The Princess and the Goblin, George MacDonald [uplifting books for women .TXT] 📗

the cavern. “Oh!” she cried, “I am in the water. It is running strong⁠—but it is not deep, and there is just room to walk. Make haste, Curdie.”

He tried, but the hole was too small for him to get in.

“Go on a little bit,” he said, shouldering his pickaxe.

In a few moments he had cleared a larger opening and followed her. They went on, down and down with the running water, Curdie getting more and more afraid it was leading them to some terrible gulf in the heart of the mountain. In one or two places he had to break away the rock to make room before even Irene could get through⁠—at least without hurting herself. But at length they spied a glimmer of light, and in a minute more they were almost blinded by the full sunlight, into which they emerged. It was some little time before the princess could see well enough to discover that they stood in her own garden, close by the seat on which she and her king-papa had sat that afternoon. They had come out by the channel of the little stream. She danced and clapped her hands with delight.

“Now, Curdie!” she cried, “won’t you believe what I told you about my grandmother and her thread?”

For she had felt all the time that Curdie was not believing what she told him.

“There!⁠—don’t you see it shining on before us?” she added.

“I don’t see anything,” persisted Curdie.

“Then you must believe without seeing,” said the princess; “for you can’t deny it has brought us out of the mountain.”

“I can’t deny we are out of the mountain, and I should be very ungrateful indeed to deny that you had brought me out of it.”

“I couldn’t have done it but for the thread,” persisted Irene.

“That’s the part I don’t understand.”

“Well, come along, and Lootie will get you something to eat. I am sure you must want it very much.”

“Indeed I do. But my father and mother will be so anxious about me, I must make haste⁠—first up the mountain to tell my mother, and then down into the mine again to let my father know.”

“Very well, Curdie; but you can’t get out without coming this way, and I will take you through the house, for that is nearest.”

They met no one by the way, for, indeed, as before, the people were here and there and everywhere searching for the princess. When they got in Irene found that the thread, as she had half expected, went up the old staircase, and a new thought struck her. She turned to Curdie and said:

“My grandmother wants me. Do come up with me and see her. Then you will know that I have been telling you the truth. Do come⁠—to please me, Curdie. I can’t bear you should think what I say is not true.”

“I never doubted you believed what you said,” returned Curdie. “I only thought you had some fancy in your head that was not correct.”

“But do come, dear Curdie.”

The little miner could not withstand this appeal, and though he felt shy in what seemed to him a huge grand house, he yielded, and followed her up the stair.

XXII The Old Lady and Curdie

Up the stair then they went, and the next and the next, and through the long rows of empty rooms, and up the little tower stair, Irene growing happier and happier as she ascended. There was no answer when she knocked at length at the door of the workroom, nor could she hear any sound of the spinning-wheel, and once more her heart sank within her, but only for one moment, as she turned and knocked at the other door.

“Come in,” answered the sweet voice of her grandmother, and Irene opened the door and entered, followed by Curdie.

“You darling!” cried the lady, who was seated by a fire of red roses mingled with white. “I’ve been waiting for you, and indeed getting a little anxious about you, and beginning to think whether I had not better go and fetch you myself.”

As she spoke she took the little princess in her arms and placed her upon her lap. She was dressed in white now, and looking if possible more lovely than ever.

“I’ve brought Curdie, grandmother. He wouldn’t believe what I told him and so I’ve brought him.”

“Yes⁠—I see him. He is a good boy, Curdie, and a brave boy. Aren’t you glad you’ve got him out?”

“Yes, grandmother. But it wasn’t very good of him not to believe me when I was telling him the truth.”

“People must believe what they can, and those who believe more must not be hard upon those who believe less. I doubt if you would have believed it all yourself if you hadn’t seen some of it.”

“Ah! yes, grandmother, I dare say. I’m sure you are right. But he’ll believe now.”

“I don’t know that,” replied her grandmother.

“Won’t you, Curdie?” said Irene, looking round at him as she asked the question. He was standing in the middle of the floor, staring, and looking strangely bewildered. This she thought came of his astonishment at the beauty of the lady.

“Make a bow to my grandmother, Curdie,” she said.

“I don’t see any grandmother,” answered Curdie rather gruffly.

“Don’t see my grandmother, when I’m sitting in her lap?” exclaimed the princess.

“No, I don’t,” reiterated Curdie, in an offended tone.

“Don’t you see the lovely fire of roses⁠—white ones amongst them this time?” asked Irene, almost as bewildered as he.

“No, I don’t,” answered Curdie, almost sulkily.

“Nor the blue bed? Nor the rose-coloured counterpane?⁠—Nor the beautiful light, like the moon, hanging from the roof?”

“You’re making game of me, Your Royal Highness; and after what we have come through together this day, I don’t think it is kind of you,” said Curdie, feeling very much hurt.

“Then what do you see?” asked Irene, who perceived at once that for her not to believe him was at least as bad as for him not to believe her.

“I see a big, bare,