Chapter VIII: The Spell--And How It Worked (3)

Ready first, she ran into the nursery, curious as ever as to the pink and green paper bundle, took it out, unfolded it, and found that it would have formed a crown--only it didn't join together; she had torn it in her hurry. She stamped her foot with vexation, and was wondering if she could stick the two ends together when that tiresome Maisie came running in from the next room with one of her new bronze shoes on to show how beautiful it looked. Quick as lightning Hilda had to hide her secret again.

"What are you doing with the doll's house? Look at my new shoe!" exclaimed Maisie all in a breath.

And Hilda made a great fuss over the new shoe, and felt horridly out of temper.

Punctually on the stroke of three, the first of the birthday party began to arrive--two little girl cousins, who at once begged to be allowed to see if there was anything new in the doll's house. Hilda's heart sank at these words, and she tried to draw their attention away, but to no avail, for Maisie, moving towards it, said they must see the new treasure there. With difficulty and something like a scuffle Hilda, grown desperate, prevented her from opening it, and managed to do so herself, quickly stuffing the bunch of paper into her pocket without being noticed. Much admiration was bestowed on the new addition--a little motor car which had been conveniently placed in the kitchen of the doll's house ready to take out for an airing the little china lady and gentleman who sat so rigidly and smiled so vacantly in the storey above.

Meanwhile, Hilda was inwardly owning to a feeling akin to dislike for the very thought of that cracker, for the paper was bulging out her pocket, flatten it as she would. She was not happy, for never before had she done anything underhand. In fact she always tried to be an example for her young sister, and she already regretted having given way to the momentary impulse of envy. However, there was no time now for thoughts or remorse, and when she reached the drawing-room she forgot all about her trouble in helping to receive the guests.

Eight little girls were grouped in one corner of the room whispering, with eyes busily engaged staring at one another's sashes; whilst eight little boys had flocked together and were looking sheepishly from out of an opposite corner. One boy, however--who had been gazing long at Hilda--with heroic resolution detached himself from his kind, and entered the rival camp, where he was welcomed with pleasure and interest. He was a young Highlander, with sandy hair and many freckles, but his attraction was great, for he wore his native costume. The jewelled hilt of a dagger showed above one plaid stocking, and on his shoulder he wore a fascinating brooch with a large brown stone, which was the envy and admiration of all the little ladies present.

Suddenly the guests were all swooped upon by a big lady, Maisie's mother, mixed up, and disentangled into couples; a piano was set going, and they danced, hopped, and twirled about, wondering if they liked it; the girls thought they did, and the boys were sure they didn't--all except the Scotch boy, who had constituted himself Hilda's devoted partner, and was enjoying it immensely. The polka finished, these two sat chatting merrily at the window, when all at once Hilda became silent. She happened to catch sight of something sticking out of the ivy on the sill. It was the "cracking thing" which she had thrown from the window above. Her partner was surprised to see her look as though she were going to cry. She didn't dare do that.

Just then tea was announced. Weighty recollection of warnings from home-counsellors came to the minds of the children, which warnings, however, conveniently faded away at sight of the good things set forth so temptingly in the dining-room: custards, jellies, and all those concoctions beloved of the youthful interior. But the chief interest centred in Maisie's gorgeous cake, which had her name and age flowingly written in coloured sugar, surrounded by the most realistic and sweetest of red roses imaginable, nestling in the coolest-looking golden leaves.

Hilda sat by the side of her Scotch cavalier, who had taken her in, and who was much concerned when he found that she had no appetite, but less distressed when he found that that fact did not affect his.

Once during the meal, Hilda heard their mother ask Maisie, as she helped her cut the birthday cake, what was in her cracker, and Maisie replied, as she looked up from her struggles, "What cracker?" but then, in her anxiety to know why Hilda refused to taste any of her cake till the morrow, she did not pursue the subject.

After tea more excitement, for there was Mr. Punch and his company, who were in excellent form.

