The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls Read online

  CHAPTER XIV.--THE AUSTRALIANS.

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

  The gentlemen decided to wait the younger Mr. Baring's leisure, and inconsequence 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 fearit means that my six years of bitter sacrifice have come to nothing andthe heir is found."

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

  "There is no reason whatever for you to despair. At this present momentmy father and I are absolutely aware of two claimants for the Avonsydeheirship--only one can inherit the place and both may prove unsuitable.You know that the ladies will not bequeath their property to any one whocannot prove direct descent from the elder branch; also the heir must bestrong and vigorous. Up to the present neither my father nor I have seenany conclusive proof of direct succession. We are quite aware that alittle 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 inthe matter without our sanction. I would not fret beforehand, Mrs.Lovel. It seems tame and old-fashioned advice, but I should recommendyou for your own sake to hope for the best."

  "I will do so," said Mrs. Lovel, rising to her feet. "I will do so, eventhough I can no longer buoy myself up with false dreams. I feelabsolutely convinced that before Rachel's birthday an heir will be foundfor the old place. Let it be so--I shall not struggle. It may be best formy children to come back to me; it will certainly be best for me to havethem 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 youand of quite a profitable kind. By the way, the new claimants--they havejust come from Australia and I am to see them in a moment--are in adesperate taking about an old tankard which seems to have been a familyheirloom 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 tocall on the morrow, left him. To effect her exit from the house she hadto pass through the room where the Australians were waiting. Herinterview had excited her; her pale face was slightly flushed; her veilwas up. Perhaps the slight color on those usually pale cheeks hadbrought back some of the old and long-forgotten girlish bloom. Thewinter's day was sunshiny, and as she walked through the waiting-roomthe intense light throwing her features into strong relief, so stronglyand so vividly did that slight and rather worn figure stand out that aman 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 yourmother'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 amnow a widow and, I may say it, childless; and, Rupert, the strangestpart of all, my name too is Lovel."

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

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

  "The boy and I will look you up, then, this evening. I fear our time nowbelongs 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, buteven he was somewhat amazed when these fresh claimants for the Avonsydeproperty occupied quite half an hour of his valuable time by asking himnumerous and sundry questions with regard to that pale and somewhatinsignificant 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 andson, were furnished with at least a few clews to a very painful story.So excited and interested was Rupert Lovel, senior, that he even forgotthe important business that had brought him all the way from Australia,and the lawyer had himself gently to divert his client's thoughts intothe necessary channel.

  Finally the father and son left the Barings' office a good dealperturbed and excited and with no very definite information to guidethem.

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

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

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

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

  "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 likeit. Well, we'll have a long talk with Rachel and get to the bottom ofeverything 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 abit of a bonny lass, as young, quite as young as Rupert here? I have gottwo young daughters of my own, and don't you suppose I feel for a womanwho is the mother of girls? You tell me your whole story, Rachel. How isit that you, who have married a Lovel of Avonsyde, should be practicallyshut away from the house and unrecognized by the family? When I met youlast in Melbourne you looked free enough from cares, and your father wasfairly 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 myconfidence to any human being for years," answered Mrs. Lovel. Then shepaused. "Yes, I will trust you, Rupert, and my story can be told in afew 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 thescene 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 aspossible. Shortly after we came to England my father died. He was notwell off, as we supposed; he died heavily in debt and I was penniless. Iwas not sufficiently highly educated to earn my bread as a teacher--as ateacher I should have starved; but I had a taste for millinery and I gotemployment in a milliner's shop in a good part of London. I stayed inthat shop for about a year. At the end of that time I married ValentineLovel. We had very little money, but we were perfectly happy; and eventhough Valentine's people refused to acknowledge me, their indifferenceduring my dear husband's lifetime did not take an iota from myhappiness. Two babies were born, both little girls. I know Valentinelonged for a son, and often said that the birth of a boy would mostprobably lead to a reconciliation with his father. No son, however,arrived, and my dear husband died of consumption when my eldest littlegirl was five years old. I won't dwell on his death, nor on one or twoagonized letters which he wrote to his hard old father. He died withoutone token of reconciliation coming to cheer him from Avonsyde; and whenI laid him in the grave I can only say that I think my heart had grownhard against all the world.

