A MAN WHO STOOD ON HIS HEAD, ACCORDING TO LUCIFRAM
The two wanderers were standing once more in the cold, inhospitable
streets of Lucifram. But they were not alone. A tall lady descending
from her carriage had noticed the forlorn Rosalie, and pitying her tired
condition had taken her within her house, promising her one night’s
shelter at least. It may be simply stated to whom Rosalie in this hour
of need had come. In this particular house in Lime Tree Square of the
chief city of Lucifram there lived a very great painter and his sister.
In his early youth he had had a hard struggle, not so much because he
was poor, but because he was original. Now, for a man to have his own
ideas in the city of Lucifram was to set all the dogs barking, the mob
stone-flinging, and the Riot Act fluttering.
It was very strange, but thousands of years of experience had taught
little or nothing.
The painter, as has been said, had his own ideas, and so at first they
said he was an upstart, and very justly laughed at him. But laughter
never yet cured madness or stamped out the truth, and as the painter
seemed to be giving surreptitious invisible spiritual bites all round
him, and setting the infection flying, it was recognised at last there
must be some truth in his madness, and to a certain extent they let him
be.
And so from being badly abused the painter at last sprung into fame. He
was a shy and reserved man, and somewhat irritable in his temper. But
that was because his temperament and his work were of a kind that wear
the nerves unevenly. But still when he liked he could be very charming,
even Lucifram admitted that, and for the hidden virtues, they left those
with a shrug to God the Serpent.
And so in comparative early middle age he found himself the recipient of
a knighthood; that is, he received a title very similar to “Sir”—and for
simplicity we will call it such. Some spiteful people said this was on
account of his good looks, but as it was a man sovereign who gave him
the title, it’s hard to see what that could have to do with it. Now, Sir
John himself had little belief in titles, but his sister had great
belief in _him_, and though herself the simplest of plain women, she had
ambitions so far as he was concerned.
“A title’s an empty thing,” said he, looking at her in his serious,
thoughtful way.
“No one knows it better than I,” she answered, in her downright one.
“And if you hadn’t the real thing to outshine it, I’d hate to see it
offered to you. But it’s a courtesy you owe to the world in return for
its courtesy. If you don’t accept it, you are churlish. Besides, I
always think it’s the greatest honour that can befal a sovereign, to
confer distinction upon genius, so that, even on a royal consideration,
I think you ought to accept.”
And so plain John Crokerly became Sir John, and was just the same before
and after—neither more or less brilliant or imposing.
From being poor he became rich. He never married, but continued happily
in the society of his one unmarried sister. The affection and
understanding were very mutual, and perfectly to the contentment of
both.
On this particular night Miss Crokerly entered her brother’s presence
with some trepidation. After all, she had a reputation for common sense,
though, like him, maybe a little eccentric, and the brightness of the
frog and the prettiness of Rosalie’s face hardly seemed pretext enough
on second thoughts for inviting her into the house.
“John,” said she, betraying no misgiving in her voice, as she closed the
door, “I’ve invited a young girl from the country, who is lost, to come
in and shelter for the night.”
“What’s her name?” and he looked up over the top of the paper which he
was reading, for daylight was precious just then, and morning meals too
hasty to allow of much newspaper indulgence during them.
“I don’t know; she is a perfect stranger to me. I came to see if you
approved.”
“It won’t matter to me. I shan’t see her,” he answered.
“Of course not.” Then, after a pause: “You think I’m not running any
risks by bringing her in?”
“I don’t know. You can’t very well turn her out again now you’ve done
it. Small-pox is pretty prevalent, to be sure. Did you make particular
inquiries if she’d been successfully vaccinated?”
“You have no objection to what I’ve done?”
“Not after you’ve done it,” and he relapsed once more behind the paper.
But Miss Crokerly, after turning to the door, looked round again.
“I should like you to see her,” she said, for her, very hesitatingly.
“In the morning,” he answered.
“In the morning you will have less time and inclination than now.”
“But what purpose should I serve in going to look at her? Is she
different from the generality of country folk?”
“I don’t know,” she replied slowly; “but I think she is much prettier.
And she has with her a frog with the most brilliant colour I ever saw.”
At this he laughed. “My curiosity is not excited in the least,” he
answered.
