disliked all poetry particularly, from Dr. Watts' hymns up to the Latin
verses he had to do at school. For an instant he doubted whether, in
spite of this, he was not bound to make some reply in rhyme, as well as
he could manage it, having been addressed in this manner by the lady
before him. However, on second thoughts, it appeared to him that
probably this was needless, as he had accidentally acquired a position
which was evidently one of authority. Therefore he replied in the way
ordinarily employed among mortals, that is, in prose; and, having now
remembered the main object of his expedition into the wood, he thus
replied:--
"Madam, I want my sister Evelyn. I cannot tell whether or no you can
help me in the matter, but my sister has disappeared and I am looking
for her everywhere."
The fairy bowed with grave courtesy when Philip had spoken thus, and
then answered him at once,--
"Those who invade our magic bower,
And hold--and speak--the words of power,
Have their first wish--and thou hast prayed
To know the nature of the glade.
If thou had'st wished thy sister free,
It had not been denied to thee;
And she no longer might have been
The subject of the Fairy Queen.
But we small children of the moon
Are bound to grant no second boon;
And if thou would'st regain the lost,
Thou now wilt have to count the cost!
Reseek thine home--for one whole day
No single word to mortal say:
And by no sign or look or sigh
Permit them to discover _why_!
For that same time be only fed
With crystal water and with bread,
Then, at the rising of the moon,
Come here and ask the second boon!"
She spoke; and, even as she ended, her little form appeared to grow
fainter and less perceptible to Philip's eyes, and at last faded away
altogether. He stood at first amazed, and then wrapped in deep thought.
It was evident, from what the fairy had said, that she not only knew
what had become of Evelyn, but had the power to restore her.
It seemed a very wonderful thing, but he could not disbelieve the
evidence of his own senses, which had assured him of the presence of
fairies; and if they could be present, as he had seen and heard them,
they might certainly possess power of which he had previously had no
idea. There was no doubt in his mind that, if he could only carry out
the directions which the Fairy Queen had given, he would stand a very
good chance of recovering his sister. It was true that there might be
some difficulty in not speaking to anybody for a whole day, especially
as no one would understand or guess the reason, and there would also be
required a certain amount of self-denial--especially in the case of a
schoolboy just come home for the holidays--in restricting himself to
the homely diet of bread and water. However, then and there he made up
his mind to try his best, and all the more so as he could not but feel
that he had been somewhat thoughtless and negligent of Evelyn's
interests in not having made her the subject of his first wish.
Pincher now showed as much eagerness to leave the spot as he had
previously evinced to keep to the tree. I forgot to mention that he had
crept to his master's side within the magic circle just as the fairies
appeared. Probably, being a sagacious dog, he knew that if he remained
outside it, he might be changed into a rat or a hedgehog, or something
unpleasant, and so made sure of his safety from such a fate. Now,
however, he seemed actuated by one sole desire, namely, that of leaving
the place; and, as his young master was entirely of the same opinion,
they made no longer stay.
Philip walked back through the wood the same way that he had come,
regained the shrubberies, walked up the lawn and re-entered the house.
There he was at once encountered by his mother, who accosted him with
affectionate words, and eagerly asked him if he had heard any news of
his sister. When the boy for reply merely placed one finger upon his
mouth and said nothing, the good lady seemed, and doubtless was, rather
astonished.
"My darling boy," she said, "what is the matter? Why don't you speak?
Are you hurt? Have you any pain anywhere?" And withal she poured upon
him such a torrent of questions that Philip did not know what to do.
Still, however, he persevered in his silence, although it was very hard
to do so when his mother kissed him and spoke so kindly to him all the
while. He could hardly bear it, so broke hastily from her, and ran up
to his own room, pushing almost rudely past Mrs. Trimmer, who met him
on the stairs and was quite ready for a chat.
