Chapter XI: Round the Fire

Miss Pollard and Miss Fanny liked to have an individual knowledge of each of their pupils, and as they did not yet know the Ramsays very well they asked them to tea one day. So after school Mavis and Merle stayed behind and washed their hands, and went with the boarders into the dining-room, and ate scones and honey and home-baked cake, and felt rather shy and hardly spoke at all, although they were both sitting close to Miss Pollard, who made most noble efforts at conversation. When tea was over, those girls who were due to practise departed to the several pianos, and began a kind of musical combat of scales and studies. The others collected round the fire in the recreation-room. Preparation had been put off on account of the visitors, and Miss Pollard had announced that she and Miss Fanny were coming in for half an hour's chat or fun.

"You must decide what you'd like to do," she said. "Ask Mavis and Merle what are their favourite games. Do they know 'adverbs'? It must be something you can all play."

Standing in front of the fire everybody proposed something different, and nobody wanted anybody else's suggestion. Matters seemed likely to go rather lamely till Mamie had a really sensible idea.

"Let's ask Miss Pollard to tell us a Devonshire story instead of playing games."

"Does she know any Devonshire stories?" said Merle quickly.

"Heaps and heaps. She says she learnt them from the old people about Durracombe, when she was a little girl, and her father was vicar. She's written most of them down. She has them in a manuscript book. We want her to get it published some day, because they're so topping. They're all about Devonshire pixies and witches and charms and things."

"I'd love to hear one."

"So would I," added Mavis, "I'd like it far better than playing a game, if you others don't mind."

"Oh, it's you visitors who are to choose."

So when Miss Pollard and Miss Fanny entered, and inquired what was to be the particular form of entertainment, Mamie voted for Devonshire stories, and all hands were held up in favour of her proposal.

"My little folk-tales!" exclaimed Miss Pollard, looking very pleased. "They're collected from the neighbourhood. The old people used to tell them years ago, but nowadays I don't think anybody in Durracombe cares about pixies. Most of them would have been forgotten if I hadn't written them down. I'll fetch the book. I'd rather read you one than try to remember it. I never can recollect the best points when I tell stories."

Miss Pollard returned presently with a small manuscript volume, the result of rather careful work on her part, for she was interested in the old legends of the district. She settled herself in a wicker arm-chair, with Doreen on her lap, and Elsbeth squatting on the floor leaning against her knee, while Miss Fanny, on the opposite side of the hearth, gave similar petting to Jessie and Prue. It was a "home-y" little circle, not in the least like school. Mavis could not help thinking how sweet Miss Pollard looked, with the firelight shining on her silver hair, and an unwonted pink colour in her cheeks. Miss Fanny, too, was picturesque in the gloaming, and Prue's red-gold head made a bright spot of colour against her dull-green dress.

"They're dears, both of them," thought Mavis. "Absolute dears! Anybody more unlike school-mistresses I never met in my life. They ought to have been married. They must have been so pretty when they were young. I suppose they never met anybody in this out-of-the-way place. The school may be old-fashioned, and behind the age, and all the rest of it, but they give the boarders a good time at any rate. They're just mothers to those Indian children. I'm glad to have had a peep at them behind the scenes and seen this side of them. I believe I'm rather in love with them both."

But Miss Pollard had opened her manuscript book and, in her pleasant cultured voice, was beginning to read.

STOLEN BY THE PIXIES

Nancy Gurney sat by the side of the driftwood fire, and her
tears fell fast as she rocked the cradle of her sleeping child.
The afternoon sun shone brightly through the narrow casement
window, and lit up the earthen floor and the brown rafters with
a warm yellow glow. From outside came the fresh smell of the
sea, and the soft grinding of the pebbles, while the waves
lapped gently over the beach, as if they had never lashed
themselves into foaming breakers against the cliffs.

The red poppies which grew on the low-thatched roof raised up
their heads, battered by yesterday's storms, the great flat
fish, hung up to dry in the sun by the doorway, flapped in the
light breeze, and from the shore came the shrill eager voices of
children, who gathered the driftwood cast up by the gale. But
the fishing-boats! The brown-sailed fishing-boats that ought to
have beaten back so safely into the harbour with the turn of the
tide, alas! there was never a sign nor a sail of them to be
seen, and there was many an aching heart in Bulvertor that day.

"Maybe they've got safe off towards the Cornish coast," said
Kitty Trefyre, who sat knitting in the inglenook.

"Nay," said Nancy sadly, "they'd have been round the head by
now. It's only the stoutest of boats that could have weathered
such a gale as blew last night, and _The Dolphin_ was hardly
seaworthy at best. No! They're gone! They're gone! We shall
never see the brown sails again! The sea has taken my Peter as
it has claimed all my dearest and best, and my poor boy is a
fatherless babe."

