 Act 4 of Crossings, a Fairy Play by Walter de La Mer. Act 4 Humans and Inhumans Time 4 o'clock and winter twilight, 23 December Scene The outskirts of little crossings woods deep in snow. A gabled angle of crossings is seen in the distance, with lattice windows under its overhanging eaves. Isolate still, clotted with snow, the trees of garden and woods brood over the scene. In the foreground stands a rounded hut, such as may be seen in circling the North Pole. A fire burns fiercely in a bucket, set up night watchman fashion on two bricks. Sally sits darning on a garden chair beside a rough wood table on which tea-things are spread. An immense basket full of stockings lies beside her in the snow. She is so muffled up in a gaudy-colored shawl and scars that her small dark face is hardly visible. Francis is stooping low over the fire, reading by its flame-light a novelette. Sally solemnly peering over her needle. Tell me, immortal sister, do grave-diggers work at Christmas? Francis, absently. Grave-diggers, Sally? Because, my dear, if this kind of thing goes on, we shall be frozen stiff by then and extremely awkward and brittle to handle. Francis, mumbling. I don't care what happens to my old body when I'm out of it. It will have to do its job first, though. She wakes out of her reading for an instant. I'm going to be absolutely free without being detestable. She relapses once more into her novelette. I don't care, France. Wasn't iced to death, but stewed till he was done. I should enjoy a little gentle simmering myself just now. My extremities, as Aunt Bayswater used to say, have simply stopped being alive. She softly stamps her feet in the snow. This Esquimades tea of Tony's is a perfectly crazy idea. But what an angel he has been these last few days. Francis, mumbling. Tony wants to sleep out. Sleep out? In that. She nods toward the snow hut. He says our breaths would keep us warm. Sally flinging down her darning and thrusting more sticks on the fire. Oh, France, France, if it weren't for those hideous bells and the party and… and… She looks covertly round her in the deepening winter gloom. And that. We have made a frightful muddle of everything. I saw Mr. Budge look at Mr. Honeyman. The truth is, you old head on young shoulders, you just worry. What's the good? Why not let things be what you want them to be until… well, they come different. But you see, France, it's Aunt Susan. She trusted us. It was a kind of faith. I see it now. And when you go finding out, in your grave too, that it's no good hoping that people will do what they won't do. Not even when you are in your grave. Why? Emily comes scurrying along from the house. She is a flaxen, solemn child, with narrow shoulders and skimpy yellow hair, and might be the mad hatter's small sister. She is carrying a large earthenware jam jar tied up with a ribbon in a frill of vermilion paper. Sally, admiring the jam jar. How extremely artistic, Emily. She peeps in and tastes its contents with a wooden spoon. And strawberry. Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss. That's how me Aunt Tupper does the geranimums. And please, Miss, if you'll excuse me, there might be a dropper too of blood on the bread and butter. I've cut me thumb. She holds it aloft in its bandage against the wintery sky. Oh, Emily, not deep. To the wary bone. But it's doing quite nicely, thank you, Miss. And I left the kettle boiling over, so tea won't be no time. She scuttles off towards the house. A jangling of bells is heard, and Tony comes in from the right in a pair of old top boots and a fur coat inside out, with his rook rifle over her shoulder and a cowboy's whip. He is leading the budge's bobtail, harnessed to a sled, from out of a shapeless bundle from which presently emerges Anne's fair head. Whoa, there, jugger. Hang on, then. Sally, lifting Anne out. Not cold? Not shiver shaky all down the spine? It comes? Smubbykins? Quite, quite sure. I'm in an oven, Sally, and we spilled out into the snow, and jugger barked, and Tony barked, and the wood barked, and there. What did Tony and Anne see? Two little bosom steeple hats, like posts in the snow, staring, staring at us between the trees. And Tony runned, and jugger runned, and the trees runned, and here we are. And please, Sally, dear, may I have my tea in the snowhouse? Come on, Anne, crawl in. The snow's like glass, France. Reading that stuff, you old snail. Stick a needle into her, Sally. Anne, from inside the snow hut. Stick a needle into her, Sally. Frances, mumbling absently. All right, Tony, just end of chapter. Sally, anxiously. Did you see the steeple hats, Tony? Before he can answer, Emily scurries in again, with a huge kitchen teapot in one hand, and black iron kettle to match in the other. She is followed by Mrs. Budge, a humickey little woman with a large bright face who is carrying, baby fashion, a newspaper parcel containing a leg of mutton, its woolly shank dangling down outside. If you please, Miss, Mrs. Budge have called. There, France, it's all over. To Mrs. Budge. I am glad to see you, Mrs. Budge. Please sit down and make yourself very, very comfortable. The children, that is, we, are having an Esquimage tea. I hope you won't feel the cold. Mrs. Budge, doubtfully. Dear now, Miss, not if it won't be what might be called a lingering meal. I was coming across the fields, crossing's way, Miss, so I've brought you tomorrow's jint to see in the turkey-like. Hung to a nice adesus, Mr. Budge, and just ripe for eating. Sally, removing the paper. What a beauty, Mrs. Budge, and that fur. They don't grow legs like that in London. It's the handsomeist I've ever seen. She puts the leg on an empty chair and stoopes over it as if to collect her thoughts. You know, Mrs. Budge, it's very curious that you should come at this moment. My sister and I were just talking of the... of the... That's one thing, Miss, and the next be, Mr. Budge. He sends his respects for your kind letter, which he'll answer himself, business, be in business, in due course, he says. But first, he's wishful to thank you for that amazing little bottle of liniment you sent him for his poor lumbago, him in the drafty shop, all withers and all. And there, Miss, you'd hardly be believing it, but pain went moment of use in. Heaven flown straight to the throat, and so out, please, God. And lo! Pausing to take breath and gazing about her. Lo! What a fine house the young gentleman's