_BACK IN LONDON._
IT was a foggy November afternoon; the color of the surrounding
atmosphere was almost as yellow as the gorgeous damask hangings which
draped Mr. Clifford's handsome drawing-room. Our friend Blanche was
wandering listlessly up and down the room, in one of her most restless
moods, her governess remarked, as she looked up from a piece of
elaborate lace-work which was growing rapidly under her diligent
fingers.
It was the usual hour for walking, but the unpleasant weather had kept
them indoors. Blanche seemed to find this play-hour extremely dull, and
appeared to have failed in all her efforts to amuse herself. On one of
the couches there lay open a beautiful drawing-room book of engravings,
which she had been looking at, but she knew all the pictures by heart
already, so she soon tired of turning the leaves. Then she went to the
piano to try over some old chorales of her mamma's copying, which she
had found among her music; but Miss Prosser presently remarked that she
might play something more lively on such a dismal day as this, so
Blanche, at last, glided away among the curtains, and stood looking out
on the dense fog. The amber gloom enveloped even the nearest objects, so
there was really nothing to see from the window, though Blanche stood
gazing out intently. But there was a far-away look in her eyes which
seemed to betoken that it was a mental picture which absorbed her.
Miss Prosser again glanced uneasily at her little charge; but this time
she did not speak. Her pupil had been rather a puzzle to her of late,
and she would gladly have shared her thoughts as she stood there. It was
not her habit, however, to elicit confidences of any kind from her
pupils; and, indeed, till quite lately, it had not been necessary in
Blanche Clifford's case. Her nature was so frank and gay that her
thoughts were generally shared by those nearest to her, whether they
were sympathetic listeners or not. But, of late, a change had been
stealing over the little girl. She had grown more quiet and
self-contained than she used to be. Less wayward and troublesome she
certainly was, but her governess sometimes thought, as she looked at
her thoughtful face, that she would gladly welcome back some of the old
boisterous ways which she used to characterize so severely.
Presently Blanche emerged from among the yellow draperies, and, seating
herself on a low stool, looked meditatively into the fire.
"Miss Prosser, I am afraid you will think it a very silly question I'm
going to ask," she said presently, as she threw herself at her
governess' feet, laying her hands on her knees. "Do you think I begin to
get any better at all? I have been trying so hard to be good ever since
I came from Glen Eagle; but it is so difficult," added Blanche, with a
deep sigh. "There now, I tried ever so hard to write that French letter
correctly last night, and yet I had several mistakes to-day, you know."
"My dear child, you are getting morbid. This unpleasant fog has a most
depressing effect, I know. You are a very good child, my dear. There is
no reason to reproach yourself as you do, I assure you. Only this
morning, in my report to your father, I stated that I was pleased with
your progress, and Signor Lesbini was expressing his satisfaction with
you, also," added Miss Prosser, who, however, felt rather disconcerted
by the new _rôle_ she had to play in taking her pupil's part against
herself. It was so unlike the bright, careless Blanche of a few months
ago; and as she glanced at the wistful, upturned face, she noticed that
the outline of the cheek was sharper than of old, and the delicate
tracery of veins on the forehead more visible. Still the child was well
enough, to all appearance, and Miss Prosser began to think that she,
too, must be growing fanciful.
"But you don't see my heart, Miss Prosser, or you would not say I was
good," replied Blanche, looking into her governess' face with a
perplexed gaze. "You have no idea how naughty I felt to-day, when you
decided that we should not go out to walk. I think I feel oftener cross
than I used to do; and yet I try so very hard to be good," sighed
Blanche, despondingly. "Will you tell me, Miss Prosser, if you thought
much about the Lord Jesus Christ, and tried to please Him, when you were
about my age? I wonder whether my mamma did!" continued the little girl,
as she looked musingly into the fire.
"My dear Blanche, of course it is proper that we should lead Christian
lives. You know our parents and sponsors undertook that for us, in
baptism. And one day you will be confirmed, I hope. I should like you to
go up at the same time as your cousin, Lady Matilda. By the way,
Blanche, I think I shall write and ask her mamma if she may come and
spend a day with you. You have hardly seen her since you came home. And
you shall have a whole holiday, and do whatever you like. You quite
deserve it, for you have been a most diligent child lately. We have
really been getting over a great deal of ground. And these harp-lessons,
which your papa is so anxious for you to have, do take up so much time.
Yes, I think I shall write this afternoon and ask the little Lady
Matilda to come on Friday."
Blanche sighed, and continued her meditations among the glowing coals.
