OUR FAIRY.
"A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food."
WORDSWORTH.
It seemed a very long time to the next afternoon, and if Liddy hadn't
been the most unnoticing old woman in the world, she would certainly
have seen that there was something unusual in our heads. We could think
of nothing but our new friend the fairy, or "the other princess," as
Gerald would call her. Who could she be? where had she come from?
how--and this, perhaps, was the thing we wondered most about--how in
the world did she know all about us, or our names, even down to our pet
names, any way?
Then another thought was in my mind and Tib's. Grandpapa had told us to
make no friends with the neighbours. Would it be disobeying him to go to
meet the young lady in the saloon and play with her, as she had asked
us?
"Is she a neighbour?" said Tib. "We don't know--we don't know if she
lives there, or where she lives, or anything."
"We must ask her," I said; "any way, we must go and see her again to ask
her. We must go to see her _once_, and we will tell her what grandpapa
said."
"I think she is a fairy, and that she lives in Fairyland; and grandpapa
didn't say we weren't to speak to fairies," said Gerald.
"Oh! how I wish Mr. Truro was here; we could ask him about it," I said.
"And there's another thing," said Tib: "we almost promised Mr. Truro we
wouldn't say anything about the palace and all that to grandpapa just
now--not till they came again. It's rather a muddle altogether, don't
you think, Gussie?"
"I dare say she--we must get a name for her, Tib----"
"We'd better just call her Regina," Tib said. "She said it was her
name."
"Well, I dare say Regina will tell us what she thinks we should do. Any
way, as you say, we must go to see her once to tell her about it. I
wonder what the bell was that rang, and made her rush off in such a
hurry. That part of it was really very like a fairy story."
"If only she had left a slipper behind her, it would have been a little
like Cinderella," I said; "though the deserted, quiet rooms, and that
part of it, is more like the Sleeping Beauty."
"And the first day, when we were trying to get in at the door in the
wall, was like one of the stories of dwarfs and gnomes in the woods,
wasn't it?" said Tib. "We've really had a good many adventures at
Rosebuds."
This conversation took place the morning after we had first seen Regina.
We were in the schoolroom, waiting for Mr. Markham. It was a little past
his usual time when he came in.
"I'm a little late, I fear," he said. "I had to go to the Rectory to
settle about giving some holiday lessons to one of the boys there. It
will be Whit-week holidays soon, you know."
We didn't care very much; Whit-week would make no difference to
us. Indeed, Christmas itself we didn't look forward to in _those_
days, as most children do. It brought no happy family meetings, no
Christmas-trees, or merry blind-man's buff and snap-dragon to us. But we
knew too little about these things in other homes to think about what we
missed, and grandpapa always gave us a pound each to spend as we chose.
And at Ansdell, the Christmases we happened to be there, the servants
had a party, and we used to watch them from the gallery that runs round
the big hall. But Whit-week we cared nothing about.
"We're not to have holidays, then, are we?" I asked.
"Oh, no; Mr. Ansdell has said nothing about it," Mr. Markham replied.
"By the by, Miss Gussie, you don't know when he will be coming down
again, do you?"
"No," I said. "It won't be next Saturday, and perhaps not the Saturday
after."
"Ah well! I can write to him. I thought perhaps he would say something
for me to the rector--you don't know the family at the Rectory, I
think?"
"No," said Tib.
"It is curious," said Mr. Markham--he was rather talkative this morning;
perhaps it had put him into an extra good humour to have the hope of
some more pupils--"it is curious--I saw a young lady there this morning
that I could really have thought was an elder sister of Miss Tib's--she
was so very like her."
We were all ears and attention now.
"So like Tib?" said Gerald and I.
"So like me?" said Tib.
"Yes," repeated Mr. Markham, "exceedingly like."
He didn't add, as I have done, "only a great deal prettier." Perhaps it
is because Tib is my own sister, and I'm always seeing her and know her
face so well, that I don't think her as pretty as other people do--or
rather, I don't think about it. When you love people dearly you don't
think about whether they're pretty or not--even now with Reg----Oh! I
am too stupid again.
