THE FOREST OF THE RAINBOWS.
"Rose and amethyst, gold and grey."
"ONCE."
Hugh felt rather offended. It was natural that he should do so, I think.
At least I am sure that in his place I too should have felt hurt. He had
said nothing to make the raven speak in that disagreeably sarcastic way.
"I wish Jeanne were here," he said to himself; "she would think of
something to put him down a little."
But aloud he said nothing, so, great was his surprise, when the raven
coolly remarked in answer to his unspoken thoughts,
"So Jeanne could put me down, you think? I confess, I don't agree with
you. However, never mind about that. We shall be very good friends in
time. And now, how about visiting the castle?"
"I should like to go," replied Hugh, thinking it wiser, all things
considered, to get over his offended feelings. "I should like to see
the castle very much, though I should have liked Jeanne to be with me;
but still," he went on, reflecting that Jeanne would be extremely
disappointed if he did not make the most of his present opportunity,
such as it was, "if you will be so kind as to show me the way, Monsieur
Dudu, I'd like to go, and then, any way, I can tell Jeanne all about
it."
"I cannot exactly show you the way," said the raven, "I am only the
guardian on this side. But if you will attend to what I say, you will
get on very well. Here, in the first place, is a pair of wall-climbers
to put on your feet."
He held out his claw, on the end of which hung, by a narrow ribbon, two
round little cushions about the size of a macaroon biscuit. Hugh took
them, and examined them curiously. They were soft and elastic, what Hugh
in his own words would have described as "blobby." They seemed to be
made of some stuff like indiarubber, and were just the colour of his
skin.
"What funny things!" said Hugh.
"They are made after the pattern of the fly's wall-climbers," remarked
the raven. "Put them on--tie them on, that is to say, so that they will
be just in the middle of your foot, underneath of course. That's right;
now jump out of bed and follow me," and before Hugh knew what he was
doing he found himself walking with the greatest ease straight up the
wall to where the long flight of steps to the tapestry castle began. On
the lowest steps the raven stopped a moment.
"Shall I take them off now?" asked Hugh. "I don't need them to walk up
steps with."
"Take them off?" said the raven; "oh dear no. When you don't need them
they won't incommode you, and they'll be all ready for the next time.
Besides, though it mayn't seem so to you, these steps are not so easy to
get up as you think. At least they wouldn't be without the
wall-climbers."
_With_ them, however, nothing could have been easier. Hugh found himself
in no time at the top of the flight of steps in front of the door from
which the raven had come out. The peacocks, now he was close to them,
seemed to him larger than ordinary peacocks, but the brilliant colours
of their feathers, which he had noticed in the bright moonlight, had
disappeared. It was light enough for him to distinguish their figures,
but that was all.
"I must leave you now," said the raven; "but you will get on very well.
Only remember these two things--don't be impatient, and don't take off
your wall-climbers; and if you are very much at a loss about anything,
call me."
"How shall I call you?" asked Hugh.
"Whistle softly three times. Now, I think it is time to light up.
Peacocks."
The peacocks, one on each side of the door, came forward solemnly,
saluting the raven with the greatest respect.
"Ring," said the raven, and to Hugh's surprise each peacock lifted up a
claw, and taking hold of a bell-rope, of which there were two, one on
each side of the door, pulled them vigorously. No sound ensued, but at
the instant there burst forth the same soft yet brilliant light which
had so delighted Hugh when he first awoke, and which he now discovered
to come not from the moon, still shining in gently at the window of the
tapestry room down below, but from those of the castle at whose door he
was standing. He had never before noticed how many windows it had.
Jeanne and he had only remarked the door at the top of the steps, but
now the light which flowed out from above him was so clear and brilliant
that it seemed as if the whole castle must be transparent. Hugh stood
in eager expectation of what was to happen next, and was on the point of
speaking to the raven, standing, as he thought, beside him, when a
sudden sound made him turn round. It was that of the castle door
opening, and at the same moment the two peacocks, coming forward, pushed
him gently, one at each side, so that Hugh found himself obliged to
enter. He was by no means unwilling to do so, but he gave one last look
round for his conductor. He was gone.
