ploughing through the thick heather as he went.
“Did you find him?” he cried at Mr. Hockley’s side. “_I_ did and I
bought it, too. Puck’s Magic. I’ve got it. Puck says so. They call it
the Fairies’ Ointment in some parts. Did _you_ get it?” His sentences
came out in little gasps, for running on heathery ground is hard work
and he was out of breath.
[Illustration: A black and white illustration depicts a small, playful
figure running across a field, with two cattle leaping in the background
against a large full moon.]
Mr. Hockley looked about him a little uneasily. “Mayhap I’ve got it
somewhat,” he answered, “or maybe not. Best not to speak of ’em. But
hearken yonder! Do you hear?”
“Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding dong!”
Right across the down the chimes came, and then the hour struck.
“One ... two ... three ... four....”
Tony went on counting, and then laughed in sudden understanding.
“‘Twelve o’clock is sounding in Littlehampton Town,
There’s cow-tails still to tangle and hen-roosts still to rob....’
Oh, and I never asked him about that; I _did_ mean to.”
The Mushroom Man grunted.
[Illustration: A black and white illustration shows a bearded man in
glasses gesturing with his hands as if casting a spell or throwing
something toward another person, who is covering their face as a cloud
of particles or dust appears between them.]
“And lucky for you you didn’t!” said he. “The liddle gentleman don’t
like it. Was one as I knew asked him long ago and he flung his fern seed
back on him in a passion, and everywhere the fern seed touched him he
come out in dunnamany bunches, and a rash over him like as he’d the
measles. And never no magic there was for _him_. ‘’Taint the Pharisees I
got on Twelve O’clock Knob,’ says he, ‘but the rheumatics more like.’
And surelye he was noanbut kiddle the rest of his life. But come along,
Mas’ Tony, the downs they be getting haitchy, and ’tis time we were
home, I do reckon.”
Tony hitched his fingers in the crook of Mr. Hockley’s velveteen arm,
and plodded along at his side. After all, he was not used to these late
hours, and was beginning to feel very tired and sleepy. Indeed, he was
too sleepy to remember his manners, so that it was Mr. Hockley who
opened the gate of Lane End Field; and by the time they passed Boggarty
Farm, Tony was clutching his friendly arm more tightly still in order to
walk with his eyes shut. At the gate of Vinings Wood, however, he opened
them.
“There’s a dryad in the oak-tree,” he whispered drowsily; “I think it’s
Dryope.”
Mr. Hockley stopped suddenly, and, big boy as Tony was, swung him on to
his back.
The boy slid his hands beneath the old man’s white beard, and locked the
fingers of them as firmly as he could. Never in all his life had he felt
so sleepy.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured regretfully. “But I don’t ... think ...
I ... _can_ ... keep a ... wake. It _is_ ... a ... pity.”
It _was_ a pity! He wanted so much to see the “chimney-shadows streaking
down the sandy street” as they passed through, and he was anxious, too,
that Mr. Hockley should see how easily he climbed the porch-post and
scrambled up the little gabled roof. As it was, Mr. Hockley must have
found a door or a window open and carried him upstairs. He even changed
his jacket for him, for when Tony woke in the morning, although he was
still half-dressed, as he had been when he dozed the night before, he
had his pyjama jacket on top, instead of the tweed coat he had worn for
his moonlight excursion. This was rather puzzling and set him wondering
for a moment whether he had dreamed it all, but then he caught sight of
his hair-brush in its proper tray upon the dressing-table, and he
remembered how it had wakened him and fallen to the floor.
“I picked it up just before I got out of the window,” he said
thoughtfully.
Jumping out of bed, he ran across the carpet and looked out over the
sill.
There were streaky marks where he had slid down the roof, so it was
quite true; and even if Mr. Hockley stared at him and shook his head
when questioned ... well, after all, it was not the first time he had
refused to talk aloud about such things. Probably he _thought_ the more.
[Illustration: A man with a beard wearing a hat carries a child on his
back as they walk across a field.]
MARIA, WHO MADE FACES AND A DEPLORABLE MARRIAGE _By HILAIRE BELLOC_
Maria loved to pull a face:
And no such commonplace grimace
As you or I or anyone
[Illustration: An elderly woman in a bonnet sits in a chair, looking at
a young girl standing before her, while a cat sits near her skirt.]
Might make at grandmamma for fun,
But one where nose and mouth and all
Were screwed into a kind of ball,
The which—as you may well expect—
Produced a horrible effect
On those it was directed at.
One morning
[Illustration: A young girl wearing a dress and boots stands with her
arms outstretched and has a fierce expression on her face.]
she was struck like that!
Her features took their final mould
In shapes that made your blood run cold
And wholly lost their former charm.
Mamma, in agonised alarm,
[Illustration: A woman in a feathered hat talks to a person wearing an
apron and cap, in front of a window with the text "FACES PUT STRAIGHT".]
Consulted a renowned Masseuse
—An old and valued friend of hers—
[Illustration: A person in a cap adjusts the face of a young girl, while
a bag labeled "MASSAGE TOOLS" sits nearby.]
Who rubbed the wretched child for days
In five-and-twenty different ways
And after that began again.
But all in vain—but all in vain!
[Illustration: A woman wearing a hat and a scarf smokes a cigarette.]
The years advance: Maria grows
Into a blooming English Rose—
With every talent, every grace
(Save in this trifle of the face).
[Illustration: A woman with a floral headpiece stands holding an open
book.]
She sang,
[Illustration: A woman in a decorative hat and long, flowing dress
stands with one arm raised.]
recited, laughed and played
At all that an accomplished maid
Should play with skill to be of note—
Golf, the piano and
[Illustration: A person with bows in their hair dances barefoot,
carrying a bag.]
the goat;
[Illustration: A woman stands in the center of a group of people, some
of whom are yawning or appear sad.]
She talked in French till all was blue
And knew a little German too.
She told the tales that soldiers tell,
She also danced extremely well,
Her wit was pointed, loud and raw,
She shone at laying down the law,
She drank liqueurs instead of tea,
Her verse was admirably free
And quoted in the latest books—
[Illustration: Four men with varying expressions and gestures are shown,
including one man stroking his long beard.]
But people couldn’t stand her looks.
Her parents had with thoughtful care
[Illustration: A man and a woman sit at a table with quill pens, near a
book labeled "BOOK OF FOREIGN BIGWIGS" and a sleeping cat.]
Proclaimed her genius everywhere,
Nor quite concealed a wealth which sounds
Enormous—thirty million pounds—
And further whispered it that she
Could deal with it exclusively.
They did not hide her chief defect,
But what with birth and intellect
And breeding and such ample means,
And still in her delightful ’teens,
A girl like our Maria (they thought)
Should make the kind of match she ought.
Those who had seen her here at home
Might hesitate; but Paris, Rome ...
The foreigners should take the bait.
And so they did. At any rate
The greatest men of every land
Arrived in shoals to seek her hand—
[Illustration: A bearded man wearing an ornate, military-style jacket
with decorative trim, breeches, and buckled shoes.]
Grand Dukes,
[Illustration: A man wearing a top hat and a long coat trimmed with
fur.]
Commanders of the Fleece,
Mysterious millionaires from Greece,
And exiled Kings in large amounts,
Ambassadors and Papal Counts
And Rastaquoairs from Buenos Aires
And famous Foreign Secretaries,
[Illustration: A line of people in coats and hats walks past the
entrance of the "GRAND HOTEL COSMOPOLE."]
They came along in turns to call.
[Illustration: A man leaning back with his head tilted upward stands
next to an older, somber-looking person wearing a long coat.]
But _all_, without exception, _all_,
Though with determination set,
Yet when they actually _met_
Would start convulsively as though
They had received a sudden blow,
[Illustration: A person wearing a tall, brimmed hat and a long coat with
a fur-trimmed hem walks while hunched forward.]
And, mumbling a discreet good-day,
Would shuffle, turn and slink away.
The upshot of it was Maria
[Illustration: A man in a coat stands holding a bouquet, while a smaller
person carries the long train of a bride]
Was married to a neighbouring squire
Who, being blind, could never guess
His wife’s appalling ugliness.
The man was independent, dull,
Offensive, poor and masterful.
It was a very dreadful thing!
Now let us turn to Sarah Byng.[4]
Footnote 4:
_But Sarah Byng does not live at Number One Joy Street._
[Illustration: A young girl sits by a tombstone in a graveyard, reaching
out to touch the inscription.]
MISS JEMIMA _By WALTER DE LA MARE_
It was a hot, still evening; the trees stood motionless; and not a bird
was singing under the sky when the little old lady and the child
appeared together over the crest of the hill. They paused side by side
on the long, green, mounded ridge, behind which the sun was now
descending. And spread out flat beneath them were the fields and farms
and the wandering stream of the wide countryside. It was quite flat, and
a faint thin mist was over it all, stretching out as if to the rim of
the world. The little old lady and the child presently ventured a few
further paces down the hillside, then again came to a standstill, and
gazed once more, from under the umbrella that shaded them against the
hot sun, on the scene spread out beneath them.
“Is _that_ the house, Grannie,” said the child, “that one near the
meadow with the horses in it, and the trees? And is that _queer_ little
grey building right in the middle of that green square field the
church?”
The old lady pressed her lips together, and continued to gaze through
her thick glasses at the great solitary country scene. Then she drew her
umbrella down with a click, placed it on the turf beside her, and sat
down on it.
“I don’t suppose the grass _is_ damp, my dear, after this long hot day;
but you never know,” she said.
“It’s perfectly dry, Grannie dear, and _very_ beautiful,” said the
child, as if she could hardly spare the breath for the words. Then she
too sat down. She had rather long fair hair, and a straight small nose
under her round hat with its wreath of buttercups. Her name was Susan.
“And _is_ that the house, Grannie?” she whispered once more. “And _is_
that the church where you did really and truly see it?”
The old lady never turned her eyes, but continued to overlook the scene
as if she had not heard the small voice questioning; as if she were
alone with her thoughts. And at that moment, one after another, a troop
of gentle-stepping, half-wild horses appeared on a path round the bluff
of the hill. Shyly eyeing the two strange human figures there in their
haunts, one and another of them lifted a narrow lovely head to snort;
and a slim young bay, his mane like rough silk in the light, paused to
whinny. Then one by one they trotted along the path, and presently were
gone. Susan watched them out of sight, then sighed.
“This is a lovely place to be in, Grannie,” she said, and sighed again.
“I wish I had been here too when I was little. Please do tell me again
about the—_you_ know.”
Her voice trailed off faintly in the still golden air up there on the
hill, as if she were now a little timid of repeating the question. She
drew in closer beside her grannie, and pushing her small fingers between
those of the bent-up, black-gloved hand in the old lady’s lap, she
stooped forward after another little pause, looked up into the still
grey face with its spectacles, and said very softly, “_How_ many years
ago did you say?”
