light began to glimmer in the sky, and to lessen the darkness of the
night. Soon after, even as they danced, the note of a robin broke upon
their ears: the earliest songster of the wood, waking up at the first
dawn of light, and carolling forth his morning hymn before setting out
to search for his breakfast.
Scarcely had the sound been heard when the fairy queen let fall the
hand of her companion elf, and waved her own in the air. Every one of
her attendants immediately and exactly followed her example, and Evelyn
naturally did the same as the rest. Then they turned without another
word or sound, and scampered away as fast as they could go into the
thickest part of their favourite glade. Evelyn unhesitatingly went with
them, having in fact nothing else to do, and she followed the example
of her companions by crouching underneath the fern at the foot of one
of the trees which grew around the glade, and hiding herself as well as
she could from the gaze of any possible passer-by.
All this time, in everything that she did, there seemed to be nothing
at all strange, or out of the common way. She felt just as if she had
been a fairy all her life, and took everything just as it came with the
most perfect unconcern. She thought not of her parents, her home or the
pursuits which had daily occupied her whilst she was an ordinary mortal
child. All these had passed away from her mind altogether. There was
only an intense feeling of present happiness and light-heartedness, and
not only no wish to return to her former state, but an entire
forgetfulness that she had ever been anything else than that which she
now felt herself to be--a subject of the Fairy Queen, and a woodland
fairy herself to all intents and purposes.
It has often been disputed, by those learned in the history of elves
and Elf-land, whether the little creatures ever sleep, or whether, like
spirits, they seek and require no rest, but wander over the world at
will without sense of fatigue.
Evelyn's experience may furnish an answer to the curious inquirer upon
this point. She slept; and slept soundly, and always explained the
matter in a perfectly intelligible manner. It is not, she said, that
fairies are ever really tired: there are different degrees and various
kinds of fairies, possessing greater or less power in relation to the
earth and to mortal affairs, in accordance with their own rank and
position in the great fairy family. But there is no fairy, except some
of the very inferior description, who cannot perform almost any given
feat of strength if required to do so; and no fairy, properly so
called, was ever actually tired in the sense that mortal beings feel
fatigue.
But that fairies sleep is absolutely certain, and there are two reasons
for their doing so. In the first place, their power is much greater by
night than by day, and many of them have the greatest objection to the
sunlight, though to some few it is little less pleasant than to human
beings. This being the case, they find it on all accounts desirable to
seek shelter from the rays of the sun during the day, and do not see
the use, when doing this, of keeping their eyes open when it is more
comfortable to close them. And their other reason is also extremely
sensible, namely, that they have an opinion that it is monotonous and
tedious to be always running about, sporting, playing, or interfering
with the business of mankind, and that by taking some few hours' rest
in every twenty-four hours, they come again with greater zest to their
ordinary pursuits, and enjoy themselves a great deal more than they
would do if they never left off.
This was always Evelyn's theory, and having been, as we know, a fairy
herself, I have no reason to doubt that it is the correct one. Be this
as it may, it is quite certain that, upon the occasion in question,
both Evelyn and her companions slept sweetly and quietly, couched under
the grass and plants beneath the fern, and sheltered from the rays and
warmth of the sun by the overhanging branches of the great forest
trees.
But yet the sleep of fairies is not such but that they awake, readily
and easily enough, if it is necessary that they should be stirring. To
believe Evelyn, the voice of a man, or even the passing footstep of an
animal pushing its way through the brushwood, was always quite enough
to arouse the whole elfin world into activity; and, at the first sound
of the kind, a score or two of little elfin heads might be seen peering
out from their secret hiding-places, eagerly gazing on every side to
discover who or what might be the intruder.