When he got to his room he threw himself into a chair, and pondered
over all the strange events of that afternoon, which seemed to him
beyond belief, only that, as they had actually taken place under his
own eyes, he could not help believing them. Whilst thus engaged, the
dressing-bell rang, and the servant brought up some warm water and put
out his evening clothes.
"What time shall I call you to-morrow morning, master Philip?" asked
the man, and was exceedingly surprised to find that the young gentleman
made no reply whatever. He repeated the question with the same result,
and then, supposing that Philip must have some unknown reason for his
conduct, left the room without further remark.
The boy proceeded to dress and, at the proper time, descended to the
drawing-room, where his father and mother already were. They were both
in a melancholy frame of mind, as may well be supposed, for no tidings
had been heard of their daughter, and they could not but fear that she
was lost to them for ever. Philip walked stealthily into the room, in
the direst perplexity how he should be able to avoid speaking.
"Well, my dear boy," began his mother directly, "have you found your
tongue yet?"
The boy made no reply, upon which his father joined in.
"Philip, my boy, why do not you answer your mother?"
Still no word came from Philip, and his father, who was accustomed to
be treated with respect and obedience, grew angry at his continued
silence.
"Why don't you speak, boy?" he asked again. "Your mother and I are in
trouble enough to-day without your adding to it by any childish folly
of this kind. I should have thought you would have felt the same as we
do."
Still the poor boy spoke not a word, which made his father still more
angry.
"Have you got no tongue in your head, sir?" he cried, and laid his hand
upon Philip's shoulder somewhat roughly.
But the mother here interposed.
"Don't scold him, James," she said. "Don't be cross with the
boy--remember he is the only child we have left now," and she burst
into tears.
In soothing her the husband forgot the boy, or perhaps found it more
convenient to say nothing further at the moment. They went into dinner,
and were astonished to see Philip shake his head when the servants
offered him soup, fish, and roast veal (of which he was particularly
fond) and content himself with eating his bread and drinking a glass of
water. They began to think that their son must be ill; but it was in
vain that they questioned him. He only put his finger over his mouth
and resolutely declined to speak. Then his father expressed his fear
that something or other must have frightened or hurt him in such a
manner as to have affected his brain, and, at length, he determined to
send for the doctor, who lived about three miles off, in the nearest
town. Still Philip remained silent, and the strangeness of the
occurrence was so far useful to his parents as that it, in some
measure, turned the current of their thoughts from the great sorrow in
which they had previously been absorbed.
As soon as the doctor came he performed the usual mysteries of his
profession. He looked at Philip's tongue and said it was not unhealthy.
He felt his pulse and declared there was no fever, and he finally
pronounced that his indisposition--for such he termed it--though Philip
was never better in his life, proceeded from some temporary
disarrangement of the nervous system, which he had no doubt of being
able to treat with success. He prescribed two pills to be taken at
night, and a draught (the colour of which was the only pleasant thing
about it) in the morning, and left the patient with a promise to return
next day. During the whole of his visit, however, not one syllable did
he get out of Philip, which, as he prided himself upon his
conversational powers, and the successful manner in which he always got
on, especially with young people, rather annoyed him.
When Doctor Pillgiver had gone, the parents, somewhat relieved by his
report, strove again to persuade their son to resume his natural habits
of conversation, for Philip was a boy neither sullen nor shy, but one
that generally talked freely, and had plenty to say for himself. As,
however, he entirely declined to say anything, his father at last got
angry, and, telling him that he feared he was giving way to an
obstinacy which, unless conquered, would prove his ruin, sent him
upstairs to bed.
Poor Philip was really rejoiced at this, for he was not likely to have
any mortal to speak to before morning. But his tender mother, unhappy
at the thought that her boy might be ill, and thinking that he might
repent of his silence after he had left her and his father, came to his
bedside to see him the last thing before she herself retired. This was
hard to bear, for to refuse the last kiss and "good-night" to one's
mother is difficult indeed. Philip felt this, but he also felt that
everything probably depended upon his obeying the conditions of the
fairy queen, so the rogue pretended to be asleep, and said nothing,
even when the dear mother softly kissed his forehead and invoked a
blessing upon her beloved son.
