Chapter 15 The Lady of the Forest by L. T. Meade
WAS HE ACTING?
“I can’t help it, Kitty; you really must not ask me. I’m a very much puzzled boy. I’m – I’m – Kitty, did you ever have to pull yourself up short just when you wanted to say something most interesting? I’m always pulling myself up short, and I’m dreadfully, dreadfully tired of it.”
“It must be something like giving a sudden jerk to one of our ponies,” said Kitty. “I know – it must be a horrid feeling. Does it set your teeth on edge, Phil, and do you quite tremble with impatience?”
“Yes,” said Phil, throwing himself full length on the floor of the old armory, where he and Kitty had ensconced themselves on a pouring wet day early in the month of February. “Yes, Kitty, if feeling very unpleasant all over means setting your teeth on edge, I do know it. I’m a little boy with lots of secrets, and I never can tell them, not to you nor to anybody at Avonsyde – no, not to anybody. I’ll get accustomed to it in time, but I don’t like it, for naturally I’m the kind of boy who can’t keep a secret.’
“What a horrid man you’ll grow up!” said Kitty, eying her cousin with marked disapproval. “You’ll be so reserved and cross-grained and disagreeable. You’ll have been pulled up short so often that you’ll look jerky. Oh, dear me, Phil, I wouldn’t be you for a great deal!”
“I wouldn’t be myself if I could help it,” said Phil, with a sigh which he tried hard to smother. “Oh, I say, Kitty-cat, will you coax Aunt Grizel to take us into Southampton soon? I am quite certain my letter must be waiting for me. You don’t know, Kitty, you can’t possibly guess what a letter from his dearest friend means to a rather lonely kind of boy like me.”
“You had better ask Aunt Grizel yourself,” answered Kitty, with a little pout and a little frown. “She’s so fond of you, Phil, that she’ll do it. She’ll take you to Southampton if you coax her and if you put on that funny kind of sad look in your eyes. It’s the kind of look our spaniel puts on, and I never can say ‘No’ to him when he has it. I don’t know how you do it, Phil, nor why you do it; but you have a very sorry look in your eyes when you like. Is it because you’re always and always missing your dearest friend?”
“It’s partly that,” answered Phil. “Oh, you don’t know what he’s like, Kitty! He’s most splendid. He has got such a grand figure, and he walks in such a manly way, and his eyes are as dark and wonderful-looking as Rachel’s, and – and – oh, Kitty, was I telling you anything? Please forget that I said anything at all; please don’t remember on any account whatever that I have got a dearest friend!”
“I think you are perfectly horrid!” said Kitty, stamping her foot. “Just the minute we begin talking about anything interesting you give one of those jerks, just as if you had a cruel rider on your back. I can’t think what it all means. If you have a dearest friend, there’s no harm in it; and if you had a Betty to take care of you, there’s no harm in that; and if you lived in a cottage in a plantation, that isn’t a sin; and if you did go into the forest to meet the lady, and you didn’t meet her, although you were nearly swallowed up by a bog, why – why – what’s the matter, Phil? How white you are!”
“Nothing,” said Phil, suddenly pressing his face down on the cushion against which he was lying – “nothing – Kit – I – ” He uttered one or two groans. “Fetch me a little water, please!”
The child’s face had suddenly become livid. He clinched his hands and pressed them against his temples, and buried that poor little drawn, piteous face further and deeper into the soft cushion. At last the paroxysm of pain passed; he panted, raised himself slowly, and struggled to his feet.
“Kitty!”
But Kitty was gone. Terrified, the little girl ran through the hall. The first person she met was Mrs. Lovel, who, dressed gracefully in a soft black silk, trimmed with lace, was walking languidly in the direction of the great drawing-room.
“You had better come!” said Kitty, rushing up to her and seizing her hand. “Phil is very dreadfully ill. I think Phil will die. He’s in the armory. Come at once!”
