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FIVE MINUTES' STORIES.
[Illustration: FIVE MINUTES' STORIES.]
FIVE MINUTES STORIES
By
MRS MOLESWORTH
AUTHOR
OF
CARROTS
ETC.
TWELFTH THOUSAND.
[Illustration]
London:
Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge.
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, CHARING CROSS, W.C.
43 QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C.
BRIGHTON: 135 NORTH STREET.
NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO.
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BUNGAY.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
ABDALLAH THE UNHAPPY 9
FIFINE AND HER CAT 14
THE LONG LADDER 19
A FOUR-FOOTED GENTLEMAN 24
THE BAD FAIRY 29
THE GOBLIN FACE 35
THE LOST BROOCH 41
ONLY A BUNCH OF VIOLETS 48
A CANARY TRAGEDY 54
COO-COO'S SECOND HUSBAND 61
HARRY'S REWARD 67
BROTHERS AND MUSHROOMS 73
A REMARKABLE WATCH 81
THE BLACKBERRY ELF 88
FIVE MINUTES' STORIES.
By Mrs. MOLESWORTH.
ABDALLAH THE UNHAPPY.
[Illustration]
A great many years ago there dwelt in a city of the East, of which you
have never heard the name, a wise and holy man. He was highly esteemed
by his fellow citizens, for he was kind and benevolent, never refusing
good counsel to those in earnest to profit by it, so that by degrees the
fame of his sagacity spread far and wide, and many came from great
distances to consult him.
One day he was sitting in front of his modest dwelling, enjoying the
soft breeze that stirred the trees hard by, reading from time to time
short passages of an ancient volume open upon his knees, when a shadow
fell across its pages, and looking up, he perceived that a stranger
stood before him, who saluted him with the greatest respect and
courtesy. The sage returned the customary greetings, and then inquired
in what he could be of service to the new-comer.
"Father," said the stranger, "I have journeyed far to ask your advice.
My quest is summed up in few words, What can I do to be happy?"
[Illustration]
The wise man looked at him searchingly. He was a handsome man in the
prime of life, richly dressed, healthy and vigorous. His appearance
would have been most prepossessing but for a melancholy and discontented
expression of countenance--there was no genial smile about the mouth, no
kindly light in the eyes.
"What have you tried?" inquired the sage.
"Everything," replied the stranger. "Yet without foolish prodigality and
excess. I have sought to surround myself with beauty and refinement, for
my wealth is inexhaustible. I have dipped deep into learning, for my
abilities are, I am told, considerable; I have even of late in a sort of
despair tried to find content in enjoyment of less elevated kinds, such
as seems to satisfy many men. But all was useless--eating and drinking,
and such physical gratifications could do nothing for one who had sought
in vain satisfaction in the perfection of music, of painting and
sculpture--nay, more, who had found in the severest of studies but
weariness and disappointment."
[Illustration]
"You have been too changeable and impatient, my son," said the sage.
"Try again--I do not say return to the lower pleasures of which you
speak, but devote yourself more exclusively to the fine arts. Travel far
and wide and visit whatever is beautiful. One year from now, return, and
tell me the result."
Abdallah bowed and departed. The year passed, and again he stood before
the sage, despondent as formerly.
"In vain. I have exhausted myself in travel. I have seen all the world
has to show. I am more miserable than ever."
"Turn then again to study. Shut yourself up with your books. Work your
hardest and see if therein you cannot find contentment. If you succeed I
shall not expect to see you again."
But some days before the year had elapsed, there once more stood
Abdallah. He had grown thin and pale, his eyes told of midnight vigils,
but their expression was no happier.
"It is useless," he said. "I have followed your advice. But I am not as
other men. _Nothing_ brings happiness to me. There is but one thing to
do, but first I would ask your permission. Let me make an end of
myself."
The sage frowned.
[Illustration]
"It must be as you say," he replied after some moments' silence. "You
are perhaps so constituted that happiness is impossible for you. If so,
resignation is all that remains. But I cannot at once sanction your
desire to quit this life. I must reflect upon it during a year. In the
meantime consider the struggle as given up; think no more of your
unhappy fate, but as you are about to die, use the time that remains, to
some purpose, by spending it for others. You are the one wretched
exception--so be it. Spend your time, your strength and your wealth in
making some others--ordinary human beings--happier, so that at least
some few tears may be dropped on your grave. Return in a year, and I
will then authorize you to put an end to yourself."
And Abdallah again bowed and withdrew, somewhat consoled by the thought
that one year would see the last of his wretched existence, that even
the wisest of men recognised him as cut off from the common lot.
The year passed. But no Abdallah returned. It was not till some weeks
after the appointed time that he appeared hastening eagerly towards the
sage's dwelling. He was no longer thin or pale, his dress was much less
rich than formerly, but seemed nevertheless to show his handsome figure
to all the greater advantage, his bearing was upright, his step
springing--there was a smile on his lips, a beautiful, kindly light in
his dark eyes.
"Forgive me, father, for my delay," he cried. "I could not believe the
time had passed. This year has seemed to fly."
"And you are ready to part with your life?" asked the sage.
Tears rushed to Abdallah's eyes.
