Lemuel walked the whole way home, and more than once said, "Dash!"

*CHAPTER X*

*THE IMPORTANCE OF BIM*

It was some few weeks before Emmanuel Oldstein was able to fulfil his

good intention of visiting Paradise Court. Sally was the last on his

list, and not till June's name-month was half-way through could he come

to her.

Meanwhile things had been happening. The newspaper crusade was going

well, and the two from Fairyland were using their efforts to help it

forward.

The gnome was becoming influential in Paradise Court. It was in

especial his province. June, with her wings and magic, could visit a

wide area; but he, with his poor inches and limitations, was necessarily

stay-at-home. Partly through accident he began a revolution which was

fated to have important effect in the recovery of London. This is how

it happened.

The old flower-box whence he had taken the mould for their flourishing

roof-garden was a faded, decrepit affair; otherwise its meagre quantity

of wood would surely, long ago, have been broken and used as fuel. For

years it had stood in a dank corner, barren and forgotten. Then, in a

fit of prankishness, Bim carried down a violet, the only one gathered in

the Mansion House posy, and planted it. June had given it power of

life; with the tenacity of its kind it had struggled, flourished and

come to bloom.

It was the gnome's treasure. He was proud of its being, and looked

after it in a spoilt parental way, exaggerating its few qualities,

blessedly blind to its defects.

For some days it bluely blushed unseen; and then came into a prominence

which half pleased, half frightened it.

Poll Skinner cast her husband-blacked eyes upon it.

"Lor' lummy!" she cried, "a voilet!"

She looked at the flower and thereupon fell in a dream. A violet in

Paradise Court! For the first time for years she was out of the ugly

present, away from the base life about her.

Memories of old days, clean days, lived again. She saw herself as she

was, before sin, want and selfishness had claimed and kept her. As she

was! As she was! She remembered her father's cottage, with its garden

of pinks and wallflowers. She remembered a wood near an ivied church;

and was once again a girl, hunting for primroses, bluebells and violets.

She remembered her white pinafore and her cleverness at weaving

daisy-chains. How clean in all ways was that maiden life! And now----

Paradise Court! Drink and the devil had taken their toll! God!

Poll found tears in her eyes when she woke to the present. She wiped

her face with grimy hands and left traces.

"Blimey, 'ere's old Poll drunk again!" said one of the knights of the

place, a hulking fellow who called himself a dock-labourer, but whose

idle hands were almost rooted to his pockets. "What yer starin' at,

Poll?"

Poll indicated the flower. He saw it and stretched forth a hand.

"There ain't much to blub about in that!"

"Leave it be, Mike!" she cried, fearing his destructiveness. "Leave it

be! It's a voilet!"

"A what? Let's 'ave a look! Who are ye shovin'? I want to look at

it." She resisted him. "I'll wipe yer eyes if ye don't!"

He pushed forward with all his strength, intending, in sheer debasing

mischief, to grab and crush the flower; but Poll struggled like a

cat-woman to prevent him. He lost temper and struck her in the face.

She, shrieking and shrill, tore his forehead with her nails, and tried

to bite him. Her hair came loose. There was blood on her cheek. The

animal emerged from Man.

The tumult of shuffling feet and foul speech brought others of the Court

to doorways and windows. Women, who knew nothing of the cause of the

combat, added their voices to Poll's in vigorous denunciation of Mike.

The men--brave fellows!--looked on and grinned. One slunk away from the

scene of the encounter; that was Skinner, Poll's natural protector and

supposed husband. He went into the public-house and ordered beer.

The battle ended when Mike had accomplished his purpose and grasped the

flower. He threw it on the pavement and ground it with his boot. Then

he went away leisurely to enjoy refreshment after victory. His thirst

had found an excuse. Poll's fury lapsed into noisy tears. She entered

her one room, threw a rusty flat-iron on the floor, and nagged at the

children.

Bim had watched this commotion from the parapet above. He sprawled on

the cement-work, peeped at the tangle of heads below, and felt

thoroughly frightened. Deeply did he regret that June was not there.

She would have fought on the side of Poll and the violet, and given them

victory. Had only her wand been left behind he could and would have

intervened effectively. But nothing could be done. When he saw

brutality win, he went moodily back to the fairies' garden, and pondered

on ugly things.

The blues drove him into a brown study. He decided the affair should

not end there. He uprooted a lingering primrose, and crept down with

it. He carefully grubbed the mould in the box to freshen its jadedness,

and planted the yellow flower--the fairies' oriflamme.

Back to the parapet he clambered to wait and watch.

Hours passed by. Nothing happened that day to reward his patience. The

people of Paradise Court are not observant. The primrose lived and

shone without appreciation until the morrow, when June magically drew

attention to it. Some children first caught sight of it and curiously

poked at it with sticks. It was a new wonder to them.

Poll saw the group about the box, and came to look. The wrath of

yesterday was requickened within her. The children in their wisdom

edged away from the virago, who carried the box to the sill outside her

window, dumped it down; and then, in a voice of challenge, screamed out:

"'Ere's a primrose come! If anybody touches this, by Gawd, I'll murder

'im!"

Mike, having won his battle yesterday, was quite good-tempered to-day.

He sauntered up to look at the flower and laughed.

"I won't touch it, Poll. You can 'ave yer measly primrose," and went

off for another drink.

Poll hesitated, then followed him: their feud was drowned in beer.

The primrose lived for a week, and held a sort of continuous reception.

Bim was as proud as a peacock about it. He got stiff-neck staring over

the parapet, straining to hear the compliments and praise. Everybody in

the Court paid it a daily visit and undue tributes. The children could

hardly be induced to keep their hands from it. Their fingers itched to

pluck; but Poll Skinner was a power to be feared. She kept sober in

order to be the better sentinel.

Mike suddenly shifted the interest of Paradise Court to his abode by

bringing home three flowerpots containing hyacinths--how he obtained

them had better not be asked. As at the same time the primrose happened

to fade, and its plant had no promise of buds, Poll felt chagrin. The

balance of her world was shifted. Mike held the hub of the hemisphere.

She drank herself silly with gin, and beat her children frightfully; but

the return of sober sanity brought new ideas. Poll rose to the

occasion. She sent her "old man" to a distant churchyard to steal some

good new mould; and then bought--actually bought--from the publican's

wife, a rose-plant warranted to flower.

Poll bore it home triumphantly, while Paradise Court smiled.

Mike's hyacinths--in comparison with Poll's aristocratic plant--had now

to take a second place, very far-behind, in the public interest. And it

was no good making reprisals. Neither his wits nor his wealth would

enable him to do better than Poll. Moreover, the fashion of flowers was

spreading. Three other residents in the colony had put up rough

window-boxes, with green things in them; and the children, keen to

follow their elders, found tins, jam-pots, pickle-jars, and planted

within them anything they could get; grass, if nothing of the flower

kind was available.

Bim felt a third of an inch taller; he trod with an airier tread, now

that his influence over Paradise Court had become so manifest. He

laboured with Salvationist ardour to help the people; supplementing and

moderating their energies, and encouraged the flowers to live. For

hours he would sit in blest invisibility by one or other of the plants,

enjoying the admiring remarks addressed to them, sharing the general

satisfaction.

Families came to talk of weedy green things as if they were spreading

chestnut-trees; while those members of the community who, having gone

"hopping," had actual experience of wild life and woodland facts were

regarded as travellers and oracles. Living up to their opportunities,

they told vegetable counterparts of certain fish stories. Bim's blessed

interference certainly caused some white stealth and a multitude of

tarradiddles.

Nor was the indirect influence of the gnome yet at an end.

'Arry Bailey was the instrument of the next progressive step. He had

some nasturtiums and was ambitious of getting them to climb in festoons

round his window. He used nails, string, language and glue. At last he

succeeded. For a time his nasturtiums were the rage. Their blazing

colours and rapid growth made them popular. But Bailey, in whom the

aesthetic sense must have been recovering after years of hibernation,

felt that something was lacking. He smoked three ounces of shag and

scratched his chin for hours on end before it dawned on him what it was.

Then he said "By gum"--that was all he said--and proceeded to surprise

the Court by cleaning his window. One of the panes was badly cracked,

the mark of some midnight fracas; so--more surprising still--he measured

the gap, bought glass and putty, and entertained a Sunday crowd of

chaffing, envious lookers-on by mending it himself, making a clumsy good

business of it.

Bailey's act of reformation occasioned criticism and imitation--action

is mostly imitation in Paradise Court. Before a further seven days had

dawned and darkened not a window on any floor in the Court but was

washed and polished. In cases where there was no money for mending, new

paper--preferably illustrated--was put in broken places, window-sills

and doorsteps were whitened.

The inhabitants began to feel proud, to give themselves airs, to wash

their necks.

Curtains of all shapes and colours appeared, rooms became tidied: homes

tolerable. Men stayed indoors to smoke their pipes and gossip, going

less frequently to the public-house. Not that the improvement was so

rapid as to seem violent. Paradise Court was, is, and will be till the

trump, a home of conservatism. Its motion is that of a glacier. Yet it

does move, and did. Though drunkenness and slovenliness, with

brutalities of words and of fighting, were still over-frequent, there

was real improvement, and a quiet growth of self-respect, which, after

the lapse of months, had borne remarkable fruit. Bravo, Bim!

The gnome extended his efforts further afield, and was constantly

dropping flowers before children in the alleys and other drearinesses of

London, in order that they might be picked up, taken home, appreciated,

loved, and wanted.

June, learning from him, was glad to follow his example. She scattered

love-bringing blooms and blossoms--gathered without permission from the

parks--wherever there were brown plain walls and ugliness. She wanted

the fairies to come back to their ancient rights and rule; but felt they

certainly would not stay where flowers were forgotten.

She longed--longed desperately--for the return of the elves to their

ancient dominion over the town.

One night a company from Elfland made grand appeal to her. It was a

full hour and more after midnight, and absolutely dark. No moon shone

on the scene, no stars shed brightness from the sky.

Bim was sprawling on the roof-gutter lost in dreams. His head rested on

a sparrow's deserted nest. June was in her bower, too weary for

visions, even too weary for sleep. She was tired at heart, thoroughly,

utterly tired! Her only comfort came from the flowers beaming about

her. She felt the loneliness of London. Fairy memories called and

called and called to her. She was weary of burdens. This pilgrimage in

the dark city was dreary, heavy, grievous and horrible. But still, she

must stay.

Her quick ears caught the rustling of many fairy wings in the distance;

only one with sympathies sensitive and truly attuned to the wafting

could have heard them so far away. She sat and saw elves on the wing.

They were haze-shrouded, high in the sky above. Would they penetrate

the murky canopy? Had they come in late answer to her appeals, to help

with the burden, to share in the task of re-creating beauty in the

wilderness?

She watched them wheeling in the upper air in distant luminousness,

curving, descending. She grasped her wand and followed their progress

intently, hoping all things, yearning to be with them again.

The flowers about June's bed, the flowers in the court below, lifted

glad heads in greeting. They freshened visibly. Bim in his slumbers

sighed, and comfortably turned as he slept.

The elves alighted on the roofs around. There were thousands of them.

Half the folk of the Violet Valley, of the Land of Wild Roses, of other

parts of Fairyland, must have been there. They were multitudinous,

innumerable, and clustered on rims of chimneys, on angles of houses, on

street-lamps and window-sills, making of dull commonplace a remarkable

series of pictures. All the while they were singing songs of sweet

appeal.

June donned her crown, while they hovered and settled, and stood to

greet them. Some sparrows, surprised by the unwonted spectacle, woke

and began chirping. It was beggarly music, monotonous the word for it:

but it served. London, alas! had nothing better and the sparrows did

their best. Fairy kindness overlooked the deficiencies.

Suddenly there was silence: elves and birds hushed.

"Welcome, sweet comrades from Fairyland!" said June. "I am glad you

have visited me amongst these shadows. Will you stay and help to

restore London to Oberon?"

"Nay, nay," answered a hundred voices, slender and silvern, from here

and from there.

"June, our June!" a sparkling knight then cried to her. "Your going has

brought gloom into the elf-countries. Oberon and Titania have been

grieved and absent since your flight; all others of us have felt the

changes. Come back to us! It is like living in a valley with the

sunshine and moonlight always gone; like living in a wood where the

flowers for want of blessings and dew are shrivelled. Change this for

us, June! Come back, come back!"

