distance at which he still stood he could see nothing at all. His
belief then was that there was either a tramp in a drunken sleep,
possibly two tramps, or a hare caught in a wire, or possibly even a
fox. Having no stick with him he did not care, at first, to go any
nearer, and contented himself with urging on his terrier. This was not
very courageous of him, as he admits, and was quite unsuccessful. No
verbal excitations would draw Strap nearer to the furze-bush. Finally
the dog threw up his head, showed his master the white arcs of his
eyes and fairly howled at the moon. At this dismal sound Mr. Beckwith
owned himself alarmed. It was, as he describes it--though he is an
Englishman--"uncanny." The time, he owns, the aspect of the night,
loneliness of the spot (midway up the steep slope of a chalk down),
the mysterious shroud of darkness upon shadowed and distant objects
and flood of white light upon the foreground--all these circumstances
worked upon his imagination.
He was indeed for retreat; but here Strap was of a different mind.
Nothing would excite him to advance, but nothing either could induce
him to retire. Whatever he saw in the furze-bush Strap must continue
to observe. In the face of this Beckwith summoned up his courage, took
it in both hands and went much nearer to the furze-bushes, much
nearer, that is, than Strap the terrier could bring himself to go.
Then, he tells us, he did see a pair of bright eyes far in the
thicket, which seemed to be fixed upon his, and by degrees also a pale
and troubled face. Here, then, was neither fox nor drunken tramp, but
some human creature, man, woman, or child, fully aware of him and of
the dog.
Beckwith, who now had surer command of his feelings, spoke aloud
asking, "What are you doing there? What's the matter?" He had no
reply. He went one pace nearer, being still on his guard, and spoke
again. "I won't hurt you," he said. "Tell me what the matter is." The
eyes remained unwinkingly fixed upon his own. No movement of the
features could be discerned. The face, as he could now make it out,
was very small--"about as big as a big wax doll's," he says, "of a
longish oval, very pale." He adds, "I could see its neck now, no
thicker than my wrist; and where its clothes began. I couldn't see any
arms, for a good reason. I found out afterward that they had been
bound behind its back. I should have said immediately, 'That's a girl
in there,' if it had not been for one or two plain considerations. It
had not the size of what we call a girl, nor the face of what we mean
by a child. It was, in fact, neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. Strap had
known that from the beginning, and now I was of Strap's opinion
myself."
Advancing with care, a step at a time, Beckwith presently found
himself within touching distance of the creature. He was now standing
with furze half-way up his calves, right above it, stooping to look
closely at it; and as he stooped and moved, now this way, now that, to
get a clearer view, so the crouching thing's eyes gazed up to meet
his, and followed them about, as if safety lay only in that
never-shifting, fixed regard. He had noticed, and states in his
narrative, that Strap had seemed quite unable, in the same way, to
take his eyes off the creature for a single second.
He could now see that, of whatever nature it might be, it was, in form
and features, most exactly a young woman. The features, for instance,
were regular and fine. He remarks in particular upon the chin. All
about its face, narrowing the oval of it, fell dark glossy curtains of
hair, very straight and glistening with wet. Its garment was cut in a
plain circle round the neck, and short off at the shoulders, leaving
the arms entirely bare. This garment, shift, smock or gown, as he
indifferently calls it, appeared thin, and was found afterward to be
of a grey colour, soft and clinging to the shape. It was made loose,
however, and gathered in at the waist. He could not see the
creature's legs, as they were tucked under her. Her arms, it has been
related, were behind her back. The only other things to be remarked
upon were the strange stillness of one who was plainly suffering, and
might well be alarmed, and appearance of expectancy, a dumb appeal;
what he himself calls rather well "an ignorant sort of impatience,
like that of a sick animal."
"Come," Beckwith now said, "let me help you up. You will get cold if
you sit here. Give me your hand, will you?" She neither spoke nor
moved; simply continued to search his eyes. Strap, meantime, was still
trembling and whining. But now, when he stooped yet lower to take her
forcibly by the arms, she shrank back a little way and turned her
head, and he saw to his horror that she had a great open wound in the
side of her neck--from which, however, no blood was issuing. Yet it
was clearly a fresh wound, recently made.
