CHAPTER XXI

IN WHICH THE WHITE LÉTICHE TELLS HER STORY

Upon the outskirts of a village there once lived a weaver, who was very skilful at his loom, and wove many fine and beautiful stuffs, while in a wretched cabin out in the fields beyond the village dwelt a certain poor widow woman, who had to earn her livelihood by spinning. It was from her that the weaver bought his flax, but indeed he often went to the cabin when there was still a plentiful store of flax at home, in the hope of seeing the widow’s only daughter.

Now the maiden was not the widow’s own child, for the poor woman as she came home one evening through the fields had found a little baby lying among the stubble, and having no children of her own, she had brought it home with her and adopted it. And because she had found it under the Michaelmas moon, she had it christened Micheline.

Micheline was very beautiful, and in the spring time when the weaver would walk by her side, and watch her break a sprig of blackthorn from the hedge to place it in her hair or in the folds of her ragged green dress, it seemed to him that all the world could not hold another maid so fair as she. But she was indifferent to his suit, and this made him very sad. Also there was a mystery about her which he could not solve, for often she would disappear from home altogether, sometimes for a few days only, sometimes for months at a time, and when he questioned her fostermother she only made excuses and gave evasive answers.

One day the weaver went into the neighbouring city to offer some of his stuffs for sale at court, and it happened that just as he entered the gateway of the palace, a gallant prince came riding forth, with a plume in his hat and a sword by his side, mounted upon a splendidly accoutred horse.

“It must be a fine thing to be a prince,” thought the weaver.

Good luck befriended him, for the queen and her daughter bought all his beautiful woven stuffs, and he left the palace with his pockets full of gold. On his way home he again saw the prince, who was watering his horse at a roadside trough.

“Are you not the poor weaver who trudged past me under the palace gateway but an hour ago?” asked the prince.

“I was poor enough then,” replied the weaver, “but I am rich now, for the queen and the princess her daughter were graciously pleased to buy my whole store of stuffs.”

“Then you had better fortune than I,” returned the prince, “for I have been courting the princess this year and more, but she will have none of me. She is so cold and listless that she cares for no man’s addresses.”

“Alas, we are then brothers in misfortune,” quoth the weaver, “for I too love a maid who does not love me in return.” And with that they parted, and the weaver went home, only to find that Micheline had once more disappeared, he knew not whither. But the prince mounted his good steed and rode forth into the world, to seek adventures and forget his sorrow.

He soon came to a dense wood, and when night fell, seeing a great castle before him, he knocked at the gates and asked for shelter. Now in this castle lived a mighty magician, who received the prince with all hospitality, and bade him sit down with him to supper. But as the prince sat at table, he often turned his head and listened intently, for it seemed to him that ever and anon he caught a sound like the ticking of innumerable clocks.

“What may that be?” he asked at length.

“It is the beating of many hearts,” replied the magician, “for I have the hearts of all men in my keeping.”

“Is the cold, proud heart of my dear princess amongst them?” asked the prince.

“Most certainly,” said the magician, “and if you would know what is her heart’s desire, you need only go and see wherein her heart lies.”

“I go upon the instant!” cried the prince, starting to his feet. Then he entered a great hall adjoining, and there he found the hearts of all men, each beating in its own chosen place. Some lay within coffers of gold, some upon altars, others between the leaves of a book, others again were half smothered beneath a pile of fripperies and tinsel. But the heart of his princess lay within a certain gold crown of strange workmanship.

As soon as he had caught sight of it, the prince drew his sword with its jewelled cross-hilt, and waving it above his head, he cried: “Though I should first have to conquer all the kingdoms of the world, I will win that crown for my lady, no matter whose it be. And then perhaps her heart will turn to me, and she will love me.”

The next day he set forth upon his quest, but as he rode out of the castle gates, he remembered the weaver who was a lover like himself, and meeting a doe in the forest, he said to her: “Run swiftly, pretty doe, and carry a message to my brother the weaver. Tell him of this castle, that he too may come, and learn what it is on which his lady has set her heart.”

So the fleet-footed doe ran till she reached a brook, where she stooped to drink. “O brook,” said she, “hidden in a thicket I have a baby fawn, and I dare not leave it long alone. Bear you the prince’s message to the weaver.”

So the brook took the message, and flowed on through the forest till it became choked with sedges. “O dragonfly,” it said in a stifled voice to a dragonfly that hovered among the flags, “bear you the prince’s message to the weaver.”

Then the dragonfly flew to the weaver’s house, and gave him the prince’s message, and that same day the weaver set out. But when he had reached the castle, and had sought for the heart of Micheline among the rest, he could not find it.

