Messrs. Baring & Baring, the lawyers who transacted all the business
matters for the Misses Lovel, were much worried about Christmas-time
with clients. The elder Mr. Baring was engaged with a gentleman who had
come from the country to see him on special and urgent business, and in
consequence his son, a bright-looking, intelligent man of thirty, was
obliged to ask two gentlemen to wait in his anteroom or to call again,
while he himself interviewed a sorrowful-looking lady who required
immediate attention.
The gentlemen decided to wait the younger Mr. Baring's leisure, and in
consequence 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 fear
it means that my six years of bitter sacrifice have come to nothing and
the heir is found."
Mr. Baring raised his eyebrows; he did not trouble to inquire to whom
she had alluded. After a brief pause he said quietly:
"There is no reason whatever for you to despair. At this present moment
my father and I are absolutely aware of two claimants for the Avonsyde
heirship--only one can inherit the place and both may prove unsuitable.
You know that the ladies will not bequeath their property to any one who
cannot prove direct descent from the elder branch; also the heir must be
strong and vigorous. Up to the present neither my father nor I have seen
any conclusive proof of direct succession. We are quite aware that a
little 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 in
the matter without our sanction. I would not fret beforehand, Mrs.
Lovel. It seems tame and old-fashioned advice, but I should recommend
you for your own sake to hope for the best."
"I will do so," said Mrs. Lovel, rising to her feet. "I will do so, even
though I can no longer buoy myself up with false dreams. I feel
absolutely convinced that before Rachel's birthday an heir will be found
for the old place. Let it be so--I shall not struggle. It may be best for
my children to come back to me; it will certainly be best for me to have
them 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 you
and of quite a profitable kind. By the way, the new claimants--they have
just come from Australia and I am to see them in a moment--are in a
desperate taking about an old tankard which seems to have been a family
heirloom 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 to
call on the morrow, left him. To effect her exit from the house she had
to pass through the room where the Australians were waiting. Her
interview had excited her; her pale face was slightly flushed; her veil
was up. Perhaps the slight color on those usually pale cheeks had
brought back some of the old and long-forgotten girlish bloom. The
winter's day was sunshiny, and as she walked through the waiting-room
the intense light throwing her features into strong relief, so strongly
and so vividly did that slight and rather worn figure stand out that a
man 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 your
mother'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 am
now a widow and, I may say it, childless; and, Rupert, the strangest
part of all, my name too is Lovel."
"What a queer coincidence. Well, I am delighted to meet you. Where are
you staying? My boy and I have just come over from Australia, and your
friend, my dear wife, she is gone, Rachel. It was an awful blow; we
won't speak of it. I should like to see more of you. Where shall we
meet?"
Mrs. Lovel gave the address of the very humble lodgings which she
occupied when in London.
"The boy and I will look you up, then, this evening. I fear our time now
belongs 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, but
even he was somewhat amazed when these fresh claimants for the Avonsyde
property occupied quite half an hour of his valuable time by asking him
numerous and sundry questions with regard to that pale and somewhat
insignificant 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 and
son, were furnished with at least a few clews to a very painful story.
So excited and interested was Rupert Lovel, senior, that he even forgot
the important business that had brought him all the way from Australia,
and the lawyer had himself gently to divert his client's thoughts into
the necessary channel.
Finally the father and son left the Barings' office a good deal
perturbed and excited and with no very definite information to guide
them.
"Look here, Rupert, lad," said the elder Lovel. "It's about the saddest
thing in all the world, that poor soul depriving herself of her children
and then hoping against hope that the heir won't turn up. Why, of
course, lad, you are the heir; not a doubt of that. Poor Rachel! and she
was your mother's friend."
"But we won't set up our claim until we are certain about
everything--will we, father?" asked young Lovel. "Did you not hear Mr.
Baring say that many false heirs had laid claim to Avonsyde? The old
ladies want some one who can prove his descent, and we have not got all
the papers--have we, father?"
"No. It is an extraordinary thing about those letters being lost, and
also the old tankard. But they are safe to turn up. Who could have
stolen them? Perhaps Gabrielle has already written with news of their
safety. We might have a cab now to the General Post-office. I have no
doubt a budget of letters awaits me there. Why, Rupert, what are you
looking so melancholy about? The tankard and the letters may even now be
found. What's the matter, lad? It doesn't do for a hearty young chap
like you to wear such a dismal face. I tell you your claim is as good as
established."
