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ONCE ON A TIME
_By_
A.A. Milne
CHAPTER I
THE KING OF EURALIA HAS A VISITOR TO BREAKFAST
King Merriwig of Euralia sat at breakfast on his castle walls. He
lifted the gold cover from the gold dish in front of him, selected a
trout and conveyed it carefully to his gold plate. He was a man of
simple tastes, but when you have an aunt with the newly acquired gift
of turning anything she touches to gold, you must let her practise
sometimes. In another age it might have been fretwork.
"Ah," said the King, "here you are, my dear." He searched for his
napkin, but the Princess had already kissed him lightly on the top of
the head, and was sitting in her place opposite to him.
"Good morning, Father," she said; "I'm a little late, aren't I? I've
been riding in the forest."
"Any adventures?" asked the King casually.
"Nothing, except it's a beautiful morning."
"Ah, well, perhaps the country isn't what it was. Now when I was a
young man, you simply couldn't go into the forest without an adventure
of some sort. The extraordinary things one encountered! Witches,
giants, dwarfs----. It was there that I first met your mother," he
added thoughtfully.
"I wish I remembered my mother," said Hyacinth.
The King coughed and looked at her a little nervously.
"Seventeen years ago she died, Hyacinth, when you were only six months
old. I have been wondering lately whether I haven't been a little
remiss in leaving you motherless so long."
The Princess looked puzzled. "But it wasn't your fault, dear, that
mother died."
"Oh, no, no, I'm not saying that. As you know, a dragon carried her
off and--well, there it was. But supposing"--he looked at her
shyly--"I had married again."
The Princess was startled.
"Who?" she asked.
The King peered into his flagon. "Well," he said, "there _are_
people."
"If it had been somebody _very_ nice," said the Princess wistfully,
"it might have been rather lovely."
The King gazed earnestly at the outside of his flagon.
"Why 'might have been?'" he said.
The Princess was still puzzled. "But I'm grown up," she said; "I
don't want a mother so much now."
The King turned his flagon round and studied the other side of it.
"A mother's--er--tender hand," he said, "is--er--never----" and then
the outrageous thing happened.
It was all because of a birthday present to the King of Barodia, and
the present was nothing less than a pair of seven-league boots. The
King being a busy man, it was a week or more before he had an
opportunity of trying those boots. Meanwhile he used to talk about
them at meals, and he would polish them up every night before he went
to bed. When the great day came for the first trial of them to be
made, he took a patronising farewell of his wife and family, ignored
the many eager noses pressed against the upper windows of the Palace,
and sailed off. The motion, as perhaps you know, is a little
disquieting at first, but one soon gets used to it. After that it is
fascinating. He had gone some two thousand miles before he realised
that there might be a difficulty about finding his way back. The
difficulty proved at least as great as he had anticipated. For the
rest of that day he toured backwards and forwards across the country;
and it was by the merest accident that a very angry King shot in
through an open pantry window in the early hours of the morning. He
removed his boots and went softly to bed. . . .
It was, of course, a lesson to him. He decided that in the future he
must proceed by a recognised route, sailing lightly from landmark to
landmark. Such a route his Geographers prepared for him--an early
morning constitutional, of three hundred miles or so, to be taken ten
times before breakfast. He gave himself a week in which to recover
his nerve and then started out on the first of them.
Now the Kingdom of Euralia adjoined that of Barodia, but whereas
Barodia was a flat country, Euralia was a land of hills. It was
natural then that the Court Geographers, in search of landmarks,
should have looked towards Euralia; and over Euralia accordingly,
about the time when cottage and castle alike were breakfasting, the
King of Barodia soared and dipped and soared and dipped again.
* * * * *
"A mother's tender hand," said the King of Euralia,
"is--er--never--good gracious! What's that?"
There was a sudden rush of air; something came for a moment between
his Majesty and the sun; and then all was quiet again.
"What was it?" asked Hyacinth, slightly alarmed.
"Most extraordinary," said the King. "It left in my mind an
impression of ginger whiskers and large boots. Do we know anybody
like that?"
"The King of Barodia," said Hyacinth, "has red whiskers, but I don't
know about his boots."
"But what could he have been doing up there? Unless----"
There was another rush of wind in the opposite direction; once more
the sun was obscured, and this time, plain for a moment for all to
see, appeared the rapidly dwindling back view of the King of Barodia
on his way home to breakfast.
Merriwig rose with dignity.
"You're quite right, Hyacinth," he said sternly; "it _was_ the King of
Barodia."
Hyacinth looked troubled.
"He oughtn't to come over anybody's breakfast table quite so quickly
as that. Ought he, Father?"
"A lamentable display of manners, my dear. I shall withdraw now and
compose a stiff note to him. The amenities must be observed."
Looking as severe as a naturally jovial face would permit him, and
wondering a little if he had pronounced "amenities" right, he strode
to the library.
The library was his Majesty's favourite apartment. Here in the
mornings he would discuss affairs of state with his Chancellor, or
receive any distinguished visitors who were to come to his kingdom in
search of adventure. Here in the afternoon, with a copy of _What to
say to a Wizard_ or some such book taken at random from the shelves,
he would give himself up to meditation.
And it was the distinguished visitors of the morning who gave him most
to think about in the afternoon. There were at this moment no fewer
than seven different Princes engaged upon seven different enterprises,
to whom, in the event of a successful conclusion, he had promised the
hand of Hyacinth and half his kingdom. No wonder he felt that she
needed the guiding hand of a mother.
The stiff note to Barodia was not destined to be written. He was
still hesitating between two different kinds of nib, when the door was
flung open and the fateful name of the Countess Belvane was announced.
The Countess Belvane! What can I say which will bring home to you
that wonderful, terrible, fascinating woman? Mastered as she was by
overweening ambition, utterly unscrupulous in her methods of achieving
her purpose, none the less her adorable humanity betrayed itself in a
passion for diary-keeping and a devotion to the simpler forms of
lyrical verse. That she is the villain of the piece I know well; in
his _Euralia Past and Present_ the eminent historian, Roger
Scurvilegs, does not spare her; but that she had her great qualities I
should be the last to deny.
She had been writing poetry that morning, and she wore green. She
always wore green when the Muse was upon her: a pleasing habit which,
whether as a warning or an inspiration, modern poets might do well to
imitate. She carried an enormous diary under her arm; and in her mind
several alternative ways of putting down her reflections on her way to
the Palace.
"Good morning, dear Countess," said the King, rising only too gladly
from his nibs; "an early visit."
"You don't mind, your Majesty?" said the Countess anxiously. "There
was a point in our conversation yesterday about which I was not quite
certain----"
"What _were_ we talking about yesterday?"
"Oh, your Majesty," said the Countess, "affairs of state," and she
gave him that wicked, innocent, impudent, and entirely scandalous look
which he never could resist, and you couldn't either for that matter.
"Affairs of state, of course," smiled the King.
"Why, I made a special note of it in my diary."
She laid down the enormous volume and turned lightly over the pages.
"Here we are! '_Thursday._ His Majesty did me the honour to consult
me about the future of his daughter, the Princess Hyacinth. Remained
to tea and was very----' I can't quite make this word out."
"Let _me_ look," said the King, his rubicund face becoming yet more
rubicund. "It looks like 'charming,'" he said casually.
"Fancy!" said Belvane. "Fancy my writing that! I put down just what
comes into my head at the time, you know." She made a gesture with
her hand indicative of some one who puts down just what comes into her
head at the time, and returned to her diary. "'Remained to tea, and
was very charming. Mused afterwards on the mutability of life!'" She
looked up at him with wide-open eyes. "I often muse when I'm alone,"
she said.
The King still hovered over the diary.
"Have you any more entries like--like that last one? May I look?"
"Oh, your Majesty! I'm afraid it's _quite_ private." She closed the
book quickly.
"I just thought I saw some poetry," said the King.
"Just a little ode to a favourite linnet. It wouldn't interest your
Majesty."
"I adore poetry," said the King, who had himself written a rhymed
couplet which could be said either forwards or backwards, and in the
latter position was useful for removing enchantments. According to
the eminent historian, Roger Scurvilegs, it had some vogue in Euralia
and went like this:
"_Bo, boll, bill, bole._ _Wo, woll, will, wole._"
A pleasing idea, temperately expressed.
The Countess, of course, was only pretending. Really she was longing
to read it. "It's quite a little thing," she said.
"_Hail to thee, blithe linnet,_ _Bird thou clearly art,_
_That from bush or in it_ _Pourest thy full heart!_
_And leads the feathered choir in song_ _Taking the treble part._"
"Beautiful," said the King, and one must agree with him. Many years
after, another poet called Shelley plagiarised the idea, but handled
it in a more artificial, and, to my way of thinking, decidedly
inferior manner.
"Was it a real bird?" said the King.
"An old favourite."
"Was it pleased about it?"
"Alas, your Majesty, it died without hearing it."
"Poor bird!" said his Majesty; "I think it would have liked it."
Meanwhile Hyacinth, innocent of the nearness of a mother, remained on
the castle walls and tried to get on with her breakfast. But she made
little progress with it. After all, it _is_ annoying continually to
look up from your bacon, or whatever it is, and see a foreign monarch
passing overhead. Eighteen more times the King of Barodia took
Hyacinth in his stride. At the end of the performance, feeling rather
giddy, she went down to her father.
She found him alone in the library, a foolish smile upon his face, but
no sign of a letter to Barodia in front of him.
"Have you sent the Note yet?" she asked.
"Note? Note?" he said, bewildered, "what--oh, you mean the Stiff Note
to the King of Barodia? I'm just planning it, my love. The exact
shade of stiffness, combined with courtesy, is a little difficult to
hit."
"I shouldn't be too courteous," said Hyacinth; "he came over eighteen
more times after you'd gone."
"Eighteen, eighteen, eight--my dear, it's outrageous."
"I've never had such a crowded breakfast before."
"It's positively insulting, Hyacinth. This is no occasion for Notes.
We will talk to him in a language that he will understand."
And he went out to speak to the Captain of his Archers.
CHAPTER II
THE CHANCELLOR OF BARODIA HAS A LONG WALK HOME
Once more it was early morning on the castle walls.
The King sat at his breakfast table, a company of archers drawn up in
front of him.
"Now you all understand," he said. "When the King of Baro--when a
certain--well, when I say 'when,' I want you all to fire your arrows
into the air. You are to take no aim; you are just to shoot your
arrows upwards, and--er--I want to see who gets highest. Should
anything--er--should anything brush up against them on their way--not
of course that it's likely--well, in that case--er--in that case
something will--er--brush up against them. After all, what _should?_"
"Quite so, Sire," said the Captain, "or rather, not at all."
"Very well. To your places."
Each archer fitted an arrow to his bow and took up his position. A
look-out man had been posted. Everything was ready.
The King was decidedly nervous. He wandered from one archer to
another asking after this man's wife and family, praising the polish
on that man's quiver, or advising him to stand with his back a little
more to the sun. Now and then he would hurry off to the look-out man
on a distant turret, point out Barodia on the horizon to him, and
hurry back again.
The look-out knew all about it.
"Royalty over," he bellowed suddenly.
"When!" roared the King, and a cloud of arrows shot into the air.
"Well done!" cried Hyacinth, clapping her hands. "I mean, how could
you? You might have hurt him."
"Hyacinth," said the King, turning suddenly; "you here?"
"I have just come up. Did you hit him?"
"Hit who?"
"The King of Barodia, of course."
"The King of---- My dear child, what could the King of Barodia be
doing here? My archers were aiming at a hawk that they saw in the
distance." He beckoned to the Captain. "Did you hit that hawk?" he
asked.
"With one shot only, Sire. In the whisk--in the tail feathers."
The King turned to Hyacinth.
"With one shot only in the whisk--in the tail feathers," he said.
"What was it, my dear, that you were saying about the King of
Barodia?"
"Oh, Father, you are bad. You hit the poor man right in the whisker."
"His Majesty of Barodia! And in the whisker! My dear child, this is
terrible! But what can he have been doing up there? Dear, dear, this
is really most unfortunate. I must compose a note of apology about
this."
"I should leave the first note to him," said Hyacinth.
"Yes, yes, you're right. No doubt he will wish to explain how he came
to be there. Just a moment, dear."
He went over to his archers, who were drawn up in line
again.
"You may take your men down now," he said to the Captain.
"Yes, your Majesty."
His Majesty looked quickly round the castle walls, and then leant
confidentially towards the Captain.
"Er--which was the man who--er"-- he fingered his cheek--"er--quite
so. The one on the left? Ah, yes." He went to the man on the left
and put a bag of gold into his hand.
"You have a very good style with the bow, my man. Your wrist action
is excellent. I have never seen an arrow go so high."
The company saluted and withdrew. The King and Hyacinth sat down to
breakfast.
"A little mullet, my dear?" he said.
The Hereditary Grand Chancellor of Barodia never forgot that morning,
nor did he allow his wife to forget it. His opening, "That reminds
me, dear, of the day when----" though the signal of departure for any
guests, allowed no escape for his family. They had to have it.
And indeed it was a busy day for him. Summoned to the Palace at nine
o'clock, he found the King nursing a bent whisker and in the very
vilest of tempers. His Majesty was for war at once, the Chancellor
leant towards the Stiff Note.
"At least, your Majesty," he begged, "let me consult the precedents
first."
"There is no precedent," said the King coldly, "for such an outrage as
this."
"Not precisely, Sire; but similar unfortunate occurrences
have--occurred."
"It was worse than an occurrence."
"I should have said an outrage, your Majesty. Your late lamented
grandfather was unfortunate enough to come beneath the spell of the
King of Araby, under which he was compelled--or perhaps I should say
preferred--to go about on his hands and knees for several weeks. Your
Majesty may recall how the people in their great loyalty adopted a
similar mode of progression. Now although your Majesty's case is not
precisely on all fours----"
"Not at all on all fours," said the King coldly.
"An unfortunate metaphor; I should say that although your Majesty's
case is not parallel, the procedure adopted in your revered
grandfather's case----"
"I don't care what _you_ do with your whiskers; I don't care what
_anybody_ does with his whiskers," said the King, still soothing his
own tenderly; "I want the King of Euralia's blood." He looked round
the Court. "To any one who will bring me the head of the King, I will
give the hand of my daughter in marriage."
There was a profound silence. . . .
"Which daughter?" said a cautious voice at last.
"The eldest," said the King.
There was another profound silence. . . .
[Illustration: _He found the King nursing a bent whisker and in the
very vilest of tempers_]
"My suggestion, your Majesty," said the Chancellor, "is that for the
present there should be merely an exchange of Stiff Notes; and that
meanwhile we scour the kingdom for an enchanter who shall take some
pleasant revenge for us upon his Majesty of Euralia. For instance,
Sire, a king whose head has been permanently fixed on upside-down
lacks somewhat of that regal dignity which alone can command the
respect of his subjects. A couple of noses, again, placed at
different angles, so they cannot both be blown together----"
"Yes, yes," said the King impatiently, "_I'll_ think of the things, if
once you can find the enchanter. But they are not so common nowadays.
Besides, enchanters are delicate things to work with. They have a
habit of forgetting which side they are on."
The Chancellor's mouth drooped piteously.