“Since that is so, it means that she is not a mortal,” said the magician, “you must go seek for her in Fairyland.”

“I pray you tell me the way,” said the weaver.

“That I cannot do,” the magician made answer, “each must find the way to Fairyland for himself.”

Then the weaver set forth upon his travels, and sought Micheline at every fairy ring and haunted pool, by cairn and by waterfall, but nowhere could he find her. At last one day as he went along the road feeling much disheartened, he thought he recognised the rich trappings of a horse that was cropping the grass by the roadside, and the next moment he caught sight of the prince standing near by.

“Fortune has again brought us together, friend,” said the prince, “therefore let us continue our journey in each other’s company.”

And as they went along they told one another all their adventures. The prince too had been in many lands, but his quest had led him into courts and palaces, where he had been sumptuously feasted; kings and queens had put on their crowns in his honour, but that one crown of strange workmanship he had nowhere found. Presently the two travellers reached the entrance of a narrow, gloomy gorge.

“Let us press on,” counselled the prince, “it may be that on the other side we shall find some shelter for the night, for already it grows dusk.”

But no sooner had they entered the gorge, with steep hillsides to either hand, than the prince’s steed took fright, and reared and threw his rider, and galloped madly back by the way they had come.

“What can have startled the horse?” cried the prince, as he sprang up unhurt.

“Hush,” said the weaver, “listen.” Then, as they stood and listened, a sound of laughter and revelry reached them from within the hillside to their right.

“We have found the way into Fairyland,” cried the weaver, “and I must go and seek Micheline among her own people.”

“Be wary, friend,” cautioned the prince, “for if I am not mistaken the hill fairies have a bad reputation, and have worked harm to wayfarers before now.”

But the weaver would not be dissuaded. “How shall we enter, prince?” he cried, on fire with impatience.

Then the prince drew his sword, and smote the hillside, so that it cleft asunder by reason of the cross-shaped hilt, and together they entered a hall dim and vasty, where the hill fairies were holding their revels. The elfin king the while sat moodily watching the dance, but upon the entry of the strangers he descended the steps of his throne and came forward to greet them. The weaver then saw that his eyes were treacherous and cruel, but the prince saw only that upon his head he wore the crown that was the desire of his lady’s heart. The king placed them on either side of his throne, and made them welcome.

“Tell me, I beg of you,” said the weaver, impatient of delay, “is there at your court a maid of the name of Micheline?”

“The maid is indeed at my court,” replied the king, “though among us she goes by another name.”

“How came I then to meet her among mortals?” asked the weaver.

Then the king made answer: “The widow who is now her fostermother found her among the stubble under the harvest moon, and the next night she heard a tapping at her window, and went, and saw a fairy nurse standing by the sill. ‘Give me back my child,’ said the fairy nurse, ‘the child whom I laid to sleep among the stubble.’ ‘That will I not,’ quoth the widow woman, ‘for she is mine now, and I have had her christened like one of ourselves.’ ‘I love her too well to take her against her will,’ answered the fairy nurse, ‘in years to come she shall choose between us.’ ‘I love her too well to keep her against her will,’ said the widow woman, ‘so it shall be as you say.’ Thus it happens that the maid is sometimes with us, and sometimes with her fostermother.”

Then the weaver turned and saw a troop of fairies coming towards him, and Micheline was of the number, fair as ever in her dress of green, with a blackthorn wreath in her hair. Forthwith he sprang to meet her and caught her in his arms, and at once was whirled away into the midst of the dance. But all this time the prince sat silent and thoughtful, pondering by what means he might obtain possession of the elfin crown.

Louder and louder grew the bursts of song, madder and madder reeled the dance. The weaver’s senses swam, his feet seemed to become leaden, and the sweat stood out upon his forehead. The fairies pressed hard upon him, and strange evil faces peered into his, like the faces of ape and wild cat, bear, and bat and viper. Now as the rout swayed backwards and forwards before the steps of the throne, the prince awoke from his musing, and caught sight of the weaver, who with blanched face and dishevelled hair was stretching out his hands in a prayer for help. Then the prince started to his feet, and with a cry drew his sword from its sheath. The fairies fell back before the cross-shaped hilt, and the elfin king himself quailed upon his throne. Micheline alone stood her ground.

“Little care I for your holy sign,” quoth she, “have I not been christened even as you?” So saying she stepped forward, and touching the prince and the weaver upon brow and breast, she turned them both into nightingales.

“So shall you remain,” said she, “until I die.” And with that she burst out laughing, knowing that fairies are immortal. Then the nightingales took wing and flew away out of the cleft in the hillside by which they had entered.

“It seems we are still to be brothers in misfortune,” said the prince, “let us therefore remain together, good friend.”