There was a mild far-away expression in the slate-grey eyes into which
Susan was looking, as if memory were retracing one by one the years that
had gone. Never had Susan sat like this, upon a green hill, above so
immense a world, or in so hushed an evening quiet. Her busy eyes turned
once more to look first in the direction in which the trotting comely
horses had vanished, then down again to the farmhouse with its barns and
byres and orchard. They then rested once more on the grey stone
church—which from this height looked almost as small as a dolls’
church—in the midst of its green field.
[Illustration:
“_How many years ago did you say?_”
]
“_How_ many years ago, Grannie?” repeated Susan.
“More than I scarcely dare think of,” said the old woman at last, gently
pressing her fingers. “Seventy-five, my dear.”
“Seventy-five!” breathed Susan. “But that’s not so very many, Grannie
dear,” she added quickly, pushing her head against her grannie’s
black-caped shoulder. “And now, before it is too late, please will you
tell me the story. You see, Grannie, soon we shall have to be going back
to the cab, or the man will suppose we are not coming back at all.
_Please._”
“But you know most of it already.”
“Only in pieces, Grannie; and besides, to think that here we are—here,
in the very place!”
“Well,” began the old voice at last, “I will tell it you all again, if
you persist, my dear; but it’s a little _more_ than seventy-five years
ago, for—though you would not believe it of such an old person—I was
born in May. My mother, your great-grandmother, was young then, and in
very delicate health after my father’s death. Her doctor had said she
must go on a long sea voyage. And since she was not able to take me with
her, I was sent to that little farmhouse down there—Green’s Farm, as it
was called—to spend the months of her absence with my Uncle James and
his housekeeper, who was called Miss Jemima.”
“Miss Jemima!” cried the little girl, stooping over suddenly with a
burst of laughter. “It _is_ a queer name, you know, Grannie.”
“It is,” said the old lady. “And it belonged to one to whom it was my
duty to show affection, but who never much cared for the little girl she
had in her charge. And when people don’t care for you, it is sometimes a
little difficult, Susan, to care for them. At least _I_ found it so. I
don’t mean that Miss Jemima was unkind to me, only that when she was
kind, she seemed to be kind on purpose. And when I had a slice of plum
cake, her face always seemed to tell me it was _plum_ cake, and that I
deserved only plain. My Uncle James knew that his housekeeper did not
think me a pleasant little girl. I was a shrimp in size, with straight
black hair which she made me tie in a pigtail with a piece of velvet
ribbon. I had little dark eyes and very skimpy legs. And though he
himself was very fond of me, he showed his affection only when we were
alone together, and not when she was present. He was ill, too, then,
though I did not know _how_ ill. And he lay all day in a long chair with
a check rug over his legs, and Miss Jemima had charge not only of me,
but of the farm.”
“_All_ the milking, and the ploughing, and the chickens, and the pigs,
Grannie?” asked Susan.
The old lady shut her eyes an instant, pressed her lips together and
said, “All.”
“The consequence was,” she went on, “I was rather a solitary child.
Whenever I could, I used to hide myself away in some corner of the
house—and a beautiful house it is. It’s a pity, my dear, I am so old and
you so young and this hill so steep. Otherwise we could go down
and—well, never mind. That row of small lattice windows which you can
see belong to a narrow corridor; and the rooms out of it, rambling one
into the other, were walled in just as the builders fancied, when they
made the house three hundred years or more ago. And that was in the
reign of Edward VI.”
“Like the Bluecoat boys,” said Susan, “though I can’t say I like the
yellow stockings, Grannie, not that _mustard_ yellow, you know.”
“Like the Bluecoat boys,” repeated her grandmother. “Well, the house was
simply a nest of hiding-places; and I was small—smaller even than you. I
would sit with my book; or watch out of a window, _lean_ out too
sometimes—as if to see my mother in India. And whenever the weather was
fine, and sometimes when it was not, I would creep out of the house and
run away down that shaggy lane to the little wood you see there. There
is a brook in it (though you can’t see that) which brawls with a hundred
tongues. And sometimes I would climb up this very hill. And sometimes I
would creep across the field to that little church.
“It was there I most easily forgot myself and my small scrapes and
troubles—with the leaves and the birds, and the blue sky and the clouds
overhead, or watching a snail, or picking kingcups and cowslips, or
staring into the stream at the fish. You see I was rather a doleful
little creature: first because I was alone; next because my Uncle James
was ill and so could not be happy; and last because I was made to feel
more homesick than ever, by the cold glances and cold tongue of Miss
Jemima.”
“Miss Jemima!” echoed Susan, burying her face in her amusement an
instant in her hands.
“Miss Jemima,” repeated the old voice solemnly. “But I was not only
dismal and doleful. Far worse: I made little attempt to be anything
else, and began to be fretful too. There was no company of my own age,
for, as you see, the village is a mile or two off—over there where the
sun is lighting the trees up. And I was not allowed to play with the
village children. The only company I had was a fat little boy of two,
belonging to one of the farm-hands. And he was so backward a baby, that
even at that age he could scarcely say as many words.”
“I began to talk at one,” said Susan.
“Yes, my dear,” said her grannie, “and you are likely, it seems, to go
on talking the clock round.”
“Grannie, dear,” said Susan, “I simply _love_ this story—until—_you_
know.”
“Now of all the places where I was supposed not to go to,” continued the
old lady, “that churchyard was the very one. My aunt, as I say, thought
me a fantastic silly-notioned little girl, and she didn’t approve of
picking flowers that grow among tombstones. Indeed, I am not now quite
sure myself if such flowers belong to the living at all. Still, once or
twice in the summer the old sexton—Mr. Fletcher he was called, and a
very grumpy old man he was—used to come with his scythe and mow the lush
grasses down. And you could scarcely breathe for the sweet smell of
them. It seemed a waste to see them lying in swaths, butterflies
hovering above them, fading in the sun. There never were such buttercups
and dandelion-clocks and meadow-sweet as grew beneath those old grey
walls. I was happy there; and coming and going, I would say a prayer for
my mother. But you will please understand, Susan, that I was being
disobedient; that I had no business to be there at all—when I first came
to know there was somebody else in the churchyard.”
“Ah! somebody else,” sighed Susan, sitting straight up, her eyes far
away.
“It was one evening, rather like this one, but with a mackerel sky. The
day before I had been stood in the corner for wearing an orange ribbon
in my hair; and then sent to bed for talking to the grandfather’s clock.
I did it on purpose. And now—_this_ evening, I was being scolded because
I would not eat blackberry jam with my bread for tea. I was told it was
because I had been spoilt, and was a little town child who did not know
that God had made the wild fruits for human use, and who thought that
the only things fit to eat grew in gardens.
“Really and truly I disliked the blackberry jam because of the pips, and
I had a hollow tooth. But I told my aunt that my mother didn’t like
blackberry jam either, which made her still more angry.
“‘Do you really think, James,’ she said to my uncle, ‘we should allow
the child to grow up a dainty little minx like that? Now, see here,
Miss, you will just stay there until you have eaten up the whole of that
slice on your plate.’
“‘Well, then, Miss Jemima,’ I said pertly, ‘I shall stay here till I am
eighty.’
“‘Hold your tongue,’ she bawled at me, with eyes blazing.
“‘I can’t bear the horrid——’ I began again, and at that she gave me such
a slap on my cheek that I overbalanced, and fell out of my chair. She
lifted me up from the floor with a shake, set me in my chair again, and
pushed it against the table till the edge was cutting into my legs. ‘And
now,’ she said, ‘sit there till you are eighty!’
“A look I had never seen before came into my uncle’s face; his hands
were trembling. Without another word to me, Miss Jemima helped him rise
from his chair, and I was left alone.
“Never before had I been beaten like that. And I was almost as much
frightened as I was hurt. I listened to the tall clock ticking, ‘Wick-ed
child, stub-born child,’ and my tears splashed slowly down on the ugly
slice of bread-and-jam on my plate. Then all of a sudden I clenched and
shook my ridiculous little fist at the door by which she had gone out,
wriggled back my chair, jumped out of it, rushed out of the house, and
never stopped to breathe or to look back, until I found myself sitting
huddled up under the biggest tomb in the churchyard; crying there, if
not my heart out, at least a good deal of my sour little temper.”
“Poor Grannie!” said Susan, squeezing her hand.
“There was not much ‘poor’ about that,” was the reply. “A pretty sight I
must have looked, with my smeared face, green-stained frock and hair
dangling. At last my silly sobbing ceased. The sky was flaming with the
sunset. It was in June, and the air very mild and sweet. But instead of
being penitent and realising what a bad and foolish child I was, I began
to be coldly rebellious. I stared at the rosy clouds and vowed to myself
I’d give Miss Jemima a fright. I’d rather die than go back to the house
that night. And when the thought of my mother came into my mind, I shut
it out, saying to myself that she could not have cared how much I loved
her, to leave me like this. And yet only a fortnight before a long
letter had come to me from India!
“Well, there I sat. A snail came out of his day’s hiding-place; moths
began to appear; the afternoon’s butterflies all gone to rest. Far away
I heard a hooting—and then a step. Cautiously peering up above my
tombstone, I saw Maggie, one of the girls that helped on the farm. Her
face was burning hot, and she was staring about her round the corner of
the little church tower with her saucer blue eyes. She called to me, and
at that my mouth opened and I made a shrill yelping squeal. She
screeched too; her steel-tipped boot slipped on the flagstones; in an
instant she was gone. And once more I was alone.”
“Ah, but you weren’t _really_ alone, Grannie,” whispered Susan, “were
you?”
“That was just what I was going to tell you, my dear. Immediately in
front of my face stood some tall dandelion stalks, with their beautiful
clocks, grey in the late evening light. And there were a few other
gently nodding flowers. As I stared across them, on the other side of
the flat gravestone a face appeared. I mean it didn’t rise up. It simply
came into the air. A very small face, more oval than round, its
gold-coloured hair over its wild greenish eyes falling on either side
its head in a curious zigzag way—like this, I mean.” The old lady took
the hem of her skirt, and three or four times folded it together, then
loosened it out.
“You mean, Grannie, as if it had been pleated,” said Susan.
“Yes,” said her grannie. “I noticed that most particularly. And very
lovely it looked in the reddish light. The face was not smiling, and did
not appear to see me sitting there, no more than a lion does when he
looks out of his cage at the people gathered round to see him fed. And
yet I knew _she_ knew that I was there. And though I did not think she
minded my being there, I felt more frightened than I had ever been in my
life. My mouth opened; I was clutching tight the grass on either side.
And I saw nothing else as I stared into that tiny face.”
“That was the Fairy, Grannie,” said Susan, stooping forward again as if
to make her words more impressive. The old lady glanced fixedly at the
two blue eyes bent on her from under the brim of the round straw hat.
“At that moment, my dear, I did not know _what_ it was. I was far too
frightened to think. Time must have been passing, too, very quickly, for
as I stared on, it was already beginning to be gloaming between us, and
silent. Yes, much more silent even than this. Then, suddenly, behind me
a low birdlike voice began to sing from out of the may-bushes, the notes
falling like dewdrops in the air. I knew it was a nightingale. And at
the very moment the thought came to me—That is a nightingale—the face on
the other side of the rough grey stone vanished.
