She was so lovely that painters came from many countries just to see her face, and, if possible, be allowed to make a picture of her. And one of these portraits found its way to the court of a King who was a distant cousin of her father, and who had heard the strange things said of the Princess. He was very angry about it, for he had two sons, and he was afraid of their falling in love with the beautiful face. So he ordered the picture to be destroyed before the elder Prince, who was away on a visit, came home.
But the servant who was to burn the picture thought it such a pity to do so, that he only hid it away in a lumber-room; and thither, as fate would have it, came the younger Prince one day in search of a pet kitten of his sister’s which had strayed away; for he was a Prince of a most kind and amiable nature.
The moment he saw the picture he fell in love with it. He made inquiry, and heard all there was to tell. Then he arrayed himself for a journey, and came to bid his father farewell.
“I go,” he said, “to woo the Princess Rose for my bride.” And in spite of all the king could say he kept firm.
“If she is a witch,” he said, “I would rather perish by her hands than live with any other.”
And amidst tears and lamentations he set out.
He was received with great delight at the court of Princess Rose’s parents, though he came without any pomp or display; for he lost no time in telling the King and Queen the reason of his visit. Knowing him to be a Prince of most estimable character, they were overjoyed to hear of his resolve.
“I only trust,” said the Queen, “that all may go well. But, as you have doubtless heard, our darling child, despite her beauty and goodness, is under a strange spell.”
She then proceeded to tell him the whole matter, of which he had already heard garbled accounts.
He was relieved to find that the enchantment was of no worse a nature, and declared that it made no difference in his intentions, but rather increased his love for the Princess. And when he first set eyes on her (more beautiful by far than even the beautiful portrait), he felt that his whole life would not be too much to devote to her, even considering her strange affliction.
“And who knows,” he said to himself, “but that such love as mine may find out a way to release her from the spell?”
The Princess quickly learned to like him. She had never before had a companion so near her own age, and the last days of the summer passed most happily, till the time came when the Prince thought he might venture to ask her to be his wife.
They were walking on the terrace in front of the castle when he did so. It had been a lovely day, but the afternoon had grown chilly; and as the Princess listened to his words, a cold breath of wind passed near them.
The Princess started; and, aware of the Queen’s anxiety about her, the Prince hastily proposed that they should return to the house; but Rose looked at him with a light in her eyes which he had never before seen, and a strange smile broke over her face.
“It is new life to me,” she said.
“Can you not understand, you who are yourself a child of the north? Yes, Prince, I will marry you on one condition, that you will show me the snow – but on no other.”
Then she turned, and, without another word, walked slowly back to the palace.
Prince Orso, for so he was called, felt terribly distressed.
“The spell is upon her,” he thought to himself. “She asks me to do what would probably kill her, or separate her for ever from all who love her.” And the King and Queen, when they heard his story, were nearly as disappointed as he.
But that very night the Prince had a strange dream. He thought he was walking in the wood near the castle, when again a chill blast, but still more icy, swept past him, and he heard a voice speaking to him. It sounded hoarse and stern.
“Orso,” it said, “you’re as foolish as the rest. Have you no trust? See what came of rebellion against me, who, after all, love my many children as dearly as does my sister of the summer. Leave the Princess to the leadings of her own heart, and dare not to interfere.”
Then with a crash as of thunder the spirit went on his way. And the Prince awoke to find that the window of his room had been dashed in by the force of a sudden gale which had arisen.
But the next morning all was again calm. It almost seemed as if the milder weather was returning again; and the Queen looked brighter; but it was not so with the Princess, who was silent and almost sad. And so things continued for some days.
At last the Prince could bear it no longer. One afternoon when he found himself alone with the Princess, he turned to her suddenly.
“Princess,” he said, “can you not give me another answer? You must know that I would fain promise anything you wish; but I dare not bind myself to what might perhaps do you some injury.”
Rose turned towards him impatiently.
“That is just it,” she said. “I am always met by excuses when I ask for the one thing I really desire. What is there about me different from others? Why should I so often hear of what others seem to understand, and not have it explained to me? I am no longer a child; in my dreams I see things I cannot put in words; and beautiful as the world is, I feel that I only half know it. I long for what they call the winter, and what they call the snow, and they never come. Only the cold wind, which I have felt once or twice, brings new life to me, and fills me with strange joy.”
