"For, just when it thrills me most,
The fairies change into phantoms cold,
And the beautiful dream is lost!"
Miss Hortensia was looking out for the little girls as they slowly came
up the terraces.
"There you are at last," she called out. "You are rather late, my
dears. I have been round at the other side, thinking I saw you go out
that way."
"So we did," said Ruby. "We went down to the cove and along the shore
as far as --. Oh, cousin Hortensia, we have had _such_ adventures, and
last of all, what _do_ you think? Mavis has just seen a forget-me-not
up in the sky."
Miss Hortensia smiled at Mavis; she had a particular way of smiling at
her, as if she was not perfectly sure if the little girl were quite like
other people. But Mavis, though she understood this far better than her
cousin imagined, never felt angry at it.
"A forget-me-not in the sky," said the lady; "that is an odd idea. But
you must tell me all your adventures when we are comfortably settled for
the evening. Run in and take your things off quickly, for I don't want
you to catch cold, and the air, now the sun is set, is chilly. There is
a splendid fire burning, and we shall have tea in my room as I promised
you."
"Oh, how nice," said Ruby. "Come along, Mavis. I'm as hungry as a
hawk."
"And you'll tell us stories after tea, cousin Hortensia, won't you?"
said Mavis; "at least you'll tell us about your queer dream."
"And about mamma's going to court," added Ruby, as she dashed upstairs.
For by this time they were inside the house.
The part of the castle that the children and their cousin and the few
servants in attendance on them occupied was really only a corner of it.
A short flight of stairs led up to a small gallery running round a
side-hall, and out of this gallery opened their sleeping-rooms and what
had been their nursery and play-rooms. The school-room and Miss
Hortensia's own sitting-room were on the ground-floor. To get to any of
the turrets was quite a long journey. They were approached by the great
staircase which ascended from the large white and black tiled hall,
dividing, after the first flight, into two branches, each of which led
to passages from which other smaller stairs went upwards to the top of
the house. The grandest rooms opened out of the tiled hall on the
ground-floor, and out of the passages on the first floor. From this
central part of the house the children's corner was shut off by heavy
swing doors seldom opened.
So when Ruby and Mavis visited the turrets they had to pass through
these doors, and go some way along the passages, and then up one of the
side stairs--up, up, up, the flights of steps getting steeper and
narrower as they climbed, till at last they reached the door of the
turret-chamber itself. Of these chambers there were two, one in each
turret, east and west. The west was their favourite, partly because
from it they saw the sunset, and partly because it was nearer their own
rooms. They had been allowed to make a sort of private nest of it for
themselves, and to play there on rainy days when they could not get out,
and sometimes in very cold or snowy weather they had a fire there, which
made the queer old room very cheery. There were three windows in each
turret, and they were furnished in an odd, irregular way with all sorts
of quaint old-fashioned furniture discarded from other parts of the
castle. In former days these turret-rooms had sometimes been used as
guest-chambers when the house was very full of visitors. For the large
modern rooms and the hall I have spoken of had been added by the
children's grandfather--a very hospitable but extravagant man. And
before he made these improvements there were often more guests than it
was easy to find room for.
Ruby and Mavis were not long in taking off their out-door things and
"tidying" themselves for their evening in Miss Hortensia's pleasant
little room. They made a pretty picture as they ran downstairs, their
fair curls dancing on their shoulders, though if I were to describe to
you how they were dressed, I am afraid you would think they must have
been a very old-world looking little pair.
"Here we are, cousin Hortensia," exclaimed Ruby as they came in, "and I
do hope it's nearly tea-time."
"Not quite, my dear," Miss Hortensia replied, glancing at a beautifully
carved Swiss clock which stood on the mantelpiece; "the little trumpeter
won't tell us it's six o'clock for half an hour yet--his dog has just
barked twice."
"Lazy things," said Ruby, shrugging her shoulders, "I'd like to shake
that old trumpeter sometimes."
"And sometimes you'd like to pat him to sleep, wouldn't you?" said
Mavis. "When cousin Hortensia's telling us stories, and he says it's
bed-time."
Miss Hortensia looked at Mavis in some surprise, but she seemed very
pleased too. It was not often Mavis spoke so brightly.
