"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown."
Louisa was a little girl of eight years old. That is to say, she was
eight years old at the time I am going to tell you about. She was
nothing particular to look at; she was small for her age, and her face
was rather white, and her eyes were pretty much the same as other
people's eyes. Her hair was dark brown, but it was not even curly. It
was quite straight-down hair, and it was cut short, not _quite_ so short
as little boys' hair is cut now-a-days, but not very much longer. Many
little girls had quite short hair at that time, but still there was
something about Louisa's that made its shortness remarkable, if anything
about her could have been remarkable! It was so very smooth and soft,
and fitted into her head so closely that it gave her a small, soft look,
not unlike a mouse. On the whole, I cannot describe her better than by
saying she was rather like a mouse, or like what you could fancy a mouse
would be if it were turned into a little girl.
Louisa was not shy, but she was timid and not fond of putting herself
forward; and in consequence of this, as well as from her not being at
all what is called a "showy" child, she received very little notice from
strangers, or indeed from many who knew her pretty well. People thought
her a quiet, well-behaved little thing, and then thought no more about
her. Louisa understood this in her own way, and sometimes it hurt her.
She was not so unobservant as she seemed; and there were times when she
would have very much liked a little more of the caressing, and even
admiration, which she now and then saw lavished on other children; for
though she was sensible in some ways, in others she was not wiser than
most little people.
Her home was not in the country: it was in a street, in a large and
rather smoky town. The house in which she lived was not a _very_ pretty
one; but, on the whole, it was nice and comfortable, and Louisa was
generally very well pleased with it, except now and then, when she got
little fits of wishing she lived in some very beautiful palace sort of
house, with splendid rooms, and grand staircases, and gardens, and
fountains, and I don't know all what--just the same sort of little fits
as she sometimes had of wishing to be very pretty, and to have lovely
dresses, and to be admired and noticed by every one who saw her. She
never told any one of these wishes of hers; perhaps if she had it would
have been better, but it was not often that she could have found any one
to listen to and understand her; and so she just kept them to herself.
There was one person who, I think, could have understood her, and that
was her mother. But she was often busy, and when not busy, often tired,
for she had a great deal to do, and several other little children
besides Louisa to take care of. There were two brothers who came
nearest Louisa in age, one older and one younger, and two or three mites
of children smaller still. The brothers went to school, and were so
much interested in the things "little boys are made of," that they were
apt to be rather contemptuous to Louisa because she was a girl, and the
wee children in the nursery were too wee to think of anything but their
own tiny pleasures and troubles. So you can understand that though she
had really everything a little girl could wish for, Louisa was sometimes
rather lonely and at a loss for companions, and this led to her making
friends in a very odd way indeed. If you guessed for a whole year I do
not think you would ever guess whom, or I should say _what_, she chose
for her friends. Indeed, I fear that when I tell you you will hardly
believe me; you will think I am "story-telling" indeed. Listen--it was
not her doll, nor a pet dog, nor even a favourite pussy-cat--it was,
they were rather, _the reels in her mother's workbox_.
Can you believe it? It is quite, quite true. I am not "making up" at
all, and I will tell you how it came about. There was one part of the
day, I daresay it was the hour that the nursery children were asleep,
when it was convenient for Louisa to be sent down-stairs to sit beside
her mother in the drawing-room, with many injunctions to be quiet. Her
mother was generally writing or "doing accounts" at that time, and not
at leisure to attend to her little girl; but when Louisa appeared at the
door she would look up and say with a smile, "Well, dear, and what will
you have to amuse yourself with to-day?" At first Louisa used to
consider for a minute, and nearly every day she would make a different
request.
"A piece of paper and a pencil to write," she would say on Monday
perhaps, and on Tuesday it would be "The box with the chess, please,"
and on Wednesday something else. But after a while her answer came to
be always the same--"Your big workbox to tidy, please, mamma."
Mamma smiled at the great need of tidying that had come over her big
workbox, but she knew she could certainly trust Louisa not to _un_-tidy
it, so she used just to push it across the table to her without
speaking, and then for an hour at least nothing more was heard of
Louisa. She sat quite still, fully as absorbed in her occupation as her
mother was in hers, till at last the well-known tap at the door would
bring her back from dream-land.
