Phil’s heart was very low within him. During the last few days, ever since that terrible interview with his mother, he had built his hopes high. He had been almost sure that the tankard was waiting for him in the lady’s house in the forest, that he should find it there when he went to make inquiries, and then that he might bring it back to his mother and so remove the shadow from her brow.
“I never knew that mother could miss a thing Gabrielle had given her so very, very much,” thought the little boy. “But there’s no doubt at all she does miss it and that she’s fretting. Poor, dear mother! she’s not unkind to me. Oh, no, she’s never that except when she’s greatly vexed; but, all the same, I know she’s fretting; for those lines round her mouth have come out again, and even when she laughs and tries to be merry downstairs I see them. There’s no doubt at all that she’s fretting and is anxious. Poor mother! how I wish I could find the green lady of the forest and that she would give me the bag of gold which would satisfy mother’s heart.”
Phil walked very slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. He was now startled to hear a voice addressing him, and looking up with a quick movement, he saw the lady who lived in the pretty little cottage coming to meet him. He was not particularly elated at sight of her; he had nothing in particular to say to her; for as Nancy had assured him that the tankard was not at the cottage, it was quite useless making further inquiries about it.
“What are you doing here, Philip?” asked the lady in a kind voice. She knew him at once, and coming up to him, took his hand and looked kindly into his face. “You are a long way from home. Have you lost yourself in this dear, beautiful forest a second time, little man?”
Then Phil remembered that if this lady of the forest meant nothing in particular to him she meant a great deal to Rachel. He could not forget how Rachel’s eyes had shone, how Rachel’s face had looked when she spoke about her. The color flew into his own pale little face, and he spoke with enthusiasm.
“I am glad I have met you,” he said, “even though I don’t know your name. Will you come for a walk with me now through the forest? Will you hold my hand and look at me while you speak? Will you walk with me, and will you turn your face to the right, always to the right, as you go?”
“You are a queer little boy,” said the lady, and she laughed, almost merrily. “But I have just taken a very long walk and am tired. You also look tired, Philip, and your face is much too white. Suppose we alter the programme and yet keep together for a little. Suppose you come into the cottage with me and have some tea, and Nancy makes some of her delicious griddle-cakes.”
“That would be lovely. I should like it beyond anything; but may Rachel come in too?”
“Rachel!” said the lady of the forest. She put her hand suddenly to her heart and stepped back a pace or two.
“Yes, my cousin, Rachel Lovel; she is standing up yonder, at the other side of the great oak tree. She wants to see you, and she is standing there, hoping, hoping. Rachel’s heart is very hungry to see you. When she speaks of you her eyes look starved. I don’t understand it, but I know Rachel loves you better than any one else in the world.”
“Impossible!” said the lady; “and yet—and yet—but I must not speak to her, child, nor she to me. It—oh! you agitate me. I am tired. I have had a long walk. I must not speak to little Rachel Lovel.”
“She knows that,” said Phil in a sorrowful voice; for the lady’s whiteness and agitation and distress filled him with the keenest sympathy. “Rachel knows that you and she may not speak, but let her look at you. Do! She will be so good; she will not break her word to you for the world.”
“I must not look on her face, child. There are limits—yes, there are limits, and beyond them I have not strength to venture. I have a secret, child; I have a holy of holies, and you are daring to open it wide. Oh! you have brought me agony, and I am very tired!”
“I know what secrets are,” said little Phil. “Oh! they are dreadful; they give great pain. I am sorry you are in such trouble, lady of the forest, and that I have caused it. I am sorry, too, that you cannot take a very little walk with me, for it would give Rachel such pleasure.”
“It would give Rachel pleasure?” repeated the lady. And now the color came back to her cheeks and the light to her eyes. “That makes all the difference. I will walk with you, Phil, and you shall take my hand and I will turn my face to the right. See: can Rachel see my face now?”
“Yes,” said Phil; “she will peep from behind the oak tree. How glad, how delighted she will be!”
The lady and Phil walked slowly together, hand in hand, for nearly half an hour; during all that time the lady did not utter a single word. When the walk came to an end she stooped to kiss Phil, and then, moved by an impulse which she could not restrain, she kissed her own hand fervently and waved it in the direction of the oak tree. A little childish hand fluttered in the breeze in return, and then the lady returned to the cottage and shut the door after her.
Phil ran panting up to the oak tree and took Rachel’s hand.
“I did what I could for you, Rachel,” he said. “You saw her—did you not? She kept her face turned to the right, and you must have seen her quite plainly.”
Rachel’s cheeks were blazing like two peonies; the pupils of her eyes were dilated; her lips quivered.
“I saw her!” she exclaimed. “I looked at her, and my heart is hungrier than ever!”
Here she threw herself full length on the ground and burst into passionate sobs.
“Don’t, Rachel!” said Phil. “You puzzle me. Oh, you make my heart ache! Oh, this pain!”
He turned away from Rachel, and leaning against the oak tree writhed in bodily agony. In a moment Rachel had sprung to her feet; her tears had stopped; and raising Phil’s hat she wiped some drops from his white brow.
“I ran a little too fast,” he panted, after a moment or two. “I am a strong boy, but I can’t run very fast; it gives me a stitch; it catches my breath. Oh, yes, thank you, Rachel; I am better now. I am a strong boy, but I can’t run very fast.”
“You are not a bit a strong boy!” said Rachel, wiping away her own tears vigorously. “I have discovered that secret too of yours, Phil. You are always pretending to be strong, but it is only pretense.”
Phil looked at his cousin in alarm.
“If you guess my secrets you won’t tell them?” he said.
“Of course I won’t tell. What do you take me for? Now you must not walk for a little, and the children are quite happy without us. Is not this a nice soft bank? I will sit by your side and you shall tell me what the lady said to you and you to her.”
“No,” said Phil, with sudden energy. “I cannot tell you what she said.”
“You cannot tell me?”
“No. I took the lady by surprise and she let out some of her secrets—not all, but some. It would not be fair to tell them to any one else. I asked her to walk with me, and she knew that you were watching. Now, Rachel, I am quite well again, as well as ever. Shall we go back to the other children?”
Rachel rose slowly to her feet.
“I hate secrets,” she said, “and the very air seems full of them sometimes. You have lots of secrets, and my aunts have secrets, and the lady of the forest has a secret, and there is a secret about my mother, for I know she is not dead and yet I never see her. These secrets are enough to starve my heart. Phil, how soon would a girl like me be supposed to be grown up?”
“Oh, Rachel, how can I tell?”