"Well," said the King condescendingly, "I'll tell you what we'll do.
You may send _one_ Stiff Note and then we will declare war."
"Thank you, your Majesty," said the Chancellor.
So the Stiff Note was dispatched. It pointed out that his Majesty of
Barodia, while in the act of taking his early morning constitutional,
had been severely insulted by an arrow. This arrow, though
fortunately avoiding the more vital parts of his Majesty's person,
went so far as to wound a favourite whisker. For this the fullest
reparation must be made . . . and so forth and so on.
Euralia's reply was not long delayed. It expressed the deepest
concern at the unhappy accident which had overtaken a friendly
monarch. On the morning in question, his Majesty had been testing his
archers in a shooting competition at a distant hawk; which
competition, it might interest his Majesty of Barodia to know, had
been won by Henry Smallnose, a bowman of considerable promise. In the
course of the competition it was noticed that a foreign body of some
sort brushed up against one of the arrows, but as this in no way
affected the final placing of the competitors, little attention was
paid to it. His Majesty of Barodia might rest assured that the King
had no wish to pursue the matter farther. Indeed, he was always glad
to welcome his Barodian Majesty on these occasions. Other shooting
competitions would be arranged from time to time, and if his Majesty
happened to be passing at the moment, the King of Euralia hoped that
he would come down and join them. Trusting that her Majesty and their
Royal Highnesses were well, . . . and so on and so forth.
The Grand Chancellor of Barodia read this answer to his Stiff Note
with a growing feeling of uneasiness. It was he who had exposed his
Majesty to this fresh insult; and, unless he could soften it in some
way, his morning at the Palace might be a painful one.
As he entered the precincts, he wondered whether the King would be
wearing the famous boots, and whether they kicked seven leagues as
easily as they strode them. He felt more and more that there were
notes which you could break gently, and notes which you
couldn't. . . .
Five minutes later, as he started on his twenty-one mile walk home, he
realised that this was one of the ones which you couldn't.
This, then, was the real reason of the war between Euralia and
Barodia. I am aware that in saying this I differ from the eminent
historian, Roger Scurvilegs. In Chapter IX of his immortal work,
_Euralia Past and Present_, he attributes the quarrel between the two
countries to quite other causes. The King of Barodia, he says,
demanded the hand of the Princess Hyacinth for his eldest son. The
King of Euralia made some commonplace condition as that his Royal
Highness should first ride his horse up a glassy mountain in the
district, a condition which his Majesty of Barodia strongly resented.
I am afraid that Roger is incurably romantic; I have had to speak to
him about it before. There was nothing of the sentimental in the whole
business, and the facts are exactly as I have narrated them.
CHAPTER III
THE KING OF EURALIA DRAWS HIS SWORD
No doubt you have already guessed that it was the Countess Belvane who
dictated the King of Euralia's answer. Left to himself, Merriwig
would have said, "Serve you jolly well right for stalking over my
kingdom." His repartee was never very subtle. Hyacinth would have
said, "Of course we're _awfully_ sorry, but a whisker isn't _very_
bad, is it? and you really _oughtn't_ to come to breakfast without
being asked." The Chancellor would have scratched his head for a long
time, and then said, "Referring to Chap VII, Para 259 of the _King's
Regulations_ we notice . . ."
But Belvane had her own way of doing things; and if you suggest that
she wanted to make Barodia's declaration of war inevitable, well, the
story will show whether you are right in supposing that she had her
reasons. It came a little *** the Chancellor of Barodia, but the
innocent must needs suffer for the ambitions of the unprincipled--a
maxim I borrow from _Euralia Past and Present;_ Roger in his moral
vein.
"Well," said Merriwig to the Countess, "that's done it."
"It really is war?" asked Belvane.
"It is. Hyacinth is looking out my armour at this moment."
"What did the King of Barodia say?"
"He didn't _say_ anything. He wrote 'W A R' in red on a dirty bit of
paper, pinned it to my messenger's ear, and sent him back again."
"How very crude," said the Countess.
"Oh, I thought it was--er--rather forcible," said the King awkwardly.
Secretly he had admired it a good deal and wished that he had been the
one to do it.
"Of course," said the Countess, with a charming smile, "that sort of
thing depends so _very_ much on who does it. Now from your Majesty it
would have seemed--dignified."
"He must have been very angry," said the King, picking up first one
and then another of a number of swords which lay in front of him. "I
wish I had seen his face when he got my Note."
"So do I," sighed the Countess. She wished it much more than the
King. It is the tragedy of writing a good letter that you cannot be
there when it is opened: a maxim of my own, the thought never having
occurred to Roger Scurvilegs, who was a dull correspondent.
The King was still taking up and putting down his swords.
"It's very awkward," he muttered; "I wonder if Hyacinth----" He went
to the door and called "Hyacinth!"
"Coming, Father," called back Hyacinth, from a higher floor.
The Countess rose and curtsied deeply.
"Good morning, your Royal Highness."
"Good morning, Countess," said Hyacinth brightly. She liked the
Countess (you couldn't help it), but rather wished she didn't.
"Oh, Hyacinth," said the King, "come and tell me about these swords.
Which is my magic one?"
Hyacinth looked at him blankly.
"Oh, Father," she said. "I don't know at all. Does it matter very
much?"
"My dear child, of course it matters. Supposing I am fighting the
King of Barodia and I have my magic sword, then I'm bound to win.
Supposing I haven't, then I'm not bound to."
"Supposing you both had magic swords," said Belvane. It was the sort
of thing she _would_ say.
The King looked up slowly at her and began to revolve the idea in his
mind.
"Well, really," he said, "I hadn't thought of that. Upon my word,
I----" He turned to his daughter. "Hyacinth, what would happen if we
both had magic swords?"
"I suppose you'd go on fighting for ever," said Hyacinth.
"Or until the magic wore out of one of them," said Belvane innocently.
"There must be something about it somewhere," said the King, whose
morning was in danger of being quite spoilt by this new suggestion;
"I'd ask the Chancellor to look it up, only he's so busy just now."
"He'd have plenty of time while the combat was going on," said Belvane
thoughtfully. Wonderful creature! she saw already the Chancellor
hurrying up to announce that the King of Euralia had won, at the very
moment when he lay stretched on the ground by a mortal thrust from his
adversary.
The King turned to his swords again.
"Well, anyway, I'm going to be sure of _mine_," he said. "Hyacinth,
haven't you _any_ idea which it is?" He added in rather a hurt voice,
"Naturally I left the marking of my swords to _you_."
His daughter examined the swords one by one.
"Here it is," she cried. "It's got 'M' on it for 'magic.'"
"Or 'Merriwig,'" said the Countess to her diary.
The expression of joy on the King's face at his daughter's discovery
had just time to appear and fade away again.
"You are not being very helpful this morning, Countess," he said
severely.
Instantly the Countess was on her feet, her diary thrown to the
floor--no, never thrown--laid gently on the floor, and herself, hands
clasped at her breast, a figure of reproachful penitence before him.
"Oh, your Majesty, forgive me--if your Majesty had only asked me--I
didn't know your Majesty wanted me--I thought her Royal Highness----
But _of course_ I'll find your Majesty's sword for you." Did she
stroke his head as she said this? I have often wondered. It would be
like her impudence, and her motherliness, and her---and, in fact, like
her. _Euralia Past and Present_ is silent upon the point. Roger
Scurvilegs, who had only seen Belvane at the unimpressionable age of
two, would have had it against her if he could, so perhaps there is
nothing in it.
"There!" she said, and she picked out the magic sword almost at once.
[Illustration: _"Try it on me," cried the Countess_]
"Then I'll get back to my work," said Hyacinth cheerfully, and left
them to each other.
The King, smiling happily, girded on his sword. But a sudden doubt
assailed him.
"Are you sure it's the one?"
"Try it on _me_," cried the Countess superbly, falling on her knees
and stretching up her arms to him. The toe of her little shoe touched
her diary; its presence there uplifted her. Even as she knelt she saw
herself describing the scene. How do you spell "offered"? she
wondered.
I think the King was already in love with her, though he found it so
difficult to say the decisive words. But even so he could only have
been in love a week or two; a fortnight in the last forty years; and
he had worn a sword since he was twelve. In a crisis it is the old
love and not the greater love which wins (Roger's, but I think I agree
with him), and instinctively the King drew his sword. If it were
magic a scratch would kill. Now he would know.
Her enemies said that the Countess could not go pale; she had her
faults, but this was not one of them. She whitened as she saw the
King standing over her with drawn sword. A hundred thoughts chased
each other through her mind. She wondered if the King would be sorry
afterwards; she wondered what the minstrels would sing of her, and if
her diary would ever be made public; most of all she wondered why she
had been such a fool, such a melodramatic fool.
The King came to himself with a sudden start. Looking slightly
ashamed he put his sword back in its scabbard, coughed once or twice
to cover his confusion, and held his hand out to the Countess to
assist her to rise.
"Don't be absurd, Countess," he said. "As if we could spare you at a
time like this. Sit down and let us talk matters over seriously."
A trifle bewildered by the emotions she had gone through, Belvane sat
down, the beloved diary clasped tightly in her arms. Life seemed
singularly sweet just then, the only drawback being that the minstrels
would not be singing about her after all. Still, one cannot have
everything.
The King walked up and down the room as he talked.
"I am going away to fight," he said, "and I leave my dear daughter
behind. In my absence, her Royal Highness will of course rule the
country. I want her to feel that she can lean upon you, Countess, for
advice and support. I know that I can trust you, for you have just
given me a great proof of your devotion and courage."
"Oh, your Majesty!" said Belvane deprecatingly, but feeling very glad
that it hadn't been wasted.
"Hyacinth is young and inexperienced. She needs a--a----"
"A mother's guiding hand," said Belvane softly.
The King started and looked away. It was really too late to propose
now; he had so much to do before the morrow. Better leave it till he
came back from the war.
"You will have no official position," he went on hastily, "other than
your present one of Mistress of the Robes; but your influence on her
will be very great."
The Countess had already decided on this. However there _is_ a look
of modest resignation to an unsought duty which is suited to an
occasion of this kind, and the Countess had no difficulty in supplying
it.
"I will do all that I can, your Majesty, to help--gladly; but will not
the Chancellor----"
"The Chancellor will come with me. He is no fighter, but he is good
at spells." He looked round to make sure that they were alone, and
then went on confidentially, "He tells me that he has discovered in
the archives of the palace a Backward Spell of great value. Should he
be able to cast this upon the enemy at the first onslaught, he thinks
that our heroic army would have no difficulty in advancing."
"But there will be other learned men," said Belvane innocently, "so
much more accustomed to affairs than us poor women, so much better
able"--("What nonsense I'm talking," she said to herself)--"to advise
her Royal Highness----"
"Men like that," said the King, "I shall want with me also. If I am
to invade Barodia properly I shall need every man in the kingdom.
Euralia must be for the time a country of women only." He turned to
her with a smile and said gallantly, "That will be--er---- It
is--er--not--er----. One may well--er----"
It was so obvious from his manner that something complimentary was
struggling to the surface of his mind, that Belvane felt it would be
kinder not to wait for it.
"Oh, your Majesty," she said, "you flatter my poor sex."
"Not at all," said the King, trying to remember what he had said. He
held out his hand. "Well, Countess, I have much to do."
"I, too, your Majesty."
She made him a deep curtsey and, clasping tightly the precious diary,
withdrew.
The King, who still seemed worried about something, returned to his
table and took up his pen. Here Hyacinth discovered him ten minutes
later. His table was covered with scraps of paper and, her eyes
lighting casually upon one of them, she read these remarkable words:
"_In such a land I should be a most contented subject._"
She looked at some of the others. They were even shorter:
"_That, dear Countess, would be my----_"
"_A country in which even a King----_"
"_Lucky country!_"
The last was crossed out and "_Bad_" written against it.
"Whatever are these, Father?" said Hyacinth.
The King jumped up in great confusion.
"Nothing, dear, nothing," he said. "I was just--er---- Of course I
shall have to address my people, and I was just jotting down a few----
However, I shan't want them now." He swept them together, screwed
them up tight, and dropped them into a basket.
And what became of them? you ask. Did they light the fires of the
Palace next morning? Well, now, here's a curious thing. In Chapter X
of _Euralia Past and Present_ I happened across these words:
"The King and all the men of the land having left to fight the wicked
Barodians, Euralia was now a country of women only--_a country in
which even a King might be glad to be a subject_."
Now what does this mean? Is it another example of literary theft? I
have already had to expose Shelley. Must I now drag into the light of
day a still worse plagiarism by Roger Scurvilegs? The waste-paper
baskets of the Palace were no doubt open to him as to so many
historians. But should he not have made acknowledgments?
I do not wish to be *** Roger. That I differ from him on many
points of historical fact has already been made plain, and will be
made still more plain as my story goes on. But I have a respect for
the man; and on some matters, particularly those concerning Prince Udo
of Araby's first appearance in Euralia, I have to rely entirely upon
him for my information. Moreover I have never hesitated to give him
credit for such of his epigrams as I have introduced into this book,
and I like to think that he would be equally punctilious to others.
We know his romantic way; no doubt the thought occurred to him
independently. Let us put it at that, anyhow.
Belvane, meanwhile, was getting on. The King had drawn his sword on
her and she had not flinched. As a reward she was to be the power
behind the throne.
"Not necessarily _behind_ the throne," said Belvane to herself.
CHAPTER IV
THE PRINCESS HYACINTH LEAVES IT TO THE COUNTESS
It is now time to introduce Wiggs to you, and I find myself in a
difficulty at once. What _was_ Wiggs's position in the Palace?
This story is hard to tell, for I have to piece it together from the
narratives of others, and to supply any gaps in their stories from my
knowledge of how the different characters might be expected to act.
Perhaps, therefore, it is a good moment in which to introduce to you
the authorities upon whom I rely.
First and foremost, of course, comes Roger Scurvilegs. His monumental
work, _Euralia Past and Present_, in seventeen volumes, towers upon my
desk as I write. By the merest chance I picked it up (in a
metaphorical sense) at that little shop near--I forget its name, but
it's the third bookshop on the left as you come into London from the
New Barnet end. Upon him I depend for the broad lines of my story,
and I have already indicated my opinion of the value of his work.
Secondly, come the many legends and ballads handed on to me years ago
by my aunt by marriage, one of the Cornish Smallnoses. She claims to
be a direct descendant of that Henry Smallnose whose lucky shot
brought about the events which I am to describe. I say she claims to
be, and one cannot doubt a lady's word in these matters; certainly she
used to speak about Henry with that mixture of pride and extreme
familiarity which comes best from a relation. In all matters not
touching Henry, I feel that I can rely upon her; in its main lines her
narrative is strictly confirmed by Scurvilegs, and she brought to it a
picturesqueness and an appreciation of the true character of Belvane
which is lacking in the other; but her attitude towards Henry
Smallnose was absurd. Indeed she would have had him the hero of the
story. This makes Roger and myself smile. We give him credit for the
first shot, and then we drop him.
Thirdly, Belvane herself. Women like Belvane never die, and I met her
(or a reincarnation of her) at a country house in Shropshire last
summer. I forget what she calls herself now, but I recognised her at
once; and, as I watched her, the centuries rolled away and she and I
were in Euralia, that pleasant country, together. "Stayed to tea and
was very charming." Would she have said that of me, I wonder? But
I'm getting sentimental--Roger's great fault.