The Prince hesitated. He understood her perfectly, for he was himself of the same brave and hardy race. Yet the Queen’s forebodings made him tremble. The Princess’s words reminded him of his own dream; and again he felt as if he heard the voice of the stern Winter Spirit. And as if in answer to his uncertainty, at that moment the howl of the cold blast sounded near them among the trees, and lurid clouds began to gather overhead.
The Princess’s face lighted up.
“Ah,” she exclaimed, “it is coming again!”
“I fear so indeed,” said Orso; and in his terror for her he caught her hand and would have hurried her back to the palace.
But at that moment a shrill little cry was heard overhead not far from where they stood, and glancing up they saw a bird of prey clutching a smaller one in his claws. With a terrible effort the captive managed to free himself, but he was sadly wounded; and as Rose gazed upwards in great concern, she saw him fall fluttering feebly to the ground. All else was forgotten in the sight.
“Poor bird,” she cried. “Let me go, Prince; I must find him where he has fallen, or a cruel death of slow suffering will be his.”
The Prince loosed her hand; he dared not hold her back, though he could have done so.
“Leave her to the guidings of her own heart,” resounded in his ears.
Almost at once she was lost to his sight among the trees which grew very closely; almost at the same moment, to his horror, something cold and soft touched his face, and lifting his eyes, he saw that the snowflakes were falling thickly. If harm was to betide, it was too late to save her; but he pressed forward in unspeakable anxiety.
It was some little time before he found her; and no reply came to his calls; but at last he caught sight of something blue on the ground. It was the Princess’s robe; and there, indeed, she lay motionless – her eyes closed, a sweet smile on her face, the little wounded bird tenderly clasped in her hands.
And now I may tell you that this wounded bird was the friend from whom I had the story; for, as you will hear, he had plenty of opportunity of learning it all.
Orso threw himself on the ground beside the Princess.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “my carelessness has killed her. How can I ever dare to face the King and Queen? Oh! Winter Spirit, you have indeed deceived me.”
But as he said the words the Princess opened her eyes.
“No, Prince,” she said. “I am not dead. I am not even asleep. It was the strange gladness that seemed to take away my breath for a moment, and I must have sunk down without knowing. But now I feel stronger and happier than ever in my life before, now that I have seen and felt the beautiful snow of my own country, now that I have breathed the winter air I have been longing for always,” and she sprang to her feet, her blue eyes sparkling with delight, looking lovelier than he had ever seen her.
“Orso,” she went on, half shyly, “you have done what I asked you; through you I have seen the snow,” and she held out her hand, which, white though it was, looked pink in comparison with the little flakes which were fluttering down on it.
The Prince was overjoyed, but he hesitated.
“I fear,” he said, “that in reality you should rather thank the poor little bird, or most of all your own kind heart.”
“Poor little bird,” she replied, looking at it as it lay in her other hand. “It is not dead. I will do all I can for it! Let us hasten home, Prince, so that I may bind up its poor wing. My father and mother too will be anxious about me.”
And together they returned to the palace. One glance at the Princess as she came in sprinkled over with snow showed the Queen that the spell was at last broken. And her joy was past all words.
My friend recovered slowly. He spent all the winter in the palace, tenderly cared for by the Princess Rose, only flying away when the warm sunny days returned. He pays them a visit still every summer to show his gratitude, and tells me that in all his travels he seldom sees a happier family than his friends in the old palace away up in the far, far northern land.
“Thank you,” said the children, “Thank you, oh so much!” But whether the bird heard them or not they could not tell – he had already flown away.
Chapter Nine.
The Christmas Surprise
For some days the story of the bewitched Princess gave Rafe and Alix enough to talk about, and to play at too, for they invented a game in which Alix was supposed to fall into an enchanted sleep if Rafe succeeded in touching her with a branch of leaves, which represented snowflakes; and as she was a very quick runner it was not so easy as it sounds.
