Rachel did not forget her promise to old Nancy. She had never taken so
much pains to cultivate Phil's acquaintance as Kitty had done. She had
certainly joined in the almost universal chorus that he was a nice and
lovable little boy, but she had not greatly troubled her head about his
pursuits or his pleasures. She was too much taken up with the wonderful
secret which she possessed with regard to the real existence of the lady
of the forest. But now that the said lady seemed to wish to see Phil,
and now that she, Rachel, had almost bound herself to bring Phil to the
trysting-place in the forest, she began to regard him with new interest.
Kitty and Phil had long ere this established a world of their own--a
world peopled by caterpillars of enormous size, by the most sagacious
spiders that were ever known to exist, by beetles of rare brilliancy, by
birds, by squirrels--in short, by the numerous creature-life of the great
forest; and last, but not least, by the fairies and gnomes which were
supposed to haunt its dells. Kitty could tell many stories of forest
adventures, of the wonderful and terrible bogs on which the luckless
traveler alighted unawares, and from which, unless instant help arrived,
he could never hope to extricate himself. She spoke about the malicious
little Jack-o'-lanterns which were supposed to allure the unwary into
these destructive places, and Phil, with a most vivid imagination of his
own, loved to lie at her feet and embellish her tales with numerous
inventions. The two children were scarcely ever apart, and doubtless one
reason why Rachel thought so much of her secret was because Kitty was no
longer her undivided companion.
Now, however, she must seek out Kitty and Phil, and enter into their
pursuits and take a share in their interests if she hoped to induce Phil
to accompany her into the forest. Accordingly one day, with a book in
her hand, she sauntered out into a very sunny part of the grounds. Phil,
basking in the rays of the most brilliant sunshine, had thrown himself
at the foot of an old sun-dial; Kitty had climbed into the boughs of a
small bare tree which stood near, and as usual the two were chatting
eagerly. Rachel, with her head full of the lady of the forest, came up,
to hear Kitty and Phil discussing this very personage.
"She's all in green," said Kitty. "Her dress is greener than the trees
and her face is most beautiful, and her hair is gold and----"
"No," interrupted Rachel; "she's in gray; and her hair is not gold--it is
dark."
Then she colored high and bit her lips with vexation, for she felt that
in her eagerness she had given a clew to her dear real lady's identity.
Kitty raised her eyebrows in great surprise.
"Why, Rachel," she said, "it was you who told me she was in green. How
very queer and disagreeable of you to make her so ugly and
uninteresting. People who wear gray are most uninteresting. You forget,
Rachel, our lady is in green--greener than the grass. I do wish you would
tell Phil all about her; you can describe her so much better than I
can."
"She has a face which is almost too lovely," continued Rachel, taking up
the cue on the instant and speaking with great animation. "She lives in
the deepest shades of the forest, and she appears never, never, except
to those who belong to the forest. Those families who have belonged to
the New Forest for hundreds of years have seen her, but outsiders never
do. When she does appear she comes with a gift in her hand. Do you know
what it is?"
"No," said Phil, raising himself on his elbow and looking with great
intentness at Rachel. "I know what I would wish her to give me--that is,
if she ever came to see me; but of course I cannot possibly say what
gifts she brings."
"Those who have seen her," said Rachel, "catch just a shadow of the
reflection of her lovely face, and they never lose it--never! Some ladies
of our house saw her, and their portraits are in our portrait-gallery,
and they are much more beautiful than any of the other Lovels. She does
not give beauty of feature--it is of expression; and such a brightness
shines from her. Yes, her gift is the gift of beauty; and I do wish, and
so does Kitty, that we could see her."
Phil smiled a little scornfully.
"Is that all she gives?" he said. "That wouldn't be much to me. I mean
if I saw her I know what I'd ask. I'd say, 'I am a boy, and beauty isn't
of much use to a boy; so please give me instead--money!'"
"Oh, Phil!" exclaimed both the little girls.
"She wouldn't come to you," said Kitty in a mournful tone. "She wouldn't
look at any one so avaricious."
"Besides, Phil," continued Rachel, "when Avonsyde is yours you'll be a
rich man; and I don't think," she added, "that you are quite right when
you say that beauty is of no use to a boy; for if you have the kind of
beauty the lady gives, it is like a great power, and you can move people
and turn them as you will; and of course you can use it for good, Phil."
"All right," said Phil, "but I'd rather have money; for if I had money
I'd give it to mother, and then I needn't be heir of Avonsyde,
and--and--oh, I mustn't say! Kitty, I do wish we could go to Southampton
again soon. I want to go there on most particular business. Do you think
Aunt Grizel will take us before Christmas?"
"Is it about the letter?" asked Kitty. "But you couldn't have had an
answer yet, Phil. There is no use in your going to Southampton before an
answer can have arrived."
