WOVEN AND THEN SPUN
"COME in, Irene," said the silvery voice of her grandmother.
The princess opened the door, and peeped in. But the room was quite
dark, and there was no sound of the spinning-wheel. She grew frightened
once more, thinking that, although the room was there, the old lady
might be a dream after all. Every little girl knows how dreadful it is
to find a room empty where she thought somebody was; but Irene had to
fancy for a moment that the person she came to find was nowhere at all.
She remembered however that at night she spun only in the moonlight, and
concluded that must be why there was no sweet, bee-like humming: the old
lady might be somewhere in the darkness. Before she had time to think
another thought, she heard her voice again, saying as before--
"Come in, Irene."
From the sound, she understood at once that she was not in the room
beside her. Perhaps she was in her bedroom. She turned across the
passage, feeling her way to the other door. When her hand fell on the
lock, again the old lady spoke--
"Shut the other door behind you, Irene. I always close the door of my
workroom when I go to my chamber."
Irene wondered to hear her voice so plainly through the door; having
shut the other, she opened it and went in. Oh, what a lovely haven to
reach from the darkness and fear through which she had come! The soft
light made her feel as if she were going into the heart of the milkiest
pearl; while the blue walls and their silver stars for a moment
perplexed her with the fancy that they were in reality the sky which she
had left outside a minute ago covered with rainclouds.
[Illustration: "Come," and she still held out her arms.]
"I've lighted a fire for you, Irene: you're cold and wet," said her
grandmother.
Then Irene looked again, and saw that what she had taken for a huge
bouquet of red roses on a low stand against the wall, was in fact a fire
which burned in the shapes of the loveliest and reddest roses, glowing
gorgeously between the heads and wings of two cherubs of shining silver.
And when she came nearer, she found that the smell of roses with which
the room was filled, came from the fire-roses on the hearth. Her
grandmother was dressed in the loveliest pale-blue velvet, over which
her hair, no longer white, but of a rich gold color, streamed like a
cataract, here falling in dull gathered heaps, there rushing away in
smooth shining falls. And even as she looked, the hair seemed pouring
down from her head, and vanishing in a golden mist ere it reached the
floor. It flowed from under the edge of a circle of shining silver, set
with alternated pearls and opals. On her dress was no ornament whatever,
neither was there a ring on her hand, or a necklace or carcanet about
her neck. But her slippers glimmered with the light of the Milky-way,
for they were covered with seed-pearls and opals in one mass. Her face
was that of a woman of three-and-twenty.
The princess was so bewildered with astonishment and admiration that she
could hardly thank her, and drew nigh with timidity, feeling dirty and
uncomfortable. The lady was seated on a low chair by the side of the
fire, with hands outstretched to take her, but the princess hung back
with a troubled smile.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked her grandmother. "You haven't been doing
anything wrong--I know that by your face, though it _is_ rather
miserable. What's the matter, my dear?"
And still she held out her arms.
"Dear grandmother," said Irene, "I'm not so sure that I haven't done
something wrong. I ought to have run up to you at once when the
long-legged cat came in at the window, instead of running out on the
mountain, and making myself such a fright."
"You were taken by surprise, my child, and are not so likely to do it
again. It is when people do wrong things willfully that they are the
more likely to do them again. Come."
And still she held out her arms.
"But, grandmother, you're so beautiful and grand with your crown on! and
I am so dirty with mud and rain!--I should quite spoil your beautiful
blue dress."
With a merry little laugh, the lady sprang from her chair, more lightly
far than Irene herself could, caught the child to her bosom, and kissing
the tear-stained face over and over, sat down with her in her lap.
"Oh, grandmother! you'll make yourself such a mess!" cried Irene,
clinging to her.
"You darling! do you think I care more for my dress than for my little
girl? Beside--look here!"
As she spoke she set her down, and Irene saw to her dismay that the
lovely dress was covered with the mud of her fall on the mountain road.
But the lady stooped to the fire, and taking from it, by the stalk in
her fingers, one of the burning roses, passed it once and again and a
third time over the front of her dress; and when Irene looked, not a
single stain was to be discovered.
"There!" said her grandmother, "you won't mind coming to me now?"
But Irene again hung back, eyeing the flaming rose which the lady held
in her hand.
"You're not afraid of the rose--are you?" she said, and she was about to
throw it on the hearth again.
"Oh! don't, please!" cried Irene. "Won't you hold it to my frock and my
hands and my face? And I'm afraid my feet and my knees want it too!"
