CONFIDENCES.

“’Tis the Land of Little People, where the happy children play,
And the things they know and see there are so wonderful and grand
Things that wiser, older folks cannot know or understand.
In the woods they meet the fairies, find the giants in their caves,
See the palaces of cloudland, and the mermen in the waves,
Know what all the birdies sing of, hear the secrets of the flowers
For the Land of Little People is another world than ours.”

ANON.

So this is the little gypsy Blanche has been telling me about!”

Such was Mr. Forester’s greeting to Marjory when she went to Braeside on a return visit.

Marjory was not sure that she liked being called a gypsy. That dark hair of hers was always a sore point, but she was quite certain that she did not like the kiss which Mr. Forester bestowed upon her in all kindness of heart. To begin with, she did not like being kissed by strangers; and secondly, if the said strangers happened to possess moustaches, it made their offence the greater. Mr. Forester was a stranger, and, moreover, was the proud owner of a long and silky moustache, so Marjory felt that she had some excuse for her resentment.

“‘Don’t like being called a gypsy, and don’t like being kissed’ written large all over her face eh, Blanche?” said Mr. Forester mischievously.

“Papa, you are a horrid tease. Go away and leave us in peace. I don’t wonder Marjory doesn’t like your nasty, tickly kisses.”

“Oh dear, please don’t send me away,” he said in mock dismay. “Mayn’t I stay if I promise to be very, very good?”

“You must ask Marjory.”

Marjory’s reply was to burst out laughing.

“Ah, that’s better,” said Mr. Forester. “Now we’re all quite happy. Sit down, both of you, and listen to me.”

The girls obeyed, and Mr. Forester continued,

“Guess what I brought from Morristown to-day?”

“Sweets!” cried Blanche.

“No. Guess again.”

“Anything to eat?”

“I should be very sorry to eat it, but some people might like to.”

“Lesson books,” hazarded Marjory.

“No; nothing so useful, I’m afraid.”

“Does mother know?”

“No. Nobody knows but me.”

“Oh, do tell us, papa.”

“Well, you are a pair of duffers. I thought you would have been sure to guess, but I’ll go and fetch it.”

Mr. Forester returned carrying a small hamper. There was straw poking out of it in places, and it was labelled, “This side up, with care.”

“Oh, it’s a new tea-set for the schoolroom,” cried Blanche. “Mother said we needed one.”

“No, it’s not a new tea-set for the schoolroom, Miss Clever. There’s a new pupil, and that’s quite enough for any schoolroom. You’re no good as a guesser, and yet you’ve been worrying my life out for weeks about this very thing.”

Mr. Forester meanwhile was untying the string which fastened down the lid of the hamper. He slowly raised it, and there, curled up in the straw, lay a little black retriever puppy, its baby face puckered up partly in fear and partly in interest over this new experience.

“What a perfect little darling!” cried Blanche. “Oh, isn’t he sweet? But how could you say some people might like to eat him, papa?”

“Well, I’ve heard of the Chinese eating puppy-dog stew; it comes after birds’-nest soup, you know.”

“Papa!” indignantly.

Mr. Forester lifted the little fellow out of the basket and set him on the floor. He began running along with such a queer little waddle that they all laughed. Then he stopped and contemplated them questioningly, as much as to say, “What are you laughing at?”

“There, Miss Blanche,” said her father, “you’ve got your work cut out for you to train that small person in the way he should go. Don’t make a fool of him, dear; love him as much as you like, but make him obey orders. He’s a game little beggar, isn’t he?”

Blanche was delighted. “O papa, thank you a thousand times. Is he really for my very own, like Marjory has Silky? Oh, I am so glad to have him! You darling!” she cried, catching up the dog and hugging him close.

“I thought I was the darling,” said Mr. Forester comically. “In fact, I’m sure I am, for thinking of it all myself.”

“So you are the dearest, darlingest papa in all the world.” And the girl sprang into her father’s arms.

