The Princess and the Goblin - George MacDonald (first ebook reader TXT) 📗

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 forever.”

“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.

XII A Short Chapter About Curdie

Curdie spent many nights in the mine. His father and he had taken Mrs. Peterson into the secret, for they knew mother could hold her tongue, which was more than could be said of all the miners’ wives.

But Curdie did not tell her that every night he spent in the mine, part of it went in earning a new red petticoat for her.

Mrs. Peterson was such a nice good mother! All mothers are nice and good more or less, but Mrs. Peterson was nice and good all more and no less. She made and kept a little heaven in that poor cottage on the high hillside for her husband and son to go home to out of the low and rather dreary earth in which they worked. I doubt if the princess was very much happier even in the arms of her huge great-grandmother than Peter and Curdie were in the arms of Mrs. Peterson. True, her hands were hard and chapped and large, but it was with work for them; and therefore, in the sight of the angels, her hands were so much the more beautiful. And if Curdie worked hard to get her a petticoat, she worked hard every day to get him comforts which he would have missed much more than she would a new petticoat even in winter. Not that she and Curdie ever thought of how much