Rachel had a very restless fit on. She was a child full of impulses, with spirits wildly high one day and proportionately depressed the next; but the restlessness of her present condition did not resemble the capricious and ever-changing moods which usually visited her. The uneasy spirit which prevented her taking kindly to her lessons, which took the charm from her play-hours and the pleasure even from Kitty’s society, had lasted now for months; it had its date from a certain lovely summer’s evening. Had Aunt Griselda and Aunt Katharine known more about what their little niece did on that occasion, they might have attributed her altered mood to an over-long ride and to some physical weakness.
But Rachel was wonderfully strong; her cheeks bloomed; her dark eyes sparkled; and the old ladies were interested just now in some one whom they considered far more important than Rachel. So the little girl neglected her lessons without getting into any very serious scrapes, and more than once rode alone into the forest on Surefoot without being reprimanded. Rachel would steal away from Kitty and from little Phil, and would imperiously order Robert to saddle her pony and to ride with her just a very little way into the forest; but then the groom was not only allowed, but requested to turn off in another direction, and Rachel would gallop as fast as possible past Rufus’ Stone, and on as far as that lovely glade where she had sat and gathered bluebells in the summer. She always dismounted from Surefoot here, and standing with her back to an old oak tree, waited with intense expectancy. She never went further than the oak tree; she never went down a narrow path which led to a certain cottage clothed completely in green; but she waited, with her hands clasped and her eyes fixed eagerly on the distant vista of forest trees. Sometimes her eyes would sparkle, and she would clap her hands joyfully and run to meet a prim-looking old woman who came forward through the shades to meet her. Sometimes she returned home without seeing anybody, and on these occasions she was apt to be morose—snappish to Kitty, rude to Mrs. Lovel and Phil, and, in short, disagreeable to every one, except perhaps her gentle Aunt Katharine.
The old ladies would vaguely wonder what ailed the child, and Miss Griselda would hope she was not going to be famous for the Lovel temper; but as their minds were very full of other things they did not really investigate matters.
One frosty day about the middle of November, when Phil and his mother had been quite four months at Avonsyde, Rachel started off earlier than usual for one of her long rides. The forest was full of a wonderful mystical sort of beauty at all times and seasons, and now, with the hoar-frost sparkling on the grass, with the sun shining brightly, and with many of the autumn tints still lingering on the trees, it seemed almost as delightful a place to Rachel as when clothed in its full summer glory. The little brown-coated winter birds chirped cozily among the branches of the trees, and hundreds of squirrels in a wealth of winter furs bounded from bough to bough. Rachel as usual dismissed her faithful attendant, Robert, and galloping to her accustomed trysting-place, waited eagerly for what might befall.
On this particular day she was not doomed to disappointment. The old servant was soon seen approaching. Rachel ran to her, clasped her hands round her arm, and raising her lips to her face, kissed her affectionately.
“Ah, you are a good Nancy to-day!” she exclaimed. “I was here on Saturday and here on Wednesday, and you never came. It was very unkind of you. I got so tired of standing by the oak tree and waiting. Well, Nancy, is the lady quite well to-day?”
“Middling, dearie; middling she ever is and will be until she claims her own again.”
“Oh, you mysterious old woman! You are trying to make me desperately curious, but I don’t believe there is anything in your talk. You worry me to keep a tremendous secret, and there’s nothing in it, after all. Oh, of course I’m keeping your secret; you needn’t pretend to be so frightened. And when am I to see the lady of the forest, Nancy?”
“Now, my dear, haven’t I told you until I’m tired? You’re to see her come your thirteenth birthday, love. The day you are thirteen you’ll see her, and not an hour sooner.”
Rachel stamped her foot angrily.
“I shan’t have a birthday till the beginning of May!” she said. “It’s a shame; it’s a perfect, perfect shame!”
Old Nancy pushed back a rebellious curl from the child’s bright head.
“Don’t you fret, my pretty,” she said tenderly. “The lady wants to see you a deal—a sight more than you want to see her. The lady has passed through many troubles, and not the least is the waiting to see your pretty face.”
Rachel began eagerly to unbutton her habit, and taking from a little pocket just inside its lining a tiny bag, she pulled out a small ring and thrust it into Nancy’s hand.
“There,” she said, “that’s the most precious thing I have, and I give it to her. It’s all gold, and isn’t that a beautiful pearl? I used to wear it on my finger when I wanted to be very grand, but I’d rather she had it. Perhaps she won’t feel so lonely when she wears it, for she will remember that it was given to her by a little girl who is so sorry for her, and who loves her—yes, isn’t it queer?—although we have never met. You know, Nancy,” continued Rachel, “I can quite sympathize with lonely people, for to a certain extent I know what it means. I miss my mother so very much. When I’m grown up, Nancy, I’m going all round the wide world looking for her.”
“Bless you, darling!” said old Nancy. “Yes, I’ll give the ring and your pretty message. And now, love, tell me, how is the little gentleman getting on? Have the old ladies made him their heir yet?”
“Not quite yet, Nancy; but they like him—we all like him. He is a dear little boy, and Aunt Griselda and Aunt Katharine make such a fuss about him. Do you know that a week ago I saw Aunt Griselda actually put her arms about his neck and kiss him! She kissed him three or four times. Wasn’t it wonderful? for she’s such a cold person. I think people can’t help being fond of little Phil, though he’s not exactly pretty. I heard Aunt Griselda and Aunt Katharine say that when they do really feel certain that he is the right heir they are going to have a great, tremendous party, and they will present him to every one as the heir of Avonsyde, and then immediately afterward he is to be sent to a preparatory school for Eton. Oh, won’t Kitty cry when he goes away!”
“Do you make out that the ladies will soon come to a decision, Miss Rachel?” inquired the old servant in a dubious tone. “It’s a wonderful important matter—choosing an heir. Are they likely to settle it all in a hurry?”
Rachel laughed.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Phil has been with us for four months now; they haven’t been in such a hurry. I do hope it will be soon, for I want the party. Now, good-by, Nancy; I’ll come to see you before long again. Be sure you give my ring to the lady of the forest.”
“One moment, missy,” said old Nancy, stretching out her hand and drawing the young girl back to her side. “One moment, Miss Rachel Lovel; I’m fain to see that little boy. Could you manage to bring him this way, missy? Could you manage it without nobody finding out? Is he the kind of little fellow who wouldn’t tell if you asked him earnest, most earnest, not? I’d like to see him and the lady; but no matter, Miss Rachel, I misdoubt me that you could manage a clever thing like that.”
“Oh, couldn’t I?” said Rachel, her eyes sparkling. “Why, I’d like it of all things! I can easily coax Phil to come here, for he’s perfectly wild about squirrels and animals of all kinds, and I never saw such a lot of squirrels as there are in the oaks round here. Phil has got a pony too, and he shall come for a ride with me, and Robert of course can come to take care of us. Oh, I’ll manage it; but I didn’t know you were such a curious woman, Nancy.”
The sun was already showing signs of taking its departure, and Rachel did not dare to prolong her interview another moment.
Mrs. Lovel was becoming reconciled to her tower chamber. Ghostly as it appeared, no ghosts had visited her there; on the contrary, she had slept soundly; and as the days wore on and she found the quiet, simple life at Avonsyde soothing to her perturbed nerves and restoring vigor to her somewhat feeble frame, she came to the conclusion that the tower was a particularly healthy place to sleep in, and that some of the superabundant vigor which characterized Miss Griselda must be owing to the splendid air which night after night she inhaled in her lofty chamber.
