“Katharine,” said Miss Griselda to her younger sister, “do you happen to remember the address of those lodgings in London where we wrote years ago to Rachel’s and Kitty’s mother? The 5th of May will be this day week, and although I dislike the woman, and of course cannot possibly agree with you as to her being in any sense of the word a lady, yet still when Griselda Lovel passes her word she does pass it, and I think it is right, however painful, to give the young woman the invitation for the 5th of May.”
“We wrote one letter nearly six years ago to No. 10 Abbey Street, Marshall Road, S.W., London,” answered Miss Katharine in a sharp voice for her. “One letter to a mother about her own children; but that was the address, Griselda.”
“No. 10 Abbey Street,” repeated Miss Griselda. “I shall send the young woman an invitation to-day. Of course it won’t reach her, for she is dead long ago; but it is only right to send it. Katharine, you don’t look well this morning. Is anything the matter?”
“Nothing more than usual,” answered Miss Katharine. “One letter in six years to Valentine’s wife. Oh, no, I was not likely to forget the address.”
“Allow me to congratulate you on your excellent memory, my dear. Oh, here comes Phil’s mother. I have much to talk over with her.”
Miss Katharine left the room; her head was throbbing and tears rose unbidden to her eyes. When she reached the great hall she sat down on an oak bench and burst into tears.
“How cruel of Griselda to speak like that of Valentine’s wife,” she said under her breath. “If Valentine’s wife is indeed dead I shall never know another happy moment. Oh, Rachel and Kitty, my dears, I did not see you coming in.”
“Yes, and here is Phil too,” said Kitty, dragging him forward. “Why are you crying, Aunt Katharine? Do dry your tears and look at our lovely flowers.”
“I am thinking about your mother, children,” said Miss Katharine suddenly. “Does it ever occur to you two thoughtless, happy girls that you have got a mother somewhere in existence—that she loves you and misses you?”
“I don’t know my mother,” said Kitty. “I can’t remember her, but Rachel can.”
“Yes,” said Rachel abruptly. “I’m going all round the world to look for her by and by. Don’t let’s talk of her; I can’t bear it.”
The child’s face had grown pale; a look of absolute suffering filled her dark and glowing eyes. Miss Katharine was so much astonished at this little peep into Rachel’s deep heart that she absolutely dried her own tears. Sometimes she felt comforted at the thought of Rachel suffering. If even one child did not quite forget her mother, surely this fact would bring pleasure to the mother by and by.
Meanwhile Miss Griselda was holding a solemn and somewhat alarming conversation with poor Mrs. Lovel. In the first place, she took the good lady into the library—a dark, musty-smelling room, which gave this vivacious and volatile person, as she expressed it, “the horrors” on the spot. Miss Griselda having secured her victim and having seated her on one of the worm-eaten, high-backed chairs, opened the book-case marked D and took from it the vellum-bound diary which six years ago she had carried to the old squire’s bedroom. From the musty pages of the diary Miss Griselda read aloud the story of the great quarrel; she read in an intensely solemn voice, with great emphasis and even passion. Miss Griselda knew this part of the history of her house so well that she scarcely needed to look at the words of the old chronicler.
“It may seem a strange thing to you, Mrs. Lovel,” she said when she had finished her story—“a strange and incomprehensible thing that your white-faced and delicate-looking little boy should in any way resemble the hero of this quarrel.”
“Phil is not delicate,” feebly interposed Mrs. Lovel.
“I said delicate-looking. Pray attend to me. The Rupert who quarreled with his father—I will confess to you that my sympathies are with Rupert—was in the right. He was heroic—a man of honor; he was brave and stalwart and noble. Your boy reminds me of him—not in physique, no, no! but his spirit looks out of your boy’s eyes. I wish to make him the heir of our house.”
“Oh, Miss Griselda, how can a poor, anxious mother thank you enough?”
“Don’t thank me at all. I do it in no sense of the word for you. The boy pleases me; he has won on my affections; I—love him.”
Miss Griselda paused. Perhaps never before in the whole course of her life had she openly admitted that she loved any one. After a period which seemed interminable to poor Mrs. Lovel she resumed:
“My regard for the boy is, however, really of small consequence; he can only inherit under the conditions of my father’s will. These conditions are that he must claim direct descent from the Rupert Lovel who was treated so unjustly two hundred years ago, and that he has, as far as it is possible for a boy to have, perfect physical health.”
Mrs. Lovel grew white to her very lips.
“Phil is perfectly strong,” she repeated.
Miss Griselda stared at her fixedly.
“I have judged of that for myself,” she said coldly. “I have studied many books on the laws of health and many physiological treatises, and have trusted to my own observation rather than to any doctor’s casual opinion. The boy is pale and slight, but I believe him to be strong, for I have tested him in many ways. Without you knowing it I have made him go through many athletic exercises, and he has often run races in my presence. I believe him to be sound. We will let that pass. The other and even more important matter is that he should now prove his descent. You have shown me some of your proofs, and they certainly seem to me incontestable, but I have not gone really carefully into the matter. My lawyer, Mr. Baring, will come down here on the afternoon of the 4th and carefully go over with you all your letters and credentials. On the 5th I have incited many friends to come to Avonsyde, and on that occasion Katharine and I will present Philip to our many acquaintances as our heir. We will make the occasion as festive as possible, and would ask you to see that Philip is suitably and becomingly dressed. You know more of the fashions of the world than we do, so we will leave the matter of device in your hands, of course bearing all the expense ourselves. By the way, you have observed in the history I have just read how the old silver tankard is mentioned. In that terrible scene where Rupert finally parts with his father, he takes up the tankard and declares that ‘Tyde what may’ he will yet return vindicated and honored to the old family home. That was a prophecy,” continued Miss Griselda, rising with excitement to her feet; “for you have brought the boy and also the very tankard which Rupert took away with him. I look upon your possession of the tankard, as the strongest proof of all of the justice of your claim. By the way, you have never yet shown it to me. Do you mind fetching it now?”
