sycamores, which shelter the cob houses from the furious gales which
boom and bluster over the Dartmoor tors. The wind is always sighing and
moaning. It is cool upon the hottest day in August, and probably that is
why Lew imports weak-chested people in some quantity. A regular business
is done with big, smoky Bristol. Lew says to Bristol in its own
language, "Us ha' butiful air up over in Demshur, and us ha' a proper
plenty o' cream and butter and suchlike, but us ain't got much golden
money. If yew sends us sickly volk, they can buy our cream and butter,
and us will send 'em back strong." Bristol sees the force of this
argument, and packs up and sends off its weak-chested folk, who reason,
quite sensibly, "What's the use of being ill when we can go to the top
of Lew hill and get well?" There is a tariff, of course, for Lew does
not believe in free imports. The weak-chested folk must buy cream and
butter and suchlike in vast quantities, or they would be promptly
deported under the local Aliens Act. As a matter of fact, they buy Lew
produce without any grumbling; they do even more than they are wanted
to, and are actually spoiling Lew--where tips are unknown and a man will
do an extraordinary lot of work for two shillings--by raising the
prices. They get absurdly grateful, these visitors, who enter Lew weak
and thin, and are exported brown and fat and sleek, like porpoises.
It is the importation of so much foreign raw material that has built up
the fortunes of the fairy family called Heathman. His Majesty, the
father--hereinafter called King Heathman--was village cobbler before he
came to the throne. After his accession he procured a horse and cart,
and conveyed people to and from the distant station. He also annexed
several acres of grass territory, by a process of peaceful penetration,
and went in for cows and dairy produce. These two businesses developed
so wonderfully that he dropped the cobbling, at which it must be owned
he was always rather a poor hand. The weak-chested imports have to be
brought up from the station ill, and taken back well; and while they are
on the top of Lew hill they pass the time consuming cream, butter, milk,
and eggs, which are provided by King Heathman, and delivered morning and
evening by the golden-haired princesses. Their Majesties of the
Palace--two cottages of red cob knocked into one--are busy people, and
have no time for boasting; nor do they appear to think they have done
anything out of the way in bringing up fifteen model princesses, not one
of whom has ever given her parents an hour's anxiety. Sickness, some one
will suggest; but that is a ridiculous idea, for the residents of Lew
are never ill, and they live just as long as they like. Mrs.
Heathman--hereinafter called Queen Heathman--looks the picture of health
and strength, and only last Revel Week was footing it merrily after a
long day's work, and dancing one or two anæmic young maids from foreign
lands like Plymouth to a standstill. Old Grandfather Heathman, His
Majesty's father, who is so much addicted to Lew that he won't die, had
the impertinence to be dancing too. He must be nearly a hundred, though
he neither knows nor cares about his age, and will merely state in the
course of conversation that he intends to live out the present century,
because he is so fond of the place. Old Grandfather Heathman is probably
the only man now living in England who has witnessed a fatal duel, which
was fought some time in the dark ages between the son of the then rector
of Lew and a young doctor, a lady being of course the cause. The
unfortunate young doctor, who very likely had never handled a sword
before, was quickly killed by his opponent, who was an army officer. A
stone still marks the spot, but it has become so overgrown with brambles
that only Grandfather Heathman knows where to look for it.
The crown princess is just twenty-three. The girls are nicely dressed,
well educated, and speak and behave like little angels. If Romney were
alive, he would want to paint them all. They are so pretty, these
fifteen princesses of Lew. Each has a slender figure, wild-rose
complexion, shy eyes, and fair hair. But it must not be imagined they
are dancing princesses. One plays the American organ (which was alluded
to with less respect as the harmonium twenty years ago) in the church;
another is pupil-teacher; another manages the Sunday-school. They milk
the cows and attend to the dairy work. All of them love animals; each
has her dog, or cat, or bird, generally with her in work or in play.
When you meet a pretty, well-dressed girl in Lew, you will not--unless
you are the latest importation--ask her name. You will say, "And what is
your number?" She will blush delightfully, lower her shy eyes, put her
hands behind her back, and tell you.
When the first child was born the neighbours offered their
congratulations, and said, "Of course you will call her Annie." In this
part of the country it is absolutely necessary to have a girl in the
family of that name, and it is most unorthodox to call the first girl
anything else. But King Heathman rebelled against custom. He did not
care for the name Annie. He liked something daintier, something more
unusual and fanciful. No doubt there is a vein of poetry somewhere in
His Majesty's system. King Heathman stated plainly he would not hare his
daughter named Annie. He would go to the rector and ask him to supply a
name. The good people of Lew were horrified at such heresy. They pointed
out what a great risk he was running. It was quite possible he would not
have another daughter, and thus his family would be branded with the
disgrace of having no Annie. But King Heathman hardened his heart yet
more, and tramped off to the rectory.
