Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (49 page)

"It dazzles!"
said Bruno, shading his eyes with one little hand, while the other clung tightly to Sylvie's hand, as if he were half-alarmed at her strange manner.

For the child moved on as if walking in her sleep, her large eyes gazing into the far distance, and her breath coming and going in quick pantings of eager delight.
I knew, by some mysterious mental light, that a great change was taking place in my sweet little friend (for such I loved to think her) and that she was passing from the condition of a mere Outland Sprite into the true Fairy-nature.

Upon Bruno the change came later: but it was completed in both before they reached the golden gate, through which I knew it would be impossible for me to follow.
I could but stand outside, and take a last look at the two sweet children, ere they disappeared within, and the golden gate closed with a bang.

And with such a bang!
"It never will shut like any other cupboard-door," Arthur explained.
"There's something wrong with the hinge.
However, here's the cake and wine.
And you've had your forty winks.
So you really must get off to bed, old man!
You're fit for nothing else.
Witness my hand, Arthur Forester, M.D."

By this time I was wide-awake again.
"Not quite yet!"
I pleaded.
"Really I'm not sleepy now.
And it isn't midnight yet."

"Well, I did want to say another word to you," Arthur replied in a relenting tone, as he supplied me with the supper he had prescribed.
"Only I thought you were too sleepy for it to-night."

We took our midnight meal almost in silence; for an unusual nervousness seemed to have seized on my old friend.

"What kind of a night is it?"
he asked, rising and undrawing the window-curtains, apparently to change the subject for a minute.
I followed him to the window, and we stood together, looking out, in silence.

"When I first spoke to you about—" Arthur began, after a long and embarrassing silence, "that is, when we first talked about her—for I think it was you that introduced the subject—my own position in life forbade me to do more than worship her from a distance: and I was turning over plans for leaving this place finally, and settling somewhere out of all chance of meeting her again.
That seemed to be my only chance of usefulness in life.

Would that have been wise?"
I said.
"To leave yourself no hope at all?"

"There was no hope to leave," Arthur firmly replied, though his eyes glittered with tears as he gazed upwards into the midnight sky, from which one solitary star, the glorious 'Vega,' blazed out in fitful splendour through the driving clouds.
"She was like that star to me— bright, beautiful, and pure, but out of reach, out of reach!"

He drew the curtains again, and we returned to our places by the fireside.

"What I wanted to tell you was this," he resumed.
"I heard this evening from my solicitor.
I can't go into the details of the business, but the upshot is that my worldly wealth is much more than I thought, and I am (or shall soon be) in a position to offer marriage, without imprudence, to any lady, even if she brought nothing.
I doubt if there would be anything on her side: the Earl is poor, I believe.
But I should have enough for both, even if health failed."

"I wish you all happiness in your married life!"
I cried.
"Shall you speak to the Earl to-morrow?"

"Not yet awhile," said Arthur.
"He is very friendly, but I dare not think he means more than that, as yet.
And as for—as for Lady Muriel, try as I may, I cannot read her feelings towards me.
If there is love, she is hiding it!
No, I must wait, I must wait!"

I did not like to press any further advice on my friend, whose judgment, I felt, was so much more sober and thoughtful than my own; and we parted without more words on the subject that had now absorbed his thoughts, nay, his very life.

The next morning a letter from my solicitor arrived, summoning me to town on important business.

CHAPTER 14.

FAIRY-SYLVlE.

For a full month the business, for which I had returned to London, detained me there: and even then it was only the urgent advice of my physician that induced me to leave it unfinished and pay another visit to Elveston.

Arthur had written once or twice during the month; but in none of his letters was there any mention of Lady Muriel.
Still, I did not augur ill from his silence: to me it looked like the natural action of a lover, who, even while his heart was singing "She is mine!", would fear to paint his happiness in the cold phrases of a written letter, but would wait to tell it by word of mouth.
"Yes," I thought, "I am to hear his song of triumph from his own lips!"

The night I arrived we had much to say on other matters: and, tired with the journey, I went to bed early, leaving the happy secret still untold.
Next day, however, as we chatted on over the remains of luncheon, I ventured to put the momentous question.
"Well, old friend, you have told me nothing of Lady Muriel—nor when the happy day is to be?"

"The happy day," Arthur said, looking unexpectedly grave, "is yet in the dim future.
We need to know—or, rather, she needs to know me better.
I know her sweet nature, thoroughly, by this time.
But I dare not speak till I am sure that my love is returned."

