Читать книгу The King Of No-Land - B. L. Farjeon - Страница 5

Table of Contents

THIS was but the beginning of the Prince's truant-playing. A second time he evaded his attendants and time-servers, and they did not discover him until near the close of day. Again he pledged them to secrecy, and then they were to a certain extent in his power. Then he played them a trick. He knew that they were curious to find out where he went to, and that they had laid plans to follow him.

"It really must be seen into," they said to one another, "for our own sakes as well as his. Youth is ever rash."

"His Royal Highness is so cunning," cried one.

"We must use stratagem," said another, with his finger to his nose; "if we can't find out by hook, we must by crook."

But neither hook nor crook was of use to them, as it turned out. Prince Sassafras stole away one day, and knowing that they were following him, he led them a pretty dance. He played them a pretty trick, too. He came to a morass, and jumped across it. They, not aware that the ground was soft, jumped as he jumped, but not being so lithe, stuck in the middle. Then, as they were floundering in the mud in their silk stockings and dandy pumps, he turned upon them, and laughed heartily at their comical appearance. They were in a nice plight!

On the next occasion, he knowingly threatened to tell upon them if they did not let him have his way, or if they betrayed him.

"In which case," he said saucily, "I should say you will be discharged for not taking better care of me." With this fear upon them, they concealed his delinquencies, grating at the same time under the burden of the fear that they we between two stools. For, supposing that one day the Prince should fail to present himself, and supposing that any accident should happen to him while he was out of their sight, the whole country would rise against them for having betrayed their trust. Fortunately for them, however, nothing of this sort occurred.

"If you keep faith with me," said Prince Sassafras to them, one day, when they were in a more that usually terrible pucker, "I will keep faith with you. Always after I have enjoyed my run, you will find me under the dear old elm. Come, now; is it a bargain?"

They had no choice, according to their notions, but to enter into this compact.

"After all, you know," he said, "I have somewhere read that boys will be boys."

"But your Royal Highness is Prince," they urged.

"And not a boy?" was his reply. "Well, I don't understand that."

They tried to make him understand it; but they could not beat it into his obstinate head.

"Tell us, at least," they begged, "where your Royal Highness goes to."

"No, I will not tell you; I go to different places, and I choose to keep their whereabouts to myself." He answered them very independently, for he saw that he had them in his power.

"What does your Royal Highness do when you are out of our sight?"

"Nothing wrong, I assure you. Nothing wrong, on the honour of—a Prince!"

After that, of course, there was nothing more to be said. The honour of a boy they might have doubted, but they did not dare to doubt the honour of a prince. So they were compelled to assume an appearance of content, although they were far from easy in their minds.

It was with Ragged Robin, and at Ragged Robin's home, that he spent his stolen hours. His station was not known; it was supposed that he lived in the neighbouring town; and it was plainly seen that his circumstances were better than those of Robin's parents. When he was asked his name, he hesitated a moment, and then said it was Myrtle; so as Myrtle he was known to them. He became a great favourite with them, as much because of his blithe cheery manner and handsome face as because he made them small presents occasionally. They were simple country people, happy enough in their way, and contented with their station in life. One thing certainly would have made Robin's father as happy as the day was long, as Robin had said, and that was the two shillings a week more which Robin had spoken of. It was his only grievance, and he spoke of it invariably as if two shillings a week more would set everything in the world right that happened to be wrong. Perhaps it may be recognised that the burden of his grievance is not an uncommon one. Their home was exactly as Robin had described it—very small, very humble, and very pretty. Bluebell, a child of about eight years of age, was the prettiest and most engaging creature that Sassafras had ever seen, and deserved all the praises that Robin had bestowed upon her. She and Sassafras became great friends; and when the fond mother had sufficient confidence in Sassafras, she allowed him to take her blue-eyed darling for a ramble in the woods. He learned a great deal from these poor people, and was entirely happy in the society of his humble friends. The hours he spent with them were the brightest in his boyhood's life.

