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The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls

by L. T. Meade · English · Gutenberg #39705 · 391,991 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls

Author: L. T. Meade


        
Release date: May 15, 2012 [eBook #39705]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39705

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LADY OF THE FOREST: A STORY FOR GIRLS ***




Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net





THE LADY OF THE FOREST.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

By L. T. MEADE

    Author of "The Little Princess of Tower Hill,"
    "A Sweet Girl Graduate," "The Palace Beautiful,"
    "Polly," "A World of Girls," etc., etc.

    "Tyde what may betyde,
    Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde."

ILLUSTRATED EDITION.

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.




CONTENTS

    CHAPTER I.--FAIR LITTLE MAIDS.
    CHAPTER II.--MAKING TERMS.
    CHAPTER III.--PREPARING FOR THE HEIR
    CHAPTER IV.--A SPARTAN BOY.
    CHAPTER V.--IN THE FOREST.
    CHAPTER VI.--THE TOWER BEDROOM.
    CHAPTER VII.--"BETYDE WHAT MAY."
    CHAPTER VIII.--THE SACRED CUPBOARD.
    CHAPTER IX.--A TRYSTING-PLACE.
    CHAPTER X.--PROOFS.
    CHAPTER XI.--THE LADY WHO CAME WITH A GIFT.
    CHAPTER XII.--LOST IN THE NEW FOREST.
    CHAPTER XIII.--ONE MORE SECRET.
    CHAPTER XIV.--THE AUSTRALIANS.
    CHAPTER XV.--WAS HE ACTING?
    CHAPTER XVI.--LOST.
    CHAPTER XVII.--LOOKING FOR THE TANKARD.
    CHAPTER XVIII.--THE MARMADUKES.
    CHAPTER XIX.--A TENDER HEART.
    CHAPTER XX.--PUNISHED.
    CHAPTER XXI.--WHAT THE HEIR OUGHT TO BE.
    CHAPTER XXII.--RIGHT IS RIGHT.
    CHAPTER XXIII.--FOREST LIFE.
    CHAPTER XXIV.--A GREAT ALARM.
    CHAPTER XXV.--A DREAM WITH A MEANING.
    CHAPTER XXVI.--LOVE VERSUS GOLD.
    CHAPTER XXVII.--TWO MOTHERS.
    CHAPTER XXVIII.--THE LADY WHO CAME WITH A GIFT.




THE LADY OF THE FOREST.

    "Tyde what may betyde
    Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde."




CHAPTER I.--FAIR LITTLE MAIDS.


"And then," said Rachel, throwing up her hands and raising her
eyebrows--"and then, when they got into the heart of the forest itself,
just where the shade was greenest and the trees thickest, they saw the
lady coming to meet them. She, too, was all in green, and she came on
and on, and----"

"Hush, Rachel!" exclaimed Kitty; "here comes Aunt Grizel."

The girls, aged respectively twelve and nine, were seated, one on a
rustic stile, the other on the grass at her feet; a background of
splendid forest trees threw their slight and childish figures into
strong relief. Rachel's hat was tossed on the ground and Kitty's parasol
lay unopened by her side. The sun was sending slanting rays through the
trees, and some of these rays fell on Kitty's bright hair and lit up
Rachel's dark little gypsy face.

"Aunt Grizel is coming," said Kitty, and immediately she put on a proper
and demure expression. Rachel, drawn up short in the midst of a very
exciting narrative, looked slightly defiant and began to whistle in a
boyish manner.

Aunt Griselda was seen approaching down a long straight avenue
overshadowed by forest trees of beech and oak; she held her parasol well
up, and her face was further protected from any passing gleams of
sunlight by a large poke-bonnet. She was a slender old lady, with a
graceful and dignified appearance. Aunt Griselda would have compelled
respect from any one, and as she approached the two girls they both
started to their feet and ran to meet her.

"Your music-master has been waiting for you for half an hour, Rachel.
Kitty, I am going into the forest; you can come with me if you choose."

Rachel did not attempt to offer any excuse for being late; with an
expressive glance at Kitty she walked off soberly to the house, and the
younger girl, picking up her hat, followed Aunt Griselda, sighing
slightly as she did so.

Kitty was an affectionate child, the kind of child who likes everybody,
and she would have tolerated Aunt Griselda--who was not particularly
affectionate nor particularly sympathetic--if she had not disturbed her
just at the moment when she was listening with breathless interest to a
wonderful romance.

Kitty adored fairy tales, and Rachel had a great gift in that direction.
She was very fond of prefacing her stories with some such words as the
following:

"Understand now, Kitty, that this fairy story is absolutely true; the
fairy was seen by our great-great-grandmother;" or "Our great-uncle
Jonas declares that he saw that brownie himself as he was going through
the forest in the dusk;" then Kitty's pretty blue eyes would open wide
and she would lose herself in an enchanted world. It was very trying to
be brought back to the ordinary everyday earth by Aunt Griselda, and on
the present occasion the little girl felt unusually annoyed.

Miss Griselda Lovel, or "Aunt Grizel" as her nieces called her, was a
taciturn old lady, and by no means remarked Kitty's silence. There were
many little paths through the forest, and the two soon found themselves
in comparative night. Miss Lovel walked quickly, and Kitty almost panted
as she kept up with her. Her head was so full of Rachel's fairy tale
that at last some unexpected words burst from her lips. They were
passing under a splendid forest tree, when Kitty suddenly clutched Aunt
Grizel's thin hand.

"Aunt Grizel--is it--is it about here that the lady lives?"

"What lady, child?" asked Miss Lovel.

"Oh, you know--the lady of the forest."

Aunt Grizel dropped Kitty's hand and laughed.

"What a foolish little girl you are, Kitty! Who has been putting such
nonsense into your head? See, my dear, I will wait for you here; run
down this straight path to the Eyres' cottage, and bring Mrs. Eyre back
with you--I want to speak to her. I have had a letter, my dear, and your
little cousin Philip Lovel is coming to Avonsyde to-morrow."

                *       *       *       *       *

Avonsyde was one of the oldest places in the country; it was not
particularly large, nor were its owners remarkable for wealth, or
prowess, or deeds of daring, neither were the men of the house specially
clever. It was indeed darkly hinted at that the largest portion of
brains was as a rule bestowed upon the female side of the house. But on
the score of antiquity no country seat could at all approach Avonsyde.
It was a delightful old place, homelike and bright; there were one or
two acres of flower-garden not too tidily kept, and abounding in all
kinds of old-fashioned and sweet-smelling flowers; the house had a broad
frontage, its windows were small, and it possessed all the charming
irregularities of a family dwelling-place which has been added to piece
by piece. At one end was a tower, gray and hoary with the weight of
centuries; at the further end were modern wings with large
reception-rooms, and even some attempts at modern luxury and modern
ornamentation. There were two avenues to the place: one the celebrated
straight avenue, which must have been cut at some long-ago period
directly out of the neighboring forest, for the trees which arched it
over were giant forest oaks and beeches. This avenue was the pride of
the place, and shown as a matter of course to all visitors. The other
avenue, and the one most in use, was winding and straggling; it led
straight up to the old-fashioned stone porch which guarded the entrance,
and enshrined in the most protective and cozy manner the principal doors
to the house.

Avonsyde had belonged to the Lovels for eight hundred years. They were
not a rich family and they had undergone many misfortunes; the property
now belonged to the younger branch; for a couple of hundred years ago a
very irate and fiery Squire Lovel had disinherited his eldest son and
had bestowed all his fair lands and the old place upon a younger son.
From that moment matters had not gone well with the family; the younger
son who inherited the property which should have been his brother's made
an unfortunate marriage, had sickly children, many of whom died, and not
being himself either too strong-minded or in any sense overwise, had
sustained severe money losses, and for the first time within the memory
of man some of the Avonsyde lands had to be sold.

From the date of the disinheritance of the elder branch the family never
regained either their wealth or prestige; generation after generation
the Lovels dwindled in strength and became less and less able to cope
with their sturdier neighbors. The last squire of Avonsyde had one
sickly son and two daughters; the son married, but died before his
father, leaving no son to inherit the old place. This son had also, in
the family's estimation, married beneath him, and during the squire's
lifetime his daughters were afraid even to mention the names of two
bonny little lasses who were pining away their babyhood and early youth
in poky London lodgings, and who would have been all the better for the
fresh breezes which blew so genially round Avonsyde. After the death of
his son Squire Lovel became very morose and disagreeable. He pretended
not to grieve for his son, but he also lost all interest in life. One by
one the old pleasures in which he used to delight were given up, his
health gave way rapidly, and at last the end drew near.

There came a day when Squire Lovel felt so ill that he sent first of all
for the family doctor and then for the family solicitor. He occupied the
doctor's attention for about ten minutes, but he was closeted with the
lawyer for two or three hours. At the end of that time he sent for his
daughters and made some strong statements to them.

"Grizel," he said, addressing the elder Miss Lovel, "Dr. Maddon has just
informed me that I am not long for this world."

"Dr. Maddon is fond of exaggerating matters," said Miss Grizel in a
voice which she meant to be soothing; "neither Katharine nor I think you
very ill, father, and--and----"

The squire raised his eyebrows impatiently.

"We won't discuss the question of whether Maddon is a wise man or a
silly one, Griselda," he said. "I know myself that I am ill. I am not
only ill, I am weak, and arguing with regard to a foregone conclusion is
wearisome. I have much to talk to you and Katharine about, so will you
sit down quietly and listen to me?"

Miss Griselda was a cold-mannered and perhaps cold-natured woman. Miss
Katharine, on the contrary, was extremely tender-hearted; she looked
appealingly at her old father's withered face; but she had always been
submissive, and she now followed her elder sister's lead and sat down
quietly on the nearest chair.

"We will certainly not worry you with needless words, father," said Miss
Griselda gently. "You have doubtless many directions to give us about
the property; your instructions shall of course be carried out to the
best of my ability. Katharine, too, although she is not the
strongest-minded of mortals, will no doubt, from a sense of filial
affection, also respect your wishes."

"I am glad the new poultry-yard is complete," here half-sobbed Miss
Katharine, "and that valuable new breed of birds arrived yesterday; and
I--I----"

"Try to stop talking, both of you," suddenly exclaimed the squire. "I am
dying, and Avonsyde is without an heir. Griselda, will you oblige me by
going down to the library and bringing up out of the book-case marked D
that old diary of my great-grandfather's, in which are entered the
particulars of the quarrel?"

Miss Katharine looked in an awe-struck and startled way at her sister.
Miss Griselda rose at once and, with a bunch of keys in her hand, went
downstairs.

The moment she had left the room Miss Katharine got up timidly and, with
a certain pathos, stooped down and kissed the old man's swollen hand.

The little action was done so simply and naturally that the fierce old
face relaxed, and for an instant the wrinkled hand touched Miss
Katharine's gray head.

"Yes, Kitty, I know you love me; but I hate the feminine weakness of
tears. Ah, Kitty, you were a fair enough looking maid once, but time has
faded and changed you; you are younger than Grizel, but you have worn
far worse."

Miss Katharine did not say a word, but hastily resumed her seat; and
when Miss Lovel returned with the vellum-bound diary, she had not an
idea that her younger sister had ever moved.

Sitting down by her father, she opened the musty old volume and read
aloud certain passages which, written in fierce heat at the time,
disclosed a painful family scene. Angry words, bitter recriminations,
the sense of injustice on one side, the thirst for revenge on the other,
were faithfully portrayed by the dead-and-gone chronicler.

The squire's lips moved in unspoken accompaniment to the words which his
daughter read aloud, and Miss Katharine bent eagerly forward in order
not to lose a syllable.

"I am dying, and there is no male heir to Avonsyde," said the squire at
last. "Griselda and Katharine, I wish to state here distinctly that my
great-great-grandfather made a mistake when he turned the boy Rupert
from the old place. Valentine should have refused to inherit; it is
doubtless because of Valentine's weakness and his father's spirit of
revenge that I die to-day without male issue to inherit Avonsyde."

"Heaping recriminations on the dead won't help matters now," said Miss
Griselda in a sententious voice. As she spoke she closed the diary,
clasped it and locked it, and Miss Katharine, starting to her feet,
said:

"There are the children in London, your grandchildren, father, and our
nearest of kin."

The squire favored his younger daughter with a withering look, and even
Miss Griselda started at what were very bold words.

"Those children," said the squire--"girls, both of them, sickly, weakly,
with Valentine's miserable pink-and-white delicacy and their low born
mother's vulgarity; I said I would never see them, and I surely do not
wish to hear about them now. Griselda, there is now one plain and
manifest duty before you--I lay it as my dying charge on you and
Katharine. I leave the search which you are to institute as your mission
in life. While you both live Avonsyde is yours, but you must search the
world over if necessary for Rupert Lovel's descendants; and when you
discover them you are to elect a bonny stalwart boy of the house as your
heir. No matter whether he is eldest or youngest, whether he is in a
high position or a low position in the social scale, provided he is a
lineal descendant of the Rupert Lovel who was disinherited in 1684, and
provided also he is strong and upright and well-featured, with muscle
and backbone and manliness in him, you are to appoint him your heir, and
you are to bequeath to him the old house, and the old lands, and all the
money you can save by simple and abstemious living. I have written it
down in my will, and you are tied firmly, both of you, and cannot depart
from my instructions; but I wished to talk over matters with you, for
Katharine there is slow to take in a thing, and you, Grizel, are
prejudiced and rancorous in your temper, and I wish you both clearly to
understand that the law binds you to search for my heir, and this, if
you want to inherit a shilling from me during your lifetime, you must
do. Remember, however, and bear ever strongly in mind, that if, when you
find the family, the elder son is weakly and the younger son is strong,
it is to the sturdy boy that the property is to go; and hark you yet
again, Griselda and Katharine, that the property is not to go to the
father if he is alive, but to the young boy, and the boy is to be
educated to take up his rightful position. A strong lad, a manly and
stalwart lad, mind you; for Avonsyde has almost ceased to exist, owing
to sickly and effeminate heirs, since the time when my
great-great-grandfather quarreled with his son, Rupert Lovel, and gave
the old place to that weakly stripling Valentine. I am a descendant of
Valentine myself, but, 'pon my word, I rue the day."

"Your directions shall be obeyed to the letter," said Miss Griselda; but
Miss Katharine interrupted her.

"And we--we have only a life-interest in the property, father?" she
inquired in a quavering voice.

The old squire looked up into his younger daughter's face and laughed.

"Why, what more would you want, Kitty? No longer young nor fair and with
no thought of marrying--what is money to you after your death?"

"I was thinking of the orphan children in London," continued Miss
Katharine, with increasing firmness of manner and increasing trembling
of voice. "They are very poor, and--and--they are Valentine's children,
and--and--you have never seen them, father."

"And never mean to," snapped the squire. "Griselda, I believe I have now
given implicit directions. Katharine, don't be silly. I don't mean to
see those children and I won't be worried about them."

At this moment the door behind the squire, which was very thick and made
of solid oak, worn nearly black with age, was opened softly, and a clear
voice exclaimed:

"Why, what a funny room! Do come in, Kitty. Oh, what a beautiful room,
and what a funny, queer old man!"

Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine both turned round abruptly. Miss
Griselda made a step toward the door to shut it against some unexpected
and unwelcome intruder. The old man muttered:

"That is a child's voice--one of the village urchins, no doubt."

But before Miss Griselda could reach the door--in short, before any of
the little party assembled in the dying squire's bedroom could do
anything but utter disjointed exclamations, a child, holding a younger
child by the hand, marched boldly and with the air of one perfectly at
home into the chamber.

"What a very nice room, and what funny ladies, and oh! what a queer,
cross old man! Don't be frightened, Kitty, we'll walk right through.
There's a door at the other end--maybe we'll find grandfather in the room
beyond the door at that end."

The squire's lower jaw quite dropped as the radiant little creatures
came in and filled the room with an unlooked-for light and beauty. They
were dressed picturesquely, and no one for an instant could mistake them
for the village children. The eldest child might have been seven; she
was tall and broad, with large limbs, a head crowned with a great wealth
of tangly, fuzzy, nut-brown hair, eyes deeply set, very dark in color, a
richly tinted dark little face, and an expression of animation which
showed in the dancing eyes, in the dancing limbs, in the smiling,
dimpled, confident mouth; her proud little head was well thrown back;
her attitude was totally devoid of fear. The younger child was fair with
a pink-and-white complexion, a quantity of golden, sunny hair, and eyes
as blue as the sky; she could not have been more than four years old,
and was round-limbed and dimpled like a baby.

"Who are you, my dears?" said Miss Katharine when she could speak. Miss
Katharine was quite trembling, and she could not help smiling at the
lovely little pair. Squire Lovel and Miss Grizel were still frowning,
but Miss Katharine's voice was very gentle.

"Who are you, my dear little children?" she repeated, gaining courage
and letting an affectionate inflection steal into her voice.

"I'm Kitty," said the younger child, putting her finger to her lip and
looking askance at the elder girl, "and she--she's Rachel."

"You had better let me tell it, Kitty," interrupted Rachel. "Please, we
are going through the house--we want to see everything. Kitty doesn't
want to as badly as me, but she always does what I tell her. We are
going straight on into the next room, for we want to find grandfather.
I'm Rachel Lovel and this is Kitty Lovel. Our papa used to live here
when he was a little boy, and we want to find grandfather, please. Oh,
what a cross old man that is sitting in the chair!"

While Rachel was making her innocent and confident speech, Miss
Katharine's face turned deadly pale; she was afraid even to glance at
her father and sister. The poor lady felt nearly paralyzed, and was
dimly wondering how she could get such audacious intruders out of the
room.

Rachel having finished her speech remained silent for a quarter of a
minute; then taking Kitty's hand she said:

"Come along, Kit, we may find grandfather in the other room. We'll go
through the door at that end, and perhaps we'll come to grandfather at
last."

Kitty heaved a little sigh of relief, and the two were preparing to
scamper past the deep embrasure of the mullioned window, when a stern
voice startled the little adventurers, and arresting them in their
flight, caused them to wheel swiftly round.

"Come here," said Squire Lovel.

He had never spoken more sternly; but the mites had not a bit of fear.
They marched up to him boldly, and Kitty laid her dimpled baby finger,
with a look of inquiry, on his swollen old hand:

"What a funny fat hand!"

"What did you say you called yourself?" said the squire, lifting
Rachel's chin and peering into her dark face. "Griselda and Katharine,
I'll thank you not to stand staring and gaping. What did you call
yourself? What name did you say belonged to you, child? I'm hard of
hearing; tell me again."

"I'm Rachel Valentine Lovel," repeated the child in a confident tone. "I
was called after my mamma and after father--father's in heaven, and it
makes my mother cry to say Valentine, so I'm Rachel; and this is
Kitty--her real name is Katharine--Katharine Lovel. We have come in a
dog-cart, and mother is downstairs, and we want to see all the house,
and particularly the tower, and we want to see grandfather, and we want
a bunch of grapes each."

All the time Rachel was speaking the squire kept regarding her more and
more fiercely. When she said "My mother is downstairs," he even gave her
a little push away. Rachel was not at all appalled; she knit her own
black brows and tried to imitate him.

"I never saw such a cross old man; did you, Kitty? Please, old man, let
us go now. We want to find grandfather."

"Perhaps it's a pain him got," said Kitty, stroking the swollen hand
tenderly. "Mother says when I's got a pain I can't help looking cross."

The fierce old eyes turned slowly from one lovely little speaker to the
other; then the squire raised his head and spoke abruptly.

"Griselda and Katharine, come here. Have the goodness to tell me who
this child resembles," pointing as he spoke to Rachel. "Look at her
well, study her attentively, and don't both answer at once."

There was not the slightest fear of Miss Katharine interrupting Miss
Griselda on this occasion. She only favored dark-eyed little Rachel with
a passing glance; but her eyes, full of tears, rested long on the fair
little baby face of Kitty.

"This child in all particulars resembles the portrait of our great-uncle
Rupert," said Miss Griselda, nodding at Rachel as she did so. "The same
eyes, the same lift of the eyebrows, and the same mouth."

"And this one," continued the squire, turning his head and pointing to
Kitty--"this one, Griselda? Katharine, you need not speak."

"This one," continued Miss Griselda, "has the weakness and effeminate
beauty of my dead brother Valentine."

"Kitty isn't weak," interrupted Rachel; "she's as strong as possible.
She only had croup once, and she never takes cold, and she only was ill
for a little because she was very hungry. Please, old man, stop staring
so hard and let us go now. We want to find our grandfather."

But instead of letting Rachel go Squire Lovel stretched out his hand and
drew her close to him.

"Sturdy limbs, dark face, breadth of figure," he muttered, "and you are
my grandchild--the image of Rupert; yes, the image of Rupert Lovel. I
wish to God, child, you were a boy!"

"Your grandchild!" repeated Rachel. "Are you my grandfather? Kitty,
Kitty, is this our grandfather?"

"Him's pain is better," said Kitty. "I see a little laugh 'ginning to
come round his mouth. Him's not cross. Let us kiss our grandfader,
Rachel."

Up went two rosy, dimpled pairs of lips to the withered old cheeks, and
two lovely little pairs of arms were twined round Squire Lovel's neck.

"We have found our grandfather," said Rachel. "Now let's go downstairs
at once and bring mother up to see him."