“For a few minutes I sat without moving—not daring to move. And then I
ran, straight out of the churchyard by the way I had come, as fast as my
legs could carry me. I hardly know what I thought, but as soon as I saw
the lights in the upper windows of the farm, I ran even faster. Up under
the ilexes, and round through the farmyard to the back door. It was
unlatched. I slipped through, quiet as a mouse, into the kitchen,
climbed into the chair, and at once devoured every scrap of that horrid
bread-and-jam!
“And still, my dear, I don’t believe I was really thinking, only
dreadfully afraid, and yet with a kind of triumph in my heart that Miss
Jemima should never know anything at all about the face in the
churchyard. It was all but dark in the kitchen now, but I still sat on
in my chair, even at last lifted the plate, and insolently licked up
with my tongue every jammy crumb that was left.
[Illustration:
“_And then the door opened, and Miss Jemima stood there in the entry
with a lighted brass candlestick in her hand._”
]
“And then the door opened, and Miss Jemima stood there in the entry with
a lighted brass candlestick in her hand. She looked at me, and I at her.
‘Ah, I see you have thought better of it,’ she said. ‘And high time too.
You are to go straight to bed.’
“If you can imagine, Susan, a cake made almost entirely of plums, and
every plum a black thought of hatred, I was like that. But I said never
a word. I got down from my chair, marched past her down the flagstone
passage, and she followed after. When I came to my uncle’s door, I
lifted my hand towards the handle. ‘Straight on, Miss,’ said the voice
behind me. ‘You have made him too ill and too unhappy to wish you
good-night.’ Straight on I went, got into bed with all my clothes on,
even my dew-wet shoes, and stared at the ceiling till I fell asleep.”
“You know, Grannie,” said Susan, “it was very curious of you not even to
undress at all. Why do you think you did that?”
“My dear,” said her grannie, “at that moment I had such a hard, hot
heart in me, that there was not any room for a why. But you see that
little jutting attic window above the trees—it was in the room beyond
that and on the other side of the house that I lay. And it’s now
seventy-five years ago. It may be there was even then a far-away notion
in my mind of getting up in the middle of the night and running away.
But whether or not, I was awakened by the sun streaming through my
lattice window, for my bedroom lay full in the light of the morning.
“I could think of but one thing—my disgrace of the night before, and
what I had seen in the churchyard. It was a dream, I thought to myself,
shutting my eyes, yet knowing all the time that I did not believe what I
was saying. Even when I was told at breakfast that my uncle was no
better, I thought little of him, and gobbled down my porridge, with the
one wish to be out of the house before I could be forbidden to go out.
But the only sign of Miss Jemima was my dirty jam-stained plate of the
night before, upon which she had put my hunch of breakfast bread. Yet
although I was so anxious to get out, for some reason I chose very
carefully what I should wear, and changed the piece of ribbon in my hat
from blue to green. A rare minx I was.”
“You were, Grannie,” said Susan, clasping her knees. “And then you went
out to the churchyard again?”
“Yes. But all seemed as usual there; except only that a tiny bunch of
coral-coloured berries lay on a flat leaf, on the very tombstone where I
had hid. Now though I was a minx, my dear, I was also fairly sharp for
my age, and after the first gulp of surprise, as I stood there among the
nodding buttercups, the sun already having stolen over the grey roof and
shining upon the hot tombstones, I noticed a beady dewdrop resting on
the leaf, and the leaf of as fresh a green as lettuce in a salad.
Looking at this dewdrop I realised at once that the leaf could not have
been there very long. Indeed, in a few minutes the sun had drunk up that
one round drop of water, for it was some little time before I ventured
to touch the berries.
“Then I knew in my heart I was not alone there, and that that green dish
had been put there on purpose, just before I had come. The berries were
lovely to look at, too; of a coral colour edging into rose. And I don’t
think it was because I had long ago been warned not to taste strange
fruit, but because I was uneasy in conscience already, that I did not
nibble one then and there.
“It was very quiet in that green place, and on and on I watched, as
still as a cat over a mouse’s hole, though I myself really and truly was
the mouse. And then, all of a sudden, flinging back my green dangling
hat-ribbon, I remember, over my shoulder, I said half aloud, in an
affected little voice, ‘Well, it’s very kind of you, I am sure,’
stretched my hand across, plucked one of the berries, and put it into my
mouth.
“Hardly had its juice tartened my tongue when a strange thing happened.
It was as if a grasshopper was actually sitting in my hair, the noise of
tiny laughter was so close. Besides this, a kind of heat began to creep
into my cheek, and it seemed all the colours around me grew so bright
that they dazzled my eyes. I closed them. I must have sat there for a
while quite unconscious of time, for when I opened them again, the
shadow had gone a pace or two back from the stone, and it was getting
towards the middle of the morning.
“But there was still that dazzle in my eyes, and everything I looked
at—the flowers and the birds, even the moss and lichen on the old
stones, seemed as if they were showing me secrets about themselves that
I had not known before. It seemed that I could share the very being of
the butterfly that was hovering near; and could almost hear not only
what the birds were singing, but what they were saying.”
“Just like the fairy-tales, Grannie.”
“Yes,” said the little old woman, “but the difference is that I was not
happy about it. The flush was still in my cheek, and I could hear my
heart beating under my frock, and I was all of an excitement. But I knew
in my inmost self that I ought not to feel like that at all; that I had
crept into danger through my wicked temper; that those little unknown
coral fruits on the tombstone had been put there for a trap. It was a
bait, Susan; and I was the silly fish.”
“O Grannie, a ‘silly fish’!” said Susan. “I can see you _might_ feel
wicked,” she added, with a sage little nod, “but I don’t _exacaly_ see
why.”
“That is just when it’s most dangerous, my child,” said her grandmother,
sharply closing her mouth very much indeed like a fish. “But I must get
on with my story, or we shall never be home.
“I sat on, keeping my eyes as far as I could fixed on the invisible
place in the air where I had seen the face appear, but nothing came, and
gradually the scene lost its radiance, and the birds were chirping as
usual again, and the buttercups were the same as ever. No, not the same
as ever, because, although it was a burning, sunny day, it seemed now
that everything was darker and gloomier than usual on so bright a
morning, and I skulked away home, feeling not only a little cold, but
dejected and ashamed.
“As I went in through the gate between those two stone pillars you can
just see by the round green tree down there, I looked up at the windows.
And a dreadful pang seized me to see that their curtains were all drawn
over the glass. And though I didn’t know then what that meant, I knew it
meant something sorrowful and tragic. Besides, they seemed like shut
eyes, refusing to look at me. And when I went in, Miss Jemima told me
that my uncle was dead. She told me, too, that he had asked to see me an
hour or two before he died. ‘He said, “Where is my little Susan?” And
where you have been,’ added Miss Jemima, ‘is known only to your wicked
wilful self.’ I stared at her, and seemed to shrink until she appeared
to be twice as large as usual. I could not speak, because my tongue
would not move. And then I rushed past her and up the stairs into a
corner between two cupboards, where I used sometimes to hide, and I
don’t know what I did or thought there; I simply sat on and on, with my
hands clenched in my lap, everything I looked at all blurred, and my
lips trying to say a prayer that would not come.
“From that day on I became a more and more wretched and miserable little
girl, and, as I think now, a wickeder one. It all came of three things.
First, because I hated Miss Jemima, and that is just like leaving a
steel knife in vinegar, it so frets and wastes the heart. Next, because
of the thought of my poor uncle speaking of me so gently and kindly when
he was at death’s door; and my remorse that I could never now ask him to
forgive me. And last, because I longed to see again that magical face in
the churchyard, and yet knew that it was forbidden.”
“But, Grannie dear, you know,” said Susan, “I never can see why you
should have thought that then.”
“No,” replied the old lady. “But the point was, you see, that I _did_
think it, and I knew in my heart that it would lead to no good. Miss
Jemima made me go next day into the room where my uncle lay in his
coffin. But try as she might to persuade and compel me, she could not
make me open my eyes and look at him. For that disobedience she sent me
to my bedroom for the rest of the day.
“When all was still, I crept out across the corridor into another room,
and looked out over the trees towards the little church. And I said to
myself, as if I were speaking to someone who would hear, ‘I am coming to
you soon, and nobody, _nobody_ here shall ever see me again.’
“Think of it; a little girl not yet nine, angry with the whole world,
and hardly giving a thought to the mother who was longing to see her,
and—though I didn’t know it then—was very soon to be in England again.
“Well, then came the funeral. I was dressed—I can see myself now, as I
stood looking into the looking-glass—in a black frock trimmed with
crape, with a tucker of white frilling round the neck, and an edging of
it at the sleeves; my peaked white face and coal-black eyes.
“It was, as you see, but a very little distance to my poor uncle’s last
resting-place, and in those days they used a little hand-cart on wheels,
which the men pushed in front of us, with its flowers. And Miss Jemima
and I followed after it across the field. I listened to the prayers as
closely as I could. But at last my attention began to wander, and,
kneeling there beside Miss Jemima in the church, my hands pressed close
to my eyes, for an instant I glanced out and up between my fingers.
“The great eastern window, though you cannot see it from here, is of
centuries-old stained glass, crimson, blue, green. But in one corner,
just above the narrow ledge of masonry outside, it had been broken many,
many years ago by the falling of a branch of a tree, and had been mended
with clear _white_ glass. And there, looking steadily in and straight
across and down at me, was the face and form of the being I had seen
beside the tombstone.
“I cannot tell you, Susan, how beautiful that face looked then. Those
rich colours of the saints and martyrs surrounding that gold hair—living
gold—and the face as pale and beautiful—far more beautiful than anything
else I had ever seen in my life before. But even then I saw, too, that
into the morning church a kind of shadowy darkness had come, and the
stone faces on either side the window, with their set stare, looked
actually to be alive. I gazed between my fingers, hearing not a single
word of what the old clergyman was saying, wondering when anyone else
would see what I saw, and knowing that the smiling lips were breathing
across at me, ‘Come away, come away!’
“My bones were all cramped, and at last I managed to twist my head a
little and peep up at Miss Jemima. The broad face beneath her veil had
its eyes shut, and the lips were muttering. She had noticed nothing
amiss. And when I looked again, the face at the window was vanished.
“It was a burning hot day—so hot that the flowers beside the grave were
already withering before Miss Jemima took me home. We reached the stone
porch together, and in its cold shadow she paused, staring down on me
through her veil. ‘You will be staying on here for a while, because I
don’t know what else to do with you,’ she said to me. ‘But you will
understand that this is my house now. I am telling your mother how bad a
child you are making yourself, and perhaps she will ask me to send you
away to a school where they know how to deal with stubborn and
ungrateful beings like yourself. But she will be sorry, I think, to hear
that it was your wickedness that brought that poor kind body to its
grave over there. And now, Miss, as the best part of the day is over,
you shall have your bread-and-butter and milk in your bedroom, and think
over what I have said.’”
