A RIDE ON A LION.
The next day glided away, pleasantly enough, partly in settling myself
in my new quarters, and partly in strolling round the neighbourhood,
under Arthur's guidance, and trying to form a general idea of Elveston
and its inhabitants. When five o'clock arrived, Arthur proposed--without
any embarrassment this time--to take me with him up to 'the Hall,' in
order that I might make acquaintance with the Earl of Ainslie, who had
taken it for the season, and renew acquaintance with his daughter Lady
Muriel.
My first impressions of the gentle, dignified, and yet genial old man
were entirely favourable: and the _real_ satisfaction that showed itself
on his daughter's face, as she met me with the words "this is indeed an
unlooked-for pleasure!", was very soothing for whatever remains of
personal vanity the failures and disappointments of many long years, and
much buffeting with a rough world, had left in me.
Yet I noted, and was glad to note, evidence of a far deeper feeling than
mere friendly regard, in her meeting with Arthur--though this was, as I
gathered, an almost daily occurrence--and the conversation between them,
in which the Earl and I were only occasional sharers, had an ease and a
spontaneity rarely met with except between _very_ old friends: and, as I
knew that they had not known each other for a longer period than the
summer which was now rounding into autumn, I felt certain that 'Love,'
and Love alone, could explain the phenomenon.
"How convenient it would be," Lady Muriel laughingly remarked, _à
propos_ of my having insisted on saving her the trouble of carrying a
cup of tea across the room to the Earl, "if cups of tea had no weight at
all! Then perhaps ladies would _sometimes_ be permitted to carry them
for short distances!"
"One can easily imagine a situation," said Arthur, "where things would
_necessarily_ have no weight, relatively to each other, though each
would have its usual weight, looked at by itself."
"Some desperate paradox!" said the Earl. "Tell us how it could be. We
shall never guess it."
"Well, suppose this house, just as it is, placed a few billion miles
above a planet, and with nothing else near enough to disturb it: of
course it falls _to_ the planet?"
The Earl nodded. "Of course--though it might take some centuries to do
it."
"And is five-o'clock-tea to be going on all the while?" said Lady
Muriel.
"That, and other things," said Arthur. "The inhabitants would live their
lives, grow up and die, and still the house would be falling, falling,
falling! But now as to the relative weight of things. Nothing can be
_heavy_, you know, except by _trying_ to fall, and being prevented from
doing so. You all grant that?"
We all granted that.
"Well, now, if I take this book, and hold it out at arms length, of
course I feel its _weight_. It is trying to fall, and I prevent it. And,
if I let go, it falls to the floor. But, if we were all falling
together, it couldn't be _trying_ to fall any quicker, you know: for, if
I let go, what more could it do than fall? And, as my hand would be
falling too--at the same rate--it would never leave it, for that would
be to get ahead of it in the race. And it could never overtake the
falling floor!"
"I see it clearly," said Lady Muriel. "But it makes one dizzy to think
of such things! How _can_ you make us do it?"
"There is a more curious idea yet," I ventured to say. "Suppose a cord
fastened to the house, from below, and pulled down by some one on the
planet. Then of course the _house_ goes faster than its natural rate of
falling: but the furniture--with our noble selves--would go on falling
at their old pace, and would therefore be left behind."
"Practically, we should rise to the ceiling," said the Earl. "The
inevitable result of which would be concussion of brain."
"To avoid that," said Arthur, "let us have the furniture fixed to the
floor, and ourselves tied down to the furniture. Then the
five-o'clock-tea could go on in peace."
"With one little drawback!" Lady Muriel gaily interrupted. "We should
take the _cups_ down with us: but what about the _tea_?"
"I had forgotten the _tea_," Arthur confessed. "_That_, no doubt, would
rise to the ceiling--unless you chose to drink it on the way!"
"Which, I think, is _quite_ nonsense enough for one while!" said the
Earl. "What news does this gentleman bring us from the great world of
London?"
This drew _me_ into the conversation, which now took a more conventional
tone. After a while, Arthur gave the signal for our departure, and in
the cool of the evening we strolled down to the beach, enjoying the
silence, broken only by the murmur of the sea and the far-away music of
some fishermen's song, almost as much as our late pleasant talk.
We sat down among the rocks, by a little pool, so rich in animal,
vegetable, and zoöphytic--or whatever is the right word--life, that I
became entranced in the study of it, and, when Arthur proposed returning
to our lodgings, I begged to be left there for a while, to watch and
muse alone.
The fishermen's song grew ever nearer and clearer, as their boat stood
in for the beach; and I would have gone down to see them land their
cargo of fish, had not the microcosm at my feet stirred my curiosity yet
more keenly.
