CHAPTER 20 - Irene's Clue
That same morning early, the princess woke in a
terrible fright. There was a hideous noise in her room—creatures snarling and
hissing and rocketing about as if they were fighting. The moment she came to
herself, she remembered something she had never thought of again—what her
grandmother told her to do when she was frightened. She immediately took off
her ring and put it under her pillow. As she did so she fancied she felt a
finger and thumb take it gently from under her palm. 'It must be my
grandmother!' she said to herself, and the thought gave her such courage that
she stopped to put on her dainty little slippers before running from the room.
While doing this she caught sight of a long cloak of sky-blue, thrown over the
back of a chair by the bedside. She had never seen it before but it was
evidently waiting for her. She put it on, and then, feeling with the forefinger
of her right hand, soon found her grandmother's thread, which she proceeded at
once to follow, expecting it would lead her straight up the old stair. When she
reached the door she found it went down and ran along the floor, so that she
had almost to crawl in order to keep a hold of it. Then, to her surprise, and
somewhat to her dismay, she found that instead of leading her towards the stair
it turned in quite the opposite direction. It led her through certain narrow
passages towards the kitchen, turning aside ere she reached it, and guiding her
to a door which communicated with a small back yard. Some of the maids were
already up, and this door was standing open. Across the yard the thread still
ran along the ground, until it brought her to a door in the wall which opened
upon the Mountainside. When she had passed through, the thread rose to about
half her height, and she could hold it with ease as she walked. It led her
straight up the mountain.
The cause of her alarm was less frightful than she
supposed. The cook's great black cat, pursued by the housekeeper's terrier, had
bounced against her bedroom door, which had not been properly fastened, and the
two had burst into the room together and commenced a battle royal. How the
nurse came to sleep through it was a mystery, but I suspect the old lady had
something to do with it.
It was a clear warm morning. The wind blew
deliciously over the Mountainside. Here and there she saw a late primrose but
she did not stop to call upon them. The sky was mottled with small clouds.
The sun was not yet up, but some of their fluffy
edges had caught his light, and hung out orange and gold-coloured fringes upon
the air. The dew lay in round drops upon the leaves, and hung like tiny diamond
ear-rings from the blades of grass about her path.
'How lovely that bit of gossamer is!' thought the
princess, looking at a long undulating line that shone at some distance from
her up the hill. It was not the time for gossamers though; and Irene soon
discovered that it was her own thread she saw shining on before her in the
light of the morning. It was leading her she knew not whither; but she had
never in her life been out before sunrise, and everything was so fresh and cool
and lively and full of something coming, that she felt too happy to be afraid
of anything.
After leading her up a good distance, the thread
turned to the left, and down the path upon which she and Lootie had met Curdie.
But she never thought of that, for now in the morning light, with its far
outlook over the country, no path could have been more open and airy and
cheerful. She could see the road almost to the horizon, along which she had so
often watched her king-papa and his troop come shining, with the bugle-blast cleaving
the air before them; and it was like a companion to her. Down and down the path
went, then up, and then down and then up again, getting rugged and more rugged
as it went; and still along the path went the silvery thread, and still along
the thread went Irene's little rosy-tipped forefinger. By and by she came to a
little stream that jabbered and prattled down the hill, and up the side of the
stream went both path and thread. And still the path grew rougher and steeper,
and the mountain grew wilder, till Irene began to think she was going a very
long way from home; and when she turned to look back she saw that the level
country had vanished and the rough bare mountain had closed in about her. But
still on went the thread, and on went the princess. Everything around her was
getting brighter and brighter as the sun came nearer; till at length his first
rays all at once alighted on the top of a rock before her, like some golden
creature fresh from the sky. Then she saw that the little stream ran out of a hole
in that rock, that the path did not go past the rock, and that the thread was
leading her straight up to it. A shudder ran through her from head to foot when
she found that the thread was actually taking her into the hole out of which
the stream ran. It ran out babbling joyously, but she had to go in.
