Part 5

Presently people who looked at Syringa’s beauty began to say, “Is not such beauty more than human? Where does it come from, and what keeps it alive?” And though many in course of time learned to talk like this, no one ever seemed to know from whom such talk first came. Later, folk began to whisper instead of to talk. “We have heard,” they said, “one way by which such beauty can be kept alive, yet only one.” Then others were heard saying, “Have you heard that this man’s wife lost her child before it was a week old, and knows not where it can be gone; and that that man’s wife lost hers in the same way a week before? And who will lose hers this week that’s coming, if we don’t know yet, we soon shall know!” And shortly, sure enough, all through the city there were mothers mourning for the loss of their children, who had gone, none knew where, before they were even a week old; and more and more the crowd was taught to say, “Look how beautiful the Queen grows!” whenever she walked or rode.

The Queen-widow listened to all this, and laughed. In her own chamber she had a cage filled with little blue birds, who cried lamentably all day long.

Now, just when all the city-talk and the dark looks of the people had grown to a head, Queen Syringa gave birth to a little son; and the King’s joy was beyond all bounds. “Now,” thought the Queen-widow, “now or never! Now I will ruin her or die!”

She watched her opportunity, till one day she found Syringa lying alone upon her couch with the child asleep between her arms.

The wicked Queen saw that Syringa also was asleep. She stooped down over the child, whispering a spell, and as she clapped her hands it started from between its mother’s arms and flew away in the form of a little blue bird.

The Queen-widow did her best to catch the bird, but could not; then she took blood, and, smearing the Queen’s hands and face with it, left her lying there asleep.

So Syringa was found; and the noise of it went through the city how she had killed her own child in order to keep alive her wondrous beauty. The King tried with heart and soul not to believe so wicked a story against the wife he loved, but the evidence was too strong. When asked, the Queen could explain nothing. “When I went to sleep,” she said, “my child was in my arms, and when I awoke it was gone!”

Outside the palace all the people were crying for her to be put to death. “Give back to their mothers the babies that you have eaten!” they cried.

The King sent for his foster-brother, and told him to take the Queen away to some lonely and desolate place, and there to make an end of her. “She is too beautiful,” he said, “and I loved her too much. Let her be very far away from me when she dies!”

So that night the King’s foster-brother took the Queen, and set out in the direction of the waste places and the hills. All the day following they journeyed, till toward evening they came to the head of a valley, where a wind came to them carrying the rich scent of flowers. The Queen lifted her head and took in a deep breath; then she said, “If I have to die, let me die under the scent of those flowers!”

They went on till they came to a little garden lying in a curl of the valley. There in the centre of a lawn stood the great bush white with bloom, and a sweet fragrance blew out of it, filling all that space.

“If I must die,” said the Queen again, “let me lie down and drink in the scent of those flowers; afterwards I shall not complain.” So the King’s foster-brother gave her leave to go and lie down under the tree, and sat down close at hand to keep watch, so that she should not escape.

A small blue bird came and perched upon the bush over her head.

“Syringa, Syringa!” cried the bird, and two white blossoms fell off like kisses upon the Queen’s face. She lifted her hands and threw kisses up to the flowers, and more and more they came down and settled upon her face.

“Syringa, Syringa!” sang the bird; and, hearing it, the King’s foster-brother’s heart became ready to break for grief.

The twilight deepened in the air around. All through the hours the bird sang on, and the flowers dropped down like pale tired moths in the dusk of the summer’s night, till where the Queen lay became white with a mass of blossoms that never stirred.

The heart of the King’s foster-brother grew heavier; “What if, after all, she be not wicked but good! To-morrow at sunrise I must kill her.”

“Syringa, Syringa!” cried the bird.

Towards dawn he saw the tree all blossomless, only a great heap of petals, like a snow-covered grave, showed where the Queen lay; and the song of the bird had stopped.

“If she sleeps now,” thought the King’s foster-brother, “it will be merciful.” He drew out his sharp hunting-knife, and went softly up to the spot to carry out the King’s command.

So covered was she with blossoms, he could not tell which way lay her head; the heaviness of their dying scent almost made him swoon. Softly with his hand he brushed the petals apart to find a place where he might strike.

How deeply they lay! They seemed to be without end here in the centre of all. Presently his hand came upon green grass bent with the weight of blossoms, and dank with dew. He shut his eyes and started away, for the colour and the touch made a strange sorrow in his heart, and he knew that the Queen was not there.

