"Most of them haven't any homes, and the others couldn't live in theirs a month. You don't know how terrible they are—five families in one garret, nothing to eat some of the time, father drunk most of the time, and filth and foul air all of the time. That's the kind of homes they have—if they have any."
Her outburst was met with a complete silence, ignoring and humiliating.
After a moment the Senior Surgeon went on, as if no one had spoken.
"Am I not right in supposing that you wish to further, as far as it lies within your power, the physical welfare and betterment of the poor in this city? That you wish to do the greatest possible good to the greatest number of children? Ah! I thought so. Well, do you not see how continuing to keep a number of incurable cases for two or three years—or as long as they live—is hindering this? You are keeping out so many more curable cases. For every case in that ward now we could handle ten or fifteen surgical cases each year. Is that not worth considering?"
The trustees nodded approval to one another; it was as if they would say, "The Senior Surgeon is always right."
The surgeon himself looked at his watch; he had three minutes left to clinch their convictions. Clearly and admirably he outlined his present scope of work; then, stepping into the future, he showed into what it might easily grow, had it the room and beds. He showed indisputably what experimental surgery had done for science—what a fertile field it was; and wherein lay Saint Margaret's chance to plow a furrow more and reap its harvest. At the end he intimated that he had outgrown his present limited conditions there, that unless these were changed he should have to betake himself and his operative skill elsewhere.
A painfully embarrassing hush closed in on the meeting as the Senior Surgeon resumed his seat. It was broken by an enthusiastic chirp from the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee. She had never attempted to keep her interest for him concealed in the bud, causing much perturbation to the House Surgeon, and leading the Disagreeable Trustee to remark, frequently:
"Good Lord! She'll throw herself at his head until he loses consciousness, and then she'll marry him."
"I think," said she, beaming in the direction of the Senior Surgeon, "that it would be perfectly wonderful to be the means of discovering some great new thing in surgery. And as our own great surgeon has just said, it is really ridiculous to let a few perfectly incurable cases stand in the way of science."
The House Surgeon looked from the beaming profile to the tense, drawn outline of mouth and chin belonging to the nurse in charge of Ward C, and he found himself wondering if art had ever pictured a crucified Madonna, and, if so, why it had not taken Margaret MacLean as a model. That moment the President called his name.
[Illustration: The House Surgeon looked from the beaming profile to the tense, drawn outline of mouth and chin belonging to the nurse in charge of Ward C.]
The House Surgeon was still young and unspoiled enough to blush whenever he was consulted. Moreover, he hated to speak in public, knowing, as he did, that he lacked the cultured manner and the polished speech of the Senior Surgeon. He always crawled out of it whenever he could, putting some one else more ready of tongue in his place. He was preparing to crawl this time when another look at the white profile in front of him brought him to his feet.
"See here," he burst out, bluntly, "we all know the chief is as clever as any surgeon in the country, and that he can do anything in the world he sets out to do, even to turning Saint Margaret's into a surgical laboratory. But you ought to stop him—you've got to stop him—that is your business as trustees of this institution. We don't need any more surgical laboratories just yet—they are getting along fast enough at Rockefeller, Johns Hopkins, and the Mayo clinic. What we scientific chaps need to remember—and it ought to be hammered at us three times a day, and then some—is that humanity was never put into the world for the sole purpose of benefiting science. We are apt to forget this and get to thinking that a few human beings more or less don't count in the face of establishing one scientific fact."
He paused just long enough to snatch a breath, and then went racing madly on. "Institutions are apt to forget that they are taking care of the souls and minds of human beings as well as their bodies. It seems to me that the man who founded this hospital intended it for humane rather than scientific purposes. His wishes ought to be considered now; and I wager he would say, if he were here, to let science go hang and keep the incurables."
The House Surgeon sat down, breathing heavily and mopping his forehead. It was the longest speech he had ever made, and he was painfully conscious of its inadequacy. The Senior Surgeon excused himself and left the room, not, however, until he had given the House Surgeon a look pregnant with meaning; Saint Margaret's would hardly be large enough to hold them both after the 30th of April.
The trustees moved restlessly in their chairs. The unexpected had happened; there was an internal rupture at Saint Margaret's; and for forty years the trustees had boasted of its harmonious behavior and kindly feelings. In a like manner do those dwellers in the shadow of a volcano continue to boast of their safety and the harmlessness of the crater up to the very hour of its eruption. And all the while the gray wisp of a woman by the door sat silent, her hands still folded on her lap.
At last the President rose; he coughed twice before speaking. "I think we will call upon the hospital committee now for their reports. Afterward we will take up the question of the incurable ward among the trustees—hmm—alone."
Every one sat quietly, almost listlessly, during the reading until Margaret MacLean rose, the report for Ward C in her hand. Then there came a raising of heads and a stiffening of backs and a setting of chins. She was very calm, the still calm of the China Sea before a typhoon strikes it; when she had finished reading she put the report on the chair back of her and faced the President with clasped hands and—a smile.
"It's funny," she said, irrelevantly, "for the first time in my life I am not afraid here."
And the House Surgeon muttered, under his breath: "Great guns! That mind-string has snapped."
"There is more to the report than I had the courage to write down when I was making it out; but I can give it very easily now, if you will not mind listening a little longer. You have always thought that I came back to Saint Margaret's because I felt grateful for what you had done for me—for the food and the clothes and the care, and later for the education that you paid for. This isn't true. I am grateful—very grateful—but it is a dutiful kind of gratitude which wouldn't have brought me back in a thousand years. I am so sorry to feel this way. Perhaps I would not if, in all the years that I was here as a child, one of you had shown me a single personal kindness, or some one had thought to send me a letter or a message while I was away at school. No, you took care of me because you thought it was your duty, and I am grateful for the same reason; but it was quite another thing which brought me back to Saint Margaret's."
The smile had gone; she was very sober now. And the House Surgeon, still watching the two profiles, suddenly felt his heart settle down to a single steady beat. He wanted to get up that very instant and tell the nurse in charge of Ward C what had happened and what he thought of her; but instead he dug his hands deep in his pockets. How in the name of the seven continents had he never before realized that she was the sweetest, finest, most adorable, and onliest girl in the world, and worth a whole board-room full of youngest and prettiest trustees?
"I came back," went on Margaret MacLean, slowly, "really because of the Old Senior Surgeon, to stand, as he stood in the days long ago, between you and the incurable ward; to shut out—if I could—the little, thoughtless, hurting things that you are always saying without being in the least bit conscious of them, and to keep the children from wanting too much the friendship and loving interest that, somehow, they expected from you. I wanted to try and make them feel that they were not case this and case that, abnormally diseased and therefore objects of pity and curiosity to be pointed out to sympathetic visitors, but children—just children—with a right to be happy and loved. I wanted to fill their minds so full of fun and make-believe that they would have to forget about their poor little bodies. I tried to make you feel this and help without putting it—cruelly—into words; but you would never understand. You have never let them forget for a moment that they are 'incurables,' any more than you have let me forget that I am a—foundling."
