lovely Sunshine fairy, though there were times when she longed to share
it with one in whom she could safely confide. And now and then at
intervals she had a strange feeling that Dirk suspected something, for
she sometimes caught his eyes fixed on her with a kind of veiled
enquiry, and once he said in a low voice, with a curious smile, "Little
Merran, you are not like the rest of us."
"Are you, yourself, Dirk?" she replied. "There are things you know and
feel that the others don't--the voices in the wind, the burden of the
birds' songs, the secrets of the restless waves--oh, Dirk, if one lived
a thousand years, there would still be mysteries upon mysteries of
beautiful things to learn!"
Then she grew shy again, for she was always quiet and timid and
wondered how she had found courage to say so much. But Dirk seemed
pleased.
"Yes," he said, nodding his head gently. "Maybe we are a bit different
from most of those about us. You, anyway, Merran. I've seen strange
lands and beautiful places, but you--you give me the feeling that once
upon a time you must have had a glimpse of real fairyland."
Merran grew red at this, but she made no reply.
Only to herself she said, "I wish--I do wish I might tell him," and then
she grew still redder when the words of the Sunshine fairy returned to
her memory that only to _one_ person might she ever reveal her secret.
"And that one will never be my fate," thought the girl sadly. "Dirk will
never care for me in _that_ way, and never could I care for any one but
him."
Whereas on his side, Dirk said to himself that he must never hope to win
the sweet weather maiden for himself. "Why, half the young fellows in
the country-side, and old ones too, are ready to woo her if she'd let
them! They think she'd bring good luck to her husband, and so she would.
But it's not for that _I_'d care for her--it's that I love her for her
own self, luck or no luck."
And one day--one happy day--had the Sunshine fairy whispered to him to
take courage, I wonder?--he determined to risk it, and told the maiden
his hopes and fears, and found how little reason for the latter there
had been, and the two young things, who had drawn to each other from
their first meeting, before long were married, carrying with them to a
home of their own the magic gifts, now, to Merran's delight, her
husband's as much as her own.
Good fortune was theirs. Whatever Dirk undertook, whatever Merran
planned, prospered. And that it should be so, they deserved. For they
remained kindly and unselfish, ever ready to help others less happy than
themselves, grateful for their blessings, patient under trials, of
which, as life cannot be _always_ sunshine, they had their share. They
lived, I was told, to a good old age. What became of the fairy
treasures, I cannot say. Whether they were handed down to their
children, or whether they were whisked back to fairyland, I know not,
not any more than I know what has become of all the toy "rain-houses"
which in our grand-parents' times were so often to be seen. The world is
growing too clever for the fairies, I fear, unless perhaps, unseen and
unsuspected, they are still behind the scenes in some of the marvels
and inventions all around us. Who can say?
And by the bye, I have heard it whispered that in a certain
out-of-the-way corner of this dear old country there lives a family
whose sons and daughters have a curious gift of "weather wisdom." Maybe
they are the descendants of our Dirk and his Merran?
The Enchanted Trunks
Once upon a time, on a very hot summer's day, a girl stood waiting at
the door of a small old-fashioned inn, beside a little heap of luggage.
She was quite young, about sixteen, or seventeen at the most. Her face
was sweet in expression, and would have been pretty if she had not
looked so tired and anxious. She was quite alone and seemed shy and
timid, for now and then, when some of the folk belonging to the place,
passing in and out, wished her good-day, or made any friendly remark,
she started and grew crimson even though she replied politely. And when
after a time the landlady herself came to the door and asked the girl if
she would not step inside and wait in the parlour, she answered
hesitatingly that she thought she had better stay in the porch.
"I'm so afraid of missing the coach, or losing my seat in it," she
said.
"No fear of that, Miss," said the comfortable-looking dame. "Your place
is engaged, no doubt."
"Oh yes, I suppose so," the stranger replied. "My name is
O'Beirne--Clodagh O'Beirne."
"That's all right," said the landlady; "I remember the name. The
master--that's my husband--called out to the coachman last night that he
must secure a place for you to-day. You'd written for it, no doubt?"
"Yes, the friends I stayed the night with--I only came over from Ireland
yesterday--did so. It was their gig that brought me here just now, to
catch the coach as it passed."
The landlady's good-humour seemed to cheer the girl a little; she began
to look less frightened.