"Come back, come back!" echoed the wide chorus, plaintively, pleadingly.

Clocks struck two. A cold wind came from the sea.

"Sisters and knights from the delightful countries," June answered. "To

hear your voices is music to a heart which has hungered for melody. To

be with you again and for ever is the dream of these days and nights. O

Fairyland, Fairyland! But for me that cannot be, until this world-town

of vanity and darkness is a part of Fairyland too. Help us, and work

with us. Already Hope shines through the misery. Already we have been

rewarded--Bim and I. We have begun well. Laughter and flowers bloom

where a few weeks ago they could not. We are going to win. Men have

listened to our bidding. Elf-rule is leading them. Their puppet limbs

are bending to the light. They are beginning again in the darkest parts

to live with beauty and love the fairies. Bear with us: and help them.

Before next Mayday comes, I must deliver up this crown. Sweet knights

and sister elves, so work with us that Oberon may be ruling over London

again."

In answer a fairy song went rolling from the assembly, up and up,

piercing the cloud overhead, discovering the stars. June rejoiced at

the hearing, though still it was an appeal to her--a yearning appeal to

her--to be done with her madness, to submit to Oberon, to return. June

felt alone.

The new song wakened Bim. He sat up suddenly, ears pricked sharply with

eager attention. Fairies in London!

He clambered amazedly up the slanting roof and knelt by the side of

June. She laid hands on his shoulders. The two waited and watched.

In twos and threes, reluctantly, the fairies opened wings, and went

away. Over the houses they journeyed, a glittering, saddened

procession. Higher and higher, and farther and farther they flew. The

sound of their chorus gradually diminished till there was silence--the

silence of sleep-bound London--again.

Gone!

June gazed on her garden of flowers. The gnome crawled away sadly, and

squatted by the chimney-pot, dangling his feet. He felt a solid piece

of melancholy.

"That was a very nice dream," he said for comfort's sake; and found the

words not comforting.

"Let us be doing things," June counselled.

*CHAPTER XI*

*A PROSE INTERLUDE*

Oldstein came at last to Paradise Court, and two good things

resulted--Sally was taken out of her slave-life and sent to a

boarding-school at the expense of her former task-master, and June went

to tea with the Archdeacon.

Emmanuel had been for six weeks living up to his ideals. It was the

hardest of tasks to him, but obstinate doggedness pulled him through. He

had come actually to like doing good, and realized the subtle joys which

live in generosity. He developed a habit--learned indirectly from the

goodly practices of Dr. Johnson--of keeping chocolates and pennies in

his pocket, and dropping one or other of them surreptitiously into the

laps, pockets, or hands of children. June was proud to smiling-point of

this, her least-likely pupil. He was doing the fairies' work so

pleasantly.

And virtue brought other rewards--as it must do in a properly regulated

existence. Emmanuel gave and gave, and still had a golden reservoir of

wealth for capital use and enjoyment.

At last he felt justified in accepting the Archidiaconal invitation to

tea. He paved the way of welcome characteristically by sending an

express letter of reminder and explanation, and walked from Paradise

Court to where the blue tramcars were running. After riding here and

walking there, he arrived at the canonry.

June and Bim accompanied him; the fairy on the brim of his glossy hat,

the gnome in the bulging breast-pocket. Bim gazed with insatiable

curiosity at the passing phantasmagoria of human shadows. What a

strange grey comedy it was!

The London streets were still a troublesome ghost-world to Bim. He

could not overcome an unconquerable prejudice against shadows. They

were born of the darkness; he liked things to be moonlit at least.

They came to the Archdeacon's garden. Its delicious peacefulness was to

June the first thing in Cockneydom reminiscent of elvish glades.

Enchantment seemed brooding over it.

The ancient trees and young dusty flowers, with the twittering of

sparrows--only sparrows--about them, gave new significance to the hum of

the distant traffic. It made the medley music. The old-world atmosphere

of blessed repose brought solace to both of them. It gave June hope.

It made her for the first time thoroughly confident of fulfilling her

purpose.

Why should not a similar spirit of peace hold governance over every

garden and public park in London? Wherever it reigned there would be

sanctuaries for tired minds and strained nerves--havens of refuge from

uproar and vulgarity. If Oberon's rule returned, anything and

everything of the kind was possible; and something was begun.

Emmanuel pressed the button of the door-bell; and, having done so,

trembled. A funeral-faced footman appeared and ushered him in.

The charm of the garden reigned also within the house. A silver-tongued

clock sang five. It reminded June of Titania's voice when, once, the

fairy-queen had surprised a blue-bell valley with a passing song.

June entered with Oldstein. Bim remained in the garden, playing

puss-in-the-corner with some sparrows, to their fearful delight.

Evidently the footman did not approve his master's guest. There was an

unnecessary air of imitation-lordliness in his demeanour, as he marched

before Emmanuel. His body seemed mere idiotic backbone. His face wore

an expression of patronage. June, indignant at his sublime

churlishness, tossed a handful of magic over him, and watched the

conceit shrivel. The pillar of salt turned to man. He was never a mere

flunkey thereafter, and in course of time became a Sunday-school

teacher.

"Delighted, delighted!" said the Archdeacon, pressing Mr. Oldstein's

hand. Had it not been for the fairies the welcome would assuredly have

been less cordial; but since the evening of Mayday there had been

changes. The ecclesiastic was living up to his creed. He greeted

Oldstein warmly, and wondered why he had come.

Emmanuel was awed and enchanted. Never had he dreamed that life could

be so clean and precious as here he found it. He felt, poor man in the

egoism of humble ignorance, a vulgar intruder; and for the first time in

his span of existence, realized that his hands were large and his

manners out of polish. Somehow the rings he wore made his fingers

uglier.

Tea was brought in on a silver tray. The food was daintily

insufficient. The Archdeacon sipped at a cup and talked long words.

Oldstein said "Yeth," mumbled at his slices of butter spread with bread,

and heard nothing. He mentally kicked himself for having blundered into

that Anglo-celestial place. So it went on for a time.

The Archdeacon was bored.

The fairy seeing things awry, hastened to put them right. She hovered

before the Archdeacon's head--her moving wings made music which only

fairies could hear--and touched his lips with her wand. She recognized

that he was the man to lead the talking. He became at once more

sociable.

"Do you golf?" he asked.

"No, but I've thold golf-balls."

"Ah, you should play. You should join my new Association which pledges

every member to use one club only--preferably the mashie--on a round."

Golf remained the subject while the tea lasted. The Archdeacon kept the

talk going.

"So our movement of fairy reform goes ahead admirably," Dr. Pryde

exclaimed, coming to the real subject at last, as he rose, stretched,

and posed by the mantelpiece. "We are comrades under Oberon's

banner--comrades in a growing and victorious army."

He admired his rolling periods, and took his box of lozenges from a

drawer.

"Yeth," said the other, who still felt that his feet were all boots.

"I had a letter from the Lord Mayor this morning. Sir Titus--a

wonderful man, wonderful man, truly one of us!--is instituting a new

league--Titania's Bodyguard it is called, consisting of all sorts and

conditions of old men and maidens, young men and children; to remove the

blemishes which uglify--'uglify' is Alice's word, not mine--which uglify

London."

He ceased his pompous talk to look pomposity. He caught his reflection

in a mirror, and improved his deportment.

"Yeth," again Emmanuel faltered. He wanted to express views, but in

that present state of shyness and nervousness his mind seemed mere whirl

and pudding.

"Talking of Alice, we could do with a little more topsyturvydom in real

life, could not we?" June smiled. Here was proof that she had him. "I

wish Harlequin with his wand would transform some of our business men

and Bumbles and give them better sympathies and wits."

"'Ear, 'ear!"

"What is generally wanted--almost before anything else--is the power to

get out of the ruck of the commonplace, to look at facts from a new

point of view. How blind we are to the obvious! It is possible every

day to pass by and not notice a view which, if it were in another

country, we should travel for days in discomfort to see. And why?--I ask

you why?" He gazed at the ceiling, and waved a graceful hand.

"Goodneth knowth!"

The Archdeacon puckered his brows, and looked down at his interrupter

with an expression of gentle remonstrance.

"The question was rhetorical, Mr. Oldstein," he said, in mild rebuke.

"I repeat, Why? Because we are so used to it. A Londoner will see more

beauty in a wood in May or June than the man who lives at its edge; but

bring the yokel to London, and he will open his mouth with awe at

buildings of beauty and history upon which the Cockney will strike the

cheaper kind of matches. Familiarity breeds blindness."

"Yeth."

"It does indeed! The first thing is to teach the uses of the eyes; the

next the joys of imagination. Those are indirectly the purposes for

which the Lord Mayor's new movement--Titania's Bodyguard--is instituted.

What a work we of the Bodyguard--I am its chaplain--what a work we have

to do! To get representatives on the Borough Councils pledged to fulfil

the gospel of sweetness and light; to insure that no houses designed and

built in the future shall be hideous, or contradictions in style to each

other--the brown Victorian age of architecture is past; to insist that

exteriors be clean, and, where possible, brightly painted; and

advertisements artistic; to take measures to abolish smoke and dust and

flies; to distribute bulbs and flowering-plants, and give prizes for the

best-loved gardens and windows; to encourage the growth of creepers

about buildings; to plant trees, and establish fountains in the

streets."

"Dear, dear! it'll cost a lot!" thought Emmanuel.

"There is much to be done even at the beginning. Then the next stage.

To remove monstrosities in houses, courts, and slums; and generally to

undo Mr. Jerry Builder. What a work! All but a few of the statues

which frown on our squares and gardens must be chipped into little bits

for road-mending. Throughout London, throughout England, there are

statues not worth their weight in mud. They are mere blackened

bathos--futile memorials to the generally forgotten: tasteless,

obstructive, stupid. Down with the bronze gentlemen in mutton-chop

whiskers and Roman togas who pose like sorry Pecksniffs."

"'Ear, 'ear!" said Mr. Oldstein, who was beginning, at last, to feel at

home, though who Pecksniff was, bless you! for his life he didn't know.

June had indeed used her wand with effect. Host in his eloquence, and

guest in his appreciation, beamed on each other, mutually pleased. The

Archdeacon was delighted with his flow of words. The fact that his new

elf-induced ideas were fresh to him increased the interest and

respectful admiration with which he always heard his own utterances. He

actually forgot the lozenges in his excitement; and noted the admiration

shining in Oldstein's eyes. He felt a reformer, a builder of progress,

a force and a light on the side of the angels. He was pleased with

himself.

The fairy was satisfied with her work. She fluttered, singing the

while, through the open window, to quicken the slumbering joys of the

garden. She lingered among the flowers, giving them refreshment and

radiance; and hovered about the branches of the trees, studying their

conditions, admiring their long patience.

She called Bim to her, gave him her wand, sent him out to the world

wandering. The sparrows chirped good-night, and went their ways to rest

before another day of struggle, squabble and feasting.

Meanwhile, the Archdeacon continued happily in full swing.

"All forms of stone memorial are futile," he declared, pushing back his

hair. "The day must come when they are mere lumber, commemorating

foolishness. The builders of the pyramids are now but names. The

Pharaohs hoped, by constructing those colossal tombs, to buy themselves

eternal glory; but we, remembering the cruelties--the blood and the

suffering--which went to their building, think of them only as colossal

mementoes of shame."

The Archdeacon frowned, shook his head, and felt the artistic call for a

significant pause.

Oldstein was fired by the reference to the first oppressors of his

People. He forgot his awkward shyness, and broke out with vigorous

expressions of approbation and agreement. He was not rebuked now.

Applause is tolerable even to the elect. The Archdeacon graciously

beamed.

It was then that June returned to the room, and realizing that the

privilege of speech had so far been made a monopoly, threw a spell at

Emmanuel.

Her will was a law obeyed.

The Archdeacon found himself not merely mum, but verbally besieged. He

tried to make sorties, to resume the thread of his argument; but until

June's spell was worn away, Oldstein's eloquence proved irresistible.

His host could only fumble about his desk and pockets searching for the

lozenge-box which was on the mantelpiece behind him, and occasionally

agree with "Yes."