She did not hesitate. Right into the hole she
went, which was high enough to let her walk without stooping. For a little way
there was a brown glimmer, but at the first turn it all but ceased, and before
she had gone many paces she was in total darkness. Then she began to be
frightened indeed. Every moment she kept feeling the thread backwards and
forwards, and as she went farther and farther into the darkness of the great
hollow mountain, she kept thinking more and more about her grandmother, and all
that she had said to her, and how kind she had been, and how beautiful she was,
and all about her lovely room, and the fire of roses, and the great lamp that
sent its light through stone walls. And she became more and more sure that the
thread could not have gone there of itself, and that her grandmother must have
sent it. But it tried her dreadfully when the path went down very steep, and
especially When she came to places where she had to go down rough stairs, and
even sometimes a ladder. Through one narrow passage after another, over lumps
of rock and sand and clay, the thread guided her, until she came to a small
hole through which she had to creep. Finding no change on the other side,
'Shall I ever get back?' she thought, over and over again, wondering at herself
that she was not ten times more frightened, and often feeling as if she were
only walking in the story of a dream. Sometimes she heard the noise of water, a
dull gurgling inside the rock. By and by she heard the sounds of blows, which
came nearer and nearer; but again they grew duller, and almost died away. In a
hundred directions she turned, obedient to the guiding thread.
At last she spied a dull red shine, and came up to
the mica window, and thence away and round about, and right, into a cavern,
where glowed the red embers of a fire. Here the thread began to rise. It rose
as high as her head and higher still. What should she do if she lost her hold?
She was pulling it down: She might break it! She could see it far up, glowing
as red as her fire-opal in the light of the embers.
But presently she came to a huge heap of stones,
piled in a slope against the wall of the cavern. On these she climbed, and soon
recovered the level of the thread only however to find, the next moment, that
it vanished through the heap of stones, and left her standing on it, with her
face to the solid rock. For one terrible moment she felt as if her grandmother
had forsaken her. The thread which the spiders had spun far over the seas,
which her grandmother had sat in the moonlight and spun again for her, which
she had tempered in the rose-fire and tied to her opal ring, had left her—had
gone where she could no longer follow it—had brought her into a horrible
cavern, and there left her! She was forsaken indeed!
'When shall I wake?' she said to herself in an
agony, but the same moment knew that it was no dream. She threw herself upon
the heap, and began to cry. It was well she did not know what creatures, one of
them with stone shoes on her feet, were lying in the next cave. But neither did
she know who was on the other side of the slab.
At length the thought struck her that at least she
could follow the thread backwards, and thus get out of the mountain, and home.
She rose at once, and found the thread. But the instant she tried to feel it
backwards, it vanished from her touch. Forwards, it led her hand up to the heap
of stones—backwards it seemed nowhere. Neither could she see it as before in
the light of the fire. She burst into a wailing cry, and again threw herself
down on the stones.
CHAPTER 21 - The Escape
As the princess lay and sobbed she kept feeling
the thread mechanically, following it with her finger many times up to the
stones in which it disappeared. By and by she began, still mechanically, to
poke her finger in after it between the stones as far as she could. All at once
it came into her head that she might remove some of the stones and see where
the thread went next. Almost laughing at herself for never having thought of
this before, she jumped to her feet. Her fear vanished; once more she was
certain her grandmother's thread could not have brought her there just to leave
her there; and she began to throw away the stones from the top as fast as she
could, sometimes two or three at a handful, sometimes taking both hands to lift
one. After clearing them away a little, she found that the thread turned and
went straight downwards. Hence, as the heap sloped a good deal, growing of
course wider towards its base, she had to throw away a multitude of stones to
follow the thread. But this was not all, for she soon found that the thread,
after going straight down for a little way, turned first sideways in one
direction, then sideways in another, and then shot, at various angles, hither
and thither inside the heap, so that she began to be afraid that to clear the
thread she must remove the whole huge gathering. She was dismayed at the very
idea, but, losing no time, set to work with a will; and with aching back, and
bleeding fingers and hands, she worked on, sustained by the pleasure of seeing
the heap slowly diminish and begin to show itself on the opposite side of the
fire. Another thing which helped to keep up her courage was that, as often as
she uncovered a turn of the thread, instead of lying loose upon the stone, it
tightened up; this made her sure that her grandmother was at the end of it
somewhere.