As soon as ever this idea took possession of Mrs. Lovel’s mind, she would not have changed her ancient tower bedroom for the most modern and luxurious which Avonsyde could offer.
A thought—a pleasing thought—came ever and anon to the poor lady as she watched her boy’s peaceful face when he lay asleep on his little white bed.
“Suppose the healthy air of the tower makes Philip strong?”
Philip had been for some months at Avonsyde, and no one yet had found out that he possessed any special delicacy. At first the pallor of his little face had been commented on; but people soon got accustomed to this, and the boy was so merry, so good-humored, so brave, that those who watched him would have found it difficult to associate any special weakness with such lithe and agile movements, with so gay a spirit, with so merry and ringing a laugh. Miss Griselda had begun by declaring, both in her sister’s presence and also in that of Philip’s mother, that no decisive step could be taken until a doctor had thoroughly examined the boy; but of late she had ceased to speak of any doctor, and had nodded her head in an approving manner when Phil had sung out to her from the tops of the tallest trees, or had galloped panting and laughing to her side on his rough forest pony. Miss Katharine said many times to her sister:
“Surely we need make no delay. There seems no doubt that the boy can absolutely trace his succession from Rupert Lovel. Why should we waste money, Griselda, in inserting that advertisement any more in the newspapers when we have found our heir?”
Miss Lovel, however, was not to be unduly hurried in so momentous a matter.
“We cannot be too careful, Katharine. Yes, we will insert the advertisement once or twice again. It was only yesterday I heard from Mr. Baring that some fresh claimants are writing to him through their lawyers. There is no hurry whatever, and we cannot be too careful.”
Perhaps Miss Katharine took it rather too much as a matter of course that Phil could trace his descent, without flaw, from the Rupert Lovel who had quarreled with his father long ago. She was so accustomed to hearing Mrs. Lovel say, “I have got all the proofs; I can trace the descent without a single break for you at any time,” that she began to believe she had gone through the genealogical tree, and had seen with her own eyes that the child was the lineal descendant of the elder branch of her house.
Miss Griselda was far sharper than her sister. Miss Griselda knew perfectly that Phil’s descent was not yet proved, but, unlike most old ladies in her position, she disliked genealogy. She said openly that it puzzled her, and on one occasion when Mrs. Lovel, in her half-timid, half-fretful voice, said, “Shall I bring you the proofs of Phil’s descent now? Are you at leisure to look into the matter to-day?” Miss Griselda replied somewhat sharply:
“I hate genealogical trees. Katharine can understand them, but I can’t. I don’t suppose, Mrs. Lovel, you would be so utterly devoid of all sense as to bring the boy here and to establish yourself in our house without having incontestable proofs that he is what you represent him to be. I take it for granted that Phil is a direct descendant of Rupert Lovel, but I shall certainly not make him our heir until more competent eyes than mine examine your proofs. At present I am more interested in watching Phil’s health, for if he was fifty times descended from our ancestor and was weakly he should not inherit Avonsyde. When I have quite made up my mind that your boy is strong I will ask Mr. Baring, our business man, to come to Avonsyde and go into the proofs; then, all being satisfactory, the boy shall be announced as our heir, and we will of course undertake his maintenance and education from that moment.”
Mrs. Lovel breathed a slight sigh of relief.
“Having proclaimed Phil as your heir, nothing would induce you to revoke your decision afterward?” she asked nervously.
“Certainly not. What a strange speech to make! The boy being strong, being the right age, and being an undoubted descendant of our house, what more could we want? Rest assured, Mrs. Lovel, that when your boy is proclaimed heir of Avonsyde, were fifty other claimants to come forward we should not even listen to their plea.”
A faint pink, born of intense gratification, colored Mrs. Level’s pale cheeks.
“I should like to be bold enough to ask you another question,” she said.
Miss Griselda smiled in a freezing manner.
“Ask me what you please,” she answered. “You must forgive my saying that I have already observed how singularly restless and uncomfortable you are. I think I can guess what is the matter. You are intensely curious about us and our money. Oh, no, I am not at all offended. Pray ask what you want to know.”
Mrs. Lovel, though a timid, was a rather obtuse person, and she was not crushed by Miss Griselda’s withering sarcasm. Clearing her throat and pausing slightly before bringing out her words, she continued:
“I have wondered—I could not help wondering—what you would do with your property if no heir turned up.”
This speech, which was as audacious as it was unexpected, caused Miss Lovel to raise her finely marked eyebrows with some scorn.
“Your question is indiscreet,” she said; “but, as it happens, I do not mind answering it. Did no true heir appear for Avonsyde during our lifetime the place would be inherited by our nieces, Rachel and Kitty Lovel; but they would only have a life-interest in the property, and would be solemnly bound over to continue our search for the missing heir.”
“Rachel and Kitty will, then, be disappointed when Phil is announced as your representative,” said Mrs. Lovel, rising with sudden alacrity to her feet. “Thank you so much for your valuable information, Miss Lovel. You may be quite certain that I shall regard what you have been good enough to confide to me as absolutely confidential.”
“I have told you nothing that everybody doesn’t know,” answered Miss Griselda. “I never reveal secrets, and least of all to those who are not related to us. Talk to any one you please about what I have said to you. As to my brother’s children, I am thankful to say they have not yet attained an age when the absence or the presence of money is of the slightest moment to them. One word more, Mrs. Lovel, before we change our conversation. I have noticed without your telling me that you are extremely poor.”
Mrs. Lovel interrupted with a great sigh.
“Oh!” she said, throwing up her hands and speaking with marked emphasis, “I have known the sore pangs of poverty—of course, it has been genteel poverty. I could never forget Phil’s birth nor what I owed to my poor dear husband’s position, and of course I made a great effort to descend to nothing menial; but, yes, I have been poor.”
“You need not excite yourself about the past. When Phil’s identity is established and his position assured, it is the intention of my sister and myself to settle upon you for your life an income of £500 a year. Pray don’t thank me; we do it for our own sakes, as of course Phil’s mother has a certain position to keep up. We should recommend you to settle somewhere near your boy. What did you say? No, no; that cannot be. When everything is settled we must request you to remove to your own home.”
For Mrs. Lovel had interrupted with the almost incoherent words:
“Am I not to live at Avonsyde always?”
Rachel did not forget her promise to old Nancy. She had never taken so much pains to cultivate Phil’s acquaintance as Kitty had done. She had certainly joined in the almost universal chorus that he was a nice and lovable little boy, but she had not greatly troubled her head about his pursuits or his pleasures. She was too much taken up with the wonderful secret which she possessed with regard to the real existence of the lady of the forest. But now that the said lady seemed to wish to see Phil, and now that she, Rachel, had almost bound herself to bring Phil to the trysting-place in the forest, she began to regard him with new interest. Kitty and Phil had long ere this established a world of their own—a world peopled by caterpillars of enormous size, by the most sagacious spiders that were ever known to exist, by beetles of rare brilliancy, by birds, by squirrels—in short, by the numerous creature-life of the great forest; and last, but not least, by the fairies and gnomes which were supposed to haunt its dells. Kitty could tell many stories of forest adventures, of the wonderful and terrible bogs on which the luckless traveler alighted unawares, and from which, unless instant help arrived, he could never hope to extricate himself. She spoke about the malicious little Jack-o’-lanterns which were supposed to allure the unwary into these destructive places, and Phil, with a most vivid imagination of his own, loved to lie at her feet and embellish her tales with numerous inventions. The two children were scarcely ever apart, and doubtless one reason why Rachel thought so much of her secret was because Kitty was no longer her undivided companion.