He was greatly shocked. "Good God," he said, "there's been foul play
here," and whipped out his handkerchief. Kneeling, he wound it several
times round her slender throat and knotted it as tightly as he could;
then, without more ado, he took her up in his arms, under the knees
and round the middle, and carried her down the slope to the road. He
describes her as of no weight at all. He says it was "exactly like
carrying an armful of feathers about." "I took her down the hill and
through the hedge at the bottom as if she had been a pillow."
Here it was that he discovered that her wrists were bound together
behind her back with a kind of plait of thongs so intricate that he
was quite unable to release them. He felt his pockets for his knife,
but could not find it, and then recollected suddenly that he should
have a new one with him, the third prize in a whist tournament in
which he had taken part that evening. He found it wrapped in paper in
his overcoat pocket, with it cut the thongs and set the little
creature free. She immediately responded--the first sign of animation
which she had displayed--by throwing both her arms about his body and
clinging to him in an ecstasy. Holding him so that, as he says, he
felt the shuddering go all through her, she suddenly lowered her head
and touched his wrist with her cheek. He says that instead of being
cold to the touch, "like a fish," as she had seemed to be when he
first took her out of the furze, she was now "as warm as a toast, like
a child."
So far he had put her down for "a foreigner," convenient term for
defining something which you do not quite understand. She had none of
his language, evidently; she was undersized, some three feet six
inches by the look of her,[4] and yet perfectly proportioned. She was
most curiously dressed in a frock cut to the knee, and actually in
nothing else at all. It left her bare-legged and bare-armed, and was
made, as he puts it himself, of stuff like cobweb: "those dusty,
drooping kind which you put on your finger to stop bleeding." He could
not recognise the web, but was sure that it was neither linen nor
cotton. It seemed to stick to her body wherever it touched a prominent
part: "you could see very well, to say nothing of feeling, that she
was well made and well nourished." She ought, as he judged, to be a
child of five years old, "and a feather-weight at that"; but he felt
certain that she must be "much more like sixteen." It was that, I
gather, which made him suspect her of being something outside
experience. So far, then, it was safe to call her a foreigner: but he
was not yet at the end of his discoveries.
[Footnote 4: Her exact measurements are stated to have been as
follows: height from crown to sole, 3 feet 5 inches. Round waist, 15
inches; round bust, 21 inches; round wrist, 3-1/2 inches; round neck,
7-1/2 inches.]
Heavy footsteps, coming from the direction of Wishford, in due time
proved to be those of Police Constable Gulliver, a neighbour of
Beckwith's and guardian of the peace in his own village. He lifted his
lantern to flash it into the traveller's eyes, and dropped it again
with a pleasant "good evening."
He added that it was inclined to be showery, which was more than
true, as it was at the moment raining hard. With that, it seems, he
would have passed on.
But Beckwith, whether smitten by self-consciousness of having been
seen with a young woman in his arms at a suspicious hour of the night
by the village policeman, or bursting perhaps with the importance of
his affair, detained Gulliver. "Just look at this," he said boldly.
"Here's a pretty thing to have found on a lonely road. Foul play
somewhere, I'm afraid," he then exhibited his burden to the lantern
light.
To his extreme surprise, however, the constable, after exploring the
beam of light and all that it contained for some time in silence,
reached out his hand for the knife which Beckwith still held open. He
looked at it on both sides, examined the handle and gave it back.
"Foul play, Mr. Beckwith?" he said laughing. "Bless you, they use
bigger tools than that. That's just a toy, the like of that. Cut your
hand with it, though, already, I see." He must have noticed the
handkerchief, for as he spoke the light from his lantern shone full
upon the face and neck of the child, or creature, in the young man's
arms, so clearly that, looking down at it, Beckwith himself could see
the clear grey of its intensely watchful eyes, and the very pupils of
them, diminished to specks of black. It was now, therefore, plain to
him that what he held was a foreigner indeed, since the parish
constable was unable to see it. Strap had smelt it, then seen it, and
he, Beckwith, had seen it; but it was invisible to Gulliver. "I felt
now," he says in his narrative, "that something was wrong. I did not
like the idea of taking it into the house; but I intended to make one
more trial before I made up my mind about that. I said good night to
Gulliver, put her on my bicycle and pushed her home. But first of all
I took the handkerchief from her neck and put it in my pocket. There
was no blood upon it, that I could see."
