When we had lived for a fortnight in Carlisle we belonged there, and the
freedom of all its small fry was conferred on us. With Peter and Dan,
with Felicity and Cecily and the Story Girl, with pale, gray-eyed little
Sara Ray, we were boon companions. We went to school, of course;
and certain home chores were assigned to each of us for the faithful
performance of which we were held responsible. But we had long hours for
play. Even Peter had plenty of spare time when the planting was over.
We got along very well with each other in the main, in spite of some
minor differences of opinion. As for the grown-up denizens of our small
world, they suited us also.
We adored Aunt Olivia; she was pretty and merry and kind; and, above
all, she had mastered to perfection the rare art of letting children
alone. If we kept ourselves tolerably clean, and refrained from
quarrelling or talking slang, Aunt Olivia did not worry us. Aunt Janet,
on the contrary, gave us so much good advice and was so constantly
telling us to do this or not to do the other thing, that we could not
remember half her instructions, and did not try.
Uncle Roger was, as we had been informed, quite jolly and fond of
teasing. We liked him; but we had an uncomfortable feeling that the
meaning of his remarks was not always that which met the ear. Sometimes
we believed Uncle Roger was making fun of us, and the deadly seriousness
of youth in us resented that.
To Uncle Alec we gave our warmest love. We felt that we always had a
friend at court in Uncle Alec, no matter what we did or left undone. And
we never had to turn HIS speeches inside out to discover their meaning.
The social life of juvenile Carlisle centred in the day and Sunday
Schools. We were especially interested in our Sunday School, for we were
fortunate enough to be assigned to a teacher who made our lessons so
interesting that we no longer regarded Sunday School attendance as
a disagreeable weekly duty; but instead looked forward to it with
pleasure, and tried to carry out our teacher’s gentle precepts--at least
on Mondays and Tuesdays. I am afraid the remembrance grew a little dim
the rest of the week.
She was also deeply interested in missions; and one talk on this subject
inspired the Story Girl to do a little home missionary work on her own
account. The only thing she could think of, along this line, was to
persuade Peter to go to church.
Felicity did not approve of the design, and said so plainly.
“He won’t know how to behave, for he’s never been inside a church door
in his life,” she warned the Story Girl. “He’ll likely do something
awful, and then you’ll feel ashamed and wish you’d never asked him to
go, and we’ll all be disgraced. It’s all right to have our mite boxes
for the heathen, and send missionaries to them. They’re far away and we
don’t have to associate with them. But I don’t want to have to sit in a
pew with a hired boy.”
But the Story Girl undauntedly continued to coax the reluctant Peter. It
was not an easy matter. Peter did not come of a churchgoing stock; and
besides, he alleged, he had not yet made up his mind whether to be a
Presbyterian or a Methodist.
“It isn’t a bit of difference which you are,” pleaded the Story Girl.
“They both go to heaven.”
“But one way must be easier or better than the other, or else they’d all
be one kind,” argued Peter. “I want to find the easiest way. And I’ve
got a hankering after the Methodists. My Aunt Jane was a Methodist.”
“Isn’t she one still?” asked Felicity pertly.
“Well, I don’t know exactly. She’s dead,” said Peter rebukingly. “Do
people go on being just the same after they’re dead?”
“No, of course not. They’re angels then--not Methodists or anything, but
just angels. That is, if they go to heaven.”
“S’posen they went to the other place?”
But Felicity’s theology broke down at this point. She turned her back on
Peter and walked disdainfully away.
The Story Girl returned to the main point with a new argument.
“We have such a lovely minister, Peter. He looks just like the picture
of St. John my father sent me, only he is old and his hair is white.
I know you’d like him. And even if you are going to be a Methodist it
won’t hurt you to go to the Presbyterian church. The nearest Methodist
church is six miles away, at Markdale, and you can’t attend there just
now. Go to the Presbyterian church until you’re old enough to have a
horse.”