"Suppose you use up the half-hour in telling _me_ stories," said their
cousin. "Mine will keep till after tea. What were all the adventures
you met with?"
"Oh," said Ruby, "it was too queer. Did you know, cousin, that there
was a short way home from the sea-shore near old Adam's cottage? _Such_
a queer way;" and she went on to describe the path between the rocks.
Miss Hortensia looked very puzzled.
"Who showed it to you?" she said; for Ruby, in her helter-skelter way,
had begun at the end of the story, without speaking of the boy Winfried,
or explaining why they--or she--had been so curious about the old man
whom the villagers called a wizard.
"It was the boy," Mavis replied; "such a nice boy, cousin Hortensia,
with funny bluey eyes--at least they're _sometimes_ blue."
"Oh, Mavis, do not talk so sillily," said Ruby; "his eyes aren't a bit
blue. She's got blue on the brain, cousin, she really has. Seeing
forget-me-nots in the sky too! I don't think he _was_ a particularly
nice boy. He was rather cool. I'm sure we wouldn't have done his
grandfather any harm. Did you ever hear of him, cousin? Old Adam they
call him;" and then she went on to give a rather more clear account of
their walk, and all they had seen and heard.
Miss Hortensia listened attentively, and into her own eyes crept a
dreamy, far-away, or rather long-ago look.
"It is odd," she said; "I have a kind of fancy that I have heard of the
old `solitary,' for he must be almost a hermit, before. But somehow I
don't think it was here. I wonder how long he has lived here?"
"I don't know," said Ruby. "A good while, I should think. He was here
when Joan was our nurse."
"But that was only two years ago," said Miss Hortensia, smiling. "If he
had been here many years the people would not count him so much of a
foreigner. And the boy you met--has he come to take care of the old
man?"
"I suppose so. We didn't ask him," said Ruby carelessly. "He was
really such a cool boy, ordering us not to go near the cottage indeed!
I told him he might come up to get some soup or jelly for his
grandfather," she went on, with a toss of her head. "I said it, you
know, just to put him in his place, and remind him whom he was speaking
to."
"I'm sure he didn't mean to be rude," said Mavis; "and, cousin, there
really was something rather `fairy' about him. Isn't it _very_ queer we
never heard of that path before?"
"Yes," Miss Hortensia replied. "Are you sure you didn't both fall
asleep on the shore and dream it all? Though, to be sure, it is rather
too cold weather for you to have been overcome by drowsiness."
"And we couldn't both have dreamt the same thing if we had fallen
asleep," said Mavis, in her practical way. "It wasn't like when you
were a little girl and saw or dreamt--"
"Don't you begin telling the story if cousin Hortensia's going to tell
it herself," interrupted Ruby. "I was just thinking I had forgotten it
a good deal, and that it would seem fresh. But here's tea at last--I am
so glad."
They were very merry and happy during the meal. Ruby was particularly
pleased with herself, having a vague idea that she had behaved in a very
grand and dignified way. Mavis's eyes were very bright. The
afternoon's adventure had left on her a feeling of expecting something
pleasant, that she could hardly put in words. And besides this, there
was cousin Hortensia's story to hear.
When the table was cleared, cousin Hortensia settled herself with her
knitting in a low chair by the fire, and told the children to bring
forward two little stools and seat themselves beside her. They had
their knitting too, for this useful art had been taught them while they
were so young that they could scarcely remember having learnt it. And
the three pairs of needles made a soft click-click, which did not the
least disturb their owners, so used were they to it. Rather did it seem
a pleasant accompaniment to Miss Hortensia's voice.
"You want me to tell you the story of my night in the west turret-room
when I was a little girl," she began. "You have heard it before, partly
at least, but I will try to tell it more fully this time. I was a very
little girl, younger than you two--I don't think I was more than eight
years old. I had come here with my father and mother and elder sisters
to join a merry party assembled to celebrate the silver wedding of your
great-grandparents. Your grandfather himself, their eldest child, was
about three and twenty. He was not then married, so it was some time
before your father was born. I don't quite know why they had brought
me. It seems to me I would have been better at home in my nursery, for
there were no children as young as I to keep me company. Perhaps it was
that they wished to have me to represent another generation, as it were,
though, after all, that might have been done by my sisters. The elder
of them, Jacintha, was then nineteen; it was she who afterwards married
your grandfather, so that besides being cousins of the family, as we
were already, I am your grandmother's sister, and thus your great-aunt
as well as cousin."