"No, no, stop that!" said the squire, suddenly disentangling himself
from the pretty embrace. "Griselda and Katharine, this scene is too much
for me. I should not be agitated--those children should not intrude on
me. Take care of them--take particular care of the one who is like
Rupert. Take her away now; take them both away; and, hark you, do not
let the mother near me. I'll have nothing to say to the mother; she is
nothing to me. Take the children out of the room and come back to me
presently, both of you."




CHAPTER II.--MAKING TERMS.


The moment the two little girls found themselves outside their
grandfather's door they wrenched their little hands away from Miss
Griselda's and Miss Katharine's, and with a gay laugh like two wild,
untamed birds flew down the wide oak staircase and across the hall to a
room where a woman, dressed very soberly, waited for them. She was
sitting on the edge of a hard cane-bottomed chair, her veil was down,
and her whole attitude was one of tense and nervous watchfulness. The
children ran to her with little cries of rapture, climbed together on
her knee, pulled up her veil, and nearly smothered her pale dark face
with kisses.

"Mother, mother, mother, he was so cross!"

"He had pain, mother, and him's eyes was wrinkled up so."

"But, mother, we gave him a kiss, and he said I was strong and Kitty was
weak. We have not seen the tower yet, and we haven't got our grapes, and
there are two old ladies, and we don't like them much, and we ran away
from them--and--oh, here they are!"

The children clung tightly to their mother, who struggled to her feet,
pushed them aside with a gesture almost of despair, and came up at once
to the two Miss Lovels.

"I know this visit is unwarranted; I know it is considered an intrusion.
The children's father was born here, but there is no welcome for them;
nevertheless I have brought them. They are beautiful children--look at
them. No fairer daughters of your house ever were born than these two.
Look at Rachel; look at Kitty. Is it right they should be brought up
with no comforts in a poor London lodging? Rachel, kiss your aunts.
Kitty, little one, kiss your aunts and love them."

Rachel skipped up gayly to the two stiff old ladies, but Kitty began at
last to be influenced by the frowns which met her on all sides; she
pouted, turned her baby face away, and buried it in her mother's lap.

"Look at them--are they not beautiful?" continued the mother. "Is it fair
that they should be cooped up in a London lodging when their father
belonged to this place? I ask you both--you who are my husband's sisters;
you who were children when he was a child, who used to play with him and
kiss him, and learn your lessons out of the same book, and to sleep in
the same nursery--is it fair?"

"It is not fair," said Miss Katharine suddenly. She seemed carried quite
out of herself; her eyes shone, and the pink of a long-gone beauty
returned with a transient gleam to her faded cheek. "It is not fair,"
she repeated. "No, Griselda, I am not afraid of you. I will say what is
in my mind. Valentine's face speaks to me again out of the baby face of
that dear little child. What was Rupert Lovel to us that we should place
a likeness to him before a likeness to our own dead brother? I say it is
unfair that Valentine's children should have neither part nor lot in his
old home. I, for one, am willing to welcome them to Avonsyde."

Miss Griselda had always a most placid face; she now said in her calmest
tones:

"There is no need to excite yourself, Katharine. I too think the
children have a claim on us. An arrangement can easily be made about the
children--their mother is the difficulty."

The face of the plainly dressed young woman could scarcely grow any
paler. She gave a quick, very quick glance at handsome little Rachel,
who stood with her head thrown back and her eyes eagerly watching each
movement of the excited group around her; then the mother's hand touched
Kitty's golden head with a very faint caressing touch, and then she
spoke:

"I have come to make terms. I knew I should be considered an obstacle,
but that is a mistake. I will be none. I am willing--I am willing to
obliterate myself. I would talk to you and make terms, but I would make
them alone--I mean I would rather not make them in the presence of the
children."

"I will take the children," said Miss Katharine eagerly; "they want to
see the house; I will take them round. They want grapes; I will take
them to the vineries."

"Oh, yes, we want grapes," said Rachel in an excited voice; "we want
lots of grapes--don't we, Kitty?"

"Yes; lots," answered Kitty, turning her flushed little face once more
to view. She had been hiding it for the last few minutes against her
mother's black dress.

"That is my father's bell," said Miss Griselda suddenly. "I must hurry
to him. I will see you presently, Mrs. Lovel; and, Katharine, you too
must be present at our interview. I must ask Mrs. Martin to take the
children round the place."

Miss Griselda opened the thick oak door of the squire's bedroom and went
in. Her face was changed in expression and her usual self-possession had
to a certain extent deserted her.

"What an age you have been away, Grizel," said the old man testily. "You
might have known that I'd want you. Did I not tell you to take the
children out of the room and to come back to me presently? Did you not
hear me when I said, 'Come back to me presently?' Oh, I see how things
are!" continued the irate old man, with a burst of fury. "I am weak and
ill now and my commands are nothing--my wishes are not of the slightest
consequence. I know how it will be when I'm gone. You and Katharine
promise faithfully to obey me now, but you'll forget your promises when
I'm gone. Even you, Griselda, who have always had the character of being
strong-minded, will think nothing of your given word when I'm in my
grave."

"You're tired, father," said Miss Griselda, "and the unexpected
intrusion of the children has excited you. Let me pour you out a dose of
your restorative medicine. Here, drink this; now you will feel better."

The old squire's hand shook so much that he could not hold the glass
which Miss Griselda tendered to him; but she held it herself to his
lips, and when he had drained off its contents he grew a shade calmer.

"One of those children is very like Rupert Lovel," he murmured. "A
strong girl, with a bold, fine face. You never would have supposed that
that weak stripling Valentine would have had a child of that build,
would you, Grizel?"

"No, father. But the little girl has a likeness to her mother, and it is
about the mother I have now come to speak to you. Oh, come now, you must
try and listen to me. You must not get over-excited, and you must not
begin to talk absolute rubbish about my disobeying your wishes; for you
have positively got to settle something about Valentine's children."

"I said I'd have nothing to say to them."

"Very likely; but you said so before you saw them. Having seen them, it
is absolutely impossible for you to turn Valentine's orphan children
from the doors. Their mother cannot support them, and she has brought
them to us and we must not turn them away. I may as well tell you
plainly that I will never consent to the children being sent away from
Avonsyde. I won't wait to disobey you until you are dead in that matter.
I shall do so at once, and quite openly, for I could never have another
easy night on my pillow if I thought Valentine's children were
starving."

"Who wants them to starve?" grumbled the squire.

But Miss Griselda's firm words had an effect, and he lowered his chin on
his chest and looked gloomily straight before him.

"The mother has come here to make terms," said Miss Griselda. "Now what
shall they be?"

"At least she shall not sleep under my roof! A low girl--no match for
Valentine! If I said it once I repeat it fifty times. I will never look
on that woman's face, Grizel!"

"I don't want you to, father. I agree with you that she had better go.
Now let me tell you, in as few words as I can, what I intend to propose
to Katharine and to Mrs. Lovel, with your sanction, presently. The
children must stay at Avonsyde. If the heir is never found, well and
good; they are provided for. If, on the other hand, the heir turns up,
they are, according to the present conditions of your will, absolutely
penniless. Now I don't choose this. Valentine's children must be
provided for under any emergency, and you must make a fresh codicil to
your will."

"I will not!"

"Father, you must. Valentine was your own son; these children are your
rightful and legitimate heirs. I am heart and soul with you in your wish
to find the lawful descendant of Rupert Lovel--I promise to devote my
life to this search; but Valentine's children must not go penniless. You
must make a codicil to your will providing comfortably for them in case
the lawful heir turns up."

"How can I? The doctor says I have not many hours to live."

"Long enough for that, no doubt. We cannot, unfortunately, send for Mr.
Baring from London, but I will send a man on horseback to Southampton,
and Mr. Terry, the Barings' country partner, will be here in two or
three hours."

"I tell you I have only a few hours to live," repeated the squire,
sinking his head lower on his chest and looking daggers at his daughter.

"Long enough for that," she repeated.

She rose from her seat and went across the room to ring the bell. When
the servant entered the room she gave some very clear and emphatic
directions, and then desiring the nurse who waited on her father to be
summoned, she left the room.

Her interview had scarcely been a peaceable one, and as she went
downstairs her usually calm expression was considerably disturbed.

"I can make terms with the mother now," she murmured. "But I am not
going even to tell my father what they are." And she went downstairs.

Floating in through the open window came the sound of gay, childish
mirth, and looking out she saw the little strangers dancing and laughing
and chatting merrily to old Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, as she took
them round the grounds.

Then Miss Griselda went downstairs, and she and Miss Katharine had their
interview with the grave, quiet young mother, who had come, as she said,
to make terms. No one heard what they said to her nor what she said to
them; no one knew what arrangements were arrived at between the three;
no one guessed either then or long years afterward what the terms were.
When the somewhat protracted interview had come to an end, the young
mother left Miss Griselda's study with her veil drawn tightly over her
face. If her eyes were red and her lips trembled, no one noticed those
signs of grief through her thick crape veil. Miss Griselda offered her
food, and Miss Katharine wanted to take her hand and wring it with a
kindly pressure; but she shook her head at the one and drew back proudly
from the other's proffered hand-shake.

The dog-cart was waiting at a side entrance, and she got into it and
drove away. Nor did she once look back as she drove down the long
straight avenue under the shade of the old forest trees.

That night Squire Lovel said a word or two to his daughters.

"So you have kept the children?"

"We have kept the children," repeated Miss Griselda tersely.

"It is nothing to me. I have made that codicil to my will. You have had
your way in that."

"You have done justice, father--you will die happier," replied Miss
Griselda.

"Have you made arrangements with the mother?" questioned the squire.

"The mother will not trouble us; we have arranged with her," answered
the elder Miss Lovel.

"We have made arrangements with her," echoed Miss Katharine, and here
she bent her head and gave vent to a little choking sob.

The squire was very restless all night, and several times the words
"Kitty" and "Valentine" escaped his lips. The end was near and the poor
old brain was wandering.

Toward morning he was left alone for a few moments with Miss Katharine.

"Father," she said suddenly, kneeling by his bedside, clasping his hand,
and looking at him imploringly, "father, you would bid us be kind to
Valentine's children?"

"Valentine's children?" repeated the old man. "Ay, ay, Kitty. My head
wanders. Are they Valentine's children or Rupert's children?--the Rupert
who should have inherited Avonsyde. Somebody's children were here
to-day, but I cannot remember whether they belonged to Valentine or
Rupert."

"Father, they belong to Valentine--to your son Valentine. You are dying.
May I bring them to you, and will you bless them before you go?"

The old squire looked up at his daughter with dim and fading eyes. She
did not wait to listen for any assent from his lips, but flying from the
room, returned presently with two rosy, cherub-like creatures.

"Kiss your grandfather, Kitty; his pain is bad. Kiss him tenderly, dear
little child."

Kitty pursed up her full red lips and gave the required salute solemnly.

"Now, Rachel, kiss your grandfather; he is very ill."

Rachel too raised herself on tiptoe, and bending forward touched the old
man's lips lightly with her own.

"Rupert's child," he murmured; "ay, ay, just like Rupert."

Shortly afterward he died.




CHAPTER III.--PREPARING FOR THE HEIR


"I wonder, Rachel," said Kitty, "I wonder when the heir will be found."

Rachel had curled herself up in a luxurious arm-chair, was devouring a
new story-book, and was in consequence displeased with Kitty for her
question.

"Let me read, Kitty. In half an hour I have to go to my drill, and then
practicing, and then learning those tiresome lessons. I don't care if an
heir is never found; do let me read!"

"There's another one coming to-morrow," continued Kitty in a by no means
abashed voice; "his name is Philip and his mother is coming with him. I
heard Aunt Grizel telling Mrs. Eyre all about it, and, Rachel--oh,
Rachel, do listen! they are to sleep in the bedroom directly under Aunt
Katharine's and Aunt Grizel's room in the tower."

This last piece of information was sufficiently interesting to Rachel to
make her fling down her book with an impetuous gesture.

"What a tiresome Kitty you are. I never can read when you come into the
room. I was in a most exciting part, but never mind. My half-hour of
quiet will be gone in no time. I had better keep the book until I can
steal away into the forest and read it in peace."

"But isn't it exciting," pursued Kitty, "to think that they are going to
sleep in the tower bedroom?"

"And his name is Philip!" repeated Rachel, "Philip is the name of this
one--the last was Guy, and the one before was Ferdinand, and the one
before that was Augustus. I want an heir to come of the name of
Zerubbabel. I like Zerubbabel, and it's uncommon. What a pity this one's
name is Philip!"

"Oh, he's not the real heir," said little Kitty, shaking her head
solemnly; "he's only another make-believe; but it's rather exciting his
mother coming too and the tower room being prepared. Rachel, aren't you
almost certain that when the real, true heir comes his name will be
Rupert? Why, of course it must be Rupert--mustn't it, Rachel?"

"I don't know and I don't care," answered Rachel, tumbling out of her
luxurious chair and shaking back her dark, untidy locks. "How old is
Philip, Kitty? Poor Philip, I wish him joy of the place! He'll find it
dull enough, and he'll find Aunt Grizel very tiresome and Aunt Katharine
very sweet, but very stupid, and he'll wish he wasn't the heir a
thousand times in the twenty-four hours. How old is he, Kitty-cat? Just
tell me quickly, for I must go."

"He's eight years old," replied Kitty in a very interested tone; "that's
another thing that's exciting--his being so near to my age. Aunt Grizel
says that he'll be a sort of a companion for me. I do hope he'll be a
nice little boy."

"I don't care anything at all about him," said Rachel; "he may be the
heir or he may not. I'm not in the least interested. I don't see
anything exciting in the fact of a stupid little boy coming to Avonsyde
with his mother; it's a slow place and he'll have a slow life, and
there's nothing to interest me about it."

"Oh, Rachel, I never could guess that you found Avonsyde slow. If you
do, why do you laugh so merrily and why do you look so gay?"

"I never said that I found Avonsyde dull," answered Rachel, turning
round with a quick, flashing movement. "No place is slow or dull to me.
But I'm not going to stay here; I'm going to school, and then afterward
I'm going right round the world looking for mother. Oh, that's my
drill-sergeant's bell! What a worry he is! Good-by, Kitty-cat."

Rachel skipped out of the room, banging the door after her, and Kitty
climbed into her chair, and leaning back in it shut her pretty blue
eyes.

It was five years now since the children had come to Avonsyde, and Kitty
had absolutely forgotten the dismal day of their arrival. She knew that
she had a mother, for Rachel reminded her of the fact; but she could
recall no outline of her face.

Rachel not only spoke of her mother, but remembered her. Vivid memories
of a grave, sweet, sad face came to her at intervals, and when these
memories visited the child longings came also. Why had her mother gone
away? Why were Kitty and she practically motherless? Who were the wicked
people who had divided this mother and these children?

When these thoughts came Rachel's dark little face would work with
strong emotion; and if Aunt Griselda or Aunt Katharine happened to be
near, she would feel tempted to answer them defiantly and to favor them
with flashing, angry glances.

"I miss my mother!" she would sob sometimes at night. "I wish--oh, how I
wish I could give her a long, big, great kiss! Well, never mind: when I
am old enough I'll go all round the world looking for her, for I know
she is not dead."

These storms of grief did not come often, and on the whole the children
had spent five very happy years at Avonsyde. Aunt Grizel and Aunt
Katharine had each in her own way been good to them--Aunt Grizel erring
on the side of over-severity, Aunt Katharine on the side of
over-indulgence. But the children had no fear in their natures, and were
so bright and frank and charming that even Aunt Katharine's petting
could not do them any harm. They were well taught and well cared for,
and were universal favorites wherever they went--the extreme side of
Kitty being prone to over-tenderness; the extreme side of Rachel to
over-brusqueness and almost fierceness.

Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine said very little about their affection
for the children--very little either to the children themselves or to one
another. They were reserved women and thought it undignified to speak of
their feelings. Neither Rachel nor Kitty was at all proud of being
Lovels of Avonsyde; but Miss Griselda thought her position above that of
a countess, and Miss Katharine supported her great honors with a meek
little air of becoming pride. The old ladies' great object in life was
to find the missing heir, and Miss Griselda had even once picked up
sufficient courage to go to America, accompanied by the family lawyer
and his wife, in search of him; but though many little boys came to
Avonsyde and many fathers and mothers sent in all kinds of extraordinary
claims, the heir who could claim direct descent from Rupert Lovel, the
strong and sturdy boy who was to bring back a fresh epoch of health and
life and vigor to the old family tree, and not yet arrived.

Now, however, shortly after Rachel's twelfth birthday and in the middle
of a glorious summer, little Philip Lovel was expected. His mother was
to bring him and he was to sleep in the tower room, which, as Kitty
said, was most exciting. Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine too were
excited; and Miss Griselda said with an unusual burst of confidence to
her younger sister:

"If the boy turns out to be a true descendant of Rupert's, and if he is
blessed with good physical health, I shall feel a great load off my
mind."

Miss Katharine smiled in reply.

"God grant the little boy may be the heir," she said; "but, Griselda, I
don't like the tone of the mother's letters."




CHAPTER IV.--A SPARTAN BOY.


"Philip?"

"Yes, mother."

"You quite understand that you have got to be a very good little boy?"

"Oh, yes, mother, I understand."

"It's a big, grand place--it's what is described as an ancient place, and
dates back hundreds and hundreds of years, and you, you--why, what is the
matter, Philip?"

"Is it antediluvian?" asked Philip, jumping up from his seat opposite
his mother in the railway carriage. "Oh, I do hope and trust it's
antediluvian!"

"How you do puzzle me with your queer words, Philip. Antediluvian!--that
means before the Flood. Oh, no, Avonsyde wasn't in existence before the
Flood; but still it is very old, and the ladies who live there are
extremely grand people. You haven't been accustomed to living in a great
ancient house, and you haven't been accustomed to the manner of such
grand ancient ladies as the Misses Griselda and Katharine Lovel, and I
do trust--I do hope you will behave properly."

"Hullo! There's a spider up in that window," interrupted the boy. "I
must try to catch him. There! he has run into his hole. Oh, mother,
mother, look! there's a windmill! See, it's going round so fast! And, I
say, isn't that a jolly river? I want to fish and to shoot when I get to
the grand place. I don't care what else I do if only I have plenty of
fishing and shooting."

Philip Lovel's mother knit her brows. She was a tall, fashionably
dressed woman, with a pale face, a somewhat peevish expression, and a
habit of drawing her eyebrows together until they nearly met.

"Philip, you must attend to me," she said, drawing the little boy down
to stand quietly by her side. "I have got you a whole trunkful of nice
gentlemanly clothes, and I have spent a heap of money over you, and you
must--yes, you must please the old ladies. Why, Phil, if this scheme
fails we shall starve."

"Oh, don't, mother, don't!" said little Phil, looking full up into his
mother's face, and revealing as he did so two sensitive and beautiful
brown eyes, the only redeeming features in a very plain little
countenance. "Don't cry, mother! I'll be a good boy, of course. Now, may
I go back and see if that spider has come out of his hole?"

"No, Philip, never mind the spider. I have you all to myself, and we
shall be at Avonsyde in less than an hour. I want to impress it upon
you, so that you may keep it well in your memory what you are to do.
Now, are you listening to me, Phil?"

"I am trying to," answered Philip. "I do hope, mother, you won't tell me
too many things, for I never can remember anything for more than a
minute at a time."

Philip smiled and looked up saucily, but Mrs. Lovel was far too much
absorbed in what she was about to say to return his smiling glance.

"Philip, I trained you badly," she began. "You were let run wild; you
were let do pretty much as you liked; you weren't at all particularly
obedient. Now, I don't at all want the Miss Lovels to find that out. You
are never to tell how you helped Betty with the cakes, and you are never
to tell about polishing your own boots, and you are not to let out for a
moment how you and I did our own gardening. If you speak of Betty you
must call her your nurse; and if you speak of Jim, who was such a
troublesome boy, you can mention him as the gardener, and not say that
he was only twelve years old."

"What a lot of lies I'm to tell," said Philip, opening his eyes wider
and wider. "Go on, mother--what else am I to do?"

Mrs. Lovel gave the little speaker a shake.

"Philip, what an exasperating child you are! Of course you are not to be
so wicked as to attempt to tell lies. Oh, what a bad boy you are even to
think of such a thing! I only want you to be a nice, gentlemanly little
boy and not to speak of vulgar things, and of course it is very vulgar
to allude to a maid-of-all-work like Betty and to cleaning one's own
boots; but as to lies--what do you mean, sir? Oh, there, the train is
slackening speed. We'll soon be at the station, and the carriage was to
meet us. Remember, Philip, always be on your best behavior at Avonsyde!
Don't speak unless you are spoken to, and always be on the lookout to
please the old ladies. There are two little girls, I believe; but they
are not of the slightest consequence. Dear, dear, I feel quite
trembling! I hope--I trust all will go well! Philip, dear, you have not
felt that pain in your side all day, have you?"

"No, mother; I have not felt it for days. I am much better really."

"I don't want you to speak of it, love. I am most anxious that the
ladies should consider you a strong boy. The doctors say you are almost
certain to get over the pain; and when the Miss Lovels appoint you their
heir it will be time enough to mention it. If the pain comes on very
badly you will keep it to yourself--won't you, Phil? You won't groan or
scream or anything of that sort; and you can always run up to my room
and I can give you the drops. Oh, Phil, Phil, if this scheme fails we
shall simply starve!"