"If the sacrifice could be of use to others, yes, father, I am ready,"
he replied. "But for myself, no, a thousand times no. I have found the
secret of happiness. In ministering to others, in forgetfulness of self,
I have found my own blessedness. Life is to me now the most precious of
gifts--my wealth, my strength, nay the very learning, the very
cultivation I found so disappointing when unshared, I now esteem most
highly as increasing my capacities for doing good. Life is beautiful--O
good father, let me live."
And the wise man lifting his hands in benediction on the head of the
happy Abdallah, bade him go in peace, having entered upon the one only
path of endless and eternal blessedness.
FIFINE AND HER CAT.
Fifine was walking quietly up and down the garden path, her big cat,
Mimi, in her arms. From time to time she talked to Mimi, asking her
questions or telling her the thoughts passing through her mind, and when
Mimi purred, Fifine was quite satisfied that the cat was agreeing with
her. When she did not purr, and gave no signs of attending, Fifine would
give her a little shake, or even a pinch, which naturally made Mimi
squeak, and was supposed to mean she was _not_ this time of the same
opinion as Fifine. This had happened more than usual this morning, for
Fifine was in a rather irritable humour. She was not feeling pleased
with herself, and nothing makes little girls, and big people, too, more
uncomfortable than this.
[Illustration]
Suddenly, from a little distance came a well-known voice.
"Fifine, my child," it said, "you have not come to the little gate to
wish me good morning," and looking up, Fifine saw a tall figure, all
dressed in black, standing some way down the path. It was her kind
friend and neighbour, the old _cure_ or village clergyman, whose house
was at the other side of the high garden wall. In general Fifine was
delighted to see him, but this morning she walked towards him slowly,
making a sort of pretence that Mimi was too heavy for her.
"Where is Madeleine?" said the clergyman, his voice sounding grave.
Madeleine was Fifine's sister, and two years older. "She is not ill? Why
is she not with you?"
"She--she is in the house," she replied. She had glanced up for a moment
in his face, but the serious look in his eyes, generally so kind and
gentle, made her quickly turn hers down again.
"You will not tell me why she is not playing with you as usual, I see,"
he went on very gravely. "Shall _I_ tell _you_? It is because her little
sister got into a passion with her, really for no reason at all. Would
one believe it--this little sister slapped and knocked Madeleine, and
called her many naughty names? No wonder Madeleine stays in the house."
Fifine forgot her shame in astonishment. She stared up in the old
gentleman's face, both her eyes and her mouth wide open.
"How do you know?" she exclaimed. "We were in the house--in our own
room. No one was there, and I know, sir, Madeleine has not seen you this
morning; besides," and here Fifine looked down again, "Madeleine would
not tell."
"No, you are right, Madeleine would not tell, and did not tell. A little
bird told me, my poor Fifine, and it was sad news for him to carry this
lovely morning," and shaking his head, the _cure_ turned and walked
slowly away.
"A little bird indeed," repeated five years old Fifine to herself
contemptuously. "That is what they tell babies. I know better. A little
bird only means 'somebody' told. Besides, there are no nests on that
side of the house. Who could it be? Mimi, tell me, don't be stupid now.
Who do you think it was?" and as Mimi made no reply, Fifine shook her,
which drew forth a plaintive squeak and a struggle to get out of her
mistress's arms. This made Fifine still more angry. She flung Mimi down,
the poor cat--for a worm will turn--glowered up at her, with a rather
ugly look in her green eyes, and slunk off.
[Illustration]
"I have it," exclaimed Fifine. "You nasty, mean, spiteful cat. It was
you who told. I remember you were on the window-sill, and then I didn't
see you any more, till I found you out here in the garden coming back
from your visit next door, no doubt! Ah, you may pretend it wasn't you.
You can't speak, but you can tell things all the same, and _Monsieur le
cure_ is clever enough to understand. Why, he has often told me he can
understand what his old dog Platon says by the way he wags his tail.
You, too, were the only person who saw me hit Madeleine. Mean cat; _but
I shall punish you_," and off dashed the indignant Fifine in pursuit of
Mimi.
The summer day passed quickly. Sweet-tempered Madeleine soon forgot the
offence she was only too ready to forgive, and in merry play with some
little friends, the troubles of the morning were quickly out of mind.
Tired with fun and excitement, Fifine fell asleep the moment her head
touched the pillow. She had slept several hours when she suddenly woke.
It was quite dark--the very middle of the summer night--at first not a
sound broke the silence. Then faintly, but distinctly, came through the
half-opened window a low piteous wail--again and again. Fifine sat up to
listen. There was no sound from the larger room next door, where
Madeleine slept beside the nurse. No one was awake but Fifine, and
again, and again came that pitiful mew. Yes, it was a mew, and up jumped
Fifine at last.
The _cure_ had sat up late that evening, reading, his window open to the
pleasant night-air. He closed his book at last, and was turning to put
out the lamp, when a little sound made him look round. There, at the low
window, stood a little white-robed, bare-footed figure, sobbing
bitterly.
"Oh, sir, oh, sir, come and let Mimi out. I shut her into the
tool-house, because I thought she had told you about my hitting
Madeleine, and I can't get her out, and she will die of hunger--my poor
Mimi--since yesterday morning she has had nothing to eat, and nobody is
awake but you. I have come all alone in the dark. I forgot all about
her," and the sobs redoubled.