billed herself. We haven't seen such a winter and little crossings, Miss, since Mr. Budge broke his chopper on a bullock's heart. Sally, absently. Really? Attentively. Really? But what I was going to say, Mrs. Budge, is... As for Jew and little crossings, Mr. B says, or shadow of Jew, he says, why... Emily, rushing in, in almost speechless excitement. If you please, Miss, the vicarage lady, Miss, Miss, welcome, Miss, and Miss Josephine. Who, Emily? France. Miss, welcome. What did she say, Emily? She says, say she, is Miss Widdishams at home, and I says, says I, as Miss, home she be. Step in, Miss, Miss, I says, and then she steps. Good gracious, France. What shall we do? Tony leaps into the sled and burrows under the rugs. Sally hastens a few steps towards the house, but too late. Her visitors are seen approaching. Miss Julia, welcome, a lady in the height of middle age, square, sagacious, inimitably imperturbable, with a rather masculine voice and manner, and Josephine, her niece, a handsome spirited girl about sixteen with red hair. Miss, welcome, richly enjoying the scene. So, here we are, a winter picnic, most seasonable. How do you do, Miss Widdisham? This is my niece, Josephine. Anne slowly thrusts her head out of the snow house, toward his fashion, and instantly bobs back again. Sally, shy, but undaunted. How do you do, Miss, welcome? It's kind of you to come. This is my sister, Francis, and that, that's Tony. Tony emerges. We are having an, an Esquimals tea in the snow, you know. I do hope you won't think the weather is un-pro, un-pro. Not quite warm enough. Mrs. Butch, a very old friend of ours. Ah, and an old friend of mine too. How do you do, Mrs. Butch? Nicely, ma'am, thank you. An Esquimals tea, an excellent idea. What do you think, Josephine? She sits down on the chair, containing like a button, which Sally definitely removes in the nick of time, and places on another chair. Rather aren't, Julie, heavenly. To Francis. What a stunning fire. And a sledge. They begin to talk and laugh together in the flame-light. Tony, suddenly conscious apparently of his boots, gazes at Josephine and looks foolish. Sally swaths up Miss Welcome in a rug and proceeds to pour out tea. Miss Welcome, tucking herself in. There. Snutness itself, Miss Wildersham. A respirator and some of that delicious toast stand were perfect. What is death in a good cause, Mrs. Butch? Ah, here's the vicar. Mr. Welcome, very black against the snow, is let out by Emily. He is nearing sixty. Lean, gold-spectacle, shrewd, good-humored, and stoopes a little. Here we are, Jeremy, an Esquimals tea. This is Miss Wildersham. Mr. Welcome takes Sally's hands. So this is Miss Wildersham. This is Miss Sally, delightful, splendid, and scrums what a fire. Ah, Mrs. Butch, there you are, keeping a sharp look out on your tendons, I see. To Sally? Five and thirty years ago, my dear. Antiquity than I am. On this very spot, I made a first snowman for your dear mother. Alas, he thawed. Turning to Francis. And this is... Francis, Antoni. Come, Jeremy, sit down and dare the elements. Mr. Welcome, musingly, glancing about him. Now, tell me, oh, nieces and nephews of an adorable aunt, how are we swimming along? How are we managing? Bless my heart, Julia, how Susan would have enjoyed this. And by gum, as Mr. Plush used to say, what a world. To Sally? Confide in me, my dear. I have been young, and now I'm younger. Are we happy? Just inconsimably, incomprehensibly happy. Like that old fire there in the bucket. Mumbling. I will soon be ashes. Sally, glanting out into the woods. We are living and learning, Mr. Welcome. We are indeed. And all the time. And crossings in the country. Happy. We are as happy as the days are. Short, my dear. Short and few, I expect. If bronchitis has anything to say to it. That's just what I was saying to Francis. And yet, sometimes I wonder, you know, Miss Welcome. If people would ever be ill at all if there weren't so many things to be ill of, it's the names that set one off. Bravo, my dear. The names, the names. Never say die till you call in the doctor. Now, if I walk by faith and not by sight, I should just wriggle into that snow house and be roast blubber wherever after. Tony cracks his whip. Josephine, my dear, be careful. Jeremy warned a child. Now I can tell you how off we go over the snow and... Hang on, Joe. Tony whisks Josephine off on the sledge at a gallop. And at this moment Emily once more scuttles in, a loaf in one hand and a tin of biscuits in the other, calling out as she runs, Oh, Miss! Oh, Miss! Me, Lady Minch, Miss! And Mother, Miss! I've asked him out. Silence. In which Lady Minch presently appears out of the distance. Little, peering, testy, in all tints of purple. She is followed by Mrs. Honeyman, black and gaunt, in her best a burgled bonnet and shawl. Miss, welcome, juggling, and aside to Mr. Welcome. Louisa, Jeremy. To Sally. What my brother calls naughty man a holy terror. To Lady Minch. Ah, Louisa, you see you have caught us on the spree. An Eskimo tea. Sit down, Louisa, and return to our youth. What's that? Foolish young person brought me out here. Burst pipes? Greenland. Lapland, Louisa. Do as Lapland does. Lady Minch, peering at Sally. What's that there? What do you call that? A squaw? A squaw, Louisa. This is Miss Wildersham, the at Susan's niece. Lady Minch, blinking closely. How do you do? Mr. Welcome leads her toward the table. Now then, rocks, blankets, quilts, hot water bottles. Hot water bottles, sir. Yes, sir. To Mrs. Honeyman. Sit down, mother. There may be more coming. She chatters off through the snow. Are you crazy, Julia? Tea here? For pastures. Hi, tea, Louisa. Penguin pie, bears, sandwiches. A walrus broth. After heated objections, Lady Minch is a glass persuaded to join the party and to sit down. She instantly revounds with a faint scream. Mrs. Budge, extracting the joint. Only a leg of mutton me, lady. Lady Minch recedes herself and is soothed down and tucked up. Emily staggers in, laden with blankets and hot water bottles. Come along, Emily. Three bottle, lady. Two bottle, gentlemen. There, lady Minch, you must be quite, quite cozy. Tony, out of the distance. Rugs ahoy! He is seen with a lantern, ascending a ladder to an upper window. There, Louisa, you are the bell of the bowl. Lady Minch, unappeased. Julia, ball indeed. I'm perishing by inches. Sally, as if inspired. Quick, France, the fairy wine. Bringing