These then are my authorities; I consult them, and I ask myself, What
was Wiggs?
Roger speaks of her simply as an attendant upon the Princess. Now we
know that the Princess was seventeen; Wiggs then would be about the
same age--a lady-in-waiting--perhaps even a little older. Why not?
you say. The Lady Wiggs, maid-of-honour to her Royal Highness the
Princess Hyacinth, eighteen and a bit, tall and stately. Since she is
to endanger Belvane's plans, let her be something of a match for the
wicked woman.
Yes, but you would never talk like that if you had heard one of my
aunt's stories. Nor if you had seen Belvane would you think that any
grown-up woman could be a match for her.
Wiggs was a child; I feel it in my bones. In all the legends and
ballads handed down to me by my aunt she appears to me as a little
girl--Alice in a fairy story. Roger or no Roger I must have her a
child.
And even Roger cannot keep up the farce that she is a real
lady-in-waiting. In one place he tells us that she dusts the throne
of the Princess; can you see her ladyship, eighteen last February,
doing that? At other times he allows her to take orders from the
Countess; I ask you to imagine a maid-of-honour taking orders from any
but her own mistress. Conceive her dignity!
A little friend, then, of Hyacinth's, let us say; ready to do anything
for anybody who loved, or appeared to love, her mistress.
The King had departed for the wars. His magic sword girded to his
side, his cloak of darkness, not worn but rolled up behind him, lest
the absence of his usual extensive shadow should disturb his horse, he
rode at the head of his men to meet the enemy. Hyacinth had seen him
off from the Palace steps. Five times he had come back to give her
his last instructions, and a sixth time for his sword, but now he was
gone, and she was alone on the castle walls with Wiggs.
"Saying good-bye to fathers is very tiring," said Hyacinth. "I do
hope he'll be all right. Wiggs, although we oughtn't to mention it to
anybody, and although he's only just gone, we do think it will be
rather fun being Queen, don't we?"
"It must be lovely," said Wiggs, gazing at her with large eyes. "Can
you really do whatever you like now?"
Hyacinth nodded.
"I always _did_ whatever I liked," she said, "But now I really _can_
do it."
"Could you cut anybody's head off?"
"Easily," said the Princess confidently.
"I should hate to cut anybody's head off."
"So should I, Wiggs. Let's decide to have no heads off just at
present--till we're more used to it."
Wiggs still kept her eyes fixed upon the Princess.
"Which is stronger," she asked, "you or a Fairy?"
"I knew you were going to ask something horrid like that," said
Hyacinth, pretending to be angry. She looked quickly round to see
that nobody was listening, and then whispered in Wiggs's ear, "I am."
"O--oh!" said Wiggs. "How lovely!"
"Isn't it? Did you ever hear the story of Father and the Fairy?"
"His Majesty?"
"His Majesty the King of Euralia. It happened in the forest one day
just after he became King."
Did _you_ ever hear the story? I expect not. Well, then, you must
hear it. But there will be too many inverted commas in it if I let
Hyacinth tell you, so I shall tell you myself.
[Illustration: _Five times he had come back to give her his last
instructions_]
It was just after he became King. He was so proud that he used to go
about saying, "I am the King. I am the King." And sometimes, "The
King am I. The King I am." He was saying this one day in the forest
when a Fairy overheard him. So she appeared in front of him and said,
"I believe you are the King?"
"I am the King," said Merriwig. "I am the King, I am the----"
"And yet," said the Fairy, "what is a King after all?"
"It is a very powerful thing to be a King," said Merriwig proudly.
"Supposing I were to turn you into a--a small sheep. Then where would
you be?"
The King thought anxiously for a moment.
"I should like to be a small sheep," he said.
The Fairy waved her wand.
"Then you can be one," she said, "until you own that a Fairy is much
more powerful than a King."
So all at once he was a small sheep.
"Well?" said the Fairy.
"Well?" said the King.
"Which is more powerful, a King or a Fairy?"
"A King," said Merriwig. "Besides being more woolly," he added.
There was silence for a little. Merriwig began to eat some grass.
"I don't think much of Fairies," he said with his mouth full. "I
don't think they're very powerful."
The Fairy looked at him angrily.
"They can't make you say things you don't want to say," he explained.
The Fairy stamped her foot.
"Be a toad," she said, waving her wand. "A nasty, horrid, crawling
toad."
"I've _always_ wanted--" began Merriwig--"to be a toad," he ended from
lower down.
"Well?" said the Fairy.
"I don't think much of Fairies," said the King. "I don't think
they're very powerful." He waited for the Fairy to look at him, but
she pretended to be thinking of something else. After waiting a
minute or two, he added, "They can't make you say things you don't
want to say."
The Fairy stamped her foot still more angrily, and moved her wand a
third time.
"Be silent!" she commanded. "And stay silent for ever!"
There was no sound in the forest. The Fairy looked at the blue sky
through the green roof above her; she looked through the tall trunks
of the trees to the King's castle beyond; her eyes fell upon the
little glade on her left, upon the mossy bank on her right . . . but
she would not look down to the toad at her feet.
No, she wouldn't. . . .
She _wouldn't_. . . .
And yet----
It was too much for her. She could resist no longer. She looked at
the nasty, horrid, crawling toad, the dumb toad at her feet that was
once a King.
And, catching her eye, the toad--_winked_.
Some winks are more expressive than others. The Fairy knew quite well
what this one meant. It meant:
"I don't think much of Fairies. I don't think they're very powerful.
They can't make you say things you don't want to say."
The Fairy waved her wand in disgust.
"Oh, be a King again," she said impatiently, and vanished.
And so that is the story of how the King of Euralia met the Fairy in
the forest. Roger Scurvilegs tells it well--indeed, almost as well as
I do--but he burdens it with a moral. You must think it out for
yourself; I shall not give it to you.
Wiggs didn't bother about the moral. Her elbows on her knees, her
chin resting on her hands, she gazed at the forest and imagined the
scene to herself.
"How wonderful to be a King like that!" she thought.
"That was a long time ago," explained Hyacinth. "Father must have
been rather lovely in those days," she added.
"It was a very bad Fairy," said Wiggs.
"It was a very stupid one. I wouldn't have given in to Father like
that."
"But there are good Fairies, aren't there? I met one once."
"You, child? Where?"
I don't know if it would have made any difference to Euralian history
if Wiggs had been allowed to tell about her Fairy then; as it was, she
didn't tell the story till later on, when Belvane happened to be near.
I regret to say that Belvane listened. It was the sort of story that
_always_ got overheard, she explained afterwards, as if that were any
excuse. On this occasion she was just too early to overhear, but in
time to prevent the story being told without her.
"The Countess Belvane," said an attendant, and her ladyship made a
superb entry.
"Good morning, Countess," said Hyacinth.
"Good morning, your Royal Highness. Ah, Wiggs, sweet child," she
added carelessly, putting out a hand to pat the sweet child's head,
but missing it.
"Wiggs was just telling me a story," said the Princess.
"Sweet child," said Belvane, feeling vaguely for her with the other
hand. "_Could_ I interrupt the story with a little business, your
Royal Highness?"
At a nod from the Princess, Wiggs withdrew.
"Well?" said Hyacinth nervously.
Belvane had always a curious effect on the Princess when they were
alone together. There was something about her large manner which made
Hyacinth feel like a schoolgirl who has been behaving badly: alarmed
and apologetic. I feel like this myself when I have an interview with
my publishers, and Roger Scurvilegs (upon the same subject) drags in a
certain uncle of his before whom (so he says) he always appears at his
worst. It is a common experience.
"Just one or two little schemes to submit to your Majesty," said the
Countess. "How silly of me--I mean, your Royal Highness. Of course
your Royal Highness may not like them at all, but in case your Royal
Highness did, I just--well, I just wrote them out."
She unfolded, one by one, a series of ornamental parchments.
"They are beautifully written," said the Princess.
Belvane blushed at the compliment. She had a passion for coloured
inks and rulers. In her diary the day of the week was always
underlined in red, the important words in the day's doings being
frequently picked out in gold. On taking up the diary you saw at once
that you were in the presence of somebody.
The first parchment was headed:
SCHEME FOR ECONOMY IN REALM
"Economy" caught the eye in pale pink. The next parchment was headed:
SCHEME FOR SAFETY OF REALM
"Safety" clamoured to you in blue.
The third parchment was headed:
SCHEME FOR ENCOURAGEMENT OF LITERATURE IN REALM
"Encouragement of Literature" had got rather cramped in the small
quarters available for it. A heading, Belvane felt, should be in one
line; she had started in letters too big for it, and the fact that the
green ink was giving out made it impossible to start afresh.
There were ten parchments altogether.
By the end of the third one, the Princess began to feel uncomfortable.
By the end of the fifth one she knew that it was a mistake her ever
having come into the Royal Family at all.
By the end of the seventh she decided that if the Countess would
forgive her this time she would never be naughty again.
By
the end of the ninth one she was just going to cry.
The tenth one was in a very loud orange and was headed:
SCHEME FOR ASSISTING CALISTHENICS IN REALM
"Yes," said the Princess faintly; "I think it would be a good idea."
"I thought if your Royal Highness approved," said Belvane, "we might
just----"
Hyacinth felt herself blushing guiltily--she couldn't think why.
"I leave it to you, Countess," she murmured. "I am sure you know
best."
It was a remark which she would never have made to her Father.
CHAPTER V
BELVANE INDULGES HER HOBBY
In a glade in the forest the Countess Belvane was sitting: her throne,
a fallen log, her courtiers, that imaginary audience which was always
with her. For once in her life she was nervous; she had an anxious
morning in front of her.
I can tell you the reason at once. Her Royal Highness was going to
review her Royal Highness's Army of Amazons (see _Scheme II, Safety of
Realm_). In half an hour she would be here.
And why not? you say. Could anything be more gratifying?
I will tell you why not. There was no Army of Amazons. In order that
her Royal Highness should not know the sad truth, Belvane drew their
pay for them. 'Twas better thus.
In any trouble Belvane comforted herself by reading up her diary. She
undid the enormous volume, and, idly turning the pages, read some of
the more delightful extracts to herself.
"_Monday, June 1st_," she read. "Became bad."
She gave a sigh of resignation to the necessity of being bad. Roger
Scurvilegs is of the opinion that she might have sighed a good many
years before. According to him she was born bad.
"_Tuesday, June 2nd_," she read on. "Realised in the privacy of my
heart that I was destined to rule the country. _Wednesday, June 3rd._
Decided to oust the Princess. _Thursday, June 4th._ Began ousting."
What a confession for any woman--even for one who had become bad last
Monday! No wonder Belvane's diary was not for everybody. Let us look
over her shoulder and read some more of the wicked woman's
confessions.
"_Friday, June 5th._ Made myself a----" Oh, that's quite private.
However we may read this: "_Thought for the week._ Beware lest you
should tumble down In reaching for another's crown." An admirable
sentiment which Roger Scurvilegs would have approved, although he
could not have rhymed it so neatly.
The Countess turned on a few more pages and prepared to write up
yesterday's events.
"_Tuesday, June 23rd_," she said to herself. "Now what happened?
Acclaimed with enthusiasm outside the Palace--how do you spell
'enthusiasm'?" She bit the end of her pencil and pondered. She
turned back the pages till she came to the place.
"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "It had three 's's' last time, so it's
'z's' turn."
She wrote "enthuzziazm" lightly in pencil; later on it would be picked
out in gold.
She closed the diary hastily. Somebody was coming.
It was Wiggs.
"Oh, if you please, your Ladyship, her Royal Highness sent me to tell
you that she would be here at eleven o'clock to review her new army."
It was the last thing of which Belvane wanted reminding.
"Ah, Wiggs, sweet child," she said, "you find me overwhelmed." She
gave a tragic sigh. "Leader of the Corps de Ballet"--she indicated
with her toe how this was done, "Commander-in-Chief of the Army of
Amazons"--here she saluted, and it was certainly the least she could
do for the money, "Warden of the Antimacassars and Grand Mistress of
the Robes, I have a busy life. Just come and dust this log for her
Royal Highness. All this work wears me out, Wiggs, but it is my duty
and I do it."
"Woggs says you make a very good thing out of it," said Wiggs
innocently, as she began to dust. "It must be nice to make very good
things out of things."
The Countess looked coldly at her. It is one thing to confide to your
diary that you are bad, it's quite another to have Woggsseses shouting
it out all over the country.
"I don't know what Woggs is," said Belvane sternly, "but send it to me
at once."
As soon as Wiggs was gone, Belvane gave herself up to her passions.
She strode up and down the velvety sward, saying to herself, "Bother!
Bother! Bother! Bother!" Her outbreak of violence over, she sat
gloomily down on the log and abandoned herself to despair. Her hair
fell in two plaits down her back to her waist; on second thoughts she
arranged them in front--if one is going to despair one may as well do
it to the best advantage.
Suddenly a thought struck her.
"I am alone," she said. "Dare I soliloquise? I will. It is a thing
I have not done for weeks. 'Oh, what a----" She got up quickly.
"_Nobody_ could soliloquise on a log like that," she said crossly.
She decided she could do it just as effectively when standing. With
one pale hand raised to the skies she began again.
"Oh, what a--"
"Did you call me, Mum?" said Woggs, appearing suddenly.
"_Bother!_" said Belvane. She gave a shrug of resignation. "Another
time," she told herself. She turned to Woggs.
Woggs must have been quite close at hand to have been found by Wiggs
so quickly, and I suspect her of playing in the forest when she ought
to have been doing her lessons, or mending stockings, or whatever made
up her day's work. Woggs I find nearly as difficult to explain as
Wiggs; it is a terrible thing for an author to have a lot of people
running about his book, without any invitation from him at all.
However, since Woggs is there, we must make the best of her. I fancy
that she was a year or two younger than Wiggs and of rather inferior
education. Witness her low innuendo about the Lady Belvane, and the
fact that she called a Countess "Mum."
"Come here," said Belvane. "Are you what they call Woggs?"
"Please, Mum," said Woggs nervously.
The Countess winced at the "Mum," but went on bravely. "What have you
been saying about me?"
"N--Nothing, Mum."
Belvane winced again, and said, "Do you know what I do to little girls
who say things about me? I cut their heads off; I----" She tried to
think of something very alarming! "I--I stop their jam for tea. I--I
am _most_ annoyed with them."
Woggs suddenly saw what a wicked thing she had done.
"Oh, please, Mum," she said brokenly and fell on her knees.
"_Don't_ call me 'Mum,'" burst out Belvane. "It's so _ugly_. Why do
you suppose I ever wanted to be a countess at all, Woggs, if it wasn't
so as not to be called 'Mum' any more?"
"I don't know, Mum," said Woggs.
Belvane gave it up. The whole morning was going wrong anyhow.
"Come here, child," she sighed, "and listen. You have been a very
naughty girl, but I'm going to let you off this time, and in return
I've something you are going to do for me."
"Yes, Mum," said Woggs.
Belvane barely shuddered now. A sudden brilliant plan had come to
her.