She stopped a moment for breath, and the smile came back—a wistfully pleading smile. "I am afraid that last was not in the report. What I want to say is—please keep the incurable ward; take the time to really know them—and love them a little. If you only could you would never consider sending them away for a moment. And if, in addition to the splendid care you have given their bodies, you would only help to keep their minds and hearts sound and sweet, and shield them against curious visitors, why—why—some of them might turn out to be 'a case in a thousand.' Don't you see—can't you see—that they have as much right to their scraps of life and happiness—as your children have to their complete lives, and that there is no place for them anywhere if Saint Margaret's closes her doors?"
With an overwhelming suddenness she became conscious of the attitude of the trustees. She, who was nothing but a foundling and a charity patient herself, had dared to pass judgment on them; it was inconceivable—it was impertinent—it was beyond all precedent. Only the gray wisp of a woman sat silent, seeming to express nothing. Margaret MacLean's cheeks flamed; she shrank into herself, her whole being acutely alive to their thoughts. The scared little-girl look came into her face.
"Perhaps—perhaps," she stammered, pitifully, "after what I have said you would rather I did not stay on—in charge of Ward C?"
The Dominating Trustee rose abruptly. "Mr. President, I suggest that we act upon Miss MacLean's resignation at once."
"I second the motion," came in a quick bark from the Meanest Trustee, while the Oldest Trustee could be heard quoting, "Sharper than a serpent's tooth—"
The Executive Trustee rose, looking past Margaret MacLean as he spoke. "In view of the fact that we shall possibly discontinue the incurable ward, and that Miss MacLean seems wholly unsatisfied with our methods and supervision here, I motion that her resignation be accepted now, and that she shall be free to leave Saint Margaret's when her month shall have expired,"
"I second the motion," came from the Social Trustee, while she added to the Calculating, who happened to be sitting next: "So ill-bred. It just shows that a person can never be educated above her station in life."
The President rose. "The motion has been made and seconded. Will you please signify by raising your hands if it is your wish that Miss MacLean's resignation be accepted at once?"
Hand after hand went up. Only the little gray wisp of a woman in the chair by the door sat with her hands still folded on her lap.
"It is, so to speak, a unanimous vote." There was a strong hint of approval in the President's voice. He was a good man; but he belonged to that sect which holds as one of the main articles of its faith, "I believe in the infallibility of the rich."
"Can any one tell me when Miss MacLean's time expires?"
The person under discussion answered for herself. "On the last day of the month, Mr. President."
"Oh, very well." He was extremely polite in his manner. "We thank you for your very full and—hmm—comprehensive report. After to-night you are excused from your duties at Saint Margaret's."
The President bowed her courteously out of the board-room, while the primroses in the green Devonshire bowl on his desk still nodded guilelessly.
V
ODDS AND ENDS
Margaret MacLean walked the length of the first corridor; once out of sight and hearing, she tore up the stairs, her cheeks crimson and her eyes suspiciously moist. Before she had reached the second flight the House Surgeon overtook her.
"I wish," he panted behind her, trying his best to look the big-brother way of old—"I wish you'd wait a moment. This habit of yours of always walking up is a beastly one."
"Don't worry about it." There was a sharp, metallic ring in her voice that made it unnatural. "That's one habit that will soon be broken."
The House Surgeon smiled rather helplessly; inside he was making one of the few prayers of his life—a prayer to keep Margaret MacLean free of bitterness. "There is something I want to say to you," he began.
She broke in feverishly: "No, there isn't! And I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear you're sorry. I don't want to hear they'll be taken care of—somewhere—somehow. I think I should scream if you told me it was bound to happen—or will all turn out for the best."
"I had no intention of saying any of those things—in fact, they hadn't even entered my mind. What I was going to—"
"Oh, I know. You were going to remind me of what you said this morning. Almost prophetic, wasn't it?" And there was a strong touch of irony in her laugh. She turned on him crushingly. "Perhaps you knew it all along. Perhaps it was your way of letting me down gently."
"See here," said the House Surgeon, bluntly, "that's the second disagreeable thing you've said to-day. I don't think it's quite square. Do you?"
"No!" Her lips quivered; her hands reached out toward his impulsively. "I don't know why I keep saying things I know are not true. I'm perfectly—unforgivably horrid."
As impulsively he took both hands, turned them palm uppermost, and kissed them.
[Illustration: Impulsively he took both hands, turned them palm uppermost, and kissed them.]
She snatched them away; the crimson in her cheeks deepened. "Don't, please. Your pity only makes it harder. Oh, I don't know what has happened—here—" And she struck her breast fiercely. "If—if they send the children away I shall never believe in anything again; the part of me that has believed and trusted and been glad will stop—it will break all to pieces." With a hard, dry sob she left him, running up the remaining stairs to Ward C. She did not see his arms reach hungrily after her or the great longing in his face.
The House Surgeon turned and went downstairs again.
In the lower corridor he ran across the President, who was looking for him. With much courtesy and circumlocution he was told the thing he had been waiting to hear: the board, likewise, had discovered that Saint Margaret's had suddenly grown too small to hold both the Senior Surgeon and himself. Strangely enough, this troubled him little; there are times in a man's life when even the most momentous of happenings shrink into nothing beside the simple process of telling the girl he loves that he loves her.
The President was somewhat startled by the House Surgeon's commonplace acceptance of the board's decision; and he returned to the board-room distinctly puzzled.
Meanwhile Margaret MacLean, having waited outside of Ward C for her cheeks to cool and her eyes to dry, opened the door and went in.
Ward C had been fed by the assistant nurse and put to bed; that is, all who could limp or wheel themselves about the room were back in their cribs, and the others were no longer braced or bolstered up. As she had expected, gloom canopied every crib and cot; beneath, eight small figures, covered to their noses, shook with held-back sobs or wailed softly. According to the custom that had unwittingly established itself, Ward C was crying itself to sleep. Not that it knew what it was crying about, it being merely a matter of atmosphere and unstrung nerves; but that is cause enough to turn the mind of a sick child all awry, twisting out happiness and twisting in peevish, fretful feelings.
She stood by the door, unnoticed, looking down the ward. Pancho lay wound up in his blanket like a giant chrysalis, rolling in silent misery. Sandy was stretched as straight and stiff as if he had been "laid out"; his eyes were closed, and there was a stolid, expressionless set to his features. Margaret MacLean knew that it betokened much internal disturbance. Susan, ex-philosopher, was sobbing aloud, pulling with rebellious fingers at the pieces of iron that kept her head where nature had planned it. The Apostles gripped hands and moaned in unison, while Peter hugged his blanket, seeking thereby some consolation for the dispelled Toby. Toby persistently refused to be conjured up on Trustee Days.