She had got about half-way down when she started,
and nearly fell with fright. Close to her ears as it seemed, a voice broke out
singing:
'Jabber, bother, smash!
You'll have it all in a crash.
Jabber, smash, bother!
You'll have the worst of the pother.
Smash, bother, jabber!—'
Here Curdie stopped, either because he could not
find a rhyme to 'jabber', or because he remembered what he had forgotten when
he woke up at the sound of Irene's labours, that his plan was to make the
goblins think he was getting weak. But he had uttered enough to let Irene know
who he was.
'It's Curdie!' she cried joyfully.
'Hush! hush!' came Curdie's voice again from
somewhere. 'Speak softly.'
'Why, you were singing loud!' said Irene.
'Yes. But they know I am here, and they don't know
you are. Who are you?'
'I'm Irene,' answered the princess. 'I know who
you are quite well. You're Curdie.'
'Why, how ever did you come here, Irene?'
'My great-great-grandmother sent me; and I think
I've found out why. You can't get out, I suppose?'
'No, I can't. What are you doing?'
'Clearing away a huge heap of stones.'
'There's a princess!' exclaimed Curdie, in a tone
of delight, but still speaking in little more than a whisper. 'I can't think
how you got here, though.'
'My grandmother sent me after her thread.'
'I don't know what you mean,' said Curdie; 'but so
you're there, it doesn't much matter.'
'Oh, yes, it does!' returned Irene. 'I should
never have been here but for her.'
'You can tell me all about it when we get out,
then. There's no time to lose now,'said Curdie.
And Irene went to work, as fresh as when she
began.
'There's such a lot of stones!' she said. 'It will
take me a long time to get them all away.'
'How far on have you got?' asked Curdie.
'I've got about the half away, but the other half
is ever so much bigger.'
'I don't think you will have to move the lower
half. Do you see a slab laid up against the wall?'
Irene looked, and felt about with her hands, and
soon perceived the outlines of the slab.
'Yes,' she answered, 'I do.'
'Then, I think,' rejoined Curdie, 'when you have
cleared the slab about half-way down, or a bit more, I shall be able to push it
over.'
'I must follow my thread,' returned Irene,
'whatever I do.'
'What do you mean?' exclaimed Curdie. 'You will
see when you get out,' answered the princess, and went on harder than ever.
But she was soon satisfied that what Curdie wanted
done and what the thread wanted done were one and the same thing. For she not
only saw that by following the turns of the thread she had been clearing the
face of the slab, but that, a little more than half-way down, the thread went
through the chink between the slab and the wall into the place where Curdie was
confined, so that she could not follow it any farther until the slab was out of
her way. As soon as she found this, she said in a right joyous whisper:
'Now, Curdie, I think if you were to give a great
push, the slab would tumble over.'
'Stand quite clear of it, then,' said Curdie, 'and
let me know when you are ready.'
Irene got off the heap, and stood on one side of
it. 'Now, Curdie!' she cried.
Curdie gave a great rush with his shoulder against
it. Out tumbled the slab on the heap, and out crept Curdie over the top of it.
'You've saved my life, Irene!' he whispered.
'Oh, Curdie! I'm so glad! Let's get out of this
horrid place as fast as we can.'
'That's easier said than done,' returned he.
'Oh, no, it's quite easy,' said Irene. 'We have
only to follow my thread. I am sure that it's going to take us out now.'
She had already begun to follow it over the fallen
slab into the hole, while Curdie was searching the floor of the cavern for his
pickaxe.
'Here it is!' he cried. 'No, it is not,' he added,
in a disappointed tone. 'What can it be, then? I declare it's a torch. That is
jolly! It's better almost than my pickaxe. Much better if it weren't for those
stone shoes!' he went on, as he lighted the torch by blowing the last embers of
the expiring fire.