"Her Royal Highness is about to review her Army of Amazons. It is a
sudden idea of her Royal Highness's, and it comes at an unfortunate
moment, for it so happens that the Army is--er----" _What_ was the
Army doing? Ah, yes--"manoeuvring in a distant part of the country.
But we must not disappoint her Royal Highness. What then shall we do,
Woggs?"
"I don't know, Mum," said Woggs stolidly.
Not having expected any real assistance from her, the Countess went
on, "I will tell you. You see yonder tree? Armed to the teeth _you_
will march round and round it, giving the impression to one on this
side of a large army passing. For this you will be rewarded. Here
is----" She felt in the bag she carried. "No, on second thoughts I
will owe it to you. Now you quite understand?"
"Yes, Mum," said Woggs.
"Very well, then. Run along to the Palace and get a sword and a
helmet and a bow and an arrow and an--an arrow and anything you like,
and then come back here and wait behind those bushes. When I clap my
hands the army will begin to march."
Woggs curtsied and ran off.
It is probable that at this point the Countess would have resumed her
soliloquy, but we shall never know, for the next moment the Princess
and her Court were seen approaching from the other end of the glade.
Belvane advanced to meet them.
"Good morning, your Royal Highness," she said, "a beautiful day, is it
not?"
"Beautiful, Countess."
With the Court at her back, Hyacinth for the moment was less nervous
than usual, but almost at the first words of the Countess she felt her
self-confidence oozing from her. Did I say I was like this with my
publishers? And Roger's dragged-in Uncle----one can't explain it.
The Court stood about in picturesque attitudes while Belvane went on:
"Your Royal Highness's brave Women Defenders, the Home Defence Army of
Amazons" (here she saluted; one soon gets into the knack of it, and it
gives an air of efficiency) "have looked forward to this day for
weeks. How their hearts fill with pride at the thought of being
reviewed by your Royal Highness!"
She had paid, or rather received, the money for the Army so often that
she had quite got to believe in its existence. She even kept a roll of
the different companies (it meant more delightful red ink for one
thing), and wrote herself little notes recommending Corporal Gretal
Hottshott for promotion to sergeant.
"I know very little about armies, I'm afraid," said Hyacinth. "I've
always left that to my father. But I think it's a sweet idea of yours
to enrol the women to defend me. It's a little expensive, is it not?"
"Your Royal Highness, armies are _always_ expensive."
The Princess took her seat, and beckoned Wiggs with a smile to her
side. The Court, in attitudes even more picturesque than before,
grouped itself behind her.
"Is your Royal Highness ready?"
"Quite ready, Countess."
The Countess clapped her hands.
There was a moment's hesitation, and then, armed to the teeth, Amazon
after Amazon marched by. . . .
An impressive scene. . . .
However, Wiggs must needs try to spoil it.
"Why, it's Woggs!" she cried.
"Silly child!" said Belvane in an undertone, giving her a push.
The Princess looked round inquiringly.
"The absurd creature," explained the Countess, "thought she recognized
a friend in your Royal Highness's gallant Army."
"How clever of her! They all look exactly alike to _me_."
Belvane was equal to the occasion.
"The uniform and discipline of an army have that effect rather," she
said. "It has often been noticed."
"I suppose so," said the Princess vaguely. "Oughtn't they to march in
fours? I seem to remember, when I came to reviews with Father----"
"Ah, your Royal Highness, that was an army of men. With women--well,
we found that if they marched side by side, they _would_ talk all the
time."
The Court, which had been resting on the right leg with the left knee
bent, now rested on the left leg with the right knee bent. Woggs also
was getting tired. The last company of the Army of Amazons was not
marching with the abandon of the first company.
[Illustration: _Armed to the teeth, Amazon after Amazon marched by_]
"I think I should like them to halt now so that I can address them,"
said Hyacinth.
Belvane was taken aback for the moment.
"I am afraid, your--your Royal Highness," she stammered, her brain
working busily all the time, "that that would be contrary to--to--to
the spirit of--er--the King's Regulations. An army--an army in
marching order--must--er--_march_." She made a long forward movement
with her hand. "Must march," she repeated, with an innocent smile.
"I see," said Hyacinth, blushing guiltily again.
Belvane gave a loud cough. The last veteran but two of the Army
looked inquiringly at her and passed. The last veteran but one came
in and was greeted with a still louder cough. Rather tentatively the
last veteran of all entered and met such an unmistakable frown that it
was obvious that the march-past was over. . . . Woggs took off her
helmet and rested in the bushes.
"That is all, your Royal Highness," said Belvane. "158 marches past,
217 reported sick, making 622; 9 are on guard at the Palace--632 and 9
make 815. Add 28 under age and we bring it up to the round thousand."
Wiggs opened her mouth to say something, but decided that her mistress
would probably wish to say it instead. Hyacinth, however, merely
looked unhappy.
Belvane came a little nearer.
"I--er--forgot if I mentioned to your Royal Highness that we are
paying out today. One silver piece a day and several days in the
week, multiplied by--how many did I say?--comes to ten thousand pieces
of gold." She produced a document, beautifully ruled. "If your Royal
Highness would kindly initial here----"
Mechanically the Princess signed.
"Thank you, your Royal Highness. And now perhaps I had better go and
see about it at once."
She curtsied deeply, and then, remembering her position, saluted and
marched off.
Now Roger Scurvilegs would see her go without a pang; he would then
turn over to his next chapter, beginning "Meanwhile the King----," and
leave you under the impression that the Countess Belvane was a common
thief. I am no such chronicler as that. At all costs I will be fair
to my characters.
Belvane, then, had a weakness. She had several of which I have
already told you, but this is another one. She had a passion for the
distribution of largesse.
I know an old gentleman who plays bowls every evening. He trundles
his skip (or whatever he calls it) to one end of the green, toddles
after it, and trundles it back again. Think of him for a moment, and
then think of Belvane on her cream-white palfrey tossing a bag of gold
to right of her and flinging a bag of gold to left of her, as she
rides through the cheering crowds; upon my word I think hers is the
more admirable exercise.
And, I assure you, no less exacting. When once one has got into this
habit of "flinging" or "tossing" money, to give it in any ordinary
way, to slide it gently into the palm, is unbearable. Which of us who
has, in an heroic moment, flung half a crown to a cabman can ever be
content afterwards to hold out a handful of three-penny bits and
coppers to him? One must always be flinging. . . .
So it was with Belvane. The largesse habit had got hold of her. It
is an expensive habit, but her way of doing it was less expensive than
most. The people were taxed to pay for the Amazon Army; the pay of
the Amazon Army was flung back at them; could anything be fairer?
True, it brought her admiration and applause. But what woman does not
like admiration? Is that an offence? If it is, it is something very
different from the common theft of which Roger Scurvilegs would accuse
her. Let us be fair.
CHAPTER VI
THERE ARE NO WIZARDS IN BARODIA
Meanwhile "the King of Euralia was prosecuting the war with utmost
vigour."
So says Roger in that famous chapter of his, and certainly Merriwig
was very busy.
On the declaration of war the Euralian forces, in accordance with
custom, had marched into Barodia. However hot ran the passion between
them, the two Kings always preserved the elementary courtesies of war.
The last battle had taken place in Euralian territory; this time,
therefore, Barodia was the scene of the conflict. To Barodia, then,
King Merriwig had led his army. Suitable pasture land had been
allotted them as a camping ground, and amid the cheers of the Barodian
populace the Euralians made their simple preparations for the night.
The two armies had now been sitting opposite to each other for some
weeks, but neither side had been idle. On the very first morning
Merriwig had put on his Cloak of Darkness and gone to the enemy's camp
to explore the situation. Unfortunately the same idea had occurred at
the same moment to the King of Barodia. He also had his Cloak of
Darkness.
Half way across, to the utmost astonishment of both, the two Kings had
come violently into contact. Realising that they had met some
unprecedented enchantment, they had hurried home after the recoil to
consult their respective Chancellors. The Chancellors could make
nothing of it. They could only advise their Majesties to venture
another attempt on the following morning.
"But by a different route," said the Chancellors, "whereby the Magic
Pillar shall be avoided."
So by the more southerly path the two Kings ventured out next morning.
Half way across there was another violent collision, and both Kings
sat down suddenly to think it out.
"Wonder of wonders," said Merriwig. "There is a magic wall stretching
between the two armies."
"He stood up and holding up his hand said impressively:
"_Bo, boll, bill, bole._ _Wo, woll----_"
"Mystery of mysteries!" cried the King of Barodia. "It can----"
He stopped suddenly. Both Kings coughed. They were remembering with
some shame their fright of yesterday.
"Who are you?" said the King of Barodia.
Merriwig saw that there was need to dissemble.
"His Majesty's swineherd," he said, in what he imagined might be a
swineherd's voice.
"Er--so am I," said the King of Barodia, rather feebly.
There was obviously nothing for it but for them to discuss swine.
Merriwig was comfortably ignorant of the subject. The King of Barodia
knew rather less than that.
"Er--how many have you?" asked the latter.
"Seven thousand," said Merriwig at random.
"Er--so have I," said the King of Barodia, still more feebly.
"Couples," explained Merriwig.
"Mine are ones," said the King of Barodia, determined to be
independent at last.
Each King was surprised to find how easy it was to talk to an expert
on his own subject. The King of Barodia, indeed, began to feel
reckless.
"Well," he said, "I must be getting back. It's--er--milking time."
"So must I," said Merriwig. "By the way," he added, "what do you feed
yours on?"
The King of Barodia was not quite sure if it was apple sauce or not.
He decided that perhaps it wasn't.
"That's a secret," he said darkly. "Been handed down from generation
to generation."
Merriwig could think of nothing better to say to this than "Ah!" He
said it very impressively, and with a word of farewell returned to his
camp.
He was in brilliant form over the wassail bowl that night as he drew a
picture of his triumphant dissimulation. It is only fair to say that
the King of Barodia was in brilliant form too. . . .
For several weeks after this the battle raged. Sometimes the whole
Euralian army would line up outside its camp and call upon the
Barodians to fight; at other times the Barodian army would form fours
in full view of the Euralians in the hope of provoking a conflict. At
intervals the two Chancellors would look up old spells, scour the
country for wizards, or send each other insulting messages. At the
end of a month it was difficult to say which side had obtained the
advantage.
A little hill surmounted by a single tree lay half way between the two
camps. Thither one fine morning came the two Kings and the two
Chancellors on bloody business bent. (The phrase is Roger's.) Their
object was nothing less than to arrange that personal fight between
the two monarchs which was always a feature of Barodo-Euralian
warfare. The two Kings having shaken hands, their Chancellors
proceeded to settle the details.
"I suppose," said the Chancellor of Barodia, "that your Majesties will
wish to fight with swords?"
"Certainly," said the King of Barodia promptly; so promptly that
Merriwig felt certain that he had a Magic Sword too.
"Cloaks of Darkness are not allowed, of course," said the Chancellor
of Euralia.
"Why, have _you_ got one?" said each King quickly to the other.
Merriwig was the first to recover himself.
"I have one--naturally," he said. "It's a curious thing that the only
one of my subjects who has one is my--er--swineherd."
"That's funny," said the King of Barodia. "My swineherd has one too."
"Of course," said Merriwig, "they are almost a necessity to
swineherding."
"Particularly in the milking season," said the King of Barodia.
They looked at each other with added respect. Not many Kings in those
days had the technicalities of such a humble trade at their fingers'
ends.
The Chancellor of Barodia has been referring to the precedents.
"It was after the famous conflict between the two grandfathers of your
Majesties that the use of the Magic Cloak in personal combats was
discontinued."
"Great-grandfathers," said the Chancellor of Euralia.
"Grandfathers, I think."
"Great-grandfathers, if I am not mistaken."
Their tempers were rising rapidly, and the Chancellor of Barodia was
just about to give the Chancellor of Euralia a push when Merriwig
intervened.
"Never mind about that," he said impatiently. "Tell us what happened
when our--our ancestors fought."
"It happened in this way, your Majesty. Your Majesty's
grandfather----"
"Great-grandfather," said a small voice.
The Chancellor cast one bitter look at his opponent and went on:
"The ancestors of your two Majesties arranged to settle the war of
that period by personal combat. The two armies were drawn up in full
array. In front of them the two monarchs shook hands. Drawing their
swords and casting their Magic Cloaks around them, they----"
"Well?" said Merriwig eagerly.
"It is rather a painful story, your Majesty."
"Go on, I shan't mind."
"Well, your Majesty, drawing their swords and casting their Magic
Cloaks around them they--h'r'm--returned to the wassail bowl."
"Dear, dear," said Merriwig.
[Illustration: _When the respective armies returned to camp they found
their Majesties asleep_]
"When the respective armies, who had been waiting eagerly the whole of
the afternoon for some result of the combat, returned to camp, they
found their Majesties----"
"Asleep," said the Chancellor of Euralia hastily.
"Asleep," agreed the Chancellor of Barodia. "The excuse of their two
Majesties that they had suddenly forgotten the day, though naturally
accepted at the time, was deemed inadequate by later historians." (By
Roger and myself, anyway.)
Some further details were discussed, and then the conference closed.
The great fight was fixed for the following morning.
The day broke fine. At an early hour Merriwig was up and practising
thrusts upon a suspended pillow. At intervals he would consult a
little book entitled _Sword Play for Sovereigns_, and then return to
his pillow. At breakfast he was nervous but talkative. After
breakfast he wrote a tender letter to Hyacinth and a still more tender
one to the Countess Belvane, and burnt them. He repeated his little
rhyme, "Bo, Boll, Bill, Bole," several times to himself until he was
word perfect. It was just possible that it might be useful. His last
thoughts as he rode on to the field were of his great-grandfather.
Without admiring him, he quite saw his point.
The fight was a brilliant one. First Merriwig aimed a blow at the
King of Barodia's head which the latter parried. Then the King of
Barodia aimed a blow at his adversary's head which Merriwig parried.
This went on three or four times, and then Merriwig put into practice
a remarkable trick which the Captain of his Bodyguard had taught him.
It was his turn to parry, but instead of doing this, he struck again
at his opponent's head; and if the latter in sheer surprise had not
stumbled and fallen, there might have been a very serious ending to
the affair.
Noon found them still at it; cut and parry, cut and parry; at each
stroke the opposing armies roared their applause. When darkness put an
end to the conflict, honours were evenly divided.
It was a stiff but proud King of Euralia who received the
congratulations of his subjects that night; so proud that he had to
pour out his heart to somebody. He write to his daughter.
"MY DEAR HYACINTH,
"You will be glad to hear that your father is going on well and that
Euralia is as determined as ever to uphold its honour and dignity.
To-day I fought the King of Barodia, and considering that, most
unfairly, he was using a Magic Sword, I think I may say that I did
well. The Countess Belvane will be interested to hear that I made
4,638 strokes at my opponent and parried 4,637 strokes from him. This
is good for a man of my age. Do you remember that magic ointment my
aunt used to give me? Have we any of it left?
"I played a very clever trick the other day by pretending to be a
swineherd. I talked to a real one I met for quite a long time about
swine without his suspecting me. The Countess might be interested to
hear this. It would have been very awkward for me if it had been
found out who I was.