Only Bridget was alert and watchful. One hand was slipped through the bars of Rosita's crib, administering comforting pats to the rhythmic croon of an Irish reel. Every once in a while her eyes would wander to the neighboring cots with the disquiet of an over-troubled mother; the only moments of real unhappiness or worry Bridget ever knew were those which brought sorrow to the ward past her power of mending.
To Margaret MacLean, standing there, it seemed unbearable—as if life had suddenly become too sinister and cruel to strike at souls so little and helpless as these. There were things one could never explain in terms of God. She found herself wondering if that was why the Senior Surgeon worshiped science; and she shivered.
The room had become repellent; it was a sepulchral place entombing all she had lost. In the midst of the dusk and gloom her mind groped about—after its habit—for something cheerful, something that would break the colorless monotone of the room and change the atmosphere. In a flash she remembered the primroses; and the remembrance brought a smile.
"They're nothing but charlatans," she thought, "but the children will never find that out, and they'll be something bright for them to wake up to in the morning."
This was what sent her down the stairs again, just as the board meeting adjourned.
Now the board adjourned with thumbs down—signifying that the incurable ward was no more, as far as the future of Saint Margaret's was concerned. The trustees stirred in their chairs with a comfortable relaxing of joint and muscle, as if to say, "There, that is a piece of business well despatched; nothing like methods of conservation and efficiency, you know." Only the little gray wisp of a woman by the door sat rigid, her hands still folded on her lap.
The Oldest Trustee had just remarked to the Social Trustee that all the things gossip had said of the widow of the Richest Trustee were undoubtedly true—she was a nonentity—when the Senior Surgeon dropped in. This was according to the President's previous request. That gentleman of charitable parts had implied that there would undoubtedly be good news and congratulations awaiting him. This did not mean that the board intended to slight its duty and fail to consider the matter of the incurables with due conscientiousness—the board was as strong for conscience as for conservation. It merely went to show that the fate of Ward C had been preordained from the beginning; and that the President felt wholly justified in requesting the presence of the Senior Surgeon at the end of the meeting.
His appearance called forth such a laudatory buzzing of tongues and such a cordial shaking of hands that one might have easily mistaken the meeting for a successful political rally or a religious revival. The Youngest and Prettiest Trustee fluttered about him, chirping ecstatic expletives, while the Disagreeable Trustee watched her and growled to himself.
"So splendid," she chirped, "the unanimous indorsement of the board—at least, practically unanimous." And she eyed the widow of the Richest Trustee accusingly.
"The incurable ward and Margaret MacLean have really been a terrible responsibility, haven't they? I can't help feeling it will mean quite a load off our minds." It was the Social Trustee who spoke, and she followed it with a little sigh of relief.
The sigh was echoed twice—thrice—about the room. Then the Meanest
Trustee barked out:
"I hope it will mean a load off our purses. That ward and that nurse have always wanted things, and had them, that they had no business wanting. I hope we can save a substantial sum now for the endowment fund."
The Oldest Trustee smiled tolerantly. "Of course it isn't as if the cases were not hopeless. I can see no object, however, in making concessions and sacrifices to keep in the hospital cases that cannot be cured; and, no doubt, we can place them most satisfactorily in state institutions for orphans or deficients."
At that moment the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee spied the primroses on the President's desk—she had been too engrossed in the surgical profession to observe much apart. "I believe I'm going to decorate you." And she dimpled up at the Senior Surgeon, coquettishly. Selecting one of the blossoms with great care, she drew it through the buttonhole in his lapel. "See, I'm decorating you with the Order of the Golden Primrose—for brilliancy." Whereupon she dropped her eyes becomingly.
"Good Lord!" muttered the Disagreeable Trustee to the President, his eye focused on the two. "She'll fetch him this time. And she'll have him so hypnotized with all this chirping and dancing business that he'll be perfectly helpless in a month, or I miss—"
The Youngest and Prettiest Trustee looked up just in time to intercept that eye, and she attacked it with a saucy little stare. "I believe you are both jealous," she flung over her shoulder. But the very next moment she was dimpling again. "I believe I am going to decorate everybody—including myself. I'm sure we all deserve it for our loyal support of Science." She, likewise, always spelled it with a capital, having acquired the habit from the Senior Surgeon.
She snatched a cluster of primroses from the green Devonshire bowl; and one was fastened securely in the lapel or frill of every trustee, not even omitting the gray wisp of a woman by the door.
And so it came to pass that every member of the board of Saint Margaret's Free Hospital for Children went home on May Eve with one of the faeries' own flowers tucked somewhere about his or her person. Moreover, they went home at precisely three minutes and twenty-two seconds past seven by the clock on the tower—the astronomical time for the sun to go down on the 30th of April. Crack went all the combination locks on all the faery raths, spilling the Little People over all the world; and creak went the gates of Tir-na-n'Og, swinging wide open for wandering mortals to come back.
As the trustees left the hospital the Senior Surgeon turned into the cross-corridor for his case, still gay with his Order of the Golden Primrose; and there, at the foot of the stairs, he ran into Margaret MacLean. They faced each other for the merest fraction of a breath, both conscious and embarrassed; then she glimpsed the flower in his coat and a cry of surprise escaped her.
He smiled, almost foolishly. "I thought they—it—looked rather pretty and—spring-like," he began, by way of explanation. His teeth ground together angrily; he sounded absurd, and he knew it. Furthermore, it was inexcusable of her to corner him in this fashion.
Now Margaret MacLean knew well enough that he would never have discovered the prettiness of anything by himself—not in a century of springtimes, and she sensed the truth.
"Did she decorate you?" she inquired, with an irritating little curl of her lips. The Senior Surgeon's self-confessed blush lent speed to her tongue. "I think I might be privileged to ask what it was for. You see, I presented the flowers to the board meeting. Was it for self-sacrifice?" Her eyes challenged his.
"You are capable of talking more nonsense and being more impertinent than any nurse I have ever known. May I pass?" His eyes returned her challenge, blazing.
But she never moved; the mind-string once broken, there seemed to be no limit to the thoughts that could come tumbling off the end of her tongue. Her eyes went back to the flower in his coat.
"Perhaps you would like to know that I bought those this morning because they seemed the very breath of spring itself—a bit of promise and gladness. I thought they would keep the day going right."
"Well, they have—for me." And the Senior Surgeon could not resist a look of triumph.
"The trustees"—she drew in a quick breath and put out a steadying hand on the banisters—"you mean—they have given up the incurable ward?"
He nodded. His voice took on a more genial tone. He felt he could generously afford to be pleasant and patient toward the one who had not succeeded. "It was something that was bound to happen sooner or later. Can't you see that yourself? But I am sorry, very sorry for you."
Suddenly, and for the first time in their long sojourn together in Saint Margaret's, he became wholly conscious of the girl before him. He realized that Margaret MacLean had grown into a vital and vitalizing personality—a force with which those who came in contact would have to reckon. She stood before him now, frozen into a gray, accusing figure.
"Are you ill?" he found himself asking.
"No."
