The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls

“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.