"WHO SENT YOU TO KISS US, YOU BREEZES OF MAY?"
Where were you taught your song, little bird?Who sent you to kiss us, you breezes of May?There are secrets, yes secrets you never have heard,Whispered breezes and bird as they fluttered away.Spring Song.
Where were they?
Why, sitting on the short thymy grass just behind the Castle, not a stone's throw from the old tree trunk where they had found the little door, which the golden key had opened.
They gazed at each other, then rubbed their eyes and gazed again.
'How did we get out of the panniers?' said Hildegarde. 'I never felt anything, did you, Leonore?'
Leonore's reply was another question.
'Have we been dreaming?' she said. 'No, of course it couldn't be that, people can't dreamthe same dream together; it is too funny and queer.'
'It's just what it is,' said Hildegarde laughing. 'We've been to gnomeland, and now we've come back again. And after all, Leonore, we haven't been two hours away. Look at the sun, it is not near setting yet, but of course in gnomeland, as they told us, they don't count time as we do.'
She got up as she spoke and gave herself a little shake.
'I want to be sure I have not been dreaming,' she went on. 'Even though IknowI haven't. Pinch me, Leonore, just a nice little gentle pinch to make me feel real, and I'll pinch you in return.'
The pinching made them both laugh, which took away the dreamy feeling better than anything else.
'And now,' said Hildegarde, 'I suppose we had best make our way home—to your home I mean, Leonore, as fast as we can. Grandmamma gave me leave to stay out till sunset, and Aunt Anna will be expecting us back in time for coffee.'
'Yes,' said Leonore. 'She hoped you would come back with me after our walk; but, Hildegarde, what shall we say if they ask where we have been?'
'Say?' repeated Hildegarde, 'why, that we have been up in the woods behind the Castle. We mayn't tell anything more, and I don't believe we could if we tried. That is always the way with people who have been to Fairyland, or at least part of the way there—besides——' but she hesitated.
'Besides what?' asked Leonore curiously.
'Oh,' said Hildegarde, 'I was only going to say that I am not sure but what Aunt Anna understands a great deal more than she says. There is something very fairyish about her sometimes. I don't think she'll question us much.'
'Perhaps,' said Leonore, in her funny rather prim matter-of-fact little way, 'she has been there herself when she was a little girl.'
'I shouldn't much wonder,' Hildegarde replied, and then they turned to descend the hill towards the village street.
'Hildegarde,' said Leonore as they were walking on, 'how shall we know when we are meant to crack the next two nuts?'
'I can't tell you just now,' her little friend replied, 'for I don't know myself. But I am quite sure we shall know in good time. My fairy won't forget about us, and she will tell us somehow.'
Fraulein Elsa was looking out for them at the gate. She welcomed them with a cheerful smile.
'You are just in good time for coffee,' she said. 'Aunt Anna sent me out to look for you. Have you had a pleasant afternoon?'
'Very pleasant indeed,' Hildegarde replied. The governess asked no more, nor did Aunt Anna, who was seated at the table, where there was a tempting display of the cakes which she knew to be Hildegarde's favourites.
'I thought you would be punctual,' she said to the children; 'you have been up in the woods behind the Castle, I suspect, and I hope you have brought back a good appetite?'
'Very good indeed,' they replied together, and at the same moment a funny thought struck them both. The 'collation' had not been of a kind to prevent their feeling hungry now! And Aunt Anna was quite satisfied with the way the cakes disappeared.
'I think I must be going home,' said Hildegarde a little later on. 'Grandmamma will like to find me there when she returns from her drive. May Leonore come to the foot of the Castle hill with me?'
'Certainly,' said Fraulein, 'and to-morrow I hopeyou may meet again, indeed every day, unless the weather should be very bad.'
'Oh in that case,' said Hildegarde eagerly, 'I hope Leonore will wrap herself up well and come to spend the day with me. Of course I could come here—I am not the least afraid of rain, or wind, or snow, or anything like that—but the Castle is so big and such a splendid place for playing in, when there is any one to play with, though it is rather dull all alone. And about to-morrow,' she went on, 'may Leonore come up immediately after dinner? Grandmamma would like to see her.'
To this request too, Fraulein willingly consented, and the two children set off.
'You have your nuts quite safe?' said Leonore, as they kissed each other in saying goodbye. Hildegarde nodded reassuringly.
'You needn't be afraid,' she said, 'after keeping them all these years, since I was a little baby; it isn't likely that I should lose them now, just when they've come to be of use. I should be more afraid of yours, Leonore, except that, to tell you the truth, I don't believe either of us could lose them if we tried.'
'Mine are quite safe,' said Leonore, slipping herhand into her jacket pocket to feel them, 'and I certainly won't risk trying whether they would find their way back or not.' And so saying she ran off.
Nothing came to interfere with their plans. The weather continued lovely, and the children spent every afternoon together. For the old Baroness, Hildegarde's grandmother, to whom Leonore was introduced the next day, was just as pleased on her side, as were Fraulein and Aunt Anna on theirs, that each, otherwise lonely little girl, should have a companion. And for two or three weeks nothing special happened. They searched in vain among the trees behind the Castle for the old trunk in which was the little door. No trace of it was to be seen. But this scarcely disappointed them.
