Christine and Ridgwell never forgot the sight that met their eyes when the strange transformation took place. It was dazzling in its beauty and it was some seconds before they could realise the full wonder of it. The dimness of the light changed to the most exquisite illuminations imaginable.
Christine and Ridgwell realised that the party was to take place in a gorgeous golden pavilion.
The fountains, which had slid to either end of the pavilion, shot up brilliant globes of changing light which hovered in the air like tiny coloured air balls, whilst the tops of the fountains spraying a golden mist, were echoed again in the lustrous glow of walls and roof.
From the pearly dome whose outline was only faintly suggested overhead, and upon every side, hung myriad stacks of flowers, which now and again fell in fragrant jewelled showers upon the children, just as soon as each blossom had grown into perfection.
Upon a golden dais at one end were King Richard and King Charles clad in glittering silver armour, with Queen Boadicea arrayed in purple, in the centre; whilst St. George stood beside them in shining golden splendour.
Ridgwell and Christine stood beside the Pleasant-Faced Lion upon another dais immediately facing the royal personages. The Lion was no longer a dull, copper green hue; his whole body had changed to the colour of burnished gold and his great mane shone like a sun.
Forty children dressed in the vermilion and black of Beef-eaters from the Tower with halberts in their hands, lined the way up the shallow golden steps to each dais, twenty upon either side.
The Lion gave his last orders for the ceremony—
"Gamble, Grin, Grub, and Carry-on-Merry, sound the Merry Fanfare on your silver trumpets!"
The four little lions gaily arrayed in scarlet and gold advanced into the centre of the great space and executed a remarkable fanfare, which without being entirely a march, or wholly a waltz, was nevertheless delightful to listen to.
Immediately a procession of the most lovely children entered, dressed in every brilliant costume imaginable.
The delicious fragrance of the scented golden mist, diffused from the two fountains, filled the air as the happy and beautiful children, boys and girls, danced into the pavilion. They all paused to bow to the Royalty present, and St. George; then they advanced to where Ridgwell and Christine stood beside the Pleasant-Faced Lion.
They greeted the Lion as an old acquaintance and blew him kisses as they passed.
As they moved along, glittering in costly silks and satins, winding in and out with the changing colours of a rainbow, Ridgwell spoke to the Lion—
"Lal, Christine and I have never seen so many lovely children before. Surely these are not the stray ragged children of London? Why, their faces are the colour of the new roses that are falling everywhere about us, and look how bright their eyes are!"
The Lion smiled, then pointed to the scented golden spray being showered from the two fountains.
"They look lovely as you see them," said the Lion, "because perpetual health, and love, and happiness are being diffused upon them from the fountains. Outside they were different," continued the Lion; "but here the dark circles disappear from beneath their eyes, which become bright and full of love, as they ought to be, the little puckers of care and want are sponged out of their faces by the spray from the fountain. The pallor of their faces changes to rosy health and beauty as it should; the pinched look many of them wear, gives place to roundness and the happy laughing curves of childhood that doesn't know or reckon of any care."
"But, Lal, where do all these wonderful things come from?" questioned Ridgwell; "the great canopy, the golden carpet, all the costumes and the jewels?"
The Lion chuckled. "They all come out of the fountains, straight from the warehouses of the merchants. The Dolphins bring them. Everything comes from the fountains."
"You see," proceeded the Lion, "there is going to be plenty to eat and drink and everything of the best." Once again the Lion pointed towards the two fountains: "See the eight golden dolphins with their golden trays, they hand up delicious cakes, the best fruit, ices, lemonade, chocolates, sandwiches, anything you want."
"Shall we have some of those delightful things to eat too?" asked Ridgwell.
"Oh, be reassured, my child," smiled the Lion, "the Dolphins won't forget either you or Christine, they will dance up to you with their trays filled with everything you want."
"If all those other children look so very beautiful, what do we look like?" Ridgwell asked the Lion in a whisper. "You see there are no looking-glasses, are there?"
For the first time the children remembered to look at one another.
Christine was the first to speak, and it was with a cry of great delight she turned to Ridgwell—
"Oh, Ridgie, you are lovely," said Christine.
"Course he is," said the Lion.
"I don't know about that," said Ridgwell hesitatingly. "I think you have made a mistake in the excitement."
"I've not," insisted Christine; "why, you look like a beautiful little Prince."
Here Ridgwell, who, overcome with modesty at these tributes, had been examining his jewelled shoe-buckles with downcast eyes, looked up at his sister.
"Well, how about you?" exclaimed Ridgwell. "Why, you look like a lovely fairy queen——"
"Course she does," said the Lion.
"Don't be silly, Ridgie," said Christine, severely.
"I'm not," asserted Ridgwell. "I've never seen you look like that. Perhaps," added Ridgwell, "these glittering orders we wear round our necks have something to do with it."
"You're right," said the Lion, "the priceless Order of Great Imagination enables you to see everything that is beautiful as it really is, and, of course, everything here is beautiful, so," added the Lion logically, "why should you both be different from anything else?"
