The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls

  CHAPTER XXIV.--A GREAT ALARM.

  "Katharine," said Miss Griselda to her younger sister, "do you happen toremember the address of those lodgings in London where we wrote yearsago to Rachel's and Kitty's mother? The 5th of May will be this dayweek, and although I dislike the woman, and of course cannot possiblyagree with you as to her being in any sense of the word a lady, yetstill when Griselda Lovel passes her word she does pass it, and I thinkit is right, however painful, to give the young woman the invitation forthe 5th of May."

  "We wrote one letter nearly six years ago to No. 10 Abbey Street,Marshall Road, S.W., London," answered Miss Katharine in a sharp voicefor her. "One letter to a mother about her own children; but that wasthe address, Griselda."

  "No. 10 Abbey Street," repeated Miss Griselda. "I shall send the youngwoman an invitation to-day. Of course it won't reach her, for she isdead long ago; but it is only right to send it. Katharine, you don'tlook well this morning. Is anything the matter?"

  "Nothing more than usual," answered Miss Katharine. "One letter in sixyears to Valentine's wife. Oh, no, I was not likely to forget theaddress."

  "Allow me to congratulate you on your excellent memory, my dear. Oh,here comes Phil's mother. I have much to talk over with her."

  Miss Katharine left the room; her head was throbbing and tears roseunbidden to her eyes. When she reached the great hall she sat down on anoak bench and burst into tears.

  "How cruel of Griselda to speak like that of Valentine's wife," she saidunder her breath. "If Valentine's wife is indeed dead I shall never knowanother happy moment. Oh, Rachel and Kitty, my dears, I did not see youcoming in."

  "Yes, and here is Phil too," said Kitty, dragging him forward. "Why areyou crying, Aunt Katharine? Do dry your tears and look at our lovelyflowers."

  "I am thinking about your mother, children," said Miss Katharinesuddenly. "Does it ever occur to you two thoughtless, happy girls thatyou have got a mother somewhere in existence--that she loves you andmisses you?"

  "I don't know my mother," said Kitty. "I can't remember her, but Rachelcan."

  "Yes," said Rachel abruptly. "I'm going all round the world to look forher by and by. Don't let's talk of her; I can't bear it."

  The child's face had grown pale; a look of absolute suffering filled herdark and glowing eyes. Miss Katharine was so much astonished at thislittle peep into Rachel's deep heart that she absolutely dried her owntears. Sometimes she felt comforted at the thought of Rachel suffering.If even one child did not quite forget her mother, surely this factwould bring pleasure to the mother by and by.

  Meanwhile Miss Griselda was holding a solemn and somewhat alarmingconversation with poor Mrs. Lovel. In the first place, she took the goodlady into the library--a dark, musty-smelling room, which gave thisvivacious and volatile person, as she expressed it, "the horrors" on thespot. Miss Griselda having secured her victim and having seated her onone of the worm-eaten, high-backed chairs, opened the book-case marked Dand took from it the vellum-bound diary which six years ago she hadcarried to the old squire's bedroom. From the musty pages of the diaryMiss Griselda read aloud the story of the great quarrel; she read in anintensely solemn voice, with great emphasis and even passion. MissGriselda knew this part of the history of her house so well that shescarcely needed to look at the words of the old chronicler.

  "It may seem a strange thing to you, Mrs. Lovel," she said when she hadfinished her story--"a strange and incomprehensible thing that yourwhite-faced and delicate-looking little boy should in any way resemblethe hero of this quarrel."

  "Phil is not delicate," feebly interposed Mrs. Lovel.

  "I said delicate-looking. Pray attend to me. The Rupert who quarreledwith his father--I will confess to you that my sympathies are withRupert--was in the right. He was heroic--a man of honor; he was brave andstalwart and noble. Your boy reminds me of him--not in physique, no, no!but his spirit looks out of your boy's eyes. I wish to make him the heirof our house."

  "Oh, Miss Griselda, how can a poor, anxious mother thank you enough?"

  "Don't thank me at all. I do it in no sense of the word for you. The boypleases me; he has won on my affections; I--love him."

  Miss Griselda paused. Perhaps never before in the whole course of herlife had she openly admitted that she loved any one. After a periodwhich seemed interminable to poor Mrs. Lovel she resumed:

  "My regard for the boy is, however, really of small consequence; he canonly inherit under the conditions of my father's will. These conditionsare that he must claim direct descent from the Rupert Lovel who wastreated so unjustly two hundred years ago, and that he has, as far as itis possible for a boy to have, perfect physical health."

  Mrs. Lovel grew white to her very lips.

  "Phil is perfectly strong," she repeated.

