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FAIRIES AFIELD
BY MRS. MOLESWORTH
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
GERTRUDE DEMAIN HAMMOND
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1911
[Illustration]
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO
ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
* * * * *
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
TO ONE WHO LOVES FAIRY STORIES
THE REVEREND JOHN CYRIL HOWELL
155 Sloane Street, S.W.
_May 8, 1911._
* * * * *
[Illustration: Pretty Ysenda.]
CONTENTS
PAGE
"ASK THE ROBIN" 1
A MAGIC TABLE 60
THE WEATHER MAIDEN 121
THE ENCHANTED TRUNKS 176
ILLUSTRATIONS
TO FACE PAGE
PRETTY YSENDA (P. 66) _Frontispiece_
"IT MAKES ME THINK OF ALL SORTS OF LOVELY
SUMMER THINGS" 8
WITH A WONDERFUL NOTE OF EXCEEDING JOY, HE
SPREAD HIS WINGS AND FLEW ROUND THE
BOWER, RETURNING AGAIN TO PERCH ON THE
CHILD'S STILL OUTSTRETCHED HAND, AS IF IN
GRATITUDE 52
"YOUR MOTIVE WAS PURE KINDNESS--FREE FROM
ALL SELFISHNESS, THEREFORE YOU SUCCEEDED" 119
"SO YOU HAVE COME AT LAST, LITTLE MAIDEN" 136
SHE CAUGHT SIGHT OF A TINY FIGURE PEERING AT
HER FROM BEHIND THE RUBBISH 150
STOPPED AND KISSED IT GENTLY AND RESPECTFULLY 214
LO AND BEHOLD--COUSIN FELICITY HAD VANISHED 239
"Ask the Robin"
Once upon a time--a fairly long ago time--there lived in a neat little
cottage two young girls who were sisters. If you had gone to see them on
a bright warm summer's day, I daresay you would have envied them and
their life and their lot. For they were pretty and healthy and they
loved each other dearly, and the cottage was charming to look at, in its
dress of clustering roses and honeysuckle and traveller's joy, and other
sweet and beautiful climbing, flowering plants. Furthermore, it stood in
a little garden filled with treasures of different kinds, pansies, of
which there was a great variety, and lilies and mignonette and all the
flowers one loves to see in an old-fashioned garden of the kind. And the
sisters kept it in perfect order, the beds were always raked, there was
never a weed to be seen, the tiny plots of grass were like velvet.
In spring too it was very pretty, when first the snowdrops and then the
crocuses and primroses and violets woke up after their long winter
sleep, and in autumn also there was a show of beauties, dahlias and
chrysanthemums and kitchen pokers and other pretty things of the season.
And indeed, even in winter, the place had its charm, of evergreen shrubs
and bright berries and--till the snow came and made an end of all but
the hardiest plants, the still remaining lovely variegated leaves of
late autumn.
No care or skill was wanting to keep the whole as pretty as could
possibly be, for the sisters' father was a gardener, and from him they
had learnt both love of growing things and knowledge of all needed for
their welfare. And not so very long before this story begins I doubt if
Aria or Linde--these were the girls' names--cared what time of year it
was, for all were happy days to them. Glowing summer, sparkling spring,
rich mellow autumn, even winter, often cold and grey--all brought joy
and gladness, till one sad night terrible sorrow fell upon them. Their
father was drowned on his way home from market, in crossing a swollen
stream, whose rushing waters broke down the little wooden bridge, over
which in the darkness he was driving his small pony-cart. And as the
poor girls' mother had died years before, they were now truly orphans.
The neighbours--such as there were, for there were but few--were sorry
for them and kind, as far as they could be. But it was a lonely part of
the world. The gardens where the drowned man had been one of the
labourers belonged to a rich landowner who seldom visited his property,
and all that the place produced was sent to the nearest town and there
sold. Thus there was no one of importance to take much interest in Aria
or Linde, except the steward of the castle, who advised them to look for
situations as servants, and when they wept and said they could not bear
to be parted, he got angry and called them fools and left them alone.
For a short time they got on pretty well. They were still very
young--Aria barely seventeen and Linde only fourteen, but they were
active and capable and ready-witted, and their father had managed to
save a little, though, alas, but a little.
Aria made it last as long as she possibly could. It was summer, and they
needed but small fires and cheaper clothing and even--so it seemed to
them--simpler food than in the cold weather. Then they were able to
earn a fair amount by odd work in the hay-fields and so on, when work
was at its best. And once a week, at least, they trudged all the way to
market laden with their loveliest flowers, tied up with great taste and
care, and sometimes, as the season advanced, baskets full of the wild
fruit that they gathered in the forest hard by. Have I told you that
their home was on the edge of a forest? No? Ah well, never mind, we
shall hear more of the forest by and by.
But summer, and even autumn, only stay for their appointed time. As they
stood at the cottage door one morning late in October, Aria's face grew
very grave. It was a chilly day, the sky overcast and steely, a sort of
sighing in the air as if the spirits of the summer and the sunshine were
bidding the world a reluctant farewell, frightened away by the
fast-approaching winter.
It was Friday, the day before the market, to which so far they had never
missed wending their way, even if the weather were wet or stormy, as it
must be now and then at all times of the year.