The Lion beckoned to one of the Dolphins.
"Here," said the Lion, as the Dolphin approached them, "hold up your burnished golden tray and let the boy see himself."
The Dolphin held up the polished tray and Ridgwell looked into it wonderingly.
"My goodness," said the Lion, "I thought girls were vain, but boys are worse!"
"That can't be me," said Ridgwell.
"Well, it isn't me," grumbled the Lion, "that's certain."
Christine peeped over the shoulder of Ridgwell's golden tunic.
"It's like us," said Christine, "but yet it isn't us at all."
"That is what people always say when they see their own photographs for the first time," observed the Lion wisely. "Ha!" broke off the Lion, "here come the dogs."
"Have you placed the two long troughs at the far end for them?" demanded the Lion.
"Yes," chorussed the little lions.
"What have you filled them with?" questioned the Lion.
"Finest mutton and chicken bones in one," laughed Carry-on-Merry, "water in the other."
"Have you remembered their special strip of comfortable carpet?" asked the Lion anxiously.
"It's there," grinned Carry-on-Merry.
"Why are the stray dogs to have a strip of special comfortable carpet?" asked Christine.
"Because they like to pick the bones afterwards upon the carpet," said the Lion; "it's a little habit of theirs, and they are not so highly trained as we are."
A most extraordinary procession now made its appearance before them. The children might have thought it was a Noah's Ark, only the dogs advanced in fours. Newfoundlands, St. Bernards, Mastiffs, Retrievers, every conceivable dog down to tiny fox terriers, Spaniels and Yorkshire terriers. They all looked very happy and their coats shone as if they had been lately washed and had afterwards dried themselves in the golden rays of the warm sun, which even now seemed to linger over them.
"Lovely creatures," said Christine.
"Ripping," said Ridgwell, "they are dears."
"Started to munch their bones already," grunted the Lion. "Well, they're not so highly educated as we are. A party to them is a party, and they don't wait for anybody, which, after all, is the proper thing to do. Where's the Griffin?" demanded the Lion of Carry-on-Merry, after that intelligent creature, having acted like a verger (a habit he had probably acquired from a life-long proximity to Westminster Abbey), had shown all the dogs to their places along one side where the comfortable carpet formed a sort of aisle.
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Carry-on-Merry, "the Griffin is late."
"He's always late," grumbled the Lion, "his head's weak, and he never can remember what time a party starts."
"Here he comes," grunted Carry-on-Merry, "and, oh! my goodness, what does he look like?"
"Absolutely ludicrous as usual," said the Lion.
The Griffin presented an intensely comical appearance. Wishing to keep up the dignity of the City, he had chosen for his party-dress a scarlet Lord Mayor's robe, edged with fur, which he had folded around himself in an exceedingly ridiculous fashion.
Upon his head, as he believed it to be becoming, he had placed jauntily sideways, an immense green dunce's cap from one of the children's giant crackers, which the Griffin had pulled as he entered the doors.
The Griffin had decided to adorn his front feet with strips of scarlet flannel, because he declared that he had chilblains, and furthermore, his paws were exceedingly tender after his encounter upon the previous evening with St. George.
It was thus that the Griffin ambled in trailing his Lord Mayor's robes behind him, and smiling aimlessly from right to left upon everybody present.
"Has everybody missed me?" sniggered the Griffin. "I fear I'm late!"
"Nobody has missed you at all," retorted the Pleasant-Faced Lion.
The Griffin looked hurt for a moment.
"Oh, surely, Lal," entreated the Griffin; "surely some one missed me!"
"No," said the Lion firmly.
The corners of the Griffin's mouth trembled.
"Now then," said the Lion, sternly, "no emotion."
"No! no! Lal," faltered the Griffin, "but when I think of that lovely saying, 'Everybody's Loved by Some one'——"
"There are exceptions to every rule," snapped the Lion.
"Oh," sniggered the Griffin, "then it does apply even to me, for I myself am an exception. There is only one of me," ended the Griffin eagerly, "only one in all London."
"Some things don't bear repeating," said the Lion.
The Griffin's weak memory came to his aid at this awkward moment:
"That must particularly apply to your last remark," simpered the Griffin.
"You have heard somebody else say that," objected the Lion.
"True," sniggered the Griffin, "and it will not be the first time that the remembrance of other people's sayings have passed for wit; and I have always so longed to be a wit," sighed the Griffin. "Don't you think, Lal, that I might one day be a wit?" inquired the Griffin anxiously.
"No," said the Lion, "I don't; you have none of the necessary qualifications."
Once again the Griffin's mouth trembled piteously.
"Oh, Lal," implored the Griffin, "think, only think again."
"I couldn't," answered the Lion, "some things don't bear thinking about."
The Griffin, with two tears trembling in his eyes, clasped his flannel-wrapped foreclaws together beseechingly and changed the nature of his supplication:
"Very well, Lal, then perhaps as you have never seen me act, I might arrange some theatricals and amuse the children and the company present. Of course," simpered the Griffin, "I should play the chief funny part myself; wouldn't it be wonderful if I played the chief funny part myself?"