This scene made Marjory a little bit sad.

“If only I had my father too, how happy I should be!” she thought. “But I don’t even know if I’ve got one.” And she sighed.

Blanche noticed the cloud on her friend’s face, and instinctively felt what had caused it. Tears of sympathy rushed to her eyes, and she picked up the puppy and put him into Marjory’s arms.

“Now,” she said, with a look which Marjory understood, it was so full of sympathy, “you must christen him.”

Marjory looked attentively at the little fat ball of a dog, and then said thoughtfully,

“What would you think of ‘Curly’? He is one of the curly kind, different from Silky.”

“Yes, that will do beautifully. We’ll call him Curly. Do you agree, papa?”

“Right you are,” replied Mr. Forester. “But it doesn’t matter so much what you call him as whether he comes when he’s called; that’s the chief thing.” And so saying he left the girls to enjoy the new treasure by themselves.

Marjory was quite as enthusiastic as Blanche. She was passionately fond of animals, and the young ones always charmed her. She was able to give Blanche instructions as to how Curly should be fed; and they made a set of very strict rules for his training, which was to begin at once.

Their consultation was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Forester. She had been out driving, and was very beautifully dressed. Marjory thought she had never seen such a lovely lady before. She kissed the girl tenderly, and, putting her arms round her, said,

“I am very glad to welcome you here, little Marjory, and I hope this will soon feel like a second home to you. Now,” brightly, “I’ve got a great piece of news for you. Miss Waspe writes that she would be very glad to have an extra week’s holidays till the eighteenth of September. What do you say?”

Blanche clapped her hands. “Oh, how jolly! a whole week more to do as we like! Do let her have it, mother.”

Mrs. Forester laughed. “Yes, I think we must let her have it. She will be just as pleased as you, no doubt. Well, then, you will begin lessons on the eighteenth of September. Will that suit you, Marjory?”

“Oh yes, it’s my birthday.”

“In that case, wouldn’t you rather wait until the next day, dear? It won’t make any difference to us.”

“Oh no, thank you. I think it would be splendid to begin on my birthday. I’ve wanted to learn things for such a long time, it will be a kind of present,” said Marjory.

“How funny you are!” cried Blanche. “I should hate to have lessons on my birthday. I always have a holiday. Mine is in June, and Waspy and I always have a treat of some kind.”

“Miss Waspe also says, Marjory, that she is very glad indeed that you are going to be her pupil, and is looking forward to the term’s work with two of you to teach.”

Marjory blushed with pleasure. “She is very kind. I am looking forward too.”

Mrs. Forester turned to go, saying that she hoped the girls would enjoy their tea and have a nice time. Marjory followed her as she left the room, and when they were outside the door asked,

“Do you think I ought to say I’m sorry for calling Mary Ann Smylie a beast?”

Mrs. Forester smiled in spite of herself at Marjory’s solemn face.

“Do you feel sorry?” she asked.

Marjory looked down. Her conscience had pricked her several times about it, but she could not honestly say that she felt really sorry. In fact, she felt quite sure that if Mary Ann were to say the same thing again, she would feel inclined to call her names again.

“I see,” said Mrs. Forester, “you don’t feel very sorry. Well, do you think it was a nice, lady-like way to speak?”

“Oh no,” replied Marjory quickly.

“Then you are sorry that you used an unbecoming word, but you still think Mary Ann richly deserved some punishment for her unkind words?”

“Yes, that’s just it,” said Marjory, wondering how it was that Mrs. Forester understood her so well.

“But you still feel uncomfortable when you think about Mary Ann?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if I were you, I should go to Mary Ann and say, ’I am sorry I used an ugly word to you, but I still think you were very unkind in what you said.’ Then, if she is a nice girl, she will say she wishes she hadn’t said what she did; and if not well, you must just leave it, dear. I will go with you if you like. We can all drive to the village to-morrow afternoon.”

