Part 14

Hazen mounted the broad, mossy steps leading to the portals, and he found one door slightly ajar. Wondering greatly, he touched it open, and the groined hall appeared like a grim face from behind a mask. On the stone floor, not far beyond the threshold, lay an old man, motionless. And when, uttering a little cry of pity and amazement, Hazen stooped over him, he knew him at once to be that old man who had greeted him at the entrance to the wood on the evening of the day on which he himself had left the king’s palace.

What with bringing him water and bathing his face and chafing his hands, Hazen at last enabled the old man to speak, and found that he had been nearly all his life-time the keeper of the castle and for some years its only occupant. He was not ill, but he had fallen and was hurt, and he had lain for several days without food. So Hazen, who knew well how to do it, kindled a fire of fagots in the great, echoing castle kitchen, and, from the scanty store which he found there, prepared broth and eggs, and then helped the old man to his bed in the little room which had once been a king’s cabinet.

“Lad, lad!” said the old man, when he had remembered Hazen. “And have you found your fortune? And are you by now wise, _really_ good, beautiful, and loved?”

“Alas!” said Hazen, only, and could say no more.

The old man nodded. “I know, I know,” he said sadly. “The little Selves have been about, ruling here and ruling there. Is it not so? Sit here a little, and let us talk about it.”

Then Hazen told him all that had befallen since that night when they sat together in the wood. And though his adventures seemed to Hazen very wonderful, the old man merely nodded, as if he were not hearing but only remembering.

“Ay,” he said, at the last, “I have met them all--the Merry Lad, the Bookman, and all the rest, and have dwelt a space with some. And I, too, have come to the fountain in the night, and have asked what it was that I should do.”

“But tell me, sir,” said Hazen, eagerly, “how was it that I was told at the fountain that there was one near in great need. Did the fountain know you? Or did my Thought? And how could that be?”

“Nay, lad,” said the old man, “but always, for everyone, there is someone near in need--yet. One has only to look.”

Then he talked to Hazen more about his fortune, and again the old man’s meaning was in his mere presence, so that whether he talked about the stars or the earth or the ways of men, he made Hazen know fascinating things about them all. And now Hazen listened far differently from the way that he had listened that other time when they had talked, and it was as if the words had grown, and as if they meant more than once they had meant.

Now, whoever has stood for the first time in a great, empty castle knows that there is one thing that he longs to do above all other things, and this is to explore. And when the afternoon lay brooding upon the air, and slanting sun fell through the dusty lattices, Hazen asked the old man eagerly if he might wander through the rooms.

“As freely,” answered the old man, willingly, “as if you were the castle’s prince.”

Thus it chanced that, after all the years, Hazen, though he was far from dreaming the truth, was once more roaming through the rooms of his birthplace and treading the floors that had once echoed the step of his father, the king.

It was a wonderful place, the like of which Hazen thought he had never seen before, save only in the palace of the father of the princess. Above stairs the rooms had hardly been disturbed since that old day of the hurried flight of all his father’s court. There was a great room of books, as rich in precious volumes as the king’s library which he already knew, and there, though this he could not guess, his own father had been wont to sit late in the night, consulting learned writers and dreaming of the future of his little son. There was the chapel, where they had brought Hazen himself to be christened, in the presence of all the court; there the long banqueting room to which he had once been carried so that the nobles might pledge him their fealty, the arched roof echoing their shouts. The throne room, the council room, the state drawing rooms--through all these, with their dim, dusty hangings and rich, faded furnishings, Hazen footed; and at last, up another stair, he came to the private apartments of the king and queen themselves.

Breathing the life of another time the rooms lay, as if partly remembering and partly expecting. In the king’s room was the hunting suit that he had thrown off just before the attack, the book that he had been reading, the chart that he had consulted. In the queen’s room were tarnished golden toilet articles and ornaments, and in her wardrobe her very robes hung, dusty and mouldering, the gold thread and gold fringes showing black and sad.