His wife, as he had expected, was waiting at the gate for him. She
exclaimed, as he had expected, upon the lateness of the hour. Beckwith
stood for a little in the roadway before the house, explaining that
Strap had bolted up the hill and had had to be looked for and fetched
back. While speaking he noticed that Mrs. Beckwith was as insensible
to the creature on the bicycle as Gulliver the constable had been.
Indeed, she went much further to prove herself so than he, for she
actually put her hand upon the handle-bar of the machine, and in order
to do that drove it right through the centre of the girl crouching
there. Beckwith saw that done. "I declare solemnly upon my honour," he
writes, "that it was as if Mary had drilled a hole clean through the
middle of her back. Through gown and skin and bone and all her arm
went; and how it went I don't know. To me it seemed that her hand was
on the handle-bar, while her upper arm, to the elbow, was in between
the girl's shoulders. There was a gap from the elbow downwards where
Mary's arm was inside the body; then from the creature's diaphragm her
lower arm, wrist and hand came out. And all the time we were speaking
the girl's eyes were on my face. I was now quite determined that I
wouldn't have her in the house for a mint of money."
He put her, finally, in the dog-kennel. Strap, as a favourite, lived
in the house; but he kept a greyhound in the garden, in a kennel
surrounded by a sort of run made of iron poles and galvanised wire. It
was roofed in with wire also, for the convenience of stretching a
tarpaulin in wet weather. Here it was that he bestowed the strange
being rescued from the down.
It was clever, I think, of Beckwith to infer that what Strap had shown
respect for would be respected by the greyhound, and certainly bold of
him to act upon his inference. However, events proved that he had been
perfectly right. Bran, the greyhound, was interested, highly
interested in his guest. The moment he saw his master he saw what he
was carrying. "Quiet, Bran, quiet there," was a very unnecessary
adjuration. Bran stretched up his head and sniffed, but went no
further; and when Beckwith had placed his burden on the straw inside
the kennel, Bran lay down, as if on guard, outside the opening and put
his muzzle on his forepaws. Again Beckwith noticed that curious
appearance of the eyes which the fox-terrier's had made already.
Bran's eyes were turned upward to show the narrow arcs of white.
Before he went to bed, he tells us, but not before Mrs. Beckwith had
gone there, he took out a bowl of bread and milk to his patient. Bran
he found to be still stretched out before the entry; the girl was
nestled down in the straw, as if asleep or prepared to be so, with her
face upon her hand. Upon an after-thought he went back for a clean
pocket handkerchief, warm water and a sponge. With these, by the light
of a candle, he washed the wound, dipped the rag in hazeline, and
applied it. This done, he touched the creature's head, nodded a good
night and retired. "She smiled at me very prettily," he says. "That
was the first time she did it."
There was no blood on the handkerchief which he had removed.
Early in the morning following upon the adventure Beckwith was out and
about. He wished to verify the overnight experiences in the light of
refreshed intelligence. On approaching the kennel he saw at once that
it had been no dream. There, in fact, was the creature of his
discovery playing with Bran the greyhound, circling sedately about
him, weaving her arms, pointing her toes, arching her graceful neck,
stooping to him, as if inviting him to sport, darting away--"like a
fairy," says Beckwith, "at her magic, dancing in a ring." Bran, he
observed, made no effort to catch her, but crouched rather than sat,
as if ready to spring. He followed her about with his eyes as far as
he could; but when the course of her dance took her immediately behind
him he did not turn his head, but kept his eye fixed as far backward
as he could, against the moment when she should come again into the
scope of his vision. "It seemed as important to him as it had the day
before to Strap to keep her always in his eye. It seemed--and always
seemed so long as I could study them together--intensely important."
Bran's mouth was stretched to "a sort of grin"; occasionally he
panted. When Beckwith entered the kennel and touched the dog (which
took little notice of him) he found him trembling with excitement. His
heart was beating at a great rate. He also drank quantities of water.
