TAKING REFUGE.
For a minute or two I seemed to feel nothing; then there came over me a
sort of shiver, partly of cold, for it _was_ very cold, partly of
misery. I roused myself, however. With the remembrance of that other
evening had come to me also the knowledge of where I was. Only a few
yards down the sloping street on the left-hand side came a wide stretch
of pavement, and there, in a kind of angle, stood a double door, open on
both sides, leading into a small outer hall, from which again another
door, glazed at the top, was the entrance to Cranston's show-rooms.
I remembered it all perfectly. Just beyond the inner entrance stood the
two carved lions that Haddie and I admired so much. I wished I could see
them again, and--yes--a flash of joy went through me at the thought--I
could get Mrs. Selwood's address quite as well from old Mr. Cranston as
from the big grocer!
As soon as the idea struck me I hurried on, seeming to gain fresh
strength and energy. It was almost dark, but a gas-lamp was burning
dimly above the lintel, and inside, on the glass of the inner door, were
the large gilt letters "Cranston and Co."
I ran up the two or three broad shallow steps and pushed open the door,
which was a swing one. It was nearly time for closing, but that I did
not know. There was no one to be seen inside, not, at least, in the
first room, and the door made no noise. But there stood the dear
lions--I could not see them very clearly, for the place was not brightly
lighted, but I crept up to them, and stroked softly the one nearest me.
They seemed like real friends.
I had not courage to go into the other show-room, and all was so
perfectly still that I could scarcely think any one was there. I thought
I would wait a few minutes in hopes of some one coming out, of whom I
could inquire if I could see Mr. Cranston. And I was now beginning to
feel so tired--so very tired, and so cold.
In here, though I did not see any fire, it felt ever so much warmer than
outside. There was no chair or stool, but I found a seat for myself on
the stand of the farther-in lion--each of them had a heavy wooden
stand. It seemed very comfortable, and I soon found that by moving on a
little I could get a nice rest for my head against the lion's body. A
strange pleasant sense of protection and comfort came over me.
"How glad I am I came in here," I said to myself. "I don't mind if I
have to wait a good while. It is so cosy and warm."
I no longer made any plans. I knew I wanted to ask for Mrs. Selwood's
address, but that was all I thought of. What I should do when I had got
it I did not know; where I should go for the night, for it was now quite
dark, I did not trouble about in the least. I think I must have been
very much in the condition I have heard described, of travellers lost in
the snow--the overpowering wish to stay where I was and rest, was all I
was conscious of. I did not think of going to sleep. I did not know I
was sleepy.
And for some time I knew nothing.
The first thing that caught my attention was a very low murmur--so low
that it might have been merely a breath of air playing in the keyhole; I
seemed to have been hearing it for some time before it took shape, as it
were, and grew into a softly-whispering voice, gradually gathering into
words.
"Poor little girl; so she has come at last. Well, as you say, brother,
we have been expecting her for a good while, have we not?"
"Yes, indeed, but speak softly. It would be a pity to awake her. And
what we have to do can be done just as well while she sleeps."
"I don't agree with you," said the first speaker. "I should much prefer
her being awake. She would enjoy the ride, and she is an intelligent
child and would profit by our conversation."
"As you like," replied number two. "I must be off to fetch the boy. She
will perhaps be awake by the time I return."
And then--just as I was on the point of starting up and telling them I
_was_ awake--came a sound of stamping and rustling, and a sort of whirr
and a breath of cold air, which told me the swing door had been opened.
And when I sat straight up and looked about me, lo and behold, there was
only one lion to be seen--the stand of his brother was empty!
"I--please I _am_ awake," I said rather timidly. "It was me you were
talking about, wasn't it?"
"_I_--'it was _I_'--the verb to be takes the same case after it as
before it," was the reply, much to my surprise and rather to my disgust.
Who would have thought that the carved lions bothered about grammar!
"It was I, then," I repeated meekly. I did not want to give any offence
to my new friend. "Please--I heard you saying something--something about
going a ride. And where has the--the other Mr. Lion gone? I heard
about--a boy."
"You heard correctly," my lion replied, and I knew somehow that he was
smiling, or whatever lions do that matches smiling. "My brother has gone
to fetch _your_ brother--we planned it all some time ago--we shall meet
on the sea-shore and travel together. But we should be starting. Can you
climb up on to my back?"
"Oh yes," I said quite calmly, as if there was nothing the least out of
the common in all this, "I'm sure I can."
"Catch hold of my mane," said the lion; "don't mind tugging, it won't
hurt," and--not to my surprise, for nothing surprised me--I felt my
hands full of soft silky hair, as the lion shook down his long wavy mane
to help my ascent.
