"And all their cattish gestures plainly spokeThey thought the affair they'd come upon no joke."Charles Lamb.
Some days went on, and nothing more was said by the children about the adventures which had so puzzled poor Hugh. After a while he seemed to lose the wish to talk about them to little Jeanne; or rather, he began to feel as if he could not, that the words would not come, or that if they did, they would not tell what he wanted. He thought about the strange things he had seen very often, but it was as if he had read of them rather than as if he had seen and heard them, or as if they had happened to some one else. Whenever he saw Dudu and Houpet and the rest of the pets, he looked at them at first in a half dreamy way, wondering if they too were puzzled about it all, or if, being really fairies, they did notfind anything to puzzle them! The only person (for, after all, he could often not prevent himself from looking upon all the animals as persons)—the only person who he somehow felt suredidunderstand him, was Marcelline, and this was a great satisfaction. She said nothing; she almost never even smiled in what Jeanne called her "funny" way; but there was just a very tiny little undersound in the tone of her voice sometimes, a little wee smile in her eyes more than on her lips, that told Hugh that, fairy or no fairy, old Marcelline knew all about it, and it pleased him to think so.
One night when Hugh was warmly tucked up in bed Marcelline came in as usual before he went to sleep to put out his light.
"There's been no moonlight for a good while Marcelline, has there?" he said.
"No, Monsieur, there has not," said Marcelline.
"Will it be coming back soon?" asked Hugh.
"Do you like it so much, my child?" said the old nurse. She had a funny way of sometimes answering a question by asking another.
"Yes," said Hugh. "At least, of course when I'm fast asleep it doesn't matter to me if it's moonlight or not. But you know what I like it for, Marcelline,and you said the other day that I hadn't half seen the tapestry castle, and I want very much to see it, Marcelline, only I'd like Jeanne to be with me; for I don't think I could tell her well about the fairy things if she hadn't been with me. She didn't seem to understand the words, and I don't think I could get the right ones to tell, do you know, Marcelline?"
He half sat up in bed, resting his head on his elbow, which was leaning on the pillow, and looking up in the old woman's face with his earnest blue eyes. Marcelline shook her head slowly.
"No," she said, "you're right. The words wouldn't come, and if they did, it would be no use. You're older than Mademoiselle Jeanne, Monsieur Hugh, and it's different for her. But it doesn't matter—the days bring their own pleasures and interests, which the moonlight wouldn't suit. You wouldn't have cared for a dinner like what you have every day when you were listening to the song of the swan?"
"No, certainly not," said Hugh. "I see you do understand, Marcelline, better than anybody. It must be as I said; there must be two of me, and two of Jeanne, and two of you, and——"
"And two of everything," said Marcelline; "andthe great thing is to keep each of the twos in its right place."
She smiled now, right out, and was turning away with the light in her hand, when Hugh called after her,
"Willthe moonlight nights come again soon, Marcelline? Do tell me. I'm sure you know."
"Have a little patience," said the old nurse, "you shall be told. Never fear."
And, a little inclined to beimpatient, Hugh was nevertheless obliged to shut his eyes and go to sleep. There was no moonlightthatnight any way.
But not many nights after there came a great surprise.
Curiously enough Hugh had gone to sleepthatnight without any thought of tapestry adventures. He and Jeanne had been very merry indeed; they had been dressing up, and playing delightful tricks—such as tapping at the salon door, and on being told to come in, making their appearance like two very, very old peasants, hobbling along on sticks—Jeanne with a cap and little knitted shawl of Marcelline's, Hugh with a blouse and cotton nightcap, so that Jeanne's mother quite jumped at first sight of the quaint little figures. Then Jeanne dressed up like afairy, and pretended to turn Hugh into a guinea-pig, and they got Nibble up into the nursery, and Hugh hid in a cupboard, and tried to make his voice sound as if it came from Nibble, and the effect of his ventriloquism was so comical that the children laughed till they actually rolled on the floor. And they had hardly got over the laughing—though Marcelline did her best to make them sit still for half an hour or so before going to bed—when it was time to say good-night and compose themselves to sleep.
"I shan't be able to go to sleep for ever so long," said Hugh; "I shall stay awake all the night, I believe."
"Oh no, you won't," said Marcelline, with a smile, as she went off with the light.
And strange to say, hardly had she shut the door when Hugh did fall asleep—soundly asleep. He knew no more about who he was, or where he was, or anything—he just slept as soundly as a little top, without dreaming or starting in the least, for—dear me, I don't know for how long!—any way it must have been for several hours, when—in the strange sudden way in which once or twice before it had happened to him to awake in this curious tapestry room, he opened his eyes as if startled by an electricshock, and gazed out before him, as much awake as if he had never been asleep in his life.
What had awakened him, and what did he see? He could hardly have told what had awakened him but for what henowsaw and heard. A voice, a very well-known little voice, was speaking to him. "Chéri dear," it said, "Chéri, I have come for you. And see what I have got for you." And there before him stood little Jeanne—but Jeanne as he had never seen her before. She seemed all glistening and shining—her dress was of some kind of sparkling white, and round her waist was a lovely silver girdle—her sleeves too were looped up with silver bands, and, prettiest of all, two snow-white wings were fastened to her shoulders. She looked like a fairy queen, or like a silvery bird turned into a little girl. And in her hand she held another pair of wings exactly like her own.