And then Hazen entered a room which seemed to have been a child’s room--and it was his room, of his first babyhood. Something in him stirred and kindled, almost as if his body remembered, though his mind could not do so. Toys lay scattered about--tops, a football, books, and a bank. The pillow of the small white bed was indented as if from the pressure of a little head, and a pair of tiny shoes, one upright, one overturned, were on the floor. Hazen picked up one little shoe and held it for a minute in his hand. He wondered if some of the little garments of the child, whoever he was, might not be in the hanging room. And he opened the closed door.

The door led to a closet and, as he had guessed, little garments were hanging there. But it was not these that caught his eye and held him breathless and spellbound on the threshold. On the high shelf of the closet stood a small glass casket. And in the casket was a little bit of live thing that fluttered piteously, as if begging to be released, and frantic with joy at the coming of light from without.

Hazen’s heart beat as he took the casket in his hand. It was the most wonderful little box that ever he had seen. And the little living thing was something like a fairy and something like a spirit and so beautiful that it seemed to Hazen that he must have it for his own. Something stirred and kindled in his mind so that it was almost a memory, and he said to himself:--

“I have seen a casket like this. I have _had_ a casket like this. Nay, but the very earliest thing that ever I can remember is a casket like this from which no one knew how to release this little living spirit.”

For the little spirit was fast in the crystal prison, and if one broke the casket, one would almost certainly harm the spirit--but what other way was there to do?

With the casket in his hand and the little spirit fluttering within, Hazen ran back below stairs to the old man.

“Look!” Hazen cried. “This casket! It is from the closet shelf of some child’s room. I remember a casket such as this, and within it a little living spirit. I have _had_ a casket such as this! What does it mean?”

Then the old man, who had been keeper there when the castle was taken, trembled and peered into Hazen’s face.

“Who are you?” the old man cried. “Who are you--and what is your name?”

“Alas,” said Hazen, sadly, “I was but the furnace boy to the king of a neighbouring country, and who I am I do not know. But as for my name, that is Hazen, and I know not what else.”

Then the old man cried out, and tried to bow himself, and to kiss Hazen’s hand.

“Prince Hazen!” cried he. “You are no other. Ah, God be praised. You are the son of my own beloved king.”

As well as he could for his joy and agitation, the old man told Hazen everything: how the castle had been taken by that king of a neighbour country--who did _not_ know that neighbours are nearly one’s own family--how Hazen had been made prisoner, and how he was really heir to this kingdom and to all its ample lands. And how the magic casket, which after all these years the old man now remembered, was to make Hazen, and no other, wise and _really_ good and loved and beautiful, if only the little spirit could be freed.

“But how am I to do that?” Hazen cried. “For to break the casket would be to harm the spirit. And what other way is there to do?”

“Alas,” answered the old man, “that I do not know. I think that this you must do alone. As for me, my life is almost spent. And now that I have seen you, my prince, the son of my dear sovereign, there is left to me but to die in peace.”

At this, Hazen, remembering how much he owed the wonderful old man for that enchanted talk in the wood, when he had taught him fascinating things about the stars and the earth and the ways of men, and had shown him the inside of his own head and all those Selves of his and he their king if he would be so--remembering all these things Hazen longed to do something for him in return. But what could he do for him, he the heir of a conquered kingdom and a desolate palace? Yet the old man had been his father’s servant; and it was he whom the Thought at the fountain had bidden him to help; but chiefly Hazen’s heart overflowed with simple pity and tenderness for the helpless one. And in that pity the Thought spoke again:--

“Give him the casket,” it said.

Hazen hesitated--and in an instant his head was a chaos of voices. It was as if all the little Selves, even those which had now long been silent, were listening, were suddenly fighting among themselves in open combat to see what they could make Hazen do.

“That beautiful thing!” cried the Beauty Self. “Keep it--keep it, Hazen!”

“You will never have another chance at a fortune if you give it up!” cried the Discontented Self.