Mrs. Honeyman to the tea table. Please sit down, Mrs. Honeyman. Jigger? Two in a titty, if you please, miss. Oh, Mrs. Honeyman. Here we are then. Mad as hatters, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. March hairs the rest of the week. And Sundays. Sufficient unto the day. And so the world wags. Indeed it do, sir. Wags and wags. And how's your husband? I hope in better spirits. Ah, goes on worrying, sir. But I'm bound to say, not so low as he were. The young lady very kindly give him a cordial, a cordial, sir, what have eased him more than all the doctor's physics. Which he never could be forced to swallow these ten years gone. He don't, counter-affumigate it, so... which... Gloomily shaking her head. Ain't to say that the contrary wise hasn't its dangers. As I said to him, it's not them, Honeyman, as keeps a watchful eye on the dark side of things that has all the squinting. It's the dark world, sir. Oh, Mrs. Honeyman, black as my hat. But... And he proves his assertion. Even that, you see, has a silver lining. Beyond the outskirts of the snowbound party appears now a fairy in monstrous disguise, ducketing and peering out from behind a huddled thorn. The day is dwindling into dark and already the moon casts lean black shadows like stirrers in the frosty twigs. The company chatters on. Francis brings in the fairy wine. Mr. Welcome takes one of the tiny glasses, sips, and relapses into meditation. Lady Minch, nursing, as best she can in her blankets, a large kitchen cup and saucer, and an immense slice of bread and butter. What did I always maintain, Julia? It's in the family. Drink you may eradicate. And sanity, never. And who, pray, is that familiar person amusing the vicar? Miss Welcome, tactfully talking her down. And how's your little jemima, Mrs. Budge? Nicely, ma'am, thanky. Except for her winter corf. She corfs the roof off. Lady Minch, to Miss Welcome. What name? Fudge? Budge. Budge. The butcher. Sally, offering one of the little glasses. Now do, Miss Welcome. It's marvelous, so comforting. We think it came from the fairies, you know. The wine goes round, and the human voices rise higher, like rooks in an elm. Mrs. Honeyman, to Mr. Welcome. What I say, sir, is wanting kittens may make sober cats. Look at my Emily. Now you'd think she'd been born in a palace. Mr. Welcome, as if talking in his sleep. You think, Mrs. Honeyman, she'd been born in a palace. Miss Welcome, to Sally, unsteadily. Wine, my dear. Molten lava would be nearer, the mark. Come, dreamless Louisa, take a little for your hearts. Your stomachs, sake. Fairy wine. Lady Minch, thoroughly alarmed, heart Julia, stomach Julia, fairies, you must be beside yourself. Beside myself, Louisa, strange, happy, dreams. Demented. She hastily tosses off her potion. Fairy filistics. A shrill, unearthly, bird-like cry echoes out of the woods. Lady Minch gently subsides, nods, pricks up, languishes, begins to drowze. The sludge returns, festooned with Chinese lanterns. The children group themselves round the fire, silent and listening, their faces beautiful in the conflicting lights. Mr. Welcome, inarticulately ecstatic. Air, stars, space, Mrs. Honeyman. I hear the sound of revelry by night. What beings now are these? Miss Welcome, in a drowze. Jeremy. Jeremy, my dear. Take my hand. Lady Minch, her voice, sounding out of her, shrill and remote. Tell Sir Thomas. Tell Sir Thomas. Tell Sir Thomas. Quavering. Why, it was years ago. Years ago. Her voice shrills away. A second fairy comes sidling into the further ring of fire intermingled with bird-like peering motions of head and shoulders. And softly, suddenly, as if the frozen quiet of the woods had concentrated into sound, breaks out the twangling music of strings, the candlestick-maker's fiddle. Sally springs like a fawn to her feet, then seats herself again, hiding her cheeks from the flames. The little human concourse leddenly reclines, wrapped in an unearthly peace. Mr. Welcome, lifting a helpless hand. And if music be the food of love, play on, play on, play on. The candlestick-maker sings. Listen, I who love thee well have travelled far in secrets tell. Cold the moon that gleams thine eyes, yet beneath her further skies rest for thee a paradise. I have plucked a flower in proof, frail and earthly light forsooth. See, invisible it lies, in this palm of my hand, lies, in this palm now veil thine eyes, quaff its fragrances. Would indeed my throat had skill to breathe thee music faint and still? Music learned in dreaming deep, in those lands from Echo's lip, twad lull thy soul to sleep. All sound dies away, and except for the fluttering of the flames, the scene is sunk in silence. Sally flits softly to the edge of the woods. Mr. Candlestick-maker! Mr. Candlestick-maker! Ah, he's gone. For a while it would appear that human beings in this scene are masquerading puppets deprived of life. But presently, one by one, they begin uneasily to stir and to return to their parts. Miss Welcome, murmuring. That strain again. It had a dying fall. Oh, it came over my ear like the sweet south that breathes, that breathes. Oh, but that's just a difficulty. She draws her hands over her eyes as if to banish dream from them. What were the words? Twad lull thy soul to sleep. Mr. Welcome, starting up as if at a summons. Coming? Coming, Julia. He sits up, looking foolish. Takes off his spectacles, rubs his eyes like a child. Foolish, scatterbrained children. A quick end, a quick end. There'll be a long bill to pay for this. She rises. But there, I have been old and now I'm young. Take me home, Jeremy. Conjure me back to reality before my hair comes down and I'm fifteen again. Come, Josephine. Generate, Jeremy, on the duck pond. To Lady Minch. Louisa, you shall give me a lift. The rest of company are now recovering their five wits. Lady Minch, however, slumbers on and her only response to Miss Welcome's invitation is a faint and prolonged snore. A fancy mum, she am enjoying a little nap o' day. Louisa, Louisa, dream no more. Lady Minch, drowsily. Say I'm not at home. Not at home. Never at home. Never, never. Awake. Rouse thee, O Julia. England expects. Lady Minch, opening her eyes at last and peering wildly about her. What, what, who called? Where am I? Trees, snow, Julia. She struggles in vain to rise. Julia, I can't move hand or foot. I am bewitched. Sally, conscious drunken. Oh, Lady Minch, I'm so, so sorry. Perhaps it's a little cramp. I