“A great poet said, ‘The earth hath bubbles, as the water hath, and these are of them,’” replied Miriam. “Nobody really knows the difference between what seems and what is. We may be content if they seem as we would wish to have them. But I suppose you know how you got here?”
“’Deed, miss, and I don’t, then! I’d been sorrowing that ye weren’t at home these last days, and the poor master taking on so; and last evening, I think it was, I was saying me prayers, and, of a sudden, ‘What’s that?’ I says. Whether I saw it or I heard it, I couldn’t rightly tell, miss, but somebody was in the room; and what did I do but shut my eyes so as I’d see better—if ye understand how I mean, miss. And there was a lady there—fine and stately she was, but not the blessed Mary, for she had on black in place of white, and no glory round her head; but oh, ’twas the face of somebody great and good, I’ll go bail for that! And whether she spoke or not I don’t know; but seems like I knew what was in her mind—all calmness and kindness, and ‘Don’t be afeared, Jenny, ye’re in friendly hands’—it came to me like that. And it seemed like I wasn’t to open my eyes, but leave it all to her; a kind of lullaby like, miss, the way my mother—God rest her soul—would sing me asleep when I was a wee colleen, back in the ould sod.
“‘Sure,’ says I to meself, ‘it’s dying I am,’ I says; it was a sort of drawing out through the top of me head, but soft and gentle, and me not a bit frighted, but easy and pleased like never before in all me life; and the next minute what did I see but meself sitting there in the rocker, and meself standing beside her—if you understand me, miss. ‘If I’m dead,’ I says, ‘however would I be alive?’ I says; and with that I looks round and sees you your own self, miss, but oh, ever and ever so far off—standing here by the table, you were, and a thoughtful and sad look on the sweet face of ye. ‘Sure, ’tis going to her I’ll be,’ I says, forgetting the distance; but the wish in me was like wings, and me like outside meself. Howandever, going I was, not like flying, but what was before me one minute was behind me in another, with me standing still all the time and the things moving past me. ‘Sure,’ I says to meself, ‘Jenny,’ I says, ‘ye’ll never see yourself again,’ I says, thinking of meself sitting there in the rocker. But I’ll be talking too much miss,” said Jenny, interrupting herself and handing her mistress the napkin.
Jenny’s voice had the flow and modulations of bubbling waters and singing birds, and it was no hardship to listen to her even on ordinary topics.
“It’s a wonderful story, Jenny,” Miriam said. “Wishes, after all, are the greatest power in the world; they are in science and art and deeds, like the soul in the body. But time and space, like veils, keep us from recognizing the miracle of it. But sometimes the veils may be lifted, and then we see. I’m glad you are here.”
“So am I, miss,” returned Jenny. “But how will we be getting back again?”
“By wishing, perhaps,” said Miriam, with a smile. “But we’ll have to help ourselves a little, too, I think. So it was Mary Faust, after all,” she said to herself; “but she must have somehow cooperated with Torpeon. Lamara, also, perhaps. Oh, I hope Jack does nothing rash! But I must do my part! Is any one beside yourself here, Jenny?”
“’Tis that puzzles me, miss,” answered the girl. “Times I’ll be wanting something, and looks round; there it sits, like it had been there all the time, but never a body have I seen to bring it. ’Tis a queer place entirely! More like dreams than any living place I know of. Sure I’m wondering, now and again, will I wake up of a sudden and find meself asleep!”
“I have felt that in other places before this,” said Miriam. “But if you can get what you want by wanting it, perhaps I can do the same. You may take back the things; the tea tasted very good.”
“I found the tea in the caddy, miss, but I made it meself,” said Jenny, showing her milk-white teeth between her red lips; and she departed with the tray.