'It wouldn't be a magic door,' said Hildegarde, 'if it was always there, or at least, always to be found. No, Leonore, we must just wait till the spinning-wheel fairy sends us some message or tells us somehow what we are to do.'
To which Leonore agreed. Nevertheless, on many an afternoon they lay down with their ears to the ground near the spot where they believed the entrance to gnomeland to be, listening if no murmurof the queer underground life, which they had had a glimpse of, could reach them. But it never did.
At last one day Hildegarde appeared with a look on her face which told Leonore that she had something to tell, and as soon as they were by themselves she began eagerly.
'Leonore,' she said, 'I believe I have got a message at last from our fairy. I am not sure if it was a dream or if she was really there. It was quite early this morning before I was up, I thought I saw her standing beside my bed—her real self, you know, not the little old market-woman—she smiled and said, "You have been very patient children, and now you shall be rewarded. Crack two more of your nuts this afternoon when you are up in the woods. Throw high and throw together, and you will see." And then, when I was going to speak to her and thank her, and ask her to explain a little more, she was gone.'
'Of course it was a message,' said Leonore; 'let us hurry off as fast as we can,' for it was already afternoon. 'I should think the best place would be just where we cracked the first ones.'
'No,' said Hildegarde, 'Ithink, as near as we canguess to the magic door, would be the best. Further up in the woods I mean, than where we cracked the nuts.'
So thither they hastened, full of eagerness and excitement.
'You crack first this time,' said Hildegarde, 'as I did the last.'
Leonore obeyed her, and both little girls peered anxiously into the nutshell. Their first idea was that it would contain some paper of directions, as had been the case before, but it was not so. On the contrary, the only thing they saw was a little mass of very, very fine colourless thread or silk, so fine indeed as to seem almost like cobweb. With the utmost care Leonore drew it out—it was stronger than it looked, for at one end was attached to it a small, delicately-fashioned silver hook, like the finest fairy fish-hook.
The children stared at each other.
'What can it mean?' they said.
Leonore gave the threads a little shake, one end dropped to the ground and, in doing so, unravelled itself.
'I see what it is,' exclaimed Hildegarde. 'It is a rope ladder, a fairy's rope ladder of course, fornothing stronger than a spider could possibly climb up it. Perhaps my nut will explain.'
So saying, she hastened to crack it, but to their surprise and momentary disappointment its contents were precisely the same as those of Leonore's nut.
'Well,' said Hildegarde, after a moment or two's reflection, 'we're evidently meant to find out for ourselves what to do with these queer things.'
'But the fairy did say something to you,' Leonore reminded her, '"throw high," wasn't that what she said?'
'Yes,' said Hildegarde, 'how stupid of me to have forgotten, we must be meant to throw these little hooks which are at one end up into the air, like the Indian jugglers I have heard about, and, as they are fairy hooks, I suppose they will find something to catch on to. "Throw high and throw together," was what she said, so here goes. Hold your hook carefully Leonore, as I do. I will count, and when I get to three we must throw—one, two——' And at 'three' both children flung up the tiny missiles into the air.
Up, up, they flew, or seemed to fly, as straight as a rocket, till nothing was to be seen but the quivering thread gleaming brightly in the sunshine, whichat that moment broke through the branches. And then, so quickly that they could not watch the change, the fairy ladders grew and swelled, till the threads of which they were made were as firm and strong as tightly twisted fine rope. They grew taut too, the lower end disappearing into the ground, as if held there by invisible hands.
Hildegarde's eyes shone with delight.
''Tis plain what we are meant to do,' she said; 'we are to climb up.'
Leonore, on the contrary, looked a little frightened. 'Up to where?' she said timidly.
'Oh,' said Hildegarde, 'that remains to be seen, of course. Don't be silly, Leonore. I think it was far more frightening to go down underground than to climb up into the beautiful sky. Come along.'
And they set off on their strange journey.
It was not difficult after all. The rope felt firm and substantial, even though soft to the touch, so that it in no way rasped their hands. And when they got a little higher, they began to see that the hooks had attached themselves to the very top of an immensely tall tree, which somehow gave Leonore more confidence.
'I am not in the least giddy; are you?' said Hildegarde. 'I am beginning to feel like a bird.'
And Leonore agreed that she too felt perfectly at ease.
'That's what comes of having to do with fairies,' said Hildegarde with satisfaction; 'with a fairy like ours, at least. You see she plans everything so nicely for us.'
A few moments more and their heads were on a level with the topmost branches. Just as they were wondering what was coming next, they heard a voice a little above them.
'Jump,' it said. 'First Hildegarde, then Leonore; don't be frightened, I will catch you.'
Up they sprang fearlessly, for something in the voice made fear impossible, though instinctively they closed their eyes, and——. When they opened them again, there stood the spinning-wheel fairy, smiling at them, as they lay together on a couch of something soft and blue, soft yet firm.
'Are we on the other side of the sky?' asked Hildegarde. The fairy nodded.
'You are in tree-top land,' she said, 'the country of the air-fairies. When you have rested after your ascent, I will show you the way on, and before longyou will meet some old friends. In the meantime I will draw up your ladders, for they may serve again, and we don't like wasting anything. I spun them for you myself long ago. I have a spinning-wheel up here as well as down below.'
She moved away, seeming to melt into the lovely blue which was all around them. But in a moment or two she returned again and held out a hand to each child, and, springing to their feet, Hildegarde and Leonore gladly took hold of her.
