"Is that you, uncle?" said a voice from the nursery, as I hung my coat up in the hall. "I've only got my skin on, but you can come up."
However, she was sitting up in bed with her nightgown on when I found her.
"I was having my bath when you came," she explained. "Have you come all the way from London?"
"All the way."
"Then will you tell me a story?"
"I can't; I'm going to have my dinner. I only came up to sayGood-night."
Margery leant forward and whispered coaxingly, "Will you just tell me about Beauty and 'e Beast?"
"But I've told you that such heaps of times. And it's much too long for to-night."
"Tell me HALF of it. As much as THAT." She held her hands about nine inches apart.
"That's too much."
"As much as THAT." The hands came a little nearer together.
"Oh! Well, I'll tell you up to where the Beast died."
"FOUGHT he died," she corrected eagerly.
"Yes. Well—"
"How much will that be? As much as I said?"
I nodded. The preliminary business settled, she gave a little sigh of happiness, put her arms round her knees, and waited breathlessly for the story she had heard twenty times before.
"Once upon a time there was a man who had three daughters. And one day—"
"What was the man's name?"
"Margery," I said reproachfully, annoyed at the interruption, "you know I NEVER tell you the man's name."
"Tell me now."
"Oswald," I said, after a moment's thought.
"I told Daddy it was Thomas," said Margery casually.
"Well, as a matter of fact, he had two names, Oswald AND Thomas."
"Why did he have two names?"
"In case he lost one. Well, one day this man, who was very poor, heard that a lot of money was waiting for him in a ship which had come over the sea to a town some miles off. So he—"
"Was it waiting at Weymouf?"
"Somewhere like that."
"I spex it must have been Weymouf, because there's lots of sea there."
"Yes, I'm sure it was. Well, he thought he'd go to Weymouth and get the money."
"How much monies was it?"
"Oh, lots and lots."
"As much as five pennies?"
"Yes, about that. Well, he said Good-bye to his daughters, and asked them what they'd like him to bring back for a present. And the first asked for some lovely jewels and diamonds and—"
"Like mummy's locket—is THAT jewels?"
"That sort of idea. Well, she wanted a lot of things like that. And the second wanted some beautiful clothes."
"What sort of clothes?"
"Oh, frocks and—well, frocks and all sorts of—er—frocks."
"Did she want any lovely new stockings?"
"Yes, she wanted three pairs of those."
"And did she want any lovely—"
"Yes," I said hastily, "she wanted lots of those, too. Lots ofEVERYTHING."
Margery gave a little sob of happiness. "Go on telling me," she said under her breath.
"Well, the third daughter was called Beauty. And she thought to herself, 'Poor Father won't have any money left at all, if we all go on like this!' So she didn't ask for anything very expensive, like her selfish sisters, she only asked for a rose. A simple red rose."
Margery moved uneasily.
"I hope," she said wistfully, "this bit isn't going to be about—YOU know. It never did before."
"About what?"
"Good little girls and bad little girls, and fings like that."
"My darling, no, of course not. I told it wrong. Beauty asked for a rose because she loved roses so. And it was a very particular kind of red rose that she wanted—a sort that they simply COULDN'T get to grow in their own garden because of the soil."
"Go on telling me," said Margery, with a deep sigh of content.
"Well, he started off to Weymouth."
"What day did he start?"
"It was Monday. And when—"
"Oh, well, anyhow, I told daddy it was Tuesday."
"Tuesday—now let me think. Yes, I believe you're right. Because on Monday he went to a meeting of the Vegetable Gardeners, and proposed the health of the Chairman. Yes, well he started off on Tuesday, and when he got there he found that there was no money for him at all!"
"I spex somebody had taken it," said Margery breathlessly.
"Well, it had all gone SOMEHOW."
"Perhaps somebody had swallowed it," said Margery, a little carried away by the subject. "By mistake."
"Anyhow, it was gone. And he had to come home again without any money. He hadn't gone far—"
"How far?" asked Margery. "As far as THAT?" and she measured nine inches in the air.
"About forty-four miles—when he came to a beautiful garden."
"Was it a really lovely big garden? Bigger than ours?"
"Oh, much bigger."
"Bigger than yours?"
"I haven't got a garden."
Margery looked at me wonderingly. She opened her mouth to speak, and then stopped and rested her head upon her hands and thought out this new situation. At last, her face flushed with happiness, she announced her decision.