“I think, Grannie,” cried Susan, bending herself nearly double, “that
that Miss Jemima was the most dreadful person I have ever heard of.”
“Well, my dear,” said her grandmother, “I have lived a good many years,
and believe it is wiser to try and explain to oneself people as well as
things. Do you suppose she would have been as harsh to me if I hadn’t
hated her? And now she lies there too, and I never had her forgiveness
either.”
Susan turned her head away and looked out over the countryside to the
north, to where the roving horses had vanished, and where evening was
already beginning gradually to settle itself towards night.
“And _did_ you think over what Miss Jemima had said, Grannie?” she asked
in a low voice.
“The first thing I did was to throw the bread-and-butter out of the
window, and while I watched the birds wrangling over it and gobbling it
up, I thought of nothing at all. It was cooler in the shade on that side
of the house. My head ached after the sorrowful walk to the church and
back. I came away from the window, took off my black frock, and sat
there on the edge of my bed, I remember, in my petticoat, not knowing
what to do next. And then, Susan, I made up my mind that I could not
bear to be in Miss Jemima’s house for a day longer than I need.
“I was just clever enough to realise that if I wanted to run away I must
take care not to be brought back. I grew hot all over at the thought of
such a shame, never thinking how weak and silly I was not to be able to
endure patiently what could only be a few more days or weeks before
another letter came from my mother. Then I tore a leaf from a book that
was in my room—a Prayer-Book—and scrawled a few words to my mother,
saying how miserable _and_ wicked I had been, and how I longed to see
her again. It’s a curious thing, Susan, but I was pitying myself while I
wrote those words, and thinking how grieved my mother would be when she
read them, and how well Miss Jemima would deserve whatever my mother
said to her. But I didn’t utter a word in the letter about where I was
going.”
“You didn’t really _know_ where you were going, Grannie,” whispered
Susan, edging a little nearer. “Did you? Not _then_, I mean?”
“No, but I had a faint notion whom I was going _to_; for somehow, from
old fairy tales I had got to believe that human children could be taken
away to quite a different world from this—a country of enchantment. And
I remembered having read, too, about two children that had come back
from there, and had forgotten their own English.”
“I know two poems about it,” said Susan. “One about ‘True
Thomas’—‘Thomas the Rhymer,’ you know, Grannie, who stayed with the
Queen of Fairyland for seven whole years, and another about ... I do
wonder——But please, _please_, go on.”
“Well, I hid my little letter in a cranny in the wainscot, after sewing
a piece of cotton to it so that I might pull it out again when I wanted
it. The next morning, I got up early, and slipping on my clothes,
tiptoed out of the house before breakfast, and made my way to the
church. I thought deceitfully that Miss Jemima would be sure to find out
that I was gone, and that if for a morning or two she discovered me
quietly sitting in the churchyard she would not suppose at another time,
perhaps, that I was not safely there again. Plots, Susan, are tangled
things, and are likely to tangle the maker of them too.
“The old man who took care of the church, Mr. Fletcher, to save himself
the trouble of carrying the key of the door, used to hide it under a
large stone beneath the belfry tower. I had watched him put it there. It
was a fresh sparkling day, I remember, with one or two thin silver
clouds high in the sky—angels, I used to call them—and I forgot for the
moment in the brightness of it all my troubles, as I frisked along past
the dewy hedges.
“My first thought was to make quite, quite sure about the Fairy Creature
in the churchyard, my next to plan a way of escape. I gathered a bunch
of daisies, and having come to the belfry door, I somehow managed to
open it with the key which I dragged out from beneath its stone, and
crept into the still, empty coolness. I had come to the conclusion, too,
Susan, young though I was, that if the Fairy Creature or whatever she
might be actually came into the church to me, it might be a proof there
was no harm in her company, for I knew in my heart that I was in some
mysterious danger.
“There are a few old oak pews in the little church, with heads carved
upon them, and one or two have side seats that draw out from the wood
into the aisle. On one of these I sat down, so that while I could be
intent on my daisy-chain—just to show I had something to do there—I
could see out of the corner of my eye the open door by which I had come
in. And I hadn’t very long to wait.
“In the midst of the faint singing of the wild birds, out of the light
that lay beyond the stone church wall I spied her come stealing. My
heart almost stopped beating, nor did I turn my head one inch, so that
my eyes soon ached because they were almost asquint with watching. If
you can imagine a figure—even now I cannot tell you how tall she
was—that seems to be made of the light of rainbows, and yet with every
feature in its flaxen-framed face as clearly marked as a cherub’s cut in
stone; and if you can imagine a voice coming to you, close into your
ear, without your being able to say exactly where it is coming
_from_—_that_ was what I saw and heard beneath that grey roof down there
on that distant morning, seventy-five years ago. The longer I watched
her out of the corner of my eye, the more certain I became that she was
using every device she knew to attract my attention, even that she was
impatient at my stupidity, and yet that she could not or did not, dare
to cross the threshold. And so I sat and watched her, fumbling on the
while with my limpening daisy-stalks. Many strange minutes must have
passed like this.
“At last, however, having fancied I heard a footfall, I was surprised
out of myself, and suddenly twisted my head. She too had heard, and was
standing stiller than a shadow on snow, gazing in at me. I suppose
thoughts reveal themselves in the face more swiftly than one imagines. I
was partly afraid, partly longing to approach closer. I wished her to
realise that I longed for her company, but that danger was near, for I
was well aware whose step it was I had heard. And, as I looked at her,
there came a sharpness into her face, a cold inhuman look—not of fear,
but almost like hatred—and she was gone. More intent than ever, I
stooped over my daisies. And in the hush there was a faint sound as of
an intensely distant whistle.
“Then a shadow fell across the porch, and there was Miss Jemima. It’s a
strange thing, Susan, but Miss Jemima also did not enter the church. She
called to me from where she stood, in almost a honeyed voice: ‘Breakfast
is ready, Susan.’”
“I can imagine _exacaly_ how she said that, Grannie,” said the little
girl, “because my name’s Susan, too.”
“Yes, my dear,” said the old lady, squeezing her hand. “It was passed on
to you from me by your dear mother just because it was mine. And I hope
you will always be the Susan I have _now_.” From near at hand upon the
hill a skylark suddenly took its flight into the evening blue. The old
lady listened a moment before going on with her story.
“Well,” she began again, “I gathered up my apron and walked towards Miss
Jemima down the aisle. Suddenly there came a slight rumbling noise,
which I could not understand. Then instantly there followed a crash. And
at Miss Jemima’s very feet, in the sunlight, I saw lying a piece of
stone about the size of a small plum pudding. Miss Jemima gave a faint
scream. Her cheek, already pale, went white; and she stared from me to
the stone and back again, as I approached her.
“‘You were talking in there—in God’s church—to someone,’ she whispered
harshly, stooping towards me. ‘To whom?’
“I shook my head, and stood trembling and gazing at the stone.
“‘Look into my face, you wicked child,’ she whispered. ‘Who were you
talking to in there?’
“I looked up at last. ‘It’s empty,’ I said.
“‘There’s a lying look in your eyes!’ cried Miss Jemima. ‘And you are
the child that goes into a sacred place to weave daisy-chains! Turn your
face away from me. Do you hear me, Miss? Miserable little _Sorceress_
that you are!’
“The word seemed to flame up in my mind as if it had been written in
fire on smoke; and still I stared at the stone. I felt but did not see
Miss Jemima steadily turn her head and look around her.
“‘A few inches,’ she added in a low voice, ‘and you would have killed
me.’
“‘Me!’ I cried angrily. ‘What has it to do with _me_, Miss Jemima?’
“‘Ah!’ said she. ‘We shall know a little more about that when you have
told me what company you find here where your poor uncle might hope to
be at rest.’
“It’s a dreadful thing to confess, Susan, but up to that moment, though
I had again and again cried by myself at memory of him, though tears
were always in my heart for him, I hadn’t thought of my uncle that
morning.
“‘And perhaps,’ added Miss Jemima, ‘bread and water and solitude for a
day or two will help to persuade your tongue.’
“I followed her without another word across the field, and in a few
minutes was alone once more in my bedroom with a stale crust and a glass
of water to keep me company.
“I should think if my angry tears had run into the water that morning,
they would have actually made it taste salt. But I cried so that not
even a mouse could have heard me. Every other thought was now out of my
mind—for I dared not even talk to myself about the stone—but that of
getting away from the house for ever. One thing I could not forget,
however, and that was the word ‘sorceress.’ It terrified me far more
than I can tell you. I knew in my young mind that Miss Jemima was
treating me wickedly, however naughty I had been, and I knew too, in
strange fear, that the stone might not have fallen by accident. I had
seen the look on the Fairy’s face and....” The old lady suddenly broke
off her story at this point, and looked about her in alarm. “My dear, we
must go at once; the dew is beginning to fall, and the air is already
colder.”
“Oh, Grannie,” said the child, “how I wish we might stay—a little,
_little_ longer!”
“Well, my dear, so do I. For I am old, and I shall never see this place
again. It brings many memories back. Who knows what might have happened
if——”
“But, Grannie,” interrupted the child hastily, picking up the umbrella
from the grass. “Please tell me the rest of the story straight,
straight, straight on as we go back.” It seemed to Susan, so still was
her grandmother’s face at that moment, and so absent her eyes—that she
could not have heard her. The small aged eyes were once more looking
carefully down on the scene below. For an instant they shut as if the
old lady had thought so to remember it more completely. And then the two
of them began slowly to climb the hill, and the story proceeded.
“No one disturbed me during the long morning,” continued the old voice,
“but in the afternoon the door was unlocked, and Miss Jemima opened it
to show in the Reverend Mr. Wilmot, who conducted the service in the
church every other Sunday. I won’t tell you all he said to me. He was a
kind and gentle old man, but he didn’t so much as think it possible
there was any being or thing in the churchyard but its birds, its
tombstones, and now and then a straying animal. He only smiled about all
that, nor did he ask me Miss Jemima’s question.
“He took my hand in his great bony one and begged me to be a good little
girl. And I see his smiling face as he asked it. ‘Not only for your
mother’s sake,’ he said, ‘but _for goodness’ sake_.’
“‘I am sure, my dear,’ he went on, ‘Miss Jemima _means_ to be kind, and
all _we_ have to do is to mean to be good.’
“I gulped down the lump in my throat, and said, ‘But don’t you think
_sorceress_ is a very wicked word?’
“He stood up, holding both my hands in his. ‘But my poor little lamb,’
he cried, ‘Miss Jemima is no more a sorceress than I am a Double
Dutchman!’ And with that he stooped, kissed the top of my head, and went
out of the room.
