CHAPTER X
THE BLUE-SILK ROOM
For this let each remember – life cannot all be play.
The New Year's Answer.
But the children's plans for the next day did not come to pass. Unluckily, Leonore had caught cold. It was nothing very bad, but she was subject to sore throats sometimes, which made Fraulein doubly careful, if ever she saw any symptoms of her having had a chill. And for some days to come the little girl was not allowed to go out.
At first she felt rather dull and depressed, but as her friends were soon satisfied that there was not much the matter with her, Hildegarde was allowed to come to see her.
'How did you catch cold?' were her visitor's first words; 'it couldn't surely have been from – ' and she stopped short with a smile, for curiously enough the children did not talk very much when they were together, in an ordinary way, of their fairy adventures.
Leonore gave a little laugh.
'From riding on a cloud,' she said softly. 'No, I am quite sure it was not from that, though certainly if we told anybody about it, they would think it a sure way of catching cold.'
'They wouldn't believe it,' said Hildegarde, 'or at least they would think we had been dreaming, but do you know, Leonore,' she went on eagerly, 'I shouldn't wonder if some good came of your cold; it's only a fortnight to Christmas now, and what grandmamma said that last day you were at the Castle seems coming true. There are all the signs of a hard winter, they say, and though grandmamma hasn't told me so, I have a great idea that they are planning for you all to come and stay at the Castle with us.'
Leonore's eyes danced with pleasure.
'How lovely that would be,' she said, 'do tell me what makes you think so, Hildegarde?'
'Two or three things,' was the reply. 'I heard grandpapa talking about this house, "Aunt Anna's little house," he called it. He said the roof should have something done to it, in case of heavy snow, and that the bailiff should have told him of this before, for it scarcely could be done while the ladies were living in it. Then grandmamma smiled, and said that she thought the difficulty might be got over. And once or twice lately I have met old Maria on her way to the blue-silk room. One day, she and another maid were carrying mattresses and things in there, and when I asked her what it was for, she looked funny, and said something about airing things, and evidently didn't want me to go into the room, or ask her any more questions about it. So I shouldn't wonder at all if they are preparing for your all coming. You see grandmamma is like that; she doesn't do things by halves, and if you are to come, she would like to add to our pleasure by giving us the blue-silk room together.'
Leonore felt so excited that she could scarcely speak.
'I wonder how soon we shall know?' she said at last. 'It wouldn't do to ask Aunt Anna, or Fraulein, I suppose?'
Hildegarde shook her wise little head very decidedly.
'Oh no,' she said, 'if they wanted us to know they would have told us. If it is to be at all, it is to be a surprise; we must just be patient for a few days.'
Their patience, as it proved, was not very sorely tried. The very first day that Leonore was well enough to go out again without fear of fresh cold, she was met by Hildegarde at the foot of the hill, and Hildegarde's beaming face told its own tale.
'May I, oh may I tell Leonore?' she said to Fraulein Elsa, 'grandmamma has given me leave provided you and Aunt Anna have no objection.'
Fraulein could not help smiling.
'My dear child,' she said, 'there would not be much use in stopping you now; Leonore cannot but guess that there is a surprise in store; the very way you came dancing down the hill was enough to show it. But we must not keep Leonore standing. Come home with us and chatter as much as you like.'
And in another moment the secret, which of course Leonore had already guessed, was told.
'You are all coming to stay at the Castle for Christmas,' she exclaimed, 'that is to say if your cold doesn't get worse, or – '
Here Fraulein positively laughed.
'And that was to be decided by testing, if it did her no harm to come out to-day,' she said. 'You should have waited till to-morrow, Hildegarde.'
The little girl looked rather penitent, but Leonore soon reassured her —
'Of course it won't get worse,' she said, 'I haven't the least, tiniest bit of a scrap of sore throat now; the only thing is,' she went on, 'that it doesn't seem as if any snowstorms were coming,' and she looked up doubtfully into her governess's face.
'But why should you want snowstorms?' asked Fraulein, 'one can be very happy at Christmas time, even if the weather is mild and the fields still green.'
'Oh,' said Leonore, a little confused, for she did not want to take away the pleasure of the 'surprise,' 'it was only that I thought – ' and she hesitated.
Hildegarde came to the rescue.
'Oh,' she said, 'it was only that grandmamma had already mentioned something to us about your perhaps coming to stay at the Castle for Christmas, if the weather got very bad; and there was something about Aunt Anna's house needing repair. But all that doesn't matter now in the least. It is fixed, quite fixed, do you hear, Leonore? – that you are all coming next Monday, whether it snows, or hails, or thunders, or whatever it does.'