"I hope you are getting along all right. Do you consult the Countess
Belvane at all? I think she would be able to advise you in any
difficulties. A young girl needs a guiding hand, and I think the
Countess would be able to advise you in any difficulties. Do you
consult her at all?
"I am afraid this is going to be a long war. There doesn't seem to be
a wizard in the country at all, and without one it is a little
difficult to know how to go on. I say my spell every now and
then--you remember the one:
'_Bo, boll, bill bole._ _Wo, woll, will, wole._'
and it certainly keeps off dragons, but we don't seem to get any
nearer defeating the enemy's army. You might tell the Countess
Belvane that about my spell; she would be interested.
"To-morrow I go on with my fight with the King of Barodia. I feel
quite confident now that I can hold him. He parries well, but his
cutting is not very good. I am glad the Countess found my sword for
me; tell her that it has been most useful.
"I must now close as I must go to bed so as to be ready for my fight
to-morrow. Good-bye, dear. I am always,
"YOUR LOVING FATHER.
"P.S.--I hope you are not finding your position too difficult. If you
are in any difficulties you should consult the Countess Belvane. I
think she would be able to advise you. Don't forget about that
ointment. Perhaps the Countess might know about some other kind.
It's for stiffness. I am afraid this is going to be a long war."
The King sealed up the letter and despatched it by special messenger
the next morning. It came to Hyacinth at a critical moment. We shall
see in the next chapter what effect it had upon her.
CHAPTER VII
THE PRINCESS RECEIVES A LETTER AND WRITES ONE
The Princess Hyacinth came in from her morning's ride in a very bad
temper. She went straight up to her favourite seat on the castle
walls and sent for Wiggs.
"Wiggs," she said, "what's the matter with me?"
Wiggs looked puzzled. She had been dusting the books in the library;
and when you dust books you simply _must_ stop every now and then to
take just one little peep inside, and then you look inside another one
and another one, and by the time you have finished dusting, your head
is so full of things you have seen that you have to be asked questions
very slowly indeed.
"I'm pretty, aren't I?" went on Hyacinth.
That was an easy one.
"Lovely!" said Wiggs, with a deep breath.
"And I'm not unkind to anybody?"
"Unkind!" said Wiggs indignantly.
"Then why--oh, Wiggs, I know it's silly of me, but it _hurts_ me that
my people are so much fonder of the Countess than of me."
"Oh, I'm sure they're not, your Royal Highness."
"Well, they cheer her much louder than they cheer me."
Wiggs tried to think of a way of comforting her mistress, but her head
was still full of the last book she had dusted.
"Why should they be so fond of her?" demanded Hyacinth.
"Perhaps because she's so funny," said Wiggs.
"Funny! Is she funny?" said the Princess coldly. "She doesn't make
_me_ laugh."
"Well, it _was_ funny of her to make Woggs march round and round that
tree like that, _wasn't_ it?"
"Like what? You don't mean----" The Princess's eyes were wide open
with astonishment. "Was that Woggs all the time?"
"Yes, your Royal Highness. Wasn't it lovely and funny of her?"
The Princess looked across to the forest and nodded to herself.
"Yes. That's it. Wiggs, I don't believe there has ever been an Army
at all. . . . And I pay them every week!" She added solemnly, "There
are moments when I don't believe that woman is quite honest."
"Do you mean she isn't good?" asked Wiggs in awe.
Hyacinth nodded.
"I'm _never_ good," said Wiggs firmly.
"What do you mean, silly? You're the best little girl in Euralia."
"I'm _not_. I do awful things sometimes. Do you know what I did
yesterday?"
"Something terrible!" smiled Hyacinth.
"I tore my apron."
"You baby! That isn't being bad," said Hyacinth absently. She was
still thinking of that awful review.
"The Countess says it is."
"The Countess!"
"Do you know why I want to be _very_ good?" said Wiggs, coming up
close to the Princess.
"Why, dear?"
"Because then I could dance like a fairy."
"Is that how it's done?" asked the Princess, rather amused. "The
Countess must dance _very_ heavily." She suddenly remembered
something and added: "Why, of course, child, you were going to tell
me about a fairy you met, weren't you? That was weeks ago, though.
Tell me now. It will help me to forget things which make me rather
angry."
It was a simple little story. There must have been many like it in
the books which Wiggs had been dusting; but these were simple times,
and the oldest story always seemed new.
Wiggs had been by herself in the forest. A baby rabbit had run past
her, terrified; a ferret in pursuit. Wiggs had picked the little
fluffy thing up in her arms and comforted it; the ferret had slowed
down, walked past very indifferently with its hands, as it were, in
its pockets, hesitated a moment, and then remembered an important
letter which it had forgotten to post. Wiggs was left alone with the
baby rabbit, and before she knew where she was, the rabbit was gone
and there was a fairy in front of her.
[Illustration: _The rabbit was gone, and there was a fairy in front of
her_]
"You have saved my life," said the fairy. "That was a wicked magician
after me, and if he had caught me then, he would have killed me."
"Please, your Fairiness, I didn't know fairies _could_ die," said
Wiggs.
"They can when they take on animal shape or human shape. He could not
hurt me now, but before----" She shuddered.
"I'm so glad you're all right now," said Wiggs politely.
"Thanks to you, my child. I must reward you. Take this ring. When
you have been good for a whole day, you can have one good wish; when
you have been bad for a whole day, you can have one bad wish. One
good wish and one bad wish--that is all it will allow anybody to
have."
With these words she vanished and left Wiggs alone with the ring.
So, ever after that, Wiggs tried desperately hard to be good and have
the good wish, but it was difficult work. Something always went wrong;
she tore her apron or read books when she ought to have been dusting,
or---- Well, you or I would probably have given it up at once, and
devoted ourselves to earning the bad wish. But Wiggs was a nice
little girl.
"And, oh, I _do_ so want to be good," said Wiggs earnestly to the
Princess, "so that I could wish to dance like a fairy." She had a
sudden anxiety. "That _is_ a good wish, _isn't_ it?"
"It's a lovely wish; but I'm sure you could dance now if you tried."
"I can't," said Wiggs. "I always dance like this."
She jumped up and danced a few steps. Wiggs was a dear little girl,
but her dancing reminded you of a very dusty road going up-hill all
the way, with nothing but suet-puddings waiting for you on the top.
Something like that.
"It isn't _really_ graceful, is it?" she said candidly, as she came to
rest.
"Well, I suppose the fairies _do_ dance better than that."
"So that's why I want to be good, so as I can have my wish."
"I really must see this ring," said the Princess. "It sounds
fascinating." She looked coldly in front of her and added,
"Good-morning, Countess." (How long had the woman been there?)
"Good-morning, your Royal Highness. I ventured to come up
unannounced. Ah, sweet child." She waved a caressing hand at Wiggs.
(Even if she had overheard anything, it had only been child's talk.)
"What is it?" asked the Princess. She took a firm hold of the arms of
her chair. She would _not_, _not_, _not_ give way to the Countess
this time.
"The merest matter of business, your Royal Highness. Just this scheme
for the Encouragement of Literature. Your Royal Highness very wisely
decided that in the absence of the men on the sterner business of
fighting it was the part of us women to encourage the gentler arts;
and for this purpose . . . there was some talk of a competition,
and--er----"
"Ah, yes," said Hyacinth nervously. "I will look into that
to-morrow."
"A competition," said Belvane, gazing vaguely over Hyacinth's head.
"Some sort of a money prize," she added, as if in a trance.
"There should certainly be some sort of a prize," agreed the Princess.
(Why not, she asked herself, if one is to encourage literature?)
"Bags of gold," murmured Belvane to herself. "Bags and bags of gold.
Big bags of silver and little bags of gold." She saw herself tossing
them to the crowd.
"Well, we'll go into that to-morrow," said Hyacinth hastily.
"I have it all drawn up here," said Belvane. "Your Royal Highness has
only to sign. It saves _so_ much trouble," she added with a disarming
smile. . . . She held the document out--all in the most beautiful
colours.
Mechanically the Princess signed.
"Thank you, your Royal Highness." She smiled again, and added, "And
now perhaps I had better see about it at once." The Guardian of
Literature took a dignified farewell of her Sovereign and withdrew.
Hyacinth looked at Wiggs in despair.
"There!" she said. "That's me. I don't know what it is about that
woman, but I feel just a child in front of her. Oh, Wiggs, Wiggs, I
feel so lonely sometimes with nothing but women all around me. I wish
I had a man here to help me."
"Are _all_ the men fighting in _all_ the countries?"
"Not all the countries. There's--Araby. Don't you remember--oh, but
of course you wouldn't know anything about it. But Father was just
going to ask Prince Udo of Araby to come here on a visit, when the war
broke out. Oh, I wish, I _wish_ Father were back again." She laid
her head on her arms; and whether she would have shed a few royal
tears or had a good homely cry, I cannot tell you. For at that moment
an attendant came in. Hyacinth was herself again at once.
"There is a messenger approaching on a horse, your Royal Highness,"
she announced. "Doubtless from His Majesty's camp."
With a shriek of delight, and an entire lack of royal dignity, the
Princess, followed by the faithful Wiggs, rushed down to receive him.
Meanwhile, what of the Countess? She was still in the Palace, and,
more than that, she was in the Throne Room of the Palace, and, more
even than that, she was on the Throne, of the Throne Room of the
Palace.
She couldn't resist it. The door was open as she came down from her
interview with the Princess, and she had to go in. There was a woman
in there, tidying up, who looked questioningly at Belvane as she
entered.
"You may leave," said the Countess with dignity. "Her Royal Highness
sent me in here to wait for her."
The woman curtsied and withdrew.
The Countess then uttered these extraordinary words:
"When I am Queen in Euralia they shall leave me backwards!"
Her subsequent behaviour was even more amazing.
She stood by the side of the door, and putting her hand to her mouth
said shrilly, "Ter-rum, ter-rum, terrumty-umty-um." Then she took her
hand away and announced loudly, "Her Majesty Queen Belvane the First!"
after which she cheered slightly.
Then in came Her Majesty, a very proper dignified gracious Queen--none
of your seventeen-year-old chits. Bowing condescendingly from side to
side she made her way to the Throne, and with a sweep of her train she
sat down.
Courtiers were presented to her; representatives from foreign
countries; Prince Hanspatch of Tregong, Prince Ulric, the Duke of
Highanlow.
"Ah, my dear Prince Hanspatch," she cried, stretching out her hand to
the right of her; "and you, dear Prince Ulric," with a graceful
movement of the left arm towards him; "and, dear Duke, _you_ also!"
Her right hand, which Prince Hanspatch had by now finished with, went
out to the Duke of Highanlow that he too might kiss it.
But it was arrested in mid-air. She felt rather than saw that the
Princess was watching her in amazement from the doorway.
Without looking round she stretched out again first one arm and then
the other. Then, as if she had just seen the Princess, she jumped up
in a pretty confusion.
"Oh, your Royal Highness," she cried, "you caught me at my physical
exercises!" She gave a self-conscious little laugh. "My physical
exercises--a forearm movement." Once again she stretched out her arm.
"Building up the--er--building up--building up----"
Her voice died away, for the Princess still looked coldly at her.
"Charming, Countess," she said. "I am sorry to interrupt you, but I
have some news for you. You will like to know that I am inviting
Prince Udo of Araby here on a visit. I feel we want a little outside
help in our affairs."
"Prince Udo?" cried the Countess. "_Here?_"
"Have you any objection?" said Hyacinth. She found it easier to be
stern now, for the invitation had already been sent off by the hand of
the King's Messenger. Nothing that the Countess could say could
influence her.
"No objection, your Royal Highness; but it seems so strange. And then
the expense! Men are such hearty eaters. Besides," she looked with a
charming smile from the Princess to Wiggs, "we were all getting on so
_nicely_ together! Of course if he just dropped in for afternoon tea
one day----"
"He will make a stay of some months, I hope." There were no wizards
in Barodia, and therefore the war would be a long one. It was this
which had decided Hyacinth.
"Of course," said Belvane, "whatever your Royal Highness wishes, but I
do think that His Majesty----"
"My dear Countess," said Hyacinth, with a smile, "the invitation has
already gone, so there's nothing more to be said, is there? Had you
finished your exercises? Yes? Then, Wiggs, will you conduct her
ladyship downstairs?"
She turned and left her. The Countess watched her go, and then stood
tragically in the middle of the room, clasping her diary to her
breast.
"This is terrible!" she said. "I feel _years_ older." She held out
her diary at arm's length and said in a gloomy voice, "_What_ an entry
for to-morrow!" The thought cheered her up a little. She began to
consider plans. How could she circumvent this terrible young man who
was going to put them all in their places. She wished that----
All at once she remembered something.
"Wiggs," she said, "what was it I heard you saying to the Princess
about a wish?"
"Oh, that's my ring," said Wiggs eagerly. "If you've been good for a
whole day you can have a good wish. And my wish is that----"
"A wish!" said Belvane to herself. "Well, I wish that----" A sudden
thought struck her. "You said that you had to be good for a whole day
first?"
"Yes."
Belvane mused.
"I wonder what they mean by _good_," she said.
"Of course," explained Wiggs, "if you've been bad for a whole day you
can have a bad wish. But I should hate to have a bad wish, wouldn't
you?"
"Simply hate it, child," said Belvane. "Er--may I have a look at that
ring?"
"Here it is," said Wiggs; "I always wear it round my neck."
The Countess took it from her.
"Listen," she said. "Wasn't that the Princess calling you? Run
along, quickly, child." She almost pushed her from the room and
closed the door on her.
Alone again, she paced from end to end of the great chamber, her left
hand nursing her right elbow, her chin in her right hand.
"If you are good for a day," she mused, "you can have a good wish. If
you are bad for a day you can have a bad wish. Yesterday I drew ten
thousand pieces of gold for the Army; the actual expenses were what I
paid--what I owe Woggs. . . . I suppose that is what narrow-minded
people call being bad. . . . I suppose this Prince Udo would call it
bad. . . . I suppose he thinks he will marry the Princess and throw
me into prison." She flung her head back proudly. "Never!"
Standing in the middle of the great Throne Room, she held the ring up
in her two hands and wished.
"I wish," she said, and there was a terrible smile in her eyes, "I
wish that something very--very _humorous_ shall happen to Prince Udo
on his journey."
CHAPTER VIII
PRINCE UDO SLEEPS BADLY
Everybody likes to make a good impression on his first visit, but
there were moments just before his arrival in Euralia when Prince Udo
doubted whether the affair would go as well as he had hoped. You
shall hear why.
He had been out hunting with his friend, the young Duke Coronel, and
was returning to the Palace when Hyacinth's messenger met him. He
took the letter from him, broke the seals, and unrolled it.
"Wait a moment, Coronel," he said to his friend. "This is going to be
an adventure of some sort, and if it's an adventure I shall want you
with me."
"I'm in no hurry," said Coronel, and he got off his horse and gave it
into the care of an attendant. The road crossed a stream here.
Coronel sat up on the little stone bridge and dropped pebbles idly
into the water.
The Prince read his letter.
_Plop . . . Plop . . . Plop . . . Plop . . ._
The Prince looked up from his letter.
"How many days' journey is it to Euralia?" he asked Coronel.