“But mine _is_,” she said, with a return to her decided manner; “and you
really must come, if but to see the frog. It is a marvel.”
“Bring it here to me, then.”
“Certainly not, unless I bring her too. You are growing terribly lazy,
Jack.”
“Well, come along,” he said impatiently. “Only please don’t drag me into
any more of your charitable whims, frogs or no frogs.”
“Of course not. This is an exception. You might ask her her name and
address. I quite forgot to do so.”
So together they went into the hall where Rosalie still sat. The frog,
with a wisdom born of its dead vanity, had again settled itself
conspicuously to attract attention on her shoulder.
Rosalie’s pale face and large bright eyes also possessed a peculiar
beauty and fascination, although she was tired with the journey and sick
from want of food.
Now, Sir John’s heart was as kind as that of his sister, and, moreover,
he had a great admiration for woman when her beauty was of that delicate
yet exquisite type that approaches the ideal, and contains little of the
heaviness or substantiality of flesh. As they both came toward her,
Rosalie rose, and her movements were so quiet, graceful, and well-bred,
that one might have thought the frog’s spirit of wishing to do the
correct thing for the sake of admiration had settled upon her. All his
irritability, which was not of a very lasting or savage kind, vanished.
“You have a delightful little companion there,” said he pleasantly,
looking at the frog.
“Yes.”
“It is rather an uncommon kind of pet,” put in Miss Crokerly; “and how
brilliant! Is it real, or some highly-polished stone?”
Rosalie laughed softly.
“Oh! it is real enough, and can jump prodigiously.” And she put her hand
up caressingly to its coat.
“And you,” said Sir John—“you look tired. What part of the country have
you come from to get lost in the city?”
“I have been walking all day. I came from a little hut and plantation
beyond the forest.”
At this the painter looked at his sister and she at him. For outside
this city of Lucifram there was a tremendous forest full of jungles, and
only the pure in spirit and those led by a light of superhuman
brightness could pass through it.
“And did you pass through the forest unhurt?” he asked.
“Yes. We were pleasant company to each other. But I lost one of my
garden clogs. I think that was very unfortunate, because I never missed
it till it was too late to turn back.”
She spoke evidently without any knowledge of the terrors of the forest.
But whatever reticence she showed about her journey was from now
respected by them.
“Then you have no home to return to?” said Miss Crokerly, after a pause,
during which she had revolved things in her mind.
“No,” said Rosalie simply, and her wistful eyes filled with anxiety and
shadow.
“You must spend the night here, then, as I said before, and in the
morning we will arrange things. Come with me.”
Then Sir John shook hands with her in that grave, kind way of his, and
wished her good-night, and then went back to his easy-chair and paper.
He himself knew something of the terrors and blackness of the forest. It
had been responsible for some of his best work. But he was a man whose
hair was turning grey, and this girl, whose name, by the way, he had
forgotten to ask, appeared so very young. He was interested in, and felt
sorry for her, and yet could scarcely credit the tale that she had come
hither from the forest; on second thoughts it seemed so utterly
improbable.
Yet where else anywhere upon Lucifram could that brilliant frog have
come from—or Rosalie’s expressive, shining eyes?
So when his sister came back later in the evening, he said:
“I think, for the present, at any rate, we must keep her. Providence has
sent her to us, and converts a duty into pleasure.”
“Yes, indeed. She has had supper and gone to bed. And strange to say,”
she continued reflectively, “although for the last twenty-five years I
have been trying to cure myself of impulsiveness as one of my besetting
sins, and was just thinking as I drove home to-night that at last I had
quite succeeded, yet now I cannot help loving her at sight, as much,”
she added softly, “as if she were my own sister.”
“That is fortunate for her,” replied he. “She appears so destitute.”
“And I don’t doubt fortunate for me. It is not often one receives a
traveller from the forest.”
“You have ascertained, then, that she really came from there?”
“Of course! I ascertained it by attending simply to her voice and
manner. One needs no other guarantees.”
“Well, I can but hope your friendship stands the test of time. For
myself, I can only say, as usual, I think you showed true discernment in
admitting her to shelter for the night, though at first, to speak
truthfully, I must admit your conduct greatly astonished me. What is her
name?”
“Rosalie Paleaf.”