Chapter 6

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."

Her trouble took her to the queen. "Is there any way of buyin' a dog into a horspital?" she asked, solemnly.

"I think it would be easier to buy a home to put him in."

"Could ye--could ye get one for the price of a penny?" Bridget considered her own question, and coupled it with something she remembered Sandy had been wishing for back in Ward C. "Wait a minute; I'll ask ye another. Could ye be buyin' a home for childher an' dogs for the price of a penny?"

The queen nodded.

"Would it be big enough for nine childher--an' one dog; an' would it be afther havin' all improvements like Miss Peggie an' the House Surgeon?"

Again the queen nodded.

Bridget lowered her voice. "An' could we put up a sign furninst, 'No Trusters Allowed'?"

"I shouldn't wonder."

"Then," said Bridget, with decision, "I've thought all round it twict an' my mind's been made to stay; we'll buy a home."

She made a hollow of her two hands and called, "Whist--whist there, all o' yez! Pether an' Pancho--Michael--Susan--do ye hear!" And when she had them rounded up, she counted them twice to make sure they were all present. "Now ye listen." Bridget raised a commanding finger to the circle about her while she exhibited the golden penny. "Is there any one objectin' to payin' this down for a home?"

"What kind of a home?" asked Susan, shrewdly.

"Sure the kind ye live in--same as other folks have that don't live in horspitals or asylums."

"Hurrah!" chorused everybody, and Bridget sighed with relief.

"Faith, spendin' money's terrible easy."

She put the penny in the queen's out-stretched hand. "Do I get a piece o' paper sayin' I paid the money on it?" she demanded, remembering her responsibility.

This time the queen shook her head. "No; I give you only my promise; but a promise made across a primrose ring is never broken."

"And Toby?" Peter asked it anxiously.

"You must leave him behind. You see, if you took him back over the River of Make-Believe he would have to turn back into a make-believe dog again; but--I promise he shall be waiting in the home for you."

The queen led them down the hill to the shore again; and there they found the ferry-man ready, waiting. It is customary, I believe, for every one to be ferried home. The river, that way, is treble as wide, and the sandman is always wandering up and down the brink, scattering his sand so that one is apt to get too drowsy to swim the whole distance. The children piled into the boat--all but Michael; he stood clinging fast to the queen's gray dress.

"Don't you want to go back?" she asked, gently.

"Nyet; the heart by me no longer to bump--here," and Michael pointed to the pit of his stomach.

"Aw, come on," called Peter.

But Michael only shook his head and clung closer to the gray dress.

"All right, ferryman; he may stay," said the queen.

"Good-by!" shouted the children. "Don't forget us, Michael."

"Nyet; goo'-by," Michael shouted back; and then he laughed. "You tell Mi' Peggie--I say--Go' blees you!"

And this was Michael's patch.

The ferryman stood in the stem and swung his great oar. Slowly the boat moved, scrunching over the white pebbles, and slipped into the water. The children saw Michael and the queen waving their hands until they had dwindled to shadow-specks in the distance; they watched the wake of starshine lengthen out behind them; they listened to the ripples lapping at the keel. To and fro, to and fro, swayed the ferryman to the swing of his oar. "Sleep--sleep--sleep," sang the river, running with them. Bridget stretched her arms about as many children as she could compass and held them close while eight pairs of eyes slowly--slowly--shut.

VIII

IN WHICH A PART OF THE BOARD HAS DISTURBING DREAMS

It is a far cry from a primrose ring to a disbanded board meeting; but Fancy bridged it in a twinkling and without an effort. She blew the trustees off the door-step of Saint Margaret's, homeward, with an insistent buzzing of "ifs" and "buts" in their ears, and the faint woodsy odor of primroses under their noses.

To each member of the board entering his own home, unsupported by the presence of his fellow-members and the scientific zeal of the Senior Surgeon, the business of the afternoon began to change its aspect. For some unaccountable reason--unless we take Fancy into the reckoning--this sudden abandoning of Ward C did not seem the simple matter of an hour previous; while in perspective even Margaret MacLean's outspokenness became less heinous and more human.

As they settled themselves for the evening, each quietly and alone after his or her particular fashion of comfort, the "ifs" and "buts" were still buzzing riotously; while the primroses, although forgotten, clung persistently to the frills or coat lapels where the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee had put them. There it was that Fancy slipped unnoticed over the threshold of library, den, and boudoir in turn; and with a glint of mischief in her eyes she set the stage in each place to her own liking, while she summoned whatever players she chose to do her bidding.

Now the trustees were very different from the children in the matter of telling what they remembered of that May Eve. Of course they were hampered with all the self-consciousness and skepticism of grown-ups, which would make them quite unwilling to own up to anything strange or out of the conventional path, not in a hundred years. Therefore I am forced to leave their part of the telling to Fancy, and you may believe or discredit as much or as little as you choose; only I am hoping that by this time you have acquired at least a sprinkling of fern-seed in your eyes. You may have forgotten that fern-seed is the most subtle of eye-openers known to Fancy; and that it enables you to see the things that have existed only in your imagination. It is very scarce nowadays, and hard to find, for the bird-fanciers no longer keep it--and the nursery-gardeners have forgotten how to grow it. In the light of what happened afterward, I think you will agree that Fancy has not been far wrong concerning the trustees; she has a way of putting things a little differently, that is all.