In five minutes the kind _cure_ had managed to open the door which the
gardener had locked, and Mimi was safe in Fifine's arms.
"And suppose it was _not_ Mimi who told me?" said the good old man as he
carried the little girl home again.
"I _was_ naughty, but I didn't mean to leave Mimi all day. You said it
was a little bird, sir, but I know that is only baby-talk."
"Yes, my child, and I am sorry I did not tell you who it really was. It
was your dear mamma, my Fifine, who overheard your fit of temper and
asked me to speak to you seriously. Will this be a lesson to you? See
what angry temper leads to--hurting your sister, and nearly killing your
poor cat."
"Forgive me, I will try to be better; indeed I will," sobbed Fifine.
"And ask God to help you, my dear little girl," said the kind _cure_, as
he bade her good-night.
[Illustration]
THE LONG LADDER.
[Illustration]
The sun had set, and the deep blue darkness of a summer night was
creeping over the sky. One by one the stars came out, and little Max
stood by the window gazing up at them in admiration. He had never before
seen so many, for it was long past his usual bed-time, and he had been
allowed to sit up late for a great treat, as it was his birthday. Inside
the room his mother was reading by a little table on which stood a lamp,
but the curtains were drawn across the windows, and Max had crept behind
them, so that the bright light inside did not prevent his seeing the
infinitely brighter ones, that up there, millions and millions of miles
away, came sparkling out one after the other, as if the sky lamp-lighter
were slowly going his errands. Max felt as if he could stand there for
ever, watching. But there came the summons.
"Max, my boy. You must go to bed now."
"Yes, mamma," and the small figure crept out and held up its face for a
good-night kiss. Then "mamma," he began, hesitatingly.
"Well, Max," and mamma raised her eyes again for a moment from her book.
It was a very interesting book, and mamma had had her little boy with
her all day, and had done her best to make him happy. Perhaps she was a
little tired, and felt that she had earned some rest for herself.
"Mamma, is it God that puts them all there?" he asked. "All the little
stars?" and he pointed towards the window.
"Yes, dear. You know it is. It is God that does everything good and
pretty and kind--up there and down here too."
"Him makes the flowers in the garden," observed Max.
"Yes, dear, you know He does," answered mamma, her eyes turning back to
her book again. "Good-night, Maxie."
"Good-night, mamma. But mamma--"
"Well, dear," without looking up this time.
"I was just thinking, when Him's _done_ down here, you know, and wants
to go up there again, what a _very_ long ladder Him must need."
"Yes, of course," said mamma, quite lost in her story by now.
"I wonder," continued Max, "I wonder if Him ever leaves it in the garden
after Him's gone up--after Him has been doing the flowers, you know,
mamma."
"I daresay--yes, very likely. Now _do_ go, Max."
"Does you really think so, mamma?" and Max's eyes, which had begun to
look as if the dustman had been passing by, grew bright and eager again.
"I'll look and see if I can't find it then, some day," he said to
himself, as he climbed up-stairs. For Max felt sure that whatever mamma
said must be true. And wonderful dreams came to the little four-year-old
man that night--dreams compared with which, all that Jack found at the
top of his famous bean-stalk would have seemed nothing.
The next morning brought unlooked-for disappointment to the little
fellow, for it was rainy and stormy. No going out for Max--he must stay
quietly in the nursery. And he looked so very sad about it that mamma
was a little surprised: he was usually so cheerful and contented.
"You had plenty of running about yesterday, Maxie," she said. "We cannot
expect it always to be fine. To-morrow will be sunny again very likely,"
and at this Max brightened up again.
"Him will bring the ladder then, perhaps," he said to himself.
Mamma proved a true prophet, "To-morrow" was a lovely day. So lovely
that she and Max's father drove away to some distance, leaving word that
they would not be back till the evening.
"Good-bye, darling. Be a good boy. Nurse will let you play in the garden
all the afternoon," were their last words to the happy little face
waving good-bye from the window.
But late that evening when they returned, they were met by a crowd of
white-faced frightened servants, with a sad story to tell. "Master Max
was not to be found. They had hunted up and down--_everywhere_. He was
playing in the garden beside nurse, and she just left him for an instant
to fetch her work, and when she came back he was gone--she gave the
alarm at once, and ever since they had been searching." But in vain. Yet
where could he be? There was no pond into which he could have fallen--no
high bank even, over which he could have rolled.
The garden was the safest there could be, many a score of times had Max
played there alone, though within view of the nursery windows; nurse
could not be blamed. No one, nothing, was to blame. It was a mystery!
The father and mother looked at each other with anguish in their eyes.
It was growing late. How could they live through the night with the
thought of their darling out alone in the darkness? And where?
"Oh, _where_ can he be?"
Suddenly the mother looked up--yes, there were the stars coming out
again one after the other, as if nothing were the matter; just as they
had done two evenings before when little Max had been gazing at them
from behind the curtains. What was it he had been saying in his funny
little way? The half-heard words rushed back to her memory.
"Williams," she said to the gardener, "is there a ladder anywhere
about?"
[Illustration]
They all stared at her. Yes, he had left one--a very high one--against
a tree. There were some branches he was lopping off, but he had "never
thought for to--"
She did not wait, but rushed off to where he pointed, and breathless,
speechless, signed for some one to ascend it. Max's father of course.
