Avonsyde was a very old property. The fair lands had been bestowed by
William Rufus on a certain Rupert Lovel who was fortunate enough to earn
the gratitude of this most tyrannical and capricious of monarchs. Rupert
Lovel had laid the first stone of the present house and had lived there
until his death. He was succeeded by many wild and lawless descendants.
As time went on they added to the old house, and gained, whether wrongly
or rightly no one could say, more of the forest lands as their own.
Avonsyde was a large property in the olden days, and the old squires
ruled those under them by what was considered at that period the only
safe and wholesome rule--that of terror. They were a proud,
self-confident, headstrong race, very sure of one thing--that whatever
happened Avonsyde would never cease to be theirs. An old prophecy was
handed down from father to son to this effect. It had been put into a
couplet by a rhymer as great in his way as Thomas of border celebrity:
"Tyde what may betyde, Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde."
These words were taken as the motto of the house, and could be
deciphered in very quaint lettering just over the arch which supported a
certain portion of the tower. The tower was almost if not quite seven
hundred years old, and was another source of great pride and interest to
the family.
Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine could not have done little Philip Lovel
a greater honor than when they arranged the tower bedroom for his
reception. In their opinion, and in the opinion of every retainer of the
family, they indeed showed respect to the child and the child's claim
when they got this gloomy apartment into order for him and his mother;
but when Mrs. Lovel, a timid and nervous woman, saw the room, she
scarcely appreciated the honor conferred upon her and hers.
Avonsyde was a house which represented many periods; each addition was a
little more comfortable than its predecessor. For instance, the new
wing, with the beautiful drawing-rooms and spacious library, was all
that was luxurious; the cozy bedrooms where Rachel and Kitty slept, with
their thick walls and mullioned windows and deep old-fashioned
cupboards, were both cheerful and convenient; but in the days when the
tower was built ladies did without many things which are now considered
essential, and Mrs. Lovel had to confess to herself that she did not
like her room. In the first place, the tower rooms were completely
isolated from the rest of the house; they were entered by a door at one
side of the broad hall; this door was of oak of immense thickness, and
when it was shut no sound from the tower could possibly penetrate to the
rest of the house. At the other side of the oak door was a winding stone
staircase, very much worn and hollowed out by the steps of many
generations. The stairs wound up and up in the fashion of a corkscrew;
they had no rail and were very steep, and the person who ascended, if at
all timid, was very glad to lay hold of a slack rope which was loosely
run through iron rings at intervals in the wall.
After a great many of these steps had been climbed a very narrow stone
landing was discovered; three or four steps had then to be gone down,
and Mrs. Lovel found herself in an octagon-shaped room with a very low
ceiling and very narrow windows. The furniture was not only
old-fashioned, but shabby; the room was small; the bed was that
monstrosity, a four-poster; the curtains of velvet were black and rusty
with age and wear. In short, the one and only cheerful object which poor
Mrs. Lovel found in the apartment was the little white bed in one corner
which had been prepared for Philip's reception.
"Dear, dear, what remarkably steep stairs; and what a small--I mean not a
very large room! Are all the bedrooms of Avonsyde as small as this?" she
continued, interrogating Newbolt, who, starched and prim, but with a
comely fresh face, stood beside her.
"This is the tower bedroom, mem," answered the servant in a thin voice.
"The heir has always slept in this room, and the ladies has the two
over. That has always been the fashion at Avonsyde--the heir has this
room and the reigning ladies sleep overhead. This room is seven hundred
years old, mem."
Mrs. Lovel shivered.
"Very antiquated and interesting," she began, "but isn't it just a
little cold and just a little gloomy? I thought the other part of the
house so much more cheerful."
Newbolt raised her eyebrows and gazed at Mrs. Lovel as if she were
talking the rankest heresy.
"For them as don't value the antique there's rooms spacious and cheerful
and abundantly furnished with modern vanities in the new part of the
house," she replied. "Miss Rachel and Miss Kitty, for instance; their
bedroom isn't built more than three hundred years--a big room enough and
with a lot of sunlight, but terrible modern, and not to be made no
'count of at Avonsyde; and then there are two new bedrooms over the
drawing-rooms, where we put strangers. Very large they are and quite
flooded with sunlight; but of course for antiquity there are no rooms to
be compared with this one and the two where the ladies sleep. I am sorry
the room don't take your fancy, mem. I suppose, not being of the blood
of the family, you can't appreciate it. Shall I speak to the ladies on
the subject?"
"Oh! by no means, my good creature," replied poor Mrs. Lovel in alarm.
"The room of course is most interesting and wonderfully antiquated. I've
never seen such a room. And do your ladies really sleep higher up than
this? They must have wonderfully strong hearts to be able to mount any
more of those steep--I mean curious stairs."
Newbolt did not deign to make any comment with regard to the sound
condition of Miss Griselda's and Miss Katharine's physical hearts. She
favored the new-comer with a not-too-appreciative glance, and having
arranged matters as comfortably as she could for her in the dismal
chamber, left her to the peace and the solitude of a most solitary room.
The poor lady quite trembled when she found herself alone; the knowledge
that the room was so old filled her with a kind of mysterious awe. After
her experiences in the New World, she even considered the drawing-rooms
at Avonsyde by no means to be despised on the score of youth. Those
juvenile bedrooms of two hundred or three hundred years' standing where
Rachel and Kitty reposed were, in Mrs. Level's opinion, hoary and
weighted with age; but as to this tower-room, surely such an apartment
should only be visited at noon on a sunny day and in the company of a
large party!