Hugh gazed at her.
"Have you been dressing up?" he said, "and in the middle of the night? oh how funny! But O, Jeanne, how pretty you look!"
Jeanne laughed merrily. "Come, get up quick, then," she said, "and I'll make you pretty too. Only I can't promise you a head-dress like mine, Chéri."
She gave her head a little toss, which made Hugh look at it. And now he noticed that on it she wore something very funny indeed, which at first, being black—for Jeanne's hair, you know, was black too—had not caught his attention. At first he thought it was some kind of black silk hood or cap, such as he had seen worn by some of the peasants in Switzerland, but looking again—no, it was nothing of the kind—the head-dress had a head of its own, and as Hugh stared, it cocked it pertly on one side in a way Hugh would have known again anywhere. Yes, it was Dudu, sitting on Jeanne's smooth little head as comfortably as if he had always been intended to serve the purpose of a bonnet.
"Dudu!" exclaimed Hugh.
"Of course," said Jeanne. "You didn't suppose we could have gone without him, Chéri."
"Gone where?" said Hugh, quite sitting up in bed by this time, but still a good deal puzzled.
"Up into the tapestry castle," said Jeanne, "where we've been wishing so to go, though we had to wait for the moonlight, you know."
The word made Hugh glance towards the window, for, for the first time he began to wonder how it was his room was so bright. Yes, it was streaming in, ina beautiful flood, and the tapestry on the walls had taken again the lovely tints which by daylight were no longer visible.
Hugh sprang out of bed. "Are these for me?" he said, touching the wings which Jeanne held.
"Certainly," she replied. "Aren't they pretty? Much nicer than your wall-climbers, Chéri. I chose them. Turn round and let me put them on."
She slipped them over his head—they seemed to be fastened to a band, and in a moment they had fitted themselves perfectly into their place. They were so light that Hugh was hardly conscious of them, and yet he could move them about—backwards and forwards, swiftly or slowly, just as he chose—and as easily as he could move his arms. Hugh was extremely pleased with them, but he looked at his little night-gown with sudden dismay.
"You said you'd make me look pretty too, Jeanne," he observed. "I don't care for myself—boys never care about being grandly dressed—but I shall look rather funny beside you, shan't I?"
"Wait a minute," said Jeanne, "you're not ready yet. I'm going to powder you. Shut your eyes."
He did so, and therefore could not see what Jeanne did, but he felt a sort of soft puff fly all overhim, and opening his eyes again at Jeanne's bidding, saw, to his amazement, that he too was now dressed in the same pretty shiny stuff as his little cousin. They looked just like two Christmas angels on the top of a frosted Twelfth Night cake.
TWO CHRISTMAS ANGELS.—p. 122.TWO CHRISTMAS ANGELS.—p. 122
"Therenow," said Jeanne, "aren't you pleased? You don't know how nice you look. Now, Dudu we're quite ready. Are we to fly up to the castle?"
Dudu nodded his wise head. Jeanne took Hugh's hand, and without Hugh's quite knowing how it was managed, they all flew up the wall together, and found themselves standing on the castle terrace. There was no light streaming out from the windows this time, and the peacocks were quite motionless at their post.
"Are they asleep?" said Hugh.
"Perhaps," said Dudu, speaking for the first time. "They lead a monotonous life, you see. But there is no occasion to disturb them."
They were standing just in front of the door, by which, the last time, Hugh had entered the long lighted-up passage. As they stood waiting, the door slowly opened, but to Hugh's great surprise the inside was perfectly different. A very large white-painted hall was revealed to them. The ceiling wasarched, and looking up, it seemed so very high, that it gave one more the feeling of being the sky than the roof of a house. This great hall was perfectly empty, but yet it did not feel chilly, and a faint pleasant perfume stole through it, as if not far off sweet-scented flowers and plants were growing.
Hugh and Jeanne stood hand-in-hand and looked around them. The door by which they had entered had closed noiselessly, and when they turned to see the way by which they had come in, no sign of a door was there. In the panels of white wood which formed the walls, it was somehow concealed.
"How shall we ever get out again?" said Hugh.
But Jeanne only laughed.
"We needn't trouble about that," she said. "We got back all right the last time. What I want to know is what are we to do next? I see no way out of this hall, and though it's rather nice, it's not very amusing. Dudu, I wish you would sit still—you keep giving little juggles on my head that are very uncomfortable, and make me feel as if I had a hat on that was always tumbling off."
"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Jeanne," replied Dudu with great dignity. "You really do say such foolish things sometimes that it is impossible torestrain one's feelings altogether. No way out of this hall, do you say, when it is the entrance to everywhere?"
"But how are we to get to everywhere, or anywhere?" asked Jeanne.