She was thinking of another friend whom she would much rather have to
spend the day. One afternoon's ramble in the fir-wood with Morag
Dingwall, she thought, would be worth half-a-dozen walks in the Park
with any Lady Matilda in the world.
These autumn days already began to gather round them that halo which
seems always to surround past periods. The very names and places
connected with those days thrilled Blanche like the music of a song.
But, unlike her usual frank disposition, she never had these names on
her lips, but kept them like a stolen casket of precious gems, only to
be taken out and looked at when alone. So noticeable, indeed, was her
silence concerning Glen Eagle, that Miss Prosser concluded the Highland
experiences were quite out of mind; and she was not sorry, on the whole,
to think that the bond had been so quickly loosened between her pupil
and the little mountaineer.
The maid Ellis was absent on a visit to her friends, or probably her
many garrulous memories of Stratheagle might have broken through
Blanche's reserve; but, as it was, she dwelt silently among her mental
pictures of the Highland glen.
When Signor Lesbini, her music master, was announced, Blanche's thoughts
were far away in the _ben-end_ of Kirsty's cottage. Starting up from her
seat by the fire, she ran to find her music, while the servant placed
her harp in its usual position, and Miss Prosser and the music master
were exchanging stately salutes.
Mr. Clifford was anxious that Blanche's taste for music should be
cultivated in every direction; and these lessons were inserted in the
educational programme by his special desire. Blanche was very anxious
that she should be able to make some pleasant sounds on the harp before
her father came home; and she was succeeding in doing so, to judge from
her master's frequent, soft, "bene,--benissimo, Signorina!"
Miss Prosser, meanwhile retired to a distant corner of the room to write
various small scented notes to her friends. Among others, an invitation
was duly despatched to the small Lady Matilda, asking her to spend a day
with her cousin, and to go to the pantomime in the evening. The latter
part of the programme Miss Prosser kept as a reserve treat for Blanche,
who had never been to a pantomime, and wished very much to see one.
The invitation was duly accepted on behalf of the little Lady Matilda.
She appeared on the day appointed, alighting from her smart pony
carriage, escorted by her maid and footman. She was a lean, dark, sallow
child, very different in coloring and expression from her cousin
Blanche. She always appeared in the most sleek, unruffled state of
tidiness and propriety; she looked, in fact, as if she had come into the
world precisely as she stood--at the same stage of growth, and in the
same faultless toilette. At least such was the reflection which
sometimes rose to Ellis's mind as she surveyed her with half envious,
half contemptuous eyes, side by side with her careless and often
dishevelled little mistress, whose shoulders would somehow get out of
her frocks; and one of whose shoes had been actually known to go
amissing during dinner, being afterwards brought to her, on a silver
tray, by her aunt's solemn butler. Of this terrible _faux pas_, the Lady
Matilda's maid occasionally reminded Ellis when they quarrelled over the
respective merits of their little ladies.
Notwithstanding Miss Prosser's well-meaning efforts to create a
friendship between the cousins, they did not appear to draw to each
other in the least. The earlier hours of the day passed in uneventful
dulness--at least so thought Blanche, who shocked her governess by
yawning twice in her visitor's face, and exhibiting various other tokens
of her want of appreciation of her society. Finally, she disappeared for
a period, and returned with the cook's white kitten rolled in her smart
blue velvet dress--a trophy from among the pots and pans, and showing
too many traces of its former playground to deserve its name of Snow.
The calm little Lady Matilda surveyed her companion's restless movements
with a look of mild surprise, glancing up, now and then, from a piece of
lace-work, on which she was bestowing great thought and care. Miss
Prosser had been admiring it greatly; and commended her diligence in a
way which reflected somewhat on her own pupil's want of that quality,
particularly as regarded needlework.
"But what's the use of it? What do you mean to do with it, Matty?" asked
Blanche, unrolling the elaborate piece of work in question.
"My dear Blanche, you are not always so practical, I am sure," said Miss
Prosser, coming to the rescue. "Do you not know that it is a part of
every young lady's education to be able to sew fancy work? And, besides,
the habit of diligence is so good, my dear Blanche; you ought to
remember that."
"Well; but it seems to me that there is no use of some people being
diligent--about sewing, at all events. Don't you remember these slippers
I sewed for papa, Miss Prosser? He certainly seemed very much pleased
when I gave them to him; and I felt as if I had been really useful in
having made a pair of shoes; and thought it would be so nice to see papa
going about in shoes of my making. But, not long afterwards, I heard him
say to somebody that he detested sewed slippers, and never wore them. I
suppose he had forgotten all about the pair I made for him then,
because I'm sure he would not have wanted to hurt my feelings," added
Blanche pathetically.