“Oh, how good of you! Thank you so much.” And Marjory, much relieved, went back to Blanche.

As a matter of fact Mrs. Forester had her own reasons for going herself with Marjory, for that very afternoon Mrs. Smylie, by way of ingratiating herself with the newcomer, had been making unkind remarks about Marjory and her bringing-up, and warning Mrs. Forester that she would not be a suitable companion for her daughter. Mrs. Forester had known very well how to reply to these statements, but she thought it would be a very good thing to show the Smylies that their spiteful, unkind words had no weight with her.

Mrs. Smylie’s ambition knew no bounds as far as her daughter was concerned. She was conscious of the fact that she herself was a plain, ordinary, country woman, and would never be anything else; but with her daughter it was different. With her looks and education she ought to be able to associate with the best of people. Such was this foolish mother’s dream, and she had thought to curry favour with the lady of Braeside by her remarks on what she considered should be the behaviour of a well-brought-up young lady, and what she had always aimed at in the education of her daughter. Mary Ann would have laughed could she have read her mother’s mind and seen to what heights her ambition rose.

Marjory forgot about her for the time being. Blanche had so many treasures to show her and so much to say to her that the afternoon passed all too quickly.

They had tea by themselves in the room Mrs. Forester had chosen as a schoolroom comfortable and cheerful, with windows looking over the garden. A new set of shelves had been put up, and all Blanche’s books were arranged on them her story books on the top and her lesson books on the lower shelves.

Marjory feasted her eyes upon the collection. Here were Blanche’s old favourites, amongst them Grimm’s “Fairy Tales,” and Hans Andersen’s, “Alice in Wonderland,” “Black Beauty,” and many others. One after another she took them down to show to Marjory.

“You must read every one of them,” she said, “and then your mind inside will be just like mine.”

“I should love to read them all, but I wouldn’t be allowed to read the fairy tales,” with a sigh.

“Why not?”

“Uncle doesn’t approve of them.”

“What a pity!” cried Blanche. “I wonder why. Do you think he would let you if I were to ask him? I could take him my ‘Grimm’ and show him what splendid tales they are.”

“Would you dare to?” asked Marjory, awestruck by her friend’s bold plan.

“Dare to? Of course I should. I can’t think why you are so frightened of Dr. Hunter, he looks such a dear old thing. If he were a cow or a bull it would be different,” laughing; “but you don’t seem a bit afraid of them, with their great horns and bulging, glaring eyes.”

“That’s just where we’re different,” said Marjory, laughing too. “You’re afraid of animals and not of people, and I’m afraid of people and not of animals.”

“Well, anyway, I’m not afraid to ask about the fairy tales. I shall tell him that of course we don’t really believe in them in our everyday heads, but they are nice to think about, and to think perhaps some day a fairy thing might happen.”

Marjory laughed. “Isn’t that believing in them?”

“No, not really. I can’t quite explain what I mean.”

“I’ve made fairies for myself,” said Marjory. “There are plenty of them in the garden, and I understand what they say. They know me quite well, and I only have to sit very quietly and hardly breathe, and I can hear them. They live in the flowers, and you can hear them ringing their tiny little bells and talking to one another, so low that it is only just a whisper.”

“Do go on,” urged Blanche.

“I don’t know if you would be able to hear them. Peter says he can’t; but then he’s old and deaf, and he says he never thought of listening when he was young.”

“What made you think of it?”

“Nothing; it just came. I seem to have known about the flower fairies all my life. I miss them so in the winter, when they all go away under the ground to their winter palace, and I am always so happy when I see the first snowdrop come. I always go and kiss her, and tell her how glad I am to see her, and how brave I think she is to be the first to come; and I promise her that if a hard frost comes I will put some nice leaves round her to keep her warm.”

“Why, this is a fairy tale. What does your uncle say?”

