"They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came home again
Her friends were all gone."
There was once a boy who was a very good sort of a boy, except for two
things; or perhaps I should say one thing. I am really not sure whether
they were two things, or only two sides of the same thing; perhaps,
children, you can decide. It was this. He could not bear his lessons,
and his head was _always_ running on fairies. You may say it is no harm
to think about fairies, and I do not say that in moderation it is. But
when it goes the length of thinking about them so much that you have no
thought for anything else, then I think it _is_ harm--don't you? and I
daresay that this had to do with Con's hating his lessons so. Perhaps
you will think it was an odd fancy for a boy: it is more often that
girls think about fairies, but you must remember that there are a great
many kinds of fairies. There are pixies and gnomes, and brownies and
cobs, all manner of queer, clever, mischievous, and kindly creatures,
besides the pretty, gentle, little people whom one always thinks of as
haunting the woods in the summer time, and hiding among the flowers.
_Con_ knew all about them; where he got his knowledge from I can't say,
but I hardly think it was out of books. However that may have been, he
did know all about the fairy world as accurately as some boys know all
about birds' nests, and squirrels, and field mice, and hedgehogs. And
there was one good thing about this fancy of Con's; it led him to know a
great many queer things about out-of-door's creatures that most boys
would not have paid attention to. He did not care to know about birds'
nests for the sake of stealing them for instance, but he had fancies
that some of the birds were special favourites of the fairies, and it
led him to watch their little ways and habits with great attention. He
knew always where the first primroses were to be found, because he
thought the fairies dug up the earth about their roots, and watered them
at night, when every one was asleep, with magic water out of the lady
well, to make them come up quicker, and many a morning he would get up
very very early, in hopes of surprising the tiny gardeners at their work
before they had time to decamp. But he never succeeded in doing so;
and, after all, when he did have an adventure, it came, as most things
do, just exactly in a way he had never in the least expected it.
Con's home had something to do with his fancifulness perhaps. I won't
tell you where it was, for it doesn't matter; and though some of the
wiser ones among you may think you can guess what country he belonged to
when I tell you that his real name was not Con, but Connemara, I must
tell you you are mistaken. No, I won't tell you where his home was, but
I will tell you _what_ it was. It was a sort of large cottage, and it
was perched on the side of a mountain, not a hill, a real mountain, and
a good big one too, and there were ever so many other mountains near by.
There was a pretty garden round the cottage, and at the back a door
opened in the garden wall right on to the mountain. Wasn't that nice?
And if you climbed up a little way you had _such_ a view. You could see
all the other mountains poking their heads up into the sky one above the
other--some of them looked bare and cold, and some looked comfortable
and warmly clad in cloaks of trees and shrubs and furze, but still they
all looked beautiful. For the sunshine and the clouds used to chase
each other over the heights and valleys so fast it was like giants
playing bo-peep; that was on fine days of course. On foggy and rainy
days there were grand sights to be seen too. First one mountain and
then another would put on a nightcap of great heavy clouds, and
sometimes the night-caps would grow down all over them till they were
quite hidden; and then all of a sudden they would rise off again slowly,
hit by bit, till Con could see first up to the mountain's waist, then
up, up, up to the very top again. That was another kind of bo-peep.
Summer and winter, fine or wet, cold or hot, Con used to go to school
every day. He was only seven years old, and there was a good way to
walk, more than a mile; but it was very seldom, very, _very_ seldom,
that he missed going. There were reasons why it was best for him to go;
his father and mother knew them, and he was too good not to do what they
told him, whether he liked it or not. But he was like the horse that
one man led to the water, but twenty couldn't make drink. There was no
difficulty in making Con go to school; but as for getting him to learn
once he was there--ah, no! that was a different matter. So I fear I
cannot say that he was much of a favourite with his teachers. You see
they didn't know that his little head was so full of fairies that it
really had no room for anything else, and it was only natural that they
should think him inattentive and even stupid, and their thinking so did
not make Con like his lessons any better. And with his playmates he was
not a favourite either. He never quarrelled with them, but he did not
seem to care about their games, and they laughed at him, and called him
a muff. It was a pity, for I believe it was partly to make him play
with other boys that his father and mother sent him to school; and for
some things the boys couldn't help liking him. He was so good-natured,
and, for such a little fellow, so brave. He could climb trees like a
squirrel, and he was never afraid of anything. Many and many a short
winter's afternoon it was dark before Con left school to come home, but
he did not mind at all. He would sling his satchel of books across his
shoulders, and trudge manfully home--thinking--thinking. By this time I
daresay you can guess of what he was thinking.
