The Classic Children's Literature Collection: 39 Classic Novels

by Various Authors

  The princess was so bewildered with astonishment and admiration that she could hardly thank her, and drew nigh with timidity, feeling dirty and uncomfortable. The lady was seated on a low chair by the side of the fire, with hands outstretched to take her, but the princess hung back with a troubled smile.

  ‘Why, what’s the matter?’ asked her grandmother. ‘You haven’t been doing anything wrong—I know that by your face, though it is rather miserable. What’s the matter, my dear?’

  And she still held out her arms.

  ‘Dear grandmother,’ said Irene, ‘I’m not so sure that I haven’t done something wrong. I ought to have run up to you at once when the long-legged cat came in at the window, instead of running out on the mountain and making myself such a fright.’

  ‘You were taken by surprise, my child, and you are not so likely to do it again. It is when people do wrong things wilfully that they are the more likely to do them again. Come.’

  And still she held out her arms.

  ‘But, grandmother, you’re so beautiful and grand with your crown on; and I am so dirty with mud and rain! I should quite spoil your beautiful blue dress.’

  With a merry little laugh the lady sprung from her chair, more lightly far than Irene herself could, caught the child to her bosom, and, kissing the tear-stained face over and over, sat down with her in her lap.

  ‘Oh, grandmother! You’ll make yourself such a mess!’ cried Irene, clinging to her.

  ‘You darling! do you think I care more for my dress than for my little girl? Besides—look here.’

  As she spoke she set her down, and Irene saw to her dismay that the lovely dress was covered with the mud of her fall on the mountain road. But the lady stooped to the fire, and taking from it, by the stalk in her fingers, one of the burning roses, passed it once and again and a third time over the front of her dress; and when Irene looked, not a single stain was to be discovered.

  ‘There!’ said her grandmother, ‘you won’t mind coming to me now?’

  But Irene again hung back, eying the flaming rose which the lady held in her hand.

  ‘You’re not afraid of the rose—are you?’ she said, about to throw it on the hearth again.

  ‘Oh! don’t, please!’ cried Irene. ‘Won’t you hold it to my frock and my hands and my face? And I’m afraid my feet and my knees want it too.’

  ‘No, answered her grandmother, smiling a little sadly, as she threw the rose from her; ‘it is too hot for you yet. It would set your frock in a flame. Besides, I don’t want to make you clean tonight.

  I want your nurse and the rest of the people to see you as you are, for you will have to tell them how you ran away for fear of the long-legged cat. I should like to wash you, but they would not believe you then. Do you see that bath behind you?’

  The princess looked, and saw a large oval tub of silver, shining brilliantly in the light of the wonderful lamp.

  ‘Go and look into it,’ said the lady.

  Irene went, and came back very silent with her eyes shining.

  ‘What did you see?’ asked her grandmother.

  ‘The sky, and the moon and the stars,’ she answered. ‘It looked as if there was no bottom to it.’

  The lady smiled a pleased satisfied smile, and was silent also for a few moments. Then she said:

  ‘Any time you want a bath, come to me. I know YOU have a bath every morning, but sometimes you want one at night, too.’

  ‘Thank you, grandmother; I will—I will indeed,’ answered Irene, and was again silent for some moments thinking. Then she said: ‘How was it, grandmother, that I saw your beautiful lamp—not the light of it only—but the great round silvery lamp itself, hanging alone in the great open air, high up? It was your lamp I saw—wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, my child—it was my lamp.’

  ‘Then how was it? I don’t see a window all round.’

  ‘When I please I can make the lamp shine through the walls—shine so strong that it melts them away from before the sight, and shows itself as you saw it. But, as I told you, it is not everybody can see it.’

  ‘How is it that I can, then? I’m sure I don’t know.’

  ‘It is a gift born with you. And one day I hope everybody will have it.’

  ‘But how do you make it shine through the walls?’