Muttering something almost unintelligible, Mrs. Lovel rose and left the library. She crossed the great hall, opened the oak door which led to the tower staircase, and mounting the winding and worn stairs, presently reached her bedroom. The little casement windows were opened, and the sweet air of spring was filling the quaint chamber. Mrs. Lovel shut and locked the door; then she went to one of the narrow and slit-like windows and looked out. A wide panorama of lovely landscape lay before her; miles of forest lands undulated away to the very horizon; the air was full of the sweet songs of many birds; the atmosphere was perfumed with all the delicious odors of budding flowers and opening leaves. In its way nothing could have been more perfect; and it was for Phil—all for Phil! All the beauty and the glory and the loveliness, all the wealth and the comfort and the good position, were for Phil, her only little son. Mrs. Lovel clasped her hands, and bitter tears came to her eyes. The cup was almost to the boy’s lips. Was it possible that anything could dash it away now?
The tankard—she was sent to fetch the silver tankard—the tankard which Phil himself had lost! What could she do? How could she possibly frame an excuse? She dared not tell Miss Griselda that her boy had lost it. She felt so timid, so insecure, that she dared not confess what an ordinary woman in ordinary circumstances would have done. She dreaded the gaze of Miss Griselda’s cold, unbelieving gray eyes; she dreaded the short sarcastic speech she would be sure to make. No, no, she dared not confess; she must dissemble; she must prevaricate; on no account must she tell the truth. She knew that Miss Griselda was waiting for her in the library; she also knew that the good lady was not remarkable for patience; she must do something, and at once.
In despair she rang the bell, and when Newbolt replied to it she found Mrs. Lovel lying on her bed with her face partly hidden.
“Please tell Miss Lovel that I am ill, Newbolt,” she said. “I have been taken with a very nasty headache and trembling and faintness. Ask her if she will excuse my going downstairs just for the present.”
Newbolt departed with her message, and Mrs. Lovel knew that she had a few hours’ grace. She again locked the door and, rising from her bed, paced up and down the chamber. She was far too restless to remain quiet. Was it possible that the loss of the tankard might be, after all, her undoing? Oh, no! the dearly loved possession was now so close; the auspicious day was so near; the certainty was at her door. No, no! the letters were proof of Philip’s claim; she need not be so terribly frightened. Although she reasoned in this way, she felt by no means reassured, and it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps if she went into the forest she might find the tankard herself. It might be lying even now forgotten, unnoticed under some bush beside the treacherous bog which had almost swallowed up her boy. What a happy thought! Oh, yes, she herself would go to look for it.
Mrs. Lovel did not know the forest as Phil and Rachel and Kitty did. The forest by itself had no charms whatever for her. She disliked its solitude; she saw no beauty in its scenery; no sweetness came to her soul from the song of its happy birds or the brilliance of its wild flowers. No, no—the city and life and movement and gayety for Mrs. Lovel; she was a poor artificial creature, and Nature was not likely to whisper her secrets into her ears.
When Phil came up by and by his mother questioned him minutely as to the part of the forest into which he had wandered. Of course he could not tell her much; but she got a kind of idea, and feeble as her knowledge was she resolved to act on it.
Early the next morning she rose from an almost sleepless bed, and carefully dressing so as not to awaken her sleeping boy, she stole downstairs and, as Phil had done some months before, let herself out by a side entrance into the grounds. It was winter when Phil had gone on his little expedition—a winter’s morning, with its attendant cold and damp and gloom; but now the spring sun was already getting up, the dew sparkled on the grass, and the birds were having a perfect chorus of rejoicing. Even Mrs. Lovel, unimpressionable as she was to all nature’s delights, was influenced by the crisp and buoyant air and the sense of rejoicing which the birds and flowers had in common. She stepped quits briskly into the forest and said to herself:
“My spirits are rising; that terrible depression I underwent yesterday is leaving me. I take this as a good omen and believe that I may find the tankard.”
Phil had given her certain directions, and for some time she walked on bravely, expecting each moment to come to the spot where the boy had assured her the beaten track ended and she must plunge into the recesses of the primeval forest itself. Of course she lost her way, and after wandering along for some hours, seated herself in an exhausted state at the foot of a tree, and there, without in the least intending to do so, fell asleep.
Mrs. Lovel was unaccustomed to any physical exercise, and her long walk, joined to her sleepless night, made her now so overpoweringly drowsy that she not only slept, but slept heavily.
In her sleep she knew nothing at all of the advance the day was making. The sun’s rays darting through the thick foliage of the giant oak tree under which she slumbered did not in the least disturb her, and when some robins made their breakfast close by and twittered and talked to one another she never heard them. Some rabbits and some squirrels peeped at her quite saucily, but they never even ruffled her placid repose. Her head rested against the tree, her bonnet was slightly pushed back, and her hands lay folded over each other in her lap.
Presently there was a sound of footsteps, and a woman came up and bent over the sleeping lady in the forest. The woman was dressed in a short petticoat, strong boots, a striped jersey jacket, and a shawl thrown over her head; she carried a basket on her arm and she was engaged in her favorite occupation of picking sticks.
“Dearie me! now, whoever is this?” said Nancy White as she bent over Phil’s mother. “Dearie, dearie, a poor white-looking thing; no bone or muscle or go about her, I warrant. And who has she a look of? I know some one like her—and yet—no, it can’t be—no. Is it possible that she features pretty little Master Phil?”
Nancy spoke half-aloud, and came yet nearer and bent very low indeed over the sleeper.
“She do feature Master Phil and she has got the dress of a fine lady. Oh, no doubt she’s his poor, weak bit of a mother! Bless the boy! No wonder he’s ailing if she has the mothering of him.”
Nancy’s words were all muttered half-aloud, and under ordinary occasions such sounds would undoubtedly have awakened Mrs. Lovel; now they only caused her to move restlessly and to murmur some return words in her sleep.
“Phil, if we cannot find that tankard we are undone.” Then after a pause: “It is a long way to the bog. I wonder if Phil has left the tankard on the borders of the bog.”
On hearing these sentences, which were uttered with great distinctness and in accents almost bordering on despair, Nancy suddenly threw her basket to the ground; then she clasped her two hands over her head and, stepping back a pace or two, began to execute a hornpipe, to the intense astonishment of some on-lookers in the shape of birds and squirrels.
“Ah, my lady fair!” she exclaimed, “what you have let out now makes assurance doubly sure. And so you think you’ll find the precious tankard in the bog! Now, now, what shall I do? How can I prevent your going any further on such a fool’s quest? Ah, my pretty little ladies, my pretty Miss Rachel and Miss Kitty, I believe I did you a good turn when I hid that tankard away.”