Philip, with his queer, old-fashioned face, looked full at his mother.

"I'll be a Spartan boy and bear the pain," he said. "I don't care a bit
about being rich or having a big place; but I don't want you to starve,
mother. Oh, I say, there's that jolly little spider again!"

When the London express halted at last at the small country station,
Philip was gazing in ecstasy at a marvelous complication of web and
dust, at one or two entrapped flies, and at a very malicious but clever
spider. His mother was shaking out her draperies, composing her
features, and wondering--wondering hard how a very bold scheme would
prosper.

"Jump down, Phil. Here we are!" she called to her boy.

The child, an active, lithe little fellow, obeyed her. Not a trace of
anxiety could be discerned on his small face. In truth, he had forgotten
Avonsyde in the far more absorbing interest of the spider.

                *       *       *       *       *

"I am glad to welcome you, Mrs. Lovel!" said Miss Griselda as she came
forward to greet the new-comers. She was standing in the old hall, and
the light from a western window of rich old stained glass fell in
slanting hues on a very eager and interested group. Behind Miss Griselda
stood her shadow, Miss Katharine, and Rachel's bold dark face and
Kitty's sunny one could be seen still further in the background. Rachel
pretended not to be the least interested in the arrival of the
strangers, nevertheless her bright eyes looked singularly alert. Kitty
did not attempt to hide the very keen interest she took in the little
boy who was so nearly her own age, and who was to be so greatly honored
as to sleep in the tower room. Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine wore
their richest black silks and some of their most valuable lace; for
surely this was the real heir, and they intended to give him a befitting
reception. The old housekeeper and one or two other servants might have
been seen peeping in the distance; they were incredulous, but curious.
Mrs. Lovel took in the whole scene at a glance; the aspect of affairs
pleased her and her versatile spirits rose. She took Philip's little
hand in hers and led him up to Miss Griselda.

"This," she said in a gentle and humble voice--"this is my little boy."

"Philip Lovel," responded Miss Griselda, "look up at me, child--full in
the face. Ah! you have got the Lovel eyes. How do you do, my dear?
Welcome to Avonsyde!"

"Welcome to Avonsyde!" repeated Miss Katharine, looking anxiously from
the fashionably dressed mother to the precocious boy. "Are you very
tired, my dear? You look so pale."

Phil glanced from one old lady's face to the other. His mother felt
herself shaking. She saw at once that he had forgotten their
conversation in the train, and wondered what very malapropos remark he
would make. Phil had a habit of going off into little dreams and
brown-studies. He looked inquiringly at Miss Katharine; then he gazed
searchingly at Miss Griselda; then he shook himself and said abruptly:

"I beg your pardon--what did you ask me?"

"Oh, Phil, how rude!" interrupted Mrs. Lovel. "The ladies asked you if
you were tired, love. Tell them at once that you are not in the least
so. Pale children are so often considered delicate," continued Mrs.
Lovel anxiously, "whereas they are quite acknowledged by many physicians
to be stronger than the rosy ones. Say you are not tired, Phil, and
thank Miss Katharine for taking an interest in your health."

Phil smiled.

"I'm not tired," he said. "I had a pleasant journey. There was a spider
in the carriage, and I saw a windmill. And oh! please, am I to call you
auntie, or what?"

"Aunt Katharine," interposed the lady.

"Aunt Katharine, do you fish? and may I fish?"

Here Kitty burst into a delighted chuckle of amusement, and going
frankly up to Phil took his hand.

"I can fish," she said; "of course Aunt Katharine can't fish, but I can.
I've got a rod, a nice little rod; and if you are not tired you may as
well come and see it."

"Then I'm going out with my book," said Rachel. "I'm going into the
forest. Perhaps I'll meet the lady there. Good-by, Kitty-cat; good-by,
little boy."

Rachel disappeared through one door, Kitty and Phil through another, and
Mrs. Lovel and the two old ladies of Avonsyde were left to make
acquaintance with one another.

"Come into the drawing-room," said Miss Griselda; "your little boy and
the children will get on best alone. He is a muscular-looking little
fellow, although singularly pale. Where did you say he was born--in
Mexico?"

"In Mexico," replied Mrs. Lovel, repressing a sigh. "The true Mexican
lads are about the strongest in the world; but he of course is really of
English parentage, although his father and his grandfather never saw
England. Yes, Phil was born in Mexico, but shortly afterward we moved
into the American States, and before my husband died we had emigrated to
Australia. Phil is a strong boy and has had the advantage of travel and
constant change--that is why he is so wiry. The hot country in which he
was born accounts for his pallor, but he is remarkably strong."

Mrs. Lovel's words came out quickly and with the nervousness of one who
was not very sure of a carefully prepared lesson. Suspicious people
would have doubted this anxious-looking woman on the spot, but neither
Miss Griselda nor Miss Katharine was at all of a suspicious turn of
mind. Miss Griselda said:

"You have traveled over a great part of the habitable globe and we have
remained--I and my sister and our immediate ancestors before us--in the
privacy and shelter of Avonsyde. To come here will be a great change for
you and your boy."

"A great rest--a great delight!" replied Mrs. Lovel, clasping her hands
ecstatically. "Oh, dear Miss Lovel, you don't know what it is to weary
for a home as I have wearied."

Her words were genuine and tears stood in her pale blue eyes.

Miss Griselda considered tears and raptures rather undignified; but Miss
Katharine, who was very sympathetic, looked at the widow with new
interest.

"It is wonderfully interesting to feel that your little boy belongs to
us," she said. "He seems a nice little fellow, very naïve and fresh.
Won't you sit in this comfortable chair? You can get such a nice view of
the forest from here. And do you take cream and sugar in your tea?"

"A very little cream and no sugar," replied Mrs. Lovel as she leaned
back luxuriously in the proffered chair. "What a lovely view! And what a
quaint, beautiful room. I remember my husband telling me that Avonsyde
belonged to his family for nearly eight hundred years, and that the
house was almost as old as the property. Is this room really eight
hundred years old? It looks wonderfully quaint."

"You happen to be in the most modern part of the house, Mrs. Lovel,"
replied Miss Griselda icily. "This drawing-room and all this wing were
added by my grandfather, and this special room was first opened for the
reception of company when my mother came here as a bride. The exact date
of this room is a little over half a century. You shall see the older
part of the house presently; this part is very painfully modern."

Mrs. Lovel bowed and sipped her tea as comfortably as she could under
the impression of being snubbed.

"I have never been in a very old house before," she said. "You know in
Mexico, in the States, in Australia, the houses must be modern."

"May I ask if you have brought your pedigree?" inquired Miss Griselda.
"Yes, Katharine, you need not look at me in such a surprised manner. We
neither of us have an idea of troubling Mrs. Lovel to show it to us
now--not indeed until she has rested; but it is absolutely necessary to
trace Philip's descent from Rupert Lovel at as early a date as possible.
That being correctly ascertained and found to be indisputable, we must
have him examined by some eminent physician; and if the medical man
pronounces him to be an extremely strong boy our quest is ended, and you
and I, Katharine, can rest in peace. Mrs. Lovel, you look very tired.
Would you like to retire to your room? Katharine, will you ring the
bell, dear? We will ask Newbolt to accompany Mrs. Lovel to her room and
to attend on her. Newbolt is our maid, Mrs Lovel, and quite a denizen of
the forest; she can tell you all the local traditions."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Lovel. "Yes, I shall be glad to lie down for a
little. I do hope Philip is not tiring himself--not that he is likely to;
he is so strong. Thank you, Miss Lovel, I will lie down for a little.
Yes, of course I brought the pedigree--and--and--a very quaint house; even
the new part looks old to me!"

Mrs. Lovel tripped out of the room, and the two old ladies looked at one
another.

"What do you think of her, Katharine?" inquired Miss Griselda. "You are
dying to speak, so let me hear your sentiments at once!"

"I don't quite like her," said Miss Katharine. "She seems very tired and
very nervous, and perhaps it is unfair and unkind to say anything about
her until she is rested. I can't honestly say, however, that my first
impression is favorable, and she may be much nicer when she is not so
tired and not so nervous. I don't like her much at present, but I may
afterward. What are your opinions, Griselda?"

"Katharine," said Miss Griselda, "you are the most prosaic and
long-winded person I know. You don't suppose for an instant that I am
going to say what I think of Mrs. Lovel to-day. After all, it is the boy
in whom we are interested. Time alone can show whether these two are not
another couple of impostors. Now, I wonder where that child Rachel has
taken herself!"




CHAPTER V.--IN THE FOREST.


Kitty and Philip ran off together hand in hand. They were about the same
height, but Kitty's fair, healthy, flushed face showed in strong
contrast to Phil's pallor, and her round and sturdy limbs gave promise
of coming health and beauty; whereas Phil's slight form only suggested
possible illness, and to a watchful eye would have betokened a short
life. But the boy was wiry and just now he was strongly excited. It was
delightful to be in the real country and more than delightful to go out
with Kitty.

"You are my cousin, aren't you?" said the little maid, favoring him with
a full, direct glance.

"I suppose so," he answered. "Yes, I suppose so. I don't quite know."

Kitty stamped her foot.

"Don't say that!" she replied. "I hate people who are not quite sure
about things. I want to have a real boy cousin to play with. Two or
three make-believes came here, but they went away again. Of course we
all found them out at once, and they went away. I do trust you are not
another make-believe, Philip. You're very pale and very thin, but I do
hope what's of you is real."

"Oh, yes; what's of me is real enough," said Phil, with a little sigh.
"Where are you going to take me, Kitty? Into the forest? I want to see
the forest. I wonder will it be as fine as the forest where Ru----I mean
where a cousin of mine and I used to play?"

"Oh, have you another cousin besides me? How exciting!"

"Yes; but I don't want to talk about him. Are we going into the forest?"

"If you like. You see those trees over there? All that is forest; and
then there is a bit of wild moorland, and then more trees; and there is
a pine wood, with such a sweet smell. It's all quite close, and I see it
every day. It isn't very exciting when you see it every day. Your eyes
need not shine like that. You had much better take things quietly,
especially as you are such a very thin boy. Aunt Katharine says thin
people should never get excited. She says it wears them out. Well, if
you must come into the forest I suppose you must; but would you not like
something to eat first? I know what we are to have for tea. Shall I tell
you?"

"Yes," said Phil; "tell me when we have got under the trees; tell me
when I am looking up through the branches for the birds and the
squirrels. You have not such gay birds as ours, for I watched yours when
I was coming in the train from Southampton; but oh! don't they sing!"

"You are a very queer boy," said Kitty. "Birds and squirrels and forest
trees, when you might be hearing about delicious frosted cake and jam
rolly-polies. Well, take my hand and let's run into the forest; let's
get it over, if we must get it over. I'll take you down to the Avon to
fish to-morrow. I like fishing--don't you?"

"Yes," said Phil. "I like nearly everything. Do you fish with flies or
bait?"

"Oh, with horrid bait! that is the worst of it; but I generally get
Robert--one of our grooms--to bait my lines."

The children were now under the shade of the trees, and Kitty, after
running about until she was tired, climbed into one of the branches of a
wide-spreading beech tree and rocked herself in a very contented manner
backward and forward. Phil was certainly a very queer little boy, but
she was quite convinced he must be her real true cousin, that he was not
a make-believe, that he would stay on at Avonsyde as the heir, and that
she would always have a companion of her own age to play with.

"He will get tired of the forest by and by," she said to herself, "and
then he will like best to play with me, and we can fish all day
together. How jolly that will be! What a good thing it is that he is so
nearly my own age, and that he is not older; for if he were he would go
every where with Rachel and be her friend. I should not like that at
all," concluded the little girl, with a very selfish though natural sigh
of satisfaction.

Presently Phil--having wandered about to his heart's content, having
ascertained the color of several birds which sang over his head, having
treasured up the peculiar quality of their different notes, and having
ascertained beyond all doubt that the English forest was quite the
quaintest and most lovely place in the world--came back and climbed into
the tree by Kitty's side.

"I'd like him to see it awfully," he said.

"Who, Phil?"

"I can't tell you--that's my secret. Kitty, you'll never find that I
shall get accustomed to the forest--I mean so accustomed that I shan't
want to come here. Oh, never, never! A place like this must always have
something new to show you. Kitty, can you imitate all the birds' notes
yet?"

"I can't imitate one of them," said Kitty, with an impatient frown
coming between her eyebrows.

"But I know what I want to be doing, and I only wish you had the same
want."

"Perhaps I have. What is it?"

"Oh, no, you haven't. You're just like the goody-goody, awfully learned
boys of the story-book. I do wish you wouldn't go into raptures about
stupid trees and birds and things!"

Phil's little pale face flushed.

"Rupert--I mean--I mean my dearest friend--a boy you know nothing about,
Kitty--never spoke about its being goody-goody to love things of this
sort, and he is manly if you like. I can't help loving them. But what is
your want, Kitty?"

"Oh, to have my mouth crammed full of jam rolly-poly! I am so hungry!"

"So am I too. Let's run back to the house."

When Philip and Kitty had gone off together for their first exploring
expedition, when the two little strangers to one another had clasped
hands and gone out through the open hall-door and down the shady lawns
together, Rachel had followed them for a few paces.

She stood still shading her eyes with one hand as she gazed after their
retreating figures; then whistling to an English terrier of the name of
Jupiter, she ran round to the stables and encountered one of the grooms.

"Robert, put the side-saddle on Surefoot and come with me into the
forest. It is a lovely evening, and I am going for a long ride."

Robert, a very young and rather sheepish groom, looked appealingly at
the bright and pretty speaker.

"My mother is ill, Miss Rachel, and Peter do say as I may go home and
see her. Couldn't you ride another evening, missy?"

"No, I'm going to ride to-night. I wish to and I'm going; but you need
not come with me; it is quite unnecessary. I should like nothing so well
as having a long ride on Surefoot all alone."

"But the ladies do say, Miss Rachel, as you are not to ride in the
forest by yourself. Oh, if you will go, missy, why, I must just put off
seeing my poor mother until to-morrow."

Rachel stamped her foot impatiently.

"Nonsense, Robert!" she said. "I am going to ride alone. I will explain
matters to my aunts, so you need not be at all afraid. Put the
side-saddle on Surefoot at once!"

Robert's conscience was easily appeased. He ran off and quickly returned
with the rough little forest pony, and Rachel, mounting, cantered off.

She was an excellent rider and had not a scrap of fear in her nature.
She entered the forest by the long straight avenue; and Surefoot,
delighted to feel his feet on the smooth, velvety sward, trotted along
gayly.

"Now I am free!" said the girl. "How delightful it is to ride all by
myself. I will go a long, long way this beautiful evening."

It was a perfect summer's evening, and Rachel was riding through scenery
of exquisite beauty. Birds sang blithely to her as she flew lightly over
the ground; squirrels looked down at her from among the branches of the
forest oaks; many wild flowers smiled up at her, and all nature seemed
to sympathize with her gay youth and beauty.

She was a romantic, impulsive child, and lived more or less in a world
of her own imaginings.

The forest was the happiest home in the world to Rachel; Avonsyde was
well enough, but no place was like the forest itself. She had a strong
impression that it was still peopled by fairies. She devoured all the
legends that Mrs. Newbolt, her aunt's maid, and John Eyre, one of the
agisters of the forest, could impart to her. Both these good people had
a lurking belief in ghosts and fairies. Eyre swore that he had many and
many a time seen the treacherous little Jack-o'-lanterns. He told
horrible stories of strangers who were lured into bogs by these
deceitful little sprites. But Mrs. Newbolt had a far more wonderful and
exciting tale to tell than this; for she spoke of a lady who, all in
green, flitted through the forest--a lady with a form of almost spiritual
etherealness, and with such a lovely face that those who were fortunate
enough to see her ever after retained on their own countenances a faint
reflection of her rare beauty. Rachel had heard of this forest lady
almost from the first moment of her residence at Avonsyde. She built
many brilliant castles in the air about her, and she and Kitty most
earnestly desired to see her. Of course they had never yet done so, but
their belief in her was not a whit diminished, and they never went into
the forest without having a dim kind of hope that they might behold the
lady.

Newbolt said that she appeared to very few, but she admitted that on one
or two occasions of great and special moment she had revealed herself to
some fair dames of the house of Lovel. She never appeared to two people
together, and in consequence Rachel always longed to go into the forest
alone. She felt excited to-night, and she said to herself more than
once, "I wonder if I shall see her. She comes on great occasions; surely
this must be a great occasion if the long-looked-for heir has come to
Avonsyde. I do wonder if that little boy is the heir!"

Rachel rode on, quite forgetful of time; the rapid motion and the lovely
evening raised her always versatile spirits. Her cheeks glowed; her dark
eyes shone; she tossed back her rebellious curly locks and laughed aloud
once or twice out of pure happiness.

She intended to go a long way, to penetrate further into the shades of
the wonderful forest than she had ever done yet; but even she was
unconscious how very far she was riding.

It is easy to lose one's way in the New Forest, and Rachel, accustomed
as she was to all that part which immediately surrounded Avonsyde,
presently found herself in a new country. She had left Rufus' Stone far
behind and was now riding down a gentle descent, when something induced
the adventurous little lady to consult her watch. The hour pointed to
six o'clock. It would be light for a long time yet, for it was quite the
middle of summer, and Rachel reflected that as tea-time was past, and as
she would certainly be well scolded when she returned, she might as well
stay out a little longer.

"'In for a penny, in for a pound!'" she said. "The aunties will be so
angry with me, but I don't care; I mean to enjoy myself to-night. Oh,
what a tempting green bank, and what a carpet of bluebells just there to
the right! I must get some. Surefoot shall have a rest and a nibble at
some of the grass, and I'll pick the flowers and sit on the bank for a
little time."

Surefoot was very well pleased with this arrangement. He instantly, with
unerring instinct, selected the juiciest and most succulent herbage
which the place afforded, and was happy after his fashion. Rachel picked
bluebells until she had her hands full; then seating herself, she began
to arrange them. She had found a small clearing in the forest, and her
seat was on the twisted and gnarled roots of a giant oak tree. Her feet
were resting on a thick carpet of moss; immediately before her lay
broken and undulating ground, clothed with the greenest grass, with the
most perfect fronds of moss, and bestrewn with tiny silvery stems and
bits of branches from the neighboring trees. A little further off was a
great foreground of bracken, which completely clothed a very gentle
ascent, and then the whole horizon was bounded by a semicircle of
magnificent birch, oak, and beech. Some cows were feeding in the
distance--they wore bells, which tinkled merrily; the doves cooed and the
birds sang; the softest of zephyrs played among the trees; the evening
sun flickered slant-wise through the branches and lay in brightness on
the greensward; and Rachel, who was intensely sensitive to nature,
clasped her hands in ecstasy.

"Oh, it is good of God to make such a beautiful world!" she said,
speaking aloud in her enthusiasm; but just then something riveted
Rachel's attention. She sprang to her feet, forgot her bluebells, which
fell in a shower around her, and in this fresh interest became utterly
oblivious to the loveliness of the scene. A lady in a plain dark dress
was walking slowly, very slowly, between the trees. She was coming
toward Rachel, but evidently had not seen her, for her eyes were fixed
on the pages of an open book, and as she read her lips moved, as though
she were learning something to repeat aloud. This part of the forest was
so remote and solitary for it was miles away from any gentleman's seat,
that Rachel for a moment was startled.

"Who can she be?" was her first exclamation; her second was a delighted--

"Oh, perhaps she is the lady of the forest!"

Then she exclaimed with vexation:

"No, no, she cannot be. The lady always wears green and is almost
transparent, and her face is so lovely. This lady is in dark clothes and
she is reading and murmuring words to herself. She looks exactly as if
she were learning a stupid lesson to say aloud. Oh, I am disappointed! I
had such a hope she might be the lady of the forest. I wonder where she
can live; there's no house near this. Oh, dear! oh, dear! she is coming
this way; she will pass me. Shall I speak to her? I almost think I will.
She seems to have a nice face, although she is not very young and she is
not very beautiful."

The lady walked slowly on, her eyes still bent on her book, and so it
happened that she never saw the radiant figure of pretty little Rachel
until she was opposite to her. Her quiet, darkly fringed gray eyes were
lifted then and surveyed the child first with astonishment; then with
curiosity; then with very palpable agitation, wonder, and distress.

Rachel came a step nearer and was about to open her lips, when the lady
abruptly closed her book, as abruptly turned on her heel, and walked
rapidly, very rapidly, in the opposite direction away from the child.

"Oh, stop!" cried Rachel. "I want to speak to you. Who are you? It's
very interesting meeting you here in the very midst of the forest!
Please don't walk away so fast! Do tell me who you are! There, you are
almost running, and I can't keep up with you! What a rude forest lady
you are! Well, I never knew any one so rude before!"

The lady had indeed quickened her steps, and before Rachel could reach
her she had disappeared through a small green-covered porch into a tiny
house, so clothed with innumerable creepers that at a distance it could
scarcely be distinguished from the forest itself. Rachel stood panting
and indignant outside the door. She had forgotten Surefoot; she had
forgotten everything in the world but this rude lady who would not speak
to her.

Rachel was a very passionate child, and in her first indignation she
felt inclined to pull the bell and insist upon seeing and conversing
with the strange, silent lady. Before she could carry this idea into
execution the door was opened and a neatly dressed elderly servant came
out.

