Twilight

CHAPTER I. baron thimble.

A winter night, with a thick fog rising above the Sandridge marshes,

and spreading itself over the city of Melbourne. People released from

toil were hurrying home to tea and a pleasant fireside. Others, who

neither toil nor spin, and had no home or fireside, glided slowly and

noiselessly through the mist like ghosts, or stood shivering before the

damp window-panes or lit-up shops and dining-rooms, feasting their

hungry eyes on the good things within.

Business in the city was very dull, and money very scarce. Money is

scarce at all times with a great many mortals, I am aware, but the

present depression was felt everywhere throughout the colony.

Tom Brock, the barber, standing in his little shop at the corner of

Gertrude Street Fitzroy, felt the hardness of the times as keenly as

any member of the community, inasmuch as Tom had a large family of

growing children to provide for, and customers had been anything but

numerous of late. Indeed, the poor shaver was beginning to think that

the primeval fashion of suffering the hair and beard to grow in wild

luxuriance on the heads and faces of his race had become the order of

the day, and from henceforth he could exclaim with Shakespeare’s

gallant Moor—“Othello’s occupation’s gone.”

On this winter night the barber was alone in his shop, busy stropping

his razors for want of more lucrative employment. Like most of his

craft, Tom Brock was a great talker. It was part and parcel of his

stock-in-trade; and, by the way, it is wonderful to note upon what a

variety of subjects barbers can talk. Our hero was no exception to the

rule in this respect. Having no one in the place to engage in

conversation, he ceased stropping, and gazing into the large mirror

opposite, addressed himself to what he saw there with charming irony in

his tone.

“You’re a handsome fellow, Tom Brock, a very pretty fellow indeed. Only

I’m afraid looks won’t go for much in this case. Here you are from

eight o’clock this morning, and you’ve almost earned one and sixpence,

according to the multiplication table. Just fancy this grand sum of

eighteen pence per diem, sir, for the maintenance of eleven

persons—father, mother, and nine young Brocks, whose appetites this

cold weather are something to astonish Soyer the Frenchman. Don’t smile

at me, sir; I’m in no humour for jesting. Humph! how foolish to try and

quarrel with one’s shadow! Yet I’ve known men do that, before

to-night.”

He settled himself down with a sigh in the easy chair, and crossed his

legs one over the other. “I wonder if the portrait and the

superscription of Her Majesty the Queen is still upon the coinage of

this realm?” continued the barber, speaking at the image in the mirror.

“It’s such a time since I handled a golden coin that, upon my life, I

almost forget what they are like; perhaps that is the reason why I feel

such an uncontrollable desire to look upon one at this moment. Nay, not

one, but several—in short, several hundreds. Pooh, what rubbish you’re

talking, Tom Brock, you penniless rascal!”

The poor barber smiled at the idea of the thing, and the fellow in the

mirror smiled in company. “Ready cash is a very handy thing to have at

one’s command, especially when it is urgently needed, as in my case,”

said Tom, looking sternly at his reflection. “I’ve often heard fellows

sneer at money, and call it strange names; yet I’ve noted that these

same revilers were always mighty eager to gather it in when they have

had an opportunity. Moreover, I——”

Brock the barber paused suddenly in his soliloquy; for he beheld within

the radius of the looking-glass another form besides the reflection of

himself. A little man, with a peculiar cast of face and features, stood

behind the chair, with his arms akimbo, and his old-looking head on one

side, listening greedily to the barber’s utterances.

“Good-evening, sir,” said Tom, starting to his feet. “Cold night?”

The little man only grinned like a monkey in reply.

“Shave, or hair cut, sir?” asked the barber, rubbing his lean hands

with professional expectancy.

“Shave?” echoed the customer in a voice like a croaking raven. “Do I

look as if I wanted shaving? No man shall take me by the nose, and I

know you can’t shave without doing that.”

“No offence, sir. Shall I cut your hair?”

“Yes, Tom Brock. Cut it short, very short.” And the wee fellow chuckled

heartily as he divested himself of a cloak, in which he had been

wrapped from head to heel, and seated himself in the chair before the

mirror. The new-comer, although very small for his age, was quite cool

and self-possessed. He gave all manner of directions respecting the

mode in which he required his hair trimmed, made faces at the glass,

and laughed at the grimaces reflected there.