There were two ways by which he could come home from school--there was
the road, really not better than a lane, and when he came that way you
see he had to do all his climbing at the end, for the road was pretty
level, winding along round the foot of the mountain, perched on the side
of which was Con's home; and there was what was called the hill road,
which ran up the mountain behind the village, and then went bobbing up
and down along the mountain side still gradually ascending, away, away,
I don't know where to--up to some lonely shepherds' huts I daresay,
where nobody but the shepherds and the sheep ever went. But on its way
it passed not very far from Con's home. I need hardly say that the hill
road was the boy's favourite way. He liked it because it was more
"climby," and for another reason too. By this way, he passed the
cottage of an old woman named Nance, of whom he was extremely fond, and
to whom he would always stop to speak if he possibly could.
I don't know that many boys and girls would have taken a fancy to Nance.
She was certainly not pretty, and what is more she was decidedly
_queer_. She was very very small, indeed the smallest person I ever
heard of, I think. When Con stood beside her, though he was only seven,
he really looked bigger than she did, and she was so funnily dressed
too. She always wore green, quite a bright green, and her dresses never
seemed to get dull or soiled though she had all her housework to do for
herself, and she had over her green dress a long brown cloak with a
hood, which she generally pulled over her face to shield her eyes from
the sun, she said. Her face was very small and brown and puckered-up
looking, but she had bright red cheeks, and _very_ bright dark eyes.
She was never seen either to laugh or cry; but she used to smile
sometimes, and her smile was rather nice.
The neighbours--they were hardly to be called _her_ neighbours, for her
house was quite half-a-mile from any other--all called her "uncanny," or
whatever word they used to mean that, and they all said they did not
know anything of her history, where she had come from, or anything about
her. And once when Con repeated to her some remarks of this kind which
he had heard at school, Nance only smiled and said, "no doubt the people
of Creendale"--that was the name of the village--"were very wise."
"But _have_ you always lived here, Nance?" asked Con.
"No, Connemara," she answered gravely, "not always."
But that was all she said, and somehow Con did not care to ask her more.
It was not often he asked her questions; he was not that sort of boy for
one thing, and besides, there was something about her that forbade it.
He used to sit at one side of the cottage fire, or, in summer, on the
turf seat just outside the door, watching Nance's tiny figure as she
flitted about, or sometimes just staring up at the sky, or into the fire
without speaking. Nance never seemed to mind what he did, and he in no
way doubted that she was glad to see him, though by words she had never
said so. When he did speak it was always about one thing--what, you can
guess, it was always about fairies. It was through this that he had
first made friends with Nance. She had found him peering into the
hollow trunk of an old solitary oak-tree that stood farther down the
hill, not very far from her dwelling.
"What are you doing there, Connemara?" she said.
"I was thinking this might be one of the doors into fairyland," he
answered quietly, without seeming surprised at her knowing his name.
"And what should you know about that place?" she said again.
And Con turned towards her his earnest blue eyes, and told her all his
thoughts and fancies. It seemed easier to him to tell Nance about them
than it had ever seemed to tell any one else--his feelings seemed to put
themselves into words, as if Nance drew them out.
Nance said very little, but she smiled. And after that Con used to stop
at her cottage nearly every day on his way home--he dared not on his way
_to_ school, for fear of being late, for almost the only thing he always
did get was good marks for punctuality. His people at home did not know
much about Nance. He told his mother about her once, and asked if he
might stay to speak to her; and when his mother heard that Nance's
cottage was very clean, she said, "Yes, she didn't mind," and, after
that, Con somehow never mentioned her again. He came to have gradually
a sort of misty notion that Nance had had something to do with him ever
since he was born. She seemed to know everything about him. From the
very first she called him by his proper name--not Con or Master Con, but
Connemara, and he liked to hear her say it.
One winter afternoon, it was nearly dark though it was only half-past
three, Con coming home from school (the master let them out earlier on
the very short days), stopped as usual at Nance's cottage. It was very,
_very_ cold, the fierce north wind came swirling down from the
mountains, round and round, here, there, and everywhere, till, but for
the unmistakable "freeze" in its breath, you would hardly have known
whence it blew.