“In a minute or two his footsteps returned. He opened the door an inch
and peeped in. ‘Why, we are better already!’ he smiled at me over his
spectacles. Then he came in, carrying a plate with a slice of
bread-and-jam upon it, and a mug of milk. ‘There,’ he said, ‘there’s no
sorcery in that, is there? And now you will be an obedient and gentle
child, and think how happy Mamma will be to see you.’”
“I think,” said Susan stoutly, “that that Mr. Wilmot is one of the
kindest men I ever knew.”
Her grandmother looked down on her with a crooked smile on her face. “He
was so kind, Susan, that I never mentioned to him that the
blackberry-jam on the bread was not a great favourite of mine! A moment
after the sound of his steps had died away I heard the key once more in
the lock. And what did I say to myself when he was gone? I looked
forlornly at the plate, then out of the window, and I believe, Susan,
that I did what they sometimes describe in the storybooks—I wrung my
hands a little, repeating to myself, ‘_He doesn’t understand. No! He
doesn’t understand._’
“In an hour or two, Miss Jemima herself opened the door and looked in.
She surveyed me where I sat, and then her glance fell on the untouched
slice of bread-and-jam.
“‘Ah,’ said she, ‘a good man like Mr. Wilmot cannot realise the hardness
of a stubborn heart. I don’t want to be unkind to you, Susan, but I have
a duty to perform to your mother and to your poor uncle. You shall not
leave this room until you apologise to me for your insolence of this
morning, and until you tell me whom you were speaking to in the church.’
“The lie that came into my mind—‘But I was not speaking to anyone, Miss
Jemima’—faded away on my tongue. And I simply looked at her in silence.
“‘You have a brazen face, Susan,’ said she, ‘and if you grow up as you
are now, you will be a very wicked woman.’”
“I think,” said Susan, “_that_ was a perfectly dreadful thing to say,
Grannie.”
“Times change, my dear,” said the old lady. “And now—well, it is
fortunate there is very little more to tell. For this hill has taken
nearly all the breath out of my body!”
The two of them were now on the crest of the hill. The light was
beginning to die away in the sky, and the mists to grow milkier in the
hollows of the flat country that lay around and beneath them. Far, far
away, facing them across the wild, a reddish-coloured moon was rising.
From low down below, a dog barked—it might be from dead Miss Jemima’s
farmyard. The little church surrounded by its low wall seemed to have
gathered in closer to its scattered stones.
“Yes, Grannie dear?” breathed Susan, slipping her hand into the
cotton-gloved one that hung near. “What then?”
“Then,” replied her grandmother, “the door was locked again. Anger and
hatred filled that silly little body sitting in the bedroom, and towards
evening I fell asleep. And I must have dreamed a terrifying dream,
though when I awoke I could not remember my dream—only its horror. I was
terrified at it in that solitude, and I knew by the darkening at the
window that it must be at least nine or ten o’clock. Night was coming,
then. I could scarcely breathe at the thought. A second mug of milk had
been put beside the plate; but I could not even persuade myself to drink
any of it.
“Then in a while I heard Miss Jemima’s footsteps pass my room. She made
no pause there, and presently after I knew that she was gone to bed. She
had not even troubled to look in on her wretched little prisoner. The
hardness of that decided me.
“I tiptoed over to the door, and with both hands softly twisted the
handle. It was still locked. Then I went to the window and discovered,
as if the Fairy Creature herself had magicked it there, that a large
hay-wain half full of hay, its shafts high in the air, had been left
drawn up within a few feet of my window. It looked dangerous, but it was
not actually a very difficult jump even for a child of my age; and I
think I might have jumped even if there had been no cart at all. My one
thought was to run away. _Any_where—so long as there was no chance of
Miss Jemima’s finding me.
[Illustration:
“_Then I jumped—without the slightest harm to myself._”
]
“But even in that excited foolish moment I had sense enough left—before
I jumped out of the window—to take a little warm jacket out of my
chest-of-drawers, and to wrap my money-box up in a scarf so that it
should not jangle too much. I pulled my letter up from its cranny in the
wainscot by its thread, and put it on the pink dressing-table. And at
that moment, in the half dark I saw my face in the looking-glass. I
should hardly have recognised it. It looked nearly as old, Susan, as I
do now.”
“Yes, dear Grannie,” said Susan.
“Then I jumped—without the slightest harm to myself. I scrambled down
into the yard and, keeping close to the house, crept past the kennel,
the old sheep-dog merely shaking her chain with her thumping tail a
little as I passed. And then, as soon as I was beyond the tall
gate-posts, I ran as fast as my legs would carry me.”
“But _not_,” cried Susan almost with a shout in the still air, “_not_ to
the churchyard, Grannie. I think that was the most wonderful thing of
all.”
“Not so very wonderful, my dear, if you remember that I was now
intensely afraid of the Fairy Creature, after seeing that look in her
countenance when Miss Jemima was approaching the church. Something in me
had all along, as you know, said, _Don’t be deceived by her. She means
you no well._ I cannot explain that; but so it was. Yet all the time I
had been longing to follow where she might lead. Why she should wish to
carry off a human child I don’t know, but that she really wanted me I
soon discovered for certain.
“If you follow the tip of my umbrella, you will just be able to see,
Susan, a large meadow on the other side of the farm. But I don’t think
even your sharp eyes will detect the stones standing up in it. They are
called the Dancers, and though I was a little frightened of passing them
in the darkness, this was the only way to take. Gradually I approached
them, my heart beating beneath my ribs like a drum, until I was come
near.
“And there, lovelier than ever, shining as fairly as if with a light of
her own, sitting beneath the largest of the Dancers, directly in my
path, was She. But this time I knew she was not alone. I cannot describe
what passed in my heart. Still I longed to go, still I was in anguish at
the thought of it. I didn’t dare to look at her, and all I could think
to do was to pretend not to see anything. How I had the courage I cannot
think. Perhaps it was the courage that comes when fear and terror are
almost beyond bearing.
“I put my money-box on to the grass; the scarf was already wet with dew.
Then, very slowly, I put my black jacket on and buttoned it up. And
then, with face turned away from the stone, I walked slowly on down the
path, between the Dancers, towards the one that is called the Fiddler,
in their midst. The night air was utterly silent. But as I approached
the stone, it seemed as if it were full of voices and footsteps and
sounds of wings and instruments, yet all as small as the voices of
grasshoppers.
“I just kept saying, ‘Oh, please, God; oh, please, God,’ and walked on.
And when at last I came to the stone, the whole world suddenly seemed to
turn dark and cold and dead. Apart from the ancient stone, leaning up
out of the green turf as it had done for centuries, there was not a sign
or a symptom, Susan, of anything or anybody there.”
“I think I can _just_ see the stone, Grannie, but I would not be there
like that in the dark, not for anything—anything in the world.... I
expect it was what you _said_ made the Fairy go. And then, Grannie?”
“Then, Susan, my heart seemed to go out of me. I ran on, stumbling
blindly for a little way, then lost my balance completely over a tussock
of grass or a mole-heap and fell flat on my face. Without any words that
I can remember, I lay praying in the grass.
“But even then I did not turn back. I got up at last and ran on more
lightly, and without looking behind me, across the field. Its gate leads
into a by-road. It was padlocked, and as I mounted to the top my eyes
could see just above a slight rise in the ground, for the lane lies
beneath a little hill there.
“And coming along the road towards me there were shining the lamps of a
carriage. I clambered down and crouched in the hedge-side, and in a few
moments the lamps reappeared at the top of the incline and the horse
came plod-plodding along down the hill. It was a wonderful mild summer
night, the sky all faint with stars. What would have happened if it had
been cold or pouring with rain I cannot think. But because it was so
warm, the air almost like milk, the hood of the carriage was down.
“And as it came wheeling round by the hedge-side, I saw in the filmy
starlight who it was who was sitting there. Neither horse nor coachman
could see me. I jumped to my feet and ran after the carriage as fast as
my legs could carry me, screaming at the top of my voice, ‘Mother,
Mother!’
“Perhaps the grinding of the wheels in the flinty dust and the noise of
the hoofs drowned my calling. But I still held tight to my money-box,
and though it was muffled by the scarf in which it was wrapped, at each
step it made a dull noise like a bird-scare, and this must at last have
attracted my mother’s attention. She turned her head, opened her mouth
wide at sight of me—I see her now—then instantly jumped up and pulled
the coachman’s buttoned coat-tails. The carriage came to a
standstill....
“And that,” said the old lady, turning away her head for one last glance
of the countryside around her, “that is all, Susan.”
Susan gave a last great sigh. “I can’t think what you must have felt,
Grannie,” she said, “when you were safe in the carriage. And I can’t——”
But at this point she began to laugh very softly to herself, and
suddenly stood still. “And I can’t think either,” she went on, “what
Miss Jemima must have thought when you and _Great_-Grannie knocked at
the door. You did tell me once that she opened her bedroom window at the
sound of the knocking, and looked out in her nightdress. I expect she
was almost as frightened as you were amongst those Dancers.”
The two of them were now descending the hill on the side away from the
farm and the church. And not only their carriage standing beneath them,
but the evening star had come into view. There never was such a peaceful
scene—the silver birches around them standing perfectly still, clothed
with their little leaves, and the rabbits at play among the gorse and
juniper.
“Bless me, Mum,” said the old cabman as he opened the carriage door, “I
was just beginning to think them fairises had runned away with you and
the young lady.”
Susan burst completely out laughing. “Now don’t you think, Grannie,” she
said, “that is a very, very curious quincidence?”
POEMS _By ROSE FYLEMAN_
GOSSIP
“Trains are all the fashion,”
Said the fairy in the tree.
“They’ll catch upon the brambles
When we go for moonlight scrambles,
And then where shall we be?”
“At the caterpillar’s wedding,”
Said the pixie in the moss,
“The dewdrops were so fizzy
That all the guests went dizzy.
The Queen was very cross.”
“The weather clerk’s gone crazy,”
Said the brownie in the fern,
“And all the kinds of weather
Have got mixed up together.
They don’t know where to turn!”
“It’s nothing else but temper,”
Said the nixie in the pool;
“They’ve hung him on a spire
With a little bit of wire
And left him there to cool.”
“But have you heard the latest?”
Said the goblin in the ditch.
“Young Puck has changed the dresses
Of the little twin princesses,
And they don’t know which is which!”
ROSE FYLEMAN.
[Illustration:
“_Have you heard the latest?_”
]
CLOUDS
I saw a lady in the sky to-day;
Her fleecy, floating skirts were long and wide,
Her arms were crossed, her head was turned away,
She had a dragon at her side:
A big grey dragon pawing in the air,
His curly tail went sweeping to the ground,
His mouth was open and his teeth were bare,
But he made no sound.
I turned to watch a butterfly go by,
And when I looked again where they had been—
The lady and the dragon in the sky—
They were not to be seen.
ROSE FYLEMAN.
[Illustration:
_The lady and the dragon in the sky._
]
COUNTRY
I’LL give you an apple,
I’ll give you a pear,
And a bunch of red berries
To put in your hair;
A potful of honey,
A jugful of cream,
And a lavender cushion
To sweeten your dream.