"Go on telling me about Beauty and the Beast now," she said breathlessly, "and THEN tell me why you haven't got a garden."
My average time for Beauty and the Beast is ten minutes, and, if we stop at the place when the Beast thought he was dead, six minutes twenty-five seconds. But, with the aid of seemingly innocent questions, a determined character can make even the craftiest uncle spin the story out to half an hour.
"Next time," said Margery, when we had reached the appointed place and she was being tucked up in bed, "will you tell me ALL the story?"
Was there the shadow of a smile in her eyes? I don't know. But I'm sure it will be wisest next time to promise her the whole thing. We must make that point clear at the very start, and then we shall get along.
MARGERY has a passion for writing just now. I can see nothing in it myself, but if people WILL write, I suppose you can't stop them.
"Will you just lend me your pencil?" she asked.
"Remind me to give you a hundred pencils some time," I said as I took it out, "and then you'll always have one. You simply eat pencils."
"Oo, I gave it you back last time."
"Only just. You inveigle me down here—"
"What do I do?"
"I'm not going to say that again for anybody."
"Well, may I have the pencil?"
I gave her the pencil and a sheet of paper, and settled her in a chair.
"B-a-b-y," said Margery to herself, planning out her weekly article for the Reviews. "B-a-b-y, baby." She squared her elbows and began to write….
"There!" she said, after five minutes' composition.
The manuscript was brought over to the critic, and the author stood proudly by to point out subtleties that might have been overlooked at a first reading.
"B-a-b-y," explained the author. "Baby."
"Yes, that's very good; very neatly expressed. 'Baby'—I like that."
"Shall I write some more?" said Margery eagerly.
"Yes, do write some more. This is good, but it's not long enough."
The author retired again, and in five minutes produced this:—
"That's 'baby,'" explained Margery.
"Yes, I like that baby better than the other one. It's more spread out. And it's bigger—it's one of the biggest babies I've seen."
"Shall I write some more?"
"Don't you write anything else ever?"
"I like writing 'baby,'" said Margery carelessly. "B-a-b-y."
"Yes, but you can't do much with just that one word. Suppose you wanted to write to a man at a shop—'Dear Sir,—You never sent me my boots. Please send them at once, as I want to go out this afternoon. I am, yours faithfully, Margery'—it would be no good simply putting 'B-a-b-y,' because he wouldn't know what you meant."
"Well, what WOULD it be good putting?"
"Ah, that's the whole art of writing—to know what it would be any good putting. You want to learn lots and lots of new words, so as to be ready. Now here's a jolly little one that you ought to meet." I took the pencil and wrote GOT. "Got. G-o-t, got."
Margery, her elbows on my knee and her chin resting on her hands, studied the position.
"Yes, that's old 'got,'" she said.
"He's always coming in. When you want to say, 'I've got a bad pain,so I can't accept your kind invitation'; or when you want to say,'Excuse more, as I've got to go to bed now'; or quite simply,'You've got my pencil.'"
"G-o-t, got," said Margery. "G-o-t, got. G-o-t, got."
"With appropriate action it makes a very nice recitation."
"Is THAT a 'g'?" said Margery, busy with the pencil, which she had snatched from me.
"The gentleman with the tail. You haven't made his tail quite long enough…. That's better."
Margery retired to her study, charged with an entirely new inspiration, and wrote her second manifesto. It was this:—
"Got," she pointed out.
I inspected it carefully. Coming fresh to the idea Margery had treated it more spontaneously than the other. But it was distinctly a "got." One of the gots.
"Have you any more words?" she asked, holding tight to the pencil.
"You've about exhausted me, Margery."
"What was that one you said just now? The one you said you wouldn't say again?"
"Oh, you mean 'inveigle'?" I said, pronouncing it differently this time.
"Yes; write that for me."
"It hardly ever comes in. Only when you are writing to your solicitor."
"What's 'solicitor'?"
"He's the gentleman who takes the money. He's ALWAYS coming in."
"Then write 'solicitor.'"
I took the pencil (it was my turn for it) and wrote SOLICITOR. Then I read it out slowly to Margery, spelt it to her three times very carefully, and wrote SOLICITOR again. Then I said it thoughtfully to myself half a dozen times—"Solicitor." Then I looked at it wonderingly.
"I am not sure now," I said, "that there is such a word."
"Why?"