"Miss Louisa, your dinner is waiting," or "Miss Louisa, the little ones
are quite ready to go out;" and, with a deep sigh, the workbox would be
closed and the little girl would obey the unwelcome summons.
And next day, and the day after, and a great many days after that, it
was always the same thing. But nobody knew anything about these queer
friends of hers, except Louisa herself.
There were several families of them, and their names were as original as
themselves. There were the Browns, reels of brown wood wound with white
cotton; as far as I remember there were a Mr and Mrs Brown and three
children; the Browns were supposed to be quiet, respectable people, who
lived in a large house in the country, but had nothing particularly
romantic or exciting about them. There were the De Cordays, so named
from the conspicuous mark of "three cord" which they bore. They were a
set of handsome bone, or, as Louisa called it, _ivory_ reels, and she
added the "De" to their name to make it sound grander. There were two
pretty little reels of fine China silk, whom she distinguished as the
Chinese Princesses. Blanche and Rose were their first names, to suit
the colours they bore, for Louisa, you see, had learnt a little French
already; and there were some larger silk reels, whom she called the
"Lords and Ladies Flossy." Altogether there were between twenty and
thirty personages in the workbox community, and the adventures they had,
the elegance and luxury in which they lived, the wonderful stories they
told each other, would fill more pages than I have time to write, or
than you, kind little girls that you are, would have patience to read.
I must hasten on to tell you how it came to pass that this queer fancy
of Louisa's was discovered by other people.
One morning when she was sitting quietly, as usual, beside her mother, a
friend of Mrs no, we need not tell her name, I should like you best
just to think of her as Louisa's mamma--well then, a friend of Louisa's
mamma's came to call. She was a lady who lived in the country several
miles away from Smokytown, but she was very fond of Louisa's mamma, and
whenever she had to come to Smokytown to shop, or anything of that kind,
perhaps to take her little girl (for she too had a little girl as you
shall hear) to the dentist's, she always came early to call on her
friend. Louisa's mamma jumped up at once, when the servant threw open
the door and announced the lady by name, and then they kissed each
other, and then Louisa's mamma stooped down and kissed the lady's little
girl who was standing beside her, but Louisa sat so quietly at her
corner of the table, that for a minute or two no one noticed her. She
was just thinking if she could manage to creep down under the table and
slip away out of the room without being seen, when her mamma called her.
"Louisa, my dear," she said, "come here and speak to Mrs Gordon and to
Frances. You remember Frances, don't you, dear?"
Louisa got down slowly off her chair and came to her mamma. She stood
looking at Frances for a minute or two without speaking.
"Don't you remember Frances?" said her mamma again.
"No," said Louisa at last, "I don't think I do." Then she turned away
as if she were going back to her place at the table. Her mamma looked
vexed.
"Poor little thing," said Mrs Gordon, "she is only rather shy.
Frances, you must make friends with her."
"Louisa, I am not pleased with you," said her mamma gravely, and then
she went on talking to Mrs Gordon.
Frances followed Louisa to the table, where all the reels were arranged
in order. There was a grand feast going on among them that day: one of
the Chinese princesses was to be married to one of the Lords Flossy, and
Louisa had been smartening them up for the occasion. But she did not
want to tell Frances about it.
"I am only playing with mamma's workbox things," she said, looking up at
Frances, and wishing she had not come. She had taken a dislike to
Frances, and the reason was not a very nice one--she was envious of her
because she had such a pretty face and was very beautifully dressed.
She had long curls of bright light hair, and large blue eyes, and she
had a purple velvet coat trimmed with fur, and a sweet little bonnet
with rosebuds in the cap, and Louisa's mamma would never let her have
rosebuds or any flowers in _her_ bonnets. To Louisa's eyes she looked
almost as beautiful as a fairy princess, but the thought vexed her.
"Playing with your mamma's workbox things," said Frances, "how very
funny! You poor little thing, have you got nothing else to play with?"
She spoke as if she were several years older than Louisa, and this made
Louisa still more vexed.
"Yes," she answered, "of course I have got other things, but I like
these. _You_ can't understand." Frances smiled. "How funny you are!"
she said again, "but never mind. Let us talk of something nice.