One ancient crab, that was for ever shuffling frantically from side to
side of the pool, had particularly fascinated me: there was a vacancy in
its stare, and an aimless violence in its behaviour, that irresistibly
recalled the Gardener who had befriended Sylvie and Bruno: and, as I
gazed, I caught the concluding notes of the tune of his crazy song.
The silence that followed was broken by the sweet voice of Sylvie.
"Would you please let us out into the road?"
"What! After that old beggar again?" the Gardener yelled, and began
singing:--
"He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
'Were I to swallow this,' he said,
'I should be very ill!'"
"We don't want him to swallow _anything_," Sylvie explained. "He's not
hungry. But we want to see him. So will you please----"
[Illustration: 'HE THOUGHT HE SAW A KANGAROO']
"Certainly!" the Gardener promptly replied. "I _always_ please. Never
displeases nobody. There you are!" And he flung the door open, and let
us out upon the dusty high-road.
We soon found our way to the bush, which had so mysteriously sunk into
the ground: and here Sylvie drew the Magic Locket from its hiding-place,
turned it over with a thoughtful air, and at last appealed to Bruno in a
rather helpless way. "What _was_ it we had to do with it, Bruno? It's
all gone out of my head!"
"Kiss it!" was Bruno's invariable recipe in cases of doubt and
difficulty. Sylvie kissed it, but no result followed.
"Rub it the wrong way," was Bruno's next suggestion.
"Which _is_ the wrong way?" Sylvie most reasonably enquired. The obvious
plan was to try _both_ ways.
Rubbing from left to right had no visible effect whatever.
From right to left--"Oh, stop, Sylvie!" Bruno cried in sudden alarm.
"Whatever _is_ going to happen?"
For a number of trees, on the neighbouring hillside, were moving slowly
upwards, in solemn procession: while a mild little brook, that had been
rippling at our feet a moment before, began to swell, and foam, and
hiss, and bubble, in a truly alarming fashion.
[Illustration: THE MOUSE-LION]
"Rub it some other way!" cried Bruno. "Try up-and-down! Quick!"
It was a happy thought. Up-and-down did it: and the landscape, which had
been showing signs of mental aberration in various directions, returned
to its normal condition of sobriety--with the exception of a small
yellowish-brown mouse, which continued to run wildly up and down the
road, lashing its tail like a little lion.
"Let's follow it," said Sylvie: and this also turned out a happy
thought. The mouse at once settled down into a business-like jog-trot,
with which we could easily keep pace. The only phenomenon, that gave me
any uneasiness, was the rapid increase in the _size_ of the little
creature we were following, which became every moment more and more like
a real lion.
Soon the transformation was complete: and a noble lion stood patiently
waiting for us to come up with it. No thought of fear seemed to occur to
the children, who patted and stroked it as if it had been a
Shetland-pony.
"Help me up!" cried Bruno. And in another moment Sylvie had lifted him
upon the broad back of the gentle beast, and seated herself behind him,
pillion-fashion. Bruno took a good handful of mane in each hand, and
made believe to guide this new kind of steed. "Gee-up!" seemed quite
sufficient by way of _verbal_ direction: the lion at once broke into an
easy canter, and we soon found ourselves in the depths of the forest. I
say '_we_,' for I am certain that _I_ accompanied them--though _how_ I
managed to keep up with a cantering lion I am wholly unable to explain.
But I was certainly one of the party when we came upon an old beggar-man
cutting sticks, at whose feet the lion made a profound obeisance, Sylvie
and Bruno at the same moment dismounting, and leaping into the arms of
their father.
"From bad to worse!" the old man said to himself, dreamily, when the
children had finished their rather confused account of the Ambassador's
visit, gathered no doubt from general report, as they had not seen him
themselves. "From bad to worse! That is their destiny. I see it, but I
cannot alter it. The selfishness of a mean and crafty man--the
selfishness of an ambitious and silly woman--the selfishness of a
spiteful and loveless child--all tend one way, from bad to worse! And
you, my darlings, must suffer it awhile, I fear. Yet, when things are at
their worst, you can come to me. I can do but little as yet----"
Gathering up a handful of dust and scattering it in the air, he slowly
and solemnly pronounced some words that sounded like a charm, the
children looking on in awe-struck silence:--
"Let craft, ambition, spite,
Be quenched in Reason's night,
Till weakness turn to might,
Till what is dark be light,
Till what is wrong be right!"
The cloud of dust spread itself out through the air, as if it were
alive, forming curious shapes that were for ever changing into others.
"It makes letters! It makes words!" Bruno whispered, as he clung,
half-frightened, to Sylvie. "Only I _ca'n't_ make them out! Read them,
Sylvie!"
"I'll try," Sylvie gravely replied. "Wait a minute--if only I could see
that word----"
"I should be very ill!" a discordant voice yelled in our ears.
"'Were I to swallow this,' he said,
'I should be very ill!'"