Nancy indulged in a few more expressions of self-congratulation then, a sudden idea coming to her, she fumbled in her pocket for a bit of paper, and scribbling something on it laid it on the sleeping lady’s lap.
When Mrs. Lovel awoke, somewhere close on midday, she took up the little piece of paper and read its contents with startled eyes:
“Come what may come, tyde what may tyde,
Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde.“False heirs never yet have thriven;
Tankards to the right are given.”
The last two lines, which Nancy had composed in a perfect frenzy of excitement and rapture at what she considered a sudden development of the poetic fancy, caused poor Mrs. Lovel’s cheeks to blanch and her eyes to grow dim with a sudden overpowering sense of fear. She rose to her feet and pursued her way home, trembling in every limb.
Phil had a dream which had a great effect on him. There were several reasons for this. In the first place, it wanted but two days to the great 5th of May; in the second place, he was feeling really ill, so was making greater efforts than usual to conceal all trace of languor or weariness; in the third place, Rachel came to him about half an hour before he went upstairs to bed and burst out crying, and told him she knew something was going to happen. Rachel was not a child who was particularly given to tears, but when she did cry she cried stormily. She showed a good deal of excitement of a passionate and over-wrought little heart to Phil now, and when he questioned her and asked her why she was so excited about her birthday, she murmured first something about the lady of the forest and then about her mother, and then, afraid of her own words, she ran away before Phil could question her further. Phil’s own mother, too, seemed to be in a most disturbed and unnatural state. She was always conning a piece of paper and then putting it out of sight, and her eyes had red rims round them, and when Phil questioned her she owned that she had been crying, and felt, as she expressed it, “low.” All these things combined caused Phil to lay his head on his white pillow with a weary sigh and to go off into the land of dreams by no means a perfectly happy little boy.
Once there, however, he was happy enough. In the first place, he was out of his bed and out of the old house, where so many people just now looked anxious and troubled; and, in the second place, he was in a beautiful new forest, his feet treading on velvet grass, his eyes gazing at all those lovely sights in which his little soul delighted. He was in the forest and he was well, quite well; the tiredness and the aching had vanished, the weakness had disappeared; he felt as though wings had been put to his feet, as though no young eagle could feel a keener and grander sense of strength than did he. He was in the forest, and coming to meet him under the shadows of the great trees was a lady—the lady he had searched for so long and hitherto searched for in vain. She came quite naturally and gently up to him, took his little hand, looked into his eyes, and stooping down she touched his fore head with her lips.
“Brave little boy!” she said. “So you have come.”
“Yes,” answered Phil, “and you have come. I have waited for you so long. Have you brought the gift?”
“Beauty of face and of heart. Yes, I bring them both,” answered the lady. “They are yours; take them.”
“My mother,” whispered Phil.
“Your mother shall be cared for, but you and she will soon part. You have done all you could for her—all, even to life itself. You cannot do more. Come with me.”
“Where?” asked Phil.
“Are you not tired of the world? Come with me to Fairyland. Take my hand—come! There you will find perpetual youth and beauty and strength and goodness—come!”
Then Phil felt within himself the wildest, the most intense longing to go. He looked in the lady’s face, and he thought he must fly into her arms; he must lay his head on her breast and ask her to soothe all his life troubles away.
“I know you,” he said suddenly. “Some people call you by another name, but I know who you are. You give little tired boys like me great rest; and I want beyond words to go with you, but there is my mother.”
“Your mother will be cared for. Come. I can give you something better than Avonsyde.”
“Oh, I don’t want Avonsyde! I am not the rightful heir.”
“The rightful heir is coming,” interrupted the lady of the forest. “Look for him on the 5th of May, and look for me too there. Farewell!”
She vanished, and Phil awoke, to find his mother sitting by his bedside, her face bent over him, her eyes wide open with terror.
“Oh, my darling, how you have looked! Are you—are you very ill?”
“No, mammy dear,” answered the little boy, sitting up in the bed and kissing her in his tenderest fashion. “I have had a dream and I know what is coming, but I don’t feel very ill.”
Mrs. Lovel burst into floods of weeping.
“Phil,” she said when she could speak through her sobs, “it is so near now—only one other day. Can you not keep up just for one more day?”
“Yes, mother; oh, yes, mother dear. I have had a dream. Hold my hand, mother, and I will try and go to sleep again. I have had a dream. Everything is quite plain now. Hold my hand, mammy dear. I love you; you know that.”
He lay back again on his pillows and, exhausted, fell asleep.
Mrs. Lovel held the little thin hand and looked into the white face, and never went to bed that night. Ever since her sleep in the forest she had been perturbed and anxious; that mysterious bit of paper had troubled her more than she cared to own. She was too weak-natured a woman not to be more or less influenced by superstition, and she could not help wondering what mysterious being had come to her and, reading her heart’s secret, had told her to bid good-by to hope.
But all her fears and apprehensions had been nothing, had been child’s play, compared to the terror which awoke in her heart when she saw the look on her boy’s face as she bent over him that night. She knew that he bad never taken kindly to her scheme; she knew that personally he cared nothing at all for all the honors and greatness she would thrust upon him. He was doing it for her sake; he was trying hard to become a rich man some day for her sake; he was giving up Rupert whom he loved and the simple life which contented him for her. Oh, yes, because, as he so simply said, he loved her. But she laid too heavy a burden on the young shoulders; the long strain of patient endurance had been too much, and the gallant little life was going out.
On the instant, quick, quick as thought, there overmastered this weak and selfish woman a great, strong tide of passionate mother’s love. What was Avonsyde to her compared to the life of her boy? Welcome any poverty if the boy might be saved! She fell on her knees and wept and wrung her hands and prayed long and piteously.
When in the early, early dawn Phil awoke, his mother spoke to him.
“Philip dear, you would like to see Rupert again?”
“So much, mother.”
“Avonsyde is yours, but you would like to give it to him?”
“If I might, mother—if I might!”
“Leave it to me, my son. Say nothing—leave it to me, my darling.”
“Katharine!”
“Yes.”
“I have received the most extraordinary letter.”
“What about, Grizel?”
