Fairies Afield Part 14

"Yes, often," said Merran. "There is an old swallows' nest there, but,"

and she shook her head sadly, "they have quite deserted it for the last two years. I used to love to watch them and to hear their twittering."

"Nevertheless the old nest will serve your purpose perfectly," said the fairy lady. "Hide your treasures in it; you can easily reach up without any danger of falling, as there is a good stretch of flat roof outside.

And then, if by any chance you were seen there, it would only be supposed that you were looking out of the window at the view--trying to catch the peep of the sea, as you often do."

"Yes, yes," replied Merran, greatly pleased. "What a good idea, and how clever of you to think of it! How do you know so much about me and the garret and everything, dear Suns.h.i.+ne fairy? I suppose you really could see me when you were the little toy woman in the rain-house? But it won't be easy to believe she's you! You are _so_ pretty compared with her. Mayn't I come up here again and see you as you really are?"

The fairy shook her head.

"Our task here is accomplished," she said. "You will not need to puzzle about the toy woman, and how she and I can be the same and yet not the same. And this way into fairyland will now be closed. But when the suns.h.i.+ne peeps in at your window and lights up your fair hair and puts some colour into your cheeks, you may believe, my little maiden, that I am kissing you. Or when some drops of rain make you start by their cool touch, you may say to yourself that the Rain fairy is sending you his greeting. Both of us, first one and then the other, working together.

That is how it is and should be. And now," she went on, "we will see you safe home again," and glancing up, Merran saw that beside the lovely lady stood the picturesque figure of the Rain fairy, with his dark but kindly face. "Together," for once, "the pair that tell the weather."

They turned and entered the pretty room, pa.s.sing through it, however, till at the other side, where a door led into the familiar "rain-house,"

or hut, they stood still, beckoning to Merran, who had followed them in silence, feeling excited and happy, and yet a little sad. Then each took one of her hands--her gifts were safely nestling inside her bodice--and whispering softly, in a sort of musical murmur, which made her close her eyes half sleepily:

"Farewell, little Merran, farewell. In suns.h.i.+ne or in rainy weather, little maiden, fare thee well."

And before she had time to look round or wonder what was going to happen to her, she felt herself gently pushed over the edge of the rain-house, like a fledgling which the parent birds are training to fly, and though she had no wings, fly or flutter she did, down, down, till she found herself standing safely on the floor of the old garret, just in front of the storm-window, in her favourite nook.

She rubbed her eyes. Was it all a dream?

She might almost have thought so, but--feeling in her bodice for her handkerchief, her fingers touched something, and she drew out the fairy gifts. Yes--there they were all right, and evidently changed in size like her own small self, for they lay in her hands in the same way as above in the fairy house, "and up there," said Merran, "I must have been much, much littler than I am now, for I could go in and out quite easily."

The thought made her glance at the high shelf where ever since she could remember had stood the toy hut, with the woman's figure just peeping out. But what she now saw made her start.

The rain-house had fallen--its walls and roof were in pieces, as if a fairy earthquake had shattered them! Merran felt half inclined to cry, but before she had decided if she should do so or not she caught sight of a tiny figure peering at her from behind the rubbish. It was the toy woman, just as she had always been, dress and all, but as Merran gazed, the stiff wooden doll seemed to melt away, giving place to the lovely Suns.h.i.+ne fairy, who smiled and waved her hand as if in farewell, and the little girl, feeling that this was indeed her last sight of the so long unknown friends, who had watched over and cared for her, allowed some tears to trickle down her face unchecked, while she waved and kissed her hand in return till the pretty vision disappeared and nothing was left to tell her that her visit had not been all a dream, except the broken bits of painted wood and cardboard which she had called the rain-house!

[Ill.u.s.tration: She caught sight of a tiny figure peering at her from behind the rubbish.]

No--I am wrong--there were her magic gifts! She looked at them with delight; they seemed even more dainty and charming than when she had first been given them, and then, remembering the Suns.h.i.+ne fairy's instructions, she climbed up on her stool till she reached the top of the small window and could touch the old nest, still there, and still quite whole. It was a splendid hiding-place. Without any difficulty Merran gently pushed the umbrella and parasol in, through the moss, till she felt they were quite secure, just leaving the handles out enough for her readily to catch hold of them whenever she needed to do so.

Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, she sat down again in her usual corner and thought over her wonderful adventures quietly for some minutes. Suddenly the remembrance struck her of a hint the fairy lady had given her, about a pleasant surprise in store for her on her return, and full of curiosity as to what it could be Merran jumped up and made her way across the garret and down the narrow staircase to the floor below.

"It can't be about Dirk's coming," she said to herself, "for I knew that already. And--that wouldn't be a pleasant thing, for I shall be ashamed for him to see me in this horrid old dress," and she glanced at herself disconsolately.

But just then she heard a voice calling her, a well-known voice, her aunt's.

"Merran, Merran," it said, "where are you, child? Come quick. I want you."

And something in the tone made the child feel that she was not going to be scolded. It sounded much kinder than usual.

"Aunt must be in a good humour," she thought, and indeed so it was.

Nothing makes people feel better tempered and pleased with themselves than the consciousness of having done a kindly action.

"I'm coming, auntie," Merran answered brightly, though in her heart she was not without misgiving. "I hope it isn't that Dirk has arrived already," she thought, with again the mortifying remembrance of her ugly dress.

