My landlady’s welcome had an extra heartiness about it: and though, with a rare delicacy of feeling, she made no direct allusion to the friend whose companionship had done so much to brighten life for me, I felt sure that it was a kindly sympathy with my solitary state that made her so specially anxious to do all she could think of to ensure my comfort, and make me feel at home.
The lonely evening seemed long and tedious: yet I lingered on, watching the dying fire, and letting Fancy mould the red embers into the forms and faces belonging to bygone scenes. Now it seemed to be Bruno’s roguish smile that sparkled for a moment, and died away: now it was Sylvie’s rosy cheek: and now the Professor’s jolly round face, beaming with delight. “You’re welcome, my little ones!” he seemed to say. And then the red coal, which for the moment embodied the dear old Professor, began to wax dim, and with its dying lustre the words seemed to die away into silence. I seized the poker, and with an artful touch or two revived the waning glow, while Fancy—no coy minstrel she—sang me once again the magic strain I loved to hear.
“You’re welcome, little ones!” the cheery voice repeated. “I told them you were coming. Your rooms are all ready for you. And the Emperor and the Empress—well, I think they’re rather pleased than otherwise! In fact, Her Highness said ‘I hope they’ll be in time for the Banquet!’ Those were her very words, I assure you!”
“Will Uggug be at the Banquet?” Bruno asked. And both children looked uneasy at the dismal suggestion.
“Why, of course he will!” chuckled the Professor. “Why, it’s his birthday, don’t you know? And his health will be drunk, and all that sort of thing. What would the Banquet be without him?”
“Ever so much nicer,” said Bruno. But he said it in a very low voice, and nobody but Sylvie heard him.
The Professor chuckled again. “It’ll be a jolly Banquet, now you’ve come, my little man! I am so glad to see you again!”
“I ’fraid we’ve been very long in coming,” Bruno politely remarked.
“Well, yes,” the Professor assented. “However, you’re very short now you’re come: that’s some comfort.” And he went on to enumerate the plans for the day. “The Lecture comes first,” he said. “That the Empress insists on. She says people will eat so much at the Banquet, they’ll be too sleepy to attend to the Lecture afterwards—and perhaps she’s right. There’ll just be a little refreshment, when the people first arrive—as a kind of surprise for the Empress, you know. Ever since she’s been—well, not quite so clever as she once was—we’ve found it desirable to concoct little surprises for her. Then comes the Lecture—”
“What? The Lecture you were getting ready—ever so long ago?” Sylvie enquired.
“Yes—that’s the one,” the Professor rather reluctantly admitted. “It has taken a goodish time to prepare. I’ve got so many other things to attend to. For instance, I’m Court-Physician. I have to keep all the Royal Servants in good health—and that reminds me!” he cried, ringing the bell in a great hurry. “This is Medicine-Day! We only give Medicine once a week. If we were to begin giving it every day, the bottles would soon be empty!”
“But if they were ill on the other days?” Sylvie suggested.
“What, ill on the wrong day!” exclaimed the Professor. “Oh, that would never do! A Servant would be dismissed at once, who was ill on the wrong day! This is the Medicine for today,” he went on, taking down a large jug from a shelf. “I mixed it, myself, first thing this morning. Taste it!” he said, holding out the jug to Bruno. “Dip in your finger, and taste it!”
Bruno did so, and made such an excruciatingly wry face that Sylvie exclaimed, in alarm, “Oh, Bruno, you mustn’t!”
“It’s welly extremely nasty!” Bruno said, as his face resumed its natural shape.
“Nasty?” said the Professor. “Why, of course it is! What would Medicine be, if it wasn’t nasty?”
“Nice,” said Bruno.
“I was going to say—” the Professor faltered, rather taken aback by the promptness of Bruno’s reply, “—that that would never do! Medicine has to be nasty, you know. Be good enough to take this jug, down into the Servants’ Hall,” he said to the footman who answered the bell: “and tell them it’s their Medicine for today.”
“Which of them is to drink it?” the footman asked, as he carried off the jug.
“Oh, I’ve not settled that yet!” the Professor briskly replied. “I’ll come and settle that, soon. Tell them not to begin, on any account, till I come! It’s really wonderful,” he said, turning to the children, “the success I’ve had in curing Diseases! Here are some of my memoranda.” He took down from the shelf a heap of little bits of paper, pinned together in twos and threes. “Just look at this set, now. ‘Under-Cook Number Thirteen recovered from Common Fever—Febris Communis.’ And now see what’s pinned to it. ‘Gave Under-Cook Number Thirteen a Double Dose of Medicine.’ That’s something to be proud of, isn’t it?”
“But which happened first?” said Sylvie, looking very much puzzled.
The Professor examined the papers carefully. “They are not dated, I find,” he said with a slightly dejected air: “so I fear I can’t tell you. But they both happened: there’s no doubt of that. The Medicine’s the great thing, you know. The Diseases are much less important. You can keep a Medicine, for years and years: but nobody ever wants to keep a Disease! By the way, come and look at the platform. The Gardener asked me to come and see if it would do. We may as well go before it gets dark.”
“We’d like to, very much!” Sylvie replied. “Come, Bruno, put on your hat. Don’t keep the dear Professor waiting!”
“Can’t find my hat!” the little fellow sadly replied. “I were rolling it about. And it’s rolled itself away!”
“Maybe it’s
