Phil's heart was very low within him. During the last few days, ever
since that terrible interview with his mother, he had built his hopes
high. He had been almost sure that the tankard was waiting for him in
the lady's house in the forest, that he should find it there when he
went to make inquiries, and then that he might bring it back to his
mother and so remove the shadow from her brow.
"I never knew that mother could miss a thing Gabrielle had given her so
very, very much," thought the little boy. "But there's no doubt at all
she does miss it and that she's fretting. Poor, dear mother! she's not
unkind to me. Oh, no, she's never that except when she's greatly vexed;
but, all the same, I know she's fretting; for those lines round her
mouth have come out again, and even when she laughs and tries to be
merry downstairs I see them. There's no doubt at all that she's fretting
and is anxious. Poor mother! how I wish I could find the green lady of
the forest and that she would give me the bag of gold which would
satisfy mother's heart."
Phil walked very slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. He was now
startled to hear a voice addressing him, and looking up with a quick
movement, he saw the lady who lived in the pretty little cottage coming
to meet him. He was not particularly elated at sight of her; he had
nothing in particular to say to her; for as Nancy had assured him that
the tankard was not at the cottage, it was quite useless making further
inquiries about it.
"What are you doing here, Philip?" asked the lady in a kind voice. She
knew him at once, and coming up to him, took his hand and looked kindly
into his face. "You are a long way from home. Have you lost yourself in
this dear, beautiful forest a second time, little man?"
Then Phil remembered that if this lady of the forest meant nothing in
particular to him she meant a great deal to Rachel. He could not forget
how Rachel's eyes had shone, how Rachel's face had looked when she spoke
about her. The color flew into his own pale little face, and he spoke
with enthusiasm.
"I am glad I have met you," he said, "even though I don't know your
name. Will you come for a walk with me now through the forest? Will you
hold my hand and look at me while you speak? Will you walk with me, and
will you turn your face to the right, always to the right, as you go?"
"You are a queer little boy," said the lady, and she laughed, almost
merrily. "But I have just taken a very long walk and am tired. You also
look tired, Philip, and your face is much too white. Suppose we alter
the programme and yet keep together for a little. Suppose you come into
the cottage with me and have some tea, and Nancy makes some of her
delicious griddle-cakes."
"That would be lovely. I should like it beyond anything; but may Rachel
come in too?"
"Rachel!" said the lady of the forest. She put her hand suddenly to her
heart and stepped back a pace or two.
"Yes, my cousin, Rachel Lovel; she is standing up yonder, at the other
side of the great oak tree. She wants to see you, and she is standing
there, hoping, hoping. Rachel's heart is very hungry to see you. When
she speaks of you her eyes look starved. I don't understand it, but I
know Rachel loves you better than any one else in the world."
"Impossible!" said the lady; "and yet--and yet--but I must not speak to
her, child, nor she to me. It--oh! you agitate me. I am tired. I have had
a long walk. I must not speak to little Rachel Lovel."
"She knows that," said Phil in a sorrowful voice; for the lady's
whiteness and agitation and distress filled him with the keenest
sympathy. "Rachel knows that you and she may not speak, but let her look
at you. Do! She will be so good; she will not break her word to you for
the world."
"I must not look on her face, child. There are limits--yes, there are
limits, and beyond them I have not strength to venture. I have a secret,
child; I have a holy of holies, and you are daring to open it wide. Oh!
you have brought me agony, and I am very tired!"
"I know what secrets are," said little Phil. "Oh! they are dreadful;
they give great pain. I am sorry you are in such trouble, lady of the
forest, and that I have caused it. I am sorry, too, that you cannot take
a very little walk with me, for it would give Rachel such pleasure."
"It would give Rachel pleasure?" repeated the lady. And now the color
came back to her cheeks and the light to her eyes. "That makes all the
difference. I will walk with you, Phil, and you shall take my hand and I
will turn my face to the right. See: can Rachel see my face now?"
"Yes," said Phil; "she will peep from behind the oak tree. How glad, how
delighted she will be!"
The lady and Phil walked slowly together, hand in hand, for nearly half
an hour; during all that time the lady did not utter a single word. When
the walk came to an end she stooped to kiss Phil, and then, moved by an
impulse which she could not restrain, she kissed her own hand fervently
and waved it in the direction of the oak tree. A little childish hand
fluttered in the breeze in return, and then the lady returned to the
cottage and shut the door after her.
* * * * *
Phil ran panting up to the oak tree and took Rachel's hand.
"I did what I could for you, Rachel," he said. "You saw her--did you not?
She kept her face turned to the right, and you must have seen her quite
plainly."
Rachel's cheeks were blazing like two peonies; the pupils of her eyes
were dilated; her lips quivered.
"I saw her!" she exclaimed. "I looked at her, and my heart is hungrier
than ever!"
Here she threw herself full length on the ground and burst into
passionate sobs.