"That wath a great evenin' at the Mansion 'Outh," he declared. "I shall

never forget it; and, Mithter Archdeacon, nothing throughout the

proceedings imprethed me like your appeal for charity among workerth for

the cauth of right. I thaid to mythelf, 'That'th a man'--I thaid--'and

thith ith a lethon! If that dignitary of the Church ith brave enough to

thay thith, there's 'ope.' I altho thaid to mythelf, 'It ithn't many

parsons with the pluck to make such an appeal to people who would most

thertainly take 'em at their word.' But you did it, Mithter Pryde! you

did it! At my synagogue at all events your words 'ave been acthepted."

"Yes?" This tribute to his influence was delightful, flattering. It

compensated for the interruption of speech.

"Yeth! Our pastor went out of 'is way to order some coals from the

local churchwarden last week, and expressed the 'ope that before long

some prayer said in churches against Turks, Jews and Infidels might be

left unthaid!"

"Ah!"

The Archdeacon sat in his chair, and hid his face in his hands,

thinking.

"Make your appeal again, Mithter Pryde; and again and again. It ith, I

assure you, very poor fun being the under dog, as we Jews 'ave been for

ages! Even nowadays it ith only necessary to be a Jew to know what it

ith to be despithed. Not that thome of uth mayn't detherve to be

despithed. We 'ave black sheep among us, as you 'ave, and it'th easy to

be 'orrid when you're 'ated. I've been 'ated and struck"--there was

fire in Oldstein's glance--"and I've 'it back, and taken good care to

'urt. Well, I'm sorry for many things. I wath a 'ard master. I worked

'ard mythelf, and worked others to the uttermost. I took all the

shekels that were due to me, and would have taken more if I could 'ave

got 'em--yeth, I would. People theemed to expect me to plunder 'em; I

did my best not to dithappoint 'em. And why was I so 'ard? Why did I

'ate all Gentiles? Why was my 'eart full of bitter malice to all exthept

my own people?"

"Ah, who knows? who knows?" the Archdeacon said to the ceiling.

Oldstein, carried away by the passion of his own words, glared at the

questioner.

"The quethtions were rhetorical, Mithter Pryde," he answered softly.

"Why? Becauthe I was fighting the old old battle which my fatherth and

their fatherth 'ad to fight since sin made my people subject." He

raised his voice. It was as the voice of a prophet. The Archdeacon,

listening, wondered, and forgot to notice the slurred words and broken

pronunciation which proclaimed this Jew a stranger within the gates.

"Yearth ago--in the dayth of the Pharaoh you mentioned--the Curse was

fastened upon uth; even now the yoke ith not removed; we are tortured

with its barbs and burdened with its misery. We are, even now, regarded

by many as rogues and thieves and money-tyrants, but with all our faults

as a race we do not detherve it. It ith ath a race we are judged, and

ath individualth of a race we are punished. We are regarded as unwashed

foreigners, as unclean beasts. The whole tone of religion is in this

rethpect againtht its true thelf. In teaching love for all men, it

alwayth forgeth the foreign Jew. Mithter Pryde, will you preach and

teach and act so that we--the poorest and the 'umblest and the worst of

us--may get the tolerance and fair play which is every man's right?"

Oldstein had exhausted the spell. He had said his say, had spoken for

his people, with warmth and earnestness. His burst of eloquence was

done. He was again one of the rank and file of Judaism, conscious of

his pride of race, conscious at the same time of an incomprehensible

sense of inferiority to this large, clean, pompous, well-intentioned

Englishman. Why was it so? Was it because, for years upon years, he

and his forebears, though inheriting the responsibilities of agelong

aristocracy, had forgotten their inheritance, and been content to cringe

before the powerful and wealthy, pleased to pander to their vanity and

vices, for the sake of the shekels of trade?

There was silence--almost noisy with thought--for more than a minute.

June with her wand had stirred deep pools. The insoluble problems of

Israel were for awhile alive again. Another stage in the long-drawn

opposition of Gentile and Jew was manifested. Can that antagonism ever

be ended? Is such a fact to be numbered among human possibilities?

Questions, questions!

The Archdeacon, touched by Oldstein's earnestness, lost his pomposity,

and forgot his poses. He leaned forward; put a hand on his guest's

shoulder.

"I wish we could all of us get hold of the larger charity," he said

earnestly. "When I spoke at the Lord Mayor's table, I confess to you I

did not quite know all that there was in my words. I gave rein to ideas

I had never allowed to have expression, even in my thoughts, before.

The fairies--we put it all down to them, don't we?--the fairies must

have made me speak as I did. That was a strange night. Reform was in

the wine-cups. We built Quixotic dreams, and pledged ourselves to abide

by them. Well, I won't repine. I am heartily glad I spoke as I did.

You remind me of the obligations which fall upon every responsible

religious man. I will try harder to live up to the ideals. Never again

will I, by thought or implication, judge or condemn the honest opinions

of others; but will believe that all in some measure or degree are

pushing forward God's progress. Our differences, at their greatest, are

trivial; in much of our work we should unite."

They shook hands, confirming the pledge.

The clock sang six-thirty.

"How the time has flown!" cried the Archdeacon, glad to be out of a

scene. "Will you excuse me? I must hurry and dress. I dine at eight

with the Duchess of Armingham. I was going to say such a great deal to

you about cemeteries. But another time! So glad to have seen you.

Good-bye!"

Oldstein went. Good-bye to him also, so far as this historical work is

concerned!

June decided to accompany her ecclesiastic to the Duchess's table. She

had seen the under side, now for the over side of human life. Sing Hey!

for the _haut ton!_ as a suburban poet would put it.

She sailed upstairs to the dressing-room and helped. Never before had

razor shaved so smoothly, or valet been so perfect a machine.

When the Archdeacon drove westward, he was in the happiest condition of

mind. He had become the compleat optimist. Everything was for the best

in this best of all possible worlds.

The dear fairies!

*CHAPTER XII*

*A NIGHT OUT*

Gnomes are notoriously irresponsible; but town-life and a high purpose

had brought changes to Bim. He crawled under the dark green gate which

bounded the carriage-drive, and strode into the world with something of

that air of responsibility which hedges the dignity of a newly-elected

alderman.

Bim had no illusions as to his present capacity. June's wand made him a

power, and he knew it. He was able to control mortals; and confidently

promised himself happenings.

He wandered through streets and passages, indifferent and ignorant as to

where they should lead him, indeterminate as to what he should do. He

saw a hansom crawling. This would help as well as anything. Imitating

June's action on the night of the banquet, he waved the wand, and by

elfin will-power compelled the cabman to rein in his drowsy steed.

Bim clambered up the horse's off hind-leg, and ran along the dragging

reins to the roof. As soon as he was comfortably installed there, the

driver, who took things quite as a matter of course, gave the necessary

click with his tongue, and started the many-times great-grandson of

Bucephalus and Rozinante.

Bim "did" some main streets. He controlled the man, and induced him to

drive along the more ambitious ways and where there were shining shops.

He watched the coming and going of people, and made up his mind what to

do.

He was touched to see the streams of poor women and children shopping

and errand-running. His sympathy exaggerated their seeming fatigue.

They looked to him so weary that he commanded the cabman to invite some

of them to accept lifts along the way.

"Tired, mother?" the driver--good soul!--would say to an old lady,

toiling along with her evening burden of parcels. "In yer git!" Or to

a child, "Jump in, ducky! I'd like to give _you_ a ride. Where do you

want to go?"

So it went on for an hour. Cabby felt like Christmas.

Then the unrewarded horse began to move wearily, and show other signs of

having done enough. Bim removed the spell, clambered from his seat on

the roof down the back-way of the cab, and left the driver fastening the

horse's nose-bag to its business-place.

"The time of my life," said Jehu enthusiastically to a surly colleague.

"I've had a most enjoyable time. Now you 'ave a shot, old chap," and

explained in detail his actions and happiness.

"Eh?" grunted the other, contempt, incredulity, and refusal expressed in

the interjection.

That was enough for Bim. He smote the churl sharply on the boot.

Conversion followed immediately.

"Well, suppose I do," he said, as he wiped imaginary froth from his

lips. "I 'aven't done so badly to-day. I will for an hour--blowed if I

won't!--then I'll pass the job on."

Bim found himself on the Embankment near Cleopatra's Needle. He took

careful hold of the wand, and clambered to the head of the sphinx which

gazes eastward. Seated there, he tried to think out a programme of

activities, and watched the grey river journeying on slowly, silently;

different, so different, from the flood of traffic, the lighted

tramcars, hooting automobiles, dashing carriages, with their freights of

mortals, which rushed noisily by. Oh, the restlessness of man! The

gnome was impressed with the wisdom of the water. It bore seaward,

silently, the thoughts of the sphinx, which with wide-opened eyes

watched London.

It was then that June saw him. She was driving westward in the

Archdeacon's brougham, and shone, a little being of light, gladdening

the gloom of the carriage. Bim waved the wand triumphantly to her. She

threw him smiles. Happy gnome! His earnestness took fire immediately.

Then altruism merged with mischief. He threw his plans and programme to

the eight winds. He would paint the town a fairy red. Why not run amok?

He jumped from the sphinx, plump on to the peaked cap of a passing

police inspector, and flooded the official with magic. A sergeant came

up and saluted.

"Good-evening, Baines," said the inspector. "Tell the men to be extra

kind to all poor chaps to-night. Tell 'em to have blind eyes for the

homeless and hungry. The fairies would wish it. Tell 'em to pass this

order on; we must please the fairies."

The sergeant stared. This was unprecedented. What was authority coming

to?

"Right, sir," he answered, and saluted again. "I'll see to it," and did

so.

The inspector marched on to Scotland Yard, more than usually pleased

with himself.

Bim happened then to notice a strange creature sprawling at the end of a

seat. Curiosity compelled him to spring. He alighted on a lap.

Everyone in Fairyland is naturally partial to poetry and in love with

love. One of the purposes of the elves is to help the affected and

idealize the sentiments of lovers, making them worthy of their

privileges. They fulfil this purpose faithfully. When the courses of

Cupid run smoothly the elves have been helpful. Unhappy love-affairs are

invariably those unblessed by Oberon's people. They keep sharp eyes

ready for the hindering of the plans of worldly-wise parents.

Bim studied a strange-looking beast. It seemed to consist of a large,

much-ribboned hat, several arms, and a sprawl. Lovers! The nose of Her

was in His neck. There was an occasional move and tremor, followed by a

sounding kiss, one of the kisses that hit. Passers-by were many, but

Love cared not a jot for anything--but Love! The curious and

contemptuous had a hundred opportunities for cynical judgment; which

they used, only to be entirely ignored.

Throughout the parks and places of London, similar exhibitions of vulgar

bathos, flopping and unashamed, were to be witnessed; every pair of some

hundred thousand lovers being splendidly indifferent to all else but

their own sufficient selves.

Meanwhile, the gnome sat on the lap, and wondered, awed and troubled:

listening eagerly, waiting impatiently, for honeyed words of love.

Silence brooded. Big Ben struck.

"Eight o'clock!" said Strephon to Phyllis, and kissed her.

The silence brooded again.

Bim fled in dismay to the next seat, where another love-bitten couple

happened to be sprawling. He witnessed a similar feast of brazen bathos.

Stupid silence still gloomed over the rapture. He waited.

The great clock chimed again.

"Quarter-past," said she, and a kiss flew skywards.

From seat to seat Bim went; every move was marked by the chimes of the

Parliamentary clock. "Half-past." "Quarter-to." "Nine."

Such was love's dialogue. O time! O manners! Where are our raptures,

our sonnets and rhapsodies?

Bim became furious. He ran at full speed along the Embankment,

viciously poking with his wand every love-lorn pair: and on, through

Story's Gate into St. James's Park. As he went he passed scores of

strolling lovers. He put his spell on every pair of them.

Through the Green Park he hurried, and across Piccadilly into Hyde Park.

Wherever he went he carried magic, and produced its consequences. Love's

multitudinous tongues were no longer tied. Thoughts hitherto dumb found

glowing speech.

The gnome had run amok with a vengeance.

"Darling, darling, darling, darling!" said one young man in an ecstasy

increasing with every syllable.

"Darling, darling, darling!" came the feminine answer, in tones that

thrilled.

Then another sweet voice was gently borne upon the westering wind.

"I know where there's the teeniest duck of a saucepan set which will

just suit our wee little homey."

The stars twinkled.

"Does-um!" was the masculine answer.