Tom Brock had had many queer customers during the twelve years he had

been in business, but he had never seen such a quaint, small mite of a

man as this one before him. In fixing the wrapper about his shoulders

Tom could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise at the colour and

texture of his companion’s apparel. Of what material were they

composed—cloth, tweed, silk, cotton? No; mortal warp or weft never

manufactured such fabrics. Some other agency—subtle and mysterious as

many unexplained things we see around us—had perchance woven these

articles. For in this lower world there are cloaks much less

substantial than a fairy’s jerkin—cloaks for which Dr. Johnson and his

followers have been unable to find a name, but which are indispensable

to many of us in our daily lives.

Had the barber been less engaged in taking stock of the manner and

appearance of his strange customer, he might have discovered at once

that to shorten this fellow’s hair was an utter impossibility, for as

fast as the keen scissors severed the long, yellow locks the particles

became instantly attached again. The barber’s eyes were too intent

watching the grimaces in the mirror to observe the startling fact.

“Been long in the colony, sir?” insinuated he, by way of opening a

conversation.

The wee man chuckled mightily, and narrowly escaped having a portion of

his ear severed by the barber’s sharp scissors.

“I know the colony, Tom Brock,” he replied. “No one better. Ha, ha!”

The hairdresser was staggered, but he came again to the charge.

“Beautiful hair, yours, sir, fine and soft as silk. It doesn’t seem to

be much shorter, after all I’ve cut off.”

“Cut it short, Tom. Ho, ho, ho!”

“Very dull times, sir,” said Tom, not relishing his customer’s

disagreeable laugh.

“It’s very dull indeed for you, Tom Brock,” answered the wee man, with

a knowing leer.

“Why for me, sir?”

“Because the lease of your shop expires next Monday, Tom, and you

haven’t a penny saved to renew it. That’s why,” responded the customer

quietly.

Some people when they are astonished can be tumbled over with a

feather, but it would have taken a blow from a large stick to have

knocked our hero down. He appeared rooted to the boards, and his eyes

and mouth opened considerably.

“Very good, sir. You’re a wizard. Perhaps you have no objection to tell

me what I had for dinner to-day!” ejaculated Tom, when he found the use

of his tongue.

“Not in the least. You hadn’t anything, my friend. Your mind was not

upon eating to-day, but rather the consideration of where boots for the

children are to come from—a bonnet for Mrs. B. likewise, the cash for

your business, eh? Care has taken away your appetite, Tom. Ha, ha! I

know. No one knows better than Thimble. That’s me.”

The comb and scissors fell from the barber’s hand to the floor.

“Want to know anything else, Tom Brock?” asked the visitor.

“Nothing more, thank ye,” replied the barber in a bewildered tone.

“Listen to me, then.” And the little fellow faced about in the chair.

“I am Baron Thimble, of Faydell Twilight. Ours is a vast kingdom in the

centre of Australia, of which very little is known by man. The

Anglo-Saxon has penetrated into every corner of the known globe, and

thrust his inquisitive nose into the socket of the North Pole, but he

has never set foot in the land of Twilight. Now I need your services,

Tom Brock, and if you will promise to go with me, I will reward you

handsomely.”

“Twilight,” repeated Brock thoughtfully. “I never heard mention of such

a country before.”

“I trow not,” replied Baron Thimble, smiling. “Nevertheless, it is a

great realm, whose people have often visited these cities, reared on

the sea border. Thou art poor, and in need, and faith, I repeat, I have

need of thee.”

“How long will you require me?”

“For just one moon. No more.”

“And the reward?” inquired Tom eagerly.

“Two hundred golden coins.”

“Thank you, I am at your service. Stop! Is Twilight far away, Baron

Thimble?”

“Yes, but our conveyance will be swift and safe. Thou wilt go?”

“With the greatest pleasure, sir.”

