She sniffed as if there were a fire somewhere.[Illustration: She sniffed as if there were a fire somewhere.]
She sniffed as if there were a fire somewhere.[Illustration: She sniffed as if there were a fire somewhere.]
Everychild would have felt almost alarmed but for the fact that something extraordinary occurred just then. The Masked Lady entered the room and stood just inside the door. Still more remarkable, Mr. Literal appeared just behind her.
"This," replied Tom to his mother, "is—is a boy who came home with me."
"Is it, indeed!" exclaimed Old Mother Hubbard icily. She added, "What I meant to inquire was. What is his name?"
Tom was blushing. "His name is Everychild, mother," he said, "and he's——"
Old Mother Hubbard had removed her bonnet, which was a little affair of black velvet and jet ornaments. She touched her hair with her finger tips here and there. "I might have known as much!" she said. "Everychild! And I suppose you think it is quite right for Everychild to come tagging home after you, making work for other people?"
Tom cried out forlornly, "Oh, mother …"
As for Everychild, he was thinking—"She'll never let him go!" He was standing with one foot on top of the other in a very uncomfortable manner. Still, he was trying to smile, as if to convey the idea that Old Mother Hubbard must be joking, of course.
But the old lady continued severely: "I've warned you before. You ought to know by this time that a house is a—a house."
Here Everychild managed to say, "I'll not be a bit of trouble, Mother Hubbard, and—and I'm very glad to meet you."
She stared at him as if she were really seeing him for the first time. But her temper broke forth again. "Don't tell me!" she exclaimed. "I know what boys are. You'll not deny, I suppose, that you get ravenously hungry three times a day?"
Everychild was so amazed by this that he looked helplessly at Tom.
"Precisely!" continued Old Mother Hubbard. "Well, you should have heard our President's address yesterday afternoon onThe Superfluous Table."
Her son interrupted in great embarrassment, "Oh, mother, he doesn't even know what you mean!"
"Per'aps not. You've not told him, then, that your mother is Vice-President of the Mother Goose Auxiliary of the Amalgamated Associations of Notable Ladies?"
"No, mother," said Tom, bending his head in shame.
"Well, at all events … the President went on to say that the dinner table was a relic of barbarism. And she was quite right. She cited cases known to all we ladies …"
Mr. Literal, from his place in the background, could not help saying to the Masked Lady, "Why is it that ladies with baritone voicesalwayshave trouble with their objective case?"
But the Masked Lady did not reply, and Old Mother Hubbard continued: "There was the case of Mrs. Horner's son—her dear, dutiful little Jack. When he ate his Christmas pie, where was he sitting?In a corner! No dinner table there to cause a lot of work and worry. And please note that he was delighted when hepulled out a plum. Yet the plum is one of the simplest forms of—of sustenance. And there was Miss Muffet, daughter of the highly honored Mrs. Alonso Muffet. During that meal which has become historic, where did she sit?On a tuffet!"
Everychild could not help asking, "Whatisa tuffet?"
But Old Mother Hubbard only regarded him blankly, as if there had been no interruption, and then she proceeded. "And you will note what she was eating.Curds and whey—perfectly simple yet nutritious fare. There were other instances showing that the wasteful dinner table must go. It was a wonderful address. A treat. A feast of good things. Aspiritualfeast."
Her son tried to lift his head. "Yes, mother," he said, "but you know I've sometimes thought how good it would seem to see you in the house, dressed for staying in instead of going out, and maybe sitting by the window sewing, or in the kitchen paring apples, or lifting the lid from a pot and letting the steam out in a cloud …"
"A survival of the male superstition that Woman was born into perpetual bondage," was the crisp response.
It seemed to Everychild that some one ought to change the subject. He tried. "It's really very interesting, Mother Hubbard," he said; "and—and that's a very nice dog you've got!"
"Do you think so? Take him away with you—do! I see nothing nice about him."
By this time her son could endure no more. "He's going to take him away, mother," he said. "And he's going to take me, too. I just came to tell you good-by."
For the first time the old lady was strangely quiet. She gasped an instant and then she cried out angrily, "Good-by? And where are you going?"
"I'm going with Everychild. We're going to find the truth."
His mother turned aside. "The boy is mad!" she said. Then facing him again she demanded, "Do you know what the truth is? I'll tell you. It's this: When you get hungry and come back home, standing with one foot on top of the other outside my door,you'll find the door shut!"
There was an impressive silence for a moment, and then the Masked Lady remarked tranquilly, "If he finds the truth, no door will ever be closed to him again."
Then Tom, turning to Everychild, said—"Come, we'll go."
They left the house together. The little dog bounded after them. The door swung to.
