Late in the afternoon the wind had begun blowing, and by dark it was and howling and shaking the house as though it were a living thing, and were trying to snatch them all up and carry them off to an unknown place. Ruth had been reading a legend called “The Flying Dutchman,” and she whispered to Rose, as they waited for Marmie to take them up to bed, the story of the ship with its ghostly crew, that flew on the wings of a wild wind, bringing the tempest with it, to leave some unlucky to fight in vain against the strength of wind and wave.
“Out on the ocean it would go by, all black and elfy white,” Ruth said. “The poor sailors on the good ship would see it, and know they were . A dreadful man stood at the helm, leering, and the wind and howled ... like that ...” and she stopped, a little pale, as the house trembled at a new and stronger rush of the .
“Could the Flying Dutchman and his magic ship fly over the land to us here?” she asked Marmie, when they went to bed. But Marmie laughed, and told the two girls that even magic ships must stay on the water.
“It’s going to be a hard blow,” Marmie said, “but you mustn’t be frightened. The house is quite safe, and fortunately the boys have got the stock safely corralled. But they’ve had a job over it. Dad says he’s never had a harder time, and that he thought his horse and he would certainly be blown clean up to the moon before it was done.”
And blow it did all night. The girls kept waking up and hearing the sound of it, and their beds rocked, so that they thought they really might have blown out to sea, after all. Rose even got up to peer out of the window, but there, in the grey light, for the moon was shining through clouds, she saw the red roofs, snuggled under the hill; one of the cottonwood trees however, the biggest of all, lay flat.
When morning came the wind was gone, but of rain were falling.
So there was no going out to play. After lessons and dinner were over and Marmie had gone to see about putting things to rights, Rose and Ruth settled themselves in the living room. Rose was painting with her box of water colours, and Ruth sat looking into the fire, very quiet and rather , for she hadn’t slept much through the wild night.
Though it was early in the afternoon the room 127was pretty dark, for the skies were black and grey, and the pushed itself against the windows like a heavy curtain.
“What do you suppose I’m painting?” Rose asked her sister suddenly.
Ruth jumped. She must have been almost asleep.
“Are you going to be an artist when you grow up, Rose? If you are you can make pictures for my stories, because I’m going to be an author, and write wonderful books with fairies and heroines and wild robbers and splendid in them.”
“Yes, but what d’you think I’m painting now?” insisted Rose.
“A ship with the Flying Dutchman on it?”
“No.”
“Can I see and try to guess?”
“All right,” agreed Rose, not troubled by the suggestion that her painting might be difficult to identify.
So Ruth came and leaned over the artist’s shoulder, and looked at the drawing on the big sheet of paper.
In the background was a large dark green tree that arched splendidly over the top of the picture. On the ground were some flat-topped mushrooms, and seated on one of these was a little creature with a golden crown and flowing hair, dressed in a sort of rainbow coloured fuzzy looking 128garment, and carrying in one tiny hand a slender flower stalk topped by a white blossom.
Ruth with .
“It’s the best picture you’ve ever made, Rose!”
Rose looked at it .
“Isn’t it nice? I meant the dress to look like mist, but I couldn’t, so I changed it to a rainbow. Well, what is it?”
“A fairy.”
“Of course—but what fairy?”
Ruth gave a delighted . “Why, OUR Fairy, of course. Oh, I wonder if it looks like her.”
There came a tiny from somewhere near.
“So that’s what you think I look like,” remarked a chatty dewdrop-falling sort of voice.
Rose and Ruth whirled round and round like a couple of well tops. But nothing could they see except what was always to be seen, and in their excitement they didn’t even see that.
“Look, here I am, right beside my portrait,” laughed the voice.
Well, you can be sure they stared hard enough. Ruth thought she saw a slight glow, more like a light that was thinking of shining than one that had really begun its work. If you can imagine the shadow of a light, that is as like it as anything.“No, that’s not a very good picture of me,” the fairy said, evidently giving up the hope of making herself truly visible. “I’m not a fair fairy, not at all. That may account for the difficulty you have in seeing me. I’m the brunette of the family—and my edges are a trifle indeterminate—I never could see any reason for having an edge all round you. But never mind about me. What are we going to do, now I’m here? Shall we throw open that Magic Gate for another little adventure?”
Rose jumped up and down, stiff-legged with joy.
“What jolls! Oh, do take us to visit some little girl again.”
“Please,” begged Ruth, hugging herself breathless, as she did at times when stirred beyond control.
“I thought of taking you to see another child even lonelier than you two ever thought of being. She’s quite a way off—back in the seventeenth century, and in Devonshire, or Exmoor, if you prefer it—into the bargain. But we’ve a long rainy day before us.”