Still the stars twinkled.

"Ted," said Emma, "do you love me, love me?" She had been to a series

of popular melodramas, and saw herself languid and rapturous. She asked

questions emotionally, with the emphasis that comes with repetition.

"That I do just, old gell!" came the reply.

"And will you, my heart, always love me, love me?"

"S'welp me! old gell, I will!"

"Then another, Ted." There was a noise as of machine guns barking at a

blue distance. Emma seemed satisfied.

Bim was pleased. He had not been looking for words in purple, and so

was unable to feel disappointed. But as he worked from chair to chair

he could not help accumulating the wish that more of the minor poet had

been born in the common people. The prose that came was better than a

mere bald narrative of time; but, surely, was not worthy of Aphrodite's

doves.

Gradually the better came. It was the work of unconscious imitation.

Examples were being quickly followed in many directions. Several

cabmen, having earned their day's requirements and a little over, were

now using their cabs and still unwearied horses to convey for short

distances fares too poor to pay for a ride. Motor-cabs and private cars

actually buzzed with philanthropy. Policemen, carrying out and carrying

on the inspector's orders, were urgently helping down-at-heel gentlefolk

to be as comfortable as out-of-door conditions permitted.

So, too, lovers on that blessed evening, influenced by Bim, began to be

worthy of Juliet, and their fellows of the Heaven-kissed company to whom

passion has become sanctified, and the possession of love is a joy

crowned, a power enthroned, making of its votaries queens and

princes---- Ah me, and so on! The series of lovers multitudinous

gradually became ashamed of their ungracefulness. They walked now, or

sat with some better sense of picturesque propriety. Sprawling and

hugging were postponed for the armchairs at home. The parks became

tolerable to the married.

Here and there a joyful swain reclined at his lady's feet. The methods

of musical comedy were fittingly applied to the prose of life. Ernie

Jenkins was one of these recumbent swains. It was his weekly evening

with Emily, who sat on a chair under a chestnut-tree steadily absorbing

acid-drops. His red hair was stubbly, but he brushed his brow as if it

were thick with love-locks.

"Emily! Emily!" he murmured repeatedly. Never had his feeling for her

been so romantic as it now seemed. His narrow chest expanded with

rapture and contracted with sighs. He knew himself fortunate. Bim had

nearly prevailed on him to make the plunge. Though unable to go that

length, Ernie mentally vowed to reduce his weekly allowance of bitter

beer, the better to provide a nest-egg for furniture--which sounds like

a mixed metaphor, but isn't; and if it were, can be put down to the

fairies, who may do anything grammatical they please, even to the extent

of splitting infinitives, which mortal authors may never do.

Hyde Park grew more and more delightful to Bim during that evening of

bliss. He flitted about as if wings were on his feet, and with June's

wand helped flowers, birds, grasses and winds to become more fairylike.

Those blessed existences behaved as if they realized and enjoyed the

change; and, to their credit be it said, no leafy, green space in

crowded London had so much in accord with Falkland as the flowers,

birds, grasses, winds, in Hyde Park then. Nature is, after all, a jolly

good poet.

A new moon made its appearance. It peeped from a cradle of clouds.

Venus and Jupiter gleamed underneath it. Other stars in their places

shone. That was the first night to gladden London since the Mayday of

June's madness; and as for the long, long time before that--oh dear! oh

dear!

June, peering through a ducal window, realized the improvement, and was

delighted with Bim. She knew it was largely his doing--his and the

wand's. Her sympathy grew radiant towards him. He was a good gnome,

and when they had returned, victorious and forgiven, to the Land of Wild

Roses--as she had no doubt they would do eventually--he should be

rewarded. Perhaps she would kiss him.

Slowly, but all too speedily, the time went by. The band which for three

comfortable hours had been stirring the hearts of hundreds, played the

Good-night National Anthem, and put out its lights. Two by two the

lovers turned homewards, each couple happily emotional, joying in the

enthralment, delightfully subdued. There were more marriages determined

upon, more attachments confirmed and made love-affairs during that

evening, than ever before--with the possible exception of the last of

the supralapsarian days.

The author of this splendid improvement sat, smiling and tired, on a

discarded cigarette-box. He joyed in the wide silence and the dewy

grass.

The park became more and more still. On every side of it there was the

eternal hum of the traffic. Solitary wayfarers passed silently along

the walks and faded into the darkness. Now and then the shadow of

laughter was heard, occasional cab-calls, one distant bugle sounding the

last post, a man's voice giving a hail. Slowly even such sounds as

these were lost in the all-engulfing silence; the night was very still.

There was room for fairies here, thought Bim, but no fairies were there.

There ought to be rings of them, lightly laughing and dancing; making

merriment for the stars. Hyde Park in its loneliness longed for them.

They, only, were needed to make it the perfect garden.

The places of the elves had been taken by creatures of a very different

clay. An hour or so ago, and the park was thronged with youth, hopeful,

happy, confident. The difference now!

In all directions there slept or grumbled on the grass the human waste

of our social system; the aged, the ugly, the hopeless, the infirm and

unfit; the thriftless, workless, worthless--worn remnants of all manner

of miserable humanity. Poor wretches whose days had long been damned!

Their backs are weak with burdens. They have not even a hope in their

pockets. They have sinned and suffered; have learned the many lessons

of bitterness, and been crushed. They have hungered and had to continue

hungry; have been wet, cold, and, in their shivering, had no better

shelter than some broken penthouse or windy archway; their only

friendships have been with members of their own dismal fraternity.

Fortunate was Lear! They have touched desire with crime and been

compelled to pay the law's and the world's penalties. There is short

shrift for such as these, the drift of the cities. Born are they to

suffer, to endure; to know only shame; to die.

The gnome resumed his wanderings, and gazed wonderingly at the many

sleeping faces. It was the most amazing of all the sights he had seen.

The marks of meanness and want were stamped on them. Yes, June was

right in her madness. The fairies ought to have prevented this. Tragedy

is permissible when it is romantic, but such tragedy of squalor as was

lighted by the starshine then was ugly, evil, the first and last of the

shames. The gnome came across Lazy Tim, who stretched on an open

newspaper, fast asleep, snoring with his mouth wide open.

Tim was a ne'er-do-well. He had not one scruple, hope, ambition, or

blessing. His father and mother had been ne'er-do-wells also. Beyond

them he had no history. He had never been inside a school, or known

what discipline--other than that of the gaol and casual ward--meant. He

had never formed a taste for work, but, thanks to sharpened half-wits,

had here and there earned many crooked pence. He had been taken on as a

farm-hand and a factory-hand times out of counting; but the monotony of

the one employment and the prison-like character of the other had always

driven him into the free-lance world again. Tim was unmoral and

incorrigible. He had known no guidance whatever in his ways. He had an

idea that it was wise to dodge any man in uniform, and that was about

all.

Experience had, however, taught him many of the tricks of cheap cunning.

He could, when in the humour, pitch a yarn about his non-existent wife

and children and the bronchitis, which would make a stone moist with

sympathy. He had even on one extraordinary occasion obtained sixpence

from a local secretary of the Charity Organization Society, and

frequently had charmed the generosity of not a few religious ladies with

his sighs and aspirations. He would have taken any religion you liked

for a course of square meals. Once there was, possibly, good material in

Tim; but it had run to seed and been lost. He had not enjoyed one fair

chance. He had come into the world inopportunely. The fates were

sleeping when he was born. Ever since infancy he had starved, stolen,

sinned--if such as he can "sin"--been punished and neglected; and so was

wrecked.

Bim, studying the sleeping face, was stirred with fairy's pity. He knew

nothing of Tim's past experience, of the opportunities grudged, denied,

and lost; but could see the man was inherently unhappy. That was

enough. Poor wretch! Something must be done for him at once. He

wished June had been there to prescribe the remedy. But there was no

use in fruitless wishing. Such is not Elfland's way.

He marched up Tim's body, and felt the wasted form under his feet.

Bones and hunger, that was the story; bones and hunger and rags. He

stood by the tangled beard, and with the end of the wand gently stroked

the lined and scraggy face. Tired, ugly face! It looked so weak, ay,

and so brutal in the night's dark light. Scars were cut into the cheeks

and forehead; the nose was debased, and bore the marks of drink and

fighting. The hair, in a grey and filthy tangle, streamed from under a

broken hat. Here was a man in the prime of life, finally ruined.

Tim would wake presently. What was the use of his waking? Better

always to sleep and dream than to live again for the day's despair and a

life's long misery.

Bim laid the point of the wand on the sleeping man's forehead, and

thought of these things.

Suddenly Tim awoke, stretched, rose, shook himself, burst out into

laughing. He took off his hat and looked carefully at it. "A kingly

crown!" cried he. He stroked his rags, and was joyful. "Ermine and

purple." His hunger was forgotten; his thirst--his only ever-faithful

companion--no longer made pleadings. "Feasts in plenty!" he exclaimed,

lifting arms delightedly to the stars. "What a palace I have! What a

kingdom! Oh, my royal heritage! It is good to be alive--to be king,

king, king!"

Tim had found happiness. Never again could he know the evils of bitter

reality. Henceforward he was blessed with the illusions. He was

"touched." Bim and the wand had wrought the marvel.

Blessed are the poor whom the fairies have touched. Hats off to them,

gentlemen! They are far beyond life's miseries. They are kings in

their own right--happy kings. We who have the blue and yellow worries,

even though we can jingle coins in our pockets, are far less happy than

they.

Bim climbed a chestnut-tree, and found slumber in a throstle's nest.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*IN SOCIETY*

As the Archdeacon's carriage rolled westward, June watched the people in

the crowded streets, and made some estimate of the task in front of her.

Already she and her squire had done much. They had speeded the efforts

of the good folk always at work. They had guided the benevolent and

beneficent along the wise ways. They had done much--very much, but it

was as nothing in comparison with the need. North, south, east and

west, she had flown in her peregrinations, only to find much the same

problems, similar squalor, selfishness, ugliness and want--unhappy

legacies of past carelessness and misdoings--prevalent in all parts.

Slums and indifference abounded wherever she flew. It was the

indifference which particularly troubled her. She rested her head on

the Archdeacon's watch-pocket and wept.

The prospect before herself and Bim seemed appalling. Only the gnome

and she--two, when what really was wanted was an organized army from

Elfland of gentle spirits with magic besoms and enchanted swords.

But it was no use sighing for the unavailable. She must go on as well as

she could, making the most of her own powers, intentions and Bim.

Armingham House stands in a dull respectable square. Two stone armorial

beasts keep guard of its ugly gateway. They are legendary monsters, not

wyverns, or griffins, or unicorns, or mock-turtle, but something of a

combination of all of these. On the arch of the gate is a broken motto,

which means something heroic in very bad French. It originated from a

martial medieval incident; nobody remembers what. One of the advantages

of long descent is a convenient haziness as to certain events and

beginnings.

The Duke of Armingham possessed every one of the characteristics of

extreme aristocracy. His blue blood, high nose, arched eyebrows and

slender hands could only be improved on by an idealistic

portrait-painter. They were the sure marks of class and culture. He

had the gentle voice, deliberate manner, and a habit of waving his

pince-nez when he was speaking, which mark authority. Throughout his

life, whenever he had spoken, others had to be silent; it was therefore

unnecessary for his voice to be raised, or his tones to become strident.

His fashions were those of the early seventies. Until that period he had

out-dandified the dandies and been glorious in the forefront of his

time. Then his style stayed still. Any more recent order of dress than

that which Louis Napoleon affected was out of date, he declared. He

was, in these later days, a dear old thing, kind and as perfectly happy

as a duke can be. He bore the disadvantages of his wealth and position

with wonderful lightheartedness, and was able by taking thought to avoid

being envious of his inferiors. He feared nothing except lightning, mud

in Piccadilly, and his Duchess on a Court day.

His wife was even more assuredly an exalted being. Rumour said that in

her young days she had been a nursery governess; but those who ought to

be authoritative on the subject declared that rumour lied. Anyhow, the

gilt and scarlet books which tell the tales of the titled, gave her a

colonel for father, so that her blood was likely to be something blue.

In her gowns and graces she certainly looked every inch a Duchess, and

there were many inches.