When he looked up, with the lighted torch casting
a glare into the great darkness of the huge cavern, he caught sight of Irene
disappearing in the hole out of which he had himself just come.
'Where are you going there?' he cried. 'That's not
the way out. That's where I couldn't get out.'
'I know that,' whispered Irene. 'But this is the
way my thread goes, and I must follow it.'
'What nonsense the child talks!' said Curdie to
himself. 'I must follow her, though, and see that she comes to no harm. She
will soon find she can't get out that way, and then she will come with me.'
So he crept over the slab once more into the hole
with his torch in his hand. But when he looked about in it, he could see her
nowhere. And now he discovered that although the hole was narrow, it was much
longer than he had supposed; for in one direction the roof came down very low,
and the hole went off in a narrow passage, of which he could not see the end.
The princess must have crept in there. He got on his knees and one hand,
holding the torch with the other, and crept after her. The hole twisted about,
in some parts so low that he could hardly get through, in others so high that
he could not see the roof, but everywhere it was narrow—far too narrow for a
goblin to get through, and so I presume they never thought that Curdie might.
He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable lest something should have befallen
the princess, when he heard her voice almost close to his ear, whispering:
'Aren't you coming, Curdie?'
And when he turned the next corner there she stood
waiting for him.
'I knew you couldn't go wrong in that narrow hole,
but now you must keep by me, for here is a great wide place,' she said.
'I can't understand it,' said Curdie, half to
himself, half to Irene.
'Never mind,' she returned. 'Wait till we get
out.'
Curdie, utterly astonished that she had already
got so far, and by a path he had known nothing of, thought it better to let her
do as she pleased. 'At all events,' he said again to himself, 'I know nothing
about the way, miner as I am; and she seems to think she does know something
about it, though how she should passes my comprehension. So she's just as
likely to find her way as I am, and as she insists on taking the lead, I must
follow. We can't be much worse off than we are, anyhow.' Reasoning thus, he
followed her a few steps, and came out in another great cavern, across which
Irene walked in a straight line, as confidently as if she knew every step of
the way. Curdie went on after her, flashing his torch about, and trying to see
something of what lay around them. Suddenly he started back a pace as the light
fell upon something close by which Irene was passing. It was a platform of rock
raised a few feet from the floor and covered with sheepskins, upon which lay
two horrible figures asleep, at once recognized by Curdie as the king and queen
of the goblins. He lowered his torch instantly lest the light should awake
them. As he did so it flashed upon his pickaxe, lying by the side of the queen,
whose hand lay close by the handle of it.
'Stop one moment,' he whispered. 'Hold my torch,
and don't let the light on their faces.'
Irene shuddered when she saw the frightful
creatures, whom she had passed without observing them, but she did as he
requested, and turning her back, held the torch low in front of her. Curdie
drew his pickaxe carefully away, and as he did so spied one of her feet,
projecting from under the skins. The great clumsy granite shoe, exposed thus to
his hand, was a temptation not to be resisted. He laid hold of it, and, with
cautious efforts, drew it off. The moment he succeeded, he saw to his
astonishment that what he had sung in ignorance, to annoy the queen, was
actually true: she had six horrible toes. Overjoyed at his success, and seeing
by the huge bump in the sheepskins where the other foot was, he proceeded to
lift them gently, for, if he could only succeed in carrying away the other shoe
as well, he would be no more afraid of the goblins than of so many flies. But
as he pulled at the second shoe the queen gave a growl and sat up in bed. The
same instant the king awoke also and sat up beside her.
'Run, Irene!' cried Curdie, for though he was not
now in the least afraid for himself, he was for the princess.
Irene looked once round, saw the fearful creatures
awake, and like the wise princess she was, dashed the torch on the ground and
extinguished it, crying out:
'Here, Curdie, take my hand.'
