"Hast thou seen that lordly castle,
That castle by the sea?
Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously."
Trans. of Uhland: Longfellow.
Do you remember Gratian--Gratian Conyfer, the godson of the four winds,
the boy who lived at the old farmhouse up among the moors, where these
strange beautiful sisters used to meet? Do you remember how full of
fancies and stories Gratian's little head was, and how sometimes he put
them into words to please Fergus, the lame child he loved so much? The
story I am now going to tell you is one of these. I think it was their
favourite one. I can not say that it is in the very words in which
Gratian used to tell it, for it was not till long, long after those
boyish days that it came to be written down. But all the same it is his
story.
How long ago it was I cannot say, nor can I tell you exactly where it
was. This is not a story for which you will require an atlas, nor a
history of England or of any other country, nor a dictionary of dates.
All those wise and clever and useful things you may put out of your
heads for a bit. I am just going to tell you a story. It was somewhere
and somewhen, and I think that will do.
The "it" was a castle--and something else. But first about the castle.
It was really worthy of the name, for it was very old and very strong,
and in ancient days it had been used as a place of defence, and had a
look about it of not having forgotten this. (I am afraid this sounds a
_very_ little historical. I must take care.) It was very big too,
towering over the sea-washed cliffs on which it stood as if defying the
winds and the waves to do their worst, frowning at them with the little
round window-eyes of its turrets, like a cross old ogre. But it was a
two-faced castle; it was only on one side--the rocky side, where the
cliffs went down precipitously to the water--that it looked grim and
forbidding. Inland, you could scarcely have believed it was the same
castle at all. For here, towards the sunny south, it seemed to change
into a gracious, comfortable, hospitably-inviting mansion; it did not
look nearly so high on this side, for the ivy-covered turrets had more
the effect of dimly dark trees in the background, and the bright
wide-windowed rooms opened on to trim lawns and terraces gay with
flowers. That was the case in summer-time at least. The whole look of
things varied a good deal according to the seasons. In winter, grim as
it was, I don't know but that the fortress-front, so to speak, of the
great building had the best of it. For it was grand to watch the waves
breaking down below when you knew you were safe and cosy behind the
barred panes of the turret windows, those windows pierced in the walls
through such a thickness of stone that each was like a little room
within a room. And even in winter there were wonderful sunsets to be
seen from the children's favourite turret-room--the one which had two
windows to the west and only one to the cold north.
For the "something else" was the children. Much more interesting than
the castle--indeed, what would any castle or any house be without them?
Not that the castle was not a very interesting place to live in, as you
will hear, but all _places_, I think, need people to bring out their
interest. People who have been, sometimes, and sometimes, people that
still are. There was a mixture of both in my castle. But first and
foremost I will tell you of the children, whose home it was, and perhaps
is yet.
There were only two of them, only two, that is to say, who lived there
regularly; they were girls, twin-sisters, Ruby and Mavis were their
names, and at this time they were nearly twelve years old. I will not
say much in description of them, it is best to let you find out about
them for yourselves. They were almost exactly the same size; Ruby
perhaps a very little the taller, and at first sight every one thought
them exceedingly like each other. And so they were, so far as the
colour of their hair, the shape of their features, their eyes and
complexions went. They were pretty little girls, and they made a pretty
pair. But the more you got to know them the less alike you got to think
them, till at last you be an to wonder how you ever could have thought
them like at all! And even almost at the first glance _some_
differences were to be seen. Ruby was certainly the prettier. Her eyes
were brighter, her colour more brilliant, her way of walking and holding
herself more graceful, even her very manner of talking was more
interesting and attractive.
"What a charming child she is," said strangers always. "Such pretty
winning ways, so sweet and unselfish, so clever and intelligent! What a
pity that dull little Mavis is not more like her--why, I thought them
the image of each other at first, and now I can scarcely believe they
are sisters. I am sure poor Ruby must find Mavis very trying, she is so
stupid; but Ruby is so good and patient with her--it quite adds another
charm to the dear child."