“If you throw away your chance at a fortune, your life will be a life of hard work--and where will your good time come in?” cried the little Fun Self, anxiously.

“You will have only labour and no leisure for learning--” warned the Knowledge Self.

“What of the Princess Vista? Do you not owe it to her to keep the casket? And is it not _right_ that you should keep the casket and grow wise and _really_ good and loved and beautiful?” they all argued in turn. And above them all sounded the terrible, cracked voice of the dwarf, not laughing now, but fighting for his life:--

“Fool! Nothing counts but your chance at fortune. If you part with the casket, you part with _me!_”

But sweet and clear through the clamour sounded the solemn insisting of the Thought:--

“Give him the casket--give him the casket, Hazen.”

Quickly Hazen knelt beside the old man, and placed the magic casket in his hands.

“Lo,” said Prince Hazen, “I have nothing to give you, save only this. But it may be that we can yet find some way to release the spirit and that then you can have the good fortune that this will give. Take the casket--it is yours.”

In an instant, and noiselessly, the magic casket fell in pieces in Hazen’s hands, and vanished. And with a soft sound of escaping wings the little spirit rose joyously and fluttered toward Hazen, and alighted on his breast. There were sudden sweetness and light in all the place, and a happiness that bewildered Hazen--and when he looked again, the little spirit had disappeared--but his own breast was filled with something new and marvellous, as if strange doors to himself had opened, and as if the spirit had found lodging there forever.

In the clear silence following upon the babel of the little voices of all the mean and petty Selves, Hazen was aware of a voice echoing within him like music; and he knew the Thought now better than he knew himself, who had so many Selves, and he knew that when it spoke to him softly, softly, he would always hear.

“If you had kept the magic casket for yourself,” it said, “the spirit would have drooped and died. _It was only by giving the casket away that the spirit could ever be free._ It was only when the spirit became yours that you could hope to be wise and good and beautiful and worthy to be loved. And now where is the Princess Vista’s picture-book?”

All this time Hazen had not lost the picture-book of the princess, and now it was lying on the floor near where he was that night to have slept. He caught it up and turned the pages, and the old familiar pictures which the princess had shown him that morning in the window-seat made him long, as he had not longed since he had left the palace, to see her again.

He turned to the old man.

“There is a certain princess--” he began.

“Ay,” said the old man, gently, “so there is always, my prince. Go to her.”

The mere exquisite presence of that spirit in the room seemed to have healed and invigorated the old man, and he had risen to his feet, clothed with a new strength. He set about searching in the king’s wardrobe for suitable garments for his young prince, and in a cedar chest he found vestments of somewhat ancient pattern, but of so rich material and so delicately made that the ancient style did but add to their beauty.

When he had made Hazen ready, there was never a fairer prince in the world. Then the old man led him below stairs and showed him in a forgotten room, of which he himself only had the key, a box containing the jewels of the queen, his mother. So, bearing these, save one with which he purchased a horse for his needs, Prince Hazen set out for the palace of the princess.

It chanced that it was early morning when Prince Hazen entered the palace grounds which he had left as a furnace boy. And you must know that, since his leaving, years had elapsed; for though he had believed himself to have stayed with the Merry Lad but one day, and with the Bookman but a few days, and but a little time on the hills singing songs, and in byways listening to the voices of Idleness, Strength, and the rest, and lingering in that fair home where the Dwarf had sent him, yet in reality with each one he had spent a year and more, so that now he was like someone else.

But the princess’s father’s palace garden was just the same, and Hazen entered by the east gate, which still no one could lock; and to be back within the garden was as wonderful as bathing in the ocean or standing on a high mountain or seeing the dawn. His horse bore him along between the flowering shrubs and the hollyhocks; he heard the fountains plashing and the song-sparrows singing and the village bells faintly sounding; he saw the goldfish and the water-lilies gleam in the pool, and the horses cantering about the paddock. And all at once it seemed to him that the day was his and the world was his, to do with them what he would.