The Lion looked at the Griffin contemplatively for a second: "You will never be funnier than you are now," remarked the Lion, "and we are not going to have any theatricals at all, the children are going to dance."
"The very thing," agreed the Griffin. "I will lead them; I dance so beautifully."
"No," said the Lion firmly, "if any one leads them it will be Carry-on-Merry, but they won't want any leading at all. The best thing you can do is to keep quite quiet and make yourself useful."
"Oh, Lal, don't ask me to be useful," shuddered the Griffin. "It is such a dreadful word, and anybody can be useful."
"You think so," said the Lion, as he smiled his wisest smile.
"I must be something far better than that," remonstrated the Griffin, "and it has just struck me that I had better go round and find out from everybody what they would like me to do," and the Griffin moved off eagerly to gather the opinions of everybody present as to this most interesting point which concerned him so closely.
"Always dying to show off," grunted the Lion. "You can see in the Griffin the absolute type of one who being weak in the head and totally unable to do anything, is nevertheless always longing to show off before others, who are cleverer than himself."
"Perhaps he will find somebody who wants him to do something," suggested Ridgwell, hopefully; "but why didn't he want to be useful?"
"Because the poor Griffin believes himself to be extremely ornamental, and therefore, like all conceited people, he will never be able to see himself as he is in reality. He wishes to lead before he has been able to learn."
Carry-on-Merry, Gamble, Grin, and Grub had by this time fixed up a strangely decorated Maypole; it was nothing less than St. George's Pillar, but so bedecked with hanging flowers and brilliant silken corded ribbons that the children had some difficulty in recognising it again.
Then the four laughing lions could be seen racing along with a most wonderful piano-organ, into which Gamble, Grin, and Grub were harnessed, whilst Carry-on-Merry turned the handle.
It must at once be admitted that this particular musical instrument differed very considerably from any piano-organ ever heard in the streets, and it could never have come anywhere from the neighbourhood of Saffron Hill.
It discoursed the sweetest music in the nature of a dance tune that was irresistible, and the feet of all the children present started in time to it simultaneously.
"Now, Ridgwell," said the Lion, "take Christine and dance with her. Or would you sooner stay here and look on at the sight?"
"I shall do both," asserted Ridgwell, "dance first and look on afterwards."
"Good," assented the Lion; "an able definition of eating your cake and having it at the same time. Off you go then."
"Won't the Kings, Boadicea, and St. George dance too?" asked Christine.
"No, George doesn't dance," said the Lion, "neither do the Royalty; they graciously look on. I don't dance either, I do not consider it dignified, so I sit here, conduct the ceremony, and beat time to the music with my paw."
That dance was the wildest, gladdest, merriest thing the children ever remembered, and the threads of golden light filtering through the flash of the coloured costumes as they wound in and out, added tints of splendour as of an ancient pageant.
Who could keep from dancing to such an exquisite tune, and who could help being glad when ropes of lovely flowers were being twined round lovelier childish faces, flower-like themselves, flushed with gay excitement, with perfect health, with gladness?
Ribbons of changing light they threaded in and out, round and through, no one could tell how many times, and over all the golden scented dew of perfect health and beauty fell from the two fountains upon the up-turned faces.
It is true the Griffin made several ineffectual attempts to break through the laughing, whirling ring, under the impression that the circle was incomplete without him, but Gamble, Grin, and Grub were always at hand to pull him back, and prevent this amiable but mistaken intrusion.
From the piano-organ which he turned so gaily, Carry-on-Merry found it was necessary to caution the Griffin after his last frantic attempt to break through the ring of dancing children.
"I want to dance," urged the Griffin.
"I think you want a keeper," grinned Carry-on-Merry, "or a policeman or something, to keep you in order."
The Griffin turned pale.
"Oh! no," implored the Griffin, "not a policeman."
"Well, then, behave," grinned Carry-on-Merry.
"Very well," sulked the Griffin, "as I am not wanted I think I shall go home and give a party to myself."
"Don't go," grinned Carry-on-Merry, "I have thought of something you could do presently."
The Griffin flushed with delight.
"Will it be something grand?" asked the Griffin breathlessly, "something that will show me off, something that will make me talked about, something so big that it won't be like anything else?"
"Rather," grinned Carry-on-Merry; "you bet it won't be like anything else, at least," added Carry-on-Merry truthfully, "it won't be like anything else I have ever known."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," gushed the Griffin. "I could swoon with joy, I feel so overwrought that I shall go to one of the fountains and ask the dear Dolphins for some light refreshment."
"No, you don't," instantly objected Carry-on-Merry, "the dance is nearly over, and the children are all going there immediately; you would only be in the way, but," added Carry-on-Merry, with a wicked twinkle in his eyes, "I have a much finer idea than that."
"Really?" inquired the Griffin. "Really a fine idea?"