Perhaps you would like to hear what things _I_ have got to play with. I
have a room all for myself, _filled_ with toys. I have got a large
doll-house, as tall as myself, with eight rooms; and I have sixteen
dolls of different kinds. They were mostly birthday presents. But I am
getting too big to care for them now. My birthday was last week. What
_do_ you think papa gave me? Something so beautiful that I had wanted
for such a long time. I don't think you _could_ guess."
In spite of herself Louisa was becoming interested. "I don't know, I'm
sure," she said; "perhaps it was a book full of stories."
Frances shook her head. "O no," she answered, "it wasn't. _That_ would
be nothing particular, and my present _was_ something particular, very
particular indeed. Well, you can't guess, so I'll tell you--it was a
Princess's dress; a _real_ dress you know; a dress that I can put on and
wear."
"A Princess's dress!" repeated Louisa, opening her eyes.
"Yes, to be sure," said Frances. "I call it a Princess's dress, because
it is copied from one the Princess Fair Star wore at the pantomime last
Christmas. It was there I saw it, and I have teased papa ever since
till he got it for me. And it _is_ so beautiful; quite beautiful enough
for a queen for that matter. My papa often calls me his queen,
sometimes he says his golden-haired queen. Does yours?"
"No," said Louisa sadly; "my papa sometimes calls me his pet, and
sometimes he calls me `old woman,' but he never says I am his queen. I
suppose I am not pretty enough."
"I don't know," said Frances, consideringly, "I don't think you're ugly
exactly. Perhaps if you asked your papa to get you a Princess's
dress--"
"He wouldn't," said Louisa decidedly, "I know he wouldn't. It would not
be the least use asking him. Tell me more about yours--what is it like,
and does it make you feel like a real princess when you have it on?"
"I suppose it makes me _look_ like one," replied Frances complacently,
"and as for feeling, why one can always fancy, you know."
"Fancying isn't enough," said Louisa. "I know I should dreadfully like
to _be_ a princess or a queen. It is the first thing I would ask a
fairy. Perhaps _you_ don't wish it so much because every one pets you
so, and thinks you so pretty. Has your dress got silver and gold on
it?"
"O yes, at least it has silver--silver spots," began Frances eagerly,
but just then her mamma turned to tell her that they must go. "The
little people have made friends very quickly after all, you see," she
said to Louisa's mamma. "Some day you must really bring Louisa to see
Frances--it has been such an old promise."
"It is not often I can leave home for a whole day," said Louisa's mamma;
"and then, dear, you must remember not having a carriage makes a
difference."
Louisa's cheeks grew red. She felt very vexed with her mamma for
telling Mrs Gordon they had no carriage, but of course she did not
venture to say anything, so no one noticed her. She was not sorry when
Mrs Gordon and Frances said good-bye and went away.
That same evening, a little before bed-time, Louisa happened to be again
in the drawing-room alone with her mother.
"Louisa," said her mother, who was sewing at the table, "you did not
leave my workbox as neat as usual this morning. I suppose it was
because you were interrupted by Frances Gordon. Come here, dear, and
take the box and put it on a chair near the fire and arrange it rightly.
Here is a whole collection of reels rolling about. Put them all in
their places."
Louisa did as she was told, but without speaking. Indeed she had been
very silent all day, but her mother had been occupied with other things
and had not noticed her particularly. Louisa quietly put the reels into
their places, giving the most comfortable corners to her favourites as
usual, and huddling some of the others together rather unceremoniously.
Then she sat down on the hearth-rug, and began to think of what Frances
Gordon had said to her, and to wish all sorts of not very wise things.
She felt herself at last growing drowsy, so she leant her little round
head on the chair beside her, and was almost asleep, when she heard her
mother say, "Louisa, my dear, you are getting sleepy, you must really go
to bed."
"Yes, mamma," she said, or intended to say, but the words sounded faint
and dreamlike, and before they were fully pronounced she was fairly
asleep!
She remembered nothing more for what seemed a very long time--then to
her surprise she found herself already undressed and in her own little
bed! "Nurse must have carried me upstairs and undressed me," she
thought, and she opened her eyes very wide to see if it was still the
middle of the night. No, surely it could not be; the room was quite
light, yet where was the light coming from? It was not coming in at the
window--there was no window to be seen; the curtains were drawn across,
and no tiny chink even was visible; there was no lamp or candle in the
room,--the light was simply there, but where it came from Louisa could
not discover. She got tired of wondering about it at last, and was
composing herself to sleep again, when suddenly a small but very clear
voice called her by name. "Louisa, Louisa," it said. She did not feel
at all frightened. She half raised herself in bed and exclaimed, "Who
is speaking to me? what do you want?"
