Five Minutes' Stories

THE GOBLIN FACE

WHEN I was a very little girl, I spent a good deal of my life in a large old-fashioned house in a very out-of-the-way part of Scotland. It was not really our home, but it almost seemed so, for we used to go there as soon as the fine mild weather set in, and stay till the shortening days and the first frosts told of winter's approach. It was the home of our uncle – my mother's only brother – and as he had never married, and she was many years younger than he, she seemed to him more like his daughter than his sister, and he was never so happy as when he had her and all us children to brighten up his rather gloomy old house. Gloomy it might be in appearance, but in nothing else, for my uncle was the kindest of men, and he and all his old servants used to receive us with a welcome that would have made the grimmest of abodes seem sunshiny and cheerful. I could tell dozens – nay, scores of stories of our child-life in the old castle – of our games in the house, and out of doors, of the cottagers with all of whom we were on most intimate terms, of all sorts of adventures that befel us, but just now, I mean only to relate one very short, and perhaps not very interesting, story, because I think it may be of use to some children who may read it.

I was about five years old when the first cloud came over my happy life. I had been ill, but though I do not clearly remember the illness – and it seemed to me to have been rather pleasant than painful, as I was petted and made much of in every way – I believe it really was a bad illness, and had very much weakened me. We went to Scotland sooner than usual that year to strengthen me, but the weather, unluckily, was cold and rainy. We could not go out much, and had to amuse ourselves in the house. It was in this way that one of the old servants one day, meaning to please us, took to telling us ghost-stories. I was so little that I do not think she thought of me at all; the stories were told to my elder brother and sister, who only laughed at them, and rather liked the sort of "creepy" feeling of mystery which came over them as they listened. And nobody thought of poor little Nan, fanciful and nervous, though I did not know it, curled up in a corner, and drinking in every word.

From that moment my life was spoilt. I did not distinctly remember the stories: I mixed them up in my mind in a dreadful jumble, and never thought of their not being true. I grew so nervous that I hardly dared go up stairs alone, even in broad daylight, and I shut my eyes if I happened to be alone in a room where there were portraits, rather than see them staring at me, as I fancied they did. But all this was nothing to the terrors of the night, of which, even in my old age, I hardly like to think.

I slept in a little room off my mother's, and till now I had been very proud of my own nest. But all that was past. I now shivered and shuddered at the thought of bed-time, and would have done anything to avoid it. No one understood me, the nurses called me "naughty"; even dear mamma thought my temper spoilt. And no wonder, for I told nobody of my secret trouble! I think it was my fear of being laughed at, and here I would beg of "big" brothers and sisters never to laugh at little ones' terrors however silly. Try to explain them away, to comfort the poor tiny sufferers, but never laugh at them.

At last, happily for my life and health, the secret came out, and it was in this way: – There was a recess in the wall near my bed; it had shelves and went up nearly to the ceiling; in fact, it was like a cupboard with the doors off. And on the top shelf stood a curious vase, about the size of a rather fat flower-pot, of dark blue and white old Dutch stoneware. I had never noticed it, for in the daytime very little light fell on this corner, and I was seldom in the room except at night.

One evening I was put to bed as usual, feeling rather less frightened, for there were friends dining at the castle, and the sound of the piano came up to my room and cheered me.

"Leave the door open, please, I like the music," I said, and nurse did so, and thus with less shivering and heart-throbbing than usual I fell asleep. When I woke – quite suddenly – perhaps the shutting of the great door, or the guests' carriages driving away had wakened me – all was quite dark and silent. I shut my eyes, and tried to go to sleep again. But it was no use. I was quite awake, and unconsciously I opened my eyes. What was that? I have said it was quite dark, but up there, high up, there was a light that I had not seen till I turned my head. And there in the light – or did the light come from it? – was a round, staring, white face grinning down at me. I saw its eyes, its mouth, all its features – it seemed to me the goblin face by which a wicked man in one of old Effie's stories had been haunted. I stared at it like a bird at a serpent, though my heart had stopped from terror – then gradually I saw that it was moving, and that roused me. With a fearful shriek I dashed out of bed, getting by some instinct to the door, and knew nothing more till an hour or two later I opened my eyes to find myself in mamma's arms, for she was just coming into her room to go to bed when I fell into them!