"How dull and cold it is!" said Linde with a little shiver. "Aria, I
wish we didn't need to go all the way to market to-morrow, if it's
going to be like this."
Aria looked at her without speaking for a moment. Then she said very
seriously:
"You are thoughtless, Linde, but then of course you are much younger
than I, poor child. You say you wish we need not go to the town
to-morrow? My dear, I am only afraid that your wish will come true! I
don't see what we have to take to market--the fruit is all over and we
have but very few flowers to tie up."
Linde's face fell. Then she brightened up a little.
"There are lots of lovely leaves," she said.
Aria glanced over the garden.
"Yes," she replied. "I think we may manage two or three good bunches for
to-morrow, and possibly for another Saturday too. And--" she went on,
"it has struck me that some of the townsfolk, who are always glad to buy
our flowers, might care for our dried rose-leaves--we have quite a large
jar-full, you know."
Linde clapped her hands.
"What a good idea!" she cried. "Oh I'm sure the leaves would sell. So
few of the ladies in the town have proper gardens of their own."
"Or time to look after them, luckily for us," said Aria, "otherwise our
flowers would not be in such request."
For though little Linde spoke of their customers as "ladies," the good
housekeepers of the small but busy town were mostly of the working-class
themselves--that is to say, wives or mothers of the men employed in the
china manufactories on which the place depended, and in those days,
long, long before railway lines, there were no such things as flower
shops. The only chance of getting fresh garden produce was the market.
"Luckily for us too," Aria went on, "there are no great gardens near,
except at the castle, and father often said it was hard work to keep the
countess supplied with flowers enough, even though she sent express
messengers for them twice a week."
"All the same," said Linde rather dolefully, "I wish father hadn't been
a gardener. Flowers are so delicate and wither so soon. If we'd had a
little dairy now--or even poultry, and could have sold butter and eggs,
and chickens. They'd have gone on all the year round."
"Linde, dear, father never had money enough to buy cows or even
poultry," said Aria with a sigh. "And it would have been difficult to
get much to the market, so far off as it is, without a cart and pony,
and how could we have bought these?"
For the pony which had perished with the poor man was the property of
his master, though he was sometimes allowed to carry shrubs and bulbs of
his own to market, with the castle vegetables, when he went to sell them
at the town.
Linde did not answer. Her spirits were very apt to go up and down all in
a minute, so Aria spoke again more cheerfully.
"Yes," she said, "I'm glad I thought of the rose-leaves. They are really
most fragrant still. I lifted the lid yesterday for a moment. The powder
that father gave me to throw among them was wonderfully good. I wish we
had more of it."
"Is it quite done?" asked Linde.
"Very nearly. It was given to mother, you know, when she was a bride by
an old woman who was her godmother. She declared it had fairy power and
would never grow stale. And so it has proved. We may safely promise any
who buy the leaves that they will scent their linen even better than
lavender, and more lastingly. Come along, Linde, and let's see how we
can best take a good parcel of them with us to-morrow," and Linde's
interest revived again, as she followed her sister indoors.
The dried leaves--what are often called "pot pourri," though the simple
sisters had never heard the name--were kept in a very large jar, of
old-fashioned stoneware. It had a lid, and would nowadays be highly
valued as rare and antique. But of this its owners knew nothing. They
only loved it for their parents' sake, as it too had been a wedding gift
from the godmother. And whence she had got it no one had ever known. She
was herself a rather mysterious person. Folks used to say--so Aria
remembered having heard when she was a little girl, helping her mother
to gather rose-leaves to fill the jar--that there was something of fairy
nature about her.
"And however that may have been," said Aria, as she repeated this to
Linde, "certainly her gifts have proved lasting. The jar has been
knocked over several times, you know, and never broken, and the powder
is as fresh as a newly gathered rose."
"Yes," Linde agreed, after a good long sniff at the jar's contents.
"It's delicious. It makes me think of all sorts of lovely summer
things."
[Illustration: "It makes me think of all sorts of lovely summer things."]
Then they consulted as to how they could best carry the precious
leaves to the market for sale.
"We needn't take them _all_," pleaded Linde. "I do wish we needn't sell
any. It seems a shame."
"Almost," her sister replied, "but it can't be helped. If only I had had
more of the powder," she repeated, "we might have collected and dried
quantities of rose-leaves."
"Or if we knew how to make the powder," said Linde.
But that knowledge was not to be had.
Aria had reached down the jar, which stood on a high shelf in a corner,
and the fragrance seemed to fill the room.
"Leave off sniffing it, Linde, dear," she said, for the child kept
bending over it, "and let us plan how to take the leaves to market. We
can't of course carry the jar, but it wouldn't do only to pack them in a
sheet of paper. Ah, I have it," and she ran up the tiny ladder-like
staircase which led to their little bedroom above, returning with a
good-sized old-fashioned box or canister of tin, with a firm lid. "The
very thing," she exclaimed joyously.
"It will be dreadfully clumsy and heavy to carry," objected Linde.
"Oh no, I can easily manage it, and a bunch or two of flowers as well,
without being overladen," said Aria. "And see here, Linde, I will take
this little cup," and she held up a small mug of lustre ware, "I fancy
it will hold about two ounces weight of the leaves. For that quantity
say we charge half a groat--and if we are lucky enough to sell twenty or
even twelve cups full, that will get us through next week beautifully."
