The Tapestry Room: A Child's Romance

"And to Dudu," observed Hugh.

Jeanne shrugged her shoulders. She was not over and above sure of Dudu even now.

The boat moved along for some time; the pass between the hills was dark and gloomy, and though the water got wider, as Jeanne had seen, it would not for some distance have been possible for the children to row. After a time it suddenly grew much lighter; they came out from the narrow pass and found themselves but a few yards from a sheet of still water with trees all round it--a sort of mountain lake it seemed, silent and solitary, and reflecting back from its calm bosom the soft, silvery, even radiance which since they came out from the door on the hillside had been the children's only light.

And in the middle of this lake lay a little island--a perfect nest of trees, whose long drooping branches hung down into the water.

"Oh, do let us row on to the island," said Jeanne eagerly, for by this time the frogs had drawn them to the edge of the lake; there could no longer be any difficulty in rowing for themselves.

"First, any way, we must thank the frogs," said Hugh, standing up. He would have taken off his cap if he had had one on; as it was, he could only bow politely.

As he did so, each frog turned round so as to face him, and each gave a little bob of the head, which, though not very graceful, was evidently meant as an acknowledgment of Hugh's courtesy.

"They are very polite frogs," whispered Hugh. "Jeanne, do stand up and bow to them too."

Jeanne, who all this time had been sitting with her feet tucked up under her, showed no inclination to move.

"I don't like to stand up," she said, "for fear the frogs should run up my legs. But I can thank them just as well sitting down. Frogs," she added, "frogs, I am very much obliged to you, and I hope you will excuse my not standing up."

The frogs bowed again, which was very considerate of them; then suddenly there seemed a movement among them, those at the end of the boat drew back a little, and a frog, whom the children had not hitherto specially observed, came forward and stood in front of the others. He was bigger, his colour was a brighter green, and his eyes more brilliantly red. He stood up on his hind legs and bowed politely. Then, after clearing his throat, of which there was much need, for even with this precaution it sounded very croaky, he addressed the children.

"Monsieur and Mademoiselle," he began, "are very welcome to what we have done for them--the small service we have rendered. Monsieur and Mademoiselle, I and my companions"--"He should say, 'My companions and I,'" whispered Jeanne--"are well brought up frogs. We know our place in society. We disapprove of newfangled notions. We are frogs--we desire to be nothing else, and we are deeply sensible of the honour Monsieur and Mademoiselle have done us by this visit."

"He really speaks very nicely," said Jeanne in a whisper.

"Before Monsieur and Mademoiselle bid us farewell--before they leave our shores," continued the frog with a wave of his "top legs," as Jeanne afterwards called them, "we should desire to give them what, without presumption, I may call a treat. Monsieur and Mademoiselle are, doubtless, aware that in our humble way we are artists. Our weakness--our strength I should rather say--is music. Our croaking concerts are renowned far and wide, and by a most fortunate coincidence one is about to take place, to celebrate the farewell--the departure to other regions--of a songster whose family fame for many ages has been renowned. Monsieur and Mademoiselle, to-night is to be heard for the first time in this century the 'Song of the Swan.'"

"The song of the swan," repeated Hugh, rather puzzled; "I didn't know swans ever sang. I thought it was just an old saying that they sing once only--when they are dying."

The frog bowed.

"Just so," he said; "it is the truth. And, therefore, the extreme difficulty of assisting at so unique a performance. It is but seldom--not above half-a-dozen times in the recollection of the oldest of my venerated cousins, the toads, that such an opportunity has occurred--and as to whether human ears have _ever_ before been regaled with what you are about to enjoy, you must allow me, Monsieur and Mademoiselle, with all deference to your race, for whom naturally we cherish the highest respect, to express a doubt."

"It's a little difficult to understand quite what he means, isn't it, Chéri?" whispered Jeanne. "But, of course, we mustn't say so. It might hurt his feelings."

"Yes," agreed Hugh, "it might. But we must say something polite."

"You say it," said Jeanne. "I really daren't stand up, and it's not so easy to make a speech sitting down."

"Monsieur Frog, we are very much obliged to you," began Hugh. "Please tell all the other frogs so too. We would like very much to hear the concert. When does it begin, and where will it be?"