He shifted his weight uneasily to the other foot. "Is there anything you want?"
Her face softened into the little-girl look. Her eyes brimmed with a sadness past remedy. "What a funny question from you—you, who have taken from me the only thing I ever let myself want—the love and dependence of those children. Success, and having whatever you want, are such common things with you, that you must count them very cheap; but you can't judge what they mean to others—or what they may cost them."
"As I said before, I am sorry, very sorry you have lost your position here; but you have no one but yourself to blame for that. I should have been very glad to have you remain in the new surgical ward; you are one of the best operative nurses I ever had." He added this in all justice to her; and to mitigate, if he could, his own feeling of discomfort.
Margaret MacLean smiled grimly. "Thank you. I was not referring to the loss of my position, however; that matters very little."
"It should matter." The voice of the Senior Surgeon became instantly professional. "Every nurse should put her work, satisfactorily and scientifically executed, before everything else. That is where you are radically weak. Let me remind you that it is your sole business to look after the physical betterment of your patients—nothing else; and the sooner you give up all this sentimental, fanciful nonsense the sooner you will succeed."
"You are wrong. I should never succeed that way—never. Some cases may need only the bodily care—maybe; but you are a very poor doctor, after all, if you think that is all that children need—or half the grown-ups. There are more people ailing with mind-sickness and heart-sickness, as well as body-sickness, than the world would guess, and you've just got to nurse the whole of them. You will succeed, whether you ever find this out or not; but you will miss a great deal out of your life."
Anger was rekindling in the eyes of the Senior Surgeon; and Margaret
MacLean, seeing, grew gentle—all in a minute.
"Oh, I wish I could make you understand. You have always been so strong and well and sufficient unto yourself, it's hard, I suppose, to be able to think or see life through the iron slats of a hospital crib. Just make believe you had been a little crippled boy, with nothing belonging to you, nothing back of you to remember, nothing happy coming to you but what the nurses or the doctors or the trustees thought to bring. And then make believe you were cured and grew up. Wouldn't you remember what life had been in that hospital crib, and wouldn't you fight to make it happier for the children coming after you? Why, the incurable ward was my whole life—home, family, friends, work; everything wrapped up in nine little crippled bodies. It was all I asked or expected of life. Oh, I can tell you that a foundling, with questionable ancestry, with no birth-record or blood-inheritance to boast of, claims very little of the every-day happiness that comes to other people. And yet I was so glad to be alive—and strong and needed by those children that I could have been content all my life with just that."
The Senior Surgeon cleared his throat, preparatory to making some comment, but the nurse raised a silencing finger.
"Wait! there is one thing more. What you have taken from me is the smallest part. The children pay double—treble as much. I pay only with my heart and faith; they pay with their whole lives. Remember that when you install your new surgical ward—and don't reckon it too cheap."
She left him still clearing his throat; and when she came out of the board-room a few seconds later with the green Devonshire bowl in her arms he had disappeared.
Margaret MacLean found Ward C as she had left it. As she was putting down the primroses, on the table in the center of the room she caught Bridget's white face beckoning to her eagerly. Softly she went over to her cot.
"What is it, dear?"
"Miss Peggie darlin', if ye'd only give me leave to talk quiet I'd have the childher cheered up in no time."
"Would you promise not to make any noise?"
"Promise on m' heart! I'll have 'em all asleep quicker 'n nothin'. Ye see, just."
"Very well. I'll be back after supper to see if the promise has been kept." She stooped, brushed away the curls, and kissed the little white forehead. "Oh, Bridget! Bridget! no matter what happens, always remember to keep happy!"
"Sure an' I will," agreed Bridget; and she watched the nurse go out, much puzzled.
VI
THE PRIMROSE RING
Bridget, oldest of the ward, general caretaker and best beloved, hunched herself up on her pillows until she was sitting reasonably straight, and clapped her hands. "Whist!" she called, softly. "Whist there, all o' ye! What's ailin'?"
Eight woebegone pairs of eyes turned in her direction.
"Ye needn't be afeared o' speakin'. Miss Peggie give us leave to talk quiet."
"It's them trusters," wailed Peter. "They come a-peekin' round to see we don't get well."
"They alters calls us 'uncurables,'" moaned Susan.
"Pig of water-drinking Americans!" came from the last cot.
"Ye shut up, Michael! Who did ye ever hear say that?"
"Mine fader." And Michael spat in a perfect imitation thereof.
"Well, don't ye ever say it ag'in—do ye hear? Miss Peggie's American, and so's the House Surgeon, an' it's the next best thing to bein' Irish—which every one can't be, the Lord knows. Now them trusters is heathen, an' they don't know nothin' more'n heathen, an' we ought to be easy on 'em for bein' so ignorant."
"They ken us 'll nae mair be gettin' weel," said Sandy, mournfully.
"Aw, ye're talkin' foolish entirely. What do ye think that C on the door means?"
A silence, significant of much brain-racking, followed.
"C stands for children," announced Susan, triumphantly.
"Aye, it does that, but there be's somethin' more."
"Crutches," suggested Pancho, tentatively.
"Aw, go on wid ye," laughed Bridget. "Ye're 'way off." She paused a moment impressively. "C means 'cured.' 'Childher Cured,' that's what! Now all we've got to do is to forget trusters an' humps an' pains an' them disagreeable things, an' think o' somethin' pleasant."
"Ain't nothin' pleasant ter think of in er horspital," wailed John, the present disheartenment clouding over all past happiness.
"Ain't, neither," agreed James.
"Aye, there be," contradicted Sandy. "Dinna ye ken the wee gray woman 'at cam creepity round an' smiled?"
"She was nice," said Susan, with obvious approval. "Do ye think, now, she might ha' been me aunt?"
A chorus of positive negation settled all further speculation, while Bridget bluntly inquired. "Honest to goodness, Susan, do ye think the likes o' ye could belong to the likes o' that?"
Pancho broke the painful silence by reverting to the original topic in hand. "Mi' Peggie pleasant too," he suggested, smiling adorably.
"But we've not got either of 'em no longer, so they're no good now,"
Peter unfortunately reminded every one.
"Don't ye know there be's always somethin' pleasant to think about if ye just hunt round a bit, an' things an' feelin's never get that bad ye can't squeeze out some pleasantment. Don't ye mind the time the trusters had planned to give us all paint-boxes for Christmas, an' half of us not able to hold a brush, let alone paint things, an' Miss Peggie blarneyed them round into givin' us books? Don't ye mind? Now we've got somethin' pleasant here, right now—" And Bridget smiled.
"What?"
"May Eve."
"What's that?"
"'Tain't nothin'," said Susan, sliding back disappointedly on her pillow.
"Sure an' it is," said Bridget; "it's somethin' grand."
"'Tain't nothin'," persisted Susan, "but a May party in Cen'ral Park. Every one takes somethin' ter eat in a box, an' the boys play ball an' the girls dance round, an' the cops let you run on the grass. I knows all about it, fer my sister Katie was 'queen' onct."