"I thought there was when I began, but now I don't think there can be. 'Solicitor'—it seems so silly."
"Let me write it," said Margery, eagerly taking the paper and pencil, "and see if it looks silly."
She retired, and—as well as she could for her excitement—copied the word down underneath. The combined effort then read as follows:—
"Yes, you've done it a lot of good," I said. "You've taken some of the creases out. I like that much better."
"Do you think there is such a word now?"
"I'm beginning to feel more easy about it. I'm not certain, but I hope."
"So do I," said Margery. With the pencil in one hand and the various scraps of paper in the other, she climbed on to the writing-desk and gave herself up to literature….
And it seems to me that she is well equipped for the task. For besides having my pencil still (of which I say nothing for the moment) she has now three separate themes upon which to ring the changes—a range wide enough for any writer. These are, "Baby got solicitor" (supposing that there is such a word), "Solicitor got baby," and "Got baby solicitor." Indeed, there are really four themes here, for the last one can have two interpretations. It might mean that you had obtained an ordinary solicitor for Baby, or it might mean that you had got a specially small one for yourself. It lacks, therefore, the lucidity of the best authors, but in a woman writer this may be forgiven.
When, five years ago, I used to write long letters to Margery, for some reason or other she never wrote back. To save her face I had to answer the letters myself—a tedious business. Still, I must admit that the warmth and geniality of the replies gave me a certain standing with my friends, who had not looked for me to be so popular. After some months, however, pride stepped in. One cannot pour out letter after letter to a lady without any acknowledgment save from oneself. And when even my own acknowledgments began to lose their first warmth—when, for instance, I answered four pages about my new pianola with the curt reminder that I was learning to walk and couldn't be bothered with music, why, then at last I saw that a correspondence so one-sided would have to come to an end. I wrote a farewell letter and replied to it with tears….
But, bless you, that was nearly five years ago. Each morning now, among the usual pile of notes on my plate from duchesses, publishers, money-lenders, actor-managers and what-not, I find, likely enough, an envelope in Margery's own handwriting. Not only is my address printed upon it legibly, but there are also such extra directions to the postman as "England" and "Important," for its more speedy arrival. And inside—well, I give you the last but seven.
"MY DEAR UNCLE I thot you wher coming to see me to night but you didn't why didn't you baby has p t o hurt her knee isnt that a pity I have some new toys isnt that jolly we didn't have our five minutes so will you krite to me and tell me all about p t o your work from your loving little MARGIE."
I always think that footnotes to a letter are a mistake, but there are one or two things I should like to explain.
(A) Just as some journalists feel that without the word "economic" a leading article lacks tone, so Margery feels, and I agree with her, that a certain cachet is lent to a letter by a p.t.o. at the bottom of each page.
(B) There are lots of grown-up people who think that "write" is spelt "rite." Margery knows that this is not so. She knows that there is a silent letter in front of the "r," which doesn't do anything but likes to be there. Obviously, if nobody is going to take any notice of this extra letter, it doesn't much matter what it is. Margery happened to want to make a "k" just then; at a pinch it could be as silent as a "w." You will please, therefore, regard the "k" in "krite" as absolutely noiseless.
(C) Both Margery and Bernard Shaw prefer to leave out the apostrophe in writing such words as "isn't" and "don't."
(D) Years ago I claimed the privilege to monopolise, on the occasional evenings when I was there, Margery's last ten minutes before she goes back to some heaven of her own each night. This privilege was granted; it being felt, no doubt, that she owed me some compensation for my early secretarial work on her behalf. We used to spend the ten minutes in listening to my telling a fairy story, always the same one. One day the authorities stepped in and announced that in future the ten minutes would be reduced to five. The procedure seemed to me absolutely illegal (and I should like to bring a test action against somebody), but it certainly did put the lid on my fairy story, of which I was getting more than a little tired.
"Tell me about Beauty and the Beast," said Margery as usual that evening.
"There's not time," I said. "We've only five minutes to-night."
"Oh! Then tell me all the work you've done to-day."
(A little unkind, you'll agree, but you know what relations are.)
And so now I have to cram the record of my day's work into five breathless minutes. You will understand what bare justice I can do to it in the time.
