Chapter Chapter 11 · The Old Lady's Bedroom

. The Old Lady's Bedroom

Nothing more happened worth telling for some time. The autumn came and

went by. There were no more flowers in the garden. The wind blew

strong, and howled among the rocks. The rain fell, and drenched the

few yellow and red leaves that could not get off the bare branches.

Again and again there would be a glorious morning followed by a pouring

afternoon, and sometimes, for a week together, there would be rain,

nothing but rain, all day, and then the most lovely cloudless night,

with the sky all out in full-blown stars--not one missing. But the

princess could not see much of them, for she went to bed early. The

winter drew on, and she found things growing dreary. When it was too

stormy to go out, and she had got tired of her toys, Lootie would take

her about the house, sometimes to the housekeeper's room, where the

housekeeper, who was a good, kind old woman, made much of

her--sometimes to the servants' hall or the kitchen, where she was not

princess merely, but absolute queen, and ran a great risk of being

spoiled. Sometimes she would run off herself to the room where the

men-at-arms whom the king had left sat, and they showed her their arms

and accoutrements and did what they could to amuse her. Still at times

she found it very dreary, and often and often wished that her huge

great grandmother had not been a dream.

One morning the nurse left her with the housekeeper for a while. To

amuse her she turned out the contents of an old cabinet upon the table.

The little princess found her treasures, queer ancient ornaments, and

many things the use of which she could not imagine, far more

interesting than her own toys, and sat playing with them for two hours

or more. But, at length, in handling a curious old-fashioned brooch,

she ran the pin of it into her thumb, and gave a little scream with the

sharpness of the pain, but would have thought little more of it had not

the pain increased and her thumb begun to swell. This alarmed the

housekeeper greatly. The nurse was fetched; the doctor was sent for;

her hand was poulticed, and long before her usual time she was put to

bed. The pain still continued, and although she fell asleep and

dreamed a good many dreams, there was the pain always in every dream.

At last it woke her up.

The moon was shining brightly into the room. The poultice had fallen

off her hand and it was burning hot. She fancied if she could hold it

into the moonlight that would cool it. So she got out of bed, without

waking the nurse who lay at the other end of the room, and went to the

window. When she looked out she saw one of the men-at-arms walking in

the garden with the moonlight glancing on his armour. She was just

going to tap on the window and call him, for she wanted to tell him all

about it, when she bethought herself that that might wake Lootie, and

she would put her into her bed again. So she resolved to go to the

window of another room, and call him from there. It was so much nicer

to have somebody to talk to than to lie awake in bed with the burning

pain in her hand. She opened the door very gently and went through the

nursery, which did not look into the garden, to go to the other window.

But when she came to the foot of the old staircase there was the moon

shining down from some window high up, and making the worm-eaten oak

look very strange and delicate and lovely. In a moment she was putting

her little feet one after the other in the silvery path up the stair,

looking behind as she went, to see the shadow they made in the middle

of the silver. Some little girls would have been afraid to find

themselves thus alone in the middle of the night, but Irene was a

princess.

As she went slowly up the stair, not quite sure that she was not

dreaming, suddenly a great longing woke up in her heart to try once

more whether she could not find the old lady with the silvery hair. 'If

she is a dream,' she said to herself, 'then I am the likelier to find

her, if I am dreaming.'

So up and up she went, stair after stair, until she came to the many

rooms--all just as she had seen them before. Through passage after

passage she softly sped, comforting herself that if she should lose her

way it would not matter much, because when she woke she would find

herself in her own bed with Lootie not far off. But, as if she had

known every step of the way, she walked straight to the door at the

foot of the narrow stair that led to the tower.

'What if I should realreality-really find my beautiful old grandmother

up there!' she said to herself as she crept up the steep steps.

When she reached the top she stood a moment listening in the dark, for

there was no moon there. Yes! it was! it was the hum of the

spinning-wheel! What a diligent grandmother to work both day and

night! She tapped gently at the door.

