WINGS AND CATS.
"And all their cattish gestures plainly spoke
They thought the affair they'd come upon no joke."
CHARLES LAMB.
Some days went on, and nothing more was said by the children about the
adventures which had so puzzled poor Hugh. After a while he seemed to
lose the wish to talk about them to little Jeanne; or rather, he began
to feel as if he could not, that the words would not come, or that if
they did, they would not tell what he wanted. He thought about the
strange things he had seen very often, but it was as if he had read of
them rather than as if he had seen and heard them, or as if they had
happened to some one else. Whenever he saw Dudu and Houpet and the rest
of the pets, he looked at them at first in a half dreamy way, wondering
if they too were puzzled about it all, or if, being really fairies, they
did not find anything to puzzle them! The only person (for, after all,
he could often not prevent himself from looking upon all the animals as
persons)--the only person who he somehow felt sure _did_ understand him,
was Marcelline, and this was a great satisfaction. She said nothing; she
almost never even smiled in what Jeanne called her "funny" way; but
there was just a very tiny little undersound in the tone of her voice
sometimes, a little wee smile in her eyes more than on her lips, that
told Hugh that, fairy or no fairy, old Marcelline knew all about it, and
it pleased him to think so.
One night when Hugh was warmly tucked up in bed Marcelline came in as
usual before he went to sleep to put out his light.
"There's been no moonlight for a good while Marcelline, has there?" he
said.
"No, Monsieur, there has not," said Marcelline.
"Will it be coming back soon?" asked Hugh.
"Do you like it so much, my child?" said the old nurse. She had a funny
way of sometimes answering a question by asking another.
"Yes," said Hugh. "At least, of course when I'm fast asleep it doesn't
matter to me if it's moonlight or not. But you know what I like it for,
Marcelline, and you said the other day that I hadn't half seen the
tapestry castle, and I want very much to see it, Marcelline, only I'd
like Jeanne to be with me; for I don't think I could tell her well about
the fairy things if she hadn't been with me. She didn't seem to
understand the words, and I don't think I could get the right ones to
tell, do you know, Marcelline?"
He half sat up in bed, resting his head on his elbow, which was leaning
on the pillow, and looking up in the old woman's face with his earnest
blue eyes. Marcelline shook her head slowly.
"No," she said, "you're right. The words wouldn't come, and if they did,
it would be no use. You're older than Mademoiselle Jeanne, Monsieur
Hugh, and it's different for her. But it doesn't matter--the days bring
their own pleasures and interests, which the moonlight wouldn't suit.
You wouldn't have cared for a dinner like what you have every day when
you were listening to the song of the swan?"
"No, certainly not," said Hugh. "I see you do understand, Marcelline,
better than anybody. It must be as I said; there must be two of me, and
two of Jeanne, and two of you, and----"
"And two of everything," said Marcelline; "and the great thing is to
keep each of the twos in its right place."
She smiled now, right out, and was turning away with the light in her
hand, when Hugh called after her,
"_Will_ the moonlight nights come again soon, Marcelline? Do tell me.
I'm sure you know."
"Have a little patience," said the old nurse, "you shall be told. Never
fear."
And, a little inclined to be _im_patient, Hugh was nevertheless obliged
to shut his eyes and go to sleep. There was no moonlight _that_ night
any way.
But not many nights after there came a great surprise.
Curiously enough Hugh had gone to sleep _that_ night without any thought
of tapestry adventures. He and Jeanne had been very merry indeed; they
had been dressing up, and playing delightful tricks--such as tapping at
the salon door, and on being told to come in, making their appearance
like two very, very old peasants, hobbling along on sticks--Jeanne with
a cap and little knitted shawl of Marcelline's, Hugh with a blouse and
cotton nightcap, so that Jeanne's mother quite jumped at first sight of
the quaint little figures. Then Jeanne dressed up like a fairy, and
pretended to turn Hugh into a guinea-pig, and they got Nibble up into
the nursery, and Hugh hid in a cupboard, and tried to make his voice
sound as if it came from Nibble, and the effect of his ventriloquism was
so comical that the children laughed till they actually rolled on the
floor. And they had hardly got over the laughing--though Marcelline did
her best to make them sit still for half an hour or so before going to
bed--when it was time to say good-night and compose themselves to sleep.