I am sorry that these footnotes have grown so big; let us leave them and return to the letter. There are many ways of answering such a letter. One might say, "MY DEAR MARGERY,—It was jolly to get a real letter from you at last—" but the "at last" would seem rather tactless considering what had passed years before. Or one might say, "MY DEAR MARGERY,—Thank you for your jolly letter. I am so sorry about baby's knee and so glad about your toys. Perhaps if you gave one of the toys to baby, then her knee—" But I feel sure that Margery would expect me to do better than that.
In the particular case of this last letter but seven I wrote:—
"DEAREST MARGERY,—Thank you for your sweet letter. I had a very busy day at the office or I would have come to see you. P.T.O.—I hope to be down next week, and then I will tell you all about my work; but I have a lot more to do now, and so I must say Good-bye. Your loving UNCLE."
There is perhaps nothing in that which demands an immediate answer, but with business-like promptitude Margery replied:—
"MY DEAR UNCLE thank you for your letter I am glad you are coming next week baby is quite well now are you p t o coming on Thursday next week or not say yes if you are I am p t o sorry you are working so hard from your loving MARGIE."
I said "Yes," and that I was her loving uncle. It seemed to be then too late for a "P.T.O.," but I got one in and put on the back, "Love to Baby." The answer came by return of post:—
"MY DEAR UNCLE thank you for your letter come erly on p t o Thursday come at half past nothing baby sends her love and so do p t o I my roking horse has a sirrup broken isnt that a pity say yes or no good-bye from your loving MARGIE."
Of course I thanked Baby for her love and gave my decision that it WAS a pity about the rocking-horse. I did it in large capitals, which (as I ought to have said before) is the means of communication between Margery and her friends. For some reason or other I find printing capitals to be more tiring than the ordinary method of writing.
"MY DEAR UNCLE," wrote Margery—
But we need not go into that. What I want to say is this: I love to get letters, particularly these, but I hate writing them, particularly in capitals. Years ago, I used to answer Margery's letters for her. It is now her turn to answer mine for me.
IT is Chum's birthday to-morrow, and I am going to buy him a little whip for a present, with a whistle at the end of it. When I next go into the country to see him I shall take it with me and explain it to him. Two days' firmness would make him quite a sensible dog. I have often threatened to begin the treatment on my very next visit, but somehow it has been put off; the occasion of his birthday offers a last opportunity.
It is rather absurd, though, to talk of birthdays in connection with Chum, for he has been no more than three months old since we have had him. He is a black spaniel who has never grown up. He has a beautiful astrakhan coat which gleams when the sun is on it; but he stands so low in the water that the front of it is always getting dirty, and his ears and the ends of his trousers trail in the mud. A great authority has told us that, but for three white hairs on his shirt (upon so little do class distinctions hang), he would be a Cocker of irreproachable birth. A still greater authority has sworn that he is a Sussex. The family is indifferent—it only calls him a Silly Ass. Why he was christened Chum I do not know; and as he never recognizes the name it doesn't matter.
When he first came to stay with us I took him a walk round the village. I wanted to show him the lie of the land. He had never seen the country before and was full of interest. He trotted into a cottage garden and came back with something to show me.
"You'll never guess," he said. "Look!" and he dropped at my feet a chick just out of the egg.
I smacked his head and took him into the cottage to explain.
"My dog," I said, "has eaten one of your chickens."
Chum nudged me in the ankle and grinned.
"TWO of your chickens," I corrected myself, looking at the fresh evidence which he had just brought to light.
"You don't want me any more?" said Chum, as the financial arrangements proceeded. "Then I'll just go and find somewhere for these two." And he picked them up and trotted into the sun.
When I came out I was greeted effusively.
"This is a wonderful day," he panted, as he wriggled his body. "I didn't know the country was like this. What do we do now?"
"We go home," I said, and we went.
That was Chum's last day of freedom. He keeps inside the front gate now. But he is still a happy dog; there is plenty doing in the garden. There are beds to walk over, there are blackbirds in the apple tree to bark at. The world is still full of wonderful things. "Why, only last Wednesday," he will tell you, "the fishmonger left his basket in the drive. There was a haddock in it, if you'll believe me, for master's breakfast, so of course I saved it for him. I put it on the grass just in front of his study window, where he'd be SURE to notice it. Bless you, there's always SOMETHING to do in this house. One is never idle."