"No," answered her grandmother, smiling a little sadly, as she threw the
rose from her; "it is too hot for you yet. It would set your frock in a
flame. Besides, I don't want to make you clean to-night. I want your
nurse and the rest of the people to see you as you are, for you will
have to tell them how you ran away for fear of the long-legged cat. I
should like to wash you, but they would not believe you then. Do you see
that bath behind you?"
The princess looked, and saw a large oval tub of silver, shining
brilliantly in the light of the wonderful lamp.
"Go and look into it," said the lady.
Irene went, and came back very silently, with her eyes shining.
"What did you see?" asked her grandmother.
"The sky and the moon and the stars," she answered. "It looked as if
there was no bottom to it."
The lady smiled a pleased, satisfied smile, and was silent also for a
few moments. Then she said--
"Any time you want a bath, come to me. I know you have a bath every
morning, but sometimes you want one at night too."
"Thank you, grandmother; I will--I will indeed," answered Irene, and was
again silent for some moments thinking. Then she said, "How was it,
grandmother, that I saw your beautiful lamp--not the light of it
only--but the great round silver lamp itself, hanging alone in the great
open air high up? It was your lamp I saw--wasn't it?"
"Yes, my child; it was my lamp."
"Then how was it? I don't see a window all round."
"When I please, I can make the lamp shine through the walls--shine so
strong that it melts them away from before the sight, and shows itself
as you saw it. But, as I told you, it is not everybody can see it."
"How is it that I can then? I'm sure I don't know."
"It is a gift born with you. And one day I hope everybody will have it."
"But how do you make it shine through the walls?"
"Ah! that you would not understand if I were to try ever so much to make
you--not yet--not yet. But," added the lady rising, "you must sit in my
chair while I get you the present I have been preparing for you. I told
you my spinning was for you. It is finished now, and I am going to fetch
it. I have been keeping it warm under one of my brooding pigeons."
Irene sat down in the low chair, and her grandmother left her, shutting
the door behind her. The child sat gazing, now at the rose-fire, now at
the starry walls, now at the silvery light; and a great quietness came
over her heart. If all the long-legged cats in the world had come
rushing helter-skelter at her then, she would not have been afraid of
them for a single moment. How this was, however, she could not
tell;--she only knew there was no fear in her, and everything was so
right and safe that it could not get in.
She had been gazing at the lovely lamp for some minutes fixedly: turning
her eyes, she found the wall had vanished, for she was looking out on
the dark cloudy night. But though she heard the wind blowing, none of it
blew upon her. In a moment more, the clouds themselves parted, or rather
vanished like the wall, and she looked straight into the starry herds,
flashing gloriously in the dark blue. It was but for a moment. The
clouds gathered again and shut out the stars; the wall gathered again
and shut out the clouds; and there stood the lady beside her with the
loveliest smile on her face, and a shimmering ball in her hand, about
the size of a pigeon's egg.
"There, Irene; there is my work for you!" she said, holding out the ball
to the princess.
She took it in her hand, and looked at it all over. It sparkled a
little, and shone here and shone there, but not much. It was of a sort
of gray whiteness, something like spun glass.
"Is this _all_ your spinning, grandmother?" she asked.
"All since you came to the house. There is more there than you think."
"How pretty it is! What am I to do with it?"
"That I will now explain to you," answered the lady, turning from her,
and going to her cabinet.
She came back with a small ring in her hand. Then she took the ball from
Irene's, and did something with the two--Irene could not tell what.
"Give me your hand," she said.
Irene held up her right hand.
"Yes, that is the hand I want," said the lady, and put the ring on the
forefinger of it.
"What a beautiful ring!" said Irene. "What is the stone called?"
"It is a fire-opal."
"Please, am I to keep it?"
"Always."
"Oh, thank you, grandmother! It's prettier than anything I ever saw,
except those--of all colors--in your--Please, is that your crown?"
"Yes, it is my crown. The stone in your ring is of the same sort--only
not so good. It has only red, but mine have all colors, you see."
"Yes, grandmother. I will take such care of it!--But--" she added,
hesitating.
"But what?" asked her grandmother.
"What am I to say when Lootie asks me where I got it?"
"_You_ will ask _her_ where you got it," answered the lady smiling.
"I don't see how I can do that."
"You will though."
"Of course I will if you say so. But you know I can't pretend not to
know."
"Of course not. But don't trouble yourself about it. You will see when
the time comes."
So saying, the lady turned, and threw the little ball into the
rose-fire.
"Oh, grandmother!" exclaimed Irene; "I thought you had spun it for me."
"So I did, my child. And you've got it."
"No; it's burnt in the fire."
