THE ENCHANTED PRINCESS
THE sun was shining o’er the sea, shining with all its might, and had
been doing so for two hours, but no one in Hilarity Hall had awakened to
the fact. A loud rap at the kitchen door partially roused sleepy Jessie,
who murmured, “Yes, mamma,” and dozed off again. But Betty was
thoroughly awakened by the sound, and, giving Jessie a shake, she
exclaimed: “I believe it’s that horde of men again!” Then, springing up,
she began to dress hastily.
The knocking not only continued but was supplemented by other peremptory
sounds,—a ring at the front-door bell, a toot on a tin fish-horn, the
postman’s whistle,—all of which were responded to by frantic barkings
from Timmy Loo, who tore madly from one door to another, bouncing at
last into Betty’s room and waltzing before her on his hind legs. His fat
little body was quivering with excitement, and his bright eyes blinked
through the wispy locks that hung over them.
But Betty was struggling with a stiff shirt-waist and a pair of
sleeve-links, and her fruitless endeavors to bring them into harmony
rendered her incapable of good work in that direction. Then Timmy Loo
grew wheedlesome and patted Betty’s foot, as was his custom when he
wanted anybody to go anywhere. Betty pushed him aside, a little
impatiently it seemed to Tim, and he ran to Jessie, who was enjoying the
added luxury of Betty’s pillow, and looking as if she would stay there
undisturbed though China fell.
But the second-story contingent was also aroused by this time, and six
frowzled heads hung over the banister and twelve bare feet poked
themselves between the rails.
“Can’t you go, Betty?” said Marguerite’s plaintive voice.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” sang out Marjorie, as she skipped back to
her room and made things fly.
“Oh, hang!” said Betty, throwing her links down on the bureau and
flinging her shirt-waist across the room.
“Take mine, dear,” said Jessie, placidly; “it’s on that chair, and the
buttons are all in it.”
Betty’s face cleared, and she slipped on Jessie’s waist in a jiffy, and
was at the front door in another.
There she found the postman and a pleasant-faced Irish girl who said:
“I’m Rosie, mum.”
“You are indeed,” said Betty, looking at her red cheeks; “come in.”
Just then Hester landed in the lower hall with a jump which had included
the last four stairs.
“I’m glad to see you, Rosie,” said she, kindly; “come along with us and
we’ll face the bombardment.”
Rosie, looking somewhat bewildered, followed the two girls to the
kitchen. Going through, Betty unlocked the door which opened into a sort
of outer kitchen or shed with latticed and morning-gloried walls. The
door of the shed too was barred, and when this was finally unfastened,
instead of the looked-for multitude they saw only the red-haired grocer
sitting dejectedly on the stump of a tree.
He took off his cap as he saw the girls, and his hair blazed merrily in
the sunshine.
“Morning, young ladies,” said he; “the fish-man he couldn’t wait no
longer, and the vegetable-man likewise was in a hurry. But I sez, I’ll
wait, fer like as not there’ll be things you fergot overnight, besides
fresh orders.”
“Yes,” said Hester, abstractedly; “but couldn’t you come round again
later? We’re—we haven’t decided yet what we _do_ want.”
“Well, no, mum, I couldn’t call later—not to say _later_. I’ll be round
again to _de_liver the goods, but not to take orders.”
“I’ll tell you what, Hester,” said Betty; “don’t order now, and after
breakfast some of us can ride over on our wheels and leave the order in
time for him to bring the things. Er—what shall I call you, sir?”
“Dan’l, mum.”
“Well, Daniel, we won’t give you any order now, but we’ll send it over
to the store.”
“All right, mum”; and looking a little injured, the red-haired one
shambled off.
“Now,” said Betty, “we must have breakfast first of all; and as I cooked
most of the dinner last night, it isn’t my turn this morning.
Marguerite’s the Matron of this establishment, and I think she ought to
assume some responsibility.”
“So do I,” said Betty; “let’s go and read the Riot Act to her.”
“No,” said Hester; “let’s write a mandamus or habeas corpus or whatever
they call it, and send it up to her by Rosie, and we’ll go for a spin on
our wheels.”
Whisking a leaf off the order-pad, Betty wrote in large letters:
MATRON MARGUERITE
OF
HILARITY HALL
WILL PREPARE AND SERVE
BREAKFAST
THIS (FRIDAY) MORNING
IN THE
REFECTORY
COVERS LAID FOR EIGHT
“There, Rosie; take that upstairs, please, and knock at the first door
at the head of the stairs, and give this to the young lady with the
fly-away yellow hair: the one that came to see you last night, you
know—Miss Marguerite.”
“Yes, mum,” said Rosie.
Then Hester and Betty each drank a tumblerful of the fresh milk Farmer
Hobbs had brought, and in great glee started off on their wheels, while
Timmy Loo scampered along behind.
“It seems mean to run away,” said Hester; but Betty replied:
“Not at all; it’s only fair that Daisy should do some work. Let’s go
around by the church and down that road to the beach.”
Rosie started obediently on her errand; but Jessie stopped her as she
passed the door, inquiring:
“Where did the girls go?”
“I cudden’t tell ye, miss; they wint galloping away on their bicycles.”
“They did! What about breakfast?”
“They towld me to give this note to Miss Margreet.”
“Oho!” said Jessie, reading the notice, “they did, did they? Well, take
it up, Rosie.” And Jessie sauntered out on the piazza and sniffed the
salt morning air.
Rosie went upstairs with the note, but her knock at the door received no
response. After another gentle rap she opened the door, to find the room
vacated. The bed-clothing was thrown back and the windows wide open.
“Faix, they’ve been shpirited away,” thought the astonished maid. “If
this ain’t the quarest family! I’ll be l’avin’ if things goes on like
this.”