All that night the boy could scarcely sleep for thinking over the
extraordinary things that had happened. He tossed uneasily to and fro,
then got up and drank some water, then laid down in one particular
position, and determined to remain just so until he _did_ get to
sleep--then changed his mind and turned quite round to try another
position, and altogether managed to have such a restless and
uncomfortable night as seldom falls to the share of a boy of his age
and good health.
At last morning came, and Thomas, the footman, called him as usual,
wondering again that his young master never wished him "good morning,"
or asked him if it was a fine day, as he almost always did. Philip
dressed and came down to prayers and breakfast, according to his
father's rule, or otherwise he would have slipped out of the house and
kept away all day, until the time of his silence should be past. It was
a great trial to him that morning, for his parents were both evidently
vexed with him, and could not understand the meaning of his silence.
His father spoke so sharply to him that the tears came into his eyes,
but his mother again interceded for him, and as soon as breakfast was
over he stole away to take refuge in the garden.
Here again he had difficulties to encounter, for the gardener came to
ask him some question about the rolling of the cricket-ground, about
which Philip was always very anxious, and it was exceedingly tiresome
not to be able to answer him, especially as this was the head gardener,
and anyone who has ever had anything to do with such people, knows that
they are personages of dignity and position, with whom it is never safe
to trifle. So the boy knew that he ran no small chance of having his
cricket-ground altogether neglected if he offended Mr. Collyflower, and
would not have run the risk on any account, had not the recovery of his
sister been of paramount importance.
Next he sauntered into the park, where the gamekeeper presently
appeared to take his wishes as to a hawk's nest which he had found, and
the eggs of which he thought he could get, if so be that Master Philip
would fancy to have them.
It seemed both uncivil and ungrateful to give no answer, but he felt
the whole weight of his responsibility and said never a word. But his
worst trial was yet to come.
Flora Malcolm, a young lady who lived near, and of whom Philip was
particularly fond, rode over to luncheon that day, and wanted him to
ride part of the way back with her. She was astonished at his silence
and at his diet at luncheon, and rallied him considerably upon both.
Yet the boy held his tongue.
Most fortunately for him, his father had again gone off to renew his
search after the lost girl, for had he been at luncheon, I think it
more than probable that he would have resorted to some of those
paternal remedies for filial disobedience which would have rendered
poor Philip extremely uncomfortable, even if it had not ended in his
disobeying the injunction of the fairy queen, and so losing Evelyn for
ever.
Flora's raillery was hard to bear, but after a while she ceased, and
being a clever girl, took it into her head that there might be a reason
for his silence which she could not understand. For be it observed that
there is no more certain sign of cleverness than when a person is able
to feel and realise that there may be some things above and beyond his
or her comprehension. For the generality of people think they can
understand anything and everything, and that what they cannot
comprehend is sure to be absurd, unreasonable, and foolish, whereas in
all probability these are the epithets which should in reality be
applied to themselves.
Flora took a different view, and being goodnatured moreover, left off
teasing Philip when she perceived that it was no joke with him, but
that there was something serious as well as singular in his proceeding.
She had to ride back alone, poor girl, for Philip shook his head when
she suggested that he should join her, and of course she could say no
more. She did not stay long after luncheon, finding the distress in
which the family were plunged, and as soon as she was gone, the boy
again betook himself to the garden, and got through the afternoon
without a word.
He looked forward with the greatest horror to dinner time--a feeling
which had hitherto been as strange to him as to any other schoolboy. So
it was now, however, for he knew he should have a terrible ordeal to go
through. His father, having returned from another unsuccessful ride,
would not only feel angry, but hurt, if his son made no inquiries as to
whether any news had been heard of his sister. If again, he saw him for
the second night remaining silent and refusing everything to eat and
drink save bread and water, his patience would most likely be
exhausted, and he might act in a manner the consequences of which might
be unpleasant.