The old lady, clearly alarmed, went to the door as if she would open it and cry out. But pride prevented her from doing so. She stood with one hand on the wall, listening. And at last she did open the door; but not a living creature was in sight.
Everychild was in a high state of excitement as he and Tom made their way back to where the other members of the band awaited them.
He had scarcely dared to hope that Tom would be able to get away from his mother so easily. She had seemed really terrible. But now there was little danger of her overtaking them and making her son go back.
He was delighted that there was to be a new member of the band; while the thought of having a dog along with them seemed almost too good to be true. It would be much more interesting, having a dog with them. He could not know, of course, what exciting events lay in wait for him, and it seemed to him that having the dog might be the most wonderful part of the entire journey.
He was just thinking that the band was now large enough, even if no other children appeared to go with them, when something occurred to mar his perfect happiness.
Tom had been walking ahead, because he knew the path better; and all of a sudden some one caught step with him and began to talk to him.
It was Mr. Literal; and the little old man was smiling in a very hypocritical manner and rubbing his hands together.
"Just a word of caution," said Mr. Literal, by way of beginning.
Everychild knew it was going to be something disagreeable, but he only said, "What is it?"
"That fellow who calls himself your friend——"
"You mean the giant," said Everychild.
"He's a bad lot. Better keep an eye on him."
Everychild stared at the path before him.
"I'll tell you a little something about him—then you'll know whether I'm right or not. Did he ever tell you where his home is?"
"No," said Everychild, very uncomfortably.
"Of course not. Well, he was driven away from his home, years ago. He'd not dare to go back."
"Why?" asked Everychild.
"For telling lies. Every word he speaks is false. He doesn't know how to tell the truth. His own mother doesn't know him any more. That's how bad he is."
"He seems a very pleasant boy," said Everychild.
"There you are! Of course. It's easy to have a name for being pleasant if you're willing to say the first thing that comes to hand."
"But wouldn't you find people out if they did that?" asked Everychild.
"Of course!"
"Well, when I find the giant out I'll remember what you've said."
He was glad that the path broadened into a road just then. He ran forward a few steps and walked by the side of Tom. He didn't want to hear anything more against the giant. In truth, it had begun to seem to him the best thing of all, having the giant as a companion. He even hoped that after a time the Masked Lady would take some other road and leave them. It was rather uncomfortable, her happening to be places when you were not thinking about her. And if she were to go away there would be an end to Mr. Literal too. They both might be all right in their way, but it ought to be a band of children, with nobody else about.
And so he put Mr. Literal and the Masked Lady, too, out of his mind. He was talking eagerly to Tom when they got back to where the others were. He called out gladly, when he came within hearing of them, "He's going with us. And what do you think? We've got a dog!"
There was general rejoicing when the dog made his appearance, running from one to another to get acquainted. And then, as they had already been delayed quite a little, they made haste to continue on their journey.
Together they traveled along the road the greater part of the day without mishap and without any experience worth recording.
As was her custom, the Masked Lady did not make her appearance among them as long as they were quite light-hearted, and Everychild went so far as to congratulate himself upon having seen the last of her.
Toward evening they came within sight of a path leading into the road on which they traveled, and on a stile which stood in the way of the path they observed a little boy who was plainly in trouble.
With much difficulty the little boy crawled up the stile, step by step; and when he got to the top step and paused a minute, he turned about, just as small children will do, and began climbing down the stile on the other side, moving feet foremost.
Now and again he looked over his shoulder to be sure that his feet had been safely placed before he put his weight on them; and when he did this you could see his face, showing two eyes very bright with excitement and fear.
At last he had got clear over the stile; and then he stood erect and put his finger in his mouth. You could tell that he was trying to think what to do now.
In the meantime Everychild and his companions had come up.
"Such a cute little chap," said Everychild. Then he spoke to the child. "Where are you going, little boy?" he asked.
The little boy looked at Everychild blankly. He looked at him quite a long time. Then he looked at the other members of the band. Finally he looked at Everychild again, still with a blank expression. But at last he replied, "I want to go home, but I dasn't."
The band of travelers all laughed at this; whereupon the little boy looked at all of them, one after another. He still had his finger in his mouth, where he kept crooking it and uncrooking it.
Then Cinderella asked: "Why dare you not go home?"
The little boy lowered his eyes until they rested on the ground. "Because I dasn't," he said.
"But why?" persisted Cinderella.
A pause; and then, "Because I'll catch a lickin'."
It seemed to Everychild that the little boy was much too small to be whipped; and he said with assurance, "You may go with us, if you will, and then you'll never get a whipping again."