The lady put her hand in the fire, brought out the ball, glimmering as
before, and held it toward her. Irene stretched out her hand to take it,
but the lady turned, and going to her cabinet, opened a drawer, and laid
the ball in it.
"Have I done anything to vex you, grandmother?" said Irene pitifully.
"No, my darling. But you must understand that no one ever gives anything
to another properly and really without keeping it. That ball is yours."
"Oh! I'm not to take it with me! You are going to keep it for me!"
"You are to take it with you. I've fastened the end of it to the ring on
your finger."
Irene looked at the ring.
"I can't see it there, grandmother," she said.
"Feel--a little way from the ring--toward the cabinet," said the lady.
"Oh! I do feel it!" exclaimed the princess. "But I can't see it," she
added, looking close to her outstretched hand.
"No. The thread is too fine for you to see it. You can only feel it. Now
you can fancy how much spinning that took, although it does seem such a
little ball."
"But what use can I make of it, if it lies in your cabinet?"
"That is what I will explain to you. It would be of no use to you--it
wouldn't be yours at all if it did not lie in my cabinet. Now listen. If
ever you find yourself in any danger--such, for example, as you were in
this evening--you must take off your ring, and put it under the pillow
of your bed. Then you must lay your forefinger, the same that wore the
ring, upon the thread, and follow the thread wherever it leads you."
"Oh, how delightful! It will lead me to you, grandmother, I know!"
"Yes. But, remember, it may seem to you a very roundabout way indeed,
and you must not double the thread. Of one thing you may be sure, that
while you hold it, I hold it too."
"It is very wonderful!" said Irene thoughtfully. Then suddenly becoming
aware, she jumped up, crying--"Oh, grandmother! here I have been sitting
all this time in your chair, and you standing! I _beg_ your pardon."
The lady laid her hand on her shoulder and said:
"Sit down again, Irene. Nothing pleases me better than to see any one
sit in my chair. I am only too glad to stand so long as any one will sit
in it."
"How kind of you!" said the princess, and sat down again.
"It makes me happy," said the lady.
"But," said Irene, still puzzled, "won't the thread get in somebody's
way and be broken, if the one end is fast to my ring and the other laid
in your cabinet?"
"You will find all that arranges itself. I am afraid it is time for you
to go."
"Mightn't I stay and sleep with you to-night, grandmother?"
"No, not to-night. If I had meant you to stay to-night, I should have
given you a bath; but you know everybody in the house is miserable about
you, and it would be cruel to keep them so all night. You must go down
stairs."
"I'm so glad, grandmother, you didn't say--_go home_--for this is my
home. Mayn't I call this my home?"
"You may, my child. And I trust you will always think it your home. Now
come. I must take you back without any one seeing you."
"Please, I want to ask you one question more," said Irene. "Is it
because you have your crown on that you look so young?"
"No, child," answered her grandmother; "it is because I felt so young
this evening, that I put my crown on. And it occurred to me that you
would like to see your old grandmother in her best."
"Why do you call yourself old? You're not old, grandmother."
"I am very old indeed. It is so silly of people--I don't mean you, for
you are such a tiny, and couldn't know better--but it is so silly of
people to fancy that old age means crookedness and witheredness and
feebleness and sticks and spectacles and rheumatism and forgetfulness!
It is so silly! Old age has nothing whatever to do with all that. The
right old age means strength and beauty and mirth and courage and clear
eyes and strong painless limbs. I am older than you are able to think,
and--"
"And look at you, grandmother!" cried Irene, jumping up, and flinging
her arms about her neck. "I won't be so silly again, I promise you. At
least--I'm rather afraid to promise--but if I am, I promise to be sorry
for it--I do. I wish I were as old as you, grandmother. I don't think
you are ever afraid of anything."
"Not for long, at least, my child. Perhaps by the time I am two thousand
years of age, I shall, indeed, never be afraid of anything. But I must
confess that I have sometimes been afraid about my children--sometimes
about you, Irene."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, grandmother!--To-night, I suppose, you mean."
"Yes--a little to-night; but a good deal when you had all but made up
your mind that I was a dream, and no real great-great-grandmother. You
must not suppose that I am blaming you for that, I daresay it was out of
your power to help it."
"I don't know, grandmother," said the princess, beginning to cry. "I
can't always do myself as I should like. And I don't always try. I'm
very sorry anyhow."
The lady stooped, lifted her in her arms, and sat down with her in her
chair, holding her close to her bosom. In a few minutes the princess had
sobbed herself to sleep. How long she slept, I do not know. When she
came to herself she was sitting in her own high chair at the nursery
table, with her doll's-house before her.