"It is very funny," we said, in which Mr. Markham agreed. He was
thinking, of course, that the likeness was curious; _we_ were thinking
of far more than that--of how strange it would be if our mysterious lady
was staying at the Rectory. If so, how did she get into the saloon?--how
did she know our names?--how did she know that we went there to play?
"Yes, I should like you to see it for yourselves. But you don't know the
family there?"
"No," repeated Tib, rather sharply, "we don't. Grandpapa doesn't wish us
to make any friends here."
"Oh, exactly--I beg your pardon," said poor Mr. Markham. Probably
grandpapa had said something about it to our tutor himself, which for
the moment he had forgotten, for he got rather red, poor young man,
and began rather hurriedly to get the books ready. "We mustn't waste
any more time," he said, and, as we were sorry to see him looking
uncomfortable, we didn't remind him, as we might have done, that it was
he, and not we, who had begun the conversation.
It was a little later than usual when we got out that afternoon. Nurse
had kept us to try on some new frocks she was making for us, and we
were very cross about it, I remember. But after all, it didn't matter.
When we found ourselves at last in the saloon, and looked round eagerly,
there was no one to greet us, but the smiling face of the portrait--the
same which we had before thought so lovely, but which now seemed
uninteresting and disappointing compared to the living, changing,
half-mischievous, half-tender face, which already I really believe we
had learnt to love.
"She'll be coming soon, I dare say," said Tib. "Let's sit down quietly,
and think of all we want to ask her, in case she makes off in a hurry
like yesterday," and we were turning towards the end of the room where
stood all the old chairs and couches, when something on one of the
marble consols caught our eyes. It was something lightly covered with a
sheet of white tissue-paper, and lifting it up, there were three little
nosegays of lovely flowers--delicate, brilliant hot-house flowers they
were, and each nosegay lay on a book, and a card with writing on it was
put so that it could be seen at once on the middle nosegay. The words on
the card were these:--
"For Tib, Gussie, and Gerald. I am so sorry I cannot come
to-day. The books are to amuse you instead, and I will come
again the first day I can.
"R."
We were very disappointed. Still, it was very nice and funny to receive
messages and presents in this mysterious way. The flowers were really
beautiful, and the books were chosen as if she had known us all our
lives. We knew at once which was for which, by the way they were lying
on the table. Gerald's was about animals--stories, I mean--and Tib's was
Lamb's _Tales from Shakespeare_, and mine was _The Wonder Book_.
We sat down and looked at our books, and scented our flowers--don't you
think it's very ugly to talk of _smelling_ flowers? _we_ always say
"scenting," though somebody laughs at us for it, and says it isn't the
proper meaning of the word--and then we all three made ourselves very
comfortable in different corners of the arm-chairs and couches, and read
our new stories. And thus we spent the afternoon. It wasn't as long a
one as usual, for we had come so late. But before we went away we got
into a great puzzle about how to thank her for the books and flowers.
"It would be rude to go away and leave no message," said Tib. "And she
doesn't say she'll come to-morrow, only 'The first day I can.' Perhaps
she'll come in the morning, and look to see if we've taken the books."
But not one of us had a pencil or a scrap of paper in our pockets,
though we turned them inside out. Gerald had a top and some nails,
and an awful little pink and white grimy ball that he called his
"handkercher"; and Tib had her garden gloves, and a rather clean
handkerchief, and some red wool with a crochet needle stuck in it, as
she was learning to crochet; and I had nothing at all. What was to be
done?
"I know," I said; "you don't mind using your wool, do you, Tib? Well,
look here, we'll write with it on the white marble," and I set to work,
and very soon I had written the words, "Thank you, kind fairy," to which
Gerald made me add, "Come soon," and our initials, "T" and two "G's." It
really looked quite pretty, and one comfort was, there was no fear of
any one spoiling it before Regina saw it.
And then we went home, but we left our new books in the conservatory,
because we shouldn't have known what to say if nurse had asked us about
them.