"I shan't be able to go to sleep for ever so long," said Hugh; "I shall
stay awake all the night, I believe."
"Oh no, you won't," said Marcelline, with a smile, as she went off with
the light.
And strange to say, hardly had she shut the door when Hugh did fall
asleep--soundly asleep. He knew no more about who he was, or where he
was, or anything--he just slept as soundly as a little top, without
dreaming or starting in the least, for--dear me, I don't know for how
long!--any way it must have been for several hours, when--in the strange
sudden way in which once or twice before it had happened to him to awake
in this curious tapestry room, he opened his eyes as if startled by an
electric shock, and gazed out before him, as much awake as if he had
never been asleep in his life.
What had awakened him, and what did he see? He could hardly have told
what had awakened him but for what he _now_ saw and heard. A voice, a
very well-known little voice, was speaking to him. "Chéri dear," it
said, "Chéri, I have come for you. And see what I have got for you." And
there before him stood little Jeanne--but Jeanne as he had never seen
her before. She seemed all glistening and shining--her dress was of some
kind of sparkling white, and round her waist was a lovely silver
girdle--her sleeves too were looped up with silver bands, and, prettiest
of all, two snow-white wings were fastened to her shoulders. She looked
like a fairy queen, or like a silvery bird turned into a little girl.
And in her hand she held another pair of wings exactly like her own.
Hugh gazed at her.
"Have you been dressing up?" he said, "and in the middle of the night?
oh how funny! But O, Jeanne, how pretty you look!"
Jeanne laughed merrily. "Come, get up quick, then," she said, "and I'll
make you pretty too. Only I can't promise you a head-dress like mine,
Chéri."
She gave her head a little toss, which made Hugh look at it. And now he
noticed that on it she wore something very funny indeed, which at first,
being black--for Jeanne's hair, you know, was black too--had not caught
his attention. At first he thought it was some kind of black silk hood
or cap, such as he had seen worn by some of the peasants in Switzerland,
but looking again--no, it was nothing of the kind--the head-dress had a
head of its own, and as Hugh stared, it cocked it pertly on one side in
a way Hugh would have known again anywhere. Yes, it was Dudu, sitting on
Jeanne's smooth little head as comfortably as if he had always been
intended to serve the purpose of a bonnet.
"Dudu!" exclaimed Hugh.
"Of course," said Jeanne. "You didn't suppose we could have gone without
him, Chéri."
"Gone where?" said Hugh, quite sitting up in bed by this time, but still
a good deal puzzled.
"Up into the tapestry castle," said Jeanne, "where we've been wishing so
to go, though we had to wait for the moonlight, you know."
The word made Hugh glance towards the window, for, for the first time he
began to wonder how it was his room was so bright. Yes, it was streaming
in, in a beautiful flood, and the tapestry on the walls had taken again
the lovely tints which by daylight were no longer visible.
Hugh sprang out of bed. "Are these for me?" he said, touching the wings
which Jeanne held.
"Certainly," she replied. "Aren't they pretty? Much nicer than your
wall-climbers, Chéri. I chose them. Turn round and let me put them on."
She slipped them over his head--they seemed to be fastened to a band,
and in a moment they had fitted themselves perfectly into their place.
They were so light that Hugh was hardly conscious of them, and yet he
could move them about--backwards and forwards, swiftly or slowly, just
as he chose--and as easily as he could move his arms. Hugh was extremely
pleased with them, but he looked at his little night-gown with sudden
dismay.
"You said you'd make me look pretty too, Jeanne," he observed. "I don't
care for myself--boys never care about being grandly dressed--but I
shall look rather funny beside you, shan't I?"
"Wait a minute," said Jeanne, "you're not ready yet. I'm going to powder
you. Shut your eyes."