Now, however, she must seek out Kitty and Phil, and enter into their pursuits and take a share in their interests if she hoped to induce Phil to accompany her into the forest. Accordingly one day, with a book in her hand, she sauntered out into a very sunny part of the grounds. Phil, basking in the rays of the most brilliant sunshine, had thrown himself at the foot of an old sun-dial; Kitty had climbed into the boughs of a small bare tree which stood near, and as usual the two were chatting eagerly. Rachel, with her head full of the lady of the forest, came up, to hear Kitty and Phil discussing this very personage.
“She’s all in green,” said Kitty. “Her dress is greener than the trees and her face is most beautiful, and her hair is gold and——”
“No,” interrupted Rachel; “she’s in gray; and her hair is not gold—it is dark.”
Then she colored high and bit her lips with vexation, for she felt that in her eagerness she had given a clew to her dear real lady’s identity.
Kitty raised her eyebrows in great surprise.
“Why, Rachel,” she said, “it was you who told me she was in green. How very queer and disagreeable of you to make her so ugly and uninteresting. People who wear gray are most uninteresting. You forget, Rachel, our lady is in green—greener than the grass. I do wish you would tell Phil all about her; you can describe her so much better than I can.”
“She has a face which is almost too lovely,” continued Rachel, taking up the cue on the instant and speaking with great animation. “She lives in the deepest shades of the forest, and she appears never, never, except to those who belong to the forest. Those families who have belonged to the New Forest for hundreds of years have seen her, but outsiders never do. When she does appear she comes with a gift in her hand. Do you know what it is?”
“No,” said Phil, raising himself on his elbow and looking with great intentness at Rachel. “I know what I would wish her to give me—that is, if she ever came to see me; but of course I cannot possibly say what gifts she brings.”
“Those who have seen her,” said Rachel, “catch just a shadow of the reflection of her lovely face, and they never lose it—never! Some ladies of our house saw her, and their portraits are in our portrait-gallery, and they are much more beautiful than any of the other Lovels. She does not give beauty of feature—it is of expression; and such a brightness shines from her. Yes, her gift is the gift of beauty; and I do wish, and so does Kitty, that we could see her.”
Phil smiled a little scornfully.
“Is that all she gives?” he said. “That wouldn’t be much to me. I mean if I saw her I know what I’d ask. I’d say, ‘I am a boy, and beauty isn’t of much use to a boy; so please give me instead—money!’”
“Oh, Phil!” exclaimed both the little girls.
“She wouldn’t come to you,” said Kitty in a mournful tone. “She wouldn’t look at any one so avaricious.”
“Besides, Phil,” continued Rachel, “when Avonsyde is yours you’ll be a rich man; and I don’t think,” she added, “that you are quite right when you say that beauty is of no use to a boy; for if you have the kind of beauty the lady gives, it is like a great power, and you can move people and turn them as you will; and of course you can use it for good, Phil.”
“All right,” said Phil, “but I’d rather have money; for if I had money I’d give it to mother, and then I needn’t be heir of Avonsyde, and—and—oh, I mustn’t say! Kitty, I do wish we could go to Southampton again soon. I want to go there on most particular business. Do you think Aunt Grizel will take us before Christmas?”
“Is it about the letter?” asked Kitty. “But you couldn’t have had an answer yet, Phil. There is no use in your going to Southampton before an answer can have arrived.”
“I suppose not,” said Phil in a gloomy voice. “It’s a long, long time to wait, though.”
“What are you waiting for?” asked Rachel.
Phil raised very mournful eyes to her face.
“You have a look of him,” he said. “Oh, how I hate being heir of Avonsyde! I wouldn’t be it for all the world but for mother. Kitty, shall we go into the forest and look for beetles?”
“I’ll come with you,” said Rachel. “You two are always together and I’m out in the cold, and I don’t mean to be in the cold any longer. I may come with you both, may I not?”
Kitty smiled radiantly, Phil linked his little brown hand inside Rachel’s arm, and the three set off.
No little girl could make herself more fascinating than Rachel when she pleased. She developed on the instant a most astonishing knowledge of beetles and spiders; she drew on her imagination for her facts, and deceived Kitty, but not Phil. Phil was a born little naturalist, and in consequence he only favored his elder cousin with a shrewd and comical look, and did not trouble himself even to negative her daring assertions. Seeing that she made no way in this direction, Rachel started a theme about which she possessed abundant knowledge. The New Forest had been more or less her nursery; she knew its haunts well; she knew where to look for the earliest primroses, the first violets, and also the very latest autumn flowers; she knew where the holly berries were reddest, where the robins had their nests, and where the squirrels were most abundant; and Phil, recognizing the tone of true knowledge, listened first with respect, then with interest, then with enthusiasm. Oh, yes, they must go to that dell; they must visit that sunny bank. Before Rachel and her sister and cousin came home that day they had planned an excursion which surely must give the mysterious lady of the forest that peep at Phil which she so earnestly desired. Rachel was sorry to be obliged to include Kitty in the party, for Kitty had not been asked to pass in review by old Nancy. Phil was the one whom Nancy and the lady wished to see just once with their own eyes: Phil, who was to be heir of Avonsyde and who didn’t like it. Rachel went to bed quite jubilant, for she would have done anything to please the unknown lady who had won her capricious little heart. She did not guess that anything would occur to spoil her plans, and in consequence slept very peacefully.
Phil had been much excited by Rachel’s words. He was a very imaginative child, and though he did not believe in ghosts, yet he was certainly impressed by what both the little girls had told him of the lady of the forest. He quite believed in this lady, and did not care to inquire too closely whether she was fairy or mortal. She appeared at rare intervals to the sons and daughters of the house of Lovel, and when she did she came with a gift. Phil did not altogether believe that this lovely, graceful, and gracious lady would be so obdurate as only to bestow an unvalued gift of beauty. He thought that if he were lucky enough to see her he might so intercede with her that she would give him a bag of gold instead. He need keep no secrets from her, for if she was a fairy she must know them already; and he might tell her all about his difficulties, and how his small heart was torn with great love for Rupert and great love for his mother. He might tell the lady of the forest how very little he cared for Avonsyde, except as a possible future home for his gay and brave Cousin Rupert, and he might ask her to give him the bag of precious gold to satisfy his mother and keep her from starving. Phil was dreadfully oppressed with all the secrets he had to keep. Happy as he was at Avonsyde, there were so many, many things he must not talk about. He must never mention Rupert, nor Gabrielle, nor Peggy; he must never breathe the name of Belmont nor say a word about his old nurse Betty. All the delightful times he had spent with his Australian cousins must be as though they had never been. He must not tell about the delicious hours he and Betty had spent together in the little cottage behind the garden when his mother had been away in Melbourne. He must not speak about the excursions that Rupert had taken with him. A veil, a close veil, must be spread over all the past, and the worst of it was that he knew the reason why. His mother wanted him to get what Rupert would have been so much more fitted for. Well! well! He loved his mother and he could not break her heart, so he kept all these little longings and desires to himself, and only half let out his secrets a dozen times a day. On one point, however, he was firm and stanch as a little Spartan: he never breathed a sigh nor uttered a groan which could be construed into even the semblance of physical pain.
When he felt quite exhausted, so tired that it was an effort to move, he would spring up again at Kitty’s least word and, with the drops on his little brow, climb to the top of that straight, tall tree once more and hide his face at last in the friendly sheltering leaves until he got back his panting breath. The splendid air of Avonsyde undoubtedly strengthened him, but the strain of always appearing bright and well was sometimes almost too much, and he wondered how long he could go on pretending to be quite the strongest little boy in the world. He fancied now how nice it would be to tell the kind lady of the forest how weak he really was; how his heart often beat almost to suffocation; what cruel pain came suddenly to stab and torture him. Oh! he could show her plainly that money was the gift for him, and that Rupert, who was so valiant, so strong, so splendid, was the only right heir to the old place.
