The Lady of the Forest Part 24

"Oh, letters and a tankard. And what may a tankard be like?"

"This was an old-fas.h.i.+oned silver can, with the Lovel coat of arms and the motto of their house, 'Tyde what may,' graved on one side. Why, Nancy, you look quite pale."

"It's the burn, ma'am, that smarts a little. And so the silver can is lost? Dear, dear, what a misfortune; and the fine young gentleman can't get the place noway without it. Is that so or not, ma'am?"

"Well, Nancy, the tankard seems to be considered a very important piece of evidence, and Mr. Lovel is not inclined to claim the property for his son without it. However, he is having careful search made in Australia, and will probably hear tidings of it any day."

"That's as Providence wills, ma'am. It's my belief that if the middle-aged gentleman was to search Australia from tail to head he wouldn't get no tidings of that bit of a silver mug. Dear, dear, how this burn on my hand do smart!"

"You had better put some vaseline on it, Nancy. You look quite upset. I fear it is worse than you say. Let me look at it."

"No, no, ma'am; it will go off presently. Dear, what a taking the gentleman must be in for the silver mug. Well, ma'am, more unlikely things have happened than that your bonny little ladies should come in for Avonsyde. Did I happen to mention to you, ma'am, that I saw Master Phil Lovel yesterday?"

"No, Nancy. Where and how?"

"He was with one of the old ladies, ma'am, in the forest. He was talking to her and laughing and he never noticed me, and you may be sure I kept well in the background. Eh, but he's a dear little fellow; but if ever there was a bit of a face on which the shadow rested, it's his."

"Nancy, Nancy, is he indeed so ill? Poor, dear little boy!"

"No, ma'am, I don't say he's so particular ill. He walked strong enough and he looked up into the old lady's face as bright as you please; but he had the look--I have seen it before, and I never could be mistaken about that look on any face. Not long for this world was written all over him. Too good for this world was the way his eyes shone and his lips smiled. Dear heart, ma'am, don't cry. Such as them is the blessed ones; they go away to a deal finer place and a grander home than any Avonsyde."

"True," said Mrs. Lovel. "I don't cry for that, but I think the child suffers. He spoke very sorrowfully to me."

"Well, ma'am, we must all go through it, one way or another. My old mother used to say to me long ago, 'Nancy, 'tis contrasts as do it. I'm so tired out with grinding, grinding, and toiling, toiling, that just to rest and do nothing seems to me as if it would be perfect heaven.' And the little fellow will be the more glad some day because he has had a bit of suffering. Dear, dear, ma'am, I can't get out of my head the loss of that tankard."

"So it seems, Nancy; the fact seems to have taken complete possession of you. Were it not absolutely impossible, I could even have said that my poor honest old Nancy was the thief! There, Nancy, don't look so startled. Of course I was only joking."

"Of course, ma'am; but you'll just excuse me if I go and bind up my burned hand."

CHAPTER XXIII.--FOREST LIFE.

The spring came early that year. A rather severe winter gave place to charming and genial weather. In April it was hot, and the trees made haste to clothe themselves with their most delicate and fairy green, the flowers peeped out joyfully, the birds sang from morning till night, and the forest became paradise.

Rachel, Kitty, and Phil almost lived there. Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine had become lenient in the matter of lessons. Miss Griselda was wise enough to believe in nature's lessons and to think fine fresh air the best tonic in all the world for both mind and body. Phil was in his element in the forest. He was always finding new beetles and fresh varieties of chrysalides, which he and Kitty carefully treasured; and as to the roots and the flowers and the mosses which these children collected, even good-natured Newbolt at last gave vent to strong expressions of disapproval, and asked if the whole of the house was to be turned topsy-turvy with their messes.

Phil could do what he liked in his old tower bedroom; his mother never interfered with him there. This quaint old room was Liberty Hall to Phil. Here he could groan if he wanted to, or sigh if he wanted to, or talk his secrets to the silent, faithful walls if he wanted to; and here he brought his spiders and his beetles and his mosses, and kept them in odd bottles and under broken gla.s.ses, and messed away to his heart's content without any one saying him nay.

Downstairs Mrs. Lovel was a most careful and correct mother--never petting and never spoiling, always on her guard, always watchful and prim. Miss Griselda was wont to say that with all her follies she had never come across a more sagacious and sensible mother than Mrs. Lovel.

As a mother she approved of her absolutely; but then Miss Griselda never saw behind the scenes; she never saw what went on in the tower bedroom, where Mrs. Lovel would take the boy in her arms, and strain him to her heart with pa.s.sionate kisses, and pet him and make much of him, and consult him, and, above all things, faithfully promise him that after the 5th of May the burden which was crus.h.i.+ng his young life should be removed, and he might be his own natural and unrestrained self again.

Mrs. Lovel had got a dreadful fright when she first read young Rupert's letter; but when day after day and week after week pa.s.sed and no tidings of Rupert or his father reached Avonsyde, she began to hope that even though they were in England, they had come over on business in no way connected with the old family home; in short, even though they were in England, they had not seen those advertis.e.m.e.nts which had almost turned her head.

The weeks pa.s.sed quickly, and she began to breathe freely and to be almost happy once more. The loss of the tankard was certainly disquieting, but she felt sure that with the aid of the stolen letters she could substantiate her boy's claim, and she also reflected that if the tankard was lost to her it was also lost to her brother-in-law, Rupert Lovel.