It was all explained to me. There was a tiny window on to the stairs high up in that corner of the room, through which the light of mamma's candle had shone on to the old Delft vase, and even made it seem to move, as she stepped upwards. I was sensible enough for my age to understand and to believe it, but all the same I was ill for a long, long time. And the cloud over my childhood never entirely faded till childhood was left behind. Still good comes with ill. I might never, during the few years she was left with us, have learnt to know my darling mother as I did – her wonderful tenderness and "understandingness" – had it not been for my vision of the "Goblin Face."

The old vase now stands near my bedside, where night and morning I can see it and recall the memories connected with it, and there, I hope, it will stand till I die.

THE LOST BROOCH

WHAT is the matter, Linda? What are you looking for? It does so fidget me, dear, when I am sitting quietly reading, for you to keep moving about and pulling all the chairs and tables out of their places!" said Grandmamma, kindly of course – she always spoke kindly, but with a little vexation in her tone.

"It's my scissors, Grandmamma – my little beautiful new best scissors with the gilt ends," said Linda plaintively, "I know I left them with my work last night, and when I unfolded it they were gone. Some one must have taken them – I don't like that new housemaid, Grandmamma. I think she is pokey. I found her fiddling so among the books on the schoolroom table this morning."

"Trying to put them neat, I suppose – not very easy, judging by the state they were left in last night," said Grandmamma. "Linda, my dear, you must not let yourself grow suspicious. I am sure the girl is perfectly honest. I know all about her."

"But where can my scissors be, then?" said Linda. "They're not alive – they can't walk away by themselves."

"Sit down beside me for a few minutes and get cooler about it," said Grandmamma. "Something may come to your mind in a while to throw light on the disappearance. But never suspect others of anything so dreadful as even small thefts unless you are forced to do so. I will tell you a little story which has often served as a warning to me in such a case."

"Oh, yes, do please, Grandmamma," said Linda, the clouds clearing off her face in a wonderful way.

"Years and years ago when I was young, only lately married," began Grandmamma, "a curious thing happened to me. We were living in the country – it was lovely summer weather, and numbers of our friends used to drive over to see us and spend the day. My house was pretty, and I was very proud of it; I had lots of pretty things of all kinds – my wedding presents in fact – with which to adorn both it and myself, and sometimes your Grandpapa used to laugh at me, and call me a little peacock. One of my prettiest ornaments was a small diamond brooch – shaped like a star. It was really meant to wear in the evening, but I was so fond of it, that I sometimes wore it in the day-time. One morning I got a letter to say that an old school-friend of mine was staying in the neighbourhood, and that she and her husband were coming over to spend the day with us. I was very pleased to hear it, and so was your Grandpapa, as he too knew these friends of mine.

"I hurried over my breakfast, and ran away to give orders to have everything very nice for them, and I think the old cook, who knew a great deal more about luncheons and dinners than I did, was rather amused at all my charges.

"'It shall all be as nice as can be, Miss Lucy,' she said. She was always forgetting I was married, and calling me 'Miss Lucy' – 'You shall see – it shall all be just as nice as it used to be at your dear Mamma's. I'm only sorry that Maria should be away to-day, she has so much taste in arranging the fruit and flowers for the table.'

"'I'll do them myself,' I said, 'and Sophy shall help me. She seems a nice handy girl, I think.'

"'Yes, ma'am,' said cook, 'I dare say she is. But of course it's difficult to judge of a complete stranger. She's a little bit forward for my liking – so very fond of laughing.'

"'But she's so young,' I said, 'and she's never left home before. I think Maria's rather too strict.'

"Maria, I must tell you, was my maid, and Sophy was a young girl whom I had chosen out of the village school to be under Maria. I called Sophy to help me, and very proud she was to do so. We made the table look so pretty, that even the butler condescended to admire it, and then I began to think of adorning myself.