Then just before them, to their surprise, if they had still been able to feel surprise, they saw a little silver gate, which opened of itself as they approached it, and passing through with the fairy, they found themselves at the edge, of what they at first thought was a lovely lake of water, sparkling blue in the sunshine. But there were no boats upon it.
'How are we to cross it,' asked Hildegarde. 'Surely this is Fairyland itself at last?' but their guide shook her head.
'No, not Fairyland itself,' she replied, 'though on the way to it. Real Fairyland is still far away. I can only do as I promised you—show you some of the countries that lie between your land and it. Boats are not needed here. What you see is notwater but air, and with these you will easily make your way across the lake.'
So saying, she drew from under her mantle something white and fluffy, which proved to be two little pairs of wings, one pair for each child, which she slipped over their heads. They fitted as if they had always grown there, and, light as they had felt themselves before, Hildegarde and Leonore now seemed to themselves to be made of air itself.
'Off with you,' said the fairy laughing, with a little toss of her hand towards the children as if they had been two balls of thistle-down. 'When you have seen enough and want to go home you will easily find me; you have only to listen for the whirr of my spinning-wheel.'
And she was no longer there.
Flying or swimming, which was it? They could scarcely have told. For though their wings kept them up as lightly as any bird, their feet too seemed to move in time with their wings.
'Isn't it lovely?' said Hildegarde, and Leonore, who at first felt a little breathless, laughed back in agreement. But this journey through the blue soon came to an end. The wings seemed to be their guides, for they suddenly dropped on their shoulders, and thechildren found themselves standing in front of another silver gate, higher and more imposing than the former one. It glittered so that for a moment or two they were dazzled, but as their eyes grew accustomed to the brilliance, looking up, they saw worked in, among the silvery trellis, some letters, which with a little difficulty they spelt out.
'Singing-school,' were the words they read.
'Singing-school,' repeated Hildegarde, 'what can that mean?'
'And the fairy said we should soon meet some old friends,' added Leonore. 'Oh, Hildegarde,' and she held up her hand, 'I think I understand, listen.' They stood perfectly still and gradually sweet sounds reached their ears—a soft warbling as of many little voices in harmony. Then came a moment's silence, followed by the notes of a single singer, then warbling again—and again another voice alone, trilling high, high, till it seemed to melt away in the distance.
'That was a lark,' said Leonore, 'the last one, and the one before a blackbird, I think.'
'Or a thrush,' said Hildegarde, 'yes, I rather think it was a thrush.'
But in the eagerness with which they had beenlistening, they had not noticed that the high gates had opened gently inwards, and in the centre between them stood two charming figures smiling at the children.
'Come in,' said one of them, 'we have been expecting you for some time.'
'Are you the air-fairies?' asked Hildegarde. She spoke with more confidence than to the gnomes; there was something so sweet and gracious about these pretty creatures that no one could feel afraid of them.
'Yes,' was the reply, 'and we are also the birds' singing-teachers. Here you will see many of your old friends—nightingales, larks, blackbirds, robins, all of them, even down to the poor little sparrows, whom we teach to chirp and twitter.'
'How wonderful!' exclaimed the children.
'Are they all the little young birds?' asked Leonore; 'no, of course not,' she added, 'they can't be, for this is autumn.'
'We have classes all the year round,' said one of the fairies, 'except in the very middle of your summer, when we give them a holiday, that you may all enjoy the bird concerts to perfection.'
They had been walking slowly onwards till now,through a wide passage, the walls of which were like the whitest marble, though without its hard coldness. And now the fairy opening a door signed to them to pass in, and as they did so, the music they had heard grew clearer and louder. For they were in the central hall of the great bird singing-school.
There they were, rows and rows of them, each family by itself, the smaller birds higher up, the bigger ones nearer the ground, and at the end of each row, perched a little apart from the others, was the head bird of his tribe—these, as the fairies afterwards explained, being the monitors of each class.
But the queerest thing was, that every kind of bird was there, even such as we never think of as musical in any way, for down the central passage were strolling some magnificent peacocks, long red-legged storks; and in a large basin of water at the farther end, graceful swans, snowy ducks, and even homely gray-plumaged geese were contentedly enjoying themselves.
Hildegarde and Leonore gazed in surprise.
'Peacocks,' they exclaimed, 'peacocks and ducks and geese—why, none of them can sing!'
The fairy smiled.
'Ah,' she said, 'the ears that hear have something to do with true music; down below in your world it is not like here with us. Much that is true music sounds to you harsh and unlovely. Wait a little and you shall hear for yourselves.'
A kiss on each forehead and she was gone!The Fairy's Visit.
Greatly wondering, Hildegarde and Leonore followed the fairy to the end of the large hall, where there hung by silver cords from the roof two little seats, cushioned with the softest down.
'Rest yourselves in there,' she said; and though the little swinging chairs were a few feet from the ground, they sprang into them without the least difficulty, as their wings at once unfolded to waft them upwards.
'You may swing yourselves in time to the music, if it amuses you,' said the fairy; 'and now I must meet my sisters to get all ready for our concert.'
The children were well content to stay where they were, watching and listening with the greatest eagerness. A door at the farther end from that bywhich they had entered opened, admitting the sound of soft music, and in a few moments a procession of air-fairies appeared, marching two and two, each with some instrument on which she was playing.
