Christmas Tree Land Part 9

At this G.o.dmother laughed. You never heard anything so pretty as her laugh. It was something like--no, I could never tell you what it was like--a very little like lots of tiny silver bells ringing, and soft breezes blowing, and larks trilling, all together and _very_ gently, and yet very clearly. The children could not help all laughing, too, to hear it.

'Call me whatever you like,' said G.o.dmother. 'A bird, or a fairy, or a will-o'-the-wisp, or even a witch. Many people have called me a witch, and I don't mind. Only, dears,' and here her pretty, sweet voice grew grave, and even a little sad, 'never think of me except as loving you and wanting to make you happy and good. And never believe I have said or done anything to turn you from doing right and helping others to do it.

That is the only thing that could grieve me. And the world is full of people who don't see things the right way, and blame others when it is their own fault all the while. So sometimes you will find it all rather difficult. But don't forget.'

'No,' said Maia, 'we won't forget, even though we don't quite understand. We will some day, won't we?'

'Yes, dears, that you will,' said G.o.dmother.

'And just now,' said Silva, 'it doesn't matter. We needn't think about the difficult world, dear G.o.dmother, while we're _here_--ever so far away from it.'

'No, we need not,' said G.o.dmother, with what sounded almost like a sigh, if one could have believed that G.o.dmother _could_ sigh! If it were one, it was gone in an instant, and with her very prettiest and happiest smile, G.o.dmother turned to the children.

'And now, dears,' she said, 'now for the story.'

The four figures drew still nearer, the four pair of eyes were fixed on the sweet white face, into which, as she spoke, a little soft pink colour began to come. Whether it was from the reflection of the fire or not, Maia could not decide, and G.o.dmother's clear voice went on.

'Once----'

'Once upon a time; do say "once upon a time,"' interrupted Silva.

'Well, well, once upon a time,' repeated G.o.dmother, 'though, by the by, how do you know I was _not_ going to say it? Well, then, once upon a time, a long ago once upon a time, there lived a king's daughter.'

'A princess,' interrupted another voice, Maia's this time. 'Why don't you say a princess, dear G.o.dmother?'

'Never mind,' replied G.o.dmother. 'I like better to call her a king's daughter.'

'And don't interrupt any more, please,' said Waldo and Rollo together, quite forgetting that they were actually interrupting themselves.

'And,' continued G.o.dmother, without noticing this last interruption, 'she was very beautiful and very sweet and good, even though she had everything in the world that even a king's daughter could want. Do you look surprised at my saying "even though," children? You need not; there is nothing more difficult than to remain unselfish, which is just another word for "sweet and good," if one never knows what it is to have a wish ungratified. But so it was with Aureole, for that was the name of the fair maiden. Though she had all her life been surrounded with luxury and indulgence, though she had never known even a crumpled rose-leaf in her path, her heart still remained tender, and she felt for the sufferings of others whenever she knew of them, as if they were her own.

'"Who knows?" she would say softly to herself, "who knows but what some day sorrow may come to me, and then how glad I should be to find kindness and sympathy!"

'And when she thought thus there used to come a look in her eyes which made her old nurse, who loved her dearly, tremble and cross herself.

'"I have never seen that look," she would whisper, though not so that Aureole could hear it--"I have never seen that look save in the eyes of those who were born to sorrow."

'But time went on, and no sorrows of her own had as yet come to Aureole.

She grew to be tall and slender, with golden fair curls about her face, which gave her a childlike, innocent look, as if she were younger than her real age. And with her years her tenderness and sympathy for suffering seemed to grow deeper and stronger. It was the sure way to her heart. In a glade not far from the castle she had a favourite bower, where early every morning she used to go to feed and tend her pets, of which the best-loved was a delicate little fawn that she had found one day in the forest, deserted by its companions, as it had hurt its foot and could no longer keep pace with them. With difficulty Aureole and her nurse carried it home between them, and tended it till it grew well again and could once more run and spring as lightly as ever. And then one morning Aureole, with tears in her eyes, led it back to the forest where she had found it.

'"Here, my fawn," she said, "you are free as air. I would not keep you a captive. Hasten to your friends, my fawn, but do not forget Aureole, and if you are in trouble come to her to help you."

'But the fawn would not move. He rubbed himself softly against her, and looked up in her face with eyes that almost spoke. She could not but understand what he meant to say.