Suppose his anger should take the form of sending Philip to his own
room immediately after dinner, and thus preventing his being in the
forest at the time appointed by the fairy queen!
This was a thought which gave the boy so much uneasiness, that he at
last made up his mind that, as the risk was too serious to run, he had
better shirk dinner altogether. So when the dressing-bell rang at
half-past seven (for his parents always dined at eight), instead of
going in to dress, Philip slipped quietly out of the shrubberies, with
Pincher by his side, and made the best of his way to the forest. The
moon would not rise that night till past nine, and of course he would
be missed before that; but he thought they would very likely not send
for him, or if they did, no one would be likely to find him.
He marched into the forest full of hope, feeling sure that he had
obeyed the fairy's directions in every particular, and that unless she
had grossly deceived him, he should soon see his dear sister once more.
On he went, as he thought, exactly in the same direction in which he
had gone the day before. The air was mild and pleasant--a gentle breeze
rustled in the leaves overhead--the birds had hushed their singing, and
Nature seemed to be about taking her rest preparatory to a new day of
life and action.
The turf was soft and springy under the boy's feet, the trees cast
around him their strange and fantastic shadows, the distant bells fell
faintly on his ears, and more faintly still as he went further into the
forest, and all seemed so peaceful and rest-bringing that he thought it
was no wonder that hermits and such like worthy people should generally
choose some woodland recess in which to dwell when they have had enough
of the outside world, and want to find rest and peace and happiness in
the oblivion of worldly strife which such a solitude would engender.
But when Philip, thinking these thoughts and a great many others, no
doubt, besides, had walked some distance, it struck him that he must
somehow or other have missed his way, for he seemed to be in quite a
different part of the forest from that in which he had met with his
yesterday's adventure. It was getting darker and darker, as far as he
could see, and he began to be afraid that he might after all miss the
place and never find his sister again.
Under these circumstances he did not think it of much use to go
wandering on and on, uncertain whether he was going right or wrong, and
therefore sat down upon the gigantic roots of a large oak, and there
took time to consider what he had better do next. It must now have been
getting on for nine o'clock, and presently a soft, tender light began
to steal down through the overhanging branches, and illuminate the
forest with a silvery tinge. The moon was evidently beginning to assert
her dominion over the night, and to tell the darkness that it could not
possibly be allowed to have it all its own way.
This, then, was the hour of which the Fairy Queen had spoken, when she
told him to come at the rising of the moon and make his second request.
Yes! beyond all doubt this was the hour; but where the Fairy glade was,
was quite a different question.
Everything seemed to be quiet and still in the forest, which was going
on in its natural way, as if it had never had a fairy in its shades,
and did not want one either.
Philip rose to his feet and listened attentively. Nothing was to be
heard but the distant hoot of an owl.
The moon grew brighter and brighter, and very beautiful did the trunks
of the old trees appear in her silvery light, seeming to assume quaint
and curious shapes, as the boy gazed earnestly around him, in the hope
of seeing or hearing something which might direct his next proceeding.
For some time he gazed in vain, and then, remembering that he was not
forbidden to speak save to a mortal, that Pincher was probably not
considered a mortal in the sense in which the word had been used, and
that if he was, the command to silence had ceased with the rising of
the moon, he addressed his dog in the following words:--
"Pincher, old boy, I wish you would find the glade for me. After making
me hold my tongue so long, and eat nothing but bread and water, it
would be a thundering shame if the fairy sold me after all!"
Pincher, on being thus accosted, looked up in his master's face, whined
gently, wagged his tail, and seemed inclined to run off, as if for a
hunt on his own account.
But at that moment the rustling of wings was heard, accompanied by a
rumbling sound inside the oak under which Philip had been sitting, and
an instant afterwards he was startled by the sudden appearance of a
white owl, very similar to that which he had seen and heard in the
fairy glade. She bustled out of the hollow of the tree in just such a
hurry as you might fancy her to have been in if she had overslept
herself and found she should very likely be late for the train, and, as
soon as she got well out, she perched upon a branch for a moment, shook
her head once or twice as if to be quite satisfied that she was awake,
and then pronouncing in a low tone the word "Follow," flew slowly off.