And then came a joyful cry.
"I have him. Up here fast asleep, like a bird in its nest."
Yes, there he was, coiled among the branches, unconscious of his fearful
peril.
"I found God's ladder," he said, "but when I got to the top, Him wasn't
there. So I waited till Him came to light the candles to ask Him to let
me peep into heaven, mamma. But I was going to come down again--Mamma
dear, why is you crying?"
[Illustration]
A FOUR-FOOTED GENTLEMAN.
"Open the door, quick, Sybil. Don't you see my hands are full? What a
stupid you are! Yes, that'll do. Now you can shut it after me."
And Archie came forward to the table where his aunt was sitting, a large
tray spread over with specimens of seaweed that he had been drying and
arranging, in his hands.
"Since when, have 'if you please' and 'thank you,' gone out of fashion,
may I ask, Archie?" said his aunt.
The boy grew very red, but he laughed good-humouredly.
"I didn't mean to be rude," he said. "But Sybil doesn't mind. Do you,
Sybil?"
[Illustration]
"No," replied the little girl. "Archie isn't ever really unkind like
some boys. Still I think it _is_ nice when people thank you and speak
politely to each other. But still, of course, Archie is only a boy."
[Illustration]
"And can a boy not be a gentleman, do you think, Sybil? What do you say
about it yourself, Archie?"
"Oh, I know I _should_," he replied rather shamefacedly, "but you see,
Auntie, I forget, or else even if I don't forget, it doesn't seem worth
while."
"Be true to your instincts, my boy. Civility and gentleness are _always_
'worth while.' Above all, from man to woman, or boy to girl. And
gratitude even for the smallest service is always the sign of a fine
nature. That reminds me--"
"Of what? Do tell us, Auntie;" said both children, pricking up their
ears.
"Of a little adventure of mine the other day. It is nothing of a story,
so don't expect one;" for the word "adventure" had evidently caught
their attention. "But it was so pretty and touching, it struck me very
much, and made me think how often we might, with benefit, take example
by our humble brethren--even in _manners_, children."
"Do you mean poor people?" said Sybil doubtfully. "I know some are very
good and nice--some _quite_ poor children even. But a good many are very
rough and rude, Auntie?"
"Yes, and there is much more excuse for them, of course, if they are so,
for often they have not been taught better. But I was not thinking of
people or children at all just then, Sybil. The little 'gentleman'
whose manners I admired so much was a--" She stopped again and smiled,
while Archie and Sybil looked up in perplexity.
"A _what_, Auntie?"
[Illustration]
"A little _dog_, my dears!--Yes, you may well look surprised. Listen and
I will tell you all about it. I was going from my own house to a
friend's a few days ago, walking leisurely, for I was in no hurry, and
had not far to go. It was a quiet time of the day, and not many people
were about. I had made my way across our own square and some short way
down a street opening out of it when my attention was caught by the
sight of a little dog wandering along in an uneasy, rather aimless
manner. He was alone evidently, for there was no one in sight whom he
could be following--an errand boy or two, a postman and I, were, I
think, the only passers-by at the time. And he was far too aristocratic
a little dog to have anything to do with butchers' or bakers' boys. He
was very pretty and well cared for; his soft, flossy coat had evidently
been recently washed and combed, and there was a general air of
healthiness and prosperity about him, though he was neither over-fat nor
pampered-looking. But just now he was clearly in trouble. He ran a few
steps and then looked round him irresolutely; his bright eyes glanced
all about him anxiously. I wondered what was the matter and stopped
short half intending to pat him or speak to him, when suddenly, seeming
to catch sight of me for the first time, he made the first advances by
trotting up to me and sniffing me in an inquiring manner. He liked what
he saw of me; for he gave a little quick friendly bark, and then,
wagging his tail, looked up at me appealingly, ran on a few steps and
then stopped short, looking back to see if I were following him, and
when I did so, again he barked, again he ran on a few steps, and stood
looking back wagging his tail. It was as plain as any spoken words; he
was asking me to do him a service. And thus he led me down the street,
round a corner, and a few steps along another row of houses, where he
stopped in front of a door, looking and wagging his tail, without going
on further. Nobody could have failed to understand him.
"'Here is my home, kind lady. I have got shut out, please to ring the
bell for me.'
"I rang of course, and very quickly the door was opened, and in he
rushed, and, satisfied that he was all right, I was turning away,
when--this is the point of my story--I heard a bustle and fuss just
inside the closing door, my friend's bark, rather vehement this time, a
voice in remonstrance 'what _can_ he want?' then the door opened and out
he sprang again. He looked round eagerly, and as soon as he saw me stood
still on the doorstep, gave a quick cheerful little bark, wagging his
tail with the greatest energy the while, and with still another
'bow-wow,' turned round and ran in quietly. It was the plainest 'thank
you ma'am for being so kind,' that ever was spoken in dog or any
language. Now _don't_ you call that behaving like a gentleman?"
"Yes indeed," said the children heartily, and Archie, whose trayful was
ready for some other process by this time, turned to Sybil with
deference.
"Please, Sybil, will you kindly open the door?"
She did so, and he disappeared, but in a moment his voice was again
heard begging for re-admittance.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I have come back again to say 'thank
you.' If I _had_ a tail to wag I could do so."