And even when there is nothing doing, he is still happy; waiting cheerfully upon events until they arrange themselves for his amusement. He will sit for twenty minutes opposite the garden bank, watching for a bumble-bee to come out of its hole. "I saw him go in," he says to himself, "so he's bound to come out. Extraordinarily interesting world." But to his inferiors (such as the gardener) he pretends that it is not pleasure but duty which keeps him. "Don't talk to me, fool. Can't you see that I've got a job on here?"
Chum has found, however, that his particular mission in life is to purge his master's garden of all birds. This keeps him busy. As soon as he sees a blackbird on the lawn he is in full cry after it. When he gets to the place and finds the blackbird gone, he pretends that he was going there anyhow; he gallops round in circles, rolls over once or twice, and then trots back again. "You didn't REALLY think I was such a fool as to try to catch a BLACKBIRD?" he says to us. "No, I was just taking a little run—splendid thing for the figure."
And it is just Chum's little runs over the beds which call aloud for firmness—which, in fact, have inspired my birthday present to him. But there is this difficulty to overcome first. When he came to live with us an arrangement was entered into (so he says) by which one bed was given to him as his own. In that bed he could wander at will, burying bones and biscuits, hunting birds. This may have been so, but it is a pity that nobody but Chum knows definitely which is the bed.
"Chum, you bounder," I shout as he is about to wade through the herbaceous border.
He takes no notice; he struggles through to the other side. But a sudden thought strikes him, and he pushes his way back again.
"Did you call me?" he says.
"How DARE you walk over the flowers?"
He comes up meekly.
"I suppose I've done SOMETHING wrong," he says, "but I can't THINK what."
I smack his head for him. He waits until he is quite sure I have finished, and then jumps up with a bark, wipes his paws on my trousers and trots into the herbaceous border again.
"Chum!" I cry.
He sits down in it and looks all round him in amazement.
"My own bed!" he murmurs. "Given to me!"
I don't know what it is in him which so catches hold of you. His way of sitting, a reproachful statue, motionless outside the window of whomever he wants to come out and play with him—until you can bear it no longer, but must either go into the garden or draw down the blinds for the day; his habit, when you ARE out, of sitting up on his back legs and begging you with his front paws to come and DO something—a trick entirely of his own invention, for no one would think of teaching him anything; his funny nautical roll when he walks, which is nearly a swagger, and gives him always the air of having just come back from some rather dashing adventure; beyond all this there is still something. And whatever it is, it is something which every now and then compels you to bend down and catch hold of his long silky ears, to look into his honest eyes and say—
"You silly old ass! You DEAR old SILLY old ass!"
I WAS in the lounge when I made her acquaintance, enjoying a pipe after tea, and perhaps—I don't know—closing my eyes now and then.
"Would you like to see my shells?" she asked suddenly.
I woke up and looked at her. She was about seven years old, pretty, dark, and very much at ease.
"I should love it," I said.
She produced a large paper bag from somewhere, and poured the contents in front of me.
"I've got two hundred and fifty-eight," she announced.
"So I see," I said. I wasn't going to count them."
"I think they're very pretty. I'll give you one if you like. Which one will you choose?"
I sat up and examined them carefully. Seeing how short a time we had known each other, I didn't feel that I could take one of the good ones. After a little thought I chose quite a plain one, which had belonged to a winkle some weeks ago.
"Thank you very much," I said.
"I don't think you choose shells at all well," she said scornfully."That's one of the ugly ones."
"It will grow on me," I explained. "In a year or two I shall think it beautiful."
"I'll let you have this one too," said she, picking out the best."Now, shall we play at something?"
I had been playing at something all day. A little thinking in front of the fire was my present programme.
"Let's talk instead," I suggested. "What's your name?"
"Betty."
"I knew it was Betty. You look just like Betty."
"What's yours?"
Somehow I hadn't expected that. After all, though, it was only fair.
"Orlando," I said.
"What a funny name. I don't like it."
"You should have said so before. It's too late now. What have you been doing all day?"
"Playing on the sands. What have you been doing?"
"I've been playing in the sand too. I suppose, Betty, you know nearly everybody in the hotel?"
"Oh, I play with them all sometimes."
"Yes; then tell me, Betty, do you ever get asked what time you go to bed?"
"They ALL ask me that," said Betty promptly.
"I think I should like to ask you too," I said, "just to be in the movement. When is it?"
"Half-past six." She looked at the clock. "So we've got half an hour. I'll get my ball."