  ‘Ah! that you would not understand if I were to try ever so much to make you—not yet—not yet. But,’ added the lady, rising, ‘you must sit in my chair while I get you the present I have been preparing for you. I told you my spinning was for you. It is finished now, and I am going to fetch it. I have been keeping it warm under one of my brooding pigeons.’

  Irene sat down in the low chair, and her grandmother left her, shutting the door behind her. The child sat gazing, now at the rose fire, now at the starry walls, now at the silver light; and a great quietness grew in her heart. If all the long-legged cats in the world had come rushing at her then she would not have been afraid of them for a moment. How this was she could not tell—she only knew there was no fear in her, and everything was so right and safe that it could not get in.

  She had been gazing at the lovely lamp for some minutes fixedly: turning her eyes, she found the wall had vanished, for she was looking out on the dark cloudy night. But though she heard the wind blowing, none of it blew upon her. In a moment more the clouds themselves parted, or rather vanished like the wall, and she looked straight into the starry herds, flashing gloriously in the dark blue. It was but for a moment. The clouds gathered again and shut out the stars; the wall gathered again and shut out the clouds; and there stood the lady beside her with the loveliest smile on her face, and a shimmering ball in her hand, about the size of a pigeon’s egg.

  ‘There, Irene; there is my work for you!’ she said, holding out the ball to the princess.

  She took it in her hand, and looked at it all over. It sparkled a little, and shone here and there, but not much. It was of a sort of grey-whiteness, something like spun glass.

  ‘Is this all your spinning, grandmother?’ she asked.

  ‘All since you came to the house. There is more there than you think.’

  ‘How pretty it is! What am I to do with it, please?’

  ‘That I will now explain to you,’ answered the lady, turning from her and going to her cabinet. She came back with a small ring in her hand. Then she took the ball from Irene’s, and did something with the ring—Irene could not tell what.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ she said. Irene held up her right hand.

  ‘Yes, that is the hand I want,’ said the lady, and put the ring on the forefinger of it.

  ‘What a beautiful ring!’ said Irene. ‘What is the stone called?’

  ‘It is a fire-opal.’ ‘Please, am I to keep it?’

  ‘Always.’ ‘Oh, thank you, grandmother! It’s prettier than anything I ever saw, except those—of all colours-in your—Please, is that your crown?’

  ‘Yes, it is my crown. The stone in your ring is of the same sort—only not so good. It has only red, but mine have all colours, you see.’

  ‘Yes, grandmother. I will take such care of it! But—’ she added, hesitating.

  ‘But what?’ asked her grandmother.

  ‘What am I to say when Lootie asks me where I got it?’

  ‘You will ask her where you got it,’ answered the lady smiling.

  ‘I don’t see how I can do that.’

  ‘You will, though.’

  ‘Of course I will, if you say so. But, you know, I can’t pretend not to know.’

  ‘Of course not. But don’t trouble yourself about it. You will see when the time comes.’

  So saying, the lady turned, and threw the little ball into the rose fire.

  ‘Oh, grandmother!’ exclaimed Irene; ‘I thought you had spun it for me.’

  ‘So I did, my child. And y
ou’ve got it.’

  ‘No; it’s burnt in the fire!’

  The lady put her hand in the fire, brought out the ball, glimmering as before, and held it towards her. Irene stretched out her hand to take it, but the lady turned and, going to her cabinet, opened a drawer, and laid the ball in it.

  ‘Have I done anything to vex you, grandmother?’ said Irene pitifully.

  ‘No, my darling. But you must understand that no one ever gives anything to another properly and really without keeping it. That ball is yours.’

  ‘Oh! I’m not to take it with me! You are going to keep it for me!’

  ‘You are to take it with you. I’ve fastened the end of it to the ring on your finger.’

  Irene looked at the ring.

  ‘I can’t see it there, grandmother,’ she said.

  ‘Feel—a little way from the ring—towards the cabinet,’ said the lady.

  ‘Oh! I do feel it!’ exclaimed the princess. ‘But I can’t see it,’ she added, looking close to her outstretched hand.