Then she filled the little cup and weighed its contents. They were just
over her idea. And Linde's spirits rose again as she helped her sister
to cleanse the canister from every speck of dust or mould and then to
fill it with the perfumed leaves.
All that day the cottage seemed pervaded by the fragrance. Accidentally
a few of the leaves and some grains of the powder fell among Linde's
curly hair, and when she brushed it out at night she was amused at its
scent. It was not to be wondered at perhaps, that as her head lay on the
pillow she should have dreamt of the jar and its contents and the old
mystery associated with them.
This was her dream.
She thought that she and her sister were standing at their usual corner
of the market-place, their posies of flowers and large bunches of autumn
leaves carefully arranged before them on the rough wooden table, the tin
canister in the middle and a little heap of the leaves displayed in
front of it. It seemed very early, there were scarcely any people about.
Suddenly up came a small old woman, a stranger and what Linde would have
called "a foreigner," for her dress was either that of another country
or of a date already quite passed out of fashion. She glanced at the
flowers, and appeared to be passing on, when she caught sight of the
little heap of dried leaves, on which she stopped short and Linde felt a
pair of bright eyes fixed on her. Then the stranger smiled and nodded,
and, bending towards the child, murmured in her ear the mysterious
words: "Three times, and then ask the robin."
"How--what do you mean?" exclaimed Linde in her dream, trying to catch
hold of the owner of the piercing eyes, as she turned away. But before
the little girl could touch her, she was gone, and in the start of
disappointment Linde awoke.
"What a queer dream," she said to herself, as she lay thinking of it. "I
wish Aria were awake, I do so want to tell it her."
But Aria was fast asleep, her face looking so peaceful in the moonlight
that Linde was too unselfish to wish to disturb her, for of late she
knew well that the elder girl's waking hours were full of anxiety.
"I must wait till the morning," thought the child, and turning round she
herself was soon in a dreamless slumber.
The next day Aria listened with great interest to Linde's story.
"It is queer," she agreed. "It almost sounds like a message from
mother's uncanny godmother."
"Don't call her 'uncanny,'" Linde objected. "It's rather a frightening
sort of word, and she mightn't like it. Supposing," she went on,
lowering her voice, "_supposing_ she really was a fairy, or partly one,
she may be back in fairyland for all we know, and some day we might see
her."
But Aria shook her head.
"No," she said, "she very likely had dealings with the fairies, but that
isn't the same as being one herself."
"I'll keep a good look-out for her, nevertheless, at the market to-day,"
Linde replied.
And so she did. But no one at all resembling the quaint figure in her
dream was to be seen, and after a while Linde forgot about her, so busy
were the sisters that morning in selling their wares.
The first of their usual customers, a kindly, well-to-do, housewifely
woman, who had known their father and always came to them for flowers,
was at once attracted by the delicious perfume of the dried leaves.
"Dear, dear," she exclaimed, "it's not often that late autumn flowers
are so fragrant. Your posies are always fresh and sweet, but I've never
known their scent so beautiful," and she sniffed with satisfaction,
looking about to discover from which of the flowers it came.
"It's not the flowers," explained Aria to the good dame. "It's something
new we have for sale to-day. I only hope that you and our other
customers may take a fancy to it," and she went on to tell of the
pleasant qualities of the dried rose-leaves--how their scent, if they
were laid among linen, was both fresher and more delicate to begin with,
and lasted much longer than that of the finest lavender. But she said
nothing of the sort of mystery connected with the powder; some instinct
prevented her doing so. Nor did she tell that but a little of it
remained, or that their stock of rose-leaves would soon be exhausted.
"Who knows what may happen before that?" she reflected, and the words of
Linde's dream-visitor recurred to her, "Three times, and then ask the
robin."
Dame Barbara was quite satisfied and greatly delighted.
"Here," she said, fumbling for her substantial purse, "a groat for two
ounces of it, did you say? No, a half-groat only? My dear, you'll have
to raise your prices if the perfume is so excellent! Well to begin with,
give me the four ounces straight away, and here's a half-groat over and
above what it all comes to--dried leaves and fresh ones and flowers, all
together--just the tiny silver piece for luck, you know."
Aria and Linde smiled and thanked her. And the thanks were repeated,
when, as she turned away, she called out, "I'll be the first to tell my
cronies of this. Dear, dear, I feel as if I were in a fairy garden
myself with the pleasure of the perfume. I had no idea that the robins'
forest had such treasures of roses. For you live in the forest, do you
not, or close by?"
"Yes, just at its edge," they replied, "but," Linde went on eagerly,
"we never knew it was called after the robins. It is odd that we never
heard it."
Dame Barbara nodded sagaciously.
"'Tis a very old name. Scarce a one but myself knows of it, nowadays,"
she said. "No wonder you children never heard it. There was an ancient
story--just a foolish tale--that the fairies haunted the forest, till
one day some cruel or stupid person killed a robin. Robins used to
abound there, and they are their special favourites, you know, and since
then never a fairy or a robin has been seen there. But I must hurry off
to finish my marketing."
Aria and Linde looked at each other.
"It must mean something," said Linde in a low and almost awe-struck
tone. "My dream, I mean, and the old woman saying, 'Ask the robin.'"
