And all these things happened to him,” 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!”
“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 for you!”
The Professor put the request, very humbly and courteously.
“I wouldn't mind letting you out,” said the Gardener. “But I mustn't open the door for children. D'you think I'd disobey the Rules? 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 for us, at all. We can go out with you.”
“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 out together 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 the large one? I have often observed that a door unlocks much more nicely with its own key.”
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 by Rule,” he explained, “in opening the door for me. And now it's open, we are going out by Rule—the Rule of Three.”
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!'”
“I shall now return,” said the Professor, when we had walked a few yards: “you see, it's impossible to read here, for all my books are in the house.”
But the children still kept fast hold of his hands. “Do come 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 I must go back now. 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 a little more working out.”
“Won't that be very tiring, to carry yourself?” Sylvie enquired.
“Well, no, my child. You see, whatever fatigue one incurs by carrying, one saves by being 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, I is so 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, and came 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.
{Image...The mastiff-sentinel}
“Oobooh, hooh boohooyah!” He growled at last. “Woobah yahwah oobooh! Bow wahbah woobooyah? Bow wow?” he asked Bruno, severely.
Of course Bruno understood all this, easily enough. All Fairies understand Doggee—-that is, Dog-language. But, as you may 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 a Dog!” Bruno began, in Doggee. (“Peoples never belongs 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, for you, to give the conversation in English.
“The house, indeed!” growled the Sentinel. “Have you never seen a Palace in 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-hounds were 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. Of me the 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 caught one—made by a sly-looking Dachshund to his friend “Bah wooh wahyah hoobah Oobooh, hah bah?” (“She's not such a bad-looking Human, is she?”)
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.” (What we should call “at his feet.”)
Sylvie was just going to explain, very politely, that really they couldn't perform that ceremony, 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.”
{Image...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. “They must be 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—nor to say the horror of the whole assembly, when Sylvie actually patted 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 the other 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 actually smiled so far as a Dog can smile—and (the other Dogs couldn't believe their eyes, but it was true, all the same) his Majesty wagged 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. “Conduct my friends to 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 the door of 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 for me, though the Master kept nudging me with his elbow, and repeating, “I ca'n't let you sleep here! You're not in bed, 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 ship passed 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 a very nice 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.”
“I are glad!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie, when they had got well out of hearing. “He were so welly cross!” 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 a King should wish to run after a stick. But Bruno was 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 the bushes, 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 a Cat insight!”
They took an affectionate farewell of His Majesty, and trudged on.
“That were a 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 almost sure it'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 for me to 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 with such a bang! “It never will shut 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 you really must get 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. “Not quite yet!” 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 was you that 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?”
“There was no 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 on her side: the Earl is poor, I believe. 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, I cannot read her feelings towards me. If there is love, 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 from my solicitor arrived, summoning me to town on important business.