"Oi, Oi, Oi!" repeated that gentleman for the dozenth time, as he bobbed about aimlessly, in his anxiety to hit the clown and take the patient Toby between his jointless arms.

Later on, the eyelids of the party children began to grow heavy, though the eyes remained unnaturally bright; and tempers became less even and more natural. And so, like everything else, the birthday party came to an end, and "Good-byes" were said with regret. That night cots and beds were not despised, nor did they prove unwelcome for once, for little tired heads were rested gratefully on cool pillows. Maisie was an exception; she tossed about on hers, too happy and excited to get to sleep, whilst Hilda, worn out, lay on her back with her mouth wide open, breathing heavily, and dreaming.

Hilda dreamt that she was alone in a boat on a ruffled lake. On a white flag in the prow was a motto printed large, but upside down. She dreamt that all around the frail craft, which rocked on the stormy waters, were grinning crocodiles wearing broken crowns made of pink coral and green fluttering paper. She crouched low and tried to hide, for she knew that if the horrid creatures found her out she was lost for ever. Land was quite close, but she didn't know how to get there, because her frock was made of red crackling stuff, which glistened and made a noise whenever she moved.

She felt sick with fright, and sobbed and moaned at her terrible plight, and sobbing, she woke to find that it was quite dark, that the moon was shining on Maisie smiling in her sleep, and that she herself had been dreaming.

At breakfast next morning, Maisie and their mother were already seated when Hilda silently took her place next her chattering little sister; but it seemed to her that their mother looked unusually grave. When Hilda lifted the cover off her bread and milk bowl, Maisie suddenly looked in it and exclaimed: "Oh, how pretty." But Hilda turned very red, and she hung her head ashamed. For in the bowl there was no bread and milk--nothing but a crumpled red glazed paper with a hateful picture of a smiling crocodile, something pink and green, a tiny paper ball of printed paper, and a stiff thing sticking up--easily guessed at, but now blurred and indistinct to Hilda's tearful view.

"Oh, Maisie," she sobbed, "it was your crack--cracker. I--I took it from your table. Do forgive me--I've been so--so very miserable."

And their mother, rising gently and saying nothing, quickly took the proofs of wrong-doing away, whilst Hilda felt Maisie's arm creep round her neck and Maisie's kisses on her wet cheek....

And in her repentance her fault was forgiven.

Two months later, Hilda found amongst the presents on her birthday table a lovely cracker made of silver paper with a little heart of real gold attached with a blue ribbon on the outside. And then Hilda ran and whispered eagerly in her mother's ear, who looked very pleased and kissed her. And Maisie was surprised and happy too, for Hilda put in her hand the lovely cracker with its little heart of gold for her very own to keep.

LITTLE STARRY

"I should like to go shooting, and see what the earth is like," sighed a young star. But the Evening Star knew that meant many dangers, for down there life was not so happy or serene as up in their lofty sphere. And she knew, too, that he would go his own way as youth always does; and she felt sorry, for she did not like to part with this bright little star. And so he went. That fine crisp night the tiny star was seen to shoot right down to earth--and the light of his presence was no longer there.

* * * * *

A hard frost was on the ground. The shops were shut, for it was Boxing Day. Those who were not on enjoyment bent were snugly quartered by their own fireside, with the firm conviction that nothing would tempt them away. Some, however, had business to attend to in spite of its being a holiday, and old Joshua was one of these. He was known as "old" Joshua because his hair had turned prematurely white--as white as the rime which had gathered on his shabby hat as he hurried along the murky, dimly lighted street which led to the great theatre. The wind that entered so unceremoniously through his thin coat was biting cold--the violin he carried was more carefully muffled up than he.

"One, two, three," he counted, as a neighbouring clock began chiming; "four, five, six!"

He quickened his pace. He had to be in his place in the orchestra in extra good time, as it was the first night of the new pantomime. And before that, he had some one coming to meet him at the back entrance.