"Ripping," responded Carry-on-Merry, as he mysteriously produced from an inside pocket of his royal scarlet coat a big white damask dinner napkin.
"What can it be for?" simpered the Griffin; "and will it help to show me off to advantage?" he anxiously inquired.
"Rather," said Carry-on-Merry. "Listen! Put this dinner napkin over your face, sit in a corner and go to sleep. Now the most remarkable thing you could do in an assembly like this to attract attention, would be to go to sleep."
The Griffin for a moment looked dubious. "Then," said Carry-on-Merry with a still more wicked gleam in his mischievous eyes, "I will tell every one that you are 'The Sleeping Beauty' and everybody will immediately want to see you."
"How lovely," sighed the Griffin, "and I shall look the part and be the part; in fact," added the Griffin, "I shall be the thing of the evening."
"You will," rejoined Carry-on-Merry enigmatically, "but that is not all. When I wake you up at last, of course all the children will laugh."
"What at?" inquired the Griffin suspiciously.
"Why, for joy at the discovery."
"Humph!" debated the Griffin, "only joy—not admiration?"
"Oh, yes," glibly replied Carry-on-Merry, "admiration, of course, and the sheer beauty of the thing. Ha! ha! ha!"
"Yes, yes," eagerly interrupted the Griffin, "sheer beauty sounds better, sounds more like me."
"Of course it does," laughed Carry-on-Merry. "Then perhaps I shall ask you to sing."
"Oh! Carry-on-Merry," faltered the Griffin in a broken voice, "you have touched my heart—that is the very thing I was waiting for somebody to ask me to do. To sing," rhapsodised the Griffin—"to be like one of those great singers out of the opera, to pour out one's heart tones, to be gazed at by every eye, to be listened to by every ear, to be the adored of all. How can I thank you? How can I repay you?"
"Don't, please," implored Carry-on-Merry, who appeared to be choking inwardly, "don't thank me any more now, I can't bear it—some other time."
"Yet stay," cried the Griffin, with unexpected and dramatic suddenness, "who is going to kiss me?"
"Kiss you?" echoed Carry-on-Merry blankly, "kiss you? Good gracious! I give it up."
"Yet," pondered the Griffin, "somebody had to kiss the Sleeping Beauty!"
"You won't find anybody to do it," said Carry-on-Merry decisively.
"Why not?" asked the Griffin sharply.
"I mean," amended Carry-on-Merry, "nobody could be found for the moment of sufficient importance."
"Oh, I see," replied the Griffin, "yet perhaps Boadicea would oblige."
"Out of the question," said Carry-on-Merry. "Besides you know she never takes part in any—any—er—festivities at all."
"True," lamented the Griffin, "and yet assuredly I must be kissed for the thing to be natural."
Carry-on-Merry turned away his head, for Carry-on-Merry almost felt that he could not trust himself to speak at that moment. Then one of his many bright ideas occurred to him. "I know," rapidly explained Carry-on-Merry, "I have it; I will find some important personage present to give you a rap."
"Where?" moaned the Griffin, "not on my knuckles. You know I cannot stand anything of that nature on my knuckles."
"No—no——" grinned Carry-on-Merry. "I mean a tap, just a little tap."
"I see," agreed the Griffin. "Very well, one little tap, a tap as dainty as if a feather had brushed me in my sleep."
"Or a floating piece of thistledown," laughed Carry-on-Merry.
"Oh yes," said the Griffin. "Thistledown sounds more romantic, and then I shall wake from my dream."
"I don't think myself you ever will," observed Carry-on-Merry, quite as if he were thinking of something else.
"What!" said the Griffin. "Never wake?"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Carry-on-Merry hastily, "but you have to go to sleep first, you know, and you had better hurry up whilst the children are eating, then you won't be observed."
"But I want to be observed," objected the Griffin.
"Of course you do," insisted Carry-on-Merry, "but that comes later on. Go at once."
The amiable Griffin departed accordingly to carry out his part of the programme, and forthwith lumped himself in a distant corner, with the grace of a camel who had found sudden and unexpected opportunities of benefiting his health through sleep. From this slumber the Griffin found it necessary to rouse himself after a little while, upon hearing the children all shouting his name. The entire party having partaken of the delightful refreshments provided according to the various requirements of their constitutions, were watching a moving series of cinematograph pictures of London.
One of the great golden spaces of the walls formed the screen, Gamble, Grin and Grub, full of laughter, manipulated the cinematograph machine, whilst Carry-on-Merry gaily pointed out the pictures with a big golden wand.
All the children loved the pictures, for they were faithful portraits of themselves as they appeared every day in the London streets, when they were not arrayed in gorgeous robes for a Princely Party.
The streets they knew only too well but yet they loved them. Were they not always in the streets—were they not passing every day of their lives the very scenes they were now watching flung upon the screen? The picture being shown at the moment the Griffin heard his name called, was a Royal Procession passing Temple Bar.
Instantly the children recognised the Griffin and called him by name.
The Griffin awoke, saw himself being shown upon the moving picture film, and gave a shriek of delight.