"We couldn't play ball, ner run on the grass, ner anything," said
Peter, regretfully.
"'Tisn't what Susan says at all," said Bridget, by way of consolation. "If ye'll harken to me a minute, just, I'll be afther tellin' ye what it is."
Ward C became instantly silent—hopefully expectant; Bridget had led them into pleasant places too often for them not to believe in her implicitly and do what she said.
"May Eve," began Bridget, slowly, "is the night o' the year when the faeries come throopin' out o' the ground to fly about on twigs o' thorn an' dance to the music o' the faery pipers. They're all dthressed in wee green jackets an' caps, an' 'tis grand luck to any that sees them. And all the wishes good childher make on May Eve are sure to come thrue." She stopped a moment. "Let's make believe; let's make believe—" Her eyes fell on the primroses, and for the first time she recognized them. "Holy Saint Bridget! them's faery primroses!"
Ward C was properly impressed. Eight little figures sat up as straight as they could; eight pairs of eager eyes followed Bridget's pointing finger and gazed in speechless wonder at the green Devonshire bowl.
"Do ye think, Sandy, that ye could scrooch out o' bed an' hump yerself over to them? If Pether tries he's sure to tumble over, an' some one might hear."
Sandy looked at the flowers without enthusiasm. "Phat are ye wantin' wi' 'em?"
"I'll tell ye when ye get there. Just thry; ye'll be yondther afore ye know it."
Cautiously Sandy rolled over on his stomach and pushed two shrunken little legs out from the covers. Putting them gingerly to the floor, he stood up, holding fast to the bed; then working his way from bed to bed, he reached the table at last, spurred on by Bridget's irresistible blarney:
"Sure ye're walkin' grand, Sandy. I never saw any one puttin' one leg past another smarther than what ye are. Ye'd fetch up to Aberdeen i' no time if ye kept on at the pace ye are goin'."
Pride lies above pain; and Sandy held his head very high as he steadied himself by the table and looked toward Bridget for further orders.
[Illustration: Sandy held his head very high as he steadied himself by the table and looked toward Bridget for further orders.]
"Phat wull a do the noo?" he asked.
In the excitement Bridget had pulled herself to the foot of the cot; and there, eyes shining and cheeks growing pinker and pinker, she held her breath while the pleasantest thought of all shaped itself somewhere under the shock of red curls.
"Ye could never guess in a hundthred years what I was thinkin' this minute," she burst forth, ecstatically.
Eight mouths opened wide in anticipated wonder; but no one thought of guessing.
"I'm thinkin'—I'm thinkin' we could make a primrose ring the night. Is there any knowledgeable one among ye that knows aught of a primrose ring?"
Eight heads shook an emphatic negative.
"Aye, wasn't I sayin' so! Well, sure, a primrose ring is a faery ring; an' any one that makes it an' steps inside, wishin' a wish, is like to have anythin' at all happen them afore they steps out of it ag'in."
Eight breaths were drawn in and sighed out with the shivering delight that always accompanies that feeling which lies between fear and desire; likewise, eight delicious thrills zigzagged up eight cold little spines. Then Bridget shook a commanding finger at Sandy.
"Ye take them flowers out o' the pot an' dthrop them, one by one, till ye have the ground covered from the head of Pancho's bed to the tail o' Michael's. 'Twon't make the whole of a ring, but if ye crook it out i' the middle to the wall yondther, 'twill be like enough."
With a doubtful eye Sandy spanned the distance. "Na—na. Gien a hustled a wud be a dee'd loonie afore a had 'em spilled."
"Aw, go on!" chorused the watchers.
"Thry, just," urged Bridget, "an' we'll sing 'Onward, Christian
Soldier' to hearten ye up."
Eight shrill voices piped out the tune; and Sandy, caught by its martial spirit, before he knew it was limping a circle about the beds, marking his trail with golden blossoms. Luckily for Ward C, the nurse on duty during the dinner-hour was in the medical ward, with the door closed. And when she came back to her listening post in the corridor the last word had been sung, the last flower dropped, and Sandy was in his cot again, stretching tired little legs under the covers.
Perhaps the geometrician, or the accurate-minded reader, will doubt whether the primrose ring was made at all—seeing that the wall of Ward C cut off nearly thirty degrees of it. But in the world of fancy geometrical accuracy does not hold; and the only important thing is believing that the ring has been made. I have known of a few who could step inside the faery circle whenever they willed, and without a visible primrose about; but for most of us the blossoms are needed to make the enchantment.
This is one of the heritages that come to those who are lucky enough to dwell much in the world of fancy. They can wish for things and possess them, and enjoy them without actually grasping them with their two hands and saying, "These are my personal belongings." Material things are rather a nuisance, on the whole, for they have to be dusted and kept in order, repatched or repainted; and if one wishes to carry them about there are always the bother of packing and the danger of losing. But these other possessions are different—they are with us wherever we go and whenever we want them—to-day, to-morrow, or for eternity.
"If we had the wee red wishin'-cap," said Bridget, thoughtfully, "we'd not have to be waitin' for what's likely to happen. We could just wish ourselves into Tir-na-n'Og."
"What's that?" demanded Peter.
"Tis the place the faeries live in, an' 'tis in Irelan'. Sure, 'tis easy gettin' the cap," continued Bridget, with conviction. "All ye need do is to say afther me, 'I wish—I wish for the wee red cap,' an' ye have it."
Bridget extended her hands, palms upward, and the others followed her example; and together they whispered: "I wish—I wish for the wee red cap."
Immediately Bridget's hands closed over a cubic inch of atmosphere, and she cried, exultantly, "Hold on to it tight an' slip it on your head quick—afore it gets from ye!"
Only seven pairs of hands obeyed—Michael protested.
"I have nothinks got," he said, disgustedly.
"Shut up!" And Bridget shook a menacing fist at him. "He's foolish entirely. He thinks he hasn't anythin' foreby he can't see it. Now, all together, 'We wish—'"
"Can we go 'thout any clothes?" interrupted Susan. "We'd feel awful queer in nightshirts."
"Don't ye worry, darlin'. Like as not when we get there the queen herself 'll open a monsthrous big chest where they keeps all the faery clothes, an' let us choose anythin' at all we wants to wear."
"Pants?" queried Peter, eagerly.
"Sure, an' silk dresses an' straw hats wi' ribbon on them, an—"
"Will shoes in the chest be?" Pancho was very anxious; he had never had a pair of shoes in all his six years.
Bridget beamed. "Not i' the chest; but I'll be tellin' ye how ye'll come by them. When we get there we'll look about for a blackthorn-bush—an' there—like as not—in undther it—will be a wee man wi' a leather apron across his knee—the leprechaun, big as life!"
"What's him?"
"Faith I'm tellin' ye—'tis the faery cobbler. An' the minute he slaps the tail of his eye on us he'll sing out: 'Hello, Pancho an' Sandy an' Susan an' all o' yez. I've your boots finished, just.' An' wi' that he'll fetch down the nine pairs an' hand them round."