"Don't wait too long!"
I said gaily.
"Faint heart never won fair lady!"

"It is 'faint heart,' perhaps.
But really I dare not speak just yet."

"But meanwhile," I pleaded, "you are running a risk that perhaps you have not thought of.
Some other man—"

"No," said Arthur firmly.
"She is heart-whole: I am sure of that.
Yet, if she loves another better than me, so be it!
I will not spoil her happiness.
The secret shall die with me.
But she is my first— and my only love!"

"That is all very beautiful sentiment," I said, "but it is not practical.
It is not like you.

    He either fears his fate too much,
    Or his desert is small,
    Who dares not put it to the touch,
    To win or lose it all."

"I dare not ask the question whether there is another!"
he said passionately.
"It would break my heart to know it!"

"Yet is it wise to leave it unasked?
You must not waste your life upon an 'if'!"

"I tell you I dare not!', "May I find it out for you?"
I asked, with the freedom of an old friend.

"No, no!"
he replied with a pained look.
"I entreat you to say nothing.
Let it wait."

"As you please," I said: and judged it best to say no more just then.
"But this evening," I thought, "I will call on the Earl.
I may be able to see how the land lies, without so much as saying a word!"

It was a very hot afternoon—too hot to go for a walk or do anything— or else it wouldn't have happened, I believe.

In the first place, I want to know—dear Child who reads this!—why Fairies should always be teaching us to do our duty, and lecturing us when we go wrong, and we should never teach them anything?
You can't mean to say that Fairies are never greedy, or selfish, or cross, or deceitful, because that would be nonsense, you know.
Well then, don't you think they might be all the better for a little lecturing and punishing now and then?

I really don't see why it shouldn't be tried, and I'm almost sure that, if you could only catch a Fairy, and put it in the corner, and give it nothing but bread and water for a day or two, you'd find it quite an improved character—it would take down its conceit a little, at all events.

The next question is, what is the best time for seeing Fairies?
I believe I can tell you all about that.

The first rule is, that it must be a very hot day—that we may consider as settled: and you must be just a little sleepy—but not too sleepy to keep your eyes open, mind.
Well, and you ought to feel a little—what one may call "fairyish "—the Scotch call it "eerie," and perhaps that's a prettier word; if you don't know what it means, I'm afraid I can hardly explain it; you must wait till you meet a Fairy, and then you'll know.

And the last rule is, that the crickets should not be chirping.
I can't stop to explain that: you must take it on trust for the present.

So, if all these things happen together, you have a good chance of seeing a Fairy—or at least a much better chance than if they didn't.

The first thing I noticed, as I went lazily along through an open place in the wood, was a large Beetle lying struggling on its back, and I went down upon one knee to help the poor thing to its feet again.
In some things, you know, you ca'n't be quite sure what an insect would like: for instance, I never could quite settle, supposing I were a moth, whether I would rather be kept out of the candle, or be allowed to fly straight in and get burnt—or again, supposing I were a spider, I'm not sure if I should be quite pleased to have my web torn down, and the fly let loose—but I feel quite certain that, if I were a beetle and had rolled over on my back, I should always be glad to be helped up again.

So, as I was saying, I had gone down upon one knee, and was just reaching out a little stick to turn the Beetle over, when I saw a sight that made me draw back hastily and hold my breath, for fear of making any noise and frightening the little creature a way.

Not that she looked as if she would be easily frightened: she seemed so good and gentle that I'm sure she would never expect that any one could wish to hurt her.
She was only a few inches high, and was dressed in green, so that you really would hardly have noticed her among the long grass; and she was so delicate and graceful that she quite seemed to belong to the place, almost as if she were one of the flowers.
I may tell you, besides, that she had no wings (I don't believe in Fairies with wings), and that she had quantities of long brown hair and large earnest brown eyes, and then I shall have done all I can to give you an idea of her.

Sylvie (I found out her name afterwards) had knelt down, just as I was doing, to help the Beetle; but it needed more than a little stick for her to get it on its legs again; it was as much as she could do, with both arms, to roll the heavy thing over; and all the while she was talking to it, half scolding and half comforting, as a nurse might do with a child that had fallen down.