"Really!" said Dudu, as if quite out of patience. "When you are running up and down the terrace, in your other life, you don't stand still at one end and say, 'Dudu, how am I to get to the other?' You move your feet, which were given you for the purpose. And in present circumstances, instead of your feet, you naturally——"
"Move our wings," cried Jeanne. "Oh, of course. We're to fly. But you see, Dudu, we're accustomed to having feet, and to running and walking with them, but having wings is something new."
Dudu still looked rather contemptuous, and Hugh gave a little pull to Jeanne's hand.
"Let's set off," he said.
"But where are we to go to?" asked Jeanne.
Dudu gave a little croak. "Really," he said again. "What am I here for?"
"Oh, to show us the way, of course," said Jeanne. "You're going to steer us, I suppose, on the top of my head. Well, we're quite ready."
Off they set. The flying this time was really quite a pleasure in itself, and the higher up they rose the easier and swifter it seemed to become. The hall was lighted from the roof—at least the light seemed to come down from among the arches so high up that their form was only vaguely seen. But whether it was daylight or what, the children did not know, and perhaps it did not occur to them to think. They just flew softly on, till suddenly Dudu veered to one side and stopped them in front of a low carved door with a step before it just large enough for them to stand on. They had not noticed this door before—the hall was so very large and the door in comparison so small, and the step before it had looked just like a little jutting-out ledge in the carving, till they were close to it.
"Don't turn round," said Dudu, "for fear it should make you giddy. Push the door and go in at once."
The children did so. The door yielded, and then immediately—they were such well-behaved doors in the tapestry palace—closed behind them. And what the children now saw was a small winding stair, the lowest steps of which were close to their feet.
"Here," said Dudu, "I will leave you. You can't go wrong."
He flew down from Jeanne's head as he spoke. Jeanne gave her head a little shake; she seemed not altogether sorry to be freed from her head-dress, for a head-dress withfeelingsis a somewhat uncomfortable affair.
"I don't mind you getting off my head, Dudu," she said. "But you might take a turn on Chéri's for a change. I think it's rather shabby of you to leave us already."
Hugh looked at Jeanne in surprise. He could not understand how it was that Jeanne ventured to speak so coolly to the raven—she who in their daylight life was so frightened of him that she would hardly go near him for fear he should turn her into a mouse, or in some other way bewitch her!
"I think it's very good-natured of Monsieur Dudu to have come with us so far," he said. "We could never have got into the tapestry castle at all but for him."
"No," said Dudu, "that you certainly wouldn't." But he didn't seem offended. "Good-bye," he said, "and if you're in any trouble remember the former arrangement. Whistle three times."
"Good-bye," said Hugh and Jeanne. But as they said it, their looks met each other in astonishment—there was no Dudu there—he had already disappeared.
"What a queer way he has of going off all of a sudden," said Jeanne.
"And what are we to do now?" said Hugh.
"Go up the stairs, of course, till we find where they lead to," said Jeanne.
"It will be rather awkward with our wings," said Hugh. "The stair is so very narrow and twisting."
Jeanne made an exclamation.
"Wings!" she said. "Why, Chéri, your wings are gone!"
"And so are yours!" said Hugh.
Both the children stared at each other and turned round to look at their shoulders, as if they could hardly believe it.
"It's too bad," said Jeanne. "It's all Dudu."
"Never mind," said Hugh. "He wouldn't have taken them away if we had been going to need them again; and really, Jeanne, the more I think of it the more sure I am we could never have got up that stair with our wings on."
"Perhaps not," said Jeanne. "Any wayIcouldn't have got up it with Dudu on my head. But let's go on, Chéri. Are you frightened? I'm not a bit."
"I'm not, either," said Hugh. "Still, it's a very queer place. I wish Dudu, or Houpet, or some of them, had come with us!"
They set off on their climb up the steep spiral staircase. So narrow it was, that going hand-in-hand was out of the question.
"It's worse than the staircase down to the frogs' country," said Jeanne.
Hugh looked at her triumphantly.
"There now, Jeanne, youdoremember," he said. "I believe it was just pretence your saying you thought I had dreamt it all."
"No," said Jeanne, "it wasn't. You don't understand, Chéri. I'm moonlight Jeanne, now—when we were having the dolls' feast I was daylight Jeanne. And you know it's never moonlight in the day-time."
"Well, certainly, Idon'tunderstand," said Hugh. "And one thing particularly—how is it that in the moon-time you remember about the day-time, if in the day you forget all about the other."
"I don't exactly forget," said Jeanne, "but it spoils things to mix them together. And lots of things would bequitespoilt if you took them into the regular daylight. I fancy, too, one can see farther in the moonlight—one can see more ways."
She was standing at the foot of the stair, a step or two higher than Hugh, and the soft light, which still, in some mysterious way, seemed to come down from above—though, looking up the spiral stair, its top seemed lost in gloom—fell on her pretty little face. Her hair had fallen back over her shoulders and lay dark on her pure white shiny dress; there was a look in her eyes which Hugh had never noticed before, as if she could see a long way off. Hugh looked at her earnestly.