  "I had the children to live for, and it is literally true that I had notime to sit down and cry for Valentine's loss. The little girls had afaithful nurse; her name was Nancy White; she is with me still. She tookcare of my dear, beautiful babies while I earned money to put bread inall our mouths. I had literally not a penny in the world except what Icould earn, for the allowance Valentine had always received from hisfather was discontinued at his death. I went back to the shop where Ihad worked as a milliner before my marriage; there happened to be avacancy, and they were good enough to take me back. Of course we werefearfully poor and lived in wretched lodgings; but however much Nancyand I denied ourselves, the children wanted for nothing. They werelovely children--uncommon. Any one could see that they had come of aproud old race. The eldest girl was called after her father and me; shewas not like Valentine in appearance, neither did she resemble me. I amdark, but Rachel's eyes were of the deepest, darkest brown; her hair wasblack as night and her complexion a deep, glowing rosy brown. She was asplendid creature; so large, so noble-looking--not like either of us; butwith a look--yes, Rupert, with a look of that boy of yours. Kittyresembled her father and was a delicate, lovely, ethereal littlecreature; 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 yearand a half all went fairly well. But then I caught cold; for a time Iwas ill--too ill to work--and my situation at the milliner's shop wasquickly filled up. I had a watch and a few valuable rings and trinketswhich Valentine had given me. I sold them one by one and we lived on thelittle money they fetched. But the children were only half-fed, and onewretched day of a hot and stifling July Kitty fainted away quietly in myarms. That decided me. I made up my mind on the spot. I had a diamondring, 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 soldit. I was fortunate; I got L10 for it. I hurried off at once and boughtmaterial, and made up with Nancy's help lovely and picturesque dressesfor both the children. I believe I had a correct eye for color, and Idressed 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 petsand fetched a cab for me, and we drove away to Waterloo. I had so littlemoney left that I could only afford third-class tickets, but I took themto Lyndhurst Road, and when we arrived there drove straight to Avonsyde.The children were as excited and pleased as possible. They knew nothingof any coming parting, and were only anxious to see their grandfatherand the house which their father had so often spoken to them about. Theywere children who had never been scolded; no harsh words had ever beenaddressed to them, consequently they knew nothing of fear. When they gotinto the lovely old place they were wild with delight. 'Kitty,' saidRachel, 'let us go and find our grandfather.' Before I could restrainthem they were off; but indeed I had no wish to hinder them, for I feltsure they would plead their own cause best. We had arrived at a criticalmoment, for that was the last day of the old squire's life. I saw hisdaughters--my sisters-in-law. We had a private interview and made termswith one another. These were the terms: The ladies of Avonsyde wouldtake my darlings and care for them and educate them, and be, as theyexpressed it, 'mothers' to them, on condition that I gave them up. Isaid I would not give them up absolutely. I told the ladies quiteplainly why I brought them at all. I said it was out of no love orrespect for the cruel grandfather who had disowned them; it was out ofno love or respect for the sisters, who did not care what became oftheir brother's children: it was simply and entirely out of my greatmother-love for the children themselves. I would rather part with themthan see them starve or suffer. 'But,' I added, 'there are limits evento my self-denial. I will not give them up forever. Name the term ofyears, but there must be a limit to the parting.'

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

  "I did not take the slightest notice of her. I repeated again, moredistinctly: 'The parting must have a limit; name a term of years.' Thenthe ladies decided that on Rachel's thirteenth birthday--she was justseven then--I should come back to Avonsyde, and if I so wished and mylittle girls so wished I should have one or both of them back again. Theladies told me at the same time of their father's will. They said that amost vigorous search was going to be commenced at once for an heir ofthe elder branch. At the same time they both stated their convictionthat no such heir would be forthcoming, for they said that no trace ortidings had been heard of Rupert Lovel from the day, nearly two hundredyears ago, when he left Avonsyde. Their conviction was that Rupert haddied without descendants. In that case, both the ladies said, the littlegirls must inherit the property; and Miss Griselda said further that shewould try to make arrangements with her father to so alter his will thatif no heir had been found on Rachel's thirteenth birthday, Valentine'schildren 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 couldbear a great deal, but that parting I could not have endured. I wentback to London and to Nancy, and in a week's time I heard from MissLovel. She told me that her father was dead, but that the necessarycodicil had been added to the will, and that if no heir appeared beforeRachel's thirteenth birthday my children would have a life-interest inthe place, and they themselves would be bound over to go on with thesearch. Miss Lovel further added that in any case the children should beeducated and cared for in the best possible manner.

  "Those were the entire contents of her letter. She sent me no messagefrom my darlings, and from that hour to this I have never heard fromher. From that hour, too, my terrible, terrible heart-hunger began. Noone knows what I suffered, what I suffer for want of the children. Werethe sacrifice to be made again, I don't think I could go through it, andyet God only knows. For two or three years I made a very scantylivelihood; then I was fortunate enough to invent a certainshowy-looking lace. I could make my own patterns and do it very quicklyby hand. To my great surprise it took, and from that hour I have hadmore orders than I can execute. My wants are very few and I have evensaved money: I have over L400 put away. My dream of dreams is to have mychildren back with me--that is my selfish dream. Of course it will bebest for them to be rich and to have the old place, but in any case Iwill not consent to so absolute a separation as now exists between us. Ayear ago a gentleman and his wife who had been kind to me, although theyknew nothing of my story, asked me if I would like to take charge of alittle cottage of theirs in the New Forest. It is a tiny place,apparently lost in underwood and bracken, which they themselves occupyfor a fortnight
or so in the course of the year. The temptation was toogreat. 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, Imust 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 comeby and by, and then the greatness of my trouble will be over."

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

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

  "I forgot to mention," continued Mrs. Lovel, "that a little boy is nowat 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 winningmanner, and it is reported that the old ladies have both lost theirhearts to him. I cannot say that I think he looks strong, but he is adear little boy."

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

  "Just like his mother," growled the elder Lovel. "A mischievous,interfering, muddle-headed woman, sure to put her foot in a thing andsafe to make mischief. Forgive me, Rachel, but I feel strongly aboutthis. 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 thatmother 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 allthis news. Don't leave London until you hear from me. I think you maytrust me, and--God bless you!"