"Stop! oh, stop!" shrieked the Griffin, as he ambled across to Carry-on-Merry and seized the Gold Wand. "Please don't hurry past this beautiful picture. Of course," cried the Griffin with a silly laugh, "of course it's me, ME with Royalty passing me. Is it not beautiful?—you can all see for yourselves. I am sitting higher up than Royalty itself. Notice the way the Royal personages bow and laugh as they pass me."
"They laugh right enough," agreed Carry-on-Merry.
"Eh?" said the Griffin suspiciously.
"The Griffin ought to have been a showman," observed the Pleasant-Faced Lion.
"Now we pass on to the next picture," called Carry-on-Merry.
"Oh, don't hurry," implored the Griffin. "Don't pass the most beautiful of all the pictures in such haste."
"Next picture," laughed Carry-on-Merry.
The Griffin, after bestowing a hurt look upon Carry-on-Merry, retired, and again composed himself for sleep.
His slumber this time was not destined to be of long duration.
A grey sombre figure suddenly strode into the brilliant flower-draped pavilion; a slouch hat made the figure look very sinister, and a sword clanked at his side.
The figure strode on and scowled darkly at King Richard sitting gracefully upon his charger. "Ho! ho!" called the sombre man in a loud voice. "Ho! ho!" he repeated with a mirthless laugh.
King Richard neither moved not took the faintest notice.
On strode the figure towards King Charles seated upon his charger, and who was regarding the children with the pleasantest expression possible.
"Ha!" shouted the figure as it strode along. "Ha! I say, Ha!"
King Charles still smiled gravely and took no notice. The striding figure that shouted "Ha!" might never have uttered a word for all the notice King Charles took of him.
"Ha!" shouted the figure for the last time.
Then, seeing that nobody took any notice of him, the figure looked glum, and folding his arms espied the Griffin peacefully asleep, the white dinner napkin covering his fond, foolish face, waiting to be awakened, so the Griffin fondly hoped—awakened by a gentle tap as Beauty. The Griffin's slumber seemed to annoy the sombre man intensely, for without uttering a syllable he drew his sword and smote the Griffin hard upon the red flannel paws that were folded with a view to pictorial effect beside the Griffin's covered face.
There was a shriek of anguish, and the Griffin awoke.
The pain the Griffin suffered from the blow upon his tender paws was as nothing compared to the blow to the Griffin's feelings when he realised that his ineffably touching picture of the Sleeping Beauty had been spoiled for the evening. A great surge of sudden hatred swept over the Griffin at the swaggering intruder who had dared to strike him, and simultaneously the Griffin remembered something he had once heard said by a man in blue wearing a helmet close to where he always stood in Fleet Street.
The Griffin seized Carry-on-Merry's golden wand for the second time that evening and approached the sombre man of the top boots and the slouch hat menacingly. "Move on," shouted the Griffin, giving a lifelike imitation of the man in blue with a helmet. "Move on, d'ye hear?"
The sombre figure backed a little way in astonishment.
"Move on," said the Griffin, "out of this; we don't want you here. Orff you go!" The sombre figure retreated a little more. "If I catch you here again," said the Griffin pompously, "I will run you in; no loafing here!" The sombre man gave one scowl, sheathed his sword with a clank, and hurriedly took his departure without once looking back or uttering any further remark.
"Bravo!" muttered the Lion, "that is the first useful thing the Griffin has done all the evening."
"Who was that dismal looking man muffled up like a brigand?" asked Ridgwell.
The Lion smiled. "That was Oliver Cromwell. He came to try and spoil the party."
"Why?" asked Ridgwell.
"He doesn't like the extravagance," said the Lion; "he hates any display, and cannot bear to see children happy."
"Thank you, Griffin," said Christine.
"Listen, all of you," simpered the Griffin, "some one has thanked me. Oh! Fancy anybody thanking me. Has everybody heard me publicly thanked?" asked the Griffin anxiously.
"Yes, everybody," said the Lion; "we don't want any more of it."
The Griffin looked sulky.
"As long as everybody knows what I did," said the Griffin. "Nobody else thought of doing it. Do you think it was better than my being the Sleeping Beauty?" inquired the Griffin eagerly.
"Yes," replied the Lion, "it was more realistic."
"Fancy that, more realistic! how beautiful!" and the Griffin sidled away, sniggering with self-gratified pride at his own achievement.
"I am afraid," explained the Lion to Christine and Ridgwell, "that he intends to sing."
"But can he sing?" inquired Ridgwell.
"No," said the Lion, "it is a wretched performance; yet, like all other people who cannot really sing, he is dying to be asked to do so, and I feel sure that some one will be misguided enough to ask him. You see," explained the Lion, "the Griffin cannot sing in tune, but like most people afflicted in the same way, he is totally unconscious of his failing, and really believes his own singing to be quite beautiful."
Christine and Ridgwell both laughed. "It must be very funny," they said.
"It is so funny," answered the Lion, "and so deplorable at the same time that it is almost beyond a joke."