"I shall be there all in good time," he muttered. "By Jupiter!" he exclaimed, as he tripped and nearly fell over something that was lying straight in his path. Only when he stooped down did he discover that on the pavement lay a small child, all cold to the touch, with fair curls dishevelled, and eyes wide open that seemed to see nothing.

Old Joshua's heart filled with pity and indignation. "What a shame," he muttered, "to abandon such a treasure as this! And no one about who can help me." He looked anxiously around--no one was in sight; so he hurriedly went in search of a policeman. When he had succeeded in finding one, and the two reached the spot together, a crowd had collected and was gazing wonderingly at the tiny, prostrate form.

"Stand back there!" commanded the man of law.

The clock chimed the quarter-hour. Old Joshua felt the cold no more--he was in a nervous heat at the delay; nevertheless, he waited till a cab was hailed. Then the policeman tenderly lifted the helpless little creature into it, and the driver wrapped his rug around it. "To the 'orspital!" directed the policeman, stepping inside, and the vehicle was driven smartly away. The crowd dispersed, and with it old Joshua, as quickly as he could hurry through the throng.

At the stage door he found his little Stella awaiting him with sparkling eyes, in anticipation of her annual treat.

"Daddy, you're late," she said, holding up a finger in mock gravity; then she clapped her hands with delight at his arrival.

Old Joshua would not distress her with the cause of his delay, so he only stooped and kissed her. "Give me your hand, old lady," he said, "and come along quickly. Through this door--that's right. Up you go. Don't step on my poor toes or push against me when we turn the corner more than you can help, or old Daddy Joshua and his fiddle might be a little out of tune!" And, laughing as they went, they climbed right up to the top back row of the vast empty theatre. There a smiling attendant welcomed her as quite an old little friend, and when he had seen his daughter raised up on a seat by means of a big hassock, old Joshua, with a nod of thanks, hastened below to join his comrades of the orchestra, and help create the squeaky din which they called "tuning up."

At last the lights were turned up. An eager troop of pleasure-seekers tumbled into the gallery in a rush, and while Stella was looking around her every available seat was quickly occupied. The other parts of the house were filling rapidly in more dignified style, and soon every place was tenanted in honour of the great Christmas pantomime. The large orchestra struck up, and when the overture was over the gorgeously painted curtain slowly rose.

Stella, perched up aloft, forgot where she was, and everything else in the world went straight out of her head as she gazed with rapture at the lovely scene that was peopled with fairies, and goblins, and wonderful beings, disporting themselves in a land that was all glitter and gold. And so the hours flew by, in a wonder of loveliness, fairy story, and fun.

"'Ave a bit o' orange, dearie?" asked the stout woman who was sitting next to her. But Stella was too engrossed to think about oranges or neighbours, nor even did she feel the light nudge that followed. The woman merely turned to her husband, smiled, and held her peace; while Stella threw back her head and shook with laughter, as the Clown tickled Pantaloon with a poker that looked extremely red hot. She wasn't a bit tired, and was quite surprised to hear "God Save the King," and to find the whole beautiful show was already over, like a dream. It had seemed to her as though it must go on for ever.

Flushed and excited, and a good deal jostled by the moving crowd, she made her way to the staircase in order to meet the motherly attendant on the next landing, who had promised to take her to her father at the stage door. Stella was walking down carefully step by step, when two young men came roughly tearing past her. A sudden push threw her off her balance. She knew she screamed because she heard it. Then she knew and heard nothing more.

* * * * *

Great fun was going forward in the biggest ward in the Children's Hospital. Father Christmas had suddenly appeared amidst much cheering and clapping of hands. Not only were the little inmates, the nurses, and young doctors beaming with smiles, but Father Christmas himself felt the glow of jollity as he busily handed the toys he carried to his two attendant clowns. These nimble, funny fellows ran from him to the cots, backwards and forwards, giving such beautiful toys, and saying such funny things as they gave them, that every child was soon laughing and happy, even those with a bandaged head or limb, or a pain inside or outside; and the unwonted excitement brought a flush to their pale cheeks and brightness to their eyes.