"Well, little miss, and what is your pleasure?" she said.

"I want to see the lady," said Rachel; "she is a very rude lady. I asked
her some civil questions and she would not answer."

The old servant laid her hand on Rachel's arm and drew her a few steps
away from the bowerlike house.

"What is your name, little miss?" she said.

"My name? Rachel Lovel, of course. Don't you know? Everybody knows me in
the forest. I'm Rachel Lovel of Avonsyde, and my pony's name is
Surefoot, and I have a sister called Kitty."

"Well, missy," continued the old woman, "I have no reason at all to
misdoubt your tale, but the forest is a big place, and even the grandest
little ladies are not known when they stray too far from home. I have no
doubt, missy, that you are Miss Lovel, and I have no doubt also that you
have a kind heart, although you have a hasty tongue. Now, you know, it
was very rude of you to run after my lady when she didn't want to speak
to you. My lady was much upset by your following her, and you have done
great mischief by just being such a curious little body."

"Mischief, have I?" said Rachel; then she laughed. "But that is quite
impossible," she added, "for I never even touched the rude lady."

"You may do mischief, Miss Lovel, by many means, and curiosity is one of
the most spiteful of the vices. It's my opinion that more mischief can
be laid to curiosity's door than to any other door. From Eve down it was
curiosity did the sin. Now, missy, my lady is lonely and unhappy, and
she don't want no one to know--no one in all the wide world--that she
lives in this little wild forest house; and if you tell, if you ever
tell that you have seen her, or that you know where she lives, why, you
will break the heart of the sweetest and gentlest lady that ever lived."

"I don't want to break any one's heart," said Rachel, turning pale.
"What very queer things you say. I don't want to break any one's heart.
I think I'll go home now."

"Not until you have promised me first, Miss Lovel--not until you have
promised me true and faithful."

"Oh, I'll only tell Kitty and my aunties. I never care to talk to
strangers about things. There's a new little boy come to Avonsyde--a new
little boy and his mother. Of course I won't say anything to either of
them, but I never keep secrets from Kitty--never!"

"Very well, miss; then my lady will have to go away. She is very tired
and not strong, and she has just settled down in this little house,
where she wants to rest and to be near--to be in the forest; and if you
tell those aunts of yours and your little sister--if you tell anybody in
all the wide world--she will have to go away again. We must pack up to
night and we will be off in the morning. We'll have to wander once more,
and she'll be sad and ill and lonely; but of course you won't care."

"What a cruel old woman you are!" said Rachel. "Of course I don't want
anybody to be sad and lonely. I don't want to injure the forest lady,
although I cannot make out why she should have to live so secret here.
Is she a wicked lady and has she committed a crime?"

"Wicked?" said the old woman, her eyes flashing. "Ah, missy, that such
words should drop from your lips, and about her! Are the angels in
heaven wicked? Oh, my dear, good, brave lady! No, missy. She has to keep
her secret, but it is because of a cruel sin and injustice done to her,
not because of any wrong done by her. Well, good-night, miss. I'll say
no more. We must be off, we two, in the morning."

"No, don't go!" called out Rachel. "Of course I won't tell. If she's
such a dear, good lady, I'll respect her and love her and keep her
secret; only I should like to see her and to know her name."

"All in good time, my dear little missy. Thank God, you will be faithful
to this good and wronged lady."

"Yes, I'll be very faithful," said Rachel. "Not even to Kitty will I
breathe one word. And now I must really go home."

"God bless you, dear little miss--eh, but you're a bonny child. And is
the one you call Kitty as fair to look at?"

"As fair to look at?" laughed Rachel. "Why, I'm as brown as a nut and
Kitty is dazzling. Kitty is pink and white, and if you only saw her
hair! It's like threads of gold."

"And the little gentleman, dear?--you spoke of a little gentleman as
well. Is he your brother, love?"

"My brother?" laughed Rachel. "I have no one but Kitty. I have a mother
living somewhere--she's lost, my mother is, and I'm going all round the
world to look for her when I'm old enough; but I have no brother--I wish
I had. Philip Lovel is a little new, strange boy who is going to be heir
of Avonsyde. He came to-day with his mother. I don't much like his
mother. Now good-night, old woman. I'll keep the good lady's secret most
faithfully."

Rachel blew a kiss to the anxious-looking old servant, then ran gayly
back to where she had left Surefoot. In the excitement of the last
half-hour she had quite forgotten her withered bluebells. Mounting her
pony, she galloped as fast as she could in the direction of Avonsyde. It
was very late when she got back, but, strange to say, the old aunts were
so much interested in Mrs. Lovel and in Mrs. Lovel's boy that they
forgot to scold her or to remark her absence. She longed intensely to
tell Kitty all about the thrilling and romantic adventure she had just
gone through, but she was a loyal child, and having once passed her
word, nothing would induce her to break it. Kitty, too, was taken up
with Philip Lovel, and Rachel, finding she was not wanted, ran up to her
bedroom and lost herself in the charms of a fairy tale.




CHAPTER VI.--THE TOWER BEDROOM.


Avonsyde was a very old property. The fair lands had been bestowed by
William Rufus on a certain Rupert Lovel who was fortunate enough to earn
the gratitude of this most tyrannical and capricious of monarchs. Rupert
Lovel had laid the first stone of the present house and had lived there
until his death. He was succeeded by many wild and lawless descendants.
As time went on they added to the old house, and gained, whether wrongly
or rightly no one could say, more of the forest lands as their own.
Avonsyde was a large property in the olden days, and the old squires
ruled those under them by what was considered at that period the only
safe and wholesome rule--that of terror. They were a proud,
self-confident, headstrong race, very sure of one thing--that whatever
happened Avonsyde would never cease to be theirs. An old prophecy was
handed down from father to son to this effect. It had been put into a
couplet by a rhymer as great in his way as Thomas of border celebrity:

 "Tyde what may betyde, Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde."

These words were taken as the motto of the house, and could be
deciphered in very quaint lettering just over the arch which supported a
certain portion of the tower. The tower was almost if not quite seven
hundred years old, and was another source of great pride and interest to
the family.

Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine could not have done little Philip Lovel
a greater honor than when they arranged the tower bedroom for his
reception. In their opinion, and in the opinion of every retainer of the
family, they indeed showed respect to the child and the child's claim
when they got this gloomy apartment into order for him and his mother;
but when Mrs. Lovel, a timid and nervous woman, saw the room, she
scarcely appreciated the honor conferred upon her and hers.

Avonsyde was a house which represented many periods; each addition was a
little more comfortable than its predecessor. For instance, the new
wing, with the beautiful drawing-rooms and spacious library, was all
that was luxurious; the cozy bedrooms where Rachel and Kitty slept, with
their thick walls and mullioned windows and deep old-fashioned
cupboards, were both cheerful and convenient; but in the days when the
tower was built ladies did without many things which are now considered
essential, and Mrs. Lovel had to confess to herself that she did not
like her room. In the first place, the tower rooms were completely
isolated from the rest of the house; they were entered by a door at one
side of the broad hall; this door was of oak of immense thickness, and
when it was shut no sound from the tower could possibly penetrate to the
rest of the house. At the other side of the oak door was a winding stone
staircase, very much worn and hollowed out by the steps of many
generations. The stairs wound up and up in the fashion of a corkscrew;
they had no rail and were very steep, and the person who ascended, if at
all timid, was very glad to lay hold of a slack rope which was loosely
run through iron rings at intervals in the wall.

After a great many of these steps had been climbed a very narrow stone
landing was discovered; three or four steps had then to be gone down,
and Mrs. Lovel found herself in an octagon-shaped room with a very low
ceiling and very narrow windows. The furniture was not only
old-fashioned, but shabby; the room was small; the bed was that
monstrosity, a four-poster; the curtains of velvet were black and rusty
with age and wear. In short, the one and only cheerful object which poor
Mrs. Lovel found in the apartment was the little white bed in one corner
which had been prepared for Philip's reception.

"Dear, dear, what remarkably steep stairs; and what a small--I mean not a
very large room! Are all the bedrooms of Avonsyde as small as this?" she
continued, interrogating Newbolt, who, starched and prim, but with a
comely fresh face, stood beside her.

"This is the tower bedroom, mem," answered the servant in a thin voice.
"The heir has always slept in this room, and the ladies has the two
over. That has always been the fashion at Avonsyde--the heir has this
room and the reigning ladies sleep overhead. This room is seven hundred
years old, mem."

Mrs. Lovel shivered.

"Very antiquated and interesting," she began, "but isn't it just a
little cold and just a little gloomy? I thought the other part of the
house so much more cheerful."

Newbolt raised her eyebrows and gazed at Mrs. Lovel as if she were
talking the rankest heresy.

"For them as don't value the antique there's rooms spacious and cheerful
and abundantly furnished with modern vanities in the new part of the
house," she replied. "Miss Rachel and Miss Kitty, for instance; their
bedroom isn't built more than three hundred years--a big room enough and
with a lot of sunlight, but terrible modern, and not to be made no
'count of at Avonsyde; and then there are two new bedrooms over the
drawing-rooms, where we put strangers. Very large they are and quite
flooded with sunlight; but of course for antiquity there are no rooms to
be compared with this one and the two where the ladies sleep. I am sorry
the room don't take your fancy, mem. I suppose, not being of the blood
of the family, you can't appreciate it. Shall I speak to the ladies on
the subject?"

"Oh! by no means, my good creature," replied poor Mrs. Lovel in alarm.
"The room of course is most interesting and wonderfully antiquated. I've
never seen such a room. And do your ladies really sleep higher up than
this? They must have wonderfully strong hearts to be able to mount any
more of those steep--I mean curious stairs."

Newbolt did not deign to make any comment with regard to the sound
condition of Miss Griselda's and Miss Katharine's physical hearts. She
favored the new-comer with a not-too-appreciative glance, and having
arranged matters as comfortably as she could for her in the dismal
chamber, left her to the peace and the solitude of a most solitary room.

The poor lady quite trembled when she found herself alone; the knowledge
that the room was so old filled her with a kind of mysterious awe. After
her experiences in the New World, she even considered the drawing-rooms
at Avonsyde by no means to be despised on the score of youth. Those
juvenile bedrooms of two hundred or three hundred years' standing where
Rachel and Kitty reposed were, in Mrs. Level's opinion, hoary and
weighted with age; but as to this tower-room, surely such an apartment
should only be visited at noon on a sunny day and in the company of a
large party!

"I'm glad the old ladies do sleep overhead," she said to herself. "What
truly awful attics theirs must be! I never saw such a terribly
depressing room as this. I'm certain it is haunted; I'm convinced there
must be a ghost here. If Philip were not sleeping here I should
certainly die. Oh, dear! what a risk I am running for the sake of
Philip. Much of this life would kill me! I find, too, that I am not very
good at keeping in my feelings, and I'll have to act--act all the time I
am here, and pretend I'm just in raptures with everything, when I am
not. That dreadful Newbolt saw through me about this room. Oh, dear! I
am a bad actor. Well, at any rate I am a good mother to Philip; it's a
splendid chance for Philip. But if he speaks about that pain in his side
we are lost! Poor Phil! these steep stairs are extremely bad for him."

There was plenty of daylight at present, and Mrs. Lovel could move about
her ancient chamber without any undue fear of being overtaken by the
terrors of the night. She took off her traveling bonnet and mantle,
arranged her hair afresh before a mirror which caused her to squint and
distorted every feature, and finally, being quite certain that she could
never lie down and rest alone on that bed, was about to descend the
stone stairs and to return to the more cheerful part of the house, when
gay, quick footsteps, accompanied by childish laughter, were heard
ascending, and Philip, accompanied by Kitty, bounded without any
ceremony into the apartment.

"Oh, mother, things are so delightful here," began the little boy, "and
Kitty fishes nearly as well as Rupert. And Kitty has got a pony and I'm
to have one; Aunt Grizel says so--one of the forest ponies, mother. Do
you know that the forest is full of ponies? and they are so rough and
jolly. And there are squirrels in the forest--hundreds of squirrels--and
all kinds of birds, and beetles and spiders, and ants and lizards!
Mother, the forest is such a lovely place! Is this our bedroom, mother?
What a jolly room! I say, wouldn't Rupert like it just?"

"If you're quick, Phil," began Kitty--"if you're very quick washing your
hands and brushing your hair, we can go back through the armory--that's
the next oldest part to the tower. I steal into the armory sometimes in
the dusk, for I do so hope some of the chain-armor will rattle. Do you
believe in ghosts, Phil? I do and so does Rachel."

"No, I'm not such a silly," replied Phil. "Mother, dear, how white you
are! Don't you like our jolly, jolly bedroom? Oh! I do, and wouldn't
Rupert love to be here?"

Mrs. Lovel's face had grown whiter and whiter.

"Phil," she said, "I must speak to you alone. Kitty, your little cousin
will meet you downstairs presently. Oh, Phil, my dear," continued the
poor lady when Kitty had succeeded in banging herself noisily and
unwillingly out of the room--"Phil, why, why will you spoil everything?"

"Spoil everything, mother?"

"Yes; you have spoken of Rupert--you have spoken twice of Rupert. Oh, we
had better go away again at once!"

"Dear Rupert!" said little Phil, with a sigh; "darling, brave Rupert!
Mother, how I wish he was here!"

"You will spoil everything," repeated the poor lady, wringing her hands
in despair. "You know what Rupert is--so strong and manly and beautiful
as a picture; and you know what the will says--that the strong one,
whether he be eldest or youngest, shall be heir. Oh, Phil, if those old
ladies know about Rupert we are lost!"

Phil had a most comical little face; a plain face decidedly--pale, with
freckles, and a slightly upturned nose. To those who knew it well it had
many charms. It was without doubt an expressive and speaking face; in
the course of a few minutes it could look sad to pathos, or so brimful
of mirth that to glance at it was to feel gay. The sad look now filled
the beautiful brown eyes; the little mouth drooped; the boy went up and
laid his head on his mother's shoulder.

"Do you know," he said, "I must say it, even though it hurts you. I want
Rupert to have everything. I love Rupert very dearly, and I think it
would be splendid for him to come here, and to own a lot of the wild
ponies, and to fish in that funny little river which Kitty calls the
Avon. Rupert would let me live with him perhaps, and maybe he'd give me
a pony, and I could find squirrels and spiders and ants in the
forest--oh! and caterpillars; I expect there are splendid specimens of
caterpillars here. Mother, when my heart is full of Rupert how can I
help speaking about him?"

Mrs. Lovel pressed her hand to her brow in a bewildered manner.

"We must go away then, Philip," she said. "As you love Rupert so well,
better even than your mother, we must go away. It was a pity you did not
tell me something of this before now, for I have broken into my
last--yes, my very last £20 to come here. We have not enough money to
take us back to Australia and to Rupert; still, we must go away, for the
old ladies will look upon us as impostors, and I could not bear that for
anything in the world."

"It is not only Rupert," continued Phil; "it's Gabrielle and Peggy;
and--and--mother, I can't help being fond of them; but, mother, I love you
best!"

"Do you really, Phil? Better than that boy? I never could see anything
in him. Do you love me better than Rupert, Phil?"

"Yes, of course; you are my mother, and when father died he said I was
always to love you and to do what you wanted. If you want Avonsyde, I
suppose you must have it some day when the old ladies die. I'll do my
best not to talk about Rupert, and I'll try to seem very strong, and
I'll never, never tell about the pain in my side. Give me a kiss,
mother. You shan't starve nor be unhappy. Oh! what an age we have been
chattering here, and Kitty is waiting for me, and I do so want to see
the armory! I wonder if there are ghosts there? It sounds silly to
believe in them; but Kitty does, and she's a dear little girl, nearly as
nice as Gabrielle. Good-by, mother; I'm off. I'll try to remember."




CHAPTER VII.--"BETYDE WHAT MAY."


In a handsomely furnished dining-room in a spacious and modern-looking
house about three miles outside the city of Melbourne, three
children--two girls and a boy--were standing impatiently by a wide-open
window.

"Gabrielle," said the boy, "have you any idea when the mails from
England are due?"

The boy was the taller of the three, splendidly made, with square
shoulders, great breadth of chest, and head so set on the same shoulders
that it gave to its young owner an almost regal appearance. The bright
and bold dark eyes were full of fire; the expressive lines round the
finely cut lips were both kindly and noble.

"Gabrielle, is that Carlo riding past on Jo-jo? If it is, perhaps he is
bringing our letter-bag. Father has gone to Melbourne to-day; but he
said if there were English letters he would send them out by Carlo."

"You are so impatient about England and English things, Rupert," said
little Peggy, raising a face framed in by soft flaxen hair to her big
brother. "Oh, yes, I'll run to meet Carlo, for of course you want me to,
and I'll come back again if there's any news; and if there is not, why,
I'll stay and play with my ravens, Elijah and James Grasper. Elijah is
beginning to speak so well and James Grasper is improving. If Carlo has
no letters you need not expect me back, either of you."

The little maid stepped quickly out of the open window, and ran fleet as
the wind across a beautifully kept lawn and in the direction where a
horse's quick steps were heard approaching.

Gabrielle was nearly as tall as her brother, with a stately bearing and
a grave face.

"If father does decide on taking you to Europe, Rupert, I wish to say
now that I am quite willing to stay here with Peggy. I don't want to go
to school at Melbourne. I would rather stay on here and housekeep, and
keep things nice the way our mother would have liked. If Peggy and I go
away, Belmont will have to be shut up and a great many of the servants
dismissed, and that would be silly. I am thirteen now, and I think I am
wise for my age. You will speak to father, won't you, Rupert, and ask
him to allow me to be mistress here while you are away."

"If we are away," corrected Rupert. "Ah! here comes Peggy, and the
letter-bag, and doubtless a letter. What a good child you are, Peggy
White!"

Peggy dashed the letter-bag with some force through the open window.
Rupert caught it lightly in one hand, and detaching a small key from his
watch-chain opened it. It only contained one letter, and this was
directed to himself:

    "Mr. Rupert Lovel,
        "Belmont,
            "Near Melbourne,
                "Victoria,
                    "Australia."

"A letter from England!" said Rupert. "And oh! Gabrielle, what do you
think? It is--yes, it is from our little Cousin Philip!"

"Let me see," said Gabrielle, peeping over her brother's shoulder.
"Poor, dear little Phil! Read aloud what he says, Rupert. I have often
thought of him lately."

Rupert smiled, sat down on the broad window-ledge, and his sister,
kneeling behind him, laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder. A
little letter, written with considerable pains and difficulty, with
rather shaky and blotted little fingers, and quite uncorrected, just, in
short, as nature had prompted it to a small, eager, and affectionate
mind, was then read aloud:

  "Dear Cousin Rupert: You must please forgive the spelling and the bad
  writing, and the blots (oh! I made a big one now, but I have sopped it
  up). This letter is quite secret, so it won't be corrected, for mother
  doesn't know that I am writing. Mother and I are in England, but she
  says I am not to tell you where we are. It isn't that mother isn't
  fond of you, but she has a reason, which is a great secret, for your
  not knowing where we are. The reason has something to do with me. It's
  something that I'm to have that I don't want and that I'd much rather
  you had. It's a beautiful thing, with spiders, and rivers, and
  caterpillars, and wild ponies, and ghosts, and rattling armor, and a
  tower of winding stairs. Oh! I mustn't tell you any more, for perhaps
  you'd guess. You are never to have it, although I'd like you to. We
  are not very far from the sea, and we're going there to-morrow, and it
  is there I'll post this letter. Now, I am quite determined that you
  and Gabrielle and Peggy shall know that I think of you always. Mother
  and me, we are in a beautiful, grand place now--very grand--and most
  enormous old; and I have two little girls to play with, and I have got
  a pony, and a white pup, and I am taught by a tutor, and drilled by a
  drill-sergeant, and I fish and play cricket with Kitty, only I can't
  play cricket much, because of my side; but, Rupert, I want to say
  here, and I want you and Peggy and Gabrielle always and always to
  remember, that I'd rather be living with mother in our little cottage
  near Belmont, with only Betty as servant and with only Jim to clean
  the boots and do the garden, for then I should be near you; and I love
  you, Rupert, and Gabrielle, and Peggy, better than any one in the
  world except my mother. Please tell Peggy that I don't think much of
  the English spiders, but some of the caterpillars are nice; and please
  tell Gabrielle that the English flowers smell very sweet, but they are
  not so bright or so big as ours, and the birds sing, oh! so beautiful,
  but they haven't got such gay dresses. Good-by, Rupert. Do you shoot
  much? And do you ever think of me? And are you good to my little dog
  Cato?

                                                            "Phil Lovel.

  "P. S.--Please, I'd like to hear from you, and as mother says you are
  not on no account to know where we are, will you write me a letter to
  the post-office at the town where this is posted? You will see the
  name of the town on the envelope, and please direct your letter:

                    'Master Phil Lovel,
                                'Post-office.
            'To be called for.'

  "Be sure you put 'to be called for' in big letters.

  "Good-by again. Love to everybody.

                                                                 Phil."

Gabrielle and Rupert read this very characteristic little epistle
without comment. When they had finished it, Rupert slipped it back into
its envelope and gave it to his sister.

"We must both write to the poor little chap," he said. "The postmark on
the envelope is Southampton. I suppose Southampton, England, will find
him." Then he added after a pause: "I wonder what queer thing Aunt Bella
is thinking about now?"