No one appeared to disturb this first fairy sleep of our little
heroine, and she slumbered calmly on with her new companions. Slowly
the sun rose over the forest, tinging the leaves with his golden rays,
and warming all creation into life as he lighted up the world with his
glorious lamp. Then the sounds in the forest became more and more
frequent. From every thicket birds carolled forth their joyous songs;
the wood-pigeon softly cooed to her mate in the fir-trees; the jackdaw
cackled in the old pollard as he looked out from the hole in which his
nest was built; the jay screamed in his harsh, discordant notes, trying
to put the blackbirds and thrushes out of tune, and failing signally;
the woodpecker began to tap merrily, trying the trees all round till he
found one that suited his beak; the squirrels climbed to the top of the
highest trees to see what sort of a morning it was, and the still
silence of the forest was gradually changed into moving life and
bustling sound.
Men went out to their daily toil in field and street, in country and
city, busy brains schemed and plotted, and the work of the world went
on as it had done the day before, and would do the next day again. And
there, beneath the green fern of the forest, the little fairies slept
peaceably on, and the mortal child that had donned the fairy form slept
on with them, little recking of the busy world, with all its cares and
woes, its sin and sorrow, its toilings and strife, which lay beyond and
outside the forest, and could not disturb or break that sweet sleep.
But it has probably struck some of my readers that Evelyn's absence
must, before this time, have caused some disturbance at her home. So
indeed it was. She had gone out very soon after luncheon, and when
tea-time came, Mrs. Trimmer, her governess, began to wonder where she
was, and why she had not come back. Perhaps you will think that Mrs.
Trimmer ought to have begun to wonder rather before, but really I do
not think she was much to blame. She had very kindly started off
directly after luncheon to carry some sago-pudding to a sick woman in
the village; and as Evelyn's mamma had asked her to do this, and knew
she had gone, she naturally supposed that Evelyn would be with her
mamma, or would at least be somewhere with the latter's knowledge and
permission. Moreover, since the young lady was now twelve years old,
and both a sensible and trustworthy child, Mrs. Trimmer would in no
case have had any fears for her safety, especially in that peaceful and
quiet part of the country in which they lived. But when the good lady
bustled in just before tea-time, ran up and took off her things, and
then hurried down to make the tea, lo and behold there was no Evelyn.
So she rang the bell for Betsy, the school-room maid, and asked whether
Miss Evelyn was with her mamma; and on the girl coming back to say she
was not, Mrs. Trimmer began to get rather uneasy, and presently went to
the boudoir and asked for herself. Evelyn's mamma knew nothing more
than that the child had gone out to stroll in the shrubberies after
luncheon, since which time she had seen nothing of her, and had fancied
she was in the school-room.
Beginning to get alarmed, she went to the study in which Evelyn's
father was writing his letters for the late post. When he heard what
was the matter, he went into the shrubberies and called his daughter's
name loudly, but of course with no result. Then he sent a footman down
to enquire at the keeper's house by the forest, and another to the
stables to order horses to be saddled for himself, the coachman, and
the two grooms, and off they set to scour the country in every
direction, and make every possible inquiry concerning the lost child.
The poor mother remained at home in terrible anxiety, fearing she knew
not what, but dreading the worst, according to the usual custom of
mothers under such circumstances.
It was quite ten o'clock before the horsemen returned, but of course
they brought no tidings whatever of the missing young lady, who was,
about that time, as we know, amusing herself with Sprightly at the
house of Farmer Grubbins, and thinking nothing at all of what was going
on at home.
The poor father was much distressed, for he was devoted to his little
daughter, and the uncertainty about her fate made the affliction still
more hard to bear. He could not imagine what had become of her, and
therefore knew not what steps to take for her recovery. He would have
all the ponds dragged next day, but there were very few in the
neighbourhood, and none into which a girl of twelve was likely to have
fallen.
At one time there used to be a number of gipsies who frequented that
neighbourhood, and the half frantic mother suggested that some of these
wild people might have stolen her daughter. Her husband, however,
discouraged the idea, since no gipsies had been seen or heard of for
some time past; nor would they have been at all likely to steal a girl
of Evelyn's age. Had any accident befallen her, or even if the unlikely
supposition that she had been stolen, hurt, or killed, had been
correct, it seemed almost impossible but that some trace must have been
left--some portion of clothing, some signs of a struggle, some
suspicious strangers seen about the place. But no: there was absolutely
nothing of the kind, and no clue whatever to account for her mysterious
departure.