"'You may come and help me to dress,' I said to Sophy graciously which pleased her even more than dressing the table. I chose a white dress and blue ribbons, for it was very hot; and when I was all ready, I really did think I looked very nice, and I saw by Sophy's eyes that she thought so too.

"'Oh, ma'am,' she said, 'you would just be perfect if you'd put on your little brooch that sparkles so.'

"'My little diamond brooch,' I said doubtfully. 'It is rather too showy for the morning.'

"But I took it out of its case and tried it, and it did look so pretty that I was tempted to wear it, and Sophy looked very pleased.

"Our friends came and we had a most pleasant day. They were delighted with everything – house and garden were certainly looking their best in the lovely summer brightness. We spent most of the afternoon out-of-doors, where I showed them everything, even down to the kitchen garden with its tempting strawberry beds and rows of vegetables of every kind. And when they said good-bye, my old school-fellow whispered as she kissed me, that she thought I was a most fortunate girl. For she saw how kind and good your dear Grandpapa was. After they had left, he proposed that we should go a ride, as it was getting cooler. I ran up stairs and changed my dress for my riding habit, calling to Sophy to put everything tidy in my room. We came in just in time to dress for dinner, and the bell sounded before I was quite ready.

"'My brooch, Sophy,' I said, 'you put away my things.'

"Sophy looked about, but no brooch was to be seen.

"'It must be there,' I said, 'find it while I am at dinner.'

"But when I ran up after dinner, Sophy met me with a very red face and eyes that looked ready to cry, and told me it was nowhere to be found!

"I cannot tell you how we hunted. When Maria came home the next day she was dreadfully vexed, and inclined to blame me for having let Sophy be so much in my room.

"'You don't think she has taken my brooch,' I said. But Maria would not answer decidedly. She only murmured something about not trusting strangers! Weeks went on – I tried not to think about my brooch any more, but it had made a talk in the house, and Sophy felt it painfully, and when at last she said she would rather go home, I could not but feel it might be better. The very day before she was to leave I was startled by a message from cook asking me to go to see something in the kitchen. It was afternoon – an unusual time for her to want to see me, but I went at once.

"There stood cook, her kind old face beaming with pleasure.

"'Just see here, Miss Lucy,' she said. On the dresser lay a cauliflower she was on the point of preparing for cooking. She pulled aside the big green leaves at the top, and there, nestling on the creamy-looking surface underneath, lay my diamond brooch! It had dropt from the front of my dress, no doubt, that day in the garden, and the baby cauliflower's leaves had grown over it!

"You can fancy my joy, Linda, and still more the joy of poor Sophy. Instead of leaving, she lived with me more than twenty years. But what's the matter now, Linda? Are you not listening?"

"Oh, dear, yes, Grandmamma, and I do so like the story. But I just saw something shining on the frill of my dress, and see here!" And Linda held out her scissors, which had caught in a flounce.

ONLY A BUNCH OF VIOLETS

THIS is not a story that I am going to tell you. It is just a little thing that happened one day when I was out walking, and which I have never forgotten.

It did not happen in London, but in Paris, where I was then living. Some of you may have been there, and if so you know better than I can tell you what a very pretty, bright and charming place it is. That is to say, the best parts of the town are pretty and bright-looking, especially in sunny summer weather. But there are poor parts of Paris too, though you are not likely to have seen them, and alas, there are many very poor people also!

I was walking that day in the long road, or avenue rather, which is called the Champs Elysées. It is very wide indeed, and bordered on both sides by beautiful trees, among which in the summer are to be seen quantities of well-dressed people walking about or seated, and enjoying the lively scene around them. Children by the score are there too – richly dressed and playing at all sorts of games, attended by their governesses or nurses, and all this, joined to the constantly passing brilliant carriages, makes eyes unaccustomed to the sparkle and glare soon get weary. Even I, used to Paris and its ways as I was, felt tired of the whirl and rush, and I thought to myself I would turn out of the wide thoroughfare and make my way home by some quieter side street.