“With all my heart, prince,” replied the weaver. “Whither shall we go?”

“Let us go to the palace garden,” said the prince, “so that I may sing my sweetest beneath my lady’s window.”

So day after day they flew over mountain and valley, till they reached the city where the princess lived, and that same night as she leant forth from her casement, she heard two nightingales singing, more sweetly and more sorrowfully than any hitherto. The weaver sang of his lost love, and the prince made known to her all the toil and peril he had suffered for her sake.

“Ah me, poor prince, would that I might disenchant you!” said she.

“Your love would disenchant me!” cried the prince.

“Not so,” the princess made answer, “remember the fairy’s curse. Alas, it was just on such a night as this that I stood at my window and watched the fairies making merry on the greensward. Then it was that the desire took hold of me to become queen of their revels, so that I too might wear the blackthorn and the fatal green, and till that desire is laid to rest there is no room in my thoughts for love. I know no peace of mind through the longing that I have for the elfin crown, and it may be that I also am enchanted, even as you.” So saying she wept bitterly, and the nightingales hushed their singing for very sorrow.

Now the next night the princess could not sleep for thought of the crown, so she went down into the dewy, dusky garden, and wandered in and out among the flowers. She was all in white, with a jewelled dagger in her hair, and as the prince watched her, his heart nearly broke for love of her beauty.

All at once the trumpets of the honeysuckle blew a blast, and over the greensward the fairies came trooping, with the elfin king and his train in their midst. For a while the princess stood apart, sadly and silently watching the revelry, but at last she stepped forward with clasped hands and beseeching eyes, and, as it chanced, it was to Micheline that she spoke: “I pray you, sweet fay, teach me to dance as beautifully as yourself.”

“And if I do,” said Micheline, “will you give me in exchange the precious thing that sparkles so royally in your hair?”

“That will I gladly,” quoth the princess, and she drew forth the jewelled dagger, and gave it to the fairy. “Only see that you handle it carefully,” said she, “for it carries death at its point, for all it is so bright and beautiful.”

“Death!” laughed Micheline, “we fairies have no fear of death. See, it will do me no hurt!” And so saying she stabbed herself in reckless frolic. But as she did so she grew white to the lips, and sank upon her knees.

“Ah, the waters of my baptism!” she cried out, “they have stolen my immortality from me!” And she fell lifeless to the ground.

At that the spell was broken, and the prince and the weaver resumed their proper shapes. Then once more the prince’s sword flashed from out its sheath.

“I have nothing to fear from the rest of you!” he cried, “therefore now, O fairy king, yield up your crown, for my lady will know no rest till it is hers!”

Then the king stepped forward, smiling strangely, and set his crown upon the brow of the princess. But even as he did so it turned all to withered leaves, which lightly kissed her waving hair and then fluttered to the ground.

“See, my beloved,” said the prince, “this fairy gold is not for us. At the touch of a mortal it decays, therefore cease from your desire.”

“It was but an idle dream,” said she, “love is the better diadem.”

Then they turned and looked again upon the greensward, but the king and his court were gone, and from far away, borne to them fitfully upon the nightwind, there came a sound which none had ever heard before, of fairies keening their dead.

Now that same night, when the fields lay grey in the moonlight, and the shadows were long between the haycocks, the widow woman sat in her lonely cabin, and it seemed to her that she heard a tapping at the window. So she went and looked, and there stood the fairy nurse beside the sill.

“Micheline is dead,” said she, “and will return no more, neither to you nor to me. Go back to your spinning and forget her.” So saying she moved away, and passed in and out among the haycocks till she was lost to sight.

But the prince and princess were married, and in the course of time they became king and queen and reigned long and prosperously. As for the weaver, he was made court weaver, and remained the prince’s friend all his days.

Philomène drew a deep breath. “Well, I am sure I like you ever so much better than Micheline,” said she, “though Micheline was christened and you weren’t. Oh, I wonder will you be able to tell me another story next All Souls’ Eve, you dear little White Létiche?”

“I wonder,” replied the White Létiche, thoughtfully.

“And I shall not see you till then?”

“No, we do not show ourselves. And now good-night.”

Then the White Létiche kissed her frail little hand to Philomène. “Shut your eyes,” she said softly, “you did not see me come, and you must not see me go.” And when Philomène again opened her eyes she was alone in the room.

The gale rattled at the window, and the curtains waved in the gust; the night was stormy, and the bells were silent. Philomène hurriedly took off her dressing-gown and slippers, and crept into bed.

“After all,” she thought as she dropped asleep, “I don’t think it can matter such a lot about being christened; the holy Innocents couldn’t possibly have been christened, not a single one of them, and yet I know they have got a collect all to themselves.”