"It is so cold, Nance," said the boy, as he settled himself by the fire.
Nance's fires always burnt so bright and clear.
"Yes," said Nance, "the snow is coming, Connemara."
"I don't care," said Con, shaking his shaggy fair hair out of his eyes,
for the heat was melting the icicles upon it. "I'm not going to hurry.
Father and mother are away for two days, so there's no one to miss me.
Mayn't I stay, Nance?"
Nance did not answer. She went to the door and looked out, and Con
thought he heard her whisper something to herself. Immediately a blast
of wind came rushing down the hill, into the very room it seemed to Con.
Nance closed the door. "Not long; the storm is coming," she said
again, in answer to his question.
But in the meantime Con made himself very comfortable by the fire,
amusing himself as usual by staring into its glowing depths.
"Nance," he said at last, "do you know what the boys at school say?
They say they wonder I'm not afraid of you! They say you're a witch,
Nance!"
He looked up in her face brightly with his fearless blue eyes, and
laughed so merrily that all the corners of the queer little cottage
seemed to echo it back. Nance, however, only smiled.
"If you _were_ a witch, Nance, I'd make you grant me some wishes, three
anyway," he went on. "Of course you know what the first would be, and,
indeed, if I had that, I don't know that I would want any other. I
mean, to go to fairyland, you know."
Nance nodded her head.
"The other two would be for it to be always summer, and for me never,
never, _never_ to have any lessons to learn," he continued.
"Never to grow a man?" said Nance.
"I don't know," answered Con. "_Lessons_ don't make boys grow; but
still I suppose they _have_ to have them sometime before they are men.
But I shouldn't care if I could go to fairyland, and if it would be
always summer; I don't think I _would_ care about ever being a man."
As he said these words the fire suddenly sent out a sputtering blaze.
It jumped up all at once with such a sort of crackle and fizz, Con could
have fancied it was laughing at him. He looked up at Nance. _She_ was
not laughing; on the contrary, her face looked very grave, graver than
ever he had seen it.
"Connemara," she said slowly, "take care. You don't know what you are
saying."
But Con stared into the fire again and did not answer. I hardly think
he heard what she said; the warm fire made him drowsy, and the
brightness dazzled his eyes. He was almost beginning to nod, when Nance
spoke again to him, rather sharply this time.
"My boy, the snow is beginning; you must go." Con's habit of obedience
made him start up, sleepy though he was. Nance was already at the door
looking out.
"Do not linger on the way, Connemara," she said, "and do not think of
anything but home. It will be a wild night, but if you go straight and
swift you will reach home soon."
"I'm not afraid," said Con stoutly, as he set off.
"I could wish he were," murmured Nance to herself, as she watched the
little figure showing dark against the already whitening hill side, till
it was out of sight.
Then she came back into the cottage, but she could not rest.
Con strode on manfully; the snow fell thicker and thicker, the wind blew
fiercer and fiercer, but he had no misgiving. He had never before been
out in a snow-storm, and knew nothing of its special dangers. For some
time he got on very well, keeping strictly to the path, but suddenly,
some little way up the mountain to his right, there flashed out a bright
light. It jumped and hopped about in the queerest way. Con stood still
to watch.
"Can it be a will-o'-the-wisp?" thought he, in his innocence forgetting
that a bleak mountain side in a snow-storm is hardly the place for
jack-o'-lanterns and such like.
But while he watched the light it all at once settled steadily down, on
a spot apparently but a few yards above him.
"It may be some one that has lost their road," thought Con; "I could
easily show it them. I may as well climb up that little way to see;"
for strangely enough the thought of the _fairies_ having anything to do
with what he saw never once occurred to him.
He left the path and began to climb. There, just above him, was the
light, such a pretty clear light, shining now so steadily. It did not
seem to move, but still as fast as he thought he had all but reached it,
it receded, till at last, tired, and baffled, he decided that it _must_
be a will-o'-the-wisp, and turned to regain the road. But like so many
wise resolutions, this one was more easily made than executed; Con could
not find the road, hard though he tried. The snow came more and more
thickly till it blinded and bewildered him hopelessly. Con did his
utmost not to cry, but at last he could bear up no longer. He sank down
on the snow and sobbed piteously; then a pleasant resting feeling came
over him, gradually he left off crying and forgot all his troubles; he
began to fancy he was in his little bed at home, and remembered nothing
more about the snow or anything.