Phil greatly enjoyed his tower bedroom. Not a particle of the nervousness which made his mother uneasy assailed him. The only thing he did regret was that he could not sleep quite at the very top of the tower, in those attic rooms inhabited by Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine. When some of those bad attacks of pain and breathlessness assailed him, he liked, notwithstanding the exertion, to creep up and up those winding stone stairs, for he knew that when he got to the top and had attained his refuge he could really rest; he might throw off all the Spartan and be a little human boy who could moan and sigh and even shed a few secret tears for the gallant Rupert whom he loved. Phil had got into a habit of not even telling his mother of those queer attacks of weakness and breathlessness which came over him. Nothing annoyed and distressed her so much as to hear of them, and little Phil was by degrees beginning to feel a sort of protective love toward the rather weak woman: their positions were being unconsciously reversed. Mrs. Lovel seldom came to the tower bedroom in the day-time. Under the pretext that the stairs wearied her, she had begged to be allowed to have a dressing-room in a more modern part of the house, so Phil could be quite alone and undisturbed when he chose to visit his room. One of Miss Griselda’s excellent rules for children was that they must retire early to bed. Phil, in Australia, had sat up far later than was good for him, but now at Avonsyde he and Kitty were always expected to have entered the land of dreams not later than eight o’clock in the evening. Mrs. Lovel seldom came upstairs before midnight, and in consequence Phil spent several hours alone every night in his quaint bedroom. He was often not at all sleepy, and on these occasions he would open one of the tiny deep-set windows, and look out into the night and listen to the hootings of some owls which had long ago made a home for themselves in a portion of the old tower. On other occasions he would amuse himself with one of Kitty’s story-books, or again he would arrange some very precious little collections of wild birds’ eggs and other forest treasures.
On this particular night, after Rachel’s and Kitty’s conversation, he was more than usually wakeful. He got into bed, for Aunt Griselda told him to be sure to undress and go to sleep as quickly as possible; but finding sleep very far away from his wakeful eyes he got up, and, after the fashion of a restless little boy, began to perambulate the room and to try to discover anything of interest to divert his attention. A very old horse-hair trunk of his mother’s stood in one corner of the room; it had never been unpacked, for it was only supposed to contain books and some household treasures not immediately required by Mrs. Lovel. Phil had once or twice coaxed his mother to unpack the old trunk, for among the books was his pet “Robinson Crusoe.” There was also an old box of paints which Rupert had given him, and a queer, old-fashioned cup, made of horn, which Rupert and he always took with them when they went for a day’s excursion into any of the neighboring forests. Phil saw now, to his great delight, that the key was in the lock of the old trunk, and it occurred to him that he could pass an agreeable hour rummaging among its contents for his beloved “Robinson Crusoe” and his old horn cup. He accordingly set a candlestick on the floor, and opening the trunk knelt down by it and began to forage. He worked hard, and the exertion tired him and brought on an attack of breathlessness; but he was much interested in the sight of many old home treasures and had no idea how time was flying. He could not find either his “Robinson Crusoe” or his horn cup, but he came across another treasure wrapped up in an old piece of flannel which gave him intense delight. This was no other than a silver tankard of quaint device and very Old-World pattern, with a coat of arms and the words “Tyde what may” inscribed on one side. Phil knew the tankard well, and raising it to his lips he kissed it tenderly.
“Why, this belongs to Uncle Rupert and to Belmont!” he exclaimed. “The very same dear old tankard which Gabrielle is so proud of. I’ve seen it dozens of times. Well, I never thought Uncle Rupert would have given this dear old tankard to mother. How kind of him! I wonder mother never spoke of it. Oh, dear, what stories Gabrielle has told me about it! She used to call it a magical tankard and said it had a history. Mother must have quite forgotten she had it in the old trunk. How delighted Rachel and Kitty will be when I show it to them to-morrow.”
Phil was so excited over his discovery that he became instantly careless as to finding either his “Robinson Crusoe” or his horn cup, and pushing the rest of contents of the trunk back into their place and turning the lock, he crept into bed, carrying the beloved tankard with him. When his mother came upstairs presently she found the boy fast asleep, and little guessed what treasure he clasped in his arms.
It is true that little Phil had entered the land of dreams; it is also true that in that enchanted land he went through experiences so delightful, through adventures so thrilling, that when in the dull gray November morning he awoke to listen to his mother’s monotonous breathing, he simply could do nothing but step out of bed and determine to follow his dreams if necessary to the end of the world. The light had scarcely come. He would dress himself hastily and, taking the enchanted tankard with him, go into the forest all alone, in the hopes of meeting the beautiful lady who came with a gift.
Mrs. Lovel slept very soundly, and Phil did not disturb her when he opened the ponderous oak door of his bedroom, and clasping the tankard tightly in both hands went downstairs and out. It was very, very early, for Phil had mistaken the shining of the moon for the first light of day. Not a soul was up at Avonsyde, but the little boy easily found a means of exit, and in a few moments was running quickly down the straight avenue which led into the forest. He was intensely happy and excited, for the fragrance of his delightful dreams was still surrounding him, and he felt confident that if he only ran far enough he must find that wonderful lady whose dress was greener than the trees and whose face was so radiantly beautiful. The morning was damp and gloomy, for the moon set very soon after Phil started on his walk, and the sun had no idea of getting up for another couple of hours. The forest, which looked so pleasant and cheery by day, was now all that was dark and dismal; so of course the first thing that happened to poor little Phil was completely to lose his way.
He possessed a very high spirit, and such small disadvantages as stumbling in the dark and tearing himself with unseen briers, and altogether becoming a sadly chilled and damp little boy, could not quench the ardent hope which impelled him to go forward. He pushed on bravely, having a kind of confidence that the further he got from Avonsyde the more likely he was to meet the lady. Presently the darkness gave place to a gray, dim light, and then, in an incredibly short space of time, the little boy found himself surrounded by a delicious golden atmosphere. The sun climbed up into the heavens; the mist vanished; daylight and sunlight had come. Phil took off his cap, and leaning against a tree laughed with pleasure. It wanted three weeks to Christmas; but what a lovely morning, and how the sun glittered and sparkled on the frosty ground! Some shy robin-redbreasts hopped about and twittered gleefully; the squirrels were intensely busy cracking their breakfast-nuts; and Phil, raising his eyes to watch them, discovered that he was hungry. His hunger he could not gratify, but the thirst which also assailed him could be easily assuaged, for a brook babbled noisily not many feet away. Phil ran to it, and dipping his tankard into the water took a long draught. He had not an idea where he was, but with the sun shining and the birds singing no part of the forest could be lonely, and he tripped on in gay spirits, hoping to see the lady with the green dress coming to meet him through the trees. He had listened to many stories about the forest lady from Kitty. She appeared very, very seldom to any one, but when she did come she chose a solitary place and moment, for it was one of her unbroken rules never to reveal herself to two people together. Phil, remembering this peculiarity of the beautiful lady, took care to avoid the high-road and to plunge deeper and deeper into the most shady recesses and the most infrequented paths. As he walked on, whether from exhaustion or from hunger, or from an under-current of strong excitement, he became really a little feverish; his heart beat a great deal too fast, and his imagination was roused to an abnormal extent. He knew that he had lost his way, but as the hours went on he became more and more convinced that he would find the lady, and of course when he saw her and looked in her face his troubles would be ended. He would pour out all his cares and all his longings into the ears of this wonderful being. She would soothe him; she would pity him; and, above all things, she would give him that golden store which would make his mother contented and happy.