“What about? Had you not better ask me first who from? Oh, no, you need not turn so pale. It is not from that paragon of your life, Rachel’s and Kitty’s mother.”
“Grizel, I do think you might speak more tenderly of one who has done you no harm and who has suffered much.”
“Well, well, let that pass. You want to know who my present correspondent is. She is no less a person than the mother of our heir.”
“Phil’s mother! Why should she write? She is in the house. Surely she can use her tongue.”
“She is not in the house and is therefore obliged to have recourse to correspondence. Listen to her words.”
Miss Griselda drew out of her pocket an envelope which contained a sheet of thick note-paper. The envelope was crested; so was the paper. The place from which it was written was Avonsyde; the date was early that morning. A few words in a rather feeble and uncertain hand filled the page.
“Dear Miss Lovel: I hope you and Miss Katharine will excuse me. I have made up my mind to see your lawyer, Mr. Baring, in town. I know you intended him to come here this afternoon, but if I catch the early train I shall reach his office in time to prevent him. I believe I can explain all about proofs and credentials better in town than here. I shall come back in time to-morrow. Don’t let Phil be agitated. Yours humbly and regretfully,
“Bella Lovel.”
“What does she mean by putting such an extra ordinary ending to her letter?” continued Miss Grizel as she folded up the sheet of paper and returned it to its envelope. “‘Yours humbly and regretfully!’ What does she mean, Katharine?”
“It sounds like a woman who had a weight on her conscience,” said Miss Katharine. “I wonder if Phil really is the heir! You know, Grizel, she never showed you the tankard. She made a great talk about it, but you never really saw it. Don’t you remember?”
“Nonsense!” snapped Miss Grizel. “Is it likely she would even know about the tankard if she had not got it? She was ill that day. Newbolt said she looked quite dreadful, and I did not worry her again, as I knew Mr. Baring was coming down to-day to go thoroughly into the whole question. She certainly has done an extraordinary thing in writing that letter and going up to London in that stolen sort of fashion; but as to Phil not being the heir, I think the fact of his true title to the property is pretty clearly established by this time. Katharine, I read you this letter in order to get a suggestion from you. I might have known beforehand that you had none to make. I might have known that you would only raise some of your silly doubts and make things generally uncomfortable. Well, I am displeased with Mrs. Lovel; but there, I never liked her. I shall certainly telegraph to Mr. Baring and ask him to come down here this evening, all the same.”
Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine had held their brief little colloquy in the old library. They now went into the hall, where family prayers were generally held, and soon afterward Miss Griselda sent off her telegram. She received an answer in the course of a couple of hours:
“Have not seen Mrs. Lovel. Will come down as arranged.”
But half an hour before the dog-cart was to be sent to the railway station to meet the lawyer another little yellow envelope was thrust into Miss Lovel’s hands. It was dated from the lawyer’s chambers and ran as follows:
“Most unexpectedly detained. Cannot come to-night. Expect me with Mrs. Lovel to-morrow.”
This telegram made Miss Griselda very angry.
“What possible information can detain Mr. Baring when I summon him here?” she said to her younger sister. She was doomed, however, to be made yet more indignant. A third telegram arrived at Avonsyde early in the evening; it also was from Mr. Baring:
“Disquieting news. Put off your guests. Expect me early to-morrow.”
Miss Griselda’s face grew quite pale. She threw the thin sheet of paper indignantly on the floor.
“Mr. Baring strangely forgets himself,” she said. “Put off our guests! Certainly not!”
“But, Griselda,” said Miss Katharine, “our good friend speaks of disquieting news. It may be—it may be something about the little girls’ mother. Oh, I always did fear that something had happened to her.”
“Katharine, you are perfectly silly about that woman. But whatever Mr. Baring’s news, our guests are invited and they shall come. Katharine, I look on to-morrow as the most important day of my life. On that day, when I show our chosen and rightful heir to the world—for our expected guests form the world to us, Katharine—on that day I fulfill the conditions of my dear father’s will. Do you suppose that any little trivial disturbance which may have taken place in London can alter plans so important as mine?”
“I don’t think Mr. Baring would have telegraphed if the disturbance was trivial,” murmured Miss Katharine. But she did not venture to add any more and soon went sadly out of the room.
Meanwhile Mrs. Lovel was having a terribly exciting day. Impelled by a motive stronger than the love of gold, she had slipped away from Phil’s bedside in the early morning, and, fear lending her wings, had gone downstairs, written her note to Miss Griselda, and then on foot had made her way to the nearest railway station at Lyndhurst Road. There she took the first train to London. She had a carriage to herself, and she was so restless that she paced up and down its narrow length. It seemed to her that the train would never reach its destination; the minutes were lengthened into hours; the hours seemed days. When, when would she get to Waterloo? When would she see Mr. Baring? Beside her in the railway carriage, beside her in the cab, beside her as she mounted the stairs to the lawyer’s office was pale-faced fear. Could she do anything to keep the boy? Could any—any act of hers cause the avenger to stay his hand—cause the angel of death to withdraw and leave his prey untouched? In the night, as she had watched by his bedside, she had seen only too plainly what was coming. Avonsyde might be given to Phil, but little Phil himself was going away. The angels wanted him elsewhere, and they would not mind any amount of mother’s weeping, of mother’s groans; they would take the boy from her arms. Then it occurred to her poor, weak soul for the first time that perhaps if she appealed to God he would listen, and if she repented, not only in word, but in deed, he would stay his avenging hand. Hence her hurried flight; hence her anguished longing. She had not a moment to lose, for the sands of her little boy’s life were running out.
She was early in town, and was shown into Mr. Baring’s presence very soon after his arrival at his office. Unlike most of the heirs-presumptive to the Avonsyde property, Phil had not been subjected to the scrutiny of this keen-eyed lawyer. From the very first Miss Griselda had been more or less under a spell as regards little Phil. His mother in writing to her from Australia had mentioned one or two facts which seemed to the good lady almost conclusive, and she had invited her and the boy direct to Avonsyde without, as in all other cases, interviewing them through her lawyer.
Mr. Baring therefore had not an idea who his tall, pale, agitated-looking visitor could be.