Almost before the Lion had finished speaking Carry-on-Merry, with a particularly wicked laugh, danced to the centre of the bright ball-room and said he thought that perhaps the Griffin might be persuaded to sing.
"I thought so," groaned the Lion.
The Griffin gurgled with pleasure, and immediately started to look coy, and playfully tap the golden carpet spread upon the ground with his forepaws, as if he had suddenly discovered some new beauty in the pattern of the luxurious floor covering.
"Really," said the Griffin, "I do not think I could. Oh! really no."
"Showing off," grunted the Lion; "he'll sing in the end, safe enough. Worse luck!"
"With all these beautiful singers here," smirked the Griffin, "to ask me. Oh!—really!"
"Oh, please sing," everybody murmured politely.
"Oh—oh!—really," simpered the Griffin, trying in vain to blush. "You see, I am not perhaps in my usual form."
"What on earth will it be like, then?" ventured the Lion.
"I am sure you will honour and delight the company," laughed Carry-on-Merry, with his wickedest laugh.
"Besides," demurred the Griffin hesitatingly, "I have two chilblains and such tender paws, I don't think I could really."
"We did not ask you to play," interrupted the Lion shortly.
"No, no," replied the Griffin hastily, "to sing—I understand. Yes, to sing. Oh—fancy asking me to sing. Well, well, perhaps a few bars."
"Now we are in for it," said the Lion, "and I don't suppose you will ever hear anything like it again."
"I do so want to hear the Griffin," said Ridgwell, "and I really cannot think what it will be like."
"Like?" echoed the Lion, "it will be like the effect of the first early gooseberries of the year without sugar or milk; it will be like slate pencils squeaking upon slates; like a trombone that somebody is learning to play for the first time. However, nothing short of an earthquake will stop him now, for, as I tell you, he is simply dying to sing the moment he thinks anybody at all will listen to him, and that he can show off. However," added the Lion, "when it gets beyond all human endurance, I make a sign to Richard I. Now the Griffin is terribly frightened of Richard I."
"Why?" asked both the children.
"Because the Griffin is afraid that Richard will advance and hit him on the paws with the big sword he carries."
"And will he?" asked the children.
"Yes," said the Lion, "if it gets too bad."
Everybody stopped talking now, for the Griffin, after much further pressing, had made up his mind what he was going to sing. He decided to make a start in a key which was indescribable, and with a voice that resembled the twanging of a banjo that had not been tuned.
And thus the Griffin sang—
"Of a merry, merry king I will relate Who owned much silver, gold and plate, And wishing to be up-to-date Within his city, Placed a handsome Griffin outside the gate, A creature pretty.
"Yet one thing, the merry, merry king forgot That it would be his Griffin's lot To be very, very cold, or very, very hot, High up in Fleet Street. So slowly the faithful creature got Chilblains upon his feet.
"The Griffin grew prettier day by day Directing the traffic along each way, With always a pleasant word to say All along Fleet Street. One trouble alone caused him dismay, His very tender feet.
Chorus—
"Oh! my poor tender feet! Of what use are England's laws, Unless they protect my claws And keep me warm in the street? Nothing so young and fair, Ever sniffed Fleet Street air, Ever sang like the Dove— And—All that I ask is love."
At this point the Griffin was so overcome by his own performance that he burst into tears; and despite the excessive hilarity of every one present, to say nothing of Carry-on-Merry, who was rolling upon the floor in his mirth, the Griffin continued to sob, and from time to time wiped away the big tears that rolled down his cheeks with the fur upon the Lord Mayor's mantle that he wore.
"It always affects me," sobbed the Griffin.
"Yes," answered the Lion, "it has affected all of us strangely."
"Nearly been the death of me," gulped Carry-on-Merry.
"I think I will go home now," said the Griffin, as he surreptitiously wiped away the last tears and prepared to depart.
"Oh, don't think of leaving us yet," said the Lion.
"Very well," sniffed the Griffin; "perhaps I may be asked to sing again."
"Not if I know it," whispered the Lion in an undertone; "one performance of that nature is quite sufficient for one evening."
At this moment Carry-on-Merry announced that the dogs, wishing to return thanks for the general pleasantness of the party, and being unable to sing themselves, had deputed one of their number, a most intelligent bob-tail sheep-dog, to compose an ode.
This particular dog, it was thought, had some claims as a poet, since he was a lineal descendant of the canine companion who invariably accompanied Robert Burns in all his wanderings.
The three laughing little lions would now sing the ode the bob-tailed sheep-dog had composed, with the general permission of the company.
"Let us hear it," said the Lion.
"Oh! fancy singing after me," remarked the Griffin.
"Yes," agreed the Lion, "it shows great courage."
Gamble, Grin, and Grub arranged themselves in order, and Gamble commenced—
"Cross Chelsea Bridge, by Chelsea town There is a place called Battersea. The very name to Christian dog's Will make them shudder fearfully."
Here Grin took up the solo.
"A place where gloomy prison doors Do shut up homeless dogs If ever they get lost, or stray During the London fogs."
