"I can't help it, Kitty; you really must not ask me. I'm a very much
puzzled boy. I'm--I'm--Kitty, did you ever have to pull yourself up short
just when you wanted to say something most interesting? I'm always
pulling myself up short, and I'm dreadfully, dreadfully tired of it."
"It must be something like giving a sudden jerk to one of our ponies,"
said Kitty. "I know--it must be a horrid feeling. Does it set your teeth
on edge, Phil, and do you quite tremble with impatience?"
"Yes," said Phil, throwing himself full length on the floor of the old
armory, where he and Kitty had ensconced themselves on a pouring wet day
early in the month of February. "Yes, Kitty, if feeling very unpleasant
all over means setting your teeth on edge, I do know it. I'm a little
boy with lots of secrets, and I never can tell them, not to you nor to
anybody at Avonsyde--no, not to anybody. I'll get accustomed to it in
time, but I don't like it, for naturally I'm the kind of boy who can't
keep a secret.'
"What a horrid man you'll grow up!" said Kitty, eying her cousin with
marked disapproval. "You'll be so reserved and cross-grained and
disagreeable. You'll have been pulled up short so often that you'll look
jerky. Oh, dear me, Phil, I wouldn't be you for a great deal!"
"I wouldn't be myself if I could help it," said Phil, with a sigh which
he tried hard to smother. "Oh, I say, Kitty-cat, will you coax Aunt
Grizel to take us into Southampton soon? I am quite certain my letter
must be waiting for me. You don't know, Kitty, you can't possibly guess
what a letter from his dearest friend means to a rather lonely kind of
boy like me."
"You had better ask Aunt Grizel yourself," answered Kitty, with a little
pout and a little frown. "She's so fond of you, Phil, that she'll do it.
She'll take you to Southampton if you coax her and if you put on that
funny kind of sad look in your eyes. It's the kind of look our spaniel
puts on, and I never can say 'No' to him when he has it. I don't know
how you do it, Phil, nor why you do it; but you have a very sorry look
in your eyes when you like. Is it because you're always and always
missing your dearest friend?"
"It's partly that," answered Phil. "Oh, you don't know what he's like,
Kitty! He's most splendid. He has got such a grand figure, and he walks
in such a manly way, and his eyes are as dark and wonderful-looking as
Rachel's, and--and--oh, Kitty, was I telling you anything? Please forget
that I said anything at all; please don't remember on any account
whatever that I have got a dearest friend!"
"I think you are perfectly horrid!" said Kitty, stamping her foot. "Just
the minute we begin talking about anything interesting you give one of
those jerks, just as if you had a cruel rider on your back. I can't
think what it all means. If you have a dearest friend, there's no harm
in it; and if you had a Betty to take care of you, there's no harm in
that; and if you lived in a cottage in a plantation, that isn't a sin;
and if you did go into the forest to meet the lady, and you didn't meet
her, although you were nearly swallowed up by a bog, why--why--what's the
matter, Phil? How white you are!"
"Nothing," said Phil, suddenly pressing his face down on the cushion
against which he was lying--"nothing--Kit--I--" He uttered one or two
groans. "Fetch me a little water, please!"
The child's face had suddenly become livid. He clinched his hands and
pressed them against his temples, and buried that poor little drawn,
piteous face further and deeper into the soft cushion. At last the
paroxysm of pain passed; he panted, raised himself slowly, and struggled
to his feet.
"Kitty!"
But Kitty was gone. Terrified, the little girl ran through the hall. The
first person she met was Mrs. Lovel, who, dressed gracefully in a soft
black silk, trimmed with lace, was walking languidly in the direction of
the great drawing-room.
"You had better come!" said Kitty, rushing up to her and seizing her
hand. "Phil is very dreadfully ill. I think Phil will die. He's in the
armory. Come at once!"
Without waiting for the lady's answer, little Kitty turned on her heel
and flew back the way she had come. Phil had scarcely time to struggle
to his feet, scarcely time to notice her absence, before she was back
again at his side. Putting her arms around his neck, she covered his
face with passionate kisses.