“Sit down,” he said politely. “Can I assist you in any way? Perhaps, if all the same to you, you would not object to going very briefly into matters to-day; to-morrow—no, not to-morrow—Thursday I can carefully attend to your case. I happen to be called into the country this afternoon and am therefore in a special hurry. If your case can wait, oblige me by mentioning the particulars briefly and making an appointment for Thursday.”
“My case cannot wait,” replied Mrs. Lovel in a hard, strained voice. “My case cannot wait an hour, and you need not go into the country. I have come to prevent your doing so.”
“But, madam——”
“I am Mrs. Lovel.”
“Another Mrs. Lovel? Another heir forthcoming? God help those poor old ladies!”
“I am the mother of the boy who to-morrow is to be publicly announced as the future proprietor of Avonsyde.”
“You! Then you have come from Avonsyde?”
“I have. I have come to tell you a terrible and disastrous story.”
“My dear madam, pray don’t agitate yourself; pray take things quietly. Would you like to sit in this easy-chair?”
“No, thank you. What are easy-chairs to me? I want to tell my story.”
“So you shall—so you shall. I trust your boy is not ill?”
“He is very ill; he is—good God! I fear he is dying. I have come to you as the last faint chance of saving him.”
“My dear Mrs. Lovel, you make a mistake. I am a lawyer, not a physician. ’Pon my word, I’m truly sorry for you, and also for Miss Griselda. Her heart is quite set on that boy.”
“Listen! I have sinned. I was tempted; I sinned. He is not the heir.”
“My good lady, you can scarcely know what you are saying. You would hardly come to me with this story at the eleventh hour. Miss Lovel tells me you have proofs of undoubted succession. I was going to Avonsyde this afternoon to look into them, but only as a form—merely as a form.”
“You can look into them now; they are correct enough. There were two brothers who were lineally descended from that Rupert Lovel who quarreled with his father two hundred years ago. The brothers’ names were Rupert and Philip. Philip died and left a son; Rupert lives and has a son. Rupert is the elder of the brothers and his son is the true heir, because—because——”
Here Mrs. Lovel rose to her feet.
“Because he has got what was denied to my only boy—glorious health and glorious strength. He therefore perfectly fulfills the conditions of the late Squire Lovel’s will.”
“But—but I don’t understand,” said the lawyer. “I have seen—yes, of course I have seen—but pray tell me everything. How did you manage to bring proofs of your boy’s title to the old ladies?”
“Why should I not know the history of my husband’s house? I saw the old ladies’ advertisement in a Melbourne paper. I knew to what it alluded and I stole a march on Rupert and his heir. It did not seem to me such a dreadful thing to do; for Rupert and his boy were rich and Phil and I were very poor. I stole away to England with my little boy, and took with me a bundle of letters and a silver tankard which belonged to my brother-in-law, but which were, I knew, equally valuable in proving little Philip’s descent. All would have gone well but for one thing—my little boy was not strong. He was brave—no boy ever was braver—and he kept in all tokens of terrible suffering for my sake. He won upon the old ladies; everybody loved him. All my plans seemed to succeed, and to-morrow he is to be appointed heir. To-morrow! What use is it? God has stretched out his hand and is taking the boy away. He is angry. He is doing it in anger and to punish me. I am sorry; I am terrified; my heart is broken. Perhaps if I show God that I repent he will withdraw his anger and spare my only boy. I have come to you. There is not a moment to lose. Here are the lost letters. Find the rightful heir.”
Mr. Baring was disturbed and agitated. He got up and locked the door; he paced up and down his room several times; then he came up to the woman who was now crouching by the table, her face hidden in her hands.
“Are you aware,” he said softly, for he feared the effect of his words—“are you aware that Rupert Lovel and his boy are now in London?”
Mrs. Lovel raised her head.
“I guessed it. Thank God! then I am in time.”
“Your news is indeed of the most vital importance. I must telegraph to Avonsyde. I cannot go there this afternoon. The whole case must be thoroughly investigated, and at once. I require your aid for this. “Will you return with me to Avonsyde to-morrow?”
“Yes, yes.”
“It will be a painful exposure for you. Do you realize it?”
“I realize nothing. I want to hold Phil to my heart; that is the only desire I now possess.”
“Poor soul! You have acted—I won’t say how; it is not for me to preach. I will telegraph to Miss Griselda and then go with you to find Rupert Lovel and his boy.”
“Here is a letter for you, ma’am.”
Nancy was standing by her mistress, who, in a traveling cloak and bonnet, had just come home.
“For me, Nancy?” said the lady of the forest in a tired voice. “Who can want to write to me? And yet, and yet—give it to me, Nancy.”
“It has the London postmark, ma’am. Dear heart, how your hands do shake!”
“It is evening, Nancy, and to-morrow will be the 5th of May. Can you wonder that my hands shake? Only one brief summer’s night, and my day of bliss arrives!”
“Read your letter, ma’am; here it is.”
Mrs. Lovel received the envelope with its many postmarks, for it had traveled about and performed quite a little pilgrimage since it left Avonsyde some days ago. Something in the handwriting caused her to change color; not that it was in the ordinary sense familiar, but in a very extraordinary manner it was known and sacred.
“The ladies of Avonsyde have been true to the letter of their promise!” she exclaimed. “This, Nancy,” opening her letter and glancing hastily through it, “is the invitation I was promised six years ago for Rachel’s thirteenth birthday. It has been sent to the old, old address. The ladies have not forgotten; they have kept to the letter of their engagement. Nancy dear, let me weep. Nancy, to-morrow I can make my own terms. Oh, I could cry just because of the lifting of the pain!”
“Don’t, my dear lady,” said Nancy. “Or—yes, do, if it eases you. The dear little lassies will be all right to-morrow—won’t they, Mrs. Lovel?”
“I shall see them again, Nancy, if you mean that.”
“Yes, of course; but they’ll be heiresses and everything—won’t they?”
“Of course not. What do you mean?”
“I thought Master Phil had no chance now that the tankard is really lost and can never be found.”
“What do you know about the tankard?”
“Nothing. How could I? What less likely? Oh! look, ma’am; there’s a carriage driving through the forest, right over the green grass, as sure as I’m here. Now it’s stopping, and four people are getting out—a lady and three gentlemen; and they are coming here—right over to the cottage as straight as an arrow from a bow. Oh, mercy me! What do this mean?”