He went away to the furthest part of the garden, and returned, and again searched, and still she was not there; only blossoms in a pile, and under them green grass.

“Syringa, Syringa!” sang the bird; and now there was a sort of triumph in its note.

The King’s foster-brother turned and went back to the city. All the way the blossoms drifted and blew after him along the track; till at evening he stood at the palace door in a wind of syringa scent, and dead flowers blew over his feet as he crossed the threshold.

Then he told the King all that he had seen and heard, and the King knew surely that his Queen, who had died so gentle and beloved a death, had been innocent of the crime laid to her charge. So great was his grief he could not rest; that very night he rose and journeyed till he came by day to the little garden; there he found the tree blossomless, and in the top of it he heard the blue bird crying, “Syringa, Syringa,” sadly and without ceasing.

But to the King there came no sign or sound of his love. He laid his head upon the ground at the foot of the tree, sighing, “My love, you lay three years with your ear to the ground listening for my feet; now I will lie and listen for yours!”

All the grass became wet with the tears of sorrow that the King shed; the tree waved and grew more green. In three days new blossoms looked out among the leaves; at night they fell upon his face, and he dreamed that Syringa’s lips were laid to his ear, and the tale of her betrayal whispered to him.

Then, knowing all, but determined for a time to let the truth lie buried in his heart, he caused the tree to be lifted from the ground and carried back and set secretly in the palace garden. And of all this, and of what he knew, he said nothing to the Queen-widow.

To the little blue bird that had followed the tree, and perched in its boughs, he said, “Be silent, little blue bird, and do not sing that name here.” At his word the little blue bird became silent as death, and sat motionless in the heart of the tree, never once breathing Syringa’s name.

At night the Prince would come and press his lips to the leaves of the tree and whisper, “Ah, love, how long is my heart to stay broken? And when will forgiveness blossom?”

But to the Queen-widow it appeared that the Prince was recovering from his grief; and when a year had gone round she began wooing him by stealth, seeming to pity him for the sorrow that the wickedness of his dead Queen had caused him.

Little by little he seemed to listen and open his heart to her; once he said, “All my grief would go if one whom I love could know that my heart, which once turned from her, has become wholly hers again.”

When the Queen-widow heard that said, she thought, “Surely now, in a short time, all my schemes are to be brought to a good end.”

One day as they walked and talked together in the gardens of the palace, they came upon a tree white and covered with blossom. “How I love that flower!” said the King; but the Queen-widow as soon as she smelt the scent of it turned pale and trembled. Up among the branches sat a little blue bird silently.

“Come here, and sit under this tree,” said the King, “and let me speak freely, for I am in sore want of a wife!” He drew her close under the leaves of the tree. “Here,” he thought, “I will make her speak; she shall confess all!” Over them a bough leaned down.

One of its blossoms touched the Queen-widow on the throat. “It has bitten me!” she shrieked. The branch sprang away, the whole tree opened and waved. Out of it the blossoms flew like a white swarm of angry bees.

“Syringa, Syringa!” cried the bird.

The Queen-widow caught herself by the throat and moaned, and lay down upon the grass to die.

As soon as her breath was gone, all the blossoms rose up again like a white column of cloud; down into their midst flew the blue bird.

Then, this way and that, the blossoms cast themselves loose into the wind, and out of their midst came Syringa herself, carrying her child in her arms. At her feet the Queen-widow lay quite dead, with her hand upon her throat. The little blue birds in the palace had broken out of their cage and were calling for their mothers with childish voices and laughter.

But the King knelt down before Syringa’s feet, pale and trembling, seeking pardon for having ever believed in her guilt. Swiftly Queen Syringa bent down, and in token of forgiveness held her child’s lips to his. Over them both her face and breath were fragrant as a garden full of sunshine.

When the King had kissed the child’s lips, she gave him her own.

THE TRAVELLER’S SHOES

_TO_ MARY AND EMILY

[Illustration]

THE TRAVELLER’S SHOES

A long while ago there lived a young cobbler named Lubin, who, when his father died, was left with only the shop and the shoe-leather out of which to make his fortune. From morning to night he toiled, making and mending the shoes of the poor village folk; but his earnings were small, and he seemed never able to get more than three days ahead of poverty.