Near to their cottage lived two friends of theirs—an old woman and her son; he known as Coltsfoot, she as Dame Endive. Proud, indeed, was this old woman of her son; and she had every reason to be, for Coltsfoot was of a rare type: a grave and thoughtful man, too serious for his years in the opinion of some, but earnest, whole-souled, and with fine susceptibilities. If Ragged Robin was learned in the life of the woods, and spoke of their inhabitants as one does of familiar companions, Coltsfoot war learned in the higher life of human creatures. He had studied deeply among them, and was wiser than he who gains knowledge from books. More than this: he did not learn by rote. The eyes of his mind were open wherever he walked; he was a just man, with a tender heart. He was a poor schoolmaster, and he worked among the poor, and was regarded by them with respect and admiration; with affection also, for he had in his studies gained some knowledge of medicine, and he administered to the sick without a fee, where to pay one would have been a hardship. Many and many a night did he sit by the bedside of a sick neighbour, and cheer body and soul by his kindly words and deeds; and when his task was done, he would put aside the offered reward with a gentle hand, and say, "Nay, neighbour; another time, when you are better able to afford it;" well knowing that that time would never come. His was the unclouded charity which springs from an unselfish compassionate nature.

Between Coltsfoot and Sassafras an intimacy sprang up, which ripened into friendship. Coltsfoot was attracted by the bright wit and lively fancy of Sassafras, and Sassafras was not long in discovering that here was a man of a higher order than those among whom he was accustomed to move.

"You know a great deal," said Sassafras; "and yet you are not very old."

"I am more than thirty years of age," replied Coltsfoot.

"How did you learn all you know?"

"I taught myself chiefly, I think," said Coltsfoot, with a smile.

"One can do that, then?"

"Surely; and if you read the history of men, you will find that that kind of teaching seems to bear the best fruit." He said this candidly, not as a boast, for he was not vain-glorious, but as the sober truth.

"Then to be born great—" mused Sassafras.

"Do you mean, to be born rich and in a high position?"

"Yes; to be born great, in that way, does not make one great?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"Why unfortunately?" pursued Sassafras.

"Because those who are born thus have so much power for good in their hands that, if they were really great, the world would be better than it is."

"It is not a good world, then!" sighed Sassafras.

He was young; his mind was pliable and amenable to kindly influence, his nature was susceptible and tender; not to be wondered at, therefore, that out of his regard and admiration for Coltsfoot, he was ready to accept Coltsfoot's views without question; ready, indeed, to accept them in a more exaggerated sense than Coltsfoot intended.

Coltsfoot laid his hand kindly on Sassafras's head.

"It is a good world," he said, with somewhat of seriousness in his tone, as though he wished to impress Sassafras, "a good world, in every sense; but there are many wrongs and injustices in it which are allowed to exist, and which might with ease be removed by those who are born to greatness." His words sank into Sassafras's heart. "But in the mean time," Coltsfoot continued, with a sweet and serious smile, "we will go on and work, and not lose heart because things are not as we wish them to be."

"You are never idle," said Sassafras.

"Do you think man was born to be idle? Have you not heard that work is God's heritage to man?"

"No."

"It is; and the best and sweetest heritage. The idle man is like a weed in a field."

"Then one who does not work—"

"Fulfils not his mission. The world would benefit by his absence."

Thought Sassafras: "I wonder what some of my time-servers would say to this? Read the Riot Act, perhaps."

Such conversations as these were not uncommon between Sassafras and Coltsfoot; and they led the Prince into new fields of thought. What he saw, also, in his wanderings with Coltsfoot stirred him strangely. He had been taught to believe—not directly, not in plain words, but insidiously and by false inference—that the poor were of a different order from that of which he was the chief ornament. He expressed this to Coltsfoot, not as his own opinion, but as he heard it.

"Come with me," said Coltsfoot.

And the Prince and the poor schoolmaster went together into the houses of the poor, and Coltsfoot showed Sassafras the virtues and the good that were in their lives. Had the Prince been of Coltsfoot's age, Coltsfoot would probably have shown him more of their vices, so that whatever judgment he formed might have been formed upon a thoroughly correct basis; but Sassafras was a boy, and Coltsfoot (apart from his consideration for Sassafras's tender years) was anxious to show the best side of those he loved and compassionated. Yet he did not utterly conceal their vices; he spoke of them with gentle words of commiseration, saying how, in many instances, the poor were like creatures walking in the dark, being, in most instances, judged by a higher standard than that up to which they were educated, or were like helpless flies attracted by the glare of lights.

It was while the Prince's mind was filled with the theme that he said to his time-servers:

"What do you think of the poor?"

They shrugged their should as they were wont to do at any subject that was indifferent to them and answered carelessly:

"They are an ungrateful class."

"Why ungrateful?" questioned the Prince. "For being allowed to live?"

They evaded explanation by remarking, "Your Royal Highness is too young to understand these matters."