The dame was standing at the foot of the staircase holding up something for the little girl to see. It was the unfortunate frock, already washed and ironed and looking quite pretty, for it really was a nice garment, white with pink sprigs and flowers running over it, and a neat frill at the neck. It was Merran's favourite frock--for everyday wear, of course, that is to say. Her Sunday one was a cornflower blue merino, and she was very proud of it, especially as it and indeed most of her clothes had been made out of those left by her own young mother, so that on the whole it was not often that the orphan child looked like a small Cinderella.

"Well, what do you say to this?" said her aunt with great pride, waving the frock about to show it off the better.

"Auntie!" cried Merran, who for a moment had been struck dumb with delight and astonishment. "Have you really washed it and ironed it and all, already? Oh _how_ good of you! Now I shan't be ashamed for Dirk to see me. Oh, auntie, I don't know how to thank you."

"Mind you don't get it dirtied again, then," said the dame, "and get yourself tidied as quick as you can, for there's no saying how soon the boy may be here. It was pretty tiresome, you know, for you to go and tumble into the mud to-day of all days. But I didn't want Dirk, who's always been so good to you, to find you looking such a little drab."

"Of course not," said Merran. "Thank you, thank you. I'll be very careful. It's getting to be quite a fine day now; the sun's come out, and it's not going to rain again," she added confidently. For I should have mentioned that before hiding away her new treasures she had tried in vain to open the fairy umbrella, whereas the parasol spread itself out like a flower with but the gentlest touch.

"I hope not," said her aunt, "but there's no saying, and the master's in a sad fix about the hay--when to start it. Never was such a place as this for not knowing what the weather's to be. And I would like it to look bright for Dirk when he first sees his home again, after the beautiful countries he's been in, where the sun's always s.h.i.+ning, so they say. Though how things can grow without rain pa.s.ses me!"

"It says in my lesson-books at school that there's places where it rains straight on for a good bit and then it's fine and hot for a good bit,"

said Merran.

"Maybe that's how it is," said her aunt. "Well, Dirk'll tell us all about it and the other things he's seen. Now run off, child, and change your frock."

Away flew Merran, her spirits higher than for many a long day, for it was not often that the dame talked to her so pleasantly, and as she ran off she repeated her prophecy. "You'll see, auntie," she said. "It's not going to rain at all to-day. It'll be lovely weather."

And so it proved. The few clouds that had still looked somewhat threatening, gradually dispersed; when the farmer came in he too seemed very cheery.

"If this weather holds on for a while, we'll do famously," he said. "A good thing for Dirk to be back. We'll be none the worse for another pair of strong arms, such as I hope his are by now," and almost as he spoke, there was the sound of wheels approaching the farm-house,--for one of the elder brothers had driven in the market-cart to meet Dirk at the village where the coach was to drop him,--and in another minute in came the traveller himself, eager to greet and be greeted.

And a hearty welcome awaited him.

He had grown and improved in every way. In fact he was no longer the ugly duckling of the family, but bid fair in a year or two to rival his stalwart brothers. So, naturally, of course, his parents were delighted.

"Your uncle has done well by you, and that's a fact," said the farmer, giving the boy a hearty slap on the shoulders. "All the same, I hope he's not given you a liking for his way of life."

For the uncle with whom Dirk had been seeing the world for the last year or two, for the benefit of his health, was a sea-faring man--the captain and owner of a small trading vessel.

Dirk laughed, but shook his head.

"No fear of that," he replied. "I like the sea well enough, but I don't want to be a sailor. No, father, I'm a farmer, at least going to be one I hope."

"That's all right," said his father. "And there's no life to compare with the life of the fields, to my mind. There's just one thing to complain of, especially in these parts, and that is the uncertain weather. No telling any day what it may change to--and none of the gla.s.ses as I've ever come across is much good, if any. And this year's been one of the changeablest I remember. I wonder why it's so, for we've no hills close about. Maybe it's through being near the sea. I've half a mind to send for a strand of seaweed and hang it in the porch, and see what that'll tell."

"Not much good--it changes when the weather does, but not far ahead,"

said Dirk. Then a sudden idea struck him. "Mother," he went on, "long ago there used to be an old-fas.h.i.+oned kind of weather-teller, up in the garret, do you remember? And not long ago, in Holland, where uncle had to take a cargo, I came across one just like it, and the goodwife of the house told me it never failed them. Suppose we get out our one?"

The dame shook her head.

"Strange you should speak of it, Dirk," she replied. "It's many a day since I've given it a thought, till this very afternoon--when--" and here she gave a little smile half of apology for her own childishness, "I went up to the garret to look out of the end window, which has such a good view of the road, to see if the cart and you boys were in sight.

And glancing up at the shelf, I missed something I was used to see there. It was the old toy hut with the man and the woman. It's all in pieces--just a crumbled heap, and no man nor woman to be seen. Maybe the cat's knocked it down."

"Then it's no good," said Dirk, "for I don't think they make them now--not in England, anyway.--But, mother," he continued, "I've not seen little Merran yet. Where is she, and is she all right?"

The dame started.

"To be sure. I was forgetting about her," she said, "and she was here not five minutes ago. I told her to stay--not that she needed telling when it was to see you again, Dirk. Merran, child," she called, raising her voice, whereupon the little girl came forward shyly from the deep recess of the old-fas.h.i.+oned window where she had been partly hidden.

"I did stay, auntie," she said. "I was only waiting for you and uncle to see Dirk first," and as she spoke, she held out her hand to the new-comer. He took it, but also stooped down to kiss her. "You've grown a bit, quite a tidy bit, little Merran," he said, "and you're looking well too--more colour in her cheeks, and so fresh and smart. Is that a new frock she's on, eh, mother?"