This opinion or one like it was always the first expressed--well,
perhaps not _always_, but almost always. Now I will let you judge for
yourselves.
It was late autumn. So late, that one felt inclined to wish it were
already winter, without any thought or talk of a milder season. For it
was very cold, and thick-walled though the castle was, it needed any
amount of huge fires and curtains in front of the doorways and double
windows, and, in the modern rooms, hot air or water-pipes to make it
comfortable in severe weather. And all these things in winter it had.
But the housekeeper had rather old-fashioned and stiff ideas. She did
everything by rule. On a certain day in the autumn the winter
arrangements were begun, on a certain day in the spring they came to an
end. And this, whatever the weather was,--not a very good plan, for as
everybody knows, the weather itself is not so formal and particular.
There are quite warm, mild days sometimes in late November, and really
bitterly cold ones in April and May. But there would have been no
manner of use in trying to make old Bertha see this. Winter _should_
stop on a certain day, and summer should come, and _vice versa_. It had
always been so in her time, and Bertha did not like new-fangled ways.
So everybody shivered, and the more daring ones, of whom Ruby was the
foremost, scolded and grumbled. But it was no use.
"You may as well try to bear it patiently, my dear," said cousin
Hortensia, "the mild weather must come soon. I will lend you one of my
little shawls if you like. You will feel warmer when you have been out
for a run."
Cousin Hortensia was the lady who lived at the castle to teach and take
care of the two little girls. For their mother was dead and their
father was often away. He had some appointment at the court. I am not
sure what it was, but he was considered a very important person. He was
kind and good, as you will see, and it was always a great delight to the
children when he came home, and a great sorrow when he had to leave.
Cousin Hortensia was only a very far-off cousin, but the children always
called her so. For though she was really with them as a governess as
well as a friend, it would not have seemed so nice to call her by any
other name. She was very gentle, and took the best care she could of
them. And she was clever and taught them well. But she was rather a
dreamy sort of person. She had lived for many years a very quiet life,
and knew little of the outside world. She had known and loved the
twins' mother, and their father too, when they were but boy and girl,
for she was no longer young. And she loved Ruby and Mavis, Ruby
especially, so dearly, that she could see no fault in them. It was to
Ruby she was speaking and offering a shawl. They were sitting in one of
the rooms on the south side of the castle, sheltered from the stormy
winds which often came whirling down from the north. But even here it
was cold, or at least chilly.
Ruby shrugged her shoulders.
"You always offer me a shawl as if I were seventy, cousin Hortensia,"
she said rather pertly. "It would be much better if you would speak to
Bertha, and _insist_ on her having the fires lighted now it is so cold.
When I'm grown up I can tell you _I_ won't stand the old thing's
tyranny."
Cousin Hortensia looked rather distressed. There was some sense in what
Ruby said, but there were a great many other things to be considered,
all of which she could not explain to the children. Bertha was an
exceedingly valuable servant, and if she were interfered with and went
away it would be almost impossible to get any one like her. For it was
necessary that the castle should be managed with economy as well as
care.
"I would speak to Bertha if there was anything really important to
complain of," she said. "But this weather cannot last, and you are not
cold at night, are you?"
"No," said Mavis, "not at all."
"Bertha would never get all the work done unless she took her own way,"
Miss Hortensia went on. "But I'll tell you what I'll do, Ruby. I will
have the fire lighted in my own little room. I don't need to trouble
Bertha about that, thanks to your kind father's thoughtfulness. My
little wood-cupboard is always kept filled by Tim. And when you come in
from your walk we will have tea there instead of here, and spend a cosy
evening."
Ruby darted at Miss Hortensia and kissed her.
"That will be lovely," she said. "And as it's to be a sort of a treat
evening, do tell us a story after tea, dear cousin."