So he galloped round the east wing of the palace, and looked up eagerly and longingly toward the princess’s window. And there stood the Princess Vista, watching. But when she saw him, she drew far back as if she were afraid. And Prince Hazen, as he bowed low in his saddle, could think of no word to say to her that seemed a word to be said. He could only cry up to her:--

“Oh, Princess Vista. Come down! Come down! Come down--and teach me about the whole world.”

He galloped straight to the great entrance way, and leaped from his horse, and no one questioned him, for they all knew by his look that he came with great authority. And he went to the king’s library, to that room which was as wide as a lawn and as high as a tree, and filled with mystery, and waited for her, knowing that she would come.

She entered the room almost timidly, as, once upon a time, the little furnace boy had entered. And when she saw him waiting for her before the window-seat, nothing could have exceeded her terror and her wonder and her delight. And now her eyes were looking down, and she did _not_ ask him what he was doing there.

“Oh, Princess Vista,” he said softly, “I love you. I want to be loved!”

“Who are you--that want so much?” the princess asked--but her eyes knew, and her smile knew.

“Someone who has brought back your picture-book,” said Prince Hazen. “I pray you, teach it to me again.”

“Nay,” said the princess, softly, “I have taught you a wrong thing. For I have taught you that there are many suns. And instead there is only one sun, and it brings only one day--and that day is this day!”

It was so that she welcomed him back.

They went to the king, her father, and told him everything. And when he knew that his daughter loved Prince Hazen, he restored his kingdom to him, and named him his own successor. And Hazen was crowned king, with much magnificence, and his father’s courtiers, who were living, were returned to his court, and that wise, wonderful old man, who had shown him the inside of his own head, was given a place of honour near the king.

But on the day of the coronation, louder than the shouts of the people, and nearer even than the voice of his queen, sounded that voice of the wise and good Self, which was but the Thought, deep within the soul of the king:--

“Hail to Hazen--King of All His Selves!”

XVI

THE WALK

“What’s the latest you ever stayed up?” Delia demanded of Mary Elizabeth and me.

“I sat up till ten o’clock once when my aunt was coming,” I boasted.

“Once I was on a train that got in at twelve o’clock,” said Mary Elizabeth, thoughtfully, “but I was asleep till the train got in. Would you call that sitting up till twelve o’clock?”

On the whole, Delia and I decided that you could not impartially call it so, and Mary Elizabeth conceded the point. Her next best experience was dated at only half past nine.

“I was up till eleven o’clock lots of times.” Delia threw out carelessly.

We regarded her with awe. Here was another glory for her list. Already we knew that she had slept in a sleeping car, patted an elephant, and swum four strokes.

“What’s the earliest you ever got up?” Delia pursued.

Here, too, we proved to have nothing to compete with the order of Delia’s risings. However, this might yet be mended. There seemed never to be the same household ban on getting up early that there was on staying up late.

“Let’s get up some morning before four o’clock and take a walk,” I suggested.

“My brother got up at half past three once,” Mary Elizabeth announced.

“Well,” I said, “let’s get up at half past three. Let’s do it to-morrow morning.”

Mary Elizabeth and I had stretched a string from a little bell at the head of her bed to a little bell at the head of my bed. This the authorities permitted us to ring so long as there was discernible a light, or any other fixed signal, at the two windows; and also after seven o’clock in the morning. But of course the time when we both longed most frantically to pull the cord was when either woke at night and lay alone in the darkness. In the night I used to put my hand on the string and think how, by a touch, I could waken Mary Elizabeth, just as if she were in my room, just as if we were hand in hand. I used to think what joy it would be if all little children on the same side of the ocean were similarly provided, and if no one interfered. A little code of signals arose in my mind, a kind of secret code which should be heard by nobody save those for whom they were intended--for sick children, for frightened children, for children just having a bad dream, for motherless children, for cold or tired or lonely children, for all children sleepless for any cause. I used to wish that little signals like this could be rung for all unhappy children, night or day. Why, with all their inventions, had not grown people invented this? Of course they would never make things any harder for us than they could help (we thought). But why had they not done this thing to make things easier?