It never once entered her parents' heads that their daughter could have
willingly left her home: she was always so bright, happy, and
affectionate; so devoted to the place and to the dear ones who made it
so pleasant for her. The thought that her absence was voluntary was
banished, if it occurred at all to any of the family, before expression
was given to it; although its rejection of course made the sorrow still
heavier, since if she had been taken away by violence, or lost her life
by some accident, the calamity would really be greater than if she had
wilfully played the truant.
The only two things left to be done, were attended to next day; namely,
the county police were informed of the matter, and advertisements were
inserted in the local papers. In both cases the usual results followed.
The police arrested two persons who had clearly nothing to do with the
matter, and who consequently had to be compensated; and many weeks
after the occurrence the same authorities declared that they had known
all along that no crime had been committed, and that the child would be
restored to her parents in due time. Still less followed from the
newspaper advertisements; the papers being but little read in the
country districts where Evelyn lived, and having no circulation among
the fairies.
So the next day passed over in darkness and sorrow for the suffering
parents, who feared that they had lost for ever the child who had been
so lately the light and comfort of their home.
There were two beings, however, who felt the loss of Evelyn little less
than the father and mother; and these were her brother Philip and his
black terrier Pincher.
Philip was only two years older than Evelyn--in fact, not quite so
much, and they were great companions whenever he was at home for his
holidays. Whenever he had work to do, to settle down to which he felt
(as boys sometimes will) disinclined, it was Evelyn who encouraged him
to face it boldly, and who helped him in any way she could; and if she
was in any trouble about French verbs or German exercises, as will
sometimes happen even to the best disposed young ladies, it was to
Philip she always flew for sympathy and consolation. And as there was
good fellowship between them in their work, so they loved to play
together whenever they could, and many a time had Evelyn joined her
brother in a game of cricket, or rambled with him in his birds-nesting
expeditions through the woods.
Sometimes these rambles had extended far into the forest where the
adventures which I have been relating had befallen Evelyn; and during
these wanderings she had often talked to her brother upon her favourite
subject, and told him strange legends of fairies and goblins, at which
he had always laughed heartily.
He had no great belief in such things himself, he used to say. Perhaps
his head was too full of Latin or Greek, or perhaps he had not turned
his attention sufficiently to fairy-land stories; but anyhow, he
listened to his sister without being convinced by what she said, and
she had more than once been rather vexed at his want of faith.
Now it so happened that Philip came home for his summer holidays the
very day after his sister's disappearance. Great was his consternation,
as you may suppose, at finding what had happened, and no less was his
sorrow at the loss of his favourite companion.
He arrived in the morning, and was so overcome by the news that he was
only able to gulp down two plates full of cold beef, some apple tart
and custard, a little bread and cheese, and a couple of glasses of
beer, at the family luncheon.
After this he went out on the lawn, and thought deeply over the
business; but without being able to arrive at any satisfactory
conclusion.
Whilst he stood and thought, Pincher came running up to him, and began
to jump upon him with great manifestations of delight. Philip caressed
him, and as he did so, remarked to himself half aloud:
"Pincher, old boy, why should not you and I have a ramble in the wood?"
As he spoke, the thought came into his heart that there was someone
else besides Pincher with whom he used to ramble, and a sigh broke
involuntarily from him as he remembered that he had no other companion
now than his faithful dog.
He took a stick in his hand, sauntered over the lawn, through the
little gate at the end of the meadow, and into the big wood away among
the trees, where he and Evelyn had so often roamed together.
He strolled lazily along, and happened, strangely enough, to take the
very same line which his sister had taken the day before.
Presently Pincher started a rabbit, and, according to the invariable
practice of terriers, rushed after it as fast as he could; whilst the
rabbit, also following the custom of its race, fled before him at the
top of its speed, taking the direction straight as a line towards the
fairy glade.