"I'm glad the old ladies do sleep overhead," she said to herself. "What
truly awful attics theirs must be! I never saw such a terribly
depressing room as this. I'm certain it is haunted; I'm convinced there
must be a ghost here. If Philip were not sleeping here I should
certainly die. Oh, dear! what a risk I am running for the sake of
Philip. Much of this life would kill me! I find, too, that I am not very
good at keeping in my feelings, and I'll have to act--act all the time I
am here, and pretend I'm just in raptures with everything, when I am
not. That dreadful Newbolt saw through me about this room. Oh, dear! I
am a bad actor. Well, at any rate I am a good mother to Philip; it's a
splendid chance for Philip. But if he speaks about that pain in his side
we are lost! Poor Phil! these steep stairs are extremely bad for him."
There was plenty of daylight at present, and Mrs. Lovel could move about
her ancient chamber without any undue fear of being overtaken by the
terrors of the night. She took off her traveling bonnet and mantle,
arranged her hair afresh before a mirror which caused her to squint and
distorted every feature, and finally, being quite certain that she could
never lie down and rest alone on that bed, was about to descend the
stone stairs and to return to the more cheerful part of the house, when
gay, quick footsteps, accompanied by childish laughter, were heard
ascending, and Philip, accompanied by Kitty, bounded without any
ceremony into the apartment.
"Oh, mother, things are so delightful here," began the little boy, "and
Kitty fishes nearly as well as Rupert. And Kitty has got a pony and I'm
to have one; Aunt Grizel says so--one of the forest ponies, mother. Do
you know that the forest is full of ponies? and they are so rough and
jolly. And there are squirrels in the forest--hundreds of squirrels--and
all kinds of birds, and beetles and spiders, and ants and lizards!
Mother, the forest is such a lovely place! Is this our bedroom, mother?
What a jolly room! I say, wouldn't Rupert like it just?"
"If you're quick, Phil," began Kitty--"if you're very quick washing your
hands and brushing your hair, we can go back through the armory--that's
the next oldest part to the tower. I steal into the armory sometimes in
the dusk, for I do so hope some of the chain-armor will rattle. Do you
believe in ghosts, Phil? I do and so does Rachel."
"No, I'm not such a silly," replied Phil. "Mother, dear, how white you
are! Don't you like our jolly, jolly bedroom? Oh! I do, and wouldn't
Rupert love to be here?"
Mrs. Lovel's face had grown whiter and whiter.
"Phil," she said, "I must speak to you alone. Kitty, your little cousin
will meet you downstairs presently. Oh, Phil, my dear," continued the
poor lady when Kitty had succeeded in banging herself noisily and
unwillingly out of the room--"Phil, why, why will you spoil everything?"
"Spoil everything, mother?"
"Yes; you have spoken of Rupert--you have spoken twice of Rupert. Oh, we
had better go away again at once!"
"Dear Rupert!" said little Phil, with a sigh; "darling, brave Rupert!
Mother, how I wish he was here!"
"You will spoil everything," repeated the poor lady, wringing her hands
in despair. "You know what Rupert is--so strong and manly and beautiful
as a picture; and you know what the will says--that the strong one,
whether he be eldest or youngest, shall be heir. Oh, Phil, if those old
ladies know about Rupert we are lost!"
Phil had a most comical little face; a plain face decidedly--pale, with
freckles, and a slightly upturned nose. To those who knew it well it had
many charms. It was without doubt an expressive and speaking face; in
the course of a few minutes it could look sad to pathos, or so brimful
of mirth that to glance at it was to feel gay. The sad look now filled
the beautiful brown eyes; the little mouth drooped; the boy went up and
laid his head on his mother's shoulder.
"Do you know," he said, "I must say it, even though it hurts you. I want
Rupert to have everything. I love Rupert very dearly, and I think it
would be splendid for him to come here, and to own a lot of the wild
ponies, and to fish in that funny little river which Kitty calls the
Avon. Rupert would let me live with him perhaps, and maybe he'd give me
a pony, and I could find squirrels and spiders and ants in the
forest--oh! and caterpillars; I expect there are splendid specimens of
caterpillars here. Mother, when my heart is full of Rupert how can I
help speaking about him?"
Mrs. Lovel pressed her hand to her brow in a bewildered manner.
"We must go away then, Philip," she said. "As you love Rupert so well,
better even than your mother, we must go away. It was a pity you did not
tell me something of this before now, for I have broken into my
last--yes, my very last £20 to come here. We have not enough money to
take us back to Australia and to Rupert; still, we must go away, for the
old ladies will look upon us as impostors, and I could not bear that for
anything in the world."
"It is not only Rupert," continued Phil; "it's Gabrielle and Peggy;
and--and--mother, I can't help being fond of them; but, mother, I love you
best!"
"Do you really, Phil? Better than that boy? I never could see anything
in him. Do you love me better than Rupert, Phil?"
"Yes, of course; you are my mother, and when father died he said I was
always to love you and to do what you wanted. If you want Avonsyde, I
suppose you must have it some day when the old ladies die. I'll do my
best not to talk about Rupert, and I'll try to seem very strong, and
I'll never, never tell about the pain in my side. Give me a kiss,
mother. You shan't starve nor be unhappy. Oh! what an age we have been
chattering here, and Kitty is waiting for me, and I do so want to see
the armory! I wonder if there are ghosts there? It sounds silly to
believe in them; but Kitty does, and she's a dear little girl, nearly as
nice as Gabrielle. Good-by, mother; I'm off. I'll try to remember."