Part 4

They felt their way along safely till they got almost to the hall, and then, alas! alas! Master Bogey missed his footing on the last flight of stairs and rolled from the top to the bottom. Bump, bump, he went, and landed in a heap on the mat. He had just time to pick himself up before a door opened and the mother of Josephine, Julia and Jane came out of her bedroom with a candle in her hand. She could not see into the hall, but she began to come downstairs.

Master Bogey and the doll went straight to a corner where rows of coats hung from pegs, and got behind the thickest fur cloak they could find. He took her up in his arms, so that her little white feet should not show underneath it; his own black ones he kept quite still. In the light of the candle they only seemed like dark shadows.

The lady held up her light and looked round. She was much prettier than any of her daughters, and though her hair was now in a pigtail like Jane’s, it really suited her. She peeped under tables and behind chests, and then she came to the row of cloaks and began prodding them to see if anyone was hidden behind them. It was an awful moment.

What saved them was the fact that Bogeys are seldom very tall; though young Master Bogey was such a fine-grown lad, he was scarcely three feet high. Jane’s mother prodded the cloak just above his head and passed on without feeling anything. Just then a man’s face looked over the banisters above.

“What are you doing there?” cried Josephine, Julia and Jane’s father.

“I thought I heard a noise,” said the lady, “so I came to look.”

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed, “you are always imagining burglars. Go back to bed, and don’t be such a goose.”

When she had gone, Master Bogey and his love came out of their hiding-place. It took but a moment to unlock the door and draw the bolts. They shut it softly after them and ran down the steps and out into the shadows, where Father Bogey and Madam were waiting to embrace their daughter-in-law.

Then they all went up into the tree, where, as I have heard, they lived happily together ever after.

THE TREE OF PRIDE

“To-day it’s the book’s turn,” said the miller to his friends as the light was fading one evening. “Last time we heard about Bogeys and people of that sort, but to-day we’ll have a Princess, and King’s Courts and fine company.”

“I like hearing about grand ladies,” observed Janet.

“Yes, I like them well enough, too,” replied he; “that is, if they’re as good and as beautiful as some lasses I have seen.”

He looked rather hard at Janet, and she blushed.

“Oh, never mind talking!” broke in little Peter, pulling the miller’s sleeve. “It’s the story I want. If you don’t begin quick the light will be gone; the rooks are coming home already, and soon we shall have to go in to supper.”

“You needn’t do that, for you shall come to supper with me in the mill,” said the miller. “How would you like that?”

“We daren’t,” said Janet.

“I’ll go and make it right with your grandmother myself,” he replied. “She’ll be glad enough, maybe, for there’ll be all the more left in the larder to-morrow. Sit still till I come back.”

And he jumped over the wall. They watched him pass the pool and disappear into the white cottage.

“Oh, how delightful!” shouted little Peter, turning head over heels.

In a few minutes the miller returned. The old woman had promised everything he wanted. It is a funny thing how often young men can manage witches. They all went into the mill.

“So now to business,” said he, as he sat down and took up his book.

In a kingdom far from this everyday earth a great city sat royally in its surrounding plain. It had domes and towers, temples and fortresses, and in it lived a Princess whose goodness and beauty were known for miles round. The plain was vast and fertile, but here and there patches of wilderness lay like islands among the crops; and a winding stream wandered, now through their richness, now through tangled briars and unfrequented tracks.

By one of these it made a loop, encircling a spot where the turf was cleared of undergrowth and a great tree thrust its gnarled roots through the grass. The few who passed this place looked upon it with no little awe, for the tree was inhabited, and even on a calm day its boughs might be seen rocking to and fro, as though moved by some unruly breeze. Its leaves were large and glossy, its limbs spreading like the limbs of an oak, and in spring it bore white, waxy flowers, heavily scented and shaped like open tulips; in the heart of each was a cluster of stiff golden stamens.

The upper branches were haunted by an old man whose long robe gave him the appearance of a wizard. Though he had lurked in the tree for generations, time had not robbed him of his activity, for he would swing himself to earth every morning to drink of the stream, and, in summer, to wash the dust from the leaves and blossoms, which he tended as carefully as a gardener might his plants. The dwellers in the city knew nothing of his existence; but the dwellers in the fields near the tree had sometimes seen him descend from it to the earth, and remembered having heard in their childhood that it was called the “Tree of Pride.”

One autumn day all the city was making holiday, for the Princess had been betrothed to a King from a far country and was starting with a great following to meet him ten leagues from its walls. Her father accompanied her, and she rode on a white horse shod with silver; she was so beautiful and charming that there was not a man in the whole retinue who did not envy the unknown King. Her brown hair, looped up behind her head, fell almost to the stirrup, and she wore a coif woven of burning gold. Her cloak was embroidered with rose and purple and patterns of stars, and its gold fringes swung as she rode. Her eyes were like the still, moon-haunted pools of a moorland.