Philip gave a shout, and dashed after his dog without hesitation,
although he had no expectation either that he would come up with
Pincher, or Pincher with the rabbit. But before he had gone many yards,
he knew, by unfailing evidence, that the chase had come to an end.
Pincher had stopped, probably at the hole into which the rabbit had
made its escape, and was no longer yelping as he had continually done
during the pursuit, but, as the boy thought most likely, scratching
furiously at the hole. Philip pushed his way forward as well as he
could, and called to his dog, who presently responded by a bark, the
sound of which enabled his master to discover where he was. It was near
the roots of a large tree, surrounded by fern and brushwood; and
Pincher was running round and round this tree, and then darting off
into the fern, and as quickly coming back again, as if something had
puzzled him completely and he was anxious to have it set right as soon
as possible.
The boy stood still for a moment, looked first one way and then
another, but could see nothing. Of course the truth was that the
fairies were there, and Pincher knew it, but had no means of letting
his master know, for he did not happen to understand English or French,
and even in Dog Latin would have made but a poor hand in conversing
with human beings. But animals, as is well known, can often see fairies
and such creatures when they are invisible to human eye; and I suppose
that Pincher very likely had not only discovered the elves, but had
been surprised and utterly disconcerted by perceiving that his master's
sister, his own little friend and kind mistress, was amongst them.
I do not say for certain that he discovered this; but dogs of the
terrier kind, especially when well-bred as Pincher was, are very keen
scented, and could probably smell out their master or mistress even if
disguised ten times over as a goblin or fairy. So as the dog chanced to
have stumbled upon the very spot where the fairies were all sleeping,
it is only natural to suppose from his behaviour that he not only saw
the little creatures, but recognised Evelyn.
The fairies, for their part, were nearly as much disconcerted as the
dog, for they had expected no visitor, and had not intended to wake up
and move for two or three hours more at least. They knew that neither
dog nor boy could hurt them, of course; but still they were hastily
roused from their sleep, and I dare say that their movements, running
to and fro to hide themselves wherever they could, considerably added
to the confusion of the dog.
Philip of course saw nothing at all, for it is a very unusual
circumstance for fairies to allow themselves to be seen by any one who
has not implicit faith in their existence and power. So he called
Pincher to come away, and would presently have quitted the glade
altogether without ever knowing how close he had been to his lost
sister. But, for the first and only time in his life, Pincher seemed
inclined to disobey his master. He ran round the tree again, whined,
sat up on his hind quarters, chattering his teeth and half howling, as
if he saw a polecat or stoat or squirrel in the top branches of the old
pollard, and waited to be put up the tree so as to have a chance of
getting at it.
Philip thought that this must certainly be the case, and, changing his
mind about leaving the place, turned round and again approached the
tree. As he did so, to his intense astonishment he heard a voice behind
him, which certainly, and beyond all doubt, called him by his name. He
turned sharply round, and to his great surprise could see no one at
all. At the same time a voice again called him from the other side, and
with precisely the same result. This went on for several moments. His
name seemed to be called at intervals from every side, and wherever he
turned, the voice or voices were always behind him. Profoundly puzzled,
and rather vexed by this extraordinary incident, the boy was at a loss
to know what to do, and at last exclaimed:
"By Jingo, this is a queer thing!"
Hardly had he uttered these words, when a chorus of laughter burst upon
his astonished ears; and to his unutterable astonishment he heard a
number of voices singing, to a tune he well knew, the following words:
"We don't want to hide; but by Jingo, if we do,
We've got the fern--we've got the trees--
We've got the brambles too."
And again loud laughter ran through the forest, whilst Pincher danced
round the old pollard more frantically than ever.