They ranged themselves in the very centre of the hall, the two fairies who had received the children standing at each end of the group to command and direct. The music stopped; there was a flutter of excitement among the birds. Then the accompaniment of the instruments began again—softly at first, then louder, then sinking once more to gentler tones. But now—words fail to describe the wonderful sounds which filled the air in one great harmony, though to those learned in such things, and with ears endowed with the magic gift of perfect hearing, every little voice could be distinguished.
In such company the peacock's harsh cry sounded like a distant but musical call, the duck's quacking like the pleasant clatter of castanettes; all was lovely, for all told of happiness and harmony, and the children felt as if they could sit there listening for ever. And when, almost suddenly, the music stopped in one great triumphant outburst, it seemed to them as if, for the first time in their lives, they had known what it was truly tohear.
Then came a loud, merry flapping of wings; the birds flew off their perches and soared about the hall, then ranged themselves again, and passed in rows before the fairies, with twitters of farewell before they flew, or hopped, or waddled out of the doors and windows of the great hall, many more of which had opened of themselves as the music ceased. The fairies who had taken part in the concert glided out, two and two, as they had entered, playing a soft, low march, and then the great hall was empty again, save for the two children and their two fairy hostesses.
At a sign from their friends, Hildegarde and Leonore sprang to the ground.
'Have you enjoyed the concert?' asked one of the fairies.
'Oh,' exclaimed the children together, it was too wonderful, too beautiful.' 'We can never hear anything like it again,' added Leonore half-sadly; 'down where we live the air is too thick and heavy, I suppose, to hear anything so perfectly.'
'Yes,' said the fairy, 'that is so; but those who have once heard can never again be as if they had not done so. You will always remember and be able to catch the echoes, though far away, of perfect harmony, even in common sounds.'
For a moment or two the children were silent; perhaps they did not quite understand, but they remembered, which was as good, or better.
'Is it time for us to go home now?' asked Hildegarde. 'The spinning-wheel fairy said we should easily find her, and she will show us how to get back.'
'There is no hurry,' said one of their friends. 'Would you not like to see a little more of our country? We are always busy, for we have much to do, but to those sent by the spinning-wheel fairy we have time to give.'
She held out a hand to each child, the second fairy smiling in token of farewell.
'I will go now, sister,' she said. 'I must see to some of the fledglings who are just beginning to chirp. For the birds come to us from all parts of your world,' she added, turning to the children, 'and it is not autumn everywhere, you know!'
'May we ask you questions?' said Hildegarde. 'You won't think it rude, will you? We were so afraid of offending the gnomes that we scarcely dared to speak when we were with them.'
'Ask what you like,' was the reply, 'and what I may I will answer. But we needn't stay hereany longer. Outside you will see more of our country.'
Outside the great hall it was still brighter and more sunshiny than within, though over everything was the lovely faint blue haze which had met them when they passed through the first silver gate. It was like, and yet not like, a garden—for there was nothing distinct in the shape of plants or flowers, though everywhere beautiful tree-like forms, quivering amidst waves of opal colour, were to be seen.
'It must be something like the bottom of the sea,' said Hildegarde, 'where the mermaids live.'
'No,' said Leonore, 'I think it is just like the sky at sunset. I have often wished I could get up on one of the clouds and see over to the other side.'
'And now that is what you are seeing,' said the fairy.
'But please,' began Hildegarde again, 'if I may ask you questions, do tell me what you are all busy about, besides teaching the birds to sing?'
'I will tell you a few things,' said the fairy, 'though you would not understand if I tried to tell you all. We have charge of the zephyrs and the breezes. We send them out on their errands, and we have to see that each does its appointed task.'
'Oh,' interrupted Leonore, 'is this the home of the Four Winds?—is this the place where they start from, and meet again and make all their plans?'
The fairy shook her head.
'No,' she replied, 'the Four Winds are not fairies, they are spirits, and above us all; it is only the little winds, so to say—which are to the great ones like the little brooks compared to the great ocean—over whom we have authority. And,' she added more lightly, 'they are troublesome enough sometimes, I assure you—mischievous little imps—though they can be very sweet too, and seldom do real harm, and indeed, as a rule, a great deal of good. But for them your world would be dull and dreary.'
'Yes,' said Leonore, 'I should not like to live where everything was always quite still. And the little breezes are kind, aren't they? When it is very hot, it is lovely to feel one of them softly blowing round your face.'
'They are kind and tender too,' said the fairy; 'some of the gentlest among them are specially employed in refreshing poor sick people in their hot stifling rooms. They wait outside the windows patiently till they get a chance of entering. Then some of them spend most of their time in playingwith little children, filling the sails of their tiny boats, or flying their kites and shuttlecocks for them.' While talking thus, the fairy had led them onwards. But now she stopped in front again of another silver gate.
'Inside here,' she said, 'is one of the nurseries of the little clouds; we let them out every now and then for a race. Would you like to see them? It is prettiest perhaps by moonlight, but I must not keep you here till night.'
She opened the gate, and out flew a crowd of feathery forms, dancing, leaping, tumbling over each other in their hurry to escape; then at a sign from the fairy, off they flew, upwards, a dozen or more together, in a whirl and flutter.
You can scarcely imagine anything prettier than it was.