I was standing at the edge of the pavement with this intention, waiting till there should come a safe moment to cross, when I caught sight of a little group not far from me, and I could not help watching what was going on, with interest. A flower-cart was drawn up at the side of the road. Though it was scarcely yet full summer, there was a good display of flowers, and many of those passing stopped to buy. Among these were an old gentleman and a little boy. One could see without being told that they were grandfather and grandson. The child said a word or two to the gentleman, who let go his hand and walked on slowly. The little boy waited patiently for a minute or two, till those before him round the cart had been served, and then he came forward and made some inquiry of the flower-woman. I could not hear what he said, but he was no doubt asking what he could have for his money, for once or twice a shade of disappointment crossed his bright face, and he looked doubtfully at something he held in his hand, which I afterwards saw must have been his few coins. I felt so sorry for him that if I had not been afraid of giving offence, I would have offered him the little sum he was evidently short of, but after half starting forward to do so, I drew back again. The boy, though simply, almost poorly clad, had too much the air of a gentleman, and so had the old grandfather, whose stooping figure I still perceived slowly walking on in front. At last the boy, after peering all over the flower-cart, caught sight of a little nest of violets – sweet-scented violets – in one corner, which had been almost hidden by the larger and more brilliant plants. His face lighted up joyfully, as he pointed them out to the flower-woman, and she, in turn, smiled and nodded pleasantly. Poor thing – she could not afford to lower her prices, but the working classes in France have great sympathy with small means and the economy they oblige, and I could see that she was glad for her little customer not to be altogether disappointed of his purchase.

She chose carefully the prettiest and freshest of the violet bunches, wrapped an extra leaf or two round the stalks to keep them cool, and handing the little bouquet to the boy, smilingly received from him the coppers till now tightly clasped in his hand.

And with all the brightness back in his face again, the little fellow bounded forward to rejoin his grandfather, as light-hearted and light-footed as a young chamois.

I crossed the road and walked on. The little incident had interested and pleased me. I could not help wondering for whom the flowers were intended – a sick mother or grandmother perhaps. The child was not improbably an orphan, seeing that he was in the care of a grandparent. And I went on picturing to myself the simple thrifty home to which the pair were by this time wending their way, little thinking that I should ever see either of them again.

I was by now in one of the handsome side streets, running parallel with the great avenue. It was quieter here; there were fewer carriages or foot passengers, so that on the wide road, even a small group was plainly seen, and happening to glance backwards, I saw a sad little procession making its way slowly along. Two men, dressed in black, were carrying a little coffin – no heavy burden, it was plain – yet heavy was the sorrow of the two mourners following close behind. It was but the funeral of a tiny child, a baby, or scarce more than a baby to judge by the size of the coffin, "the only one" of the poor father and mother alone in their grief, who walked behind. They were of the very poor class of Paris working people, though decently clad, as is almost always the case in France, but too poor to have got mourning for themselves, even for the funeral of their child. The woman, it is true, had a black skirt, but over it she wore, perhaps to conceal its shabbiness, a clean checked cotton apron, and the poor father had no attempt at mourning, except a little band of rusty black fastened round the left sleeve of his blue working blouse. They were both weeping, the mother openly, her poor eyes swollen and red as if with many hours of tears, the husband trying to keep calm, as he from time to time wiped his weather beaten cheeks with his sleeve. Their poverty was shown in another way; there was not a single flower, much less a wreath or cross on the little black-draped coffin – so sad, so piteously desolate a funeral it has seldom been my lot to see in Paris. Yet poor as it was, it met with the outward marks of respect and sympathy which I often wish we could see in England, for every head was uncovered as it passed on its sorrowful way. I stood still for an instant to watch it; suddenly a small figure, rushing across the road, darting nimbly in front of a quickly advancing carriage, as if afraid of being too late, caught my eyes. It was my little friend of the violets! There was no mistaking him – and his grandfather's, it seemed to me, almost familiar figure, waiting and looking after the child from the other side of the road. What is the boy in such a hurry for? Ah – I see now, and my own eyes are not free from tears.