'Come in, Irene,' said the sweet voice.

The princess opened the door and entered. There was the moonlight

streaming in at the window, and in the middle of the moonlight sat the

old lady in her black dress with the white lace, and her silvery hair

mingling with the moonlight, so that you could not have told which was

which. 'Come in, Irene,' she said again. 'Can you tell me what I am

spinning?'

'She speaks,' thought Irene, 'just as if she had seen me five minutes

ago, or yesterday at the farthest. --No,' she answered; 'I don't know

what you are spinning. Please, I thought you were a dream. Why

couldn't I find you before, great-great-grandmother?'

'That you are hardly old enough to understand. But you would have

found me sooner if you hadn't come to think I was a dream. I will give

you one reason though why you couldn't find me. I didn't want you to

find me.'

'Why, please?'

'Because I did not want Lootie to know I was here.'

'But you told me to tell Lootie.'

'Yes. But I knew Lootie would not believe you. If she were to see me

sitting spinning here, she wouldn't believe me, either.'

'Why?'

'Because she couldn't. She would rub her eyes, and go away and say she

felt queer, and forget half of it and more, and then say it had been

all a dream.'

'Just like me,' said Irene, feeling very much ashamed of herself.

'Yes, a good deal like you, but not just like you; for you've come

again; and Lootie wouldn't have come again. She would have said, No,

no--she had had enough of such nonsense.'

'Is it naughty of Lootie, then?'

'It would be naughty of you. I've never done anything for Lootie.'

'And you did wash my face and hands for me,' said Irene, beginning to

cry.

The old lady smiled a sweet smile and said:

'I'm not vexed with you, my child--nor with Lootie either. But I don't

want you to say anything more to Lootie about me. If she should ask

you, you must just be silent. But I do not think she will ask you.'

All the time they talked the old lady kept on spinning.

'You haven't told me yet what I am spinning,' she said.

'Because I don't know. It's very pretty stuff.'

It was indeed very pretty stuff. There was a good bunch of it on the

distaff attached to the spinning-wheel, and in the moonlight it shone

like--what shall I say it was like? It was not white enough for

silver--yes, it was like silver, but shone grey rather than white, and

glittered only a little. And the thread the old lady drew out from it

was so fine that Irene could hardly see it. 'I am spinning this for

you, my child.'

'For me! What am I to do with it, please?'

'I will tell you by and by. But first I will tell you what it is. It

is spider-web--of a particular kind. My pigeons bring it me from over

the great sea. There is only one forest where the spiders live who

make this particular kind--the finest and strongest of any. I have

nearly finished my present job. What is on the rock now will be

enough. I have a week's work there yet, though,' she added, looking at

the bunch.

'Do you work all day and all night, too,

great-great-great-great-grandmother?' said the princess, thinking to be

very polite with so many greats.

'I am not quite so great as all that,' she answered, smiling almost

merrily. 'If you call me grandmother, that will do. No, I don't work

every night--only moonlit nights, and then no longer than the moon

shines upon my wheel. I shan't work much longer tonight.'

'And what will you do next, grandmother?'

'Go to bed. Would you like to see my bedroom?'

'Yes, that I should.'

'Then I think I won't work any longer tonight. I shall be in good

time.'

The old lady rose, and left her wheel standing just as it was. You see

there was no good in putting it away, for where there was not any

furniture there was no danger of being untidy.

Then she took Irene by the hand, but it was her bad hand and Irene gave

a little cry of pain. 'My child!' said her grandmother, 'what is the

matter?'

Irene held her hand into the moonlight, that the old lady might see it,

and told her all about it, at which she looked grave. But she only

said: 'Give me your other hand'; and, having led her out upon the

little dark landing, opened the door on the opposite side of it. What

was Irene's surprise to see the loveliest room she had ever seen in her

life! It was large and lofty, and dome-shaped. From the centre hung a

lamp as round as a ball, shining as if with the brightest moonlight,

which made everything visible in the room, though not so clearly that

the princess could tell what many of the things were. A large oval bed

stood in the middle, with a coverlid of rose colour, and velvet

curtains all round it of a lovely pale blue. The walls were also

blue--spangled all over with what looked like stars of silver.