Besides, by this time the Easter holidays were over and lessons had begun again. The children had not too many lessons, however, and always a good part of the afternoon to themselves, and they remained faithful to the old garden as their favourite playground. So some hours of every day – of every fine day at least – were spent there, and though they had not seen the old caretaker a second time, nor ever managed to find the concealed door in the rough stone wall again, hunt for it as they would, still they had sometimes a queer, mysterious, pleasant feeling that she knew about them – knew they were there, and was perhaps even peeping out at them through some hidden hole.
It would have been a great sorrow to them if they had had to give up their visits to the garden. But fortunately their nurse rather approved of their playing there. There was something that brought good luck with it about the Lady wood grounds. No ill-chance ever happened to them there, no tumbles or sprained ankles, or torn clothes, or such not uncommon misfortunes when children are by themselves. Best of all, they almost never quarrelled when in the old garden, and perhaps that had a good deal to do with the keeping clear of other troubles.
They were growing “quite to be trusted,” nurse told their mother, and it scarcely seemed needful for them to go regular walks now, which nurse was very glad of, as it left her free to get on nicely with all the needlework, in which – next to a baby, and there had been no new baby since Alix – her heart delighted.
So the discovery of the pleasures of the deserted manor suited everybody.
But after a while, the children began to think it was time to have another story, and to wonder if their old friend had forgotten them, or possibly gone away. There was no use hunting any more for the hidden door; they had hurt their fingers and tired themselves to no purpose in doing so already. And at last they came to the conclusion that if Mrs Caretaker didn’t want them to find it, it was no use trying, and that if she did, she would soon find ways and means of fetching them.
“Unless, of course,” said Alix, “she has gone. Perhaps she’s like the birds, you know – only turned the other way. I mean perhaps she goes off in the summer, once she’s started everything, and all the plants and things are growing beautifully now, in their wild way. You see she’s not like a regular trim gardener – she doesn’t want them to grow all properly like you can see anywhere.”
“Still she must take great care of them somehow,” said Rafe thoughtfully, “for you know people often notice how few weeds there are about Ladywood, and in full summer the wild flowers are quite wonderful. And the birds – it’s always here the nightingales are heard the best.”
Alix looked up. They were sitting in their favourite place, at the foot of some very tall trees.
“If we’d had any sense,” she said, “we might almost have seen for ourselves long ago that there was something fairy about the place, even before the wren led us here.”
The mention of the wren made her remember something she had noticed.
“Rafe,” she went on, “do you know I’ve seen a little robin hopping about us the last day or two, and chirping in a talking sort of way. I forgot to tell you. I wonder if he has anything to say to us, for you know there were two birds that wanted to tell us stories.”
“Per – ” began Rafe in his slow fashion.
But before he had time to get to “haps” his sister caught hold of his arm.
“Hush!” she whispered, “there he is.”
Yes, there he was, and “he” was a robin.
He hopped about in front of them for a minute or two, now and then cocking his head on one side and looking at them over his shoulder, as it were, as if to see whether he had caught their attention. Then he flew up a little way, and settled himself on a branch not far from them, with a peculiar little chirp.
“I believe,” said Alix, still in a whisper, “I believe he wants us to speak to him.”
“Try,” replied Rafe.
“Robin,” said Alix, clearly though softly, “robin, have you come to see us? Have you got a message for us from Mrs Caretaker, perhaps?”
The bird looked at her reproachfully. I don’t know that she could see it was reproachfully, but from the way he held his head it was plain to any one that he was not altogether pleased.
Then came a succession of chirps, and gradually, just as had happened before, by dint of listening very attentively and keeping quite, quite quiet, bits of words and then words themselves began to grow out of the chirping. To tell the truth, if any one had passed that way, he or she would have imagined Rafe and Alix were asleep. For there they sat, like a picture of the babes in the wood – Alix’s head resting on her brother’s shoulder, and his arm thrown round her —quite motionless. But they weren’t asleep, of course, for their two pairs of eyes were fixed on the little red-breasted fellow up above them.
“So you had forgotten all about me,” in a melancholy tone, quite unlike a cheery little robin. “I gave up to that other fellow and let him tell his story first. I suppose you don’t care to hear mine.”