Philip did not hesitate for a moment to obey the bird's directions, as
he had found it answer so well to do so before. He followed as fast as
he could, though of course, being but a boy, he could not keep up with
a bird, and would soon have lost sight of her if the distance had been
long. Instead of this, however, it was fortunately short, and before
the boy had gone above a hundred yards at the most, he found himself
once more at the entrance of the fairy glade.
He knew pretty well what to do this time. He advanced to what appeared
to be an eligible spot, pronounced the magic words with great emphasis,
and then, breaking off a branch from a neighbouring tree as before,
drew the mystic circle round himself and the dog, and then stood
quietly waiting to see and hear what would happen next.
He had hardly completed the circle when the same thing happened as on
the previous day: the same chorus of voices all broke out in the same
tune, only with words slightly different--they sang
"We don't want to drink--but by Jingo if we do,
We've got the wine--we've got the rain--
We've got the ev'ning dew,"
and then came peals of laughter from every side.
As these words rang in his ears, the boy wished as hard as he possibly
could that his sister might be suffered to come back with him safe and
sound, and no sooner had he formed the wish than there she stood under
the old pollard, looking very much as usual, and rubbing her eyes as if
she had just been suddenly awakened from a very comfortable sleep, and
didn't half like it.
Philip's first impulse was to rush up to her at once, but he
fortunately remembered that he was not in an ordinary place or
discharging ordinary duties. On the contrary, he had a tremendous
responsibility upon his shoulders, and if he should make any mistake it
was impossible to foresee the consequences either to his sister or
himself. He therefore stood perfectly still and said in clear and
distinct tones,--
"Evelyn, I want you."
The child scarcely appeared to see him when bespoke--then she seemed to
make an effort to move forward, but stopped as if something prevented
her, and the next moment the whole troop of little beings came darting
out from every corner of the glade and stood between her and her
brother. Then, as they had done on the previous occasion, they joined
hands and danced round and round the circle in which Philip stood,
although their dance was slower and less merry than before.
This went on for several minutes, and then they stopped, and fell back
on all sides into the fern and brushwood, whilst the little queen
remained. She stood perfectly still for a full minute, casting a look
upon Evelyn in which pleasure and sorrow were curiously blended, and
seemingly unwilling to break the silence which prevailed. Then she
turned her head round and looked upon Philip, who stood there, full of
anxiety as to what would be the upshot of the whole affair, and
doubtful whether he ought himself to speak or not. Then she said,--
"Once again, alas! we've heard
Magic sound of mighty word;
Which, tho' we would fain delay,
Elfins dare not disobey.
Since the maid has joined our ranks,
Shared our dance, and played our pranks
(Wonder not at what I tell),
We have learnt to love her well.
Greater grief has none e'er proved
Than to love--and lose the loved;
And if she would still remain,
Gladly we'd the maid detain.
Still--when magic word is said,
Magic word of mystic dread,
'Tis not as the Fairies please,
Save the Maiden's will agrees.
Say, dear child, sweet artless maid,
Dost thou love the woodland shade?
Would'st thou in the forest dwell,
Ever haunt the Fairy dell,
Ever leave thy former self,
And remain a woodland elf?
Wish--and thou hast power to be
Thing as wild, from earth as free,
As the Elf who speaks to thee!
Wish it _not_!--then count the cost--
To the Fairies thou art lost,
Never more in forest wild
Shalt thou act the elfin child;
Never, free from mortal care,
Flit on elf-wings through the air:
Scorning bolt, or bar, or lock,
Till the crowing of the cock
Summon back thy mates and thee
To moss-couches 'neath the tree.
Form thy wish, then, maiden dear,
None shall dare to interfere!"