"How long did it take the messenger to come?" answered Coronel,
without looking up. (_Plop._)
"I might have thought of that myself," said Udo, "only this letter has
rather upset me." He turned to the messenger. "How long has it----?"
"Isn't the letter dated?" said Coronel. (_Plop._)
Udo paid no attention to this interruption and finished his question
to the messenger.
"A week, sire."
"Ride on to the castle and wait for me. I shall have a message for
you."
"What is it?" said Coronel, when the messenger had gone. "An
adventure?"
"I think so. I think we may call it that, Coronel."
"With me in it?"
"Yes, I think you will be somewhere in it."
Coronel stopped dropping his pebbles and turned to the Prince.
"May I hear about it?"
Udo help out the letter; then feeling that a lady's letter should be
private, drew it back again. He prided himself always on doing the
correct thing.
"It's from Princess Hyacinth of Euralia," he said; "she doesn't say
much. Her father is away fighting, and she is alone and she is in
some trouble or other. It ought to make rather a good adventure."
Coronel turned away and began to drop his pebbles into the stream
again.
"Well, I wish you luck," he said. "If it's a dragon, don't forget
that----"
"But you're coming, too," said Udo, in dismay. "I must have you with
me."
"Doing what?"
"What?"
"Doing what?" said Coronel again.
"Well," said Prince Udo awkwardly, "er--well, you--well."
He felt that it was a silly question for Coronel to have asked.
Coronel knew perfectly well what he would be doing all the time. In
Udo's absence he would be telling Princess Hyacinth stories of his
Royal Highness's matchless courage and wisdom. An occasional
discussion also with the Princess upon the types of masculine beauty,
leading up to casual mention of Prince Udo's own appearance, would be
quite in order. When Prince Udo was present Coronel would no doubt
find the opportunity of drawing Prince Udo out, an opportunity of
which a stranger could not so readily avail himself.
But of course you couldn't very well tell Coronel that. A man of any
tact would have seen it at once.
"Of course," he said, "don't come if you don't like. But it would
look rather funny if I went quite unattended; and--and her Royal
Highness is said to be very beautiful," he added lamely.
Coronel laughed. There are adventures and adventures; to sit next to
a very beautiful Princess and discuss with her the good looks of
another man was not the sort of adventure that Coronel was looking
for.
He tossed the remainder of his pebbles into the stream and stood up.
"Of course, if your Royal Highness wishes----"
"Don't be a fool, Coronel," said his Royal Highness, rather snappily.
"Well, then, I'll come with my good friend Udo if he wants me."
"I do want you."
"Very well, that settles it. After all," he added to himself, "there
may be _two_ dragons."
Two dragons would be one each. But from all accounts there were not
two Princesses.
So three days later the friends set out with good hearts upon the
adventure. The messenger had been sent back to announce their
arrival; they gave him three days' start, and hoped to gain two days
upon him. In the simple fashion of those times (so it would seem from
Roger Scurvilegs) they set out with no luggage and no clear idea of
where they were going to sleep at night. This, after all, is the best
spirit in which to start a journey. It is the Gladstone bag which has
killed romance.
They started on a perfect summer day, and they rode past towers and
battlements, and by the side of sparkling streams, and came out into
the sunlight again above sleepy villages, and, as they rode, Coronel
sang aloud and Udo tossed his sword into the air and caught it again.
As evening fell they came to a woodman's cottage at the foot of a high
hill, and there they decided to rest for the night. An old woman came
out to welcome them.
"Good evening, your Royal Highness," she said.
[Illustration: _As evening fell they came to a woodman's cottage at
the foot of a high hill_]
"You know me?" said Udo, more pleased than surprised.
"I know all who come into my house," said the old woman solemnly, "and
all who go away from it."
This sort of conversation made Coronel feel creepy. There seemed to
be a distinction between the people who came to the house and the
people who went away from it which he did not like.
"Can we stay here the night, my good woman?" said Udo.
"You have hurt your hand," she said, taking no notice of his question.
"It's nothing," said Udo hastily. On one occasion he had caught his
sword by the sharp end by mistake--a foolish thing to have done.
"Ah, well, since you won't want hands where you're going, it won't
matter much."
It was the sort of thing old women said in those days, and Udo did not
pay much attention to it.
"Yes, yes," he said; "but can you give my friend and myself a bed for
to-night?"
"Seeing that you won't be travelling together long, come in and
welcome."
She opened the door and they followed her in.
As they crossed the threshold, Udo half turned round and whispered
over his shoulder to Coronel,
"Probably a fairy. Be kind to her."
"How can one be kind to one's hostess?" said Coronel. "It's she who
has to be kind to _us_."
"Well, you know what I mean; don't be rude to her."
"My dear Udo, this to _me_--the pride of Araby, the favourite courtier
of his Majesty, the----"
"Oh, all right," said Udo.
"Sit down and rest yourselves," said the old woman. "There'll be
something in the pot for you directly."
"Good," said Udo. He looked approvingly at the large cauldron hanging
over the fire. It was a big fireplace for such a small room. So he
thought when he first looked at it, but as he gazed, the room seemed
to get bigger and bigger, and the fireplace to get farther and farther
away, until he felt that he was in a vast cavern cut deep into the
mountainside. He rubbed his eyes, and there he was in the small
kitchen again and the cauldron was sending out a savoury smell.
"There'll be something in it for all tastes," went on the old woman,
"even for Prince Udo's."
"I'm not so particular as all that," said Udo mildly. The room had
just become five hundred yards long again, and he was feeling quiet.
"Not now, but you will be."
She filled them a plate each from the pot; and pulling their chairs up
to the table, they fell to heartily.
"This is really excellent," said Udo, as he put down his spoon and
rested for a moment.
"You'd think you'd always like that, wouldn't you?" she said.
"I always shall be fond of anything so perfectly cooked."
"Ah," remarked the old woman thoughtfully.
Udo was beginning to dislike her particular style of conversation. It
seemed to carry the merest suggestion of a hint that something
unpleasant was going to happen to him. Nothing apparently was going
to happen to Coronel. He tried to drag Coronel into the conversation
in case the old woman had anything over for him.
"My friend and I," he said, "hope to be in Euralia the day after
to-morrow."
"No harm in hoping," was the answer.
"Dear me, is something going to happen to us on the way?"
"Depends what you call 'us.'"
Coronel pushed back his chair and got up.
"I know what's going to happen to me," he said. "I'm going to sleep."
"Well," said Udo, getting up too, "we've got a long day before us
to-morrow, and apparently we are in for an adventure--er, _we_ are in
for an adventure of some sort." He looked anxiously at the old woman,
but she made no sign. "And so let's to bed."
"This way," said the old woman, and by the light of a candle she led
them upstairs.
Udo slept badly. He had a feeling (just as you have) that something
was going to happen to him; and it was with some surprise that he woke
up in the morning to find himself much as he was when he went to bed.
He looked at himself in the glass; he invited Coronel to gaze at him;
but neither could discover that anything was the matter.
"After all," said Udo, "I don't suppose she meant anything. These old
women get into a way of talking like that. If anybody is going to be
turned into anything, it's much more likely to be you."
"Is that why you brought me with you?" asked Coronel.
I suppose that by this time they had finished their dressing. Roger
Scurvilegs tells us nothing on such important matters; no doubt from
modesty. "Next morning they rose," he says, and disappoints us of a
picture of Udo brushing his hair. They rose and went down to
breakfast.
The old woman was in a less cryptic mood at breakfast. She was
particularly hospitable to Udo, and from some secret store produced an
unending variety of good things for him to eat. To Coronel it almost
looked as if she were fattening him up for something, but this
suggestion was received with such bad grace by Udo that he did not
pursue the subject.
As soon as breakfast was over they started off again. From one of the
many bags of gold he carried, Udo had offered some acknowledgment to
the old woman, but she had refused to take it.
"Nay, nay," she said. "I shall be amply rewarded before the day is
out." And she seemed to be smiling to herself as if she knew of some
joke which the Prince and Coronel did not yet share.
"I like to-day," said Coronel as they rode along. "There's a smell of
adventure in the air. Red roofs, green trees, blue sky, white road--I
could fall in love to-day."
"Who with?" said Udo suspiciously.
"Any one--that old woman, if you like."
"Oh, don't talk of her," said the Prince with a shudder. "Coronel,
hadn't you a sense of being _out_ of some joke that she was in?"
"Perhaps we shall be in it before long. I could laugh very easily on
a morning like this."
"Oh, I can see a joke as well as any one," said Udo. "Don't be afraid
that I shan't laugh, too. No doubt it will make a good story,
whatever it is, to tell to the Princess Hyacinth. Coronel," he added
solemnly, the thought having evidently only just occurred to him, "I
am all impatience to help that poor girl in her trouble." And as if
to show his impatience, he suddenly gave the reins a shake and
cantered ahead of his companion. Smiling to himself, Coronel followed
at his leisure.
They halted at mid-day in a wood, and made a meal from some provisions
which the old woman had given them; and after they had eaten, Udo lay
down on a mossy bank and closed his eyes.
"I'm sleepy," he said; "I had a restless night. Let's stay here
awhile; after all, there's no hurry."
"Personally," said Coronel, "I'm all impatience to help that----"
"I tell you I had a very bad night," said Udo crossly.
"Oh, well, I shall go off and look for dragons. Coronel, the Dragon
Slayer. Good-bye."
"Only half an hour," said Udo.
"Right."
With a nod to the Prince he strolled off among the trees.
CHAPTER IX
THEY ARE AFRAID OF UDO
This is a painful chapter for me to write. Mercifully it is to be a
short one. Later on I shall become used to the situation; inclined,
even, to dwell upon its humorous side; but for the moment I cannot see
beyond the sadness of it. That to a Prince of the Royal House of
Araby, and such an estimable young man as Udo, those things should
happen. Roger Scurvilegs frankly breaks down over it. "That
abominable woman," he says (meaning, of course, Belvane), and he has
hysterics for more than a page.
Let us describe it calmly.
Coronel came back from his stroll in the same casual way in which he
had started and dropped down lazily upon the grass to wait until Udo
was ready to mount. He was not thinking of Udo. He was wondering if
Princess Hyacinth had an attendant of surpassing beauty, or a dragon
of surpassing malevolence--if, in fact, there were any adventures in
Euralia for a humble fellow like himself.
"Coronel!" said a small voice behind him.
He turned round indifferently.
"Hullo, Udo, where are you?" he said. "Isn't it time we were
starting?"
"We aren't starting," said the voice.
"What's the matter? What are you hiding in the bushes for?
Whatever's the matter, Udo?"
"I'm not very well."
"My poor Udo, what's happened?" He jumped up and made towards him.
"Stop!" shrieked the voice. "I command you!"
Coronel stopped.
"Your Royal Highness's commands," he began rather coldly----
There was an ominous sniffing from the bushes.
"Coronel," said an unhappy voice at last, "I think I'm coming out."
Wondering what it all meant, Coronel waited in silence.
"Yes, I am coming out, Coronel," said the voice. "But you mustn't be
surprised if I don't look very well. I'm--I'm--Coronel, here I am,"
said Udo pathetically and he stepped out.
Coronel didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.
Poor Prince Udo!
[Illustration: _"Coronel, here I am," said Udo pathetically, and he
He had the head and the long ears of a rabbit, and in some unfortunate
way a look of the real Prince Udo in spite of it. He had the mane and
the tail of a lion. In between the tail and the mane it is difficult
to say what he was, save that there was an impression of magnificence
about his person--such magnificence, anyhow, as is given by an
astrakhan-trimmed fur coat.
Coronel decided that it was an occasion for tact.
"Ah, here you are," he said cheerfully. "Shall we get along?"
"Don't be a fool, Coronel," said Udo, almost crying. "Don't pretend
that you can't _see_ that I've got a tail."
"Why, bless my soul, so you have. A tail! Well, think of that!"
Udo showed what he thought of it by waving it peevishly.
"This is not a time for tact," he said. "Tell me what I look like."
Coronel considered for a moment.
"Really frankly?" he asked.
"Y--yes," said Udo nervously.
"Then, frankly, your Royal Highness looks--funny."
"_Very_ funny?" said Udo wistfully.
"_Very_ funny," said Coronel.
His Highness sighed.
"I was afraid so," he said. "That's the cruel part about it. Had I
been a lion there would have been a certain pathetic splendour about
my position. Isolated--cut off--suffering in regal silence." He
waved an explanatory paw. "Even in the most hideous of beasts there
might be a dignity." He meditated for a moment. "Have you ever seen
a yak, Coronel?" he asked.
"Never."
"I saw one once in Barodia. It is not a beautiful animal, Coronel;
but as a yak I should not have been entirely unlovable. One does not
laugh at a yak, Coronel, and where one does not laugh one may come to
love. . . . What does my head look like?"
"It looks--striking."
"I haven't seen it, you see."
"To one who didn't know your Royal Highness it would convey the
impression of a rabbit."
Udo laid his head between his paws and wept.
"A r--rabbit!" he sobbed. So undignified, so lacking in true pathos,
so---- And not even a whole rabbit," he added bitterly.
"How did it happen?"
"I don't know, Coronel. I just went to sleep, and woke up feeling
rather funny, and----" He sat up suddenly and stared at Coronel. "It
was that old woman did it. You mark my words, Coronel; she did it."
"Why should she?"
"I don't know. I was very polite to her. Don't you remember my
saying to you, 'Be polite to her, because she's probably a fairy!'
You see, I saw through her disguise at once. Coronel, what shall we
do? Let's hold a council of war and think it over."
So they held a council of war.
Prince Udo put forward two suggestions.
The first was that Coronel should go back on the morrow and kill the
old woman.
The second was that Coronel should go back that afternoon and kill the
old woman.
Coronel pointed out that as she had turned Prince Udo into--into
a--a--("Quite so," said Udo)--it was likely that she alone could turn
him back again, and that in that case he had better only threaten her.
"I want _somebody_ killed," said Udo, rather naturally.
"Suppose," said Coronel, "you stay here for two days while I go back
and see the old witch, and make her tell me what she knows. She knows
something, I'm certain. Then we shall see better what to do."
Udo mused for a space.
"Why didn't they turn _you_ into anything?" he asked.
"Really, I don't know. Perhaps because I'm too unimportant."
"Yes, that must be it." He began to feel a little brighter.
"Obviously, that's it." He caressed a whisker with one of his paws.
"They were afraid of me."
He began to look so much happier that Coronel thought it was a
favourable moment in which to withdraw.
"Shall I go now, your Royal Highness?"
"Yes, yes, you may leave me."
"And shall I find you here when I come back?"
"You may or you may not, Coronel; you may or you may not. . . .
Afraid of me," he murmured to himself. "Obviously."
"And if I don't?"
"Then return to the Palace."
"Good-bye, your Royal Highness."
Udo waved a paw at him.
"Good-bye, good-bye."
Coronel got on his horse and rode away. As soon as he was out of
earshot he began to laugh. Spasm after spasm shook him. No sooner
had he composed himself to gravity than a remembrance of Udo's
appearance started him off again.
"I couldn't have stayed with him a moment longer," he thought. "I
should have burst. Poor Udo! However, we'll soon get him all right."
That evening he reached the place where the cottage had stood, but it
was gone. Next morning he rode back to the wood. Udo was gone too.