They flew so high that for a minute or two they were out of sight, then back they came again, some much in advance of the others, till the first one who had gained the race floated down to the fairy's feet, taking shape as it did so till it grew into the shadowy form of a little cherub, smiling up with its sky-blue eyes for its reward.
'Well done,' said the fairy. 'Now off you can go,all of you, for an hour or two; some little streams are very thirsty to-day, I hear, and will be glad to see you.'
And at once the whole feathery troop disappeared. The children turned to the fairy with smiling delight.
'How pretty and good they are,' said Hildegarde. 'I shall always think of you when I see the little clouds scudding across the sky—I have often thought they looked so alive. Do you never come down to our world yourself, fairy?'
'Oh yes,' she replied, 'we have to keep all the wind instruments in order. Some we bring back with us here to repair, in the middle of the night, so that nobody misses them; but some we work at down where they are, and people say the weather has changed, and that somehow their instruments have got right again of themselves. That is one of our secrets, you see.'
'I wish you would let us know when you come,' said Hildegarde.
'We wouldn't tell anybody, and I am sure we would gladly sit up all night.'
But the fairy shook her head.
'That cannot be,' she said, 'you would not be ableto see me down there. Still, I can send you messages sometimes; the little breezes will always be glad to carry you my love or to kiss you for me.'
Suddenly she stopped speaking and held up her hand.
'Hush,' she said; 'yes, I thought I heard it. It is the spinning-wheel fairy—don't you hear the whirr? It means, I fear, that you must be going. Yes, there she is, though your eyes can't see her; she is almost straight above us. She has caught two of the little clouds on their way down, and is sailing on them.'
'How shall we get to her?' exclaimed the children.
'You forget,' laughed the fairy, 'you forget what wings are for,' and with the words she blew softly on their shoulders, the wings stretched themselves, and off flew the children.
The quickness of their flight made them close their eyes, and for a moment or two they could hear nothing but the rush of the air as they met it. Soon, however, came the sound of a now well-known voice.
'So I had to come to fetch you,' it said, 'instead of your looking for me. That shows, I hope, that the air-fairies entertained you well?'
'Yes, indeed,' said both the children. 'It was all so pretty, and they were so kind that we didn't feel the least frightened of offending them. It was quite different from gnomeland,' Hildegarde went on, 'and yet you say that both these countries are on the way to real Fairyland?'
'Yes,' replied their friend, 'so they are, and so are many, many others.'
'I wish we could see them all,' said Leonore.
'That would not do,' said the fairy. 'It would take you too much out of your own country, which is not good for any one. But now, dears, I want you to rest a little; even if you go to sleep it won't matter, while I am taking you home.'
She held out her arms, and both little girls nestled down beside her.
'Are you going to take us all the way home yourself?' asked Leonore. 'That will be very nice.' The fairy did not reply, but she began spinning again, which certainly no one but a fairy could do seated on a cloud, and with a little girl tucked under each arm. The soft whirr was very soothing and pleasant to hear; soon both pairs of eyes closed drowsily, and it seemed to their little owners that quite a long time had passed when they awoke,roused by the touch of a feathery kiss on their foreheads, and a softly whispered 'Goodbye, my dears, goodbye for the present.'
And again they found themselves among the trees a little to the rear of the Castle. It was quite daylight, though the afternoons were drawing in now. They felt perfectly bright and rested, and looked at each other with happy faces.
'It was all too lovely, wasn't it?' said Leonore, 'and this time I don't feel as if we had been dreaming, do you, Hildegarde?'
Hildegarde was on the point of replying, when from far above their heads came the note of some bird as it flew by.
'To think that we know where you were taught to sing, you little dear,' she said, gazing upwards. 'There will be lots of things to remind us always of the air-fairies—every time we feel the little breezes on our cheeks, or see the clouds chasing each other across the sky!'
'And we have still two nuts left,' said Leonore. 'I wonder what will happen when we crackthem, Hildegarde?'
'We must be patient,' was the reply; 'perhaps we may have to wait a good while before the time comesfor that. But we must hurry home now, I think, or grandmamma may be getting anxious.'
For this day was one which Leonore was spending with Hildegarde at the Castle, as happened now and then for a change, especially when the weather was unsettled. And these were happy days; for the Castle, as Hildegarde had said, was a splendid place for playing in when there were two to play, though rather too large and lonely for one little girl by herself.
Their coffee and cakes were waiting for them in the little turret-room, which was Hildegarde's own when on a visit to her grandparents. And when they had thoroughly enjoyed these, for travels through the air naturally make little flesh-and-blood girls hungry and thirsty, Hildegarde took her friend to the drawing-room, where the old Baroness usually sat. She was a tall, fine-looking old lady, a little bit 'frightening' at first, till one got to know her, for her dark eyes were still bright and piercing, not like Aunt Anna's gentle, dreamy, blue ones. She spent a great deal of her time in working at beautiful embroidery, as her sight was still good, though in the cold weather, which was now coming on, she was not strong enough to go out of doors except on very fine days.
She looked up with a smile as they entered the room.
'Well, my dear children,' she said, 'I hope you have had some good hot coffee, for you have stayed out rather late, and the evenings are getting very cold. Soon you will scarcely be able to go out after dinner, especially as every one is prophesying that we are to have an early winter and a severe one.'