One day, as he sat working at his window-bench, the door opened, and in came a traveller. He had on a pair of long red shoes with pointed ends; but of one the seams had split, so that all his toes were coming out of it.

The stranger, putting up one foot after the other, took off both shoes, and giving that one which wanted cobbling to Lubin, he said: “To-night I shall be sleeping here at the inn; have this ready in good time to-morrow, for I am in haste to go on!” And having said this he put the other shoe into his pocket, and went out of the door barefoot.

“What a funny fellow,” thought Lubin, “not to make the most of one shoe when he has it!” But without stopping to puzzle himself he took up the to-be-mended shoe and set to work. When it was finished he threw it down on the floor behind him, and went on working at his other jobs. He meant to work late, for he had not enough money yet to get himself his Sunday’s dinner; so when darkness shut in he lighted a rushlight and cobbled away, thinking to himself all the while of the roast meat that was to be his reward.

It came close on midnight, and he was just putting on the last heel of the last pair of shoes when he was aware of a noise on the floor behind him. He looked round, and there was the red shoe with the pointed toe, cutting capers and prancing about by itself in the middle of the room.

“Peace on earth!” exclaimed Lubin. “I never saw a shoe do a thing so tipsy before!” He went up and passed his hand over it and under it, but there was nothing to account for its caperings; on it went, up and down, toeing and heeling, skipping and sliding, as if for a very wager. Lubin could even tell himself the name of the reel and the tune that it was dancing to, for all that the other foot was missing. Presently the shoe tripped and toppled, falling heel up upon the floor; nor, although Lubin watched it for a full hour, did it ever start upon a fresh jig.

Soon after daybreak, when Lubin had but just opened his shutters and sat himself down to work, in came the traveller, limping upon bare feet, with the shoe’s fellow pointing its red toe out of his pocket. “Oh, so,” he said, seeing the other shoe ready mended and waiting for him, “how much am I owing you for the job?”

“Just a gold piece,” said Lubin, carelessly, carrying on at his work.

“A gold piece for the mere mending of a shoe!” cried the stranger. “You must be either a rogue or a funny fellow.”

“Neither!” said Lubin, “and for mending a shoe my charge is only a penny; but for mending _that_ shoe, and for all the worry and temptation to make it my own and run off with it—a gold piece!”

“To be sure, you are an honest fellow,” said the traveller, “and honesty is a rare gift; though, had you made off with it, I should have soon caught you. Still, you were not so wise as to know that, so here’s your gold piece for you.” He pulled out a big bag of gold as he spoke, pouring its contents out on to the window bench.

“That is a lot of money for a lonely man to carry about,” said Lubin. “Are you not afraid?”

“Why, no,” answered the man. “I have a way, so that I can always follow it up even if I lose it.” He took two of the gold pieces, and dropped one into the sole of each shoe as he was putting them on. “There!” said he, “now, if any man steal my money, I need only wait till it is midnight; and then I have but to say to my shoes ‘Seek!’ and up they jump, with me in them, and carry me to where my stolen property is, were it to the world’s end. It is as if they had the nose and sagacity of a pair of bloodhounds. Ah, son of a cobbler, had you run off with the one I should have very soon caught you with the other; for if one walks the other is bound to follow. But, as you were honest, we part friends; and I trust God may bring you to fortune.” Then the traveller did up his bag of gold, nodded to the cobbler from the doorway, and was gone.

Lubin laid down his work, and went off to the inn. “Did anything happen here last night?” he asked.

“Nothing of much note,” answered the innkeeper. “Three travelling fiddlers were here, and afterwards a man came in barefoot, but with a red shoe sticking out of his pocket. I thought of turning the fellow away, till he let me see the colour of his gold. Presently the fiddlers started to play and the other man to drink. At first when they called on him to dance he excused himself for his feet’s sake; but presently, what with the music and the liquor, he got so lively in his head that he pulled on his one shoe and danced like three ordinary men put together.”

“What time was that?” asked Lubin.

“Getting on for midnight,” answered the innkeeper.

“Ah!” said Lubin, and went home thinking much on the way.

Towards evening he found that he had run out of leather, and must go into the town, ten miles off, to buy more. “Now my gold piece comes in handy,” thought he; so he locked up the house, put the key in his pocket, and set out.