Before I had time to do anything about it, the ball came bouncing in, hit me on the side of the head, and hurried off to hide itself under an old lady dozing in the corner. Betty followed more sedately.
"Where's my ball?" she asked.
"Has it come in?" I said in surprise. "Then it must have gone out again. It noticed you weren't here."
"I believe you've got it."
"I swear I haven't, Betty. I think the lady in the corner knows something about it."
Betty rushed across to her and began to crawl under her chair. I nervously rehearsed a few sentences to myself.
"It is not my child, madam. I found it here. Surely you can see that there is no likeness between us? If we keep quite still perhaps it will go away."
"I've got it," cried Betty, and the old lady woke up with a jerk.
"What are you doing, child?" she said crossly.
"Your little girl, madam," I began—but Betty's ball bit me on the head again before I could develop my theme.
"Your little girl, sir," began the old lady at the same moment.
"I said it first," I murmured. "Betty," I went on aloud, "what is your name, my child?"
"You've just said it."
"I mean," I corrected myself quickly, "where do you live?"
"Kensington."
I looked triumphantly at the old lady. Surely a father wouldn't need to ask his own child where she lived? However, the old lady was asleep again. I turned to Betty.
"We shall have to play this game more quietly," I said. "In fact, we had better make some new rules. Instead of hitting me on the head each time, you can roll the ball gently along the floor to me, and I shall roll it gently back to you. And the one who misses it first goes to bed."
I gave her an easy one to start with, wishing to work up naturally to the denouement, and she gave me a very difficult one back, not quite understanding the object of the game.
"You've got to go to bed," she cried, clapping her hands. "You've got—to go—to bed. You've got—to go—to bed. You've—"
"All right," I said coldly. "Don't make a song about it."
It was ten minutes past six. I generally go to bed at eleven-thirty. It would be the longest night I had had for years. I sighed and prepared to go.
"You needn't go till half-past," said Betty kindly.
"No, no," I said firmly. "Rules are rules." I had just remembered that there was nothing in the rules about not getting up again.
"Then I'll come with you and see your room."
"No, you mustn't do that; you'd fall out of the window. It's a very tricky window. I'm always falling out of it myself."
"Then let's go on playing here, and we won't go to bed if we miss."
"Very well," I agreed. Really there was nothing else for it.
Robbed of its chief interest, the game proved, after ten minutes or so, to be one of the duller ones. Whatever people say, I don't think it compares with cricket, for instance. It is certainly not so subtle as golf.
"I like playing this game," said Betty. "Don't you?"
"I think I shall get to love it," I said, looking at the clock. There were still five minutes, and I rolled down a very fast googly which beat her entirely and went straight for the door. Under the old rules she would have gone to bed at once. Alas, that—
"Look out," I said as she went after it, "there's somebody coming in."
Somebody came in. She smiled ruefully at us and then took Betty's hand.
"I'm afraid my little girl has been worrying you," she said prettily.
"I KNEW you'd say that," said Betty.
TUESDAY.—Sometimes I think I am a very lucky girl having two big sisters to look after me. I expect there are lots of young girls who have nobody at all, and I think they must be so lonely. There is always plenty of fun going on in our house. Yesterday I heard Sister Fred telling Sister Bert something about her old man coming home very late one night—I didn't quite understand who the old man was, or what it was all about, but I know Sister Bert thought it was very funny, and I seemed to hear a lot of people laughing; perhaps it was the fairies. And then whenever Sister Bert sits down she always pulls her skirt right up to her knees, so as people can see her stockings. I mean there's always SOMETHING amusing happening.
Of course I have a good deal of work to do, and all the washing up, but my sisters are so big and strong that one can't expect them to bother themselves with niggling little things like that. Besides, they have so many other things to do. Only this morning, when Sister Bert was just going to sit down, Sister Fred pulled away her chair, and she sat on the floor and her legs went up in the air. She said it was a "grand slam," which some of us thought very funny. I didn't laugh myself, because I never go out anywhere, and so I don't understand topical remarks, but I do think it is nice to live in such an amusing house.
(LATER.)—A wonderful thing has happened! Two messengers came from the Prince an hour ago to invite us to the ball to-night! I'd never seen a messenger in my life, so I peeped out of the chimney corner at them and wondered if they would stay to tea. But instead of that my sisters put up what they call a "trapeze" (I never knew we had one before), and the messengers did some EXTRAORDINARY things on it, I thought they would kill themselves. After it was over, Sister Fred told them a lot of stories about the old man, and altogether it was quite different from what I expected. Ours IS a funny house.