The little girls nodded their heads.
"I was so much younger than Jacintha," Miss Hortensia went on, "that
your father never called me aunt. He and I have always been Robert and
Hortensia to each other, and to me he has always been like a younger
brother."
"But about your adventure," said Ruby, who was not of a sentimental
turn.
"I am coming to it," said their cousin. "Well, as I said, the party was
a merry one. They had dancing and music in plenty every evening, and
the house, which was in some ways smaller than it is now, was very full.
There were a great many bedrooms, though few of them were large, and I
and my sisters, being relations, were treated with rather less ceremony
than some of the stranger guests, and put to sleep in the turret-room.
I had a little bed in one corner, and my sisters slept together in the
same old four-poster which is still there. I used to be put to bed much
earlier than they came, for, as I said, there were dancing and other
amusements most evenings till pretty late. I was not at all a nervous
or frightened child, and even sometimes when I lay up there by myself
wide awake--for the change and the excitement kept me from going to
sleep as quickly as at home--I did not feel at all lonely. From my bed
I could see out of the window, for the turret windows are so high up
that it has never been necessary to have blinds on them, and I loved to
lie there watching the starlit sky, or sometimes, when the moon was
bright and full, gazing up at the clouds that went scurrying over her
face. One night I had been unusually wakeful. I lay there, hearing now
and then very, very faint, far-off sounds of the music down below. It
was a mild night, and I think the windows were a little open. At last I
must have fallen asleep. When I awoke, or rather when I _thought_ I
awoke, the room was all in darkness except in one corner, the corner by
the west window. There, there was a soft steady light, and it seemed to
me that it was on purpose to make me look that way. For there, sitting
on the old chair that still stands in the depth of that window was some
one I had never seen before. A lady in a cloudy silvery dress, with a
sheen of blue over it. My waking, or looking at her, for though it must
all have been a dream, I could not make you understand it unless I
described it as if it were real, seemed to be made conscious to her, for
she at once turned her eyes upon me, then rose slowly and came over the
room towards me."
"Weren't you frightened?" said Ruby breathlessly. In spite of her
boasted disbelief in dreams and visions her cousin's story had caught
her attention. Miss Hortensia shook her head.
"Not in the _very_ least," she said. "On the contrary, I felt a strange
and delightful kind of pleasure and wonder. It was more intense than I
have ever felt anything of the kind in waking life; indeed, if it had
lasted long I think it would have been more than I could bear--" Miss
Hortensia stopped for a moment and leant back in her chair. "I have
felt _something_ of the same," she went on, "when listening to very,
_very_ beautiful music--music that seemed too beautiful and made you
almost cry out for it to stop."
"I've never heard music like that," whispered little Mavis, "but I think
I know what you mean."
"Or," continued Miss Hortensia, "sometimes on a marvellously beautiful
day--what people call a `heavenly' day, I have had a feeling rather like
it. A feeling that makes one shut one's eyes for very pleasure."
"Well," said Ruby, "did you shut your eyes then, or what did you do?"
"No," said her cousin. "I could not have shut them. I felt she was
looking at me, and her eyes seemed to catch and fasten mine and draw
them into hers. It was her eyes above all that filled me with that
beautiful wonderful feeling. I can never forget it--never. I could
fancy sometimes even now, old woman as I am, that I am again the little
enraptured child gazing up at the beautiful vision. I feel her eyes in
mine still."
"How funny you are," interrupted Ruby. "A minute ago you said she
pulled your eyes into hers, now you say hers came into yours. It would
be a very funny feeling whichever it was; I don't think I should like
it."
Miss Hortensia glanced at her, but gravely. She did not smile.
"It must be a very `funny' feeling, as you call it, to a hitherto blind
man the first time he sees the sunshine. I daresay he would find it
difficult to describe; and to a still blind person it would be
impossible to explain it. I daresay the newly-cured man would not feel
sure whether the sun had come into his eyes or his eyes had reached up
to the sun."
Ruby fidgeted.
"Oh, do go on about the fairy or whatever she was," she said. "Never
mind about what I said."
