The Maker of Rainbows Part 4

Was she weary of being a Queen?

And so the days went by.

One day as the Queen pa.s.sed down the palace steps she came upon a beautiful girl, clothed in tatters as she had once been, seated on the lowest step, selling flowers--water-lilies.

The Queen stopped.

"Where did you gather your water-lilies, child?" she asked.

"I gathered them from a pool in the great forest yonder," answered the girl, with a curtsey.

"Give me one of them," said the Queen, with a sob in her voice, and she slipped a piece of gold into the girl's hand, and fled back into the palace.

That night, as she lay awake by her sleeping King, she rose silently and stole into the secret gallery. There, with tears running down her cheeks, she dressed herself in the little tattered gown and took the lute in her hand, and then stole back and pressed a last kiss on the brow of her sleeping King, who still slept on.

But at sunrise the King awoke, with a sudden fear in his heart, and lo!

where his Queen had lain was only a white water-lily.

And at that moment, in the depths of the forest, a beggar-maid was braiding her hair, with a pool of water-lilies for her mirror.

THE WIFE FROM FAIRY-LAND

Her talk was of all woodland things, Of little lives that pa.s.s Away in one green afternoon, Deep in the haunted gra.s.s.

For she had come from fairy-land, The morning of a day When the world that still was April Was turning into May.

Green leaves and silence and two eyes-- 'Twas so she seemed to me; A silver shadow of the woods,-- Whisper and mystery.

I looked into her woodland eyes, And all my heart was hers; And then I led her by the hand Home up my marble stairs.

And all my granite and my gold Was hers for her green eyes, And all my sinful heart was hers, From sunset to sunrise.

I gave her all delight and ease That G.o.d had given to me, I listened to fulfil her dreams, Rapt with expectancy.

But all I gave and all I did Brought but a weary smile Of grat.i.tude upon her face-- As though, a little while,

She loitered in magnificence Of marble and of gold, And waited to be home again, When the dull tale was told.

Sometimes, in the chill galleries, Unseen, she deemed, unheard, I found her dancing like a leaf, And singing like a bird.

So lone a thing I never saw In lonely earth and sky; So merry and so sad a thing-- One sad, one laughing, eye.

There came a day when on her heart A wild-wood blossom lay, And the world that still was April Was turning into May.

In her green eyes I saw a smile That turned my heart to stone,-- My wife that came from fairy-land No longer was alone.

For there had come a little hand To show the green way home, Home through the leaves, home through the dew, Home through the greenwood--home.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE BUYER OF SORROWS

On an evening of singular sunset, about the rich beginning of May, the little market-town of Beethorpe was startled by the sound of a trumpet.

Beethorpe was an ancient town, mysteriously sown, centuries ago, like a wandering thistle-down of human life, amid the silence and the nibbling sheep of the great chalk downs. It stood in a hollow of the long smooth billows of pale pasture that suavely melted into the sky on every side.

The evening was so still that the little river running across the threshold of the town, and encircling what remained of its old walls, was the noisiest thing to be heard, dominating with its talkative murmur the bedtime hum of the High Street.

Suddenly, as the flamboyance of the sky was on the edge of fading, and the world beginning to wear a forlorn, forgotten look, a trumpet sounded from the western heights above the town, as though the sunset itself had spoken; and the people in Beethorpe, looking up, saw three hors.e.m.e.n against the lurid sky.

Three times the trumpet blew.

And the simple folk of Beethorpe, tumbling out into the street at the summons, and looking to the west with sleepy bewilderment, asked themselves: Was it the last trumpet? Or was it the long-threatened invasion of the King of France?

Again the trumpet blew, and then the braver of the young men of the town hastened up the hill to learn its meaning.

As they approached the hors.e.m.e.n, they perceived that the center of the three was a young man of great n.o.bility of bearing, richly but somberly dressed, and with a dark, beautiful face filled with a proud melancholy.

He kept his eyes on the fading sunset, sitting motionless upon his horse, apparently oblivious of the commotion his arrival had caused. The horseman on his right hand was clad after the manner of a herald, and the horseman on his left hand was clad after the manner of a steward.

And the three hors.e.m.e.n sat motionless, awaiting the bewildered amba.s.sadors of Beethorpe.

When these had approached near enough the herald once more set the trumpet to his lips and blew; and then, unfolding a parchment scroll, read in a loud voice:

"To the Folk of Beethorpe--Greeting from the High and Mighty Lord, Mortimer of the Marches:

"Whereas our heart had gone out toward the sorrows of our people in the counties and towns and villages of our domain, we hereby issue proclamation that whosoever hath a sorrow, let him or her bring it forth; and we, out of our private purse, will purchase the said sorrow, according to its value--that the hearts of our people be lightened of their burdens."

And when the herald had finished reading he blew again upon the trumpet three times; and the villagers looked at one another in bewilderment--but some ran down the hill to tell their neighbors of the strange proposal of their lord. Thus, presently, nearly all the village of Beethorpe was making its way up the hill to where those three hors.e.m.e.n loomed against the evening sky.

Never was such a sorrowful company. Up the hill they came, carrying their sorrows in their hands--sorrows for which, in excited haste, they had rummaged old drawers and forgotten cupboards, and even ran hurriedly into the churchyard.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HERALD ONCE MORE SET THE TRUMPET TO HIS LIPS AND BLEW]

Lord Mortimer of the Marches sat his horse with the same austere indifference, his melancholy profile against the fading sky. Only those who stood near to him noted a kindly ironic flicker of a smile in his eyes, as he saw, apparently seeing nothing, the poor little raked-up sorrows of his village of Beethorpe.

He was a fantastic young lord of many sorrows. His heart had been broken in a very strange way. Death and Pity were his closest friends. He was so sad himself that he had come to realize that sorrow is the only sincerity of life. Thus sorrow had become a kind of pa.s.sion with him, even a kind of connoisseurship; and he had come, so to say, to be a collector of sorrows. It was partly pity and partly an odd form of dilettanteism--for his own sad heart made him pitiful for and companionable with any other sad heart; but the sincerity of his sorrow made him jealous of the sanct.i.ty of sorrow, and at the same time sternly critical of, and sadly amused by, the hypocrisies of sorrow.

So, as he sat his horse and gazed at the sunset, he smiled sadly to himself as he heard, without seeming to hear, the small, insincere sorrows of his village of Beethorpe--sorrows forgotten long ago, but suddenly rediscovered in old drawers and unopened cupboards, at the sound of his lordship's trumpet and the promise of his strange proclamation.

Was there a sorrow in the world that no money could buy?