Peter and Janet and the miller stood on the rising ground by the farm;
the sound of the wheel came to them, and the whir of grinding. Before
them lay the tidal marshes that stretched to the seaport town. It was
the same town through whose streets the Water-Nix followed the pedlar
when she left dry land for the last time to swim out and join the
water-kelpies. It looked like a blue shadow-town now, cut sharp against
sky and sea, with its tall steeple reflected in the wet sand.
“I have often had it in my mind to tell you a strange story my
grandmother heard about a man who lived in that place,” said the miller,
pointing across the salt marsh.
“Is it true?” asked Peter.
“That’s more than I know,” replied his friend, “for I never asked my
granny, and maybe if I had, she couldn’t have told me. If you like the
story you can think it true, and if you don’t we’ll say it isn’t.”
“Have you ever been in that town?” the miller asked Janet.
“Never,” said she.
“Well, just where you see the steeple rising and the glint of the sun on
the weathercock is the High Street. It’s a wide road, with windows
looking down on it from either side; and at the end, as you go to the
docks, is an old house with carved gable-ends, and in a niche of its
wall is the statue of a man.”
“And is that the man the story is about?” inquired little Peter.
“The same,” said the miller. “But, to tell you about him, I must begin
somewhere very far away from the place where the old statue stands.”
“How far?” asked inquisitive Peter.
“I don’t know,” answered the miller, “because nobody I’ve ever seen has
been there.
“Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a Princess who had
five handsome elder sisters.”
“But I thought you were going to tell about the man!” cried Peter.
“If you listen hard enough, you’ll hear the grass grow,” said the
miller, “and if you listen long enough, you’ll hear about the man.”
Once upon a time, as I said before, there was a Princess who had five
elder sisters, the most beautiful ladies ever seen; and their father
thought a deal of them, but not much of the youngest, who was small and
not nearly so pretty. But she was very nice, all the same, and the thing
she loved best was to go hunting after flowers. Nobody cared what she
did or where she went, and she spent all her days wandering in woods and
valleys looking for her plants. There was little she did not know about
them, and if she had not been a Princess, with no need to work, she
might have made her fortune by writing books about them and their
histories. One day as she roamed about she came to a place she had never
seen before—a little valley full of great trees, with a winding stream
rushing through it like a silver thread. Beside the water grew a clump
of the most lovely yellow irises.
She liked the spot so much that she returned to it every day; and she
would sit for hours at a time beside the iris-bed, with her elbows on
her knees, dreaming about wonderful foreign plants she had never seen
and the strange descriptions of them she had read in books.
Farther up the valley, beyond the trees, could be seen the roofs of a
castle which stood on towering rocks. She did not know who it belonged
to, so one day, as she sat by the water, she said aloud: “I wonder who
lives there?”
“The witch, the witch!” sang the iris-flowers behind her. The sound went
through them like a sigh.
She started and turned round, but there was no one to be seen; and again
as she looked the flowers repeated: “The witch, the witch!”
Then she asked them many more questions, but nothing would they say.
Perhaps it was all they knew, or perhaps what she took for words was
only the rustling of the long stiff leaves one against the other. But
that’s as may be. In any case, it roused her curiosity so much that she
rose and went off towards the castle. She had no sooner got among the
trees than by came the witch herself.
[Illustration: “‘WHO ARE YOU?’ INQUIRED THE OLD WOMAN.”]
“Who are you?” inquired the old woman.
The Princess explained, and politely asked to be forgiven for
trespassing.
“Pray don’t apologize,” said the witch, “and do me the favour to give me
your arm as far as my castle. I have, as you see, no staff, and I am not
so young as I was.”
The Princess agreed willingly, and they walked on together. The old
woman was wrapped in a trailing black cloak, and her hair hung over her
eyes, like the hair of all other witches. She seemed rather a pleasant
body, though her nose and chin were certainly a little too near
together. When they had climbed as far as the castle gate, she invited
her companion to come in and rest, and the Princess, who feared nobody,
followed her. They sat down together at a window overlooking the valley;
from it she could see the winding water and the clump of irises.
“It is the most fortunate thing in the world that I met you,” began the
old woman, “for I am much in need of advice from somebody. My difficulty
is this: I have grown very tired of being a witch, and I wish to leave
my profession and become like other people. I am learning, as you have
noticed, to do without my crooked staff. Last week I sold my broomstick
and bought a very pretty little brown horse instead, and I have given my
black cat to a friend. My appearance is still not quite what I could
wish, and I really do not know what kind of clothes to get, nor how to
arrange my hair. Other witches can tell me nothing, for they know as
little as I do, but your advice would be the greatest help to me.”
“I shall be very pleased to do anything I can,” said the Princess.
“If you will consent to stay with me for a few days till my wardrobe is
complete, I shall be more obliged than I can say,” continued the old
woman. “Use my house as your own, and everything in it.”
And so it was all arranged in five minutes.
The Princess was uncommonly useful. She brushed the witch’s hair and
pinned it up tidily, and made her a fine lace head-dress, which gave her
a dignified air. She sent to the nearest town for silks and brocades and
buckled shoes, and, instead of the crooked staff that her friend missed
so much, she bought her a handsome stick with an amber head.