“Perhaps she will carry me home too,” thought little Phil, “for though I am always making believe to be well, I am not really a strong boy, and I am very tired now.”
The hours went on, the daylight grew brighter, and then came an unexpected change. The sunny morning was treacherous, after all; dark clouds approached from the north; they covered the smiling and sunny sky, and then a cold rain which was half-sleet began to fall mercilessly. Phil had of course not dreamed of providing himself with a great-coat, and though at first the trees supplied him with a certain amount of shelter, their branches, which were mostly bare, were soon drenched, and the little boy was wet through. He had climbed to the top of a rising knoll, and looking down through the driving rain he heard a stream brawling loudly about forty feet below. He fancied that if he got on lower ground he might find shelter, so he ran as quickly as he could in the direction of the hurrying water. Oh, horror! what had happened to him? What was this? The ground shook under his little footsteps. When he tried to step either backward or forward he sank. Phil caught his breath, laughed a little because he did not want to cry, and said aloud:
“Kitty is quite right; there are bogs in the forest, and I’m in one.”
He was a very brave child, and even his present desperate situation did not utterly daunt him.
“Now I’m in real danger,” he said aloud. “In some ways it’s rather nice to be in real danger. Rupert and I used often to talk about it and wonder what we’d do, and Rupert always said: ‘Phil, be sure when the time comes that you don’t lose your presence of mind.’ Well, the time has come now, and I must try to be very cool. When I stay perfectly still I find that I don’t sink—at least very little. Oh, how tired I am! I wish some one would come. I wish the rain would stop. I know I’ll fall presently, for I’m so fearfully tired. I wish the lady would come—I do wish she would! If she knew that I was in danger she might hurry to me—that is, if she’s as kind and beautiful as Kitty tells me she is. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know I shall fall soon. Well, if I do I’m certain to sink into the bog, and—Rupert will have Avonsyde. Oh, poor mother! how she will wonder where I’ve got to! Now, I really don’t want to sink in a bog even for Rupert’s sake, so I must keep my presence of mind and try to be as cheerful as possible. Suppose I sing a little—that’s much better than crying and will make as much noise in case any one is passing by.”
So Phil raised a sweet and true little voice and tried to rival the robins. But a poor little half-starving boy stuck fast in a bog is so far a remarkable spectacle that the robins themselves, coming out after the shower to dry their feathers, looked at him in great wonder. He was a brave little boy and he sang sweetly, and they liked the music he made very well; but what was he doing there? Perching themselves on the boughs of some low trees which grew near the brook, they glanced shyly at him out of their bright eyes, and then quite unknowingly performed a little mission for his rescue. They flew to meet a lady whom they knew well and from whose hand they often pecked crumbs, and they induced this lady to turn aside from her accustomed path and to follow them, as they hopped and flew in front of her; for the lady was suddenly reminded by the robins of some little birds at home for which she meant to gather a particular weed which grew near the bog.
The rain was over, the sun was again shining brightly, when little Phil, tired, sick unto death, raised his eyes and saw, with the sunlight behind her, a lady, graceful and gracious in appearance, coming down the path. He did not notice whether her dress was gray or green; he only knew that to him she looked radiant and lovely.
“Oh, you have been a long time coming, but please save me now!” he sobbed, and then he did tumble into the bog, for he suddenly fainted away.
When Phil opened his eyes he was quite sure for several moments that all his best dreams were realized. He was in a very tiny parlor (he loved small rooms, for they reminded him of the cottage at the back of the garden); he was lying full length on an old-fashioned and deliciously soft sofa, and a lady with a tender and beautiful face was bending over him; the firelight flickered in a cozy little grate and the sunlight poured in through a latticed window. The whole room was a picture of comfort, and Phil drew a deep sigh of happiness.
“Have you given mother the bag of gold? And are we back in the cottage at the back of the garden?” he murmured.
“Drink this, dear,” said the quiet, grave voice, and then a cup of delicious hot milk was held to his little blue lips, and after he had taken several sips of the milk he was able to sit up and look round him.
“You are the lady of the forest, aren’t you? But where’s your green dress?”
“I am a lady who lives in the forest, my dear child. I am so glad I came down to that dreadful bog and rescued you. What is your name, my dear little boy?”
“My name? I am Phil Lovel. Do you know, it is so sad, but I am going to have Avonsyde. I am the heir. I don’t want it at all. It was principally about Avonsyde I came out this morning to find you. Yes, I had a great escape in the bog, but I felt almost sure that you would come to save me. It was very good of you. I am not a strong boy, and I don’t suppose I could have stood up in that dreadful cold, damp bog much longer. Although I’m not bad at bearing pain, yet the ache in my legs was getting quite terrible. Well, it’s all right now, and I’m so glad I’ve found you. Are you very rich, lady of the forest? And may I tell you everything?”
Had Phil not been absorbed in his own little remarks he might have noticed a curious change coming over the lady’s face. For one brief instant her eyes seemed to blaze, her brows contracted as if with pain, and the band with which she held the restorative to Phil’s lips trembled. Whatever emotion overcame her its effect was brief. When the boy, wondering at her silence, raised his eyes to look at her, it was only a sweet and quiet glance which met his.
“I have heard of little Philip Lovel,” she said. “I am glad to see you. I am glad I saved you from a terrible fate. If no one had come to your rescue you must eventually have sunk in that dreadful bog.”
“But I was quite sure you would come,” answered Phil. “Do you know, I went out this morning expecting to meet you. Betty and I have spoken of you so very, very often. We have made up lovely stories about you; but you have always been in green and your face dazzled. Now you are not in green. You are in a dark, plain dress—as plain a dress as mother used to wear when we lived in the house behind the garden; and though you are beautiful—yes, I really think you are beautiful—you don’t dazzle. Well, I am glad I have met you. Did you know that a little boy was wandering all over the forest looking for you to-day? And did you come out on purpose to meet him and to save him? Oh, I trust, I do trust you have got the gift with you!”
“I don’t quite understand you, my dear little boy,” said the lady. “No, I did not come to meet you. I simply took a walk between the showers. You are talking too much and too fast; you must be quiet now, and I will put this warm rug over you and you can try to sleep. When you are quite rested and warm, Nancy, my servant, will take you back to Avonsyde.”
Phil was really feeling very tired; his limbs ached; his throat was dry and parched; he was only too glad to lie still on that soft sofa in that tiny room and not pretend to be anything but a sadly exhausted little boy. He even closed his eyes at the lady’s bidding, but he soon opened them again, for he liked to watch her as she sat by the fire. No, she was scarcely dazzling, but Phil could quite believe that she might be considered beautiful. Her eyes were dark and gray; her hair was also dark, very soft, and very abundant; her mouth had an expression about it which Phil seemed partly to know, which puzzled him, for he felt so sure that he had seen just such resolute and well cut lips in some one else.
“It’s Rachel!” he said suddenly under his breath. “How very, very queer that Rachel should have a look of the lady of the forest!”
He half-roused himself to watch the face, which began more and more to remind him of Rachel’s.
But as he looked there came a curious change over the lady’s expressive face. The firm lips trembled; a look of agonized yearning and longing filled the pathetic gray eyes, and a few words said aloud with unspeakable sadness reached the little boy.
“So Kitty speaks of me—little, little Kitty speaks of me.”
The lady covered her face with her hands, and Phil, listening very attentively, thought he heard her sob.