“I shall be thirteen in May and I am tall. When I am fifteen—that is, in two years’ time—I shall begin to go round the world looking for my mother. I don’t intend to wait any longer. When I am fifteen I shall begin to go.”
“In Australia girls are nearly grown up at that age,” said Phil, who was thinking of Gabrielle. “Now, Rachel, let us go back to the others.”
The others were getting impatient. They had played hide-and-seek, and hunted for squirrels, and climbed trees, and quarreled and made it up again, until all their resources had come to an end; and when Rachel and Phil made their appearance they found that Robert had packed up the remains of the picnic, and that Clementina and Abby had already mounted their ponies, preparatory to riding home. Robert was leading up the other ponies as the two missing children appeared.
Rachel’s mind was still a good deal preoccupied, and it was not until she was preparing to mount her own pony that she discovered that Clementina had secured Ruby and was now seated comfortably on his back.
“Oh, Clementina, it is not safe for you to ride Ruby,” she called out at once. “He’s only just broken in and he’s full of spirit.”
“Thank you,” replied Clementina. “I prefer riding horses with spirit. I would not have another ride on that slow little creature, Surefoot, for the world.”
“But indeed that is not the reason,” said Rachel, who felt herself, she scarcely knew why, both softened and subdued. “It is that Ruby is not safe. I am the first girl who has ever been on his back. He knows me and will do what I tell him, but I am sure it is dangerous for you to ride him. Is it not dangerous, Robert, for Miss Marmaduke to ride Ruby?” called out Rachel to the groom.
Robert came up and surveyed the spirited little horse and the young rider critically.
“If Miss Marmaduke don’t whip him, and if she humors him a good bit and don’t set him off in a canter, why, then no harm may be done,” he said. “Ruby’s fresh, miss, and have a good deal of wild blood in him, and I only broke him in for Miss Rachel a fortnight back.”
Clementina’s color had risen very high during this discussion.
“I presume,” she said in an insolent tone, “that a pupil of Captain Delacourt’s can ride any horse that a pupil of one of the grooms at Avonsyde can manage! I’m sorry you’re so disobliging as to grudge me your horse, Rachel. I’ll just ride on in front now, and you all can follow me when you are ready.”
She turned Ruby’s head as she spoke and rode away under the forest trees.
“If she gives Ruby a taste of the whip she’ll repent of all her proud airs,” muttered Robert. “Now, young ladies, you had better mount and get under way. I suppose, Miss Rachel, that that ’ere young lady knows the right road home?”
“Hadn’t I better get on Brownie and ride after her?” asked Phil.
“No, sir; no. Ruby couldn’t bear horses’ hoofs a-galloping after him. It would set him off mad like, and there wouldn’t be a hope for Miss Marmaduke. No; the only thing now is to trust that the young lady won’t touch Ruby with the whip and that she knows the way home.”
The other children mounted without any more discussion, and the ride home was undertaken with a certain sense of depression,
No sign of Clementina could be seen, and when they reached the stables at Avonsyde neither she nor Ruby had put in an appearance.
Clementina was a spoiled child, and in consequence was as disagreeable and as full of herself as such children are apt to be. She was neither beautiful nor clever; she had no outward gifts to counterbalance her imperious airs and selfish ways; consequently she was only popular with her parents and with herself.
The Marmadukes were very rich people, and although Clementina had no real friends, she had many toadies—girls who praised her for the accomplishments she did not possess, for the beauty which had been denied her, and for the talents and cleverness which she knew nothing whatever about. Clementina both believed in and appreciated flattery. Flattery made her feel comfortable; it soothed her vanity and fed her self-esteem. It was not at all difficult to persuade her that she was clever, beautiful, and accomplished. But of all her acquirements there was none of which she was so very proud as of her riding. She was no coward, and she rode fairly well for a town girl. She had always the advantage of the best horses, the most stylish habits, and the most carefully equipped groom to follow her. On horseback her so-called friends told her she looked superb; therefore on horseback she greatly liked to be.
Rachel’s words that morning and Rachel’s unconcealed contempt had stung Clementina’s vanity to the quick. She was quite determined to show this little nobody, this awkward country girl, what proper riding meant; and she galloped off on Ruby with her heart beating high with pride, anger, and a sense of exultation; she would canter lightly away in the direction of the Avonsyde stables, and be ready to meet Rachel haughty and triumphant when she returned wearily home on that dull little pony, Surefoot.
Surefoot, however, was not a dull pony. He was extremely gentle and docile and affectionate, and although he hated the rider he had on his back that morning, and resented to the bottom of his honest little heart the indignity of being whipped by her, still one sound from Rachel’s voice was sufficient to restrain him and to keep him from punishing the young lady who chose to ride him in the manner she deserved. Clementina had ridden Surefoot and he had instantly broken into a canter, but at the sound of Rachel’s voice he had moderated his speed Clementina quite believed that Surefoot had obeyed her firm hand; and now, as she galloped away on Ruby, she laughed at the fears expressed for her safety by Rachel and Robert, the groom.
“They’re jealous,” she said to herself; “they’re both of them jealous, and they don’t want me to have the only decent horse of the party. Oh, yes, Ruby, my fine fellow, you shall have a touch of the whip presently. I’m not afraid of you.”
She felt for her little silver-mounted riding-whip as she spoke and lightly flicked Ruby’s ears with it.
Back went the ears of the half-trained little horse at once, lightning glances seemed to flash from his red-brown eyes, and in a moment he had taken to his heels and was away.
His movement almost resembled flying, and for a little time Clementina persuaded herself that she enjoyed it. This was riding indeed! this was a gallop worth having! What splendid use she could make of it with her school-friends by and by. These were her first sensations, but they were quickly followed by others less pleasurable. Ruby seemed to be going faster and faster; his legs went straight before him; he rushed past obstacles; he disdained to take the slightest notice of Clementina’s feeble little attempts to pull him in. She lost her breath, and with it in a great measure her self-control. Were they going in the right direction? No; she was quite sure they were not; she had never seen that wide expanse of common; she had never noticed that steep descent; she had never observed that gurgling, rushing avalanche of water; and—oh, good God! Ruby was rushing to it. She screamed and attempted violently to pull him in; he shook his head angrily and flew forward faster than before; for Ruby was not of the gentle nature of Surefoot, and he could not forgive even the very slight indignity which Clementina had offered him. The wretched girl began to scream loudly.
“I shall be killed! I shall be killed! Oh! will no one save me?” she screamed.
Her cries seemed to madden Ruby. He drew up short, put his head between his legs, and with an easy movement flung Clementina off his back on to the ground. The next moment he himself was out of sight.