'We have not been at all cold, thank you, grandmamma,' said Hildegarde. 'I hope it won't be a very severe winter, at least not before Christmas—for do you know, Leonore,' and she turned to her little friend, 'that sometimes when it snows heavily here, we cannot even get from the Castle to Aunt Anna's house?'
'Oh dear,' said Leonore, rather startled, 'I shouldn't like that at all; it would be dreadfully dull if we couldn't be together at Christmas.'
'Dull for us too,' said the Baroness, 'for many, many years my dear friend, Fraulein Anna, has spent Christmas with us. But if there is any sign of snowstorms before then, the best plan will be for you three to come and stay at the Castle for a week or two.'
The children's faces lighted up with pleasure at the idea.
'In that case,' said Hildegarde, 'I shall almost hope for signs of a snowstorm. You have no idea how nice and warm the Castle can be made. Grandpapa loves huge fires, and the walls are so thick that once the rooms get well heated they don't get cold again quickly.'
'Not in your turret, I am afraid, Hildegarde,' said her grandmother. 'You will have to move out of it, I expect. Indeed, this very day I have been talking to old Maria about preparing a room for you on the south side. The turret-rooms cannot but be cold, as they have so much outer wall.'
Hildegarde looked a little distressed.
'I do so love my turret-room,' she murmured, 'unless,' and she hesitated, 'oh grandmamma,' she went on after a moment's pause, 'if I might have the blue-silk room. I should be so careful to keep it very nice, and in the alcove two little beds could stand, so that if Leonore comes to stay here we might be together all night as well as all day.'
Her grandmother smiled.
'We shall see,' she said, but even this seemed to satisfy the little girl. She jumped up and threw her arms round the Baroness.
'Most big people when they say "We shall see" mean "No," she said, but you are not like that, grandmamma.Generally, your "We shall sees" mean "Yes, you shall have what you want if it is possible."'
'I should like to see the blue-silk room,' said Leonore, half timidly, 'it is such a pretty name. Are the chairs all covered with blue silk?'
'Better than that,' said Hildegarde, 'the walls are hung with blue silk, and there are wreaths of roses worked at the top of the curtains and on the sofas and everywhere. Who was it that worked them, grandmamma? My great-great-great-grandmother, wasn't it?'
'No; two "greats" are enough,' said the Baroness, 'the embroidery was done by my grandmother; it is really wonderfully beautiful, and it is difficult to believe that one pair of hands did it all. So it is scarcely surprising that there should be an old story telling that the fairies helped my grandmother to do it.'
The children glanced at each other.
'I daresay it's quite true,' said Hildegarde, but her grandmother only laughed.
'Come now, my dear,' she said, 'you must not be too fanciful. The fairies who helped our ancestors were probably those of industry and perseverance—very good fairies too.'
'But now, my child,' she went on, turning to Leonore, 'I do not, of course, want to hurry you away, but I am afraid Aunt Anna and Elsa will be wondering what has become of you, besides which, I do not want you to catch cold through coming to visit my Hildegarde.'
Leonore started up. 'Yes, I must go,' she said.
Hildegarde accompanied her as usual to the foot of the hill.
'Ask Fraulein Elsa,' said Hildegarde, as they parted, 'to let you come to-morrow morning instead of my going to you, and I will get grandmamma's leave to show you the blue-silk room by full daylight. Then in the afternoon, I daresay, grandmamma will let me run down to you.'
'Yes,' Leonore replied, 'I should like that very much; I have a feeling, Hildegarde, that there must be something "fairy" about that room.' And so saying she ran off.
For this let each remember—life cannot all be play.The New Year's Answer.
But the children's plans for the next day did not come to pass. Unluckily, Leonore had caught cold. It was nothing very bad, but she was subject to sore throats sometimes, which made Fraulein doubly careful, if ever she saw any symptoms of her having had a chill. And for some days to come the little girl was not allowed to go out.
At first she felt rather dull and depressed, but as her friends were soon satisfied that there was not much the matter with her, Hildegarde was allowed to come to see her.
'How did you catch cold?' were her visitor's first words; 'it couldn't surely have been from——' and she stopped short with a smile, for curiously enough the children did not talk very much when they weretogether, in an ordinary way, of their fairy adventures.
Leonore gave a little laugh.
'From riding on a cloud,' she said softly. 'No, I am quite sure it was not from that, though certainly if we told anybody about it, they would think it a sure way of catching cold.'
'They wouldn't believe it,' said Hildegarde, 'or at least they would think we had been dreaming, but do you know, Leonore,' she went on eagerly, 'I shouldn't wonder if some good came of your cold; it's only a fortnight to Christmas now, and what grandmamma said that last day you were at the Castle seems coming true. There are all the signs of a hard winter, they say, and though grandmamma hasn't told me so, I have a great idea that they are planning for you all to come and stay at the Castle with us.'
Leonore's eyes danced with pleasure.
'How lovely that would be,' she said, 'do tell me what makes you think so, Hildegarde?'
'Two or three things,' was the reply. 'I heard grandpapa talking about this house, "Aunt Anna's little house," he called it. He said the roof should have something done to it, in case of heavy snow,and that the bailiff should have told him of this before, for it scarcely could be done while the ladies were living in it. Then grandmamma smiled, and said that she thought the difficulty might be got over. And once or twice lately I have met old Maria on her way to the blue-silk room. One day, she and another maid were carrying mattresses and things in there, and when I asked her what it was for, she looked funny, and said something about airing things, and evidently didn't want me to go into the room, or ask her any more questions about it. So I shouldn't wonder at all if they are preparing for your all coming. You see grandmamma is like that; she doesn't do things by halves, and if you are to come, she would like to add to our pleasure by giving us the blue-silk room together.'