  ‘No. The thread is too fine for you to see it. You can only feel it. Now you can fancy how much spinning that took, although it does seem such a little ball.’

  ‘But what use can I make of it, if it lies in your cabinet?’

  ‘That is what I will explain to you. It would be of no use to you—it wouldn’t be yours at all if it did not lie in my cabinet. Now listen. If ever you find yourself in any danger—such, for example, as you were in this same evening—you must take off your ring and put it under the pillow of your bed. Then you must lay your finger, the same that wore the ring, upon the thread, and follow the thread wherever it leads you.’

  ‘Oh, how delightful! It will lead me to you, grandmother, I know!’

  ‘Yes. But, remember, it may seem to you a very roundabout way indeed, and you must not doubt the thread. Of one thing you may be sure, that while you hold it, I hold it too.’

  ‘It is very wonderful!’ said Irene thoughtfully. Then suddenly becoming aware, she jumped up, crying:

  ‘Oh, grandmother! here have I been sitting all this time in your chair, and you standing! I beg your pardon.’

  The lady laid her hand on her shoulder, and said:

  ‘Sit down again, Irene. Nothing pleases me better than to see anyone sit in my chair. I am only too glad to stand so long as anyone will sit in it.’

  ‘How kind of you!’ said the princess, and sat down again.

  ‘It makes me happy,’ said the lady.

  ‘But,’ said Irene, still puzzled, ‘won’t the thread get in somebody’s way and be broken, if the one end is fast to my ring, and the other laid in your cabinet?’

  ‘You will find all that arrange itself. I am afraid it is time for you to go.’

  ‘Mightn’t I stay and sleep with you tonight, grandmother?’ ‘No, not tonight. If I had meant you to stay tonight, I should have given you a bath; but you know everybody in the house is miserable about you, and it would be cruel to keep them so all night. You must go downstairs.’

  ‘I’m so glad, grandmother, you didn’t say “Go home,” for this is my home. Mayn’t I call this my home?’

  ‘You may, my child. And I trust you will always think it your home. Now come. I must take you back without anyone seeing you.’

  ‘Please, I want to ask you one question more,’ said Irene. ‘Is it because you have your crown on that you look so young?’

  ‘No, child,’ answered her grandmother; ‘it is because I felt so young this evening that I put my crown on. And I thought you would like to see your old grandmother in her best.’

  ‘Why do you call yourself old? You’re not old, grandmother.’

  ‘I am very old indeed. It is so silly of people—I don’t mean you, for you are such a tiny, and couldn’t know better—but it is so silly of people to fancy that old age means crookedness and witheredness and feebleness and sticks and spectacles and rheumatism and forgetfulness! It is so silly! Old age has nothing whatever to do with all that. The right old age means strength and beauty and mirth and courage and clear eyes and strong painless limbs. I am older than you are able to think, and—’

  ‘And look at you, grandmother!’ cried Irene, jumping up and flinging her arms about her neck. ‘I won’t be so silly again, I promise you. At least—I’m rather afraid to promise—but if I am, I promise to be sorry for it—I do. I wish I were as old as you, grandmother. I don’t think you are ever afraid of anything.’

  ‘Not for long, at least, my child. Perhaps by the time I am two thousand years of age, I shall, indeed, never be afraid of anything. But I confess I have sometimes been afraid about my children—sometimes about you, Irene.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, grandmother! Tonight, I suppose, you mean.’

  ‘Yes—a little tonight; but a good deal when you had all but made up your mind that I was a dream, and no real great-great-grandmother. You must not suppose I am blaming you for that. I dare say you could not help it.’

  ‘I don’t know, grandmother,’ said the princess, beginning to cry. ‘I can’t always do myself as I should like. And I don’t always try. I’m very sorry anyhow.’

  The lady stooped, lifted her in her arms, and sat down with her in her chair, holding her close to her bosom. In a few minutes the princess had sobbed herself to sleep. How long she slept I do not know. When she came to herself she was sitting in her own high chair at the nursery table, with her doll’s house before her.

