‘They generally call me the Princess Ernalie. Now you might tell me your name, if you don’t mind.’
‘They generally call me Queen Araminta. If you like, and are not too tired, I’ll show you the farm, and then we’ll have dinner.’
So the Princess went through the yard to the cows’ byre, and from the stalls to the pig-sties, and from the sties to the poultry-run, and thence to the orchard, and from the orchard to the flower-garden, and after that home again.
So it was arranged that the Princess Ernalie was to stop with the King and Queen until something should turn up. But nothing ever did turn up, and the days lengthened into months, and the months into years, and still she stayed with the old couple; and as time went on she seemed to do almost all the work of the farm, for the old King and Queen were beginning to get too old and weak for hard work. And gradually she began to forget about her native land, and it seemed as if the farm were to be her home for ever. And every year she grew taller and more beautiful; but that’s a habit that princesses have pretty often. So five years passed quietly away, and nothing seemed likely to disturb the peace of the household.
Every morning regularly she got up at five o’clock to drive the cows to the pasture, and then she fed the poultry, and, if it happened to be a Thursday or Saturday, she went with the Queen to take the butter and eggs to market; besides which she had to milk the cows and cook the dinner, and all sorts of things, so that she was gradually turning into a simple country maid.
During all the five years no one from the town ever came near the house, and so you may imagine how surprised she was one morning when she got up and opened her bedroom window to see a man coming across the clover-field towards the house. She watched him come right up to the door, and then, when she heard him knock, ran down to tell the King and Queen that a man was knocking at the door.
‘Who on earth can it be?’ asked Abbonamento.
‘It’s not the tax-collector, is it?’ asked Araminta.
‘Oh no, it’s not him; he’s an old man, and this one is quite young,’ answered the Princess.
‘Nor the water-man?’
‘No, it’s not him either. There he is knocking again.’
Indeed, the knocking was becoming quite furious.
‘He’s a very impatient young man, whoever he is,’ said Abbonamento. ‘You’d better go and tell him not to make such a noise. Let him in – be quick, or he’ll knock the door down!’
And it seemed so likely, that Ernalie ran down as fast as she could and opened the door.
‘Why can’t you open the door faster?’ said an angry voice; and then Ernalie saw a young man looking at her in a state of great surprise. ‘Why, who are you?’ he asked. ‘Is this not the house of their Majesties King Abbonamento and Queen Araminta?’
‘They used to be King and Queen at one time,’ answered Ernalie.
‘They ought to be now,’ said the young man with a frown.
‘That’s quite another thing,’ retorted Ernalie.
‘Oh, is it?’ said he, with a smile this time. ‘But who on earth are you, if I may ask?’
‘I am Her Royal Highness Princess Ernalie of Aoland; and who on earth are you, if I may ask?’
‘I am Prince Treblo of this country,’ answered he.
‘I suppose you are the son of King Mumkie, then?’ said she.
‘Good gracious, no!’ said the Prince.
The Princess was just about to say, ‘Then whose son are you?’ when the old King burst into the room. He had evidently got up in a hurry, and he was only attired in his flowered dressing-gown.
‘My long-lost chee-yld!’ he exclaimed, as he threw himself into the stranger’s arms. ‘Araminta! Araminta! come along, it’s Treblo.’
And the Queen came rushing down in haste, as you may imagine. Over the rest of this affecting scene we will draw a curtain – that’s what they generally do with affecting scenes – in books, at least.
The Princess Ernalie easily perceived that she was a little – as the French say —de trop; that is, finding that ‘three was company and four none.’ So she left the room and went upstairs to comb her hair and wash her face and hands, and make herself look smart generally; for she thought that would be only right on the day on which the eldest son of the house came home – especially as he was very handsome.
Now it happened that as she was bending down to pick up her best shoes from under her toilet-table, one of them had gone a little far back, and as she drew it out she noticed that something lay behind the shoe, and she drew that out too. You may perhaps remember that she had picked up out of the road an eagle’s feather which Wopole had let fall as he hurried by with the eagle on his back. Well, then, it was this feather that she now drew out from under the toilet-table. It had lain there since she had first entered the room five years ago. Now this doesn’t say much for the cleanliness of the floors, but in those unsophisticated days they never thought of sweeping any hidden spot in the floor. This habit, curiously enough, survives even now among some people. However, to return to the Princess Ernalie.
When she picked up the feather she stood upright again and examined it carefully.
‘Why, how nice,’ she said. ‘It’s the old eagle’s feather. Now that’ll come in handy; my hat rather wanted a new feather, and it’ll just suit the colour of my hair and eyes.’
So she went to the looking-glass and held the feather close against her hair. But to her astonishment nothing was to be seen in the glass – not a vestige of herself; it seemed as if she had vanished altogether.
‘Why, what’s the matter with the glass?’ she said. ‘Something seems to have gone wrong with it.’ So she put the feather on the table and went to rub the glass, but when she looked at it she was there all right again.
‘That’s queer,’ she thought; ‘I can’t have been right in front of the glass.’ So she took up the feather and went in front of the glass. This time she saw herself very well, but as soon as the feather touched her hair she vanished just as before.
‘Good gracious!’ she said; ‘what is the matter with the glass?’ So she tried again, and the result was always the same – whenever the feather touched her hair she vanished. ‘It must be something the matter with the feather.’ So she examined it quite closely, and she found rolled round the quill end of it a small piece of paper on which was written:
‘Guard well the feather, for whoso toucheth his hair therewith – though he be but feather-brained – shall be invisible, yet shall he see all.’
Ernalie read it over once or twice from beginning to end.
‘The writing says “his” hair; but it seems to act just as well with “her” hair – that is, my hair. What fun I shall have now. I think I’ll try it on at once on the King. But then, it might frighten him. No, I’ll wait, and try it on Treblo; and that reminds me I think that they’ve had enough of it all to themselves now. I’ll go and see if I can do anything for them.’ So she locked the feather up in one of the drawers, and then, putting on her shoes, went downstairs.
Now it happened that just as she had almost reached the bottom step her heel came out of her shoe, and as she stopped to put it firmly on again she heard the voice of the stranger saying:
‘By the bye, mother, who was that girl who opened the door to me?’
‘Oh! that’s Ernalie,’ answered the Queen’s voice.
(It seemed as if the shoe took some time to get on again.)
‘So she told me; but who is Ernalie?’ he asked again.
‘Oh! you’d better get her to tell you that too when she comes down. Well, what do you think of her?’
‘Oh, she’s – she’s just lovely,’