The Lady of the Forest Part 12

Mrs. Lovel slept very soundly, and Phil did not disturb her when he opened the ponderous oak door of his bedroom, and clasping the tankard tightly in both hands went downstairs and out. It was very, very early, for Phil had mistaken the shining of the moon for the first light of day. Not a soul was up at Avonsyde, but the little boy easily found a means of exit, and in a few moments was running quickly down the straight avenue which led into the forest. He was intensely happy and excited, for the fragrance of his delightful dreams was still surrounding him, and he felt confident that if he only ran far enough he must find that wonderful lady whose dress was greener than the trees and whose face was so radiantly beautiful. The morning was damp and gloomy, for the moon set very soon after Phil started on his walk, and the sun had no idea of getting up for another couple of hours. The forest, which looked so pleasant and cheery by day, was now all that was dark and dismal; so of course the first thing that happened to poor little Phil was completely to lose his way.

He possessed a very high spirit, and such small disadvantages as stumbling in the dark and tearing himself with unseen briers, and altogether becoming a sadly chilled and damp little boy, could not quench the ardent hope which impelled him to go forward. He pushed on bravely, having a kind of confidence that the further he got from Avonsyde the more likely he was to meet the lady. Presently the darkness gave place to a gray, dim light, and then, in an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time, the little boy found himself surrounded by a delicious golden atmosphere. The sun climbed up into the heavens; the mist vanished; daylight and sunlight had come. Phil took off his cap, and leaning against a tree laughed with pleasure. It wanted three weeks to Christmas; but what a lovely morning, and how the sun glittered and sparkled on the frosty ground! Some shy robin-redb.r.e.a.s.t.s hopped about and twittered gleefully; the squirrels were intensely busy cracking their breakfast-nuts; and Phil, raising his eyes to watch them, discovered that he was hungry. His hunger he could not gratify, but the thirst which also a.s.sailed him could be easily a.s.suaged, for a brook babbled noisily not many feet away. Phil ran to it, and dipping his tankard into the water took a long draught. He had not an idea where he was, but with the sun shining and the birds singing no part of the forest could be lonely, and he tripped on in gay spirits, hoping to see the lady with the green dress coming to meet him through the trees. He had listened to many stories about the forest lady from Kitty. She appeared very, very seldom to any one, but when she did come she chose a solitary place and moment, for it was one of her unbroken rules never to reveal herself to two people together. Phil, remembering this peculiarity of the beautiful lady, took care to avoid the high-road and to plunge deeper and deeper into the most shady recesses and the most infrequented paths. As he walked on, whether from exhaustion or from hunger, or from an under-current of strong excitement, he became really a little feverish; his heart beat a great deal too fast, and his imagination was roused to an abnormal extent. He knew that he had lost his way, but as the hours went on he became more and more convinced that he would find the lady, and of course when he saw her and looked in her face his troubles would be ended. He would pour out all his cares and all his longings into the ears of this wonderful being. She would soothe him; she would pity him; and, above all things, she would give him that golden store which would make his mother contented and happy.

"Perhaps she will carry me home too," thought little Phil, "for though I am always making believe to be well, I am not really a strong boy, and I am very tired now."

The hours went on, the daylight grew brighter, and then came an unexpected change. The sunny morning was treacherous, after all; dark clouds approached from the north; they covered the smiling and sunny sky, and then a cold rain which was half-sleet began to fall mercilessly. Phil had of course not dreamed of providing himself with a great-coat, and though at first the trees supplied him with a certain amount of shelter, their branches, which were mostly bare, were soon drenched, and the little boy was wet through. He had climbed to the top of a rising knoll, and looking down through the driving rain he heard a stream brawling loudly about forty feet below. He fancied that if he got on lower ground he might find shelter, so he ran as quickly as he could in the direction of the hurrying water. Oh, horror! what had happened to him? What was this? The ground shook under his little footsteps. When he tried to step either backward or forward he sank. Phil caught his breath, laughed a little because he did not want to cry, and said aloud:

"Kitty is quite right; there are bogs in the forest, and I'm in one."

He was a very brave child, and even his present desperate situation did not utterly daunt him.

"Now I'm in real danger," he said aloud. "In some ways it's rather nice to be in real danger. Rupert and I used often to talk about it and wonder what we'd do, and Rupert always said: 'Phil, be sure when the time comes that you don't lose your presence of mind.' Well, the time has come now, and I must try to be very cool. When I stay perfectly still I find that I don't sink--at least very little. Oh, how tired I am!

I wish some one would come. I wish the rain would stop. I know I'll fall presently, for I'm so fearfully tired. I wish the lady would come--I do wish she would! If she knew that I was in danger she might hurry to me--that is, if she's as kind and beautiful as Kitty tells me she is. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know I shall fall soon. Well, if I do I'm certain to sink into the bog, and--Rupert will have Avonsyde. Oh, poor mother! how she will wonder where I've got to! Now, I really don't want to sink in a bog even for Rupert's sake, so I must keep my presence of mind and try to be as cheerful as possible. Suppose I sing a little--that's much better than crying and will make as much noise in case any one is pa.s.sing by."