The next day, to our great vexation, something prevented our going at
all--I forget what it was--oh no! I remember. It was that nurse took us
to the little town where Mr. Markham came from, to get us spring hats.
She had got grandpapa's leave to take us when he was at Rosebuds, and
she hadn't told us--poor old Liddy!--because she thought it would be
such a delightful surprise.
It would have been a great treat if we hadn't had our heads so full of
Regina, and wanting to see her again. But we were not so unkind and
selfish as not to look pleased when nurse told us about it.
"How are we to go to the station?" I asked, for nurse had said it was
two stations off by train, and when she said we should walk to the
station--it was quite fine, and if it hadn't been fine we would have
had to wait for another day--we were very pleased.
"We can peep in at the Rectory garden as we pass," I said to Tib, "and
perhaps we'll see the lady that's like you, whoever she is. I _wonder_
if she is Regina?"
"So do I," said Tib; "I wonder about it altogether."
But though we stared in with all our eyes at the garden of the pretty
house next the church, on our way to the station, there was nobody to
be seen.
"That is the Rectory, isn't it, nurse?" Tib asked her.
"I suppose so, my dears," she replied, rather nervously. "But I couldn't
say for certain, having been so little in the village."
She was always in such a fright, for fear of getting to know any one or
anything in the village. It was rather stupid of her to show it so, for
it only put all grandpapa's funny ways about it more into our heads, but
we didn't like to tease her, so we said no more.
But on the way home we took another peep in at the Rectory gates. Nurse
was a little way behind, loaded with parcels which she _wouldn't_ let
us help her to carry; and we ran on a little. It was easy to peep in
without being seen, but what we saw added to our puzzle. A lady was
walking up and down the avenue with a book in her hand which she was
reading, and as she turned our way, we saw her face clearly.
"Tib," I whispered, "_she's_ like you, and she's like Regina, too--only
she's old. _And_, Tib, she's like grandpapa."
So she was. She had the same straight-up, rather proud way of holding
herself as he has, dark hair, which was beginning to get grey, and those
pretty blue eyes with the bright eager look which all the blue eyes
among us have--yes, she was like them _all_--the portrait, too. And just
as we were staring, there came a call from the house, and an old, quite
old, lady came to a glass door which opened on to the terrace. I knew
afterwards that this old lady was the clergyman's mother or his wife's
mother, who lived with them, and they have all lived there a very long
time.
"Regina, Queenie, my dear," the old lady called out, "tea is ready.
Frances wants you to come in."
The lady turned quickly.
"I'm coming, Mrs. Leslie," she said, and then she walked quickly to the
house.
"Regina, another Regina!" we exclaimed. "And Queenie: what a pretty
name for a pet name! I wonder our Regina didn't tell us to call her
'Queenie.'"
For of course, as we had learned a little Latin, we knew that Regina
meant "queen."
"We must ask her why she didn't," said Gerald.
You can fancy how we looked forward to the next afternoon, and how we
hoped our pretty lady would be there.
It all went right for once. Nurse was more busy than usual about all the
things she had bought for us at Welford, and very glad to get rid of us
as soon as we had had our dinner. For, happily, she had no trying-on to
do to-day.
"You may have a good long afternoon in the garden," she said. "I must
say you're wonderful good children for amusing yourselves. There's never
any tease-teasing, like with some I've known--'What shall we do, nurse?'
or, 'We've nothing to play at.' And you're getting very good, too, about
never getting into mischief. You're _much_ better, Miss Gussie, than you
were last year at Ansdell: for it was you as was the ringleader."
"Yes," said I, not very much ashamed of the distinction. "Do you
remember the day I took grandpapa's new railway rug to make a carpet to
our tent, and left it out all night, and it rained and all the colour
ran? And do you remember when I pushed Gerald into the pond to catch the
little fishes, and how he stood shivering and crying?"
"Ah, yes, indeed," said nurse. "But speaking of ponds--the one at
Ansdell was nothing; but those nasty pits or pools in the fields near
by: you never go near them? Your grandpapa has a real fear of them, and
he told me not to let you forget what he'd said."