“But s’posen I got too fond of being Presbyterian and couldn’t change if
I wanted to?” objected Peter.
Altogether, the Story Girl had a hard time of it; but she persevered;
and one day she came to us with the announcement that Peter had yielded.
“He’s going to church with us to-morrow,” she said triumphantly.
We were out in Uncle Roger’s hill pasture, sitting on some smooth, round
stones under a clump of birches. Behind us was an old gray fence, with
violets and dandelions thick in its corners. Below us was the Carlisle
valley, with its orchard-embowered homesteads, and fertile meadows. Its
upper end was dim with a delicate spring mist. Winds blew up the field
like wave upon wave of sweet savour--spice of bracken and balsam.
We were eating little jam “turnovers,” which Felicity had made for us.
Felicity’s turnovers were perfection. I looked at her and wondered why
it was not enough that she should be so pretty and capable of making
such turnovers. If she were only more interesting! Felicity had not a
particle of the nameless charm and allurement which hung about every
motion of the Story Girl, and made itself manifest in her lightest word
and most careless glance. Ah well, one cannot have every good gift! The
Story Girl had no dimples at her slim, brown wrists.
We all enjoyed our turnovers except Sara Ray. She ate hers but she
knew she should not have done so. Her mother did not approve of snacks
between meals, or of jam turnovers at any time. Once, when Sara was in a
brown study, I asked her what she was thinking of.
“I’m trying to think of something ma hasn’t forbid,” she answered with a
sigh.
We were all glad to hear that Peter was going to church, except
Felicity. She was full of gloomy forebodings and warnings.
“I’m surprised at you, Felicity King,” said Cecily severely. “You ought
to be glad that poor boy is going to get started in the right way.”
“There’s a great big patch on his best pair of trousers,” protested
Felicity.
“Well, that’s better than a hole,” said the Story Girl, addressing
herself daintily to her turnover. “God won’t notice the patch.”
“No, but the Carlisle people will,” retorted Felicity, in a tone which
implied that what the Carlisle people thought was far more important.
“And I don’t believe that Peter has got a decent stocking to his name.
What will you feel like if he goes to church with the skin of his legs
showing through the holes, Miss Story Girl?”
“I’m not a bit afraid,” said the Story Girl staunchly. “Peter knows
better than that.”
“Well, all I hope is that he’ll wash behind his ears,” said Felicity
resignedly.
“How is Pat to-day?” asked Cecily, by way of changing the conversation.
“Pat isn’t a bit better. He just mopes about the kitchen,” said the
Story Girl anxiously. “I went out to the barn and I saw a mouse. I had
a stick in my hand and I fetched a swipe at it--so. I killed it stone
dead. Then I took it in to Paddy. Will you believe it? He wouldn’t even
look at it. I’m so worried. Uncle Roger says he needs a dose of physic.
But how is he to be made take it, that’s the question. I mixed a powder
in some milk and tried to pour it down his throat while Peter held him.
Just look at the scratches I got! And the milk went everywhere except
down Pat’s throat.”
“Wouldn’t it be awful if--if anything happened to Pat?” whispered
Cecily.
“Well, we could have a jolly funeral, you know,” said Dan.
We looked at him in such horror that Dan hastened to apologize.
“I’d be awful sorry myself if Pat died. But if he DID, we’d have to give
him the right kind of a funeral,” he protested. “Why, Paddy just seems
like one of the family.”
The Story Girl finished her turnover, and stretched herself out on the
grasses, pillowing her chin in her hands and looking at the sky. She was
bare headed, as usual, and her scarlet ribbon was bound filletwise about
her head. She had twined freshly plucked dandelions around it and the
effect was that of a crown of brilliant golden stars on her sleek, brown
curls.
“Look at that long, thin, lacy cloud up there,” she said. “What does it
make you think of, girls?”
“A wedding veil,” said Cecily.