✾
TOWN
I’ll give you an orange
As red as the sun,
A basket of goodies,
A bookful of fun,
A taffeta sunshade,
A bonnet of lace,
And a little French doll
With a porcelain face.
ROSE FYLEMAN.
[Illustration:
_Country and Town._
]
HOLLOW TREE STORE _By MABEL MARLOWE_
[Illustration: A squirrel wearing a dotted apron rolls out dough on a
table, with a small container sitting underneath.]
Mrs. Fluff was a squirrel who kept a shop. Every morning she made some
lovely buns, all hot and crisp and sweet, all full of nuts and honey,
and sold them in her shop.
The shop was in a hollow tree. It had a branch for a counter and some
ivy for a roof, and there was an empty nest to put the money in.
“Buy, buy, buy!” said Mrs. Fluff when the cakes were ready.
“How much are they to-day?” asked the other squirrels.
“Six nuts for one cake! Six nuts for one cake!”
So the squirrels ran all about the wood, hunting for nuts, and for
acorns and berries too. Then they hurried back to get their cakes. You
should have seen how they sat up on the branches, with their bushy tails
standing up behind them like little trees.
Munch, munch, munch.
You should have seen how they nibbled, and chewed, and chatted, and
smiled at one another.
[Illustration: An illustration of squirrels in aprons working in a
store, using a scale to weigh goods for customers.]
“They are lovely cakes.”
“Yes. They are.”
“Buy, buy, buy!” cried Mrs. Fluff.
Now Bruin the Bear woke up in his den, and sniffed at the air. Never
before had he smelt such a lovely smell.
“I smell hot cakes,” said Bruin the Bear, licking his whiskers. He got
up, gave himself a shake, and came out of his den. He sniffed and
sniffed and sniffed at the air, and at last he found out where the shop
was.
Patter, patter, patter! Off he went to the hollow tree.
“Buy, buy, buy!”
“Pay, pay, pay!”
“I want some cakes. How much must I pay?” said Bruin the Bear, with his
red tongue lolling out.
“Six nuts for one cake! Six nuts for one cake!”
“Ho, ho!” said Bruin, laughing deep in his chest, “do you think I am a
squirrel, or a rat, or a bird? A big fat father bear like me does not go
searching for nuts. No, indeed! You must give me some cakes for
nothing.”
“Indeed I won’t,” said Mrs. Fluff.
“Indeed you must!”
“I won’t.”
“You must. If you don’t, I shall simply help myself.”
But Mrs. Fluff would not give away her nice warm cakes. So Bruin the
Bear opened his mouth very wide, put it close to the counter, and swept
all the cakes into it with his broad hairy paw.
[Illustration:
“_I smell hot cakes._”
]
He swallowed them all in two ticks. He was so greedy that he did not
stop to chew them, so he lost half the taste. But he trotted off home,
feeling very pleased with himself.
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” cried Mrs. Fluff, in floods of tears.
“Oh dear, he has eaten them all!” cried all the squirrels.
That night Mrs. Fluff went to see her friend Solomon Owl. Solomon Owl
was very wise, and he lived in the top of a church tower. It was a fine
climb for Mrs. Fluff, I can tell you, but she reached Solomon’s home at
last, and told him all about Bruin the Bear.
[Illustration: A black-and-white illustration of an anthropomorphic
squirrel in a bonnet and cape speaking to an owl wearing a waistcoat.]
“He will do it again to-morrow,” said Solomon Owl.
“Yes, I expect he will.”
“He will do it again the next day, and the next day, and all the days.
Your shop will never be safe any more.”
“No, I know it won’t. That is why I have come to you, dear, wise Solomon
Owl. I want you to tell me what to do. You are so clever. Please think
of a way to stop Bruin the Bear robbing my shop.”
Then the wise old owl sat very still, like a bird that is stuffed, and
he thought for a long time. At last he spoke. His words were slow, like
the pastor reading the lessons in church, but the squirrel listened, and
heard every word.
“Oh, thank you, dear, kind, wise Solomon,” she said, and she went back
to her home in the hollow tree.
Next morning Mrs. Fluff was up very early. She called one squirrel and
said to him, “Go down to the seashore with your little bucket, and bring
me some wet, salt, gritty sand.”
So the squirrel went.
Then she said to another squirrel, “Go to the river, and get me some
little sharp stones and some mud.”
So the squirrel went.
Then she said to another squirrel, “Go deep into the woods and pick some
bitter, bitter berries, as sour as sour. Pick me some thorns, and some
thistles, and some nettles that sting.”
So that squirrel went.
When all the things were fetched Mrs. Fluff put them into a dish, and
mixed them up, and made them into cakes. She popped them into the oven,
and cooked them all hot. The smell of them floated all over the wood.
Then Mrs. Fluff laughed very quietly to herself, though the other
squirrels were not at all happy. But presently they saw Mrs. Fluff
making some more cakes, all sweet and crisp and nutty.
The smell of them floated all over the wood.
“Buy, buy, buy! Six nuts for one cake!”
Along came Bruin the Bear, with his red tongue lolling out.
“Ho, I want some cakes,” he said.
[Illustration:
_She popped them into the oven._
]
“You must pay for them. Six nuts for one cake!”
Then Bruin the Bear laughed, and rocked his big body about. “Ho, ho, ho!
Do you think I am a squirrel, or a rat, or a bird? A big fat father bear
does not go hunting for nuts. No, indeed! If he _wants_ cakes he _has_
cakes. He has them for nothing. He just helps himself.”
Then Mrs. Fluff began to look very worried, and to rub her little paws
together.
“I hope I shall not be blamed when you are dead,” she said.
“Dead?” said Bruin the Bear.
“Yes. If you eat the wrong cakes you will soon be dead.”
“Why?”
“Eat them if you like. Steal them if you like. But I hope I shall not be
blamed when you are dead.”
Now Bruin the Bear was a cowardy coward, and he did not want to be dead,
so he said, “Oh, Mrs. Fluff, why must I be careful? I ate your cakes
yesterday, and I am not dead. What do you mean?”
Then Mrs. Fluff looked very solemn, and she replied:
“Some of the cakes are poison.”
“Which are poison?”
“I shall not tell you. Some of the cakes are sour.”
“Which are sour?”
“I shall not tell you. Some of the cakes are gritty, and sandy, and
thorny, and muddy. They would kill a lion, I should think. They would
kill an elephant, I should think. They would be perfectly certain to
kill a bear.”
“Oh, which ones are those?”
“I shall not tell you. But some of the cakes are nice ... oh, ever so
nice. They are melty, and crisp, and sweet. They are made with eggs, and
cream, and nuts, and honey.”
“Oh, which ones are those?”
“I shall not tell you. I only tell customers who bring their money with
them. Six nuts for one cake!”
Then Bruin the Bear went away to think it over. But he soon came back,
and I think you can guess what he brought in his pocket.
[Illustration: A black-and-white illustration of an anthropomorphic bear
wearing plaid overalls and walking with a cane.]
TOFFEE BOY _By MABEL MARLOWE_
There was once a boy who ate so much toffee that when he sat in the sun
he melted.
He melted and melted until he was just a brown pool of treacle.
Now this treacle began to move slowly down the hill. It trickled past
the school and across a meadow and under a stile, and at last it came to
a little brook, running in the valley.
Now there was a plank of wood across this brook, to serve for a bridge,
and the treacle trickled over this plank until it reached the middle.
Then it stopped.
It was very cool over the water, and before long the treacle began to
set. In a very little while the middle of that little bridge was all
toffee. Some of it was like a pool of brown glass. Some of it hung over
the edges like brown icicles.
Now when it was getting dark a bunny came hopping that way. He hopped to
the middle of the bridge, and sat down to watch the sunset.
Presently another bunny came that way.
“What are you doing there?” he said to the first bunny.
“I am sitting down to watch the sunset.”
“I will come too.”
Hop, hop, hop! The second bunny hopped on to the bridge, and sat down to
watch the sunset.
Presently another bunny came that way.
“What are you doing there?” he said.
“We are sitting here to watch the sunset.”
“I will come too.”
The red sun went down and down, and the three bunnies sat still upon
that little bridge until the last rays were gone.
“Now I will hunt for cabbage for my supper,” said one.
“Yes, so will I.”
“And so will I.”
Then they all tried to get up.
[Illustration: A black-and-white illustration of three rabbits sitting
side-by-side on a log, viewed from behind.]
Pull, pull!
Tug, tug!
Struggle, struggle!
“Oh, dear! oh dear! I can’t get up.”
“Neither can I.”
“Neither can I.”
“I am stuck fast.”
“So am I.”
“And so am I.”
[Illustration:
“_See the fine supper I have brought for you._”
]
Now just at that moment a man came along. He was a long, lean man, very
weary and very hungry, but when he saw those three bunnies on that
bridge he began to laugh.
“Ha, ha! Ho, ho! These will do nicely for my supper,” he said. So he
stooped and took hold of the plank, and pulled it hard and lifted it up,
bunnies and all. He put it on his shoulder, bunnies and all, and went
off home.
“See the fine supper I have brought for you,” he said to his wife.
[Illustration: A black-and-white illustration of three rabbits sitting
on a bench or flat wooden surface.]
Now when the wife saw the bunnies she was very glad. Very quickly she
got paper, and matches and sticks, and made a big fire.
“I will pull some turnips to cook with the bunnies,” she said. So she
went into the garden to pull the turnips.
“I will pull some carrots, too,” said the man. So he went into the
garden to pull the carrots.
“Oh dear! oh dear! We shall soon be put into a pie,” said one bunny.
“Yes. I am hot enough to be roasting now. What a big fire that old woman
has made!”
[Illustration:
_She threw open the window._
]
It certainly was a big fire. It roared up the chimney, and crackled and
flamed, and the room became as hot as an oven.
“Goodness gracious me! I believe I am coming unstuck,” said one bunny in
a whisper.
“Yes, so am I.”
“And so am I.”
“Sh! Keep quiet. The old woman is coming back.”
Back came the old woman, with a bunch of turnips in her hand. “Whew, how
hot it is!” she said, and she threw open the window.
“Quick!” said all the bunnies at once. There were three little scuffles,
three mighty jumps, and three frightened rabbits were gone through the
window. In a flash their tails vanished over the hill.
“Where are the bunnies?” said the man, coming in with a bunch of
carrots.
But there was nothing but a plank of sticky wood, and a brown pool of
treacle on the floor.
[Illustration: A black-and-white line drawing showing three rabbits in
mid-leap, depicted in motion.]
THE OPEN DOOR _By LAURENCE HOUSMAN_
For fifty years, every night of his life, old Caleb had locked the door
before going to bed. And so, having made the house safe, he slept sound.
