It was on a dark and foggy afternoon that Philomène lay in bed, watching a goblin castle in among the coals, with twinkling battlements that would presently fall ruining, till drowsiness overcame her, and she closed her eyes. She had been wandering in the vasty entrance-hall of the play-house of sleep, though the spectacle of dreams had not as yet begun—(as she herself would have expressed it, the Dusty-Man in the theatre-office was just going to give her the tickets, so that she might go in and see the show), when a strange yet strangely familiar voice purred into her ear; “Wake up, Philomène, wake up, beloved of the Little People.”
Philomène started up, and looked straight into the green, affectionate eyes of Queen Mab. “Oh, Queen Mab, you dear thing,” she stammered, “Sweet William told me about you, and I am only a very, very tiny bit afraid of you.”
“There is no reason even for that tiny bit,” replied the white cat, putting one of her paws into Philomène’s hand, “have I ever thought of scratching or biting you, even when you put me to bed in a doll’s cradle, and tried to make my ears fit into a doll’s nightcap? Do you suppose I have forgotten how on that Christmas Eve when I first came to you, you as a little, little girl clung to Nurse, and told her how very little trouble I should be, because I would eat up the scraps and take in my own washing? No, Philomène, white witches are not ungrateful; I would not harm a hair of your dear little head.”
Philomène lay back among the pillows. “Will you teach me how to work spells?” she asked, “so that I can spirit away the little yellow book all about quarts and bushels and perches which Miss Mills loves, and the green dress that I can’t bear because it hooks all up the back, and has such a vulgar broad stripe in it?”
“I wouldn’t advise you to meddle with spells, my dear,” returned Queen Mab, curling her tail right round her till it met her chin, “they are rather tricky things, and apt to go off at the wrong time, like chemicals. But if you like I will tell you a story which I think will make clear to you, better than anything else, the difference between black and white witches. Is the very, very tiny bit still there?”
“No,” said Philomène, “you are my own dear Pussy, and I am sure you love me, and I am very glad that I can have you to talk to me in the winter-time when I sit nursing you by the fire. And now please begin the story.”
CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH QUEEN MAB TELLS HER STORY
On a bleak and rocky coast there once stood a little fishing town, and on the high cliffs above it, looking seaward towards the sunrise, rose the stately pile of an old Abbey church, which was the pride of the place, for the folk in the little red-roofed town were poor and struggling, and had not much in their midst that was beautiful.
Legend said that long ago a certain wicked king had set his heart upon the Abbey treasures, and that at his command a ship had left the harbour laden with the choicest of them, but a great storm had arisen, so that the ship foundered, and the treasure went all to the bottom. Some said it might still be recovered if men would but dive for it outside the harbour bar, others declared that at night you could hear the buried Abbey bells chiming out at sea, others again did not believe in the story at all, and had never heard any bell ringing below water save the bell of the buoy.
Now just beyond the harbour bar there was a great rock, and this was said by some to be the haunt of a very evil black witch, but the people who said this were the same people that had heard the Abbey bells by night, and so got laughed at for their pains.