A sigh of blissful contentment started from the cot by the door, burbled down the length of the ward, and vanished out of the window. Is there anything dearer to the pride of a child than boots—new boots?
Bridget took up the dropped thread and went on. "An' afther that the leprechaun reaches for his crock o' gold an' pulls out a penny. Ye can buy anythin' i' the whole world wi' a faery penny."
"Anythinks!" said Michael, skeptically.
"That's what I said."
"Could yer buy a dorg?" Peter asked, opening one renegade eye.
"Sure—a million dogs."
"Don't want a million. Want jus' one real live black dorg—named Toby—wiv yeller spots an' half-legs—an' long ears—an' a stand-up tail—an' legs—an' long—long—long—" The renegade eye closed tight and Peter was smiling at something afar off.
An antiphonal chorus of yawns broke the hush that followed, while
Bridget worked herself back under the covers.
"A ken the penny micht be buyin' a hame," came in a drowsy voice from Sandy's crib. "'Twad be a hame in Aberdeen—wi' trees an' flo'ers an' mickle wee creepit things—an'—Miss Peggie—an'—us—"
"Sure, an' it could be buyin' a grand home in Irelan', the same," Bridget beamed; and then she added, struck forcibly with an afterthought: "But what would be the sense of a home anywheres but here—furninst—within easy reach of a crutch or a wheeled chair? Tell me that!"
Sandy grunted ambiguously; and Bridget took up again the thread of her recounting.
"Ye could never be guessin' half o' the sthrange adventures we'll be havin'! Like as not Sandy 'll be gettin' his hump lifted off him. I mind the story—me mother often told it me. There was a humpy back in Irelan', once, who went always about wi' song in his heart an' another on his lips; an' one day he fetched up inside a faery rath. The pipers were pipin' an' the Wee People was dancin', an' while they was dancin' they was singin' like this: 'Monday an' Tuesday—an' Monday an' Tuesday—an' Monday an' Tuesday'—an' it sounded all jerky and bad. 'That's a terrible poor song,' says the humpy, speakin' out plain. 'What's that?' says the faeries, stoppin' their dance an' gatherin' round him. ''Tis mortal poor music ye are making' says the humpy ag'in. 'Can ye improve it any?' asked the faeries. 'I can that,' says the humpy. 'Add Wednesday to it an' ye'll have double as good a song.' An' when the faeries tried it it was so pretty, an' they was so pleased, they took the hump off him."
Sandy had curled up like a kitten; his eyes were shut, and he was smiling, too. Every one was very quiet; only Rosita moved, reaching out a frightened hand to Bridget.
"Fwaid," she lisped. "All dark—fwaid to do."
"Whist, darlin', ye needn't be afeared. Bridget 'll hold tight to your hand all the way. An' the stars will be out there makin' it bright—so bright—foreby the stars are the faeries' old rush-lights. When they're all burned out, just, they throw them up i' the sky—far as ever they can—an' God reaches out an' catches them. Then He sets them all a-burnin' ag'in, so's the wee angel babies can see what road to be takin'. An' Sandy 'll lose his hump—an' Michael 'll get a new heart—maybe—that won't bump—an' they'll put all the trusters in cages—all but the nice Wee One—cages like they have in the circus— An' they'll never get out to pesther us—never—never—no—more—" Bridget's voice trailed off into the distance, carrying with it the last of Rosita's fearing consciousness.
Ward C had suddenly become empty—empty except for a row of tumbled beds and nine little tired-out, cast-off bodies. They had been shed as easily as a boy slips out of his dusty, uncomfortable overalls on a late sultry afternoon, and leaves them behind him on a shady bank, while he plunges, head first, into the cool, dark waters of the swimming-pool just below him, which have been calling and calling and calling.
VII
AND BEYOND
What happened beyond the primrose ring is, perhaps, rather a crazy-quilt affair, having to be patched out of the squares and three-cornered bits of Fancy which the children remembered to bring back with them. I have tried to piece them together into a fairly substantial pattern; but, of course, it can be easily ripped out and raveled into nothing. So I beg of you, on the children's account, to handle it gently, for they believe implicitly in the durability of the fabric.
Sandy remembered the beginning of it—the plunge straight across the primrose ring into the River of Make-Believe; and how they paddled over like puppies—one after another. It was perfectly safe to swim, even if you had never swum before; and the only danger was for those who might stop in the middle of the river and say, or think, "A dinna believe i' faeries." Whoever should do this would sink like a stone, going down, down, down until he struck his bed with a thud and woke, crying.
It was starlight in Tir-na-n'Og—just as Bridget had said it would be—only the stars were far bigger and brighter. The children stood on the white, pebbly beach and shook themselves dry; while Bridget showed them how to pull down their nightshirts to keep them from shrinking, and how to wring out their faery caps to keep the wishes from growing musty or mildewed. After that they met the faery ferryman, who—according to Sandy—"wore a wee kiltie o' reeds, an' a tammie made frae a loch-lily pad wi' a cat-o'-nine-tail tossel, lukin' sae ilk the brae ye wad niver ken he was a mon glen ye dinna see his legs, walkin'." He told them how he ferried over all the "old bodies" who had grown feeble-hearted and were too afraid to swim.
It was Pancho who remembered best about the leprechaun—how they found him sitting cross-legged under the blackthorn-bush with a leather apron spread over his knees, and how he had called out—just as Bridget had said he would:
"Hello, Pancho and Susan and Sandy and all!"
"Have you any shoes got?" Pancho shouted.
The faery cobbler nodded and pointed with his awl to the branches above his head; there hung nine pairs of little green shoes, curled at the toes, with silver buckles, all stitched and soled and ready to wear.
"Will they fit?" asked Pancho, breathlessly.
"Faery shoes always fit. Now reach them down and hand them round."
This Pancho did with despatch. Nine pairs of little white feet were thrust joyously into the green shoes and buckled in tight. On looking back, Pancho was quite sure that this was the happiest moment of his life. The children squealed and clapped their hands and cried:
"They fit fine!"
"Shoes is grand to wear!"
"I feel skippy."
"I feel dancy."
Whereupon they all jumped to their feet and with arms wide-spread, hand clasping hand, they ringed about the cobbler and the thorn-bush. They danced until there was not a scrap of breath left in their bodies; then they tumbled over and rolled about like a nest of young puppies, while the cobbler laughed and laughed until he held his sides with the aching.
It was here that everybody remembered about the faery penny; in fact, that was the one thing remembered by all. And this is hardly strange; if you or I ever possessed a faery penny—even in the confines of a primrose ring—we should never forget it.
It was Bridget, however, who reminded the leprechaun. "Ye haven't by any chance forgotten somethin' ye'd like to be rememberin', have ye?" she asked, diplomatically.
"I don't know," and the cobbler pulled his thinking-lock. "What might it be?"