Without waiting for the lady’s answer, little Kitty turned on her heel and flew back the way she had come. Phil had scarcely time to struggle to his feet, scarcely time to notice her absence, before she was back again at his side. Putting her arms around his neck, she covered his face with passionate kisses.
“Phil, Phil, I was so frightened about you! Are you better? Do say you are better. Oh, I love you so much, and I won’t be jealous, even if you have got a dearest friend!”
Phil could stand, but the sudden attack he had passed through was so sharp that words could scarcely come to his lips. Kitty’s embrace almost overpowered him, but he was so innately unselfish that he would not struggle to free himself, fearing to pain her.
His mother’s step was heard approaching. He made a great effort to stand upright and formed his little lips into a voiceless whistle.
“Why, Phil, you have been overtiring yourself,” said Mrs. Lovel. “Oh, Kitty, how you have exaggerated! Phil does not look at all bad. I suppose you were both romping, and never ceased until you lost your breath; or you were having one of your pretense games, and Phil thought he would frighten you by making out he was ill. Ah, Phil, Phil, what an actor you are! Now, my dear boy, I want you to come up to your bedroom with me. I want to consult you about one or two matters. Fancy, Kitty, a mother consulting her little boy! Ought not Phil to be proud? But he is really such a strong, brave little man that I cannot help leaning on him. It was really unkind of you to pretend that time, Phil, and to give little Kitty such a fright.”
Phil’s beautiful brown eyes were raised to his mother’s face; then they glanced at Kitty; then a smile – a very sorry smile Kitty considered it – filled them, and giving his little thin hand to his mother, he walked out of the armory by her side.
Kitty lingered for a moment in the room which her companion had deserted; then she dashed away across the brightly lit hall, through several cozy and cheery apartments, until she came to a room brilliant with firelight and lamplight, where Rachel lay at her ease in a deep arm-chair with a fairy story open on her knee.
“Phil is the best actor in all the world, Rachel!” she exclaimed. “He turned as white as a sheet just now. He turned gray, and he groaned most awfully, and he wouldn’t speak, and I thought he was dying, and I flew for some one, and I found Mrs. Lovel, and she came back to Phil, and she laughed, and said there was nothing the matter, and that Phil was only acting. Isn’t it wonderful, Rachel, that Phil can turn pale when he likes, and groan in such a terrible way? Oh, it made me shiver to see him! I do hope he won’t act being ill again.”
“He didn’t act,” said Rachel in a contemptuous voice; “that’s what his mother said. I wouldn’t have her for a mother for a great deal. I’d rather have no mother. Poor little Phil didn’t act. Don’t talk nonsense, Kitty.”
“Then if he didn’t act he must be very ill,” said Kitty. Then, her blue eyes filling with tears, she added: “I do love him so! I love him even though he has a dearest friend.”
Rachel stretched out her hand and drew Kitty into a corner of her own luxurious chair. She had not seen Phil, and Kitty’s account of him scarcely made her uneasy.
“Even if he was a little ill, he’s all right now,” she said. “Stay with me, Kitty-cat; I scarcely ever see you. I think Phil is quite your dearest friend.”
“Quite,” answered Kitty solemnly. “I love him better than any one, except you, Rachel; only I do wish – yes, I do – that he had not so many secrets.”
“He never told you what happened to him that day in the forest, did he, Kitty?”
“Oh, no; he pulled himself up short. He was often going to, but he always pulled himself up. “What a dreadfully jerky man he’ll grow up, Rachel.”
“He never quite told you?” continued Rachel. “Well, I don’t want him to tell me, for I know.”
“Rachel!”
“Yes, I know all about it. I’m going to see him presently, and I’ll tell him that I know his secret. Now, Kitty, you need not stare at me, for I’m never going to breathe it to any one except to Phil himself. There, Kit, the dressing-gong has sounded; we must go and get ready for supper.”