"Jeanne," he said, "you're a perfect puzzle. I do wonder whether you're half a fairy, or an angel, or a dream. I do hope you're not a dream when you're in the moonlight. But, oh dear, I cannot understand."
"Do leave off trying to understand, Chéri," said Jeanne, "and let us amuse ourselves. I always loveyou, Chéri, whatever I am, don't I?"
She turned towards him brightly, with such a merry smile on her face that Hugh could not help smiling too.
"Do let us go on quickly," she said; "I do so want to see where this stair goes to."
"Let me go first. I'm a boy, you know, and it's right I should go first in case of meeting anything that might frighten you," said Hugh.
So he stepped up in front of Jeanne, and they slowly made their way.
It was impossible to go fast. Never was there such a twisty little stair. Here and there, too, it got darker, so that they could only just find their way, step by step. And it really seemed as if they had climbed a very long way, when from above came faintly and softly the sound of a plaintive "mew." "Mew, mew," it said again, whoever the "it" was, and then stopped.
The children looked at each other.
"Cats!" they said at the same instant.
"It's just as well," said Hugh, "that none of the animals did come with us, as so many of them are birds."
Another step or two and the mystery was explained. They had reached the top of the turret stair; it led them into a little hall, all, like the great hall below, painted white. It looked perfectly pure and clean, as if it had only been painted the day before, and yet there was a curiouslyoldlook about it too, and a faint scent of dried rose leaves seemed to be in the air.
There was a door in this little hall, exactly opposite the top of the stair, and at each side of the doorwas an arm-chair, also all white, and with a white satin cushion instead of a seat. And on each of these chairs sat a most beautiful white cat. The only colour in the hall was the flash of their green eyes, as they turned them full on the two children.
Jeanne crept a little closer to Hugh. But there was no reason for fear. The cats were most amiably disposed.
"Mew!" said the one on the right-hand chair.
"Mew!" said the one on the left-hand chair.
Then they looked at each other for a moment, and at last, seeming to have made up their minds, each held out his right paw. Something in the way they did it reminded Hugh and Jeanne of Dudu when he stood on one leg, and stuck out the other like a walking-stick.
"Mew!" they said again, both together this time. And then in a clear, though rather mewey voice, the right-hand cat spoke to the children.
"Madame is expecting you," he said.
The children did not know what else to say, so they said, "Thank you."
"She has been waiting a good while," said the left-hand cat.
"I'm very sorry to have kept her waiting," saidHugh, feeling Jeanne nudge him. "I hope she has not been waiting very long?"
"Oh no," said the right-hand cat, "not long; not above three hundred years."
Jeanne gave a start of astonishment.
"Three hundred——" "years," she was going to say, but the left-hand cat interrupted her.
"You are not to be surprised," he said, very hastily, and Jeanne could not quite make out if he was frightened or angry, or a little of both. "You must notthinkof being surprised. Nobody is ever surprised here."
"No one is ever surprised here," repeated the right-hand cat. "This is the Castle of Whiteness, you know. You are sure you have nothing coloured about you?" he added, anxiously.
Instinctively both the children put their hands up to their heads.
"Only our hair," they said.
"Mine's light-brown, you see," said Hugh.
"And mine's bl——" Jeanne was saying, but the cats, both speaking together this time, stopped her with a squeal of horror.
"Oh, oh, oh!" they said. "Where are your manners? You must never mention such a word. Yourhair, Mademoiselle, isshadowy. That is the proper expression."
Jeanne was annoyed, and did not speak. Hugh felt himself bound to defend her from the charge of bad manners.
"You needn't be so sharp," he said to the cats; "your eyes are as green as they can be."
"Green doesn't count," said the right-hand cat, coolly.
"And how were we to know that?" said Hugh.
"I don't know," said the left-hand cat.
"Well, but can't you be sensible?" said Hugh, who didn't feel inclined to give in to two cats.
"Perhaps we might be if we tried," said the right-hand cat. "But——"
A sudden sound interrupted him. It was as if some one had moved a piece of furniture with squeaking castors.
"Madame's turning her wheel," said the left-hand cat. "Now's the time."
Both cats got down from their chairs, and each, standing on their hind legs, proceeded to open his side of the door between the chairs—or "doors" I should almost say, for it was a double-hinged one, opening in the middle, and the funny thing about itwas that one side opened outwards, and the other inwards, so that at first, unless you were standing just exactly in the middle, you did not see very clearly into the inside.
"Delicate, strong, and white,Hurrah for the magic thread!The warp and the woof come right."Child World.
They were not to be surprised! Both the children remembered that, and yet it was a little difficult to avoid being so.
At first all they saw was just another white room, a small one, and with a curious pointed window in one corner. But when the doors were fully opened there was more to be seen. In the first place, at the opposite corner, was a second window exactly like the other, and in front of this window a spinning-wheel was placed, and before this spinning-wheel sat, on a white chair, a white-haired lady.