Nance meanwhile had been watching anxiously at her door. She saw that
the snow was coming faster, and that the wind was rising. Every now and
then it seemed to rush down with a sort of howling scream, swept round
the kitchen and out again, and whenever it did so, the fire would leap
up the chimney, as if it were laughing at some one.
"Frisken is at his tricks to-night," said Nance to herself, and every
moment she seemed to grow more and more anxious. At last she could bear
it no longer. She reached a stout stick, which stood in a corner of the
room, drew her brown cloak more closely round her, and set off down the
path where she had lost sight of Con. The storm of wind and snow seemed
to make a plaything of her; her slight little figure swayed and tottered
as she hastened along, but still she persevered. An instinct seemed to
tell her where she should find the boy; she aimed almost directly for
the place, but still Connemara had lain some time in his death-like
sleep before Nance came up to him. There was not light enough to have
distinguished him; what with the quickly-approaching darkness and the
snow, which had already almost covered his little figure, Nance could
not possibly have discovered him had she not stumbled right upon him.
But she seemed to know what she was about, and she did not appear the
least surprised. She managed with great difficulty to lift him in her
arms, and turned towards her home. Alas, she had only staggered on a
few paces when she felt that her strength was going. Had she not sunk
down on to the ground, still tightly clasping the unconscious child, she
would have fallen.
"It is no use," she whispered at last; "they have been too much for me.
The child will die if I don't get help. The only creature that has
loved me all these long, long years! Oh, Frisken, you might have played
your tricks elsewhere, and left him to me. But now I must have your
help."
She struggled again to her feet, and, with her stick, struck sharply
three times on the mountain side. Immediately a door opened in the
rock, revealing a long passage within, with a light, as of a glowing
fire, at the end, and Nance, exerting all her strength, managed to drag
herself and Con within this shelter. Instantly the door closed again.
No sooner had it done so, no sooner was Nance quite shut out from the
outside air, than a strange change passed over her. She grew erect and
vigorous, and the weight of the boy in her arms seemed nothing to her.
She looked many years younger in an instant, and with the greatest ease
she carried Con along the passage, which ended in a small cave, where a
bright fire was burning, in front of which lay some soft furry rugs,
made of the skins of animals. With a sigh Nance laid Con gently down on
the rugs. "He will do now," she said to herself.
The first thing Con was aware of when a sort of half-consciousness
returned to him, was the sound of voices. He did not recognise either
of them; he was too sleepy to think where he was, or to take in the
sense of what he heard, but long afterwards the words returned to him.
"Of course we shall do him no harm," said the first voice. "That is not
our way with those who come to us as he has done. All his life he has
been wishing to come to us, and we might bear you a grudge for trying to
stop him."
Here the speaker burst into a curious, ringing laugh, which seemed to be
re-echoed by numberless other voices in the distance.
"You made him wish it," answered some one--it was Nance--sadly.
"_We_ made him wish it! Ha, ha! ha, ha! Did you ever hear anything
like that, my dear friends? Why did his mother tie up his sleeves with
green ribbon before he was christened? Answer that. Ha, ha! ha, ha!"
And then there came another succession of rollicking laughter.
"It was to be, I suppose," said Nance. "But you won't _keep_ him. I
brought him here to save his life, not to lose his--"
"Hush, hush; how can you be so ill-mannered?" interrupted the other.
"_Keep_ him? of course not, _unless he wants to stay_, the pretty dear."
"But will you make him want to stay?" pleaded Nance.
"How could we?" said the other mockingly. "How could _we_ influence
him? He is a pupil of yours. But if you like to change your mind, you
may come back instead of him. Ha, ha! ha, ha! what a joke!" And the
laughter sounded as if the creatures, whoever they were, were holding
their sides, and rolling about in the extremity of their glee. It faded
away, gradually however, growing more and more indistinct, as if
receding into the distance. And Con turned round on his side, and fell
asleep more soundly than ever.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
When at last he really awoke he found himself lying on a bed of soft
moss, under the shade of some great trees, for it was summer time--
summer evening time it seemed, for the light was subdued, like that of
the sun from behind a cloud. Con started up in amazement, rubbing his
eyes to make sure he was not dreaming. Where was he? How could it all
be? The last thing he remembered was losing his way in the snow-storm
on the mountain; what had become of the winter and the snow? He looked
about him; the place he was in seemed to be a sort of forest glade; the
foliage of the trees was so thickly interlaced overhead that only little
patches of sky were here and there to be seen. There was no sunshine;
just the same even, pale light over everything. It gave him again the
feeling of being in a dream. Suddenly a sound caught his ears, it was
that of running water; he turned in the direction whence it came.