But the little boy only shook his head. Clearly there was a difficulty in the way of accepting the invitation. And presently he began, falteringly, "My brothers and sisters …"
"Oh," said Cinderella, understanding, "he doesn't want to leave his brothers and sisters."
"But we could take your brothers and sisters, too," said Everychild to the little boy.
The little boy now gazed at Everychild, and the blank expression in his eyes was there no more.
"Come, we'll get them," declared Everychild. "Do you live far away?"
"There," said the little boy, pointing away into the forest, where not a sign of a house was visible.
Here Grettel spoke for the first time: "Let's not," she said. "I don't think I care about wandering away into the woods."
"We might get lost," suggested Cinderella.
And now the giant interposed. "I agree with Everychild that we ought to take the little boy and his brothers and sisters with us," he said; "and as for wandering away into the woods, that will not be necessary. I'll take you to the house where the little boy lives by a secret method which I understand."
With that he faced the depths of the forest and stood very erect, with hands uplifted. There was a very solemn expression in his eyes. And suddenly it seemed that the nearby trees began to lift and disappear; and presto!—Everychild and his companions were standing quite close to one of the most famous and remarkable houses ever heard of.
Everychild had too little time just then to marvel at the strange feat which had been performed by the giant. He was lost in amazement at the house before which he stood.
It was really an immense, dilapidated shoe, patched and broken. The toe was about to gape open, though it was held here and there by a few threads. The laces were gone and the whole upper sprawled shapelessly. In brief, it was precisely like any old shoe you will see on a vacant lot, save for its immense size. Its size was prodigious. It was as large as a small house.
A stovepipe stuck out where the little toe would be, and smoke was pouring out of the pipe just as if some one had been putting a supply of fuel on the fire. It was woodsmoke and had a pleasant smell. It seemed that perhaps some one was preparing supper.
Not a soul was in sight about the house—or the shoe—nor about the premises. Yet you could see that some one had been hard at work only a short time before. The wash had been hung out to dry and it was still damp. It hung from a line which was suspended from the highest point of the shoe—where the strap is that you pull it on by—to the limb of a nearby tree. You could tell by the garments that there were a lot of children about. There were best shirts and every-day shirts and petticoats and trousers. There were many colors, so that they all made a rather gay spectacle. And some were of ordinary size, and some were quite tiny.
There were many trees in the background; and one of these cast its shade over the immense shoe in a very pleasing way. There was a table under the tree, and a kind of dinner-bell hanging from a limb of the tree. There were chairs about the table. Finally, there was a ladder standing against the shoe, so that you could climb up and get in at the top.
"And so," said Everychild in a tone of wonder, "this is where you live!" He had taken the little boy by the hand.
The little boy was about to reply when something almost alarming happened. The little boy slipped his hand away from Everychild's and shrank back until he was hiding behind Cinderella's skirt. An astonishing head and shoulders appeared above the top of the shoe!
The Old Woman who Lived in the Shoe had heard them. She remained perched in her place, glaring severely about the yard below.
Nor was this all. Other individuals inside the shoe had evidently heard the voice of Everychild. And now they began to peep out in the most extraordinary fashion. Three pairs of eyes appeared at the broken toe of the shoe. And up the double row of eye-holes, all the way up the front of the shoe, startled faces were to be seen. You could see excited eyes with hair hanging down before them.
All this proved too much for the little black dog, who had gone forward from Tom's side to inspect the shoe. Now he began barking excitedly at the half-hidden faces.
Everychild stood in his place, wide-eyed and with beating heart.
The Old Woman arose more fully into view. She stared down at Everychild. She flung the hair back from her face.
"Humph!" she said.
Everychild's companions drew back behind the shelter of a convenient bush. The Old Woman's countenance really did seem, for the moment, quite ferocious. But Everychild did not move.
The Old Woman arose still higher and stepped out of the top of the shoe to the top rung of the ladder. She carried a steaming pot in one hand, and thus handicapped she descended the ladder.
She placed the steaming pot on the table and then turned her attention to Everychild. She exclaimed dubiously: "You're not one o' mine!"
He shook his head. "No, ma'am," he replied.
She sat down deliberately, drawing a long breath, but without taking her eyes from Everychild. "Just an idler," she said, "like all the rest of the young ones. I don't know what's the matter with them these days—children. When I was young I had to work. I expected nothing less. And I tell mine what was good enough for me is good enough for them."
She made this statement as if she hadn't left a single thing to be said.
It seemed rather obscure to Everychild. He tried to think of a more agreeable subject. He looked the Old Woman's house over, up and down. "It's rather a funny house, isn't it?" he remarked.