Beckwith, whose narrative, hitherto summarised, I may now quote, tells
us that the creature was indescribably graceful and light-footed.
"You couldn't hear the fall of her foot: you never could. Her dancing
and circling about the cage seemed to be the most important business
of her life; she was always at it, especially in bright weather. I
shouldn't have called it restlessness so much as busyness. It really
seemed to mean more to her than exercise or irritation at confinement.
It was evident also that she was happy when so engaged. She used to
sing. She sang also when she was sitting still with Bran; but not with
such exhilaration.
"Her eyes were bright--when she was dancing about--with mischief and
devilry. I cannot avoid that word, though it does not describe what I
really mean. She looked wild and outlandish and full of fun, as if she
knew that she was teasing the dog, and yet couldn't help herself. When
you say of a child that he looks wicked, you don't mean it literally;
it is rather a compliment than not. So it was with her and her
wickedness. She did look wicked, there's no mistake--able and willing
to do wickedly; but I am sure she never meant to hurt Bran. They were
always firm friends, though the dog knew very well who was master.
"When you looked at her you did not think of her height. She was so
complete; as well made as a statuette. I could have spanned her waist
with my two thumbs and middle fingers, and her neck (very nearly)
with one hand. She was pale and inclined to be dusky in complexion,
but not so dark as a gipsy; she had grey eyes, and dark-brown hair,
which she could sit upon if she chose. Her gown you could have sworn
was made of cobweb; I don't know how else to describe it. As I had
suspected, she wore nothing else, for while I was there that first
morning, so soon as the sun came up over the hill she slipped it off
her and stood up dressed in nothing at all. She was a regular little
Venus--that's all I can say. I never could get accustomed to that
weakness of hers for slipping off her frock, though no doubt it was
very absurd. She had no sort of shame in it, so why on earth should I?
"The food, I ought to mention, had disappeared: the bowl was empty.
But I know now that Bran must have had it. So long as she remained in
the kennel or about my place she never ate anything, nor drank either.
If she had I must have known it, as I used to clean the run out every
morning. I was always particular about that. I used to say that you
couldn't keep dogs too clean. But I tried her, unsuccessfully, with
all sorts of things: flowers, honey, dew--for I had read somewhere
that fairies drink dew and suck honey out of flowers. She used to look
at the little messes I made for her, and when she knew me better
would grimace at them, and look up in my face and laugh at me.
"I have said that she used to sing sometimes. It was like nothing that
I can describe. Perhaps the wind in the telegraph wire comes nearest
to it, and yet that is an absurd comparison. I could never catch any
words; indeed I did not succeed in learning a single word of her
language. I doubt very much whether they have what we call a
language--I mean the people who are like her, her own people. They
communicate with each other, I fancy, as she did with my dogs,
inarticulately, but with perfect communication and understanding on
either side. When I began to teach her English I noticed that she had
a kind of pity for me, a kind of contempt perhaps is nearer the mark,
that I should be compelled to express myself in so clumsy a way. I am
no philosopher, but I imagine that our need of putting one word after
another may be due to our habit of thinking in sequence. If there is
no such thing as Time in the other world it should not be necessary
there to frame speech in sentences at all. I am sure that Thumbeline
(which was my name for her--I never learned her real name) spoke with
Bran and Strap in flashes which revealed her whole thought at once. So
also they answered her, there's no doubt. So also she contrived to
talk with my little girl, who, although she was four years old and a
great chatterbox, never attempted to say a single word of her own
language to Thumbeline, yet communicated with her by the hour
together. But I did not know anything of this for a month or more,
though it must have begun almost at once.