"Yes," her sister agreed. "It is odd too that we never heard the old
name or the old story before. I wonder if father had? I have a sort of
remembrance of his once saying something about our being too near the
forest for robins to make their home with us, but I had a silly childish
idea that he only meant that all robins disliked forests."
"I think I must have had the same notion," said Linde, "for we have both
of us now and then wished that robins would make their nests in our
garden, but we just thought they never would! We have hardly ever seen
one."
"Very seldom," said Aria. "I have occasionally noticed a redbreast on
the hedge, seeming to look about him, but he was sure to fly away."
But though they felt extremely interested in what they had heard and
very curious to find out if, as Linde said, her dream did "mean
something," just then they had no time to talk about it any more, for
Dame Barbara was as good as her word. Every one of their usual customers
for flowers seemed to have met the old woman and been told of the
wonderful dried leaves. And some strangers, too, new-comers or visitors
to the little town, stopped as they passed by, with exclamations of
"What a delicious fragrance! Can it be from these flowers?" and when it
was explained to them that the source of the perfume was the contents of
the tin canister, one and all immediately bought a cup-full, or two,
even in some cases three or four. Long before their usual hour for going
home, all the leaves were sold, and some would-be purchasers who came
too late were delighted to hear that next market-day there would be a
fresh supply of the coveted leaves.
"Never has our purse been so well filled before," said Aria in great
content, as she tied up the little purchases of butter and eggs and
honey and other luxuries which she had scarcely hoped to be able to
afford. "Linde, it really has been a wonderful success. If only we had
jars and jars full of the leaves!"
"Don't despair," said Linde. "Remember my dream. Who knows what may come
of it?" and very hopeful and happy, the sisters set off for their long
walk home.
Nothing out of the common happened to them during the next few days.
Though they half laughed at themselves for doing so, they often kept
looking out in hopes of catching sight of a redbreast, but none was to
be seen, and though they strolled more than once farther than usual into
the forest, when their daily work was over, they there met with no
adventures.
"I am afraid, Linde, dear," said Aria on the Friday evening, when they
had again filled the canister with the precious leaves to be ready for
market next day, "I am afraid that we must think no more about your
dream, or that it meant anything. We have still leaves enough for one
other day's sale after to-morrow, and we must just be thankful for the
help it has been, giving us time to consider what we must do to get
through the winter," and though she tried to speak cheerfully, the poor
girl could not keep back a little sigh, which Linde was quick to hear.
"Aria, sweetheart, Aria," the child exclaimed in a piteous voice, "you
don't think, you can't mean that we may have to part? Oh I'd much, much
rather die, if we might but die together. Promise me, promise me that
you'll never leave me."
"My darling," said Aria, bravely forcing back her tears, "Heaven knows,
it half kills me to think of such a possibility. So far, things have
gone better with us than we could have dared to hope; let us therefore
go on praying and trusting that we may keep together."
Linde cheered up again.
"Yes, yes, that is the best thing to do," she agreed. "And do you know,
Aria, though I get frightened sometimes, deeper down I have a feeling
that we shall get on well, after all. It is ever since my dream that I
seem to get this sort of comforting hope," she added, with a curious
light in her eyes.
The elder sister, to tell the truth, had less faith in dreams and
presentiments than little Linde, but she was glad of anything to cheer
the child. So with a loving kiss they went to bed betimes, in
preparation for their long walk to market the next day, and soon fell
asleep.
Aria woke first on Saturday morning. It was still very early, the dawn
barely breaking. But there was light enough to see Linde's face, all
rosy and smiling in her sleep. She quickly roused when she heard her
sister moving about the room.
"Aria," she exclaimed, "Aria, darling, it's come again. The dream, I
mean."
Aria turned and looked at her. At first the elder sister was inclined to
say that she was not very surprised. A dream that has made much
impression on one is apt to return, especially in this case, remembering
their conversation the previous evening. But the sight of Linde's happy
and excited face checked her.
"I must not damp her hopefulness," she thought, "and after all--who
knows?"--"Was it the same as before?" she asked, "exactly the same old
woman and all?"
"Yes," Linde replied, "just the same. We were in the market, and she
came by, and then stopped and seemed to be attracted by the rose-leaves'
scent. Then I felt her eyes on me and heard her voice--low but
clear--saying----," and here the little girl interrupted herself, "Oh
yes, there were just two words different, and that makes it seem more
real. She did not say 'three times,' but '_twice_ more and then ask the
robin.' I wonder," Linde continued, "I wonder if possibly we shall see
her herself. No--I don't think we shall. I feel that she can only come
in dreams."
They were at their place in the market in good time as usual. Their
posies of late flowers and autumn foliage had, alas, diminished, but
their supply of the fragrant leaves was rather larger than the week
before, for, influenced perhaps by the "twice more" of Linde's dream
visitor, Aria had divided the contents of the jar into two equal
portions, each of which proved to be rather more than the first lot she
had carried off for sale. In fact the useful tin canister was this time
completely filled.
And the demand for their new wares was even greater than the last time.
Dame Barbara and her friends had spread the fame of the wonderful
leaves. Aria could have sold what she had twice over, and more than one
of her customers assured her that if she could keep up the supply during
the winter, orders would be forthcoming from more distant parts of the
country.