'"I cannot leave you. Let me stay always beside you," was what he tried to express. So Aureole let him follow her home again, and from that day he had always lived in her bower, and was never so happy as when gambolling about her. She had other pets too--numbers of birds of various kinds, none of which she kept in cages, for all of them she had in some way or other saved and protected, and, like the fawn, they refused to leave her. The sweetest, perhaps, were a pair of wood-pigeons which she had one day released from a fowler's snare, where they had become entangled. It was the prettiest sight in the world to see Aureole in her bower every morning, the fawn rubbing his soft head against her white dress, and the wood-pigeons cooing to her, one perched on each shoulder, while round her head fluttered a crowd of birds of different kinds--all owing their life and happiness to her tender care. There was a thrush, which she had found half-fledged and gasping for breath, fallen from the nest; a maimed swallow, who had been left behind by his companions in the winter flight. And running about, though still lame of one leg, a tame rabbit which she had rescued from a dog, and ever so many other innocent creatures, all with histories of the same kind, and each vying with the other to express grat.i.tude to their dear mistress as she stood there with the suns.h.i.+ne peeping through the boughs and lighting up her sweet face and bright hair.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'It was the prettiest sight in the world to see Aureole in her bower every morning.']

'But summer and suns.h.i.+ne do not always last, and in time sorrow came to Aureole as to others.

'Her mother had died when she was a little baby, and her father was already growing old. But he felt no anxiety about the future of his only child, for it had long been decided that she was to marry the next heir to his crown, the Prince Halbert, as by the laws of that country no woman could reign. Aureole had not seen Halbert for many years, when, as children, they had played together; but she remembered him with affection as a bright merry boy, and she looked forward without fear to being his wife.

'"Why should I not love him?" she said to herself. "I have never yet known any one who was not kind and gentle, and Halbert will be still more so to me than any one else, for he will be my king and master."

'And when the day came for the Prince to return to see her again, she waited for him quietly and without misgiving. And at first all seemed as she had pictured it. Halbert was manly and handsome, he had an open expression and winning manners, he was devoted to his gentle cousin. So the old King was delighted, and Aureole said to herself, "What have I done to deserve such happiness? How can I ever sufficiently show my grat.i.tude?"

'She was standing in her bower when she thought thus, surrounded as usual by her pets. Suddenly among the trees at some little distance she heard a sound of footsteps, and at the same time a harsh voice, which she scarcely recognised, speaking roughly and sharply.

'"Out of my way, you cur," it said, and then came the sound of a blow, followed by a piteous whine.

'Aureole darted forward, and in another instant came upon Halbert, his face dark and frowning, while a poor little dog lay bleeding at his feet.

'"Halbert!" exclaimed Aureole. Her cousin started; he had not heard her come. "Did _you_ do this? Did _you_ strike the little dog?"

'Halbert turned towards her; he had reddened with shame, but he tried to laugh it off.

'"It is nothing," he said; "the creature will be all right again directly. Horrid little cur! it rushed out at me from that cottage there and yelped and barked just when I was eagerly hastening to your bower, Princess."

'But Aureole hardly heard him, or his attempts at excusing himself. She was on her knees before the poor dog.

'"Why, Fido," she said, "dear little Fido, do you not know me?" Fido feebly tried to wag his tail.

'"Is it _your_ dog?" stammered Halbert. "I had no--not the slightest idea----"

'But Aureole flashed back an answer which startled him. "_My_ dog," she said. "No. But what has that to do with it? Oh, you cruel man!"

'Then she turned from him, the little dog all panting and bleeding in her arms. Halbert was startled by the look on her face.

'"Forgive me, Aureole," he cried. "I did not mean to hurt the creature.

I am hasty and quick-tempered, but you should not punish so severely an instant's thoughtlessness."

'"It was not thoughtlessness. It was cowardly cruelty," replied Aureole slowly, turning her pale face towards him. "A man must have a cruel nature who, even under irritation, could do what you have done.

Farewell," and she was moving away when he stopped her.

'"What do you mean by farewell? You are not in earnest?" he exclaimed.

But Aureole looked at him with indignation.

'"Not in earnest?" she repeated. "Never was I more so in my life!

Farewell, Halbert."

'"And you will not see me again?" he exclaimed.

'"I will never see you again," Aureole replied, "till you have learnt to feel for the sufferings of your fellow-creatures, instead of adding to them. And who can say if that day will ever come? Farewell again, Halbert."

'The Prince stood thunderstruck, watching her slight figure as it disappeared among the trees. He felt like a man in a dream. Then, as he gradually became conscious that it was all true, his hot temper broke out in anger at Aureole, in mockery at her absurdity and exaggeration, and he tried to believe what he said, that no man could be happy with so fanciful and unreasonable a wife, and that he had nothing to regret. In his heart he was angry with himself, though to this he would not own, and conscious also that Aureole's instinct had judged him truly. He was selfish and utterly thoughtless for others, and far on the way therefore to becoming actually cruel. He had, like Aureole, been surrounded by luxury and indulgence all his life, but had not, like her, acquired the habit of feeling for others and looking upon his own blessings as to be shared with those who were without them.

'Aureole kept to her word. She would not see Halbert again, though the King, her father, did his utmost to shake her resolution. She remained firm. It was better so for both of them, she repeated. It would kill her to be the wife of such a man, and do him no good. So in bitter and angry resentment, rather than sorrow, Prince Halbert went away, and Aureole's life returned to what it had been before his coming.