It was the loveliest little brook you ever saw--"with many a curve" it
wound along through the forest, and on its banks grew the most exquisite
and wonderful variety of flowers. Flowers of every colour, but of
shapes and forms Con had never seen before. He stood looking at them in
bewildered delight, and as he looked, suddenly the thought for the first
time flashed into his mind--"This is fairyland! I have got my wish at
last. I am in fairyland!"
There was something, even to him, almost overwhelming in the idea. He
could not move or speak, hardly even breathe. All at once there burst
out in every direction, above his head, beneath his feet, behind him, in
front of him, _everywhere_ in fact, peals and peals of laughter--the
clearest, merriest, most irresistible laughter you ever heard.
"It's the fairies," thought Con, "but where are they?"
Where were they? Everywhere. There came another shrill peal of
laughter and up they sprang, all together, from every imaginable corner.
There was not a branch of a tree, hardly even a twig, it seemed to Con,
on which one was not perched. They poked up their comical faces above
the clear water of the brook where they must have been hiding, though
how he had failed to see them there the boy could not imagine; they
started up from the ground in such numbers, that Con lifted carefully
first one foot and then the other to make sure he was not tramping upon
some of them; they actually swarmed, and Con could not make it out at
all. Could they have only just come, or had they been there all the
time, and had something wrong with his eyes prevented his seeing them
before? No, he couldn't make it out.
Were they like what he had expected to find them? Hardly, at least he
was not sure. Yet they were very pretty; they were as light and bright
and agile as--like nothing he could think of. Their faces seemed to be
brimming over with glee; there was not a sad or anxious look among them.
They were dressed in every colour of the rainbow, I was going to say,
but that would not be true, for there were no _brilliant_ colours among
them. In every shade that you see in the woods in autumn would be more
correct; the ladies in the soft greens and brown pinks and tender
yellows of the fading leaves, the gentlemen in the olives and
russet-browns and purples which give the deeper tints of autumn
foliage--perhaps this was the reason that Con had not at first
distinguished them from the leaves and the moss and the tree-roots where
they had lain hidden?
He stood gazing at them in silence, wondering when they were going to
leave off laughing. At last the noise subsided, and one fairy, who had
been swinging on a bough just above Con's head, slid down and stood
before him.
"Welcome to fairyland, Connemara," he said pompously. He was one of the
tallest among them, reaching above Con's waist. His face, like the
rest, was full of fun, but it had a look of great determination too.
"My name is Frisken," he continued, "at least that's one of my names,
and it will do for you to use as well as any other, though up above
there they have ever so many names for me. I am an old friend of yours,
though you may not know it, and you will find it for your interest to
please me. We've given up kings and queens lately, we find it's better
fun without; but, considering everything, I think I may say my opinion
is considered of some importance. Elves, do you agree with me?"
They all raised a shout of approval, and Frisken turned again to Con.
"Our laws are easy to keep," he said, "you will soon know them. Your
duties are comprised in one word, _Play_, and if ever you attempt to do
anything else it will be the worse for you. You interrupted us in the
middle of a dance, by-the-by. Elves, strike up the music."
Then Frisken took Con's right hand, and a lovely little maiden clad in
the palest green, and with flowing yellow hair, took the other, and the
fairies made themselves into dozens and dozens of rings, and twirled and
whirled away to the sound of the gayest and most inspiriting music. Con
had never enjoyed himself so much in his life, and the best of it was
the more he danced the more he wanted to dance; he jumped and whirled
and twirled as fast as any (though I have no doubt the _fairies_ thought
him rather clumsy about it), and yet without the very least feeling of
fatigue. He felt as if he could have gone on for ever. Suddenly the
elves stopped.
"Oh don't stop!" said Con, who was beginning to feel quite at home, "do
let's go on. I am not a bit tired."
"_Tired_," said Frisken, contemptuously, "whoever heard such a word?