So Phil raised a sweet and true little voice and tried to rival the robins. But a poor little half-starving boy stuck fast in a bog is so far a remarkable spectacle that the robins themselves, coming out after the shower to dry their feathers, looked at him in great wonder. He was a brave little boy and he sang sweetly, and they liked the music he made very well; but what was he doing there? Perching themselves on the boughs of some low trees which grew near the brook, they glanced shyly at him out of their bright eyes, and then quite unknowingly performed a little mission for his rescue. They flew to meet a lady whom they knew well and from whose hand they often pecked crumbs, and they induced this lady to turn aside from her accustomed path and to follow them, as they hopped and flew in front of her; for the lady was suddenly reminded by the robins of some little birds at home for which she meant to gather a particular weed which grew near the bog.

The rain was over, the sun was again shining brightly, when little Phil, tired, sick unto death, raised his eyes and saw, with the sunlight behind her, a lady, graceful and gracious in appearance, coming down the path. He did not notice whether her dress was gray or green; he only knew that to him she looked radiant and lovely.

"Oh, you have been a long time coming, but please save me now!" he sobbed, and then he did tumble into the bog, for he suddenly fainted away.

CHAPTER XIII.--ONE MORE SECRET.

When Phil opened his eyes he was quite sure for several moments that all his best dreams were realized. He was in a very tiny parlor (he loved small rooms, for they reminded him of the cottage at the back of the garden); he was lying full length on an old-fashioned and deliciously soft sofa, and a lady with a tender and beautiful face was bending over him; the firelight flickered in a cozy little grate and the sunlight poured in through a latticed window. The whole room was a picture of comfort, and Phil drew a deep sigh of happiness.

"Have you given mother the bag of gold? And are we back in the cottage at the back of the garden?" he murmured.

"Drink this, dear," said the quiet, grave voice, and then a cup of delicious hot milk was held to his little blue lips, and after he had taken several sips of the milk he was able to sit up and look round him.

"You are the lady of the forest, aren't you? But where's your green dress?"

"I am a lady who lives in the forest, my dear child. I am so glad I came down to that dreadful bog and rescued you. What is your name, my dear little boy?"

"My name? I am Phil Lovel. Do you know, it is so sad, but I am going to have Avonsyde. I am the heir. I don't want it at all. It was princ.i.p.ally about Avonsyde I came out this morning to find you. Yes, I had a great escape in the bog, but I felt almost sure that you would come to save me. It was very good of you. I am not a strong boy, and I don't suppose I could have stood up in that dreadful cold, damp bog much longer.

Although I'm not bad at bearing pain, yet the ache in my legs was getting quite terrible. Well, it's all right now, and I'm so glad I've found you. Are you very rich, lady of the forest? And may I tell you everything?"

Had Phil not been absorbed in his own little remarks he might have noticed a curious change coming over the lady's face. For one brief instant her eyes seemed to blaze, her brows contracted as if with pain, and the band with which she held the restorative to Phil's lips trembled. Whatever emotion overcame her its effect was brief. When the boy, wondering at her silence, raised his eyes to look at her, it was only a sweet and quiet glance which met his.

"I have heard of little Philip Lovel," she said. "I am glad to see you.

I am glad I saved you from a terrible fate. If no one had come to your rescue you must eventually have sunk in that dreadful bog."

"But I was quite sure you would come," answered Phil. "Do you know, I went out this morning expecting to meet you. Betty and I have spoken of you so very, very often. We have made up lovely stories about you; but you have always been in green and your face dazzled. Now you are not in green. You are in a dark, plain dress--as plain a dress as mother used to wear when we lived in the house behind the garden; and though you are beautiful--yes, I really think you are beautiful--you don't dazzle. Well, I am glad I have met you. Did you know that a little boy was wandering all over the forest looking for you to-day? And did you come out on purpose to meet him and to save him? Oh, I trust, I do trust you have got the gift with you!"

"I don't quite understand you, my dear little boy," said the lady. "No, I did not come to meet you. I simply took a walk between the showers.

You are talking too much and too fast; you must be quiet now, and I will put this warm rug over you and you can try to sleep. When you are quite rested and warm, Nancy, my servant, will take you back to Avonsyde."

Phil was really feeling very tired; his limbs ached; his throat was dry and parched; he was only too glad to lie still on that soft sofa in that tiny room and not pretend to be anything but a sadly exhausted little boy. He even closed his eyes at the lady's bidding, but he soon opened them again, for he liked to watch her as she sat by the fire. No, she was scarcely dazzling, but Phil could quite believe that she might be considered beautiful. Her eyes were dark and gray; her hair was also dark, very soft, and very abundant; her mouth had an expression about it which Phil seemed partly to know, which puzzled him, for he felt so sure that he had seen just such resolute and well cut lips in some one else.

"It's Rachel!" he said suddenly under his breath. "How very, very queer that Rachel should have a look of the lady of the forest!"

He half-roused himself to watch the face, which began more and more to remind him of Rachel's.