The witch was delighted, for she looked both refined and venerable as
she stood before her glass.
“Here!” she exclaimed, taking up her old black cloak, which lay on the
floor, “this must be thrown away.”
She was just going to cast it upon the fire when the Princess stopped
her.
“Oh no, no!” she cried, snatching it from her, “don’t destroy it. Pray,
pray give it to me!”
“What for?” exclaimed the witch. “A Princess in a witch’s cloak? A
pretty idea, indeed!”
But the Princess clung to it.
“Surely you will not refuse me,” she said, “since you do not want it any
more! How often have I heard you say that you could fly wherever you
liked in it? Think what it would be for me if I were able to go off in
it to foreign countries, and see all the wonderful plants I have heard
so much about! Only give it to me and I will be your debtor for life.”
“Well, after all, why not?” said the witch. “One good turn certainly
deserves another. Keep it, my dear. If you put it on, and hold out your
arms like wings on either side, it will take you up into the sky, and
you can sail along like a ship. When you wish to descend, just fold your
arms and you will come down to earth quite gently.”
The Princess took her treasure and locked it up in her own chamber, for
fear the witch should change her mind. The next day she bade her
farewell, and, throwing on the cloak, spread out her arms. Up she went,
easily and gently, and when she had decided where she should go, she
turned her face southwards and was soon far, far away, a little speck
among the clouds. The witch looked after her till she could see her no
more.
She was now in the seventh heaven of joy. She went to every country she
had ever heard about. She saw the sea-pinks and water-asters of lonely
islands known only to screaming gulls; she stood in forests where
creepers were thrown like veils over the branches and the air was heavy
with the scent of fringed and spotted orchids, purple and mauve and
cream-yellow. She wandered beside lakes, walled in by solemn trees that
hid the sun and strewn with red and white lilies; she saw the groves of
cherry-blossom that hang on the steep gorges of blue hills far away, and
the giant palms and scarlet flowers of the South. At last, after many
months of wandering, she flew northward and up the coast of the North
Sea till she was right over the town before us.
It was midnight as she stood, wrapped in her black cloak, on the topmost
point of the steeple. The folds fluttered and crackled, as you may hear
a flag flutter and crackle if you stand by a flagstaff on a tower; but
no one noticed it or saw her, for everyone but the watchman was in bed,
and _he_ was asleep too, though he was paid to be awake. In the bright
moonlight she sailed down to the empty pavement of the High Street,
among the dark shadows of the gable-ends. It was winter now and the
frost was iron-hard over the whole country. She went quickly through the
streets, for she did not care for towns, determining that when the sun
rose next day she would be well on her way back to the witch’s castle in
the valley. But she was rather tired and wanted a few hours of sleep
first. She left the town and flew up this very road and past the
mill—so I have heard—till she came to an old deserted cottage that
once stood not far from here by the wayside. (There were still a few
stones of it left when I was a child, and I used to pass it on my way to
school.) The nettle-stalks were all frozen round it as she pushed
through the broken door, meaning to lie down and sleep in shelter till
morning. She had nothing to fear from the cold, for among the cloak’s
other useful qualities was the power of keeping the person inside it
perfectly warm. She was exceedingly surprised to see by the moonlight
that someone else was in the miserable hovel.
A little starving boy was lying on a pile of straw in the corner. His
poor face was thin and blue with cold, and he had crept into the hut
because it was the only refuge he could find. He had walked all day,
begging from door to door, for he had neither home nor friends nor food,
and was worn out with fatigue and hunger. He lay, scarcely knowing where
he was, for his wits were beginning to go, and when the Princess came in
he was very near death. Strange dreams were in his brain. The moon
struck brilliantly on a little window in the wall and the bitter cold
had covered it with wonderful frost-flowers. It was the last thing he
had seen before he closed his eyes, and he seemed to himself to be
looking deep into a white forest that had grown up from the panes. Oh,
how freezing it was! The forest was all made of frozen ferns and seaweed
and feathers, like the white images on the glass. It stretched far, far
away in alleys of fantastic sparkling fronds and glittering branches.
How thick the strange, beautiful things grew! He had been once told
that, if he was a good boy, when he died a white angel would come and
take him to a place where he would never be sad or hungry any more. He
was not sure that he did not see someone coming to him between the stems
of the frozen forest. Perhaps it was the white angel.
He tried to sit up, but he was too weak. Poor little man, he had just
enough life left in him to see that what he had taken for an angel was a
woman in a black cloak.
The Princess went to him and bent over him. Then she took him up under
the warm folds, bound him to her breast with her girdle, and hurried out
of the hut. She spread out her arms, and, sailing with him into the
wintry sky, flew over land and sea till she arrived at the witch’s
castle.
The witch was overjoyed to see her come back, for she had been away half
a year. They took the little boy and put him in a warm bed, in which he
lay for many long days. But he was fed with the best of food, and such
care was taken of him that when he got well he was able to run about and
play in the valley and be happy from morning till night. They were so
good to him that he soon forgot he had ever had any troubles at all.
