Christmas at the Court of King Jorum
The great evening had come, and every one in Cosmopolis Castle was agog with excitement. Eight months before, the Monarch had by Royal Herald Extraordinary announced his intention of making known his decision on Christmas Eve. And Christmas Eve had come. No wonder every one was agog with excitement, because King Jorum was at last going to announce which of the lovely ladies of the Court should be raised to the position of the late Queen, his defunct consort. She, poor soul, had possessed neither charm nor beauty, and without her he had been quite happy for the past two years, surrounded by smiling faces and kept constantly amused by the ladies and gentlemen of his Court.
He had a jovial nature, and was an indulgent father to his two young daughters, especially fond of the younger, Princess Veronica, for more delightful sweetness, prettiness, and lovableness it would be difficult to find in any other young damsel of sixteen years old. So believed that fine young soldier, Prince Olivin; and so believed every one else in the whole kingdom. Every one else, with one exception—Princess Christobel, her sister, older by one year. She had her own ideas on the subject evidently, for she kept a surly silence when her sister’s praises were sung. People said it was her jealousy, because she was plain-looking, and sulky in expression and character; and some did say she was secretly in love with Prince Olivin herself.
Outside the castle this night the silent landscape had been decorated, by order of King Frost, in snow and crystal. Inside the castle the great halls had been decorated, by order of King Jorum, in holly and mistletoe. In the antechamber to the ball-room stood the giant Christmas-tree, hung with so many gifts of exquisite needlework from the ladies of the Court for the King, and so many, too, for Princess Veronica, that there was hardly room for any other presents for any one else, so they had to be stacked up in separate heaps on the floor.
There was one present on the tree, which was handsomer and costlier than all the rest—it was a pair of woollen boots so cunningly and dexterously wrought with precious jewels that they were the most beautiful ever seen or heard of. They were the handiwork of Countess Spinx, and of all the handsome ladies who were assembled in the ball-room where the candles in the chandeliers cast a softening light on their charms, she seemed this Christmas Eve the most unnerved, the most excited. Courtiers came strolling in by twos and threes, and the scene became animated and gay.
For as history shows, it was the custom at the Court of King Jorum, by special decree of the Monarch, that every man, woman, and child should dress themselves in costumes of any distinctive style they liked—whatever suited their fancy best. (That was the origin, ages after, of the term—fancy-dress.) There was thus no slavish following of fashion, and consequently every one looked, or fancied they looked, their very, very best, and were thoroughly at ease in their quaint and, mostly, fascinating attire.
“Here’s Little Love!” exclaimed a bevy of fair dames, pressing forward as a handsome child stepped into their midst, dressed as Cupid, and looking the realest of little Loves from the tips of his tiny bare toes to the tips of his tiny bare wings. He was the King’s godson and pet.
“He’s sure to know! Perhaps he can give us a hint of the news!” exclaimed Countess Spinx with eyes blazing eagerly as she placed herself in his path, with her crook firmly planted on the ground: she was dressed as a shepherdess, which showed to advantage the curls on her fair neck, and her small feet in their high-heeled shoes. “Whisper to me!” she coaxed; “or,” with a pretty shake of the crook, “I’ll not let you pass!”
Little Love might have been deaf, looking neither to the right nor to the left, so unconcernedly did he continue his way stolidly on to meet the procession of the King.
Countess Spinx bit her lip in vexation; the other ladies merely shrugged their shoulders and laughed; and the gentlemen stroked their mouths to hide their smiles. Then all conversation was smothered by the entry of the heralds with their raised silver trumpets and their—
Par—parraparpar—pip—ha!
Par—parraparpar—paar—r!
This was immediately followed by the entry of King Jorum holding Little Love by the hand. The whole company bowed and curtsied very low—and then stood at attention, breathless with expectation.
King Jorum was a very big man, with a very big smile, and very big woollen boots. He always wore woollen boots because, being his own Commander-in-chief, he liked to stand at ease. So he said, naturally in a very big voice—
“According to my promise it is now my pleasure to announce to my Court here assembled my decision with regard to your future Queen. After prolonged thought and study of face and character I have come to the conclusion that there is not one lady of my Court but who is quite lovely enough and charming enough to become my royal consort. Therefore to choose is difficult—so difficult that it is impossible, and, being impossible, I shall never wed again. I have spoken.”
For a moment there was intense silence. Then deafening cheers arose, and all faces were radiant with delight, especially the faces of the ladies, who thus remained equals, no jealousy being possible. “Such tact!” said one. “How true!” cried another. But one lady had slipped away unobserved. It was Countess Spinx.