“Enough! Here are one hundred sovereigns in part payment of my

promise.” And the Twilight nobleman drew forth a heavy purse and

counted the money into the barber’s palm. “Go home at once and bank the

money with thy wife; then meet me afterwards on the right bank of the

river Yarra, beyond the Lunatic Asylum. You understand?”

And the Baron, chuckling to himself, folded his poncho about his

person, and strode out at the doorway.

Tom Brock could hardly believe but that the whole affair had been a

joke. There lay the money, though. That was real enough. And he felt it

was no joke to have it in his possession. So he packed up his shaving

appliances in a bag, closed his shop, and went home to his better half.

CHAPTER II. prince picnic.

The inhabitants of Twilight have a more facile means of transition than

the sons of men. While we have our steamboats, railways, telegraphs,

and all other nurslings of science as our slaves, the races of the dim

region can command the services of the powerful Air King Fancy. Swifter

is he than the Wind, and stronger than the fabled Griffin of the

Ancients. He can accommodate any number and all manner of travellers at

a moment’s notice.

Baron Thimble, standing by the Yarra bank, invoked the rapid harbinger

to his aid, and when Tom Brock the barber joined him there, they were

fully prepared to start on their voyage.

“Humbug-loo-boo! Tictoleroo! Pish-bosh! Fudge!” cried the son of

Twilight, and they were off. The electrical current, girdling the

storm-tossed waters, where ships are broken and engulfed, could not

outpace the conveyance of the fairy and the barber. The most elegant

saloon could not afford more comfort than those trance-stuffed cushions

upon which they reclined and gazed out upon the newly brightened

landscape.

Then the fairy man spoke and unfolded his mission.

“I am the Baron Thimble. Know, O mortal, that the wise Prince Picnic is

Ruler and Governor of Twilight. The Prince hath a beautiful daughter

named Bi-ba-be-bi, which in the language of the country implies the

Lady Lollypop. Twelve months ago, while the Prince was hunting in the

Leap Frog Mountains, he was made prisoner by a huge, powerful chief of

the Baboon country, named Gorilla, who demanded the Prince’s daughter

in marriage, as ransom. My master consented to the terms, but begged

that Gorilla would not press his suit for the space of one year and a

day, so that Bi-ba-be-bi might be prepared for the ceremony. The

monster agreed. And now, the time specified having elapsed, the horrid

creature has crossed the mountains to demand his bride.”

The voice of Baron Thimble trembled with emotion as he continued:

“Prince Picnic is full of sorrow, for he cannot think of suffering his

lovely daughter to mate with such a monster as Gorilla. Bribes have

been offered, gold and silver and gems, besides a large tract of

territory known as Shadowsflit, bordering on our country, but the

monster will have nothing in lieu of the lady.”

“Why don’t you call out the volunteers, and drive the beast back into

the mountains?” inquired the barber.

“Ah, there lies the difficulty,” answered Thimble. “The Governor of

Twilight has never broken his word to man or monster, and he will not

go from it in this instance. The nobles and churchmen have tried to

persuade him that, under the circumstances, he is not bound to redeem

his word with Gorilla; but he will not listen to our advice, and I’m

afraid the lovely girl, Lady Lollypop, will be sacrificed.”

“What is the Baboon chief like?” asked the barber.

“Tall as a giant, and as strong as a dozen giants combined,” replied

his companion. “The Prince quartered him in the summer palace, and the

rogue has almost torn it down piecemeal. He has eaten up the shrubs and

flowers, and destroyed every animal within his reach.”

“Has Lady Lollypop seen her affianced husband?”

“No; poor Bi-ba-be-bi remains as yet in blissful ignorance of the fact,

yet to-morrow the whole matter must be made known to her, except——” and

the Baron paused, and looked fixedly at Tom Brock.

“Except what?” said the barber.