But though they got some fun out of it, I don't think Auntie's anecdote
did Master Archie any harm.
[Illustration]
THE BAD FAIRY.
[Illustration]
"There _is_ a bad fairy in this house. I don't care what you say. There
_must_ be. Here have I been hours hunting everywhere for my silver
whistle. I _know_ I had it yesterday evening, and I haven't been out
since, and we can't play at our hunt in the wood without it. And they're
all waiting for us. It's too bad--it _is_," and Leonard stamped about
the room, flinging everything topsy-turvy in his vain search.
"And my umbrella, and my sleeve stud," said David, his two years older
brother. "They have _completely_ disappeared. Upon my word, Leonard, I
think you're right, this house is bewitched."
"Master Leonard, please, here's your whistle. Cook found it just now
lying beside the pump in the garden."
"There now--didn't I say so? It _must_ be a bad fairy. Was I near the
pump in the garden last night? How did the whistle get there, if it
wasn't bewitched?" said Leonard, as he and David hurried off.
It was true he had not been near the pump, but he had left the whistle
among some flowers on the nursery table, and "baby," as his six-years
old sister was called, had thrown it into the basket with the remains of
her nosegays. What more easy than for the heavy whistle to drop out of
the lightly made open wicker work, as the nursemaid was carrying the
withered flowers and leaves to throw away? David's umbrella, had he
known it, was at that moment reposing in the pew-opener's care among
various "lost and strayed" articles at church; and the sleeve stud was
safely ensconced in a mouse-hole behind the chest of drawers on which it
had been carelessly laid, to be flung off again in a frantic hunt for
some fish hooks, whose disappearance no doubt Leonard explained in the
same way.
It came to be rather a convenient idea. Not only losses, but breakages,
tearings, all such annoyances were laid to the account of the bad fairy.
And it was a very heavy account. Never had there been so many unlucky
accidents as during these last few weeks spent by the boys and their
sister with their mother, in a little country house, lessons being for
the time put aside, nothing thought of but fun and frolic. Even old
nurse, who usually took charge--too much charge--of the light-hearted
careless boys, was away; there was no one to "worry" about putting
things by tidily, wearing the proper clothes at the proper time, and so
on. At least so it seemed for a while. But things grew worse and worse,
the bad fairy more and more spiteful, till at last even their indulgent
mother could take it all quietly no longer.
One evening, finding several of her own private possessions
missing--scissors and pen-knife in particular--she came late into the
boys room after they were asleep, there to look for them. But she almost
forgot her errand in her horrified amazement at the disorder and
confusion before her. What a difference from the neat room she used to
peep into at night when nurse was at home--everything everywhere,
_nothing_ where it should be, almost a sort of ingenuity in the
perfection of disorder.
[Illustration]
"Really," thought the poor lady, "I could be tempted to believe in the
spiteful fairy."
She set to work, and with a shaded candle, for the boys were fast
asleep, cleared away some part of the confusion. But it was of course
impossible to do it thoroughly. The next morning, without saying
anything, she returned to the charge, in the children's absence. By
degrees order gained the day, and in the process many of the missing
articles turned up, and were quietly restored to their places. Late that
evening again came the motherly fairy. Things were not as bad as the
night before--they could scarcely have been so, since the morning's
tidying. But they were bad enough. All the boys had had in use during
the day was "pitched about" as before--again must their mother work for
nearly an hour to get the room quite to her mind. And this went on for
several days.
During this time there began to be less talk of "the bad fairy," and
more than once both David and Leonard expressed their surprise and
pleasure at several things having, as they called it, "come back again;"
in other words, having been found in their proper places. And at last on
the discovery of a "completely lost" treasure--I think it was Leonard's
pocket microscope--in a place where he "knew" he had looked in vain, he
burst into his mother's room with sparkling eyes.
"Mamma," he exclaimed, "do you know this house really is bewitched?
Fancy my having found my microscope just where I looked for it
yesterday. And not only that, ever so many other things have turned up.
And when we wake in the morning the room doesn't look a bit the same as
it does at night. All our things are as neat as can be, and everything
ready, however we pitch them about at night."
Mamma listened and said nothing.
"You don't believe me, I suppose," said Leonard.
"I quite believe that a tidy fairy would find plenty to do in your room,
if such a being existed," she said.
[Illustration]
"But all boys are untidy," said Leonard. "I don't think
we're--well,"--for visions of really terrible chaos rose before his eyes
as he spoke--"well, not _much_ worse than others. But I know what I'll
do," he added to himself. "I'll keep awake to-night and watch."
For a wonder he was able to keep his resolution. He was not _quite_
asleep, though David had been snoring for some time, when he was roused
by the door softly opening, and a figure with a shaded light, glided
into the room. Leonard, though at first a very little frightened, kept
his presence of mind, and neither called out nor started up, but lay
still as if asleep. But soon, as he watched the figure moving about,
rearranging the untidy heaps of clothes, picking up towels and
handkerchiefs, putting boots and shoes neatly together in pairs--all so
quickly and deftly, that it might indeed have been a fairy's work, a new
feeling overcame him.
"Mamma," he cried--for mamma he soon saw it was--and his voice woke
David too, "it is you then--you who are the good fairy! It is a shame
for _you_ to have such trouble for us. Oh, mamma, dear, I _am_ ashamed,"
and out of bed sprang Leonard and David, and set to work with a will to
help their mother, in what certainly should not have been left for her
to do.