Clementina found herself sitting in the middle of a bog—a bog not deep enough to drown her, but quite wet enough, quite uncomfortable enough, to soak through her riding-habit and to render her thoroughly wretched. At first, when Ruby had dislodged her from his back, her sensations were those of relief; then she was quite certain every bone in her body was broken; then she was equally convinced that the slow and awful death of sinking in a bog awaited her. She was miles from home; there was not a soul in sight; and yet, try as she would, she could not raise herself even to a standing position, for the treacherous ground gave way whenever she attempted to move.
Her fall had shaken her considerably, and for a time she sat motionless, trying to recover her breath and wondering if arms and legs were all smashed.
“Oh, what a wicked girl Rachel is!” she said at last. “What right had she to go out on a wild horse like that? She must have done it for a trick; she must have done it on purpose; she meant me to ride Ruby coming home, and so she tantalized me and tried to rouse my spirit. Margaret and Jessie Dawson say that I am just full of spirit, and I never can brook that sneering way, particularly from a mere child like Rachel. Well, well, she’s punished now, for I shall probably die of this. If all my bones aren’t broken, and I firmly believe they are, and if I don’t sink in this horrid bog—which I expect I shall—I’m safe to have rheumatic fever and to die of it, and then what will Rachel do? She’ll never know an easy moment again as long as she lives. She’ll be sorry for the tricks she played me when she thinks of me lying in my early grave. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do? what shall I do?”
Poor Clementina threw up her hands, by so doing fastening herself more firmly in the odious bog, and burst into a loud wailing cry. She was cold and wet now, the excitement of her wild race was over, and as the moments flew on, lengthening themselves into half-hours and hours, she became thoroughly frightened. Oh, how awful if the night should overtake her while she sat there! And yet what more likely? for not a soul had passed the place since her accident. As her anger cooled and her fright increased, several prickings of that dull conscience of hers smote the unhappy girl. After all, was Rachel to blame for what had happened? Had she not begged and even implored of her not to ride Ruby? Had not Robert spoken freely of what would happen if she did so? Oh, if only she had listened to their voices! if only she had not been so self-confident! She pictured them all safe and sound now at home at Avonsyde. She imagined them sitting in the pleasant armory chatting over the day’s adventures and most likely forgetting all about her. Abby and the boys, if occupied over any exciting game, would be certain to forget her; little Kitty, to whom she had always been specially cross, would most likely rejoice in her absence; Rachel, if she had time to give her a thought, would be sure to be possessed with a sense of triumph; and Phil—ah! well, somehow or other Phil was different from other boys and girls. Phil had a look in his eyes, Phil had a way about him which Clementina recognized as belonging to the rare and beautiful spirit of unselfishness. Phil’s small, thin, white face was ever and always alive and glowing with sympathy; his eyes would darken and expand at the mere mention of anybody’s trouble, and again that little sensitive face would sparkle and glow with delight over anybody’s joy. Clementina, sitting now in the middle of the bog, the most lonely and wretched girl alive, could not help feeling comforted as she thought of Phil; it was more than probable that if all the others forgot her Phil might remember.
While Clementina was waiting in a state of absolute despair matters were not so hopeless for her as she supposed. The children when they reached Avonsyde gave an instant alarm, and steps were at once taken to search for the missing girl. But it is one thing to be lost in the forest and another thing to be found. Ruby had taken Clementina in the opposite direction from Avonsyde, and when she was submerged in the bog she was many miles away. Robert, shaking his head and muttering that a willful girl must come to grief, and that it would be well if they ever saw Miss Marmaduke alive again, went off to saddle a fresh horse to go in search of her. Other people also started on the same errand; and Phil, whose pale little face was all aglow with excitement, rushed into the stables, and securing a horse, mounted it and rode away after the others. The boy was a splendid rider, having been accustomed to mounting all kinds of steeds from his babyhood; but he was tired now, and neither Miss Griselda nor his mother would have allowed him to go had they known anything about it. But the elder members of the family were all away, and the children and servants were only acting on their own responsibility.
Phil soon caught up Robert, and the two trotted together side by side.
“I’m quite certain I saw Ruby turning to the left after he went down that steep bank,” said Phil.
“Then if he did he made for the bog and the waterfall as likely as not,” said Robert.
“Oh, Robert, you don’t suppose Clementina has been drowned in one of the bogs?” exclaimed Phil in an accent of terror. “You don’t, you can’t suppose that?”
The man favored the boy with a queer glance.
“If Miss Marmaduke was like you, Master Lovel, or like Miss Rachel or Miss Kitty, why, I’d say there weren’t a hope of her; but being what she is—well, maybe she’ll be given a little more time to mend her manners in.”
Phil’s face assumed a puzzled expression. He said nothing further, and the two rode hard and fast.
In this manner they did at last find poor Clementina, who, much subdued and softened, received them with almost rapture.
“There’s nothing like affliction for bringing characters of that sort low,” muttered Robert as he helped the young lady on his own horse. “And now, where’s that little beauty Ruby, I wonder? Dashed hisself to pieces as likely as not agin’ some of them rocks up there. Oh, yes, and there’ll be no ’count made at all of one of the prettiest little horses I ever broke in.”
Robert had to run by Clementina’s side, who was really considerably shaken and who gave way to violent hysterics soon after they started.
“Somehow, Phil, I thought you would remember,” she said at last, turning to her little companion and speaking in a broken voice.
“Why, of course we all remembered,” said Phil. “We were all more sorry about you than I can say; and as to Rachel, she has been crying like anything. It seems a pity, Clementina, it really does, you know——” And then he stopped.
“What seems a pity, Phil?”
“That you should be so obstinate. You know you were; and you were rude, too, for you should not have taken Rachel’s horse. It seems to me a great pity that people should try to pretend—everybody’s always trying to pretend; and what is the use of it? Now, if you had not tried to pretend that you could ride as well or better than Rachel, you wouldn’t have got into this trouble and we wouldn’t have been so terribly sorry. Where was the use of it, Clementina?” added Phil, gazing hard at the abashed and astonished young lady; “for nobody could expect you to ride as well as Rachel, who is a country girl and has been on horseback such a lot, you know.”
Phil delivered his lecture in the most innocent way, and Clementina received it with much humility, wondering all the time why she was not furiously angry; for surely this was the strangest way to speak to a girl who had been for three seasons under Captain Delacourt.
She made no reply to Phil’s harangue and rode on for some time without speaking.