All that time he had lived alone, working hard, a labourer upon the
land, for a small weekly wage. Now that he had grown old and feeble his
wage had become less, and he had little enough to live on; still it was
enough; and in his small two-roomed cottage he had just the necessary
things for keeping house. This he did all by himself: he had no
children, no wife, no friend, and no money. People, living near about,
spoke of him as “the lonely man”; and so he had been for fifty years: he
had got into the way of it, nor was it likely now that he would ever get
out of it.
One night, just as he was locking the door, the thought came to him,
“What have I in the house that anyone could wish to take? Why, then, do
I go on every night locking the door?”
[Illustration: A monochromatic illustration of a young child sitting on
the forest floor, surrounded by several dancing rabbits in the woods.]
Twice from force of habit he turned the key in the lock, and twice he
unturned it again. Then he opened the door and looked out. It was a cold
night and a full moon; but inside the remains of a fire still glowed
upon the hearth, and the house was cosy and warm. As long as he had
strength to go out into the forest and gather fuel, the comfort of
warmth would still belong to him, however poor he might become. Now,
though the nights were cold, the heat of the hearth went up into the
room where he slept, and there was never a night when he did not sleep
soundly and well. And so, because that comfort belonged to him, the
frost outside under the moon looked beautiful. He came in again, closed
the door but did not lock it, and went up to bed.
[Illustration:
“_What have I in the house that anyone could wish to take?_”
]
Now whether it came of going into the cold air from the warm room, I do
not know; but next morning when he woke up he found his limbs stiff and
full of pain; he could not bend his back, he could hardly walk: and so,
for the first time on a week-day for fifty years, he stayed at home and
did not go out to work.
He was in no danger of starving, for he had a barrel of meal and a
flitch of bacon in the house, and outside a big bury of potatoes. Also
he had dried herbs with which to make herb tea, and in the well there
was water; but he had no store of wood.
So all day, wishing to make his scant wood last till he was well again,
he kept up only a small fire, and went to bed cold, wondering whether he
had wood enough left to last for another day.
The next morning when he got up he was no better; he could not bend his
back, and he could not go out. But still his wood lasted through the
day; and so it did the next day, and the next.
This puzzled him, and he began to look at it attentively, where it lay
piled in a dark corner by the hearth. And presently he became quite sure
that, if anything, it did not diminish but grew; there was always enough
to keep the fire going during the day and until he went up to bed; and
the next morning he always found there was still enough to carry on
through another day.
So one night, on going to bed, he counted the logs that he had left—only
twelve; and when he came down the next morning there were twenty-five.
Suddenly he remembered that this had begun to happen since he had left
off locking his door. It meant, then, that somebody had come in during
the night to supply his needs; but as he had no friends in the world,
and as, so far as he knew, nobody had heard about his present plight, he
wondered who it could be.
And so, that night, when he went up to bed, he lay down upon it, but did
not undress, and did not go to sleep.
For a long while he lay listening, but there was no sound—no steps
outside, no opening of the door, no noise of anyone moving below; till,
as he waited and nothing happened, he fell asleep, and when he woke it
was morning. And then, going downstairs, he found more logs lying by the
hearth and the fire embers still glowing and warm.
The next night he waited as before; and when after two hours of
listening he heard no sound, he rose up softly and crept down; and
there, sitting in his chair before the fire, he saw an old man, as bent
and old as himself, stooping forward and warming his hands at the blaze
of a log that had only just been put on.
The old man seemed so quiet and easy, and so much at home, that Caleb
had no fear or anger at seeing him seated there, as though chair and
house belonged to him. Going softly across he touched the intruder upon
the shoulder, and asked, “How did you come here?”
And without lifting his head or turning to look at him the old man
answered, “You left your door open; that’s how.”
[Illustration:
_Sitting in his chair before the fire he saw an old man._
]
“I left it unlocked,” said Caleb, “I know.”
“Unlocked is open,” said the other, “as soon as one tries the latch.”
“How did you come to try it?” inquired Caleb.
“I’ve tried it every night for the last fifty years,” answered the
stranger; “but it was always locked.”
“Yes,” said Caleb.
“Why?”
“Don’t people generally lock their doors at night?”
“Aye, if they’ve any reason for it. Had you?”
Caleb sat and thought awhile, then said: “Once there went out of my door
something that I valued. It never came back. Ever since that I’ve always
locked my door, till last week.”
“Had you anything of value still left to make you do it?”
“No,” answered Caleb sadly, “I’d nothing left. I locked it because, if
I’d only begun locking it before, perhaps I shouldn’t have lost what I
did.”
“What did you lose?”
“My little daughter. She was only three years old then. Her mother was
dead. One night I laid her to sleep; and when I went up to bed myself,
there she lay sleeping sound. When I woke up in the morning she was
gone. I searched everywhere, inside and out, field and wood; I followed
the stream, I looked in the well, I never found her. She never came
back.”
Heaving a great sigh, he crossed to the other side of the hearth, and
there, seating himself, remained quite still looking into the flames.
“And so, after that, you began locking your door?”
“Yes, but it was too late then.”
The stranger said, “That same night I came to your door, found it
locked, and went away again.”
“You came!” cried Caleb, in great astonishment. “What for? Who are you?”
The other looked at him a little strangely. “So you don’t remember me?”
he said. “We’ve been two people so long. Name? Names mean little. I’m
just your fellow-man.”
“Why did you come _then_, that night?” asked Caleb, looking at him hard.
“It was a cold night,” replied the other, “a full moon, frost. Here,
inside, I saw the glow of a fire still burning upon the hearth. You had
forgotten to put that out. I wanted to come in and be warm; but I found
the door locked.”
“But what brought you here at all?”
There was a long pause before the other answered. Then he said,
pondering his words as he spoke: “It seemed the place where I was most
wanted. That day you’d lost yourself—lost heart, lost hope. But there in
the moon I saw the track leading up to your door; and I said to myself,
‘That’s where I came from; I’ll go back.’”
“Back?” queried Caleb.
But without any pause the other continued. “And as I went I saw
something—a strange sight it was, and a pretty! Oh, you’d have believed
it then, that night when first you locked your door. You might have
looked out then, and seen it too.”
Caleb began to have a fear. “What did you see?” he asked.
“Out on the open hill where the wood leaves off,” said the other, “I saw
a lot of grey rabbits dancing in a ring. I say dancing, because there
was such life and joy and movement in it, and it all went to time as
though there was music which one could not hear. And in the middle of
them all sat a little child, a small three-year-old, wrapped in a silver
rabbit-skin; there she sat, and clapped her hands and crowed, while all
the rabbits danced round her.”
Caleb’s hand went down heavily to the bench upon which he was sitting.
“So!” he cried, “it was as I thought: ’twas the fairies that carried her
away.”
“Fairies?” queried the other. “I don’t know about fairies. Rabbits was
all that I saw.”
“But,” said Caleb, “you saw her wearing the silver rabbit-skin. If they
weren’t fairies, how did she come by that?”
“Maybe she just found it, and put it on,” Fellow-man answered.
“Aye, aye,” said Caleb, “that might well be the way of it. That’s the
sort of thing they do; they leave it lying, you come along, you find it
and put it on; then you belong to them.” Then he added: “You saw all
that, you say? For how long? Where did they go?”
“I went softly,” Fellow-man answered, “skirted the field so as not to
disturb them in their play; then, when I got to the path leading here,
they all began following me.”
Caleb sat up, very still and expectant.
“Followed you, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Did she follow, too?”
“That’s why the others did. When she saw me, she got up and came after
me. Then they all came after her.”
“To this door?” said Caleb, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
“Almost,” replied the other. “She was still coming on towards me, as I
put out my hand to lift the latch. Then I found the door locked; and
when I turned and looked round they were all gone.”
Caleb bowed his head, as though that grief had only happened now. “But
why didn’t you call?” he asked. “I was never asleep! Weeks and weeks I
didn’t sleep—waiting.”
“You’d locked the door,” said the other. “After that I always found it
locked.”
“Always? Why did you come again?”
The other looked at him silently for a while, then answered: “You see, I
was your fellow-man.”
Caleb turned searching eyes and looked at him hard. “And you say that
you have been to my door every night for the last fifty years?”
“Yes,” said the other, “that is so; it seemed a long time waiting till
the door opened.”
Caleb was thinking hard now. “Did you ever see _her_ again?” he asked at
last.
“Of course, every night.”
Here was something wonderful—hardly to be believed. “You mean to say,”
cried Caleb, “that you saw her that night when you came and found the
door open only a week ago?”
“I saw her to-night,” replied the other.
“That little thing? How could you? It’s fifty years now.”
“She hasn’t changed,” replied Fellow-man. “The night when I found the
door open and looked back, she was there; she still stood, waiting,
looking. Always before that, when I had looked for her, she had gone.
The next night she came a little nearer, and the next night nearer
still. Now when she follows me she comes right up to the door, just as
if she were wanting to come in too. Some night she will.”
“Do the grey rabbits come in?”
“Oh! aye; they come in and they go again. It’s to please little
silver-skin they do that, I reckon. Aye! right inside and up to the fire
they come; and she watching them.”
Caleb felt as though he could not breathe: he got up and stumbled to the
door, opened it and looked out. “There’s nothing there now,” he said,
having gazed long and steadily into the night. And it seemed to him
suddenly that all the old man had been telling him was only a dream.
But then he remembered something that was not a dream; he came in again,
shut the door, and said: “I have to thank you for bringing me wood; but
for you, this last week, I should have had to go without. You’ve been a
kind friend.”
“No,” replied Fellow-man, “I’ve not brought you any wood. How was I to
know you wanted it? To be sure, sometimes, when I’ve come in, I’ve put a
piece upon the fire just to keep it going while I was here. Maybe you’ll
find out who brings you the wood if you stay up long enough.”
“And how long,” asked Caleb, “when you come, do you stay?”
“Till you wake up,” replied the other.
“But I am awake now!” cried Caleb; and as he spoke he found himself
actually awake, sitting on the bench by the hearth, and looking at the
empty chair over which the grey light of day was beginning faintly to
show.
There was nothing there to prove that what had now become a dream had
ever been true. “And yet,” he said to himself, “I couldn’t have dreamed
that; no, that would be impossible!”
He went and opened the door, and looked out. Soft and grey through a
mist of rain came the dawn, the frost had gone. He stooped (he found he
could bend his back again), and searched in the soft earth for the print
of feet. If during the night anyone had come in and gone out, there
would surely be foot-prints. But of human foot-prints he could find
none. And yet foot-prints there were, the path was strewn with them;
here, there, everywhere, scores upon scores, the marks of rabbits’ feet.
So if his meeting with Fellow-man and their talk together had proved but
a dream, the rabbits’ feet were true. Daylight told him that.
Cured of his aches and pains, he went back to work and renewed his store
of wood; and at night, because illness had made him weak, he came home
very tired. But when after he had supped the hour grew late, the thought
of bed or sleep became impossible.
Drawing his chair round to the other side of the hearth so that it faced
the door, he put out the light and in the warm glow of the wood-embers
sat waiting. But presently it seemed to him that this was not enough;
his mind went so much further than he could see; and if now at night he
left the door unlocked, why should it not also be open? So going across
he opened it wide, propped it so that the wind should not close it
again, and went back to his place.