“Oh, dear robin, of course we do,” said Alix. “But you see we didn’t understand.”
“I’ve been following you about all these days. I’m sure you might have seen me, and I’ve been asking you over and over again if you didn’t want to listen.”
“But you see, dear robin, we couldn’t understand what you said. It takes a good while to get used to – to your way of speaking, you know,” said Alix. She was desperately afraid of hurting his feelings still more.
“I am afraid that is not the real reason. You think a robin’s story is sure to be stupid. You see I am not one of those fine travelled fellows – the swallows and the martins, and all the rest of them – who spend the winter in the south and know such a lot of the world. I’m only a home bird. Here I was hatched and here I have lived, and mean to live till I die. It’s quite true that my story is a very stupid one. I’ve made no fine acquaintances such as kings and queens and princesses, and I’ve never visited at court, north or south either, so you know what you have to expect.”
He seemed rather depressed, but less offended than he had been.
“Please begin,” said Rafe. “I’m sure we shall like your story. We don’t want always to hear the same kind.” The robin cleared his throat.
“Such as it is,” he began, “I can vouch for the truth of it, as it happened to be my own self. I didn’t ‘have it’ from any one else. And in my own mind I have given it the name of ‘The Christmas Surprise.’”
And after he had cleared his throat again for the last time, he went straight on.
“I have often noticed,” he began, “that whatever we have not got, whatever is not ours or with us at the present moment, is the thing we prize the most. This applies both to birds and human beings, and it is often the case about the seasons of the year. There is a great charm about absence. In the winter we are always looking forward to the spring and the summer; in the hot summer we think of the cool shady days of autumn, of the cheerful fires and merry doings that come with Christmas. I am speaking especially of men and women and children just now, but there is a good deal of the same kind of thing among us birds, though you mightn’t think it. And of all birds, I think we robins have the most sympathy with human folk. We really love Christmas time; it is gratifying to know how much we are thought of at that season – how our portraits are sent about by one friend to another, how our figures are placed on your Christmas trees, and how every one thinks of us with kindness. And except by very thoughtless people we are generally cared for well. During a hard winter it is seldom that our wants are forgotten. I myself,” and here he plumed himself importantly, “I myself have been most fortunate in this respect. There are at least a dozen houses within easy flight of Ladywood where I am always sure of a good breakfast of crumbs.”
“But,” began Alix, rather timidly, “please don’t mind my interrupting you, but doesn’t Mrs Caretaker look after you? I thought that was what she was here for, to take care of all the living creatures in this garden.”
“Exactly so, exactly so,” said the robin, hastily, “far be it from me to make any complaint. I would not change my home for the garden of a palace. But, as I have said, I think we robins have much sympathy with your race. Human beings interest me extremely. I like to study their characters. So I go about in my own part of the country a good deal, and thus I know the ways of many of my wingless neighbours pretty intimately. Thus comes it that I have stories to tell, all from my own observation, you see. Well, as I was remarking, we often love to dwell in fancy on what is not ours at present, so as it is really like a summer day, quite hot for the time of year, I daresay it will amuse you to transport your thoughts to Christmas time. Most of my human stories belong to that season, for it is then we have so much to do with you. The Christmas of which I am going to tell you was what is called an ‘old-fashioned one,’ – though it strikes me that snowy, frosty, very cold Christmases are fast becoming new-fashioned again – ah, it was cold! I was a young bird then; it was my first experience of frost and snow, and in spite of my feathers I did shiver, I can tell you. Still I enjoyed it; I was strong and hearty, and I began to make acquaintance with the houses in the neighbourhood, at several of which one was pretty sure of a breakfast in front of some window.
“There was a very large house which had been shut up for some time, as the owners were abroad. It had a charming terrace in front, and my friends and I often regretted that it was not inhabited. For the terrace faced south and all the sunshine going was sure to be found there, and it would have been a pleasant resort for us. And one morning our wishes were fulfilled. I met a cousin of mine flying off in great excitement.
”‘The Manor House is open again,’ he told me. ‘Come quickly. Through the windows on to the terrace, fires are to be seen in all the rooms, and they are evidently preparing for a merry Christmas. No doubt they will not forget us, but it is as well to remind them that we should be glad of some crumbs.’