“Except you aid us,” rejoined the fairy. “We held a Council

yesterday—Gaboon, the Prince’s jester, being President. The Chairman,

who understands the manners, customs, and language of Gorilla-land,

stated that this monster was not in his opinion a real native Gorilla,

inasmuch as the beings of the Baboon regions had only four toes,

whereas the visitor had five; further, in conversing with the intended

husband of the fair Bi-ba-be-bi, he had discovered that the creature

spoke the language of the country with a strong foreign accent—these,

together with other matters he did not wish at that meeting to

particularise, induced him (the Chairman) to conclude that the monster

was other than what he appeared, and that the only way to test the

truth or otherwise of his suggestion, with reference to the unwelcome

guest, would be to engage a smart barber to shave the Gorilla from head

to heel. I need scarcely add that the proposition of the President was

unanimously agreed to. And here you are!”

Wee Baron Thimble chuckled and rubbed his hands together until the

joints cracked again.

“Why, you surely didn’t engage me to shave a Gorilla?” cried the poor

barber in astonishment.

“I certainly did, Tom Brock.”

“What! All over—body and all?” inquired he, with starting eyeballs.

“Body, head and feet, Tom. Wherever there is a hair you must cut it

off,” replied Thimble.

“Well, I’ve often heard of a pig being shaved, but never a Gorilla.

What do you want to shave the beast for, eh?”

The Baron remained thoughtful for a moment ere he replied. “It will be

a sure test to prove whether this monster is really the chief of the

Baboon realm or not,” he said. “If he is not, so much the better for

Lollypop, and if he is the real Simon Pure, his enormous strength will

depart with his heavy coat. He will become docile, and we can then

dress him as becomes the bridegroom of a Princess. That is the opinion

of Gaboon.”

“Bother Gaboon!” cried the barber. “I only wish the President of the

Council had to shave the creature, that’s all.”

“There are no barbers in Twilight,” answered Thimble; “else I had not

come to thee; besides, thou hast received thy reward.”

“This monster may kill me,” replied Tom.

“True. Then again he may not. Come, man, whatever thou may’st value

thyself at shall be paid to thee when thy task is ended. Great results

hang upon thy skill and on the keen edge of thy tools. Although shaving

is unknown here, there is a potent influence about it amongst thy race,

whether it may be upon their faces or upon their consciences. Here we

are at the mansion of Prince Picnic.”

A charming edifice rises to view, nestling its gables and turrets

’midst clouds of richest foliage, upon whose glistening tops rest every

shade of green, with brown and russet and yet a colour of amber

between, encircling the wave like hills in the distance. Kingdom of

Twilight! how I love thee! Not as a stranger do I enter thy gates. I

have been here before, long, long ago, when the years were young and

full of promise for me; when she was by my side who was too frail, too

good for earth. Here we have lingered silently, side by side, while the

nightingale warbled forth its soft notes in love for the rose, and the

roses gave forth their fragrance until the air became an essence of

perfume. Oh, sweet bird of Twilight, thy song yet fills the air, but

silent and cold the fond heart that beat in unison with thy sweet

music. Will she listen for thy singing when the twilight gathers its

shadows o’er her lowly grave on the hillside? Oh, nightingale! oh,

twilight memories! Ye preach to my yearning soul more eloquently than

words of man. Patience, love, hope, are borne to me upon your voice,

and fall gently as the breath of mercy and forgiveness upon the

quickened sense, that sees revealed for one brief moment a glimpse of

Paradise and its forms of unperishable glory.

The approach of the two travellers was observed by the captain of the

guard at the palace gates, who immediately sent a message to the

Prince; whereupon, as soon as they arrived they were ushered into the

presence of the Ruler of Twilight, who received the Baron and the

barber very graciously. Refreshments were ordered to be set before

them, and when Tom had satisfied the cravings of hunger, Prince Picnic

asked him many questions respecting his journey, and desired to inspect

the articles in the bag. While Prince Picnic was engaged with the

razors and lather box, our hero had time to have a good look at him. He

appeared much smaller than the Baron, and a trifle older looking, yet

the Prince was still what many ladies would term a handsome fellow. His

white pointed beard was very long and strongly scented, yet his eyes

were as keen as a hawk, and his step as supple and light as a boy of

fifteen. If Tom Brock had wondered at the richness and texture of Baron

Thimble’s clothing, he wondered still more at the magnificence of

Prince Picnic’s dressing-gown, and also at the lavish display of pure

gold in everything he saw about the room. In fact, the barber had yet

to learn that the country was one vast gold mine, which in the absence

of other metals was employed for everything in common use.