He returned to the Palace, and began to think it out.
* * * * *
Left to himself Udo very soon made up his mind. There were three
courses open to him.
He might stay where he was till he was restored to health.
This he rejected at once. When you have the head of a rabbit, the
tail of a lion, and the middle of a woolly lamb, the need for action
of some kind is imperative. All the blood of your diverse ancestors
calls to you to be up and doing.
He might go back to Araby.
To Araby, where he was so well-known, so respected, so popular? To
Araby, where he rode daily among his father's subjects that they might
have the pleasure of cheering him? How awkward for everybody!
On to Euralia then?
Why not? The Princess Hyacinth had called for him. What devotion it
showed if he came to her even now--in his present state of bad health!
She was in trouble: enchanters, wizards, what-nots. Already, then,
he had suffered in her service--so at least he would say, and so
possibly it might be. Coronel had thought him--funny; but women had
not much sense of humour as a rule. Probably as a child Hyacinth had
kept rabbits . . . or lambs. She would find him--strokable. . . .
And the lion in him . . . in his tail, his fierce mane . . . she would
find that inspiring. Women like to feel that there is something
fierce, untamable in the man they love; well, there it was.
It was not as if he had Coronel with him. Coronel and he (in his
present health) could never have gone into Euralia together; the
contrast was too striking; but he alone, Hyacinth's only help! Surely
she would appreciate his magnanimity.
Also, as he had told himself a moment ago, there was quite a chance
that it was a Euralian enchanter who had put this upon him--to prevent
him helping Hyacinth. If so, he had better go to Euralia in order to
deal with that enchanter. For the moment, he did not see exactly how
to deal with him, but no doubt he would think of some tremendously
cunning device later on.
To Euralia then with all dispatch.
He trotted off. As Coronel had said, they were evidently afraid of
him.
CHAPTER X
CHARLOTTE PATACAKE ASTONISHES THE CRITICS
The Lady Belvane sits in her garden. She is very happy. An enormous
quill-pen, taken from a former favourite goose and coloured red, is in
her right hand. The hair of her dark head, held on one side, touches
the paper whereon she writes, and her little tongue peeps out between
her red lips. Her left hand taps the table--one-two, one-two,
one-two, one-two, one-two. She is composing.
Wonderful woman!
You remember that scene with the Princess Hyacinth? "I feel we want a
little outside help in our affairs." A fortnight of suspense before
Prince Udo arrived. What had the ring done to him? At the best, even
if there would be no Udo at all to interfere, nevertheless she knew
that she had lost her footing at the Palace. She and the Princess
would now be open enemies. At the worst--those magic rings were so
untrustworthy!--a Prince, still powerful, and now seriously annoyed,
might be leagued against her.
Yet she composed.
And what is she writing? She is entering for the competition in
connection with the Encouragement of Literature Scheme: the last
scheme which the Princess had signed.
I like to think of her peacefully writing at a time when her whole
future hung in the balance. Roger sneers at her. "Even now," he
says, "she was hoping to wring a last bag-full of gold from her
wretched country." I deny emphatically that she was doing anything of
the sort. She was entering for a duly authorised competition under
the pen-name of Charlotte Patacake. The fact that the Countess
Belvane, according to the provisions of the scheme, was sole judge of
the competition, is beside the point. Belvane's opinion of Charlotte
Patacake's poetry was utterly sincere, and uninfluenced in any way by
monetary considerations. If Patacake were rewarded the first prize it
would be because Belvane honestly thought she was worth it.
One other fact by way of defence against Roger's slanders. As judge,
Belvane had chosen the subject of the prize poems. Now Belvane and
Patacake both excelled in the lighter forms of lyrical verse; yet the
subject of the poem was to be epic. "The Barodo-Euralian War"--no
less. How many modern writers would be as fair?
"THE BARODO-EURALIAN WAR."
This line is written in gold, and by itself would obtain a prize in
any local competition.
_King Merriwig the First rode out to war_ _As many other kings had done before!_
_Five hundred men behind him marched to fight--_
There follows a good deal of scratching out, and then comes (a sudden
inspiration) this sublimely simple line:
_Left-right, left-right, left-right, left-right, left-right._
One can almost hear the men moving.
_What gladsome cheers assailed the balmy air--_ _They came from north, from south, from everywhere!_
_No wight that stood upon that sacred scene_ _Could gaze upon the sight unmoved, I ween:_
_No wight that stood upon that sacred spot_ _Could gaze upon the sight unmoved, I wot:_
It is not quite clear whether the last couplet is an alternative to
the couplet before or is purposely added in order to strengthen it.
Looking over her left shoulder it seems to me that there is a line
drawn through the first one, but I cannot see very clearly because of
her hair, which will keep straying over the page.
_Why do they march so fearless and so bold?_ _The answer is not very quickly told._
_To put it shortly, the Barodian king_ _Insulted Merriwig like anything--_
_King Merriwig, the dignified and wise,_ _Who saw him flying over with surprise,_
_As did his daughter, Princess Hyacinth._
This was as far as she had got.
She left the table and began to walk round her garden. There is
nothing like it for assisting thought. However, to-day it was not
helping much; she went three times round and still couldn't think of a
rhyme for Hyacinth. "Plinth" was a little difficult to work in;
"besides," she reminded herself, "I don't quite know what it means."
Belvane felt as I do about poetry: that however incomprehensible it
may be to the public, the author should be quite at ease with it.
She added up the lines she had written already--seventeen. If she
stopped there, it would be the only epic that had stopped at the
seventeenth line.
She sighed, stretched her arms, and looked up at the sky. The weather
was all against her. It was the ideal largesse morning. . . .
Twenty minutes later she was on her cream-white palfrey. Twenty-one
minutes later Henrietta Crossbuns had received a bag of gold neatly
under the eye, as she bobbed to her Ladyship. To this extent only did
H. Crossbuns leave her mark upon Euralian history; but it was a mark
which lasted for a full month.
Hyacinth knew nothing of all this. She did not even know that Belvane
was entering for the prize poem. She had forgotten her promise to
encourage literature in the realm.
And why? Ah, ladies, can you not guess why? She was thinking of
Prince Udo of Araby. What did he look like? Was he dark or fair?
Did his hair curl naturally or not?
Was he wondering at all what _she_ looked like?
Wiggs had already decided that he was to fall in love with her Royal
Highness and marry her.
"I think," said Wiggs, "that he'll be very tall, and have lovely blue
eyes and golden hair."
This is what they were like in all the books she had ever dusted; like
this were the seven Princes (now pursuing perilous adventures in
distant countries) to whom the King had promised Hyacinth's
hand--Prince Hanspatch of Tregong, Prince Ulric, the Duke of
Highanlow, and all the rest of them. Poor Prince Ulric! In the
moment of victory he was accidentally fallen upon by the giant whom he
was engaged in undermining, and lost all appetite for adventure
thereby. Indeed, in his latter years he was alarmed by anything
larger than a goldfish, and lived a life of strictest seclusion.
[Illustration: _Twenty-one minutes later Henrietta Crossbuns was
acknowledging a bag of gold_]
"_I_ think he'll be dark," said Hyacinth. Her own hair was
corn-coloured.
Poor Prince Hanspatch of Tregong; I've just remembered about him--no,
I haven't, it was the Duke of Highanlow. Poor Duke of Highanlow! A
misunderstanding with a wizard having caused his head to face the
wrong way round, he was so often said good-bye to at the very moment
of arrival, that he gradually lost his enthusiasm for social
enterprises and confined himself to his own palace, where his
acrobatic dexterity in supplying himself with soup was a constant
source of admiration to his servants. . . .
However, it was Prince Udo of whom they were thinking now. The
Messenger had returned from Araby; his Royal Highness must be expected
on the morrow.
"I do hope he'll be comfortable in the Purple Room," said Hyacinth.
"I wonder if it wouldn't have been better to have left him in the Blue
Room, after all."
They had had him in the Blue Room two days ago, until Hyacinth thought
that perhaps he would be more comfortable in the Purple Room, after
all.
"The Purple Room has the best view," said Wiggs helpfully.
"And it gets the sun. Wiggs, don't forget to put some flowers there.
And have you given him any books?"
"I gave him two," said Wiggs. "_Quests for Princes_, and _Wild
Animals at Home_."
"Oh, I'm sure he'll like those. Now let's think what we shall do when
he comes. He'll arrive some time in the afternoon. Naturally he will
want a little refreshment."
"Would he like a picnic in the forest?" asked Wiggs.
"I don't think any one wants a picnic after a long journey."
"I _love_ picnics."
"Yes, dear; but, you see, Prince Udo's much older than you, and I
expect he's had so many picnics that he's tired of them. I suppose
really I ought to receive him in the Throne Room, but that's
so--so----"
"Stuffy," said Wiggs.
"That's just it. We should feel uncomfortable with each other the
whole time. I think I shall receive him up here; I never feel so
nervous in the open air."
"Will the Countess be here?" asked Wiggs.
"No," said the Princess coldly. "At least," she corrected herself,
"she will not be invited. Good afternoon, Countess." It was like
her, thought Hyacinth, to arrive at that very moment.
Belvane curtsied low.
"Good afternoon, your Royal Highness. I am here purely on a matter of
business. I thought it my duty to inform your Royal Highness of the
result of the Literature prize." She spoke meekly, and as one who
forgave Hyacinth for her unkindness towards her.
"Certainly, Countess. I shall be glad to hear."
The Countess unrolled a parchment.
"The prize has been won," she said, "by----" she held the parchment a
little closer to her eyes, "by Charlotte Patacake."
"Oh, yes. Who is she?"
"A most deserving woman, your Royal Highness. If she is the woman I'm
thinking of, a most deserving person, to whom the money will be more
than welcome. Her poem shows a sense of values combined
with--er--breadth, and--er--distance, such as I have seldom seen
equalled. The--er--technique is only excelled by the--shall I
say?--tempermentality, the boldness of the colouring, by the--how
shall I put it?--the firmness of the outline. In short----"
"In short," said the Princess, "you like it."
"Your Royal Highness, it is unique. But naturally you will wish to
hear it for yourself. It is only some twelve hundred lines long. I
will declaim it to your Royal Highness."
She held the manuscript out at the full length of her left arm, struck
an attitude with the right arm, and began in her most thrilling voice:
"_King Merriwig the First rode out to war,_ _As many other kings----_"
"Yes, Countess, but another time. I am busy this afternoon. As you
know, I think, the Prince Udo of Araby arrives to-morrow, and----"
Belvane's lips were still moving, and her right arm swayed up and
down. "_What gladsome cheers assailed the balmy air!_" she murmured
to herself, and her hand when up to heaven. "_They come from north,
from south_" (she pointed in the directions mentioned), "_from
everywhere. No wight that stood----_"
"He will be received privately up here by myself in the first place,
and afterwards----"
"_Could gaze upon the sight unmoved, I wot_," whispered Belvane, and
placed her hand upon her breast to show that anyhow it had been too
much for _her_. "_Why do they march so----_ I beg your Royal
Highness's pardon. I was so carried away by this wonderful poem. I
do beg of your Royal Highness to read it."
The Princess waved the manuscript aside.
"I am not unmindful of the claims of literature, Countess, and I shall
certainly read the poem another time. Meanwhile I can, I hope, trust
you to see that the prize is awarded to the rightful winner. What I
am telling you now is that the Prince Udo is arriving to-morrow."
Belvane looked innocently puzzled.
"Prince Udo--Udo--would that be Prince Udo of Carroway, your Royal
Highness? A tall man with three legs?"
"Prince Udo of Araby," said Hyacinth severely. "I think I have
already mentioned him to your ladyship. He will make a stay of some
months."
"But how _delightful_, your Royal Highness, to see a man again! We
were all getting so dull together! We want a man to wake us up a
little, don't we, Wiggs? I will go and give orders about his room at
once, your Royal Highness. You will wish him to be in the Purple
Room, of course?"
That settled it.
"He will be in the Blue Room," said Hyacinth decidedly.
"Certainly, your Royal Highness. Fancy, Wiggs, a man again! I will
go and see about it now, if I may have your Royal Highness's leave to
withdraw?"
A little mystified by Belvane's manner, Hyacinth inclined her head,
and the Countess withdrew.
CHAPTER XI
WATERCRESS SEEMS TO GO WITH THE EARS
Wiggs gave a parting pat to the tablecloth and stood looking at it
with her head on one side.
"Now, then," she said, "have we got everything?"
"What about sardines?" said Woggs in her common way. (I don't know
what she's doing in this scene at all, but Roger Scurvilegs insists on
it.)
"I don't think a _Prince_ would like _sardines_," said Wiggs.
"If _I'd_ been on a long journey, I'd _love_ sardines. It _is_ a very
long journey from Araby, isn't it?"
"Awful long. Why, it's taken him nearly a week. Perhaps," she added
hopefully, "he's had something on the way."
"Perhaps he took some sandwiches with him," said Woggs, thinking that
this would be a good thing to do.
"What do you think he'll be like, Woggs?"
Woggs though for a long time.
"Like the King," she said. "Only different," she added, as an
afterthought.
Up came the Princess for the fifth time that afternoon, all
excitement.
"Well," she said, "is everything ready?"
"Yes, your Royal Highness. Except Woggs and me didn't quite know
about sardines."
The Princess laughed happily.
"I think there will be enough there for him. It all looks very nice."
She turned round and discovered behind her the last person she wanted
to see just then.
The-last-person-she-wanted-to-see-just-then curtsied effectively.
"Forgive me, your Royal Highness," she said profusely, "but I thought
I had left Charlotte Patacake's priceless manuscript up here. No;
evidently I was mistaken, your Royal Highness. I will withdraw, your
Royal Highness, as I know your Royal Highness would naturally wish to
receive his Royal Highness alone."
Listening to this speech one is impressed with Woggs' method of
calling everybody "Mum."
"Not at all, Countess," said Hyacinth coldly. "We would prefer you to
stay and help us receive his Royal Highness. He is a little late, I
think."
Belvane looked unspeakably distressed.
"Oh, I do _hope_ that nothing has happened to him on the way," she
exclaimed. "I've an uneasy feeling that something may have occurred."
[Illustration: _Princess Hyacinth gave a shriek and faltered slowly
backwards_]
"What could have happened to him?" asked Hyacinth, not apparently very
much alarmed.
"Oh, your Royal Highness, it's just a sort of silly feeling of mine.
There may be nothing in it."
There was a noise of footsteps from below; a man's voice was heard.
The Princess and the Countess, both extremely nervous, but from
entirely different reasons, arranged suitable smiles of greeting upon
their faces; Wiggs and Woggs stood in attitudes of appropriate
meekness by the table. The Court Painter could have made a beautiful
picture of it.
"His Royal Highness Prince Udo of Araby," announced the voice of an
attendant.
"A nervous moment," said Belvane to herself. "Can the ring have
failed to act?"
Udo trotted in.
"It hasn't," said Belvane.
Princess Hyacinth gave a shriek, and faltered slowly backwards; Wiggs,
who was familiar with these little accidents in the books which she
dusted, and Woggs, who had a natural love for any kind of animal,
stood their ground.
"Whatever is it?" murmured Hyacinth.
It was as well that Belvane was there.