The Old Woman's manner became more sullen than ever. She seized upon a ladle and began stirring the steaming pot. "It does very well," she declared. "Houses are funny or otherwise according to what goes on in them. When you've got your hands full of children who don't want to work you can't say that your house is exactly funny. Its being an old shoe—if that's what you mean … that's a matter of taste. I prefer it, for my part. I'd never have been able to settle down anywhere else. You see, I had to be on my feet mostly all the time from little on, and now it comes natural, being in a shoe. I can imagine I'm on the go, even if I never get out from one week's end to another."
She lifted the ladle from the pot. She pressed one hand to her bosom and with the other lifted the ladle to her lips, testing the stew. There was a thoughtful look in her eyes. Then she continued:
"As for living in a shoe … there's plenty of females that live in two. Always on the go, they're that restless. I tell my undergrowth it's no more disgrace to live in one shoe than in two, so long as you've got one that's big enough."
"As for living in a shoe … there's plenty of females that live in two."[Illustration: "As for living in a shoe … there's plenty of females that live in two."]
"As for living in a shoe … there's plenty of females that live in two."[Illustration: "As for living in a shoe … there's plenty of females that live in two."]
She seemed so pleased with this remark that she had to stir the pot vigorously, as a relief to her emotions.
There was a surprising interruption just here. The Masked Lady and Mr. Literal were there, after all, standing close behind Everychild. And Mr. Literal was saying: "She seems to be a bit of a cynic. That reference to women on the go …what period should you say she belongs to?"
"To every period," said the Masked Lady. After which, fortunately, they remained silent. "And your children," said Everychild. "I don't see them anywhere."
"They'll be here soon enough. I hire 'em out by the day—the boys. I tell 'em if they won't work for me I'll put 'em under masters who'll make 'em work. They gather fagots—the boys. The girls are in the house. They did the wash to-day and I keep 'em under my eye until it's time to take the clothes in. Nothing like keeping a girl under your eye if you want to know where she is."
She got up with an air of great industry and went to the line where the wash was hanging.
She tried the garments with her hand. It seemed they were now dry enough to be taken in. She stepped to the bell suspended from the tree and struck it sharply with a little mallet which had been provided for this purpose.
Wonder of wonders!—the top of the shoe began to overflow with girls! They were rather carelessly dressed, and there was hair in their eyes—they took after their mother in this matter—but being young, they were all fresh and blooming in a way.
They could leave the shoe only one at a time. They began descending the ladder in a sort of procession. You would have thought the last one would never make her appearance.
They paid very little attention to Everychild. They began taking in the wash. Some held their arms out to receive the clothes which others removed from the line. They took the line down the last thing of all. They wound it up carefully.
Just at this time there were stealthy movements all about the house, as if robbers were coming. From among the trees the boys began to steal home. They came from various directions, all walking on tip-toe. Many of them hung back fearfully, though two of them found courage enough to come up close to Everychild.
"You must be the boys coming home," said Everychild.
The first son nodded, but kept his eyes fixed anxiously on the Old Woman. She was glaring at a girl ascending the ladder. "Look sharp where you put those things, now," she was saying. "I'll be inside in a minute, and if you haven't put them away properly I'll know the reason why!"
Everychild felt that he was fully justified in saying (to the first son) "She seems to be pretty bad, doesn't she!"
The first son fairly jumped. "Not so loud!" he whispered. "She might hear you."
The Old Woman really had heard. She stared at her first son in a terrible manner. "So you've come, have you?" she exclaimed. "And I suppose you'll tell me you've been working hard all day?"
"Yes, mother," replied the first son, "We've carried more fagots than you ever saw. Such fine fagots! Didn't we?" He turned to the second son to have his report verified.
"You wouldn't believe how many fine fagots we carried," declared the second son.
The other sons began to appear one by one, now that the first shock of battle was over. They all stared up at the Old Woman as if they were prepared to run if she so much as sneezed.
"Well, you know what's coming to you now," said the Old Woman. "Come on, all of you!"
They all began to make wry faces. "If we could only have some bread with it, mother!" pleaded the first son.
"You'll take what's offered you!" exclaimed the Old Woman grimly.
"And if you wouldn't whip us to-night, mother—anyway, not so soundly," said the second son.
To this the Old Woman retorted: "Who does the whipping around here, I'd like to know? Come here this instant!"
It seemed that there was to be a brief respite, however; for the Old Woman turned to the steaming pot and began testing its contents with great seriousness, lifting the ladle to her lips again and again, and looking abstractedly far away into the forest.
In the meantime more of the children gathered around Everychild. A few of the girls now joined their brothers. They looked at Everychild with unconcealed admiration.
"What do you suppose she is going to do to you?" asked Everychild of the group about him.