"All round the lake the performers will be stationed," replied the frog pompously. "The chief artist occupies the island which you see from here. If you move forward a little--to about half-way between the shore and the island--you will, I think, be excellently placed. But first," seeing that Hugh was preparing to take up the oars, "first, you will allow us, Monsieur and Mademoiselle, to offer you a little collation--some slight refreshment after all the fatigues of your journey to our shores."

"Oh dear! oh dear!" whispered Jeanne in a terrible fright; "please say 'No, thank you,' Chéri. I _know_ they'll be bringing us that horrid green stuff for soup."

"Thank you very much," said Hugh; "you are very kind indeed, Monsieur Frog, only, really, we're not hungry."

"A little refreshment--a mere nothing," said the frog, waving his hands in an elegantly persuasive manner. "Tadpoles"--in a brisk, authoritative tone--"tadpoles, refreshments for our guests."

Jeanne shivered, but nevertheless could not help watching with curiosity. Scores of little tadpoles came hopping up the sides of the boat, each dozen or so of them carrying among them large water-lily leaves, on each of which curious and dainty-looking little cakes and bonbons were arranged. The first that was presented to Jeanne contained neat little biscuits about the size of a half-crown piece, of a tempting rich brown colour.

"Flag-flour cakes," said the frog. "We roast and grind the flour in our own mills. You will find them good."

Jeanne took one and found it very good. She would have taken another, but already a second tray-ful or leaf-ful was before her, with pinky-looking balls.

"Those are made from the sugar of water-brambles," remarked the frog, with a self-satisfied smile. "No doubt you are surprised at the delicacy and refinement of our tastes. Many human beings are under the deplorable mistake of supposing we live on slimy water and dirty insects--ha, ha, ha! whereas our cuisine is astounding in variety and delicacy of material and flavour. If it were not too late in the season, I wish you could have tasted our mushroom pâtés and minnows' eggs vols-au-vent."

"Thank you," said Hugh, "what we have had is very nice indeed."

"I _couldn't_ eat minnows' eggs," whispered Jeanne, looking rather doubtfully at the succession of leaf trays that continued to appear. She nibbled away at some of the least extraordinary-looking cakes, which the frog informed her were made from the pith of rushes roasted and ground down, and then flavoured with essence of marsh marigold, and found them nearly as nice as macaroons. Then, having eaten quite as much as they wanted, the tadpoles handed to each a leaf of the purest water, which they drank with great satisfaction.

"Now," said Hugh, "we're quite ready for the concert. Shall I row out to the middle of the lake, Monsieur Frog?"

"Midway between the shore and the island," said the frog; "that will be the best position;" and, as by this time all the frogs that had been sitting round the edge of the boat had disappeared, Hugh took the oars and paddled away.

CHAPTER VI.

THE SONG OF THE SWAN.

"----If I were on that shore, I should live there and not die, but sing evermore." JEAN INGELOW.

"About here will do, I should think--eh, Monsieur Frog?" said Hugh, resting on his oars half-way to the island. But there was no answer. The frog had disappeared.

"What a queer way all these creatures behave, don't they, Jeanne?" he said. "First Dudu, then Houpet and the others. They go off all of a sudden in the oddest way."

"I suppose they have to go when we don't need them any more," said Jeanne. "I daresay they are obliged to."

"Who obliges them?" said Hugh.

"Oh, I don't know! The fairies, I suppose," said Jeanne.

"Was it the fairies you meant when you kept saying 'they'?" asked Hugh.

"I don't know--perhaps--it's no use asking me," said Jeanne. "Fairies, or dream-spirits, or something like that. Never mind who they are if they give us nice things. I am sure the frogs have been _very_ kind, haven't they?"

"Yes; you won't be so afraid of them now, will you, Jeanne?"

"Oh, I don't know. I daresay I shall be, for they're quite different from _our_ frogs. Ours aren't so bright green, and their eyes aren't red, and they can't _talk_. Oh no, our frogs are quite different from _theirs_, Chéri," she added with profound conviction.

"Just like our trees and everything else, I suppose," said Hugh. "Certainly this is a funny country. But hush, Jeanne! I believe the concert's going to begin."