“I have never told him; it wouldn’t be any good. He would only tell me to sew my seam, or knit my stocking, or do something useful.”

“But couldn’t you make him understand?”

Marjory shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Do tell me some more,” said Blanche.

“Well, there are all sorts of fairies that belong to the different kinds of flowers. The head one of all, who is great queen, arranges everything for them, and tells each one exactly how long she may stay; and they come up out of the winter palace through the ground inside the buds, and they live in the flowers until they begin to fade, and then they go back again and wait for the next flower time. The fairies bring the sweet scents with them. They have to see that their flower houses are shut up in good time at night, and in the daytime they have to be kind in receiving the bees and insects that fly into them, and give them what they can. They have to try to keep away bad insects and worms and caterpillars that do harm, and before they go they have to see that everything is ready for the seeds to form, because they mean homes for the fairies when the next year comes. So they are really quite busy all the time. I’m always so glad to think that the fairies are all girls, and yet how important they are! Not like us human beings: boys are always most wanted and most important with us. I heard Dr. Morison say to Uncle George one day, ’It’s a pity she wasn’t a boy; she might have been such a help to you.’ Of course that meant that I wasn’t a help at all. The doctor has two boys. I don’t like them much; they seem to think such a lot of themselves, and they never believe that I can do anything, because I’m a girl; but I can do most things that boys do.”

“I’m very glad you’re not a boy,” said Blanche. “You’re just as good as one in being strong and knowing how to do things, but you’re much nicer than a boy.” And she gave her friend a loving hug; then continuing, “I don’t suppose the fairies would talk to a boy like they do to you.”

“No, they say that they only talk to people who believe in them,” laughing, and looking at Blanche.

“I say, Marj,” said Blanche suddenly, “do you believe in ghosts?”

“No. Why?”

“Because,” lowering her voice and speaking in a low, mysterious tone, “Crossley that’s our maid told me that the people in the village say your house is haunted, that a light comes there in the middle of the night, and moves about in the old part. Have you ever seen it?”

“No; the old part is always shut up. I never heard about any light.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun if we could find out about it?” said Blanche excitedly.

“Yes. But how could you be there in the middle of the night? I might go and look some night.”

“Not by yourself; you couldn’t. Besides, it would be much jollier to be together. It would be so exciting finding out what it is, and so romantic. Mother says that all such stories can generally be explained by some quite ordinary thing; but still it’s fun finding out, isn’t it?”

Marjory agreed, but her busy little brain was trying to discover some possible explanation of the mysterious lights. She had no fears of the darkness. Her simple faith taught her that she was as safe in the dark as in the daylight, but she had many fancies fancies that had come to her as she lay alone in her little bed watching the moonbeams playing across her windows, and listening to the whispering of the leaves outside. The darkness was full of mystery and charm to the lonely child, but fear had no place in her thoughts concerning it. What could these lights be lights that moved about when every one else was asleep? Could they be the will-o’-the-wisp that Peter had told her about? Could they perhaps be angels with beautiful white wings and stars on their foreheads guardian angels watching over the house while its inmates slept peacefully?

“Oh, I should like to see what it is!” she cried. “We must try some night, if only you could come and stay with me!”

“If mother and dad ever have to go to London for anything, then I might that is, if Waspy isn’t here.”

“Oh, I do wish they would go! Wouldn’t it be lovely if they did, and you came to stay?” And Marjory drew a long breath of delight at the thought of such a pleasure.

The girls had been talking so eagerly that they had not noticed the passing of the time, and it was quite a shock to them when a maid came to say that Dr. Hunter had come for Miss Marjory, and would she please to go at once.

Marjory gave Curly an affectionate good-night hug, and rushed downstairs with Blanche, afraid that her uncle might be angry with her for staying so long, it seemed such an unusual thing for him to come to fetch her. To her relief, however, he was all smiles when she appeared, and seemed quite interested in her account of the afternoon’s doings as they went home.