The half past three proposal was unanimously vetoed within doors: We might rise at five o’clock, no earlier. This somewhat took edge from the adventure, but we accepted it as next best. Delia was to be waked by an alarm clock. Mary Elizabeth and I felt that, by some mysterious means, we could waken ourselves; and we two agreed to call each other, so to say, by the bells.

When I did waken, it was still quite dark, and when I had found light and a clock, I saw that it was only a little after three. As I had gone to bed at seven, I was wide awake at three; and it occurred to me that I would stay up till time to call Mary Elizabeth. This would be at half past four. Besides, stopping up then presented an undoubted advantage: It enabled me to skip my bath. Clearly I could not, with courtesy, risk rousing the household with many waters.

I dressed in the dark, braided my own hair in the dark--by now I could do this save that the plait, when I brought it over my shoulder, still would assume a jog--and sat down by the open window. It was one of the large nights ... for some nights are undeniably larger than others. When I was on the street with my hand in a grown-up hand, the night was invariably bounded by trees, fences, houses, lawns, horse-blocks, and the like. But when I stepped to the door alone at night, I always noticed that it stretched endlessly away. So it was now. I could slip out the screen, as I had discovered earlier in the season when I had felt the need of feeding a nest of house-wrens in the bird-house below my sill--and I took out the screen now, and leaned out in the darkness. The stars seemed very near--I am always glad that I did not know how far away they are, for they looked so friendly near. If only, I used to think, the clouds would form _behind_ the stars and leave them all shiny and blurry bright in the rain. What were they? How came they to be in our world’s sky?

I suppose that I had been ten minutes at the window that morning when I saw a light briefly flash in Mary Elizabeth’s window. Instantly, I softly pulled my bell. She answered, and then I could see her, dim in the window once more dark.

“It isn’t time yet!” she called softly--our houses were very near.

“Not yet,” I answered, “but I’m going to stay up.”

Mary Elizabeth briefly considered this.

“What for?” she propounded.

I had not thought what for.

“To--why to be up early,” I answered confidently. “I’m all dressed.”

The defence must have carried conviction.

“I will, too,” Mary Elizabeth concluded.

She disappeared and, after a suitable time, reappeared at the window, presumably fully clothed. I detached the bell from my bed and sat with it in my hand, and I found afterward that she had done the same. From time to time we each gave the cord a slight, ecstatic pull. The whole mystery of the great night lay in those gentle signals.

It is unfortunate to have to confess that, after a time, the mystery palled. But it did. Stars, wide, dark, moonless lawn, empty street, all these blurred and merged in a single impression. This was one of chilliness. Even calling through the night at intervals, and at the imminent risk of being heard, lost its charm, because after a little while there was nothing left to call. “How still it is!” and “Nobody but us is up in town,” and “Won’t Delia be mad?” lose their edge when repeated for about the third time each. Moreover, I was obliged to face a new foe: I was getting sleepy.

Without undue disturbance of the cord, I managed to consult the clock once more. It was five minutes of four. There remained more than an hour to wait! It was I who capitulated.

“Mary Elizabeth,” I said waveringly, “would you care very much if I was to lay down just a little to rest my eyes?”

“No, I wouldn’t care,” came with significant alacrity. “I will, too.”

I lay down on the covers and pulled a comforter about me. As I drifted off I remember wondering how the dark ever kept awake all night. For it was awake. To know that one had only to listen.

We all had a signal which we called a “trill,” made by tongue and teeth, with almost the force of a boy and a blade of grass. This, produced furiously beneath my window, was what wakened me. Delia stood between the two houses, engaged with such absorption in manufacturing this sound that she failed to see me at the window. A moment after I had hailed her, Mary Elizabeth appeared at her window, looking distinctly distraught.