"Louisa, Louisa," the voice repeated, "would you like to be a queen?"
"Very much indeed, thank you," Louisa replied promptly.
"Then rub your eyes and look about you," said the voice.
Louisa rubbed her eyes and looked about her to some purpose, for what
_do_ you think she saw? All the white counterpane of her little bed was
covered with tiny figures, of various sizes, from one inch to three or
four in height. They were hopping, and dancing, and twirling themselves
about in every imaginable way, like nothing anybody ever saw before, or
since, or ever will again.
"Fairies!" thought Louisa at once, and without any feeling of
overwhelming surprise, for, like most children, she had always been
hoping, and indeed half expecting, that _some day_ an adventure of this
kind would fall to her share.
"Yes, fairies," said the same voice as before, which seemed to hear her
thoughts as distinctly as if she had spoken them; "but what kind of
fairies? Look at us again, Louisa."
Louisa opened her eyes wider and stared harder. There were all kinds of
fairies, gentlemen and ladies, little and big; but as she looked she saw
that every one of them, without exception, wore a curious sort of round
stiff jacket, more like a little barrel than anything else. It gave
them a queer high-shouldered look, very like the little figures of Noah
and his family in toy arks; but as Louisa was staring at them the
mystery was explained. A big, rather clumsy-looking gentleman fairy,
stopped for a moment in his gymnastics, and Louisa read on the ledge
round his shoulders the familiar words "Clarke and Company's best
six-cord, extra quality, Number 12."
"I know," she cried, clapping her hands; "you're mamma's reels!"
At these words a sensation ran through the company; they all stood
stock-still, and Louisa began to feel a little afraid.
"She says," exclaimed the voice, "she says _we're her mamma's reels_!"
There fell a dead silence; Louisa expected to be sentenced to undergo
capital punishment on the spot. "It's too bad," she said to herself,
"it's too bad; they asked me to guess who they were."
"She says," continued the voice, "she says `it's too bad.' _What_ is
too bad? My friends, let the deputation stand forward."
Instantly about a dozen fairies separated themselves from the others and
advanced, slowly marching two and two up the counterpane, till having
made their way across the various hills and valleys formed by Louisa's
little figure under the bedclothes, they drew up just in front of her
nose. Foremost of the deputation she recognised, the one clad in pink
satin, the other in glistening white, her two favourites the Princesses
Blanche and Rose.
"Beautiful Louisa," said the deputation, all speaking at once, "we have
come to ask you to be our queen."
"Thank you," said Louisa, not knowing what else to say.
"She consents!" exclaimed the deputation, "let the royal chariot
appear."
Thereupon there suddenly started up in the middle of the bed, as large
as life, but no larger, her mamma's big workbox! The fairies all
clambered on to it with a rush, and hung upon it in every direction,
like bees on a hive, or firemen on a fire-engine; and no sooner were
they all mounted than the workbox slowly glided along till it was close
to Louisa's face.
"Will your majesty please to get in?" said one of the fairies, "Clarke's
Number 12, extra quality," I think it was.
"How can I?" said Louisa piteously, "how can I? I'm far too big. How
can I get into a workbox?"
"Please to rub your eyes and try," said the big fairy, "right foot
foremost, if you please."
Louisa rubbed her eyes, and pulling her right foot out from under the
clothes, stepped on to the workbox.
To her surprise, or rather not to her surprise, everything seemed to
come quite naturally, she found that she was not at all too big, and she
settled herself in the place the fairies had kept for her, the nice
little division lined with satin, in which her mamma's thimble and emery
cushion always lay. It was pretty comfortable, only rather hard, but
Louisa had no time to think about that, for no sooner was she seated
than off flew the workbox, that is to say the royal chariot, away, away,
Louisa knew not where, and felt too giddy to try to think. It stopped
at last as suddenly as it had started, and quick as thought all the
fairies jumped down. Louisa followed them more deliberately. She found
herself in a great shining hall, the walls seemed to be of
looking-glass, but when she observed them more closely she found they
were made of innumerable needles, all fastened together in some
wonderful fairy fashion, which she had not time to examine, for just
then the Chinese princesses approached her, carrying between them a
glistening dress, which they begged her to put on. They were quite as
tall as she by-the-by, so she allowed them to dress her, and then
examined herself with great satisfaction in the looking-glass walls.