"She always was the silliest person in the world," said Gabrielle in a
tone of strong contempt. "If she were my mother I shouldn't love her. I
wonder how Phil loves her. Poor little Phil! He always was a dear little
fellow--not a bit like Aunt Bella, thank goodness!"

Rupert laughed.

"Why, Gabrielle," he said, "you can have no observation; Phil is the
image of his mother. There is nothing at all belonging to his father
about Phil except his eyes."

"And his nature," proceeded Gabrielle, "and his dear, brave little soul.
I am sure if trial came to him Phil could be a hero. What matter that he
has got Aunt Bella's uninteresting features? He has nothing more of her
in him. Oh, she always was a silly, mysterious person! Just think of her
not allowing Phil to tell us where he is!"

"My father says that there is method in Aunt Bella's silliness,"
continued Rupert. "Don't you remember how suddenly she sold her little
house at the back of our garden, Gabrielle, and how Betty found her
burning an English newspaper; and how queer and nervous and flurried she
became all of a sudden; and then how she asked father to give her that
£200 he had of hers in the bank; and how she hurried off without saying
good-by to one of us? We have not heard a word about her from that day
until now, when Phil's little letter has come."

"She never even bid mother good-by," continued Gabrielle in a pained
voice. "Mother always stood up for Aunt Bella. She never allowed us to
laugh at her or to grumble at her funny, tiresome ways."

"Did mother allow us to laugh at any one?" continued Rupert. "There was
nothing at all remarkable in our mother being kind to poor Aunt Bella,
for she was good to every one."

"But there was something strange in Aunt Bella not bidding our mother
good-by," pursued Gabrielle, "for I think she was a little fond of
mother, and mother was so weak and ill at the time. I saw tears in Aunt
Bella's eyes once after mother had been talking to her. Yes, her going
away was certainly very queer; but I have no time to talk any more about
it now. I must go to my work. Rupert, shall we ride this afternoon? This
is just the most perfect weather for riding before the great summer heat
commences."

"Yes, we'll be in summer before we know where we are," said Rupert; "it
is the 4th of November to-day. I will ride with you at three o'clock,
Gabrielle--that is, if father is not back."

The brother and sister left the room to pursue their different
vocations, and a short time afterward an old servant, with a closely
frilled cap tied with a ribbon under her chin, came into the room. She
was the identical Betty who had been Mrs. Lovel's maid-of-all-work, and
who had now transferred her services to the young people at Belmont.
Betty was old, wrinkled, and of Irish birth, and sincerely attached to
all the Lovels. She came into the room under the pretext of looking for
some needlework which Gabrielle had mislaid, but her real object was to
peer into the now open post-bag, and then to look suspiciously round the
room.

"I smell it in the air," she said, sniffing as she spoke. "As sure as
I'm Betty O'Flanigan there's news of Master Phil in the air! Was there a
letter? Oh, glory! to think as there might be a letter from my own
little master, and me not to know. Miss Gabrielle's mighty close, and no
mistake. Well, I'll go and ask her bold outright if she has bad news of
the darlint."

Betty could not find Gabrielle's lost embroidery, and perceiving that
the post-bag was absolutely empty, she pottered out of the room again
and upstairs to where her young lady was making up some accounts in a
pretty little boudoir which had belonged to her mother.

"Och, and never a bit of it can I see, Miss Gabrielle," said the old
woman as she advanced into the room; and then she began sniffing the air
again.

"What are you making that funny noise for, Betty?" said Miss Lovel,
raising her eyes from a long column of figures.

"I smell it in the air," said Betty, sniffing in an oracular manner. "I
dreamed of him three times last night, and that means tidings; and now I
smell it in the air."

"Oh! you dreamed of little Phil," said Gabrielle in a kind tone. "Yes,
we have just had a letter. Sit down there and I'll read it to you."

Betty squatted down instantly on the nearest hassock, and with her hands
under her apron and her mouth wide open prepared herself not to lose a
word.

Gabrielle read the letter from end to end, the old woman now and then
interrupting her with such exclamations as "Oh, glory! May the saints
presarve him! Well, listen to the likes of that!"

At last Gabrielle's voice ceased; then Betty hobbled to her feet, and
suddenly seizing the childish letter, not a word of which she could
read, pressed it to her lips.

"Ah! Miss Gabrielle," she said, "that mother of his meant mischief. She
meant mischief to you and yours, miss, and the sweet child has neither
part nor lot in the matter. If I was you, Miss Gabrielle, I'd ferret out
where Mrs. Lovel is hiding Master Phil. What business had she to get
into such a way about a bit of an English newspaper, and to hurry off
with the child all in a twinkling like, and to be that flustered and
nervous? And oh! Miss Gabrielle, the fuss about her clothes; and 'did
she look genteel in this?' and 'did she look quite the lady in that?'
And then the way she went off, bidding good-by to no one but me. Oh!
she's after no good; mark my words for it."

"But she can do us no harm, Betty," said Gabrielle. "Neither my father
nor Rupert is likely to be injured by a weak kind of woman like Aunt
Bella. I am sorry for little Phil; but I think you are silly to talk as
you do of Aunt Bella. Now you may take the letter away with you and kiss
it and love it as much as you like. Here comes father; he is back
earlier than usual from Melbourne, and I must speak to him."

Mr. Lovel, a tall, fine-looking man, with a strong likeness to both his
son and daughter, now came hastily into the room.

"I have indeed come back in a hurry, Gabrielle," he said. "That
advertisement has appeared in the papers again. I have had a long talk
with our business friend, Mr. Davis, and the upshot of it is that Rupert
and I sail for Europe on Saturday. This is Tuesday; so you will have
your hands pretty full in making preparations for such a sudden move, my
dear daughter."

"Is it the advertisement that appeared six months ago, father?" said
Gabrielle in an excited voice. "Mother pointed it out to you then and
you would take no notice of it."

"These things are often put into newspapers simply as a kind of hoax,
child," said the father, "and it all seemed so unlikely. However,
although I appeared to take no notice, I was not unmindful of Rupert's
interests. I went to consult with Davis, and Davis promised to make
inquiries in England. He came to me this morning with the result of his
investigations and with this advertisement in the Melbourne Times. Here
it is; it is three months old, unfortunately. It appeared three months
after the first advertisement, but Davis did not trouble me with it
until he had got news from England. The news came this morning. It is of
a satisfactory character and to the effect that the last Valentine
Lovel, of Avonsyde, in the New Forest, Hampshire, died without leaving
any male issue, and the present owners of the property are two unmarried
ladies, neither of whom is young. Now, Gabrielle, you are a wise lass
for your thirteen years, and as I have not your mother to consult with,
I am willing to rely a little bit on your judgment. You read this, my
daughter, and tell me what you make of it."

As Mr. Lovel spoke he unfolded a sheet of the Melbourne Times, and
pointing to a small paragraph in one of the advertisement columns which
was strongly underscored with a blue pencil, he handed it to Gabrielle.

"Read it aloud," he said. "They are strange words, but I should like to
hear them again."

Gabrielle, in her clear and bright voice, read as follows:

  "Lovel.--If any of the lineal descendants of Rupert Lovel, of Avonsyde,
  New Forest, Hampshire, who left his home on the 20th August, 1684, are
  now alive and will communicate with Messrs. Baring & Baring, 128
  Chancery Lane, London, they will hear of something to their advantage.
  Only heirs male in direct succession need apply."

Gabrielle paused.

"Read on," said her father. "The second part of the advertisement, or
rather a second advertisement which immediately follows the first, is of
more interest."

Gabrielle continued:

  "I, Griselda Lovel, and I, Katharine Lovel, of Avonsyde, New Forest,
  of the county of Hampshire, England, do, according to our late
  father's will, earnestly seek an heir of the issue of one Rupert
  Lovel, who left Avonsyde on the 20th August, 1684, in consequence of a
  quarrel between himself and his father, the then owner of Avonsyde. By
  reason of this quarrel Rupert Lovel was disinherited, and the property
  has continued until now in the younger branch. According to our late
  father's will, we, Griselda and Katharine Lovel, wish to reëstablish
  the elder branch of the family, and offer to make a direct descendant
  of the said Rupert Lovel our heir, provided the said descendant be
  under fifteen years of age and of sound physical health. We refuse to
  receive letters or to see any claimant personally, but request to have
  all communications made to us through our solicitors, Messrs. Baring &
  Baring, of 128 Chancery Lane, London, E. C.

      "'Tyde what may betyde,
      Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde."

Gabrielle's cheeks flushed brightly as she read.

"Oh, father!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes to the face of the tall
man who stood near her, "do you really believe a little bit in it at
last? Don't you remember how I used to pray of you to tell me traditions
of the old English home when I was a little child, and how often you
have repeated that old rhyme to me, and don't you know how mother used
to treasure the tankard with the family crest and 'Tyde what may' in
those queer, quaint English characters on it? Mother was quite excited
when the first advertisement appeared, but you said we were not to talk
or to think of it. Rupert is the rightful heir--is he not, father? Oh,
how proud I shall be to think that the old place is to belong to him!"

"I believe he is the rightful heir, Gabrielle," said her father in a
grave voice. "He is undoubtedly a lineal descendant of the Rupert Lovel
who left Avonsyde in 1684, and he also fulfills the conditions of the
old ladies' advertisement, for he is under fifteen and splendidly
strong; but it is also a fact that I cannot find some very important
letters which absolutely prove Rupert's claim. I could swear that I left
them in the old secretary in your mother's room, but they have vanished.
Davis, on the other hand, believes that I have given them to him, and
will have a strict search instituted for them. The loss of the papers
makes a flaw in my boy's claim; but I shall not delay to go to England
on that account. Davis will mail them to me as soon as ever they are
recovered; and in the mean time, Gabrielle, I will ask you to pack up
the old tankard and give it to me to take to England. There is no doubt
whatever that that tankard is the identical one which my forefather took
with him when almost empty-handed he left Avonsyde."

"I will fetch it at once," said Gabrielle. "Mother kept it in the
cupboard at the back of her bed. She always kept the tankard and our
baptismal mugs and the diamonds you gave her when first you were married
in that cupboard. I will fetch the tankard and have it cleaned, and I
will pack it for you myself."

Gabrielle ran out of the room, returning in a few moments with a
slightly battered old drinking-cup, much tarnished and of antique
pattern.

"Here it is!" she exclaimed, "and Betty shall clean it. Is that you,
Betty? Will you take this cup and polish it for me at once yourself? I
have great news to give you when you come back."

Betty took the cup and turned it round and round with a dubious air.

"It isn't worth much," she said; "but I'll clean it anyhow."

"Be careful of it, Betty," called out Gabrielle. "Whatever you may think
of it, you tiresome old woman, it is of great value to us, and
particularly to your favorite, Rupert."

Muttering to herself, Betty hobbled downstairs, and Gabrielle and her
father continued their conversation. In about half an hour the old woman
returned and presented the cup, burnished now to great brilliancy, to
her young mistress.

"I said it wasn't worth much," she repeated. "I misdoubt me if it's
silver at all."

Gabrielle turned it round in her hand; then she uttered a dismayed
exclamation.

"Father, do look! The crest is gone; the crest and the old motto,
'Betyde what may,' have absolutely vanished. It is the same cup; yes,
certainly it is the same, but where is the crest? and where is the
motto?"

Mr. Lovel took the old tankard into his hand and examined it narrowly.

"It is not the same," he said then. "The shape is almost identical, but
this is not my forefather's tankard. I believe Betty is right, and this
is not even silver; here is no crown mark. No letters, Gabrielle, and no
tankard! Well, never mind; these are but trifles. Rupert and I sail all
the same for England and the old property on Saturday."




CHAPTER VIII.--THE SACRED CUPBOARD.


Mr. Lovel told Gabrielle that the loss of the tankard and the letters
were but trifles. His daughter, however, by no means believed him; she
noticed the anxious look in his eyes and the little frown which came
between his brows.

"Father's always like that when he's put out," she said. "Father's a man
who never yet lost his temper. He's much too big and too great and too
grand to stoop to anything small of that kind, but, all the same, I know
he's put out. He's a wonderful man for sticking out for the rights of
things, and if he thinks Rupert ought to inherit that old property in
England he won't leave a stone unturned to get it for him. He would not
fret; he would not think twice about it if it was not Rupert's right;
but as it is I know he is put out, and I know the loss of the tankard is
not just a trifle. Who could put a false tankard in the place of the
real one? Who could have done it? I know what I'll do. I'll go up to
mother's room again and have a good look round."

Mrs. Lovel was not a year dead, and Gabrielle never entered the room
which had known her loved presence and from which she had been carried
away to her long rest without a feeling of pain. She was in many
respects a matter-of-fact girl--not nearly as sensitive as Rupert, who
with all his strength had the tenderest heart; nor as little Peggy, who
kept away from mother's room and never spoke of her without tears
filling her eyes. To enter mother's room seemed impossible to both
Rupert and Peggy, but Gabrielle found a certain sad pleasure in going
there; and when she had shut the door now she looked around her with a
little sigh.

"I'll make it homelike, as if mother were here," she said to herself.
"I'll make it homelike, and then sit by the open window and try and
believe that mother is really asleep on that sofa, where she has lain
for so many, many hours."

Her eyes brightened as this idea came to her, and she hastened to put it
into execution. She drew up the window-blinds and opened the pretty
bay-window, and let the soft delicious air of spring fill the apartment;
then she took the white covers off the chairs and sofa, pulled the sofa
forward into its accustomed position, and placed a couple of books on
the little table which always stood by its side. These few touches
transformed the large room; it lost its look of gloom and was once more
bright and homelike. A wistaria in full bloom peeped in at the open
window; the distant sounds of farm life were audible, and Gabrielle
heard Peggy's little voice talking in endearing tones to the cross old
ravens, Elijah and Grasper. She knelt by the open window and, pressing
her cheeks on her hands, looked out.

"Oh, if only mother were on the sofa!" That was the cry which arose,
almost to pain, in her lonely heart. "Peggy and Rupert and I have no
mother, and now father and Rupert are going to England and I shall have
to do everything for Peggy. Peggy will lean on me; she always does--dear
little Peg! but I shall have no one."

The thought of Rupert's so speedily leaving her recalled the tankard to
Gabrielle's memory. She got up and unlocked the cupboard, which was
situated at the back of her mother's bed. The cupboard was half-full of
heterogeneous matter--some treasures, some rubbish; numbers of old
photographs; numbers of childish and discarded books. Some of the
shelves were devoted to broken toys, to headless dolls, to playthings
worthless in themselves, but treasured for memory's sake by the mother.
Tears filled Gabrielle's eyes, but she dashed them away and was about to
institute a systematic search, when Rupert opened the door and came in.
His ruddy, brightly colored, healthy face was pale; he did not see
Gabrielle, who was partly hidden by the large bedstead. He entered the
room with soft, reverent footsteps, and walked across it as though
afraid to make a sound.

Gabrielle started when she saw him; she knew that neither Rupert nor
Peggy ever came to the room. What did this visit mean? Why was that
cloud on Rupert's brow? From where she stood she could see without being
seen, and for a moment or two she hesitated to make a sound or to let
her brother know she was near him. He walked straight across the room to
the open window, looked out as Gabrielle had looked out, then turning to
the sofa, laid one muscular brown hand with a reverent gesture on the
pillow which his mother's head had pressed. The little home touches
which Gabrielle had given to the room were unnoticed by Rupert, for he
had never seen it in its shrouded and dismantled state. All his memories
centered round that sofa with the flowering chintz cover; the little
table; the small chair, which was usually occupied by a boy or girl as
they looked into the face they loved and listened to the gentle words
from the dearest of all lips. Rupert made no moan as Gabrielle had done,
but he drew the little chair forward, and laying his head face downward
on the pillow, gave vent to an inward supplication. The boy was strong
physically and mentally, and the spiritual life which his mother had
fostered had already become part of his being. He spoke it in no words,
but he lived it in his upright young life. To do honor to his mother's
memory, to reverence and love his mother's God, was his motto.

Gabrielle felt uncomfortable standing behind the bedstead. She coughed,
made a slight movement, and Rupert looked up, with wet eyelashes.

"Gabrielle!" he said, with a start of extreme surprise.

"Yes, Rupert, I was in the room. I saw you come in. I was astonished,
for I know you don't come here. I was so sorry to be in the way, and
just at first I made no sound."

"You are not a bit in the way," said Rupert, standing up and smiling at
her. "I came now because there are going to be immense changes,
and--somehow I could not help myself. I--I--wanted mother to know."

"Yes," said Gabrielle, going and standing by his side. "Do you think she
does know, Rupert? Do you think God tells her?"

"I feel that she does," said Rupert. "But I can't talk about mother,
Gabrielle; it is no use. What were you doing behind that bedstead?" he
added in a lighter tone.

"I was looking for the tankard."

"What, the old Avonsyde tankard? But of course it is there. It was
always kept in what we used to call the sacred cupboard."

"Yes; but it is gone," said Gabrielle. "It was there and it has
vanished; and what is more wonderful, Rupert, another tankard has been
put in its place--a tankard something like it in shape, but not made of
silver and without the old motto."

"Nonsense!" said Rupert almost sharply. "We will both go and look in the
cupboard, Gabrielle. The real tankard may be pushed far back out of
sight."

"No; it is too large for that," said Gabrielle. "But you shall come and
see with your own eyes."

She led the way, and the two began to explore the contents of the
cupboard, the boy touching the sacred relics with almost more reverent
fingers than the girl. The tankard, the real tankard, was certainly
nowhere to be found.

"Father is put out about it," said Gabrielle. "I know it by his eyes and
by that firm way he compresses his lips together. He won't get into a
passion--you know he never does--but he is greatly put out. He says the
tankard forms important evidence, and that its being lost is very
disastrous to your prospects."

"My prospects?" said Rupert. "Then father is not quite sure about my
being the lawful heir?"

"Oh, Rupert, of course he is sure! But he must have evidence; he must
prove your descent. Rupert, dear, are you not delighted? Are you not
excited about all this?"

"No, Gabrielle. I shall never love Avonsyde as I love Belmont. It was
here my mother lived and died."

Tears came into Gabrielle's eyes. She was touched by Rupert's rare
allusion to his mother, but she also felt a sense of annoyance at what
she termed his want of enthusiasm.

"If I were the heir----" she began.

"Yes, Gabrielle--if you were the heir?"

"I should be--oh, I cannot explain it all! But how my heart would beat;
how I should rejoice!"

"I am glad too," said Rupert; "but I am not excited. I shall like to see
Europe, however; and I will promise to write you long letters and tell
you everything."




CHAPTER IX.--A TRYSTING-PLACE.


Rachel had a very restless fit on. She was a child full of impulses,
with spirits wildly high one day and proportionately depressed the next;
but the restlessness of her present condition did not resemble the
capricious and ever-changing moods which usually visited her. The uneasy
spirit which prevented her taking kindly to her lessons, which took the
charm from her play-hours and the pleasure even from Kitty's society,
had lasted now for months; it had its date from a certain lovely
summer's evening. Had Aunt Griselda and Aunt Katharine known more about
what their little niece did on that occasion, they might have attributed
her altered mood to an over-long ride and to some physical weakness.

But Rachel was wonderfully strong; her cheeks bloomed; her dark eyes
sparkled; and the old ladies were interested just now in some one whom
they considered far more important than Rachel. So the little girl
neglected her lessons without getting into any very serious scrapes, and
more than once rode alone into the forest on Surefoot without being
reprimanded. Rachel would steal away from Kitty and from little Phil,
and would imperiously order Robert to saddle her pony and to ride with
her just a very little way into the forest; but then the groom was not
only allowed, but requested to turn off in another direction, and Rachel
would gallop as fast as possible past Rufus' Stone, and on as far as
that lovely glade where she had sat and gathered bluebells in the
summer. She always dismounted from Surefoot here, and standing with her
back to an old oak tree, waited with intense expectancy. She never went
further than the oak tree; she never went down a narrow path which led
to a certain cottage clothed completely in green; but she waited, with
her hands clasped and her eyes fixed eagerly on the distant vista of
forest trees. Sometimes her eyes would sparkle, and she would clap her
hands joyfully and run to meet a prim-looking old woman who came forward
through the shades to meet her. Sometimes she returned home without
seeing anybody, and on these occasions she was apt to be morose--snappish
to Kitty, rude to Mrs. Lovel and Phil, and, in short, disagreeable to
every one, except perhaps her gentle Aunt Katharine.

The old ladies would vaguely wonder what ailed the child, and Miss
Griselda would hope she was not going to be famous for the Lovel temper;
but as their minds were very full of other things they did not really
investigate matters.

One frosty day about the middle of November, when Phil and his mother
had been quite four months at Avonsyde, Rachel started off earlier than
usual for one of her long rides. The forest was full of a wonderful
mystical sort of beauty at all times and seasons, and now, with the
hoar-frost sparkling on the grass, with the sun shining brightly, and
with many of the autumn tints still lingering on the trees, it seemed
almost as delightful a place to Rachel as when clothed in its full
summer glory. The little brown-coated winter birds chirped cozily among
the branches of the trees, and hundreds of squirrels in a wealth of
winter furs bounded from bough to bough. Rachel as usual dismissed her
faithful attendant, Robert, and galloping to her accustomed
trysting-place, waited eagerly for what might befall.