So far as the present was concerned, there was not much sign of any great weather disturbance, for the day was mild and bright, and Leonore was by no means the worse, but decidedly the better, for her little expedition. Both children, as children always do, whenever there is any pleasure in prospect, thought that the days would never pass till 'next Monday.' But pass they did, and it would have been difficult to find two happier little maidens than Hildegarde and her guest, when the rather lumbering old carriage, which had been sent to fetch the three visitors, drew up in front of the Castle door.
'Come, come, quick,' were Hildegarde's first words to Leonore, 'I am in such a hurry to take you to our room,' and scarcely allowing her little friend time to receive the greetings of the Baron and Baroness, and their two younger sons, Hildegarde's uncles, who had arrived the night before to spend Christmas at home, she seized her little friend's hand, and hurried her off to a part of the Castle, which Leonore had not yet seen.
'Leonore,' she said, stopping to take breath, for though the steps of the staircase which they were mounting were shallow, she had raced up them at a tremendous rate. 'Leonore, it is as I thought, we are to have the blue-silk room.'
Up one other little flight they went, across a small landing and along a corridor, at the end of which a door stood partly open. A pleasant sparkle of firelight met them, and in another moment they were in the most fascinating room that Leonore had ever seen or even dreamt of.
As Hildegarde had described, it was all hung with blue silk, round which were worked lovely wreaths of rosebuds. And the remarkable thing was that the colours both of the silk and the embroidery were as fresh as if they had only just been made, though, as the Baroness had told her, Leonore knew that certainly more than a century and a half had passed since the room had first been furnished. She stood still, gazing round her.
'Oh what a lovely room!' she exclaimed. 'I had no idea any room could have been so beautiful, though you told me about it. But where are our beds, Hildegarde?'
Hildegarde laughed.
'That's the beauty of it,' she said, drawing back, as she spoke, the blue hangings at one end, thus disclosing to view a recess in which stood two little beds side by side. 'It is like several rooms instead of one, there are two or three alcoves that you don't see when the curtains are drawn at night; one of them has a great big window to the south, where it is beautifully warm. I think we shall call that alcove our boudoir.'
It was a delightful room, and the two children were very happy, till summoned downstairs to supper, in arranging the newcomer's possessions, and planning how they should spend their time during Leonore's stay at the Castle.
'We are sure to have a good deal of fun,' said Hildegarde, 'for the next week or so while my uncles stay; it is rather a pity that the hard winter that was talked so much about hasn't begun yet, for they would have skated with us.'
'I have never learnt to skate,' said Leonore, 'but your uncles look very kind, and perhaps they would have taught me.'
'Yes,' Hildegarde replied, 'I am sure they would; they are very nice, though not to be compared with papa. If only he and mamma were here, and your father, Leonore, we should have everything we could want in the world, wouldn't we?'
'Even to knowing that we have still two nuts to crack,' said Leonore in a low voice.
Hildegarde's grandfather looked round the well-filled table with pleasure, when all had taken their places.
'This is much better,' he said heartily, 'than being alone, as we were last Christmas, not even our little Hildegarde was here. If only your father and mother and our little friend's father too,' he added kindly, turning to Leonore, 'were here, I should feel quite satisfied.'
'That is just what we were saying on our way downstairs,' said Hildegarde, 'I do believe grandpapa, you have something of a fairy about you too, to guess one's thoughts as you often do. Grandmamma is certainly a kind of fairy godmother, as well as being grandmamma. She plans such lovely surprises. Leonore and I are
so
happy in the blue-silk room.'
'Oh that is where you have taken up your quarters, is it?' said her grandfather. 'Well, you could not be anywhere better; it has the name of being the luckiest room in the Castle under fairy guardianship, not that I quite believe in such things, though I do think the Castle has some fairy visitors,' he went on more gravely; 'the fairies of love and kindness are with us I hope; indeed, when I look back through a long life, mostly spent here, I think we have been a specially favoured family. My own parents and grandparents were good and kind to everybody.'
'And so, I am sure, are you and grandmamma,' said Hildegarde eagerly.
Leonore looked up half timidly.
'There are other fairies too, the fairies of industry and perseverance, that your grandmother told us about,' she said to Hildegarde.
The Baroness overheard her.
'Yes,' she said, with a smile, 'they must have had a hand in the adornment of the blue-silk room.'