He did so, and therefore could not see what Jeanne did, but he felt a
sort of soft puff fly all over him, and opening his eyes again at
Jeanne's bidding, saw, to his amazement, that he too was now dressed in
the same pretty shiny stuff as his little cousin. They looked just like
two Christmas angels on the top of a frosted Twelfth Night cake.
"There now," said Jeanne, "aren't you pleased? You don't know how nice
you look. Now, Dudu we're quite ready. Are we to fly up to the castle?"
Dudu nodded his wise head. Jeanne took Hugh's hand, and without Hugh's
quite knowing how it was managed, they all flew up the wall together,
and found themselves standing on the castle terrace. There was no light
streaming out from the windows this time, and the peacocks were quite
motionless at their post.
"Are they asleep?" said Hugh.
"Perhaps," said Dudu, speaking for the first time. "They lead a
monotonous life, you see. But there is no occasion to disturb them."
They were standing just in front of the door, by which, the last time,
Hugh had entered the long lighted-up passage. As they stood waiting, the
door slowly opened, but to Hugh's great surprise the inside was
perfectly different. A very large white-painted hall was revealed to
them. The ceiling was arched, and looking up, it seemed so very high,
that it gave one more the feeling of being the sky than the roof of a
house. This great hall was perfectly empty, but yet it did not feel
chilly, and a faint pleasant perfume stole through it, as if not far off
sweet-scented flowers and plants were growing.
Hugh and Jeanne stood hand-in-hand and looked around them. The door by
which they had entered had closed noiselessly, and when they turned to
see the way by which they had come in, no sign of a door was there. In
the panels of white wood which formed the walls, it was somehow
concealed.
"How shall we ever get out again?" said Hugh.
But Jeanne only laughed.
"We needn't trouble about that," she said. "We got back all right the
last time. What I want to know is what are we to do next? I see no way
out of this hall, and though it's rather nice, it's not very amusing.
Dudu, I wish you would sit still--you keep giving little juggles on my
head that are very uncomfortable, and make me feel as if I had a hat on
that was always tumbling off."
"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Jeanne," replied Dudu with great
dignity. "You really do say such foolish things sometimes that it is
impossible to restrain one's feelings altogether. No way out of this
hall, do you say, when it is the entrance to everywhere?"
"But how are we to get to everywhere, or anywhere?" asked Jeanne.
"Really!" said Dudu, as if quite out of patience. "When you are running
up and down the terrace, in your other life, you don't stand still at
one end and say, 'Dudu, how am I to get to the other?' You move your
feet, which were given you for the purpose. And in present
circumstances, instead of your feet, you naturally----"
"Move our wings," cried Jeanne. "Oh, of course. We're to fly. But you
see, Dudu, we're accustomed to having feet, and to running and walking
with them, but having wings is something new."
Dudu still looked rather contemptuous, and Hugh gave a little pull to
Jeanne's hand.
"Let's set off," he said.
"But where are we to go to?" asked Jeanne.
Dudu gave a little croak. "Really," he said again. "What am I here for?"
"Oh, to show us the way, of course," said Jeanne. "You're going to steer
us, I suppose, on the top of my head. Well, we're quite ready."
Off they set. The flying this time was really quite a pleasure in
itself, and the higher up they rose the easier and swifter it seemed to
become. The hall was lighted from the roof--at least the light seemed to
come down from among the arches so high up that their form was only
vaguely seen. But whether it was daylight or what, the children did not
know, and perhaps it did not occur to them to think. They just flew
softly on, till suddenly Dudu veered to one side and stopped them in
front of a low carved door with a step before it just large enough for
them to stand on. They had not noticed this door before--the hall was so
very large and the door in comparison so small, and the step before it
had looked just like a little jutting-out ledge in the carving, till
they were close to it.
"Don't turn round," said Dudu, "for fear it should make you giddy. Push
the door and go in at once."
The children did so. The door yielded, and then immediately--they were
such well-behaved doors in the tapestry palace--closed behind them. And
what the children now saw was a small winding stair, the lowest steps of
which were close to their feet.
"Here," said Dudu, "I will leave you. You can't go wrong."