She was spinning busily. She did not look up as the children came in. She seemed quite absorbed in her work. So the children stood and gazed at her,and the cats stood quietly in front, the right-hand one before Hugh, the left-hand one before Jeanne, not seeming, of course, the least surprised. Whether I should call the white-haired lady an "old" lady or not, I really do not know. No doubt she was old, as we count old, but yet, except for her hair, she did not look so. She was very small, and she was dressed entirely in white, and her hands were the prettiest little things you ever saw. But as she did not look up, Hugh and Jeanne could not at first judge of her face. They stood staring at her for some minutes without speaking. At last, as they were not allowed to be surprised, and indeed felt afraid of being reproached with bad manners by the cats if they made any remarks at all, it began, especially for Jeanne, to grow rather stupid.
She gave Hugh a little tug.
"Won't you speak to her?" she whispered, very,verysoftly.
Instantly both cats lifted their right paws.
"You see," replied Hugh, looking at Jeanne reproachfully, "they're getting angry."
On this the cats wheeled right round and looked at the children.
"I don't care," said Jeanne, working herself up."I don't care. It's not our fault. They said she was waiting for us, and they made us come in."
"'Sheis the cat,' so I've been told," said a soft voice suddenly."And'don't care;' something was once spun about 'don't care,' I think."
Immediately the two cats threw themselves on the ground, apparently in an agony of grief.
"Shethe cat," they cried. "Oh, what presumption! And who said 'don't care'? Oh dear! oh dear! who would have thought of such a thing?"
The lady lifted her head, and looked at the cats and the children. There was a curious expression on her face, as if she had just awakened. Her eyes were very soft blue, softer and dreamier than Hugh's, and her mouth, even while it smiled, had a rather sad look. But the look of her whole face was very—I can't find a very good word for it. It seemed to ask you questions, and yet to know more about you than you did yourself. It was impossible not to keep looking at her once you had begun.
"Hush, cats," were the next words she said. "Don't be silly; it's nearly as bad as being surprised."
Immediately the cats sat up in their places again, as quiet and dignified as if they had not been at all put about, and Jeanne glanced at Hugh as much asto say, "Aren't you glad she has put them down a little?"
Then the lady looked over the cats to the children.
"It is quite ready," she said; "the threads are all straight."
What could they say? They had not the least idea what she meant, and they were afraid of asking. Evidently the white lady was of the same opinion as the cats as to the rudeness of being surprised; very probably asking questions would be considered still ruder.
Jeanne was the first to pick up courage.
"Madame," she said, "I don't mean to be rude, but Iamso thirsty. It's with flying, I think, for we're not accustomed to it."
"Why did you not say so before?" said the lady. "I can give you anything you want. It has all been ready a long time. Will you have snow water or milk?"
"Milk, please," said Jeanne.
The lady looked at the cats.
"Fetch it," she said quietly. The cats trotted off, they opened the door as before, but left it open this time, and in another moment they returned, carrying between them a white china tray, on whichwere two cups of beautiful rich-looking milk. They handed them to the children, who each took one and drank it with great satisfaction. Then the cats took away the cups and tray, and returned and sat down as before.
The lady smiled at the children.
"Now," she said, "are you ready?"
She had been so kind about the milk that Hugh this time took courage.
"We areverysorry," he said, "but we really don't understand what it is you would like us to do."
"Do?" said the lady. "Why, you have nothing to do but to listen. Isn't that what you came for? To hear some of the stories I spin?"
The children opened their eyes—with pleasure it is to be supposed rather than surprise—for the white lady did not seem at all annoyed.
"Oh!" said they, both at once. "Isthatwhat you're spinning? Stories!"
"Of course," said the lady. "Where did you think they all come from?—all the stories down there?" She pointed downwards in the direction of the stair and the great hall. "Why, here I have been for—no, it would frighten you to tell you how long, by your counting, I have been up here at my spinning. I spin the round of the clock at this window, then I turn my wheel—to get the light, you see—and spin the round again at the other. If you saw the tangle it comes to me in! And the threads I send down! It is notoftensuch little people as you come up here themselves, but it does happen sometimes. And there is plenty ready for you—all ready for the wheel."
"How wonderful!" said Hugh. "And oh!" he exclaimed, "I suppose sometimes the threads get twisted again when you have to send them down such a long way, and that's how stories get muddled sometimes."
"Just so," said the white lady. "My story threads need gentle handling, and sometimes people seize them roughly and tear and soil them, and then of course they are no longer pretty. But listen now. What will you have? The first in the wheel is a very, very old fairy story. I span it for your great-great-grandmothers; shall I spin it again for you?"
"Oh, please," said both children at once.
"Then sit down on the floor and lean your heads against my knees," said the lady. "Shut your eyes and listen. That is all you have to do. Never mind the cats, they will be quite quiet."
STORY SPINNING.—p. 141.STORY SPINNING.—p. 141
Hugh and Jeanne did as she told them. They leaned their heads, the smooth black one of the little girl, the fair-haired curly one of the boy, on the lady's white robe. You can hardly imagine how soft and pleasant it was to the touch. A half-sleepy feeling came over them; they shut their eyes and did not feel inclined to open them again. But they did not really go to sleep; the fairy lady began to work the wheel, and through the soft whirr came the sound of a voice—whether it was the voice of the lady or of the wheel they could not tell. And this was the old, old story the wheel spun for them.