Nothing was easier. In another moment I was cosily settled on his back,
which felt deliciously comfortable, and the mane seemed to tuck itself
round me like a fleecy rug.
"Shut your eyes," said my conductor or steed, I don't know which to call
him; "go to sleep if you like. I'll wake you when we meet the others."
"Thank you," I said, feeling too content and comfortable to disagree
with anything he said.
Then came a feeling of being raised up, a breath of colder air, which
seemed to grow warm again almost immediately, and I knew nothing more
till I heard the words, "Here they are."
I opened my eyes and looked about me. It was night--overhead in the deep
blue sky innumerable stars were sparkling, and down below at our feet I
heard the lap-lap of rippling waves. A dark, half-shadowy figure stood
at my right hand, and as I saw it more clearly I distinguished the form
of the other lion, with--yes, there was some one sitting on his back.
"Haddie," I exclaimed.
"Yes, yes, Geraldine, it's me," my brother's own dear voice replied.
"We're going right over the sea--did you know?--isn't it splendid? We're
going to see father and mamma. Hold out your hand so that you can feel
mine."
[Illustration: THE BROTHER LIONS ROSE INTO THE AIR.]
I did so, and my fingers clasped his, and at that moment the brother
lions rose into the air, and down below, even fainter and fainter, came
the murmur of the sea, while up above, the twinkling stars looked down
on what surely was one of the strangest sights they had ever seen in all
their long, long experience!
Then again I seemed to know nothing, though somehow, all through, I felt
the clasp of Haddie's hand and knew we were close together.
A beautiful light streaming down upon us, of which I was conscious even
through my closed eyelids, was the next thing I remember. It seemed warm
as well as bright, and I felt as if basking in it.
"Wake up, Geraldine," said Haddie's voice.
I opened my eyes. But now I have come to a part of my story which I have
never been able, and never shall be able, to put into fitting words. The
scene before me was too beautiful, too magically exquisite for me even
to succeed in giving the faintest idea of it. Still I must try, though
knowing that I cannot but fail.
Can you picture to yourselves the loveliest day of all the perfect
summer days you have ever known--no, more than that, a day like summer
and spring in one--the richness of colour, the balmy fragrance of the
prime of the year joined to the freshness, the indescribable hopefulness
and expectation which is the charm of the spring? The beauty and delight
seemed made up of everything lovely mingled together--sights, sounds,
scents, feelings. There was the murmur of running streams, the singing
of birds, the most delicious scent from the flowers growing in profusion
and of every shade of colour.
Haddie and I looked at each other--we still held each other by the hand,
but now, somehow, we were standing together on the grass, though I could
not remember having got down from my perch on the lion's back.
"Where are the lions, Haddie?" I said.
Haddie seemed to understand everything better than I did.
"They're all right," he replied, "resting a little. You see we've come a
long way, Geraldine, and so quick."
"And where are we?" I asked. "What is this place, Haddie? Is it
fairyland or--or--heaven?"
Haddie smiled.
"It's not either," he said. "You'll find out the name yourself. But
come, we must be quick, for we can't stay very long. Hold my hand tight
and then we can run faster."
I seemed to know that something more beautiful than anything we had seen
yet was coming. I did not ask Haddie any more questions, even though I
had a feeling that he knew more than I did. He seemed quite at home in
this wonderful place, quite able to guide me. And his face was shining
with happiness.
We ran a good way, and very fast. But I did not feel at all tired or
breathless. My feet seemed to have wings, and all the time the garden
around us grew lovelier and lovelier. If Haddie had not been holding my
hand so fast I should scarcely have been able to resist stopping to
gather some of the lovely flowers everywhere in such profusion, or to
stand still to listen to the dear little birds singing so exquisitely
overhead.
"It must be fairyland," I repeated to myself more than once, in spite of
what Haddie had said.
But suddenly all thought of fairyland or flowers, birds and garden, went
out of my head, as Haddie stopped in his running.
"Geraldine," he half whispered, "look there."
"There" was a little arbour a few yards from where we stood, and there,
seated on a rustic bench, her dear face all sunshine, was mamma!
She started up as soon as she saw us and hastened forward, her arms
outstretched.
"My darlings, my darlings," she said, as Haddie and I threw ourselves
upon her.
She did look so pretty; she was all in white, and she had a rose--one of
the lovely roses I had been admiring as we ran--fastened to the front of
her dress.