"You've come a long way," the older woman remarked. "Right across the
sea, I take it?" The girl nodded, and looked as if she were going to
cry. The landlady's curiosity was aroused. "And it's the first time
you've left home, I daresay, and all by yourself too. It must feel
strange-like."
"I wasn't alone till to-day. A friend came over with me," Clodagh
replied. "And I shan't be alone long. I'm to meet a--a lady, a cousin,
and we are to travel together."
"Ah indeed, that'll be much pleasanter for you," said her companion.
The young girl murmured something. But to herself she was saying that
she was by no means sure of it. And after a little silence she went on,
"I don't think I'd mind travelling alone--I don't mind anything very
much now that I haven't any home--except," and she glanced at the heap
of rather heterogeneous baggage, "except for all these things. I'm so
afraid of losing half of them, and yet Biddy and I packed as neatly as
ever we could. Biddy was grandmother's maid, and she stayed with me
after dear granny died, till it was settled for me to go to live with my
cousin and travel about with her."
"It'll be fine and amusing for you," said the landlady.
"I--I don't know," said Clodagh. "I'm not used to travelling, and I've
not seen my cousin for a good while, and she may think me stupid."
"But she's a young lady, I suppose?" said her questioner.
"Not very. She's--oh, she's seven or eight years older than I, and she
wants to travel all about till she finds a place to suit her. She's like
me, except that she's rich. She's got no parents and can do as she
likes."
Then suddenly it seemed to strike the young stranger that she was
perhaps too communicative, and she grew rather pink. "I shouldn't
perhaps----" she began, but the kind-hearted woman understood and
interrupted. "It's me, Miss, that's in fault," she said. "I shouldn't
make free to ask so many questions. But it went to my heart to see you
standing there alone, so young and half-frightened like. I had a little
daughter once--she'd have been not so much older than you if she'd
lived----" She stopped for a moment, then she went on again: "Wouldn't
you like a cup of tea now, Miss?" she said. "It's a time o' day I often
has one, for we've no lie-abeds in our house, and it's a good while
since we'd breakfast, and if you've come some distance you'll have been
up betimes, I'd daresay."
Clodagh's face brightened.
"It's very kind of you," she said. "I would like it uncommonly. I
couldn't eat any breakfast, I was so afraid of being too late.
But--please tell me how much it will cost. I mustn't spend anything I
can help, you see. Once I'm with Cousin Paulina, she will pay things
like that for herself and me."
"Don't trouble your pretty head about it," said the goodwife. "We're
well-to-do, my man and me, and neither chick nor kin to come after us,
more's the pity--and--you do make me think of what my little maid would
have been by now, Missy, if you'll pardon the liberty. Now just step
inside--to my own parlour--the kettle's on the hob--you'll feel quite a
different young lady once you've had a bit of breakfast, better late
than never."
"And you promise me I won't miss the coach," said the girl, as she
followed the kind woman into the little sitting-room behind the bar.
"No fear, no fear," replied her hostess, and as Clodagh sat down in the
comfortable chintz-covered old armchair--the landlady's own, which she
drew forward for the unexpected guest--the girl gave a sigh of content.
"It is nice and cool in here," she said, "and I _am_ so tired already
and so thirsty. I wish I were going to stay here for a bit."
"Indeed and I wish it too, Miss, and it's our best we'd do to make you
comfortable," said the dame, as she bustled about to make the tea, which
she fetched from the kitchen hard by, and to cut some tempting slices of
bread and butter. "But travelling's very pleasant, some folks say.
There's an old lady not far from here--that's to say, her own home
is--but she's for ever on the go. They do say as she's been all over the
world, and old as she is, she seldom rests."
"Is she so very old?" asked Clodagh.
"No one knows," was the mysterious reply. "My husband's mother, and
she's no chicken as you can fancy, remembers her as quite aged when she
was young. But she never seems to get no older. Some say she was
spirited away by the good folk when she was a baby and that she's got a
fairy's life--indeed there's some that will have it she's not really one
of us at all."
Clodagh, by this time refreshed by the tea, sat up eagerly. "Oh," she
exclaimed, "I'm so glad you talk of the good folk. I thought it was only
at home--in Ireland, I mean, that people still believed in them."
"Dear me, no," said her hostess, with a smile. "Maybe in the big towns
you never hear of them nowadays, and no wonder. They can't abide noise
and bustle and dirt. But in these parts, oh dear yes. I've heard tell of
them all _my_ life, I know, and of their tricksy ways. They can be the
best of friends, but, my word! if they take offence they can worry one's
life out."