On this particular day she was not doomed to disappointment. The old
servant was soon seen approaching. Rachel ran to her, clasped her hands
round her arm, and raising her lips to her face, kissed her
affectionately.

"Ah, you are a good Nancy to-day!" she exclaimed. "I was here on
Saturday and here on Wednesday, and you never came. It was very unkind
of you. I got so tired of standing by the oak tree and waiting. Well,
Nancy, is the lady quite well to-day?"

"Middling, dearie; middling she ever is and will be until she claims her
own again."

"Oh, you mysterious old woman! You are trying to make me desperately
curious, but I don't believe there is anything in your talk. You worry
me to keep a tremendous secret, and there's nothing in it, after all.
Oh, of course I'm keeping your secret; you needn't pretend to be so
frightened. And when am I to see the lady of the forest, Nancy?"

"Now, my dear, haven't I told you until I'm tired? You're to see her
come your thirteenth birthday, love. The day you are thirteen you'll see
her, and not an hour sooner."

Rachel stamped her foot angrily.

"I shan't have a birthday till the beginning of May!" she said. "It's a
shame; it's a perfect, perfect shame!"

Old Nancy pushed back a rebellious curl from the child's bright head.

"Don't you fret, my pretty," she said tenderly. "The lady wants to see
you a deal--a sight more than you want to see her. The lady has passed
through many troubles, and not the least is the waiting to see your
pretty face."

Rachel began eagerly to unbutton her habit, and taking from a little
pocket just inside its lining a tiny bag, she pulled out a small ring
and thrust it into Nancy's hand.

"There," she said, "that's the most precious thing I have, and I give it
to her. It's all gold, and isn't that a beautiful pearl? I used to wear
it on my finger when I wanted to be very grand, but I'd rather she had
it. Perhaps she won't feel so lonely when she wears it, for she will
remember that it was given to her by a little girl who is so sorry for
her, and who loves her--yes, isn't it queer?--although we have never met.
You know, Nancy," continued Rachel, "I can quite sympathize with lonely
people, for to a certain extent I know what it means. I miss my mother
so very much. When I'm grown up, Nancy, I'm going all round the wide
world looking for her."

"Bless you, darling!" said old Nancy. "Yes, I'll give the ring and your
pretty message. And now, love, tell me, how is the little gentleman
getting on? Have the old ladies made him their heir yet?"

"Not quite yet, Nancy; but they like him--we all like him. He is a dear
little boy, and Aunt Griselda and Aunt Katharine make such a fuss about
him. Do you know that a week ago I saw Aunt Griselda actually put her
arms about his neck and kiss him! She kissed him three or four times.
Wasn't it wonderful? for she's such a cold person. I think people can't
help being fond of little Phil, though he's not exactly pretty. I heard
Aunt Griselda and Aunt Katharine say that when they do really feel
certain that he is the right heir they are going to have a great,
tremendous party, and they will present him to every one as the heir of
Avonsyde, and then immediately afterward he is to be sent to a
preparatory school for Eton. Oh, won't Kitty cry when he goes away!"

"Do you make out that the ladies will soon come to a decision, Miss
Rachel?" inquired the old servant in a dubious tone. "It's a wonderful
important matter--choosing an heir. Are they likely to settle it all in a
hurry?"

Rachel laughed.

"I don't know," she said. "Phil has been with us for four months now;
they haven't been in such a hurry. I do hope it will be soon, for I want
the party. Now, good-by, Nancy; I'll come to see you before long again.
Be sure you give my ring to the lady of the forest."

"One moment, missy," said old Nancy, stretching out her hand and drawing
the young girl back to her side. "One moment, Miss Rachel Lovel; I'm
fain to see that little boy. Could you manage to bring him this way,
missy? Could you manage it without nobody finding out? Is he the kind of
little fellow who wouldn't tell if you asked him earnest, most earnest,
not? I'd like to see him and the lady; but no matter, Miss Rachel, I
misdoubt me that you could manage a clever thing like that."

"Oh, couldn't I?" said Rachel, her eyes sparkling. "Why, I'd like it of
all things! I can easily coax Phil to come here, for he's perfectly wild
about squirrels and animals of all kinds, and I never saw such a lot of
squirrels as there are in the oaks round here. Phil has got a pony too,
and he shall come for a ride with me, and Robert of course can come to
take care of us. Oh, I'll manage it; but I didn't know you were such a
curious woman, Nancy."

The sun was already showing signs of taking its departure, and Rachel
did not dare to prolong her interview another moment.




CHAPTER X.--PROOFS.


Mrs. Lovel was becoming reconciled to her tower chamber. Ghostly as it
appeared, no ghosts had visited her there; on the contrary, she had
slept soundly; and as the days wore on and she found the quiet, simple
life at Avonsyde soothing to her perturbed nerves and restoring vigor to
her somewhat feeble frame, she came to the conclusion that the tower was
a particularly healthy place to sleep in, and that some of the
superabundant vigor which characterized Miss Griselda must be owing to
the splendid air which night after night she inhaled in her lofty
chamber.

As soon as ever this idea took possession of Mrs. Lovel's mind, she
would not have changed her ancient tower bedroom for the most modern and
luxurious which Avonsyde could offer.

A thought--a pleasing thought--came ever and anon to the poor lady as she
watched her boy's peaceful face when he lay asleep on his little white
bed.

"Suppose the healthy air of the tower makes Philip strong?"

Philip had been for some months at Avonsyde, and no one yet had found
out that he possessed any special delicacy. At first the pallor of his
little face had been commented on; but people soon got accustomed to
this, and the boy was so merry, so good-humored, so brave, that those
who watched him would have found it difficult to associate any special
weakness with such lithe and agile movements, with so gay a spirit, with
so merry and ringing a laugh. Miss Griselda had begun by declaring, both
in her sister's presence and also in that of Philip's mother, that no
decisive step could be taken until a doctor had thoroughly examined the
boy; but of late she had ceased to speak of any doctor, and had nodded
her head in an approving manner when Phil had sung out to her from the
tops of the tallest trees, or had galloped panting and laughing to her
side on his rough forest pony. Miss Katharine said many times to her
sister:

"Surely we need make no delay. There seems no doubt that the boy can
absolutely trace his succession from Rupert Lovel. Why should we waste
money, Griselda, in inserting that advertisement any more in the
newspapers when we have found our heir?"

Miss Lovel, however, was not to be unduly hurried in so momentous a
matter.

"We cannot be too careful, Katharine. Yes, we will insert the
advertisement once or twice again. It was only yesterday I heard from
Mr. Baring that some fresh claimants are writing to him through their
lawyers. There is no hurry whatever, and we cannot be too careful."

Perhaps Miss Katharine took it rather too much as a matter of course
that Phil could trace his descent, without flaw, from the Rupert Lovel
who had quarreled with his father long ago. She was so accustomed to
hearing Mrs. Lovel say, "I have got all the proofs; I can trace the
descent without a single break for you at any time," that she began to
believe she had gone through the genealogical tree, and had seen with
her own eyes that the child was the lineal descendant of the elder
branch of her house.

Miss Griselda was far sharper than her sister. Miss Griselda knew
perfectly that Phil's descent was not yet proved, but, unlike most old
ladies in her position, she disliked genealogy. She said openly that it
puzzled her, and on one occasion when Mrs. Lovel, in her half-timid,
half-fretful voice, said, "Shall I bring you the proofs of Phil's
descent now? Are you at leisure to look into the matter to-day?" Miss
Griselda replied somewhat sharply:

"I hate genealogical trees. Katharine can understand them, but I can't.
I don't suppose, Mrs. Lovel, you would be so utterly devoid of all sense
as to bring the boy here and to establish yourself in our house without
having incontestable proofs that he is what you represent him to be. I
take it for granted that Phil is a direct descendant of Rupert Lovel,
but I shall certainly not make him our heir until more competent eyes
than mine examine your proofs. At present I am more interested in
watching Phil's health, for if he was fifty times descended from our
ancestor and was weakly he should not inherit Avonsyde. When I have
quite made up my mind that your boy is strong I will ask Mr. Baring, our
business man, to come to Avonsyde and go into the proofs; then, all
being satisfactory, the boy shall be announced as our heir, and we will
of course undertake his maintenance and education from that moment."

Mrs. Lovel breathed a slight sigh of relief.

"Having proclaimed Phil as your heir, nothing would induce you to revoke
your decision afterward?" she asked nervously.

"Certainly not. What a strange speech to make! The boy being strong,
being the right age, and being an undoubted descendant of our house,
what more could we want? Rest assured, Mrs. Lovel, that when your boy is
proclaimed heir of Avonsyde, were fifty other claimants to come forward
we should not even listen to their plea."

A faint pink, born of intense gratification, colored Mrs. Level's pale
cheeks.

"I should like to be bold enough to ask you another question," she said.

Miss Griselda smiled in a freezing manner.

"Ask me what you please," she answered. "You must forgive my saying that
I have already observed how singularly restless and uncomfortable you
are. I think I can guess what is the matter. You are intensely curious
about us and our money. Oh, no, I am not at all offended. Pray ask what
you want to know."

Mrs. Lovel, though a timid, was a rather obtuse person, and she was not
crushed by Miss Griselda's withering sarcasm. Clearing her throat and
pausing slightly before bringing out her words, she continued:

"I have wondered--I could not help wondering--what you would do with your
property if no heir turned up."

This speech, which was as audacious as it was unexpected, caused Miss
Lovel to raise her finely marked eyebrows with some scorn.

"Your question is indiscreet," she said; "but, as it happens, I do not
mind answering it. Did no true heir appear for Avonsyde during our
lifetime the place would be inherited by our nieces, Rachel and Kitty
Lovel; but they would only have a life-interest in the property, and
would be solemnly bound over to continue our search for the missing
heir."

"Rachel and Kitty will, then, be disappointed when Phil is announced as
your representative," said Mrs. Lovel, rising with sudden alacrity to
her feet. "Thank you so much for your valuable information, Miss Lovel.
You may be quite certain that I shall regard what you have been good
enough to confide to me as absolutely confidential."

"I have told you nothing that everybody doesn't know," answered Miss
Griselda. "I never reveal secrets, and least of all to those who are not
related to us. Talk to any one you please about what I have said to you.
As to my brother's children, I am thankful to say they have not yet
attained an age when the absence or the presence of money is of the
slightest moment to them. One word more, Mrs. Lovel, before we change
our conversation. I have noticed without your telling me that you are
extremely poor."

Mrs. Lovel interrupted with a great sigh.

"Oh!" she said, throwing up her hands and speaking with marked emphasis,
"I have known the sore pangs of poverty--of course, it has been genteel
poverty. I could never forget Phil's birth nor what I owed to my poor
dear husband's position, and of course I made a great effort to descend
to nothing menial; but, yes, I have been poor."

"You need not excite yourself about the past. When Phil's identity is
established and his position assured, it is the intention of my sister
and myself to settle upon you for your life an income of £500 a year.
Pray don't thank me; we do it for our own sakes, as of course Phil's
mother has a certain position to keep up. We should recommend you to
settle somewhere near your boy. What did you say? No, no; that cannot
be. When everything is settled we must request you to remove to your own
home."

For Mrs. Lovel had interrupted with the almost incoherent words:

"Am I not to live at Avonsyde always?"




CHAPTER XI.--THE LADY WHO CAME WITH A GIFT.


Rachel did not forget her promise to old Nancy. She had never taken so
much pains to cultivate Phil's acquaintance as Kitty had done. She had
certainly joined in the almost universal chorus that he was a nice and
lovable little boy, but she had not greatly troubled her head about his
pursuits or his pleasures. She was too much taken up with the wonderful
secret which she possessed with regard to the real existence of the lady
of the forest. But now that the said lady seemed to wish to see Phil,
and now that she, Rachel, had almost bound herself to bring Phil to the
trysting-place in the forest, she began to regard him with new interest.
Kitty and Phil had long ere this established a world of their own--a
world peopled by caterpillars of enormous size, by the most sagacious
spiders that were ever known to exist, by beetles of rare brilliancy, by
birds, by squirrels--in short, by the numerous creature-life of the great
forest; and last, but not least, by the fairies and gnomes which were
supposed to haunt its dells. Kitty could tell many stories of forest
adventures, of the wonderful and terrible bogs on which the luckless
traveler alighted unawares, and from which, unless instant help arrived,
he could never hope to extricate himself. She spoke about the malicious
little Jack-o'-lanterns which were supposed to allure the unwary into
these destructive places, and Phil, with a most vivid imagination of his
own, loved to lie at her feet and embellish her tales with numerous
inventions. The two children were scarcely ever apart, and doubtless one
reason why Rachel thought so much of her secret was because Kitty was no
longer her undivided companion.

Now, however, she must seek out Kitty and Phil, and enter into their
pursuits and take a share in their interests if she hoped to induce Phil
to accompany her into the forest. Accordingly one day, with a book in
her hand, she sauntered out into a very sunny part of the grounds. Phil,
basking in the rays of the most brilliant sunshine, had thrown himself
at the foot of an old sun-dial; Kitty had climbed into the boughs of a
small bare tree which stood near, and as usual the two were chatting
eagerly. Rachel, with her head full of the lady of the forest, came up,
to hear Kitty and Phil discussing this very personage.

"She's all in green," said Kitty. "Her dress is greener than the trees
and her face is most beautiful, and her hair is gold and----"

"No," interrupted Rachel; "she's in gray; and her hair is not gold--it is
dark."

Then she colored high and bit her lips with vexation, for she felt that
in her eagerness she had given a clew to her dear real lady's identity.

Kitty raised her eyebrows in great surprise.

"Why, Rachel," she said, "it was you who told me she was in green. How
very queer and disagreeable of you to make her so ugly and
uninteresting. People who wear gray are most uninteresting. You forget,
Rachel, our lady is in green--greener than the grass. I do wish you would
tell Phil all about her; you can describe her so much better than I
can."

"She has a face which is almost too lovely," continued Rachel, taking up
the cue on the instant and speaking with great animation. "She lives in
the deepest shades of the forest, and she appears never, never, except
to those who belong to the forest. Those families who have belonged to
the New Forest for hundreds of years have seen her, but outsiders never
do. When she does appear she comes with a gift in her hand. Do you know
what it is?"

"No," said Phil, raising himself on his elbow and looking with great
intentness at Rachel. "I know what I would wish her to give me--that is,
if she ever came to see me; but of course I cannot possibly say what
gifts she brings."

"Those who have seen her," said Rachel, "catch just a shadow of the
reflection of her lovely face, and they never lose it--never! Some ladies
of our house saw her, and their portraits are in our portrait-gallery,
and they are much more beautiful than any of the other Lovels. She does
not give beauty of feature--it is of expression; and such a brightness
shines from her. Yes, her gift is the gift of beauty; and I do wish, and
so does Kitty, that we could see her."

Phil smiled a little scornfully.

"Is that all she gives?" he said. "That wouldn't be much to me. I mean
if I saw her I know what I'd ask. I'd say, 'I am a boy, and beauty isn't
of much use to a boy; so please give me instead--money!'"

"Oh, Phil!" exclaimed both the little girls.

"She wouldn't come to you," said Kitty in a mournful tone. "She wouldn't
look at any one so avaricious."

"Besides, Phil," continued Rachel, "when Avonsyde is yours you'll be a
rich man; and I don't think," she added, "that you are quite right when
you say that beauty is of no use to a boy; for if you have the kind of
beauty the lady gives, it is like a great power, and you can move people
and turn them as you will; and of course you can use it for good, Phil."

"All right," said Phil, "but I'd rather have money; for if I had money
I'd give it to mother, and then I needn't be heir of Avonsyde,
and--and--oh, I mustn't say! Kitty, I do wish we could go to Southampton
again soon. I want to go there on most particular business. Do you think
Aunt Grizel will take us before Christmas?"

"Is it about the letter?" asked Kitty. "But you couldn't have had an
answer yet, Phil. There is no use in your going to Southampton before an
answer can have arrived."

"I suppose not," said Phil in a gloomy voice. "It's a long, long time to
wait, though."

"What are you waiting for?" asked Rachel.

Phil raised very mournful eyes to her face.

"You have a look of him," he said. "Oh, how I hate being heir of
Avonsyde! I wouldn't be it for all the world but for mother. Kitty,
shall we go into the forest and look for beetles?"

"I'll come with you," said Rachel. "You two are always together and I'm
out in the cold, and I don't mean to be in the cold any longer. I may
come with you both, may I not?"

Kitty smiled radiantly, Phil linked his little brown hand inside
Rachel's arm, and the three set off.

No little girl could make herself more fascinating than Rachel when she
pleased. She developed on the instant a most astonishing knowledge of
beetles and spiders; she drew on her imagination for her facts, and
deceived Kitty, but not Phil. Phil was a born little naturalist, and in
consequence he only favored his elder cousin with a shrewd and comical
look, and did not trouble himself even to negative her daring
assertions. Seeing that she made no way in this direction, Rachel
started a theme about which she possessed abundant knowledge. The New
Forest had been more or less her nursery; she knew its haunts well; she
knew where to look for the earliest primroses, the first violets, and
also the very latest autumn flowers; she knew where the holly berries
were reddest, where the robins had their nests, and where the squirrels
were most abundant; and Phil, recognizing the tone of true knowledge,
listened first with respect, then with interest, then with enthusiasm.
Oh, yes, they must go to that dell; they must visit that sunny bank.
Before Rachel and her sister and cousin came home that day they had
planned an excursion which surely must give the mysterious lady of the
forest that peep at Phil which she so earnestly desired. Rachel was
sorry to be obliged to include Kitty in the party, for Kitty had not
been asked to pass in review by old Nancy. Phil was the one whom Nancy
and the lady wished to see just once with their own eyes: Phil, who was
to be heir of Avonsyde and who didn't like it. Rachel went to bed quite
jubilant, for she would have done anything to please the unknown lady
who had won her capricious little heart. She did not guess that anything
would occur to spoil her plans, and in consequence slept very
peacefully.

Phil had been much excited by Rachel's words. He was a very imaginative
child, and though he did not believe in ghosts, yet he was certainly
impressed by what both the little girls had told him of the lady of the
forest. He quite believed in this lady, and did not care to inquire too
closely whether she was fairy or mortal. She appeared at rare intervals
to the sons and daughters of the house of Lovel, and when she did she
came with a gift. Phil did not altogether believe that this lovely,
graceful, and gracious lady would be so obdurate as only to bestow an
unvalued gift of beauty. He thought that if he were lucky enough to see
her he might so intercede with her that she would give him a bag of gold
instead. He need keep no secrets from her, for if she was a fairy she
must know them already; and he might tell her all about his
difficulties, and how his small heart was torn with great love for
Rupert and great love for his mother. He might tell the lady of the
forest how very little he cared for Avonsyde, except as a possible
future home for his gay and brave Cousin Rupert, and he might ask her to
give him the bag of precious gold to satisfy his mother and keep her
from starving. Phil was dreadfully oppressed with all the secrets he had
to keep. Happy as he was at Avonsyde, there were so many, many things he
must not talk about. He must never mention Rupert, nor Gabrielle, nor
Peggy; he must never breathe the name of Belmont nor say a word about
his old nurse Betty. All the delightful times he had spent with his
Australian cousins must be as though they had never been. He must not
tell about the delicious hours he and Betty had spent together in the
little cottage behind the garden when his mother had been away in
Melbourne. He must not speak about the excursions that Rupert had taken
with him. A veil, a close veil, must be spread over all the past, and
the worst of it was that he knew the reason why. His mother wanted him
to get what Rupert would have been so much more fitted for. Well! well!
He loved his mother and he could not break her heart, so he kept all
these little longings and desires to himself, and only half let out his
secrets a dozen times a day. On one point, however, he was firm and
stanch as a little Spartan: he never breathed a sigh nor uttered a groan
which could be construed into even the semblance of physical pain.

When he felt quite exhausted, so tired that it was an effort to move, he
would spring up again at Kitty's least word and, with the drops on his
little brow, climb to the top of that straight, tall tree once more and
hide his face at last in the friendly sheltering leaves until he got
back his panting breath. The splendid air of Avonsyde undoubtedly
strengthened him, but the strain of always appearing bright and well was
sometimes almost too much, and he wondered how long he could go on
pretending to be quite the strongest little boy in the world. He fancied
now how nice it would be to tell the kind lady of the forest how weak he
really was; how his heart often beat almost to suffocation; what cruel
pain came suddenly to stab and torture him. Oh! he could show her
plainly that money was the gift for him, and that Rupert, who was so
valiant, so strong, so splendid, was the only right heir to the old
place.