Miss Hortensia smiled.
"The lady came slowly across the room to me," she went on, "and stood by
my bed, looking down at me with those wonderful blue eyes. Then she
smiled, and it seemed as if the light about her grew still brighter. I
thought I sat up in bed to see her better. `Are you a fairy?' I said
at last. She smiled still more. `If you like, you may call me a
fairy,' she answered. `But if I am a fairy my home must be fairyland,
and this turret-room is one of my homes. So you are my guest, my little
girl.' I did not mind her saying that. I smiled too. `I've never seen
you here before,' I said. And she laughed a little--I never heard
anything so pretty as her laugh. `No,' she replied, `but I have seen
you and every one that has ever been here, though every one has not seen
me. Now listen, my child. I wanted you to see me because I have
something to say to you. There will come a time when you will be drawn
two ways, one will be back here to the old castle by the sea, after many
years; many, many years as you count things. Choose that way, for you
will be wanted here. Those yet unborn will want you, for they will want
love and care. Look into my eyes, little girl, and promise me you will
come to them.' And in my dream I thought I gazed again into her eyes,
and I felt as if their blue light was the light of a faith and truth
that could not be broken, and I said, `I promise.' And then the fairy
lady seemed to draw a gauze veil over her face, and it grew dim, and the
wonderful eyes were hidden, and I thought I fell asleep. In reality, I
suppose, I had never been awake."
"And when you did wake up it was morning, I suppose, and it had all been
a dream?" asked Ruby.
Miss Hortensia gave a little sigh.
"Yes," she said, "I suppose it had been a dream. It was morning, bright
morning, the sun streaming in at the other window when I awoke, and I
never saw the fairy lady again--not even in a dream. But what she had
said came true, my dears. Many, many years after, when I was already
beginning to be an old woman, it came true. I am afraid I had grown
selfish--life had brought me many anxieties, and I had lived in a great
city where there was much luxury and gaiety, and where no one seemed to
have thought for anything but the rush of pleasure and worldly cares. I
had forgotten all about my beautiful vision, when one day there came a
summons. Your sweet young mother had died, my darlings, and your poor
father in his desolation could think of no one better to come and take
care of his little girls--you were only two years old--than his old
cousin. And so I came; and then there crept back to me the remembrance
of my dream. I had indeed been drawn two ways, for the friends I might
have gone to live with were rich and good-natured, and they promised me
everything I could wish. But I thought of the two little motherless
ones, here in the old castle by the sea, in want of love and care as
_she_ had said, and I came."
Miss Hortensia stopped. Even Ruby was impressed by what she had heard.
"Dear cousin," she said, "it was very good of you."
"And have you never seen the beautiful lady again?" said Mavis. "She
told you the west turret was her own room, didn't she? Have you never
seen her there?"
Miss Hortensia shook her head.
"You forget, dear, it was only a dream. And even if it had been more
than that, we grow very far away from angels and fairies as we get old,
I fear."
"Not _you_," Mavis said; "you're not like that. And the lady must have
been so pleased with you for caring for us, I wonder she hasn't ever
come to see you again. Do you know," she went on eagerly, after a
moment's pause, "I have a feeling that she _is_ in the west turret-room
sometimes!"
Miss Hortensia looked at the child in amazement Mavis's quiet, rather
dull face seemed transformed; it was all flushed and beaming, her eyes
sparkling and bright.
"Mavis!" she said, "you look as if you had seen her yourself. But it
was only a dream, you mustn't let my old-world stories make you
fanciful. I am too fanciful myself perhaps--I have always loved the
vest turret, and that was why I chose it for your play-room when you
were little dots."
"I'm so glad you did," said Mavis, drawing a long breath.
After that they were all rather silent for a while. Then Ruby claimed
Miss Hortensia's promise of the story or description rather of the grand
court ball at which her mother's beauty had made such a sensation, and
when that was ended, the little trumpeter announced, much to the
children's displeasure, that it was time to go to bed.
"We _have_ had a cosy evening," said Mavis, as she kissed Miss
Hortensia.
"And, oh Ruby," she said, as her sister and she were going slowly
upstairs, "_don't_ you wish we might sleep in the turret-room?"
"No indeed," Ruby replied, in a most decided tone, "I certainly don't."