"Mamma, mamma," I exclaimed, as I hugged her, "oh, mamma, I am so happy
to be with you. Is this your garden, mamma, and may we stay with you
always now? Wasn't it good of the lions to bring us? I have been so
unhappy, mamma--somebody said you would get ill far away. But nobody
could get ill here. Oh, mamma, you will let us stay always."
She did not speak, but looking at Haddie I saw a change in his face.
"Geraldine," he said, "I told you we couldn't stay long. The lions would
be scolded if we did, and you know you must say your French poetry."
And then there came over me the most agonising feeling of
disappointment and misery. All the pent-up wretchedness of the last
weeks at school woke up and overwhelmed me like waves of dark water. It
is as impossible for me to put this into words as it was for me to
describe my exquisite happiness, for no words ever succeed in expressing
the intense and extraordinary sensations of some dreams. And of course,
as you will have found out by this time, the strange adventures I have
been relating were those of a dream, though I still, after all the years
that have passed since then, remember them so vividly.
It was the fatal words "French poetry" that seemed to awake me--to bring
back my terrible unhappiness, exaggerated by the fact of my dreaming.
"French poetry," I gasped, "oh, Haddie, how can you remind me of it?"
Haddie suddenly turned away, and I saw the face of one of the lions
looking over his shoulder, with, strange to say, a white frilled cap
surrounding it.
"You must try to drink this, my dear," said the lion, if the lion it
was, for as I stared at him the brown face changed into a rather ruddy
one--a round good-humoured face, with pleasant eyes and smile, reminding
me of mamma's old nurse who had once come to see us.
I stared still more, and sat up a little, for, wonderful to relate, I
was no longer in the lovely garden, no longer even in the show-room
leaning against the lion: I was in bed in a strange room which I had
never seen before. And leaning over me was the owner of the frilled cap,
holding a glass in her hand.
"Try to drink this, my dearie," she said again, and then I knew it was
not the lion but this stranger who had already spoken to me.
I felt very tired, and I sank back again upon the pillow. What did it
all mean? Where was I? Where had I been? I asked myself this in a vague
sleepy sort of way, but I was too tired to say it aloud, and before I
could make up my mind to try I fell asleep again.
The room seemed lighter the next time I opened my eyes. It was in fact
nearly the middle of the day, and a fine day--as clear as it ever was in
Great Mexington. I felt much better and less tired now, almost quite
well, except for a slight pain in my throat which told me I must have
caught cold, as my colds generally began in my throat.
"I wonder if it was with riding so far in the night," I first said to
myself, with a confused remembrance of my wonderful dream. "I didn't
feel at all cold on the lion's back, and in the garden it was lovelily
warm."
Then, as my waking senses quite returned, I started. It had been only a
dream--oh dear, oh dear! But still, _something_ had happened--I was
certainly not in my little bed in the corner of the room I shared with
Emma and Harriet Smith at Green Bank. When had my dream begun, or was I
still dreaming?
I raised myself a little, very softly, for now I began to remember the
good-humoured face in the frilled cap, and I thought to myself that
unless its owner were a dream too, perhaps she was still in the room,
and I wanted to look about me first on my own account.
What there was to see was very pleasant and very real. I felt quite sure
I was not dreaming now, wherever I was. It was a large old-fashioned
room, with red curtains at the two windows and handsome dark wood
furniture. There was a fire burning cheerfully in the grate and the
windows looked very clean, even though there was a prospect of
chimney-tops to be seen out of the one nearest to me, which told me I
was still in a town. And then I began to distinguish sounds outside,
though here in this room it was so still. There were lots of wheels
passing, some going quickly, some lumbering along with heavy
slowness--it was much noisier than at Miss Ledbury's or at my own old
home. Here I seemed to be in the very heart of a town. I began to recall
the events of the day before more clearly. Yes, up to the time I
remembered leaning against the carved lion in Mr. Cranston's show-room
all had been real, I felt certain. I recollected with a little shiver
the scene in the drawing-room at Green Bank, and how they had all
refused to believe I was speaking the truth when I declared that the
French poetry had entirely gone out of my head. And then there was the
making up my mind that I could bear school no longer, and the secretly
leaving the house, and at last losing my way in the streets.
I had meant to go to Mrs. Selwood's, or at least to get her address and
write to her--but where was I now?--what should I do?
My head grew dizzy again with trying to think, and a faint miserable
feeling came over me and I burst into tears.
I did not cry loudly. But there was some one watching in the room who
would have heard even a fainter sound than that of my sobs--some one
sitting behind my bed-curtains whom I had not seen, who came forward
now and leant over me, saying, in words and voice which seemed curiously
familiar to me,
"Geraldine, my poor little girl."