Grub hereupon came forward.
"When once inside that citadel Within three days or four, They send you to a dreadful room Where you never bark no more."
Then came the Chorus—
"Pleasant-Faced Lion, our thanks to thee For having avoided Battersea."
"Very well sung," admitted the Lion. "I suppose that, being always so close to Westminster Abbey, the little lions have taken some useful hints from what they have heard going on inside.
"The time has come for the party to finish," announced the Pleasant-Faced Lion, "but before it is ended——"
"Has it got to end now?" Ridgwell asked wistfully.
"Everything has to come to an end some time," replied the Lion quietly, "from ices and parties to empires and the world. However," he added encouragingly, "one can always look forward to some possible and pleasant continuation of almost everything, although, perhaps, on different, not to say advanced lines. Before you children go I shall be able to show you the most wonderfully coloured transformation scene you have ever witnessed. Watch carefully the long wall of the Pavilion which you are facing," commanded the Lion.
Carry-on-Merry romped up at this moment laughing as merrily as when the evening commenced.
"Time?" inquired Carry-on-Merry.
The Pleasant-Faced Lion nodded.
"Yes, now," he said.
Slowly the golden wall and the roof with its masses of brilliantly hanging flowers seemed to fade away.
The children knew it was Trafalgar Square they were looking at once again, yet a Trafalgar Square transformed out of all resemblance to its usual familiar aspect.
As the walls appeared to drop before their eyes a brilliant golden bungalow palace with the children dressed as Scarlet Beefeaters grouped down its shining steps glimmered through the rose-pink light in which they beheld it. Surely it could not be the National Gallery!
All the children present passed and repassed before it in their dazzling costumes, making vivid splashes of colour, as changeful and as fascinating as a kaleidoscope.
The fountains still sprayed their mists of violet, amethyst and gold.
"Mark the changing colours well," said the Lion, "and take in all the picture well, for you will not see it ever like this again."
The happy fresh voices of the children were still singing with a rare outburst of melody—
"Pleasant-Faced Lion, our thanks to thee, For all your hospitality."
"Amen!" said the Lion. "Come, Ridgwell and Christine, jump on!" commanded the Lion, as he sank down in order to enable the two children to get on his back. "Home now!"
Both the children looked back many times, of course. They saw the golden bungalow palace for the last time in all its changing lights. Noticed that Queen Boadicea stood majestically upon the topmost step with King Richard upon one side of her and King Charles upon the other. St. George stood with his armour flashing a few steps below. The four merry dogs were gathered around him, whilst Carry-on-Merry was resting his laughing head in one of St. George's hands.
The coloured lights grew paler, a mist danced before their eyes, then twinkled and disappeared.
"It is gone," said Ridgwell, "and oh! how dark the streets look now!"
"But what a party," said Christine.
"And what a feast," added Ridgwell.
"Yes," replied the Lion philosophically, "it is really remarkable how times have changed. In the olden days, long, long ago, everything was reversed. For instance, it was the Lions who were then provided with the feast, and the children who were eaten."
"Horrid!" shivered Ridgwell. "You mean, Lal, those wicked Roman Emperors who let the poor Christians be eaten?"
"My child," announced the Lion gravely, "free meals have invariably been productive of much unpleasant discussion and inquiries afterwards. But see now," he added coaxingly, "the perfect state of perfection the world has arrived at. The Pleasant Lions give the banquet themselves now. Every single thing to-night was provided by Lions. I gave the party—I, the Pleasant-Faced Lion. The four laughing lions from Westminster helped. Richard Coeur-de-Lion presided, and Messrs. Lyons provided all the refreshments."
"Any rate, Lal," observed Ridgwell, "although Christine and I both love you, of course—lions must have been very cruel and savage once, otherwise they wouldn't have thought of eating anybody, would they?"
"Ah, my little boy," replied the Pleasant-Faced Lion softly, "if you were kept without food for days and days I wonder what you would do."
"Tuck in like mad the first chance I got," announced Ridgwell with conviction.
"Perhaps the lions did the same thing," observed Lal gently. "However, I feel I cannot offer any excuse for their past conduct; yet," continued the Pleasant-Faced Lion wisely, as he jogged contentedly on, homewards towards Balham, "I have a fair proposition to make to you, although it may seem somewhat in the nature of a riddle to you both at the present moment."
"What is it?" asked the children in a breath.
"Suppose," said the Lion—"I only say suppose—both of you ever had a chance of eating me, of—ahem! in short, devouring your old friend Lal, would you do it?" asked the Lion, with an odd tremble in his voice.
The question seemed to be so odd, not to mention out of place, that both the children laughed.
"Why, Lal," chuckled Ridgwell, "how ridiculous you are. How could Christine or myself ever possibly eat even a little bit of you?"
"No," answered the Lion, "I believe you are both little Christian children, and yet," he added with a sigh, "you might both become Pagans."
"What's a Pagan?" asked Ridgwell.
