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

The lady pressed her once more to her bosom, saying:

“Do not be afraid, my child.”

“No, grandmother,” answered the princess, with a little gasp; and the next instant she sank in the clear cool water.

When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but a strange lovely blue over and beneath and all about her. The lady, and the beautiful room, had vanished from her sight, and she seemed utterly alone. But instead of being afraid, she felt more than happy⁠—perfectly blissful. And from somewhere came the voice of the lady, singing a strange sweet song, of which she could distinguish every word; but of the sense she had only a feeling⁠—no understanding. Nor could she remember a single line after it was gone. It vanished, like the poetry in a dream, as fast as it came. In after years, however, she would sometimes fancy that snatches of melody suddenly rising in her brain must be little phrases and fragments of the air of that song; and the very fancy would make her happier, and abler to do her duty.

How long she lay in the water she did not know. It seemed a long time⁠—not from weariness but from pleasure. But at last she felt the beautiful hands lay hold of her, and through the gurgling water she was lifted out into the lovely room. The lady carried her to the fire, and sat down with her in her lap, and dried her tenderly with the softest towel. It was so different from Lootie’s drying. When the lady had done, she stooped to the fire, and drew from it her nightgown, as white as snow.

“How delicious!” exclaimed the princess. “It smells of all the roses in the world, I think.”

When she stood up on the floor she felt as if she had been made over again. Every bruise and all weariness were gone, and her hands were soft and whole as ever.

“Now I am going to put you to bed for a good sleep,” said her grandmother.

“But what will Lootie be thinking? And what am I to say to her when she asks me where I have been?”

“Don’t trouble yourself about it. You will find it all come right,” said her grandmother, and laid her into the blue bed, under the rosy counterpane.

“There is just one thing more,” said Irene. “I am a little anxious about Curdie. As I brought him into the house, I ought to have seen him safe on his way home.”

“I took care of all that,” answered the lady. “I told you to let him go, and therefore I was bound to look after him. Nobody saw him, and he is now eating a good dinner in his mother’s cottage far up in the mountain.”

“Then I will go to sleep,” said Irene, and in a few minutes she was fast asleep.

Curdie went up the mountain neither whistling nor singing, for he was vexed with Irene for taking him in, as he called it; and he was vexed with himself for having spoken to her so angrily. His mother gave a cry of joy when she saw him, and at once set about getting him something to eat, asking him questions all the time, which he did not answer so cheerfully as usual. When his meal was ready, she left him to eat it, and hurried to the mine to let his father know he was safe. When she came back, she found him fast asleep upon her bed; nor did he wake until his father came home in the evening.

“Now, Curdie,” his mother said, as they sat at supper, “tell us the whole story from beginning to end, just as it all happened.”

Curdie obeyed, and told everything to the point where they came out upon the lawn in the garden of the king’s house.

“And what happened after that?” asked his mother. “You haven’t told us all. You ought to be very happy at having got away from those demons, and instead of that I never saw you so gloomy. There must be something more. Besides, you do not speak of that lovely child as I should like to hear you. She saved your life at the risk of her own, and yet somehow you don’t seem to think much of it.”

“She talked such nonsense!” answered Curdie, “and told me a pack of things that weren’t a bit true; and I can’t get over it.”

“What were they?” asked his father. “Your mother may be able to throw some light upon them.”

Then Curdie made a clean breast of it, and told them everything.

They all sat silent for some time, pondering the strange tale. At last Curdie’s mother spoke.

“You confess, my boy,” she said, “there is something about the whole affair you do not understand?”

“Yes, of course, mother,” he answered. “I cannot understand how a child knowing nothing about the mountain, or even that I was shut up in it, should come all that way alone, straight to where I was; and then, after getting me out of the hole, lead me out of the mountain too, where I should not have known a step of the way if it had been as light as in the open air.”

“Then you have no right to say what she told you was not true. She did take you out, and she must have had something to guide her: why not a thread as well as a rope, or anything else? There is something you cannot explain, and her explanation may be the right one.”

“It’s no explanation at all, mother; and I can’t believe it.”

“That may be only because you do not understand it. If you did, you would probably find it was an explanation, and believe it thoroughly. I don’t blame you for not being able to believe it, but I do blame you for fancying such a child would try to deceive you. Why should she? Depend upon it,