Tell Me a Story. Molesworth Mrs.
upon it to see what would come next.
The Fairies came next. One after the other, by dozens, and scores, and hundreds, they passed before her, each as he passed making the humblest of obeisances, as if to the great Mogul himself. It was very fine indeed, but after a while Louisa began to get rather tired of it, and though the throne was very grand to look at, it too felt rather hard, and the crown grew decidedly heavier.
“I think I’d like to come down for a little,” she said to some of the ladies and gentlemen beside her, but they took no notice. “I’d like to get down for a little and to take off my crown – it’s hurting my head, and this spangly dress is so cold,” she continued. Still the fairies took no notice.
“Don’t you hear what I say?” she exclaimed again, getting angry; “what’s the use of being a queen if you won’t answer me?”
Then at last some of the fairies standing beside the throne appeared to hear what she was saying.
“Her majesty wishes to take a little exercise,” said “Clarke’s Number 12,” and immediately the words were repeated in a sort of confusing buzz all round the hall. “Her majesty wishes to take a little exercise” – “her majesty wishes to take a little exercise,” till Louisa could have shaken them all heartily, she felt so provoked. Then suddenly the throne began to squeak and grunt (Louisa thought it was going to talk about her taking exercise next), and after it had given vent to all manner of unearthly sounds it jerked itself up, first on one side and then on the other, like a very rheumatic old woman, and at last slowly moved away. None of the fairies were pushing it, that was plain; and at first Louisa was too much occupied in wondering what made it move, to find fault with the mode of exercise permitted to her. The throne rolled slowly along, all round the hall, and wherever it appeared a crowd of fairies scuttled away, all chattering the same words – “Her majesty is taking a little exercise,” till at last, with renewed jerks and grunts and groans, her queer conveyance settled itself again in its old place. As soon as it was still, Louisa tried to get down, but no sooner did she put one foot on the ground than a crowd of fairies respectfully lifted it up again on to the footstool. This happened two or three times, till Louisa’s patience was again exhausted.
“Get out of my way,” she exclaimed, “you horrid little things, get out of my way; I want to get down and run about.”
But the fairies took no notice of what she said, till for the third time she repeated it. Then they all spoke at once.
“Her majesty wants to take a little more exercise,” they buzzed in all directions, till Louisa was so completely out of patience that she burst into tears.
“I won’t stay to be your queen,” she said, “it’s not nice at all. I want to go home to my mamma. I want to go home to my mamma. I want to go home to my mamma.”
“We don’t know what mammas are,” said the fairies. “We haven’t anything of that kind here.”
“That’s a story,” said Louisa. “There – are mammas here. I’ve seen several. There’s Mrs Brown, and there’s Lady Flossy, and there’s – no, the Chinese princesses haven’t a mamma. But you see there are two among my mamma’s own reels in her workb – .”
But before she could finish the word the fairies all set up a terrific shout. “The word, the word,” they cried, “the word that no one must mention here. Hush! hush! hush!”
They all turned upon Louisa as if they were going to tear her to pieces. In her terror she uttered a piercing scream, and – woke.
She wasn’t in bed; where was she? Could she be in the workbox? Wherever she was it was quite dark and cold, and something was pressing against her head, and her legs were aching. Suddenly there came a flash of light. Some one had opened the door, and the light from the hall streamed in. The some one was Louisa’s mamma.
“Who is in here? Did I hear some one calling out?” she exclaimed anxiously.
Louisa was slowly recovering her wits. “It was me, mamma,” she answered; “I didn’t know where I was, and I was so frightened and I am so cold. Oh mamma!”
A flood of tears choked her.
“You poor child,” exclaimed her mamma, hurrying back to the hall to fetch a lamp, as she spoke, “why, you have fallen asleep on the hearth-rug, and the fire’s out; and my workbox – what is it doing here? Were you using it for a pillow?”
“No,” said Louisa, eyeing the workbox suspiciously, “it was on the chair, and the corner of it has hurt my head, mamma; it was pressing against it.” Her mamma lifted the box on to the table.
“Are they all in there, mamma?” whispered Louisa, timidly.
“All in where? All who? What are you speaking about, my dear?”
“The fairies – the reels I mean,” replied Louisa. “My dear, you are dreaming still,” said her mamma, laughing, but seeing that Louisa looked dissatisfied, “never mind, you shall tell me your dreams to-morrow. But just now you must really go to bed. It is nine o’clock – you have been two hours asleep. I went out of the room in a hurry, taking the lamp with me because it was not burning rightly, and then I heard baby crying – he is very cross to-night – and both nurse and I forgot about you. Now go, dear, and get well warmed at the nursery fire before you go to bed.”
Louisa trotted off. She had no more dreams that night, but when she woke the next morning, her poor little legs were still aching. She had caught cold the night before, there was no doubt, so her mamma, taking some blame to herself for her having fallen asleep on the floor, was particularly kind and indulgent to her. She brought her down to the drawing-room wrapped in a shawl, and established her comfortably in an arm-chair.
“What will you have to play with?” she asked. “Would you like my workbox?”
“I don’t know,” said Louisa, doubtfully. “Mamma,” she continued, after a moment’s silence, “can queens never do what they like?”
“Very often they can’t,” replied her mamma. “What makes you ask?”
“I dreamt I was a queen,” said Louisa.
“Did you? What country were you queen of?”
“I was queen of the reel fairies,” replied the child gravely. Her mother looked mystified “Tell me what you mean, dear,” she said. “Tell me all about it.”
So bit by bit Louisa explained the whole, and her mamma had for once a peep into that strange, fantastic, mysterious world, which we call a child’s imagination. She had a glimpse of something else too. She saw that her little girl was in danger of getting to live too much alone, was in need of sympathy and companionship.
“I think it was what Frances Gordon said that made me dream about being a queen,” she said.
“And do you still wish you were a queen?” said her mamma.
“No,” said Louisa.
“A princess then?”
“No,” she replied again. “But, mamma – ”
“Well, dear?”
“I do wish sometimes that I was pretty, and that – that – I don’t know how to say it – that people made a fuss about me sometimes.”
Her mamma looked a little grave and a little sad; but still she smiled. She could not be angry – thought Louisa.
“Is it naughty, mamma?” she whispered.
“Naughty? No, dear; it is a wish most little girls have, I fancy – and big ones too. But some day you will understand how it might grow into a wrong feeling, and how on the other side a little of it may be useful to help good feelings. And till you understand better, dear, doesn’t it make you happy to know that to me you could not be dearer if you were the most beautiful little princess in the world.”
“As beautiful as Princess Fair Star, mamma?”
“Yes, or any other princess you can think of. I would rather have my