Phil greatly enjoyed his tower bedroom. Not a particle of the
nervousness which made his mother uneasy assailed him. The only thing he
did regret was that he could not sleep quite at the very top of the
tower, in those attic rooms inhabited by Miss Griselda and Miss
Katharine. When some of those bad attacks of pain and breathlessness
assailed him, he liked, notwithstanding the exertion, to creep up and up
those winding stone stairs, for he knew that when he got to the top and
had attained his refuge he could really rest; he might throw off all the
Spartan and be a little human boy who could moan and sigh and even shed
a few secret tears for the gallant Rupert whom he loved. Phil had got
into a habit of not even telling his mother of those queer attacks of
weakness and breathlessness which came over him. Nothing annoyed and
distressed her so much as to hear of them, and little Phil was by
degrees beginning to feel a sort of protective love toward the rather
weak woman: their positions were being unconsciously reversed. Mrs.
Lovel seldom came to the tower bedroom in the day-time. Under the
pretext that the stairs wearied her, she had begged to be allowed to
have a dressing-room in a more modern part of the house, so Phil could
be quite alone and undisturbed when he chose to visit his room. One of
Miss Griselda's excellent rules for children was that they must retire
early to bed. Phil, in Australia, had sat up far later than was good for
him, but now at Avonsyde he and Kitty were always expected to have
entered the land of dreams not later than eight o'clock in the evening.
Mrs. Lovel seldom came upstairs before midnight, and in consequence Phil
spent several hours alone every night in his quaint bedroom. He was
often not at all sleepy, and on these occasions he would open one of the
tiny deep-set windows, and look out into the night and listen to the
hootings of some owls which had long ago made a home for themselves in a
portion of the old tower. On other occasions he would amuse himself with
one of Kitty's story-books, or again he would arrange some very precious
little collections of wild birds' eggs and other forest treasures.

On this particular night, after Rachel's and Kitty's conversation, he
was more than usually wakeful. He got into bed, for Aunt Griselda told
him to be sure to undress and go to sleep as quickly as possible; but
finding sleep very far away from his wakeful eyes he got up, and, after
the fashion of a restless little boy, began to perambulate the room and
to try to discover anything of interest to divert his attention. A very
old horse-hair trunk of his mother's stood in one corner of the room; it
had never been unpacked, for it was only supposed to contain books and
some household treasures not immediately required by Mrs. Lovel. Phil
had once or twice coaxed his mother to unpack the old trunk, for among
the books was his pet "Robinson Crusoe." There was also an old box of
paints which Rupert had given him, and a queer, old-fashioned cup, made
of horn, which Rupert and he always took with them when they went for a
day's excursion into any of the neighboring forests. Phil saw now, to
his great delight, that the key was in the lock of the old trunk, and it
occurred to him that he could pass an agreeable hour rummaging among its
contents for his beloved "Robinson Crusoe" and his old horn cup. He
accordingly set a candlestick on the floor, and opening the trunk knelt
down by it and began to forage. He worked hard, and the exertion tired
him and brought on an attack of breathlessness; but he was much
interested in the sight of many old home treasures and had no idea how
time was flying. He could not find either his "Robinson Crusoe" or his
horn cup, but he came across another treasure wrapped up in an old piece
of flannel which gave him intense delight. This was no other than a
silver tankard of quaint device and very Old-World pattern, with a coat
of arms and the words "Tyde what may" inscribed on one side. Phil knew
the tankard well, and raising it to his lips he kissed it tenderly.

"Why, this belongs to Uncle Rupert and to Belmont!" he exclaimed. "The
very same dear old tankard which Gabrielle is so proud of. I've seen it
dozens of times. Well, I never thought Uncle Rupert would have given
this dear old tankard to mother. How kind of him! I wonder mother never
spoke of it. Oh, dear, what stories Gabrielle has told me about it! She
used to call it a magical tankard and said it had a history. Mother must
have quite forgotten she had it in the old trunk. How delighted Rachel
and Kitty will be when I show it to them to-morrow."

Phil was so excited over his discovery that he became instantly careless
as to finding either his "Robinson Crusoe" or his horn cup, and pushing
the rest of contents of the trunk back into their place and turning the
lock, he crept into bed, carrying the beloved tankard with him. When his
mother came upstairs presently she found the boy fast asleep, and little
guessed what treasure he clasped in his arms.

It is true that little Phil had entered the land of dreams; it is also
true that in that enchanted land he went through experiences so
delightful, through adventures so thrilling, that when in the dull gray
November morning he awoke to listen to his mother's monotonous
breathing, he simply could do nothing but step out of bed and determine
to follow his dreams if necessary to the end of the world. The light had
scarcely come. He would dress himself hastily and, taking the enchanted
tankard with him, go into the forest all alone, in the hopes of meeting
the beautiful lady who came with a gift.




CHAPTER XII.--LOST IN THE NEW FOREST.


Mrs. Lovel slept very soundly, and Phil did not disturb her when he
opened the ponderous oak door of his bedroom, and clasping the tankard
tightly in both hands went downstairs and out. It was very, very early,
for Phil had mistaken the shining of the moon for the first light of
day. Not a soul was up at Avonsyde, but the little boy easily found a
means of exit, and in a few moments was running quickly down the
straight avenue which led into the forest. He was intensely happy and
excited, for the fragrance of his delightful dreams was still
surrounding him, and he felt confident that if he only ran far enough he
must find that wonderful lady whose dress was greener than the trees and
whose face was so radiantly beautiful. The morning was damp and gloomy,
for the moon set very soon after Phil started on his walk, and the sun
had no idea of getting up for another couple of hours. The forest, which
looked so pleasant and cheery by day, was now all that was dark and
dismal; so of course the first thing that happened to poor little Phil
was completely to lose his way.

He possessed a very high spirit, and such small disadvantages as
stumbling in the dark and tearing himself with unseen briers, and
altogether becoming a sadly chilled and damp little boy, could not
quench the ardent hope which impelled him to go forward. He pushed on
bravely, having a kind of confidence that the further he got from
Avonsyde the more likely he was to meet the lady. Presently the darkness
gave place to a gray, dim light, and then, in an incredibly short space
of time, the little boy found himself surrounded by a delicious golden
atmosphere. The sun climbed up into the heavens; the mist vanished;
daylight and sunlight had come. Phil took off his cap, and leaning
against a tree laughed with pleasure. It wanted three weeks to
Christmas; but what a lovely morning, and how the sun glittered and
sparkled on the frosty ground! Some shy robin-redbreasts hopped about
and twittered gleefully; the squirrels were intensely busy cracking
their breakfast-nuts; and Phil, raising his eyes to watch them,
discovered that he was hungry. His hunger he could not gratify, but the
thirst which also assailed him could be easily assuaged, for a brook
babbled noisily not many feet away. Phil ran to it, and dipping his
tankard into the water took a long draught. He had not an idea where he
was, but with the sun shining and the birds singing no part of the
forest could be lonely, and he tripped on in gay spirits, hoping to see
the lady with the green dress coming to meet him through the trees. He
had listened to many stories about the forest lady from Kitty. She
appeared very, very seldom to any one, but when she did come she chose a
solitary place and moment, for it was one of her unbroken rules never to
reveal herself to two people together. Phil, remembering this
peculiarity of the beautiful lady, took care to avoid the high-road and
to plunge deeper and deeper into the most shady recesses and the most
infrequented paths. As he walked on, whether from exhaustion or from
hunger, or from an under-current of strong excitement, he became really
a little feverish; his heart beat a great deal too fast, and his
imagination was roused to an abnormal extent. He knew that he had lost
his way, but as the hours went on he became more and more convinced that
he would find the lady, and of course when he saw her and looked in her
face his troubles would be ended. He would pour out all his cares and
all his longings into the ears of this wonderful being. She would soothe
him; she would pity him; and, above all things, she would give him that
golden store which would make his mother contented and happy.

"Perhaps she will carry me home too," thought little Phil, "for though I
am always making believe to be well, I am not really a strong boy, and I
am very tired now."

The hours went on, the daylight grew brighter, and then came an
unexpected change. The sunny morning was treacherous, after all; dark
clouds approached from the north; they covered the smiling and sunny
sky, and then a cold rain which was half-sleet began to fall
mercilessly. Phil had of course not dreamed of providing himself with a
great-coat, and though at first the trees supplied him with a certain
amount of shelter, their branches, which were mostly bare, were soon
drenched, and the little boy was wet through. He had climbed to the top
of a rising knoll, and looking down through the driving rain he heard a
stream brawling loudly about forty feet below. He fancied that if he got
on lower ground he might find shelter, so he ran as quickly as he could
in the direction of the hurrying water. Oh, horror! what had happened to
him? What was this? The ground shook under his little footsteps. When he
tried to step either backward or forward he sank. Phil caught his
breath, laughed a little because he did not want to cry, and said aloud:

"Kitty is quite right; there are bogs in the forest, and I'm in one."

He was a very brave child, and even his present desperate situation did
not utterly daunt him.

"Now I'm in real danger," he said aloud. "In some ways it's rather nice
to be in real danger. Rupert and I used often to talk about it and
wonder what we'd do, and Rupert always said: 'Phil, be sure when the
time comes that you don't lose your presence of mind.' Well, the time
has come now, and I must try to be very cool. When I stay perfectly
still I find that I don't sink--at least very little. Oh, how tired I am!
I wish some one would come. I wish the rain would stop. I know I'll fall
presently, for I'm so fearfully tired. I wish the lady would come--I do
wish she would! If she knew that I was in danger she might hurry to
me--that is, if she's as kind and beautiful as Kitty tells me she is. Oh,
dear! oh, dear! I know I shall fall soon. Well, if I do I'm certain to
sink into the bog, and--Rupert will have Avonsyde. Oh, poor mother! how
she will wonder where I've got to! Now, I really don't want to sink in a
bog even for Rupert's sake, so I must keep my presence of mind and try
to be as cheerful as possible. Suppose I sing a little--that's much
better than crying and will make as much noise in case any one is
passing by."

So Phil raised a sweet and true little voice and tried to rival the
robins. But a poor little half-starving boy stuck fast in a bog is so
far a remarkable spectacle that the robins themselves, coming out after
the shower to dry their feathers, looked at him in great wonder. He was
a brave little boy and he sang sweetly, and they liked the music he made
very well; but what was he doing there? Perching themselves on the
boughs of some low trees which grew near the brook, they glanced shyly
at him out of their bright eyes, and then quite unknowingly performed a
little mission for his rescue. They flew to meet a lady whom they knew
well and from whose hand they often pecked crumbs, and they induced this
lady to turn aside from her accustomed path and to follow them, as they
hopped and flew in front of her; for the lady was suddenly reminded by
the robins of some little birds at home for which she meant to gather a
particular weed which grew near the bog.

The rain was over, the sun was again shining brightly, when little Phil,
tired, sick unto death, raised his eyes and saw, with the sunlight
behind her, a lady, graceful and gracious in appearance, coming down the
path. He did not notice whether her dress was gray or green; he only
knew that to him she looked radiant and lovely.

"Oh, you have been a long time coming, but please save me now!" he
sobbed, and then he did tumble into the bog, for he suddenly fainted
away.




CHAPTER XIII.--ONE MORE SECRET.


When Phil opened his eyes he was quite sure for several moments that all
his best dreams were realized. He was in a very tiny parlor (he loved
small rooms, for they reminded him of the cottage at the back of the
garden); he was lying full length on an old-fashioned and deliciously
soft sofa, and a lady with a tender and beautiful face was bending over
him; the firelight flickered in a cozy little grate and the sunlight
poured in through a latticed window. The whole room was a picture of
comfort, and Phil drew a deep sigh of happiness.

"Have you given mother the bag of gold? And are we back in the cottage
at the back of the garden?" he murmured.

"Drink this, dear," said the quiet, grave voice, and then a cup of
delicious hot milk was held to his little blue lips, and after he had
taken several sips of the milk he was able to sit up and look round him.

"You are the lady of the forest, aren't you? But where's your green
dress?"

"I am a lady who lives in the forest, my dear child. I am so glad I came
down to that dreadful bog and rescued you. What is your name, my dear
little boy?"

"My name? I am Phil Lovel. Do you know, it is so sad, but I am going to
have Avonsyde. I am the heir. I don't want it at all. It was principally
about Avonsyde I came out this morning to find you. Yes, I had a great
escape in the bog, but I felt almost sure that you would come to save
me. It was very good of you. I am not a strong boy, and I don't suppose
I could have stood up in that dreadful cold, damp bog much longer.
Although I'm not bad at bearing pain, yet the ache in my legs was
getting quite terrible. Well, it's all right now, and I'm so glad I've
found you. Are you very rich, lady of the forest? And may I tell you
everything?"

Had Phil not been absorbed in his own little remarks he might have
noticed a curious change coming over the lady's face. For one brief
instant her eyes seemed to blaze, her brows contracted as if with pain,
and the band with which she held the restorative to Phil's lips
trembled. Whatever emotion overcame her its effect was brief. When the
boy, wondering at her silence, raised his eyes to look at her, it was
only a sweet and quiet glance which met his.

"I have heard of little Philip Lovel," she said. "I am glad to see you.
I am glad I saved you from a terrible fate. If no one had come to your
rescue you must eventually have sunk in that dreadful bog."

"But I was quite sure you would come," answered Phil. "Do you know, I
went out this morning expecting to meet you. Betty and I have spoken of
you so very, very often. We have made up lovely stories about you; but
you have always been in green and your face dazzled. Now you are not in
green. You are in a dark, plain dress--as plain a dress as mother used to
wear when we lived in the house behind the garden; and though you are
beautiful--yes, I really think you are beautiful--you don't dazzle. Well,
I am glad I have met you. Did you know that a little boy was wandering
all over the forest looking for you to-day? And did you come out on
purpose to meet him and to save him? Oh, I trust, I do trust you have
got the gift with you!"

"I don't quite understand you, my dear little boy," said the lady. "No,
I did not come to meet you. I simply took a walk between the showers.
You are talking too much and too fast; you must be quiet now, and I will
put this warm rug over you and you can try to sleep. When you are quite
rested and warm, Nancy, my servant, will take you back to Avonsyde."

Phil was really feeling very tired; his limbs ached; his throat was dry
and parched; he was only too glad to lie still on that soft sofa in that
tiny room and not pretend to be anything but a sadly exhausted little
boy. He even closed his eyes at the lady's bidding, but he soon opened
them again, for he liked to watch her as she sat by the fire. No, she
was scarcely dazzling, but Phil could quite believe that she might be
considered beautiful. Her eyes were dark and gray; her hair was also
dark, very soft, and very abundant; her mouth had an expression about it
which Phil seemed partly to know, which puzzled him, for he felt so sure
that he had seen just such resolute and well cut lips in some one else.

"It's Rachel!" he said suddenly under his breath. "How very, very queer
that Rachel should have a look of the lady of the forest!"

He half-roused himself to watch the face, which began more and more to
remind him of Rachel's.

But as he looked there came a curious change over the lady's expressive
face. The firm lips trembled; a look of agonized yearning and longing
filled the pathetic gray eyes, and a few words said aloud with
unspeakable sadness reached the little boy.

"So Kitty speaks of me--little, little Kitty speaks of me."

The lady covered her face with her hands, and Phil, listening very
attentively, thought he heard her sob.

After this he really closed his eyes and went to sleep. When he awoke
the winter's light had disappeared, the curtains were drawn across the
little window, and a reading-lamp with a rose-colored shade made the
center of the table look pretty. There was a cozy meal spread for two on
the board, and when Phil opened his eyes and came back to the world of
reality, the lady was bending over the fire and making some crisp toast.

"You have had a nice long sleep," she said in a cheerful voice. "Now
will you come to the table and have some tea? Here is a fresh egg for
you, which Brownie, my dear speckled hen, laid while you were asleep.
You feel much better, don't you? Now you must make a very good tea, and
when you have finished Nancy will take you as far as Rufus' Stone, where
I have asked a man with a chaise to meet her; he will drive you back to
Avonsyde in less than an hour."

Phil felt quite satisfied with these arrangements. He also discovered
that he was very hungry; so he tumbled off the sofa, and with his
light-brown hair very much tossed and his eyes shining, took his place
at the tea-table. There he began to chatter, and did not at all know
that the lady was leading him on to tell her as much as possible about
Rachel and Kitty and about his life at Avonsyde. He answered all her
questions eagerly, for he had by no means got over his impression that
she was really the lady whom he had come to seek.

"I don't want Avonsyde, you know," he said suddenly, speaking with great
earnestness. "Oh, please, if you are the lady of the forest and can give
those who seek you a gift, let my gift be a bag of gold! I will take it
back to mother in the chaise to-night, and then--and then--poor mother! My
mother is very poor, lady, but when I give her your gold she will be
rich, and then we can both go away from Avonsyde."

For a moment or two the lady with the sad gray eyes looked with wonder
and perplexity at little Phil--some alarm even was depicted on her face,
but it suddenly cleared and lightened. She rose from her chair, and
going up to the child stooped and kissed him.

"You don't want Avonsyde. Then I am your friend, little Phil Lovel. Here
are three kisses--one for you, one for Rachel, one for Kitty. Give my
kisses as from yourself to the little girls. But I am not what you think
me, Phil. I am no supernatural lady who can give gifts or can dazzle
with unusual beauty. I am just a plain woman who lives here most of the
year and earns her bread with hard and daily labor. I cannot give money,
for I have not got it. I can be your friend, however. Not a powerful
friend--certainly not; but no true friendship is to be lightly thrown
away. Why, my little man, how disappointed you look! Are you really
going to cry?"

"Oh, no, I won't cry!" said Phil, but with a very suspicious break in
his voice; "but I am so tired of all the secrets and of pretending to be
strong and all that. If you are not the lady and have not got the bag of
gold, mother and I will have to stay on at Avonsyde, for mother is very
poor and she would starve if we went away. You don't know what a
dreadful weight it is on one's mind always to be keeping secrets."

"I am very sorry, Phil. As it happens I do know what a secret means. I
am very sorry for you, more particularly as I am just going to add to
your secrets. I want you to promise not to tell any one at Avonsyde
about my little house in the forest nor about me. I think you will keep
my secret when I tell you that if it is known it will do me very grave
injury."

"I would not injure you," said Phil, raising his sweet eyes to her face.
"I do hate secrets and I find them dreadfully hard to keep, but one more
won't greatly matter, only I do wish you were the real lady of the
forest."

When Nancy came back to the little cottage after disposing of Phil
comfortably in the chaise and giving the driver a great many emphatic
directions about him, she went straight into her lady's presence. She
was a privileged old servant, and she did not dream of knocking at the
door of the little sitting-room; no, she opened it boldly and came in,
many words crowding to her lips.

"This will upset her fine," she muttered under her breath. "Oh, dear!
oh, dear! I'll have to do a lot of talking to-night. I'm not one to say
she gives way often, but when she do, why, she do, and that's the long
and short of it."

Nancy opened the door noisily and entered the room with a world of
purpose depicted on her honest, homely face.

"Now, ma'am," she began, "I have seen him off as snug and safe as
possible, and the driver promises to deliver him sure as sure into his
mother's arms within the hour. A pretty sort of a mother she must be to
let a bit of a babe like that wander about since before the dawn and
never find him yet. Now, ma'am, you're not settling down to that
needlework at this hour? Oh, and you do look pale! Why, Mrs. Lovel,
what's the use of overdoing it?"

The lady so addressed raised her sad eyes to the kindly pair looking
down at her and said gently:

"I am determined to be at least as brave as that brave little boy. He
would not cry, although he longed to. I must either work or cry, so I
choose to work. Nancy, how many yards of the lace are now finished?"

"Ten, I should think," answered Nancy, whose countenance expressed
strong relief at the turn the conversation had taken. "I should say
there was ten yards done, ma'am, but I will go upstairs and count them
over if you like."

"I wish you would. If there are ten yards upstairs there are nearly two
here; that makes just the dozen. And you think it is quite the best lace
I have made yet, Nancy?"

"Oh, ma'am, beautiful is no word; and how your poor eyes stand the fine
work passes my belief. But now, now, where's the hurry for to-night?
Why, your hands do shake terrible. Let me make you a cup of cocoa and
light a fire in your bedroom, and you go to bed nice and early, Mrs.
Lovel."

Mrs. Lovel threw down her work with a certain gesture of impatience.

"I should lie awake all night," said Mrs. Lovel. "Do you know, Nancy,
that the little boy spoke of Kitty? He said my baby Kitty often
mentioned the lady of the forest--that he and she both did. At first I
thought that he meant me and that Kitty really spoke of her mother; but
now I believe he was alluding to some imaginary forest lady."

"The green forest lady," interposed Nancy. "I don't say, ma'am, that
she's altogether a fancy, though. There's them--yes, there's them whose
words may be relied on who are said to have spoke with her."

"Well, no matter. I am finishing this lace to-night, Nancy, because I
mean to go to London to-morrow."

"You, ma'am? Oh, oh, and it ain't three months since you were there!"

"Yes, I must go. I want to see my husband's lawyers. Nancy, this
suspense is killing me!"

"Oh, my poor, dear, patient lady! But it ain't so many months now to
wait. Miss Rachel's birthday comes in May."

"Nancy, the mother-hunger is driving me wild. If I could only see them
both and kiss them once I should be satisfied."

"You shall kiss them hundreds of times when May comes," answered the old
servant. "And they are well and bonny and Miss Rachel loves you; and the
little one, why, of course her heart will go out to you when you hold
her in your arms again."

"Six years!" repeated the poor lady, clasping her hands, letting the
lovely lace fall to the ground, and gazing into the glowing fire in the
grate. "Six years for a mother to starve! Oh, Nancy, how could good
women be so cruel? I believe Miss Grizel and Miss Katharine are good.
How could they be so cruel?"

"Old maids!" said Nancy, with a little snort. "Do you suppose, ma'am,
that those old ladies know anything of the mother feel? Well, Mrs.
Lovel, the children are two bonny little lassies, and you have given up
much for them. You did it for their good, ma'am--that they should have
full and plenty and be provided for. You did it all out of real
self-denial, ma'am."

