THE END OF FAIRY TOWN
Sally had not heard the first part of the Fairy story, but what she had
heard was remembered, every word.
And enough it was for her to know that some poor little child had been
charmed to rest in a Fairy's arms, and had wandered, in sweet dreams,
off to Fairy Town.
She went next day about her work scarcely thinking of what her hands
were doing, and so full were her thoughts of the lovely flowers and
meadows of Fairy Town that she had paid no attention when Mammy Leezer
stood talking with Mistress Brace.
Even Mammy Leezer usually looked to her like a favored person, and a
little of the glamor, or charm, that was about everybody and everything
belonging to Ingleside, was about Mammy Leezer, too. Several times the
old woman had spoken to her, and Sally liked well the "sugary" sound of
her voice, as she called it in her own mind.
But to-day so full was her mind of the Fairy book that she scrubbed away
at the steps never caring what was being said just beyond her, so she
did not know that it was what Mammy Leezer had said that made Mistress
Cory Ann give her the whole long twilight and even-song to herself.
It made no difference. Enough for her that, supper ended, off she could
fly, and in her own particular cubby between hedge and wall could hear
more of the beloved story.
A very fortunate thing for Sally had happened a short time before this,
although it might be that no one remembered it. Two or three great
stones had loosened at the top of the wall near the arbor, and after
repairing, the workmen had left a couple of large stones, one on top of
the other, between the hedge and the wall.
This formed a grand seat for Sally, as after perching on the upper stone
her head was only a little below the wall, and distinctly she could hear
what was said in the arbor. But she must needs push her way through the
hedge at quite a little distance beyond the seat, where the stiff
branches were thinner, as at that particular spot they were of a
thickness to sadly tear her clothes and dreadfully scratch her skin
should she try to get through.
But the little girl knew exactly where to worm her thin little body past
the hedge, take a twist or two, and there she was, all the more
completely hidden that the screen was so thick near her seat. It never
occurred to her that perhaps she ought not to listen. Too untaught a
child was Sally to know that, and, oh! the delight and comfort of it
all!
It has been said that Sally was imaginative, and a great thing it was
for her, too. Because, don't you see, no matter how hard she might be
working, she could fancy, or imagine herself, floating off to Dreamland
in a Fairy's arms, even like the child in the story. Or, in her poor
little attic room, she could imagine herself dressing up before a great,
grand mirror, and getting ready for a party at Ingleside.
Now, it has also been said that Sally was not pretty to look at, but
here is the truth of the matter: Sally had dull red hair, and a great
deal of it. It was the kind of red that turned to ruddy gold when the
sun shone on it. Her features were fine, straight, and what are called
"well cut." Her eyes were a dark reddish brown, growing darker when she
was troubled or excited, hazel eyes, getting darker with every year of
her life. Then, strangely enough, both eyebrows and eyelashes were
almost black, and the lashes long and curling.
But what child, pray, ever looked pretty, no matter how fine her
features, who was only half clean, wore poor, ill-fitting, unbecoming
clothes, and whose matted hair might indeed have been a disordered wig
merely thrown on to her head?
Sally's teeth had "come in" very evenly, and had she not been brown as a
little Indian from being out bareheaded in nearly all weathers, her
skin would have been white and rosy red.
So, see you can, that although the child looked plain, and even homely,
she yet had "points," as we say, of great beauty. And then, although
Sally did not look like a brilliant child, she yet was "bright as a
dollar." That must mean a new silver dollar, which you know is very
bright and sparkles in the light. Just as maid Sally would have
brightened and sparkled had she been in the light of a good home, with
kind parents to teach her as a child needs to be taught.
Oh, but not a word has yet been said about her heart, her dear, childish
heart. Very well; it was a kind, warm, want-to-do-right kind of heart.
And this it was that made the people of Slipside Row like poor little
Sally; it was the good heart beating under her shabby little gown.
It was a very sad thing that Sally could read only the smallest words,
for her father had but taught her her letters when he was called away.