Meanwhile Mrs. Lovel, taking Phil’s hand, had led him out of the armory and to the foot of the winding stone stairs. Once there she paused. The look of placid indifference left her face; she dropped the smiling mask she had worn in Kitty’s presence, and stooping down lifted the boy into her arms and carried him tenderly up the winding stairs, never pausing nor faltering nor groaning under his weight. When they reached the tower bedroom she laid him on his little bed, and going to a cupboard in the wall unlocked it and took from thence a small bottle; she poured a few drops from the bottle into a spoon and put the restorative between the boy’s blue lips. He swallowed it eagerly, smiled, shook himself, and sat up in bed.
“Thank you, mother. I am much better now,” he said affectionately.
Mrs. Lovel locked the door, stirred the fire in the old-fashioned grate into a cheerful blaze, lit two or three candles, drew the heavy curtains across the windows, and then dragging a deep arm-chair opposite the glowing hearth, she lifted Phil again into her arms, and sitting down in the comfortable seat, rocked him passionately to her breast.
“My boy, my boy, was it very bad, very awful?”
“Yes, mother; but it’s all right now.”
“Did Kitty hear you groan, Phil?”
“Yes, mother; but not the loudest groans, for I buried my head in the cushion. I’m all right now, mother. I can go down again in a minute or two.”
“No, Phil, you shan’t go down to-night. I’ll manage it with the old ladies; and Phil, darling, darling, we have almost won; you won’t have to pretend anything much longer. On the 5th of May, on Rachel’s birthday, you are to be proclaimed the heir. This is the middle of February; you have only a little more than two months to keep it all up, Phil.”
“Oh, yes, mother, it’s very difficult, and the pain in my side gets worse, and I don’t want it, and I’d rather Rupert had it; but never mind, mammy, you shan’t starve.”
He stroked his mother’s cheek with his little hand, and she rocked him in her arms in an ecstasy of love and fear and longing. At that moment she loved the boy better than the gold. She would have given up all dreams of ease and comfort for herself if she could have secured real health for that most precious little life.
“Mother,” said Phil, “I do want to go to Southampton so badly.”
“What for, dearest?”
“Because I’m expecting a letter, mother, from Rupert. No, no, don’t frown! I can’t bear to see you frown. I didn’t tell him anything, but I wrote to him, and I asked him to send his answer to the post-office at Southampton, and it must be waiting there now; yes, it must, and I do want to fetch it so dreadfully. Can you manage that I shall go, mother?”
“I’ll go for it myself, dear; I’ll go to-morrow. There – doesn’t mother love her boy? Yes, I’ll go for the letter to Southampton to-morrow. There’s the supper-gong, Phil. I must go down, but you shan’t. I’ll bring you up something nice to eat presently.”
“Oh, no, please; I couldn’t eat. Just let me lie on my bed quite still without talking. Mother, my darling mother, how can I thank you for promising to fetch Rupert’s letter?”
Mrs. Lovel laid Phil back on his bed, covered him up warmly, and softly unlocking the door went downstairs.
She had got a shock, a greater shock than she cared to own; but when she entered the long, low, old-fashioned dining-hall where Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine and the two little girls awaited her, her face was smiling and careless as usual. The poor, weak-minded, and bewildered woman had resumed her mask, and no one knew with what an aching heart she sat down to her luxurious meal.
“Is Phil still pretending to be very, very dreadfully ill?” called out Kitty across the table.
Miss Griselda started at Kitty’s words, looked anxiously at Mrs. Lovel and at a vacant chair, and spoke.
“Is your boy not well? Is he not coming to supper?” she inquired.
“Phil strained himself a little,” answered Mrs. Lovel, “and he had quite a sharp pain in his side – only muscular, I assure you, dear Miss Griselda; nothing to make one the least bit uneasy, but I thought it better to keep him upstairs. He is going to bed early and won’t come down again to-night. May I take him up a little supper presently?”
