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

was covered with the mud of her fall on the mountain road. But the lady stooped to the fire, and taking from it, by the stalk in her fingers, one of the burning roses, passed it once and again and a third time over the front of her dress; and when Irene looked, not a single stain was to be discovered.

“There!” said her grandmother, “you won’t mind coming to me now?”

But Irene again hung back, eying the flaming rose which the lady held in her hand.

“You’re not afraid of the rose⁠—are you?” she said, about to throw it on the hearth again.

“Oh! don’t, please!” cried Irene. “Won’t you hold it to my frock and my hands and my face? And I’m afraid my feet and my knees want it too.”

“No,” answered her grandmother, smiling a little sadly, as she threw the rose from her; “it is too hot for you yet. It would set your frock in a flame. Besides, I don’t want to make you clean tonight. I want your nurse and the rest of the people to see you as you are, for you will have to tell them how you ran away for fear of the long-legged cat. I should like to wash you, but they would not believe you then. Do you see that bath behind you?”

The princess looked, and saw a large oval tub of silver, shining brilliantly in the light of the wonderful lamp.

“Go and look into it,” said the lady.

Irene went, and came back very silent with her eyes shining.

“What did you see?” asked her grandmother.

“The sky, and the moon and the stars,” she answered. “It looked as if there was no bottom to it.”

The lady smiled a pleased satisfied smile, and was silent also for a few moments. Then she said:

“Any time you want a bath, come to me. I know you have a bath every morning, but sometimes you want one at night, too.”

“Thank you, grandmother; I will⁠—I will indeed,” answered Irene, and was again silent for some moments thinking. Then she said: “How was it, grandmother, that I saw your beautiful lamp⁠—not the light of it only⁠—but the great round silvery lamp itself, hanging alone in the great open air, high up? It was your lamp I saw⁠—wasn’t it?”

“Yes, my child⁠—it was my lamp.”

“Then how was it? I don’t see a window all round.”

“When I please I can make the lamp shine through the walls⁠—shine so strong that it melts them away from before the sight, and shows itself as you saw it. But, as I told you, it is not everybody can see it.”

“How is it that I can, then? I’m sure I don’t know.”

“It is a gift born with you. And one day I hope everybody will have it.”

“But how do you make it shine through the walls?”

“Ah! that you would not understand if I were to try ever so much to make you⁠—not yet⁠—not yet. But,” added the lady, rising, “you must sit in my chair while I get you the present I have been preparing for you. I told you my spinning was for you. It is finished now, and I am going to fetch it. I have been keeping it warm under one of my brooding pigeons.”

Irene sat down in the low chair, and her grandmother left her, shutting the door behind her. The child sat gazing, now at the rose fire, now at the starry walls, now at the silver light; and a great quietness grew in her heart. If all the long-legged cats in the world had come rushing at her then she would not have been afraid of them for a moment. How this was she could not tell⁠—she only knew there was no fear in her, and everything was so right and safe that it could not get in.

She had been gazing at the lovely lamp for some minutes fixedly: turning her eyes, she found the wall had vanished, for she was looking out on the dark cloudy night. But though she heard the wind blowing, none of it blew upon her. In a moment more the clouds themselves parted, or rather vanished like the wall, and she looked straight into the starry herds, flashing gloriously in the dark blue. It was but for a moment. The clouds gathered again and shut out the stars; the wall gathered again and shut out the clouds; and there stood the lady beside her with the loveliest smile on her face, and a shimmering ball in her hand, about the size of a pigeon’s egg.

“There, Irene; there is my work for you!” she said, holding out the ball to the princess.

She took it in her hand, and looked at it all over. It sparkled a little, and shone here and there, but not much. It was of a sort of grey-whiteness, something like spun glass.

“Is this all your spinning, grandmother?” she asked.

“All since you came to the house. There is more there than you think.”

“How pretty it is! What am I to do with it, please?”

“That I will now explain to you,” answered the lady, turning from her and going to her cabinet. She came back with a small ring in her hand. Then she took the ball from Irene’s, and did something with the ring⁠—Irene could not tell what.

“Give me your hand,” she said. Irene held up her right hand.

“Yes, that is the hand I want,” said the lady, and put the ring on the forefinger of it.

“What a beautiful ring!” said Irene. “What is the stone called?”

“It is a fire-opal.”

“Please, am I to keep it?”

“Always.”

“Oh, thank you, grandmother! It’s prettier than anything I ever saw, except those⁠—of all colours⁠—in your⁠—Please, is that your crown?”

“Yes, it is my crown. The stone in your ring is of the same sort⁠—only not so good. It has only red, but mine have all colours, you see.”

“Yes, grandmother. I will take such care of it! But⁠—” she added, hesitating.

“But what?” asked her grandmother.

“What am I to say