For about half a second Hugh felt a little frightened and bewildered.
"I wish Dudu had come with me," he said. But almost before he had time
to think the wish, what he saw before him so absorbed his attention that
he forgot everything else.
It was a long, long passage, high in the roof, though narrow of course
in comparison with its length, but wide enough for Hugh--for Hugh and
Jeanne hand-in-hand even--to walk along with perfect comfort and great
satisfaction, for oh, it was so prettily lighted up! You have, I
daresay, children, often admired in London or Paris, or some great town,
the rows of gas lamps lighting up at night miles of some very long
street. Fancy those lights infinitely brighter and clearer, and yet
softer than any lamps you ever saw, and each one of a different colour,
from the richest crimson to the softest pale blue, and you will have
some idea how pretty the long corridor before him looked to Hugh. He
stepped along delightedly, as well he might. "Why, this of itself is
worth staying awake ever so many nights to see," he said to himself;
"only I do wish Jeanne were with me."
Where did the corridor lead to? He ran on and on for some time without
thinking much about this, so interested was he in observing the lamps
and the pretty way in which the tints were arranged; but after a while
he began to find it a little monotonous, especially when he noticed that
at long intervals the colours repeated themselves, the succession of
shades beginning again from time to time.
"I shall learn them by heart if I go on here much longer," thought Hugh.
"I think I'll sit down a little to rest. Not that I feel tired of
walking, but I may as well sit down a little."
He did so--on the ground, there was nothing else to sit on--and then a
very queer thing happened. The lamps took to moving instead of him, so
that when he looked up at them the impression was just the same as when
he himself had been running along. The colours succeeded each other in
the same order, and Hugh began to wonder whether his eyes were not
deceiving him in some queer way.
"Anyhow, I'll run on a little farther," he said to himself, "and if I
don't come to the end of this passage soon, I'll run back again to the
other end. It feels just as if I had got inside a kaleidoscope."
He hastened on, and was beginning really to think of turning back again
and running the other way, when, all of a sudden--everything in this
queer tapestry world he had got into seemed to happen all of a sudden--a
little bell was heard to ring, clear and silvery, but not very loud, and
in another instant--oh dear!--all the pretty coloured lamps were
extinguished, and poor Hugh was left standing all in the dark. Where he
was he did not know, what to do he did not know; had he not been eight
years old on his last birthday I almost think he would have begun to
cry. He felt, too, all of a sudden so cold, even though before he had
got out of bed he had taken the precaution to put on his red flannel
dressing-gown, and till now had felt quite pleasantly warm. It was only
for half a moment, however, that the idea of crying came over him.
"I'm very glad poor little Jeanne isn't here," he said to himself by way
of keeping up his own courage; "she _would_ have been afraid. But as I'm
a boy it doesn't matter. I'll just try to find my way all the same. I
suppose it's some trick of that Dudu's."
He felt his way along bravely for a few minutes, and more bravely still
was forcing back his tears, when a sound caught his ears. It was a
cock's crow, sharp and shrill, but yet sounding as if outside the place
where he was. Still it greatly encouraged Hugh, who continued to make
his way on in the dark, much pleased to find that the farther he got the
nearer and clearer sounded the crow, repeated every few seconds. And at
last he found himself at the end of the passage--he knew it must be so,
for in front of him the way was barred, and _quite_ close to him now
apparently, sounded the cock's shrill call. He pushed and pulled--for
some time in vain. If there were a door at this end of the passage, as
surely there must be--who would make a passage and hang it so
beautifully with lamps if it were to lead to nowhere?--it was a door of
which the handle was very difficult to find.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Hugh, half in despair, "what shall I do?"