Suddenly a little sigh from the boy, who kept so bravely at her side, reached her ears. She turned and looked at him. It was quite a new sensation for Clementina to observe any face critically except her own; but she did notice now the weariness round the lips and the way the slight little figure drooped forward.
“You’re tired, Phil,” she said. “You have tired yourself out to find me.”
“I am tired,” he replied. “We rode very fast, and my side aches, but it will be better by and by.”
“You can scarcely sit on your horse,” said Clementina in a tone of real feeling. “Could not your groom—Robert, I think, you call him—mount the horse and put you in front of him? He could put his arm round you and you would be nicely rested.”
“That’s a good thought, miss,” said Robert, with sudden heartiness. “And, to be sure, Master Philip do look but poorly. It’s wonderful what affliction does for them sort of characters,” he muttered under his breath as he complied with this suggestion.
When the little party got near home, Phil, who had been lying against Robert and looking more dead than alive, roused himself and whispered something to the groom. Robert nodded in reply and immediately after lifted the boy to the ground.
“I’m going to rest. Please, Clementina, don’t say I am tired,” he said; and then he disappeared down a little glade and was soon out of sight.
“Where is he going?” asked Clementina of Robert.
“To a little nest as he has made for hisself, miss, just where the trees grow thickest up there. He and me, we made it together, and it’s always dry and warm, and nobody knows of it but our two selves. He often and often goes there when he can’t bear up no longer. I beg your pardon, miss, but I expect I have no right to tell. You won’t mention what I have said to any of the family, miss?”
“No,” said Clementina; “but I feel very sorry for Phil, and I cannot understand why there should be any mystery made about his getting tired like other people.”
“Well, miss, you ask his lady mother. Perhaps she can tell you, for certain sure no one else can.”
Clementina went into the house, where she was received with much excitement and very considerable rejoicing. She presented a very sorry plight, her habit being absolutely coated with mud, her hair in disorder, and even her face bruised and discolored. But it is certain that Rachel had never admired her so much as when she came up to her and, coloring crimson, tried to take her hand.
“Phil said I was rude to you, Rachel, and I am sorry,” she muttered.
“Oh, never mind,” answered Rachel, whose own little face was quite swollen with crying. “I was so dreadfully, dreadfully unhappy, for I was afraid Ruby had killed you, Clementina.”
Clementina was now hurried away to her own room, where she had a hot bath and was put to bed, and where her mother fussed over her and grumbled bitterly at having ever been so silly as to come to such an outlandish part of the country as Avonsyde.
“I might have lost you, my precious,” she said to her daughter. “It was nothing short of madness my trusting you to those wild young Lovels.”
“Oh, mother, they aren’t a bit to blame, and I think they are rather nice, particularly Phil.”
“Yes, the boy seems a harmless, delicate little creature. I wonder if the old ladies will really make him their heir.”
“I hope they will, mother, for he is really very nice.”
In the course of the evening, as Clementina was lying on her pillows, thinking of a great many things and wondering if Phil was yet rested enough to leave his nest in the forest, there came a tap at her door, and to her surprise Phil’s mother entered. In some ways Mrs. Lovel bore a slight resemblance to Clementina; for she also was vain and self-conscious and she also was vastly taken up with self. Under these circumstances it was extremely natural that the girl and the woman should feel a strong antipathy the one to the other, and Clementina felt annoyed and the softened expression left her face as Mrs. Lovel took a chair by her bedside.
“How are you now, my dear—better, I hope?”
“Thank you, I am quite well,” answered Clementina.
“You had a wonderful escape. Ruby is not half broken in. No one attempts to ride him except Rachel.”
Clementina felt the old sullen feeling surging up in her heart.
“Such a horse should not be taken on a riding-party,” she said shortly. “I have had lessons from Captain Delacourt. I can manage almost any horse.”
“You can doubtless manage quiet horses,” said Mrs. Lovel. “Well, you have had a wonderful escape and ought to be thankful.”
“How is Phil? questioned Clementina after a pause.
“Phil? He is quite well, of course. He is in the armory with the other children.”
“He was not well when I saw him last. He looked deadly tired.”
“That was his color, my dear. He is a remarkably strong boy.”
Clementina gave a bitter little laugh.
“You must be very blind,” she said, “or perhaps you don’t wish to see. It was not just because he was pale that he could not keep his seat on horseback this afternoon. He looked almost as if he would die. You must be a very blind mother—very blind.”
Mrs. Level’s own face had turned white. She was about to make a hasty rejoinder, when the door was again opened and Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine came in.
“Not a word, my dear! I will explain to you another time—another time,” she whispered to the girl. And then she stole out of the room.
A few days after these exciting events the Marmadukes went away. Unless a sense of relief, they left no particular impression behind them. The grown-up people had not made themselves interesting to the old ladies; the lady’s-maid and the parrot alike had disturbed Newbolt’s equanimity; and the children of Avonsyde had certainly not learned to love the Marmaduke children. Clementina had been humbled and improved by her accident, but even an improved Clementina could not help snubbing Rachel every hour of the day, and Rachel did not care to be snubbed. On the day they left Phil did remark, looking wistfully round him: “It seems rather lonely without the Marmadukes.” But no one else echoed the sentiment, and in a day or two these people, who were so important in their own eyes, were almost forgotten at Avonsyde.
On one person, however, this visit had made a permanent impression: that person was poor Mrs. Lovel. She was made terribly uneasy by Clementina’s words. If Clementina, an ignorant and decidedly selfish girl, could notice that Phil was not strong, could assure her, in that positive, unpleasant way she had, that Phil was very far from strong, surely Miss Griselda, who noticed him so closely and watched all he did and said with such solicitude, could not fail to observe this fact also. Poor Mrs. Lovel trembled and feared and wondered, now that the tankard was lost and now that Phil’s delicacy was becoming day by day more apparent, if there was any hope of that great passionate desire of hers being fulfilled.
Just at present, as far as Miss Griselda was concerned, she had no real cause for alarm.
Miss Griselda had quite made up her mind, and where she led Miss Katharine was sure to follow. Miss Griselda was certain that Phil was the heir. Slowly the conviction grew upon her that this little white-faced, fragile boy was indeed the lineal descendant of Rupert Lovel. She had looked so often at his face that she even imagined she saw a likeness to the dark-eyed, dark-browed, stern-looking man whose portrait hung in the picture-gallery. This disinherited Rupert had become more or less of a hero in Miss Griselda’s eyes. From her earliest years she had taken his part; from her earliest years she had despised that sickly younger line from which she herself had sprung. Like most women, Miss Griselda invested her long-dead hero with many imaginary charms. He was brave and great in soul. He was as strong in mind as he was in physique. When she began to see a likeness between Phil’s face and the face of her old-time hero, and when she began also to discover that the little boy was generous and brave, that he was one of those plucky little creatures who shrink from neither pain nor hardship, had Phil’s mother but known it, his cause was won. Miss Griselda began to love the boy. It was beginning to be delightful to her to feel that after she was dead and gone little Phil would have the old house and the lands, that he should reign as a worthy squire of Avonsyde. Already she began to drill the little boy with regard to his future duties, and often when he and she took walks together she spoke to him about what he was to do.