They sat perfectly still to listen, but for a minute or two the sound which had caught Hugh's attention was not repeated. Everything about them was silent, except that now and then a soft faint breeze seemed to flutter across the water, slightly rippling its surface as it passed. The strange, even light which had shone over all the scene ever since the children had stepped out at the hillside door had now grown paler: it was not now bright enough to distinguish more than can be seen by an autumn twilight. The air was fresh and clear, though not the least cold; the drooping forms of the low-hanging branches of the island trees gave the children a melancholy feeling when they glanced in that direction.

"I don't like this very much," said Jeanne. "It makes me sad, and I wanted to have fun."

"It must be sad for the poor swan if it's going to die," said Hugh. "But I don't mind this sort of sad feeling. I think it's rather nice. Ah! Jeanne, listen, there it is again. They must be going to begin."

"It" was a low sort of "call" which seemed to run round the shores of the lake like a preliminary note, and then completely died away. Instantly began from all sides the most curious music that Hugh and Jeanne had ever heard. It was croaking, but croaking in unison and regular time, and harsh as it was, there was a very strange charm about it--quite impossible to describe. It sounded pathetic at times, and at times monotonous, and yet inspiriting, like the beating of a drum; and the children listened to it with actual enjoyment. It went on for a good while, and then stopped as suddenly as it had begun; and then again, after some minutes of perfect silence, it recommenced in a low and regular chant--if such a word can be used for croaking--a steady, regular croak, croak, as if an immense number of harsh-sounding instruments were giving forth one note in such precise tune and measure that the harshness was softened and lost by the union of sound. It grew lower and lower, seeming almost to be about to die altogether away, when, from another direction--from the tree-shaded island in the centre of the lake--rose, low and faint at first, gathering strange strength as it mounted ever higher and higher, the song of the swan.

The children listened breathlessly and in perfect silence to the wonderful notes which fell on their ears--notes which no words of mine could describe, for in themselves they were words, telling of suffering and sorrow, of beautiful things and sad things, of strange fantastic dreams, of sunshine and flowers and summer days, of icy winds from the snow-clad hills, and days of dreariness and solitude. Each and all came in their turn; but, at the last, all melted, all grew rather, into one magnificent song of bliss and triumph, of joyful tenderness and brilliant hope, too pure and perfect to be imagined but in a dream. And as the last clear mellow notes fell on the children's ears, a sound of wings seemed to come with them, and gazing ever more intently towards the island they saw rising upwards the pure white snow-like bird--upwards and upwards, ever higher, till at last, with the sound of its own joyous song, it faded and melted into the opal radiance of the calm sky above.

For long the children gazed after it--a spot of light seemed to linger for some time in the sky just where it had disappeared--almost, to their fancy, as if the white swan was resting there, again to return to earth. But it was not so. Slowly, like the light of a dying star, the brightness faded; there was no longer a trace of the swan's radiant flight; again a soft low breeze, like a farewell sigh, fluttered across the lake, and the children withdrew their eyes from the sky and looked at each other.

"Jeanne!" said Hugh.

"Chéri!" said Jeanne.

"What was it? Was it not an angel, and not a swan?"

Jeanne shook her little head in perplexity.

"I don't know," she said. "It was wonderful. Did you hear all it told, Chéri?"

"Yes," said Hugh. "But no one could ever tell it again, Jeanne. It is a secret for us."

"And for the frogs," added Jeanne.

"And for the frogs," said Hugh.

"But," said Jeanne, "I thought the swan was going to die. _That_ was not dying."

"Yes," said the queer croaking voice of the frog, suddenly reappearing on the edge of the boat; "yes, my children," he repeated, with a strange solemnity, "for such as the swan that _is_ dying. And now once more--for you will never see me again, nor revisit this country--once again, my children, I bid you farewell."

He waved his hands in adieu, and hopped away.

"Chéri," said Jeanne, after a short silence, "I feel rather sad, and a very little sleepy. Do you think I might lie down a little--it is not the least cold--and take a tiny sleep? You might go to sleep too, if you like. I should think there will be time before we row back to the shore, only I do not know how we shall get the boat through the narrow part if the frogs have all gone. And no doubt Houpet and the others will be wondering why we are so long."

"We can whistle for Dudu again if we need," said Hugh. "He helped us very well the last time. I too am rather sleepy, Jeanne, but still I think I had better not go _quite_ asleep. You lie down, and I'll just paddle on very slowly and softly for a little, and when you wake up we'll fix whether we should whistle or not."