It was a charming nest in which to fall asleep, with the firelight dancing on the lovely colours of the sheeny silk, and it was a charming room to wake up in the next morning, when the first rays of the pale wintry sunshine began to creep in through the one window, which the little girls had left uncurtained the night before. They were later than usual of getting up, for they had been later than usual of going to bed. Rules were to be relaxed somewhat during the Christmas holidays.
'Are you awake, Hildegarde?' said Leonore. 'Oh yes,' was the reply. 'Doesn't the room look pretty?'
Leonore raised herself on her elbow. 'Yes,' she said, 'and so beautifully neat. Did you tidy it at all after I got into bed last night, Hildegarde?'
'No indeed,' laughed her friend, 'I was too sleepy. I wonder if Amalia has been in already this morning without waking us.'
'I could almost fancy she had,' said Leonore, for I have a dreamy feeling of having heard some one moving about softly, as if they were putting things straight or dusting.'
Just then came the maid's tap at the door; but on being questioned as to whether she had been in before, she laughingly shook her head, owning that she herself had slept later than usual that morning – if the young ladies had heard any one arranging the room, it must have been a 'brownie.'
The children were not unwilling to think so.
'I daresay it was,' said Hildegarde in a whisper, 'it is only to be expected in a fairy room like this.'
And certainly the next few days passed happily enough to justify the pleasant belief that the blue-silk room brought joy to those who inhabited it. Though frost and snow kept off, and there was no chance of skating, there were plenty of other amusements out of doors, as well as indoors; for Hildegarde's uncles proved quite as kind as Leonore thought they looked, and planned pleasant walks and drives and games for the two little girls.
Then came Christmas itself, the happiest that Leonore had ever known, for her father had never been with her, that she could remember, at that season, and she had often, at home in England, felt it a little lonely. They had a Christmas-tree of course, a great beauty, provided with exactly the right presents for everybody, servants and humble friends connected with the Castle, as well as for the family itself and their visitors. And in the midst of all this enjoyment and excitement, the little girls almost forgot that they had still two magic nuts to crack, when the right time should come.
Two days after Christmas the scene changed. In the first place, the uncles had to leave to rejoin their regiments – greatly to the little girls' regret, and then began the fulfilment of the weather prophet's predictions. There came sudden and severe cold, soon followed by a heavy fall of snow, accompanied by gales, such as were seldom known in that inland part of the country; weather indeed, almost approaching what is nowadays called a 'blizzard.'
At first the children found it rather amusing, though the Baron looked grave, as news was brought in of the destruction among his trees, and after a day or two, the wind fell, but the snow continued. And even when it ceased to fall, leaving the house was completely out of the question, so deep did it lie, and to such a height had it, in many parts, drifted. After some days of this enforced imprisonment, Hildegarde and Leonore began to think a snowstorm by no means a laughing matter. They had played all their games so often, that they were growing tired of them; they had read and re-read their books, of which there was no great number suitable for children in the Castle, and one afternoon, when they were by themselves, in their own room, they looked at each other rather disconsolately, the same question rising to the lips of both.
'What shall we do with ourselves?'
Fraulein had done her utmost to amuse them, but she too, by this time, was almost at the end of her resources, and they knew it was no use to apply to her again, unless they wished to begin lessons, in earnest before the holidays were over! So they sat down together on the floor, in front of the fire, half laughing at their own dullness.
Suddenly, in one corner of the room, they heard a little tapping; had it been summer, and had the windows been open, they could have fancied it the tap of a wood-pecker, so clear and dainty did it sound.
'What can that be?' exclaimed Hildegarde; 'listen, Leonore,' and again came the tapping.
The children held their breath to listen. Then —
CHAPTER XI
'THE UNSELFISH MERMAID'
The stranger viewed the shore around.
The Lady of the Lake.
Leonore sprang to her feet, and as she did so something fell on the floor; it was her last remaining nut! She gazed at Hildegarde.
'Look,' she exclaimed, 'it dropped out of my pocket of itself; it means a message, I am sure it does. Where is your nut, Hildegarde?'
'Here,' was the reply, as she held it out.
'The time has come for cracking them,' said Leonore, and as she uttered the words the tapping in the corner of the room was repeated more loudly and rapidly, as if to say, 'Quite right, quite right.'
Then it suddenly stopped.
'Here goes,' said Hildegarde, cracking her nut as she spoke, and the two pair of eyes peered eagerly into the shell. There lay a neat little roll of tiny blue ribbon. Hildegarde drew it out. It was only an inch or two in length, but on it were clearly printed six words: —
Tap, tiny hammer, till you find.