"Sure, it might be a faery penny," and Bridget eyed him anxiously.
The cobbler slapped his apron and laughed again. "To be sure it might—and I came near forgetting it."
He reached, over and pulled up a tuft of sod at his side; for all one could have told, it might have been growing there, neighbor to all the other sods. Underneath was a dark little hole in the ground; and out of this he brought a brown earthen crock.
"The crock o' gold!" everybody whispered, awesomely.
"Aye, the crock o' gold," agreed the cobbler. "But I keep it hidden, for there is naught that can make more throuble—sometimes." He raised the lid and took out a single shining piece. "Will one do ye?"
Nine heads nodded eloquently, while nine hands were stretched out eagerly to take it.
"Bide a bit. Ye can't all be carrying it at the one time. I think ye had best choose a treasurer."
Bridget was elected unanimously. She took the penny and deposited it in the heel of her faery shoe.
"Mind," said the leprechaun as they were turning to go, "ye mind a faery penny will buy but the one thing. See to it that ye are all agreed on the same thing."
The children chorused an assent and skipped merrily away. And here is where Peter's patch joins Pancho's.
They had not gone far over the silvery-green meadow—three shadow-lengths, perhaps—when they saw something coming toward them. It was coming as fast as half-legs could carry it; and it was wagging a long, stand-up tail. Everybody guessed in an instant that it was Peter's "black dorg wiv yeller spots."
"Who der thunk it? Who der thunk it?" shouted Peter, jumping up and down; and then he knelt on the grass, his arms flung wide open, while he called: "Toby, Toby! Here's me!"
Of course Toby knew Peter—that goes without saying. He barked and wagged his tail and licked Peter's face; in fact, he did every dog-thing Peter had longed for since Peter's mind had first fashioned him.
"Well," and Bridget put both arms akimbo and smiled a smile of complete satisfaction, "what was I a-tellin' ye, anyways? Faith, don't it beat all how things come thrue—when ye think 'em pleasant an' hard enough?"
Peter remembered the wonderful way their feet skimmed over the ground—"'most like flyin'." Not a blade of grass bent under their weight, not a grain of sand was dislodged; and—more marvelous than all—there was no tiredness, no aching of joint or muscle. All of which was bound to happen when feet were shod with faery shoes.
"See me walk!" cried some one.
"See me run!" cried some one else.
"See me hop and jump!"
And Bridget added, "Faith, 'tis as easy as lyin' in bed."
They were no longer alone; hosts of Little People passed them, going in the same direction. Peter said most of them rode "straddle-legs" on night birds or moths, while some flew along on a funny thing that was horse before and weeds behind. I judge this must have been the buchailin buidhe or benweed, which the faeries bewitch and ride the same as a witch mounts her broomstick.
And everybody who passed always called out in the friendliest way, "Hello, Peter!" or "Hello, Bridget!" or "The luck rise with ye!" which is the most common of all greetings in Tir-na-n'Og.
"Gee!" was Peter's habitual comment after the telling, "maybe it wasn't swell havin' 'em know us—names an' all. Betcher life we wasn't cases to them—no, siree!"
It was Susan who remembered best how everything looked—Susan, who had never been to the country in all her starved little life—that is, if one excepts the times Margaret MacLean had taken her on the Ward C "special." She told so well how all the trees and flowers were fashioned that it was an easy matter putting names to them.
In the center of Tir-na-n'Og towered a great hill; but instead of its being capped with peak or rocks it was gently hollowed at the top, as though in the beginning, when it was thrown up molten from the depths of somewhere, a giant thumb had pressed it down and smoothed it round and even. All about the brim of it grew hawthorns and rowans and hazel-trees. In the grass, everywhere, were thousands and millions of primroses, heart's-ease, and morning-glories; all crowded together, so Susan said, like the patterns on the Persian carpet in the board-room. It was all so beautiful and faeryish and heart-desired that "yer'd have said it wasn't real if yer hadn't ha' knowed it was."
The children stood on the brink of the giant hollow and clapped their hands for the very joy of seeing it all; and there—a little man stepped up to them and doffed his cap. The queen wanted them—she was waiting for them by the throne that very minute; and the little man was to bring them to her.
Now that throne—according to Susan—was nothing like the thrones one finds in stories or Journeys through palaces to see. It was not cold, hard, or forbidding; instead, it was as soft and green and pillowy as an inflated golf-bunker might be, and just high and comfortable enough for the baby faeries to discover it and go to sleep there whenever they felt tired. The throne was full of them when the children looked, and some one was tumbling them off like so many kittens.
"That is the queen," said the little man, pointing.
The children stood on tiptoes and craned their necks the better to see; but it was not until they had come quite close that they saw that her dress was gray, and her hair was gray, and she was small, and her face was like—
"Bless me if it ain't!" shouted Susan in amazement. "It's Sandy's wee creepity woman!"
The queen smiled when she saw them. She reached out her hands and patted theirs in turn, asking, "Now what is your name, dearie?"
"Are ye sure ye're the queen?" gasped Bridget.
"Maybe I am—and maybe I'm not," was the answer.
"Then ye been't the wee gray woman—back yonder?" asked Sandy.
"Maybe I'm not—and maybe I am." And then she laughed. "Dear children, it doesn't matter in the least who I am. I look a hundred different ways to a hundred different people. Now let me see—I think you wanted some—clothes."
A long, rapturous sigh was the only answer. It lasted while the queen got down on her knees—just like an every-day, ordinary person—and pulled from under the throne a great carved chest. She threw open the lid wide; and there, heaped to the top and spilling over, were dresses and mantles and coats and trousers and caps. They were all lengths, sizes, and fashions—just what you most wanted after you had been in bed for years and never worn anything but a hospital shirt; and everything was made of cloth o' dreams and embroidered with pearls from the River of Make-Believe.
"You can choose whatever you like, dearies," said the queen. And that—according to Susan—was the best of all.
Next came the dancing; the Apostles remembered about that co-operatively. They had donned pants of pink and yellow, respectively, with shirts of royal purple and striked stockings, when the pipers began to play. James said it sounded like soldiers marching; John was certain that it was more like a circus; but I am inclined to believe that they played "The Music of Glad Memories" and "What-is-Sure-to-Come-True," for those are the two popular airs in Tir-na-n'Og.
Away and away must have danced pairs of little feet that had never danced before, and pairs of old feet that had long ago forgotten how; and millions of faery feet, for no one can dance half as joyously as when faeries dance with them. And I have heard it said that the pipers there can play sadness into gladness, and tears into laughter, and old age young again; and that those who have ever danced to the music of faery pipes never really grow heavy-hearted again.
Needless to say, the Apostles danced together, and Peter danced with Toby; and it must have been the maddest, merriest dance, for they never told about it afterward without bursting into peal after peal of laughter. Truth to tell, the Apostles' patch of fancy ended right there—all raveling out into smiles and squirms of delight.