The conversation was here interrupted by the servant coming to ask at
what hour the carriage would be required; and then the delightful secret
came out at last. Blanche was in an ecstacy of delight at the prospect
of seeing a pantomime. Some time ago her governess would have checked
her glee as an unbecoming outburst, but now she hailed it as a proof
that her little charge was regaining that elasticity of spirit which she
had somewhat lost of late, and she congratulated herself on the success
of her efforts for her amusement.
The pantomime that evening was "The Babes in the Wood," though it
certainly contained marvellous variations not suggested by the old
English ballad which it was meant to illustrate. In fact the Babes
themselves were hardly distinguishable, so surrounded were they by
moving troops of wee green folk, peeping out in all directions, and
marvellously suspended from the boughs of trees. Indeed, it is doubtful
whether the original robins could have found a branch throughout the
forest to hop on--so covered were they by dazzling fairies performing
all manner of wonderful evolutions in mid-air.
Lady Matilda surveyed the marvellous scene with considerably more repose
of manner than her cousin. She was quite an old frequenter of such
exhibitions, so she was able to compare it with yet more gorgeous
performances, and to feel pretty sure what was coming next.
But to Blanche, the pantomime had all the charm of novelty. She stood
entranced, gazing at the stage with eager, upturned face. More than one
frequenter of the theatre observed with amusement the eager little girl,
who was not content to view the scene from her comfortable chair in the
box, but kept leaning forward, in a bewilderment of happiness,
notwithstanding her cousin's mild suggestions that she would be very
tired before the end of the play if she did not sit down.
Every scene was more charming and wonderful than the one which went
before. The fun among the wee green folks was getting more fast and
furious every minute. Blanche thought they looked like dragon-flies in
the sunshine, as they went flitting about. It had not occurred to her
that they were real flesh and blood creatures like herself, till,
suddenly, one dazzling little elf fell from a giddy height, on to the
stage. For a moment, Blanche fancied that the descent of the fairy was
all part of the fun; but presently a shrill cry of human pain, and a few
compassionate voices from the crowd below, caused her to realize that
underneath the mass of gauze and gilt there was a poor body in pain.
In an instant the poor crushed fairy was borne away from the bright
scene, and the fun went on again in mad hurly-burly. But, somehow,
Blanche's eyes had grown dim, and she shrank back on her seat with a
shudder.
"Why, what's the matter, cousin Blanche?" whispered the imperturbable
little Lady Matilda, as she surveyed her cousin's movement with mild
surprise.
"Oh, didn't you see, Matty? I'm afraid it must be awfully hurt. It fell
from such a height--the fairy, I mean. Didn't you hear it cry? it
sounded so dreadful when we were al' so happy. I never dreamt they could
feel."
Lady Matilda showed a row of pearly teeth as she replied, "Why, yes, of
course. How odd you are, Blanche. Didn't you know they are poor
children, who do all this for money? I should think they must be quite
used to falling by this time."
Blanche was horror-struck. She tried to avert her eyes from the stage,
but, in spite of herself, she felt her glance riveted on the hovering
fairies, not in delight now, but in terror, lest another of them should
fall.
"Little girls who do it for bread," Blanche repeated to herself, as she
leant back on her seat, and covered her face with her hands. And as she
sat thus, her thoughts went slipping back to the Highland glen. She
remembered the elfish-looking little form that gazed in upon her at the
window of the old castle, on that autumn morning; and she shuddered to
think how, under other circumstances, her friend Morag might have been
such a victim. Then she began to think of the poor fairy; she wondered
whether she was dreadfully hurt, and resolved that she should beg Miss
Prosser to make inquiries before they left the theatre.
It was with a feeling of relief that she saw the curtain drop at last,
and the people begin to move away. Then she made an eager appeal that
they should go and ask after the child. The request seemed utterly
outrageous when first presented to Miss Prosser's mind; but Blanche was
so urgent that, at last, she consented to dispatch the maid to make
inquiries behind the scenes. Then Blanche began to plead to be allowed
to go, too. She was so very eager that her governess, at last, after
many injunctions to the maid, gave a reluctant consent, arranging that
she should wait in the box with the little Lady Matilda, who seemed to
view her impetuous cousin's movements with unfeigned astonishment, not
unmixed with annoyance.
Blanche was all trembling with excitement when the maid took her hand,
and they began to thread their way through the corridors, which were
getting emptied now. Presently they met a man who was putting out the
lights, and the maid stopped to ask where they could go to inquire after
the hurt fairy. Having got directions how to proceed, they went on
through narrower and less luxurious passages--so dark and dingy-looking
that Blanche began to feel afraid, and grasped her maid's hand more
tightly. They came at last to a room, the door of which stood half open.