"Listen, children," it began.
"We are listening," said Jeanne, rather testily. "You needn't say that again."
"Hush, Jeanne," said Hugh; "you'll stop the story if you're not quiet."
"Listen, children," said the voice again. And Jeanne was quite quiet.
"Once on a time—a very long time ago—in a beautiful castle there lived a beautiful Princess. She was young and sweet and very fair to see. And she was the only child of her parents, who thought nothing too rare or too good for her. At her birth all the fairies had given her valuable gifts—no evilwishes had been breathed over her cradle. Only the fairy who had endowed her with good sense and ready wit had dropped certain words, which had left some anxiety in the minds of her parents.
"'She will need my gifts,' the fairy had said. 'If she uses them well, they and these golden balls will stand her in good need.
"And as she kissed the baby she left by her pillow three lovely golden balls, at which, as soon as the little creature saw them, she smiled with pleasure, and held out her tiny hands to catch them.
"They were of course balls of fairy make—they were small enough for the little Princess at first to hold in her baby hands, but as she grew they grew, till, when she had reached her sixteenth year, they were the size of an orange. They were golden, but yet neither hard nor heavy, and nothing had power to dint or stain them. And all through her babyhood and childhood, and on into her girlhood, they were the Princess's favourite toy. They were never away from her, and by the time she had grown to be a tall and beautiful girl, with constant practice she had learnt to catch them as cleverly as an Indian juggler. She could whiz them all three in the air at a time, and never let one drop to the ground. And all thepeople about grew used to seeing their pretty Princess, as she wandered through the gardens and woods near the castle, throwing her balls in the air as she walked, and catching them again without the slightest effort.
"And remembering the words of the fairy who had given them, naturally her father and mother were pleased to see her love for the magic gift, and every one about the palace was forbidden to laugh at her, or to say that it was babyish for a tall Princess to play so much with a toy that had amused her as an infant.
"She was not a silly Princess at all. She was clever at learning, and liked it, and she was sensible and quick-witted and very brave. So no one was inclined to laugh at her pretty play, even if they had not been forbidden to do so. And she was so kind-hearted and merry, that if ever in her rambles she met any little children who stared at her balls with wondering eyes, she would make her ladies stop, while she threw the balls up in the air, higher and yet higher, ever catching them again as they flew back, and laughed with pleasure to see the little creatures' delight in her skill.
"She was such a happy Princess that the bright balls seemed like herself—ready to catch every rayof sunshine and make it prisoner. And till she had reached her sixteenth year no cloud had come over her brightness. About this time she noticed that the king, her father, began to look anxious and grave, and messengers often came in haste to see him from far-off parts of his kingdom. And once or twice she overheard words dropped which she could not understand, except that it was evident some misfortune was at hand. But in their desire to save their daughter all sorrow, the king and queen had given orders that the trouble which had come to the country was not to be told her; so the Princess could find out nothing even by questioning her ladies or her old nurse, who hitherto had never refused to tell her anything she wanted to know.
"One day when she was walking about the gardens, playing as usual with her golden balls, she came upon a young girl half hidden among the shrubs, crying bitterly. The Princess stopped at once to ask her what was the matter, but the girl only shook her head and went on weeping, refusing to answer.
"'I dare not tell you, Princess,' she said. 'I dare not. You are good and kind, and I do not blame you for my misfortunes. If you knew all, you would pity me.'
"And that was all she would say.
"She was a pretty girl, about the same age and height as the Princess, and the Princess, after speaking to her, remembered that she had sometimes seen her before.
"'You are the daughter of the gardener, are you not?' she inquired.
"'Yes,' said the girl. 'My father is the king's gardener. But I have been away with my grandmother. They only sent for me yesterday to come home—and—and—oh, I was to have been married next week to a young shepherd, who has loved me since my childhood!'
"And with this the girl burst into fresh weeping, but not another word would she say.
"Just then the Princess's governess, who had been a little behind—for sometimes in playing with her balls the Princess ran on faster—came up to where the two young girls were talking together. When the governess saw who the Princess's companion was she seemed uneasy.
"'What has she been saying to you, Princess?' she asked eagerly. 'It is the gardener's daughter, I see.'
"'Yes,' said the Princess. 'She is the gardener'sdaughter, and she is in some great trouble. That is all I know, for she will tell me nothing but that she was to have been married next week, and then she weeps. I wish I knew what her sorrow is, for, perhaps, I could be of use to her. I would give her all my money if it would do her any good,' and the Princess looked ready to cry herself. But the girl only shook her head. 'No Princess,' she said; 'it would do me no good. It is not your fault; but oh, it is very hard on me!'