The old lady left her and, going to a strange-looking cabinet, opened

it and took out a curious silver casket. Then she sat down on a low

chair and, calling Irene, made her kneel before her while she looked at

her hand. Having examined it, she opened the casket, and took from it

a little ointment. The sweetest odour filled the room--like that of

roses and lilies--as she rubbed the ointment gently all over the hot

swollen hand. Her touch was so pleasant and cool that it seemed to

drive away the pain and heat wherever it came.

'Oh, grandmother! it is so nice!' said Irene. 'Thank you; thank you.'

Then the old lady went to a chest of drawers, and took out a large

handkerchief of gossamer-like cambric, which she tied round her hand.

'I don't think I can let you go away tonight,' she said. 'Would you

like to sleep with me?'

'Oh, yes, yes, dear grandmother,' said Irene, and would have clapped

her hands, forgetting that she could not.

'You won't be afraid, then, to go to bed with such an old woman?'

'No. You are so beautiful, grandmother.'

'But I am very old.'

'And I suppose I am very young. You won't mind sleeping with such a

very young woman, grandmother?'

'You sweet little pertness!' said the old lady, and drew her towards

her, and kissed her on the forehead and the cheek and the mouth. Then

she got a large silver basin, and having poured some water into it made

Irene sit on the chair, and washed her feet. This done, she was ready

for bed. And oh, what a delicious bed it was into which her

grandmother laid her! She hardly could have told she was lying upon

anything: she felt nothing but the softness.

The old lady having undressed herself lay down beside her.

'Why don't you put out your moon?' asked the princess.

'That never goes out, night or day,' she answered. 'In the darkest

night, if any of my pigeons are out on a message, they always see my

moon and know where to fly to.'

'But if somebody besides the pigeons were to see it--somebody about the

house, I mean--they would come to look what it was and find you.'

'The better for them, then,' said the old lady. 'But it does not

happen above five times in a hundred years that anyone does see it.

The greater part of those who do take it for a meteor, wink their eyes,

and forget it again. Besides, nobody could find the room except I

pleased. Besides, again--I will tell you a secret--if that light were

to go out you would fancy yourself lying in a bare garret, on a heap of

old straw, and would not see one of the pleasant things round about you

all the time.'

'I hope it will never go out,' said the princess.

'I hope not. But it is time we both went to sleep. Shall I take you

in my arms?'

The little princess nestled close up to the old lady, who took her in

both her arms and held her close to her bosom.

'Oh, dear! this is so nice!' said the princess. 'I didn't know

anything in the world could be so comfortable. I should like to lie

here for ever.'

'You may if you will,' said the old lady. 'But I must put you to one

trial-not a very hard one, I hope. This night week you must come back

to me. If you don't, I do not know when you may find me again, and you

will soon want me very much.'

'Oh! please, don't let me forget.'

'You shall not forget. The only question is whether you will believe I

am anywhere--whether you will believe I am anything but a dream. You

may be sure I will do all I can to help you to come. But it will rest

with yourself, after all. On the night of next Friday, you must come

to me. Mind now.'

'I will try,' said the princess.

'Then good night,' said the old lady, and kissed the forehead which lay

in her bosom.

In a moment more the little princess was dreaming in the midst of the

loveliest dreams--of summer seas and moonlight and mossy springs and

great murmuring trees, and beds of wild flowers with such odours as she

had never smelled before. But, after all, no dream could be more

lovely than what she had left behind when she fell asleep.

In the morning she found herself in her own bed. There was no

handkerchief or anything else on her hand, only a sweet odour lingered

about it. The swelling had all gone down; the prick of the brooch had

vanished--in fact, her hand was perfectly well.