Yet I noted, and was glad to note, evidence of a far deeper feeling than mere friendly regard, in her meeting with Arthur—though this was, as I gathered, an almost daily occurrence—and the conversation between them, in which the Earl and I were only occasional sharers, had an ease and a spontaneity rarely met with except between very old friends: and, as I knew that they had not known each other for a longer period than the summer which was now rounding into autumn, I felt certain that “Love,” and Love alone, could explain the phenomenon.

  “How convenient it would be,” Lady Muriel laughingly remarked, apropos of my having insisted on saving her the trouble of carrying a cup of tea across the room to the Earl, “if cups of tea had no weight at all! Then perhaps ladies would sometimes be permitted to carry them for short distances!”

  “One can easily imagine a situation,” said Arthur, “where things would necessarily have no weight, relatively to each other, though each would have its usual weight, looked at by itself.”

  “Some desperate paradox!” said the Earl. “Tell us how it could be. We shall never guess it.”

  “Well, suppose this house, just as it is, placed a few billion miles above a planet, and with nothing else near enough to disturb it: of course it falls to the planet?”

  The Earl nodded. “Of course—though it might take some centuries to do it.”

  “And is five-o’clock-tea to be going on all the while?” said Lady Muriel.

  “That, and other things,” said Arthur. “The inhabitants would live their lives, grow up and die, and still the house would be falling, falling, falling! But now as to the relative weight of things. Nothing can be heavy, you know, except by trying to fall, and being prevented from doing so. You all grant that?”

  We all granted that.

  “Well, now, if I take this book, and hold it out at arms length, of course I feel its weight. It is trying to fall, and I prevent it. And, if I let go, it falls to the floor. But, if we were all falling together, it couldn’t be trying to fall any quicker, you know: for, if I let go, what more could it do than fall? And, as my hand would be falling too—at the same rate—it would never leave it, for that would be to get ahead of it in the race. And it could never overtake the falling floor!”

  “I see it clearly,” said Lady Muriel. “But it makes one dizzy to think of such things! How can you make us do it?”

  “There is a more curious idea yet,” I ventured to say. “Suppose a cord fastened to the house, from below, and pulled down by someone on the planet. Then of course the house goes faster than its natural rate of falling: but the furniture—with our noble selves—would go on falling at their old pace, and would therefore be left behind.”

  “Practically, we should rise to the ceiling,” said the Earl. “The inevitable result of which would be concussion of brain.”

  “To avoid that,” said Arthur, “let us have the furniture fixed to the floor, and ourselves tied down to the furniture. Then the five-o’clock-tea could go on in peace.”

  “With one little drawback!” Lady Muriel gaily interrupted. “We should take the cups down with us: but what about the tea?”

  “I had forgotten the tea,” Arthur confessed. “That, no doubt, would rise to the ceiling—unless you chose to drink it on the way!”

  “Which, I think, is quite nonsense enough for one while!” said the Earl. “What news does this gentleman bring us from the great world of London?”

  This drew me into the conversation, which now took a more conventional tone. After a while, Arthur gave the signal for our departure, and in the cool of the evening we strolled down to the beach, enjoying the silence, broken only by the murmur of the sea and the faraway music of some fishermen’s song, almost as much as our late pleasant talk.

  We sat down among the rocks, by a little pool, so rich in animal, vegetable, and zoophytic—or whatever is the right word—life, that I became entranced in the study of it, and, when Arthur proposed returning to our lodgings, I begged to be left there for a while, to watch and muse alone.

  The fishermen’s song grew ever nearer and clearer, as their boat stood in for the beach; and I would have gone down to see them land their cargo of fish, had not the microcosm at my feet stirred my curiosity yet more keenly.

  One ancient crab, that was forever shuffling frantically from side to side of the pool, had particularly fascinated me: there was a vacancy in its stare, and an aimless violence in its behaviour, that irresistibly recalled the Gardener who had befriended Sylvie and Bruno: and, as I gazed, I caught the concluding notes of the tune of his crazy song.

  The silence that followed was broken by the sweet voice of Sylvie. “Would you please let us out into the road?”

  “What! After that old beggar again?” the Gardener yelled, and began singing:—

  “He thought he saw a Kangaroo

  That worked a coffee-mill:

  He looked again, and found it was

  A Vegetable-Pill.

  ‘Were I to swallow this,’ he said,

  ‘I should be very ill!’ ”

  “We don’t want him to swallow anything,” Sylvie explained. “He’s not hungry. But we want to see him. So will you please—”

  “Certainly!” the Gardener promptly replied. “I always please. Never displeases nobody. There you are!” And he flung the door open, and let us out upon the dusty high road.

  We soon found our way to the bush, which had so mysteriously sunk into the ground: and here Sylvie drew the Magic Locket from its hiding-place, turned it over with a thoughtful air, and at last appealed to Bruno in a rather helpless way. “What was it we had to do with it, Bruno? It’s all gone out of my head!”

  “Kiss it!” was Bruno’s invariable recipe in cases of doubt and difficulty. Sylvie kissed it, but no result followed.

  “Rub it the wrong way,” was Bruno’s next suggestion.