It was time to retire to rest when the Prince broke up the audience.

The Baron conducted Tom to an elegant sleeping apartment. “The Gorilla

has found his way here,” he said at parting. “The beast has selected

the sward of the lawn in preference to a bed. Remember, your task must

be finished before the assembling of the Court to-morrow. Sleep well.

Good-night.”

CHAPTER III. lady lollypop.

The barber was honoured with a perfumed bath ere he retired to rest,

which caused him to sleep soundly until daylight began to peep through

the windows of his chamber. His slumbers would have been prolonged had

it not been for a feeling of sudden pain across the bridge of his nose.

He awoke hastily, and beheld the form of a very ancient dame standing

by his bedside. That puppet, known as the spouse of Mr. Punch, was the

only creature that our hero could liken her to, as she bent her thin

profile over him and held up her skinny hand in token of silence and

attention. Fixing her keen eyes upon Tom, she chanted, rather than

spoke, the following incantation:—

“Draw a circle round the beast

When he sleeps in peaceful rest;

If strong thy arm and keen thy blade

So thy task is easy made.

Shave the monster, head and toe,

Round him fold this robe of snow;

Then lead him forth towards the Throne.

Fe-fi-fum, my charm is done.”

Ere the last words were well out of her mouth the old dame vanished

like a puff of smoke—when or how Tom Brock had no idea whatever. He

rubbed his eyes, and was under the impression that the whole thing was

an illusion, until his glance rested upon a square white wrapper lying

at the foot of the bed. He sprang up immediately, and found a soft

cloak large enough to robe a giant. There was no fancy about that, at

any rate. He dressed himself hastily, at the same time attempting to

repeat the utterances of his strange visitor:—

“‘Draw a circle round the beast

When he sleeps in peaceful rest.’

Very good,” he muttered quickly; “there may be a charm in these words

that I cannot conceive. I have a very dangerous task before me, and

I’ll try it. Luckily this is just the time of day to catch Mr. Gorilla

asleep. What’s the next line?—

“‘If strong thy arm and keen thy blade

So thy task is easy made.’

Humph! I can answer for the razors. They’re sharp enough to cut the

throat of my ugly customer, if he tries any of his tricks. Then:—

“‘Shave the monster, head and toe,

Round him fold this robe of snow.’

“All right so far. After which I’m to lead him into the reception-hall

before Prince Picnic. Just so. Now to set about it.”

The barber prepared his razors and lather, and taking the white robe on

his arm he went out along the broad corridor towards the garden. Within

a small grass plot encircled by tall trees Tom discovered the Gorilla

fast asleep. With noiseless footsteps our hero formed a wide ring round

the sleeping monster with his fingers, and then stepped within the

charmed circle and approached his subject. Strange to relate, the

Gorilla never stirred—not even when Tom, with the taste of a genuine

artist, began operations upon his capacious chin. Nature seemed hushed

while the barber performed his business. Above, below, and around a

deep stillness reigned, save for the scraping, grating sound of Tom

Brock’s blade.

Meanwhile Prince Picnic held a grand council of state in the

magnificent reception-hall of his palace. Previously an edict had gone

forth which summoned the rank, beauty, and fashion of the land to

witness the marriage of Lady Lollypop and Gorilla. And here they were

assembled for the imposing event, which should unite the Beauty and the

Beast.

Ah, me! Who shall attempt to describe the splendour of that gathering?

The Ruler of Twilight was seated on a throne of pure gold, which had

been oxidized to every shade of colour, and wrought in the most

beautiful mosaic imaginable. At her father’s side reclined the

Bi-ba-be-bi, receiving the homage of the young nobles and the

long-bearded functionaries of state. The walls and ceiling of the

throne chamber were entirely covered with wide sheets of burnished gold

to reflect as mirrors. On each side of the dais there extended rank

upon rank of high-born dames and courtiers robed in stuffs of silk and

gold, embroidered with flowers so as to present the most perfect

imitations of nature.