"Phil, Phil, I was so frightened about you! Are you better? Do say you
are better. Oh, I love you so much, and I won't be jealous, even if you
have got a dearest friend!"
Phil could stand, but the sudden attack he had passed through was so
sharp that words could scarcely come to his lips. Kitty's embrace almost
overpowered him, but he was so innately unselfish that he would not
struggle to free himself, fearing to pain her.
His mother's step was heard approaching. He made a great effort to stand
upright and formed his little lips into a voiceless whistle.
"Why, Phil, you have been overtiring yourself," said Mrs. Lovel. "Oh,
Kitty, how you have exaggerated! Phil does not look at all bad. I
suppose you were both romping, and never ceased until you lost your
breath; or you were having one of your pretense games, and Phil thought
he would frighten you by making out he was ill. Ah, Phil, Phil, what an
actor you are! Now, my dear boy, I want you to come up to your bedroom
with me. I want to consult you about one or two matters. Fancy, Kitty, a
mother consulting her little boy! Ought not Phil to be proud? But he is
really such a strong, brave little man that I cannot help leaning on
him. It was really unkind of you to pretend that time, Phil, and to give
little Kitty such a fright."
Phil's beautiful brown eyes were raised to his mother's face; then they
glanced at Kitty; then a smile--a very sorry smile Kitty considered
it--filled them, and giving his little thin hand to his mother, he walked
out of the armory by her side.
Kitty lingered for a moment in the room which her companion had
deserted; then she dashed away across the brightly lit hall, through
several cozy and cheery apartments, until she came to a room brilliant
with firelight and lamplight, where Rachel lay at her ease in a deep
arm-chair with a fairy story open on her knee.
"Phil is the best actor in all the world, Rachel!" she exclaimed. "He
turned as white as a sheet just now. He turned gray, and he groaned most
awfully, and he wouldn't speak, and I thought he was dying, and I flew
for some one, and I found Mrs. Lovel, and she came back to Phil, and she
laughed, and said there was nothing the matter, and that Phil was only
acting. Isn't it wonderful, Rachel, that Phil can turn pale when he
likes, and groan in such a terrible way? Oh, it made me shiver to see
him! I do hope he won't act being ill again."
"He didn't act," said Rachel in a contemptuous voice; "that's what his
mother said. I wouldn't have her for a mother for a great deal. I'd
rather have no mother. Poor little Phil didn't act. Don't talk nonsense,
Kitty."
"Then if he didn't act he must be very ill," said Kitty. Then, her blue
eyes filling with tears, she added: "I do love him so! I love him even
though he has a dearest friend."
Rachel stretched out her hand and drew Kitty into a corner of her own
luxurious chair. She had not seen Phil, and Kitty's account of him
scarcely made her uneasy.
"Even if he was a little ill, he's all right now," she said. "Stay with
me, Kitty-cat; I scarcely ever see you. I think Phil is quite your
dearest friend."
"Quite," answered Kitty solemnly. "I love him better than any one,
except you, Rachel; only I do wish--yes, I do--that he had not so many
secrets."
"He never told you what happened to him that day in the forest, did he,
Kitty?"
"Oh, no; he pulled himself up short. He was often going to, but he
always pulled himself up. What a dreadfully jerky man he'll grow up,
Rachel."
"He never quite told you?" continued Rachel. "Well, I don't want him to
tell me, for I know."
"Rachel!"
"Yes, I know all about it. I'm going to see him presently, and I'll tell
him that I know his secret. Now, Kitty, you need not stare at me, for
I'm never going to breathe it to any one except to Phil himself. There,
Kit, the dressing-gong has sounded; we must go and get ready for
supper."