“Poor boy! he must be ravenously hungry,” said Miss Griselda in a careless tone. “Strained his side? Dear, dear! children are always hurting themselves. I wanted him to go with me early to-morrow to collect mosses. I intend to drive the light cart myself into the forest, and I meant to take Phil and Kitty with me. Phil is so clever at finding them.”
“Oh, he’s very strong. He’ll be quite ready to go with you, Miss Griselda,” answered the little boy’s mother; but she bent her head as she spoke, and no one saw how pale her face was.
The meal proceeded somewhat drearily. Kitty was out of spirits at the loss of her favorite companion; Rachel’s little face looked scarcely childish, so intensely watchful was its expression; Mrs. Lovel wore her smiling mask; and the two old ladies alone were perfectly tranquil and indifferent.
“May I take Phil up some supper?” suddenly asked Rachel.
Mrs. Lovel suppressed a quick sigh, sat down again in her seat, for she was just rising to go back to Phil, and almost ran her nails into her hands under the table in her efforts to keep down all symptoms of impatience.
“Thank you, dear,” said Miss Griselda gratefully. “If you go up to Phil his mother need not trouble herself about him until bedtime. We will adjourn to the drawing-room, if you please, Mrs. Lovel. I am anxious to have another lesson in that new kind of crochet. Katharine, will you give Rachel some supper to take up to Phil? – plenty of supper, please, dear; he’s a hearty boy and ought to have abundance to eat.”
Miss Katharine smiled, cut a generous slice of cold roast beef, and piled two mince-pies and a cheese-cake on another plate. When she had added to these a large glass of cold milk and some bread-and-butter, she gave the tray to Rachel, and bidding her be careful not to spill her load, took Kitty’s hand and went with her into the drawing-room.
Rachel carried her tray carefully as far as the foot of the winding stairs; then looking eagerly up and down and to right and left, she suddenly wheeled round and marched off through many underground and badly lit passages, until she found herself in the neighborhood of the great old-fashioned kitchen. Here she was met not by the cook, but by Mrs. Newbolt, the lady’s-maid.
“Oh, Newbolt, you’ll do what I want. Phil is ill, and his mother doesn’t want any one to know about it. Take all this horrid mess away and give me some strong, strong, beautiful beef tea and a nice little piece of toast. I’ll wait here, and you won’t be long, will you, dear Newbolt?”
Newbolt loved Phil and detested his mother. With a sudden snort she caught up Rachel’s tray, and returned presently with a tempting little meal suited to an invalid.
“If the child is ill I’ll come up with you to see him, Miss Rachel,” she said.
Phil was lying on his back; his eyes were shut; his face looked very pinched and blue. True, however, to the little Spartan that he was, when he heard Rachel’s step he started up and smiled and welcomed her in a small but very cheery voice.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” he said, “ but I didn’t want any supper; I told mother so. Oh, what is that – white soup? I do like white soup. And oysters? Yes, I can eat two or three oysters. How very kind you are, Rachel. I begin to feel quite hungry, that supper looks so nice.”
Rachel carried the tempting little tray herself, but behind her came Newbolt, whom Phil now perceived for the first time.
“Have you come up to see me, Newbolt?” he said. “But I am not at all ill. I happened to get tired, and mother said I must rest here.”
“The best place for a tired little boy to rest is in his bed, not on it,” said Newbolt. “If you please. Master Phil, I am going to put you into bed, and then Miss Rachel shall feed you with this nice supper. Oh, yes, sir, we know you’re not the least bit ill – oh, no, not the least bit in the world; but we are going to treat you as if you were, all the same.”
Phil smiled and looked up at Newbolt as if he would read her innermost thoughts. He was only too glad to accept her kind services, and quite sighed with relief when she laid him comfortably on his pillows. Newbolt wrapped a little red dressing-jacket over his shoulders, and then poking the fire vigorously and seeing that the queer old tower room looked as cheerful as possible, she left the two children together. Rachel and Phil made very merry over his supper, and Phil almost forgot that he had been feeling one of the most forsaken and miserable little boys in the world half an hour ago. Rachel had developed quite a nice little amount of tact, and she by no means worried Phil with questions as to whether his illness was real or feigned. But when he really smiled, and the color came back to his cheeks, and his laugh sounded strong and merry once more, she could not help saying abruptly:
“Phil, I have been wanting to see you by yourself for some time. I cannot tell Kitty, for Kitty is not to know; but, Phil, what happened to you that day in the forest is no secret to me.”