The gallant Monarch, unaccompanied, pleased at the reception given to his declaration, smilingly passed on to the antechamber, as was his wont, for a private view of the Christmas-tree before the revels commenced. King Jorum had detached one of the woollen boots embroidered with pearls and precious stones, anxiously tried it on, and was admiring the effect, when Little Love appeared and inquired if he would grant an interview to Prince Olivin, who was waiting without.
“I am engaged,” was his Majesty’s impatient reply.
“That, Sire, is what Prince Olivin wants to be!”
“Eh, what’s that? Put on this other boot for me”—he unfastened it from the tree. “Ha! that’s very smart. Very attentive of the dear Countess. Now show him in!”
The two young Princesses had not made their appearance for the proclamation. They, as well as Little Love, had been in the King’s confidence, and they did not intend to be present. However, as the hour of the revels was fast approaching, Veronica feared that her sister would be late as usual, so she took her last glance at herself in the mirror, tightened the blue ribbon that was threaded through her fair hair, tucked a pale rose in the blue sash of her high-waisted, white muslin frock, and flitted off happily to Christobel’s room.
“Come in!” said a not very amiable voice in response to the light tap. “Oh, it’s you, is it?”
“Can I help you, as you have no maid?”
Princess Christobel’s room was by no means tidy. “I don’t want any help,” she replied ungraciously, moving some of the garments that littered the bed, “but you can sit down there, if you like, next to the ‘Shah of Persia.’”
Veronica took the place indicated next to the sweetest little blue Persian kitten that was curled up fast asleep on the coverlet.
“I like your new frock, Veronica,” continued Christobel, surveying her sister as she pinned up her black hair without troubling even to do it before a glass; “but you look pretty in anything. If you didn’t, no one would trouble to pet you. No one ever fusses over me.”
“Papa does, for one.”
“Only because he thinks it’s his duty.”
“I would if you’d let me.”
“Oh yes. You’d be very pleased if I’d let you hang about me—an ugly girl can’t show to much advantage next to a pretty one. I know your little game.”
“Oh, Christobel! How can you say such unkind, unjust things?” protested poor Veronica with a sob.
“If you want to cry,” said Christobel crossly, “you shouldn’t do so until you go to sleep. You cry so easily; and then your bright eyes look heavy, and your aquiline nose gets red, and the whole Castle gets upset about them. Who cares if my eyes are red?”
“Every one, of course. Besides, one’s looks aren’t everything.”
“I know differently. Looks are everything. But I don’t care if people trouble about me or not, or anything they do, or think, or say!”
“What are you putting on, Christobel? Not that, surely!”
“Yes. Same old Red Riding Hood cape and green skirt—does for indoors or out. Same old crew about, I suppose?”
“I suppose so. But it’s Christmas Eve. Those loose things don’t even suit you. Let me lend you a new frock which I have, just the same as this; we can arrange ribbons of your colour, red. We’re the same height, and it will suit you quite as well as it suits me.”
“A nice comparison people would draw, eh?” sneered Christobel; and being ready she took the sleepy Shah in her arms and stalked downstairs with him faintly mewing his protests, leaving her sister to follow if she liked.
In the ball-room Christobel superciliously took no notice of the respectful greetings of the Court. She was naturally shy, reserved too, and sensitive as to her appearance and lack of charm. But Veronica had a kind word for every one, stopping to greet with a smile or a merry jest all present; for they all adored her for her sweetness, graciousness, and extraordinary beauty. There wasn’t a man but who would have died for her, nor a woman but who felt better for her radiant presence. Little Love suddenly appeared and whispered something to Princess Veronica, who blushed, was confused, and said in a low voice to her sister—
“Prince Olivin is here! Papa has sent for me.”
“You might have told me he was coming,” replied Christobel, turning pale.
“But I never knew, indeed.” Her sister had turned away, and Little Love was leading Veronica towards the antechamber.
It seemed to Princess Christobel as though every face in the ball-room was a mask, and behind that mask were eyes that gleamed with mockery—that she had only to turn her back, and fingers of scorn and derision would mark her passage—and she turned and fled, never pausing in her course through the long passages and up the marble stairway until she was back in her room, where she flung the poor Shah and herself on the bed and burst into a torrent of tears and lamentations in her loneliness, disappointment, and jealousy. The kitten, too, looked unusually blue, and mewed disconsolately—felt bored, then purred, stretched its little self on the coverlet, and fell asleep again. Before long the sound of the heralds’ silver trumpets pierced right up into Christobel’s ears—
Par—parraparpar—pip—ha!
Par—parraparpar—paar—r!