Her influence in the world was worthy of her station. She had eyes

which commanded, and could make presumption feel like a doormat on a

rainy day. She never forgot her coronet and was not genial; indeed, she

looked on mankind through diminishing lorgnettes, and saw it small. She

was one of the two hundred and twenty-three ladies, all the world over,

who know they are Supermen.

When June and the Archdeacon arrived at Armingham House, the fairy had

not quite recovered from the dumps. She had for a little while lost

confidence in herself, and felt no longer militant. She clung to the

Archdeacon, and was borne by him up the white and blue stairway between

footmen with heads of silver. The scene where the guests were welcomed

was magnificent. The servants in their yellow livery, the ladies with

their jewels, the sparkle, the laughter, and the flowers, made splendid

circumstance.

The picture, beautiful though it might be to mortal eyes, could not win

June from her state of weary self-consciousness. She listened to the

talk, and watched the movement listlessly. It was all the matter of

dream. In comparison with the wealth and royalty of Fairyland, it was

mere shadow, noise, nonsense and tinsel!

She was certainly feeling unappreciative and depressed.

The Archdeacon passed through the business of greetings, and fell into

talk with Lord Geoffrey Season, the Duke of Armingham's third and

youngest son.

Lord Geoffrey was a golden youth of twenty-seven. Since his sixth

birthday he had been destined for Parliament. There was a county

constituency waiting for him to accept its suffrages at the next General

Election; while family influence and the way he wore his clothes made it

certain he would be entrusted with office early. Up to the present he

had done little more than always the proper thing. He had the

statesman-like quality of never being original, could express the

obvious with an air of profundity, and gave promise of not making any

mistakes, which, after all, is somewhat less than the heaven-sent

destiny. He was moreover--at present--something of a prig.

June awakened from her lethargy to take an interest in him. She liked

his wavy hair and china blue eyes, but still her energy was sleeping.

She would keep her eyes on Geoffrey. She saw in him possibilities.

Watching the guests, idly studying their brightness of mind, and evident

bodily content, noting the luxury of the surroundings, she, perforce,

must come to the building of comparisons and contrasts. Different this

from the squalid misery she had witnessed and endured since her entry

into London! It was not Paradise Court alone which formed the great

contrast, but slums innumerable in all parts of the Metropolis; and,

linked with them, those dun habitations of struggling respectability,

the hundred thousand ugly houses in dull inglorious streets, occupied by

drudges, who, day after day, through the years, toil in shops and

offices, selling their God-given lives for a little dross, a little

patronage, and some spells of conventional happiness.

(This is the Fairies' judgment.)

After those years of little-profitable labour--away from Nature, away

from the large reality--and after the faithful practising of ritual,

according to the gospel of Mrs. Grundy, the poor things become brothers

and sisters to the vegetables and die. So drift their lives away!

And here--at the very other extreme--was this great ducal casket of

luxury and laughter, giving welcome to a limited select circle of people

who need, if so they willed, do nothing but be happy and enjoy

themselves. Heigho! paradoxes a hundredfold abide in the shadows by

every street corner.

June remembered the phantoms of Paradise Court, and, in a different

manner from the Pharaoh whom Moses chided, hardened her heart. Oberon,

or no Oberon, the fairies should come back to London town! For the sake

of the so-called rich, as well as for the sake of the very poor, they

must re-create Elfdom within the seven square miles, and carry their

blessed influence through Suburbia. If this could not be before she

must yield up the crown, then it must be after. In any case, it must

be. That was certain, flat, absolute. London should be reclaimed.

The Archdeacon's table-partner was Mrs. Billie Thyme, a small pink,

flaxen lady, whose over-rich elderly husband financed her fads, and in

consequence gave her ample opportunity to shine in the personal

paragraphs of evening newspapers. Mrs. Billie was not the least bit

_blasee_, although even she was sighing for new excitements to conquer.

She was always in an infinite vein of flutter and chatter. Most exalted

personages were glad to talk nonsense with her; at bazaars and

garden-parties her skirt-dancing drew the crowd. She was a prime

favourite of the Duchess, and kept the dinner-circle well entertained

with tinkling talk.

It was she who began on the fairies. They were seldom left out of the

conversation of these times. June was still dreamily inert, throned on

a large silver salt-cellar, watching and indifferently wondering, not

yet vividly interested enough to use these puppets for the march-forward

of her ideas.

"And what are we to think of this fairy craze?" Mrs. Thyme asked of the

company generally.

There was no immediate response. The Archdeacon left the question for

someone else to answer. In Society he tried habitually to sit on the

fence.

"A nine-day' wonder!" said Lord Geoffrey. "Mere nonsense, as ping-pong

and diabolo were."

"A folly to-day; forgotten to-morrow; and afterwards a sad

reflection"--this from a novelist of the moment--"democracy is a baby

which quickly breaks its toys."

"It has already lasted nearby nine weeks," answered the Duke quietly.

"It is strange; I don't understand it. That Mansion-House fellow, the

Lord Mayor, began it. The movement seems spreading. Most movements do

spread nowadays. We didn't do that sort of thing in the seventies."

"Indeed, no," agreed the Duchess, in her best commanding-officer voice.

"When I was a 'gairl,' belief in the fairies lingered amongst the Irish

and nowhere else. Those Board Schools and Trade Unions have caused this

nonsense, I'm sure."

"There is one encouraging fact, Duchess!" cried the novelist, of course

an egoist, who called himself Douglas le Dare, though his patronymic was

Barlow, and his father had christened him William. "It is that in our

literature--the test of our minds--we keep to sane life and the plain

truth. Fairy tales are not written nowadays; such originality is

futility. We weave our romances round every-day life, we adorn dull

truth, and what's the result? I sold fifty thousand copies of my last

book."

"Did you really?" said Mrs. Thyme, opening her blue eyes to their

widest. "I think I will write!"

"Ha!" he said, as he shook back his iron-grey locks--his hair was an

advertisement--"you should write, but deal with facts--facts--the

fairies--pah!--they are merely a sort of mental fungi. The public wants

prose. Always please the public! That is the root of literary

success."

June was alive now. Her wings quivered with indignation. The crown on

her head blazed with elf-light. She was angry, angry. But she made no

movement, only sat upright on the salt-box, keenly attentive to what

those clay creatures would say.

"If you do start author, Katie," said the Duke to Mrs. Thyme, "you must

cultivate an eccentricity or two, mustn't she, Mr. le Dare?"

"Oh, I don't know, Duke!"

"Oh, must I?" she exclaimed, eagerness alight in her eyes. "Do tell me

an eccentricity or two!"

"Sorry I can't, Mrs. Thyme. All my spare time is occupied with thinking

out my own eccentricities, what few I indulge in. No; what you really

require is to be earnestly business-like, and to see well after the

advertisement of your books."

Then a bearded Baronet, who wore a sparkling monocle, and thought it

humorous to be interfering, joined in.

"Talkin' of fairies and the Lord Mayor," he said, "weren't you mixed up

in that little business at the Mansion House, Mr. Archdeacon? Eh?

What?"

Eyes turned to the person addressed, who, finding his theories not

promising to be popular in that company, was willing to remain silent

while the tide of depreciation flowed. All his life he had been on the

side of the cheers. June looked at him. She was eager to see how he

endured the test. If he failed and proved faithless, the power of

Fairyland would be lessened thereby, for faith is the strength-giver.

She did nothing to influence him. Though, in her indignation, magic

emanated from her personality, it was not to affect him.

He sipped his sherry, and answered with deliberation, while the others

hearkened with all their ears.

"I was there, Sir Claude. It was a wonderful occasion. The place

seemed charmed, enchanted. Everyone of the company--City magnates,

practical men, merchants, and so on--made resolutions for the good of

our fellows. Under that influence of enchantment I made resolutions

also. I believe we have all of us kept them."

There was a little while of silence only interrupted by the slithering

of the knives and forks.

"Archdeacon, do you really believe in the fairies?" asked Mrs. Thyme, in

her tingle-tangle voice.

June, piqued by the doubt in the question, wondered whether the colour

of Mrs. Billie's hair was born or made.

"I do, absolutely. I am proud to be positive that they exist."

"Tush!" said Douglas le Dare.

"They exist," the Archdeacon re-affirmed.

Victory! June slid from the salt-cellar and began a dance of rejoicing,

of triumph--a _pas-de-seul_ among the wine-cups. None of the company

could see her; it was loveliness lost to mortal eyes. Only the

Archdeacon, who possessed some store of fairy faith, had a glimmering of

the gaiety and beauty of the motion-poem then being made. It nerved him

to do battle for what he would have called Oberon's cause.

The room became filled with magic. Spells of pure joy were woven from

the tracery of June's feet, and governed all but one. The butler and

his men, waiting with the imperturbability of grenadiers on parade, were

inclined to dance in chorus; but discipline and the knowledge that the

Duchess's eyes were upon them kept them prim.

Still the fairy danced. Here and there she tripped over the damask,

flitting airily round the epergnes with their young summer flowers; then

up and about the heads of the guests, stimulating their ideas, giving

them delightful poetical fancies, poising now and then, with dainty foot

and wings outspread, on the brims of the glasses, making all of them

glad, all of them glad but--the Duchess.

She alone, during that period of enchantment, remained unimpressed and

obdurate. Fashion is a petrifying influence. Her Grace, who regarded

it as her duty always with stiff lips to overlook the unfashionable, was

at present beyond even the softening powers of June. She remained as

stone, unsympathetic, uncomprehending. Conversation was dumb during that

terpsichorean spell.

June rested at length, and flew, well-pleased, to couch among the

flowers.

"Bravo!" cried Lord Geoffrey.

"Eh?" inquired the Duke, putting on his pince-nez, and peering through

them at his son. The word of applause seemed to fit in with his mood

exactly, but he did not understand its applicability.

"I said 'Bravo!' bravo to the Archdeacon, who, with characteristic

courage, is going to justify his faith in those essences, the fairies."

"Ah yes, of course, of course! Please instruct us; we are attentive,

Mr. Archdeacon."

It is not easy to make any detailed expression of opinion or

justification of faith over well-cooked food. That is an occasion for

wit and brevity--epigram was born at a dinner-table. The Archdeacon

felt his disadvantage, especially as the eyes of the Duchess, like the

orbs of a mild Medusa, were expressing disapprobation.

"I cannot pretend, your Grace, to be able, under the circumstances, to

justify my faith in the fairies," he declared, while thoughtfully

cutting his _poussin_. "I can only assert that faith, and prove its

truth as I live by acting up to its principles and helping to make the

world more beautiful and happy."

"Ruskin and soda-water! Eh? What?" murmured Sir Claude, glancing round

for the laughter which did not come.

The Archdeacon, to whom flippancy was more than a venial sin, felt

inclined to crush the Baronet; but succeeded in effectually ignoring

him, which was worse.

"Imagination is, without doubt, required to realize the existence of the

fairies. They are not tangible, as are, say, bricks. But is that a

difficulty? Imagination is requisite before we can appreciate the

existence of ether, and several other essences--to use Lord Geoffrey's

word--which we know well are about us, and affect us, though we cannot

see, smell, taste, handle, or otherwise comprehend them."

"But surely, Mr. Archdeacon," the Duke intervened, for no other reason

than to give his guest opportunity to continue his meal. "Surely you

would not in any way put together the results of scientific inquiry, the

fruits of the research of physicists, with--bogies and other dreams?"

A murmur of agreement ran round the table. A ducal host is certain of

support in any argument he undertakes.

"I don't see why not, Duke. They are obviously different in kind as you

broadly state them; but I believe they are really linked closer than we

yet know. The fact is that every certainty is merely a drop in an ocean

of uncertainty, an ocean of unplumbable depths. Science is always on

the edge of new discoveries, which can only be bridged at first by the

imagination. Without imagination Newton would have seen nothing more

than an apple falling, when that simple fact--as common as

raindrops--brought to him revelation of the all-compelling law of

gravitation. Without imagination Watt could not have built his 'Rocket'

out of a kettle and a puff of steam. Imagination is a necessity in all

departments"--Le Dare sighed audibly--"except perhaps in some modern

books."

"A kettle! a kettle!" said the Duchess to herself--_sotto voce_--yet

very well heard. "What may a kettle be?"

A judge who sat next to her hastened to instruct her, while the ensuing

course was served.

