VI
The Consequences
But at last the spring came, and after the spring the summer. And the very first warm day, Colin took his spade and pickaxe, and down rushed the stream once more, singing and bounding into the cottage. Colin was even more delighted than he had been the first time. And he watched late into the night, but there came neither moon nor fairy fleet. And more than a week passed thus.
At length, on the ninth night, Colin, who had just fallen asleep, opened his eyes with sudden wakefulness, and behold! the room was all in a glimmer with moonshine and fairy glitter. The boats were rocking on the water, and the queen and her court had landed and were dancing merrily on the earthen floor. He lost no time.
“Queen! queen!” he said, “I’ve got your bottle of Carasoyn.”
The dance ceased in a moment, and the queen bounded upon the edge of his bed.
“I can’t bear the look of your great, glaring, ugly eyes,” she said. “I must make you less before I can talk to you.”
So once more she laid her rush wand across his eyes, whereupon Colin saw them all six times the size they were before, and the queen went on:
“Where is the Carasoyn? Give it me.”
“It is in my box under the bed. If your majesty will stand out of the way, I will get it for you.”
The queen jumped on the floor, and Colin, leaning from the bed, pulled out his little box, and got out the bottle.
“There it is, your majesty,” he said, but not offering it to her.
“Give it me directly,” said the queen, holding out her hand.
“First give me my little girl,” returned Colin, boldly.
“Do you dare to bargain with me?” said the queen, angrily.
“Your majesty deigned to bargain with me first,” said Colin.
“But since then you tried to break all our necks. You made a wicked cataract out there on the other side of the garden. Our boats were all dashed to pieces, and we had to wait till our horses were fetched. If I had been killed, you couldn’t have held me to my bargain, and I won’t hold to it now.”
“If you chose to go down my cataract—” began Colin.
“Your cataract!” cried the queen. “All the waters that run from Loch Lonely are mine, I can tell you—all the way to the sea.”
“Except where they run through farmyards, your majesty.”
“I’ll rout you out of the country,” said the queen.
“Meantime I’ll put the bottle in the chest again,” returned Colin.
The queen bit her lips with vexation.
“Come here, Changeling,” she cried at length, in a flattering tone.
And the little girl came slowly up to her, and stood staring at Colin, with the tears in her eyes.
“Give me your hand, little girl,” said he, holding out his.
She did so. It was cold as ice.
“Let go her hand,” said the queen.
“I won’t,” said Colin. “She’s mine.”
“Give me the bottle then,” said the queen.
“Don’t,” said the child.
But it was too late. The queen had it.
“Keep your girl,” she cried, with an ugly laugh.
“Yes, keep me,” cried the child.
The cry ended in a hiss.
Colin felt something slimy wriggling in his grasp, and looking down, saw that instead of a little girl he was holding a great writhing worm. He had almost flung it from him, but recovering himself, he grasped it tighter.
“If it’s a snake, I’ll choke it,” he said. “If it’s a girl, I’ll keep her.”
The same instant it changed to a little white rabbit, which looked him piteously in the face, and pulled to get its little forefoot out of his hand. But, though he tried not to hurt it, Colin would not let it go. Then the rabbit changed to a great black cat, with eyes that flashed green fire. She sputtered and spit and swelled her tail, but all to no purpose. Colin held fast. Then it was a wood pigeon, struggling and fluttering in terror to get its wing out of his hold. But Colin still held fast.
All this time the queen had been getting the cork out. The moment it yielded she gave a scream and dropped the bottle. The Carasoyn ran out, and a strange odour filled the cottage. The queen stood shivering and sobbing beside the bottle, and all her court came about her and shivered and sobbed too, and their faces grew ancient and wrinkled. Then the queen, bending and tottering like an old woman, led the way to the boats, and her courtiers followed her, limping and creeping and distorted. Colin stared in amazement. He saw them all go aboard, and he heard the sound of them like a far-off company of men and women crying bitterly. And away they floated down the stream, the rowers dipping no oar, but bending weeping over them, and letting the boats drift along the stream. They vanished from his sight, and the rush of the cataract came up on the night-wind louder than he had ever heard it before.—But alas! when he came to himself, he found his hand relaxed, and the dove flown. Once more there was nothing left but to cry himself asleep, as he well might.
In the morning he rose very wretched. But the moment he entered the cowhouse, there, beside the cow, on the milking stool, sat a lovely little girl, with just one white garment on her, crying bitterly.
“I am so cold,” she said, sobbing.
He caught her up, ran with her into the house, put her into the bed, and ran back to the cow for a bowl of warm milk. This she drank eagerly, laid her head down, and fell fast asleep. Then Colin saw that though she must be eight years old by her own account, her face was scarcely older than that of a baby of as many months.
When his father came home you may be sure he stared to see the child in the bed. Colin told him what had happened. But his father said he had met a troop of gipsies on the hill that morning.
“And you were always a dreamer, Colin, even before you could speak.”
“But don’t you smell the Carasoyn still?” said Colin.
“I do smell something very pleasant, to be sure,” returned his father; “but I think it is the wallflower on the top of the garden-wall. What a blossom there is of it this year! I am sure there is nothing sweeter in all Fairyland, Colin.”
Colin allowed that.
The little girl slept for three whole days. And for three days more she never said another word than “I am so cold!” But after that she began to revive a little, and to take notice of things about her. For three weeks she would taste nothing but milk from the cow, and would not move from the chimney-corner. By degrees, however, she began to help Colin a little with his housework, and as she did so, her face gathered more and more expression; and she made such progress, that by the end of three months she could do everything as well as Colin himself, and certainly more neatly. Whereupon he gave up his duties to her, and went out with his father to learn the calling of a shepherd.
Thus things went on for three years. And Fairy, as they called her, grew lovelier every day, and looked up to Colin more and more every day.
At the end of the three years, his father sent him to an old friend of his, a schoolmaster. Before he left, he made Fairy promise never to go near the brook after sundown. He had turned it into its old channel the very day she came to them. And he begged his father especially to look after her when the moon was high, for then she grew very restless and strange, and her eyes looked as if she saw things other people could not see.
When the end of the other three years had come, the schoolmaster would not let Colin go home, but insisted on sending him to college. And there he remained for three years more.
When he returned at the end of that time, he found Fairy so beautiful and so wise, that he fell dreadfully in love with her. And Fairy found out that she had been in love with him since ever so long—she did not know how long. And Colin’s father agreed that they should be married as soon as Colin should have a house to take her to. So Colin went away to London, and worked very hard, till at last he managed to get a little cottage in Devonshire to live in. Then he went back to Scotland and married Fairy. And he was very glad to get her away from the neighbourhood of a queen who was not to be depended upon.