"We will never be so untidy again, mamma, _never_," said both boys.
"And it will save yourselves and other people a great deal of
discomfort, of worse than discomfort, indeed," she replied.
"But, mamma, untidiness isn't such a _very_ bad fault--not like telling
falsehoods, or bullying, or anything like that?"
"It is a fault that _leads_ to bad faults," said his mother gravely, "to
waste of time and money--two of our 'talents'--to loss of temper, and
undeserved blame of others, very often. It makes life ugly and
ungraceful, and it puts the burden of our own duty on others. For _some
one_ must be tidy, or what would become of the world? And for my part I
can never think but what untidiness in outside things too often ends in
untidiness of mind and thought."
THE GOBLIN FACE.
[Illustration]
When I was a very little girl, I spent a good deal of my life in a large
old-fashioned house in a very out-of-the-way part of Scotland. It was
not really our home, but it almost seemed so, for we used to go there as
soon as the fine mild weather set in, and stay till the shortening days
and the first frosts told of winter's approach. It was the home of our
uncle--my mother's only brother--and as he had never married, and she
was many years younger than he, she seemed to him more like his daughter
than his sister, and he was never so happy as when he had her and all us
children to brighten up his rather gloomy old house. Gloomy it might be
in appearance, but in nothing else, for my uncle was the kindest of men,
and he and all his old servants used to receive us with a welcome that
would have made the grimmest of abodes seem sunshiny and cheerful. I
could tell dozens--nay, scores of stories of our child-life in the old
castle--of our games in the house, and out of doors, of the cottagers
with all of whom we were on most intimate terms, of all sorts of
adventures that befel us, but just now, I mean only to relate one very
short, and perhaps not very interesting, story, because I think it may
be of use to some children who may read it.
I was about five years old when the first cloud came over my happy life.
I had been ill, but though I do not clearly remember the illness--and it
seemed to me to have been rather pleasant than painful, as I was petted
and made much of in every way--I believe it really was a bad illness,
and had very much weakened me. We went to Scotland sooner than usual
that year to strengthen me, but the weather, unluckily, was cold and
rainy. We could not go out much, and had to amuse ourselves in the
house. It was in this way that one of the old servants one day, meaning
to please us, took to telling us ghost-stories. I was so little that I
do not think she thought of me at all; the stories were told to my elder
brother and sister, who only laughed at them, and rather liked the sort
of "creepy" feeling of mystery which came over them as they listened.
And nobody thought of poor little Nan, fanciful and nervous, though I
did not know it, curled up in a corner, and drinking in every word.
From that moment my life was spoilt. I did not distinctly remember the
stories: I mixed them up in my mind in a dreadful jumble, and never
thought of their not being true. I grew so nervous that I hardly dared
go up stairs alone, even in broad daylight, and I shut my eyes if I
happened to be alone in a room where there were portraits, rather than
see them staring at me, as I fancied they did. But all this was nothing
to the terrors of the night, of which, even in my old age, I hardly like
to think.
[Illustration]
I slept in a little room off my mother's, and till now I had been very
proud of my own nest. But all that was past. I now shivered and
shuddered at the thought of bed-time, and would have done anything to
avoid it. No one understood me, the nurses called me "naughty"; even
dear mamma thought my temper spoilt. And no wonder, for I told _nobody_
of my secret trouble! I think it was my fear of being laughed at, and
here I would beg of "big" brothers and sisters never to laugh at little
ones' terrors however silly. Try to explain them away, to comfort the
poor tiny sufferers, but _never_ laugh at them.
[Illustration]
At last, happily for my life and health, the secret came out, and it was
in this way:--There was a recess in the wall near my bed; it had shelves
and went up nearly to the ceiling; in fact, it was like a cupboard with
the doors off. And on the top shelf stood a curious vase, about the size
of a rather fat flower-pot, of dark blue and white old Dutch stoneware.
I had never noticed it, for in the daytime very little light fell on
this corner, and I was seldom in the room except at night.
One evening I was put to bed as usual, feeling rather less frightened,
for there were friends dining at the castle, and the sound of the piano
came up to my room and cheered me.
"Leave the door open, please, I like the music," I said, and nurse did
so, and thus with less shivering and heart-throbbing than usual I fell
asleep. When I woke--quite suddenly--perhaps the shutting of the great
door, or the guests' carriages driving away had wakened me--all was
quite dark and silent. I shut my eyes, and tried to go to sleep again.
But it was no use. I was quite awake, and unconsciously I opened my
eyes. What was that? I have said it was quite dark, but up there, high
up, there was a light that I had not seen till I turned my head. And
there in the light--or did the light come from it?--was a round,
staring, white face grinning down at me. I saw its eyes, its mouth, all
its features--it seemed to me the goblin face by which a wicked man in
one of old Effie's stories had been haunted. I stared at it like a bird
at a serpent, though my heart had stopped from terror--then gradually I
saw that it was moving, and that roused me. With a fearful shriek I
dashed out of bed, getting by some instinct to the door, and knew
nothing more till an hour or two later I opened my eyes to find myself
in mamma's arms, for she was just coming into her room to go to bed when
I fell into them!