“That is just what it is--the Wedding Veil of the Proud Princess. I
know a story about it. I read it in a book. Once upon a time”--the Story
Girl’s eyes grew dreamy, and her accents floated away on the summer
air like wind-blown rose petals--“there was a princess who was the most
beautiful princess in the world, and kings from all lands came to woo
her for a bride. But she was as proud as she was beautiful. She laughed
all her suitors to scorn. And when her father urged her to choose one of
them as her husband she drew herself up haughtily--so--”
The Story Girl sprang to her feet and for a moment we saw the proud
princess of the old tale in all her scornful loveliness--
“and she said,
“‘I will not wed until a king comes who can conquer all kings. Then I
shall be the wife of the king of the world and no one can hold herself
higher than I.’
“So every king went to war to prove that he could conquer every one
else, and there was a great deal of bloodshed and misery. But the proud
princess laughed and sang, and she and her maidens worked at a wonderful
lace veil which she meant to wear when the king of all kings came. It
was a very beautiful veil; but her maidens whispered that a man had died
and a woman’s heart had broken for every stitch set in it.
“Just when a king thought he had conquered everybody some other king
would come and conquer HIM; and so it went on until it did not seem
likely the proud princess would ever get a husband at all. But still
her pride was so great that she would not yield, even though everybody
except the kings who wanted to marry her, hated her for the suffering
she had caused. One day a horn was blown at the palace gate; and there
was one tall man in complete armor with his visor down, riding on a
white horse. When he said he had come to marry the princess every one
laughed, for he had no retinue and no beautiful apparel, and no golden
crown.
“‘But I am the king who conquers all kings,’ he said.
“‘You must prove it before I shall marry you,’ said the proud princess.
But she trembled and turned pale, for there was something in his voice
that frightened her. And when he laughed, his laughter was still more
dreadful.
“‘I can easily prove it, beautiful princess,’ he said, ‘but you must
go with me to my kingdom for the proof. Marry me now, and you and I and
your father and all your court will ride straightway to my kingdom; and
if you are not satisfied then that I am the king who conquers all kings
you may give me back my ring and return home free of me forever more.’
“It was a strange wooing and the friends of the princess begged her to
refuse. But her pride whispered that it would be such a wonderful thing
to be the queen of the king of the world; so she consented; and her
maidens dressed her, and put on the long lace veil that had been so many
years a-making. Then they were married at once, but the bridegroom
never lifted his visor and no one saw his face. The proud princess held
herself more proudly than ever, but she was as white as her veil. And
there was no laughter or merry-making, such as should be at a wedding,
and every one looked at every one else with fear in his eyes.
“After the wedding the bridegroom lifted his bride before him on his
white horse, and her father and all the members of his court mounted,
too, and rode after them. On and on they rode, and the skies grew darker
and the wind blew and wailed, and the shades of evening came down. And
just in the twilight they rode into a dark valley, filled with tombs and
graves.
“‘Why have you brought me here?’ cried the proud princess angrily.
“‘This is my kingdom,’ he answered. ‘These are the tombs of the kings I
have conquered. Behold me, beautiful princess. I am Death!’
“He lifted his visor. All saw his awful face. The proud princess
shrieked.
“‘Come to my arms, my bride,’ he cried. ‘I have won you fairly. I am the
king who conquers all kings!’
“He clasped her fainting form to his breast and spurred his white horse
to the tombs. A tempest of rain broke over the valley and blotted them
from sight. Very sadly the old king and courtiers rode home, and never,
never again did human eye behold the proud princess. But when those
long, white clouds sweep across the sky, the country people in the land
where she lived say, ‘Look you, there is the Wedding Veil of the Proud
Princess.’”
The weird spell of the tale rested on us for some moments after the
Story Girl had finished. We had walked with her in the place of death
and grown cold with the horror that chilled the heart of the poor
princess. Dan presently broke the spell.
“You see it doesn’t do to be too proud, Felicity,” he remarked, giving
her a poke. “You’d better not say too much about Peter’s patches.”