"No fear," we all answered, "we never go near them. We promised him we
wouldn't, nurse."
Then off we ran.
"Even if she isn't there, she's sure to have left some message for us,
like the last time," said Gerald as we ran. "I wish she'd bring us some
butter-scotch."
"_Gerald!_" exclaimed Tib and I, "what sort of ideas have you? Fairies
and butter-scotch mixed in the same breath. I only hope," Tib went on,
"that she won't think we're ungrateful for the books, or that we don't
care for them, because we had to leave them in the conservatory."
"If only she's there, we can explain everything," said I.
And she _was_ there.
Not waiting in the saloon this time, but running down the long passage
to meet us as soon as she heard our steps, looking prettier, and
merrier, and sweeter than ever. _Dear_ Regina!
I have never minded her teasing since that first day, when I really
didn't understand her. I shall never mind it again, I am sure.
She led us into the big drawing-room, where she had prepared another
little surprise for us. She was as pleased about it as we were
ourselves. It was more of Gerald's kind of treat this time--not
butter-scotch, but fruit--grapes, and beautiful little Tangiers
oranges, and little cakes and biscuits of ever so many kinds. They
were so nice, and we ate such a lot of them, and Regina ate a good
many herself.
"You see, though I am a fairy, I like nice things," she said.
"Do you have afternoon luncheon every day?" asked Gerald. "Oh, how I
would like to be you."
"_Isn't_ he a greedy boy?" I said; and then I told her about the
butter-scotch, and somehow the butter-scotch led to our talking of
grandpapa--you remember about Gerald wishing he'd bring us some--and
then we all got rather grave, for we had a great deal to tell our new
princess, and to ask her.
We sat together in a little group on one of the arm-chairs, and Regina
listened to us very attentively. We told her all that grandpapa had said
to us before we came to Rosebuds, and all about the book in the library
in London, and how we wanted to love grandpapa better, as Mrs. Munt had
told us we should, but that it was rather difficult. We told her all we
had told Mr. Truro, only more, for we had to tell her all about him as
well. And then we asked her if she thought it was disobeying grandpapa
for us to come to see her; and when we had told her all we could think
of, we waited very anxiously to hear what she would say. Her face looked
grave, though not exactly sad.
"Your friend--Mr. Truro--told you to wait till he came back again?" she
said.
"Yes, but that was only about coming in here to play. We hadn't seen
you then--and grandpapa told us not to make friends with any of the
neighbours. Are you a neighbour? Do you live here?"
"No," said Regina. "I live far from here."
"And how can you come so often to see us, then?" we asked.
She smiled.
"Can't you fancy I come on a sunbeam, or a cloud, or on a broomstick if
you like? Or if I had only thought of taking the picture away, you might
really have thought I had come out of the frame! No children, I'm not
going to tell you where I come from, or how I come, or _anything_. Then
you can feel you're not hearing from me anything your grandfather would
not wish you to hear, and when he and Mr. Truro come here again, you
can tell them all--everything, and see what they say. You can bring Mr.
Truro here to see me, if you like, and we'll talk it over. Now, as who
knows how seldom we may see each other again, suppose we make the best
use of our time. I've got some games to teach you--new games. Let us be
as happy and merry as we can be while we _are_ together."
And you cannot fancy what fun we had.
She kept us playing, and guessing tricks and riddles, and even singing
little glees--she had such a pretty voice--so busily that we hadn't
time to ask her any more questions, and indeed forgot to do so. So that
when it grew late and we had to go home, and Regina kissed us and said
good-bye, we knew as little about her, or where she had come from or was
going to, as if she had really flown down to us from some fairy country
invisible to mortal eyes.
"And will you come again soon?" we asked.
"Whenever I can, but that is all I can promise," she said, and then she
disappeared behind the heavy doors, and we heard the key turn in the
lock on the other side.
And we went home, wishing it were to-morrow.
"No, not to-morrow--she's sure not to come so soon again, but, all the
same, we must come and see."