“I suppose Sweet William will be keeping Samhain that evening,” said Philomène, and her eyes grew wide with longing. “Oh, I do so wish I could go with him, and yet I don’t want to miss the White Létiche.”
“Well, be a good child then,” said Queen Mab, “and go to sleep, and I will see what I can do for you in the way of a dream, so that you may know how All Fairies is kept. White magic is not much talked about, but it has its uses.”
So Philomène slept, and in her dream she saw a wide, waste bog land, studded with numberless little pools, each a round, bright mirror framed in rushes, large enough to bathe the reflection of just one star, so that the bog was called the Bog of Stars. The fairies had already begun to assemble; elves and goblins, leprechauns, kobolds and dwarfs. There were so many little men dressed in green, and so many elves in cocoon silk, that from a distance Philomène failed to distinguish the twin sisters or Sweet William, but she recognised Master Mustardseed in his bright yellow coat, with a moss green cap upon his curls, for he, with Moth and Cobweb and Peasblossom, surrounded the fairy queen.
“How glad I am,” thought Philomène, “that they have allowed him to go back to Fairyland just for to-night. I am sure he would have hated to spend Samhain all by himself in his cage.”
In her dream he nodded to her, and she nodded back and smiled. At first the fairies danced, and mystic, fantastic dances they were; Philomène tried to follow their mazes till her eyes ached, so rapidly, so airily, did the groups dissolve and re-unite and dissolve again. And all the while sweet joy-peals chimed from unseen foxglove bells. But when the moon was near its setting, a herald blew upon a trumpet-daffodil, and after that there was silence, and Puck was bidden by the queen to read out the roll of the names of those who still kept their faith in the fairies.
“The number lessens,” said Oberon, “but there is still a goodly company left, and we have many secret believers.”
Then Puck began to read; name after name, name after name. Philomène was already growing confused and wearied when her own name rang out, clear and unexpected, “Philomène Isolde.”
She sat up in bed, dazed and wondering, but no one had called her. The firelight was playing upon Joan of Arc’s picture, and the red glare brightened and broadened among the branches of the oak-tree. Queen Mab lay curled up at the foot of the bed, but she seemed to be fast asleep, so Philomène turned on her side and fell fast asleep also, and this time her sleep was deep and sound, and uncoloured by dreams.
CHAPTER XX
IN WHICH THE HEROINE MAKES FRIENDS WITH A SPIRIT
“Nursie, do you believe in ghosts?” This question was put by Philomène as she sat at her dressing-table on the evening of the last of October, while Nurse brushed out her hair. She was almost well again now, though not quite.