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[Illustration: "I HAVE BROUGHT MY LITTLE DAUGHTER TO YOU, MY
FRIEND."--[PAGE 19.]]
The Princess Idleways
_A FAIRY STORY_
BY
MRS. W. J. HAYS
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
CHAPTER I.
You must not suppose that the Princess Idleways was a great, grand
woman, for she was not: she was only a little lovely girl named Laura.
To be sure, she was of high birth; that is to say, her father and
grandfather and great-grandfather, as well as all the fine lady
grandmothers, were people who, not obliged to labor for themselves or
others, having always had more time and wealth and pleasure than they
knew what to do with, were something like the beautiful roses which grow
more and more beautiful with planting and transplanting, and shielding
from too hot a sun or too sharp a wind; but, for all that, roses, as you
know, have thorns.
Little Laura Idleways was as bright and bewitching in appearance as any
rosebud, but she had a few thorns which could prick. She lived in a
great castle high up in the mountains, from the windows of which she
could see hill after hill stretching far away up to the clouds, and
eagles flapping their great wings over deep ravines, down which tumbled
foaming cascades. The castle was a very ancient building, and part of it
was nearly a ruin; indeed, it was so old that Laura's father--who was a
soldier, and not much at home--had decided not to repair it, but allowed
the stones to fall, and would not have them touched; so the wild vines
grew luxuriantly over them, and made a beautiful drapery. But the part
of the castle in which Laura lived was no ruin. The thick walls kept it
cool in summer and warm in winter, and made nice deep seats for the
windows, which were hung with heavy folds of crimson silk. The walls
were covered with superb paintings, the wide rooms were beautiful with
all manner of comforts and luxuries. Low divans of rich and soft
material, ottomans and rugs of Persian and Turkish wool, statues and
statuettes of marble, graceful forms, filled the corners and the niches.
Birds of many colors sang in golden cages, and curious cuckoo-clocks
chimed the hours. Laura's mamma was a fine musician, and her harp and
piano were always ready to yield sweet tones. The library shelves held
books of all kinds and colors; and the cabinets of richly carved wood,
before the glass doors of which Laura often stood, contained rare
shells, minerals, stuffed birds and insects, and strange foreign things
that a child could only wonder about.
Of all places in which to play "hide-and-seek," this castle was the
best--it had so many nooks and corners, such little cosy turns in the
stairs, such odd cupboards, such doors in strange places, so many quaint
pieces of furniture to hide behind--and yet Laura never played
hide-and-seek.
There was a delicious garden, too, full of fragrant bushes and arbors
and rustic seats, and two fountains rained liquid diamonds into marble
basins. But Laura did not play in the garden.
The truth is, Laura was a petted, spoiled, wayward little creature,
always depending upon others for entertainment, too lazy to amuse
herself, and much less inclined to study or to find happiness in being
useful.
She had nurses and governesses. She had toys and trinkets, and the
latter were of about as much service as the former. Her mother had
always loved her fondly, but even she began to see that something was
amiss with Laura, and to think her little child needed something she
could not buy for her. Absorbed in her books, her music, and her
embroidery, Laura's mother was constantly occupied; but, strange to say,
she seemed to forget that Laura, too, might need occupation. One day
Laura's mamma went alone on an excursion into the woods. She had seemed
very much distressed. Her maid noticed that she had been intently
regarding Laura for several days, and had spoken of the child's
unhappiness.
When she returned from her excursion with tearful eyes, and bade Laura
be ready for a little journey on the following day, every one in the
castle became alarmed.
The nurses put their caps together and whispered. Even Polly on her
perch screamed out, "What's the matter? what's the matter?" but no one
took any notice of her. Laura did not know whether to be pleased or
displeased; but she was, of course, inclined to sulk about it, rather
than to clap her hands with glee and shout for joy.
[Illustration: "THEY FOUND HER, CURLED UP IN A LITTLE HEAP, FAST
ASLEEP."]