It chanced that the procession had been delayed in leaving the city, so that by sunset the place where it was to encamp was yet many miles off. The Princess was tired, and a man-at-arms was sent out to look for some spot where the tents might be pitched and water found for the horses. He soon came back to say that within a mile was a stretch of grass surrounding a large tree and watered by a stream. In a short time they reached it, and encamped for the night.

Next morning, when they had risen betimes to continue their way, the Princess caught sight of the tree, which was a dream of beauty; for autumn was at its full, and the fruit was heavy where the flowers had been. As she stood to admire it, a rustling was heard in the branches, and an old man descended, swinging himself from bough to bough and holding a piece of fruit, round and ripe; he leaned down and offered it to her.

When she had accepted the gift, the Princess mounted, and the whole company returned to the beaten track and went forward on their road. The sun grew hot, and as noonday came on she ate the fruit, thinking that she had never tasted anything so delicious.

They rode by brook and meadow, by hill and wood, and soon everyone began to wonder at the change which had come over the Princess. Those whom she had looked upon as friends all her life were now commanded to rein back, that they might not offend her dignity by their presence. She would scarce answer her father when he spoke, and, whereas in the early part of her journey she had taken pleasure in the beauty of the landscape, she now blamed the road as unfit for her horse’s feet to tread.

“Not content with dragging me out to meet this sorry fellow,” she said, “you must needs bring me by ways only fit for peasants.”

Her father and his people looked aghast. Never before had they heard her speak in such a manner.

When the shadows were long they halted again, and soon they could distinguish a company of horsemen between them and the hills. The Princess withdrew to her tent, for she knew that the distant spearmen must be the unknown King’s following, and that in a short time she would be summoned to receive him. She called her maids, and when they had dressed her in her state robes, she took a knife and made a slit in the curtains that she might see the King’s arrival without being seen. As she stood watching the little band advancing, she was surprised to hear her father’s voice almost beside the tent. She ran towards the place, and, cutting another slit, looked through and saw him in conversation with a man-at-arms, who had just dismounted from the steaming horse he held.

He was dressed from head to heel in russet leather, and a steel helmet, with spreading steel wings, was on his head. He was tall and brown, and his white teeth gleamed as he smiled. “Sire,” he was saying, “I beg you to forgive this unceremonious coming. When I saw your tents on the plain and knew that the Princess was so near, I could contain myself no longer and galloped forward with all speed. I will not dare to enter her presence till my people have arrived, and I have cast off the dust of the road. But wait I could not. I hope your Majesty will forgive me.”

And so this rash, leather-clad soldier was the King—this careless, dusty fellow who was loosening his horse’s girths as any common groom might do! Did he think to thrust himself thus, without ceremony, into the following of a royal Princess?

Behind her curtains she turned away, biting her lips, and she was still frowning when her father entered.

“Daughter,” said he, “the King is here and I have spoken with him.”

“And what is he like?” inquired she, her voice cold with scorn.

“He is the most gallant-looking gentleman that ever I saw,” said the old man.

The Princess turned her back.

An hour later father and daughter waited to receive their guest in a long tent hung with fine stuffs and wreathed in garlands. The whole of their retinue stood around, and, at the far end, the Princess sat on a carved chair, her eyes on the ground and her face as pale as ivory, never looking at the opposite door, by which her suitor was to enter.

At last the hangings were drawn wide and he came in. He still wore his russet brown, but it was now of silver-studded velvet which clung to him like a glove, and as he went forward a murmur of admiration ran through the crowd; for he walked like some kingly animal, and his eyes sparkled under his dark brows. “Here is a King indeed,” whispered the bystanders.

The Princess scarcely glanced at him. She curtseyed low as he approached, but when he would have taken her hand, she drew back, her lip curling.

“Your Majesty does me an honour for which I have no desire,” she said; “and if I have brought you to the meeting-place only to refuse your hand, you will pardon it the more readily as you yourself like ceremony so little.”

So saying, she turned and left everyone standing speechless.

When the company had dispersed, the Princess declared that she would set out next morning for the city. There was nothing left for the King to do but to depart by the way he had come, and, furious and mortified, he returned to his own camp to throw off his velvet and resume his leather and steel; he meant to go at once. His heart was hot within him, for the one look he had had at the Princess was enough to set it in a flame. She was so beautiful that he had never seen her like, and even through his anger there was a sharp stab of regret for what he had lost. Heartless as she seemed, and ill as she had treated him, he would have given the world for her. While his men and horses were getting ready, he went out into the night, and turned his steps to a little thicket of birches which stood with their glimmering stems not far from the camp. The darkness was moist and chill, and some of the Princess’s men had lit a fire on the outskirts of the trees, and were sitting round it. He drew close to them under cover of the wood, and saw an old soldier in the centre of the circle who was talking to his companions. “If I had my will,” he was saying, “I would fell the tree to the ground, and the old goblin should die with it. He should pay for turning the sweetest, most beautiful lady in the world into such a jade! I remember her from the time she was no higher than my sword, and until she tasted that accursed fruit there was no creature more beloved in the kingdom—and with reason, too. And look at her now!”