But where was the tiny hammer? This question did not trouble the children for long. Without speaking, Leonore cracked
her
nut, disclosing to view, as they expected, a 'tiny hammer' indeed – so tiny that even the little girls' small fingers had difficulty in holding it firmly.
'How can I tap with it?', she was on the point of saying to Hildegarde, when, as she gazed, she saw the little hammer stretch itself out till it grew to an inch or two in length, the silver head increasing also in proportion, so that it was now much easier to grasp it.
'How convenient it would be,' said Hildegarde, 'if we could pack up luggage in the way things are packed into our nuts; but let us be quick, Leonore. I wonder where we should begin tapping.'
'In the corner where we heard the other tapping, of course,' said Leonore. But this did not prove to be the right spot. There was no reply to their summons, and some patience and perseverance were required to prevent their yielding to disappointment.
They had no reason, however, for distrusting their fairy friend, and a new idea struck Hildegarde.
'Leonore,' she exclaimed, 'perhaps we are meant to tap on the wall itself, behind the silk hangings. See, if I hold them back carefully, you can creep in and tap right into the corner.'
No sooner said than done, and this time not in vain. With almost the first blow of the little hammer, a small door in the wall opened inwards, and before them the children saw the first steps of a narrow spiral staircase winding upwards. They fearlessly entered, the little door closing behind them, and began to ascend the steps. It was not dark, for slits in the wall let in from time to time tiny shafts of light; nor was it cold, though where the warmth came from they could not tell.
'To think,' said Hildegarde, 'of there being a secret staircase that nobody knows of, for I am sure no one does know of it. But oh, Leonore, how very high we seem to be going'; for though they had been mounting for some minutes, there was no sign of the staircase coming to an end.
This time it was Leonore who encouraged her friend.
'Hush!' she said, 'I hear something; it is the sound of the spinning-wheel, Hildegarde; I believe we shall see our fairy in a second now.'
She was right. They found themselves on a little landing, the entrance to which was screened by blue silk hangings, just like those in their room below, and as they stood, uncertain what to do next, the curtains were drawn apart, revealing the prettiest picture they had ever seen; for there sat the spinning-wheel fairy, busy at work as usual, but the thread she was spinning was neither flax nor wool, nor even silk. What it was the children could not tell, unless, as they said afterwards to themselves, it was made of rainbows. Fine as it was, it glittered and shone, seeming of every colour in turn, sparkling against the pure white robe of the fairy spinner. For a moment or two she did not speak to them, and they stood silent in admiration.
Then she stopped and greeted them with a smile. 'I had not forgotten you, you see,' were her first words. 'I have been spinning for you all to-day.'
'Are you going to take us somewhere?' asked Hildegarde; 'is the thread to make ladders of again?' and she touched it gently as she spoke.
The fairy shook her head.
'No,' she replied, 'guess once more.'
'I had thought,' said Leonore, 'that our next treat would perhaps have to do with the sea. We have been down in the ground with the gnomes, and up in the sky with the air-fairies, and we don't want to go into fire-land, but we
should
like to hear about mermaids and sea-fairies.'
'I could not show you the secrets of the ocean,' said the fairy gravely; 'that is not in my power. It has its own voice, and only those who live on it, or by it, for generations can understand its mystery. True, it is one of the border countries between your world and Fairyland, but your little feet are not prepared for travelling there.'
The two children listened in silence, with a look of disappointment on their faces.
'We have read such lovely stories,' said Hildegarde, 'about the palaces down in the sea.'
'Stories,' repeated the fairy. 'Ah, well, how would you like to hear a story, instead of paying another visit?'
'We should like it very much indeed,' they said together. 'It is so cold and snowy outside, we would rather stay with you, if you will tell us stories, dear fairy,' 'But first,' continued Hildegarde, 'would you mind telling us where we are?' and she glanced round at the pretty little room in which they found themselves. It was like a tent, all draped in blue silk, of the same shade as the hangings of their room below, but the wreaths embroidered upon it were of white lilies instead of rosebuds. 'Are we up on the roof of the Castle, or where?'
'Never mind where you are,' the fairy replied; 'is it not enough for you to know that you are with me? But something I
will
explain to you. This thread,' and she touched it as she spoke, 'is spun from gossamer which has come from a long way off. I fetched it myself for you from Fairy-tale-land. Sit down beside me while I pass it through your fingers. Hold it very gently, for a rough touch would destroy it, and while I tell you my story close your eyes. The thread has the power of causing pictures to pass before you of all that I relate.'