"The governess seemed very frightened and spoke sharply to the girl, reproving her for annoying the Princess with her distress. The Princess was surprised, for all her ladies hitherto had, by the king and queen's desire, encouraged her to be kind and sympathising to those in trouble, and to do all she could to console them. But as she had also been taught to be very obedient, she made no remonstrance when her governess desired her to leave the girl and return to the castle. But all that day the Princess remained silent and depressed. It was the first time a shadow had come near her happiness.
"The next morning when she awoke the sun was shining brilliantly. It was a most lovely spring day. The Princess's happy spirits seemed all to havereturned. She said to herself that she would confide to the queen her mother her concern about the poor girl that she had seen, and no doubt the queen would devise some way of helping her. And the thought made her feel so light-hearted that she told her attendants to fetch her a beautiful white dress trimmed with silver, which had been made for her but the day before. To her surprise the maidens looked at each other in confusion. At last one replied that the queen had not been pleased with the dress and had sent it away, but that a still more beautiful one trimmed with gold should be ready by that evening. The Princess was perplexed; she was not so silly as to care about the dress, but it seemed to her very strange that her mother should not admire what she had thought so lovely a robe. But still more surprised was she at a message which was brought to her, as soon as she was dressed, from the king and queen, desiring her to remain in her own rooms the whole of that day without going out, for a reason that should afterwards be explained to her. She made no objection, as she was submissive and obedient to her parents' wishes, but she found it strange and sad to spend that beautiful spring day shut up in her rooms, more especially as in her favourite boudoir, aturret chamber which overlooked the castle courtyard, she found the curtains drawn closely, as if it were night, and was told by her governess that this too was by the king's orders; the Princess was requested not to look out of the windows. She grew at this a little impatient.
"'I am willing to obey my parents,' she said,'butI would fain they trusted me, for I am no longer a child. Some misfortune is threatening us, I feel, and it is concealed from me, as if I could be happy or at rest if sorrow is hanging over my dear parents or the nation.'
"But no explanation was given to her, and all that day she sat in her darkened chamber playing sadly with her golden balls and thinking deeply to herself about the mystery. And towards the middle of the day sounds of excitement reached her from the courtyard beneath. There seemed a running to and fro, a noise of horses and of heavy feet, and now and then faint sounds of weeping.
"'Goes the king a hunting to-day?' she asked her ladies. 'And whose weeping is it I hear?'
"But the ladies only shook their heads without speaking.
"By the evening all seemed quiet. The Princesswas desired to join her parents as usual, and the white and golden robe was brought to her to wear. She put it on with pleasure, and said to herself there could after all be no terrible misfortune at hand, for if so there would not be the signs of rejoicing she observed as she passed through the palace. And never had her parents been more tender and loving. They seemed to look at her as if never before they had known how they treasured her, and the Princess was so touched by these proofs of their affection that she could not make up her mind to trouble them by asking questions which they might not wish to answer.
"The next day everything went on as usual in the palace, and it seemed to the Princess that there was a general feeling as if some great danger was safely passed. But this happiness did not last long; about three days later, again a messenger, dusty and wearied with riding fast and hard, made his appearance at the castle; and faces grew gloomy, and the king and queen were evidently overwhelmed with grief. Yet nothing was told to the Princess.
"She wandered out about the gardens and castle grounds, playing as usual with her balls, but wondering sadly what meant this mysterious trouble. Andas she was passing the poultry-yard, she heard a sound which seemed to suit her thoughts—some one was crying sadly. The Princess turned to see who it was. This time too it was a young girl about her own age, a girl whom she knew very well by sight, for she was the daughter of the queen's henwife, and the Princess had often seen her driving the flocks of turkeys or geese to their fields, or feeding the pretty cocks and hens which the queen took great pride in.
"'What is the matter, Bruna?' said the Princess, leaning over the gate. 'Have the rats eaten any of the little chickens, or has your mother been scolding you for breaking some eggs?'
"'Neither, Princess,' said the girl among her sobs. 'The chickens are never eaten, and my mother seldom scolds me. My trouble is far worse than that, but I dare not tell it to you—to you of all people in the world.'
"And the Princess's governess, who just then came up, looked again very frightened and uneasy.
"'Princess, Princess,' she said, 'what a habit you are getting of talking to all these foolish girls. Come back to the palace at once with me.'
"'I have often talked to Bruna before,' said thePrincess gently, 'and I never was blamed for doing so. She is a pretty girl, and I have known her all my life. Some one said she was betrothed to one of my father's huntsmen, and I would like to ask if it is true. Perhaps they are too poor to marry, and it may be for that she is weeping.'
"Bruna heard what the Princess said, and wept still more violently. 'Ah, yes, it is true!' she said, 'but never, never shall I now be married to him.'
"But the Princess's governess would not let her wait to ask more. She hurried her back to the castle, and the Princess—more sure than ever that some mysterious trouble was in question—could get no explanation.
"She did not see the king and queen that night, and the next morning a strange thing happened—her white and golden robe was missing. And all that her attendants could tell her was that it had been taken away by the queen's orders.
"'Then,' said the Princess, 'there is some sad trouble afloat which is hidden from me.'