"If you're not tired," put in Mavis. "Cousin Hortensia had a headache
this morning," she said to Ruby, turning to her.
"Rubbish!" cried Ruby, but she checked herself quickly. "I don't mean
that," she went on, "but Mavis is such a kill-joy. You won't be tired
will you, dear cousin? Mavis doesn't care for stories as much as I do.
I've read nearly all the books in the library, and she never reads if
she can help it."
"I've enough to do with my lesson-books," said Mavis with a sigh. "And
I can scarcely ever find stories to read that I understand. But I like
_hearing_ stories, for then I can ask what it means if there comes a
puzzling part."
"Poor Mavis!" said Ruby contemptuously, "she's always getting puzzled."
"We must try to make your wits work a little quicker, my dear," said
Miss Hortensia. "You will get to like reading when you are older, I
daresay. I must look out for some easier story-books for you."
"But I love _hearing_ stories, cousin," said Mavis. "Please don't think
that I don't like your stories. I do so like that one about when you
came to the castle once when you were a little girl and about the dream
you had."
"I don't care for stories about dreams," said Ruby. "I like to hear
about when cousin Hortensia was a young lady and went to balls at the
court. I would love to have beautiful dresses and go to the court. Do
you think father will take me when I'm grown up, cousin Hortensia?"
"I daresay he will. You will both go, probably," Miss Hortensia
replied. "But you must not think too much of it or you may be
disappointed. Your mother was very beautiful and everybody admired her
when she went out in the world, but she always loved best to be here at
the castle."
Ruby made a face.
"Then I don't think I'm like her," she said. "I'm very tired of this
stupid old place already. And if you tell your dream-story to Mavis,
you must tell me the one about how mother looked when she went to her
first ball. She was dressed all in white, wasn't she?"
"No," Mavis answered. "In blue--wavy, changing blue, like the colour
the sea is sometimes."
"_Blue_," Ruby repeated, "what nonsense! Isn't it nonsense, cousin
Hortensia? Didn't our mother wear all white at her first ball--
everybody does."
Miss Hortensia looked up in surprise.
"Yes, of course," she said. "Who ever told you she wore blue, Mavis?"
Mavis grew very red.
"I wasn't speaking of our mother," she said. "It was the lady you saw
in your dream I meant, cousin Hortensia."
"You silly girl!" said Ruby. "Isn't she stupid?" Mavis looked ready to
cry.
"You must get out of that habit of not listening to what people say, my
dear," said Miss Hortensia. "Now you had better both go out--wrap up
warmly, and don't stay very long, and when you come in you will find me
in my own room."
"And you'll tell us stories, won't you, dear good cousin?" said Ruby
coaxingly, as she put up her pretty face for a kiss. "If you'll tell me
_my_ story, you may tell Mavis hers afterwards."
"Well, well, we'll see," said Miss Hortensia, smiling.
"I do so like the story of the blue lady," said Mavis, very softly, as
they left the room.
Five minutes later the twins were standing under the great archway which
led to the principal entrance to the castle. At one end this archway
opened on to a winding road cut in the rock, at the foot of which was a
little sandy cove--a sort of refuge among the cliffs. On each side of
it the waves broke noisily, but they never entirely covered the cove,
even at very high tides, and except in exceedingly rough and stormy
weather the water rippled in gently, as if almost asking pardon for
intruding at all. When the sea was out there was a scrambling path
among the rocks to the left, by which one could make one's way to a
little fishing-hamlet about a quarter of a mile off on the west. For,
as I should have explained before, the castle stood almost at a corner,
the coast-line turning sharply southwards, after running for many miles
almost due east and west.
The proper way to this hamlet was by the same inland road which led to
the castle, and which, so the legend ran, was much more modern than the
building itself, much more modern at least than the north side of it.