Uncertain how to proceed, she returned to the kitchen, and sat down with
folded hands to await developments.
Helen came downstairs next. Seeing nobody around, she went into the
kitchen, and looked amazed at the solitary Rosie.
“Where _is_ everybody?” began Helen.
“Sure, I don’t know, mum. Thim as was in the house wint out, and the
rest was gone before.”
“Well, of all performances!” And Helen wandered out to the front
veranda, and discovered Jessie there.
Now the front door of Hilarity Hall was at the side, and so faced Aunt
Molly’s front door, which was also on the side. And just as the two
puzzled-looking maidens met on their veranda, Aunt Molly stepped out on
hers.
“Good morning, girlies! Had your breakfast?”
“No,” said they.
“Come over and breakfast with us,” cried jolly Uncle Ned, not expecting
at all that they would do so.
But Helen replied: “Indeed we will; for I’m awfully hungry, and it
doesn’t look at all hopeful over here.” And the two girls ran across and
gratefully seated themselves at Aunt Molly’s cozy table.
And that’s how it happened that the mystified Rosie waited alone in the
silent kitchen until she could stand it no longer, and resolved to take
her hat and go home. But first she thought she would go upstairs and
make sure that the fairy-like “Miss Margreet” had not reappeared in the
same mysterious fashion in which she must have taken her departure.
But no, she found the room still empty.
Uncertain what to do, she opened the door of the next room, and there
were Millicent and Marjorie, who had returned to bed and to sleep, just
waking up, startled at the sudden apparition.
The apparition was startled, too, and exclaimed:
“Oh, young ladies, I was thot shcared! Sure there’s nobody in the house
at all, at all—savin’ your prisince.”
Millicent could think of no explanation for this extraordinary
statement, but that didn’t bother her in the least. Here was a dramatic
situation just to her mind, and she grasped it at once.
“Who are you?” she said in a low, mysterious whisper.
“Rosie O’Neill, miss,” said the Irish girl, fascinated by Millicent’s
gaze.
“Roseoneal,” continued Millicent, pronouncing it as if it were one word,
and speaking in a thrilling tone, “I am a Princess—the Princess
Millikens. This lady beside me is my first gold-stick in waiting. But,
alas! we are under an enchantment, and dare not leave this bed. If I
were to set foot to the floor I should at once be changed into a red
dragon breathing forth fire and flames.”
“Oh, Lor’, miss!” exclaimed Rosie, clasping her hands and gazing,
horror-stricken, at Millicent’s tragic face.
“But there is one thing that will break the direful spell,” went on the
mendacious maiden. “If any one should bring me a mug of mead and a
golden pomegranate, I would be freed from the enchantment and regain my
liberty.”
“What’s thim things, miss? Could I get ’em fer ye?”
“Alas, no! they grow in the land of the cypress and myrtle, where
Afric’s sunny fountains roll down their golden sand. But a base
imitation _might_ answer the purpose. Is there aught of food below?”
[Illustration: “‘WHO ARE YOU?’ SHE SAID IN A LOW, MYSTERIOUS WHISPER.”]
“Plenty of milk an’ bread, miss; an’ I can make you a toast.”
“Roseoneal, truly thou art a man-of-infinite-resource-and-sagacity. But,
stay! Can you indeed make a golden toast which may play the part of the
missing pomegranate? I want no slice of charred bread. Listen! I will
give minute directions which, if faithfully carried out, _may_ be the
means of releasing my Royal Highness and my gold-stick, who is, alas!
dumb and all unable to speak for herself, from our unfortunate
predicament. First, cut two slices from last night’s loaf—this
morning’s bread is too fresh to toast. Let them be of even thickness,
about the thickness of—of a lead-pencil. Then, having trimmed off the
upper crusts, lay them in the oven—the slices, I mean, not the crusts.
Then get the little Japanese tray from the sideboard, and lay on it a
fresh napkin from the upper drawer; find one that fits. Then add two of
those gold-edged plates and two thin glass tumblers. Now pour milk in
the tumblers until it reaches three quarters of an inch from the top;
but have a care that no drip or drop appears on the glass above the
sea-level. Have a bit of butter in readiness. And now comes the exciting
part. Toast your bread over a clear, bright fire. Have you one handy?”
“Yes, miss—Princess, I mean.”
“That’s right. Or say, ‘Yes, your Royal Highness.’ Well, then, make your
toast with the greatest care; brown first one side and then the other
until each is a clear, golden crisp that _may_ deceive the enchanter
into thinking it is the golden pomegranate. Then, the moment it is done,
spread it lightly with the bit of butter, lay it on the plate, and fly
upstairs, that we may nibble the portion in all its pristine hotness.
Hast thou understood me, O maiden?”
“Yes, your Royal Highness; but wouldn’t you like some jam?”
“Roseoneal, I am your friend, and therefore your future is assured.
Right heartily will I like jam, if jam there be. Place a generous
spoonful on a small glass saucer, but prepare it ere thou toastest thy
toast. And lay also on the tray a silver knife and spoon. Now hie thee
to thy task, and we may yet cheat the enchanter of his dire intent. But
beware of a crumb or a drop out of place! All is lost unless it be
conveyed hither with neatness and despatch. And before you go please
hand me my gold crown which is on the bureau.”
“I don’t see it, your Highness; there’s nothing here but brushes and
hair-pins.”
“What! has my crown been stolen? Alackaday! What shall I do? Bring me
then a bunch of goldenrod, and we may devise a temporary coronet that
shall at least proclaim my rank and station. Disappear!” And Millicent
waved her hands with such an impressive gesture that Rosie shot out of
the door as if under the influence of a real enchantment. Marjorie lay
back on her pillows choking with laughter at Millicent’s dramatics, and
wondering whether Rosie would really bring them some breakfast.