Leonore felt so excited that she could scarcely speak.
'I wonder how soon we shall know?' she said at last. 'It wouldn't do to ask Aunt Anna, or Fraulein, I suppose?'
Hildegarde shook her wise little head very decidedly.
'Oh no,' she said, 'if they wanted us to know they would have told us. If it is to be at all, it isto be a surprise; we must just be patient for a few days.'
Their patience, as it proved, was not very sorely tried. The very first day that Leonore was well enough to go out again without fear of fresh cold, she was met by Hildegarde at the foot of the hill, and Hildegarde's beaming face told its own tale.
'May I, oh may I tell Leonore?' she said to Fraulein Elsa, 'grandmamma has given me leave provided you and Aunt Anna have no objection.'
Fraulein could not help smiling.
'My dear child,' she said, 'there would not be much use in stopping you now; Leonore cannot but guess that there is a surprise in store; the very way you came dancing down the hill was enough to show it. But we must not keep Leonore standing. Come home with us and chatter as much as you like.'
And in another moment the secret, which of course Leonore had already guessed, was told.
'You are all coming to stay at the Castle for Christmas,' she exclaimed, 'that is to say if your cold doesn't get worse, or——'
Here Fraulein positively laughed.
'And that was to be decided by testing, if it didher no harm to come out to-day,' she said. 'You should have waited till to-morrow, Hildegarde.'
The little girl looked rather penitent, but Leonore soon reassured her—
'Of course it won't get worse,' she said, 'I haven't the least, tiniest bit of a scrap of sore throat now; the only thing is,' she went on, 'that it doesn't seem as if any snowstorms were coming,' and she looked up doubtfully into her governess's face.
'But why should you want snowstorms?' asked Fraulein, 'one can be very happy at Christmas time, even if the weather is mild and the fields still green.'
'Oh,' said Leonore, a little confused, for she did not want to take away the pleasure of the 'surprise,' 'it was only that I thought——' and she hesitated.
Hildegarde came to the rescue.
'Oh,' she said, 'it was only that grandmamma had already mentioned something to us about your perhaps coming to stay at the Castle for Christmas, if the weather got very bad; and there was something about Aunt Anna's house needing repair. But all that doesn't matter now in the least. It is fixed, quite fixed, do you hear, Leonore?—that youare all coming next Monday, whether it snows, or hails, or thunders, or whatever it does.'
So far as the present was concerned, there was not much sign of any great weather disturbance, for the day was mild and bright, and Leonore was by no means the worse, but decidedly the better, for her little expedition. Both children, as children always do, whenever there is any pleasure in prospect, thought that the days would never pass till 'next Monday.' But pass they did, and it would have been difficult to find two happier little maidens than Hildegarde and her guest, when the rather lumbering old carriage, which had been sent to fetch the three visitors, drew up in front of the Castle door.
'Come, come, quick,' were Hildegarde's first words to Leonore, 'I am in such a hurry to take you to our room,' and scarcely allowing her little friend time to receive the greetings of the Baron and Baroness, and their two younger sons, Hildegarde's uncles, who had arrived the night before to spend Christmas at home, she seized her little friend's hand, and hurried her off to a part of the Castle, which Leonore had not yet seen.
'Leonore,' she said, stopping to take breath, for though the steps of the staircase which they weremounting were shallow, she had raced up them at a tremendous rate. 'Leonore, it is as I thought, we are to have the blue-silk room.'
Up one other little flight they went, across a small landing and along a corridor, at the end of which a door stood partly open. A pleasant sparkle of firelight met them, and in another moment they were in the most fascinating room that Leonore had ever seen or even dreamt of.
As Hildegarde had described, it was all hung with blue silk, round which were worked lovely wreaths of rosebuds. And the remarkable thing was that the colours both of the silk and the embroidery were as fresh as if they had only just been made, though, as the Baroness had told her, Leonore knew that certainly more than a century and a half had passed since the room had first been furnished. She stood still, gazing round her.
'Oh what a lovely room!' she exclaimed. 'I had no idea any room could have been so beautiful, though you told me about it. But where are our beds, Hildegarde?'
Hildegarde laughed.
'That's the beauty of it,' she said, drawing back, as she spoke, the blue hangings at one end, thus disclosingto view a recess in which stood two little beds side by side. 'It is like several rooms instead of one, there are two or three alcoves that you don't see when the curtains are drawn at night; one of them has a great big window to the south, where it is beautifully warm. I think we shall call that alcove our boudoir.'
It was a delightful room, and the two children were very happy, till summoned downstairs to supper, in arranging the newcomer's possessions, and planning how they should spend their time during Leonore's stay at the Castle.
'We are sure to have a good deal of fun,' said Hildegarde, 'for the next week or so while my uncles stay; it is rather a pity that the hard winter that was talked so much about hasn't begun yet, for they would have skated with us.'
'I have never learnt to skate,' said Leonore, 'but your uncles look very kind, and perhaps they would have taught me.'
