The Fairy Latchkey

There was nothing at all remarkable about her, excepting her name, which was Philomène Isolde, and the fact that a knot of green ribbon had been sewn upon her christening dress; but the dress had long since lain folded in a drawer, and her father as often as not called her “Little Miss Muffet,” because she was very fond of curds and whey, and very much afraid of spiders. When he did call her “Philomène,” it meant that he was too busy to have her in the room with him. Unlike most people, she was satisfied with her own name, indeed she was proud of it; for Daddy had told her that Philomène meant “beloved,” and as for Isolde, that was Godmother’s own name. “And Isolde,” said Godmother, “was a real Princess.”

“I wish I were a real Princess,” said Philomène, and waited for Nurse to add, “If wishes were horses, Miss, beggars might ride,” which she forthwith did.

Philomène was not a pretty child, but neither was she exactly plain, for she had small hands and feet, and a trim little figure, hazel eyes and plenty of soft mouse-coloured hair. And if there was nothing unusual about her appearance, there was certainly nothing unusual about her home, for she lived in a commonplace suburb of London, in a commonplace villa called Sideview. The house undoubtedly had two sides, but scarcely any view, unless the strip of back-garden counted as such. The drawing-room and dining-room opened out of a narrow hall, and both had about them the chill and mustiness of disuse, for since the death of Philomène’s mother the drawing-room had seen no more parties, and her father, who was a hard-working doctor, as often as not snatched his hurried meals in the study, rather than in the dining-room. Philomène’s own bedroom and schoolroom, on the upper landing, were large airy rooms for the size of the house.

At the foot of her bed stood a screen, upon which Froggy went a-wooing, and Little Red Ridinghood carried her covered basket through the wood, and on the wall opposite hung a picture of a young shepherdess, clasping her crook, and kneeling in the shade of a spreading oak-tree. As there was no flock in sight, Philomène at first supposed her to be Bo-peep before her sheep came home, but Godmother had told her that it was Joan, the Maid of Orleans, who died for love of France and of the truth; and from that time forward, on winter evenings when the salamanders began their torch-light revels on the hearth, Philomène would lie in bed and watch the ruddy reflection brighten and broaden among the branches of the oak, wrapping the frail young figure in a winding-sheet of flame, and placing the hard-won wreath of martyrdom upon her hair.