“I flew off with him, and found it just as he had said. The house had quite a different appearance; it looked bright and cheery, and in one room a large party was assembled at breakfast. We – for several of us were there – hopped up and down the terrace for some little time, but no notice was taken of us. So one by one my companions flew away, remarking that it was no use wasting their time; they would look in again some other day when perhaps the new-comers would have thought of them. But I remained behind; I was not very busy, being a young bird, and I felt a wish to see something of the family who had been so long absent, for I am of what some people call a ‘curious’ disposition; I myself should rather describe it as observant and thoughtful.
“I perched close beside the dining-room window and peeped in. There were several grown-up people, but only two children; two little girls, very prettily dressed, but thin and pale, and with a somewhat discontented expression of face. After a while, when the meal was over and all had risen from the table, the children came to the window with a young lady and stood looking out.
“Oh, how cold it is,” said one of them shivering, “I wish papa and mamma had not come back to England. I liked India much better.”
“So did I,” said the other little girl. “I don’t want to go a walk when it’s so cold. Need we go, Miss Meadows? And yet I don’t know what to do in the house. I’m tired of all our toys. We shall have new ones next week when Christmas Day comes; that’s a good thing.”
The young lady they called Miss Meadows looked rather troubled. In her heart she thought the children had far too many toys already, and she felt sure they would get tired of the new ones before they had had them long.
“I don’t care much for Christmas except for the toys,” said the first little girl. “Do you, Miss Meadows?”
“Yes, indeed I do, Norna dear,” she said. “And I think in your heart you really care for it too – and Ivy also. You both know why it should be so cared for.”
“Oh, yes; in that sort of a way, I know it would be naughty not to care for it,” said Norna, looking a little ashamed. “But it’s different when you’ve lived in England, I suppose. Mamma has told us stories of Christmas when she was little, that sounded very nice – all about carols, and lots of cousins playing together, and presents, and school feasts. But we haven’t any cousins to play with. Had you, Miss Meadows, at your own home?”
Miss Meadows’ eyes looked rather odd for a moment. She turned away for half an instant and then she seemed all right again.
“I had lots of brothers and sisters,” she said, “and that’s even better than cousins.”
It was her first Christmas away from home, and she had only been a few days with Norna and Ivy.
“I wish we had!” sighed Norna, who always wanted what she had not got.
“But surely there are some things you can have that would cheer you up,” said Miss Meadows. “Perhaps it is too soon to settle about school feasts just yet, but have you no presents to get ready for any one?”
“No,” sighed Ivy. “Mamma has everything she wants; and so have we. It’s rubbish giving each other presents just to say they’re presents.”
“Yes,” said Miss Meadows. “I think it is. But – ”
She said no more, for just then Ivy touched her, and whispered softly, —
“I do believe there’s a real little robin redbreast. Don’t let’s frighten him away.”
The child’s eyes sparkled with pleasure; she looked quite different.
“It’s the first real one we’ve ever seen,” said she and Norna together.
“Poor little man!” said their governess; “he must be hungry to be so tame. Let us throw crumbs every morning, children. I am sure your mamma won’t mind. This terrace is a splendid place.”
The idea pleased them mightily. I hid myself in the ivy for a few moments, and when I came out again, there was a delightful spread all ready. So I flew down and began to profit by it, expressing my thanks, of course, in a well-bred manner. The window was still open, and I heard some words that Miss Meadows murmured to herself:
“I wish I could find out some little service for others that they could do, even this first Christmas,” she said.
“They would be so much happier, poor little things! Dear robin, I am even grateful to you for making me think of throwing out crumbs.”
She looked so sweet that my heart warmed to her, and I wished I could help her. And at that moment an idea struck me. You will soon hear what it was.