He darted to her side, forgetting neither the
queen's shoe nor his pickaxe, and caught hold of her hand, as she sped
fearlessly where her thread guided her. They heard the queen give a great
bellow; but they had a good start, for it would be some time before they could
get torches lighted to pursue them. Just as they thought they saw a gleam
behind them, the thread brought them to a very narrow opening, through which Irene
crept easily, and Curdie with difficulty.
'Now,'said Curdie; 'I think we shall be safe.'
'Of course we shall,' returned Irene. 'Why do you
think so?'asked Curdie.
'Because my grandmother is taking care of us.'
'That's all nonsense,' said Curdie. 'I don't know
what you mean.'
'Then if you don't know what I mean, what right
have you to call it nonsense?' asked the princess, a little offended.
'I beg your pardon, Irene,' said Curdie; 'I did
not mean to vex you.'
'Of course not,' returned the princess. 'But why
do you think we shall be safe?'
'Because the king and queen are far too stout to
get through that hole.'
'There might be ways round,' said the princess.
'To be sure there might: we are not out of it
yet,' acknowledged Curdie.
'But what do you mean by the king and queen?'
asked the princess. 'I should never call such creatures as those a king and a
queen.'
'Their own people do, though,' answered Curdie.
The princess asked more questions, and Curdie, as
they walked leisurely along, gave her a full account, not only of the character
and habits of the goblins, so far as he knew them, but of his own adventures
with them, beginning from the very night after that in which he had met her and
Lootie upon the mountain. When he had finished, he begged Irene to tell him how
it was that she had come to his rescue. So Irene too had to tell a long story,
which she did in rather a roundabout manner, interrupted by many questions
concerning things she had not explained. But her tale, as he did not believe more
than half of it, left everything as unaccountable to him as before, and he was
nearly as much perplexed as to what he must think of the princess. He could not
believe that she was deliberately telling stories, and the only conclusion he
could come to was that Lootie had been playing the child tricks, inventing no
end of lies to frighten her for her own purposes.
'But how ever did Lootie come to let you go into
the mountains alone?'he asked.
'Lootie knows nothing about it. I left her fast
asleep—at least I think so. I hope my grandmother won't let her get into
trouble, for it wasn't her fault at all, as my grandmother very well knows.'
'But how did you find your way to me?' persisted
Curdie.
'I told you already,' answered Irene; 'by keeping
my finger upon my grandmother's thread, as I am doing now.'
'You don't mean you've got the thread there?'
'Of course I do. I have told you so ten times
already. I have hardly—except when I was removing the stones—taken my finger
off it. There!' she added, guiding Curdie's hand to the thread, 'you feel it
yourself—don't you?'
'I feel nothing at all,' replied Curdie. 'Then
what can be the matter with your finger? I feel it perfectly. To be sure it is
very thin, and in the sunlight looks just like the thread of a spider, though
there are many of them twisted together to make it—but for all that I can't
think why you shouldn't feel it as well as I do.'
Curdie was too polite to say he did not believe
there was any thread there at all. What he did say was:
'Well, I can make nothing of it.'
'I can, though, and you must be glad of that, for
it will do for both of us.'
'We're not out yet,' said Curdie.
'We soon shall be,' returned Irene confidently.
And now the thread went downwards, and led Irene's hand to a hole in the floor
of the cavern, whence came a sound of running water which they had been hearing
for some time.
'It goes into the ground now, Curdie,' she said,
stopping.
He had been listening to another sound, which his
practised ear had caught long ago, and which also had been growing louder. It
was the noise the goblin-miners made at their work, and they seemed to be at no
great distance now. Irene heard it the moment she stopped.
'What is that noise?' she asked. 'Do you know,
Curdie?'
'Yes. It is the goblins digging and burrowing,' he
answered.
'And you don't know what they do it for?'
'No; I haven't the least idea. Would you like to
see them?' he asked, wishing to have another try after their secret.
'If my thread took me there, I shouldn't much
mind; but I don't want to see them, and I can't leave my thread. It leads me
down into the hole, and we had better go at once.'
'Very well. Shall I go in first?' said Curdie.