As soon as the messengers had gone, my sisters began to get ready for the ball. I knew I shouldn't be able to go, because I haven't got a frock, and I simply COULDN'T wear anything of theirs, they are so much bigger than I am. They finished dressing DOWNSTAIRS for some reason, where anybody might have seen them—they are so funny about things like that—and we had a lot of laughter about the clothes being too tight and so on. I think anything like that is so amusing. Then they went off, and here I am all alone. It is getting dark, and so I am going to cheer myself up by singing a little.
(LATER).—I AM GOING TO THE BALL! My Fairy Godmother, whom I had often heard about, suddenly came to see us. I told her my sisters were out, and she asked where they had gone, and wouldn't I like to go too, so of course I said I should LOVE it. So I am going, and she has got a frock for me and everything. She is very kind, but not quite so FAIRY-LIKE as I expected.
WEDNESDAY.—I have had a LOVELY time, and I think I am in love. I got to the Ball just as the juggling and the ventriloquism were over—it must be a delightful Court to live in—and there was SUCH a sensation as I appeared. The Prince singled me out at once. He has the pinkest cheeks and the reddest lips of any man I know, and his voice is soft and gentle, and oh! I love him. One wants a man to be manly and a woman to be womanly, and I don't think I should love a man if he were at all like Sister Fred or Sister Bert. The Prince is QUITE different. We were alone most of the time, and we sang several songs together. My sisters never recognized me; it was most surprising. I heard Sister Fred telling a very fine-looking gentleman a story about a lodger (whatever that is) who had a bit of a head; it sounded very humorous. Wherever Sister Fred goes there is sure to be fun. I am indeed a lucky girl to have two such sisters and to be in love with a Prince. Sister Bert sat down on the floor twice—it was most amusing.
A terrible thing happened just as the clock struck twelve. All my clothes turned into rags, and I just RAN out of the room, I was so frightened. Then I remembered what my Fairy Godmother had said about leaving before twelve o'clock. I suppose she knew what would happen if I didn't. I'm afraid I left a glass slipper behind—I hope she won't mind about it.
Well, I've had a lovely time. Even if I never see the Prince again, I shall always have this to look back to. I don't mind WHAT happens now.
THURSDAY.—I AM GOING TO MARRY THE PRINCE! I can't believe it is true. Perhaps it is only a dream, and I shall wake up soon, but even if it's a dream it's just as good as if it were real. It was all because of the slipper I left behind. The Prince said that he would marry the person whom it fitted, because he had fallen in love with the lady who wore it at the ball (ME!), and so everybody tried it on. And they came to our house, and Sister Bert tried it on. She pulled her skirt up to her knees and made everybody laugh, but even then she couldn't get into it. And Sister Fred made a lot of faces, but SHE couldn't. So I said, "Let ME try," and they all laughed, but the Prince said I should, and of course it fitted at once. Then they all recognized me, and the Prince kissed me, and a whole lot of people came into the house who had never been invited, and we had the trapeze out again, and there was juggling and ventriloquism, and we all sang songs about somebody called Flanagan (whom I don't think I have ever met), and Sister Bert kept sitting down suddenly on the floor. (But the Prince didn't think this was at all funny, so I expect I must have been right all the time when I have only PRETENDED to laugh. I used to think that perhaps I hadn't a sense of humour.) And then the Prince kissed me again, and my Fairy Godmother came in and kissed us both. Of course we do owe it all to her really, and I shall tell Charming so.
I do think I am a wonderful person!
Outside in the street the rain fell pitilessly, but inside the Children's Shop all was warmth and brightness. Happy young people of all ages pressed along, and I had no sooner opened the door than I was received into the eager stream of shoppers and hurried away to Fairyland. A slight block at one corner pitched me into an old, white-bearded gentleman who was standing next to me. Instantly my hat was in my hand.
"I beg your pardon," I said with a bow. "I was—Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were real." I straightened him up, looked at his price, and wondered whether I should buy him.
"What do you mean by real?" he said.
I started violently and took my hat off again.
"I am very stupid this morning," I began. "The fact is I mistook you for a toy. A foolish error."
"I AM a toy."
"In that case," I said in some annoyance, "I can't stay here arguing with you. Good-morning." And I took my hat off for the third time.
