Virtue was five years old when they went to Dovercourt for the summer holidays. They stayed in one of a row of dull grey houses. The sea was always grey, the promenade was always grey and mother and the girls were dressed in grey, being in half-mourning for granny.
Virtue had given her cart and horse to the landlady’s daughter on the first day of her visit, and had instantly regretted it, but her mother, though touched by an act of such reckless generosity — it was a favourite toy — had acquiesced, and there was no chance of getting it back. This loss blackened the already drab prospect. She definitely disliked Dovercourt. Mother was very sad; twice Virtue had found her crying, which had shocked her a good deal. Tears, she thought, were nursery things not indulged in by grown-ups. Her sisters were always quarrelling; her brothers were always out, only returning at dusk in a trail of sand and seaweed, carrying pails of languishing crustaceans — puzzling to Virtue and rather disgusting. Solemn boys they were, earnest even with shrimping-nets. Virtue would go out with her pail and spade and make dreary sand pies with the aid of Kate, whose rosy face was the only spot of colour in the dull day. They sold each other pies all the morning, and sometimes in the afternoon would build a castle. For a child of five she was as bored as it was possible to be.
One afternoon everybody except Virtue and Kate drove to a distant tea party. Virtue played on the balcony, leading a string up and down, trying to imagine that her lost horse and cart were attached to it. Suddenly on the next balcony appeared a wonderful being, all roseate, with bright gold hair. Virtue gazed. This was a fairy, of course, and even more beautiful than the fairy she saw in her dreams. It came to the rail which divided the two balconies. It held out its arms, and said:
‘Hullo, you exquisite little thing. Come and talk to me.’
She was enfolded in those marvellous arms, her head was buried in a lace-filmed bosom that smelt of flowers. This was a dream! Or Fairyland. The room into which she was swiftly carried, seen through a veil of excitement, carried on the illusion, for it was not like any other room in the world. It was lighted mysteriously, and shimmered with gold stuffs, white fur rugs and silver ornaments. She was shown splendid things — was allowed to hold a silver pig and to set going a little musical box, from which sprang a bird that burst into song. Virtue, sure that it was alive, tried to stroke it, but as she touched it it disappeared with a snap and the box was silent. The lady laughed, a low, soft laugh rather like mother’s, only somehow different.
‘Poor birdie! He’s frightened of such a big person. What’s your name, little girl?’
‘Virtoo.’
‘What?’
‘Virtoo.’
‘Virtoo? Virtoo? Not Virtue?’
Virtue nodded.
The fairy laughed again and snatched her close.
‘Oh, but that’s too delicious! Too good to be true! Virtue! Virtue! With that face! You little love!’
She was hugged with rapture, and the fairy murmured ‘Virtue’ to herself several times, as though it were the funniest thing in the world.
‘I must write and tell the prince that a little girl called Virtue paid me a visit. He won’t believe it. Would you like to see the prince?’
A picture in a silver frame — a glorious creature in blue with a shiny hat and a sword. That settled it. Of course she was a fairy princess and this was the prince.
‘Like him?’
Virtue nodded, gazing.
‘Kiss him,’ said the fairy, holding the picture close.
He was kissed.
‘There, now, I can tell him he’s been kissed by a young lady called Virtue. That will be something quite new for him.’ She pressed the portrait to her own lips.
‘That’s not Virtue!’ she laughed.
Virtue wondered why her name amused the fairy so much. She had been mildly teased about it by the boys, and her mother had told her that it was a name that demanded astonishing goodness from its possessor, which seemed a little bit unfair. She would much rather be plain Kate, and able to be as naughty as she liked. This she confided to her new friend.
‘How would you like to be called Lilian and to be as naughty as you like all your life?’
‘That’s mother’s name!’ exclaimed Virtue. ‘But she’s not been naughty at all — not all her life.’
‘It’s my name too, and — well — I wasn’t a very good little girl always. So your mother was never naughty. How do you know?’
‘How could she be? Mothers are never naughty. Only their little girls are naughty. And their little boys —’ she added hastily.
