“That would be lovely. I should like it beyond anything; but may Rachel come in too?”
“Rachel!” said the lady of the forest. She put her hand suddenly to her heart and stepped back a pace or two.
“Yes, my cousin, Rachel Lovel; she is standing up yonder, at the other side of the great oak tree. She wants to see you, and she is standing there, hoping, hoping. Rachel’s heart is very hungry to see you. When she speaks of you her eyes look starved. I don’t understand it, but I know Rachel loves you better than any one else in the world.”
“Impossible!” said the lady; “and yet—and yet—but I must not speak to her, child, nor she to me. It—oh! you agitate me. I am tired. I have had a long walk. I must not speak to little Rachel Lovel.”
“She knows that,” said Phil in a sorrowful voice; for the lady’s whiteness and agitation and distress filled him with the keenest sympathy. “Rachel knows that you and she may not speak, but let her look at you. Do! She will be so good; she will not break her word to you for the world.”
“I must not look on her face, child. There are limits—yes, there are limits, and beyond them I have not strength to venture. I have a secret, child; I have a holy of holies, and you are daring to open it wide. Oh! you have brought me agony, and I am very tired!”
“I know what secrets are,” said little Phil. “Oh! they are dreadful; they give great pain. I am sorry you are in such trouble, lady of the forest, and that I have caused it. I am sorry, too, that you cannot take a very little walk with me, for it would give Rachel such pleasure.”
“It would give Rachel pleasure?” repeated the lady. And now the color came back to her cheeks and the light to her eyes. “That makes all the difference. I will walk with you, Phil, and you shall take my hand and I will turn my face to the right. See: can Rachel see my face now?”
“Yes,” said Phil; “she will peep from behind the oak tree. How glad, how delighted she will be!”
The lady and Phil walked slowly together, hand in hand, for nearly half an hour; during all that time the lady did not utter a single word. When the walk came to an end she stooped to kiss Phil, and then, moved by an impulse which she could not restrain, she kissed her own hand fervently and waved it in the direction of the oak tree. A little childish hand fluttered in the breeze in return, and then the lady returned to the cottage and shut the door after her.