The first son replied to this: "I should think you'd know. Haven't you been told how she whips us something terrible?"
Everychild inquired in amazement: "All of you?"
The first daughter now spoke. "All of us," she said. "Every last one of us. That's just before she puts us to bed, you know."
"Of course—I remember now," said Everychild. "She 'whips you all soundly.'"
"That's no word for it," declared the first son. "You know she's had an awful lot of experience all these years. And there's so many of us."
He concluded this sentence in so meek a manner that Everychild exclaimed indignantly, "I think it ought to be stopped. If I were you … did you ever try hiding her whip?"
The first daughter replied hopelessly, "We couldn't do that. Her whip … it's the kind of whip that grows, you understand."
"Some sort of limb?"
"You might call it that. But it's her own limb."
"Yes, if she got it first."
"She did. It's her hand."
"Do you mean," demanded Everychild, "that she whips all of you with her hand?"
"And does a thorough job, too," said the first daughter.
Everychild assumed a very grave air. "How often does this happen?" he asked.
"Every night," he was assured.
He made a very wry face. "But such things …" He couldn't think of the right word at first. Then he asked, "But isn't it all very—very vulgar?"
The first daughter sighed. "I suppose so," she admitted. "But when there are so many children you can't help being a little vulgar."
The first son put in here: "And you mustn't think too hard of mother. You can imagine her position: so many of us, and the high cost of living, and all. Sometimes I think she whips us just to get our minds off our stomachs. You know, a supper of broth without any bread—and that's just what it is—is about as bad as nothing at all. But if you've been whipped soundly you forget about being hungry. You think about running away, or something like that. And the next thing you know it's morning."
Everychild still felt very uncomfortable. "But how does she manage about breakfast?" he asked.
"Oh, she has to feed us well in the morning—to keep us from starving," explained the first son.
Everychild nodded as if the matter had been made perfectly clear. And then the Old Woman cried out quite alarmingly, "Are you coming, or shall I have to fetch you?"
Several of the children replied to this: "We're coming!" Nevertheless they did not go immediately. The first daughter would not go without saying to Everychild, "Of course we ought to invite you to have supper with us—but you see it isn't quite like a regular supper." She blushed painfully.
Everychild reassured her immediately. "Don't think of it," he said.
The second son also had something else to say. "I suppose there aren't so many of you at your house?" he asked.
"So many children?" replied Everychild. "No. Not any, now. I was the only child."
This had the effect of exciting all the sons and daughters. The second son voiced the amazement which they all felt. "You don't say so!" he exclaimed. "But how did you ever get anything to wear? If there was no one ahead of you, how could they make anything over for you?"
Everychild really did not understand this. "Why, my mother used to get things for me," he said.
"Your mother, certainly," said the second son. "But who wore your clothes before you got them?"
"No one, I suppose. You mean that your clothes … ?"
"They're made over from the things the older children have grown too big for."
Everychild was more and more puzzled. "Yes," he said, "but the oldest one of all—there had to be a beginning!"
The second son laughed. "In the beginning," he explained, "they have to be cut down from father's things."
"Oh—your father's!" exclaimed Everychild. Then in a polite murmur, "I—I never heard of your father."
The second son explained this simply. "You never do, when there are so many children," he said.
While Everychild was nodding slowly in reply to this the scene suddenly changed.
The Old Woman took two or three steps in the direction of her sons and daughters; and the sons and daughters, seeing there was no hope for them, approached her with hanging heads.
The scene which followed was such that Everychild felt certain he could never forget it. One after another the children were seized and fed a few spoonfuls of the broth without any bread. Then each was spanked most soundly. Then one by one they quickly escaped up the ladder until the last of them had disappeared. It was all over in a very short time.
Everychild had now been joined by his companions, who saw the last of the Old Woman's children scramble up the ladder and disappear.
As for the Old Woman, she stood a moment, panting, as well she might, and then she made her way around behind the shoe. Just before she disappeared she glared at Everychild and actuallymade a face at him!
Everychild addressed his companions. "I think we ought to get them to go with us," he said. "That's no way for them to be treated—to be whipped and sent to bed like that."
The giant began dreamily—"There ought to be some way …"
Everychild's eyes brightened. "If we could only open the toe of the shoe—though of course we couldn't!"
"We could," declared the giant.
They went forward stealthily. Will o'Dreams following the example of Everychild and moving without a sound.
The giant slipped his fingers under the loose ends of the toe of the shoe and tugged with all his might. After resisting a moment the toe lifted.
What a sight do we behold! One child after another came tumbling out of the shoe until all the Old Woman's sons and daughters had been liberated. They sprang to their feet excitedly, dusting their garments and looking grateful and relieved.