Phil opened his eyes very wide.
“What do you mean, Rachel?” he asked. “No, Rachel, you cannot guess it, for I never, never even whispered about that secret.”
Rachel’s face had turned quite pale and her voice was trembling.
“Shall I whisper it back to you now?” she said. “Shall I tell you where you went? You did not meet the myth lady – I begin really to be almost sure she is only a myth lady – but you did meet a lady. She was in gray and she had the saddest face in the world; and oh, Phil, she took you home – she took you home!”
“Why, Rachel,” said little Phil again, “you look just as if you were going to cry. How is it you found all this out? And why does it make you so sorrowful?”
“Oh, I want her,” said Rachel, trembling and half-sobbing. “I want her so badly. I long for her more than anything. I saw her once and I have not been quite happy since. She never took me inside her house. Phil, I am jealous of you. Phil, I want to hear all about her.”
“I’m so glad you know,” said Phil in cheerful tones. “I was told not to tell. I was told to keep it another secret; but if you found it out, or rather if you always knew about it, why, of course you and I can talk together about her. You don’t know how nice it will be to me to be able to talk to you about one of my secrets. My dearest friend secret, and the Betty secret, and the little house at the back of the garden secret I must never, never speak of; and the secret about my being a very, very strong boy – that I mustn’t talk about; but you and I can chatter about the lady of the forest, Rachel. Oh, what a comfort it is!”
“It will be a great comfort to me too,” answered Rachel. “Let’s begin at once. Tell me every single thing about her. What did she wear? How did she speak? Had she my ring on her finger?”
Phil smiled and launched forth into a long and minute narrative. Not a single detail would sharp little Rachel allow him to omit. Whenever his memory was in danger of flagging she prodded it with vehemence, until at last even her most rapacious longing was satisfied. When Phil had quite exhausted all his narrative she breathed a deep sigh and said again:
“I envy you, Phil. You have been inside her house and she has kissed you.”
“She was a very nice and kind lady,” concluded Phil, “and she was very good to me; but all the same, Rachel, I would rather see that other lady – the lady in green with the lovely face who comes with a gift.”
“Perhaps she’s only a myth,” said Rachel.
“Please, Rachel, don’t say so. I want the bag of gold so badly.”
Rachel stared and laughed.
“I never thought you were greedy, Phil,” she said. “I cannot think, what a little boy like you can want with a bag of gold.”
“That’s my secret,” said Phil, half-closing his eyes and again turning very pale. “A great many people would be happier if I had that bag of gold. Rachel,” he added, “I do trust I may one day see the lady. I went to look for her that day in the forest; I went miles and miles to find her, but I didn’t, and I was nearly drowned in a bog.”
“It is not a bit necessary to go into the forest to see her,” answered Rachel; “she might come to you here, in this very room. You know this is the very oldest part of the house. This part of Avonsyde is quite steeped in romance, and I dare say the lady has been here once or twice – that is, of course, if she isn’t a myth. There is an old diary of one of our ancestors in the library, and I have coaxed Aunt Griselda now and then to let me read in it. One day I read an account of the lady; it was then I found out about her green dress and her lovely face. The diary said she was ‘passing fair,’ and those who looked on her were beautiful ever afterward. She showed herself but seldom, but would come now and then for a brief half-minute of time to the fairest and the best and to those who were to die young.”
“Rachel,” said little Phil, “just before you came up that time I was lying with my eyes shut, and I was thinking of the beautiful lady, and I almost thought I saw her. I should be happy if she came to me.”