“What is all this talk?” asked a new-comer, as he joined the group in the firelight. “Not but what Her Highness has given us enough to talk about for some time to come.”

“Why, it is just that,” continued the first speaker; “there’s the matter plain. She has eaten of the Tree of Pride. I saw it myself.”

“The Tree of Pride?” cried the others—“whoever heard of that?”

“You are young men,” the old soldier went on, “and you were not born, as I was, in a hut in these fields, where all the tales of the country round were common talk. My home was in sight of the Tree of Pride, where we camped last night, and many’s the time I’ve seen the old man sitting among the boughs like an evil bird. Whoever tastes of it, rich or poor, man or woman, young or old, becomes mad with vanity and pride. And but yesterday the Princess stood under the branches, and the old man reached down and offered her the fruit. She took it, poor lady, and thanked him, understanding nothing. I’ve more than a mind to turn aside and slay him on the way back.”

The King waited to hear no more; he stole through the trees and back to his own camp: he was determined to start at once for the Tree of Pride. He rode all night, taking only a couple of men with him, and in the morning sunlight he saw it raising its heavy head above the plain. He drew up almost under the boughs and dismounted. There, peering down on him, was the wizened face of the old man, smiling elusively as he plucked a cluster of fruit and began climbing down to offer it. The King waited until he had reached the lowest arm of the tree, and then, instead of taking the gift, he seized his garment and dragged him to the ground.

The old man shrieked and struggled, but the King held him fast, and, throwing him on the grass, stood over him while his two soldiers bound him hand and foot.

“Look!” cried the King, when they had done this, “here is my blade, ready to plunge into your evil body. Because the Princess ate the fruit you gave her, her whole heart is changed. You have only one chance of life. I will spare it if you tell me the remedy that can turn her into her true self.”

“There is no remedy,” he said, fixing his malicious eyes on the King.

“Then,” said the young man, “I will prevent anyone else from sharing the Princess’s fate.”

And he raised his arm.

“Stop!” screamed the other. “I will tell you everything! Only let me go and I will promise never to offer the fruit to anyone again.”

“Lie still,” said the King. “You will tell me the cure before you move and then I will cut down the tree. Go to the nearest hut and borrow an axe,” he added, turning to one of his men.

“No! no!” cried the old man again; “cut it down and all will be lost! Only unbind my hands and I vow I will make the mischief right.”

“You will be loosed when you have spoken,” replied the King.

“Tell your soldiers to go away,” said the prisoner at last; “for the thing is a secret.”

The King told his men to raise him, and when they were alone the old man began.

“You will need patience,” said he. “The winter must come and go before the tree whitens again, for it is only the blossom that can cure the poison of the fruit. When spring comes you must make a crown of the white flowers and take it as a gift to the Princess. If you can persuade her to wear it—if only for a few moments—her heart will change, and she will once more be the woman she was.”

The King’s face fell. It was full six months of waiting and it seemed like an eternity.

“Now let me go!” cried the old man again.

“I will unbind you, as I promised,” said the King, “but from now till the day we return together to pluck the flowers I will not lose sight of you—no, not for an hour—until your words are proven. Come, hold out your hands and feet, and I will cut the cords. Then we will turn our faces to my kingdom.”

And the prisoner was mounted and led away between two men-at-arms in the King’s troop.

* * * * *

While these things were happening, the Princess was on the road home. Having arrived, she shut herself up in her rooms and would hardly deign to go outside the walls of her garden, or to notice anyone. When her father was with her she treated him as though he were an intruder, and the slightest difference of opinion between them threw her into a fury.

She would pace up and down the corridor, her figure erect, her head thrown back; in her eyes was the look of one scarce conscious of her surroundings. And indeed, her soul had strayed into another world—the world of pride, and self and hardness of heart.

Time went, and the leaves of the Tree of Pride lay thick round its foot. Winter’s white veil covered plain and city, and the Princess, in her palace, drew every day farther from humanity; only the King, in his distant kingdom, hoped on, waiting for spring.

But in the old man, his prisoner, a mighty change was being wrought, and his malignant spirit was beginning to go from him. He had never before been brought so close to a noble human being. As the King had said, so he had done, and in the winter which followed his return he had hardly allowed his hostage out of his sight for an hour: waking, he kept him at his side, and sleeping, he lay across his barred door.