After this he really closed his eyes and went to sleep. When he awoke the winter’s light had disappeared, the curtains were drawn across the little window, and a reading-lamp with a rose-colored shade made the center of the table look pretty. There was a cozy meal spread for two on the board, and when Phil opened his eyes and came back to the world of reality, the lady was bending over the fire and making some crisp toast.
“You have had a nice long sleep,” she said in a cheerful voice. “Now will you come to the table and have some tea? Here is a fresh egg for you, which Brownie, my dear speckled hen, laid while you were asleep. You feel much better, don’t you? Now you must make a very good tea, and when you have finished Nancy will take you as far as Rufus’ Stone, where I have asked a man with a chaise to meet her; he will drive you back to Avonsyde in less than an hour.”
Phil felt quite satisfied with these arrangements. He also discovered that he was very hungry; so he tumbled off the sofa, and with his light-brown hair very much tossed and his eyes shining, took his place at the tea-table. There he began to chatter, and did not at all know that the lady was leading him on to tell her as much as possible about Rachel and Kitty and about his life at Avonsyde. He answered all her questions eagerly, for he had by no means got over his impression that she was really the lady whom he had come to seek.
“I don’t want Avonsyde, you know,” he said suddenly, speaking with great earnestness. “Oh, please, if you are the lady of the forest and can give those who seek you a gift, let my gift be a bag of gold! I will take it back to mother in the chaise to-night, and then—and then—poor mother! My mother is very poor, lady, but when I give her your gold she will be rich, and then we can both go away from Avonsyde.”
For a moment or two the lady with the sad gray eyes looked with wonder and perplexity at little Phil—some alarm even was depicted on her face, but it suddenly cleared and lightened. She rose from her chair, and going up to the child stooped and kissed him.
“You don’t want Avonsyde. Then I am your friend, little Phil Lovel. Here are three kisses—one for you, one for Rachel, one for Kitty. Give my kisses as from yourself to the little girls. But I am not what you think me, Phil. I am no supernatural lady who can give gifts or can dazzle with unusual beauty. I am just a plain woman who lives here most of the year and earns her bread with hard and daily labor. I cannot give money, for I have not got it. I can be your friend, however. Not a powerful friend—certainly not; but no true friendship is to be lightly thrown away. Why, my little man, how disappointed you look! Are you really going to cry?”
“Oh, no, I won’t cry!” said Phil, but with a very suspicious break in his voice; “but I am so tired of all the secrets and of pretending to be strong and all that. If you are not the lady and have not got the bag of gold, mother and I will have to stay on at Avonsyde, for mother is very poor and she would starve if we went away. You don’t know what a dreadful weight it is on one’s mind always to be keeping secrets.”
“I am very sorry, Phil. As it happens I do know what a secret means. I am very sorry for you, more particularly as I am just going to add to your secrets. I want you to promise not to tell any one at Avonsyde about my little house in the forest nor about me. I think you will keep my secret when I tell you that if it is known it will do me very grave injury.”
“I would not injure you,” said Phil, raising his sweet eyes to her face. “I do hate secrets and I find them dreadfully hard to keep, but one more won’t greatly matter, only I do wish you were the real lady of the forest.”
When Nancy came back to the little cottage after disposing of Phil comfortably in the chaise and giving the driver a great many emphatic directions about him, she went straight into her lady’s presence. She was a privileged old servant, and she did not dream of knocking at the door of the little sitting-room; no, she opened it boldly and came in, many words crowding to her lips.
“This will upset her fine,” she muttered under her breath. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! I’ll have to do a lot of talking to-night. I’m not one to say she gives way often, but when she do, why, she do, and that’s the long and short of it.”
Nancy opened the door noisily and entered the room with a world of purpose depicted on her honest, homely face.
“Now, ma’am,” she began, “I have seen him off as snug and safe as possible, and the driver promises to deliver him sure as sure into his mother’s arms within the hour. A pretty sort of a mother she must be to let a bit of a babe like that wander about since before the dawn and never find him yet. Now, ma’am, you’re not settling down to that needlework at this hour? Oh, and you do look pale! Why, Mrs. Lovel, what’s the use of overdoing it?”
The lady so addressed raised her sad eyes to the kindly pair looking down at her and said gently:
“I am determined to be at least as brave as that brave little boy. He would not cry, although he longed to. I must either work or cry, so I choose to work. Nancy, how many yards of the lace are now finished?”
“Ten, I should think,” answered Nancy, whose countenance expressed strong relief at the turn the conversation had taken. “I should say there was ten yards done, ma’am, but I will go upstairs and count them over if you like.”
“I wish you would. If there are ten yards upstairs there are nearly two here; that makes just the dozen. And you think it is quite the best lace I have made yet, Nancy?”
“Oh, ma’am, beautiful is no word; and how your poor eyes stand the fine work passes my belief. But now, now, where’s the hurry for to-night? Why, your hands do shake terrible. Let me make you a cup of cocoa and light a fire in your bedroom, and you go to bed nice and early, Mrs. Lovel.”
Mrs. Lovel threw down her work with a certain gesture of impatience.
“I should lie awake all night,” said Mrs. Lovel. “Do you know, Nancy, that the little boy spoke of Kitty? He said my baby Kitty often mentioned the lady of the forest—that he and she both did. At first I thought that he meant me and that Kitty really spoke of her mother; but now I believe he was alluding to some imaginary forest lady.”
“The green forest lady,” interposed Nancy. “I don’t say, ma’am, that she’s altogether a fancy, though. There’s them—yes, there’s them whose words may be relied on who are said to have spoke with her.”
“Well, no matter. I am finishing this lace to-night, Nancy, because I mean to go to London to-morrow.”
“You, ma’am? Oh, oh, and it ain’t three months since you were there!”
“Yes, I must go. I want to see my husband’s lawyers. Nancy, this suspense is killing me!”
“Oh, my poor, dear, patient lady! But it ain’t so many months now to wait. Miss Rachel’s birthday comes in May.”
“Nancy, the mother-hunger is driving me wild. If I could only see them both and kiss them once I should be satisfied.”
“You shall kiss them hundreds of times when May comes,” answered the old servant. “And they are well and bonny and Miss Rachel loves you; and the little one, why, of course her heart will go out to you when you hold her in your arms again.”
“Six years!” repeated the poor lady, clasping her hands, letting the lovely lace fall to the ground, and gazing into the glowing fire in the grate. “Six years for a mother to starve! Oh, Nancy, how could good women be so cruel? I believe Miss Grizel and Miss Katharine are good. How could they be so cruel?”
“Old maids!” said Nancy, with a little snort. “Do you suppose, ma’am, that those old ladies know anything of the mother feel? Well, Mrs. Lovel, the children are two bonny little lassies, and you have given up much for them. You did it for their good, ma’am—that they should have full and plenty and be provided for. You did it all out of real self-denial, ma’am.”
“I made up my mind the day Kitty fainted for want of food,” answered Mrs. Lovel. “I made up my mind and I never flinched; but oh! Nancy, think of its being in vain! For, after all, that little boy is the true heir. He is a dear little fellow, and although I ought to hate him I can’t. He is the true heir; and if so, you know, Nancy, that my little girls come back to me. How have I really bettered them by giving them six years of luxury when, after all, they must return to my small life?”