The rector of Lew is a scholar of the old type, an unconscious pedant
who can hardly open his lips without quoting Latin or Greek, a type
which before another twenty years have gone will be as extinct as the
pixies. The rector of Lew is almost as much a curiosity of the past as
Grandfather Heathman, only when people plant themselves on the top of
the big hill 999 feet, 11 inches high, it never seems to occur to them
that they are mortal. The rector solved the royal difficulty at once,
and in the most natural way possible. "She is the first child. Let us
call her either Prima or Una," he said. "Una is a pretty name."
"That 'tis, sir--that 'tis." For reasons of his own King Heathman always
prefers to use the dialect of his country.
"You will find the name in the _Faerie Queene_ written by Spenser," the
rector continued.
"Old John Spencer over to Treedown?" suggested His Majesty, who had not
dabbled much in classics.
"No; Edmund Spenser, who lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth."
"Aw, yes, sir, I knows 'en," said King Heathman.
Of course he didn't, but perhaps he was referring to the queen. Every
one in Lew knows Queen Elizabeth intimately, because there is a little
old house in the village where she was fond of putting up for the night
occasionally. This house is still furnished very much as it was in the
sixteenth century, but whether the Maiden Lady ever saw or heard of Lew
is another matter. It is certain, however, that Queen Elizabeth occupied
most of her long reign travelling about the country in order that she
might sleep in out-of-the-way manor-houses. Whenever you visit any old
house in this neighbourhood it is only polite to say, "Queen Elizabeth
slept here, of course?" And then you will be shown the room and the bed,
and if you go on being polite you may very possibly see the sheets and
blankets and pillow-slips also, with the pillow itself still marked with
the impression of Queen Elizabeth's head.
Princess Heathman was duly christened Una, to the delight of her father,
and the horror of the inhabitants. Every one breathed a sigh of relief
when a second princess favoured Lew with her appearance. After all, the
Heathmans would not be disgraced. There would be an Annie in the family,
though they hardly deserved it after letting the first chance slip. King
Heathman remained as silent as the Sphinx, and about as mysterious. When
the time came for the royal christening, the church was filled. The
rector received a particularly plump bundle from Queen Heathman, and
placed it snugly into the hollow of his arm. He dipped his hand into the
font, and the whisper of "Annie" went about the church. The next moment
they heard, "Secunda, I baptise thee...."
The next year Princess Tertia was christened, and then Princess Quarta.
Even the rector admitted Quarta was rather an unusual name, but His
Majesty revelled in it, and would hear of nothing else. Every one said Q
was such an awkward initial; and they had to make the same remark next
year when Princess Quinta was brought to the font. "Sounds like squint,"
said one of the grumblers; but not one would venture to suggest such a
thing now. By this time the gossips of Lew had pretty well accommodated
themselves to the idea that King Heathman was irreclaimable. Annie,
Bessie, and Lucy were the orthodox village names for young ladies; and
it was perfectly clear he would have none of them.
In quick succession princesses were hurried to the font, and the
unromantic ears of the congregation were astonished by a list of
beautiful names--Sexta, Septima, Octava, Nona of the wonderful eyes, and
Decima of the sunny hair. But when the eleventh princess was brought to
church a serious difficulty arose. A perfect understanding existed
between His Majesty and the court chaplain. The father had no idea what
the name of his new daughter was to be when she was handed into the
scholar's arms. The rector did not use the formula, "Name this child,"
but substituted the question, "What is her number?" or words to that
effect. On this occasion, when the question was put, and King Heathman
had answered, "Eleven, sir," the rector paused. Then he whispered,
"Would you like Undecima?"
"Aw, sir, proper. Let's ha' 'en," was the eager answer.
The rector hesitated. Across his classical mind flashed the Latin
numbers ahead. The twelfth princess would have to be christened
Duodecima, and after that such names became impossible. So he whispered,
"Undecima is too much like Decima. We must think of something else."
"As yew like, sir," said his accommodating Majesty, although in
distinctly disappointed tones.
"Now there will be an Annie," murmured those villagers who were nearest
the font and had overheard the discussion.
While the rector was deliberating his eyes fell among flowers, the
church happening to be decorated for a festival, and bunches of the
white cluster-rose known as the Seven Sisters being twined about the
font; and he suggested that, if King Heathman was agreeable, a bevy of
flower-named princesses would be a pleasing relief after the dull
monotony of numbers.