I had another visit to pay that morning; indeed I had been on my way to do so when the exciting news about the Manor House attracted me thither. But now I flew off, to the little home where I was always welcome. It was a very small cottage at the outskirts of the same village of which the home of the newly-returned family was the great house. In this cottage lived a couple and their two children – a boy and a girl. They had always been poor, but striving and thrifty, so that the little place looked bright and comfortable though so bare, and the children tidy and rosy. But now, alas! things had changed for the worse. A bad accident to the father, who was a woodcutter, had entirely crippled him; and though some help was given them, it was all the poor mother could do to keep out of the workhouse. I made a point of visiting the cottage every day; it cheered them up, and there were generally some crumbs for me. But this morning – not that it mattered to me after my good breakfast at the Manor House – there were none; and as I alighted on the sill of the little kitchen and looked in, everything was dull and cheerless. No fire was lighted; the two children, Jem and Joyce, sat crouched together on the settle by the empty grate as if to gain a little warmth from each other. They looked blue and pinched, and scarcely awake; but when they saw me at the window they brightened up a little.
“There’s robin,” said Joyce. “Poor robin! we’ve nothing for you this morning.”
A small pane was broken in the window and pasted over with paper, but a corner was torn, and so I could hear what they said.
“No indeed,” said Jem; “we’ve had nothing ourselves – not since yesterday at dinner time. And it is so cold.”
I stood still on one leg, and chirped that I was very sorry. I think they understood me.
“Mother’s gone to Farmer Bantry’s,” said Joyce, as if she was glad to have some one – “even a bird,” some folk who know precious little about us would say – to tell her troubles to. “They’re cleanin’ up for Christmas, and she’ll get a shilling and maybe some broken victuals, she said. So we’re tryin’ to go to sleep again to make the time pass.”
“There was two sixpences yesterday,” said Jem, mournfully; “and one would ’a got some coal, and t’other some bread and tea. But the doctor said as father must have somefin’ – ” (Jem was only five and Joyce eight) – “queer stuff – I forget the name – to wunst. So mother she went to the shop, and father’s got the stuff, and he’s asleep; but we’ve not had nuffin’.”
“And Christmas is coming next week, mother says,” Joyce added. “Last Christmas we had new shoes, and meat for dinner.”
I was sadly grieved for them. Joyce spoke in a dull, broken sort of tone that did not sound like a child. But I hoped to serve them better than by standing there repeating my regret; so, after a few more chirps of sympathy, I flew off.
“Robin doesn’t care to stay,” said Jem, dolefully.
Later in the day I met the children’s mother trudging home. She looked tired; but she had a basket on her arm, so I hoped the farmer’s wife had given them some scraps which would help them for the time.
Now I had a plan in my head. Late that afternoon, after flying all round the Manor House and peeping in at a great many windows, I perched in the ivy – there was ivy over a great part of the walls – just outside one on the first floor. It was the children’s bedroom. I waited anxiously, afraid that I might have no chance of getting in; but fortunately for me the fire smoked a little when it was lighted in the evening for the young ladies to be dressed by, and the nurse opened the window a tiny bit, so in I flew, very careful not to be seen, you may be sure. I found a very cosy corner on the edge of a picture in a dark part of the room, and there I had time for a nap before Norna and Ivy came to bed. Then when all was silent for the night, I flew down and took up my quarters on the rail at the head of Norna’s bed; and when I had spent an hour or so beside her, I gently fluttered across to her sister; and though I was chirping nearly all the time, my voice was so low that no one entering the room would have noticed it; or if they had done so, they would probably have thought it a drowsy cricket, half aroused by the pleasant warmth of the fire.
But my chirping did more than soothe my little friends’ slumbers (and here the robin cocked his head afresh and looked very solemn). Children (he said), human beings know very little about themselves. You don’t know, for instance, anything at all about yourselves when you’re asleep, or what dreams really are. You speak of being “sleepy,” or half-asleep, as if it meant something very stupid; whereas, sometimes when you are whole asleep, you are much wiser than when you are awake. Now it is not my business to teach you things you’re perhaps not meant to understand at present, but this I can tell you – if I perched on your pillows at night when you’re asleep, and chirped in my own way to you, you’d have no difficulty in understanding me. And this was what happened to the two little maidens a few nights before their first Christmas in England. They thought they had had a wonderful dream – each of them separately, and they never knew that the robin who flew out of the window early in the morning before any one noticed him, had had anything to do with it.