How can you be so ill-mannered? Besides, mortal though you are, you
certainly should _not_ be tired. Why, you're only just awake, and you
slept long enough to last you at any rate for--"
"For how long?" said Con, timidly.
But Frisken did not answer, and Con, who was rather in awe of him,
thought it best not to press the enquiry. The fairies did not go on
dancing, however. They were fond of variety, evidently, whether they
ever got tired or not. They now all "adjourned" to another part of the
forest, where a grand banquet was prepared. What the viands were, Con
had no idea, but he little cared, for they were the most delicious he
had ever tasted. He was not a greedy boy by any means, but he did enjoy
this feast; everything was so charming; the fairies all reclined on
couches made of the same soft green moss as that on which he had found
himself lying when he first awoke, and all the time the invisible
musicians played lovely, gentle music, which, had Con not winked
violently, would have brought the tears to his eyes, for, somehow, it
made him think of home, and wonder what his mother was doing, and
whether she was in trouble about his absence. It did not seem to affect
the fairies in the same way; they were chattering, and joking, and
laughing, just as merrily as ever; once Con caught Frisken's eye fixed
upon him, and almost immediately after, the music stopped, and the games
began. What wonderful games they were! I cannot tell you half of them;
one favourite one you may have heard of before--they buried a seed a
little way in the ground, and then danced round it in a circle, singing
some queer wild words which Con could not understand. Then they all
stood still and called to Con to look; he could hardly believe his
eyes--there was the seed already a little plant, and even as he looked,
it grew, and grew, and grew, up into a great strong tree; and as the
branches rose higher and higher, the fairies caught hold of them and
rose up with them into the sky, till the tree seemed to be covered with
fruits of every shape and colour. Con had not recovered his amazement,
when they were all down again, ready for something else. This time,
perhaps, it would be the mouse game--a dozen or two of fairies would
turn themselves into mice, and Frisken and one or two others into cats,
and then what a chase they had! It puzzled Con quite as much as the
seed game, for he was _sure_ he saw Frisken gobble up two or three mice,
and yet--in a moment, there they all were again in their proper fairy
forms, not one missing! He wished he could ask Frisken to explain it,
but he had not time, for now an expedition to the treasure caves was
proposed, and off they all set, some riding on fairy piebald ponies
about the size of a rocking-horse, some driving in mother-of-pearl
chariots drawn by large white cats, some running, some dancing along.
And, oh, the treasure caves, when they got there! All the stories Con
had ever heard of--Aladdin, and genii and pirates' buried riches, none
of them came up to these wonderful caves in the least. There were just
_heaps_ of precious stones, all cut and polished, and, according to
fairy notions, quite ready for wear. For they all helped themselves to
as many jewels as they wanted, strung them together on silk, with
needles that pierced them as easily as if they had been berries, and
flitted about as long as the fancy lasted, wreathed in diamonds and
rubies, and emeralds, and every sort of brilliant stone. And then when
they had had enough of them, threw them away as ruthlessly as children
cast aside their withered daisy-chains.
And so it went on without intermission; incessant jousts and revels, and
banquets, constant laughter and joking, no pain, no fatigue, no anxiety.
For the fairies live entirely and completely in the present, past and
future have no meaning to their heedless ears, time passes as if it were
not; they have no nights or days, no summer or winter. It is always the
same in fairyland.
But some things puzzled Con sorely. Strangely enough, in this realm of
thoughtlessness, he was beginning to _think_ as well as to fancy, to
wish to know the whys and wherefores of things, as he had never done
before. Now and then he tried to question Frisken, who, he felt
certain, knew all he wished to learn, but it was difficult ever to get
him to explain anything. Once, I was very nearly saying _one day_, but
there are no such things there--Con could keep no count of time, he
could have told how many banquets he had been at, how many times they
had been to the caves, how often they had bathed in the stream, but that
was all--once, then, when Frisken seemed in a quieter mood than usual,
Con tried what he could do.
"Frisken," he said, "why is it that all the oldest looking fairies among
you are the smallest. Why, there's the old fairy that drives the
largest chariot, he's not above half as big as you? It seems to me they
keep getting smaller and smaller as they get older; why is it?"
"Of course they do. What else would you have?" said Frisken. "What an
owl the boy must be! How can you ask such ill-mannered questions?"
"Do you mean they get smaller and smaller till they die?" said Con.
