The Lady of the Forest Part 14

"Tut, lad, what a lot of rubbish you talk! If you are the heir you are, and you can't s.h.i.+rk 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 la.s.s, 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 n.o.ble-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-cla.s.s 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 compa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion. "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--G.o.d 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-looking as Rachel's, and--and--oh, Kitty, was I telling you anything? Please forget that I said anything at all; please don't remember on any account whatever that I have got a dearest friend!"

"I think you are perfectly horrid!" said Kitty, stamping her foot. "Just the minute we begin talking about anything interesting you give one of those jerks, just as if you had a cruel rider on your back. I can't think what it all means. If you have a dearest friend, there's no harm in it; and if you had a Betty to take care of you, there's no harm in that; and if you lived in a cottage in a plantation, that isn't a sin; and if you did go into the forest to meet the lady, and you didn't meet her, although you were nearly swallowed up by a bog, why--why--what's the matter, Phil? How white you are!"

"Nothing," said Phil, suddenly pressing his face down on the cus.h.i.+on against which he was lying--"nothing--Kit--I--" He uttered one or two groans. "Fetch me a little water, please!"

The child's face had suddenly become livid. He clinched his hands and pressed them against his temples, and buried that poor little drawn, piteous face further and deeper into the soft cus.h.i.+on. At last the paroxysm of pain pa.s.sed; he panted, raised himself slowly, and struggled to his feet.

"Kitty!"

But Kitty was gone. Terrified, the little girl ran through the hall. The first person she met was Mrs. Lovel, who, dressed gracefully in a soft black silk, trimmed with lace, was walking languidly in the direction of the great drawing-room.

"You had better come!" said Kitty, rus.h.i.+ng up to her and seizing her hand. "Phil is very dreadfully ill. I think Phil will die. He's in the armory. Come at once!"

Without waiting for the lady's answer, little Kitty turned on her heel and flew back the way she had come. Phil had scarcely time to struggle to his feet, scarcely time to notice her absence, before she was back again at his side. Putting her arms around his neck, she covered his face with pa.s.sionate kisses.

"Phil, Phil, I was so frightened about you! Are you better? Do say you are better. Oh, I love you so much, and I won't be jealous, even if you have got a dearest friend!"

Phil could stand, but the sudden attack he had pa.s.sed through was so sharp that words could scarcely come to his lips. Kitty's embrace almost overpowered him, but he was so innately unselfish that he would not struggle to free himself, fearing to pain her.

His mother's step was heard approaching. He made a great effort to stand upright and formed his little lips into a voiceless whistle.

"Why, Phil, you have been overtiring yourself," said Mrs. Lovel. "Oh, Kitty, how you have exaggerated! Phil does not look at all bad. I suppose you were both romping, and never ceased until you lost your breath; or you were having one of your pretense games, and Phil thought he would frighten you by making out he was ill. Ah, Phil, Phil, what an actor you are! Now, my dear boy, I want you to come up to your bedroom with me. I want to consult you about one or two matters. Fancy, Kitty, a mother consulting her little boy! Ought not Phil to be proud? But he is really such a strong, brave little man that I cannot help leaning on him. It was really unkind of you to pretend that time, Phil, and to give little Kitty such a fright."

Phil's beautiful brown eyes were raised to his mother's face; then they glanced at Kitty; then a smile--a very sorry smile Kitty considered it--filled them, and giving his little thin hand to his mother, he walked out of the armory by her side.

Kitty lingered for a moment in the room which her companion had deserted; then she dashed away across the brightly lit hall, through several cozy and cheery apartments, until she came to a room brilliant with firelight and lamplight, where Rachel lay at her ease in a deep arm-chair with a fairy story open on her knee.

"Phil is the best actor in all the world, Rachel!" she exclaimed. "He turned as white as a sheet just now. He turned gray, and he groaned most awfully, and he wouldn't speak, and I thought he was dying, and I flew for some one, and I found Mrs. Lovel, and she came back to Phil, and she laughed, and said there was nothing the matter, and that Phil was only acting. Isn't it wonderful, Rachel, that Phil can turn pale when he likes, and groan in such a terrible way? Oh, it made me s.h.i.+ver to see him! I do hope he won't act being ill again."

"He didn't act," said Rachel in a contemptuous voice; "that's what his mother said. I wouldn't have her for a mother for a great deal. I'd rather have no mother. Poor little Phil didn't act. Don't talk nonsense, Kitty."