“Only some tourists, I expect. Nancy, don’t excite yourself.”
“No, ma’am, begging your pardon, they ain’t tourists. Here they’re all stepping into the porch. What do it mean? and we has nothing at all in the house for supper!”
A loud peal was now heard from the little bell. Nancy, flushed and agitated, went to open the door, and a moment later Mr. Baring, Mrs. Lovel, and Rupert Lovel and his son found themselves in the presence of the lady of the forest. Nancy, recognizing Mrs. Lovel and concluding that she had discovered all about the theft of the tankard, went and hid herself in her own bedroom, from where she did not descend, even though she several times fancied she heard her mistress ring for her.
This, however, was not the case; for a story was being told in that tiny parlor which caused the very remembrance of Nancy to fade from all the listeners’ brains. Mrs. Lovel, little Philip’s mother, was the spokeswoman. She told her whole story from beginning to end, very much as she had told it twice already that day. Very much the same words were used, only now as she proceeded and as her eyes grew dim with the agony that rent her heart, she was suddenly conscious of a strange and unlooked-for sympathy. The other mother went up to her side and, taking her hand, led her to a seat beside herself.
“Do not stand,” she whispered; “you can tell what you have to say better sitting.”
And still she kept her hand within her own and held it firmly. By degrees the poor, shaken, and tempest-tossed woman began to return this firm and sympathizing pressure; and when her words died away in a whisper, she turned suddenly and looked full into the face of the mysterious lady of the forest.
“I have committed a crime,” she said, “but now that I have confessed all, will God spare the boy’s life?”
The other Mrs. Lovel looked at her then with her eyes full of tears, and bending forward she suddenly kissed her.
“Poor mother!” she said. “I know something of your suffering.”
“Will the boy live? Will God be good to me?”
“Whether he lives or dies God will be good to you. Try to rest on that.”
That same evening Miss Katharine tried to soothe away some of the restlessness and anxiety which oppressed her by playing on the organ in the hall. Miss Katharine could make very wonderful music; this was her one great gift. She had been taught well, and when her fingers touched either piano or organ people were apt to forget that at other times she was nothing but a weak-looking, uninteresting middle-aged lady. Seated at the organ, Miss Katharine’s eyes would shine with a strange, new radiance. There was a power, a sympathy in her touch; her notes were seldom loud or martial, but they appealed straight to the innermost hearts of those who listened.
Miss Katharine did not very often play. Music with her meant something almost as sacred as a sacrament; she could not bring her melodies into the common everyday life; but when her soul burned within her, when she sought to express a dumb pain or longing, she went to the old organ for comfort.
On this evening, as the twilight fell, she sat down at the organ and began to play some soft, pitiful strains. The notes seemed to cry, as if they were in pain. One by one the children stole into the hall and came up close to her. Phil came closest; he leaned against her side and listened, his sweet brown eyes reflecting her pain.
“Don’t!” he said suddenly. “Comfort us; things aren’t like that.”
Miss Katharine turned round and looked at the little pale-faced boy, from him to Rachel—whose eyes were gleaming—to Kitty, who was half-crying.
“Things aren’t like that,” repeated Phil. “Play something true.”
“Things are like this,” answered Miss Katharine; “things are very, very wrong.”
“They aren’t,” retorted Phil. “Any one to hear you would think God wasn’t good.”
Miss Katharine paused; her fingers trembled; they scarcely touched the keys.
“Play joyfully,” continued Phil; “play as if you believed in him.”
“Oh, Phil, I do!” said the poor lady. “Yes, yes, I will play as if I believed.”
Tears filled her eyes. She struck the organ with powerful chords, and the whole little party burst out in the grand old chant, “Abide with me.”
“Now let us sing ‘O Paradise,’” said Phil when it was ended.
The children had sweet voices. Miss Katharine played her gentlest; Miss Griselda slipped unseen into the hall and sat down near Phil. The children sang on, hymn after hymn, Phil always choosing.
At last Miss Katharine rose and closed the organ.
“My heart is at rest,” she said gently, and she stooped down and kissed Phil. Then she went out of the hall, Rachel and Kitty following her. Phil alone had noticed Miss Griselda; he went up to her now and nestled down cozily by her side. He had a very confiding way and not a scrap of fear of any one. Most people were afraid of Miss Griselda. Phil’s total want of fear in her presence made one of his greatest charms for her.
“Wasn’t the music nice?” he said now. “Didn’t you like those hymns? Hasn’t Rachel a beautiful voice?”
“Rachel will sing well,” answered Miss Griselda. “She must have the best masters. Philip, to-morrow is nearly come.”
“The 5th of May? Yes, so it has.”
“It is a great day for you, my little boy.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. Aunt Griselda, when do you think my mother will be home?”
“I don’t know, Philip—I don’t know where she has gone.”
“I think I do. I think she’s gone to get you a great surprise.”
“She should not have gone away to-day, when there was so much to be done.”
“You won’t say that when you know. Aunt Grizel, you’ll always be good to mother—won’t you?”
“Why, of course, dear; she is your mother.”
“But even if she wasn’t my mother—I mean even if I wasn’t there, you’d be good to her. I wish you’d promise me.”
“Of course, Phil—of course; but as you are going to be very much there, there’s no use in thinking of impossible things.”
Phil sighed.
“Aunt Griselda,” he said gently, “do you think I make a very suitable heir?”
“Yes, dear—very suitable.”
“I’m glad you love me; I’m very, very glad. Tell me about the Rupert Lovel who went away two hundred years ago. He wasn’t really like me?”
“In spirit he was, I don’t doubt.”
“Yes; but he wasn’t like me in appearance. I’m small and thin and pale, and he—Aunt Griselda, wouldn’t your heart beat and wouldn’t you be glad if an heir just like the old Rupert Lovel came home? If he had just the same figure, and just the same grand flashing eyes, and just the same splendid strength, wouldn’t you be glad? Wouldn’t it be a joyful surprise to you?”
“No, Phil, for my heart is set on a certain little pale-faced boy. Now don’t let us talk about nonsensical things. Come, you must have your supper and go to bed; you will have plenty of excitement to-morrow and must rest well.”
“One moment, please. Aunt Grizel, tell me—tell me, did you ever see the lady of the forest?”