So life went quite smoothly at Avonsyde, and day after day the weather became more balmy and springlike, and day after day Miss Griselda's face wore a softer and gentler expression; for the little heir-apparent was altogether after her own heart, and she was contented, as all women are when they find a worthy object to love.

Miss Katharine too was smiling and happy in these early spring days. She had never forgotten the face of the mother who had left her two children in her charge nearly six years ago. That young and agonized face had haunted her dreams; some words which those poor trembling lips had uttered had recurred to her over and over.

"It breaks my heart to part with the children," the mother had said, "but if in no other way I can provide for their future, I sacrifice myself willingly. I am willing to obliterate myself for their sakes."

Miss Katharine had felt, when these words were wrung from a brave and troubled heart, that pride was indeed demanding a cruel thing; but for Miss Griselda she would have said:

"Come here with your children. You are Valentine's wife, and for his sake we will be good to you as well as them."

Miss Katharine had longed to say these words, but fear of her elder sister had kept her silent, and ever since her heart had reproached her.

Now she felt cheerful, for she knew that on Rachel's birthday the mother of the children would return, and she knew also that when she came she would not go away again.

Rachel's charming little face had lost a good deal of its watchful and unrestful expression during the last few weeks. She had seen Nancy White more than once, and Nancy had so strongly impressed on her the fact that on the 5th of May the lady of the forest would reveal herself, and all the mystery of her secret and her seclusion be explained, that the little girl grew hopeful and bright and fixed her longing eyes on that birthday which was to mean so much to so many. Kitty too looked forward to the 5th of May as to a delightful general holiday; in short, every one was excited about it, except the child to whom it meant the most of all. Little Phil alone was unconcerned about the great day--little Phil alone lived happily in the present, and, if anything, rather put the future out of sight. To him the thought of the inheritance which on that day was to be forced upon him was felt to be a heavy burden; but, then, those little shoulders were already over-weighted, and G.o.d knew and little Phil also knew that they could not bear any added burden.

Of late little Phil had been very glad to feel that G.o.d knew about his secrets and his cares, and in his own very simple, childish little way he used lately to ask him not to add to them; and now that he was sure G.o.d knew everything, he ceased to trouble his head very much about all that was to happen on Rachel's birthday.

Thus every one at Avonsyde, with the exception of little Phil, was happy in the future, but he alone was perfectly happy in the present. His collection of all kinds of natural curiosities grew and multiplied, and he spent more and more time in the lovely forest. The delicious spring air did him good, and his mother once more hoped and almost believed that health and strength lay before him.

One day, quite toward the end of April, Kitty, his constant companion, had grown tired and refused to stay out any longer. The day was quite hot, and the little boy wandered on alone under the shade of the trees.

As usual when quite by himself, he chose the least-frequented paths, and as usual the vague hope came over him that he might see the lovely green lady of the forest. No such exquisite vision was permitted to him, but instead he came suddenly upon Nancy White, who was walking in the forest and picking up small dry branches and sticks, which she placed in a large basket hung over her arm. When she saw Phil she started and almost dropped her basket.

"Well I never!" she exclaimed. "You has gone and given me a start, little master."

"How do you do, Nancy?" said Phil, going up to her, speaking in a polite voice, and holding out his hand. "How is the lady of the forest? Please tell her that, I have kept her secret most carefully, that no one knows it but Rachel, and she knew it long ago. I hope the lady is very well, Nancy."

"Yes, my dear, she is well and hopeful. The days are going on, Master Philip Lovel, and each day as it pa.s.ses brings a little more hope. I am sure you are little gentleman enough to keep the lady's secret."

"Everybody speaks about the days pa.s.sing and hope growing," said Phil.

"I--I--Nancy, did you ever see the green lady about here? She could bring me hope. How I wish I could see her!"

"Now, don't be fanciful, my dear little gentleman," answered Nancy.

"Them thoughts about fairies and such-like are very bad for growing children. You shouldn't allow your head to wander on such nonsense.

Little boys and girls should attend to their spelling lessons, and eat plenty, and go to bed early, and then they have no time for fretting after fairies and such. It isn't canny to hear you talk as you do of the green lady, Master Phil."

"Isn't it?" said Phil. "I am sorry. I do wish to see her. I want a gift from her. Good-by, Nancy. Give my love to the lady."

"I will so, dear; and tell me, are you feeling any way more perky--like yourself?"

"I'm very well, except when I'm very bad," answered Phil. "Just now I'm as well as possible, but in the evenings I sometimes get tired, and then it rather hurts me to mount up so many stairs to my tower bedroom; but oh! I would not sleep in any other room for the world. I love my tower room."

"Well, you'll be a very happy little boy soon," said Nancy--"a very happy, rich little boy; for if folks say true everything has to be given to you on the 5th of May."

"A lot of money and lands, you mean," said Phil. "Oh, yes; but they aren't everything--oh, dear, no! I know what I want, and I am not likely to have it. Good-by, Nancy; good-by."

Phil ran off, and Nancy pursued her walk stolidly and soberly.

"The look grows," she said to herself--"the look grows and deepens. Poor little lad! he is right enough when he says that gold and lands won't satisfy him. Well, now, I'm doing him no harm by keeping back the silver tankard. It's only his good-for-nothing mother as will be put out, and that middle-aged man in London and that other boy. What do I care for that other boy, or for any one in all the world but my missus and her dear little ladies? There, there, that tankard is worse than a nightmare to me. I hate it, and I'd give all the world never to have seen it; but there, now that I've got it I'll keep it."