“All this portion of the forest belongs to us, Phil,” she said to him one day. “My father often talked of having a roadway made through it, but he never did so, nor will Katharine and I. We leave that as part of your work.”
“Would the poor people like it?” asked Phil, raising his eyes with their queer expression to her face. “That’s the principal thing to think about, isn’t it—if the poor people would like it?”
Miss Griselda frowned.
“I don’t agree with you,” she said. “The first and principal thing to consider is what is best for the lord of Avonsyde. A private road just through these lands would be a great acquisition, and therefore for that reason you will have to undertake the work by and by.”
Phil’s eyes still looked grave and anxious.
“Do you think, then—are you quite sure that I am really the heir, Aunt Griselda?” he said.
Miss Griselda smiled and patted his cheek.
“Well, my boy, you ought to know best,” she said. “Your mother assures me that you are.”
“Oh, yes—poor mother!” answered Phil. “Aunt Griselda,” he continued suddenly, “if you were picturing an heir to yourself, you wouldn’t think of a boy like me, would you?”
“I don’t know, Phil. I do picture you in that position very often. Your Aunt Katharine and I have had a weary search, but at last you have come, and I may say that, on the whole, I am satisfied. My dear boy, we have been employed for six years over this search, and sometimes I will own that I have almost despaired. Katharine never did; but then she is romantic and believes in the old rhyme.”
“What old rhyme?” asked Phil.
“Have you not heard it? It is part and parcel of our house and runs in different couplets, but the meaning is always the same:
“‘Come what may come, tyde what may tyde,
Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde.’”
“Is that really true?” asked Phil, his eyes shining. “I like the words very much. They sound like a kind of speech that the beautiful green lady of the forest would have made; but, Aunt Griselda, I must say it—I am sorry.”
“What about, dear?”
“That you are satisfied with me as an heir.”
“My dear little Phil, what a queer speech to make. Why should not I be satisfied with a nice, good little boy like you?”
“Oh, yes, you might like me for myself,” said Phil; “but as the heir—that is quite a different thing. I’d never picture myself as an heir—never!”
“What do you mean, Phil?”
“I know what I mean, Aunt Griselda, but it’s a secret, and I mustn’t say. I have a lovely picture in my mind of what the heir ought to be. Perhaps there is no harm in telling you what my picture is like. Oh, if you only could see him!”
“See whom, Philip?”
“My picture. He is tall and strong and very broad, and he has a look of Rachel, and his cheeks are brown, and his hair is black, and his arms are full of muscle, and his shoulders are perfectly square, and he holds himself up so erect, just as if he was drilled. He is strong beyond anybody else I know, and yet he is kind; he wouldn’t hurt even a fly. Oh, if you only knew him. He’s my picture of an heir!”
Phil’s face flushed and his lovely eyes shone. Aunt Griselda stooped down and kissed him.
“You are a queer boy,” she said. “You have described your ancestor, Rupert Lovel, to the life. Well, child, may you too have the brave and kindly soul. Phil, after the summer, when all is decided, you are to go to a preparatory school for Eton and then to Eton itself. All the men of our house have been educated there. Afterward I suppose you must go to Oxford. Your responsibilities will be great, little man, and you must be educated to take them up properly.”
“Mother will be pleased with all this,” said Phil; “only I do wish—yes, I can’t help saying it—that my picture was the heir. Oh, Aunt Grizel, do, do look at that lovely spider!”
“I believe the boy is more interested in those wretched spiders and caterpillars than he is in all the position and wealth which lies before him,” thought Miss Griselda.
Late on that same day she said to Miss Katharine:
“Phil this morning drew a perfect picture, both mental and physical, of our ancestor, Katharine.”
“Oh,” said Miss Katharine; “I suppose he was studying the portrait. Griselda, I see plainly that you mean to give the boy the place.”
“Provided his mother can prove his descent,” answered Miss Griselda in a gentle, satisfied tone. “But of that,” she added, “I have not, of course, the smallest doubt.”
“Does it occur to you, Griselda, to remember that on the 5th of May Rachel’s and Kitty’s mother comes here to claim her children?”
“If she is alive,” said Miss Griselda. “I have my doubts on that head. We have not had a line from her all these years.”
“You told her she was not to write.”
“Yes, but is it likely a woman of that class would keep her word?”
“Griselda, you will be shocked with me for saying so, but the young woman who came here on the day our father died was a lady.”
“Katharine! she served in a shop.”
“No matter, she was a lady; her word to her would be sacred. I don’t believe she is dead. I am sure she will come here on the 5th of May.”
When Rupert Lovel and his boy left the gloomy lodgings where Rachel’s and Kitty’s mother was spending a few days, they went home in absolute silence. The minds of both were so absorbed that they did not care to speak. Young Rupert was a precocious lad, old and manly beyond his years. Little Phil scarcely exaggerated when he drew glowing pictures of this fine lad. The boy was naturally brave, naturally strong, and all the circumstances of his bringing-up had fostered these qualities. His had been no easy, bread-and-butter existence. He had scarcely known poverty, for his father had been well off almost from his birth; but he had often come in contact with danger, and latterly sorrow had met him. He loved his mother passionately; even now he could scarcely speak of her without a perceptible faltering in his voice, without a dimness softening the light of his bright eagle eyes. Rupert at fifteen was in all respects some years older than an English boy of the same age. It would have struck any parent or guardian as rather ridiculous to send this active, clever, well-informed lad to school. The fact was, he had been to Nature’s school to some purpose, and had learned deeply from this most wonderful of all teachers.
When Rupert and his father reached the hotel in Jermyn Street where they were staying, the boy looked the man full in the face and broke the silence with these words:
“Now, father, is it worth it?”
“Is it worth what, my son?”
“You know, father. After hearing that lady talk I don’t want Avonsyde.”
The elder Lovel frowned. He was silent for a moment; then he laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Look me in the face, lad, and answer me a question.”
“Yes, father.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Why, of course. Can you doubt it?”