That grim fortress-like front was very ancient. It had been built
doubtless for a safe retreat, and originally had only been accessible
from the sea, being in those days girt round on the land side by
enormous walls, in which was no entrance of any kind. A part of these
walls, ivy-clad and crumbling, still remained, but sufficient had been
pulled down to give space for the pleasant sunny rooms and the sheltered
garden with its terraces.
Ruby shivered as she and Mavis stood a moment hesitating in the archway.
"It is cold here," she said; "the wind seems to come from everywhere at
once. Which way shall we go, Mavis?"
"It would be a little warmer at the back, perhaps," said Mavis. "But I
don't care much for the gardens on a dull day like this."
"Nor do I," said Ruby, "there's nothing to see. Now at the front it's
almost nicer on a dull day than when it's sunny--except of course for
the cold. Let's go down to the cove, Mavis, and see how it feels
there." It was curious that they always spoke of the fortress side as
the front, even though the southern part of the building was what would
have naturally seemed so.
"I'd like to stay out till sunset and see the colours up in the turret
windows," said Mavis, as they clambered down the rocky path. "I wish I
knew which of these rooms is the one where the blue fairy lady used to
come. I do think cousin Hortensia might have found out."
"Rubbish!" said Ruby. It was rather a favourite expression of hers, I
am afraid. "I don't believe cousin Hortensia ever saw her. It was all
a fancy because she had heard about it. If ever she did come, it was
ages and ages ago, and I don't believe she did even then. I don't
believe one bit about spirits and fairies and dreams and things like
that." Mavis said nothing, but a puzzled, disappointed look crept into
her eyes.
"Perhaps it's because I'm stupid," she said, "but I shouldn't like to
think like you, Ruby. And you know the story wouldn't have come all of
itself, and cousin Hortensia, though she calls it a dream, can't really
explain it that way."
"If you know so much about it, why do you keep teasing to have it told
again?" said Ruby impatiently. "Well, here we are at the cove; what are
we to do now?"
Mavis looked about her. It was chilly, and the sky was grey, but over
towards the west there was a lightening. The wind came in little puffs
down here, now and again only, for they were well under the shelter of
the cliffs. And up above, the old castle frowning down upon them--his
own children, whose ancestors he had housed and sheltered and protected
for years that counted by centuries--suddenly seemed to give a half
unwilling smile. It was a ray of thin afternoon sunshine striking
across the turret windows.
"See, see," said Mavis. "The sun's coming out. I'm sure the sky must
be pretty and bright round where the cottages are. The sea's quite far
enough back, and it's going out. Do let us go and ask how the baby--
Joan's baby, I mean--is to-day."
"Very well," said Ruby. "Not that I care much how the baby is, but
there's rather a nice scrambly way home up behind Joan's house. I found
it one day when you had a cold and weren't with me. It brings you out
down by the stile into the little fir-wood--just where you'd never
expect to find yourself. And oh, Mavis, there's such a queer little
cottage farther along the shore, at least just above the shore that way.
I saw it from the back, along the scrambly path."
"I wonder whose it is," said Mavis. "I don't remember any cottage that
way. Oh yes, I think I remember passing it one day long ago when Joan
was our nurse, and she made me run on quick, but she didn't say why."
"Perhaps it's haunted, or some nonsense like that," said Ruby with her
contemptuous air. "I'll ask Joan to-day. And if we pass it I'll walk
just as slow as ever I can on purpose. You'll see, Mavis."
"We'd better run now," said Mavis. "The sands are pretty firm just
here, and cousin Hortensia said we were to make ourselves warm. Let's
have a race."
They had left the cove and were making their way to the hamlet by the
foot of the rocks, where at low tide there was a narrow strip of pebbly
sand, only here and there broken by out-jutting crags which the children
found it very amusing to clamber over. Their voices sounded clear and
high in the air. For the wind seemed to have fallen with the receding
tide. By the time they reached the cottages they were both in a glow,
and Ruby had quite forgotten her indignation at old Bertha's fireless
rooms.