And what of the little lame Prince, whom everybody seemed so easily to
have forgotten?
Not everybody. There were a few kind souls, mothers of families, who had
heard his sad story, and some servants about the palace, who had been
familiar with his sweet ways--these many a time sighed and said, “Poor
Prince Dolor!” Or, looking at the Beautiful Mountains, which were
visible all over Nomansland, though few people ever visited them, “Well,
perhaps his Royal Highness is better where he is than even there.”
They did not know--indeed, hardly anybody did know--that beyond the
mountains, between them and the sea, lay a tract of country, barren,
level, bare, except for short, stunted grass, and here and there a patch
of tiny flowers. Not a bush--not a tree not a resting place for bird or
beast was in that dreary plain. In summer the sunshine fell upon it hour
after hour with a blinding glare; in winter the winds and rains swept
over it unhindered, and the snow came down steadily, noiselessly,
covering it from end to end in one great white sheet, which lay for days
and weeks unmarked by a single footprint.
Not a pleasant place to live in--and nobody did live there, apparently.
The only sign that human creatures had ever been near the spot was one
large round tower which rose up in the center of the plain, and might
be seen all over it--if there had been anybody to see, which there never
was. Rose right up out of the ground, as if it had grown of itself, like
a mushroom. But it was not at all mushroom-like; on the contrary, it was
very solidly built. In form it resembled the Irish round towers, which
have puzzled people for so long, nobody being able to find out when,
or by whom, or for what purpose they were made; seemingly for no use
at all, like this tower. It was circular, of very firm brickwork, with
neither doors nor windows, until near the top, when you could perceive
some slits in the wall through which one might possibly creep in or look
out. Its height was nearly a hundred feet, and it had a battlemented
parapet showing sharp against the sky.
As the plain was quite desolate--almost like a desert, only without
sand, and led to nowhere except the still more desolate seacoast--nobody
ever crossed it. Whatever mystery there was about the tower, it and the
sky and the plain kept their secret to themselves.
It was a very great secret indeed,--a state secret,--which none but so
clever a man as the present King of Nomansland would ever have thought
of. How he carried it out, undiscovered, I cannot tell. People said,
long afterward, that it was by means of a gang of condemned criminals,
who were set to work, and executed immediately after they had done, so
that nobody knew anything, or in the least suspected the real fact.
And what was the fact? Why, that this tower, which seemed a mere mass
of masonry, utterly forsaken and uninhabited, was not so at all. Within
twenty feet of the top some ingenious architect had planned a perfect
little house, divided into four rooms--as by drawing a cross within a
circle you will see might easily be done. By making skylights, and a
few slits in the walls for windows, and raising a peaked roof which was
hidden by the parapet, here was a dwelling complete, eighty feet from
the ground, and as inaccessible as a rook's nest on the top of a tree.
A charming place to live in! if you once got up there,--and never wanted
to come down again.
Inside--though nobody could have looked inside except a bird, and hardly
even a bird flew past that lonely tower--inside it was furnished with
all the comfort and elegance imaginable; with lots of books and toys,
and everything that the heart of a child could desire. For its only
inhabitant, except a nurse of course, was a poor solitary child.
One winter night, when all the plain was white with moonlight, there was
seen crossing it a great tall black horse, ridden by a man also big and
equally black, carrying before him on the saddle a woman and a child.
The woman--she had a sad, fierce look, and no wonder, for she was a
criminal under sentence of death, but her sentence had been changed to
almost as severe a punishment. She was to inhabit the lonely tower
with the child, and was allowed to live as long as the child lived--no
longer. This in order that she might take the utmost care of him; for
those who put him there were equally afraid of his dying and of his
living.
Yet he was only a little gentle boy, with a sweet, sleepy smile--he had
been very tired with his long journey--and clinging arms, which held
tight to the man's neck, for he was rather frightened, and the face,
black as it was, looked kindly at him. And he was very helpless, with
his poor, small shriveled legs, which could neither stand nor run
away--for the little forlorn boy was Prince Dolor.
He had not been dead at all--or buried either. His grand funeral had
been a mere pretense: a wax figure having been put in his place, while
he himself was spirited away under charge of these two, the condemned
woman and the black man. The latter was deaf and dumb, so could neither
tell nor repeat anything.
When they reached the foot of the tower, there was light enough to see
a huge chain dangling from the parapet, but dangling only halfway. The
deaf-mute took from his saddle-wallet a sort of ladder, arranged in
pieces like a puzzle, fitted it together, and lifted it up to meet the
chain. Then he mounted to the top of the tower, and slung from it a sort
of chair, in which the woman and the child placed themselves and were
drawn up, never to come down again as long as they lived. Leaving them
there, the man descended the ladder, took it to pieces again and packed
it in his pack, mounted the horse and disappeared across the plain.
