Whereupon he retired for the night. Into the mysteries of his toilet we had perhaps better not inquire.
As the chronicler of these simple happenings many years ago, it is my duty to be impartial. "These are the facts," I should say, "and it is for your nobilities to judge of them. Thus and thus my characters have acted; how say you, my lords and ladies?"
I confess that this attitude is beyond me; I have a fondness for all my people, and I would not have you misunderstand any of them. But with regard to one of them there is no need for me to say anything in her defence. About her at any rate we agree.
I mean Wiggs. We take the same view as Hyacinth: she was the best little girl in Euralia. It will come then as a shock to you (as it did to me on the morning after I had staggered home with Roger's seventeen volumes) to learn that on her day Wiggs could be as bad as anybody. I mean really bad. To tear your frock, to read books which you ought to be dusting, these are accidents which may happen to anybody. Far otherwise was Wiggs's fall.
She adopted, in fact, the infamous suggestion of Prince Udo. Three nights later, with malice aforethought and to the comfort of the King's enemies and the prejudice of the safety of the realm, she made an apple–pie bed for the Countess.
It was the most perfect apple–pie bed ever made. Cox himself could not have improved upon it; Newton has seen nothing like it. It took Wiggs a whole morning; and the results, though private (that is the worst of an apple–pie bed), were beyond expectation. After wrestling for half an hour the Countess spent the night in a garden hammock, composing a bitter Ode to Melancholy.
Of course Wiggs caught it in the morning; the Countess suspected what she could not prove. Wiggs, now in for a thoroughly bad week, realised that it was her turn again. What should she do?
An inspiration came to her. She had been really bad the day before; it was a pity to waste such perfect badness as that. Why not have the one bad wish to which the ring entitled her?
She drew the ring out from its hiding–place round her neck.
"I wish," she said, holding it up, "I wish that the Countess Belvane―" she stopped to think of something that would really annoy her—"I wish that the Countess shall never be able to write another rhyme again."
She held her breath, expecting a thunderclap or some other outward token of the sudden death of Belvane's muse. Instead she was struck by the extraordinary silence of the place. She had a horrid feeling that everybody else was dead, and realising all at once that she was a very wicked little girl, she ran up to her room and gave herself up to tears.
MAY YOU, DEAR SIR OR MADAM, REPENT AS QUICKLY!
However, this is not a moral work. An hour later Wiggs came into Belvane's garden, eager to discover in what way her inability to rhyme would manifest itself. It seemed that she had chosen the exact moment.
In the throes of composition Belvane had quite forgotten the apple–pie bed, so absorbing is our profession. She welcomed Wiggs eagerly, and taking her hand led her towards the roses.
"I have just been talking to my dear roses," she said. "Listen:
But we shall never know about the butterfly. It may be that Wiggs has lost us here a thought on lepidoptera which the world can ill spare; for she interrupted breathlessly.
"When did you write that?"
"I was just making it up when you came in, dear child. These thoughts often come to me as I walk up and down my beautiful garden. 'The butterfly―'"
But Wiggs had let go her hand and was running back to the Palace. She wanted to be alone to think this out.
What had happened? That it was truly a magic ring, as the fairy had told her, she had no doubt; that her wish was a bad one, that she had been bad enough to earn it, she was equally certain. What then had happened? There was only one answer to her question. The bad wish had been granted to someone else.
To whom? She had lent the ring to nobody. True, she had told the Princess all about it, but―
Suddenly she remembered. The Countess had had it in her hands for a moment. Yes, and she had sent her out of the room, and—
So many thoughts crowded into Wiggs's mind at this moment that she felt she must share them with somebody. She ran off to find the Princess.
Chapter XIV
"Why Can't You be Like Wiggs?"
Hyacinth was with Udo in the library. Udo spent much of his time in the library nowadays; for surely in one of those many books was to be found some Advice to a Gentleman in Temporary Difficulties suitable to a case like his. Hyacinth kept him company sadly. It had been such a brilliant idea inviting him to Euralia; how she wished now that she had never done it.
"Well, Wiggs," she said, with a gentle smile, "what have you been doing with yourself all the morning?"
Udo looked up from his mat and nodded to her.
"I've found out," said Wiggs excitedly; "it was the Countess who did it."
Udo surveyed her with amazement.
"The Princess Hyacinth," he said, "has golden hair. One discovers these things gradually." And he returned to his book.
Wiggs looked bewildered.
"He means, dear," said Hyacinth, "that it is quite obvious that the Countess did it, and we have known about it for days."
Udo wore, as far as his face would permit, the slightly puffy expression of one who has just said something profoundly ironical and is feeling self–conscious about it.
"Oh—h," said Wiggs in such a disappointed voice that it seemed as if she were going to cry.
Hyacinth, like the dear that she was, made haste to comfort her.
"We didn't really know," she said; "we only guessed it. But now that you have found out, I shall be able to punish her properly. No, don't come with me," she said, as she rose and moved towards the door; "stay here and help his Royal Highness. Perhaps you can find the book that he wants; you've read more of them than I have, I expect."
Left alone with the Prince, Wiggs was silent for a little, looking at him rather anxiously.
"Do you know all about the Countess?" she asked at last.
"If there's anything I don't know, it must be very bad."
"Then you know that it's all my fault that you are like this? Oh, dear Prince Udo, I am so dreadfully sorry."
"What do you mean—your fault?"
"Because it was my ring that did it."
Udo scratched his head in a slightly puzzled but quite a nice way.
"Tell me all about it from the beginning," he said. "You have found out something after all, I believe."
So Wiggs told her story from the beginning. How the fairy had given her a ring; how the Countess had taken it from her for five minutes and had a bad wish on it; and how Wiggs had found her out that very morning.
Udo was intensely excited by the story. He trotted up and down the library, muttering to himself. He stopped in front of Wiggs as soon as she had finished.
"Is the ring still going?" he asked. "I mean, can you have another wish on it?"
"Yes, just one."
"Then wish her to be turned into a―" He tried to think of something that would meet the case. "What about a spider?" he said thoughtfully.