'That will be beautiful,' exclaimed the children. 'Quite as nice as travelling there ourselves, and much cosier,' and they both settled themselves on a soft white fleecy rug at the fairy's feet, while she carefully caused the rainbow thread to pass through their hands.
And in a moment or two she began her tale.
'You have asked for a story of the sea,' she said. 'There are many such – many, many – but some too sad for my little girls to hear – sad, that is to say, for those who are not yet able to understand the whole of the mystery of the great ocean. So I have chosen one which, though partly sad, is happy too.'
'Thank you,' murmured the children dreamily, for their eyes were already shut, and with these first words of the fairy there began to steal over them the feeling of the sea, though scarcely yet a picture. But they felt or saw the gleaming of the water, the rippling of the little waves on the shore, the far-off boom of the greater ones as they dashed against some rocky cliffs; nay, more, the very fragrance of the sea seemed to steal upon them as the magic thread passed slowly through their little fingers.
'Long, long ago,' continued the fairy, 'down below in one of the most beautiful parts of the ocean world, there lived a race of sea folk. Their lives are much longer, as I daresay you have heard, than those of dwellers in your earth-country, so that the youngest of those I am telling you of counted her age by scores of years, where you count by one, and yet, compared to many of her companions, she seemed still quite a child. Until now, childish things had been enough for her. Day after day brought its own delights; playing about among the sea-caves; swimming races with her brothers and sisters; adorning their home with rare sea-flowers and wonderful shells, to get which they thought nothing of journeying hundreds of miles; these and such-like pastimes were enough for the little sea-maiden. She had even, so far, no wish to rise to the surface and look out beyond the ocean borders; it would frighten her she said, or maybe she would see something sad, and she had no mind to be frightened or saddened, she would say laughingly, as she swam off, on some new game of play, heedless of her elders' reminders that it was time, even for a mermaid, to begin to take life more seriously. But at last a time came, even to this thoughtless little sea-maiden, when she began to think. It was partly the doing of one of the most aged of her race, one to whom all looked for counsel and advice, one who knew much more than even her own people suspected, and whose heart was full of love for all living things.
'"My child," she said one day to Emerald, for such was the name of that little sea-maiden; "my child, does it never strike you that you cannot always be young? A day will come when you will be old like me, and dull and dreary would my life be now if I had no stores of the past to look back upon; if I had learnt nothing but to amuse myself, without thought for the future."
'Emerald looked up at her with a smile.
'"But that time is still far off," she said, "and I am so content with the present. It is all so bright and happy. I want nothing else. When I feel myself beginning to get tired of fun and play, I will come to you kind grand-dame, and you shall teach me some of your knowledge, of the worlds outside ours, and of the beings that live in them."
'"When that day comes," said the ancient sea-lady, "I shall be no longer here, and, after all, knowledge is not the greatest thing. I would fain see your heart enlarged by wider sympathy, my little one; even if some sadness and sorrow come with it," but the last few words she murmured so low that Emerald did not hear them.
'"What are the memories of the past that make you happy to remember now?" said Emerald, suddenly, for something in her old friend's words had touched her, in a way she had never felt before.
'"They are many," was the reply, "some you could not understand; others you might already learn for yourself. I love to think of the services to others I have, in my time, been allowed to render. More than once it has been my happiness to save the lives of dwellers on the land, human beings, as they are called. I have saved them when they were drowning and carried them in safety to their own shores, little as they knew that it was my doing, or that the friendly wave which floated them out of danger was in reality the arm of a mermaid. I have sung sweet songs and lullabies to the suffering and weary in the great ships that pass above us, or even, sometimes, to the fishermen's children in their humble homes on our borders, soothing them into life-giving sleep, though they thought my song was but the gentle wailing of the wind. Such services as these, Emerald, you might soon take your share of; for like all our race you have a lovely voice, and our gift of song should ever be used for good, if our hearts are true, and not to lure human beings to destruction. For after all they are our brothers and sisters."
'Emerald thanked her gently as she swam away, and the words she had heard took root in her merry little heart. Especially did she like the idea of using her beautiful voice to please or benefit others – those strange dwellers on the land, whom she had often heard about, though not till now with any wish to see or know them for herself. They were to be pitied, she had been told, for life was hard upon them; toil and pain and weariness, such as her race knew nought of, seemed to be their common lot. And among the best of her own people she knew, too, that it was accounted a good deed to minister to them. So from that time Emerald began to pay more attention when she heard her friends or companions talking together, as often happened, of their excursions to the upper world and of what they saw t