Philip stood rooted to the ground with surprise, when a sound, somewhat
different from the rest, attracted his attention; and looking round he
perceived a large white owl attentively regarding him with her eyes
wide open. As soon as she saw that he was aware of her presence, the
owl gravely bowed her head three times, and then began to speak in a
voice so exactly like that of a human being, that you would not have
known the difference, unless you had actually seen her in her feathers,
and been assured by the evidence of your own eyesight that she was a
veritable bird. And these were the words that fell upon the ears of her
astonished listener:--
"In every glade of forest lone,
Some mystic word of might is known,
Which, once pronounced, to mortals' eyes
Gives sight they have not otherwise;
Gives mortal ears a hearing new
Of things much disbelieved--yet true;
And suffers mortal hand to trace
The circle of the magic space.
Boy! list--thou hast obtained this aid.
"By Jingo"--motto of our glade--
Converts all here to friends from foes,
And bids all secrets to disclose.
Break branch from tree where thou dost stand,
'Twill serve thee for a magic wand;
Around thee then a circle trace
Within this same enchanted place;
Then wish a wish, and speak the word--
'Tis granted ere thy voice be heard;
And thou shall rule like any king
Within the sacred Fairy Ring."
Philip listened with great attention to the observations of the owl,
which appeared to him to be exceedingly clear and distinct, although
the circumstances under which they were made were singular, and the
quarter from which they came unexpected. He felt, however, that he was
"in for the thing," as he afterwards expressed it, and that he had
better comply with the directions of the worthy bird. He therefore
stretched out his hand and broke off a branch from the nearest tree,
which happened to be hazel. He then sharpened the end of the branch,
and drew with it a circle, in the midst of which he remained standing.
Now, of course, the correct and proper thing for the boy to have done
would have been to have immediately pronounced the magic words; wished
for his sister back at the same moment; for her then to have appeared
and thrown herself into his arms, and for the story to have thus ended
in a comfortable, good, old-fashioned way, which would have been
eminently satisfactory to all parties concerned. Why should not I make
this happen? Well, I really would if I could, but you must remember
that all these stories are as true as the histories of "Don Quixote,"
"Baron Munchausen," "Gulliver's Travels," and all those other
histories, upon the veracious nature of which no sensible person has
ever entertained a doubt. So you will see at once that I cannot, as a
fair and true historian, invent anything, even for the purpose of
pleasing my beloved readers, but must go on perforce and relate the
facts as they really occurred.
Philip was doubtless very fond of his sister, and if it had been put to
him by anyone at the moment that the above course was that which he
ought to pursue, I am sure that he would have done so without the
slightest hesitation. But as nobody _did_ tell him, and the owl
(probably because it was not her business to do so) made no such
suggestion, I regret to say that, for the instant, Philip followed
another line of thought, and when he again pronounced the mystic words,
"By Jingo," he wished--not that his sister might instantly appear,
but--that he might understand what was the nature of the strange place
in which he seemed to be, and the meaning of all that had occurred. You
will see at once that this was rather a different thing from wishing
for his sister; and the reason of his not doing so probably was that,
in the hurry and surprise of the whole affair, he did not connect it
with her disappearance. So, as I say, he wished that he might be able
to understand the mysteries of the place.
As soon as ever he had formed this wish, the fairies of course became
visible to the boy. They came out on all sides, just as they had come
when they had disclosed themselves to Evelyn. They peered from strange
corners and holes, they darted quickly from spot to spot, and abandoned
altogether the rest and sleep from which the coming of the boy had
disturbed them.
Soon, however, their proceedings acquired greater regularity. I suppose
it was in consequence of his standing in the magic ring, or perhaps it
might have been by the mere virtue of the mystic words which he had
pronounced; but for some reason or other the fairies had no power over
him as they had had over his sister. More than this, they seemed to
have been constrained by some one of those mysterious rules which
obtain in Fairy-land to pay him some kind of respect and homage.
They linked hand in hand, and whilst Philip looked on in the greatest
astonishment, they formed in a circle round the space in which he
stood, and danced merrily round him for at least a couple of minutes.
Then they stopped, and whilst all the rest fell back into the fern and
brushwood behind, the queen remained, and after a short pause,
addressed the boy as follows:--
"Possessor of the magic words
Which here control both fays and birds:
What would'st thou in this glade to-day,
That we can give thee--if we may?"