She watched the preparations made for her departure with indifference,
although her pretty frocks were taken down from their hooks in the
closets, and her gay ribbons from their boxes, and a trunk of cedar-wood
with silver bands was brought into the little pretty room, or _boudoir_,
as it was called, which joined the bedrooms. Almost any child would have
been pleased to watch this getting ready to go away, and would have
entered into the details with interest. Many a one would have busied
herself with packing her little treasures, her doll's clothes, or her
playthings; but Laura stood in a listless way in the door, leaning first
upon one foot, then upon the other, wondering just a little where it
might be that she was going, and teasing her little spaniel when he
leaped to caress her, till, tired of watching the maids, she wandered
off to gaze into the cabinet I have spoken of. And when evening came,
there they found her, curled up in a little heap, fast asleep. Fido,
too, was asleep beside his little mistress, for, much as she teased him,
he yet loved her.
The morning dawned clear and cool, and Laura's mamma bade the nurses put
plenty of wraps in the travelling carriage; she also bade them give
Laura a cup of hot chocolate, which was an unusual luxury for the little
damsel. Laura's trunk was stowed away, and, to the surprise of all, hers
was the only trunk visible, so that it looked very much as if the Lady
Idleways meant to return sooner than the little princess--whose title,
by-the-way, had been given by her papa in jest, when she was an infant,
from some of her absurd little freaks of disdain.
All through the light breakfast Lady Idleways never smiled, but watched
her daughter anxiously. Laura fed her spaniel and crumbled her rolls
indifferently. Her little face looked pale and her eyes dim, as if she
might have cried, but there were no tears to be seen; and when she bade
all the household "good bye," she seemed to be entirely unconcerned. And
in this mood she stayed while the carriage rolled away down the hills,
and over the stone bridges, and past the cottages, till they came to the
woods. Then her mother drew her to her bosom and said, "Laura, darling,
I am about to do something for your good which seems very harsh. It
pains me, child, to do it; but you will thank me yet for it. In the
Forest of Pines, towards which we are now journeying, lives an old
friend of mine--a fairy friend--whom I have consulted in regard to you.
She knows that I desire your happiness, and she understands me when I
tell her that you seem drooping and unhappy; that it is more my
misfortune than my fault (for, having but one child, I do not know the
needs of children as well as those mothers who have many); and she has
bidden me bring you to her, with the promise that she will make you the
happy, loving little girl you ought to be. I shall feel the separation
keenly, I shall miss you sadly, but knowing that my little daughter is
to gain only good, I have made up my mind to let you make this visit."
Laura pouted a little, wept a little, and then, as the woods became
denser, crept closer to her mother.
"Am I to stay long, mamma?" she asked.
"That I do not know; it depends upon yourself."
"And what is the fairy's name, mamma?"
"She bade me not tell you her name; she wishes you to call her simple
_Motherkin_."
"How very queer!" said Laura. "I cannot do it."
"You will do better to obey her, my child."
"Is she cross? Is she ugly?"
"You may think her plain, but she is neither cross nor ugly."
The road here became almost blocked with bushes, and the wind in the
tops of the tall pine-trees made strange music.
"I would rather go home, mamma," said Laura, in a coaxing voice.
"That cannot be done, dearest," was the reply.
"Why not?--why cannot I return with you?"
"Because I have given my promise to the fairy, and a lady, my little
Laura, never breaks her word."
Laura knew that her mamma was not to be urged after speaking with so
much decision; so she sank back on the cushions and tried to fall
asleep. But her curiosity and anxiety were both aroused, and her eyelids
would not stay shut. Presently the carriage stopped.
"I can go no farther, my lady," said the coachman.
"Then we must walk," said Lady Idleways; and she bade Laura descend also
from the carriage. "You can turn the horses and unstrap Miss Laura's
trunk," she also said to the man; "there will be some one coming for it
very soon, so have no hesitation in delivering it." The man bowed and
obeyed, and Laura, with her mother's hand in hers, plunged into the
forest.