To be sure, you may argue that it was all chance, conscience, or even indigestion; because the trustees dined late they must have dined heavily. But if you do, you know very well that Fancy will answer: "Poof! Nothing of the kind. It was a simple matter of primrose magic and--faeries; nothing else." And she ought to know, for she was there.

The President began it.

He sat in his den, yawning over the annual report of the United Charities; he had already yawned a score of times, and the type had commenced running together in a zigzagging line that baffled deciphering. The President inserted a finger in the report to mark his place, making a mental note to consult his oculist the following day; after which he leaned back and closed his eyes for the space of a moment--to clear his vision.

When he opened his eyes again his vision had cleared to such an extent that he was quite positive he was seeing things that were not in the room. Little shadowy figures haunted the dark places: corners, and curtained recesses, and the unlighted hall beyond. They peered at him shyly, with such witching, happy faces and eyes that laughed coaxingly. The President found himself peering back at them and scrutinizing the faces closely. Oddly enough he could recognize many, not by name, of course, but he could place them in the many institutions over which he presided. It was very evident that they were expecting something of him; they were looking at him that way. For once in his life he was at loss for the correct thing to say. He tried closing his eyes two or three times to see if he could not blink them into vanishing; but when he looked again there they were, more eager-eyed than before.

"Well," he found himself saying at last--"well, what is it?"

That was all; but it brought the children like a Hamlin troop to the piper's cry--flocking about him unafraid. Never in all his charitable life had he ever had children gather about him and look up at him this way. Little groping hands pulled at his cuffs or steadied themselves on his knee; more venturesome ones slipped into his or hunted their way into his coat pockets. They were such warm, friendly, trusting little hands--and the faces; the President of Saint Margaret's Free Hospital for Children caught himself wondering why in all his charitable experience he had never had a child overstep a respectful distance before, or look at him save with a strange, alien expression.

He sat very still for fear of frightening them off; he liked the warmth and friendliness of their little bodies pressed close to him; there was something pleasantly hypnotic in the feeling of small hands tugging at him. Suddenly he became conscious of a change in the children's faces; the gladness was fading out and in its place was creeping a perplexed, questioning sorrow.

"Don't." And the President patted assuringly as many little backs as he could reach. "What--what was it you expected?"

He was answered by a quivering of lips and more insistent tugs at his pockets. It flashed upon him--out of some dim memory--that children liked surprises discovered unexpectedly in some one's pockets. Was this why they had searched him out? He found himself frantically wishing that he had something stowed away somewhere for them. His hands followed theirs into all the numerous pockets he possessed; trousers, coat, and vest were searched twice over; they were even turned inside out in the last hope of disclosing just one surprise.

"I should think," said the President, addressing himself, "that a man might keep something pleasant in empty pockets. What are pockets for, anyway?"

The children shook their heads sorrowfully.

"Wouldn't to-morrow do?" he suggested, hopefully; but there was no response from the children, and the weight that had been settling down upon him, in the region of his chest, noticeably increased. He tried to shake it off, it was so depressing--like the accruing misfortune of some pending event.

"Don't shake," said a voice behind him; "that isn't your misfortune. You will only shake it off on the children, and it's time enough for them to bear it when they wake up in the morning and find out--"

"Find out what?" The President asked it fearfully.

"Find out--find out--" droned the voice, monotonously.

The President sat up very straight in his chair. "The children--the children." He remembered now--they were the children from the incurable ward at Saint Margaret's.

He sank back with a feeling of great helplessness, and closed his eyes again. And there he sat, immovable, his finger still marking his place in the report of the United Charities.

The Oldest Trustee sat alone, knitting comforters for the Preventorium patients. Like many another elderly person, her usual retiring hour was later than that of the younger members of her household, undoubtedly due to the frequent cat-naps snatched from the evening.

The Oldest Trustee had a habit of knitting the day's events in with her yarn. What she had done and said and heard were all thought over again to the rhythmic click of her needles. And the results at the end of the evening were usually a finished comforter and a comfortable feeling. This night, however, the knitting lagged and the thoughts were unaccountably dissatisfying; she could not even settle down to a cat-nap with the habitual serenity.

"I don't know why I should feel disturbed," and the Oldest Trustee prodded her yarn ball with a disquieting needle, "but I certainly miss the usual gratification of a day well spent."

She closed her eyes, hoping thereby to lose herself for the space of a moment, but instead-- She was startled to hear voices at her very elbow; a number of persons must have entered the room, but how they could have done so without her knowing it she could not understand. Of course they thought her asleep; it was just as well to let them think so. She really felt too tired to talk.

"Mother's undoubtedly growing old. Have you noticed how much she naps in the evening, now?" It was the voice of her youngest daughter.

"I heard her telling some one the other day she was five years younger than she is. That's a sure sign," and her son laughed an amused little chuckle.

"I can tell you a surer one." This time it was her oldest daughter--her first-born. "Haven't you noticed how all mother's little peculiarities are growing on her? She is getting so much more dictatorial and preachy. Of course, we know that mother means to be kind and helpful, but she has always been so--tactless--and blunt; and it's growing worse and worse."