Every month they used to watch for him, appearing like a speck in the
distance. He fastened his horse to the foot of the tower, and climbed
it, as before, laden with provisions and many other things. He always
saw the Prince, so as to make sure that the child was alive and well,
and then went away until the following month.
While his first childhood lasted Prince Dolor was happy enough. He
had every luxury that even a prince could need, and the one thing
wanting,--love,--never having known, he did not miss. His nurse was very
kind to him though she was a wicked woman. But either she had not been
quite so wicked as people said, or she grew better through being shut up
continually with a little innocent child who was dependent upon her for
every comfort and pleasure of his life.
It was not an unhappy life. There was nobody to tease or ill-use him,
and he was never ill. He played about from room to room--there were four
rooms, parlor, kitchen, his nurse's bedroom, and his own; learned to
crawl like a fly, and to jump like a frog, and to run about on all-fours
almost as fast as a puppy. In fact, he was very much like a puppy or
a kitten, as thoughtless and as merry--scarcely ever cross, though
sometimes a little weary.
As he grew older, he occasionally liked to be quiet for a while, and
then he would sit at the slits of windows--which were, however, much
bigger than they looked from the bottom of the tower--and watch the
sky above and the ground below, with the storms sweeping over and the
sunshine coming and going, and the shadows of the clouds running races
across the blank plain.
By and by he began to learn lessons--not that his nurse had been ordered
to teach him, but she did it partly to amuse herself. She was not a
stupid woman, and Prince Dolor was by no means a stupid boy; so they got
on very well, and his continual entreaty, “What can I do? what can you
find me to do?” was stopped, at least for an hour or two in the day.
It was a dull life, but he had never known any other; anyhow, he
remembered no other, and he did not pity himself at all. Not for a long
time, till he grew quite a big little boy, and could read quite easily.
Then he suddenly took to books, which the deaf-mute brought him from
time to time--books which, not being acquainted with the literature of
Nomansland, I cannot describe, but no doubt they were very interesting;
and they informed him of everything in the outside world, and filled him
with an intense longing to see it.
From this time a change came over the boy. He began to look sad and
thin, and to shut himself up for hours without speaking. For his nurse
hardly spoke, and whatever questions he asked beyond their ordinary
daily life she never answered. She had, indeed, been forbidden, on pain
of death, to tell him anything about himself, who he was, or what he
might have been.
He knew he was Prince Dolor, because she always addressed him as “My
Prince” and “Your Royal Highness,” but what a prince was he had not
the least idea. He had no idea of anything in the world, except what he
found in his books.
He sat one day surrounded by them, having built them up round him like
a little castle wall. He had been reading them half the day, but feeling
all the while that to read about things which you never can see is like
hearing about a beautiful dinner while you are starving. For almost the
first time in his life he grew melancholy; his hands fell on his lap; he
sat gazing out of the window-slit upon the view outside--the view he
had looked at every day of his life, and might look at for endless days
more.
Not a very cheerful view,--just the plain and the sky,--but he liked it.
He used to think, if he could only fly out of that window, up to the sky
or down to the plain, how nice it would be! Perhaps when he died--his
nurse had told him once in anger that he would never leave the tower
till he died--he might be able to do this. Not that he understood much
what dying meant, but it must be a change, and any change seemed to him
a blessing.
“And I wish I had somebody to tell me all about it--about that and many
other things; somebody that would be fond of me, like my poor white
kitten.”
Here the tears came into his eyes, for the boy's one friend, the
one interest of his life, had been a little white kitten, which the
deaf-mute, kindly smiling, once took out of his pocket and gave him--the
only living creature Prince Dolor had ever seen.
For four weeks it was his constant plaything and companion, till one
moonlight night it took a fancy for wandering, climbed on to the parapet
of the tower, dropped over and disappeared. It was not killed, he
hoped, for cats have nine lives; indeed, he almost fancied he saw it
pick itself up and scamper away; but he never caught sight of it more.
“Yes, I wish I had something better than a kitten--a person, a real
live person, who would be fond of me and kind to me. Oh, I want
somebody--dreadfully, dreadfully!”
As he spoke, there sounded behind him a slight tap-tap-tap, as of a
stick or a cane, and twisting himself round, he saw--what do you think
he saw?
Nothing either frightening or ugly, but still exceedingly curious. A
little woman, no bigger than he might himself have been had his legs
grown like those of other children; but she was not a child--she was an
old woman. Her hair was gray, and her dress was gray, and there was a
gray shadow over her wherever she moved. But she had the sweetest smile,
the prettiest hands, and when she spoke it was in the softest voice
imaginable.