"I made up my mind the day Kitty fainted for want of food," answered
Mrs. Lovel. "I made up my mind and I never flinched; but oh! Nancy,
think of its being in vain! For, after all, that little boy is the true
heir. He is a dear little fellow, and although I ought to hate him I
can't. He is the true heir; and if so, you know, Nancy, that my little
girls come back to me. How have I really bettered them by giving them
six years of luxury when, after all, they must return to my small life?"

"And to the best of mothers," answered Nancy. "And to two or three
hundred pounds put by careful; and they hearty and bonny and Miss
Rachel's education half-complete. No, ma'am, they are not worse off, but
a deal better off for what you have done for them--that's if the worst
comes. But how can you say that that little boy will have Avonsyde? Why,
he hasn't no strength in him--not a bit. Thin is no word for him, and
he's as light as a feather, and so white! Why, I carried him in my arms
as far as the Stone, and I didn't feel as if I had nothing in them. Why,
ma'am, all the country round knows that the ladies at Avonsyde are
looking out for a strong heir; they go direct against the will if they
give the old place to a sickly one. No, ma'am, Master Phil Lovel ain't
the heir for Avonsyde. And is it likely, ma'am, that the ladies would be
putting advertisements in all the papers, foreign and otherwise, for the
last five years and a half, and sending over special messengers to the
other side of the globe, and never yet a strong, hearty, real heir turn
up? Why, of course, Mrs. Lovel, he ain't to be found, and that's why he
don't come."

Mrs. Lovel smiled faintly.

"Well, Nancy," she said, "I must at least go to town to-morrow, and as
that is the case I will take your advice and go up to my room now. No, I
could not eat anything. Good-night, dear Nancy."

When Mrs. Lovel left the little sitting-room Nancy stayed behind to give
it a good "redding-up" as she expressed it. With regard to
sitting-rooms, and indeed all rooms arranged for human habitation, Nancy
was a strict disciplinarian; rigid order was her motto. Chairs placed
demurely in rows; a table placed exactly in the middle of the room;
books arranged at symmetrical intervals round it; each ornament
corresponding exactly to its fellow; blinds drawn to a certain
level--these were her ideas of a nice cheerful apartment. Could she have
had her own choice with regard to carpets, she would have had them with
a good dash of orange in them; her curtains should always be made of
moreen and be of a bright cardinal tone. A tidy and a cheerful room was
her delight; she shuddered at the tendencies, so-called artistic, of the
present day. Putting the little sitting-room in order now, her feet
knocked against something which gave forth a metallic sound; stooping,
she picked up from the floor Phil's tankard. She examined it curiously
and brought it to the light. The quaint motto inscribed on one of its
sides--"Tyde what may"--was well known to her as the motto of the house of
Lovel.

"I know nothing about this old cup," she said to herself; "it may or may
not be of value; but it looks old--uncommon old; and it has the family
coat of arms and them outlandish, meaningless words on it. Of course it
was little Master Phil brought it in to-day and forgot all about it.
Well, well, it may mean something or it may not; but my name ain't Nancy
White if I don't set it by for the present and bide my time about
returning it. Ah, my dear, dear lady, it won't be Nancy's fault if your
bonny little girls don't get their own out of Avonsyde!"




CHAPTER XIV.--THE AUSTRALIANS.


Messrs. Baring & Baring, the lawyers who transacted all the business
matters for the Misses Lovel, were much worried about Christmas-time
with clients. The elder Mr. Baring was engaged with a gentleman who had
come from the country to see him on special and urgent business, and in
consequence his son, a bright-looking, intelligent man of thirty, was
obliged to ask two gentlemen to wait in his anteroom or to call again,
while he himself interviewed a sorrowful-looking lady who required
immediate attention.

The gentlemen decided to wait the younger Mr. Baring's leisure, and in
consequence he was able to attend to his lady client without impatience.

"The business which brings you to me just before Christmas, Mrs. Lovel,
must be of the utmost importance," he began.

Mrs. Lovel raised her veil and a look of intense pain filled her eyes.

"It is of importance to me," she said, "for it means--yes, I greatly fear
it means that my six years of bitter sacrifice have come to nothing and
the heir is found."

Mr. Baring raised his eyebrows; he did not trouble to inquire to whom
she had alluded. After a brief pause he said quietly:

"There is no reason whatever for you to despair. At this present moment
my father and I are absolutely aware of two claimants for the Avonsyde
heirship--only one can inherit the place and both may prove unsuitable.
You know that the ladies will not bequeath their property to any one who
cannot prove direct descent from the elder branch; also the heir must be
strong and vigorous. Up to the present neither my father nor I have seen
any conclusive proof of direct succession. We are quite aware that a
little boy of the name of Lovel is at present on a visit at Avonsyde,
but we also know that the Misses Lovel will take no definite steps in
the matter without our sanction. I would not fret beforehand, Mrs.
Lovel. It seems tame and old-fashioned advice, but I should recommend
you for your own sake to hope for the best."

"I will do so," said Mrs. Lovel, rising to her feet. "I will do so, even
though I can no longer buoy myself up with false dreams. I feel
absolutely convinced that before Rachel's birthday an heir will be found
for the old place. Let it be so--I shall not struggle. It may be best for
my children to come back to me; it will certainly be best for me to have
them with me again. I won't take up any more of your time this morning,
Mr. Baring."

"Well, come again to-morrow morning. I have got some more work for you
and of quite a profitable kind. By the way, the new claimants--they have
just come from Australia and I am to see them in a moment--are in a
desperate taking about an old tankard which seems to have been a family
heirloom and would go far to prove their descent. The tankard is lost;
also a packet of valuable letters. You see, my dear madam, their claim,
as it stands at present, is anything but complete."

Mrs. Lovel said a few more words to Mr. Baring, and then promising to
call on the morrow, left him. To effect her exit from the house she had
to pass through the room where the Australians were waiting. Her
interview had excited her; her pale face was slightly flushed; her veil
was up. Perhaps the slight color on those usually pale cheeks had
brought back some of the old and long-forgotten girlish bloom. The
winter's day was sunshiny, and as she walked through the waiting-room
the intense light throwing her features into strong relief, so strongly
and so vividly did that slight and rather worn figure stand out that a
man who had been sitting quietly by started forward with an exclamation:

"Surely I am addressing Rachel Cunningdale?"

The lady raised her eyes to the great, strong, bearded face.

"You are Rupert Lovel," she answered quietly.

"I am, and this is my boy. Here, Rupert, lad, this lady was once your
mother's greatest friend. Why, Rachel, it is twenty years since we met.
You were scarcely grown up and such a bright bit of a girl, and now----"

"And now," answered Mrs. Lovel, "I have been a wife and a mother. I am
now a widow and, I may say it, childless; and, Rupert, the strangest
part of all, my name too is Lovel."

"What a queer coincidence. Well, I am delighted to meet you. Where are
you staying? My boy and I have just come over from Australia, and your
friend, my dear wife, she is gone, Rachel. It was an awful blow; we
won't speak of it. I should like to see more of you. Where shall we
meet?"

Mrs. Lovel gave the address of the very humble lodgings which she
occupied when in London.

"The boy and I will look you up, then, this evening. I fear our time now
belongs to the lawyer. Good-by--good-by. I am delighted to have met you."

Mr. Baring prided himself on being an astute reader of character, but
even he was somewhat amazed when these fresh claimants for the Avonsyde
property occupied quite half an hour of his valuable time by asking him
numerous and sundry questions with regard to that pale and somewhat
insignificant client of his, Mrs. Lovel. Mr. Baring was a cautious man,
and he let out as little as he could; but the Lovels, both father and
son, were furnished with at least a few clews to a very painful story.
So excited and interested was Rupert Lovel, senior, that he even forgot
the important business that had brought him all the way from Australia,
and the lawyer had himself gently to divert his client's thoughts into
the necessary channel.

Finally the father and son left the Barings' office a good deal
perturbed and excited and with no very definite information to guide
them.

"Look here, Rupert, lad," said the elder Lovel. "It's about the saddest
thing in all the world, that poor soul depriving herself of her children
and then hoping against hope that the heir won't turn up. Why, of
course, lad, you are the heir; not a doubt of that. Poor Rachel! and she
was your mother's friend."

"But we won't set up our claim until we are certain about
everything--will we, father?" asked young Lovel. "Did you not hear Mr.
Baring say that many false heirs had laid claim to Avonsyde? The old
ladies want some one who can prove his descent, and we have not got all
the papers--have we, father?"

"No. It is an extraordinary thing about those letters being lost, and
also the old tankard. But they are safe to turn up. Who could have
stolen them? Perhaps Gabrielle has already written with news of their
safety. We might have a cab now to the General Post-office. I have no
doubt a budget of letters awaits me there. Why, Rupert, what are you
looking so melancholy about? The tankard and the letters may even now be
found. What's the matter, lad? It doesn't do for a hearty young chap
like you to wear such a dismal face. I tell you your claim is as good as
established."

"But I don't know that I want it to be established," said young Rupert
Lovel. "It is not nice to think of breaking that lady's heart. I don't
know what Gabrielle would say to doing anything so cruel to our mother's
friend."

"Tut, lad, what a lot of rubbish you talk! If you are the heir you are,
and you can't shirk your responsibility, even if you don't quite like
it. Well, we'll have a long talk with Rachel and get to the bottom of
everything to-night."

                *       *       *       *       *

"And now, Rachel, you must just confide in me and make me your friend.
Oh, nonsense! Were you not my wife's friend? and don't I remember you a
bit of a bonny lass, as young, quite as young as Rupert here? I have got
two young daughters of my own, and don't you suppose I feel for a woman
who is the mother of girls? You tell me your whole story, Rachel. How is
it that you, who have married a Lovel of Avonsyde, should be practically
shut away from the house and unrecognized by the family? When I met you
last in Melbourne you looked free enough from cares, and your father was
fairly well off. You were just starting for Europe--don't you remember?
Now tell me your history from that day forward."

"With the exception of my old servant, Nancy, I have not given my
confidence to any human being for years," answered Mrs. Lovel. Then she
paused. "Yes, I will trust you, Rupert, and my story can be told in a
few words; but first satisfy me about one thing. When I was at Mr.
Baring's to-day he told me that a fresh claimant had appeared on the
scene for the Avonsyde property. Is your boy the claimant?"

"He is, Rachel. We will go into that presently."

Mrs. Lovel sighed.

"It is so hard not to welcome you," she said, "but you destroy my hopes.
However, listen to my tale. I will just tell it to you as briefly as
possible. Shortly after we came to England my father died. He was not
well off, as we supposed; he died heavily in debt and I was penniless. I
was not sufficiently highly educated to earn my bread as a teacher--as a
teacher I should have starved; but I had a taste for millinery and I got
employment in a milliner's shop in a good part of London. I stayed in
that shop for about a year. At the end of that time I married Valentine
Lovel. We had very little money, but we were perfectly happy; and even
though Valentine's people refused to acknowledge me, their indifference
during my dear husband's lifetime did not take an iota from my
happiness. Two babies were born, both little girls. I know Valentine
longed for a son, and often said that the birth of a boy would most
probably lead to a reconciliation with his father. No son, however,
arrived, and my dear husband died of consumption when my eldest little
girl was five years old. I won't dwell on his death, nor on one or two
agonized letters which he wrote to his hard old father. He died without
one token of reconciliation coming to cheer him from Avonsyde; and when
I laid him in the grave I can only say that I think my heart had grown
hard against all the world.

"I had the children to live for, and it is literally true that I had no
time to sit down and cry for Valentine's loss. The little girls had a
faithful nurse; her name was Nancy White; she is with me still. She took
care of my dear, beautiful babies while I earned money to put bread in
all our mouths. I had literally not a penny in the world except what I
could earn, for the allowance Valentine had always received from his
father was discontinued at his death. I went back to the shop where I
had worked as a milliner before my marriage; there happened to be a
vacancy, and they were good enough to take me back. Of course we were
fearfully poor and lived in wretched lodgings; but however much Nancy
and I denied ourselves, the children wanted for nothing. They were
lovely children--uncommon. Any one could see that they had come of a
proud old race. The eldest girl was called after her father and me; she
was not like Valentine in appearance, neither did she resemble me. I am
dark, but Rachel's eyes were of the deepest, darkest brown; her hair was
black as night and her complexion a deep, glowing rosy brown. She was a
splendid creature; so large, so noble-looking--not like either of us; but
with a look--yes, Rupert, with a look of that boy of yours. Kitty
resembled her father and was a delicate, lovely, ethereal little
creature; she was as fair as Rachel was dark, but she was not strong,
and I often feared she inherited some of Valentine's delicacy.

"For two years I worked for the children and supported them. For a year
and a half all went fairly well. But then I caught cold; for a time I
was ill--too ill to work--and my situation at the milliner's shop was
quickly filled up. I had a watch and a few valuable rings and trinkets
which Valentine had given me. I sold them one by one and we lived on the
little money they fetched. But the children were only half-fed, and one
wretched day of a hot and stifling July Kitty fainted away quietly in my
arms. That decided me. I made up my mind on the spot. I had a diamond
ring, the most valuable of all my jewels, and the one I cared for most,
for Valentine had given it me on our engagement. I took it out and sold
it. I was fortunate; I got £10 for it. I hurried off at once and bought
material, and made up with Nancy's help lovely and picturesque dresses
for both the children. I believe I had a correct eye for color, and I
dressed Rachel in rich dark plush with lace, but Kitty was all in white.
When the clothes were complete I put them on, and Nancy kissed the pets
and fetched a cab for me, and we drove away to Waterloo. I had so little
money left that I could only afford third-class tickets, but I took them
to Lyndhurst Road, and when we arrived there drove straight to Avonsyde.
The children were as excited and pleased as possible. They knew nothing
of any coming parting, and were only anxious to see their grandfather
and the house which their father had so often spoken to them about. They
were children who had never been scolded; no harsh words had ever been
addressed to them, consequently they knew nothing of fear. When they got
into the lovely old place they were wild with delight. 'Kitty,' said
Rachel, 'let us go and find our grandfather.' Before I could restrain
them they were off; but indeed I had no wish to hinder them, for I felt
sure they would plead their own cause best. We had arrived at a critical
moment, for that was the last day of the old squire's life. I saw his
daughters--my sisters-in-law. We had a private interview and made terms
with one another. These were the terms: The ladies of Avonsyde would
take my darlings and care for them and educate them, and be, as they
expressed it, 'mothers' to them, on condition that I gave them up. I
said I would not give them up absolutely. I told the ladies quite
plainly why I brought them at all. I said it was out of no love or
respect for the cruel grandfather who had disowned them; it was out of
no love or respect for the sisters, who did not care what became of
their brother's children: it was simply and entirely out of my great
mother-love for the children themselves. I would rather part with them
than see them starve or suffer. 'But,' I added, 'there are limits even
to my self-denial. I will not give them up forever. Name the term of
years, but there must be a limit to the parting.'

"Then Miss Katharine, who seemed kinder-hearted than her sister, gave me
one or two compassionate glances, and even said, 'Poor thing!' once or
twice under her breath.

"I did not take the slightest notice of her. I repeated again, more
distinctly: 'The parting must have a limit; name a term of years.' Then
the ladies decided that on Rachel's thirteenth birthday--she was just
seven then--I should come back to Avonsyde, and if I so wished and my
little girls so wished I should have one or both of them back again. The
ladies told me at the same time of their father's will. They said that a
most vigorous search was going to be commenced at once for an heir of
the elder branch. At the same time they both stated their conviction
that no such heir would be forthcoming, for they said that no trace or
tidings had been heard of Rupert Lovel from the day, nearly two hundred
years ago, when he left Avonsyde. Their conviction was that Rupert had
died without descendants. In that case, both the ladies said, the little
girls must inherit the property; and Miss Griselda said further that she
would try to make arrangements with her father to so alter his will that
if no heir had been found on Rachel's thirteenth birthday, Valentine's
children should have a life-interest in Avonsyde. If, on the other hand,
the heir was found before that date, they would also be provided for,
although she did not mention how.

"These arrangements satisfied me. They were the best terms I could make,
and I went away without bidding either of my children good-by. I could
bear a great deal, but that parting I could not have endured. I went
back to London and to Nancy, and in a week's time I heard from Miss
Lovel. She told me that her father was dead, but that the necessary
codicil had been added to the will, and that if no heir appeared before
Rachel's thirteenth birthday my children would have a life-interest in
the place, and they themselves would be bound over to go on with the
search. Miss Lovel further added that in any case the children should be
educated and cared for in the best possible manner.

"Those were the entire contents of her letter. She sent me no message
from my darlings, and from that hour to this I have never heard from
her. From that hour, too, my terrible, terrible heart-hunger began. No
one knows what I suffered, what I suffer for want of the children. Were
the sacrifice to be made again, I don't think I could go through it, and
yet God only knows. For two or three years I made a very scanty
livelihood; then I was fortunate enough to invent a certain
showy-looking lace. I could make my own patterns and do it very quickly
by hand. To my great surprise it took, and from that hour I have had
more orders than I can execute. My wants are very few and I have even
saved money: I have over £400 put away. My dream of dreams is to have my
children back with me--that is my selfish dream. Of course it will be
best for them to be rich and to have the old place, but in any case I
will not consent to so absolute a separation as now exists between us. A
year ago a gentleman and his wife who had been kind to me, although they
knew nothing of my story, asked me if I would like to take charge of a
little cottage of theirs in the New Forest. It is a tiny place,
apparently lost in underwood and bracken, which they themselves occupy
for a fortnight or so in the course of the year. The temptation was too
great. I accepted the offer, and since then I have lived, so to speak,
on the threshold of the children's home. One day I saw Rachel. Well, I
must not dwell on that. I did not speak to her. I fled from her,
although she is my first-born child. It is now December. May will come
by and by, and then the greatness of my trouble will be over."

Mrs. Lovel paused. The Australians, father and son, had listened with
breathless interest to her words.

"I don't want to take the property from your children," said young
Rupert, with passion. "After what you have said and suffered, I hate to
be heir of Avonsyde."

"I forgot to mention," continued Mrs. Lovel, "that a little boy is now
at Avonsyde of the name of Philip who is supposed to be the real heir.
He is a little pale-faced boy with beautiful eyes and a very winning
manner, and it is reported that the old ladies have both lost their
hearts to him. I cannot say that I think he looks strong, but he is a
dear little boy."

"That must be our Phil," said young Rupert, speaking with great
interest. "Of course, father that explains his queer letter to me. Poor
dear little Phil!"

"Just like his mother," growled the elder Lovel. "A mischievous,
interfering, muddle-headed woman, sure to put her foot in a thing and
safe to make mischief. Forgive me, Rachel, but I feel strongly about
this. Has the boy got a mother with him?"

"Yes."

"You are right then, Rupert. It is your Cousin Phil. Poor little chap!
he has no voice in the matter, I am sure. What a meddlesome woman that
mother of his is! Well, Rachel, my boy and I will say good-night now.
These revelations have pained and bewildered me. I must sleep over all
this news. Don't leave London until you hear from me. I think you may
trust me, and--God bless you!"




CHAPTER XV.--WAS HE ACTING?


"I can't help it, Kitty; you really must not ask me. I'm a very much
puzzled boy. I'm--I'm--Kitty, did you ever have to pull yourself up short
just when you wanted to say something most interesting? I'm always
pulling myself up short, and I'm dreadfully, dreadfully tired of it."

"It must be something like giving a sudden jerk to one of our ponies,"
said Kitty. "I know--it must be a horrid feeling. Does it set your teeth
on edge, Phil, and do you quite tremble with impatience?"

"Yes," said Phil, throwing himself full length on the floor of the old
armory, where he and Kitty had ensconced themselves on a pouring wet day
early in the month of February. "Yes, Kitty, if feeling very unpleasant
all over means setting your teeth on edge, I do know it. I'm a little
boy with lots of secrets, and I never can tell them, not to you nor to
anybody at Avonsyde--no, not to anybody. I'll get accustomed to it in
time, but I don't like it, for naturally I'm the kind of boy who can't
keep a secret.'

"What a horrid man you'll grow up!" said Kitty, eying her cousin with
marked disapproval. "You'll be so reserved and cross-grained and
disagreeable. You'll have been pulled up short so often that you'll look
jerky. Oh, dear me, Phil, I wouldn't be you for a great deal!"

"I wouldn't be myself if I could help it," said Phil, with a sigh which
he tried hard to smother. "Oh, I say, Kitty-cat, will you coax Aunt
Grizel to take us into Southampton soon? I am quite certain my letter
must be waiting for me. You don't know, Kitty, you can't possibly guess
what a letter from his dearest friend means to a rather lonely kind of
boy like me."

"You had better ask Aunt Grizel yourself," answered Kitty, with a little
pout and a little frown. "She's so fond of you, Phil, that she'll do it.
She'll take you to Southampton if you coax her and if you put on that
funny kind of sad look in your eyes. It's the kind of look our spaniel
puts on, and I never can say 'No' to him when he has it. I don't know
how you do it, Phil, nor why you do it; but you have a very sorry look
in your eyes when you like. Is it because you're always and always
missing your dearest friend?"

"It's partly that," answered Phil. "Oh, you don't know what he's like,
Kitty! He's most splendid. He has got such a grand figure, and he walks
in such a manly way, and his eyes are as dark and wonderful-

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