hope you're not in pain. Painless cramp, child. You'll be talking of happy dispatch next. Demented. I can't. Mrs. Honeyman, to Mrs. Budge. The same way the cold snipped her in the gents. Mr. Welcome, solemnly. Alas, alas, Louisa. There is but one remedy known to science for frostbite. The vigorous application of frozen snow to the affected member. Now which is it? The right leg or the left? It must be immediate, Louisa, or the limb drops off. Heartless, heartless creature. Julia, save me. Then there's nothing for it but the sledge. Come, Comorados, the carriage waits. Jeremy, Julia, never. Josephine, blindfold the footman's eyes. Tony, tie their nose-backs over the horse's heads. Ye stars, distract your beams. Now then, ho, hee-ho, and all together. Jeremy, Jeremy, incorrigible man. Mr. Welcome lifts the old lady, family protesting, and deposits her on the sledge. Her bonnet falls off in the transmigration. Emily, bring the regalia. Quilts, rugs, hot water-bottles are swathed and adjusted about the recumbent figure. Miss, welcome to Mrs. Honeyman, protesting. No. Mrs. Honeyman, I will take no refusal. T. at five. More manure-last trumpeter you may be, but come, you must. To Sally. Our last furious hour, my dear child, but I have enjoyed every minute of it. Mr. Welcome marshalling the cavalcade. Now, Mrs. Betch, this way, Mrs. Honeyman. Fairy Godmothers, please, an arm for each of you. If all we do, we fall together. Already there in the rear? Then alone. To the discordant strains of the Marseilles, the procession moves off, Francis and Josephine brandishing the lanterns before Mr. Welcome with a fairy godmother on each arm. Tony, leading the budge-bob-tail, followed by Emily, solemnly carrying the regalia on a cushion. Sally and Miss Welcome interlinked, like two schoolgirls, bringing up the rear. As the strains of the human anthem faint into the distance, from the woods reappear three fairies, in mortal disguise. Their sharp chins out thrust, they drone as they advance with a wasp-like intensity, and stand moping and mowing softly at the entrance of the snow hut. Presently Anne puts out her tousled sleepy head. She rubs her eyes as if to banish her dreams. You buzzes like bees, you do. Anne likes you. All, all alone now. Naughty Anne. She creeps out on her knees in the snow, one arm lugging Sarah to her bosom. The fairies retreat before her, droning their enticements. Anne, please run away with fairies into the woods. Do her doll. Do her like that. Go down snowy bunny hole with mummy, like Alice. Poor, poor Sally. Never, never know where I am gone. Far, far away. She stands up, her strange small self, and looks longingly towards the dark, silent house. Must say good-bye, if you please, to dear, dear Sally. Give dear Sally a hug. The three fairies lure her on, catch her fingers, touch her hair as if it were some fabulous metal redouble their allurements. Voices near and far, in a growing burden of music echo their monotonous incantations, and half willingly, half reluctantly, the child is drawn out of the firelight and vanishes into the woods. With a wild, dying gust of sound, the music ceases, and all falls utterly still. At an upper window of the house, the light of a candle flickers, droops, shines out. Francis' voice is heard in the distance. Not here, Sally. Emily, shrilly, and also from a distance. She ain't been in the kitchen, miss! Sally appears. Sally coming, Mummy Kins, naughty, wicked Sally coming. Don't be frightened, my precious. Oh, she'll die, she'll die. What shall I do? Kneeling down at the mouth of the snowhouse, she murmurs tenderly and pleadingly, Come, Mummy Kins, wake up. Sally's own, own sweetheart. Tony enters with a stable lantern. I can't see, I can't see. A light, Tony, quick, a light. Oh, Tony, Tony, she's not there. She rises as if days, her hands over her eyes. I can't think, I can't think. Francis enters. Tony, calling from out of the snowhouse. Not here, Sally, nothing here. Gone, Francis, gone. Oh, how could you be so cruelly, cruelly careless? I, Sally, my fault. There, there, my dear. Don't cry, Sally, please don't cry. She can't be far away. She runs a little way into the woods and calls. Nanny can, nano, nano. Now then, Tony, both together. Nano, nano. A wailing of fairy voices, faint sighingly into the distance. Snow begins to fall. The three stare at each other, aghast. Sally, quietly controlling herself. I'm sorry, France, for what I said. All my blame, only mine. Francis, sturdily. No, Sally, it was my fault. I was fooling while you were doing all the work. Think now, think quiet, quietly. They have decoyed her way. What shall we do? Emily comes flying in, scared out of her wits. Oh, miss, the voice, the voice! Hush, child, think what you are saying. What voice? Oh, miss, as I was looking into the bedroom in the moonlight, lone and cold, oh, miss, the voice! There, there, my dear, control yourself. Tell me, what voice, where? Oh, miss, still in quiet like the wind in the chimney. Safe, safe, safe. Like that, miss, those very words. Sally, kissing her. There, Emily, never mind now. Go straight back into the kitchen. Make a great roaring fire. Put on all the kettles, hang blankets to heat. Lights in all the windows, lights everywhere, France. Come, Tony, bring the lantern. We can follow her footsteps. She turns away and sees the candlestick maker who is standing in shadow at the verge of the woods. Oh, Mr. Candlestick Maker, help me, help me. Han is gone. Curtain. End of Act IV. Act V of Crossings, A Fairy Play by Walter de La Mer. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act V. Aunt Susan and the Fairy Queen. Time, Christmas Eve. Scene, the parlor at Crossings, lit fitfully by a log fire and a few tall wax candles. The walls are festooned with bunches and garlands of holly, ivy, box, and mistletoe. A table stands in the left corner at the back of a room. On this are arranged a few old china dishes of fruit and cakes. The tiny goblets and the fairy wine gleam and sparkle on the spinnit. The candlestick maker, masked and with a wreath of ivy and twine about his hat, is seated at a stool before the fire, tuning his fiddle. Toning squats on a stool beside him, glum and motionless, staring into the flames. Emily enters from the right, carrying a dish of oranges and a lighted taper in a long taper holder. She is dressed country fashion for a party. Her finery protected beneath an apron many sizes too large for her. Her colorless hair is tied in two lean plaques with big bows of black ribbon. She solemnly arranges the oranges, leaning her head now this side, now that, to admire the effect. Ah, Mr. Candlestick Maker, you may twangle your tune some strings, but this be a sad and doleful Christmas Eve for a merry-making. Poor little Miss Anne. Tis finding's keepings with a pissky folk I'm afeared, like the little lady Jane Medler which was wished and whitched away by the fairies hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Mother have told me the tale many a time. She stands and looks at him. She were kind of comical in the head, Tis said, when she did come back, and was buried an old woman in Crossing's churchyard. Candlestick Maker tunes on. Ever fear pretty maid? The child will come back, all in good time. Ah, good time is tomorrow come never, Mr. Candlestick Maker. The young ladies are wonderful cast down. Miss Sally, she impale and wan is a shatter by moonlight. And Mr. Tony there, he eats no more than would keep a sparrow in feather. But a party's a party, Mr. Candlestick Maker. And there's no unaskin' them that's asked. And, Mr. Candlestick Maker? Yes, my dear? That young lady's kind regards for he passes the love of woman they do. If she didn't take to herself your comfort about the little lost lamb, she'd droop away into her tomb. I hope if so be you ain't bein' kind to kill. Kind to make alive, Emily? They'd be dressed for the party and gowns so plain as a corpse's smock. My hair ribbons are black you'll be noticing. Enter Frances in her bayswater frock, right side out. Josephine resembling, in her white muslin frock, a moss rose. And Polly Budge, the butcher's small daughter. Polly Budge is a shy, fat, apple-cheeked child who gapes round-eyed at the candles and is mothered patronizingly by Emily. Frances to Josephine. We went calling and calling for miles through the woods. Dismally dark and cold, Josephine. The further we went, the thicker fell the snow. Not a sound else. We shouldn't be havin' our party at all, my dear, if Mr. Candlestick Maker wasn't sure Nan would come back. It's like a story out of grim. To the Candlestick Maker. You really mean, Mr. Candlestick Maker, that all they wanted was a lock of her hair? I, for the Queen's crowning. That sleek gold hewitt must be, and given willingly. There's heath-dancing and feasting all England over to-night. And a full moon like glass. They are friendly enough to children, the little people, in their own inhuman fashion, haunting between time and space, whispering and gathering with the moon, and a prey to music. Let well alone. Come, Josephine. It's half past seven already, and nobody here but you. Let them stay away, then. Who cares? So long as you are you. Ha! Ha! I don't think Arabella Minch will come. When Aunt Julie called at the hall this afternoon, Lady Minch was sitting with her feet in mustard and water, and her wig off. Uncle Jeremy said she would be a charming old thing, if only we could see her as she sees herself. Some of them won't come, Frances, because you didn't put your address on the invitations. At least, there was none on mine. Josephine. But there, it's the same old lesson. If Aunt Bayswater had had her way, I should never have known how stupid I am. Being called stupid only makes you stubborn and conceited. She goes to the windows and peers between the curtains. It's useless to wait and worry. Whatever happens, Polly and Emily must have a happy evening. Now, Emily, what game shall it be? Off with your apron. I see you under the mistletoe, Polly. Come, Tony, you weren't to blame. Tony stoopes closer over the fire. The candlestick-maker strives up the air of, here we go round the mulberry bush, the children foam a ring and make gondolfily to sing and circle. There is no spirit in them. Suddenly the prolonged peeling of a bell resounds to the house. Quiet falls, broken only by the infinitesimal scraping of the candlestick-maker. The children pause, startled, and eye one another. Sally hastily enters, wand into straight, in her bayswater clothes. She is followed by two fairies cloaked to the heels in broad dazzlework of rich dark colors and fantastically disguised as earth-children. Their faces are milk-white, their clear cheeks carbon, their lips vermilion, their eyebrows arched high above their eyes. They have the menacing shyness of fierce wild things astray in dangerous company. Sally to Francis. It's cold and lonely out there, France, and the moon ablaze of mockery. They are queer children, I ask their names. They only muttered, and edged and scrambled into the house like bats. Who can they be? The fairies, having lifted their hands in secret salutation to the candlestick-maker, begin, with immobile faces and strange rhythmic gestures, to sidle and gape an angle with the children. Again and again the faraway house-bell clangs into the room, and fairies, in similar disguise, flock in one after another. The music loudens. It is if a tempest of wind encircled the house. The ring widens. The beat of feet and strings grows ever more furious, until a wild throng of unbidden guests are in the dusky room, like bees. The children stand mute, lost between alarm and astonishment at the whirling and droning and clamour of strings, bells, and drumming which shakes to the foundations the emptiness of the old and lonely house. Suddenly, with a shrill ululation, the ring of fairies splits into two equal crescents. They abase themselves in the dust. In this dead hush, the queen enters, clustered in by her bodyguard. Her face is fierce, crystalline and not of a human beauty, and her head is crowned with a crown of undiscovered gems surmounted at its apex with a tuft of Anne's bright human hair. The children shrink back from this bedazzlement, while Sally stands trembling and alone in her ludicrous gown, confronting the queen. Fairies in a clamour like that of Bell's volleying. The queen, as if in a strange tongue, a comma to crossings, Mamazella. Is a stranger a welcome guest? Welcome indeed, lady. And this, Mamazella? Sally breathlessly. All are welcome. The fairies rise and encircle Sally and the queen with their dancing, gradually accelerating their paces until they break again to left and right, and once more abase themselves. The queen gently spreads her hands upon the air, as a bird in a tropical forest explodes, and the heavy curtains