Meanwhile Mrs. Lovel, taking Phil's hand, had led him out of the armory
and to the foot of the winding stone stairs. Once there she paused. The
look of placid indifference left her face; she dropped the smiling mask
she had worn in Kitty's presence, and stooping down lifted the boy into
her arms and carried him tenderly up the winding stairs, never pausing
nor faltering nor groaning under his weight. When they reached the tower
bedroom she laid him on his little bed, and going to a cupboard in the
wall unlocked it and took from thence a small bottle; she poured a few
drops from the bottle into a spoon and put the restorative between the
boy's blue lips. He swallowed it eagerly, smiled, shook himself, and sat
up in bed.
"Thank you, mother. I am much better now," he said affectionately.
Mrs. Lovel locked the door, stirred the fire in the old-fashioned grate
into a cheerful blaze, lit two or three candles, drew the heavy curtains
across the windows, and then dragging a deep arm-chair opposite the
glowing hearth, she lifted Phil again into her arms, and sitting down in
the comfortable seat, rocked him passionately to her breast.
"My boy, my boy, was it very bad, very awful?"
"Yes, mother; but it's all right now."
"Did Kitty hear you groan, Phil?"
"Yes, mother; but not the loudest groans, for I buried my head in the
cushion. I'm all right now, mother. I can go down again in a minute or
two."
"No, Phil, you shan't go down to-night. I'll manage it with the old
ladies; and Phil, darling, darling, we have almost won; you won't have
to pretend anything much longer. On the 5th of May, on Rachel's
birthday, you are to be proclaimed the heir. This is the middle of
February; you have only a little more than two months to keep it all up,
Phil."
"Oh, yes, mother, it's very difficult, and the pain in my side gets
worse, and I don't want it, and I'd rather Rupert had it; but never
mind, mammy, you shan't starve."
He stroked his mother's cheek with his little hand, and she rocked him
in her arms in an ecstasy of love and fear and longing. At that moment
she loved the boy better than the gold. She would have given up all
dreams of ease and comfort for herself if she could have secured real
health for that most precious little life.
"Mother," said Phil, "I do want to go to Southampton so badly."
"What for, dearest?"
"Because I'm expecting a letter, mother, from Rupert. No, no, don't
frown! I can't bear to see you frown. I didn't tell him anything, but I
wrote to him, and I asked him to send his answer to the post-office at
Southampton, and it must be waiting there now; yes, it must, and I do
want to fetch it so dreadfully. Can you manage that I shall go, mother?"
"I'll go for it myself, dear; I'll go to-morrow. There--doesn't mother
love her boy? Yes, I'll go for the letter to Southampton to-morrow.
There's the supper-gong, Phil. I must go down, but you shan't. I'll
bring you up something nice to eat presently."
"Oh, no, please; I couldn't eat. Just let me lie on my bed quite still
without talking. Mother, my darling mother, how can I thank you for
promising to fetch Rupert's letter?"
Mrs. Lovel laid Phil back on his bed, covered him up warmly, and softly
unlocking the door went downstairs.
She had got a shock, a greater shock than she cared to own; but when she
entered the long, low, old-fashioned dining-hall where Miss Griselda and
Miss Katharine and the two little girls awaited her, her face was
smiling and careless as usual. The poor, weak-minded, and bewildered
woman had resumed her mask, and no one knew with what an aching heart
she sat down to her luxurious meal.
"Is Phil still pretending to be very, very dreadfully ill?" called out
Kitty across the table.
Miss Griselda started at Kitty's words, looked anxiously at Mrs. Lovel
and at a vacant chair, and spoke.
"Is your boy not well? Is he not coming to supper?" she inquired.
"Phil strained himself a little," answered Mrs. Lovel, "and he had quite
a sharp pain in his side--only muscular, I assure you, dear Miss
Griselda; nothing to make one the least bit uneasy, but I thought it
better to keep him upstairs. He is going to bed early and won't come
down again to-night. May I take him up a little supper presently?"
"Poor boy! he must be ravenously hungry," said Miss Griselda in a
careless tone. "Strained his side? Dear, dear! children are always
hurting themselves. I wanted him to go with me early to-morrow to
collect mosses. I intend to drive the light cart myself into the forest,
and I meant to take Phil and Kitty with me. Phil is so clever at finding
them."