It was all explained to me. There was a tiny window on to the stairs
high up in that corner of the room, through which the light of mamma's
candle had shone on to the old Delft vase, and even made it seem to
move, as she stepped upwards. I was sensible enough for my age to
understand and to believe it, but all the same I was ill for a long,
long time. And the cloud over my childhood never entirely faded till
childhood was left behind. Still good comes with ill. I might never,
during the few years she was left with us, have learnt to know my
darling mother as I did--her wonderful tenderness and
"understandingness"--had it not been for my vision of the "Goblin Face."
The old vase now stands near my bedside, where night and morning I can
see it and recall the memories connected with it, and there, I hope, it
will stand till I die.
[Illustration]
THE LOST BROOCH.
[Illustration]
"What is the matter, Linda? What are you looking for? It does so fidget
me, dear, when I am sitting quietly reading, for you to keep moving
about and pulling all the chairs and tables out of their places!" said
Grandmamma, kindly of course--she always spoke kindly, but with a little
vexation in her tone.
"It's my scissors, Grandmamma--my little beautiful new best scissors
with the gilt ends," said Linda plaintively, "I _know_ I left them with
my work last night, and when I unfolded it they were gone. Some one
_must_ have taken them--I don't like that new housemaid, Grandmamma. I
think she is pokey. I found her fiddling so among the books on the
schoolroom table this morning."
"Trying to put them neat, I suppose--not very easy, judging by the state
they were left in last night," said Grandmamma. "Linda, my dear, you
must not let yourself grow suspicious. I am sure the girl is perfectly
honest. I know all about her."
"But where can my scissors be, then?" said Linda. "They're not
alive--they can't walk away by themselves."
"Sit down beside me for a few minutes and get cooler about it," said
Grandmamma. "Something may come to your mind in a while to throw light
on the disappearance. But never suspect others of anything so dreadful
as even small thefts unless you are _forced_ to do so. I will tell you a
little story which has often served as a warning to me in such a case."
"Oh, yes, do please, Grandmamma," said Linda, the clouds clearing off
her face in a wonderful way.
"Years and years ago when I was young, only lately married," began
Grandmamma, "a curious thing happened to me. We were living in the
country--it was lovely summer weather, and numbers of our friends used
to drive over to see us and spend the day. My house was pretty, and I
was very proud of it; I had lots of pretty things of all kinds--my
wedding presents in fact--with which to adorn both it and myself, and
sometimes your Grandpapa used to laugh at me, and call me a little
peacock. One of my prettiest ornaments was a small diamond
brooch--shaped like a star. It was really meant to wear in the evening,
but I was so fond of it, that I sometimes wore it in the daytime. One
morning I got a letter to say that an old school-friend of mine was
staying in the neighbourhood, and that she and her husband were coming
over to spend the day with us. I was very pleased to hear it, and so was
your Grandpapa, as he too knew these friends of mine.
[Illustration]
"I hurried over my breakfast, and ran away to give orders to have
everything very nice for them, and I think the old cook, who knew a
great deal more about luncheons and dinners than I did, was rather
amused at all my charges.
"'It shall all be as nice as can be, Miss Lucy,' she said. She was
always forgetting I was married, and calling me 'Miss Lucy'--'You shall
see--it shall all be just as nice as it used to be at your dear Mamma's.
I'm only sorry that Maria should be away to-day, she has so much taste
in arranging the fruit and flowers for the table.'
"'I'll do them myself,' I said, 'and Sophy shall help me. She seems a
nice handy girl, I think.'
"'Yes, ma'am,' said cook, 'I dare say she is. But of course it's
difficult to judge of a complete stranger. She's a little bit forward
for my liking--so very fond of laughing.'
"'But she's so young,' I said, 'and she's never left home before. I
think Maria's rather too strict.'
"Maria, I must tell you, was my maid, and Sophy was a young girl whom I
had chosen out of the village school to be under Maria. I called Sophy
to help me, and very proud she was to do so. We made the table look so
pretty, that even the butler condescended to admire it, and then I began
to think of adorning myself.
[Illustration]
"'You may come and help me to dress,' I said to Sophy graciously which
pleased her even more than dressing the table. I chose a white dress
and blue ribbons, for it was very hot; and when I was all ready, I
really did think I looked very nice, and I saw by Sophy's eyes that she
thought so too.
"'Oh, ma'am,' she said, 'you would just be perfect if you'd put on your
little brooch that sparkles so.'
"'My little diamond brooch,' I said doubtfully. 'It is rather too showy
for the morning.'
"But I took it out of its case and tried it, and it did look so pretty
that I was tempted to wear it, and Sophy looked very pleased.
"Our friends came and we had a most pleasant day. They were delighted
with everything--house and garden were certainly looking their best in
the lovely summer brightness. We spent most of the afternoon
out-of-doors, where I showed them everything, even down to the kitchen
garden with its tempting strawberry beds and rows of vegetables of every
kind. And when they said good-bye, my old school-fellow whispered as she
kissed me, that she thought I was a most fortunate girl. For she saw how
kind and good your dear Grandpapa was. After they had left, he proposed
that we should go a ride, as it was getting cooler. I ran up stairs and
changed my dress for my riding habit, calling to Sophy to put everything
tidy in my room. We came in just in time to dress for dinner, and the
bell sounded before I was quite ready.