concealing the windows of the room softly drift asunder, revealing in snowbound sillness the garden and woods. A trance of light dwells over them, in which gleamings, as a precious stone and minute crescents of fire, come and go. Again the fairies wheel about their queen, and again prostrate themselves in obesience. At the queen's gesture the wall which faces the children now seems to disintegrate, to fade out of being before their eyes, disclosing a long table laden with vast platters and pyramids of exotic cakes, fruits, flowers, and gigas. In the midst of its splendour rises an immense flower-like fruit, flame-shaped as if a glass, yet inter-transparent. An almost unendurable radiance fills the air. Emily, chirping shrilly to Polly. Looky Polly-butch, bathe those big eye in a yawn in that bright sight. Do Francis. Oh, Miss, tis the day of judgment it is. Polly, in a small, high, piping voice. Emily, shining, shining, shining! Suddenly overcome with wonder and delight she bursts into tears and hides her eyes in Emily's skirts. Lo now, Mama Zella. The feast is prepared. The guests are ready. I come not again. One wish shall be thine for the asking. Beauty incomparable. Gold incomputable. A wett to make witchcraft. A tongue to breathe charms. The pursuit of thy feet. The desire of thy strength, dark, dwelling, dreaming, human eyes. Speak, it is thine. Sally, bowing herself, scarcely able to utter the words. Oh, but I have only one wish. Only one. My sister. Just to have her back. The fairies twirl, crooning, each in her place. Every shrill drone rises like that of a hive at Noonday. Then suddenly ceases. At the queen's gesture the strange fruit seems to flake away in petals of light, discovering at last the figure of Anne crouched up within it. Fast asleep, her doll still clutched in her arm. The fairies in their secret places have dressed her after their own fashion in bird's feathers, of gold, white, and gray, and have painted her cheeks and lips to resemble their own. Her hair is bobbed and entwined with a wreath of frosty elf flowers. Anne! Lookie-pally budge, her cheeks do shine like midsummer, like full moon tide. All the only sinks her head further into concealment. Anne! Anne! Sally lifts the child down from the table. Anne, peering up out of her dreams. Sally, is that you, Sally? Anne's dreamed and dreamed and dreamed. Far, far, dark snow, and singing. And, oh, Sally, Anne's eyes did dazzle, and— With intense secrecy. They did cut off Anne's hair with knives of gold. She draws her hand over her face with a sigh. And please, Sally, do you forgive me? Smoothing the cheek pressed close to her own. And, Sally, isn't it time to wind up all the clocks again? Quick! They are going to dance! Francis, Sally and Tony rush out in transport, and presently return in their inside out, and gay shawls, scarves, and ribbons. The children fall upon the feast. A valet. The gardens afloch with fairies. Lanterns dip and blaze in and beneath the snow-laden trees. Now enter, on foot, or mounted on strange beasts, from the woods to make obedience to their queen, fairies that have traveled to their crowning from all regions of the world. Arabia, Cathay, Kamachatka, Leonese, the furthest Hebrides, Tully Greenland, Java, the Sahara, Peru, and from the sea's remotest limitations. At the height of these revelings and dancings the raucous strains of good Christian men rejoice, burst into the accompaniment of French horn, bassoon, etc. The weights are coming to crossings, and are caroling with their land-thorns in the snow on the other side of the house. At the word Christian, the fairies cry in cluster and consternation around their queen, and circling her, tweeting with small cries like alarmed birds as they troop and scatter into the moonlight. When the first verse of the carol has been sung to the end, all is still deserted. Only the vacant moonlight hazes the garden. Fruit, feast, and the wild lowest lights have vanished as they came. A cock crows. Then enter from within Mr. Budge, Mr. Honeyman, and Mr. Welcome in masks and dominoes. Their heads garland with holly, box, and mistletoe respectively. Mr. Budge comes forward, and in his best official voice reads from a paper as if it were a royal proclamation. Mr. Budge and Mr. Honeyman, of this parish being in their right minds and of full age, God willing, de valente, present their compliments to Missoura Wildersham, and of being accustomed in the butchering and baking trade retail, to take fifty percentipede off all orders off the premises, and never to make no charge whatsoever. For first week customers beg to present their gent account of thirteen shillings and one-half penny for future settlement funds, permitting at Missoura Wildersham's leisure, with the compliments of this season. And God bless you, Mary young ladies, let nothing you dismay. Hurrah! Mr. Budge returns to his fellows, the candlestick maker joins them, and the four mummers stand in a row and sing. We be mummers to the road, holly, box, and mistletoe, ivy, prankton, moonshine, whore, we be mummers one and four, leaf, sharp, pricked, and berry red, rare the fragrance boxed to shed, creep, creep from stone to stone, kiss, mistletoe, and so be gone, so be gone. While sales sing, noel, noel, jock and tidings we want to, Christmas feast bring marriage here, and we wish you all a happy, a happy, happy, happy, we wish you all a happy, new year. Between the second and third stanzas of this mumming song, a ring within is heard, and vigorously repeated. No one heeds it. During the last line of the last stanza, Mr. Wedge's cab drives up and comes to a halt outside the French windows. Mr. Widdisham and Aunt Agatha alight from the cab and enter. A pause. Then Sally, Francis, Tony, and Anne run to their father with cries of rapture and drag him away to the fire. The mummers remain mum. Aunt Agatha, in dead black, her countenance deleted by a thick black veil, and with little crossings only cab for background stands immobile. Mr. Widdisham, slowly unwrapping his scarf and taking off his gloves. Well, my dearest, here I am. And... And here is your dear aunt. How do you do Aunt? Aunt... She turns her head and surveys him through her veil. A protracted pause. Mr. Widdisham, uneasily. Well, children, you see your days of trial are over. But we are a little, um... Gay, are we not? Aunt Agatha? Aunt Agatha lifts her veil. I was speculating, Charles, how