The Children of the Castle

“And I must hurry back,” said the fisher-lad. And almost before they could thank him or say good-night, he had disappeared again in the fast-gathering gloom.

It seemed to the children as Miss Hortensia kissed them that years had passed since they had seen her or their home.

“Haven’t you been dreadfully lonely without us all this time, dear cousin?” said Mavis.

“No, dears, not particularly so. It is a little later than usual, but when Winfried ran back to tell me he would bring you safe home, he said it might be so.”

“Was it only this afternoon we went?” said Ruby wonderingly.

Miss Hortensia looked at her anxiously.

“My dear, are you very tired? You seem half asleep.”

“I am rather sleepy,” said Ruby. “Please may we go to bed at once.”

“Certainly. I will tell Ulrica to take your supper upstairs. I do hope you haven’t caught cold. We must shut the door;” for they were standing all this time at the entrance under the archway. “Bertrand is behind you, I suppose?”

The little girls looked at each other.

“We have not seen him for ever so long,” they replied.

“He would not stay with me,” said Ruby.

“I thought perhaps we should find him here,” said Mavis.

Miss Hortensia looked more annoyed than anxious. “I suppose he will find his way back before long,” she said. “Bad pennies always turn up. But he is a most troublesome boy. I wish I had asked Winfried what to do – ”

“I don’t think he could have done anything,” said Mavis. “But – I’m sure Bertrand is safe. What’s the matter, Ulrica?”

For at that moment – they were on their way upstairs by this time – the young maid-servant came flying to meet them, her face pale, her eyes gleaming with fear.

“Oh,” she cried, “I am glad the young ladies are safe back. Martin has seen the blue light in the west turret; he was coming from the village a few minutes ago, and something made him look up. It is many and many a year since it has been seen, not since the young ladies were babies, and it always – ”

“Stop, Ulrica,” said Miss Hortensia sharply. “It is very wrong of you to come startling us in that wild way, and the young ladies so tired as you see. Call Bertha and Joseph. You take the children to their room, and see that they are warm and comfortable. I will myself go up to the west turret with the others and put a stop to these idle tales.”

But Ruby and Mavis pressed forward. A strange thought had struck them both.

“Oh cousin, let us go too,” they said. “We are not a bit frightened.”

So when old Joseph and Bertha had joined them, the whole party set off for the turret.

As they got near to the top of the stair, a slight sound made them all start.

“Hush!” said Miss Hortensia. They stood in perfect silence. It came again – a murmur of faint sobs and weeping. Ulrica grew whiter and whiter.

“I told you so,” she began, but no one listened. They all pressed on, Miss Hortensia the first.

When she opened the door it was, except for the lamp she held in her hand, upon total darkness. But in one corner was heard a sort of convulsive breathing, and then a voice.

“Who’s there? Who’s there? Oh the pain, the cruel pain!”

And there – lying on the same little couch-bed on which years and years ago Miss Hortensia had slept and dreamt of the lovely fairy lady – was Bertrand – weeping and moaning, utterly broken down.

But he turned away sullenly from Miss Hortensia when she leant over him in concern and pity; he would not look at Ruby either, and it was not till after some moments had passed that they at last heard him whisper.

“Mavis, I want to speak to Mavis. Go away everybody. I only want Mavis.”

They all looked at each other in mute astonishment. They thought he was wandering in his mind. But no; he kept to the same idea.

“Mavis,” he repeated, “come here and give me your hand. I can’t see you. Oh the pain, the pain!” Then Mavis came forward, and the others drew back in a group to the door.

“Try and find out what it is; surely it is not another naughty trick that he is playing,” said Miss Hortensia anxiously.

“No, no. I am sure it isn’t. Don’t be afraid, dear cousin,” said the little girl.

Chapter Twelve.

Opened Eyes

“The world that only thy spirit knows Is the fairest world of the three.”

    Three Worlds.

“Mavis,” whispered Bertrand, when he was sure the others were out of earshot, “you can understand; they would think I was mad. Listen – stoop down – it is she. You know who I mean. She made me see her, and oh, the pain is too awful. It isn’t only in my eyes, it goes down into my heart somehow. What shall I do? Can’t you make her come to take it away? I’ve been crying and crying to her, but she won’t.”

“Perhaps it is that you must bear it,” said Mavis. “Think that way, and see if that makes it any better.” The boy gasped, but did not speak. After a moment or two he went on again.

“I was in the caves behind the cottage. I ran in to get out of the storm, and because I didn’t want to go looking for you. I thought you were drowned, and I didn’t want to see your white face,” he shivered. “And I was peeping about in one of the caves when I fell; I don’t know how or where. I fell down, down, ever so far. I thought I was never going to stop, and then my breath went away, and I didn’t know anything till I found myself in another cave, all knocked about and bruised. I’m aching now all over, but I don’t mind that. And then, Mavis, she came and looked at me.”

“You saw her?” said Mavis.

“Yes – oh Mavis, she made my eyes go up to hers. And oh, the pain! She didn’t say anything except just ‘Bertrand.’ But I knew all she meant, better than by any speaking. And she was kind; she lifted me and carried me up here. And she put something on my leg; that was where I was most hurt, I think. Then she sat by me here, and she put it all into my mind, all the naughty things I’d ever done. Mavis, I didn’t know, I really didn’t, how bad I was. It came out of her eyes somehow, though I dared not look again; and when she went away, even though I think she kissed me, the pain got worse and worse. Oh Mavis, will it ever go? Will my eyes ever feel the same again?”

“No,” said Mavis, “I don’t think they’ll ever feel the same, for they’ll feel much, much better than they used to. The pain will go, though it may come back sometimes, to remind you.”

“I shan’t need reminding,” said the boy. “I can’t ever forget. I’m sure of that. I wish I could!”

“No, Bertrand, I don’t think you do wish that.”

He gave an impatient wriggle, but without speaking.

“Oh the pain,” he cried again in a moment or two, “and it did seem a little better.”

Miss Hortensia came forward.

“Mavis, my dear, what is it? Where is he hurt? And why did you hide yourself up here, Bertrand, instead of coming to me?”

Bertrand would not answer. He turned his face away again.