  Miss Griselda stared at her fixedly.

  "I have judged of that for myself," she said coldly. "I have studiedmany books on the laws of health and many physiological treatises, andhave trusted to my own observation rather than to any doctor's casualopinion. The boy is pale and slight, but I believe him to be strong, forI have tested him in many ways. Without you knowing it I have made himgo through many athletic exercises, and he has often run races in mypresence. I believe him to be sound. We will let that pass. The otherand even more important matter is that he should now prove his descent.You have shown me some of your proofs, and they certainly seem to meincontestable, but I have not gone really carefully into the matter. Mylawyer, Mr. Baring, will come down here on the afternoon of the 4th andcarefully go over with you all your letters and credentials. On the 5thI have incited many friends to come to Avonsyde, and on that occasionKatharine and I will present Philip to our many acquaintances as ourheir. We will make the occasion as festive as possible, and would askyou to see that Philip is suitably and becomingly dressed. You know moreof the fashions of the world than we do, so we will leave the matter ofdevice in your hands, of course bearing all the expense ourselves. Bythe way, you have observed in the history I have just read how the oldsilver tankard is mentioned. In that terrible scene where Rupert finallyparts with his father, he takes up the tankard and declares that 'Tydewhat may' he will yet return vindicated and honored to the old familyhome. That was a prophecy," continued Miss Griselda, rising withexcitement to her feet; "for you have brought the boy and also the verytankard which Rupert took away with him. I look upon your possession ofthe tankard, as the strongest proof of all of the justice of your claim.By the way, you have never yet shown it to me. Do you mind fetching itnow?"

  Muttering something almost unintelligible, Mrs. Lovel rose and left thelibrary. She crossed the great hall, opened the oak door which led tothe tower staircase, and mounting the winding and worn stairs, presentlyreached her bedroom. The little casement windows were opened, and thesweet air of spring was filling the quaint chamber. Mrs. Lovel shut andlocked the door; then she went to one of the narrow and slit-likewindows and looked out. A wide panorama of lovely landscape lay beforeher; miles of forest lands undulated away to the very horizon; the airwas full of the sweet songs of many birds; the atmosphere was perfumedwith all the delicious odors of budding flowers and opening leaves. Inits way nothing could have been more perfect; and it was for Phil--allfor Phil! All the beauty and the glory and the loveliness, all thewealth and the comfort and the good position, were for Phil, her onlylittle son. Mrs. Lovel clasped her hands, and bitter tears came to hereyes. The cup was almost to the boy's lips. Was it possible thatanything could dash it away now?

  The tankard--she was sent to fetch the silver tankard--the tankard whichPhil himself had lost! What could she do? How could she possibly framean excuse? She dared not tell Miss Griselda that her boy had lost it.She felt so timid, so insecure, that she dared not confess what anordinary woman in ordinary circumstances would have done. She dreadedthe gaze of Miss Griselda's cold, unbelieving gray eyes; she dreaded theshort sarcastic speech she would be sure to make. No, no, she dared notconfess; she must dissemble; she must prevaricate; on no a
ccount mustshe tell the truth. She knew that Miss Griselda was waiting for her inthe library; she also knew that the good lady was not remarkable forpatience; she must do something, and at once.

  In despair she rang the bell, and when Newbolt replied to it she foundMrs. Lovel lying on her bed with her face partly hidden.

  "Please tell Miss Lovel that I am ill, Newbolt," she said. "I have beentaken with a very nasty headache and trembling and faintness. Ask her ifshe will excuse my going downstairs just for the present."

  Newbolt departed with her message, and Mrs. Lovel knew that she had afew hours' grace. She again locked the door and, rising from her bed,paced up and down the chamber. She was far too restless to remain quiet.Was it possible that the loss of the tankard might be, after all, herundoing? Oh, no! the dearly loved possession was now so close; theauspicious day was so near; the certainty was at her door. No, no! theletters were proof of Philip's claim; she need not be so terriblyfrightened. Although she reasoned in this way, she felt by no meansreassured, and it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps if she went intothe forest she might find the tankard herself. It might be lying evennow forgotten, unnoticed under some bush beside the treacherous bogwhich had almost swallowed up her boy. What a happy thought! Oh, yes,she herself would go to look for it.

  Mrs. Lovel did not know the forest as Phil and Rachel and Kitty did. Theforest by itself had no charms whatever for her. She disliked itssolitude; she saw no beauty in its scenery; no sweetness came to hersoul from the song of its happy birds or the brilliance of its wildflowers. No, no--the city and life and movement and gayety for Mrs.Lovel; she was a poor artificial creature, and Nature was not likely towhisper her secrets into her ears.