She could neither write nor spell, and saddest of all,--Sally did not
care! This shows how little she knew about life, or what she needed most
to fit her for the right kind of a life.
But the angels watch over good children, and Sally was soon to have her
young eyes opened to things she did not see as yet. And after all, there
is an old, old saying that "blood will tell," and we do not know much
yet about the kind of blood that was running through Sally's veins.
Now all her heart was bent on hearing the rest of the Fairy story, and
finding out what the happy child saw and did in Fairy Town. And soon as
she had eaten her supper, tried to coax down her thick, rumply hair, and
smooth her dress into some shape, off darted Sally for Ingleside, and
taking care that no one should see her enter,--she was ever careful
about that,--like a rabbit she plunged through a thin spot in the hedge,
and was soon on her rocky seat well up by the wall.
In a few minutes there was a sound of voices in the garden, and the
rustle of soft gowns above her head. It was plain that Lionel Grandison,
his sister Lucretia, and their cousin, Rosamond Earlscourt, had entered
the arbor. A little light talk there was, then Lionel's rich, pleasant
voice took up the Fairy tale:
"The days and the weeks flew by as if on wings of the wind, a soft,
sweet wind! No pleasure was wanting in Fairy Town. There was no work, no
worry, no rain, no cold, no great heat. The flowers gave food to the
child the same as to the bees and the birds. She sipped the clover-like
syrup of sweet-pea blossoms, tasted and liked the bitter-sweet of the
pond-lily, loved the orris flavor of mignonette which she drank from the
cup of the fairy-bell. She drew in the nectar of honeysuckle, and tasted
the Paradise flavor of the rose. A syrup that seemed as if from the
Garden of Eden was made from spicy pinks, white violets, and
valley-lilies, mixed with morning dew.
"After feasting until she was tired there came four white doves,
harnessed to a light, silvery carriage, made of snowball flowers. Light
as air the child flew into the sweet, soft carriage, and was borne along
above the flowers and bushes, but the doves did not fly too high, for
fear of alarming the merry child.
"When the soft twilight of Fairy Town came gently down, there appeared a
bed made of the feathers of the swan, so pure and white, the child
feared to lie down upon it. But the Fairy playfully tossed her on the
downy bed, then smiled to see how lovely it all appeared to the little
one that nestled down, and was all ready for rest after the delights of
Fairy Town.
"But the days passed on and on, and lo! who could believe it? The child
grew tired,--tired of the sweetness, the rest, the dove-drives, the
do-nothing, care-nothing ease of Fairy Town!
"At first she could not believe so strange a thing was possible, and
feared lest she was only stupid and ungrateful. But, alas! the downy,
flowery, too easy life became more and more tiresome until, in trouble
and distress, she went to the Fairy with a look in her eyes that the
wise Fairy understood. Yet she asked kindly:
"'What is it, dear?'
"'Ah, good Fairy, I fear that I am but a naughty, naughty child.'
"'Have you done wrong?' asked the Fairy.
"'No, I have meant to do nothing wrong, good Fairy.'
"'Then, why feel troubled, dear? No one need really worry who has done
no wrong. Tell me, what aileth thee?'
"'I have grown tired, dear Fairy.'
"The Fairy smiled.
"'Just as I knew you would,' she said.
"'You knew I would?' The child's eyes opened wide in surprise.
"'Yes; and shall I tell you why?'
"'Please do.'
"The beautiful face of the Fairy glowed with love and wisdom, and tiny
sparks of light seemed to shoot forth from all about her head as she
replied:
"'My little one, my precious one, truth is that every one who comes
into the world has some work to do, and happiness, and sweet content,
can come only through doing it. In your home you had errands on which to
run, and lessons to learn.
"'Ah! there is the great secret of what young people need, and must
have, if ever they are going to be worth much in the world--lessons!
"'But you did not like being useful, and doing the errands, nor did you
want to study and learn your lessons. And so you thought that you were
troubled and tired--only a fancy it was, however. So I wafted you to
Fairy Town, where all is quiet, downy, flowery, full of ease, luxury,
and feasting.