"I mean to make pretty bags and fill them with your leaves, for
Christmas presents to my friends," said one smiling young lady. "So
don't forget that I shall want ever so much of them a little later on,"
and Aria thanked her and wisely refrained from saying that she feared
her stock was all but exhausted.
"Don't be too sure of that," said Linde, when Aria sighed about it. "My
hopes have risen sky-high since the dream came again, though how we are
to 'ask the robin,' seeing that none of his kind ever come near us, or
how he could help us if we did come across him, is more than I can in
any way imagine! And after all, we have still enough leaves for next
market-day, which will be the _third_ time."
"Yes," Aria agreed, "it is much the best to hope on and keep up our
spirits. And for the present we have no reason to despond. My old purse
is delightfully well filled to-day even though I could not make up my
mind to raise the price of the leaves as Dame Barbara urged me to do. I
felt somehow as if it would not bring me good luck."
"I felt the same," said Linde.
They spent a cheerful evening, and the following day, Sunday, passed
peacefully. When they returned from the ancient church in the
neighbouring village whither since their infancy they had always gone
with their parents, Linde asked Aria to let her go for a stroll in the
forest by herself, to which the elder sister, who was feeling a little
tired, agreed.
"You are going to look for a robin, I know," she said with a smile, "and
possibly as the dreams have come to you and not to me, you may succeed
where I could not. But don't go too far, dear child. I should be anxious
if you were long away, for no doubt the forest _is_ rather uncanny,
somehow."
"I won't go far," said Linde. "And I hardly hope to find out anything.
But I shall just look well about me. You see the real time has not yet
come. We are not to 'ask the robin' till after three market-days."
When she returned home an hour or two later, she seemed thoughtful,
though not exactly depressed.
"Well," asked her sister, "had you any adventures?"
Linde shook her head, yet she smiled a little.
"Only a very tiny thing happened to me," she said, "hardly worth
noticing. I strolled some way along the path that leads straight to the
heart of the forest--the main path, you know, Aria--and I was just
thinking of turning home, when, a short way down a much smaller path,
scarcely one at all, I caught sight of something bright lying on the
ground. At first I thought it was a scarlet berry or two, or some of the
red leaves one often sees, but when I stooped to pick it up, it was
this," and she held out a small feather.
Aria took it--it was of a peculiar shade, almost more orange than red.
"I know what you are thinking," said the elder sister,--"that it is a
robin's feather--from his red breast, and it certainly looks very like
it, but----"
"Wait, Aria, till you hear the rest," interrupted Linde, and she opened
her other hand, in which lay two more of the fairy-like feathers,
exactly similar to the first. "The wonderful part of it was that though
they are _so_ tiny," and she glanced at the treasures tenderly, "and
though it was not a bright day, there was no sunshine, they glowed and
gleamed as if they were gems. I walked on a little way, you see, after I
had picked up the one, and there, some yards ahead, lay the second, and
the same with the third. But it was the last. I feel sure it was the
last, though I went on some distance. And somehow, three seem the right
number for a fairy message. It matches the three times in my dreams."
"Then you do think they are a message?" asked Aria.
"Of course I do. I marked the path well by breaking off twigs and making
a little heap of pebbles. Indeed it was necessary, for I had never
noticed before that there was a path there at all," and when she went on
to describe its position Aria agreed with her that it seemed quite a new
discovery.
For the rest of the week Linde appeared satisfied to rest quietly on her
oars. She made no more expeditions to the forest, and indeed spoke less
than she had done of her dreams and their interpretation, though that
she was thinking much about them her sister felt sure, from the look in
her pretty eyes and the way she sometimes smiled to herself for no
apparent reason.
So the days passed till again it was Friday evening and the sisters went
early to bed. Everything was ready for their little stall at the market,
but Aria sighed as she remarked that their autumn posies now made but a
poor show.
"But there are the rose-leaves," said Linde.
"Yes," her sister replied, "but the last of them, alas! See, Linde, the
jar is quite emptied!"
"Do not be so downcast, darling," said Linde as they kissed each other
for good-night. "Why, we have seemed to change places of late! It used
to be you always cheering me--now it is I to cheer you."
Aria smiled. She felt sure that it was the hope of the dream being
repeated for the magic third time that was brightening her sister. But
she said nothing that night. Only the next morning when she woke very
early, just as the first faint streaks of coming dawn were beginning to
appear, she listened anxiously, wondering if Linde was still asleep, and
felt glad when a tiny rustle, followed by a whisper, showed that the
little girl was also awake.
"Aria," she said, "Aria."
"Yes, dear, what is it?"
"It's come again, the third time," she exclaimed joyously. "My dream!
Quite the same as before, only that the old woman just smiled at me, and
said, 'Once more, then ask the robin.' Aria, darling, it _must_ mean
something."
And Aria herself was impressed.
"But where are we--or you--to find the robin?" she questioned.
"You're forgetting about the feathers, and the mysterious path," replied
Linde.
She had carefully wrapped up the tiny treasures and hidden them in the
front of her frock. The knowledge that she had them safely there seemed
to give her courage and hope. That Saturday's sale was again a great
success, and on the following day, as on the Sunday before, when they
returned from church and their simple mid-day dinner was over, Linde
told her sister that she was going to the forest. This time she scarcely
asked Aria's leave, and though the elder girl was a little anxious, she
felt that it would have been useless to attempt to stop her.