Jeanne seemed to fall asleep in a moment when she lay down. Hugh paddled on quietly, as he had said, thinking dreamily of the queer things they had seen and heard in this nameless country inside the tapestry door. He did not feel troubled as to how they were to get back again; he had great faith in Dudu, and felt sure it would all come right. But gradually he too began to feel very sleepy; the dip of the oars and the sound of little Jeanne's regular breathing seemed to keep time together in a curious way. And at last the oars slipped from Hugh's hold; he lay down beside Jeanne, letting the boat drift; he was so _very_ sleepy, he could keep up no more.

But after a minute or two when, not _quite_ asleep, he lay listening to the soft breathing of the little girl, it seemed to him he heard still the gentle dip of the oars. The more he listened, the more sure he became that it was so, and at last his curiosity grew so great that it half overcame his drowsiness. He opened his eyes just enough to look up. Yes, he was right, the boat was gliding steadily along, the oars were doing their work, and who do you think were the rowers? Dudu on one side, Houpet on the other, rowing away as cleverly as if they had never done anything else in their lives, steadying themselves on one claw, rowing with the other. Hugh did not feel the least surprised; he smiled sleepily, and turned over quite satisfied.

"They'll take us safe back," he said to himself: and that was all he thought about it.

"Good-night, Chéri, good-night," was the next thing he heard, or remembered hearing.

Hugh half sat up and rubbed his eyes.

Where was he?

Not in the boat, there was no sound of oars, the light that met his gaze was not that of the strange country where Jeanne and he had had all these adventures, it was just clear ordinary moonlight; and as for where he was, he was lying on the floor of the tapestry room close to the part of the wall where stood, or hung, the castle with the long flight of steps, which Jeanne and he had so wished to enter. And from the other side of the tapestry--from inside the castle, one might almost say--came the voice he had heard in his sleep, the voice which seemed to have awakened him.

"Good-night, Chéri," it said, "good-night. I have gone home the other way."

"Jeanne, Jeanne, where are you? Wait!" cried Hugh, starting to his feet. But there was no reply.

Hugh looked all round. The room seemed just the same as usual, and if he had looked out of the window, though this he did not know, he would have seen the old raven on the terrace marching about, and, in his usual philosophical way, failing the sunshine, enjoying the moonlight; while down in the chickens' house, in the corner of the yard, Houpet and his friends were calmly roosting; fat little Nibble soundly sleeping in his cage, cuddled up in the hay; poor, placid Grignan reposing in his usual corner under the laurel bush. All these things Hugh would have seen, and would no doubt have wondered much at them. But though neither tired nor cold, he was still sleepy, very sleepy, so, after another stare all round, he decided that he would defer further inquiry till the morning, and in the meantime follow the advice of Jeanne's farewell "good-night."

And "after all," he said to himself, as he climbed up into his comfortable bed, "after all, bed is very nice, even though that little carriage was awfully jolly, and the boat almost better. What fun it will be to talk about it all to-morrow morning with Jeanne."

It was rather queer when to-morrow morning came--when he woke to find it had come, at least; it was rather queer to see everything looking just the same as on other to-morrow mornings. Hugh had not time to think very much about it, for it had been Marcelline's knock at the door that had wakened him, and she told him it was rather later than usual. Hugh, however, was so eager to see Jeanne and talk over with her their wonderful adventures that he needed no hurrying. But, to his surprise, when he got to Jeanne's room, where as usual their "little breakfast" was prepared for them on the table by the fire, Jeanne was seated on her low chair, drinking her coffee in her every-day manner, not the least different from what she always was, not in any particular hurry to see him, nor, apparently, with anything particular to say.

"Well, Chéri," she said, merrily, "you are rather late this morning. Have you slept well?"

Hugh looked at her; there was no mischief in her face; she simply meant what she said. In his astonishment, Hugh rubbed his eyes and then stared at her again.

"Jeanne," he said, quite bewildered.

"Well, Chéri," she repeated, "what is the matter? How funny you look!" and in her turn Jeanne seemed surprised.

Hugh looked round; old Marcelline had left the room.

"Jeanne," he said, "it is so queer to see you just the same as usual, with nothing to say about it all."

"About all what?" said Jeanne, seemingly more and more puzzled.