  “Which is the wrong way?” Sylvie most reasonably enquired. The obvious plan was to try both ways.

  Rubbing from left to right had no visible effect whatever.

  From right to left—“Oh, stop, Sylvie!” Bruno cried in sudden alarm. “Whatever is going to happen?”

  For a number of trees, on the neighbouring hillside, were moving slowly upwards, in solemn procession: while a mild little brook, that had been rippling at our feet a moment before, began to swell, and foam, and hiss, and bubble, in a truly alarming fashion.

  “Rub it some other way!” cried Bruno. “Try up-and-down! Quick!”

  It was a happy thought. Up-and-down did it: and the landscape, which had been showing signs of mental aberration in various directions, returned to its normal condition of sobriety—with the exception of a small yellowish-brown mouse, which continued to run wildly up and down the road, lashing its tail like a little lion.

  “Let’s follow it,” said Sylvie: and this also turned out a happy thought. The mouse at once settled down into a businesslike jog-trot, with which we could easily keep pace. The only phenomenon, that gave me any uneasiness, was the rapid increase in the size of the little creature we were following, which became every moment more and more like a real lion.

  Soon the transformation was complete: and a noble lion stood patiently waiting for us to come up with it. No thought of fear seemed to occur to the children, who patted and stroked it as if it had been a Shetland-pony.

  “Help me up!” cried Bruno. And in another moment Sylvie had lifted him upon the broad back of the gentle beast, and seated herself behind him, pillion-fashion. Bruno took a good handful of mane in each hand, and made believe to guide this new kind of steed. “Gee-up!” seemed quite sufficient by way of verbal direction: the lion at once broke into an easy canter, and we soon found ourselves in the depths of the forest. I say “we,” for I am certain that I accompanied them—though how I managed to keep up with a cantering lion I am wholly unable to explain. But I was certainly one of the party when we came upon an old beggar-man cutting sticks, at whose feet the lion made a profound obeisance, Sylvie and Bruno at the same moment dismounting, and leaping into the arms of their father.

  “From bad to worse!” the old man said to himself, dreamily, when the children had finished their rather confused account of the Ambassador’s visit, gathered no doubt from general report, as they had not seen him themselves. “From bad to worse! That is their destiny. I see it, but I cannot alter it. The selfishness of a mean and crafty man—the selfishness of an ambitious and silly woman—the selfishness of a spiteful and loveless child—all tend one way, from bad to worse! And you, my darlings, must suffer it awhile, I fear. Yet, when things are at their worst, you can come to me. I can do but little as yet—”

  Gathering up a handful of dust and scattering it in the air, he slowly and solemnly pronounced some words that sounded like a charm, the children looking on in awestruck silence:—

  “Let craft, ambition, spite,

  Be quenched in Reason’s night,

  Till weakness turn to might,

  Till what is dark be light,

  Till what is wrong be right!”

  The cloud of dust spread itself out through the air, as if it were alive, forming curious shapes that were forever changing into others.

  “It makes letters! It makes words!” Bruno whispered, as he clung, half-frightened, to Sylvie. “Only I can’t make them out! Read them, Sylvie!”

  “I’ll try,” Sylvie gravely replied. “Wait a minute—if only I could see that word—”

  “I should be very ill!” a discordant voice yelled in our ears.

  “ ‘Were I to swallow this,’ he said,

  ‘I should be very ill!’ ”

  IX

  A Jester and a Bear

  Yes, we were in the garden once more: and, to escape that horrid discordant voice, we hurried indoors, and found ourselves in the library—Uggug blubbering, the Professor standing by with a bewildered air, and my Lady, with her arms clasped round her son’s neck, repeating, over and over again, “and did they give him nasty lessons to learn? My own pretty pet!”

  “What’s all this noise about?” the Vice-Warden angrily enquired, as he strode into the room. “And who put the hatstand here?” And he hung his hat up on Bruno, who was standing in the middle of the room, too much astonished by the sudden change of scene to make any attempt at removing it, though it came down to his shoulders, making him look something like a small candle with a large extinguisher over it.

  The Professor mildly explained that His Highness had been graciously pleased to say he wouldn’t do his lessons.

  “Do your lessons this instant, you young cub!” thundered the Vice-Warden. “And take this!” and a resounding box on the ear made the unfortunate Professor reel across the room.

  “Save me!” faltered the poor old man, as he sank, half-fainting, at my Lady’s feet.

  “Shave you? Of course I will!” my Lady replied, as she lifted him into a chair, and pinned an antimacassar round his neck. “Where’s the razor?”

  The Vice-Warden meanwhile had got hold of Uggug, and was belabouring him with his umbrella. “Who left this loose nail in the floor?” he shouted. “Hammer it in, I say! Hammer it in!” Blow after blow fell on the writhing Uggug, till he dropped howling to the floor.

  Then his father turned to the “shaving” scene which was being enacted, and roared with laughter. “Excuse me, dear, I can’t help it!” he said as soon as he could speak. “You are such an utter donkey! Kiss me, Tabby!”