Everychild addressed them briefly, in a low voice: "You're going away with us, all of you. You're not going to stand such treatment any longer. We're all going on a great adventure, and you shall go with us."
The sons and daughters all made eager signs of assent, though they were careful not to speak a word. Only the little black dog violated the rule of silence. He fairly danced about the entire group of children. And then they all slipped away into the forest.
Let us, however, remain a moment to note what took place about the shoe.
Presently the Old Woman emerged from behind the shoe. She was yawning prodigiously. Slowly she climbed the ladder. She disappeared. But was this to be the last of her? Not so!
Only a moment later her head and shoulders again appeared. Her eyes were staring wildly. She looked this way and that, all about her. Her eyes clearly revealed that she had realized her loss. At last she began beating her bosom with both hands. Her hair fell down until you could scarcely see her face.
And far off in the forest her children were speeding on their way.
Everychild and his companions were now journeying through a country where the evenings were very long; and thus it chanced that after they had all departed from the Old Woman who lived in a shoe, there was still a considerable period of daylight before them.
Their number was now greatly augmented by the sons and daughters of the Old Woman, and as a result, they were merrier than they had been before. Just the same, they began to be hungry before night fell, and they were greatly puzzled as to where they might satisfy their hunger.
Indeed, it may be confessed that Hansel became really disagreeable, and remarked—in a muttering fashion, so that no one could be sure of understanding him—that they might be on the right road to find the truth, but that if they did not find food in greater abundance before long, he, for his part, should take some other direction.
There were moments when Everychild was tempted to turn back; but he could not doubt that if they all persevered they would come to a glorious end to their adventure sooner or later, and perhaps very soon.
Unfortunately, they made so much noise as they journeyed that such travelers as might have been on the road, and who might by good chance have offered them food, turned aside and hid from them, fearing, no doubt, that they were the Forty Thieves, or some other equally rapacious band.
Only one incident occurred to break the monotony of the evening hour. They came upon two adorable little children whom they found clinging together and weeping freely.
One of these they recognized immediately as Little Boy Blue; and as they had never known of his having to bear any very grievous misfortune, they suspected that his tears might be of the sort that are easily dried. Yet it developed that Little Boy Blue had not wept until he had borne up a long time with great fortitude.
The band paused and Everychild asked, "Why are you weeping, Little Boy Blue?"
The reply came between broken sobs. "I could bear it no longer," said Little Boy Blue. "I was required to watch the cows and the sheep from early morn till dark, and often I must needs arise at night to run forth to the fold when there was an alarm of wolves. Day after day my head grew heavier from want of sleep, until at last I could keep my eyes open no longer. I stole under the haystack to snatch a few extra winks, and when I was discovered my shame and disgrace were heralded forth to all the world." And again the poor child sobbed without restraint.
"And this dear little girl with you," asked Cinderella, who had been walking side by side with Everychild, "who is she?"
Little Boy Blue checked his grief long enough to stare at Cinderella incredulously. "Is it possible that there is anywhere a person who does not recognize Little Bo-Peep?" he asked.
"So it is!" exclaimed Cinderella. And bending tenderly above the form of Little Bo-Peep she asked, "And why do you weep so bitterly, Little Bo-Peep?"
The child could scarcely speak, so spent was she with weeping; but little by little Cinderella drew from her the truth. The little thing was much too small to be entrusted with the care of sheep, and her life had been made wretched by fear of the great dogs which were never absent from the flocks, and by the dark rumors of wolves which the shepherds were forever repeating.
Grettel expressed her opinion of the case without reserve. "It may be hysteria," she said, "though it looks more to me like a complete nervous break-down."
"I hardly think so," said Cinderella smiling. "We'll just take them along with us, and they'll be all right."
And so, with the addition of yet another pair to their numbers, they quickened their pace along the road.
They were becoming hungrier every minute—even the sons and daughters of the Old Woman who lived in a shoe, who, as we have seen, had had far too light a supper—and while they were willing to sleep without shelter, if they were called upon to do so, they all hoped that they need not go to sleep supperless.
While there was still a short period of daylight remaining they came into an ancient town situated at the foot of a hill on which a castle stood; and upon questioning a number of the townspeople they learned that they had entered the realm of a cruel king, who resided in the castle on the hill.
"Take my advice and escape while ye may," said one ancient man with a long white beard. He had addressed Everychild. He added, "The king hath a grudge against one manly little lad who greatly resembles you, and if he once sets eyes on you I should tremble for the consequences."
Everychild thanked the old man for this well-meant counsel. "But," said he, "my friends and I are weary, and we must think of resting for the night before we set forth on our way again."