“Phil, my dear child, what do you mean?”
“The beautiful lady who wears a green dress, greener than the leaves, and has a lovely face, and brings a gift in her hand. Did you ever see her?”
“Philip, I can’t stay any longer in this dark hall. Of course I never saw her. There is a legend about her—a foolish, silly legend; but you don’t suppose I am so foolish as to believe it?”
“I don’t know; perhaps it isn’t foolish. I wanted to see her, and I did at last.”
“You saw her!”
“In a dream. It was a real dream—I mean it was the kind of dream that comes true. I saw her, and since then everything has been quite clear to me. Aunt Griselda, she isn’t only the lady of the forest; she has another name; she comes to every one some day.”
“Phil, you are talking very queerly. Come away.”
That evening, late, Mrs. Lovel came quietly back. She did not ask for supper; she did not see the old ladies; she went up at once to her tower bedroom, where Phil was quietly sleeping. Bending down over the boy, she kissed him tenderly, but so gently that he did not even stir.
“Farewell all riches; farewell all worldly success; farewell even honor! Welcome disgrace and poverty and the reproach of all who know me if only I can keep you, little Phil!”
Poor mother! she did not know, she could not guess, that for some natures, such as Phil’s, there is no long tarrying in a world so checkered as ours.
A glorious day, warm, balmy, with the gentlest breezes blowing and the bluest, tenderest sky overhead. The forest trees were still wearing their brightest and most emerald green, the hawthorn was in full blossom, the horse-chestnuts were in a perfect glory of pink-and-white flower; the day, in short, and the day’s adornments were perfect. It was still too early in the year for a garden-party, but amusements were provided for the younger guests in the grounds, and the whole appearance of Avonsyde was festive without and within. The old ladies, in their richest velvet and choicest lace, moved gracefully about, giving finishing touches to everything. All the nervousness and unrest which had characterized Miss Katharine the night before had disappeared. To-day she looked her gentlest and sweetest—perhaps also her brightest. Miss Griselda was really very happy, and she looked it. Happiness is a marvelous beautifier, and Miss Griselda too looked almost handsome. Her dark eyes glowed with some of the fire which she fancied must have animated those of her favorite ancestors. Her soft pearl-gray dress suited her well. Rachel and Kitty were in white and looked radiant. The marked characteristics of their early childhood were as apparent as ever: Rachel was all glowing tropical color and beauty; Kitty was one of Old England’s daintiest and fairest little daughters.
The guests began to arrive, and presently Mrs. Lovel, accompanied by Phil, came down and took her place in the great hall. It was here that Miss Griselda meant to make her little speech. Standing at the upper end of the hall, she meant to present Phil as her chosen heir to all her assembled guests. How strange, how very strange that Mr. Baring had not yet arrived! When Mrs. Lovel entered the hall Miss Griselda crossed it at once to speak to her.
“I have given Canning directions to let you know the very moment Mr. Baring comes,” she said. “You and he can transact your business in the library in a few moments. Mr. Baring is sure to come down by the next train; and if all your proofs are ready, it will not take him very long to look through your papers.”
“Everything is ready,” replied Mrs. Lovel in a low, hushed voice.
“That is right. Pardon me, how very inappropriate of you to put on a black velvet dress to-day.”
Mrs. Lovel turned very white.
“It—it—is my favorite dress,” she half-stammered. “I look best in black velvet.”
“What folly! Who thinks about their looks at such a moment? Black here and to-day looks nearly as inappropriate as at a wedding. I am not superstitious, but the servants will notice. Can you not change it?”
“I—I have nothing else ready.”
“Most inconsiderate. Kitty dear, run and fetch Mrs. Lovel a bunch of those crimson roses from the conservatory. Have at least that much color, Mrs. Lovel, for your boy’s sake.”
Miss Griselda turned indignantly away, and Mrs. Lovel crossed over to that part of the hall where Phil was standing.
“Mammy darling, how white you look!”
“Miss Griselda wants me to wear crimson roses in my dress, Phil.”
“Oh, do, mother; they will look so nice. Here comes Kitty with a great bunch.”
“Give me one,” said Mrs. Lovel; “here, this one.” Her fingers shook; she could scarcely take the flower. “Phil, will you put it into my dress? I won’t wear more than one; you shall place it there. Child, child, the thorn has pricked me—every rose has a thorn.”
“Mother,” whispered Phil, “you are quite sure of the surprise coming?”
“Yes, darling. Hush, dear. Stay close to me.”
The time wore on. The guests were merry; the old place rang with unwonted life and mirth and laughter. It was many years since Avonsyde had been so gay. The weather was so lovely that even the older portion of the visitors decided to spend the time out of doors. They stood about in groups and talked and laughed and chatted. Tennis went on vigorously. Rachel and Kitty, like bright fairies, were flitting here, there, and everywhere. Phil was strangely quiet and silent, standing always close to his mother. The chaise which had been sent to the railway station to meet Mr. Baring returned empty. This fact was communicated by Canning to his mistress, and as the time wore on Miss Griselda’s face certainly looked less happy.
The guests streamed in to lunch, which was served in the great dining-hall in the old part of the house. Then several boys and girls would investigate the tower and would roam through the armory and the old picture-gallery.
“That man—that Rupert Lovel is Phil’s ancestor,” the boys and girls remarked. “He is not a bit like Phil.”
“No; the present heir is an awfully weakly looking chap,” the boys said. “Why, he doesn’t look as if he had strength enough even to go in for a game of cricket.”
“Oh, but he’s so interesting,” the girls said, “and hasn’t he lovely eyes!”
Then the guests wandered out again to the grounds and commented and wondered as to when the crucial moment would arrive, and when Miss Griselda, taking Phil’s hand, would present him to them all as the long-sought-for heir.
“It is really a most romantic story,” one lady said. “That little boy represents the elder branch of the family; the property goes back to the elder branch with him.”
“How sad his mother seems!” remarked another; “and the boy himself looks dreadfully ill.”
“Miss Griselda says he is one of the most wiry and athletic little fellows she ever came across,” said a third lady.
And then a fourth remarked in a somewhat fretful tone:
“I wish that good Miss Lovel would present him to us and get it over. One gets perfectly tired of waiting for one doesn’t know what.”