“Who is she, fairy?”
“Her name’s Lorna—Lorna Doone. I’ve told her to expect you, so perhaps we’d best be off at once.”
“Lorna,” gasped Ruth. “Oh, Rose, remember?”
Rose nodded. “We had her book last Christmas. Shall we see John Ridd, too?”
130“I shouldn’t wonder. And now give me your hands.”
Which of course they did, and had their little thrill of a fall as they shut their eyes, and opened them to find themselves beside a flowing , with green forest trees bending overhead.
“Rose, Ruth—oh, I’m glad to see you,” called a very sweet voice, and as they turned toward it they saw a pretty girl with a great wave of dark hair falling over her shoulders, running toward them down a little slope. She was dressed in a straight cut gown of green , with fine white chemisette and sleeves of sheerest lawn. Her great eyes shone with pleasure, and her red lips were parted in excitement.
“And we, too, Lorna—dear Lorna,” they called back. They ran to meet her, and the three of them clasped hands up the slope of soft grass, and then kissed rather shyly.
“Come to my . We will have a lovely day. I have received permission to play here till evening, and there is a little laid out for us—but come.”
As usual, Rose and Ruth found they were dressed in the same style as their small hostess. Very fine and pretty they all looked, and very happy they felt in the clear sun and shadow under the trees.
The bower was a lovely spot of twisted branches and work, all overgrown with vines and flowers. Inside, on a table made of a thick section 131of some forest tree, smoothed and mounted on a sturdy wooden pillar, were set various goodies—a small meat pie, a tiny roast bird, bread, a of milk and preserved fruits.
Merrily they sat down to the picnic.
“Nay, but the trouble I had to fetch enough here for the three of us,” Lorna told them. “I got one of the lads to carry the basket with the bread and milk and bird, and the rest I carried myself, waiting till there was none to see me go.”
“Suppose they came here,” Rose .
“They are most of them gone on a long ride,” Lorna returned, and she looked a little pale. Then her eyes filled with tears. “I fear they are gone on a bad errand,” she whispered.
Ruth threw affectionate arms about her, while Rose patted her shoulder.
“Never mind, Lorna dear. It is not your fault, and you are sweet and lovely. And perhaps you are mistaken this time.”
“When the Doones go riding harm is pretty sure to befall,” Lorna said, though she ceased to cry. “And now let us play.”
Play they did. Rose and Ruth taught their hostess several new games—games they played at home. One was tree-tag, and what a runner Lorna proved. With flying hair and laughing eyes she slipped beyond touch, rushing from tree to tree, uncatchable as a wood-sprite. How they laughed.
Time flew. Flew faster than they dreamed. Suddenly, as they sank in a shouting heap after 132a hop-skip-and-a-jump race, they heard a heavy step the by the brook, and the next instant a tall, dark man with gloomy and disturbed features stood before them.
Lorna sprang to her feet.
“How is this, Queen?” asked the man, roughly enough. “What little maids are these, and how came they here with you in the valley of the Doones?”
Lorna met the man’s eye highly, with no sign of fear. “These are my friends,” she said, “here under my protection. I know not how they came, but they mean no harm—surely I can be allowed a playmate once in a while. I will tell Sir Ensor if ye affright them—or harm them.”
“Well, come and tell him,” answered the man. “Come ye all,” and his fierce look swept the two other girls with a glance that sent a quick shiver through their , “and we shall see how Sir Ensor takes the matter.”
He turned as he finished and strode off through the brush. Lorna gave her friends a somewhat tremulous smile.
“Dear me,” she whispered, all her fine show of courage gone, “I hope no harm will come to you. But truly I think not. Sir Ensor is kind when he wills to be, and we have but played together. They will take you beyond the gate and set you down on the , and then you must find your way to some of the good folk of Exmoor. Perhaps”—she hesitated and then a sudden smile 133chased the fear from her face, leaving it clear and as a wild flower—“perhaps you will even make your way to the Ridds, and see that good boy, John, with his gentle voice and kind eyes. He came here once, long ago, in the earliest of spring when the snow still patched the ground here and there, though had begun to bloom in the forest. And I like him. I would like, too, to send him a word by you....” She stopped talking suddenly, into her bower, and in a corner, brought out a sheet of paper and a pen and ink. “Wait but a moment, I will write a few words to him and if you see him you will give him my letter. That will be good fun.”
Rose and Ruth thrilled with the excitement of it all. “I don’t care if they do set us down on the moor, Rose,” Ruth whispered. “It won’t be any wilder than the prairie, and we were never frightened there. But I wish we had our horses, and that Lorna could come with us.”............