Clodagh was listening with all her ears. Her eyes had grown brighter,
and some colour had come into her cheeks, with the mere mention of fairy
folk, so familiar to her since her infancy.
"Oh," she said with a little sigh, "what you say does make me wish still
more that I could stay here a few days and get rested, and you would
tell me stories, as my dear old nurse used to do."
"That I would," said the landlady, "and indeed I wish you could stay to
hear them. Not that I've ever really come across the fairies--brownies
and pixies, they call them in some parts--myself, nor even set eyes on
one of them--unless indeed----" and here she stopped abruptly, lowering
her voice.
"Unless what?" asked Clodagh. "Do tell me."
"Just what I was saying a minute ago," the dame went on. "Unless that
strange old lady is one herself, as I'm more than half inclined to think
by what I've heard tell of her."
"Then you've seen her?" questioned the girl eagerly.
The landlady nodded.
"Just seen her," she said. "Twice--no, I think three times, she's passed
in the coach, and I've just said a word to her at the door. Once she
asked for a glass of milk. 'Twas a very hot morning, like as it might
be to-day."
"How I wish she might be in the coach this morning!" exclaimed the
traveller, her eyes sparkling. "It would be so interesting, and if she
knew I was Irish she might take a fancy to me, for the good people do
love the Irish!" and at the idea the girl laughed merrily for the first
time.
"Yes," agreed the dame, "indeed she might, my pretty young lady. But
it's a long time since she's passed this way. One never knows where she
is, or how she'll travel. Now and then she'll set off in her own coach
and four, like any princess, and I've heard it whispered that she'll
sometimes disappear from her home, no one knows how."
"Oh, a broomstick, maybe, or has she a pet gander?" laughed Clodagh.
But the landlady looked a little frightened.
"Hush, Missy, my dear," she whispered, "it doesn't do to----" Then she
suddenly started. "I'm afraid that's the coach," she exclaimed, "and
sorry I am to part with you, but if you're bound to go, we'd best be at
the door ready."
Clodagh jumped up at once.
"And thank you a thousand times," she said, "for all your kindness.
Yes, I must go. My cousin will be looking out for me. I've not seen her
for five years," she added nervously. "Wish me good luck, my kind
friend."
"That I will," said the dame heartily.
"You've cheered me greatly," said the girl, and in her impulsive Irish
way she held up her sweet young face for a kiss.
The coach it was, sure enough. There was some trouble about getting
Clodagh's rather complicated belongings on to it, it was already so
piled up. But with difficulty all was at last disposed, outside and in,
and thanks to the landlady nothing was left behind.
There were tears in the kind woman's eyes when at last it rumbled off,
her young guest of an hour waving good-bye out of the window.
But it is Clodagh's adventures we have to follow. For a minute or two
the bustle of getting her bags and boxes settled prevented her realising
that there was already a passenger in the coach, and before looking
round she felt obliged to lean out once again in a last farewell to her
kind new friend. She was soon, however, recalled to the present.
"Who is there?" said a voice--a rather petulant one--from the corner.
"Whatever is the matter? I was fast asleep till there was all this fuss!
Oh!--" with an exclamation, "can it be you, Clodagh O'Beirne? I had no
idea we were at Crossway Corner already?"
"Yes, indeed," Clodagh replied, "it is I. I didn't know it was you,
Cousin Paulina. I wasn't sure, you see, if I would find you here, or if
you would only meet me at the next stage. Lady Roseley wasn't certain
from your letter which it would be."
"Humph," murmured Mistress Paulina. "Well, after all I decided that to
avoid any mistake I'd get up for once by cock-crow, so as to start from
Stracey. I hate getting up early, and I was fast asleep as you saw. Did
Lady Roseley send some one with you, then, to see you off? You seemed to
be nodding good-byes."
"No," said Clodagh. "That's to say only the old coachman who drove me
over and left me at the inn. I was all right. No, it was only the
landlady I was waving to. She was so kind, helping to carry out my
things," and she glanced round at the various encumbrances. The place
was certainly inconveniently crowded, and so Paulina, now wide-awake,
seemed to think, as she took it all in, and that with evident annoyance.