"'My brooch, Sophy,' I said, 'you put away my things.'
"Sophy looked about, but no brooch was to be seen.
"'It must be there,' I said, 'find it while I am at dinner.'
"But when I ran up after dinner, Sophy met me with a very red face and
eyes that looked ready to cry, and told me it was nowhere to be found!
"I cannot tell you how we hunted. When Maria came home the next day she
was dreadfully vexed, and inclined to blame me for having let Sophy be
so much in my room.
"'You don't think she has taken my brooch,' I said. But Maria would not
answer decidedly. She only murmured something about not trusting
strangers! Weeks went on--I tried not to think about my brooch any more,
but it had made a talk in the house, and Sophy felt it painfully, and
when at last she said she would rather go home, I could not but feel it
might be better. The very day before she was to leave I was startled by
a message from cook asking me to go to see something in the kitchen. It
was afternoon--an unusual time for her to want to see me, but I went at
once.
"There stood cook, her kind old face beaming with pleasure.
[Illustration]
"'Just see here, Miss Lucy,' she said. On the dresser lay a cauliflower
she was on the point of preparing for cooking. She pulled aside the big
green leaves at the top, and there, nestling on the creamy-looking
surface underneath, lay my diamond brooch! It had dropt from the front
of my dress, no doubt, that day in the garden, and the baby
cauliflower's leaves had grown over it!
"You can fancy my joy, Linda, and still more the joy of poor Sophy.
Instead of leaving, she lived with me more than twenty years. But what's
the matter now, Linda? Are you not listening?"
"Oh, dear, yes, Grandmamma, and I do so like the story. But I just saw
something shining on the frill of my dress, and see here!" And Linda
held out her scissors, which had caught in a flounce.
[Illustration]
ONLY A BUNCH OF VIOLETS.
This is not a story that I am going to tell you. It is just a little
thing that happened one day when I was out walking, and which I have
never forgotten.
It did not happen in London, but in Paris, where I was then living. Some
of you may have been there, and if so you know better than I can tell
you what a very pretty, bright and charming place it is. That is to say,
the best parts of the town are pretty and bright-looking, especially in
sunny summer weather. But there are poor parts of Paris too, though you
are not likely to have seen them, and alas, there are many very poor
people also!
I was walking that day in the long road, or avenue rather, which is
called the Champs Elysees. It is very wide indeed, and bordered on both
sides by beautiful trees, among which in the summer are to be seen
quantities of well-dressed people walking about or seated, and enjoying
the lively scene around them. Children by the score are there
too--richly dressed and playing at all sorts of games, attended by their
governesses or nurses, and all this, joined to the constantly passing
brilliant carriages, makes eyes unaccustomed to the sparkle and glare
soon get weary. Even I, used to Paris and its ways as I was, felt tired
of the whirl and rush, and I thought to myself I would turn out of the
wide thoroughfare and make my way home by some quieter side street.
[Illustration]
I was standing at the edge of the pavement with this intention, waiting
till there should come a safe moment to cross, when I caught sight of a
little group not far from me, and I could not help watching what was
going on, with interest. A flower-cart was drawn up at the side of the
road. Though it was scarcely yet full summer, there was a good display
of flowers, and many of those passing stopped to buy. Among these were
an old gentleman and a little boy. One could see without being told that
they were grandfather and grandson. The child said a word or two to the
gentleman, who let go his hand and walked on slowly. The little boy
waited patiently for a minute or two, till those before him round the
cart had been served, and then he came forward and made some inquiry of
the flower-woman. I could not hear what he said, but he was no doubt
asking what he could have for his money, for once or twice a shade of
disappointment crossed his bright face, and he looked doubtfully at
something he held in his hand, which I afterwards saw must have been his
few coins. I felt so sorry for him that if I had not been afraid of
giving offence, I would have offered him the little sum he was evidently
short of, but after half starting forward to do so, I drew back again.
The boy, though simply, almost poorly clad, had too much the air of a
gentleman, and so had the old grandfather, whose stooping figure I still
perceived slowly walking on in front. At last the boy, after peering all
over the flower-cart, caught sight of a little nest of
violets--sweet-scented violets--in one corner, which had been almost
hidden by the larger and more brilliant plants. His face lighted up
joyfully, as he pointed them out to the flower-woman, and she, in turn,
smiled and nodded pleasantly. Poor thing--she could not afford to lower
her prices, but the working classes in France have great sympathy with
small means and the economy they oblige, and I could see that she was
glad for her little customer not to be altogether disappointed of his
purchase.
[Illustration]
She chose carefully the prettiest and freshest of the violet bunches,
wrapped an extra leaf or two round the stalks to keep them cool, and
handing the little bouquet to the boy, smilingly received from him the
coppers till now tightly clasped in his hand.
And with all the brightness back in his face again, the little fellow
bounded forward to rejoin his grandfather, as light-hearted and
light-footed as a young chamois.
I crossed the road and walked on. The little incident had interested and
pleased me. I could not help wondering for whom the flowers were
intended--a sick mother or grandmother perhaps. The child was not
improbably an orphan, seeing that he was in the care of a grandparent.
And I went on picturing to myself the simple thrifty home to which the
pair were by this time wending their way, little thinking that I should
ever see either of them again.
[Illustration]