‘Your mother’s very pretty. I’ve seen her. She looks sad, though. Perhaps because she’s so good. It doesn’t do to be too good, my dear.’
Virtue thought of her mother’s tears, and wondered if perhaps she had been naughty and that God had punished her — because she could not conceive of anyone less than God punishing mother. She told about the tears.
‘Poor mother! I believe she is sad. You must be kind to her,’ was all the fairy said.
‘I am,’ said Virtue, and was lost once more among those perfumed laces.
‘Little darling, little darling!’ the fairy murmured to herself, half laughing. Then:
‘Where’s father?’
‘Father’s coming next week. He’s aboard.’
‘Aboard? I suppose you mean abroad. Where?’
After long discussion they decided that he must be in Germany, where Priscilla, a big sister, was studying the violin.
‘That’s where the prince lives. He is a German.’
If he were a German he couldn’t be a fairy.
‘Are you a fairy?’
‘Ah, perhaps. Fairies never tell, you know.’
‘But the prince? Can there be a German fairy?’
‘Oh! Ha, ha! He’s not a fairy, my dear. Solid flesh and blood and lots of it.’
This was puzzling, because Virtue was nearly sure that this lady must be a fairy. Nobody could have hands so transparently soft and white and covered with such glittering rings. So soft they were! Like the satin cushion on mother’s dressing-table. Soft and sweet-scented as they caressed her face and ran through the straight, dark hair that Kate found so difficult to manage. Virtue was falling more and more under the spell of this wonderful being. She thought she would like to sit here for ever, scenting the perfume and touching the fragrant softness of her — never to go back even to dear Kate, whose hands were rough and tugged at her hair, or to mother, whose kiss was awaited every night with such ardour. No, this was different from mother’s good-night kiss. She had thought that was the loveliest thing in the world until now —
‘Please, may I stay with you always?’
‘Virtue! If you only could. But what would mother say? And father in Germany? And all the little brothers and sisters? I hate to let you go, little love. I’d like to take you to Germany with me. I’m going there next month, when I leave this dull place.’
‘Are you unhappy here?’ Virtue asked hopefully.
‘I am only here because I have been ill.’
‘Are you ill?’ Fairies could not be ill, surely.
‘I was.’ She smiled. ‘Would you like to come to Germany?’
‘And see the prince? Oh, please! Please take me to Germany.’
‘We’ll talk about that another day. Now you must go back. What will your nurse be doing, poor thing, with her Virtue gone?’ She laughed again more than ever. ‘Come again, little friend.’
She took her in her arms and carried her to the French window.
‘Don’t forget the bad fairy.’
‘Let me come tomorrow,’ said Virtue, clinging. ‘I will come tomorrow for all day.’
‘Yes, yes, tomorrow. I’ll be looking out for you on the balcony. Good-bye, lovely, lovely baby!’
‘Good-bye, good-bye! I shall come again tomorrow!’
When she entered the window she was seized roughly by Kate.
‘Where have you been? Oh, my Lord, where have you been! I searched the house and the garden. Nothing but a piece of string on the balcony. Oh, you naughty girl, you’ve half killed me, and your mother out and all. Where have you been?’
‘I’ve been with a fairy — over the balcony.’
Kate understood.
‘A fairy!’ she sneered. ‘Yes, that’s not a bad name. Whoever heard! What’ll your mother say I don’t like to think.’
Mother’s good-night kiss was rather tame that night, for already Virtue was dreaming of roses, pink lights, soft hands and lips warmly pressed to hers, and of a bird that sprang brilliantly from a tinkling box and settled on her shoulder singing so loud that she woke up screaming.
‘A little fever.’ Her mother was leaning over her again holding a glass of the medicine which smelt of night and which Kate called Nitre.
‘Never mind,’ murmured Virtue, turning over to sleep again. ‘I shall see the fairy again tomorrow.’
But she never saw her again, except once, and that was far worse than never seeing her at all, for she appeared on the balcony a few days later, and, when Virtue rushed towards her, she vanished — as a fairy might.