long I was to be ignored. Gay, it is not precisely the term I should have chosen. Mr. Widdisham, meekly. Nor I chose it, Agatha. In the silence that follows, Sally pours out, rather unsettly, two little goblets of the fairy wine. Daddy, dearest, you must be frozen, frozen! And, balancing the other tiny goblet with extreme caution between finger and thumb, carries it off to Miss Widdisham. Mr. Widdisham, screwing in his eyeglass. What's this, eh? He lifts the glass to the light and cautiously sniffs at the contents. Homemade, Sally? He tastes it. Gently, bemused. He sinks into a reverie. And, to Miss Widdisham, nodding her head as if telling a proditious secret. And bays water, and then to Fairyland. Anne's hair chopped off. Please take, little, tiny sip. Please! Mr. Widdisham angrily waves Anne aside, who thereupon carries off the little glass to the cab man. Mr. Widgery likes fairy wine. Charles, enough of this buffoonery. Do you realize that your children have gone stark, staring mad? Look at that! Look at that! And at that indescribable guy! I'm ashamed of you, Sarah, of you, Francis, and of, I see you, Anthony, skulking behind your sisters. Mr. Widdisham, hazzily endeavoring to repress an inward acceleration. Well, Agatha, things are not quite perhaps as, in fact, I anticipated. And yet, you know, the air is very invigorating and an extraordinary sweet smell. Yes, of course, of Susan's conditions. The fact is, Sally, that is, what your dear aunt and I wish to know is, are you happier than when you left Baywater? Happy, your father. I'm simply beside myself with happiness. And I. And I. Anne, looking over her shoulder, is it to test the inmost truth of the phrase? Anne, side herself. She feels the breath of the night wind beneath her bobbed hair. Licious cold neck! Josephine, blushing furiously. As for me, Mr. Widdisham, if you don't mind my saying so, I've never been so happy in my life. Aunt Agatha, grimly. I'm charmed to hear it. I, Charles, I have no doubt of, of the jollification, of the high jinks, as I believe they are called, but was mere happiness Susan's only condition? Mr. Widdisham, meekly. No, Agatha, it was not. I must tell you, Sally, of a little innocent strategy, my dear. Your aunt Susan thought that if you were all left high and dry, entirely alone, I mean for a fortnight, the experience might be a rather severe test of your, um, prudence. He fumbles in his pockets and produces a slip of paper. I ventured, Agatha, to make a note of your sagacious comments on the proposal at the time. Perhaps it would be as well to read them. An admirable idea. Listen then, Sally. Mark my words, Charles. The children will simply run wild. No lessons. They will overeat and oversleep. They will masquerade in all the colors of the rainbow. Sarah will run up enormous bills with the trade's people. Her good heart, as you call it, will welcome every beggar and footpad that comes whining at the door. Francis will read every trashy novel she can lay her hands on. Anthony will be out at all hours of the day and night. He will smoke, burn, and burrow. They will keep open house. Crossings will become a byword for miles around. As for Anne, she'll be kidnapped by vagrants or go skulking off into the woods and be lost. That's my prediction. Well, my poor child, what have you say to all that? Sally, miserably, but bravely. Only, Father, that every single word of it came true. Every word? Absolutely. Yes, Daddy, and when Sally wasn't looking, that Anne wicked thing ran away with the fairies. They chopped off Anne's hair with knives of gold. She is interrupted by an immense yawn. Daddy, have tiny liquor drop more fairy wine? She sits down in an armchair in the corner and, like the door mouse, at once falls asleep. Mr. Widersham, gulpingly. Not, uh, wiser than Sally. Oh, but Father, we have all made the most dreadful mistakes, and, hand all that, and we simply longed to go back to Bayswater, just so that, so that we may come to crossings again. Wiser. With unplumbable solemnity. I should just about think I am. Tony, as if on a scaffold. And I. Francis, as if volunteering for the Palorne Hope. And I. But please, Daddy, dear, may entwee talk it all over tomorrow? May entwee to have you back. Oh, I am so happy. We never knew how much we loved you until you were gone. She takes his hand in both her own and kisses it. My dear, why, of course. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He perceives the imperturbable row of mummers. Dear me, I am sure these gentlemen must be extremely cold and hungry. The mummers bow like one man. They would probably welcome something a little more animating than, uh, glancing at the table. Oranges, and, er, here is the key to the cellar. Will you prepare it, Sally? And we will follow. The children troop out after Sally. The sound of their footsteps dies away. Well, Agatha? Well, Charles, we have come as I perceive not to crossings, but to a dead end. Mr. Budge removes his mask, throws open his cloak, and, with his great red-whiskered face or mounted by a coronet of greenery, comes forward. Sir and Madam, this being Christmas, and me making so bold, mum, I am wishful to say a few words about the young lady, sir. I be Mr. Budge, John. Life-long butcher of little crossings. And what I say is this ways. If livens learn in, sir, why, learnens live in, mum. Happier, wiser, wiser, happier, to so. And I do assure ye, sir, that what with their gracing kindness to me and to Mrs. Budge, and to my little polyander, and, with making crossings as gay-like and homely, as if poor letty Miss Susan was to come back into it out of her grave this very why. What I say, sir, is, tis so, mum, and I can say no more. Overcome, he bows, wipes a sweat from his brow, and retires. Mr. Honeyman, also undisguising himself in coming forward, dismal but bouldering. What Mr. Budge have said, sir, let no man put us under. I be Honeyman, William McKizadek, baker for these two hundred and forty-four years in crossings village, Chapelgoer regular, late chairman of the parish council, and I never, I never. Mrs. Honeyman, she says to me, she says, as we blew out the candle this very night that's gone, she says, what with their economy, Honeyman, and their pleasant ways, and their pretty looks, and their divine showings to our little embly, them children is a godsend, sir, a godsend, ma'am, to all crossings. He also bows and retires. Aunt Agatha faint