"Very well, darling," she said. "But don't go very far or stay very
long. Promise me."
Linde considered.
"I think I can promise," she said, "to be back by sundown. But, Aria, I
believe I may have to go again much farther, or to do--I know not
what--but feelings are coming to me," and she unconsciously touched the
place where the redbreast feathers were nestling. "You won't forbid it,
sister, will you?"
Aria's face grew very grave.
"Whatever has to be done, and wherever," she said, "why cannot we go
together? I am afraid of the forest. Even father believed that there
was some spell or enchantment over it. You remember he never allowed us
to go into it beyond a certain distance.
"Yes," said Linde dreamily, "I remember. But maybe," and her face
lighted up with a bright smile, "maybe, Aria, the spell, or whatever it
is, is going to be broken," and though the elder sister trembled a
little at the words, she, too, felt a curious thrill of pleasant
excitement.
So the two kissed each other fondly and Linde set off. She was well
wrapped up in a warm cloak, for the autumn days were fast growing
chilly, especially of course in the forest, where the short amount of
mid-day sunshine scarcely penetrated, so closely growing were the trees.
The cloak had originally been their mother's, then Aria's, and now the
elder girl had refreshed and rebound it for her sister. It was of good,
thick stuff and red in colour, and as Linde turned for a moment to wave
another good-bye at the entrance to the wood, it struck Aria that the
child looked rather like a human robin redbreast herself. She smiled at
the idea; somehow it cheered her. "May all good angels and the saints
guard her," she murmured as she re-entered the cottage.
Linde walked on steadily. Not very fast, for she was keenly on the
look-out for any signs or tokens to direct her, and most anxious not to
miss the opening to what in her own mind she called "the feather path."
And to her satisfaction she found it without any difficulty. It was
still of course broad daylight, that is to say as light as was usual
among the trees, and as she made her way along she kept her eyes on the
ground in hopes of seeing some more tiny specks of the unmistakable
orange-red.
But in vain. There were no more feathers waiting for her.
Feeling rather discouraged, Linde stopped short, and looked around her.
"I must have quite passed the place where I picked up the third
feather," she said to herself. "I did not come as far as this the last
time. Must I go home--what shall I do?"
She drew her cloak a little closer, and as she did so, her fingers
touched the spot where nestled her treasures. Immediately her hopes
revived.
"Go on, go on," something above her seemed to say. She glanced upwards,
almost fancying that a voice had spoken to her, but nothing was to be
seen--except--yes, on the branch of a fir-tree near at hand, some yards
overhead, a bird was perching, and not only a bird, to her immense
delight she saw that it was a robin!
Had it _spoken_? She gazed at it. It chirped encouragingly and spreading
its wings flew down, and then flew onwards in front of her.
"Stay, robin, stay, and tell me what to do," cried the child. But it
only turned its little head towards her for half a second, and then
continued its flight. Linde by this time, however, had lost all
hesitation. On she ran, as fast as she could go, though now and then, as
if in consideration for her, her small winged friend stopped for a
moment or two, and Linde grew less breathless. Then it looked back at
her again, and in this way they got over a good deal of ground, till at
last--why, she could not have told--Linde stopped. And looking up, she
saw that her guide had disappeared.
She gazed round her. It was a strange spot. She had never been here
before. Of that she felt certain, for she could not have forgotten it.
She was standing by the edge of a small clearing among the trees. It was
in the shape of a circle, and in front of the firs, whose stems are of
course as a rule bare, were planted short thick bushes as if for still
greater enclosing of the spot. So thickly indeed were these placed, that
turning round to look behind her, Linde wondered how she had come
through them, for no opening was to be seen. It was like standing in a
room of which the doorway is in some way or other completely concealed.
Her heart began to beat faster, for even though she had scarcely moved
she felt as if she could never find her way out again.
Suddenly a clear chirping made her look up, and to her amazement she
saw, in the very centre of the circular clearing, an object which she
was almost certain had not been there a moment before. And it was not
only her eyes which told her this, for her nostrils at once inhaled a
delicious perfume which she could not, for an instant, have been
unconscious of. It was that of the precious leaves!
And the object which she was gazing at was an indescribably beautiful
rose-bush in full bloom, on the topmost branch of which sat her friend
the robin!
He nodded encouragingly--and now his chirps took shape. They grew into
words, but whether other ears than little Linde's would have heard this
I cannot say. Enough that _she_ understood.
"Yes," he said, as if in answer to her unexpressed surprise, "yes, I
went down to fetch it up," and she knew that he was speaking of the
rose-bush, "for you to see it for yourself, my child."
Linde gazed at him for a moment or two without speaking. Was she
dreaming? she asked herself. But the familiar fragrance reassured her.
"Is it--?" she began, "are these the roses that our fairy powder came
from?"
Again the robin bent his little head.
"Even so," he replied. "Fairy roses, that never lose their perfume. And
you would gladly fill the old jar again, would you not?"
Linde clasped her hands.
"Oh yes, yes!" she exclaimed. "The leaves mean everything to us. Not
only food and clothing, but a home--a home for us two together, instead
of terrible separation. Oh Robin, darling, may I gather the flowers and
dry the leaves, ready for the market? I'd come any day--or every day, to
fetch them, and oh how grateful we should be," and the tears rushed to
her eyes in her eagerness.