"Don't go. Stop and buy me. You'll never get what you want if you don't take me with you. I've been in this place for years, and I know exactly where everything is. Besides, as I shall have to give away all your presents for you, it's only fair that—"
An attendant came up and looked at me inquiringly.
"How much is this THING?" I said, and jerked a thumb at it.
"The Father Christmas?"
"Yes. I think I'll have it. I'll take it with me—you needn't wrap it up."
I handed over some money and we pushed on together.
"You heard what I called you?" I said to him. "A thing. So don't go putting yourself forward."
He gazed up innocently from under my arm.
"What shall we get first?" he asked.
"I want the engine-room. The locomotive in the home. The boy's own railroad track."
"That's downstairs. But did you really think of an engine? I mean, isn't it rather large and heavy? Why not get a—"
I smacked his head, and we went downstairs.
It was a delightful room. I was introduced to practically the whole of the Great Western Railway's rolling stock.
"Engine, three carriages and a guard's van. That's right. Then I shall want some rails, of course…. SHUT up, will you?" I said angrily, when the attendant was out of hearing.
"It's the extra weight," he sighed. "The reindeer don't like it. And these modern chimneys—you've no idea what a squeeze it is. However—"
"Those are very jolly," I said when I had examined the rails. "I shall want about a mile of them. Threepence ha'penny a foot? Then I shan't want nearly a mile."
I got about thirty feet, and then turned to switches and signals and lamps and things. I bought a lot of those. You never know what emergency might not arise on the nursery floor, and if anything happened for want of a switch or two I should never forgive myself.
Just as we were going away I caught sight of the jolliest little clockwork torpedo boat. I stopped irresolute.
"Don't be silly," said the voice under my arm. "You'll never be asked to the house again if you give that."
"Why not?"
"Wait till the children have fallen into the bath once or twice with all their clothes on, and then ask the mother why not."
"I see," I said stiffly, and we went upstairs.
"The next thing we want is bricks."
"Bricks," said Father Christmas uneasily. "Bricks. Yes, there's bricks. Have you ever thought of one of those nice little woolly rabbits—"
"Where do we get bricks?"
"Bricks. You know, I don't think mothers are as fond as all that ofBRICKS."
"I got the mother's present yesterday, thanks very much. This is for one of the children."
They showed me bricks and they showed me pictures of what the bricks would build. Palaces, simply palaces. Gone was the Balbus-wall of our youth; gone was the fort with its arrow-holes for the archers. Nothing now but temples and Moorish palaces.
"Jove, I should love that," I said." I mean HE would love that. Do you want much land for a house of that size? I know of a site on the nursery floor, but—well, of course, we could always have an iron building outside in the passage for the billiard table."
We paid and moved off again.
"What are you mumbling about now?" I asked.
"I said you'll only make the boy discontented with his present home if you teach him to build nothing but castles and ruined abbeys and things. And you WILL run to bulk. Half of those bricks would have made a very nice present for anybody."
"Yes, and when royalty comes on a visit, where would you put them? They'd have to pig it in the box-room. If we're going to have a palace, let's have a good one."
"Very well. What do your children hang up? Stockings or pillow-cases?"
We went downstairs again.
"Having provided for the engineer and the architect," I said, "we now have to consider the gentleman in the dairy business. I want a milk-cart."
"You want a milk-cart! You want a milk-cart! You want a—Why not have a brewer's dray? Why not have something really heavy? The reindeer wouldn't mind. They've been out every day this week, but they'd love it. What about a nice skating-rink? What about—"
I put him head downwards in my pocket and approached an official.
"Do you keep milk-carts?" I said diffidently.
He screwed up his face and thought.
"I could get you one," he said.
"I don't want you to build one specially for me. If they aren't made, I expect it's because mothers don't like them. It was just an idea of mine."
"Oh yes, they're made. I can show a picture of one in our catalogue."
He showed it to me. It was about the size of a perambulator, and contained every kind of can. I simply had to let Father Christmas see.
"Look at that!" I exclaimed in delight.
"Good lord!" he said, and dived into the pocket again.
I held him there tightly and finished my business with the official.
Father Christmas has never spoken since. Sometimes I wonder if he ever spoke at all, for one imagines strange things in the Children's Shop. He stands now on my writing-table, and observes me with the friendly smile which has been so fixed a feature of his since I brought him home.