“Then go to bed and to sleep, and believe that nothing shall be done which in the slightest degree shall tarnish your honor. Go to bed, boy, and sleep peacefully, but just put one thought under your pillow. Right is right and wrong is wrong. It sometimes so happens, Rupert, that it is not the right and best thing to be simply magnanimous.”
Rupert smiled.
“I am quite certain you will decide as my mother would have liked best, sir,” he said, and then he took his candle and left the room.
The greater part of the night the elder Lovel sat up. Early the next morning he paid the family lawyers a visit.
“I have made up my mind, Mr. Baring,” he said to the younger of these gentlemen. “For the next few months I shall remain in England, but I shall not bring my son forward as an heir to the Avonsyde property until I can claim for him unbroken and direct descent. As I told you yesterday, there are two unexpected obstacles in my way. I have sustained a loss—I don’t know how. An old tankard and a parcel of valuable letters cannot be found. I am not leaving a stone unturned to recover them. When I can lay my hand on the tankard and when, even more important, I can produce the letters, I can show you by an unbroken chain of evidence that my boy is the eldest son of the eldest son in direct descent. I make no claim until I make all claim, Mr. Baring.”
“I have to-day had a letter from the old ladies at Avonsyde,” answered Mr. Baring. “They seem pleased with the boy who is at present claiming the property. From the tone of Miss Griselda’s letter, I should judge that if your boy does not put in his appearance the child who is at present at Avonsyde will be publicly recognized as the heir. Even a public recognition does not really interfere with your son if you can prove his title; but undoubtedly it will be best for all parties that you should make your claim before the other child is put into a false position.”
“When do you anticipate that the old ladies will absolutely decide?”
“They name a date—the 5th of May.”
“I think I can promise one thing: after the 5th of May neither Rupert nor I will interfere. We make claim before or on that date, not afterward. The fact is, we know something of the child who is now at Avonsyde.”
Mr. Lovel, after enjoining absolute secrecy on the lawyers, went his way, and that evening had a long interview with Mrs. Lovel.
“I fear,” he said in conclusion, “that in no case would your girls come into the place, except indeed under certain conditions.”
“What are they?” asked Mrs. Lovel.
“That we find neither tankard nor letters and in consequence do not make our claim, and that little Philip Lovel dies.”
“Is he so ill as that?”
“He is physically unsound. The best doctors in Melbourne have examined him and do not believe he will live to manhood. His mother comes of an unhealthy family, and the boy takes after her physically—not mentally, thank God!”
“Poor little Phil! He has a wonderfully sweet face.”
“He has the bravest nature I ever met. My boy and girls would almost die for Phil. The fact is, all this is most complicated and difficult, and much of the mischief would have been avoided if only that wretched sister-in-law of mine had been above-board.”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Lovel; “but even her stealing a march on you does not give you back the tankard nor the letter.”
“True; and I don’t suppose even she could have stolen them. Well, Rachel, we must all hope for the best.”
“If there is a thing that worries me,” said Nancy White to herself—“if there is a thing that keeps coming and coming into my dreams and getting that fantastic and that queer in shape—one time being big enough to hold quarts and quarts of water, and another time so small that you’d think it would melt before your very eyes—it’s this wretched silver can. It’s in my mind all day long and it’s in my dreams all night long. There! I wonder if the bit of a thing is bright enough now.”
As Nancy spoke to herself she rubbed and polished and turned round and round and tenderly dusted the lost tankard of the house of Lovel until it really shone like a mirror.
“It takes a deal of trouble, and I’m sure it isn’t worth it,” she said to herself. “I just kept it more out of a bit of mischief than anything else in the beginning; but it just seems to me now as if I hated it, and yet I couldn’t part with it. I believe it’s a bit of a haunted thing, or it wouldn’t come into my dreams after this fashion.”
Nancy kept the tankard up in her bedroom. After giving it a last fond rub and looking at it queerly with an expression half of admiration, half of fear, she locked it up in a little cupboard in the wall and tripped downstairs to attend to her mistress’ comforts.
Mrs. Lovel kept no secrets from her old servant, and Nancy knew about her mistress’ adventures in London and her unexpected meeting with the friend of her early days, Rupert Lovel. Still, Nancy had a shrewd suspicion that not quite all was told her; she had a kind of idea that there was something in the background.
“It comes over me,” she said to herself—“it comes over me that unless I, Nancy White, am as sharp as sharp and as cunning as cunning, my missus and my young ladies will be done. What is it that the missus is keeping in the back of her head to make her look that dreamy, and that wistful, and that despairing, and yet that hopeful? My word, if I haven’t seen her smile as if she was almost glad once or twice. Poor dear! maybe she knows as that little delicate chap can’t be the heir; and as to the others—the old gentleman and the fine young lad from the other side of the earth—why, if they have a claim to make, why don’t they make it? And if they don’t make it, then, say I, it’s because they can’t. Well, now, anything is better than suspense, and I’ll question my missus on that very point straight away.”
Accordingly, when Nancy had arranged the tea-tray in the most tempting position and stirred the fire into the cheeriest blaze, she knelt down before it and began to make some crisp and delicious toast. Nancy knew that Mrs. Lovel had a weakness for the toast she made, and she also knew that such an employment was very favorable to confidential conversation.
“Well, ma’am,” she said suddenly, having coughed once or twice and gone through one or two other little maneuvers to attract attention—“well, ma’am, I wants to have my mind eased on a certain point. Is it, ma’am, or is it not the case that the old gentleman from Australia means to do you a mischief?”
“What do you mean, Nancy?” exclaimed Mrs. Lovel, laying down the lace which she was embroidering and gazing at her old servant in some astonishment. “The old gentleman from Australia? Why, Rupert Lovel cannot be more than forty. He is a man in his prime, splendidly strong; and as to his doing me a mischief, I believe, you silly old woman, that he is one of my best friends.”
“The proof of the pudding is in the eating,” snorted Nancy. “You’ll excuse me, ma’am, but I’d like to prove that by his actions. He means that young son of his to get possession of Avonsyde—don’t he, ma’am?”
“His son is the real heir, Nancy. Dear Nancy, I wish to say something. I must not be covetous for my little girls. If the real and lawful heir turns up I have not a word to say. Nay, more, I think if I can be glad on this subject I am glad that he should turn out to be the son of my early and oldest friend.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I’m not a bit surprised about you. Bother that toast, how it will burn! It’s just like you, ma’am, to give up everything for six blessed years, and to have your heart well-nigh broke and your poor eyes dimmed with crying, and then in the end, when the cup that you have been so longing for is almost to your lips, to give up everything again and to be glad into the bargain. That’s just like you, ma’am; but, you’ll excuse me, it ain’t like Nancy White, and if you can be glad in the prospect of seeing your children beggared, I can’t; so there!”