"I must say, Clodagh," she remarked, "that you have a queer collection
of luggage. I hope you will get rid of some of these bags and baskets
before we start again. I don't deny that I travel with a fair amount
myself," and indeed the coach had seemed well packed inside and out,
before the younger girl's belongings had been added, "but a child like
you can't need such an amount. You'll have to learn to be a clever
traveller, my dear, if we're to get on together."
"I'm very sorry," said Clodagh apologetically. "You see, cousin, I never
have left home before, and I didn't know how to manage. I'll do my best,
and I hope I'll soon learn, for of course I shall pack for you as well
as for myself. That I quite understand."
"Well, yes," said Paulina. "I can't go about with you _and_ a maid. And
as things have unfortunately turned out so sadly for you, it seemed to
me you'd be better off with me than going among strangers. And on my
side, I'm sick of maids with their airs and graces and vulgarities. I
prefer to have a companion of my own class."
"Yes, thank you," Clodagh replied. "It was a very kind thought of
yours, and I shall soon learn to manage well, I hope. To begin with, I
think we might arrange all these things better," and she stood up and
pulled about and pushed and lifted, till the narrow space looked more
orderly, Paulina from her corner now and then directing and advising.
She was a handsome young woman, with a by no means disagreeable
expression. Indeed there was often a kindly light in her bright eyes,
and gentle curves about her mouth. But she was self-willed and
quick-tempered, "spoilt" in short, though generous and well-meaning,
entirely unused to contradiction and impatient of any obstacles in the
way of her wishes or fancies.
"Thank goodness," she ejaculated, as she settled herself down again in
her wraps, "thank goodness, we have no fellow-passengers. Now I mean to
go to sleep again, and so may you, child, if you like. We shall stop at
Oddingstowe for dinner and fresh horses, and by four o'clock we should
be at Felway, where the Marristons' carriage--and, it is to be hoped, a
cart for the luggage--is to meet us. They expect us to stay at the
Priory for two or three days. They know you will be with me."
"Yes, thank you," replied Clodagh again, feeling mortally shy at the
prospect before her, yet not venturing to say so.
Paulina composed herself to sleep once more, and before long, in spite
of the thoughts that crowded her mind--anxieties, hopes, and fears, as
she realised more clearly her new position as her kinswoman's
companion--Clodagh too, though a few minutes ago she would not have
believed it possible, Clodagh too dozed off.
And she slept, as did Paulina, for some time. The stopping of the
vehicle, the cessation of the monotonous rumbling, aroused them both.
Paulina sat up, rubbing her eyes.
"Dear me," she exclaimed, "Oddingstowe already!"
Clodagh looked out of the window.
"No," she said hesitatingly. "I don't think it can be. There's no
village or houses; only a turnpike. Oh, yes," she went on, "I see what
it is. We're stopping to take up another passenger."
"What sort of one?" her cousin demanded. "I hope to goodness it's not a
first-class one--an inside one--we are stuffed up enough already.
There's scarcely air to breathe."
"N-no," Clodagh replied, continuing to look out. "I don't think it can
be. It's only a little old woman, quite poor, and she doesn't seem to
have any luggage. She's only carrying a hand-bag--just a sort of
reticule."
"All right," Paulina responded, lazily settling herself again for
another nap. "All the same, I wish they wouldn't pull up in this
unnecessary way. I was so comfortably asleep. It's the only thing to do
in this tropical heat."
Clodagh too was sitting down again, congratulating herself, more on
Paulina's account than her own, that their privacy was not to be
disturbed--when, alas, her unspoken relief proved premature. To her
astonishment, the guard approached the door, which he opened, and with a
"your pardon, ladies," to the two girls, held it civilly by the handle,
for the new-comer to enter.
Clodagh instinctively drew back a little for her to pass. There were
four places--two and two--facing each other. Hitherto the younger girl
had been sitting beside her cousin--the opposite seat covered with their
possessions. But now she at once began to clear a space on it for
herself, for she saw at a glance that the stranger was old, and looked
fragile and delicate, and in spite of the extreme simplicity of her
attire--she wore only a clean but faded cotton of an old-fashioned
flowery pattern, half covered by a sort of market-woman's cloak, and
surmounted by a huge black straw bonnet--in spite of this there was a
certain dignity about her as in reply to Clodagh's silent attention she
murmured, "I thank you, young lady. But do not disturb yourself. I can
occupy the back seat."