'No; better not. You can't feel the thread,' she
answered, stepping down through a narrow break in the floor of the cavern.
'Oh!' she cried, 'I am in the water. It is running strong—but it is not deep,
and there is just room to walk. Make haste, Curdie.'
He tried, but the hole was too small for him to
get in.
'Go on a little bit he said, shouldering his
pickaxe. In a few moments he had cleared a larger opening and followed her.
They went on, down and down with the running water, Curdie getting more and
more afraid it was leading them to some terrible gulf in the heart of the
mountain. In one or two places he had to break away the rock to make room
before even Irene could get through—at least without hurting herself. But at
length they spied a glimmer of light, and in a minute more they were almost
blinded by the full sunlight, into which they emerged. It was some little time
before the princess could see well enough to discover that they stood in her
own garden, close by the seat on which she and her king-papa had sat that
afternoon. They had come out by the channel of the little stream. She danced
and clapped her hands with delight.
'Now, Curdie!' she cried, 'won't you believe what
I told you about my grandmother and her thread?'
For she had felt all the time that Curdie was not
believing what she told him.
'There!—don't you see it shining on before us?'
she added.
'I don't see anything,' persisted Curdie.
'Then you must believe without seeing,' said the
princess; 'for you can't deny it has brought us out of the mountain.'
'I can't deny we are out of the mountain, and I
should be very ungrateful indeed to deny that you had brought me out of it.'
'I couldn't have done it but for the thread,'
persisted Irene.
'That's the part I don't understand.'
'Well, come along, and Lootie will get you
something to eat. I am sure you must want it very much.'
'Indeed I do. But my father and mother will be so
anxious about me, I must make haste—first up the mountain to tell my mother,
and then down into the mine again to let my father know.'
'Very well, Curdie; but you can't get out without
coming this way, and I will take you through the house, for that is nearest.'
They met no one by the way, for, indeed, as
before, the people were here and there and everywhere searching for the
princess. When they got in Irene found that the thread, as she had half
expected, went up the old staircase, and a new thought struck her. She turned
to Curdie and said:
'My grandmother wants me. Do come up with me and
see her. Then you will know that I have been telling you the truth. Do come—to
please me, Curdie. I can't bear you should think what I say is not true.'
'I never doubted you believed what you said,'
returned Curdie. 'I only thought you had some fancy in your head that was not
correct.' 'But do come, dear Curdie.'
The little miner could not withstand this appeal,
and though he felt shy in what seemed to him a huge grand house, he yielded,
and followed her up the stair.
CHAPTER 22 - The Old Lady and
Curdie
Up the stair then they went, and the next and the
next, and through the long rows of empty rooms, and up the little tower stair,
Irene growing happier and happier as she ascended. There was no answer when she
knocked at length at the door of the workroom, nor could she hear any sound of
the spinning-wheel, and once more her heart sank within her, but only for one
moment, as she turned and knocked at the other door.
'Come in,' answered the sweet voice of her
grandmother, and Irene opened the door and entered, followed by Curdie.
'You darling!' cried the lady, who was seated by a
fire of red roses mingled with white. 'I've been waiting for you, and indeed
getting a little anxious about you, and beginning to think whether I had not
better go and fetch you myself.'
As she spoke she took the little princess in her
arms and placed her upon her lap. She was dressed in white now, and looking if
possible more lovely than ever.
'I've brought Curdie, grandmother. He wouldn't
believe what I told him and so I've brought him.'
'Yes—I see him. He is a good boy, Curdie, and a
brave boy. Aren't you glad you've got him out?'
'Yes, grandmother. But it wasn't very good of him
not to believe me when I was telling him the truth.'
'People must believe what they can, and those who
believe more must not be hard upon those who believe less. I doubt if you would
have believed it all yourself if you hadn't seen some of it.'
'Ah! yes, grandmother, I dare say. I'm sure you
are right. But he'll believe now.'
'I don't know that,' replied her grandmother.