"I suppose not," said Phil in a gloomy voice. "It's a long, long time to
wait, though."
"What are you waiting for?" asked Rachel.
Phil raised very mournful eyes to her face.
"You have a look of him," he said. "Oh, how I hate being heir of
Avonsyde! I wouldn't be it for all the world but for mother. Kitty,
shall we go into the forest and look for beetles?"
"I'll come with you," said Rachel. "You two are always together and I'm
out in the cold, and I don't mean to be in the cold any longer. I may
come with you both, may I not?"
Kitty smiled radiantly, Phil linked his little brown hand inside
Rachel's arm, and the three set off.
No little girl could make herself more fascinating than Rachel when she
pleased. She developed on the instant a most astonishing knowledge of
beetles and spiders; she drew on her imagination for her facts, and
deceived Kitty, but not Phil. Phil was a born little naturalist, and in
consequence he only favored his elder cousin with a shrewd and comical
look, and did not trouble himself even to negative her daring
assertions. Seeing that she made no way in this direction, Rachel
started a theme about which she possessed abundant knowledge. The New
Forest had been more or less her nursery; she knew its haunts well; she
knew where to look for the earliest primroses, the first violets, and
also the very latest autumn flowers; she knew where the holly berries
were reddest, where the robins had their nests, and where the squirrels
were most abundant; and Phil, recognizing the tone of true knowledge,
listened first with respect, then with interest, then with enthusiasm.
Oh, yes, they must go to that dell; they must visit that sunny bank.
Before Rachel and her sister and cousin came home that day they had
planned an excursion which surely must give the mysterious lady of the
forest that peep at Phil which she so earnestly desired. Rachel was
sorry to be obliged to include Kitty in the party, for Kitty had not
been asked to pass in review by old Nancy. Phil was the one whom Nancy
and the lady wished to see just once with their own eyes: Phil, who was
to be heir of Avonsyde and who didn't like it. Rachel went to bed quite
jubilant, for she would have done anything to please the unknown lady
who had won her capricious little heart. She did not guess that anything
would occur to spoil her plans, and in consequence slept very
peacefully.
Phil had been much excited by Rachel's words. He was a very imaginative
child, and though he did not believe in ghosts, yet he was certainly
impressed by what both the little girls had told him of the lady of the
forest. He quite believed in this lady, and did not care to inquire too
closely whether she was fairy or mortal. She appeared at rare intervals
to the sons and daughters of the house of Lovel, and when she did she
came with a gift. Phil did not altogether believe that this lovely,
graceful, and gracious lady would be so obdurate as only to bestow an
unvalued gift of beauty. He thought that if he were lucky enough to see
her he might so intercede with her that she would give him a bag of gold
instead. He need keep no secrets from her, for if she was a fairy she
must know them already; and he might tell her all about his
difficulties, and how his small heart was torn with great love for
Rupert and great love for his mother. He might tell the lady of the
forest how very little he cared for Avonsyde, except as a possible
future home for his gay and brave Cousin Rupert, and he might ask her to
give him the bag of precious gold to satisfy his mother and keep her
from starving. Phil was dreadfully oppressed with all the secrets he had
to keep. Happy as he was at Avonsyde, there were so many, many things he
must not talk about. He must never mention Rupert, nor Gabrielle, nor
Peggy; he must never breathe the name of Belmont nor say a word about
his old nurse Betty. All the delightful times he had spent with his
Australian cousins must be as though they had never been. He must not
tell about the delicious hours he and Betty had spent together in the
little cottage behind the garden when his mother had been away in
Melbourne. He must not speak about the excursions that Rupert had taken
with him. A veil, a close veil, must be spread over all the past, and
the worst of it was that he knew the reason why. His mother wanted him
to get what Rupert would have been so much more fitted for. Well! well!
He loved his mother and he could not break her heart, so he kept all
these little longings and desires to himself, and only half let out his
secrets a dozen times a day. On one point, however, he was firm and
stanch as a little Spartan: he never breathed a sigh nor uttered a groan
which could be construed into even the semblance of physical pain.
When he felt quite exhausted, so tired that it was an effort to move, he
would spring up again at Kitty's least word and, with the drops on his
little brow, climb to the top of that straight, tall tree once more and
hide his face at last in the friendly sheltering leaves until he got
back his panting breath. The splendid air of Avonsyde undoubtedly
strengthened him, but the strain of always appearing bright and well was
sometimes almost too much, and he wondered how long he could go on
pretending to be quite the strongest little boy in the world. He fancied
now how nice it would be to tell the kind lady of the forest how weak he
really was; how his heart often beat almost to suffocation; what cruel
pain came suddenly to stab and torture him. Oh! he could show her
plainly that money was the gift for him, and that Rupert, who was so
valiant, so strong, so splendid, was the only right heir to the old
place.