But the redbreast's tone grew grave, and Linde began to tremble with
fear that he would say it could not be. But when he spoke again his
words surprised her.
"Do you know the story of the forest?" he asked.
"Yes--some part of it, at least. We know that--that--" for she felt his
bright eyes fixed upon her, and it made her hesitate, "something very
sad happened, and since then, no robins ever come here," she murmured.
"Sad--yes indeed," he repeated, "and worse than sad. Wicked, cruel! A
monster in the shape of a boy shot one of our favoured tribe, deservedly
favoured, for, as a Christian child you know since when, we have been
honoured for our faithful service?"
Linde bowed her head reverently.
"I know," she whispered. "It was very wicked of the boy. But it was a
long time ago," she went on. "Can't you forgive it, and come back to the
forest again?"
"'Tis almost fifty years ago," the robin said. "And for fifty years the
place has been under the ban. Our queen--call her fairy queen, or
guardian angel as best pleases you--pronounced it. But around the tomb
of the innocent victim," and he pointed downwards, "she planted the
rose-trees, of whose flowers by special favour the old godmother, of
whom you have heard, was allowed to gather a few. For she it was who
found our poor brother--here on this very spot--and summoned us to his
side. Our ancestor, I should call him, for it was long ago, and our bird
lives are very short--so surely they should not be cut still shorter?"
"Surely not," said Linde. "Then are those the leaves we had in our jar?
I thought it was a powder--a fairy powder that the godmother
bequeathed?"
"So it was. She dried and ground the precious leaves, and with the
powder perfumed the petals of her own garden roses, every year, so long
as she lived. But she never re-visited the spot. It has been closed ever
since the day when, the arrow still transfixing his tender body, the
robin was buried, though not dead."
"Not dead," cried Linde. "What can you mean?"
"That was the decree," he replied. "For fifty years he was to lie here,
till the forest could be purified from the pollution of cruelty."
"And how can that be done?" Linde asked eagerly.
"By the hands of a maiden--a child-maiden, who never, _never_ has been
guilty of cruelty to any living thing. Linde, are you that maiden?"
The little girl was silent. Then she looked up, and her blue eyes did
not falter beneath the piercing gaze of the bird.
"I think, yes, I think," she said, "no, I _know_ that I have never
wished or meant to cause suffering. If ever it has come through me, it
has not been by any intention of mine."
"You speak the truth. We have watched and tested you, though you knew it
not," was the reply. "Now something more is asked of you. Courage!"
"I'm afraid, I'm dreadfully afraid I'm not very brave," said poor Linde,
all sorts of alarming ideas rushing through her brain as to what might
be asked of her. Were they going to shoot _her_, possibly? Or to shut
her up in the tomb with the dead, or not dead robin?
"Do not look so terrified," said the robin. "More shall not be asked of
you than you can do. We are not a revengeful race, as you well know. We
have always been faithful and loving friends to human beings. You know
the story of----"
"Of the Babes in the Wood," interrupted Linde. "Of course I do. It was
partly that, that made me think of you, about _leaves_, you know," and
her face brightened. "I will try to be brave," she added.
"That is right," said the bird. "Some expiation _must_ be made for that
boy's evil deed, and, as I have already told you, it was decreed that
the one to offer it must be a child entirely innocent of cruelty or
unkindness. For this, _you_, little Linde, have been chosen. Three
nights hence the fifty years come to an end--the moment for the spell to
be broken will arrive. Before midnight, you must be here, standing on
this very spot, where you now see me."
Linde started. Had she shut her eyes for an instant?--what had happened
to them? For, to her amazement, the rose-bush was no longer there! The
robin stood on the grass, in the centre of the cleared circle. Yet she
had not seen the disappearance, nor heard the faintest rustle!
"Oh dear," she thought, "magic doings are very queer. There _was_ a
rose-bush there, I am quite certain," but she said nothing. Some
instinct told her it was best to take things calmly, and to listen
attentively to the robin's instructions. "Where you now see me," he went
on, "till you hear the clock strike twelve."
"The clock," Linde repeated. "There's no clock here in the middle of the
wood."
"Indeed," said the robin. "Would you like to know the time at the
present moment?"
"Yes," Linde replied. "I suppose it's nearly four o'clock."
"Listen," whispered the bird, and as she obeyed, there fell on her ears
the prettiest bell-like chimes she had ever heard. "One, two, three--"
on to twenty, then a pause and in deeper tones, "one, two, three, four."
"Twenty minutes to four," said her friend. "If it had been _past_ four,
the four would have struck first. All _our_ clocks are what your clumsy
human watchmakers call 'repeaters,' you see."
"And what do you do to make them tell you the time?" asked the little
girl eagerly.
"You just say 'What o'clock is it?' That is of course if you are at one
of the entrances to fairyland. You can generally find one if you look
about. They are always in the centre of a ring."
"Oh," replied Linde, "that's a good thing to know. I often see fairy
rings, but I had no idea they had a door in the middle. Then tell me
more, please. I must wait till I hear the fairy clock strike twelve,
and then--will the door open? And--what do you want me to do? And--if I
can do it, will you let me gather some roses?"