And she knew that the engagement was then being announced of Princess Veronica to Prince Olivin; and the strains of the Waltz of the Affianced which followed, played by the Court musicians, confirmed the fact.
How long she remained thus in the dark she did not know. Sounds of an angry voice roused her from her stupor, and she went out into the brilliantly lighted corridor, shading her eyes from the glare, the scent of flowers and the soft strains of music becoming more noticeable as she approached the stairway whence the voices proceeded—one of which she could now distinguish as being that of her sister. She peeped over the banisters, and saw, standing close beside Veronica, Countess Spinx, white with suppressed passion.
“You knew,” hissed the Countess, “that there was to be no Queen.”
“I and my sister knew. Yes. Let me pass; I don’t know what’s become of her. I want to fetch her.”
“You might have told it to your old friend. You are looking radiantly beautiful to-night.”
“I am very happy.”
“Happy with your betrothed?”
“Yes.”
“Listen! Did you know that every one said I had the best chance of being Queen?”
“You!” exclaimed the young Princess in astonishment. “Fancy young you my stepmother!” and she burst out into a merry laugh. The next moment she was falling headlong down the marble stairway, and then lay quite still, bruised and bleeding. In the stillness that ensued—for the music had stopped—Countess Spinx flew upstairs, where she was confronted by Princess Christobel, who pushed roughly past her and hurried down to her sister’s side. Her screams for help brought people running from every side. The injured girl, still unconscious, was quickly borne to her apartments, and the Court physicians surrounded her.
All sorts of rumours were set afloat in the Castle, but all that was gathered for certain by the company, as they dispersed, was that Princess Veronica slipped on the marble stair owing to her new high-heeled shoes—that the sweet face was strapped and bandaged, for it was all cut and bruised, that the nose was broken, and her beauty spoilt for ever. Prince Olivin was half wild with grief, and poor King Jorum was shedding tears all alone in his study when Christobel sought admittance. Her face was set and stern, and the sight of his weakness didn’t unnerve her as she said bluntly—
“Father, Veronica did not slip on the stair—she was purposely and viciously thrown down.”
“Eh, what?” exclaimed the King, staring at her. “Are you taking leave of your senses? There’s not a soul who would hurt my pretty darling. You have enemies. She has none.”
“She was happy. Others were not. Countess Spinx was in a fury of disappointment at not being chosen Queen. She flung poor Veronica down in spite and malice. I saw her do it.”
The King bounded up. “Summon the Countess!” he cried.
Before her Christobel repeated her accusation, and Countess Spinx tried to assert she only put out her arms to save the unfortunate Princess from slipping. Further questioned, she got confused, contradicted herself, and finally sunk on her knees and prayed for mercy.
“To the cells!” shouted the King, and his eyes falling on his jewelled boots, he hastily tore them off and threw them after her as she was carried away.
When, next day, poor little Princess Veronica recovered consciousness and was free from pain she asked for her sister, who came quickly to her side.
“Have you heard,” asked Veronica faintly, “that I—I—I am maimed for life? With a broken nose and scarred face I shall not only be ugly but repulsive.”
“Poor Veronica! You will then be on the same level with me in the future. How you will miss all the petting, all the love!”
“I suppose my life is spoilt. And when I had beauty, I thought of it and prized it so little. But won’t you love me, Christobel?”
“Yes, I will now.”
“Why only now?”
“Because I shall always feel sorry for you—I have never felt sorry for any one but myself before—and I shall love you heaps and heaps.”
“Don’t you think others may feel sorry for me, too?—Poor Prince Olivin! Poor me!” she added with a little moan.
Christobel shook her head sadly. “Beauty is everything! You will understand that now.”
No limbs were broken, and in a couple of days Princess Veronica, with her head and face veiled in white lace, was able to receive some visits of sympathy in her misfortune.
King Jorum was inconsolable, and whenever he came out of the invalid’s room he would vow terrible threats of vengeance on Countess Spinx, who was trembling for her spiteful life in the cells.
On the third night after the Christmas festivities had been brought to their sudden and tragic close, Princess Christobel dreamed such a vivid dream that it awakened her. She dreamed that Little Love, who avoided her whenever he could, came smilingly up to her, kissed her hand, and raising a letter he held, showed, with a look of triumph which puzzled her, that it was addressed to her sister. She awoke, and instantly remembered that Little Love had really kissed her hand that evening, to her great surprise. She sat up in bed listening, for she fancied she heard her sister call. Becoming anxious for her comfort, she rose, and went gently in to her. It was quiet in the dimly lighted chamber. The invalid lay softly sleeping, her face all bandaged, and her glorious hair a mass of gold about the pillow. Under her hand was an open letter. Tempted by the influence of her dream, Christobel drew nearer. It was Prince Olivin’s firm writing—there were only a few lines, and the moonlight shone full upon them. She could not help reading:—
“Beloved! Think not to release me. It is your sweet nature I love. You. Your beautiful mind. Nothing could ever change them!