"Allow me to present to your Royal Highness," she said, stepping
forward, "his Royal Highness Prince Udo of Araby."
"Prince _Udo?_" said Hyacinth, all unwilling to believe it.
"I'm afraid so," said Udo gloomily. He had thought over this meeting
a good deal in the last two or three days, and he realised now that he
had underestimated the difficulties of it.
Hyacinth remembered that she was a Princess and a woman.
"I'm delighted to welcome your Royal Highness to Euralia," she said.
"Won't you sit down--I mean up--er, down." (How _did_ rabbits sit?
Or whatever he was?)
Udo decided to sit up.
"Thank you. You've no idea how difficult it is to talk on four legs
to somebody higher up. It strains the neck so."
There was an awkward silence. Nobody quite knew what to say.
Except Belvane.
She turned to Udo with her most charming smile. "Did you have a
pleasant journey?" she asked sweetly.
"No," said Udo coldly.
"Oh, do tell us what happened to you?" cried Hyacinth. "Did you meet
some terrible enchanter on the way? Oh, I am so dreadfully sorry."
When one is not feeling very well there is a certain type of question
which is always annoying.
"Can't you _see_ what's happened to me?" said Udo crossly. "I don't
know _how_ it happened. I had come two days' journey from Araby,
when----"
"Please, your Royal Highness," said Wiggs, "is this _your_ tail in the
salt?" She took it out, gave it a shake, and handed it back to him.
"Oh, thank you, thank you--two days' journey from Araby when I woke up
one afternoon and found myself like this. I ask you to imagine my
annoyance. My first thought naturally was to return home and hide
myself; but I told myself, Princess, that _you_ wanted me."
The Princess could not help being touched by this, said as it was with
a graceful movement of the ears and a caressing of the right whisker,
but she wondered a little what she would do with him now that she had
got him.
"Er--what _are_ you?" put in Belvane kindly, knowing how men are
always glad to talk about themselves.
Udo had caught sight of a well-covered table, and was looking at it
with a curious mixture of hope and resignation.
"Very, very hungry," he said, speaking with the air of one who knows.
The Princess, whose mind had been travelling, woke up suddenly.
"Oh, I was forgetting my manners," she said with a smile for which the
greediest would have forgiven her. "Let us sit down and refresh
ourselves. May I present to your Royal Highness the Countess
Belvane."
"Do I shake hands or pat him?" murmured that mistress of Court
etiquette, for once at a loss.
Udo placed a paw over his heart and bowed profoundly.
"Charmed," he said gallantly, and coming from a cross between a lion,
a rabbit, and a woolly lamb the merest suggestion of gallantry has a
most pleasing effect.
They grouped themselves round the repast.
"A little sherbet, your Royal Highness?" said Hyacinth, who presided
over the bowl.
Udo was evidently longing to say yes, but hesitated.
"I wonder if I dare."
"It's very good sherbet," said Wiggs, to encourage him.
"I'm sure it is, my dear. But the question is, Do I like sherbet?"
"You can't help knowing if you like _sherbet_."
"Don't bother him, Wiggs," said Hyacinth, "a venison sandwich, dear
Prince?"
"The question is, Do I like venison sandwiches?"
"_I_ do," announced Woggs to any one who was interested.
"You see," explained Udo, "I really don't know _what_ I like."
They were all surprised at this, particularly Woggs. Belvane, who was
enjoying herself too much to wish to do anything but listen, said
nothing, and it was the Princess who obliged Udo by asking him what he
meant. It was a subject upon which he was longing to let himself go
to somebody.
"Well," he said, expanding himself a little, so that Wiggs had to
remove his tail this time from the custard, "what am I?"
Nobody ventured to offer an opinion.
"Am I a hare? Then put me next to the red currant jelly, or whatever
it is that hares like."
The anxious eye of the hostess wandered over the table.
"Am I a lion?" went on Udo, developing his theme. "Then pass me
Wiggs."
"Oh, please don't be a lion," said Wiggs gently, as she stroked his
mane.
"But haven't you a feeling for anything?" asked Hyacinth.
"I have a great feeling of emptiness. I yearn for _something_, only I
don't quite know what."
"I hope it isn't sardines," whispered Wiggs to Woggs.
"But what have you been eating on the way?" asked the Princess.
"Oh, grass and things chiefly. I thought I should be safe with
grass."
"And were you--er--safe?" asked Belvane, with a great show of anxiety.
Udo coughed and said nothing.
"I know it's silly of me," said Hyacinth, "but I still don't quite
understand. I should have thought that if you were a--a----"
"Quite so," said Udo.
"--then you would have known by instinct what a--a----"
"Exactly," said Udo.
"Likes to eat."
"Ah, I thought you'd think that. That's just what I thought when
this--when I began to feel unwell. But I've worked it out since, and
it's all wrong."
"This _is_ interesting," said Belvane, settling herself more
comfortably. "_Do_ go on."
"Well, when----" He coughed and looked round at them coyly. "This is
really rather a delicate subject."
"Not at all," murmured Hyacinth.
"Well, it's like this. When an enchanter wants to annoy you he
generally turns you into an animal of some kind."
Belvane achieved her first blush since she was seventeen.
"It _is_ a humorous way they have," she said.
"But suppose you really were an animal altogether, it wouldn't annoy
you at all. An elephant isn't annoyed at being an elephant; he just
tries to be a good elephant, and he'd be miserable if he couldn't do
things with his trunk. The annoying thing is to look like an elephant,
to have the very complicated--er--inside of an elephant, and yet all
the time really to be a man."
They were all intensely interested. Woggs thought that it was going
to lead up to a revelation of what sort of animal Prince Udo really
was, but in this she was destined to be disappointed. After all there
were advantages in Udo's present position. As a man he had never been
listened to so attentively.
"Now suppose for a moment I am a lion. I have the--er--delicate
apparatus of a lion, but the beautiful thoughts and aspirations of a
Prince. Thus there is one--er--side of me which craves for raw beef,
but none the less there is a higher side of me" (he brought his paw up
towards his heart), "which--well, you know how _you'd_ feel about it
yourself."
The Princess shuddered.
"I _should_," she said, with conviction.
Belvane was interested, but thought it all a little crude.
"You see the point," went on Udo. "A baby left to itself doesn't know
what is good for it. Left to itself it would eat anything. Now turn
a man suddenly into an animal and he is in exactly the same state as
that baby."
"I hadn't thought of it like that," said Hyacinth.
"I've _had_ to think of it! Now let us proceed further with the
matter." Udo was thoroughly enjoying himself. He had not had such a
time since he had given an address on Beetles to all the leading
citizens of Araby at his coming-of-age. "Suppose again that I am a
lion. I know from what I have read or seen that raw meat agrees best
with the lion's--er--organisation, and however objectionable it might
look I should be foolish not to turn to it for sustenance. But if you
don't quite know what animal you're supposed to be, see how difficult
the problem becomes. It's a question of trying all sorts of horrible
things in order to find out what agrees with you." His eyes took on a
faraway look, a look in which the most poignant memories seem to be
reflected. "I've been experimenting," he said, "for the last three
days."
They all gazed sadly and sympathetically at him. Except Belvane. She
of course wouldn't.
"What went best?" she asked brightly.
"Oddly enough," said Udo, cheering up a little, "banana fritters.
Have you ever kept any animal who lived entirely on banana fritters?"
"Never," smiled the Princess.
"Well, that's the animal I probably am." He sighed and added, "There
were one or two animals I wasn't." For a little while he seemed to be
revolving bitter memories, and then went on, "I don't suppose any of
you here have any idea how very prickly thistles are when they are
going down. Er--may I try a watercress sandwich? It doesn't suit the
tail, but it seems to go with the ears." He took a large bite and
added through the leaves, "I hope I don't bore you, Princess, with my
little troubles."
Hyacinth clasped his paw impulsively.
"My dear Prince Udo, I'm only longing to help. We must think of some
way of getting this horrible enchantment off you. There are so many
wise books in the library, and my father has composed a spell
which--oh, I'm sure we shall soon have you all right again."
Udo took another sandwich.
"Very good of you, Princess, to say so. You understand how annoying a
little indisposition of this kind is to a man of my temperament." He
beckoned to Wiggs. "How do you make these?" he asked in an undertone.
Gracefully undulating, Belvane rose from her seat.
"Well," she said, "I must go and see that the stable----" she broke
off in a pretty confusion--"How _silly_ of me, I mean the Royal
Apartment is prepared. Have I your Royal Highness's leave to
withdraw?"
She had.
"And, Wiggs, dear, you too had better run along and see if you can
help. You may leave the watercress sandwiches," she added, as Wiggs
hesitated for a moment.
With a grateful look at her Royal Highness Udo helped himself to
another one.
CHAPTER XII
WE DECIDE TO WRITE TO UDO'S FATHER
"Now, my dear Princess," said Udo, as soon as they were alone. "Let
me know in what way I can help you."
"Oh, Prince Udo," said Hyacinth earnestly, "it _is_ so good of you to
have come. I feel that this--this little accident is really my fault
for having asked you here."
"Not at all, dear lady. It is the sort of little accident that might
have happened to anybody, anywhere. If I can still be of assistance
to you, pray inform me. Though my physical powers may not for the
moment be quite what they were, I flatter myself that my mental
capabilities are in no way diminished." He took another bite of his
sandwich and wagged his head wisely at her.
"Let's come over here," said Hyacinth.
She moved across to an old stone seat in the wall, Udo following with
the plate, and made room for him by her side. There is, of course, a
way of indicating to a gentleman that he may sit next to you on the
Chesterfield, and tell you what he has been doing in town lately, and
there is also another way of patting the sofa for Fido to jump up and
be-a-good-dog-and-lie-down-sir. Hyacinth achieved something very
tactful in between, and Udo jumped up gracefully.
"Now we can talk," said Hyacinth. "You noticed that lady, the
Countess Belvane, whom I presented to you?"
Udo nodded.
"What did you think of her?"
Udo was old enough to know what to say to that.
"I hardly looked at her," he said. And he added with a deep bow,
"Naturally when your Royal Highness--oh, I beg your pardon, are my
ears in your way?"
"It's all right," said Hyacinth, rearranging her hair. "Well, it was
because of that woman that I sent for you."
"But I can't marry her like this, your Royal Highness."
Hyacinth turned a startled face towards him. Udo perceived that he
had blundered. To hide his confusion he took another sandwich and ate
it very quickly.
"I want your help against her," said Hyacinth, a little distantly;
"she is plotting against me."
"Oh, your Royal Highness, now I see," said Udo, and he wagged his head
as much as to say, "You've come to the right man this time."
[Illustration: _"Now we can talk," said Hyacinth_]
"I don't trust her," said Hyacinth impressively.
"Well, now, Princess, I'm not surprised. I'll tell you something
about that woman."
"Oh, what?"
"Well, when I was announced just now, what happened? You, yourself,
Princess, were not unnaturally a little alarmed; those two little
girls were surprised and excited; but what of this Countess Belvane?
What did _she_ do?"
"What _did_ she do?"
"Nothing," said Udo impressively. "She was neither surprised nor
alarmed."
"Why, now I come to think of it, I don't believe she was."
"And yet," said Udo half pathetically, half proudly, "Princes don't
generally look like this. Now, why wasn't she surprised?"
Hyacinth looked bewildered.
"Did she know you were sending for me?" Udo went on.
"Yes."
"Because you had found out something about her?"
"Yes."
"Then depend upon it, _she's_ done it. _What_ a mind that woman must
have!"
"But how could she do it?" exclaimed Hyacinth. "Of course it's just
the sort of thing she _would_ do if she could."
Udo didn't answer. He was feeling rather annoyed with Belvane, and
had got off his seat and was trotting up and down so as not to show
his feelings before a lady.
"How _could_ she do it?" implored Hyacinth.
"Oh, she's in with some enchanter or somebody," said Udo impatiently
as he trotted past.
Suddenly he had an idea. He stopped in front of her.
"If only I were _sure_ I was a lion."
He tried to roar, exclaimed hastily that it was only a practice one,
and roared again. "No, I don't think I'm a lion after all," he
admitted sadly.
"Well," said Hyacinth, "we must think of a plan."
"We must think of a plan," said Udo, and he came and sat meekly beside
her again. He could conceal it from himself no longer that he was not
a lion. The fact depressed him.
"I suppose I have been weak," went on Hyacinth, "but ever since the
men went away she has been the ruling spirit of the country. I think
she is plotting against me; I _know_ she is robbing me. I asked you
here so that you could help me to find her out."
Udo nodded his head importantly.
"We must watch her," he announced.
"We must watch her," agreed Hyacinth. "It may take months----"
"Did you say months?" said Udo, turning to her excitedly.
"Yes, why?"
"Well, it's----" he gave a deprecating little cough. "I know it's
very silly of me but--oh, well, let's hope it will be all right."
"Why, whatever is the matter?"
Udo was decidedly embarrassed. He wriggled. He drew little circles
with his hind paw on the ground and he shot little coy glances at her.
"Well, I"--and he gave a little nervous giggle--"I have a sort of
uneasy feeling that I may be one of those animals"--he gave another
conscious little laugh--"that have to go to sleep all through the
winter. It would be very annoying--if I"--his paw became very busy
here--"if I had to dig a little hole in the ground, just when the plot
was thickening."
"Oh, but you won't," said Hyacinth, in distress.
They were both silent for a moment, thinking of the awful
possibilities. Udo's tail had fallen across Hyacinth's lap, and she
began to play with it absently.
"Anyway," she said hopefully, "it's only July now."
"Ye--es," said Udo. "I suppose I should get--er--busy about November.
We ought to find out something before then. First of all we'd
better---- Oh!" He started up in dismay. "I've just had a
_horrible_ thought. Don't I have to collect a little store of nuts
and things?"
"Surely----"
"I should have to start that pretty soon," said Udo thoughtfully.
"You know, I shouldn't be very handy at it. Climbing about after
nuts," he went on dreamily, "what a life for a----"
"Oh, don't!" pleaded Hyacinth. "Surely only squirrels do that?"
"Yes--yes. Now, if I were a squirrel. I should--may I have my tail
for a moment?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Hyacinth, very much confused as she realised
the liberty she had been taking, and she handed his tail back to him.
"Not at all," said Udo.
He took it firmly in his right hand. "Now then," he said, "we shall
see. Watch this."
Sitting on his back legs he arched his tail over his head, and letting
go of it suddenly, began to nibble at a sandwich held in his two front
paws. . . .
A pretty picture for an artist.
But a bad model. The tail fell with a thud to the ground.
"There!" said Udo triumphantly. "That proves it. I'm _not_ a
squirrel."
"Oh, I'm so glad," said Hyacinth, completely convinced, as any one
would have been, by this demonstration.
"Yes, well, that's all right then. Now we can make our plans. First
of all we'd better----" He stopped suddenly, and Hyacinth saw that he
was gazing at his tail.
"Yes?" she said encouragingly.
He picked up his tail and held it out in front of him. There was a
large knot in the middle of it.
"Now, _what_ have I forgotten?" he said, rubbing his head
thoughtfully.
Poor Hyacinth!
"Oh, dear Prince Udo, I'm so sorry. I'm afraid I did that without
Princess.