"Even the law of gravitation," the Archdeacon continued, after a period

of general conversation, of mixed comments and further challenges,

"cannot be absolutely proved, though we all accept it. Nor can the

dogma that three times seven are twenty-one be proved, or the assertion

that a line is length without breadth, or--to come to a different kind

of example--the statements of historians that William of Normandy lived,

conquered and died. Nothing can be proved to some people. It is a

matter of faith. Why do we believe that William fought with Harold at

Senlac? Because we are told so, and our imagination appreciates the

details of the narrative. We accept the Saxon Chronicle as essentially

a true story, and Matilda's Bayeux tapestry as representing real people

and actual scenes. But they wouldn't convince a determined sceptic, or

a school-boy faced with the authority of the text-books, if he were

sufficiently original, obstinate, incredulous, and without the

imaginative gift. They may be regarded by some people as fraudulent

tales, or forged representations of the truth, and to any extent as

partial and prejudiced stories--(No more wine, thank you)--and who could

convince them otherwise? So all these accepted assertions--scientific,

historical, personal--may be refused by one who has no imagination.

Just in the same way the existence of the fairies may be believed in or

disbelieved. I admit it is beyond my capacity for demonstration to

prove that they exist. I have never seen a fairy. If you asked me

whether it was the size of a needle, a horse, or a haystack, I could not

say; and it would not matter. Enough that, though invisible, they are

lovely and beneficent, and that their influence--be it illusory or

not--tends towards the betterment of human life. I am content to assert

that I believe in these essences by results. The facts of the Lord

Mayor's feast were beyond ordinary comprehension, yet they actually

occurred, and caused some hundreds of prosaic business men--as staid and

reliable as any human beings can be--to make resolutions to be less

selfish and more socially useful; and actually to keep those

resolutions. I am sorry to bore you with such a long discourse, but it

was necessary as the subject is so important. I believe in the fairies,

and wish their governance was potent to-day."

"So do I," said the enthusiastic Mrs. Thyme. June instantly forgave her

past offences.

"Bravo!" cried Lord Geoffrey again.

"But do you know--I'm not referring to yourself, Mr. Archdeacon--do you

know for a fact that they did keep them? Is that fruits of the

imagination too? Eh? What?"

The doubter was, as usual, the annoying Baronet. June looked at him, a

tiny glint of anger in her eyes, and gave him twinges--the promise of

gout.

"Sir Claude, I do! Only to-day I had a visit from a Jew, a City

tradesman, who had, throughout his long business life, sweated his

people. This man--I need not mention his name--was a guest at the Lord

Mayor's banquet. He is now a model employer; tender-hearted, generous

and scrupulous. He ascribes his wonderful change entirely to the

influence of the fairies."

The pause which followed these words was testimony to their effect.

June began to dance again. She was as pleased as Punch with her

protege. The Archdeacon had turned up trumps.

But the Duchess was not pleased. Her old friend Archdeacon Pryde was

becoming dreadfully plebeian. To talk at her table about a kettle, and

then about a Jew tradesman, was very like exceeding the social limit, so

she gave the hostess's signal, and the ladies withdrew; while June flew

to the window and gained strength, inspiration and hope from the

brightness of the skies and the young summer moon.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*CONVERTING A DUCHESS*

The fairy found the cigar-smoke abominable; and as the conversation of

the men, possibly because of the tobacco, lapsed towards dulness--it was

mostly about guns and turnips--she flew out of the dining-room to the

salon upstairs, to sit on the great piano and watch the Duchess and her

feminine friends enjoying coffee and Chopin, while the more ardently

idle of them babbled of nothings.

June seemed transported to a languid, lazy world, peopled by

disillusioned descendants of the lotus-eaters. Except for the Duchess,

who always sat bolt upright--Mrs. Pipchin was, in that respect, her

democratic parallel--the ladies lounged in the luxurious chairs, slowly

waved fans, and drivelled. During that period of supineness nothing

vertebrate was said, with the exception of one pious wish expressed by

Mrs. Billie Thyme.

"I wish those fairies would bring the men along!"

At that remark three ladies feebly smiled. The others--with the

exception of the Duchess, who never forgot her dignity--lounged lazily,

thought sleepily, and, when they spoke, drawled.

June yawned. For the first and last time in the history of Fairydom she

did so, and knew herself bored utterly.

That yawn roused her: it annoyed her. She would endure no more of that

overpowering influence of laziness. She flew straight to the Duchess,

circled thrice about her chair, and then, standing on the grey coiffure,

wantonly disarranged the tiara, dragging it back to put in its place the

crown. She dumped the symbol of sovereignty down with a shadowy thump.

Her Grace of Armingham blinked. Something had happened. What? Strange

thoughts began to bubble. Her brain was a maze of topsy-turvydom. She

wanted to laugh aloud and laud the fairies. She fixed her mind on her

present amazing irresponsibleness, and tried to banish the demon of

discord that prevailed. It was no good. The more she endeavoured to

fashion her ideas according to their customary crystallized pattern, the

more they resisted. She possessed a burning desire to make a pun. She

wrestled stubbornly with the horrid inclination. Setting her brows in a

frown, her lips in a thin red line, she determinately withstood the

mocking influence that held her.

June settled on the top of a large ottoman, whence she could comfortably

watch the battle. It was magnificent, and it was war. She determined to

bring an expression of light-heartedness to that handsome stubborn face.

She bent her powers of mind and magic to the proper subduing of the

stately dame, and had by no means the best of it. The crown was potent.

It held the best magic of Elfland; but against that particular example

of pride, coldness and contempt, it was ineffectual as yet. It was like

melting a glacier with lucifer matches.

Meanwhile the mind of the Duchess was in a buzz of contradictory

humours. She was uncertain of herself. She wanted to express ideas the

very opposite of her age-worn convictions. For the first time she saw

herself as not quite the most important creature amongst the stars.

Beyond all else, above all else, at that phase of the conflict, the

insatiable desire to make a pun beset her. Horrible! Horrible! The

better half of her mind, the predominant partner of her will, bravely

and silently exclaimed against its dreadfulness. But imps seemed

playing pranks with her, giving her a thousand opportunities for some

infamous punning. The propensity had hold of her like neuralgia; it

needed all her firmness and stolid prejudice to counteract the tendency,

and prevent the commission of that lowest form of verbal play. During

the whole of the battle Strauss and Chopin were supplying their

melodies; and June was feeling fiercely unmerciful.

Then the men came drifting in. The ladies woke from their languors.

Bridge was mentioned.

Geoffrey, seeing the frowns and energy in his mother's face, wondered

who had offended. He looked sharply at Mrs. Thyme; she was evidently

not the culprit. He found her smiling at Sir Claude, and making room

for him by her side on a settee. The Baronet had always some

entertaining ill-natured tattle at the end of his tongue. He was the

Autolycus of tinted gossip. June, in sheer puckishness of spirit,

touched the Baronet with a spell. His stories became Sunday tales. They

were dilatory and improving. Mrs. Billie frankly told him he bored.

It was the Duke who noticed the tiara out of place. He sauntered over

to his wife, wondering how this could have happened. He saw new

wrinkles about her eyes. Her face had an east-wind expression.

"Edith," he murmured, "look in the mirror. Your tiara."

The pained look went. Her fashionable callousness for a moment melted.

She raised her hands to the tiara to mend the mischief. A pun--the only

pun possible under the circumstances--was on her lips. It came to the

edge of expression; she to the brink of defeat.

She rallied her forces desperately. She would not be beaten. But the

magic was potent. She had to say it, and did--to herself. Her lips

moved mutely. That was the beginning of the fairies' victory.

Suddenly June felt pity for the _grande dame_, who, in her solitude of

station, knew no better. Already with her keen susceptibilities she

could see the real aspect of sadness in that golden scene. Paradise

Court had its hopelessness, its waste and poverty; so had Armingham

House--hopelessness, waste, poverty, as actual, if not worse, though

different, very different, from what the poorest know.

Nothing in all London had struck her as more pitiable than the

barrenness of interests and fetters of wealth which starved and prisoned

those unawakened rich. The more she saw of them, the more she felt for

them. Their selfishness was mainly the selfishness of ignorance. They

needed to know; they needed to do. It was the fairy's function to give

them opportunities for knowledge and for helpful deeds. To quicken

their atrophied usefulness must be her work. Then Fairyland would have

flown closer to the fireplace.

June released the Duchess and recrowned herself. Weary of lotus-eaters

and emptiness, she crept out through the opened window into the garden

to recreate her purposes among the shadows under the stars, but some of

her influence lingered behind and was effectual.

It was not quite the same Duchess who governed her guests that evening

and guided the party along its dull, appointed way. Again and again the

Duke, Lord Geoffrey, the Archdeacon, noticed in her touches of unusual

geniality. They were only occasional gleams; but those who knew her

best saw the difference. The inconsequent pun had shifted a load of

stratified self-conceit. Out of irresponsibility sympathy had come.

The fairy, when her wearied strength was renewed, for the strain and the

atmosphere of London still weighed heavily upon her, revelled in that

garden. She sang as she flitted here and there, helping the helpable.

The moonlight glimmered on her rapid wings. The stars became still

brighter for joy of her eagerness. The flowers, parched and starving

for fairy-love, turned towards her, listening to her songs, inviting the

gifts of her hands. She lighted their jaded lamps and gave them

happiness.

Then she felt sad because of the waste and the need. Where were the

elves for this garden?

She looked towards Fairyland, and wished with all her powers. Was it a

waking dream, or was she really aware of mimic voices, far, far away, in

the glades of Elfland answering her--promising to break the indifference

of Fairyland and to come?--or was the wish foster-mother to the fancy?

Had she merely imagined the desired reply?

When, returning, from her own world, she re-entered Armingham House, the

party was over. Its livelier members had gone to other staircases. The

Archdeacon, as became his office, went straight home to bed. Lord

Geoffrey, caped and hatted, strolled quietly to "Liberty Hall," the

town-house of an Anglicized American, Mr. Barnett Q. Moss, who had

fifteen millions and dyspepsia.

The very last ball of a lively season was there in full swing. Geoffrey

enjoyed watching the plutocracy at play, and sharing their wildness. It

was tonic to his well-bred nerves. After three hours of a perfect

mother, it meant a bracing change.

June went too.

Meanwhile Bim had tucked himself up in the throstle's nest and slept

like a top--however that may be. He did not stir till the morning was

white. Then he rose--a mite refreshed--and came down from his fastness

with a run.

He found Tim, and listened to him talking in his sleep. The royal tramp

in his dreams was addressing legions. Bim awoke him. Tim continued his

oratory to the trees. He was Caesar and Buonaparte--two gentlemen in

one. He seemed from his description to be wearing a laurel wreath round

his neck, and trousers of imperial purple, ermine-lined. Every woe

which wandering mankind suffers from was instantly and absolutely

abolished--so far as mere words could abolish them--by autocratic

decree. His Majesty Tim!

He stood up, wiped his feet on the grass, and looked about at the park.

The pride of ownership shone in his eyes. All this belonged to him. His

face had a new expression containing something of noble gentleness, a

very pale reflex of the divinity that doth hedge a king. He wiped his

lips with his sleeve and smiled. He settled his battered hat--his

diamonded golden crown--daintily on the forefront of his head, and

shambled towards Oxford Street for the tramp-man's breakfast, which,

thanks to Bim of Fairyland, would taste henceforth as some delicious

repast on a golden dish. His future tasks--poor casual ward

businesses--would be noble services performed to aid mankind.

Being a king incognito, Tim did not advertise his estate. He and the

fairies--they alone--knew of his royalty. There are more such monarchs

amongst us than we wot of.

Bim was contemplating the tramp's retreating figure when happiness came

to him. June would enjoy the delights of victory yet.

Her appeal to Elfdom had been answered. Here was one to help. Down

from the skies and over the grass a fairy was hurrying. It was Auna of

the Violet Valley; her purple wings fluttered wearily. There was no

happiness in her mien. The oppressiveness of London was upon her.

"Gnome!" she asked weakly, "where in this horrid world is June?"

So saying, she drooped her limp figure on the wet grass and waited

awhile, mute with disillusionment and weariness, stricken with the sorry

prospect before her. Auna had no more dignity, then, than a broken

butterfly. She had come to the wilderness, sharing the madness of June;

and now, knowing its dreariness, remembered the deserted happiness. She

was the first recruit to the glorious company of the disobedient.