They were hesitating whether this was the room to which they had been
directed, when they heard a thin, feeble voice within, moaning, as if in
pain.
"That's the fairy, I'm sure, Grant," whispered Blanche, eagerly. "Do
just peep in and see."
The maid pushed open the door and walked a few steps forward. On the
floor stood a paraffine lamp which shed a dim light throughout the
room, showing a heap of matting in the corner, where a poor, emaciated
child lay. Gleaming through the half darkness, Blanche could distinguish
a pale, sharp, unchildlike face, that rested on a thin shrivelled hand.
A wretched mud-colored rag seemed to be her sole garment; and, at her
side, there stood a pair of big boots, or what served for them, but they
seemed almost detached pieces of leather now; besides being of a
considerably larger size than the wearer would require. Lying on a
table, in another corner of the room, was the gauzy fairy gear, at which
Blanche glanced sadly, thinking it contrasted strangely with the
wretched rags for which it had been exchanged.
On hearing the sound of footsteps, the child started up, and looked
wildly round, as she exclaimed, "O mother! you'll not beat me this time!
I'm so bad--it's my leg! Tim said he never saw nothing like the fall I
got! Oh, my! it hurts awful!" and the child began to writhe in pain.
"It is not your mother--poor thing! But I daresay your mother will be
here before long," said the maid, in a compassionate tone, as she
stooped down to look at the child.
In a moment, Blanche was kneeling beside the heap of matting, her
pretty blue opera cloak falling on the grimy floor as she took the
child's little black fingers in her hands, saying, eagerly, "O poor,
poor fairy!--little girl, I mean," she added, for she could not yet
divest herself of the idea of the gauzy wings and woven spangles,--"what
a dreadful fall you had. I'm afraid you must be very much hurt!"
The child drew her hand away, and looked sharply at Blanche. Presently
she nodded, saying, "I know; you're the pretty little girl what looked
so pleased at the pantomime. We noticed you--Tim and me. Tim's the boy
what hangs the lamps, you know. He's gone to fetch mother; but she
aren't a-comin' yet. Drinkin' again, most likely--she's always at it."
Just then a loud-voiced, boisterous woman came staggering into the room.
"Well, young 'un, so you've been and gone and done it again! Didn't I
tell you to mind your feet, you little idiot!" and the woman, stooping
down, seized the child and shook her roughly.
"Oh, mother, mother, don't! I couldn't help it, noways--my head got so
giddy. Oh, I'm so bad!" the weak voice wailed out; and presently the
little face got more pale and pinched than before, and the poor fairy
fainted away.
"You've killed her, you have--you cruel, cruel woman! How dare you speak
so?" said Blanche, quivering with indignation, as she sprang to her feet
from beside the matting where she had been kneeling, and almost sprang
at the half-tipsy woman.
"Ho, ho! pretty bird; and who may you be? and what's your business, I'd
like to know, a-comin' between me and my brat!" shouted the woman,
folding her arms, and glaring at the little girl.
The maid stepped forward immediately, and said, in a quiet, firm tone,
"Come, Miss Clifford, we must go at once." And then turning to the
woman, she added, "We merely came to make inquiries after the poor
child. We saw her get a dreadful fall a short time ago. I fear she is
very much hurt. I really think you will do well to look after your
child," added Grant, as she took Blanche's hand, and prepared to go. She
glanced at the poor fairy, who was still lying unconscious, and
discovering a jug of water standing near, the maid sprinkled some on the
child's face and hands, and presently she began to show signs of
returning consciousness.
"Now, Miss Clifford, we must really go at once," whispered the maid to
the reluctant Blanche. "We've stayed much too long already. I don't know
what Miss Prosser will think."
The woman still stood with folded arms gazing, open-mouthed, at the
group. Grant again pointed to the poor little creature, reminding her
that she should look after her child. And, at last, after a lingering,
pitying glance at the poor little cowering fairy in her rags, Blanche
suffered herself to be led away.
They found Miss Prosser in a state of great anxiety and considerable
indignation at their delay. The maid explained the matter in a few
prompt words, while Blanche stood by the little Lady Matilda graphically
describing the sad, disenchanting scene which had followed her first
visit to the gorgeous fairy pantomime.
And thus it happened that Miss Prosser's well-meant effort for the
amusement of her little pupil, ended in Blanche Clifford getting a
sorrowful glimpse behind the tinsel and the glitter, which only served
to deepen the thoughtful shadow that had, of late, been stealing across
her sunny, childish brow.