“My dear little boy,”--and dropping her cane, the only bright and rich
thing about her, she laid those two tiny hands on his shoulders,--“my
own little boy, I could not come to you until you had said you wanted
me; but now you do want me, here I am.”
“And you are very welcome, madam,” replied the Prince, trying to speak
politely, as princes always did in books; “and I am exceedingly obliged
to you. May I ask who you are? Perhaps my mother?” For he knew that
little boys usually had a mother, and had occasionally wondered what had
become of his own.
“No,” said the visitor, with a tender, half-sad smile, putting back the
hair from his forehead, and looking right into his eyes--“no, I am not
your mother, though she was a dear friend of mine; and you are as like
her as ever you can be.”
“Will you tell her to come and see me, then?”
“She cannot; but I dare say she knows all about you. And she loves you
very much--and so do I; and I want to help you all I can, my poor little
boy.”
“Why do you call me poor?” asked Prince Dolor, in surprise.
The little old woman glanced down on his legs and feet, which he did not
know were different from those of other children, and then at his sweet,
bright face, which, though he knew not that either, was exceedingly
different from many children's faces, which are often so fretful, cross,
sullen. Looking at him, instead of sighing, she smiled. “I beg your
pardon, my Prince,” said she.
“Yes, I am a prince, and my name is Dolor; will you tell me yours,
madam?”
The little old woman laughed like a chime of silver bells.
“I have not got a name--or, rather, I have so many names that I don't
know which to choose. However, it was I who gave you yours, and you will
belong to me all your days. I am your godmother.”
“Hurrah!” cried the little Prince; “I am glad I belong to you, for I
like you very much. Will you come and play with me?”
So they sat down together and played. By and by they began to talk.
“Are you very dull here?” asked the little old woman.
“Not particularly, thank you, godmother. I have plenty to eat and drink,
and my lessons to do, and my books to read--lots of books.”
“And you want nothing?”
“Nothing. Yes--perhaps----If you please, godmother, could you bring me
just one more thing?”
“What sort of thing!”
“A little boy to play with.”
The old woman looked very sad. “Just the thing, alas I which I cannot
give you. My child, I cannot alter your lot in any way, but I can help
you to bear it.”
“Thank you. But why do you talk of bearing it? I have nothing to bear.”
“My poor little man!” said the old woman in the very tenderest tone of
her tender voice. “Kiss me!”
“What is kissing?” asked the wondering child.
His godmother took him in her arms and embraced him many times. By and
by he kissed her back again--at first awkwardly and shyly, then with all
the strength of his warm little heart.
“You are better to cuddle than even my white kitten, I think. Promise me
that you will never go away.”
“I must; but I will leave a present behind me,--something as good as
myself to amuse you,--something that will take you wherever you want to
go, and show you all that you wish to see.”
“What is it?”
“A traveling-cloak.”
The Prince's countenance fell. “I don't want a cloak, for I never go
out. Sometimes nurse hoists me on to the roof, and carries me round by
the parapet; but that is all. I can't walk, you know, as she does.”
“The more reason why you should ride; and besides, this
traveling-cloak----”
“Hush!--she's coming.”
There sounded outside the room door a heavy step and a grumpy voice, and
a rattle of plates and dishes.
“It's my nurse, and she is bringing my dinner; but I don't want dinner
at all--I only want you. Will her coming drive you away, godmother?”
“Perhaps; but only for a little while. Never mind; all the bolts and
bars in the world couldn't keep me out. I'd fly in at the window, or
down through the chimney. Only wish for me, and I come.”
“Thank you,” said Prince Dolor, but almost in a whisper, for he was
very uneasy at what might happen next. His nurse and his godmother--what
would they say to one another? how would they look at one another?--two
such different faces: one harsh-lined, sullen, cross, and sad; the other
sweet and bright and calm as a summer evening before the dark begins.
When the door was flung open, Prince Dolor shut his eyes, trembling all
over; opening them again, he saw he need fear nothing--his lovely old
godmother had melted away just like the rainbow out of the sky, as he
had watched it many a time. Nobody but his nurse was in the room.
“What a muddle your Royal Highness is sitting in,” said she sharply.
“Such a heap of untidy books; and what's this rubbish?” knocking a
little bundle that lay beside them.
“Oh, nothing, nothing--give it me!” cried the Prince, and, darting after
it, he hid it under his pinafore, and then pushed it quickly into his
pocket. Rubbish as it was, it was left in the place where she sat, and
might be something belonging to her--his dear, kind godmother, whom
already he loved with all his lonely, tender, passionate heart.
It was, though he did not know this, his wonderful traveling-cloak.