Frisken sprang to his feet with a sort of yell. It was the first time
Con had seen him put out, but even now he seemed more terrified than
angry. He sat down again, shaking all over.
"I don't know what you mean," he gasped; "we never mention such things."
"But what becomes of you all then--_afterwards_?" said Con, more
discreetly.
Frisken had recovered himself.
"What do you mean by your afters and befores and thens?" he said; "Isn't
_now_ enough for you? What becomes of them? why, what becomes of things
up there in that world of yours--where do the leaves and the flowers and
the butterflies go to--eh?"
"But they are only _things_," persisted Con, "they have no--"
"_Hush_!" screamed Frisken, "how can you be so ill-mannered? come along,
the music is beginning; they are waiting for us to dance."
But it was with a heavy heart that Con joined the dance. He was
beginning to be very tired of this beautiful fairyland, and to wish very
much that he could go home to the cottage on the mountain, to his father
and mother, even to his lessons! A shudder ran through him as old tales
that he had heard or read, and scarcely understood, returned to his
mind--of children stolen by the fairies who _never_ went home again till
too late, and who then in despair returned to their beautiful prison to
become all that was left to them to be, fairies themselves, _things_,
like the flowers and the butterflies--supposing already it was too late
for him? quickly as the time had passed, for all he knew, he had been a
century in fairyland!
But he had to dance and to sing and to play incessantly like the others.
He must not let them suspect his discontent or he would lose all chance
of escape. He watched his opportunity for getting more information out
of Frisken.
"Do you never go `up there?'" he asked him once, using the fairy word
for the world he had left, "for a change you know, and to play tricks on
people--that must be such fun."
Frisken nodded his head mysteriously. He was delighted to see what a
regular elfin Con was growing.
"Sometimes," he said. "It's all very well for a little while, but I
couldn't stay there long. The air is so thick--ugh--and the cold and
the darkness! You wouldn't believe, would you, now that you know what
it's like down here, that fairies have been known to go up there and to
_stay_ by their own choice--to become clumsy, miserable, short-lived
mortals?"
"What made them?" said Con.
"Oh, a stupid idea that if they stayed up there they would have the
chance of growing into--oh, nonsense, don't let us talk of anything so
disagreeable. Come and have some games."
But Con persisted. He had discovered that when he got Frisken all to
himself he had a strange power of _forcing_ him to answer his questions.
"Was old Nance once down here?" he asked suddenly. Frisken wriggled.
"What if she was?" he said, "she's not worth speaking about."
"Why did she go up there?" said Con.
"She was bewitched," answered Frisken. "I cannot think why you like to
talk about such stupid things. You have forgotten about things up
there; luckily for you you came down here before you had learnt much.
Did you ever hear talk of a stupid thing they call `love' up there?
That took her up, and then she stayed because she got more nonsense in
her head."
"_I_ love my mother and my father," said Con stoutly.
"Nonsense," said Frisken, "you make me feel sick. You must forget all
that. Come along and make a tree."
But Con did not forget. He thought about it all constantly, and he
understood much that he had never dreamt of before. He grew to detest
his life among the fairies, and to long and plan for escape. But how to
manage it he had no notion; which was the way "up" the fairies carefully
concealed from him, and he had no clue to guide him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Nance! Nance! are you there? O dear Nance! do let me out, and take me
home to my mother again. O Nance! Nance!"
It was Con. He had managed to escape from Frisken and the others,
amusing themselves in the treasure caves, and had made his way along a
narrow winding passage in the rock, with a vague idea that as it went
"up" it would perhaps prove to be a way out of fairyland. He had passed
the little cave where Nance had warmed him by the fire, and the sight of
it had brought back a misty feeling that Nance had had something to do
with that night's adventures. Now he was standing at the end of the
passage, the way was stopped by a great wall of rock, he could go no
farther. In an agony of fear lest his fairy jailers should overtake
him, he beat upon the rock and cried for his old friend's help. For
some time he got no answer, then suddenly, just as he fancied he heard
the rush of the elves behind him in hot pursuit, he caught the sound of
his own name whispered softly through the rocky door.
"Connemara," a voice said, "I will strike the door three times, but
stand back or it may crush you."
He crept back into a corner and listened for the taps. One, two, three,
and the tremendously heavy door of stone rolled back without a sound,
and in a moment Con was back in the stupid old world again! There stood
Nance; she put her arms round him and kissed him without speaking. Then
"run home, Connemara," she said, "run home fast, and do not linger.