But none of the jollification was seen by the new little inmate of the cot that was in the far corner. A tiny blind boy lay there, with pretty, fair curls, and large dark eyes that he turned pathetically around. He had not spoken at all. Earlier in the evening he had shivered much, and groaned. Now he lay peacefully smiling, for his small hands held a musical-box that Father Christmas himself had placed there, and set working, and the tinkle-tinkle of a pretty tune seemed to please and soothe him.

When the Christmas visitors had gone away, and the dolls had been hushed to sleep by their new mothers, and the woolly animals lay hugged tightly in the arms of drowsy owners, a little girl in a swoon from an accident was carried into the ward. The sprained ankle had been dressed; quietly and quickly she was put to bed, and consciousness soon returned.

"Where am I?" said Stella, staring about her.

"You fell down, dear," replied Nurse Evelyn, "and we are taking care of you until you are fetched home. You'll soon be all right again. Does your ankle hurt much? Don't move it."

"It feels funny," replied Stella, "but doesn't hurt now it is still--thank you very much," she added, staring about her in amazement at the strange faces, the holly in the strange surroundings, at the nurses in their pretty costumes with their white caps and aprons, and at the sleeping children clutching their toys. In the cot next to hers, however, the little fair-haired boy looked awake. His eyes in their aimless wandering were now fixed on the high window through which the stars were twinkling at him, and the Evening Star looked fixedly down upon him. His hands lay listlessly on the polished wooden box. The music had changed, and in his ear it sang of "Angels ever bright and fair."

Stella, who was watching him with so much interest, asked who he was.

"He is a little foundling," said Nurse Evelyn. "He was abandoned in the cold streets."

Stella turned her head on the pillow towards him again, and asked timidly--

"Are you better?"

"Talk to him to-morrow, dear," advised Nurse Evelyn.

As she gazed at him Stella thought she had never seen so beautiful a child. She stretched out her arm and took his tiny palm in hers; then he turned his face towards her and smiled, contentedly and trustingly leaving his hand in hers. And thus with love and pity in her heart she fell fast asleep.

And in the night she saw a wonderful thing--a moonbeam that seemed to come down into the room--the small hand in hers unloosed itself, and the boy arose looking gloriously beautiful; his eyes were shining, and he could see the bright light, and he began climbing up the beam, so easily that it looked like gliding, so happily now that he could see his way and whither it was leading him.

The next morning Stella's first thought was of the lovely vision, and of her little companion. She turned over and looked with surprise. The cot in the corner was empty--so very empty, and tidy with its smoothed fresh sheets.

"Oh, where's he gone?" she exclaimed.

Nurse hurried to her side. "Who, dear?"

"There--from the empty cot."

The Nurse looked sweet and grave. "He has gone where he came from, dear."

"And where did he come from?" asked Stella, with a curious sense of loneliness.

"Where all children come from."

Of course, Stella knew that all children are Heaven-born, and come from the stars. Why, her own name meant a star. And, of course, she also knew that every one who was good some day went back again to Heaven.

"Oh," she cried, in a hushed voice, "has he gone back there?"

"Yes, dear," replied Nurse Evelyn gently. "Now, don't think of him any more. Here's a pretty book with pictures."

But Stella did think of him, a great deal more. The little golden-haired boy occupied her thoughts more than any one ever knew. And that night, and many other nights, when she looked upwards at the vast sky, so mysterious and serene with its millions of stars, she would wonder and ponder. And there was always one particular little star that she loved best, and when she looked upon it a sweetness would steal into her heart, and she would think of the gentle boy with the angel face, who had gone back to Heaven--for she felt quite sure that he was there amongst them, and that he could see her, and that, perhaps, he loved her.

And all to herself she called him Little Starry--and she remembered him always.

CEDRIC'S UNACCOUNTABLE ADVENTURE