'Yes,' Hildegarde replied, 'I am sure they would; they are very nice, though not to be compared with papa. If only he and mamma were here, and your father, Leonore, we should have everything we could want in the world, wouldn't we?'
'Even to knowing that we have still two nuts to crack,' said Leonore in a low voice.
Hildegarde's grandfather looked round the well-filled table with pleasure, when all had taken their places.
'This is much better,' he said heartily, 'than being alone, as we were last Christmas, not even our little Hildegarde was here. If only your father and mother and our little friend's father too,' he added kindly, turning to Leonore, 'were here, I should feel quite satisfied.'
'That is just what we were saying on our way downstairs,' said Hildegarde, 'I do believe grandpapa, you have something of a fairy about you too, to guess one's thoughts as you often do. Grandmamma is certainly a kind of fairy godmother, as well as being grandmamma. She plans such lovely surprises. Leonore and I aresohappy in the blue-silk room.'
'Oh that is where you have taken up your quarters, is it?' said her grandfather. 'Well, you could not be anywhere better; it has the name of being the luckiest room in the Castle under fairy guardianship, not that I quite believe in such things, though I do think the Castle has some fairy visitors,'he went on more gravely; 'the fairies of love and kindness are with us I hope; indeed, when I look back through a long life, mostly spent here, I think we have been a specially favoured family. My own parents and grandparents were good and kind to everybody.'
'And so, I am sure, are you and grandmamma,' said Hildegarde eagerly.
Leonore looked up half timidly.
'There are other fairies too, the fairies of industry and perseverance, that your grandmother told us about,' she said to Hildegarde.
The Baroness overheard her.
'Yes,' she said, with a smile, 'they must have had a hand in the adornment of the blue-silk room.'
It was a charming nest in which to fall asleep, with the firelight dancing on the lovely colours of the sheeny silk, and it was a charming room to wake up in the next morning, when the first rays of the pale wintry sunshine began to creep in through the one window, which the little girls had left uncurtained the night before. They were later than usual of getting up, for they had been later than usual of going to bed. Rules were to be relaxed somewhat during the Christmas holidays.
'Are you awake, Hildegarde?' said Leonore. 'Oh yes,' was the reply. 'Doesn't the room look pretty?'
Leonore raised herself on her elbow. 'Yes,' she said, 'and so beautifully neat. Did you tidy it at all after I got into bed last night, Hildegarde?'
'No indeed,' laughed her friend, 'I was too sleepy. I wonder if Amalia has been in already this morning without waking us.'
'I could almost fancy she had,' said Leonore, for I have a dreamy feeling of having heard some one moving about softly, as if they were putting things straight or dusting.'
Just then came the maid's tap at the door; but on being questioned as to whether she had been in before, she laughingly shook her head, owning that she herself had slept later than usual that morning—if the young ladies had heard any one arranging the room, it must have been a 'brownie.'
The children were not unwilling to think so.
'I daresay it was,' said Hildegarde in a whisper, 'it is only to be expected in a fairy room like this.'
And certainly the next few days passed happily enough to justify the pleasant belief that the blue-silk room brought joy to those who inhabited it.Though frost and snow kept off, and there was no chance of skating, there were plenty of other amusements out of doors, as well as indoors; for Hildegarde's uncles proved quite as kind as Leonore thought they looked, and planned pleasant walks and drives and games for the two little girls.
Then came Christmas itself, the happiest that Leonore had ever known, for her father had never been with her, that she could remember, at that season, and she had often, at home in England, felt it a little lonely. They had a Christmas-tree of course, a great beauty, provided with exactly the right presents for everybody, servants and humble friends connected with the Castle, as well as for the family itself and their visitors. And in the midst of all this enjoyment and excitement, the little girls almost forgot that they had still two magic nuts to crack, when the right time should come.
Two days after Christmas the scene changed. In the first place, the uncles had to leave to rejoin their regiments—greatly to the little girls' regret, and then began the fulfilment of the weather prophet's predictions. There came sudden and severe cold, soon followed by a heavy fall of snow, accompaniedby gales, such as were seldom known in that inland part of the country; weather indeed, almost approaching what is nowadays called a 'blizzard.'
At first the children found it rather amusing, though the Baron looked grave, as news was brought in of the destruction among his trees, and after a day or two, the wind fell, but the snow continued. And even when it ceased to fall, leaving the house was completely out of the question, so deep did it lie, and to such a height had it, in many parts, drifted. After some days of this enforced imprisonment, Hildegarde and Leonore began to think a snowstorm by no means a laughing matter. They had played all their games so often, that they were growing tired of them; they had read and re-read their books, of which there was no great number suitable for children in the Castle, and one afternoon, when they were by themselves, in their own room, they looked at each other rather disconsolately, the same question rising to the lips of both.
'What shall we do with ourselves?'
Fraulein had done her utmost to amuse them, but she too, by this time, was almost at the end of her resources, and they knew it was no use to apply to her again, unless they wished to begin lessons, inearnest before the holidays were over! So they sat down together on the floor, in front of the fire, half laughing at their own dullness.
Suddenly, in one corner of the room, they heard a little tapping; had it been summer, and had the windows been open, they could have fancied it the tap of a wood-pecker, so clear and dainty did it sound.
'What can that be?' exclaimed Hildegarde; 'listen, Leonore,' and again came the tapping.
The children held their breath to listen. Then——