'Won't you, Curdie?' said Irene, looking round at
him as she asked the question. He was standing in the middle of the floor,
staring, and looking strangely bewildered. This she thought came of his
astonishment at the beauty of the lady.
'Make a bow to my grandmother, Curdie,' she said.
'I don't see any grandmother,' answered Curdie
rather gruffly.
'Don't see my grandmother, when I'm sitting in her
lap?' exclaimed the princess.
'No, I don't,' reiterated Curdie, in an offended
tone.
'Don't you see the lovely fire of roses—white ones
amongst them this time?' asked Irene, almost as bewildered as he.
'No, I don't,' answered Curdie, almost sulkily.
'Nor the blue bed? Nor the rose-coloured
counterpane?—Nor the beautiful light, like the moon, hanging from the roof?'
'You're making game of me, Your Royal Highness;
and after what we have come through together this day, I don't think it is kind
of you,' said Curdie, feeling very much hurt.
'Then what do you see?' asked Irene, who perceived
at once that for her not to believe him was at least as bad as for him not to
believe her.
'I see a big, bare, garret-room—like the one in
mother's cottage, only big enough to take the cottage itself in, and leave a
good margin all round,' answered Curdie.
'And what more do you see?'
'I see a tub, and a heap of musty straw, and a
withered apple, and a ray of sunlight coming through a hole in the middle of
the roof and shining on your head, and making all the place look a curious
dusky brown. I think you had better drop it, princess, and go down to the
nursery, like a good girl.'
'But don't you hear my grandmother talking to me?'
asked Irene, almost crying.
'No. I hear the cooing of a lot of pigeons. If you
won't come down, I will go without you. I think that will be better anyhow, for
I'm sure nobody who met us would believe a word we said to them. They would
think we made it all up. I don't expect anybody but my own father and mother to
believe me. They know I wouldn't tell a story.'
'And yet you won't believe me, Curdie?'
expostulated the princess, now fairly crying with vexation and sorrow at the
gulf between her and Curdie.
'No. I can't, and I can't help it,' said Curdie,
turning to leave the room.
'What SHALL I do, grandmother?' sobbed the
princess, turning her face round upon the lady's bosom, and shaking with
suppressed sobs.
'You must give him time,' said her grandmother;
'and you must be content not to be believed for a while. It is very hard to
bear; but I have had to bear it, and shall have to bear it many a time yet. I
will take care of what Curdie thinks of you in the end. You must let him go
now.'
'You're not coming, are you?' asked Curdie.
'No, Curdie; my grandmother says I must let you
go. Turn to the right when you get to the bottom of all the stairs, and that
will take you to the hall where the great door is.'
'Oh! I don't doubt I can find my way—without you,
princess, or your old grannie's thread either,' said Curdie quite rudely.
'Oh, Curdie! Curdie!'
'I wish I had gone home at once. I'm very much
obliged to you, Irene, for getting me out of that hole, but I wish you hadn't
made a fool of me afterwards.'
He said this as he opened the door, which he left
open, and, without another word, went down the stair. Irene listened with
dismay to his departing footsteps. Then turning again to the lady:
'What does it all mean, grandmother?' she sobbed,
and burst into fresh tears.
'It means, my love, that I did not mean to show
myself. Curdie is not yet able to believe some things. Seeing is not believing—it
is only seeing. You remember I told you that if Lootie were to see me, she
would rub her eyes, forget the half she saw, and call the other half nonsense.'
'Yes; but I should have thought Curdie—'
'You are right. Curdie is much farther on than Lootie,
and you will see what will come of it. But in the meantime you must be content,
I say, to be misunderstood for a while. We are all very anxious to be
understood, and it is very hard not to be. But there is one thing much more
necessary.'
'What is that, grandmother?'
'To understand other people.'
'Yes, grandmother. I must be fair—for if I'm not
fair to other people, I'm not worth being understood myself. I see. So as
Curdie can't help it, I will not be vexed with him, but just wait.'
'There's my own dear child,' said her grandmother,
and pressed her close to her bosom.