“Dear Nancy,” said Mrs. Lovel, laying her hand on the old servant’s shoulder, “how am I to help myself? Both might and right are against me. Had I not better submit to the inevitable with a good grace?”
“That bonny little Miss Rachel,” continued Nancy, “don’t I see her now, with her eyes flashing as she looked up at me and that fine, imperious way she had, and ‘tell the lady to wear my ring, Nancy,’ says she,’and tell her that I love her,’ says she.”
“Little darling,” whispered the mother, and raising her hand she pressed a tiny ring which she wore to her lips.
“Miss Rachel isn’t meant for poverty,” continued Nancy, “and what’s more, I’m very sure Miss Kitty isn’t either; so, ma’am, I’d like to be sure whether they are to have it or not; and a question I’d dearly like to have answered is this: If the middle-aged man, Mr. Rupert Lovel, and his son have a claim to Avonsyde, why don’t they make it? Anything is better than suspense, say I. Why don’t we know the worst and have done with it?”
“Why, Nancy, I thought I had told you everything. Mr. Lovel won’t make a claim until he can make a perfect claim. The fact is, some of his credentials are lost.”
“The toast is done, ma’am. May I make bold to ask what you mean by that? You had better eat your toast while it is hot and crisp, Mrs. Lovel. The good gentleman from Australia hasn’t to go to the old ladies with a character in his hand, like a servant looking for a situation?”
“No, no. Nancy; but he has to bring letters and other tokens to prove his son’s descent, to prove that his son is a true Lovel of Avonsyde of the elder branch, and unfortunately Mr. Lovel has lost some valuable letters and an old silver tankard which has been for hundreds of years in the family, and which was taken from Avonsyde by the Rupert Lovel who quarreled with his relations.”
Mrs. Level’s head was bent over her lace, and she never noticed how red Nancy’s face grew at this moment, nor how she almost dropped the steaming kettle with which she was about to replenish the tea-pot.
“Oh, my word!” she exclaimed hastily. “It seems as if toast and kettle and all was turned spiteful to-night. There’s that boiling water flowed over on my hand. Never mind, ma’am—it ain’t nothing. What was it you were saying was lost, ma’am?”
“Letters, Nancy, and a tankard.”
“Oh, letters and a tankard. And what may a tankard be like?”
“This was an old-fashioned silver can, with the Lovel coat of arms and the motto of their house, ‘Tyde what may,’ graved on one side. Why, Nancy, you look quite pale.”
“It’s the burn, ma’am, that smarts a little. And so the silver can is lost? Dear, dear, what a misfortune; and the fine young gentleman can’t get the place noway without it. Is that so or not, ma’am?”
“Well, Nancy, the tankard seems to be considered a very important piece of evidence, and Mr. Lovel is not inclined to claim the property for his son without it. However, he is having careful search made in Australia, and will probably hear tidings of it any day.”
“That’s as Providence wills, ma’am. It’s my belief that if the middle-aged gentleman was to search Australia from tail to head he wouldn’t get no tidings of that bit of a silver mug. Dear, dear, how this burn on my hand do smart!”
“You had better put some vaseline on it, Nancy. You look quite upset. I fear it is worse than you say. Let me look at it.”
“No, no, ma’am; it will go off presently. Dear, what a taking the gentleman must be in for the silver mug. Well, ma’am, more unlikely things have happened than that your bonny little ladies should come in for Avonsyde. Did I happen to mention to you, ma’am, that I saw Master Phil Lovel yesterday?”
“No, Nancy. Where and how?”
“He was with one of the old ladies, ma’am, in the forest. He was talking to her and laughing and he never noticed me, and you may be sure I kept well in the background. Eh, but he’s a dear little fellow; but if ever there was a bit of a face on which the shadow rested, it’s his.”
“Nancy, Nancy, is he indeed so ill? Poor, dear little boy!”
“No, ma’am, I don’t say he’s so particular ill. He walked strong enough and he looked up into the old lady’s face as bright as you please; but he had the look—I have seen it before, and I never could be mistaken about that look on any face. Not long for this world was written all over him. Too good for this world was the way his eyes shone and his lips smiled. Dear heart, ma’am, don’t cry. Such as them is the blessed ones; they go away to a deal finer place and a grander home than any Avonsyde.”
“True,” said Mrs. Lovel. “I don’t cry for that, but I think the child suffers. He spoke very sorrowfully to me.”
“Well, ma’am, we must all go through it, one way or another. My old mother used to say to me long ago, ‘Nancy, ’tis contrasts as do it. I’m so tired out with grinding, grinding, and toiling, toiling, that just to rest and do nothing seems to me as if it would be perfect heaven.’ And the little fellow will be the more glad some day because he has had a bit of suffering. Dear, dear, ma’am, I can’t get out of my head the loss of that tankard.”
“So it seems, Nancy; the fact seems to have taken complete possession of you. Were it not absolutely impossible, I could even have said that my poor honest old Nancy was the thief! There, Nancy, don’t look so startled. Of course I was only joking.”
“Of course, ma’am; but you’ll just excuse me if I go and bind up my burned hand.”
The spring came early that year. A rather severe winter gave place to charming and genial weather. In April it was hot, and the trees made haste to clothe themselves with their most delicate and fairy green, the flowers peeped out joyfully, the birds sang from morning till night, and the forest became paradise.
Rachel, Kitty, and Phil almost lived there. Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine had become lenient in the matter of lessons. Miss Griselda was wise enough to believe in nature’s lessons and to think fine fresh air the best tonic in all the world for both mind and body. Phil was in his element in the forest. He was always finding new beetles and fresh varieties of chrysalides, which he and Kitty carefully treasured; and as to the roots and the flowers and the mosses which these children collected, even good-natured Newbolt at last gave vent to strong expressions of disapproval, and asked if the whole of the house was to be turned topsy-turvy with their messes.
Phil could do what he liked in his old tower bedroom; his mother never interfered with him there. This quaint old room was Liberty Hall to Phil. Here he could groan if he wanted to, or sigh if he wanted to, or talk his secrets to the silent, faithful walls if he wanted to; and here he brought his spiders and his beetles and his mosses, and kept them in odd bottles and under broken glasses, and messed away to his heart’s content without any one saying him nay.