Another memory of Sandy's adjoins that of the Apostles'; and he told it with great precision and regard for the truth.
Ever since crossing the River of Make-Believe Sandy had been able to think of nothing but the story Bridget had told—the very last thing in Ward C—and ever since he had left the leprechaun's bush behind he had been wondering and scheming how he could get rid of his hump. He was the only person in Tir-na-n'Og that night who did not dance. Unnoticed, he climbed into a corner of the throne—among the sleeping baby faeries—and there he thought hard. As he listened to the pipers' music he shook his head mournfully.
"A canna make music mair bonny nor that—a canna," he said; and he set about searching through the scraps of his memory for what music he did know. There were the hymns they sang every Sunday at Saint Margaret's; but he somewhat doubted their appropriateness here. Then there were the songs his mother had sung to him home in Aberdeen. Long ago the words had been forgotten; but often and often he had hummed the music of them over to himself when he was going to sleep—it was good music for that. One of the airs popped into his mind that very minute; it was a Jacobite song about "Charlie," and he started to hum it softly. Close on the humming came an idea—a braw one; it made him sit up in the corner of the throne and clap his hands, while his toes wriggled exultantly inside his faery shoes.
"A can do't—a can!" He shouted it so loud that the baby faeries woke up and asked what he was going to do, and gathered about him to listen the better.
The pipers played until there were no more memories left and everything had come true; and the queen came back to her throne to find Sandy waiting, eager-eyed, for her.
"A have a bonny song made for ye. Wull ye tak it frae me noo?"
"Take what?"
"The hump. Ye tuk it frae the ither loonie gien he made ye some guid music; an' a ha' fetched ye mair—here." And he tapped his head to signify that it was not written down.
"Is the song ready, now?"
Sandy nodded.
"Then turn about and sing it loud enough for all to hear; they must be the judges if the song is worth the price of a hump." And the queen smiled very tenderly.
Sandy did as he was bid; he clasped his hands tightly in front of him. "'Tis no for the faeries," he explained. "Ye see—they be hardly needin' ony music, wi' muckle o' their ain. 'Tis for the children—the children i' horspitals—a bonny song for them to sleepit on." He marked the rhythm a moment with his foot, and hummed it through once to be sure he had it. Then he broke out clearly into the old Jacobite air—with words of his own making:
"Ye weave a bonny primrose ring;
Ye hear the River callin';
Ye ken the Land whaur faeries sing—
Whaur starlicht beams are fallin'.
'Tis there the pipers play things true;
'Tis there ye'll gae—my dearie—
The bonny Land 'at waits for you,
Whaur ye'll be nae mair weary.
"A wee man by a blackthorn-tree
Maun stitchit shoes for dancin',
An' there's a pair for ye an' me—
To set our feet a-prancin'.
'Tis muckle gladness 'at ye'll find
In Tir-na-n'Og, my dearie;
The bonny Land 'at's aye sae kind,
Whaur ye'll be nae mair weary.
"Ye'll ken the birdeen's blithie song,
Ye'll hark till flo'ers lauchen;
An' see the faeries trippit long
By brook an' brae an' bracken.
Sae doon your heid—an' shut your een;
Gien ye'd be away, my dearie—
An' the bonny sauncy faery queen
Wull keep ye—nae mair weary."
You may think it uncommonly strange that Sandy could make a song like this, by himself; but, you see, he was not entirely alone—there were the baby faeries. They helped a lot; as fast as ever he thought out the words they rhymed them for him—this being a part of the A B C of faery education.
When the song was finished Sandy turned to the queen again.
"Aighe—wull it do?"
"If the faeries like it, and think it good enough to send down to the children, they will have it all learned by heart and will sing it back to you in a minute. Listen! Can you hear anything?"
For a moment only the rustle of the trees could be heard. Sandy strained his ears until he caught a low, sobbing sound coming through the hazel-leaves.
"'Tis but the wind—greetin'," he said, wistfully.
"Listen again!"
The sound grew, breaking into a cadence and a counter-cadence, and thence into a harmony. "'Tis verra ilk the grand pipe-organ i' the kirk, hame in Aberdeen."
"Listen again!"
Mellow and sweet came the notes of the Jacobite air—a bar of it; and then the faeries began to sing, sending the song back to Sandy like a belated echo:
"Ye weave a bonny primrose ring;
Ye hear the River callin';
Ye ken the Land whaur faeries sing—
Whaur starlicht beams are fallin'."
"For the love o' Mike!" laughed Sandy. "A'm unco glad—a am." He dropped to his knees beside the queen and nestled his cheek in the hand that was resting in her lap. "'Tis aricht noo." And he sighed contentedly.
And it was. The queen leaned over and lifted off the hump as easily as you might take the cover from a box. Sandy stretched himself and yawned—after the fashion of any one who has been sleeping a long time in a cramped position; and without being in the least conscious of it, he sidled up to the arm of the throne and rubbed his back up and down—to test the perfect straightness of it.
"'Tis gone—guid! Wull it nae mair coom back?" And he eyed the queen gravely.
"Never to be burdensome, little lad. Others may think they see it there, but for you the back will be straight and strong."
Rosita came back—empty-handed; she was so busy holding tight to Bridget's hand and getting ready to be afraid that she forgot everything else. As for Michael, he gave his patch into Bridget's keeping; which brings us to what Bridget remembered.
From the moment that the penny had been given over to her she had been weighed down with a mighty responsibility. The financier of any large syndicate is bound to feel harassed at times over the outcome of his investments; and Bridget felt personally accountable for the forthcoming happiness due the eight other stockholders in her company. She was also mindful of what had happened in the past to other persons who had speculated heedlessly or unwisely with faery gifts. There was the case of the fisherman and his wife, and the aged couple and their sausage, and the old soldier; on the other hand, there was the man from Letterkenny who had hoarded his gold and had it turn to dry leaves as a punishment. She must neither keep nor spend foolishly.
"Sure I'll think all round a thing twict afore I have my mind made to anythin'; then I'll keep it made for a good bit afore I give over the penny."
She repeated this advice while she considered all possible investments, but she found nothing to her liking. The children made frequent suggestions, such as bagpipes and clothes-chests, and contrivances for feast-spreading and transportation; and Susan was strongly in favor of a baby faery to take back to Miss Peggie. But to all of these Bridget shook an emphatic negative.
"Sure ye'd be tired o' the lot afore ye'd gone half-way back. Like as not we'll never have another penny to spend as long as we live, an' I'm goin' to see that ye'll all get somethin' that will last."
She was beginning to fear that theirs would be the fate of the man from Letterkenny, when she chanced upon Peter and Toby performing for the benefit of the pipers.
"Them trusters will never be lettin' Pether take that dog back to the horspital," she thought, mindful of the sign in Saint Margaret's yard that dogs were not allowed. "He'd have to be changin' him back into a make-believe dog to get him in at all; an' Pether'd never be satisfied wi' him that way, now—afther havin' him real."