The dress was lovely, of that there was no doubt; it was just such a
one, curiously enough, as Frances Gordon had described; the only
drawback was her short hair, which certainly did not add to her regal
appearance.
"It won't show so much when your majesty has the crown on," said the
Chinese princesses, answering as before to Louisa's unspoken thoughts.
Then some gentlemen fairies appeared with the crown, which fitted
exactly, only it felt rather heavy. But it would never do for a queen
to complain, even in thought, of so trifling a matter, so with great
dignity Louisa ascended the throne which stood at one end of the hall,
and sat down upon it to see what would come next.
The _Fairies_ came next. One after the other, by dozens, and scores,
and hundreds, they passed before her, each as he passed making the
humblest of obeisances, as if to the great Mogul himself. It was very
fine indeed, but after a while Louisa began to get rather tired of it,
and though the throne was very grand to look at, it too felt rather
hard, and the crown grew decidedly heavier.
"I think I'd like to come down for a little," she said to some of the
ladies and gentlemen beside her, but they took no notice. "I'd like to
get down for a little and to take off my crown--it's hurting my head,
and this spangly dress is _so_ cold," she continued. Still the fairies
took no notice.
"Don't you hear what I say?" she exclaimed again, getting angry; "what's
the use of being a queen if you won't answer me?"
Then at last some of the fairies standing beside the throne appeared to
hear what she was saying.
"Her majesty wishes to take a little exercise," said "Clarke's Number
12," and immediately the words were repeated in a sort of confusing buzz
all round the hall. "Her majesty wishes to take a little
exercise"--"her majesty wishes to take a little exercise," till Louisa
could have shaken them all heartily, she felt so provoked. Then
suddenly the throne began to squeak and grunt (Louisa thought _it_ was
going to talk about her taking exercise next), and after it had given
vent to all manner of unearthly sounds it jerked itself up, first on one
side and then on the other, like a very rheumatic old woman, and at last
slowly moved away. None of the fairies were pushing it, that was plain;
and at first Louisa was too much occupied in wondering what made it
move, to find fault with the mode of exercise permitted to her. The
throne rolled slowly along, all round the hall, and wherever it appeared
a crowd of fairies scuttled away, all chattering the same words--"Her
majesty is taking a little exercise," till at last, with renewed jerks
and grunts and groans, her queer conveyance settled itself again in its
old place. As soon as it was still, Louisa tried to get down, but no
sooner did she put one foot on the ground than a crowd of fairies
respectfully lifted it up again on to the footstool. This happened two
or three times, till Louisa's patience was again exhausted.
"Get out of my way," she exclaimed, "you horrid little things, get out
of my way; I want to get down and run about."
But the fairies took no notice of what she said, till for the third time
she repeated it. Then they all spoke at once.
"Her majesty wants to take a little _more_ exercise," they buzzed in all
directions, till Louisa was so completely out of patience that she burst
into tears.
"I won't stay to be your queen," she said, "it's not nice at all. I
want to go home to my mamma. I want to go home to my mamma. I want to
go home to my mamma."
"We don't know what mammas are," said the fairies. "We haven't anything
of that kind here."
"That's a story," said Louisa. "There--are mammas here. I've seen
several. There's Mrs Brown, and there's Lady Flossy, and there's--no,
the Chinese princesses haven't a mamma. But you see there are two among
my mamma's own reels in her workb--."
But before she could finish the word the fairies all set up a terrific
shout. "The word, the word," they cried, "the word that no one must
mention here. Hush! hush! hush!"
They all turned upon Louisa as if they were going to tear her to pieces.
In her terror she uttered a piercing scream, and--woke.
She wasn't in bed; where was she? Could she be in the workbox?
Wherever she was it was quite dark and cold, and something was pressing
against her head, and her legs were aching. Suddenly there came a flash
of light. Some one had opened the door, and the light from the hall
streamed in. The some one was Louisa's mamma.