The witch and the Princess got on so well together that they determined
not to part, and they had plenty to do, looking after their charge and
teaching him all the things he should know—how to read and write and
say his prayers, and how to answer nicely when he was spoken to. When
the Princess went, as she did every year, to find new flowers in foreign
lands, he went with her, and helped her to carry back roots and seeds,
which they planted in the valley; for the cloak was so large that, even
when he grew bigger, there was room in it for them both. She taught him
all her own knowledge, and as time went by and he grew up to be a man,
he became even more learned than herself. He was very clever and so
hardy and strong that nobody would have believed him to be the little
wretched child who had lain starving in the hovel.
At last the time came when he was ready to go out into the world to seek
his fortune. The parting gift that the Princess gave him was the black
cloak. He was to have it on condition that he would come back once every
year to go to some foreign land with her, and to visit the witch. He was
given a small sum of money to start life with; and, as he was anxious to
see the country of his birth and the hut in which he had been found, he
wrapped himself in the cloak and came down, as the Princess had done, at
midnight into the town across the marsh.
He was a fine, sensible fellow. Though he had lived in a castle, and
perhaps because he had been brought up by a real Princess, he had no
silly notions and was ready for any work he could find. He hired a
modest lodging, and, going to the director of a large public garden that
had been made in the town, he asked to be employed as a gardener. There
was only one place vacant, and that was the very lowest, but he took it
eagerly. His work was to wheel barrows, and sweep leaves, and cut grass,
but he did it as carefully and put as much heart into it as if he was
raising priceless flowers; for the Princess had brought him up strictly,
and made him understand that honest work can only be made mean by the
meanness of the person who does it.
Every year, when he had a few weeks’ holiday, he returned to the witch’s
castle. No one saw him go, and no one saw him come back, and nobody knew
how he managed to get the marvellous plants that he brought back with
him. Very soon he was no longer an under-gardener, but the head of all,
and by the time he was turning grey he had become the greatest botanist
and teacher in the country. Learned men came from all parts of the
kingdom to talk with him in his house with the carved gable-ends in the
High Street of yonder town.
Time went by, and his fame spread all over the world. He grew old and
his hair turned white, but still he went about wrapped in the black
cloak, from which he never parted. His white beard flowed over his
breast as he sat and wrote the books which helped to make him famous, or
walked over the country, comparing plants and teaching his pupils out of
his stores of wisdom. But at last he grew too infirm to walk long
distances, and strangers coming to the town would look with awe upon his
venerable figure as he passed through the streets. Everyone loved him,
rich and poor alike.
And so it came to be that a great banquet was given in his honour, and
the learned from all countries met together.
It was the middle of summer, and the hall in which it took place was
decorated with flowers. A laurel-wreath hung over the chair in which he
was to sit, costly fruits were brought from far-away lands, and the hall
was filled with the glory of blossoming plants, many of which he had
carried home with him as tiny seeds from his journeys. Wise men were
there and beautiful ladies, students and great personages. All had come
to see him and to hear him speak. The town was thronged—you would think
there was no room in it for so much as one additional person.
When the feast was over he rose and began his speech, and silence fell
upon everyone. Though he was frail and old, his voice was clear as he
told them of the countries he had wandered in—the distant islands, the
tropics, the golden East. No one imagined he had been so far afield, and
his listeners wondered how he had contrived to make such voyages, for
they knew that he was not rich and lived very simply in the old house at
the end of the street. But everybody was enthralled; his life of work,
his modesty, his great age and wisdom adorned him, in the eyes of his
pupils and the assembled guests, like the jewels of a crown.
When the long speech was over he sat down, leaning back in his chair
under the laurel-wreath, for the effort he had made was great. The
guests remained respectfully in their places; they saw that he was weary
and would need rest before he could listen to their congratulations. For
a moment he closed his eyes, and when he opened them, a wonderful change
seemed to have come over the scene before him.
The green boughs that filled the hall and the vases of flowers on the
long tables were changing before his failing sight. Instead of the tall
sheaves of roses a white forest was rising up, deep and pure, a forest
that he had seen before. On either side the frost-flowers hung
sparkling, their snow-crystals thick in the maze of white feathers and
seaweed and ferns. The sprays and branches crowded on him in their
dazzling myriads, dense and high, and far down the white vista into
which he looked a figure was coming—a white figure. It was the angel.
He rose and grasped an outstretched hand.
“He is gone,” said the guests. “The exertion has been too much for him.”
And his pupils and friends came round him, the tears standing in their
eyes.
At that moment a gust of wind ran through the open doors of the hall,
and the black cloak, which its owner had laid on a window-sill before he
sat down at the table, was blown from it and flew out into the air. No
one saw it go, but it rose on the sudden wind and sailed upwards, above
the town, above the steeple, and disappeared like a dark cloud into the
distant spaces of sky.
* * * * *
“Some day,” said the miller to little Peter, “I’ll take you to the town
in my cart and show you the statue of that man in the wall of the old
house.”
“And you’ll let me hold the end of the reins and the whip, and drive
too, won’t you?” shouted the little boy.
“Well, perhaps I will,” laughed the miller, “only Janet must come too,
to keep you in order.”