With this he was forced to be satisfied, for they would return him no other answer. In truth, they were puzzled and perplexed by his whims and whams, as they termed them; strive as they might to educate him in the right way, he refused to think as they bade him. To them it was inexplicable that he would not follow them blindly through the path of roses, but would bother his head about the nettles. This suggestion concerning the roses came from the Court Poet, and was highly praised by all but the Prince.

"You have forgotten the thorns," he said.

"They are not for your Royal Highness," was the answer he received.

"If weeds and thorns exist," he remarked sagely, "they must he minded."

"It will be our pleasure and duty," they said, "to clear them from your Royal Highness's life; they shall not touch your sacred person."

"My sacred person," he repeated, under his breath, and trembled at the words. To him they sounded like profanity.

Still he persisted, and was then told that it was not seemly in him to allow his mind to be thus disturbed.

"These things are not for princes," they said.

After his usual fashion, he flew from one to another for counsel and assistance. In some rare way there had come to this young Prince an intense and earnest desire to know the rights and wrongs of things, and he found himself battling in a sea of doubt because of the conflicting views that were presented to him. He asked Coltsfoot about the "divine right," which he said he had heard was the especial attribute of kings; and Coltsfoot showed him, first, not only the folly but the blasphemy of the term, if taken (as it is too often taken) in its literal sense; and next, to what great ends it might be used, if rightly understood. Raising some up, and bringing some down, Coltsfoot brought all persons on a level, so far as regards the laws and principles of humanity and morality and the proper living of life. Coltsfoot saw that Sassafras was in doubt as to his opinions, and without in the least suspecting the lad's exalted station, he opened his heart and mind to the lad whom he had learned to love. He implanted in the lad's soul the purest seeds of honour and religion, and did his best to lay the foundation for a good life.

These conversations occurred when the snow was falling, early in December, and Coltsfoot, who never missed an opportunity of enriching the lad's mind, told him wonderful things concerning the soft flakes: how that each crystal was of the most exquisite shape and form, transcending in beauty the finest and most elaborate work of man's hands; how that, as it lightly covers the earth, it keeps the soil beneath it warm, protecting it from the nipping cold which would destroy the treasures sleeping in its breast; and many other particulars which need not be set down here.

"But for the snow," said Coltsfoot, "we should have no primroses."

"And until to-day," said Sassafras regretfully, "I have looked upon it with a careless eye."

"The fashion is a common one," observed Coltsfoot; "many men grow blind by looking at the sun, and never see the beauty of the stars."

"Nor feel the peace that is in them," added Sassafras. "I have sometimes thought, as I have gazed at them from my window on a still night, that I should like to pass away into the depths where they lie, and float among them in eternal peace."

"The nights are not always still," responded Coltsfoot: "storms come and wild winds; the clouds are tossed and whirled on the wings of the wind; and if a star is visible, it hangs disconsolately and drearily in the heavens, like a soul in doubt."

Sassafras in a timid tone repeated a few lines of a poem he had composed, but had never had courage to show his friend:

"I stood upon a dark and dreary shore,

And voices rose upon the viewless air,

And sighed, 'Ah, nevermore shalt thou know peace!

Evermore shalt thou be tossed on this dark shore,

Till death shall claim thee for its own;

And then, thou scornful doubter, what shall be

Thy after to mortality?'"

Coltsfoot suspected the authorship, and notwithstanding the boyishness of the effort, listened thoughtfully to the lines; he traced in them the doubts and yearnings of a young sensitive soul, and with a peculiarly sweet smile, he said:

"You sigh for peace. Well, peace will come to all of us to-morrow."

"To-morrow?"

"Yes, for to-morrow all of us must die."

"And then?" asked Sassafras, with eager yearning.

"A new birth," replied Coltsfoot, passing his arm around Sassafras with a kind and affectionate motion, "to be believed in as we believe in the wisdom which designed this wondrous work, the world; to be worked for, so that we may fit ourselves for it, with faith and cheerfulness and good intent."

Scarcely a week after this conversation, orders came to the palace that the Prince was to set forth on his travels early in the ensuing year. His tutors and time-servers were delighted. "No more truant-playing then," they said to one another; for the Prince's truant holidays had grown so frequent lately as to cause them more trouble and anxiety than ever. Sassafras was not pleased at the idea of leaving his friends, but he knew that it would be vain to resist. He made up his mind that he would see them once more before he left; but day after day passed, and he found no opportunity to escape. At length the opportunity came; or rather he made it, and, singularly enough, on Christmas-day, which happened to fall that year on the Sabbath.