“And to the best of mothers,” answered Nancy. “And to two or three hundred pounds put by careful; and they hearty and bonny and Miss Rachel’s education half-complete. No, ma’am, they are not worse off, but a deal better off for what you have done for them—that’s if the worst comes. But how can you say that that little boy will have Avonsyde? Why, he hasn’t no strength in him—not a bit. Thin is no word for him, and he’s as light as a feather, and so white! Why, I carried him in my arms as far as the Stone, and I didn’t feel as if I had nothing in them. Why, ma’am, all the country round knows that the ladies at Avonsyde are looking out for a strong heir; they go direct against the will if they give the old place to a sickly one. No, ma’am, Master Phil Lovel ain’t the heir for Avonsyde. And is it likely, ma’am, that the ladies would be putting advertisements in all the papers, foreign and otherwise, for the last five years and a half, and sending over special messengers to the other side of the globe, and never yet a strong, hearty, real heir turn up? Why, of course, Mrs. Lovel, he ain’t to be found, and that’s why he don’t come.”
Mrs. Lovel smiled faintly.
“Well, Nancy,” she said, “I must at least go to town to-morrow, and as that is the case I will take your advice and go up to my room now. No, I could not eat anything. Good-night, dear Nancy.”
When Mrs. Lovel left the little sitting-room Nancy stayed behind to give it a good “redding-up” as she expressed it. With regard to sitting-rooms, and indeed all rooms arranged for human habitation, Nancy was a strict disciplinarian; rigid order was her motto. Chairs placed demurely in rows; a table placed exactly in the middle of the room; books arranged at symmetrical intervals round it; each ornament corresponding exactly to its fellow; blinds drawn to a certain level—these were her ideas of a nice cheerful apartment. Could she have had her own choice with regard to carpets, she would have had them with a good dash of orange in them; her curtains should always be made of moreen and be of a bright cardinal tone. A tidy and a cheerful room was her delight; she shuddered at the tendencies, so-called artistic, of the present day. Putting the little sitting-room in order now, her feet knocked against something which gave forth a metallic sound; stooping, she picked up from the floor Phil’s tankard. She examined it curiously and brought it to the light. The quaint motto inscribed on one of its sides—“Tyde what may”—was well known to her as the motto of the house of Lovel.
“I know nothing about this old cup,” she said to herself; “it may or may not be of value; but it looks old—uncommon old; and it has the family coat of arms and them outlandish, meaningless words on it. Of course it was little Master Phil brought it in to-day and forgot all about it. Well, well, it may mean something or it may not; but my name ain’t Nancy White if I don’t set it by for the present and bide my time about returning it. Ah, my dear, dear lady, it won’t be Nancy’s fault if your bonny little girls don’t get their own out of Avonsyde!”
Messrs. Baring & Baring, the lawyers who transacted all the business matters for the Misses Lovel, were much worried about Christmas-time with clients. The elder Mr. Baring was engaged with a gentleman who had come from the country to see him on special and urgent business, and in consequence his son, a bright-looking, intelligent man of thirty, was obliged to ask two gentlemen to wait in his anteroom or to call again, while he himself interviewed a sorrowful-looking lady who required immediate attention.
The gentlemen decided to wait the younger Mr. Baring’s leisure, and in consequence he was able to attend to his lady client without impatience.
“The business which brings you to me just before Christmas, Mrs. Lovel, must be of the utmost importance,” he began.
Mrs. Lovel raised her veil and a look of intense pain filled her eyes.
“It is of importance to me,” she said, “for it means—yes, I greatly fear it means that my six years of bitter sacrifice have come to nothing and the heir is found.”
Mr. Baring raised his eyebrows; he did not trouble to inquire to whom she had alluded. After a brief pause he said quietly:
“There is no reason whatever for you to despair. At this present moment my father and I are absolutely aware of two claimants for the Avonsyde heirship—only one can inherit the place and both may prove unsuitable. You know that the ladies will not bequeath their property to any one who cannot prove direct descent from the elder branch; also the heir must be strong and vigorous. Up to the present neither my father nor I have seen any conclusive proof of direct succession. We are quite aware that a little boy of the name of Lovel is at present on a visit at Avonsyde, but we also know that the Misses Lovel will take no definite steps in the matter without our sanction. I would not fret beforehand, Mrs. Lovel. It seems tame and old-fashioned advice, but I should recommend you for your own sake to hope for the best.”
“I will do so,” said Mrs. Lovel, rising to her feet. “I will do so, even though I can no longer buoy myself up with false dreams. I feel absolutely convinced that before Rachel’s birthday an heir will be found for the old place. Let it be so—I shall not struggle. It may be best for my children to come back to me; it will certainly be best for me to have them with me again. I won’t take up any more of your time this morning, Mr. Baring.”
“Well, come again to-morrow morning. I have got some more work for you and of quite a profitable kind. By the way, the new claimants—they have just come from Australia and I am to see them in a moment—are in a desperate taking about an old tankard which seems to have been a family heirloom and would go far to prove their descent. The tankard is lost; also a packet of valuable letters. You see, my dear madam, their claim, as it stands at present, is anything but complete.”
Mrs. Lovel said a few more words to Mr. Baring, and then promising to call on the morrow, left him. To effect her exit from the house she had to pass through the room where the Australians were waiting. Her interview had excited her; her pale face was slightly flushed; her veil was up. Perhaps the slight color on those usually pale cheeks had brought back some of the old and long-forgotten girlish bloom. The winter’s day was sunshiny, and as she walked through the waiting-room the intense light throwing her features into strong relief, so strongly and so vividly did that slight and rather worn figure stand out that a man who had been sitting quietly by started forward with an exclamation:
“Surely I am addressing Rachel Cunningdale?”
The lady raised her eyes to the great, strong, bearded face.
“You are Rupert Lovel,” she answered quietly.
“I am, and this is my boy. Here, Rupert, lad, this lady was once your mother’s greatest friend. Why, Rachel, it is twenty years since we met. You were scarcely grown up and such a bright bit of a girl, and now——”
“And now,” answered Mrs. Lovel, “I have been a wife and a mother. I am now a widow and, I may say it, childless; and, Rupert, the strangest part of all, my name too is Lovel.”
“What a queer coincidence. Well, I am delighted to meet you. Where are you staying? My boy and I have just come over from Australia, and your friend, my dear wife, she is gone, Rachel. It was an awful blow; we won’t speak of it. I should like to see more of you. Where shall we meet?”
Mrs. Lovel gave the address of the very humble lodgings which she occupied when in London.
“The boy and I will look you up, then, this evening. I fear our time now belongs to the lawyer. Good-by—good-by. I am delighted to have met you.”
Mr. Baring prided himself on being an astute reader of character, but even he was somewhat amazed when these fresh claimants for the Avonsyde property occupied quite half an hour of his valuable time by asking him numerous and sundry questions with regard to that pale and somewhat insignificant client of his, Mrs. Lovel. Mr. Baring was a cautious man, and he let out as little as he could; but the Lovels, both father and son, were furnished with at least a few clews to a very painful story. So excited and interested was Rupert Lovel, senior, that he even forgot the important business that had brought him all the way from Australia, and the lawyer had himself gently to divert his client’s thoughts into the necessary channel.
Finally the father and son left the Barings’ office a good deal perturbed and excited and with no very definite information to guide them.
“Look here, Rupert, lad,” said the elder Lovel. “It’s about the saddest thing in all the world, that poor soul depriving herself of her children and then hoping against hope that the heir won’t turn up. “Why, of course, lad, you are the heir; not a doubt of that. Poor Rachel! and she was your mother’s friend.”
“But we won’t set up our claim until we are certain about everything—will we, father?” asked young Lovel. “Did you not hear Mr. Baring say that many false heirs had laid claim to Avonsyde? The old ladies want some one who can prove his descent, and we have not got all the papers—have we, father?”