"I blame myself for it, myself only. I ought, of course, to have
remembered that children are more likely to see fairies than
grown-ups; but then--why did Florrie keep it all secret? Why did she
not tell her mother, or me, that she had seen a fairy in Bran's
kennel? The child was as open as the day, yet she concealed her
knowledge from both of us without the least difficulty. She seemed the
same careless, laughing child she had always been; one could not have
supposed her to have a care in the world, and yet, for nearly six
months she must have been full of care, having daily secret
intercourse with Thumbeline and keeping her eyes open all the time
lest her mother or I should find her out. Certainly she could have
taught me something in the way of keeping secrets. I know that I kept
mine very badly, and blame myself more than enough for keeping it at
all. God knows what we might have been spared if, on the night I
brought her home, I had told Mary the whole truth! And yet--how could
I have convinced her that she was impaling some one with her arm
while her hand rested on the bar of the bicycle? Is not that an
absurdity on the face of it? Yes, indeed; but the sequel is no
absurdity. That's the terrible fact.
"I kept Thumbeline in the kennel for the whole winter. She seemed
happy enough there with the dogs, and, of course, she had had Florrie,
too, though I did not find that out until the spring. I don't doubt,
now, that if I had kept her in there altogether she would have been
perfectly contented.
"The first time I saw Florrie with her I was amazed. It was a Sunday
morning. There was our four-year-old child standing at the wire,
pressing herself against it, and Thumbeline close to her. Their faces
almost touched; their fingers were interlaced; I am certain that they
were speaking to each other in their own fashion, by flashes, without
words. I watched them for a bit; I saw Bran come and sit up on his
haunches and join in. He looked from one to another, and all about;
and then he saw me.
"Now that is how I know that they were all three in communication;
because, the very next moment, Florrie turned round and ran to me, and
said in her pretty baby-talk, 'Talking to Bran. Florrie talking to
Bran.' If this was wilful deceit it was most accomplished. It could
not have been better done. 'And who else were you talking to,
Florrie?' I said. She fixed her round blue eyes upon me, as if in
wonder, then looked away and said shortly, 'No one else.' And I could
not get her to confess or admit then or at any time afterward that she
had any cognisance at all of the fairy in Bran's kennel, although
their communications were daily, and often lasted for hours at a time.
I don't know that it makes things any better, but I have thought
sometimes that the child believed me to be as insensible to Thumbeline
as her mother was. She can only have believed it at first, of course,
but that may have prompted her to a concealment which she did not
afterwards care to confess to.
"Be this as it may, Florrie, in fact, behaved with Thumbeline exactly
as the two dogs did. She made no attempt to catch her at her circlings
and wheelings about the kennel, nor to follow her wonderful dances,
nor (in her presence) to imitate them. But she was (like the dogs)
aware of nobody else when under the spell of Thumbeline's personality;
and when she had got to know her she seemed to care for nobody else at
all. I ought, no doubt, to have foreseen that and guarded against it.
"Thumbeline was extremely attractive. I never saw such eyes as hers,
such mysterious fascination. She was nearly always good-tempered,
nearly always happy; but sometimes she had fits of temper and kept
herself to herself. Nothing then would get her out of the kennel,
where she would lie curled up like an animal with her knees to her
chin and one arm thrown over her face. Bran was always wretched at
these times, and did all he knew to coax her out. He ceased to care
for me or my wife after she came to us, and instead of being wild at
the prospect of his Saturday and Sunday runs, it was hard to get him
along. I had to take him on a lead until we had turned to go home;
then he would set off by himself, in spite of hallooing and scolding,
at a long steady gallop and one would find him waiting crouched at the
gate of his run, and Thumbeline on the ground inside it, with her legs
crossed like a tailor, mocking and teasing him with her wonderful
shining eyes. Only once or twice did I see her worse than sick or
sorry; then she was transported with rage and another person
altogether. She never touched me--and why or how I had offended her I
have no notion[5]--but she buzzed and hovered about me like an angry
bee. She appeared to have wings, which hummed in their furious
movement; she was red in the face, her eyes burned; she grinned at me
and ground her little teeth together. A curious shrill noise came
from her, like the screaming of a gnat or hoverfly; but no words,
never any words. Bran showed me his teeth too, and would not look at
me. It was very odd.
[Footnote 5: "I have sometimes thought," he adds in a note, "that it
may have been jealousy. My wife had been with me in the garden and had
stuck a daffodil in my coat."]
"When I looked in, on my return home, she was as merry as usual, and
as affectionate. I think she had no memory.