There is light enough to see the way, and there will soon be more."
"But come with me, dear Nance. I want to tell you all about it. Come
home with me and I will tell mother you saved me."
But Nance shook her head. "I cannot," she said, sorrowfully; "run home,
I entreat you."
He obeyed her, but turned to look back when he had run a little way.
Nance was no longer there.
It was early morning, but it was winter time. The ground was covered
with snow beginning to sparkle in the red light of the rising sun. The
dear old sun! How glad Con was to see his round face again. The world
looked just the same as when he had left it, but suddenly a dreadful
fear seized Con. How would he find all at home? How long had he been
away? Could it be a hundred years, or fifty, or even only seven, what a
terrible change he would find. He thought of "little Bridget" in the
ballad, and shivered. He was almost afraid to open the garden door and
run in. But everything looked the same; and, yes--there to his delight
was old Evan the gardener already at work, apparently no older than when
last he had seen him--it must be all right, Evan was _so_ old, that to
see him there at all told that no great time could have passed.
"You've come home early this morning, Master Con," he said. "Master and
Missis came back last night in all that storm, but they weren't
frightened about you, as they had the message that you had stayed at
school."
"What do you mean, Evan--what message? Who said I had stayed at
school?" "_Last night_--could it have been only _last night_," he
whispered to himself.
"A little boy brought the message, the queerest little chap you ever
saw--not as big as you by half hardly, but speaking quite like a man. I
met him myself on my way home, and turned back again to tell. What a
rough night it was to be sure!"
Feeling as if he were dreaming, Con turned to the house. There on the
doorstep stood his mother, looking not a little astonished at seeing
him.
"Why, Con, dear," she exclaimed, "you _have_ come over early this
morning. Did you get home-sick in one night?"
But Con had flung his arms round her neck, and was kissing her
_dreadfully_. "O mother, mother! I _am_ so glad to see you again," he
cried.
"You queer boy. Why, I declare he has tears in his eyes!" his mother
exclaimed. "Why, Con, dear, you seem as if you had been away a year
instead of a night."
"I will tell you all about it, mother. But, oh! please, why did you tie
up my sleeves with green ribbon before I was christened?"
His mother stared. "Now who could have told you that, child?" she said.
"It was silly of me, but I only did it to tease old nurse, who was full
of fancies. Besides the days of fairy stealings are over, Con, though I
have often thought nurse would have been alarmed if she had known how
full of fairy fancies you were, my boy."
"Mother, mother! listen, it is _quite_ true," said Con, and he hastened
to pour out the story of his wonderful adventure. His mother _did_ look
astonished, but naturally enough she _could_ not believe it. She would
have it he had fallen asleep at old Nance's cottage and dreamt it all.
"But who was the boy that brought the message then?" said Con. "I
_know_ he was a fairy."
And his mother could not tell what to say.
"I know what to do," he went on; "will you come with me to Nance's
cottage and ask _her_?" and to this his mother agreed.
And that very morning to the old woman's cottage they went. It was in
perfect order as usual, not a speck of dust to be seen; the little bed
made, and not a stool out of its place. But there was no fire burning
in the little hearth--and no Nance to be seen. Con ran all about,
calling her, but she had utterly disappeared. He threw himself on the
ground, sobbing bitterly.
"She has gone back to them instead of me--to prevent them coming after
me," he cried, "and oh! she will be so unhappy."
And nothing that his mother could say would console him.
But a night or two afterwards the boy had a dream, or a vision, which
comforted him. He thought he saw Nance; Nance with her kind, strange
smile, and she told him not to be troubled. "I have only gone back for
a time," she said, "and they cannot hold me, Connemara. I shall have
conquered after all. You will never see me again here. I am soon going
to a country very far away. I shall never come back to my little
cottage, but still we may meet again and you must not grieve for me."
So Con's mind was at peace about his old friend. Of course she never
came back, and before long her cottage was pulled down. No one could
say to whom it belonged, but no one objected to its destruction. She
had been a witch they said, and it was best to do away with her
dwelling.
What Con's mother really came in the end to think about his story, I
cannot say; nor do I know if she ever told his father. I fancy Con
seldom, if ever, spoke about it again. But as all who knew him when he
grew up to be a man could testify, his taste of the land of "all play
and no work," never did him any harm.