Again the Lion sighed. "My child," he said, "you have a very great deal to learn, and among the many things at present hidden from you is the fact that both you and Christine will see me once again and once only."
"Where?" asked the children.
"At your home in Balham."
"Good gracious," said Ridgwell, "will you knock at the hall door?"
"No," said the Pleasant-Faced Lion.
"Or appear sitting in the raspberry bushes in the garden?" ventured Christine. "If so, you will spoil them, you know!"
"No," said the Lion, "certainly not."
"Then how will you come?" asked Ridgwell.
"You will see me again once more," asserted the Lion, "in three days from now, and moreover inside your own home."
"Three days from now is Ridge's birthday," ventured Christine; "of course, it would be very nice to see you, but I do wonder how you will come, and I do wonder how we shall be able to explain you away."
The Pleasant-Faced Lion laughed his gruffest laugh.
"I don't think you could very well explain me away, little Christine."
"Suppose you sat on the hearth-rug and people seemed a little distant or awkward?" commenced Ridgwell.
"Yes," broke in Christine, "or some of those dreadful long pauses occurred when nobody speaks and every one looks at every one else and feels uncomfortable—would you say something?"
"Yes," said the Lion. "I have plenty of tact, but really there won't be any need," and the Pleasant-Faced Lion again chuckled softly to himself.
"There is only one thing I want you to do," said the Pleasant-Faced Lion, and he still seemed to be choked with merriment as if a sudden idea had occurred to him.
"What is it, Lal?" inquired both the children.
"Upon Ridgwell's birthday night, before you both go to bed, I want you, Ridgwell, to remember a little rhyme and say it to yourself."
"A hymn?" asked Ridgwell.
"Not exactly a hymn."
"After we have said our prayers?"
"Certainly," replied the Lion obligingly, "any time before you go to bed will do; will you promise to remember?"
"Of course, Lal."
"Well, this is the little rhyme," whispered the Lion mysteriously; and somehow it seemed to Ridgwell as if the Lion was still laughing at him as he repeated the following extraordinary rhyme—
"Christian child or Pagan child, Which is my denomination, Have I eaten dear old Lal In my birthday celebration?"
Ridgwell repeated the mysterious rhyme after the Lion, then he shook his head.
"Don't understand it, do you?" grinned the Lion.
"Not a bit," answered Ridgwell.
"I give it up, too," said Christine.
"Are you laughing at us, Lal?" inquired Ridgwell anxiously.
"Ah!" said the Lion, "I wonder; however, he who laughs last, laughs last; that saying is true without a doubt; and," he concluded with a chuckle, "I bet you both anything you like that I have the last laugh. In fact, one day when you pass me you may hear me laugh, although I shall never speak to either of you again in public. And that reminds me of something I want to warn both of you about particularly. Never appear to notice me in public or speak to me whenever you chance to pass me in Trafalgar Square; you would only collect a crowd, make me very uncomfortable, and convey the unfortunate impression to everybody within earshot that you were mad. The same thing applies to Carry-on-Merry; he has a most provoking face, and the happy laugh always to be seen upon it might tempt you both to suppose that he was listening; now mind you never give way to the temptation of addressing either of us in public, and never refer to anything that has happened even in private, for you will only be misunderstood. Remember," concluded the Lion, "that the Great Order of Imagination is only given to a very few people; those who do not possess it do not understand it. See, your own has faded already!"
Both the children clasped their hands simultaneously to their necks where the glittering order had hung and shone only a few minutes before.
Then they stared blankly at the place where it had been. Alas! the luminously lighted jewels of the order were no longer there.
"Oh, Lal," said Ridgwell, "shall we never have it again?"
"Only the memory of it," replied the Lion gently; "that never fades."
"Only the memory," echoed Ridgwell thoughtfully.
"Nobody can ever take that away from you," said the Lion.
"Did any other little boy ever have the Great Order of Imagination, Lal?"
"Yes," said the Lion, "there was one who had the highest and greatest order of all, the Pure Soul of Imagination itself." The Lion paused and seemed to be thinking.
"Where is he now?" whispered Ridgwell, for unconsciously he seemed to have lowered his voice.
The Lion lifted his great and noble head, and looked upwards towards the silver stars above them. The Lion shook his head doubtfully, and the children noticed that there was something very like a tear in his eyes.
"I don't know which particular star," said the Lion, "but somewhere there, I think; but then, you see, I'm only a Pagan."
The Lion stopped and purred; they were outside the familiar windows of their own home.
"Oh, Lal," whispered the children, "how shall we remember all we've seen to-night; how shall we be able to think about it and go through it all again, if the Order of Imagination has been taken away from us and if we are never to speak to you again, and only to see you once more? Even then you cannot tell us how we are going to see you."
The Lion smiled. "I can arrange that easily. Be of good heart, little Ridgwell and Christine. I know a writer—he comes and talks to me at night sometimes, though I never answer him—and I will suggest he writes it all down for you. I can ask him things without saying a word."
"Will you?" pleaded the children. "Oh, please ask him, Lal!"