"Twill do fine, sir," said King Heathman.
And that is how the Princess Rosa came to be christened.
But princesses went on filling the palace, and names were soon running
short again. Rosa had been followed by Lilia, Viola, and Veronica. King
Heathman was becoming fastidious. He had imbibed so much raw material of
knowledge from the court chaplain that he was beginning to regard
himself as a scholar of some importance. Then his royalty was increasing
in Lew; and he always wore a hard hat, which, in this part of the
country, is a sign, not exactly of majesty, but of stability and
respectability. He still hankered after the numbers, and was looking
forward to the birth of a twentieth princess who could be called
Vicesima. The fifteenth princess had just made her appearance, and the
father continued to disregard the petition of the neighbours praying him
to call her Annie before it was too late. It happened one day that he
cast his eyes upon two flowering shrubs which grew in pots, one at each
side of the palace gates. King Heathman could not remember the name of
these shrubs, though he had been told often enough, so he called Tertia,
and asked her to enlighten him.
"The name is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't get it out," said
Tertia. "I'll call Una."
Una is court encyclopædia. She appeared with her beautiful hair ruffled,
for she had been deep in arithmetic when Tertia called her, trying to
paper an imaginary room, having most impossible angles, with imaginary
wall-paper at the ridiculous price of one penny three-farthings a yard.
"What be the name o' that plant?" asked His Majesty.
"That is a hydrangea," said Una, in a delightfully prim and pedantic
fashion; and then she slipped back to her wall-papering at a penny
three-farthings a yard.
"What b'est going to call the new maiden?" shouted the blacksmith a few
moments later over the palace gates.
"Hydrangea," answered King Heathman grimly. Then he went into the state
apartments to break the news to his wife, leaving the blacksmith to have
a fit upon the road, or to go on to his smithy and have it there.
For the first time Queen Heathman rebelled. She said it was ridiculous
to give the child a name like that: she was surprised that the rector
should have thought of it, and she--
But at that point her husband interrupted with the famous remark of the
White Knight to Alice "'Tis my own invention."
This gave Queen Heathman free licence to exercise her tongue. She talked
botany for some time, and concluded with such words as: "You'll call the
poor maids vegetables next. If us ha' another maiden you'll call her
Broad Bean, I reckon, and the next Scarlet Runner."
"One Scarlet Runner be plenty, my dear," said her husband, with regal
pleasantry.
"What do ye mean?"
"Bain't your tongue one, my dear?"
This was a libel, for Queen Heathman is remarkably silent--for a woman.
She had to laugh at her husband's little Joke. They have always been a
devoted couple, and this little tiff was in perfect good-humour.
Finally, King Heathman went off to the rectory, where he discovered the
court chaplain and the Home Secretary chatting upon the lawn. Without
any preamble he disclosed his difficulty, and proposed that the
fifteenth princess should be named Hydrangea. There was no seconder. The
motion was declared lost, and the subject was thrown open for
discussion.
The Home Secretary suggested that the princess just born and her eleven
successors should be given the names of the months; and when he rolled
forth such stately titles as Januaria, Februaria, Martia, His Majesty
trembled. However, it occurred to him there might not be sufficient
princesses to exhaust the months, and he stated with much dignity of
language that he should not like to have an incomplete set. Then the
Christian virtues were suggested, Faith, Patience, Charity, Mercy, Hope;
but King Heathman would have none of them, not because he despised the
virtues, but because he considered that his daughters had them all.
Then the rector interposed in his quiet manner:
"The child shall be called Serena."
"What do 'en mean, sir?" asked King Heathman eagerly.
"It means free from care."
"That's it, sir--that's it," said His Majesty, expressing satisfaction
in his usual way.
"It is an appropriate name," the rector went on. "It implies a perfectly
happy condition. There may be dangers, but the girl shall not know of
them. There may be difficulties, but they shall not trouble her--at
least, we will hope so," he added with a smile.
"Thank ye, sir," said King Heathman. "And what will be the next name?"
he asked hopefully.
"The next?" said the rector, still in his classical musings. "Why, the
next child shall be called Placida."
But for some reason or other the Princess Placida has never come to
claim her name. Serena appears to be the last. She is still a toddler.
Almost any day of the week you may see her, fat and jolly, and extremely
free from care, staggering between Septima and Octava as they go
a-milking. She is generally embracing a yellow and very ugly cat, in
lieu of a doll. If you ask her name, she is just able to lisp, "I'se
Swena."
The gossips of Lew have revenged themselves upon King Heathman. They
refuse to call the baby Serena. They call her Annie.
And they are all living happily ever afterwards.