"Don't, Rachel!" said Phil. "You puzzle me. Oh, you make my heart ache!
Oh, this pain!"
He turned away from Rachel, and leaning against the oak tree writhed in
bodily agony. In a moment Rachel had sprung to her feet; her tears had
stopped; and raising Phil's hat she wiped some drops from his white
brow.
"I ran a little too fast," he panted, after a moment or two. "I am a
strong boy, but I can't run very fast; it gives me a stitch; it catches
my breath. Oh, yes, thank you, Rachel; I am better now. I am a strong
boy, but I can't run very fast."
"You are not a bit a strong boy!" said Rachel, wiping away her own tears
vigorously. "I have discovered that secret too of yours, Phil. You are
always pretending to be strong, but it is only pretense."
Phil looked at his cousin in alarm.
"If you guess my secrets you won't tell them?" he said.
"Of course I won't tell. What do you take me for? Now you must not walk
for a little, and the children are quite happy without us. Is not this a
nice soft bank? I will sit by your side and you shall tell me what the
lady said to you and you to her."
"No," said Phil, with sudden energy. "I cannot tell you what she said."
"You cannot tell me?"
"No. I took the lady by surprise and she let out some of her secrets--not
all, but some. It would not be fair to tell them to any one else. I
asked her to walk with me, and she knew that you were watching. Now,
Rachel, I am quite well again, as well as ever. Shall we go back to the
other children?"
Rachel rose slowly to her feet.
"I hate secrets," she said, "and the very air seems full of them
sometimes. You have lots of secrets, and my aunts have secrets, and the
lady of the forest has a secret, and there is a secret about my mother,
for I know she is not dead and yet I never see her. These secrets are
enough to starve my heart. Phil, how soon would a girl like me be
supposed to be grown up?"
"Oh, Rachel, how can I tell?"
"I shall be thirteen in May and I am tall. When I am fifteen--that is, in
two years' time--I shall begin to go round the world looking for my
mother. I don't intend to wait any longer. When I am fifteen I shall
begin to go."
"In Australia girls are nearly grown up at that age," said Phil, who was
thinking of Gabrielle. "Now, Rachel, let us go back to the others."
The others were getting impatient. They had played hide-and-seek, and
hunted for squirrels, and climbed trees, and quarreled and made it up
again, until all their resources had come to an end; and when Rachel and
Phil made their appearance they found that Robert had packed up the
remains of the picnic, and that Clementina and Abby had already mounted
their ponies, preparatory to riding home. Robert was leading up the
other ponies as the two missing children appeared.
Rachel's mind was still a good deal preoccupied, and it was not until
she was preparing to mount her own pony that she discovered that
Clementina had secured Ruby and was now seated comfortably on his back.
"Oh, Clementina, it is not safe for you to ride Ruby," she called out at
once. "He's only just broken in and he's full of spirit."
"Thank you," replied Clementina. "I prefer riding horses with spirit. I
would not have another ride on that slow little creature, Surefoot, for
the world."
"But indeed that is not the reason," said Rachel, who felt herself, she
scarcely knew why, both softened and subdued. "It is that Ruby is not
safe. I am the first girl who has ever been on his back. He knows me and
will do what I tell him, but I am sure it is dangerous for you to ride
him. Is it not dangerous, Robert, for Miss Marmaduke to ride Ruby?"
called out Rachel to the groom.
Robert came up and surveyed the spirited little horse and the young
rider critically.
"If Miss Marmaduke don't whip him, and if she humors him a good bit and
don't set him off in a canter, why, then no harm may be done," he said.
"Ruby's fresh, miss, and have a good deal of wild blood in him, and I
only broke him in for Miss Rachel a fortnight back."
Clementina's color had risen very high during this discussion.
"I presume," she said in an insolent tone, "that a pupil of Captain
Delacourt's can ride any horse that a pupil of one of the grooms at
Avonsyde can manage! I'm sorry you're so disobliging as to grudge me
your horse, Rachel. I'll just ride on in front now, and you all can
follow me when you are ready."
She turned Ruby's head as she spoke and rode away under the forest
trees.
"If she gives Ruby a taste of the whip she'll repent of all her proud
airs," muttered Robert. "Now, young ladies, you had better mount and get
under way. I suppose, Miss Rachel, that that 'ere young lady knows the
right road home?"
"Hadn't I better get on Brownie and ride after her?" asked Phil.
"No, sir; no. Ruby couldn't bear horses' hoofs a-galloping after him. It
would set him off mad like, and there wouldn't be a hope for Miss
Marmaduke. No; the only thing now is to trust that the young lady won't
touch Ruby with the whip and that she knows the way home."
The other children mounted without any more discussion, and the ride
home was undertaken with a certain sense of depression.
No sign of Clementina could be seen, and when they reached the stables
at Avonsyde neither she nor Ruby had put in an appearance.