'Why weren't you in your workroom when we came up,
grandmother?' asked Irene, after a few moments' silence.
'If I had been there, Curdie would have seen me
well enough. But why should I be there rather than in this beautiful room?'
'I thought you would be spinning.'
'I've nobody to spin for just at present. I never
spin without knowing for whom I am spinning.'
'That reminds me—there is one thing that puzzles
me,' said the princess: 'how are you to get the thread out of the mountain
again? Surely you won't have to make another for me? That would be such a
trouble!'
The lady set her down and rose and went to the
fire. Putting in her hand, she drew it out again and held up the shining ball
between her finger and thumb.
'I've got it now, you see,' she said, coming back
to the princess, 'all ready for you when you want it.'
Going to her cabinet, she laid it in the same
drawer as before.
'And here is your ring,' she added, taking it from
the little finger of her left hand and putting it on the forefinger of Irene's
right hand.
'Oh, thank you, grandmother! I feel so safe now!'
'You are very tired, my child,' the lady went on.
'Your hands are hurt with the stones, and I have counted nine bruises on you.
Just look what you are like.'
And she held up to her a little mirror which she
had brought from the cabinet. The princess burst into a merry laugh at the
sight. She was so draggled with the stream and dirty with creeping through
narrow places, that if she had seen the reflection without knowing it was a
reflection, she would have taken herself for some gipsy child whose face was
washed and hair combed about once in a month. The lady laughed too, and lifting
her again upon her knee, took off her cloak and night-gown. Then she carried
her to the side of the room. Irene wondered what she was going to do with her,
but asked no questions—only starting a little when she found that she was going
to lay her in the large silver bath; for as she looked into it, again she saw
no bottom, but the stars shining miles away, as it seemed, in a great blue
gulf. Her hands closed involuntarily on the beautiful arms that held her, and
that was all.
The lady pressed her once more to her bosom,
saying:
'Do not be afraid, my child.'
'No, grandmother,' answered the princess, with a
little gasp; and the next instant she sank in the clear cool water.
When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but a
strange lovely blue over and beneath and all about her. The lady, and the
beautiful room, had vanished from her sight, and she seemed utterly alone. But
instead of being afraid, she felt more than happy—perfectly blissful. And from
somewhere came the voice of the lady, singing a strange sweet song, of which she
could distinguish every word; but of the sense she had only a feeling—no
understanding. Nor could she remember a single line after it was gone. It
vanished, like the poetry in a dream, as fast as it came. In after years,
however, she would sometimes fancy that snatches of melody suddenly rising in
her brain must be little phrases and fragments of the air of that song; and the
very fancy would make her happier, and abler to do her duty.
How long she lay in the water she did not know. It
seemed a long time—not from weariness but from pleasure. But at last she felt
the beautiful hands lay hold of her, and through the gurgling water she was
lifted out into the lovely room. The lady carried her to the fire, and sat down
with her in her lap, and dried her tenderly with the softest towel. It was so
different from Lootie's drying. When the lady had done, she stooped to the
fire, and drew from it her night-gown, as white as snow.
'How delicious!' exclaimed the princess. 'It
smells of all the roses in the world, I think.'
When she stood up on the floor she felt as if she
had been made over again. Every bruise and all weariness were gone, and her
hands were soft and whole as ever.
'Now I am going to put you to bed for a good
sleep,' said her grandmother.
'But what will Lootie be thinking? And what am I
to say to her when she asks me where I have been?'
'Don't trouble yourself about it. You will find it
all come right,' said her grandmother, and laid her into the blue bed, under
the rosy counterpane.
'There is just one thing more,' said Irene. 'I am
a little anxious about Curdie. As I brought him into the house, I ought to have
seen him safe on his way home.'
'I took care of all that,' answered the lady. 'I
told you to let him go, and therefore I was bound to look after him. Nobody saw
him, and he is now eating a good dinner in his mother's cottage far up in the
mountain.'
'Then I will go to sleep,' said Irene, and in a
few minutes she was fast asleep.