but pursuing. Hmm. And what may Mr. Haberdasher have to say? Candlestick-maker, masked and cloaked, and with a resounding thrall on his fiddle-strings. I'm but a shadow, lady, here to-day and gone to-morrow, as are we all. He sweeps his cloak over his shoulder, and the moonlight of the garden swallows him up. I don't doubt it, a mount-a-bank. She adjusts her lawn yet. Perhaps the gentleman in the, er, mistletoe has views. Mr. Welcome, unmasking. Ah, Miss Wildish, you have tracked me down. Aunt Agatha, frigidly. I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Welcome. Your views will, I am sure, be most valuable. Views? Views, my dear lady. It's Christmas Eve. But frankly now, those four foolish young things have just sprouted with virtues like briars in the spring. If only my dear old friend had been alive to enjoy it all. Queen Victoria's second jubilee was nothing to it. And even on that great day, Crossings had one or two little features of its own. And our beloved Miss Susan was the life and soul, the dick-boltitude of the ceremonies, fireworks. The old house was a blaze of flags and candles. Happier, wiser. That was her one in her prescription. A bee in her bonnet, you will say. Yes, honey bee, and a queen at that. Wanton kittens, Miss Wildisham, as my old friend Mrs. Honeyman was assuring me yesterday. Wanton kittens may make sober cats. You should have been at the Paula Tea Party. Dear me, how lady mentioned enjoyed it. The truth is, Miss Wildisham, we are none of us as young as we ought to be. Sally, in doorway. Everything's ready, Father. And please, please thank Mr. Budge. He has bought us the most beautiful turkey for a Christmas present that ever was dead. Poor thing. And, oh, Mr. Honeyman, that enormous plum pudding, the basin. He won a wild and no basin, Miss. He'm a copper boy, he bee. Exit, followed by Mr. Budge. And you, dear Mr. Welcome, those, those, but I shall only cry. Charles, I insist. Enough of this tomfoolery. You stand there. You listen to this sentimental trash. I detest this house. I detect. Never mind. I will say no more. But, Mark, my... Mr. Widersham, tragically. Hagatha, Mark no more. It's never too late to bend. We were young once, brother and sister, my dear. And now here I seem to have shaken off my old London self, like, like old clothes. It may pass off. But won't you, uh, too? Hi, Charles. Sadly, impulsively. Oh, Aunt Hagatha, if you only knew what a lesson it has been to all of us, hand the joy of it. Mr. Welcome, offering his arm. Allow me, Miss Wildersham, mince pies, turkey, punch, tipsy cake, snap-trackin'. God rest you merry gentlemen. Let nothing you dismay. Aunt Hagatha, sternally, broods. Then slowly draws down her veil. Thank you, Mr. Welcome. No. Never, never will I confuse duty with pleasure. Compromise is anathema to me. My principles are my all. In fact, Charles, I prefer my old clothes. Children, fairies, poo! I was brought up on facts, and here I am. There is a late train to town. I catch that. Cabman! Mr. Wedge, poking in his tortoise-like head. Only our frozen mum. Yamsumarf! Aunt Hagatha, calmly. An insolent cabman. Goodbye, Sarah. I must not keep you from the trade's people. She bows frigidly to Mr. Welcome, and is escorted by Mr. Widersham to the cab, which presently rolls off to a windy shout from Mr. Wedge and a loud crack of his whip. As if an echo, a sudden refreshing of fantastic and menacing music, wells up and subsides in the woods. Mr. Widersham, in the doorway, a victim of many emotions. It will be a... a... a ridge for us. But my sister is bound for a sphere that will more fully engage her remarkable abilities. Ah. As are we all, I hope. She is to be married in the New Year to Dr. John Adolphus Dodd Gritz, the Governor of Blacktown Reformatory. There is, my dear Widersham, a divinity that shapes all... Their voices die away. Sally covers Anne up with her shawl and kneels a moment beside her chair. Safe now. You blessed, blessed thing. Sally light a fire in Mummykin's bedroom? My own dear. She kisses her, hesitates, then goes to the open window and gazes out. The candlestick maker appears. More snow, Mr. Candlestick maker. I bless and bless every feathery flake. And you were actually going without my having said one little single word of thanks for these? She touches a bunch of snowdrops pinned in her bosom. They are very, very early, you know. Must you go? Oh, Mr. Candlestick maker. There is a mind in me that wants to listen and listen. And you have told me so much. Must you go? The candlestick maker turns his head side long, wrapping his cloak round him. Here today and gone tomorrow. Besides, the folk are afoot and it's a lonely road to crossing station. You mean they might entice away my Mr. Witch, Mr. Candlestick maker? I. The little people have no wasteful love for mortals. Not for all mortals. Man can but see the world sees sees it. There's is not ours. Sally, wistfully. Mr. Candlestick maker? Could it not be gone tonight and come tomorrow? Just fancy. All these years and years we have known one another. And you have never even told me your name. My name? Who needs a name that is a wanderer? It may be if I come again, you will not know me until I am gone again. It is said the fates are my kin and that may be if I come again, you will not know me until I am gone again. It is said the fables are my kin and that my mother was a dreamer. An ancient family, older than Babylon, older than Tyre. It is said that a forebear of mine was want to sit under the blossoming of the tree of life and to play his bassoon in the Garden of Eden. His name, Mamacella, was... He stoops, kisses her hands, and is gone. Sally stands at the window for a while, staring fixedly after him into the snow-clouded woodlands, hesitates as if in thought to follow him, glints his back at Anne, then hurriedly shuts to the door and resolutely bolts it. Leaving only two candles burning in the long, narrow room, she runs swiftly across it, pausing in the doorway to look back. Sally, muttering to herself, not know him, not know him? She goes out. In the extreme quietude that follows, the ghost silently appears and gliding across the room, stands solemnly regarding Anne, now fast asleep in her chair. The child stirs, murmuring in her dreams. Anne coming, Anne coming. She races herself a little and gazes bemusedly up into the old, fantasmal face. Why, I thought, I thought you was a fairy. Curtain.