"'But, _because_ you have a mind to fill with useful, glorious
knowledge, and a life to fill with good deeds, you could not live so
really useless a round of nought but pleasure.
"'Go back to sweet duty, dear one, and remember that Fairy Town is not
for a child of the great King of Heaven.'
"Then the child awoke, and, lo! she thirsted for Fairy Town no longer."
Lionel's pleasant voice ceased. For a moment it was quiet in the arbor,
then there was a rustling sound, and Rosamond Earlscourt's clear voice
rang out with a scornful note:
"Oh, indeed! and, indeed! Then that is the reason it hath been told that
this Fairy story is a good one for all to read, both old and young.
Because it teacheth the need of learning, and of being useful in the
world. I call it stupid!"
"I do not!" said Lionel; "how can one be fitted to live properly without
a good degree of learning? And who would wish to live without being
useful?"
"What mean you to do with all your wisdom?" laughingly asked his sister
Lucretia.
Lionel had wandered from the summer-house, and stood on a broad stone
near the edge of the wall. Sally could see him plainly, although there
was little clanger of his seeing her. His head was held erect as he
poised straight and strong, the look of a man in his face.
"I hope," he replied, "to make the best use of any knowledge I may gain
that I possibly can. Every one should try to make the world better for
having lived in it. And it is the learning that comes through study and
books that one must have in order to rightly understand things. I
bethink me our country is going to need men of the right kind before
many years are past."
"The children of the poor cannot obtain the learning that comes through
books," said Rosamond; "prithee, how much must it be with them?"
Lionel replied, stoutly:
"The lad or the maid who is determined to learn, and have the right
place in the world, can find the way! The lad or the maid who pushes
through everything that would hinder, and _will get_ learning in spite
of difficulties, is the one to succeed and to be admired! We all must
push our way. I mean to push mine!"
He spoke fearlessly as there he stood, a fine lad in fine garments that
had been brought from across the sea; his fair, clinging hair had been
pushed back from his white forehead, for he would have none of the queue
worn by many very young men in those days. His waistcoat was daintily
ruffled down the front, and a fall of lace was about his hands. A
broad ring, with a clear white stone, glittered on one finger. His
knee-breeches were of the finest gray linen, with gray satin bows and
silver buckles at the knee bands. He wore, also, long gray stockings,
"clocked," or with wrought figures up the sides, and pumps of polished
leather with silver buckles in the rosettes.
The son of a gentleman, standing in the even-light, the fire of the
right kind of ambition, and a set purpose in voice and eye, the sunset
glow bringing out form and features like unto those of a young lord;
and--down in the hedge, a poor, tangled, ill-kept little maid, gazing
upon him even as she would have gazed upon a Prince in a Fairy story.
"Oh, he is a Prince!" gasped Sally. "He is like a Fairy Prince. He is
_my_ Fairy Prince!"
Then the poor child flushed and trembled. The idea of having dared to
think of young Lionel Grandison, son of Sir Percival and Lady Gabrielle
Grandison, as belonging in the leastest degree to her, made her tingle
with a kind of awe.
"Nobody knows it but just me," thought Sally, "and I _will_ have him for
my Fairy Prince. I can, way down in my heart-place; oh, I must, and I
will."
She was very quiet for a few moments after that.
Then, all at once, something woke up in Sally. Something that had never
awakened before. It was a sudden thought and knowledge of what she was
herself.
"Only just a know-nothing!" she whispered, "a poor little old
know-nothing!" and she hung her head. "Can't read! Can't write! Can't
spell! Can't anything but just scrub and dub. Oh, he wouldn't speak to
me, he wouldn't look at me! How sick my heart feels, and how tired I
am!"
Then something else woke up in Sally. Something stirred in her heart for
the first time. She tugged at her wretched little dress as she repeated:
"He said that the lad or the girl that was determined to get learning
could find a way. Did you hear _that_, Sally Dukeen?"