  And he flung his arms round the neck of the terrified Professor, who raised a wild shriek, but whether he received the threatened kiss or not I was unable to see, as Bruno, who had by this time released himself from his extinguisher, rushed headlong out of the room, followed by Sylvie; and I was so fearful of being left alone among all these crazy creatures that I hurried after them.

  “We must go to Father!” Sylvie panted, as they ran down the garden. “I’m sure things are at their worst! I’ll ask the Gardener to let us out again.”

  “But we can’t walk all the way!” Bruno whimpered. “How I wiss we had a coach-and-four, like Uncle!”

  And, shrill and wild, rang through the air the familiar voice:—

  “He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four

  That stood beside his bed:

  He looked again, and found it was

  A Bear without a Head.

  ‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘poor silly thing!

  It’s waiting to be fed!’ ”

  “No, I can’t let you out again!” he said, before the children could speak. “The Vice-Warden gave it me, he did, for letting you out last time! So be off with you!” And, turning away from them, he began digging frantically in the middle of a gravel-walk, singing, over and over again,

  “ ‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘poor silly thing!

  It’s waiting to be fed!’ ”

  but in a more musical tone than the shrill screech in which he had begun.

  The music grew fuller and richer at every moment: other manly voices joined in the refrain: and soon I heard the heavy thud that told me the boat had touched the beach, and the harsh grating of the shingle as the men dragged it up. I roused myself, and, after lending them a hand in hauling up their boat, I lingered yet awhile to watch them disembark a goodly assortment of the hard-won “treasures of the deep.”

  When at last I reached our lodgings I was tired and sleepy, and glad enough to settle down again into the easy-chair, while Arthur hospitably went to his cupboard, to get me out some cake and wine, without which, he declared, he could not, as a doctor, permit my going to bed.

  And how that cupboard-door did creak! It surely could not be Arthur, who was opening and shutting it so often, moving so restlessly about, and muttering like the soliloquy of a tragedy-queen!

  No, it was a female voice. Also the figure—half-hidden by the cupboard-door—was a female figure, massive, and in flowing robes. Could it be the landlady? The door opened, and a strange man entered the room.

  “What is that donkey doing?” he said to himself, pausing, aghast, on the threshold.

  The lady, thus rudely referred to, was his wife. She had got one of the cupboards open, and stood with her back to him, smoothing down a sheet of brown paper on one of the shelves, and whispering to herself “So, so! Deftly done! Craftily contrived!”

  Her loving husband stole behind her on tiptoe, and tapped her on the head. “Boh!” he playfully shouted at her ear. “Never tell me again I can’t say ‘boh’ to a goose!”

  My Lady wrung her hands. “Discovered!” she groaned. “Yet no—he is one of us! Reveal it not, oh Man! Let it bide its time!”

  “Reveal what not?” her husband testily replied, dragging out the sheet of brown paper. “What are you hiding here, my Lady? I insist upon knowing!”

  My Lady cast down her eyes, and spoke in the littlest of little voices. “Don’t make fun of it, Benjamin!” she pleaded. “It’s—it’s—don’t you understand? It’s a dagger!”

  “And what’s that for?” sneered His Excellency. “We’ve only got to make people think he’s dead! We haven’t got to kill him! And made of tin, too!” he snarled, contemptuously bending the blade round his thumb. “Now, Madam, you’ll be good enough to explain. First, what do you call me Benjamin for?”

  “It’s part of the Conspiracy, Love! One must have an alias, you know—”

  “Oh, an alias, is it? Well! And next, what did you get this dagger for? Come, no evasions! You can’t deceive me!”

  “I got it for—for—for—” the detected Conspirator stammered, trying her best to put on the assassin-expression that she had been practising at the looking-glass. “For—”

  “For what, Madam!”

  “Well, for eighteenpence, if you must know, dearest! That’s what I got it for, on my—”

  “Now don’t say your Word and Honour!” groaned the other Conspirator. “Why, they aren’t worth half the money, put together!”

  “On my birthday,” my Lady concluded in a meek whisper. “One must have a dagger, you know. It’s part of the—”

  “Oh, don’t talk of Conspiracies!” her husband savagely interrupted, as he tossed the dagger into the cupboard. “You know about as much how to manage a Conspiracy as if you were a chicken. Why, the first thing is to get a disguise. Now, just look at this!”

  And with pardonable pride he fitted on the cap and bells, and the rest of the Fool’s dress, and winked at her, and put his tongue in his cheek. “Is that the sort of thing, now?” he demanded.

  My Lady’s eyes flashed with all a Conspirator’s enthusiasm. “The very thing!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “You do look, oh, such a perfect Fool!”

  The Fool smiled a doubtful smile. He was not quite clear whether it was a compliment or not, to express it so plainly. “You mean a Jester? Yes, that’s what I intended. And what do you think your disguise is to be?” And he proceeded to unfold the parcel, the lady watching him in rapture.

  “Oh, how lovely!” she cried, when at last the dress was unfolded. “What a splendid disguise! An Eskimo peasant-woman!”

  “An Eskimo peasant, indeed!” growled the other. “Here, put it on, and look at yourself in the glass. Why, it’s a Bear, can’t you use your eyes?” He checked himself suddenly, as a harsh voice yelled through the room

  “He looked again, and found it was