"And when she went to her turret room, and found, as before, that the windows were all closed, so that she could not see out, she sat down and cried with distress and anxiety.
"And, again, about mid-day, the same confused noises were to be heard. A sound of horses and people moving about in the courtyard, a tramping of heavy feet, and through all a faint and smothered weeping. The Princess could bear her anxiety no longer. She drew back the curtains, and unfastened the shutters, and leaned out. From her window she could clearly see the courtyard. It was, as she suspected, filled with people; rows of soldiers on horse-back lined the sides, and in front, on the steps, the king and queen were standing looking at a strange object. It was an enormous bull: never had the Princess seen such a bull. He was dark brown in colour, and pawed the ground in front of him impatiently, and on his back was seated a young girl whom the Princess gazed at with astonishment. She really thought for a moment it was herself, and that she was dreaming! For the girl was dressed in the Princess's own white and golden robe, and her face could not be seen, for it was covered with a thick veil, and numbers of women and servants standing about were weeping bitterly. And so, evidently, was the girl herself. Then the great bull gave another impatient toss, the girl seized his horns to keep herself from falling, and off he set, with a terrible rush:and a great shout, half of fear, half of rejoicing, as seeing him go, rose from the people about.
"Just at this moment the Princess heard some one approaching her room. She hastily drew the curtains, and sat down playing with her balls, as if she had seen nothing.
"She said not a word to any one, but she had her own thoughts, and that evening she was sent for to her father and mother, who, as usual, received her with caresses and every sign of the tenderest affection. And several days passed quietly, but still the Princess had her own thoughts.
"And one evening when she was sitting with her mother, suddenly the king entered the room in the greatest trouble, and not seeing the Princess, for it was dusk, he exclaimed,
"'It has failed again. The monster is not to be deceived. He vows he will not cease his ravages till he gets the real Princess, our beloved daughter. He has appeared again, and is more infuriated than ever, tearing up trees by the roots, destroying the people's houses, tramping over their fields, and half killing all the country with terror. What is to be done? The people say they can endure it no longer. The girl Bruna was found bruised and bleeding by the waysidea long way from this, and she gives the same account as the gardener's daughter of the monster's rage at finding he had been deceived.'
"The queen had tried to prevent the king's relating all this, but he was too excited to notice her hints, and, indeed, after the first few words, the Princess had heard enough. She started from her seat and came forward. And when he saw her, the king threw up his hands in despair. But the Princess said quietly, 'Father, you must tell me the whole.'
"So they had to tell her the whole. For many weeks past the terrible monster she had seen in the courtyard had been filling the country with fear. He had suddenly appeared at a distant part of the kingdom—having come, it was said, from a country over the sea named 'Norrowa'—and had laid it waste, for though he did not actually kill or devour, he tore down trees, trampled crops, and terrified every one that came in his way, as the king had said. And when begged to have mercy and to return to his own country, he roared out with a voice between the voice of a man and the bellow of a bull, that he would leave them in peace once the king gave him his daughter in marriage.
"Messenger after messenger had been sent to thepalace to entreat for assistance. Soldiers in numbers had been despatched to seize the monster and imprison him. But it was no use—he was not to be caught. Nothing would content him but the promise of the Princess; and as it was of course plain that he was not a common bull, but a creature endowed with magical power, the country-people's fear of him was unbounded. They threatened to rise in revolution unless some means were found of ridding them of their terrible visitor. Then the king called together the wisest of his counsellors, and finding force of no avail, they determined to try cunning. The giving the Princess was not to be thought of, but a pretty girl about her age and size—the gardener's daughter, the same whom the Princess had found weeping over her fate—was chosen, dressed in one of her royal mistress's beautiful robes, and a message sent to the bull that his request was to be granted. He came. All round, the castle was protected by soldiers, though they well knew their power against him was nothing. The king and queen, feigning to weep over the loss of their daughter, themselves presented to him the false Princess.
"She was mounted on his back, and off he rushed with her—up hill, down dale, by rocky ground andsmooth, across rivers and through forests he rushed, said the girl, faster and faster, till at last, as evening fell, he came to a stand and spoke to her for the first time.
"'What time of day must it be by this, king's daughter?' he said.
"The girl considered for a moment. Then, forgetting her pretended position, she replied thoughtlessly,
"'It must be getting late. About the time that my father gathers the flowers to adorn the king's and queen's supper table.'
"'Throw thee once, throw thee twice, throw theethrice,' roared the bull, each time shaking the girl roughly, and the last time flinging her off his back. 'Shame on thee, gardener's daughter, and thou wouldst call thyself a true Princess.'
"And with that he left her bruised and frightened out of her wits on the ground, and rushed off by himself whither she knew not. And it was not till two days later that the unfortunate gardener's daughter found her way home, glad enough, one may be sure, to be again there in safety.
"In the meantime the ravages and terrors caused by the terrible bull had begun again, and, as before, messengers came incessantly to the king entreatinghim to find some means of protecting his unfortunate subjects. And the king and queen were half beside themselves with anxiety. Only one thing they were determined on—nothing must be told to the Princess.