"Who is in here? Did I hear some one calling out?" she exclaimed
anxiously.
Louisa was slowly recovering her wits. "It was me, mamma," she
answered; "I didn't know where I was, and I was so frightened and I am
so cold. Oh mamma!"
A flood of tears choked her.
"You poor child," exclaimed her mamma, hurrying back to the hall to
fetch a lamp, as she spoke, "why, you have fallen asleep on the
hearth-rug, and the fire's out; and my workbox--what is it doing here?
Were you using it for a pillow?"
"No," said Louisa, eyeing the workbox suspiciously, "it was on the
chair, and the corner of it has hurt my head, mamma; it was pressing
against it." Her mamma lifted the box on to the table.
"Are they all in there, mamma?" whispered Louisa, timidly.
"All in where? All who? What are you speaking about, my dear?"
"The fairies--the reels I mean," replied Louisa. "My dear, you are
dreaming still," said her mamma, laughing, but seeing that Louisa looked
dissatisfied, "never mind, you shall tell me your dreams to-morrow. But
just now you must really go to bed. It is nine o'clock--you have been
two hours asleep. I went out of the room in a hurry, taking the lamp
with me because it was not burning rightly, and then I heard baby
crying--he is very cross to-night--and both nurse and I forgot about
you. Now go, dear, and get well warmed at the nursery fire before you
go to bed."
Louisa trotted off. She had no more dreams that night, but when she
woke the next morning, her poor little legs were still aching. She had
caught cold the night before, there was no doubt, so her mamma, taking
some blame to herself for her having fallen asleep on the floor, was
particularly kind and indulgent to her. She brought her down to the
drawing-room wrapped in a shawl, and established her comfortably in an
arm-chair.
"What will you have to play with?" she asked. "Would you like my
workbox?"
"I don't know," said Louisa, doubtfully. "Mamma," she continued, after
a moment's silence, "can queens never do what they like?"
"Very often they can't," replied her mamma. "What makes you ask?"
"I dreamt I was a queen," said Louisa.
"Did you? What country were you queen of?"
"I was queen of the reel fairies," replied the child gravely. Her
mother looked mystified "Tell me what you mean, dear," she said. "Tell
me all about it."
So bit by bit Louisa explained the whole, and her mamma had for once a
peep into that strange, fantastic, mysterious world, which we call a
child's imagination. She had a glimpse of something else too. She saw
that her little girl was in danger of getting to live too much alone,
was in need of sympathy and companionship.
"I think it was what Frances Gordon said that made me dream about being
a queen," she said.
"And do you still wish you were a queen?" said her mamma.
"No," said Louisa.
"A princess then?"
"No," she replied again. "But, mamma--"
"Well, dear?"
"I do wish sometimes that I was pretty, and that--that--I don't know how
to say it--that people made a fuss about me sometimes."
Her mamma looked a little grave and a little sad; but still she smiled.
She could not be angry--thought Louisa.
"Is it naughty, mamma?" she whispered.
"Naughty? No, dear; it is a wish most little girls have, I fancy--and
big ones too. But some day you will understand how it might grow into a
wrong feeling, and how on the other side a little of it may be useful to
help good feelings. And till you understand better, dear, doesn't it
make you happy to know that to me you could not be dearer if you were
the most beautiful little princess in the world."
"As beautiful as Princess Fair Star, mamma?"
"Yes, or any other princess you can think of. I would rather have my
little mouse of a girl than any of them."
Louisa nestled closer to her mamma with great satisfaction. "I like you
to call me your mouse, mamma; and do you know I almost think I like
having a cold."
Her mother laughed. "Am I making a little fuss about you? Is that what
you like?"
Louisa laughed too.
"Do you think I should leave off playing with the reels, and making
stories about them, mamma? Is it silly?"
"No, dear, not if it amuses you," said her mother.
But though Louisa did not leave off playing with the reels altogether,
she gradually came to find that she preferred other amusements. Her
mother taught her several pretty kinds of work, and read aloud stories
to her more often than formerly. And, somehow, Louisa never again cared
quite as much for her old friends. She thought the Chinese princesses
had grown rather "stuck-up" and affected, and she could not get over a
strong suspicion that "Clarke's Number 12" was very ready to be
impertinent, if he could ever again get a chance.