Olivin.”
Was it joy for her sister? was it some gleam of an unknown sense of peace, tenderness, and hope in her soul, that brought scalding tears to Christobel’s eyes as, half blinded by them, she groped her way back to her room, where she fell on her knees and cried softly, and prayed that, now through her tears her eyes had been opened, she might learn to become different? “Beauty is not everything, then!” she repeated wonderingly to herself over and over again, finding each time fresh comfort in the thought. “How wrong I have been! Out of her disfigurement Veronica says my love for her has grown, and is worth much to her in comfort. It has brought us close together, and made us both happy. How grateful she is for every one’s attention! And now the Prince still pleads for her! So! it was not her beauty that attracted him—it was not her beauty—not her beauty!” Thus she thought earnestly and long, and it brought her a strange sense of faith in herself and others. “I shall tell them all that I, too, know how truly she deserves her happiness!”
And tell them she did, and they opened their eyes and bowed respectfully, and thought more of Princess Christobel than they had ever thought before.
New Year’s Eve came round with its accustomed regularity, and the inmates of Cosmopolis Castle were looking unusually grave for the occasion. Princess Veronica was to appear once more in their midst, and with the bandages removed from her poor face. It was a silent, uneasy company that had gathered together in the great ball-room, and King Jorum, engaged in a game of “Snap” with Little Love in a corner, looked ill and worn from anxiety for his favourite child.
Suddenly the card-players rose, and a thrill of excitement went through the assembly—Princess Veronica stood on the threshold in white muslin and blue. Her face showed no trace of scars; but her nose! Her nose was unrecognisable. It was no more aquiline, but tip-tilted—the sweetest little turned-up feature imaginable, and her appearance had actually gained: Princess Veronica had become the loveliest lady in the land!
After being locked in her father’s arms Veronica found herself suddenly in those of her lover. King Jorum was frantic with delight. He called for Doctor Quick and made him Lord High Druggist of his Majesty’s dominions, with all the appanages, endowments, privileges, and perquisites appertaining to the office. He showered honours on every physician on or near the premises. He talked of bonfires, and of honours, and tiaras all round, until he was hoarse. Then Princess Christobel appeared in white muslin and red ribbons, and there were cheers for her animated appearance and her kind expression as she gracefully returned their greeting. “Father,” she said, drawing him on one side, “Veronica is asking for Countess Spinx. May I—may I tell the prisoner that now all is well she is forgiven?” King Jorum shook his head vigorously, although he was too happy to do anything but smile all the time. “She has been in the cells for ever so long,” pleaded Christobel, and her father was so taken aback at the revelation of her fine eyes and sweet voice, which had never at any time struck him before, that he nodded his head violently.
That evening a stranger was bidden to the feast—no less a person than the great traveller, brother to Prince Olivin, just returned from a voyage of discovery—the bronzed and manly young Duke of Rosenleaf. “Who is that charming young girl?” he asked, as soon as he set eyes on her.
“Princess Christobel, your Highness,” replied Little Love with a sly smile.
King Jorum couldn’t get to sleep that night. He usually slept too much, and was in the habit of unscrewing the top of his foot-warmer and pouring therefrom the hot coffee which he imbibed at intervals in order not to oversleep himself in the morning and thus set a bad example in the land. But he had no need for it to-night. He could not get to sleep at all.
He thought, and thought, and thought what had wrought such a marvellous and rapid change in the character and appearance of his elder daughter. He smiled over it, too, and smiled until his cheeks ached with so much smiling, as much as his poor head ached with so much thought. Still he went on thinking right through the night, and just as he put up his arms above his head to break into a mighty yawn, he suddenly cried—
“I have it! That’s it! She has realised the old theme of Peace and Goodwill, as is proper at this time of year, and has turned over a new leaf! Bravo!” And he turned himself over, snored, and overslept himself.
So the first day of the New Year opened in complete harmony at the Court of King Jorum. And when the Duke of Rosenleaf asked Princess Christobel if she would make the Happy New Year a happy one for him, she smiled and blushingly allowed him to place the prettiest of diamond rings on her finger.
And the New Year was still in its youth when the two young Princesses were married. And by the time that the Shah of Persia’s great-great-grand-kittens were gambolling about the palace, it had become a frequent and pleasant subject for argument and debate throughout the kingdom—“Who is the most charming and lovable woman in the land, Christobel or Veronica?”