She dropped her head on her hands, and sobbed till the tears
fell into the cradle over the sleeping child.

"Don't take it so hard!" said Kitty. "We won't give them up
yet! And whisht, girl, whisht! Whatever you do don't weep over
the boy! Have you never heard that if tears fall on a sleeping
child the pixies have power to steal it away?"

Nancy dashed the tears from her eyes, and walked to the doorway
to take one long wistful look over the bay. The old woman laid
aside her knitting and followed her.

"It's ill luck!" she muttered. "Ill luck to shed tears on
sleeping babes, and I doubt me but evil will come of it. I'll
gather some fern seed and drop it in the cradle. It's a
well-known charm for keeping off pixies or witches, and 'tis
better to be wise in time--wise in time!"

She hobbled out across the garden to where the ferns grew under
the hedge, while Nancy turned sadly again to the fireside. She
stooped over the cradle to kiss her sleeping child, but started
back with a piercing, bitter cry. _The cradle was empty!_

The sound of her grief soon brought old Kitty hurrying to the
cottage.

"My boy! My beautiful boy!" sobbed the despairing mother. "The
pixies have stolen him away. Oh, that I had wept myself blind
ere I let the tears fall over his cradle!"

She sat rocking herself to and fro in her sorrow, while the old
woman threw the fern seed, picked, alas! too late, into the
driftwood fire.

"There's one hope left," said Kitty, when the first wild burst
of grief had worn itself away. "I am cunning and wise in the
ways of the pixies, and I know that they dance each night in the
moonlight on the ledge of rock where the sea-pinks bloom on the
face of St. Morna's Cliff. If you hide yourself there, with a
wreath of vervain round your hair, and could catch them
unawares, my heart tells me you might force them to restore what
they have stolen. But, alas! the plan is well-nigh impossible,
for how could you tread safely over the crags where the boldest
of our cliff climbers scarce dare to venture?"

"Yet I will do it!" cried Nancy, as she rose up with a new light
in her eyes. "Quick! weave me the wreath of vervain, and show me
by what spell I may force the fairies to give me back my child."

"Nay, that I cannot tell you," said old Kitty. "Your own
mother-wit must find out the way. Start when the twilight has
fallen, and when seven stars are shining over the sea; tell none
your errand, and cast three sprigs from your vervain wreath if a
hare should cross your path. Turn your wedding ring round on
your finger before you venture to climb down the cliff, and call
on St. Morna to help you. Watch silently all that may happen
till you see your opportunity arise--and may good luck and my
blessing go with you!"

The dusk had fallen over the village, and the stars were
beginning to shine in the darkening sky, when Nancy, with the
wreath of vervain twined through her dark hair, crept softly
past the last of the cottages, and took the little briary path
which led through the low sandhills, and over the wind-swept
hill-side up to St. Morna's Cliff.

Not a sound broke the silence, for the sea-gulls had vanished
with the sunshine, and not even a fieldmouse stirred in the
bracken. With hasty step she hurried along, for she must reach
her post before moonrise. The path grew steeper, the bracken
gave way to heather, and at length she found herself on the
smooth grassy surface of St. Morna's Cliff. Down far below her
she could see the wide rocky ledge where the sea-pinks were
catching the last glow from the western sky. How steep the crag
looked! The few tufts of grass and jutting-out pieces of rock
offered her scarcely a foothold; should she make one false step
she must be dashed to atoms upon the precipice beneath. She
looked down and shivered; but the thought of her child sent a
thrill of courage to her heart. Kneeling down on the short grass
she prayed to St. Morna for help; then, turning her wedding ring
round upon her finger, she swung herself over the edge of the
cliff.

Clutching at a root here, feeling with her feet for the
slightest foothold, grasping the worn splinters of the crag, she
let herself down the face of the rock, till with panting breath
and bleeding fingers she fell among the sea-pinks on the ledge
below. She lay there for a while, half-insensible, till the
first rays of the rising moon began to shimmer over the sea.
Then she rose hastily, and, hiding herself behind a huge
boulder, waited for what should happen.

When the first faint moonbeams fell all silvery white upon the
ledge, the sea-pinks lifted their pretty heads; they grew and
grew till each had changed into a gorgeous tropical flower,
then, leaving their places, they ranged themselves into a wide
circle, and cast forth such a fragrance as might have stolen out
of the open gates of Paradise. Upon each hung a tiny silver
bell, and as they nodded their heads the bells chimed out the
sweetest fairy tunes. Little stars began to glitter among the
leaves, some pink, some blue, some golden, and the short green
grass inside the circle smoothed itself out into the most
beautiful dancing-floor.