It was a clear night, the waning moon rose late and thin; but as it
mounted its beams grew strong, sending along the ground dark shadows of
grass-blades and stones. Presently, moving forward through these, he saw
the longer shadows of rabbits’ ears, all upright and alert for sound;
and hiding behind them came the rabbits themselves, one silver, and all
the rest grey.
The silver rabbit looked in across the threshold this way and that,
waited, listened, then jumped and was in. One by one all the grey
rabbits came after.
“Don’t move, don’t speak!” said a voice in his ear; and there was
Fellow-man seated close at his side.
The silver rabbit hopped slowly round the room, stopped at the foot of
the stairs, rose up on its hind legs as though about to mount, then
turned, frisked back to the door and was gone. And all the grey rabbits
went after it.
Caleb’s eyes were hungry as he watched it go; but all he said was, “That
was wonderful! Even if I were to wake up now, I should not believe that
this was a dream.”
As he said so, the same thing happened as on the night before; he woke
to find himself alone; it was morning again.
But now the question whether it was dream or truth began no longer to
trouble him; for having opened his door Caleb had opened his mind too;
and as everything that comes to the open mind is true while it lasts,
what better could he wish than night after night to have so beautiful a
dream, which, so long as it lasted, could not be anything but true?
The next night, after Caleb had settled down in his chair with the door
open, the rabbits came again—the silver and the grey; and Fellow-man was
there at his side.
[Illustration:
_The silver rabbit looked in across the threshold._
]
This time the rabbits were bolder and stayed longer; and as it went by
where he sat the silver rabbit stopped, put two tiny paws upon his foot,
lifted its head and looked at him. Then going all round the room, it
stopped again at the foot of the stairs, ran up, came down again, and
went out. And all the grey rabbits went after it.
Caleb had been holding his breath for quite a long time. “It went
upstairs!” he cried when all were gone. “It went upstairs! Did you see?
I never could have invented that in a dream.”
And as he said so, the dream ended and he woke.
The next night Caleb got a little basin, and filled it with
bread-and-milk; and when the silver rabbit came it sat at his feet
eating the bread-and-milk with all the grey rabbits looking on. And when
it went up the stairs it remained there for quite a long time, and all
the grey rabbits sat below waiting for it. And when at their departure
Caleb woke to find that it was morning again, he found also that the
bread-and-milk had really been eaten—that anyhow it was gone. So much at
least of his dream remained true.
The thought of it made him happy all day; and at night when he got home,
it seemed to him as though his old heart danced and sang, knowing so
certainly that before the night was out the little silver rabbit would
come again.
Also, for this night, he had another idea, an idea of such beautiful
possibilities that it almost frightened him. From upstairs he brought
down the little cot in which, fifty years ago, the three-year-old one
had been used to sleep. He brought it from where it had always stood by
the side of his bed; he made it soft with pillows, and warm with a
covering of wool, and setting it before the hearth with the small basin
of bread-and-milk close beside it, he waited for the silver rabbit to
come.
The silver rabbit came just as before; sat at his foot, stood up and
looked in his face, ate its bread-and-milk, then stood up again and
looked at the cot. For quite a long time it stood and looked, while all
the grey rabbits sat watching it.
Then, oh joy, oh wonder to behold! it took off its silver rabbit-skin,
and there came out from beneath, all rosy, cosy and warm, a little
three-year-old child, naked as on the day when it was new; and climbing
up into the cot it snuggled down and went to sleep, with its old father
of fifty years ago looking on, as well as he could look on for the tears
of happiness which filled his eyes.
By the side of the cot just where the three-year-old had left it, lay
the silver rabbit-skin, empty of its inhabitant now the first time for
fifty years. Slowly old Caleb reached out his hand and took hold of it;
and all at once the grey rabbits sprang up with a low squeak of alarm
and ran out of the house.
Away in the open they stopped, and turned to look back. Across the
threshold the firelight fell on their frightened eyes, their poor ears
flapped anxiously up and down; a queer noise of shivering came through
their fur as though inside their bodies were all being shaken.
And there sat Caleb, holding the silver rabbit-skin in his hand; very
still he sat looking at it, and for a long time he did not move. By his
side sat Fellow-man watching him.
Caleb said, “Now that I’ve got this she need never go back to them. I’ve
only to burn it, and she will be all mine.”
Fellow-man said, “Will she remember you again after fifty years?”
Caleb stooped down and looked at the sleeping child. “She hasn’t
changed,” he said, “not a day.”
“But you have,” said Fellow-man; “you have become old.”
“Aye,” answered Caleb, “I haven’t long to live now.”
“But she,” said Fellow-man, “may live many years yet. When you have her
back she won’t stay as she is now. Life will take hold of her; she too
will begin to grow old. To make up for lost time, perhaps she will age
soon. Who knows? It’s fifty years.”
Caleb did not answer, he bent down and looked long at the face of the
sleeping child.
“She looks happy,” he said at last; “she looks well. There, see! She is
laughing in her sleep; she is happy even in her dreams.”
“Perhaps she is dreaming about you.”
“Oh, no,” said Caleb, “not about me! It’s fifty years, and that is a
long time.”
“And yet, as she hasn’t changed, why should she not be dreaming of you?
Time to her may mean nothing. It’s only in your brain that fifty years
have gone. In hers, perhaps, it’s only a day.”
“Then,” said Caleb, “she would remember me.”
“Aye,” replied Fellow-man, “but other things—would she forget.”
Again Caleb sat looking and did not reply. So close he bent over the
sleeping three-year-old that her warm breath became his; and from his
forehead a long lock of grey hair fell touching the curls of gold.
“Her little mind is full of dreams,” he said at last. “She is happy even
in her sleep. The grey rabbits have been good to her. But if she comes
back to me—who knows? I’ve not had so happy a life myself. Maybe the
fairies have done better by her than I could have done. Anyway, it’s not
for me to decide; let her do that herself.”
The grey rabbits, looking anxiously through the door, saw him put down
the silver rabbit-skin in the place from which he had taken it.
Presently they saw that he was no longer awake but asleep, and by his
side Fellow-man seemed asleep also.
Into the house they ran, and shaking the cot of the sleeping
three-year-old, “Wake, wake!” they cried. “Get up! Put on your
rabbit-skin and come, for in here there is danger!”
The little three-year-old woke, sat up and rubbed her eyes, while round
and round ran the grey rabbits telling her to make haste. Looking up,
she saw an old man with bent head sitting asleep; and before any of the
grey rabbits could stop her, she stood up from the end of her little cot
and climbed on to his knee; climbed higher, put her arms round his neck
and kissed his face. Then she slipped down, put on her silver
rabbit-skin, and in another moment was out of the house. And all the
grey rabbits ran after her.
When Caleb woke it was morning again. He looked at the empty crib, felt
the hollow still just warm where the little three-year-old had lain;
looked on the floor where he had left the silver rabbit-skin. That too
was gone, but a few of its white hairs were left. One by one he gathered
them carefully together and laid them in a safe place. “So that’s
decided,” he said. Then he got up, lighted the fire, had breakfast, and
went to work.
[Illustration:
_She stood up from the end of her little cot and climbed on to his
knee._
]
The next night, as they sat together over the fire, he told Fellow-man
his dream—the dream that had come to him after they had both gone to
sleep—of the little three-year-old getting up from her crib, climbing
upon his knee, giving him a kiss, and then back into her rabbit-skin and
away with all the grey rabbits after her.
Caleb had not yet opened the door. “It’s strange,” he said, when
Fellow-man asked him why, “I don’t think she’ll come again; and why
should she? I know everything I need to know. She’s happy; she’s got a
long life; she’s going to stay young. What more do I want now?”
Fellow-man said, “The first night I came to your door—the first night it
was locked—I passed them dancing together on the hill. A pretty sight
that was. Maybe they’ll be there now.”
Caleb got up, went to the door and opened it. “Why, there’s snow!” he
exclaimed surprised. “There was none when I came in; and now it’s lying
deep.”
Fellow-man came and stood by his side, “Aye, it’s a fair night,” he
said. “If they are dancing in the snow now, to-morrow you’ll see their
marks. Oh, a pretty sight it must be!”
“Let us go,” said Caleb, “and see!”
“Nay, nay,” answered Fellow-man, “you know the road as well as I do. You
don’t need me to show it you now. I won’t come. I’ll bide here and
wait.”
As Caleb went out, all at once he remembered something that had never
yet been explained. Coming back, he said to Fellow-man, “If it wasn’t
you who brought me the wood every night, who was it?”
Fellow-man turned and smiled at him. “I thought you knew,” he said; “the
grey rabbits, of course.”
“The grey rabbits!” cried Caleb, astonished.
“When you came to need it,” answered Fellow-man; “as soon as you began
leaving your door open. It was only then they were able to. After all
they did owe you something in return for what they’d taken, didn’t
they?”
Caleb was still trying to get the thing fixed in his mind; and, as his
way was with Fellow-man, he made no direct answer, only went on
thinking.
“Then it was their wood that was warming me,” he said slowly, “when I——”
He stopped; then a curious look of contentment came into his face.
“Fellow-man,” he said, “do you know how glad I am now that I didn’t burn
the rabbit-skin?”
Fellow-man nodded. “Yes, I know,” he said. “You were right.”
“Aye, right’s the word!” replied Caleb. Then, as he went out, “There’s
more snow coming,” he said, and shut the door.
Nobody ever again saw Caleb alive. Late the next day he was found lying
in a deep drift of snow at the bottom of an old lime-pit. It looked as
though he must have fallen over from above; but more snow had fallen
since, covering him as he lay; so nobody could be quite sure.
His face, when they uncovered it, was very happy and peaceful; and when,
digging deeper, they uncovered more, maybe they found the reason for
that look of deep content; for there in his arms, hidden away under his
coat, lay a silver-white rabbit, too fast asleep ever to wake again.
’Tis more than fifty years now since Caleb died. The country-folk say
that the house where he used to live is haunted; and yet, if it is so,
no one seems to be afraid of it.
A shepherd told me a tale of it once. Going by, late at night, he saw a
light showing; and the door, which in daytime was shut, stood open.
Coming up the overgrown path, now so seldom used, he saw within two old
men sitting, both so exactly alike that you could not tell them apart.
But in the arms of one of them something small lay snuggled; and at his
feet stood a child’s crib all ready for use, but no one in it. Nothing
was doing; neither of the old men stirred or spoke; and yet, to look at,
they seemed very companionable.
“And all about the open door,” said the shepherd, “there were a lot of
grey rabbits sitting and looking in. It was a curious thing to see,” he
said; “and maybe I only thought I saw it because a gust of wind had come
and blown open the door. For it’s strange what things a man can make
himself see, by just looking through an open door.”
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY BILLING AND SONS, LTD., GUILDFORD AND ESHER
[Illustration: Back end paper.]
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
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