"There, there!
You needn't cry so much about it.
You're not killed yet—though if you were, you couldn't cry, you know, and so it's a general rule against crying, my dear!
And how did you come to tumble over?
But I can see well enough how it was—I needn't ask you that— walking over sand-pits with your chin in the air, as usual.
Of course if you go among sand-pits like that, you must expect to tumble.
You should look."

The Beetle murmured something that sounded like "I did look," and Sylvie went on again.

"But I know you didn't!
You never do!
You always walk with your chin up—you're so dreadfully conceited.
Well, let's see how many legs are broken this time.
Why, none of them, I declare!
And what's the good of having six legs, my dear, if you can only kick them all about in the air when you tumble?
Legs are meant to walk with, you know.
Now don't begin putting out your wings yet; I've more to say.
Go to the frog that lives behind that buttercup—give him my compliments—Sylvie's compliments—can you say compliments'?"

The Beetle tried and, I suppose, succeeded.

"Yes, that's right.
And tell him he's to give you some of that salve I left with him yesterday.
And you'd better get him to rub it in for you.
He's got rather cold hands, but you mustn't mind that."

I think the Beetle must have shuddered at this idea, for Sylvie went on in a graver tone.
"Now you needn't pretend to be so particular as all that, as if you were too grand to be rubbed by a frog.
The fact is, you ought to be very much obliged to him.
Suppose you could get nobody but a toad to do it, how would you like that?"

There was a little pause, and then Sylvie added "Now you may go.
Be a good beetle, and don't keep your chin in the air."
And then began one of those performances of humming, and whizzing, and restless banging about, such as a beetle indulges in when it has decided on flying, but hasn't quite made up its mind which way to go.
At last, in one of its awkward zigzags, it managed to fly right into my face, and, by the time I had recovered from the shock, the little Fairy was gone.

I looked about in all directions for the little creature, but there was no trace of her—and my 'eerie' feeling was quite gone off, and the crickets were chirping again merrily—so I knew she was really gone.

And now I've got time to tell you the rule about the crickets.
They always leave off chirping when a Fairy goes by—because a Fairy's a kind of queen over them, I suppose—at all events it's a much grander thing than a cricket—so whenever you're walking out, and the crickets suddenly leave off chirping, you may be sure that they see a Fairy.

I walked on sadly enough, you may be sure.
However, I comforted myself with thinking "It's been a very wonderful afternoon, so far.
I'll just go quietly on and look about me, and I shouldn't wonder if I were to come across another Fairy somewhere."

Peering about in this way, I happened to notice a plant with rounded leaves, and with queer little holes cut in the middle of several of them.
"Ah, the leafcutter bee!"
I carelessly remarked—you know I am very learned in Natural History (for instance, I can always tell kittens from chickens at one glance)—and I was passing on, when a sudden thought made me stoop down and examine the leaves.

Then a little thrill of delight ran through me —for I noticed that the holes were all arranged so as to form letters; there were three leaves side by side, with "B," "R," and "U" marked on them, and after some search I found two more, which contained an "N" and an "O."

And then, all in a moment, a flash of inner light seemed to illumine a part of my life that had all but faded into oblivion—the strange visions I had experienced during my journey to Elveston: and with a thrill of delight I thought "Those visions are destined to be linked with my waking life!"

By this time the 'eerie' feeling had come back again, and I suddenly observed that no crickets were chirping; so I felt quite sure that "Bruno was somewhere very near.

And so indeed he was—so near that I had very nearly walked over him without seeing him; which would have been dreadful, always supposing that Fairies can be walked over my own belief is that they are something of the nature of Will-o'-the-wisps: and there's no walking over them.

Think of any pretty little boy you know, with rosy cheeks, large dark eyes, and tangled brown hair, and then fancy him made small enough to go comfortably into a coffee-cup, and you'll have a very fair idea of him.

"What's your name, little one?"
I began, in as soft a voice as I could manage.
And, by the way, why is it we always begin by asking little children their names?
Is it because we fancy a name will help to make them a little bigger?
You never thought of as king a real large man his name, now, did you?
But, however that may be, I felt it quite necessary to know his name; so, as he didn't answer my question, I asked it again a little louder.
"What's your name, my little man?"

"What's oors?"
he said, without looking up.

I told him my name quite gently, for he was much too small to be angry with.

"Duke of Anything?"
he asked, just looking at me for a moment, and then going on with his work.

"Not Duke at all," I said, a little ashamed of having to confess it.

"Oo're big enough to be two Dukes," said the little creature.
"I suppose oo're Sir Something, then?"