"Kurroo--kurroorulloo," sounded the cock's crow. "Try again," it seemed
to say, encouragingly. And at last Hugh's hand came in contact with a
little round knob, and as he touched it, all at once everything about
him was lighted up again with the same clear, lovely light coming from
the thousands of lamps down the long corridor behind him. But Hugh never
turned to look at them--what he saw in front of him was so delightful
and surprising.
The door had opened, Hugh found himself standing at the top of two or
three steps, which apparently were the back approach to the strange long
passage which he had entered from the tapestry room. Outside it was
light too, but not with the wonderful bright radiance that had streamed
out from the castle at the other side. Here it was just very soft, very
clear moonlight. There were trees before him--almost it seemed as if he
were standing at the entrance of a forest. But, strange to say, they
were not winter trees, such as he had left behind him in the garden of
Jeanne's house--bare and leafless, or if covered at all, covered only
with their Christmas dress of snow and icicles--these trees were clothed
with the loveliest foliage, fresh and green and feathery, which no
winter's storms or nipping frosts had ever come near to blight. And in
the little space between the door where Hugh stood and these wonderful
trees was drawn up, as if awaiting him, the prettiest, queerest, most
delicious little carriage that ever was seen. It was open; the cushions
with which it was lined were of rose-coloured plush--not velvet, I
think; at least if they _were_ velvet, it was of some marvellous kind
that couldn't he rubbed the wrong way, that felt exquisitely smooth and
soft whichever way you stroked it; the body of the carriage was shaped
something like a cockle-shell; you could lie back in it so beautifully
without cricking or straining your neck or shoulders in the least; and
there was just room for two. One of these two was already comfortably
settled--shall I tell you who it was now, or shall I keep it for a
tit-bit at the end when I have quite finished about the carriage? Yes,
that will be better. For the funniest things about the carriage have to
be told yet. Up on the box, in the coachman's place, you understand,
holding with an air of the utmost importance in one claw a pair of
yellow silk reins, his tufted head surmounted by a gold-laced livery
hat, which, however, must have had a hole in the middle to let the tuft
through, for there it was in all its glory waving over the hat like a
dragoon's plume, sat, or stood rather, Houpet; while, standing behind,
holding on each with one claw to the back of the carriage, like real
footmen, were the two other chickens. They, too, had gold-laced hats and
an air of solemn propriety, not _quite_ so majestic as Houpet's, for in
their case the imposing tuft was wanting, but still very fine of its
kind. And who do you think were the horses? for there were two--or, to
speak more correctly, there were no horses at all, but in the place
where they should have been were harnessed, tandem-fashion, not abreast,
Nibble the guinea-pig and Grignan the tortoise! Nibble next to the
carriage, Grignan, of all creatures in the world, as leader.
On sight of them Hugh began to laugh, so that he forgot to look more
closely at the person in the carriage, whose face he had not yet seen,
as it was turned the other way. But the sound of his laughing was too
infectious to be resisted--the small figure began to shake all over, and
at last could contain itself no longer. With a shout of merriment little
Jeanne, for it was she, sprang out of the carriage and threw her arms
round Hugh's neck.
"O Chéri," she said, "I _couldn't_ keep quiet any longer, though I
wanted to hide my face till you had got into the carriage, and then
surprise you. But it was so nice to hear you laugh--I _couldn't_ keep
still."
Hugh felt too utterly astonished to reply. He just stared at Jeanne as
if he could not believe his own eyes. And Jeanne did not look surprised
at all! That, to Hugh, was the most surprising part of the whole.
"Jeanne!" he exclaimed, "you here! Why, Dudu told me you were ever so
far away."
"And so I am," replied Jeanne, laughing again, "and so are you, Chéri.
You have no idea how far away you are--miles, and miles, and miles, only
in this country they don't have milestones. It's all quite different."