Bim had not time to frame an answer to her question before his delight

received another delicious shock. Here actually was one more fairy from

Elfland--Laurel of the Golden Uplands--where the broom is in its glory

and the brave gorse glows. She, too, had flown thither in obedience to

June's appeal, and brought smiles with her. There was bravery in her

eyes, but the influence of the elfless Metropolis affected her as it had

affected June and Auna. She, also, drooped on the grass.

There followed others. Bim's eyes and mouth opened wider and wider as

the numbers grew. It was a wonderful morning. One by one the fairies

came, until seventeen of all degrees--knights and sweet

presences--studded the grass beside him. He was flabbergasted. His

wits, through this feast of joyous surprises, were stunned and groping,

until, with a long, long pull, he got himself together again.

For a full half-hour the fairies rested. Bim felt the flattery of fine

company. He forced himself to sit severely upright, as if he were one

with them, as indeed he deserved to be, and kept the wand prominently

forward. He felt towards them somewhat as a longshoreman does to the

week-end tripper. He could speak with uncontradictable authority. He

knew London; these, his masters, were novices.

The sun rose, swathing every dew-burdened grass-blade with light. An

elderly starling and several sparrows gathered about the fairy circle,

curious of these new-comers. Bim, seeing the gaping wonder of the drab

creatures, "shoo-ed" them; but back they came, and always came, to

chatter with many twitterings about these mimic immortals, whose

existence in that jerry-built world they had learnt to be ignorant of.

More and more sparrows arrived, with a few larger birds--draggled

thrushes and shabby blackbirds, but no smaller birds of beauty. The

sparrows had taken care of that.

It was the chattering of this inquiring concourse which roused the

fairies from stupor. One of the knights--Felcine of the Silver

Wings--addressed himself to Bim.

"You are the gnome who accompanied June?"

"I am," he replied proudly. "I am her servant and companion. What

London was before we came--ah!" Bim drew a sweeping line with the wand,

in gesture expressive.

"Then tell us what you have done," Felcine commanded.

Bim in his best voice told his tale to the hearers. It was, doubtless,

a lame epitome of recent history, but it served to quicken their

interest in the new departure, and to intensify their shame for having

been so long in coming. He spoke of Paradise Court and Sally, of the

want and the sweating; then of the improvements wrought in that colony

of the very poor. He enlightened them about the world of commerce, the

Lord Mayor's banquet, the Oldsteins' emporium; told of the Archdeacon's

efforts; of the visit to Armingham House; of innumerable other episodes

and experiences, many of which have necessarily been excluded, even from

this chronicle and history. Not a word did he say of the coming of the

fairy host to Paradise Court, or of its going again. Bim--tactful

fellow!--knew how to dodge the disagreeable.

The gnome was not an orator at this period of his career; but his tale,

to those hearers, was highly interesting. It brought home to them--as

possibly the perorations of a Member of Parliament would not have

done--the need for fairy-work, for elf-reform, in the city of cities.

They, too, had not forgotten the coming and going of the fairy host.

"And where is June now?" asked Auna, when his story was ended.

Bim turned to point vaguely to westward; and, doing so, saw June herself

on the brim of Geoffrey's hat. His lordship was walking homeward

through the Park. He was tired and very thoughtful. Fairy influence

and the excitements and scenes of the party at Liberty Hall had set him

thinking.

Of a sudden June saw Felcine and his companions, and gave a glad cry.

Bim then knew the meaning of absolute happiness. He turned turtle with

a whoop, and balanced himself on his head. That was how he found

expression for his feelings.

*CHAPTER XV*

*LIBERTY HALL*

As Geoffrey Season wended his way from Armingham House to Liberty Hall,

June kept his thoughts busy. That was an opportunity for profitable

self-examination, which she took care should be well employed.

Geoffrey was habitually frank with himself and others. It had never

been necessary for him to suffer the least degree of self-deception, or

to imagine certain human beings were angels, when they were only

themselves.

So, with June on his hat-brim, and the Archdeacon's homily fresh in his

memory, he began to measure established facts with new purposes, and

found that in several directions the two did not fit.

He felt as he sauntered through the silent streets to his noisy

destination something like a pioneer landed on a virgin shore. New

possibilities--vague and unformed as yet--loomed before him. These new

possibilities at once attracted and repelled him. It was not to be easy

for him to get out of the comfortable ruck in which circumstances had

placed him.

Ordinarily, the way for him to take would be through sober

squares--oases of iron-railed respectability--given up at that dull hour

to cats, drowsy cabs, and constables. Now the splendid dulness and

shuttered dinginess of the great houses under which he walked oppressed

him, and the impulse came to wander by more devious ways, through that

network of slums which all but touched the back-doors of the rich.

Never before in his easy-ordered life had such an impulse come to him.

He had--as became his mother's son--instinctively refrained from looking

on the unpleasant. Squalor and want existed to be avoided; they were so

hopeless and--oh, so ugly! Unconsciously he had cultivated the happy,

blind eye, and habitually overlooked the obvious. There was no

callousness in his case, but merely ignorance. There are many like him.

He was one of a multitude unawake.

At last he was ripe to shed his priggishness. June vigorously spurred

his purposes. His latent power for real social service was suddenly

quickened into life.

Marching into an area of meanness, which hitherto had been the Forbidden

Land, he was at once face to face with heavy problems.

He passed a public-house, as a drunken woman, a baby in her arms, was

put out from the portal. A whiff of hot air went with her. The potman

who had turned her out--"chucked" is the word--talked to her in dingy

scarlet, and then returned to his damp altar of a decadent Bacchus.

Geoffrey gazed at the woman curiously.

The horror of it! She was undivine, bestial, bloated; the victim--a

greedy victim--to gin. She stopped and turned clumsily to stare stupidly

at the lighted windows; then angrily, with hoarse voice, returned the

potman's compliments. All the while the fragment of humanity was

wailing, cradled within her shawl.

The threats of this demoralized Venus merged gradually into a pitiful

whine--ah, the woes and wrongs she suffered from!--as she staggered

hurriedly along the causeway, came to the door of her dwelling, and

lurched over the step. There was the home of that English child!

June flew after the infant in service bound, leaving Geoffrey weak and

numb with indignant horror and helplessness. Here were problems indeed!

He awoke of a sudden to a sense of his responsibilities. What had he

been living for? A shock of icy coldness swept through him. That was the

beginning of burdens. He looked with new eyes at himself.

He was wealthy, leisured, destined for a prominent career in Parliament.

Till now he had contemplated a life of enjoyment, tempered with a

variety of pleasant experiences--sociability, applause and public

activities. He had seen himself on platforms, happily eloquent;

standing before a green ministerial bench, banging a treasury box, while

men of note listened and cheered.

That had been the game as expected. Now things were to be different.

Realities had challenged him. The drunken mother and the doomed child

represented thousands. He was to work for them and for such as they.

June rejoined him. The mother and the infant were both asleep. One

drop of elixir of fern-seed, a thousand and three years old, made from

Merlin's ancient recipe; and the deed was done.

Fairy and lordling passed through human rookeries. Geoffrey, eagerly

observant of facts on this shady side of life, was indifferent to

danger. He was reckless. Again and again a policeman sternly warned

him, and frequently accompanied him through the darkest, least savoury

parts. He laughed scornfully at the need for caution, turned up his

coat-collar, covered his shirt-front, and went on, feeling more and more

reckless and angry as he went. This was revelation! He clenched his

fists, and writhed at the manifold evidences of past indifference and

neglect. But the anger went after a time, or was tempered with wisdom.

Children, children everywhere! Always there were children. Wherever he

wandered, late as it was, during that westward pilgrimage, he saw

them--the innocent, chief sufferers--bearers of the heaviest burdens.

They were born to woe; nearly always were to die of it. Where was the

justice, where the justification of their pain? Let comfortable

sociologists prate; but why had they those hours and days of want and

suffering merely to die? They had not offended. They had not broken

laws of thrift, duty, love; yet they must endure evil and reap great

harvests of the sins their forebears had sowed. It was pitiful,

shameful, appalling.

He saw little ones weary to death, forgotten, learning iniquities. The

infinite waste of young humanity appalled him! Something of the

nation's life was decaying there, and so few seemed to care.

He came abruptly to the square which had Liberty Hall at its corner.

Before proceeding to the enjoyments awaiting him, he must calm and

recover himself. He walked slowly along the three sides of the square.

He was still agitated by the disclosures that slum-experience had

brought him, so he walked again right round the inner circle of

railings, and forced himself into the guest-man's mood.

He came, at last, to the crowded portal, begged and pushed his way

through triple lines of packed spectators--for the most part women who

had forgotten the lateness of the hour and their weariness in wonder and

curiosity at the costumes of the guests--and joined the procession of

the invited up red-carpeted steps.

June was troubled. Liberty Hall gave her dismay. Armingham House had

been stately, though somewhat oppressive; the loudness and glaring

brilliance of this assembly--this over-painted caricature of what is

splendid--bewildered her. It reminded her--unjustly--of prosperous

public-houses.

Geoffrey surrendered his hat and cape to a footman--the livery of the

Mosses was moss-green and gold--and passed on to be received. He was

welcome. Scions of the aristocracy had master-keys to that house, as

also had the over-rich.

The lady of Liberty Hall greeted him with heartiness.

"Very glad to see you, Lord Geoffrey; come right in!"

She was tall, thin and bony; framework _decolletee_. Her face was not

happy. It was heavily lined, and bore the marks of ambition and strain.

Head, neck, arms, and corsage were ablaze with diamonds. Three fortunes

gleamed and sparkled upon her. A picture of the woman of the slums and

the neglected infant flashed through Geoffrey's mind. June, to whom

always human beings were merely as shadows burlesquing reality, became

actually afraid. Her wings were constantly quivering.

There was a surging mob beyond this lady of jewels and angles--no less a

mob because its members were prosperous and expensively dressed.

Already the fairy had a foretaste of the vulgarity within, and feared

and trembled with hate of it.

Geoffrey said some small smiling nothing, and passed on to a second

effusive welcome--from his host, a man of restless eyes and heavy mouth.

"Barnett Q."--as his cronies called him--had made the best part of his

millions out of biscuits, the balance from high finance. In his

home-place Barnett Q. was genial and hospitable; but put a deal in his

way, and he became on the instant keen, unscrupulous, inexorable,

flint-hearted.

"It's a real good pleasure to see you, Lord Geoffrey. If you don't

jolly some, you mustn't blame the wife and me. This house is named

Liberty Hall, and I guess it's got to live up to its cognomen."

The dancing had started. It was already very like a whirlwind. Young

folk, hot and flushed, were romping round like mad to the rhythm of a

two-step. Geoffrey was caught in the riot. A demoiselle who giggled

and called him Herbert seized his hand and began the gay canter. He

threw himself into the spirit of the revel, neither pausing nor thinking

till the band with a crashing finale stopped, and his partner had

hurried him off to a refreshment-buffet.

There was perpetual laughter, peals of it now and then. Humour was

cheap; mirth was easily aroused at that party. A man with a false nose

was a great favourite, and when he suddenly startled a dowager and

caused her wig to shift there were shrieks of delight. The catchwords

of the streets were popular and appreciated in Liberty Hall. Champagne

and cocktails shed a genial influence over everything. There was no

lack of liquid wealth in that bountiful establishment.

June, while the dancing lasted, escaped to the gallery where the band

was playing, and sat on the matted hair of a flautist, who forthwith

went flat. Her thoughts for a while were far away in a night-world of

green shadows.

"Hello, Season!" cried a puffy, sleek young man, clapping Geoffrey

familiarly on the shoulder. "See my new mo. yesterday? I'm Harris, you

know! Met you at Monty Dizzler's."

"No, Mr. Harris, I fear I didn't see the machine."

"Don't call me Mister, Season! There's no side between gentlemen, hey?

She's a beauty! Light, and as for power and speed--well, I'm no orator!

Passed you in Sloane Street by Cadogan Square. You were with a

specially nice little piece of frilling--girl with a hat all over her.

Gave four-fifty for her--the mo. I mean. Don't laugh. T'other side of

Hounslow sent her along like blazes. The bobbies couldn't get ready for

me. Rushed past three of them--traps and all--like a greased eel,

before they could doctor their watches. Nearly knocked over one cop.