"Then," said the old man, "you might find shelter in yonder house, which hath long remained empty, because it is said to be haunted." And he pointed to a neglected old house hard by the road. "Though," he added, "I can assure you that the story which hath it that there are specters in the house is but an idle one. The truth is this: there once dwelt a good woman and her fair daughter in the house; and the cruel king seeing the daughter, he commanded straightway that she be brought to him to become his bride. The good woman, desiring to save her daughter, escaped; and the henchmen of the king, not wishing the real truth to be known, invented the story of a ghost in the house. And since that day no one has ventured to occupy the house after sundown."
Everychild thanked the old man again; and then, together with all his companions, he entered the old house which had been pointed out to him.
There was, indeed, no trace of ghostly occupants of the house; but on the contrary, the rooms, upstairs and down, speedily became the scene of much jollity. It seemed, also, that the old man had spread the report among the townspeople that a band of children had taken refuge in the house for the night; and many kindly-disposed folk came and brought food and drink, so that there was an abundance for all the children.
After eating heartily, and looking from the windows to observe the castle wherein the king dwelt, they all sought a good night's rest.
And now once again we must leave Everychild and his companions for a little while, and take our place among surroundings at once strange and cruel.
We are now in a room in the castle of the cruel king, on top of the hill.
The four walls of the room were grim and forbidding of aspect. The tapestry covering them in places was old and of somber design. There were two doors opening to the room: one on the right and one on the left. At the far side of the room there was a deep-silled window with leaded panes through which a dreary light struggled.
At first you would have said that the room was empty; and then you would have perceived the Masked Lady and Mr. Literal, occupying a position among the shadows, not far from the deep-silled window.
The Masked Lady was again wearing the white garment in which we first beheld her. She was seated before a desk, writing in a large book in which you could see a few initial letters in red, outlined in gold.
Mr. Literal stood by her, regarding her with an impatient, puzzled air. And presently it would have seemed that he could no longer endure her silence; for he asked in a fault-finding tone:
"Can you tell me what you're doing here? This place is—is genuine. And of late it has been your fancy to haunt places which have existed only in the imaginations of the story-tellers."
Without looking up from the Book of Truth (for this was the volume in which she was writing) the Masked Lady replied: "Did you say that this place is genuine?"
"Of course," said Mr. Literal. "We are in a medieval castle in Northampton—the castle of King John of England. King John or his chamberlain is likely to enter at any moment. And goodness knows what they'd say at finding you here."
The Masked Lady turned a page. "King John would not see me here if he were to enter," said she; "no, neither here nor anywhere. And as for honest old Hubert de Burgh … well, perhaps I have a purpose in being here. You have said this place is genuine; yet I sometimes wonder if any place in all the world is so unreal as the palace of a king." She gazed before her dreamily for an instant and added, "I can see a day coming when all such palaces will be viewed by wondering, emancipated people, their minds filled with incredulity: because they will realize that kings' palaces have represented the most terrible delusion of all."
There was a footfall without at that moment, and the Masked Lady resumed her writing.
A bluff, soldierly-appearing man of middle age entered the room: a bearded man of harsh visage, yet with an eye in which justice sat enthroned. He looked about the room with an air of dawning relief; and when two villainous-looking rascals followed him into the room he remarked, with a sigh: "He's not here. And that's a bit of luck at least—to have no one about whilst we mix this devil's brew." Then more briskly: "A red-hot iron—red-hot, do you hear?—in a hurry!"
The first attendant, to whom he had spoken, glanced darkly at the second door of the room, which remained closed. "A hot iron? Yes, sir," he said, trying to speak naturally. "It shall be prepared."
The second attendant seemed incapable of remaining silent—after the manner of sorry men. "It will be quite simple, sir," he said.
Hubert de Burgh (for the soldierly-appearing man was he) turned upon them fiercely. "Enough!" he exclaimed. "I don't know how men of your breed go about a task like this, but Hubert de Burgh has always faced the truth. Listen: When you've fetched me the hot iron you'll hide behind the tapestry there. And when I stamp on the floor you'll come quickly and bind him hand and foot."
The first attendant found courage to say: "Bind him? A little lad like that? A man might do the job with one hand without half trying."
But Hubert de Burgh gazed at the man darkly. "Look you, fellow," he said, "there are forces besides a man's hands which are powerful. His very helplessness and innocence … I think they shall paralyze my hands and make me helpless. Do as I say: bind the boy and stand near, ready to lend a hand."
Whereupon the first and second attendants withdrew, staring as if with terror at the unopened door near which they had to pass.
Hubert de Burgh took no further notice of them, but dropped into a chair and stared straight before him.