Phil greatly enjoyed his tower bedroom. Not a particle of the
nervousness which made his mother uneasy assailed him. The only thing he
did regret was that he could not sleep quite at the very top of the
tower, in those attic rooms inhabited by Miss Griselda and Miss
Katharine. When some of those bad attacks of pain and breathlessness
assailed him, he liked, notwithstanding the exertion, to creep up and up
those winding stone stairs, for he knew that when he got to the top and
had attained his refuge he could really rest; he might throw off all the
Spartan and be a little human boy who could moan and sigh and even shed
a few secret tears for the gallant Rupert whom he loved. Phil had got
into a habit of not even telling his mother of those queer attacks of
weakness and breathlessness which came over him. Nothing annoyed and
distressed her so much as to hear of them, and little Phil was by
degrees beginning to feel a sort of protective love toward the rather
weak woman: their positions were being unconsciously reversed. Mrs.
Lovel seldom came to the tower bedroom in the day-time. Under the
pretext that the stairs wearied her, she had begged to be allowed to
have a dressing-room in a more modern part of the house, so Phil could
be quite alone and undisturbed when he chose to visit his room. One of
Miss Griselda's excellent rules for children was that they must retire
early to bed. Phil, in Australia, had sat up far later than was good for
him, but now at Avonsyde he and Kitty were always expected to have
entered the land of dreams not later than eight o'clock in the evening.
Mrs. Lovel seldom came upstairs before midnight, and in consequence Phil
spent several hours alone every night in his quaint bedroom. He was
often not at all sleepy, and on these occasions he would open one of the
tiny deep-set windows, and look out into the night and listen to the
hootings of some owls which had long ago made a home for themselves in a
portion of the old tower. On other occasions he would amuse himself with
one of Kitty's story-books, or again he would arrange some very precious
little collections of wild birds' eggs and other forest treasures.
On this particular night, after Rachel's and Kitty's conversation, he
was more than usually wakeful. He got into bed, for Aunt Griselda told
him to be sure to undress and go to sleep as quickly as possible; but
finding sleep very far away from his wakeful eyes he got up, and, after
the fashion of a restless little boy, began to perambulate the room and
to try to discover anything of interest to divert his attention. A very
old horse-hair trunk of his mother's stood in one corner of the room; it
had never been unpacked, for it was only supposed to contain books and
some household treasures not immediately required by Mrs. Lovel. Phil
had once or twice coaxed his mother to unpack the old trunk, for among
the books was his pet "Robinson Crusoe." There was also an old box of
paints which Rupert had given him, and a queer, old-fashioned cup, made
of horn, which Rupert and he always took with them when they went for a
day's excursion into any of the neighboring forests. Phil saw now, to
his great delight, that the key was in the lock of the old trunk, and it
occurred to him that he could pass an agreeable hour rummaging among its
contents for his beloved "Robinson Crusoe" and his old horn cup. He
accordingly set a candlestick on the floor, and opening the trunk knelt
down by it and began to forage. He worked hard, and the exertion tired
him and brought on an attack of breathlessness; but he was much
interested in the sight of many old home treasures and had no idea how
time was flying. He could not find either his "Robinson Crusoe" or his
horn cup, but he came across another treasure wrapped up in an old piece
of flannel which gave him intense delight. This was no other than a
silver tankard of quaint device and very Old-World pattern, with a coat
of arms and the words "Tyde what may" inscribed on one side. Phil knew
the tankard well, and raising it to his lips he kissed it tenderly.
"Why, this belongs to Uncle Rupert and to Belmont!" he exclaimed. "The
very same dear old tankard which Gabrielle is so proud of. I've seen it
dozens of times. Well, I never thought Uncle Rupert would have given
this dear old tankard to mother. How kind of him! I wonder mother never
spoke of it. Oh, dear, what stories Gabrielle has told me about it! She
used to call it a magical tankard and said it had a history. Mother must
have quite forgotten she had it in the old trunk. How delighted Rachel
and Kitty will be when I show it to them to-morrow."
Phil was so excited over his discovery that he became instantly careless
as to finding either his "Robinson Crusoe" or his horn cup, and pushing
the rest of contents of the trunk back into their place and turning the
lock, he crept into bed, carrying the beloved tankard with him. When his
mother came upstairs presently she found the boy fast asleep, and little
guessed what treasure he clasped in his arms.
It is true that little Phil had entered the land of dreams; it is also
true that in that enchanted land he went through experiences so
delightful, through adventures so thrilling, that when in the dull gray
November morning he awoke to listen to his mother's monotonous
breathing, he simply could do nothing but step out of bed and determine
to follow his dreams if necessary to the end of the world. The light had
scarcely come. He would dress himself hastily and, taking the enchanted
tankard with him, go into the forest all alone, in the hopes of meeting
the beautiful lady who came with a gift.