CHAPTER XII.
THE CHILDREN IN TROUBLE.
WHEN the little boat could no longer be seen, Rosebud went sorrowfully back to the hut and to her bed. And there she lay, trembling, expecting every moment the return of the old woman. But day dawned; the sun rose, the children also; and still she had not appeared.
What had become of granny?
Rosebud and Myrtle permitted themselves to linger long about the flower-garden. Many of the plants had budded, a few had bloomed. Rosebud bent over them, touching tenderly their soft green leaves, and persuading them, so Myrtle affirmed, to grow faster, and even, as he further declared, whispering to them of what pretty color they should tint their blossoms!
The children of the shore, with their baskets, had gathered around to talk with Rosebud, to wonder at the growth of the plants, and to admire all they saw. Every child must examine every flower that had bloomed, marvel at its beauty, and all were longing for the next buds to open.
While they were thus assembled, talking earnestly, granny suddenly appeared among them.
Her dress was torn, the blue blanket had fallen from her head, the gray locks streamed about her withered face, and her eyes glared fiercely. The children with looks of affright shrank from the old woman. Coming near them, she shook her fist angrily at Rosebud.
“And is it thus you work when I am away?” she cried. “I’ll teach you!”
And with that she hobbled in among the flowers, and began beating them with her staff, pulling them up, and throwing them far and wide. In a few moments the pretty garden was destroyed!
Poor Rosebud! she had loved them so! It seemed as if those were parts of herself which were thus cruelly tossed upon the sands. So much had she lived with them, caressed them, talked to them, that they were to her almost like living beings.
But not a word did she say, neither did one of the rest dare speak to the old woman in her fury.
“Be off! Be off now! the whole pack of you! Take your baskets and be gone, I say!” she cried, stamping her foot with rage.
Mournfully the little group moved toward the shore, Myrtle and Rosebud among them. For they dared not stay, even to witness the death of their flowers.
When they returned at noon, granny was again absent. But there lay the flowers, their tender green leaves, with a few bright blossoms, drooping, scorching, dying in the noonday sun.
Rosebud bent over them, hoping some might be found which, if replanted, would yet live. But no, the scorching heat had done its work.
Sorrowfully then they gathered up the remains of the dear plants which had given them so much delight, and buried them, with some tears, in the same spot they had blessed with their short-lived beauty,—the spot now saddened by their cruel death.
Even their fear of the angry old woman could not prevent the children of the shore from gathering there when they knew what Myrtle and Rosebud were doing; and they looked so mournful when the flowers one after another were covered with the dark earth!
“The funeral of the flowers!” said one little child, sadly, as she smoothed the surface with her hand.
This same little child, during the afternoon, begged of a countryman seeds of pretty grasses, which were strewn thickly over the spot.
Even Bess and Judy were sorry for Rosebud. For as the sun warms the hard rock, and melts the cold ice, so had the sunshine of Rosebud’s sweet face warmed and melted their hearts. If you rudely strike a little bird, it will but droop its head; and, if you crush a flower, it will but wither and fade. So when these two girls gave to Rosebud spiteful words, or even blows, she did but droop her head and look sorrowful. For the love-flame had never yet grown dim in her heart. It burned clear and bright, purifying her whole nature.
And thus it came about that Bess and Judy were at last melted to kindness. They had long ceased to give spiteful words to one who never returned them, and would now as soon have thought of striking a bird or a flower as this loving, gentle child who had come among them.
And in this time of her trouble they were even willing to do something to comfort her. At twilight, just after the seeds were sown over the grave of the flowers, they came, bringing two little feeble plants, which they had found in a moist spot, under the shelter of a rock. The damp earth still clung to their roots. These were replanted in a hidden corner, and watered daily. One died. The other lived and grew and blossomed. And its flower was a delicate white lily.
Myrtle, one morning, found Rosebud bending sadly over this flower, scarcely raising her eyes at his approach.
“I think it must,” said she, at last, looking up, and smiling through her tears.
“Must what?” asked Myrtle.
“Must mean,” said Rosebud, “that she is yet alive.”
Great was the surprise of the old woman at finding the cage empty, her bird flown. The bolt was secured, the iron door locked, the key safe, nothing out of the way except—the prisoners.
Thinking they must be concealed near, she looked in the woods about, beat the bushes, got tangled in the thicket, scratched by the briers, tore her garments, but did not give up the search until long after sunrise in the morning.
It was from this vain search, that, weary, angry, and much alarmed for her own safety, she arrived home to find the children gathered about the flower-garden, as has been told.
And there was very good reason to be alarmed; for the Governor of the land, as soon as he knew of Bertha’s escape, sent his officers, bidding them to seize the old woman, and to throw her into that very same rocky cage. The children were in dismay at seeing granny carried off in such a manner. None could guess the reason except Rosebud; and she told only Myrtle. It was one pleasant day, when they were off sailing, that she related to him the whole history.
They often went sailing in the little boat, that they might talk together of Rosebud’s parents, and the palace, and Rupert. Myrtle said that Rupert’s coming should no longer be looked for, and that, if Rosebud’s father was a king, why, then, she was a princess. Did any one ever hear of a princess picking up drift-wood, or going barefoot, or living in a hut? It was quite time they set forth upon their travels in search of her home. Couldn’t she tell in what direction to go? or how far? or anything at all about it?
No, Rosebud only knew that they travelled fast, and for many, many days, and not always in one direction; for one very bright star which she came to know, and to watch for, on the journey, shone some nights on her right, and at others on her left.
But however that might be, she said, they must go. “Yes,” said Myrtle, “that certainly is quite plain. And we will go as little pedlers, selling our shell-work; or perhaps as little singers, singing our songs. And at every great town we will ask, ‘Who is the king of this country?’ ‘Can you tell us any news of the Good King Brondé?’ We will begin at once to collect the shells. And as we journey along we shall rest often in the shade of the trees, by the wayside, or on some flowery bank, and there make our shell-work.”
Thus all was well arranged.
But before they were quite ready to begin this pleasant journey, something very unexpected happened to Rosebud; very unexpected, but very good. Indeed, had she been allowed her choice of all the delightful things that might happen, she could have chosen nothing more delightful than this.
But now, while Myrtle and Rosebud are so busy with their shells and with their wise plans, it will, perhaps, be well to inquire concerning the Good King Brondé and his Lily Queen, and whether they reached home in safety.