"Not so fast, not so fast," said the robin. "Let me see--what was I
saying? You stand here--the clock strikes, at the twelfth stroke you tap
the ground with the three feathers--you have them safe?"
"Yes," replied Linde, feeling for them as she spoke.
"The door will then open and you will descend. That is all you require
to know at present. Three nights hence, three nights hence."
"But," began the little girl, "I must know something more. How am I to
find my way here in the middle of the night when it is all dark? It
wasn't easy to distinguish the path even by daylight, and now, even now,
I don't know how to get through these thick bushes on to it. I can't see
any opening in them."
Instead of replying the robin suddenly spread his wings and alighted on
a bush close beside her, and at once Linde perceived that there was a
narrow sort of passage through the hedge. She turned towards it.
"Thank you," she said, adding timidly, "May Aria come with me? Together
we might find our way better perhaps. We might bring a little lantern."
"It will not be needed, and you must come alone. You may tell Aria all I
have told you; and if she is wise she will encourage you. I make no
promises. It is not for me to do so. But this you may depend upon--never
will you have cause to regret obedience to this summons," and as he
spoke, he spread his wings again and flew upwards. As he passed her,
there came a breath of the delicious perfume, and Linde felt that it
meant a promise after all, which raised her spirits, as pushing her way
through the hedge she found herself on the path outside and started on
her way home.
"Aria will be getting anxious," she thought. "I must hurry. I do believe
it is all going to come right, but--oh dear, I do feel frightened at the
idea of finding my way here alone through these gloomy woods in the very
middle of the night. Why wouldn't the robin let Aria come too? I suppose
it _had_ to be a rather dreadful thing to do, to make up for that cruel
boy's wickedness. Oh dear, oh dear!"
But as she ran on as fast as her feet would take her, some things grew
clearer. She must make the best of it to her sister. She must conceal
her terrors as much as possible.
"For supposing," she reflected, "that dear Aria really _wouldn't_ let me
go and that it all came to nothing--the dreams and the feathers and this
wonderful talking robin, how could I ever get over it? We should have to
be parted pretty certainly, and would not that be a thousand times more
terrible than having to face the dark forest for once? For deep down in
my heart I feel certain that I shall be taken care of. I am proud to be
chosen to break the spell and to make the forest again a happy place--a
home for the dear robins, and favoured by the fairies as it used to be
all those years ago--yes, I am proud to be the chosen one. And I know it
will lead to our getting the precious leaves to sell, as many as we
want, and _that_ means everything to us, home and comfort and the being
together. Yes, I _will_ be brave."
So when, at some little distance from the boundary of the forest, she
caught sight in the gloaming of her sister's figure anxiously looking
out for her, she ran towards her with cheerful eagerness, calling out as
loudly as she could, "It's all right, darling. Good news--good news."
Nevertheless, when Aria had heard the whole strange story, her face grew
very grave.
"Linde, my sweetest," she said, "I _cannot_ let you do it. Alone in the
middle of the night, and winter close at hand! Wolves have been known to
find their way into the forest, and not only that, we ourselves have
every reason to believe there is some unhappy enchantment over the
place----"
"Yes," Linde agreed. "That is exactly why I have been chosen--to break
the spell."
"But," persisted poor Aria, "how do we know that the robin may not be
deceiving us? Possibly he is a witch or wizard in disguise! Possibly a
fairy, not wishing you harm, but hoping to steal you away. Fairies
always try to lure human children to live with them. Folks say it
prolongs their own spell of life if they succeed."
Linde considered.
"No," she said at last. "The fairies who love these woods are good and
true, I feel certain. I daresay there are different kinds of fairies,
just as there are of people. But you can feel that these ones are kind
and loving by their care for the robins. Then, remember my dreams,
sister. Our mother's godmother would not wish harm to come to us, and
so far, all her messages to us have only brought us great good, and
greater is in store for us, I am firmly convinced. Be quite happy about
it, darling. You know I am naturally rather cowardly, much less
courageous than you, yet see how cheerful I feel about it. I have no
misgivings."
And this was true. For the time, at least, all the little girl's fears
had flown away. So Aria said no more, though from time to time during
the next few days when she glanced at her sister she could not repress a
sigh.
"Supposing," she thought to herself, "_supposing_ I never see her again!
They might steal her away and let her come back twenty or even fifty
years hence without her knowing that more than a few hours had passed.
She would find me an old broken-down woman, if she found me at all,
which I doubt, for I could not live without her."
As these gloomy ideas floated through her mind she was standing in the
porch of the cottage, gazing at the forest. Suddenly, a soft chirping
reached her ears, and looking up, she caught sight of a redbreast
perching on the little garden gate. He seemed to look at her, then
spread his wings and flew away, passing near her overhead. And at that
moment there came to the elder girl the same breath of the familiar
delicious perfume which had cheered Linde when she parted with the
robin, and with the same effect. From that moment Aria's misgivings left
her, and to a great extent even her anxiety.
"Yes," she said to herself, "she must go. It is meant. It would be
useless for me to interfere."
This happened on the very morning of the fated day.
The weather was already almost wintry.
"Linde," said her sister that evening, "I won't ask you to undress and
go to bed, but I will keep up a good fire here in the kitchen, so that
you shall at least start warm. And you shall have a cup of good hot soup
last thing."