Then there was a great rushing sound in the sky, and from far
and near there flew flocks of snow-white sea-gulls. As they
reached the ledge their wings fell from them, and they turned
into lovely little pixies, as light and transparent as gossamer.
Joining hands, they stepped inside the circle of flowers and
danced a graceful, intricate measure, while the fairy bells rang
out their sweetest tunes. On and on they danced, hour after
hour; the moon rose slowly in the sky, but the pixies' feet
seemed never to tire as they beat time to the enchanting music.

Hiding behind the boulder of rock Nancy had been quite
unnoticed, but her eager eyes watched all that had been taking
place. Stretching out her hand very gently she managed to steal
a pair of the sea-birds' wings, and hide them away in her bosom.

The little bells still rang out their chimes, and the pixies
tripped lightly over the grass, till at length the moon began to
wane, and the first glimmer of approaching dawn showed in the
eastern sky.

Then the tiny dancers stopped short in their merry pastime, and,
taking their white wings again, they flew away over the sea like
a cloud of foam flakes. The coloured stars and the silver bells
had disappeared, the tropical flowers broke up their circle and
changed once more into simple little sea-pinks, and the grass,
where the pixies had danced, grew up fresher and greener than
ever.

But one little pixie was left behind. She wandered round
wringing her hands and seeking vainly for the sea-bird's wings
that should have borne her away with the others. Tripping behind
the great boulder of rock she came face to face with Nancy, who
still crouched in its shadow.

"Mortal! cruel mortal!" cried the pixie, "you have stolen my
wings! Give them back, I pray you, before the dawn breaks, for
the first rays of sunshine will wither me up, and I shall turn
into a little faded brown leaf."

"Pixie! cruel pixie!" cried Nancy, "you have stolen my child!
Bring him back to my arms, and then and not till then will I
restore you your wings."

"How can I find you your child?" screamed the pixie. "Oh! give
me my wings--my pretty white wings; let me fly safely away over
the sea ere I turn for ever into a little withered brown leaf!"
and she stamped her tiny foot in her helpless passion.

"You can and shall find me my child," said Nancy, "for I know
that the pixies have stolen him away, and that only a pixie can
bring him back to me. Look! the sky is reddening already, your
time is short. Do my bidding speedily, and the wings are yours."

"The dawn! the dawn!" shrieked the pixie. "Mortal, I will grant
you what you ask! Each of the sea-pinks which bloom on this
green turf holds the soul of a child which we have stolen away
from its cradle. For a moment each pretty flower shall wear its
human face, then choose out your own child swiftly and let me be
gone."

She clapped her hands, and each of the little sea-pinks turned
to a smiling baby face. All the merry eyes and tiny curls were
there that mothers had mourned for all over the country-side,
and at her feet Nancy saw the sweet, laughing face of her stolen
child. With a cry of joy she clasped him in her arms.

"The dawn! the dawn!" cried the pixie. "Mortal, give me my
wings!"

Nancy drew them from her bosom, and gave them into the eager,
entreating fingers. With a great rush of light the sun rose, his
golden beams fell on the wide ledge of rock, lighting up a bed
of simple little sea-pinks, while over the broad blue sea there
flew a solitary sea-gull.

Folding her shawl about her child, Nancy slung him on to her
back, and with slow steps and painful fingers she climbed up the
face of the cliff. The larks were rising out of the heather, the
little blue butterflies were flitting over the yellow gorse, the
dew-drops hung like jewels in the gossamer, and far away on the
distant water she could see the brown sails of the missing
fishing-boats as they beat safely over the bar into Bulvertor
Harbour.

* * * * *

"The story was told me in Devonshire dialect when I was a little girl," said Miss Pollard, as she closed her book, "but I wrote it in ordinary English because the other is so hard to understand. It's funny that in the accounts of fairies they always seem to speak the local languages. Irish fairies talk Erse, and Welsh fairies sing in Welsh. Have you pixies in the north, Mavis?"

"They're called 'boggarts' in our part of the world," laughed Mavis, "and I suppose they talk dialect. There's a north-country story about a boggart--a creature something like a brownie--that lived at a farm, and was such a bother that the people thought they'd remove to get rid of him. They put all their furniture on a cart, and started out. They met a neighbour, who said to them: 'So thee's flittin'!' and the boggart popped its ugly little head out of the churn and said: 'Aye, we's flittin'!'.

"The people were so disgusted to find that it intended to go with them to new quarters that they turned back to their old farm and decided to put up with the nuisance."

"Ayah used to tell us Indian fairy tales," said Mamie, "but they were about princes and devas and lovely ladies."

"There are fairy tales all over the world," said Miss Pollard, "and if we go on telling them we shall never stop. It's time for preparation now. You little people must run away, and the others must fetch their books. Mavis and Merle must come some time to have tea with us again."