He flew down from Jeanne's head as he spoke. Jeanne gave her head a
little shake; she seemed not altogether sorry to be freed from her
head-dress, for a head-dress with _feelings_ is a somewhat uncomfortable
affair.
"I don't mind you getting off my head, Dudu," she said. "But you might
take a turn on Chéri's for a change. I think it's rather shabby of you
to leave us already."
Hugh looked at Jeanne in surprise. He could not understand how it was
that Jeanne ventured to speak so coolly to the raven--she who in their
daylight life was so frightened of him that she would hardly go near him
for fear he should turn her into a mouse, or in some other way bewitch
her!
"I think it's very good-natured of Monsieur Dudu to have come with us so
far," he said. "We could never have got into the tapestry castle at all
but for him."
"No," said Dudu, "that you certainly wouldn't." But he didn't seem
offended. "Good-bye," he said, "and if you're in any trouble remember
the former arrangement. Whistle three times."
"Good-bye," said Hugh and Jeanne. But as they said it, their looks met
each other in astonishment--there was no Dudu there--he had already
disappeared.
"What a queer way he has of going off all of a sudden," said Jeanne.
"And what are we to do now?" said Hugh.
"Go up the stairs, of course, till we find where they lead to," said
Jeanne.
"It will be rather awkward with our wings," said Hugh. "The stair is so
very narrow and twisting."
Jeanne made an exclamation.
"Wings!" she said. "Why, Chéri, your wings are gone!"
"And so are yours!" said Hugh.
Both the children stared at each other and turned round to look at their
shoulders, as if they could hardly believe it.
"It's too bad," said Jeanne. "It's all Dudu."
"Never mind," said Hugh. "He wouldn't have taken them away if we had
been going to need them again; and really, Jeanne, the more I think of
it the more sure I am we could never have got up that stair with our
wings on."
"Perhaps not," said Jeanne. "Any way _I_ couldn't have got up it with
Dudu on my head. But let's go on, Chéri. Are you frightened? I'm not a
bit."
"I'm not, either," said Hugh. "Still, it's a very queer place. I wish
Dudu, or Houpet, or some of them, had come with us!"
They set off on their climb up the steep spiral staircase. So narrow it
was, that going hand-in-hand was out of the question.
"It's worse than the staircase down to the frogs' country," said Jeanne.
Hugh looked at her triumphantly.
"There now, Jeanne, you _do_ remember," he said. "I believe it was just
pretence your saying you thought I had dreamt it all."
"No," said Jeanne, "it wasn't. You don't understand, Chéri. I'm
moonlight Jeanne, now--when we were having the dolls' feast I was
daylight Jeanne. And you know it's never moonlight in the day-time."
"Well, certainly, I _don't_ understand," said Hugh. "And one thing
particularly--how is it that in the moon-time you remember about the
day-time, if in the day you forget all about the other."
"I don't exactly forget," said Jeanne, "but it spoils things to mix them
together. And lots of things would be _quite_ spoilt if you took them
into the regular daylight. I fancy, too, one can see farther in the
moonlight--one can see more ways."
She was standing at the foot of the stair, a step or two higher than
Hugh, and the soft light, which still, in some mysterious way, seemed to
come down from above--though, looking up the spiral stair, its top
seemed lost in gloom--fell on her pretty little face. Her hair had
fallen back over her shoulders and lay dark on her pure white shiny
dress; there was a look in her eyes which Hugh had never noticed before,
as if she could see a long way off. Hugh looked at her earnestly.
"Jeanne," he said, "you're a perfect puzzle. I do wonder whether you're
half a fairy, or an angel, or a dream. I do hope you're not a dream when
you're in the moonlight. But, oh dear, I cannot understand."
"Do leave off trying to understand, Chéri," said Jeanne, "and let us
amuse ourselves. I always love _you_, Chéri, whatever I am, don't I?"
She turned towards him brightly, with such a merry smile on her face
that Hugh could not help smiling too.
"Do let us go on quickly," she said; "I do so want to see where this
stair goes to."