  CHAPTER 16.The Ring

  The same moment her nurse came into the room, sobbing. When she saw her sitting there she started back with a loud cry of amazement and joy. Then running to her, she caught her in her arms and covered her with kisses.

  ‘My precious darling princess! where have you been? What has happened to you? We’ve all been crying our eyes out, and searching the house from top to bottom for you.’

  ‘Not quite from the top,’ thought Irene to herself; and she might have added, ‘not quite to the bottom’, perhaps, if she had known all. But the one she would not, and the other she could not say. ‘Oh, Lootie! I’ve had such a dreadful adventure!’ she replied, and told her all about the cat with the long legs, and how she ran out upon the mountain, and came back again. But she said nothing of her grandmother or her lamp.

  ‘And there we’ve been searching for you all over the house for more than an hour and a half!’ exclaimed the nurse. ‘But that’s no matter, now we’ve got you! Only, princess, I must say,’ she added, her mood changing, ‘what you ought to have done was to call for your own Lootie to come and help you, instead of running out of the house, and up the mountain, in that wild, I must say, foolish fashion.’

  ‘Well, Lootie,’ said Irene quietly, ‘perhaps if you had a big cat, all legs, running at you, you might not exactly know what was the wisest thing to do at the moment.’

  ‘I wouldn’t run up the mountain, anyhow,’ returned Lootie.

  ‘Not if you had time to think about it. But when those creatures came at you that night on the mountain, you were so frightened yourself that you lost your way home.’

  This put a stop to Lootie’s reproaches. She had been on the point of saying that the long-legged cat must have been a twilight fancy of the princess’s, but the memory of the horrors of that night, and of the talking-to which the king had given her in consequence, prevented her from saying what after all she did not half believe—having a strong suspicion that the cat was a goblin; for she knew nothing of the difference between the goblins and their creatures: she counted them all just goblins.

  Without another word she went and got some fresh tea and bread and butter for the princess. Before she returned, the whole household, headed by the housekeeper, burst into the nursery to exult over their darling. The gentlemen-at-arms followed, and were ready enough to believe all she told them about the long-legged cat. Indeed, though wise enough to say nothing
about it, they remembered, with no little horror, just such a creature amongst those they had surprised at their gambols upon the princess’s lawn.

  In their own hearts they blamed themselves for not having kept better watch. And their captain gave orders that from this night the front door and all the windows on the ground floor should be locked immediately the sun set, and opened after upon no pretence whatever. The men-at-arms redoubled their vigilance, and for some time there was no further cause of alarm.

  When the princess woke the next morning, her nurse was bending over her. ‘How your ring does glow this morning, princess!—just like a fiery rose!’ she said.

  ‘Does it, Lootie?’ returned Irene. ‘Who gave me the ring, Lootie? I know I’ve had it a long time, but where did I get it? I don’t remember.’

  ‘I think it must have been your mother gave it you, princess; but really, for as long as you have worn it, I don’t remember that ever I heard,’ answered her nurse.

  ‘I will ask my king-papa the next time he comes,’ said Irene.

  CHAPTER 17.Springtime

  The spring so dear to all creatures, young and old, came at last, and before the first few days of it had gone, the king rode through its budding valleys to see his little daughter. He had been in a distant part of his dominions all the winter, for he was not in the habit of stopping in one great city, or of visiting only his favourite country houses, but he moved from place to place, that all his people might know him. Wherever he journeyed, he kept a constant look-out for the ablest and best men to put into office; and wherever he found himself mistaken, and those he had appointed incapable or unjust, he removed them at once. Hence you see it was his care of the people that kept him from seeing his princess so often as he would have liked. You may wonder why he did not take her about with him; but there were several reasons against his doing so, and I suspect her great-great-grandmother had had a principal hand in preventing it. Once more Irene heard the bugle-blast, and once more she was at the gate to meet her father as he rode up on his great white horse.