"How do you mean?" asked Hugh. "How do you know all about it? You have
never been here before, have you? I couldn't quite understand Dudu--_he_
meant, I think, that it was only your thinking part or your fancying
part, that was away."
Jeanne laughed again, Hugh felt a little impatient.
"_Jeanne_," he said, "do leave off laughing and speak to me. What is
this place? and how did you come here? and have you ever been here
before?"
"Yes," said Jeanne, "I think so; but I don't know how I came. And I
don't want to do anything but laugh and have fun. Never mind how we
came. It's a beautiful country, any way, and did you _ever_ see anything
so sweet as the little carriage they've sent for us, and wasn't it nice
to see Houpet and all the others?"
"Yes," said Hugh, "very. But whom do you mean by 'they,' Jeanne?"
"Oh dear, dear!" exclaimed Jeanne, "what a terrible boy you are. Do
leave off asking questions, and let us have fun. Look, there are Grignan
and the little cochon quite eager to be off. Now, do jump in--we shall
have such fun."
Hugh got in, willingly enough, though still he would have preferred to
have some explanation from Jeanne of all the strange things that were
happening.
"_Isn't_ it nice?" said Jeanne, when they had both nestled down among
the delicious soft cushions of the carriage.
"Yes," said Hugh, "it's very nice _now_, but it wasn't very nice when I
was all alone in the dark in that long passage. As you seem to know all
about everything, Jeanne, I suppose you know about that."
He spoke rather, just a very little, grumpily, but Jeanne, rather to his
surprise, did not laugh at him this time. Instead, she looked up in his
face earnestly, with a strange deep look in her eyes.
"I think very often we have to find our way in the dark," she said
dreamily. "I think I remember about that. But," she went on, with a
complete change of voice, her eyes dancing merrily as if they had never
looked grave in their life, "it's not dark now, Chéri, and it's going to
be ever so bright. Just look at the lovely moon through the trees. Do
let us go now. Gee-up, gee-up, crack your whip, Houpet, and make them
gallop as fast as you can."
Off they set--they went nice and fast certainly, but not so fast but
that the children could admire the beautiful feathery foliage as they
passed. They drove through the forest--for the trees that Hugh had so
admired were those of a forest--on and on, swiftly but yet smoothly;
never in his life had Hugh felt any motion so delightful.
"_What_ a good coachman Houpet is!" exclaimed Hugh. "I never should have
thought he could drive so well. How does he know the road, Jeanne?"
"There isn't any road, so he doesn't need to know it," said Jeanne.
"Look before you, Chéri. You see there is no road. It makes itself as we
go, so we can't go wrong."
Hugh looked straight before him. It was as Jeanne had said. The trees
grew thick and close in front, only dividing--melting away like a
mist--as the quaint little carriage approached them.
Hugh looked at them with fresh surprise.
"Are they not real trees?" he said.
"Of course they are," said Jeanne. "Now they're beginning to change;
that shows we are getting to the middle of the forest. Look, look,
Chéri!"
Hugh "looked" with all his eyes. What Jeanne called "changing" was a
very wonderful process. The trees, which hitherto had been of a very
bright, delicate green, began gradually to pale in colour, becoming
first greenish-yellow, then canary colour, then down to the purest
white. And from white they grew into silver, sparkling like innumerable
diamonds, and then slowly altered into a sort of silver-grey, gradually
rising into grey-blue, then into a more purple-blue, till they reached
the richest corn-flower shade. Then began another series of lessening
shades, which again, passing through a boundary line of gold, rose by
indescribable degrees to deep yet brilliant crimson. It would be
impossible to name all the variations through which they passed. I use
the names of the colours and shades which are familiar to you,
children, but the very naming any shade gives an unfair idea of the
marvellous delicacy with which one tint melted into another,--as well
try to divide and mark off the hues of a dove's breast, or of the sky at
sunset. And all the time the trees themselves were of the same form and
foliage as at first, the leaves--or fronds I feel inclined to call them,
for they were more like very, very delicate ferns or ferny grass than
leaves--with which each branch was luxuriantly clothed, seeming to bathe
themselves in each new colour as the petals of a flower welcome a flood
of brilliant sunshine.