Soothingly soft, sweetly, lovingly soft, were the dulcet tones of the

choir of fairy musicians, hidden from view—now ebbing, now flowing in

tender gushes of melody. Down the sides of the lofty pillared hall a

bright band of dancing fays, each as lovely as a child’s dream,

advanced and retired, crossed and interlaced in a whirling maze of

shifting light, which defeated the eye in following their quick and

graceful evolutions. Amongst that fair galaxy of beauty, Bi-ba-be-bi

stood out peerless in her loveliness. Round the soft cushions on which

she reclined were gathered her four handmaids, See-Saw, Hide and Seek,

Marjory Daw, and Down-Dilly.

Behind the throne stood Ride-a-cock-horse, the prime minister, Gaboon,

the jester, and the high officials of the kingdom. At a sign from Baron

Thimble the music ceased and the dancers dispersed. Then Prince Picnic

rose, and said briefly,—

“People of Twilight, I have called you together to witness the marriage

of our daughter, the Lady Lollypop. I am aware that this Court had

decided that our dear and lamented nephew Prince Pippin should have

been her husband; but the gallant youth perished three years ago on

those self-same Leap Frog Mountains where I and my retinue were

captured by Gorilla. The chief of Gorilla-land is now here to claim the

bond I gave him for our release.”

A deep hush had fallen o’er the vast crowd as the Prince paused.

“Prince Pippin was a handsome youth and a gallant gentleman,” whispered

See-Saw.

“True, and our lady loved him well,” replied Down-Dilly.

The daughter of Prince Picnic heard the whispering, and sighed audibly.

“Ay, but the young Prince is dead. Hush!”

“Dames and nobles,” continued His Highness mournfully, “we have given

our sacred word that this monster shall marry Bi-ba-be-bi. Therefore we

cannot depart from that pledge in the smallest particular. What, ho

there! Let the bridegroom come forth and claim his bride.”

As the Ruler of Twilight uttered the words, every eye was directed

towards the great folding doors at the farther end of the audience

chamber, which were instantly drawn apart, and Tom Brock entered,

leading the tall figure of his patient, muffled from head to feet in

the white cloak.

Poor Lady Lollypop uttered a stifled shriek of fear as her gaze fell

upon the muffled form of her intended lord and master.

The barber advanced with his companion to the foot of the throne, and

there halted for a moment, then retired behind the throng of courtiers,

leaving the closely covered monster standing alone.

“Art thou still resolved to have the Pearl of Twilight for thy wife?”

asked Ride-a-cock-horse in a loud voice.

The mantled figure trembled visibly, but held his peace.

“Let the chief of Gorilla-land show himself, if he is not afraid,”

cried Gaboon, advancing from out of the ring of nobles by which he was

surrounded. Swifter than the electrical fire athwart a thunder-cloud

the folding mantle vanished from that form, and revealed—not the

hateful beast, but a tall, handsome young man, robed in a superb

hunting costume of the country. The gaze of Bi-ba-be-bi had no sooner

rested upon him than she sprang from the midst of her ladies with a

glad cry of recognition, and cast herself upon his bosom. “Prince

Pippin! Cousin! My own dear love, you are not dead!”

Dead, not at all. Twilight is a region of enchantment, dear readers.

Dame Trot, the witch of the Leap Frog Ranges, had fallen across the

young Prince while hunting in the mountains, and had changed him into a

Gorilla. Such he had remained and had taken his uncle prisoner. When

the news, however, of the marriage between Lady Lollypop and the

supposed monster reached the old magician she relented of her

wickedness by appearing at the bedside of the barber and speaking the

words which annulled the charm.

There was great rejoicing at the court of Prince Picnic over the event;

but the gladness and the display were increased a hundredfold when the

cousins were married.

Tom Brock, loaded with substantial presents, returned home to his wife

and family, and brought a piece of the wedding-cake for the former,

which quite dissipated any lurking jealousy there might have been in

her mind respecting his absence.

The little corner shop knows our friend the barber no more. His

residence is now in the aristocratic suburb of Toorak—a magnificent

mansion known as “Faydell,” and for which he may thank Bi-ba-be-bi and

her royal husband Prince Pippin.