"Oh, he's very strong. He'll be quite ready to go with you, Miss
Griselda," answered the little boy's mother; but she bent her head as
she spoke, and no one saw how pale her face was.
The meal proceeded somewhat drearily. Kitty was out of spirits at the
loss of her favorite companion; Rachel's little face looked scarcely
childish, so intensely watchful was its expression; Mrs. Lovel wore her
smiling mask; and the two old ladies alone were perfectly tranquil and
indifferent.
"May I take Phil up some supper?" suddenly asked Rachel.
Mrs. Lovel suppressed a quick sigh, sat down again in her seat, for she
was just rising to go back to Phil, and almost ran her nails into her
hands under the table in her efforts to keep down all symptoms of
impatience.
"Thank you, dear," said Miss Griselda gratefully. "If you go up to Phil
his mother need not trouble herself about him until bedtime. We will
adjourn to the drawing-room, if you please, Mrs. Lovel. I am anxious to
have another lesson in that new kind of crochet. Katharine, will you
give Rachel some supper to take up to Phil?--plenty of supper, please,
dear; he's a hearty boy and ought to have abundance to eat."
Miss Katharine smiled, cut a generous slice of cold roast beef, and
piled two mince-pies and a cheese-cake on another plate. When she had
added to these a large glass of cold milk and some bread-and-butter, she
gave the tray to Rachel, and bidding her be careful not to spill her
load, took Kitty's hand and went with her into the drawing-room.
Rachel carried her tray carefully as far as the foot of the winding
stairs; then looking eagerly up and down and to right and left, she
suddenly wheeled round and marched off through many underground and
badly lit passages, until she found herself in the neighborhood of the
great old-fashioned kitchen. Here she was met not by the cook, but by
Mrs. Newbolt, the lady's-maid.
"Oh, Newbolt, you'll do what I want. Phil is ill, and his mother doesn't
want any one to know about it. Take all this horrid mess away and give
me some strong, strong, beautiful beef tea and a nice little piece of
toast. I'll wait here, and you won't be long, will you, dear Newbolt?"
Newbolt loved Phil and detested his mother. With a sudden snort she
caught up Rachel's tray, and returned presently with a tempting little
meal suited to an invalid.
"If the child is ill I'll come up with you to see him, Miss Rachel," she
said.
Phil was lying on his back; his eyes were shut; his face looked very
pinched and blue. True, however, to the little Spartan that he was, when
he heard Rachel's step he started up and smiled and welcomed her in a
small but very cheery voice.
"Thank you for coming to see me," he said, "but I didn't want any
supper; I told mother so. Oh, what is that--white soup? I do like white
soup. And oysters? Yes, I can eat two or three oysters. How very kind
you are, Rachel. I begin to feel quite hungry, that supper looks so
nice."
Rachel carried the tempting little tray herself, but behind her came
Newbolt, whom Phil now perceived for the first time.
"Have you come up to see me, Newbolt?" he said. "But I am not at all
ill. I happened to get tired, and mother said I must rest here."
"The best place for a tired little boy to rest is in his bed, not on
it," said Newbolt. "If you please. Master Phil, I am going to put you
into bed, and then Miss Rachel shall feed you with this nice supper. Oh,
yes, sir, we know you're not the least bit ill--oh, no, not the least bit
in the world; but we are going to treat you as if you were, all the
same."
Phil smiled and looked up at Newbolt as if he would read her innermost
thoughts. He was only too glad to accept her kind services, and quite
sighed with relief when she laid him comfortably on his pillows. Newbolt
wrapped a little red dressing-jacket over his shoulders, and then poking
the fire vigorously and seeing that the queer old tower room looked as
cheerful as possible, she left the two children together. Rachel and
Phil made very merry over his supper, and Phil almost forgot that he had
been feeling one of the most forsaken and miserable little boys in the
world half an hour ago. Rachel had developed quite a nice little amount
of tact, and she by no means worried Phil with questions as to whether
his illness was real or feigned. But when he really smiled, and the
color came back to his cheeks, and his laugh sounded strong and merry
once more, she could not help saying abruptly:
"Phil, I have been wanting to see you by yourself for some time. I
cannot tell Kitty, for Kitty is not to know; but, Phil, what happened to
you that day in the forest is no secret to me."