Downstairs Mrs. Lovel was a most careful and correct mother—never petting and never spoiling, always on her guard, always watchful and prim. Miss Griselda was wont to say that with all her follies she had never come across a more sagacious and sensible mother than Mrs. Lovel. As a mother she approved of her absolutely; but then Miss Griselda never saw behind the scenes; she never saw what went on in the tower bedroom, where Mrs. Lovel would take the boy in her arms, and strain him to her heart with passionate kisses, and pet him and make much of him, and consult him, and, above all things, faithfully promise him that after the 5th of May the burden which was crushing his young life should be removed, and he might be his own natural and unrestrained self again.
Mrs. Lovel had got a dreadful fright when she first read young Rupert’s letter; but when day after day and week after week passed and no tidings of Rupert or his father reached Avonsyde, she began to hope that even though they were in England, they had come over on business in no way connected with the old family home; in short, even though they were in England, they had not seen those advertisements which had almost turned her head.
The weeks passed quickly, and she began to breathe freely and to be almost happy once more. The loss of the tankard was certainly disquieting, but she felt sure that with the aid of the stolen letters she could substantiate her boy’s claim, and she also reflected that if the tankard was lost to her it was also lost to her brother-in-law, Rupert Lovel.
So life went quite smoothly at Avonsyde, and day after day the weather became more balmy and springlike, and day after day Miss Griselda’s face wore a softer and gentler expression; for the little heir-apparent was altogether after her own heart, and she was contented, as all women are when they find a worthy object to love.
Miss Katharine too was smiling and happy in these early spring days. She had never forgotten the face of the mother who had left her two children in her charge nearly six years ago. That young and agonized face had haunted her dreams; some words which those poor trembling lips had uttered had recurred to her over and over.
“It breaks my heart to part with the children,” the mother had said, “but if in no other way I can provide for their future, I sacrifice myself willingly. I am willing to obliterate myself for their sakes.”
Miss Katharine had felt, when these words were wrung from a brave and troubled heart, that pride was indeed demanding a cruel thing; but for Miss Griselda she would have said:
“Come here with your children. You are Valentine’s wife, and for his sake we will be good to you as well as them.”
Miss Katharine had longed to say these words, but fear of her elder sister had kept her silent, and ever since her heart had reproached her. Now she felt cheerful, for she knew that on Rachel’s birthday the mother of the children would return, and she knew also that when she came she would not go away again.
Rachel’s charming little face had lost a good deal of its watchful and unrestful expression during the last few weeks. She had seen Nancy White more than once, and Nancy had so strongly impressed on her the fact that on the 5th of May the lady of the forest would reveal herself, and all the mystery of her secret and her seclusion be explained, that the little girl grew hopeful and bright and fixed her longing eyes on that birthday which was to mean so much to so many. Kitty too looked forward to the 5th of May as to a delightful general holiday; in short, every one was excited about it, except the child to whom it meant the most of all. Little Phil alone was unconcerned about the great day—little Phil alone lived happily in the present, and, if anything, rather put the future out of sight. To him the thought of the inheritance which on that day was to be forced upon him was felt to be a heavy burden; but, then, those little shoulders were already over-weighted, and God knew and little Phil also knew that they could not bear any added burden.
Of late little Phil had been very glad to feel that God knew about his secrets and his cares, and in his own very simple, childish little way he used lately to ask him not to add to them; and now that he was sure God knew everything, he ceased to trouble his head very much about all that was to happen on Rachel’s birthday.
Thus every one at Avonsyde, with the exception of little Phil, was happy in the future, but he alone was perfectly happy in the present. His collection of all kinds of natural curiosities grew and multiplied, and he spent more and more time in the lovely forest. The delicious spring air did him good, and his mother once more hoped and almost believed that health and strength lay before him.
One day, quite toward the end of April, Kitty, his constant companion, had grown tired and refused to stay out any longer. The day was quite hot, and the little boy wandered on alone under the shade of the trees. As usual when quite by himself, he chose the least-frequented paths, and as usual the vague hope came over him that he might see the lovely green lady of the forest. No such exquisite vision was permitted to him, but instead he came suddenly upon Nancy White, who was walking in the forest and picking up small dry branches and sticks, which she placed in a large basket hung over her arm. When she saw Phil she started and almost dropped her basket.
“Well I never!” she exclaimed. “You has gone and given me a start, little master.”
“How do you do, Nancy?” said Phil, going up to her, speaking in a polite voice, and holding out his hand. “How is the lady of the forest? Please tell her that, I have kept her secret most carefully, that no one knows it but Rachel, and she knew it long ago. I hope the lady is very well, Nancy.”
“Yes, my dear, she is well and hopeful. The days are going on, Master Philip Lovel, and each day as it passes brings a little more hope. I am sure you are little gentleman enough to keep the lady’s secret.”
“Everybody speaks about the days passing and hope growing,” said Phil. “I—I—Nancy, did you ever see the green lady about here? She could bring me hope. How I wish I could see her!”
“Now, don’t be fanciful, my dear little gentleman,” answered Nancy. “Them thoughts about fairies and such-like are very bad for growing children. You shouldn’t allow your head to wander on such nonsense. Little boys and girls should attend to their spelling lessons, and eat plenty, and go to bed early, and then they have no time for fretting after fairies and such. It isn’t canny to hear you talk as you do of the green lady, Master Phil.”
“Isn’t it?” said Phil. “I am sorry. I do wish to see her. I want a gift from her. Good-by, Nancy. Give my love to the lady.”
“I will so, dear; and tell me, are you feeling any way more perky—like yourself?”
“I’m very well, except when I’m very bad,” answered Phil. “Just now I’m as well as possible, but in the evenings I sometimes get tired, and then it rather hurts me to mount up so many stairs to my tower bedroom; but oh! I would not sleep in any other room for the world. I love my tower room.”
“Well, you’ll be a very happy little boy soon,” said Nancy—“a very happy, rich little boy; for if folks say true everything has to be given to you on the 5th of May.”
“A lot of money and lands, you mean,” said Phil. “Oh, yes; but they aren’t everything—oh, dear, no! I know what I want, and I am not likely to have it. Good-by, Nancy; good-by.”
Phil ran off, and Nancy pursued her walk stolidly and soberly.
“The look grows,” she said to herself—“the look grows and deepens. Poor little lad! he is right enough when he says that gold and lands won’t satisfy him. Well, now, I’m doing him no harm by keeping back the silver tankard. It’s only his good-for-nothing mother as will be put out, and that middle-aged man in London and that other boy. What do I care for that other boy, or for any one in all the world but my missus and her dear little ladies? There, there, that tankard is worse than a nightmare to me. I hate it, and I’d give all the world never to have seen it; but there, now that I’ve got it I’ll keep it.”