Just then there was a disturbance and a little hush. Some fresh visitors had arrived—some visitors who came on foot and approached through the forest. Miss Griselda, feeling she could wait no longer for Mr. Baring’s arrival, had just taken Phil’s hand and was leading him forward to greet her many guests, when the words she was about to say were arrested by the sudden appearance of these strangers on the scene.
Mr. Baring was one of them; but nobody noticed, and in their intense excitement nobody recognized, the sleek little lawyer. A lady, dressed quietly, with a gentle, calm, and gracious bearing, came first. At sight of her Rachel uttered a cry; she was the lady of the forest. Rachel flew to her and, unrestrained by even the semblance of conventionality, took her hand and pressed it rapturously to her lips.
“At last!” half-sobbed Rachel—“at last I see you, and you don’t turn away! Oh, how I have loved you! how I have loved you!”
“And I you, my darling—my beloved.”
“Kitty, come here,” called out Rachel. “Kitty, Kitty, this is the lady of the forest!”
“And your mother, my own children. Come to my heart.”
But nobody, not even Miss Katharine, noticed this reunion of mother and children; for Miss Griselda’s carefully prepared speech had met with a startling interruption. The mother had stopped with her children, but two other unbidden guests had come forward. One of them was a boy—a boy with so noble a step, so gallant, so gay, so courtly a mien that all the visitors turned to gaze in unspoken admiration. Whose likeness did he bear? Why did Miss Griselda turn so deadly pale? Why did she drop Phil’s hand and take a step forward? The dark eyes, the eagle glance, the very features, the very form of that old hero of her life, the long-dead-and-gone Rupert Lovel, now stood before her in very deed.
“Aunt Grizel,” whispered little Phil, “isn’t he splendid? Isn’t he indeed the rightful heir? Just what he should be, so strong and so good! Aunt Grizel, isn’t it a great surprise? Mother, mother, speak, tell her everything!”
Then little Phil ran up to Rupert and took his hand and led him up to Miss Grizel.
“He always, always was the true heir,” he said, “and I wasn’t. Oh, mother, speak!”
Then there was a buzz of voices, a knot of people gathered quickly round Miss Griselda, and Phil, holding Rupert’s hand fast, looked again at his mother. The visitors whispered eagerly to one another, and all eyes were turned, not on the splendid young heir, but on the boy who held his arm and looked in his face; for a radiance seemed to shine on that slight boy’s pale brow which we see once or twice on the faces of those who are soon to become angels. The look arrested and startled many, and they gazed longer and with a deeper admiration at the false heir than at the true. For a couple of moments Mrs. Lovel had felt herself turning into stone; but with Phil’s last appealing gaze she shook off her lethargy, and moving forward took her place by Miss Griselda’s side, and facing the anxiously expecting guests said:
“I do it for Phil, in the hope—oh, my God!—in the vain hope of saving Phil. I arranged with Mr. Baring that I would tell the story. I wish to humiliate myself as much as possible and to show God that I am sorry. I do it for Phil, hoping to save him.”
Then she began her tale, wailing it out as if her heart were broken; and the interested guests pressed closer and closer, and then, unperceived by any one, little Phil slipped away.
“I will go into the forest,” he said to himself. “I can’t bear this. Oh, mother! Oh, poor, poor mother! I will go into the forest. Everything will be all right now, and I feel always happy and at rest in the forest.”
“Phil,” said a voice, and looking round he saw that his Cousin Rupert had followed him. “Phil, you look ghastly. Do you think I care for any property when you look like that?”
“Oh, I’ll be better soon, Rupert. I’m so glad you’ve come in time!”
“Where are you going now, little chap?”
“Into the forest. I must. Don’t prevent me.”
“No. I will go with you.”
“But you are wanted; you are the real heir.”
“Time enough for that. I can only think of you now. Phil, you do look ill!”
“I’ll be better soon. Let us sit down at the foot of this tree, Rupert. Rupert, you promise to be good to mother?”
“Of course. Your mother did wrong, but she is very brave now. You don’t know how she spoke to my father and me yesterday. My father never liked her half as much as he does now. He says he is going to take Aunt Bella back with him—you and Aunt Bella, both of you—and you are always to live at Belmont, and Gabrielle and Peggy will make a lot of you.”
“I’m so glad; but I’m not going, Rupert. Rupert, do ask Gabrielle to be very good to mother.”
“Of course. How breathless you are! Don’t talk—rest against me.”
“Rupert, I must. Tell me about yesterday. Are all the links complete? Is it quite, quite certain that you are the heir?”
“Yes, quite—even the tankard has been found. Mrs. Lovel—the lady of the forest, you remember—her servant picked it up and gave it to us last night.”
“Did she?” answered Phil. “I thought I had lost it in the bog. It fretted mother. I am glad it is found.”
“And do you know that the lady is Rachel’s and Kitty’s mother?”
“Oh, how nice! How glad Rachel will be, and Kitty too! Isn’t God very good, Rupert?”
“Yes,” answered Rupert in a strong, manly young voice.
“Rupert, you’ll be sure to love Aunt Grizel, won’t you?”
“Yes, yes. I wish you wouldn’t talk so much, little chap; you look awfully ill. Do let me carry you home.”
“No; let me rest here on your shoulder. Rupert, there is another lady of the forest. Rachel’s and Kitty’s mother is not the only one. I saw her in a dream. She is coming to me to-day; she said so, Rupert.”
“Yes.”
“I have suffered—awfully; but God has been very good—and I shan’t suffer any more—I’m so happy.”
“Dear little chap!”
For about ten minutes the boys were silent—Rupert afraid to move, his little cousin rapt in ecstatic contemplation. Suddenly Phil roused himself and spoke with strength and energy.
“The lady is coming,” he said—“there, through the trees! I see her! Don’t you? don’t you? She is coming; she will rest me. Oh, how beautiful she is! Look, Rupert, look!”
But Rupert could see nothing, nothing at all, although Phil stretched out his arms and a radiant smile covered his worn little face.
Suddenly the arms fell; the eager words ceased; only the smile remained. Rupert spoke, but obtained no answer.
A little face, beautiful beyond all description now—a little face with a glory over it—lay against his breast, but Phil himself had gone away.
That is the story. Sad? Perhaps so—not sad for Phil.
°THE END.