But, even while so much was at stake, he could not neglect his daily work, and so it came about that where he went the old man had to go also. While he sat in council he was at his left hand; when he dealt out justice he was present; and when he was occupied with his army—the pride of his soul—he was still beside him. He saw how the King made himself as one of his soldiers, how he shirked no work, took no advantage; he saw his gay and noble heart his joy in living, his prowess in all feats of arms, the love his troops bore him—and as he saw, his withered nature grew soft. And so it was that by the time the young buds began to show on the branches and the season drew near for their journey to the Tree of Pride, captive though he was, he would have laid down his life for him willingly.

All the earth was bursting into youth as the two rode over the plain and approached the tree. The scent of its blossoms was blowing towards them, heavy on the air. The flowers were thick about the ends of the green shoots, the petals, half closing, like cups, over the golden hearts within them. The King cut a few handfuls with his knife while his companion plaited them into a wreath, and when it was made, they mounted and rode into the city.

When they arrived, they went to a small inn, and the King, not wishing his presence to be known, sent a messenger to the palace, giving him a sum of money. With this he was to bribe the servants to carry news to the Princess that two strangers, having discovered a treasure, desired to offer it to her. In this manner they hoped to induce her to receive the crown. On the following day the man returned, having reached the Princess’s ear, and bringing leave for the strangers to approach. So they presented themselves.

They placed the wreath upon a velvet cushion, and the King waited in a dark corner of the Princess’s antechamber, while the old man, whose face was hidden by a magician’s hood which he had procured, entered and laid the gift at her feet.

“Royal lady——” he began, but his voice dropped, for the Princess’s glance fell on the flowers, and she rose from her chair, her eyes alight with wrath and her lips trembling. Instead of the rich jewels she had imagined, there lay before her a simple wreath—beautiful exceedingly, but with a beauty for which she had ceased to care. There was nothing about the offering that could add to her splendour. Any peasant girl, having leisure to weave such a crown, might wear it without pride and without remark.

And as she sprang up, her eyes met those of her rejected suitor, who had drawn the curtains of the antechamber a little aside in his suspense.

When the old man raised the cushion, she seized the wreath and tore it in pieces, scattering the petals, like snowflakes, on the floor.

The King went from the palace in despair and returned to his lodging. He had hoped so fiercely and so long that life seemed almost to have come to an end. He mounted his horse, and, bidding the old man farewell, determined to return to his kingdom and his soldiers, putting the thought of the Princess from him for ever. Before he went he gave him a thousand gold pieces, and made him promise to return to the Tree of Pride and cut it down. As the city walls faded behind him, he looked back at them with a sigh. For the first time he had lost interest in everything, and he knew that it was no longer his pleasure to which he was returning; but he had not forgotten that it was still his duty.

Now, it chanced that, while the Princess refused the crown, there stood by the chair a certain lady-in-waiting. She was no longer young, but she had been a beauty in her day and had seen much of men and matters. She had been at the Court for years and her heart was heavy at the change she saw in her mistress. She was a shrewd woman, and it did not escape her notice that the person who offered the crown wore a hood like those she had seen on the heads of magicians; besides this, she marvelled that two strangers, one of whom did not even show himself, should wish to give the Princess what any one of her servants might pluck from the hedge. The old man had scarcely disappeared before she made up her mind that here was some mystery she did not understand. Unobserved, she gathered up the broken flowers, and that evening she sent a page secretly to discover where he lived, and to desire him to meet her, after dark, at the foot of the palace garden. She also sent the key of a little door by which he might enter unobserved.

When the page found him, the old man was on the point of leaving the city. He was sad, for he had just parted from the King; but he was resolved, when he should have destroyed the Tree of Pride, to follow him to his own country and spend the rest of his life in his service. When he received the lady’s commands, he did not hesitate to obey them.

The watchmen were crying ten o’clock as he stood in the starlight inside the little door. He trembled, for he suspected the summons might lead him into some trap; but to serve the King he was ready to venture all, and he only hoped the morning might not find him at the bottom of a dungeon. He was considering these things when the lady appeared. He was about to speak when she held up her hand.

“I am the Princess’s chief lady-in-waiting,” she began, “and her welfare is to me as my own. I have sent for you that I may ask you, for her sake, what reason you had for bringing such a gift. She has everything the world can offer, and I am certain that you would not have brought her such a present as a common flower wreath if there had not been some hidden virtue in it.”

The old man fell down before her, clinging to her skirt and kissing its hem.

“Madam!” he cried, “only persuade the Princess to wear it and all that I have is yours! The King, who loves her, and whose heart she has broken, has made me rich for the rest of my days, but I will give it all up to you if you will only induce her to wear it, even for a moment.”

Then the lady remembered the King, for she had been at her post when he received his dismissal, and, under her breath, she had called the Princess a fool. She had lived long enough in the world to know a man when she saw one.