“No. It is an extraordinary thing about those letters being lost, and also the old tankard. But they are safe to turn up. Who could have stolen them? Perhaps Gabrielle has already written with news of their safety. We might have a cab now to the General Post-office. I have no doubt a budget of letters awaits me there. Why, Rupert, what are you looking so melancholy about? The tankard and the letters may even now be found. What’s the matter, lad? It doesn’t do for a hearty young chap like you to wear such a dismal face. I tell you your claim is as good as established.”
“But I don’t know that I want it to be established,” said young Rupert Lovel. “It is not nice to think of breaking that lady’s heart. I don’t know what Gabrielle would say to doing anything so cruel to our mother’s friend.”
“Tut, lad, what a lot of rubbish you talk! If you are the heir you are, and you can’t shirk your responsibility, even if you don’t quite like it. Well, we’ll have a long talk with Rachel and get to the bottom of everything to-night.”
“And now, Rachel, you must just confide in me and make me your friend. Oh, nonsense! Were you not my wife’s friend? and don’t I remember you a bit of a bonny lass, as young, quite as young as Rupert here? I have got two young daughters of my own, and don’t you suppose I feel for a woman who is the mother of girls? You tell me your whole story, Rachel. How is it that you, who have married a Lovel of Avonsyde, should be practically shut away from the house and unrecognized by the family? When I met you last in Melbourne you looked free enough from cares, and your father was fairly well off. You were just starting for Europe—don’t you remember? Now tell me your history from that day forward.”
“With the exception of my old servant, Nancy, I have not given my confidence to any human being for years,” answered Mrs. Lovel. Then she paused. “Yes, I will trust you, Rupert, and my story can be told in a few words; but first satisfy me about one thing. When I was at Mr. Baring’s to-day he told me that a fresh claimant had appeared on the scene for the Avonsyde property. Is your boy the claimant?”
“He is, Rachel. We will go into that presently.”
Mrs. Lovel sighed.
“It is so hard not to welcome you,” she said, “but you destroy my hopes. However, listen to my tale. I will just tell it to you as briefly as possible. Shortly after we came to England my father died. He was not well off, as we supposed; he died heavily in debt and I was penniless. I was not sufficiently highly educated to earn my bread as a teacher—as a teacher I should have starved; but I had a taste for millinery and I got employment in a milliner’s shop in a good part of London. I stayed in that shop for about a year. At the end of that time I married Valentine Lovel. We had very little money, but we were perfectly happy; and even though Valentine’s people refused to acknowledge me, their indifference during my dear husband’s lifetime did not take an iota from my happiness. Two babies were born, both little girls. I know Valentine longed for a son, and often said that the birth of a boy would most probably lead to a reconciliation with his father. No son, however, arrived, and my dear husband died of consumption when my eldest little girl was five years old. I won’t dwell on his death, nor on one or two agonized letters which he wrote to his hard old father. He died without one token of reconciliation coming to cheer him from Avonsyde; and when I laid him in the grave I can only say that I think my heart had grown hard against all the world.
“I had the children to live for, and it is literally true that I had no time to sit down and cry for Valentine’s loss. The little girls had a faithful nurse; her name was Nancy White; she is with me still. She took care of my dear, beautiful babies while I earned money to put bread in all our mouths. I had literally not a penny in the world except what I could earn, for the allowance Valentine had always received from his father was discontinued at his death. I went back to the shop where I had worked as a milliner before my marriage; there happened to be a vacancy, and they were good enough to take me back. Of course we were fearfully poor and lived in wretched lodgings; but however much Nancy and I denied ourselves, the children wanted for nothing. They were lovely children—uncommon. Any one could see that they had come of a proud old race. The eldest girl was called after her father and me; she was not like Valentine in appearance, neither did she resemble me. I am dark, but Rachel’s eyes were of the deepest, darkest brown; her hair was black as night and her complexion a deep, glowing rosy brown. She was a splendid creature; so large, so noble-looking—not like either of us; but with a look—yes, Rupert, with a look of that boy of yours. Kitty resembled her father and was a delicate, lovely, ethereal little creature; she was as fair as Rachel was dark, but she was not strong, and I often feared she inherited some of Valentine’s delicacy.
“For two years I worked for the children and supported them. For a year and a half all went fairly well. But then I caught cold; for a time I was ill—too ill to work—and my situation at the milliner’s shop was quickly filled up. I had a watch and a few valuable rings and trinkets which Valentine had given me. I sold them one by one and we lived on the little money they fetched. But the children were only half-fed, and one wretched day of a hot and stifling July Kitty fainted away quietly in my arms. That decided me. I made up my mind on the spot. I had a diamond ring, the most valuable of all my jewels, and the one I cared for most, for Valentine had given it me on our engagement. I took it out and sold it. I was fortunate; I got £10 for it. I hurried off at once and bought material, and made up with Nancy’s help lovely and picturesque dresses for both the children. I believe I had a correct eye for color, and I dressed Rachel in rich dark plush with lace, but Kitty was all in white. When the clothes were complete I put them on, and Nancy kissed the pets and fetched a cab for me, and we drove away to Waterloo. I had so little money left that I could only afford third-class tickets, but I took them to Lyndhurst Road, and when we arrived there drove straight to Avonsyde. The children were as excited and pleased as possible. They knew nothing of any coming parting, and were only anxious to see their grandfather and the house which their father had so often spoken to them about. They were children who had never been scolded; no harsh words had ever been addressed to them, consequently they knew nothing of fear. When they got into the lovely old place they were wild with delight. ‘Kitty,’ said Rachel, ‘let us go and find our grandfather.’ Before I could restrain them they were off; but indeed I had no wish to hinder them, for I felt sure they would plead their own cause best. We had arrived at a critical moment, for that was the last day of the old squire’s life. I saw his daughters—my sisters-in-law. We had a private interview and made terms with one another. These were the terms: The ladies of Avonsyde would take my darlings and care for them and educate them, and be, as they expressed it, ‘mothers’ to them, on condition that I gave them up. I said I would not give them up absolutely. I told the ladies quite plainly why I brought them at all. I said it was out of no love or respect for the cruel grandfather who had disowned them; it was out of no love or respect for the sisters, who did not care what became of their brother’s children: it was simply and entirely out of my great mother-love for the children themselves. I would rather part with them than see them starve or suffer. ‘But,’ I added, ‘there are limits even to my self-denial. I will not give them up forever. Name the term of years, but there must be a limit to the parting.’
“Then Miss Katharine, who seemed kinder-hearted than her sister, gave me one or two compassionate glances, and even said, ‘Poor thing!’ once or twice under her breath.
“I did not take the slightest notice of her. I repeated again, more distinctly: ‘The parting must have a limit; name a term of years.’ Then the ladies decided that on Rachel’s thirteenth birthday—she was just seven then—I should come back to Avonsyde, and if I so wished and my little girls so wished I should have one or both of them back again. The ladies told me at the same time of their father’s will. They said that a most vigorous search was going to be commenced at once for an heir of the elder branch. At the same time they both stated their conviction that no such heir would be forthcoming, for they said that no trace or tidings had been heard of Rupert Lovel from the day, nearly two hundred years ago, when he left Avonsyde. Their conviction was that Rupert had died without descendants. In that case, both the ladies said, the little girls must inherit the property; and Miss Griselda said further that she would try to make arrangements with her father to so alter his will that if no heir had been found on Rachel’s thirteenth birthday, Valentine’s children should have a life-interest in Avonsyde. If, on the other hand, the heir was found before that date, they would also be provided for, although she did not mention how.