But as he looked there came a curious change over the lady's expressive face. The firm lips trembled; a look of agonized yearning and longing filled the pathetic gray eyes, and a few words said aloud with unspeakable sadness reached the little boy.

"So Kitty speaks of me--little, little Kitty speaks of me."

The lady covered her face with her hands, and Phil, listening very attentively, thought he heard her sob.

After this he really closed his eyes and went to sleep. When he awoke the winter's light had disappeared, the curtains were drawn across the little window, and a reading-lamp with a rose-colored shade made the center of the table look pretty. There was a cozy meal spread for two on the board, and when Phil opened his eyes and came back to the world of reality, the lady was bending over the fire and making some crisp toast.

"You have had a nice long sleep," she said in a cheerful voice. "Now will you come to the table and have some tea? Here is a fresh egg for you, which Brownie, my dear speckled hen, laid while you were asleep.

You feel much better, don't you? Now you must make a very good tea, and when you have finished Nancy will take you as far as Rufus' Stone, where I have asked a man with a chaise to meet her; he will drive you back to Avonsyde in less than an hour."

Phil felt quite satisfied with these arrangements. He also discovered that he was very hungry; so he tumbled off the sofa, and with his light-brown hair very much tossed and his eyes shining, took his place at the tea-table. There he began to chatter, and did not at all know that the lady was leading him on to tell her as much as possible about Rachel and Kitty and about his life at Avonsyde. He answered all her questions eagerly, for he had by no means got over his impression that she was really the lady whom he had come to seek.

"I don't want Avonsyde, you know," he said suddenly, speaking with great earnestness. "Oh, please, if you are the lady of the forest and can give those who seek you a gift, let my gift be a bag of gold! I will take it back to mother in the chaise to-night, and then--and then--poor mother! My mother is very poor, lady, but when I give her your gold she will be rich, and then we can both go away from Avonsyde."

For a moment or two the lady with the sad gray eyes looked with wonder and perplexity at little Phil--some alarm even was depicted on her face, but it suddenly cleared and lightened. She rose from her chair, and going up to the child stooped and kissed him.

"You don't want Avonsyde. Then I am your friend, little Phil Lovel. Here are three kisses--one for you, one for Rachel, one for Kitty. Give my kisses as from yourself to the little girls. But I am not what you think me, Phil. I am no supernatural lady who can give gifts or can dazzle with unusual beauty. I am just a plain woman who lives here most of the year and earns her bread with hard and daily labor. I cannot give money, for I have not got it. I can be your friend, however. Not a powerful friend--certainly not; but no true friendship is to be lightly thrown away. Why, my little man, how disappointed you look! Are you really going to cry?"

"Oh, no, I won't cry!" said Phil, but with a very suspicious break in his voice; "but I am so tired of all the secrets and of pretending to be strong and all that. If you are not the lady and have not got the bag of gold, mother and I will have to stay on at Avonsyde, for mother is very poor and she would starve if we went away. You don't know what a dreadful weight it is on one's mind always to be keeping secrets."

"I am very sorry, Phil. As it happens I do know what a secret means. I am very sorry for you, more particularly as I am just going to add to your secrets. I want you to promise not to tell any one at Avonsyde about my little house in the forest nor about me. I think you will keep my secret when I tell you that if it is known it will do me very grave injury."

"I would not injure you," said Phil, raising his sweet eyes to her face.

"I do hate secrets and I find them dreadfully hard to keep, but one more won't greatly matter, only I do wish you were the real lady of the forest."

When Nancy came back to the little cottage after disposing of Phil comfortably in the chaise and giving the driver a great many emphatic directions about him, she went straight into her lady's presence. She was a privileged old servant, and she did not dream of knocking at the door of the little sitting-room; no, she opened it boldly and came in, many words crowding to her lips.

"This will upset her fine," she muttered under her breath. "Oh, dear!

oh, dear! I'll have to do a lot of talking to-night. I'm not one to say she gives way often, but when she do, why, she do, and that's the long and short of it."

Nancy opened the door noisily and entered the room with a world of purpose depicted on her honest, homely face.

"Now, ma'am," she began, "I have seen him off as snug and safe as possible, and the driver promises to deliver him sure as sure into his mother's arms within the hour. A pretty sort of a mother she must be to let a bit of a babe like that wander about since before the dawn and never find him yet. Now, ma'am, you're not settling down to that needlework at this hour? Oh, and you do look pale! Why, Mrs. Lovel, what's the use of overdoing it?"

The lady so addressed raised her sad eyes to the kindly pair looking down at her and said gently:

"I am determined to be at least as brave as that brave little boy. He would not cry, although he longed to. I must either work or cry, so I choose to work. Nancy, how many yards of the lace are now finished?"

"Ten, I should think," answered Nancy, whose countenance expressed strong relief at the turn the conversation had taken. "I should say there was ten yards done, ma'am, but I will go upstairs and count them over if you like."

"I wish you would. If there are ten yards upstairs there are nearly two here; that makes just the dozen. And you think it is quite the best lace I have made yet, Nancy?"