  When Phil came up by and by his mother questioned him minutely as to thepart of the forest into which he had wandered. Of course he could nottell her much; but she got a kind of idea, and feeble as her knowledgewas she resolved to act on it.

  Early the next morning she rose from an almost sleepless bed, andcarefully dressing so as not to awaken her sleeping boy, she stoledownstairs and, as Phil had done some months before, let herself out bya side entrance into the grounds. It was winter when Phil had gone onhis little expedition--a winter's morning, with its attendant cold anddamp and gloom; but now the spring sun was already getting up, the dewsparkled on the grass, and the birds were having a perfect chorus ofrejoicing. Even Mrs. Lovel, unimpressionable as she was to all nature'sdelights, was influenced by the crisp and buoyant air and the sense ofrejoicing which the birds and flowers had in common. She stepped quitsbriskly into the forest and said to herself:

  "My spirits are rising; that terrible depression I underwent yesterdayis leaving me. I take this as a good omen and believe that I may findthe tankard."

  Phil had given her certain directions, and for some time she walked onbravely, expecting each moment to come to the spot where the boy hadassured her the beaten track ended and she must plunge into the recessesof the primeval forest itself. Of course she lost her way, and afterwandering along for some hours, seated herself in an exhausted state atthe foot of a tree, and there, without in the least intending to do so,fell asleep.

  Mrs. Lovel was unaccustomed to any physical exercise, and her long walk,joined to her sleepless night, made her now so overpoweringly drowsythat she not only slept, but slept heavily.

  In her sleep she knew nothing at all of the advance the day was making.The sun's rays darting through the thick foliage of the giant oak treeunder which she slumbered did not in the least disturb her, and whensome robins made their breakfast close by and twittered and talked toone another she never heard them. Some rabbits and some squirrels peepedat her quite saucily, but they never even ruffled her placid repose. Herhead rested against the tree, her bonnet was slightly pushed back, andher hands lay folded over each other in her lap.

  Presently there was a sound of footsteps, and a woman came up and bentover the sleeping lady in the forest. The woman was dressed in a shortpetticoat, strong boots, a striped jersey jacket, and a shawl thrownover her head; she carried a basket on her arm and she was engaged inher favorite occupation of picking sticks.

  "Dearie me! now, whoever is this?" said Nancy White as she bent overPhil's mother. "Dearie, dearie, a poor white-looking thing; no bone ormuscle or go about her, I warrant. And who has she a look of? I knowsome one like her--and yet--no, it can't be--no. Is it possible that shefeatures pretty little Master Phil?"

  Nancy spoke half-aloud, and came yet nearer and bent very low indeedover the sleeper.

  "She do feature Master Phil and she has got the dress of a fine lady.Oh, no doubt she's his poor, weak bit of a mother! Bless the boy! Nowonder he's ailing if she has the mothering of him."

  Nancy's words were all muttered half-aloud, and under ordinary occasionssuch sounds would undoubtedly have awakened Mrs. Lovel; now they onlycaused her to move restlessly and to murmur some return words in hersleep.

  "Phil, if we cannot find that tankard we are undone." Then after apause: "It is a long way to the bog. I wonder if Phil has left thetankard on the borders of the bog."

  On hearing these sentences, which were uttered with great distinctnessand in accents almost bordering on despair, Nancy suddenly threw herbasket to the ground; then she clasped her two hands over her head and,stepping back a pace or two, began to execute a hornpipe, to the intenseastonishment of some on-lookers in the shape of birds and squirrels.

  "Ah, my lady fair!" she exclaimed, "what you have let out now makesassurance doubly sure. And so you think you'll find the precious tankardin the bog! Now, now, what shall I do? How can I prevent your going anyfurther on such a fool's quest? Ah, my pretty little ladies, my prettyMiss Rachel and Miss Kitty, I believe I did you a good turn when I hidthat tankard away."

  Nancy indulged in a few more expressions of self-congratulation then, asudden idea coming to her, she fumbled in her pocket for a bit of paper,and scribbling something on it laid it on the sleeping lady's lap.

  When Mrs. Lovel awoke, somewhere close on midday, she took up the littlepiece of paper and read its contents with startled eyes:

  "Come what may come, tyde what may tyde, Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde.

  "False heirs never yet have thriven; Tankards to the right are given."

  The last two lines, which Nancy had composed in a perfect frenzy ofexcitement and rapture at what she considered a sudden development ofthe poetic fancy, caused poor Mrs. Lovel's cheeks to blanch and her eyesto grow dim with a sudden overpowering sense of fear. She rose to herfeet and pursued her way home, trembling in every limb.