"I should think so indeed," exclaimed Paulina angrily. "Indeed, my good
woman, I am inclined to believe that your coming in here at all is some
mistake. This is for first-class passengers, and moreover our places
have been engaged for some days ahead.--What are you thinking of, you
silly child?" she went on sharply, turning to her cousin. "Why should
you give up your place to this person and her bundles? I won't have it.
Sit down beside me at once," for Clodagh with a crimson face was still
hesitating and moving about the bags and baggage nervously, though the
new-comer had already settled herself quietly with her back to the
horses.
"Paulina," said the younger girl in a low voice, "_do_ not be so
excited. She has no bundles, or anything, so it cannot really
inconvenience us. And she is old, and looks so fragile. It is only
right that I should offer her my seat."
Paulina was about to reply in the same irritated tone, when she was
interrupted.
"I thank you, my kind young lady," said the stranger in a clear voice,
which somehow enforced attention, "I thank you for your courtesy and
consideration. But I have no desire to take your place, I assure you. In
fact I prefer this side. I am an old traveller. Nor will my presence
incommode you for long. I shall leave the coach before we reach
Oddingstowe."
Clodagh murmured a gentle "Thank you." She was grateful to the old woman
for not resenting her cousin's rudeness. And to Paulina she whispered,
"She _cannot_ be a mere peasant. Her voice and words show it"; and to do
her justice, the elder girl looked a little ashamed of herself.
"Don't tease me," she said. "It always upsets me to be wakened suddenly.
I'm going to sleep again," and so saying she leant back and closed her
eyes.
And after a few minutes Clodagh followed her example, though she was no
longer sleepy. But something--a vague feeling of slight shyness--made
her do so, for she was conscious of her opposite neighbour's scrutiny.
Now and then from the depths of the quaint black bonnet she caught the
gleam of dark bright eyes, and the sensation caused her cheeks to grow
pink again.
"Who and what can she be?" the girl said to herself. "She certainly
looks like a peasant, but her voice--her expressions--her dignity belie
it," and thus puzzling over the anomaly, Clodagh after all fell asleep.
Now I must mention what may seem strange and most improbable. You will
remember the description given to the young traveller only an hour or
two before the coach stopped at the turnpike, of the old lady in the
neighbourhood, concerning whom such curious and even uncanny things were
said?
Yes--well, this is the strange fact. Though Clodagh was at once
impressed in an unusual way by the personality of their
fellow-traveller, and perplexed to explain her inconsistencies, never
once during the day's journey did it occur to her to put "two and two
together"; to guess, as no doubt you, children, who are reading this
little old story, will already have done, that here in person was the
mysterious lady of the landlady's legend--the being who, if not actually
of fairy race herself, still had much in common with the "good people,"
and doubtless dealings with them.
But so it happened with Clodagh, and afterwards--not a long-delayed
afterwards either, as you will hear--she felt quite unable to explain
her own forgetfulness, or "stupidity" as she called it.
In the meantime what occurred was this. She slept and Paulina slept on
uninterruptedly till the coach drew up at Oddingstowe. And when it did
so, and the clatter over the cobble-stones of the old inn's courtyard
aroused them, lo and behold, they were alone! The strange new-comer had
disappeared. The whole episode might have been a dream, only that
rarely, if ever, do any two people dream the same and at the same time.
Paulina stared.
"She's gone," she exclaimed.
"Yes," said her cousin, feeling very much inclined to add, "You needn't
have been so rude to her."
"I never felt or heard the coach stop to let her get out," added the
elder girl.
"Nor did I," said Clodagh, "only----"
"Only what?"
"Nothing. I was dreaming, I suppose. But I have a misty recollection of
hearing some one say, almost in a whisper, 'Good-bye for the present, my
dear. We shall meet again.'"
"I hope not," said Paulina, with a slight shudder. "Clodagh, you don't
think possibly she's a witch?"
Clodagh's spirit of mischief inclined her to frighten her cousin a
little, but she refrained.
"No, of course not," she replied. "She's a very polite and harmless old
woman, though, no doubt, there did seem something rather odd--mysterious
almost--about her. But if I may say it, Paulina, I think, in travelling
especially, it is best to be so--polite I mean--to everybody one is
thrown into contact with."
Paulina muttered something which sounded like "rubbish" or "nonsense,"
but aloud she only said snappishly, "You know nothing about travelling,
child. One has to keep up one's dignity."