Part 7 (1/2)

”Yes,” said Hugh, ”it's very nice _now_, but it wasn't very nice when I was all alone in the dark in that long pa.s.sage. As you seem to know all about everything, Jeanne, I suppose you know about that.”

He spoke rather, just a very little, grumpily, but Jeanne, rather to his surprise, did not laugh at him this time. Instead, she looked up in his face earnestly, with a strange deep look in her eyes.

”I think very often we have to find our way in the dark,” she said dreamily. ”I think I remember about that. But,” she went on, with a complete change of voice, her eyes dancing merrily as if they had never looked grave in their life, ”it's not dark now, Cheri, and it's going to be ever so bright. Just look at the lovely moon through the trees. Do let us go now. Gee-up, gee-up, crack your whip, Houpet, and make them gallop as fast as you can.”

Off they set--they went nice and fast certainly, but not so fast but that the children could admire the beautiful feathery foliage as they pa.s.sed. They drove through the forest--for the trees that Hugh had so admired were those of a forest--on and on, swiftly but yet smoothly; never in his life had Hugh felt any motion so delightful.

”_What_ a good coachman Houpet is!” exclaimed Hugh. ”I never should have thought he could drive so well. How does he know the road, Jeanne?”

”There isn't any road, so he doesn't need to know it,” said Jeanne.

”Look before you, Cheri. You see there is no road. It makes itself as we go, so we can't go wrong.”

Hugh looked straight before him. It was as Jeanne had said. The trees grew thick and close in front, only dividing--melting away like a mist--as the quaint little carriage approached them.

Hugh looked at them with fresh surprise.

”Are they not real trees?” he said.

”Of course they are,” said Jeanne. ”Now they're beginning to change; that shows we are getting to the middle of the forest. Look, look, Cheri!”

Hugh ”looked” with all his eyes. What Jeanne called ”changing” was a very wonderful process. The trees, which hitherto had been of a very bright, delicate green, began gradually to pale in colour, becoming first greenish-yellow, then canary colour, then down to the purest white. And from white they grew into silver, sparkling like innumerable diamonds, and then slowly altered into a sort of silver-grey, gradually rising into grey-blue, then into a more purple-blue, till they reached the richest corn-flower shade. Then began another series of lessening shades, which again, pa.s.sing through a boundary line of gold, rose by indescribable degrees to deep yet brilliant crimson. It would be impossible to name all the variations through which they pa.s.sed. I use the names of the colours and shades which are familiar to you, children, but the very naming any shade gives an unfair idea of the marvellous delicacy with which one tint melted into another,--as well try to divide and mark off the hues of a dove's breast, or of the sky at sunset. And all the time the trees themselves were of the same form and foliage as at first, the leaves--or fronds I feel inclined to call them, for they were more like very, very delicate ferns or ferny gra.s.s than leaves--with which each branch was luxuriantly clothed, seeming to bathe themselves in each new colour as the petals of a flower welcome a flood of brilliant suns.h.i.+ne.

”Oh, how pretty!” said Hugh, with a deep sigh of pleasure. ”It is like the lamps, only much prettier. I think, Jeanne, this must be the country of pretty colours.”

”This forest is called the Forest of the Rainbows. I know _that_,” said Jeanne. ”But I don't think they call this the country of pretty colours, Cheri. You see it is the country of so many pretty things. If we lived in it always, we should never see the end of the beautiful things there are. Only----”

”Only what?” asked Hugh.

”I don't think it would be a good plan to live in it _always_. Just sometimes is best, I think. Either the things wouldn't be so pretty, or our eyes wouldn't see them so well after a while. But see, Cheri, the trees are growing common-coloured again, and Houpet is stopping. We must have got to the end of the Forest of the Rainbows.”

”And where shall we be going to now?” asked Hugh. ”Must we get out, do you think, Jeanne? Oh, listen, I hear the sound of water! Do you hear it, Jeanne? There must be a river near here. I wish the moonlight was a little brighter. Now that the trees don't s.h.i.+ne, it seems quite dull.

But oh, how plainly I hear the water. Listen, Jeanne, don't you hear it too?”

”Yes,” said Jeanne. ”It must be----” but before she had time to say more they suddenly came out of the enchanted forest; in an instant every trace of the feathery trees had disappeared. Houpet pulled up his steeds, the two chickens got down from behind, and stood one on each side of the carriage door, waiting apparently for their master and mistress to descend. And plainer and nearer than before came the sound of fast-rus.h.i.+ng water.

”You see we are to get down,” said Hugh.

”Yes,” said Jeanne again, looking round her a little timidly. ”Cheri, do you know, I feel just a very, very little bit frightened. It is such a queer place, and I don't know what we should do. Don't you think we'd better ask Houpet to take us back again?”

”Oh no,” said Hugh. ”I'm sure we'll be all right. You said you wanted to have some fun, Jeanne, and you seemed to know all about it. You needn't be frightened with _me_, Jeanne.”

”No, of course not,” said Jeanne, quite brightly again; ”but let us stand up a minute, Hugh, before we get out of the carriage, and look all about us. _Isn't_ it a queer place?”

”It” was a wide, far-stretching plain, over which the moonlight shone softly. Far or near not a shrub or tree was to be seen, yet it was not like a desert, for the ground was entirely covered with most beautiful moss, so fresh and green, even by the moonlight, that it was difficult to believe the hot suns.h.i.+ne had ever glared upon it. And here and there, all over this great plain--all over it, at least, as far as the children could see--rose suddenly from the ground innumerable jets of water, not so much like fountains as like little waterfalls turned the wrong way; they rushed upwards with such surprising force and noise, and fell to the earth again in numberless tiny threads much more gently and softly than they left it.

”It seems as if somebody must be shooting them up with a gun, doesn't it?” said Hugh. ”I never saw such queer fountains.”

”Let's go and look at them close,” said Jeanne, preparing to get down.