Ha! And not more than a mile further on went over a boy's foot. No

business playing in the roads, those kids! You should have heard him

squeal. Talk of Wagner, and that rot! This is private between you and

me, y' know. Fortunately, the mo. made such a dust they couldn't see my

number. I--oh, if you don't want to hear any more, you needn't! Shirty

dog! Just because he's a duke's son, gives himself airs. What's a duke

nowadays? Pauper rats! Hullo, Gertie; come and have some sup. Liberty

Hall's a rotter, but his cham's worth drinking! Then I'll take you

home, little gell. You must see my new mo.----"

Geoffrey did not dance again. The pause had given him an opportunity

for recollection. He had since entering Mrs. Moss's hospitable abode

somewhat forgotten his better purposes; but was already ashamed of his

recent excitement. Though he started from Armingham House with the full

intention of getting as much enjoyment at Liberty Hall as possible, he

felt he ought to have remembered better the contrast of conditions

between this revel and the sordid misery and nakedness of the slums.

He stood underneath the gallery watching and beginning to wonder. More

than one of his companion-guests chaffed him for his grave face and

preoccupied airs. He answered their badinage with repartee good enough.

The dancing became still more violent. Certain ladies, flaxen-haired

and well-complexioned--footlight favourites--punctuated the step phrases

of a barn-dance with high, high kicks.

Barnett Q. laughed with happy tolerance at the lace display, winked

archly at some elderly cronies, babbled that things were somewhat slower

in his young days, and went about murmuring to all and sundry, "Liberty

Hall! Liberty Hall!"

Geoffrey felt the beginning of an angry shame--of himself first and

foremost. Everything jarred on him now. The fairies had hold of him;

but June, just then, was doing nothing. She was far away among the

happy shadows.

The excitement had come to seem feverish, unreal; the laughter rang

untrue--a mockery of gaiety. But still they laughed, as if they were

fey. Geoffrey had been at such gatherings four or five times before, and

had found them, with their colour, movement and irresponsibleness

extremely amusing. They had sent him back to his world of ennui

refreshed, a restored superior gentleman. But to-night he was restless,

tired of the glamour; its gaiety was repulsive.

He put it down to the scenes of the slums and the sight of weary

children; of course, having no idea that a fairy was perched but a

little above him--that his state of dissatisfaction was mainly due to

her.

He could not help overhearing occasional snatches of conversation from

old and young; it was always loud-voiced, and invariably told one of

these tales--the pleasures of extravagance, the rounding of idleness,

the smart acquisition and showy expenditure of wealth. Braggarts were

many. Vanity Fair! Vanity Fair!

June, awaking from her dreams and seeing his restlessness, sailed down

and throned herself on the silken lappel of his coat--a fairy as a

button-hole is a pretty sight, when we can see it. He felt a sudden

increase of impatience: he must go. He wandered through the rooms,

hunting for the way of escape.

He met his hostess. The poor lady looked thinner than ever. Her face

had become white with excitement. Her diamonds accentuated the

ghastliness.

"What is the matter?" she asked, with the drawl she sometimes affected.

"I hope you're finding enjoyment in this country-cottage, but if your

face is telling the truth, your thoughts are pretty near the tombstones.

Now that won't do! I reckon I must find some sweet young thing to bring

you back to Mother Earth. You're looking just too angelic for

anything."

Geoffrey, realizing the discourtesy of poor appreciation in a house so

overabundant with hospitality, hastened to set her social fears at rest,

and returned to the corridor leading back to the dancing room.

Suddenly there was tumult beside him. A girl had been imbibing

cocktails carelessly. She slipped, and to regain her balance, grabbed

at the arm of a man who was conspicuous in kilts. He, too, had been

enjoying the flowing tide of champagne, and being a proud MacCoolicky,

the chief of that ilk, was apt to be angry in his cups.

He steadied himself by clutching at some tapestry, and then, hearing

some laughter and seeing a man broadly grinning at him, viciously jabbed

him a blow on the arm. There was at once the prospect of a scuffle.

The veneer of good manners on some of the guests was generally

exceedingly thin. Geoffrey sprang between the scowling combatants; so

did two other men. They seized the MacCoolicky's arms, and forced him

against the wall. He began to sob, while the girl, the cause of his

mishap, restored by the excitement to her true self, amused the crowd by

describing his possible ancestors with their tails.

The MacCoolicky, for his part sobered too, writhed under the ridicule,

and went away furiously muttering elementary Gaelic.

Barnett Q. came hurrying up, pushing his way through the crowd like a

police-inspector. His little grey eyes glittered, his thin lips were

pressed together in a very decided line. The millionaire was a man of

flame and granite.

"You can do every blamed thing you like in this establishment," he said

to them generally; "but I'm darned if I'll have any fraycars, and that's

plain truth!"

"It's all right, Barney; only a little high spirits. Boys will be boys!"

said a tiny old man from the edge of the crowd. And so the trouble

ended.

The tumult took place near the door of a large room, which throughout

the evening had been a haven of great interest. Geoffrey, parting from

his host, entered the room.

June flew ahead, curious to see what was doing at the green tables. She

noted the faces which fringed the games, and was shocked by their

expressions. Greed, cupidity, selfishness, weakness, brutal excitement,

sordid delight, mean disappointment were pictured there. Horrible! It

was the card-room. The place was packed to stifling. Roulette,

baccarat, and bridge were hard a-swing. Gambling was no new sight to

Geoffrey Season, but never before had he seen such greedy rabble as

that, or such extravagant, reckless stakes.

It was an occasion of unscrupulous business. Old and young, men and

maidens, crowded round the tables primed with the one desire--to make.

Mammon was their king. There was no refinement or enjoyment about that

business; it was mere greediness on a very large scale. Eyes,

fascinated, followed the running of the ball, the placing of the money,

the turn and manipulation of the cards, the sweeps and pushes of bankers

croups. The excitement was tense. Now and again hurried murmurs,

excited comments, soft hysterical laughter, contradictions and brief

disputes, broke the general silence.

Heigho! It was a sight for the cynical. If the devil has no humour, he

misses a lot of fun.

Young girls, hardly old enough for their education to be "finished,"

were fingering piles of gold, and placing coins with calculation,

according to some "system." They had completed their education at Monte

Carlo. An elderly man was the lucky one--if luck is really the word.

He neither smiled nor frowned, whatever his fortune might be; but calmly

paid his losses and as calmly took his gains--his calmness, either way,

was absolute.

Footmen came and went, carrying trays and glasses, but were not

especially welcomed.

A young man with waved hair and a pose--a forgotten ballad-writer, his

fame had flickered and gone out--happened to be standing beside

Geoffrey. His eyes were alight with monetary desire.

"A sight well worth sinning for, Season," he said, with a nod at the

piles of gold and paper scattered about the board.

Geoffrey nodded in idle agreement. The wealth displayed represented

thousands of pounds. June kissed his cheek.

"Yet with all that wealth there is actual starvation not an eighth of a

mile from here," he said in obedience to her kiss, her command.

The poseur turned and stared. He gaped with surprise.

"Good Lord, Season! You ought to be a curate."

"It is, unfortunately, only the truth."

"Perhaps so. Why not? Anyhow, it's no good talkin' about it. People

who starve have only themselves to blame. Haven't they hands to work?

Show me a poor man, and you'll point to a fool. That's truth, too, if

it isn't an epigram! Everyone with wits can get a good living if he

likes. And if not--well, let those who can't get take; that's my motto.

I'm no high-priest of ordinary morality, I can tell you. But--look, Sir

Gussie's won again! George! the luck of that fellow! Let me come; I

must put a yellow boy on _impair_."

The yellow boy was not at once put on, for a climax had come. A charge

of cheating was shrieked out by an excited woman playing bridge. Chaos

came again. Men and women sprang to their feet to look, and crowded to

the centre of trouble. There were words of eager accusation, of fierce

denial, of hot anger. A table was overturned. Gold tinkled to the

floor. Two women--those chiefly concerned--had almost passed beyond

words. It seemed, so agitated were they, and so fierce their looks as

they glared at each other, as if they would actually be fighting; but

cooler counsels urgently intervened, and the disputants were led away,

each grasping her stakes or winnings, each still making angry

assertions. For a little while the inherent vulgarity of the company had

violently broken out; it had set at defiance the thin varnish of

conventional politeness most of them wore.

Geoffrey turned, and pushed his way out of the room, out of the house.

A cold breeze blew on his forehead. The stars were shining.

"Never again!" was his resolution. "Never, never again!"

At that moment the prig in him finally went. He was humble now and

burningly sincere.

He realized his personal responsibility. In the future it must be his

duty, in and out of Parliament, to modify the hideous inequality that

had been exemplified that night. To have this waste, idleness, and

vulgarity--this undisturbed triumph of Moloch and Mammon--by the side of

extreme want and its manifold iniquities, was preposterous, humiliating,

intolerable. The matter must be mended, if that could be. He would

devote his years to the business.

But how to touch those extravagant idlers, the mischievous human

butterflies, the Smart Set? Ah, how?

Dawn had succeeded night. Its greyness was shrinking under the promise

of the sun. The Park gates were being opened as he came to them. He

passed in to walk over the grass, preferring to return that way to

Armingham House while his brain strove and wrestled with teeming

problems.

Sudden inexplicable happiness seized him. He felt momentary lightness

of heart. His mood of depression went. He felt surprisingly hopeful.

There must be a fine ending to all these quandaries. But why was he so

hopeful? He could not tell.

The reason was sufficiently simple. June, in her hour of deepest gloom,

was encouraged by the sight of the fairies; and her joy at seeing them

there had permeated--had glorified--him.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*PROGRESS*

Fairyland had begun to return to London.

The meeting of those elves with June was historic--an occasion for

joyance, and they rejoiced. With songs, dances, and laughter they

expressed their happiness. They ran gentle riot for a time.

Hyde Park took to them at once. Birds congregated; park-keepers,

wondering why, came too. But none so blind as park-keepers. The

bewildered creatures scratched heads, tugged at moustaches, and tried to

reason it out; but of course they could not, so they weakly went away

and forgot the wonder.

The fairies, after their excusable interval of rings and roundelays,

winged to their headquarters in Paradise Court. Bim, unblessed with

powers of flight, had to follow at the leisurely pace of a dray-horse,

which was contentedly dragging barrels of beer eastwards. He slept and

dreamed peacefully in a nosebag for most of the way.

June speedily decided how to use these her recruits.

There were the pillar-boxes. Their scarlet bravery, punctuating the

drab shabbiness of the streets, had been to her something like

inspiration, glad breaks from London's wide-flung monotony. She would

rather their hue had been less crude, and not always red; but never mind

that! They carried colour, that was virtue in such environment.

She decided to use every pillar-box as the centre for one fairy's

activities. On its smooth convexity a magic dwelling should be built,

round which fairy flowers would flourish. No men would know of the

wonder; but that was their fault; they should use their minds and see.

From every such oasis of light and sweetness the power of Elfdom would

radiate, spread in larger and wider circles till Oberon's reign in

London re-existed. June enjoyed brave visions as she led her pioneers

eastward to the beginning of triumph.

Weeks went by.

The summer grew sultry. The Clerk of the Weather, ensconced in cool

cloudland, harried old England with heat-waves. Streets, courts, and

alleys became almost intolerable. John Bull, with bovine heartiness,

grumbled, swallowed iced drinks, gasped and sweltered. Children whose

playgrounds were the narrow courts and streets endured as best they

could.

The new-come fairies, during those weeks, went through a severe ordeal.

It was a bad business, that dull grind amongst ugly ways and dead

ideals, when the birds and the flowers out in Fairyland were calling.

June watched them, fearful lest they--on whom so much depended--should

falter and return to joys that would welcome them; but they were true;

they did not fail.

What a work they did! To describe it were to write volumes! The Lord

Mayor's new organization--Titania's Bodyguard--was rapidly getting into

being, testing its cog-wheels, preparing to buzz. The fairies helped it

with wands and will.

There was everywhere infinite need for elf-work, therefore the effects

of that little company seemed by comparison but limited. It was,

however, great and real; so great and real and gracious that mayors,

aldermen, and councillors, responsible for the welfare of the districts

blessed, found their heads swelling. They thought this state of

betterment was due to them--the blockheads! June, for reasons, was

content they should enjoy what they could of the credit. She was

nothing if not politic.