At this point Mr. Literal began rubbing his hands and smiling with pleased excitement. "It seems," he remarked to the Masked Lady, "that we're to be in on a really famous event—the slaying of Prince Arthur. It's a great opportunity of its kind. It will give me a chance to confute the historians who have quarreled among themselves about how the poor boy met his death. How—er—how should you say he dies?"
The Masked Lady replied tranquilly: "He does not die. He lives forever to proclaim to all mankind that the way of kings is an evil way."
It was now that Hubert de Burgh bestirred himself as if he could no longer bear to be alone with his thoughts. He cried out sharply—"Arthur! Arthur!"
The second door now opened and Prince Arthur appeared: a handsome boy, perhaps fourteen years of age, straight of limb and noble of countenance. He wore a velvet suit, including knee breeches and silk hose and gaiters, and a jacket with a flowing lace collar.
He regarded Hubert de Burgh with dull eyes which slowly began to brighten. "Oh, it's you?" he cried after a pause. And then, "If you could know how glad I am to see you!" And then, falteringly, "Hubert—when you were a boy, were you ever kept hidden away as if you meant ill to every one?"
And now he approached Hubert with a wistful air, and leaned against his knee, and placed his hand on his shoulder.
But the chamberlain flinched beneath the weight of that light hand. "There, there, Arthur!—take your hand away!" he said. And then, with an attempt to be severe, "We'll have none of that, you know!"
Prince Arthur pondered, and then his eyes brightened. "I'm glad you said that, Hubert," he declared. "If you feel that way toward me you can tell me why—why all the others feel so. Every face I look into seems either to pity or to hate me; and I'd so like people to be friendly. Tell me, why must I take my hand away?"
The stern man plucked at his beard thoughtfully; and suddenly he turned to the boy with a quality of stern candor which was a true prince's due. "Listen, boy," he said. "It is the fate of kings to tremble at many things: at the too great misery of their subjects, at their too great liberty; at the touch of those who claim to be friends, at the whisper of a foe's voice. They have taught themselves that they rule by divine right, yet they move by day and by night like any thief who carries booty beneath his cloak when he walks before those in authority, or like one who is wounded unto death who would hide his wound from a strong adversary. Your Uncle John fears you, Arthur, because his throne is yours by right—if there were such a thing as right to any throne. And he has willed that you must die. He has appointed me … but there, I must to my task. No struggling, now—no resistence. It will be better so. The king's will be done."
He would have summoned his attendants then, but Prince Arthur stayed him with one more question. "And how would you take my life, dear Hubert?" he asked in a gentle voice.
But this the chamberlain would not tell him. Instead he stamped on the floor and the two attendants entered hurriedly, one bearing a hot iron and the other a cord with which to bind the prince's hands and feet. "These," said Hubert, "will make plain the manner of the deed."
But Arthur only clapped his hands in mirth. "It is your way of jesting, Hubert," he said, "to amuse me." But there was a catch in his voice as he continued, "It is your way of driving away the shadows which hang about me always. Dear Hubert, I know what a kind heart you have!"
But despite these brave words he turned pale and suddenly clapped his hands to his eyes to shut out the terrible vision he had beheld.
Hubert cried out huskily to the attendants, "Bind him—and be quick!"
With this the attendants seized the prince, one on either side. Yet they paused when they perceived that the prince wished to speak: a final word to the chamberlain. The boy had turned upon Hubert a calm glance. A strange stillness had come over him. He spoke in a low, intense voice—
"Do not permit them to bind me," he said. "It would be shameful for a prince to be bound. I know you were not speaking in jest, but please do not let them bind me, as if I were a slave. I shall think of you as my friend—as long as my hands are free. Come, Hubert … do you recall how, when your head once ached, I put my handkerchief about it to comfort you? It was one that a princess did make for me. Remember how I have loved you—and do not let them bind me!"
His plea prevailed. "So—then they shall not!" cried Hubert. And to the attendants he exclaimed fiercely, "Begone! Did I not bid you be swift, that the very blood in my veins should not turn to water? Fellows—begone! It may be that my task will be easier if I work alone and he resist me."
The two attendants turned in terror before the wrath of the chamberlain and fled. And before Hubert had withdrawn his eyes from their retreating forms certain strange events came to pass.
The Masked Lady had remained, strangely tranquil, before the Book of Truth; but now she lifted her eyes, because the great windows with their leaded panes had been thrust open. Outside the open windows there were revealed the head and shoulders of the giant, Will o'Dreams.
The giant paused long enough to take in the scene before him, and then he disappeared in great agitation.
A moment later he had reappeared and had lifted Everychild to a level with the window sill.