"Let me go first. I'm a boy, you know, and it's right I should go first
in case of meeting anything that might frighten you," said Hugh.
So he stepped up in front of Jeanne, and they slowly made their way.
It was impossible to go fast. Never was there such a twisty little
stair. Here and there, too, it got darker, so that they could only just
find their way, step by step. And it really seemed as if they had
climbed a very long way, when from above came faintly and softly the
sound of a plaintive "mew." "Mew, mew," it said again, whoever the "it"
was, and then stopped.
The children looked at each other.
"Cats!" they said at the same instant.
"It's just as well," said Hugh, "that none of the animals did come with
us, as so many of them are birds."
Another step or two and the mystery was explained. They had reached the
top of the turret stair; it led them into a little hall, all, like the
great hall below, painted white. It looked perfectly pure and clean, as
if it had only been painted the day before, and yet there was a
curiously _old_ look about it too, and a faint scent of dried rose
leaves seemed to be in the air.
There was a door in this little hall, exactly opposite the top of the
stair, and at each side of the door was an arm-chair, also all white,
and with a white satin cushion instead of a seat. And on each of these
chairs sat a most beautiful white cat. The only colour in the hall was
the flash of their green eyes, as they turned them full on the two
children.
Jeanne crept a little closer to Hugh. But there was no reason for fear.
The cats were most amiably disposed.
"Mew!" said the one on the right-hand chair.
"Mew!" said the one on the left-hand chair.
Then they looked at each other for a moment, and at last, seeming to
have made up their minds, each held out his right paw. Something in the
way they did it reminded Hugh and Jeanne of Dudu when he stood on one
leg, and stuck out the other like a walking-stick.
"Mew!" they said again, both together this time. And then in a clear,
though rather mewey voice, the right-hand cat spoke to the children.
"Madame is expecting you," he said.
The children did not know what else to say, so they said, "Thank you."
"She has been waiting a good while," said the left-hand cat.
"I'm very sorry to have kept her waiting," said Hugh, feeling Jeanne
nudge him. "I hope she has not been waiting very long?"
"Oh no," said the right-hand cat, "not long; not above three hundred
years."
Jeanne gave a start of astonishment.
"Three hundred----" "years," she was going to say, but the left-hand cat
interrupted her.
"You are not to be surprised," he said, very hastily, and Jeanne could
not quite make out if he was frightened or angry, or a little of both.
"You must not _think_ of being surprised. Nobody is ever surprised
here."
"No one is ever surprised here," repeated the right-hand cat. "This is
the Castle of Whiteness, you know. You are sure you have nothing
coloured about you?" he added, anxiously.
Instinctively both the children put their hands up to their heads.
"Only our hair," they said.
"Mine's light-brown, you see," said Hugh.
"And mine's bl----" Jeanne was saying, but the cats, both speaking
together this time, stopped her with a squeal of horror.
"Oh, oh, oh!" they said. "Where are your manners? You must never mention
such a word. Your hair, Mademoiselle, is _shadowy_. That is the proper
expression."
Jeanne was annoyed, and did not speak. Hugh felt himself bound to defend
her from the charge of bad manners.
"You needn't be so sharp," he said to the cats; "your eyes are as green
as they can be."
"Green doesn't count," said the right-hand cat, coolly.
"And how were we to know that?" said Hugh.
"I don't know," said the left-hand cat.
"Well, but can't you be sensible?" said Hugh, who didn't feel inclined
to give in to two cats.
"Perhaps we might be if we tried," said the right-hand cat. "But----"
A sudden sound interrupted him. It was as if some one had moved a piece
of furniture with squeaking castors.
"Madame's turning her wheel," said the left-hand cat. "Now's the time."
Both cats got down from their chairs, and each, standing on their hind
legs, proceeded to open his side of the door between the chairs--or
"doors" I should almost say, for it was a double-hinged one, opening in
the middle, and the funny thing about it was that one side opened
outwards, and the other inwards, so that at first, unless you were
standing just exactly in the middle, you did not see very clearly into
the inside.