Phil opened his eyes very wide.
"What do you mean, Rachel?" he asked. "No, Rachel, you cannot guess it,
for I never, never even whispered about that secret."
Rachel's face had turned quite pale and her voice was trembling.
"Shall I whisper it back to you now?" she said. "Shall I tell you where
you went? You did not meet the myth lady--I begin really to be almost
sure she is only a myth lady--but you did meet a lady. She was in gray
and she had the saddest face in the world; and oh, Phil, she took you
home--she took you home!"
"Why, Rachel," said little Phil again, "you look just as if you were
going to cry. How is it you found all this out? And why does it make you
so sorrowful?"
"Oh, I want her," said Rachel, trembling and half-sobbing. "I want her
so badly. I long for her more than anything. I saw her once and I have
not been quite happy since. She never took me inside her house. Phil, I
am jealous of you. Phil, I want to hear all about her."
"I'm so glad you know," said Phil in cheerful tones. "I was told not to
tell. I was told to keep it another secret; but if you found it out, or
rather if you always knew about it, why, of course you and I can talk
together about her. You don't know how nice it will be to me to be able
to talk to you about one of my secrets. My dearest friend secret, and
the Betty secret, and the little house at the back of the garden secret
I must never, never speak of; and the secret about my being a very, very
strong boy--that I mustn't talk about; but you and I can chatter about
the lady of the forest, Rachel. Oh, what a comfort it is!"
"It will be a great comfort to me too," answered Rachel. "Let's begin at
once. Tell me every single thing about her. What did she wear? How did
she speak? Had she my ring on her finger?"
Phil smiled and launched forth into a long and minute narrative. Not a
single detail would sharp little Rachel allow him to omit. Whenever his
memory was in danger of flagging she prodded it with vehemence, until at
last even her most rapacious longing was satisfied. When Phil had quite
exhausted all his narrative she breathed a deep sigh and said again:
"I envy you, Phil. You have been inside her house and she has kissed
you."
"She was a very nice and kind lady," concluded Phil, "and she was very
good to me; but all the same, Rachel, I would rather see that other
lady--the lady in green with the lovely face who comes with a gift."
"Perhaps she's only a myth," said Rachel.
"Please, Rachel, don't say so. I want the bag of gold so badly."
Rachel stared and laughed.
"I never thought you were greedy, Phil," she said. "I cannot think, what
a little boy like you can want with a bag of gold."
"That's my secret," said Phil, half-closing his eyes and again turning
very pale. "A great many people would be happier if I had that bag of
gold. Rachel," he added, "I do trust I may one day see the lady. I went
to look for her that day in the forest; I went miles and miles to find
her, but I didn't, and I was nearly drowned in a bog."
"It is not a bit necessary to go into the forest to see her," answered
Rachel; "she might come to you here, in this very room. You know this is
the very oldest part of the house. This part of Avonsyde is quite
steeped in romance, and I dare say the lady has been here once or
twice--that is, of course, if she isn't a myth. There is an old diary of
one of our ancestors in the library, and I have coaxed Aunt Griselda now
and then to let me read in it. One day I read an account of the lady; it
was then I found out about her green dress and her lovely face. The
diary said she was 'passing fair,' and those who looked on her were
beautiful ever afterward. She showed herself but seldom, but would come
now and then for a brief half-minute of time to the fairest and the best
and to those who were to die young."
"Rachel," said little Phil, "just before you came up that time I was
lying with my eyes shut, and I was thinking of the beautiful lady, and I
almost thought I saw her. I should be happy if she came to me."