Though it was the season of long days it was growing dark when he came to a part of the road that led through the wood; but being so poor a man he had no fear, nor thought at all about the robbers who were said to be in those parts. But as he went, he saw all at once by the side of the road two red spikes sticking up out of a ditch, their bright colour making them plain to the eye. He came quite near and saw that they were two red shoes with pointed toes; and then he saw more clearly that along with them lay the traveller, his wallet empty and with a dagger stuck through his heart.

The cobbler’s son was as sorry as he could be. “Alas, poor soul,” thought he, “what good are the shoes to you now? Now that thieves have killed you and taken away your gold, surely I do no harm if I give an honest man your shoes!” He stooped down, and was about taking them off when he saw the eyes of the dead man open. The eyes looked at him as if they would remind him of something; and at once, when he loosed hold of the shoes, they seemed satisfied. Then he remembered, and thought to himself, “The world has many marvels in it; I will wait till midnight and see.”

For over three hours he kept watch by the dead man’s side. “Only last night,” he said to himself, “this poor fellow was dancing as merry a measure as ever I saw, for the half of it surely I saw; and now!” Then he judged that midnight must be come, so he bent over the shoes and whispered to them but one word.

The dead man stood up in his shoes and began running. Lubin followed close, keeping an eye on him, for the shoes made no sound on the earth. They ran on for two hours, till they had come to the thickest part of the forest; then some way before them Lubin began to see a light shining. It came from a small square house in a court-yard, and round the court-yard lay a deep moat; only one narrow plank led over and up to the entrance.

The red shoes, carrying the dead man, walked over, and Lubin followed them. When they were at the other side they turned, facing toward the plank that they had crossed, and Lubin seemed to read in the dead man’s eye what he was to do.

Then he turned and lifted the plank away from over the moat, so that there was no longer any entrance or exit to the place. Through the window of the house he could see the three fiddlers quarrelling over the dead man’s gold.

The red shoes went on, carrying their dead owner, till they got to the threshold, and there stopped. Then Lubin came and clicked up the latch, and pushed open the door, and in walked the dead man with the dagger sticking out of his heart.

The three fiddlers, when they saw that sight, dropped their gold and leapt out of the window; and as they fled, shrieking, thinking to cross the moat by the plank-bridge that was no longer there, one after the other they fell into the water, and, clutching each other by the throat, were drowned.

But the red shoes stayed where they were, and, tilting up his feet, let the traveller go gently upon the ground; and when Lubin held down the lantern to his face, on it lay a good smile, to tell him that the dead man thanked him for all he had done.

So in the morning Lubin went and fetched a priest to pray for the repose of the traveller’s soul, and to give him good burial; and to him he gave all the dead man’s money, but for himself he took the red shoes with the pointed toes, and set out to make his fortune in the world.

Walking along he found that however far he went he never grew tired. When he had gone on for more than a hundred miles, he came to the capital where the King lived with his Court.

All the flags of the city were at half-mast, and all the people were in half mourning. Lubin asked at the first inn where he stopped what it all meant.

“You must indeed be a stranger,” said his host, “not to know, for ’tis now nearly a year since this trouble began; and this very night more cause for mourning becomes due.”

“Tell me of it, then,” said Lubin, “for I know nothing at all.”

“At least,” returned the innkeeper, “you will know how, a little more than a year ago, the Queen, who was the most beautiful woman in the world, died, leaving the King with twelve daughters, who, after her, were reckoned the fairest women on earth, though the King says that all their beauty rolled into one would not equal that of his dead wife; and, indeed, poor man, there is no doubt that he loved her devotedly during her life, and mourns for her continually now she is dead.”

“Only a small part of all this have I known,” said Lubin.

“Well, but at least,” said the innkeeper, “you will have heard how the Princesses were famed for their hair; so beautiful it was, so golden, and so long! And now, at every full moon, one of them goes bald in a night; and bald her head stays as a stone, for never an inch of hair grows on it again; and with her hair all her beauty goes pale, so that she is but the shadow of her former self—a thin-blooded thing, as if a vampire had come and sucked out half her life. Yes; ten months this has happened, and ten of the Princesses have lost their looks and their hair as well; and now only the Princess Royal and the youngest of all remain untouched; and doubtless one of them is to lose her crop to-night.”

“But how does it happen?” cried Lubin, “Is no one put to keep watch, to guard them from the thing being done?”