"Oh, how pretty!" said Hugh, with a deep sigh of pleasure. "It is like
the lamps, only much prettier. I think, Jeanne, this must be the country
of pretty colours."
"This forest is called the Forest of the Rainbows. I know _that_," said
Jeanne. "But I don't think they call this the country of pretty colours,
Chéri. You see it is the country of so many pretty things. If we lived
in it always, we should never see the end of the beautiful things there
are. Only----"
"Only what?" asked Hugh.
"I don't think it would be a good plan to live in it _always_. Just
sometimes is best, I think. Either the things wouldn't be so pretty, or
our eyes wouldn't see them so well after a while. But see, Chéri, the
trees are growing common-coloured again, and Houpet is stopping. We must
have got to the end of the Forest of the Rainbows."
"And where shall we be going to now?" asked Hugh. "Must we get out, do
you think, Jeanne? Oh, listen, I hear the sound of water! Do you hear
it, Jeanne? There must be a river near here. I wish the moonlight was a
little brighter. Now that the trees don't shine, it seems quite dull.
But oh, how plainly I hear the water. Listen, Jeanne, don't you hear it
too?"
"Yes," said Jeanne. "It must be----" but before she had time to say more
they suddenly came out of the enchanted forest; in an instant every
trace of the feathery trees had disappeared. Houpet pulled up his
steeds, the two chickens got down from behind, and stood one on each
side of the carriage door, waiting apparently for their master and
mistress to descend. And plainer and nearer than before came the sound
of fast-rushing water.
"You see we are to get down," said Hugh.
"Yes," said Jeanne again, looking round her a little timidly. "Chéri, do
you know, I feel just a very, very little bit frightened. It is such a
queer place, and I don't know what we should do. Don't you think we'd
better ask Houpet to take us back again?"
"Oh no," said Hugh. "I'm sure we'll be all right. You said you wanted to
have some fun, Jeanne, and you seemed to know all about it. You needn't
be frightened with _me_, Jeanne."
"No, of course not," said Jeanne, quite brightly again; "but let us
stand up a minute, Hugh, before we get out of the carriage, and look all
about us. _Isn't_ it a queer place?"
"It" was a wide, far-stretching plain, over which the moonlight shone
softly. Far or near not a shrub or tree was to be seen, yet it was not
like a desert, for the ground was entirely covered with most beautiful
moss, so fresh and green, even by the moonlight, that it was difficult
to believe the hot sunshine had ever glared upon it. And here and there,
all over this great plain--all over it, at least, as far as the children
could see--rose suddenly from the ground innumerable jets of water, not
so much like fountains as like little waterfalls turned the wrong way;
they rushed upwards with such surprising force and noise, and fell to
the earth again in numberless tiny threads much more gently and softly
than they left it.
"It seems as if somebody must be shooting them up with a gun, doesn't
it?" said Hugh. "I never saw such queer fountains."
"Let's go and look at them close," said Jeanne, preparing to get down.
But before she could do so, Houpet gave a shrill, rather peremptory
crow, and Jeanne stopped short in surprise.
"What do you want, Houpet?" she said.
By way of reply, Houpet hopped down from his box, and in some
wonderfully clever way of his own, before the children could see what he
was about, had unharnessed Nibble and Grignan. Then the three arranged
themselves in a little procession, and drew up a few steps from the side
of the carriage where still stood the chicken-footmen. Though they could
not speak, there was no mistaking their meaning.
"They're going to show us the way," said Hugh; and as he spoke he jumped
out of the carriage, and Jeanne after him.
[Illustration: ONWARDS QUIETLY STEPPED THE LITTLE PROCESSION.--p. 75.]