"But I don't know that I want it to be established," said young Rupert
Lovel. "It is not nice to think of breaking that lady's heart. I don't
know what Gabrielle would say to doing anything so cruel to our mother's
friend."
"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 like
it. Well, we'll have a long talk with Rachel and get to the bottom of
everything 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 a
bit of a bonny lass, as young, quite as young as Rupert here? I have got
two young daughters of my own, and don't you suppose I feel for a woman
who is the mother of girls? You tell me your whole story, Rachel. How is
it that you, who have married a Lovel of Avonsyde, should be practically
shut away from the house and unrecognized by the family? When I met you
last in Melbourne you looked free enough from cares, and your father was
fairly 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 my
confidence to any human being for years," answered Mrs. Lovel. Then she
paused. "Yes, I will trust you, Rupert, and my story can be told in a
few 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 the
scene 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 as
possible. Shortly after we came to England my father died. He was not
well off, as we supposed; he died heavily in debt and I was penniless. I
was not sufficiently highly educated to earn my bread as a teacher--as a
teacher I should have starved; but I had a taste for millinery and I got
employment in a milliner's shop in a good part of London. I stayed in
that shop for about a year. At the end of that time I married Valentine
Lovel. We had very little money, but we were perfectly happy; and even
though Valentine's people refused to acknowledge me, their indifference
during my dear husband's lifetime did not take an iota from my
happiness. Two babies were born, both little girls. I know Valentine
longed for a son, and often said that the birth of a boy would most
probably lead to a reconciliation with his father. No son, however,
arrived, and my dear husband died of consumption when my eldest little
girl was five years old. I won't dwell on his death, nor on one or two
agonized letters which he wrote to his hard old father. He died without
one token of reconciliation coming to cheer him from Avonsyde; and when
I laid him in the grave I can only say that I think my heart had grown
hard against all the world.
"I had the children to live for, and it is literally true that I had no
time to sit down and cry for Valentine's loss. The little girls had a
faithful nurse; her name was Nancy White; she is with me still. She took
care of my dear, beautiful babies while I earned money to put bread in
all our mouths. I had literally not a penny in the world except what I
could earn, for the allowance Valentine had always received from his
father was discontinued at his death. I went back to the shop where I
had worked as a milliner before my marriage; there happened to be a
vacancy, and they were good enough to take me back. Of course we were
fearfully poor and lived in wretched lodgings; but however much Nancy
and I denied ourselves, the children wanted for nothing. They were
lovely children--uncommon. Any one could see that they had come of a
proud old race. The eldest girl was called after her father and me; she
was not like Valentine in appearance, neither did she resemble me. I am
dark, but Rachel's eyes were of the deepest, darkest brown; her hair was
black as night and her complexion a deep, glowing rosy brown. She was a
splendid creature; so large, so noble-looking--not like either of us; but
with a look--yes, Rupert, with a look of that boy of yours. Kitty
resembled her father and was a delicate, lovely, ethereal little
creature; 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 year
and a half all went fairly well. But then I caught cold; for a time I
was ill--too ill to work--and my situation at the milliner's shop was
quickly filled up. I had a watch and a few valuable rings and trinkets
which Valentine had given me. I sold them one by one and we lived on the
little money they fetched. But the children were only half-fed, and one
wretched day of a hot and stifling July Kitty fainted away quietly in my
arms. That decided me. I made up my mind on the spot. I had a diamond
ring, 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 sold
it. I was fortunate; I got £10 for it. I hurried off at once and bought
material, and made up with Nancy's help lovely and picturesque dresses
for both the children. I believe I had a correct eye for color, and I
dressed 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 pets
and fetched a cab for me, and we drove away to Waterloo. I had so little
money left that I could only afford third-class tickets, but I took them
to Lyndhurst Road, and when we arrived there drove straight to Avonsyde.
The children were as excited and pleased as possible. They knew nothing
of any coming parting, and were only anxious to see their grandfather
and the house which their father had so often spoken to them about. They
were children who had never been scolded; no harsh words had ever been
addressed to them, consequently they knew nothing of fear. When they got
into the lovely old place they were wild with delight. 'Kitty,' said
Rachel, 'let us go and find our grandfather.' Before I could restrain
them they were off; but indeed I had no wish to hinder them, for I felt
sure they would plead their own cause best. We had arrived at a critical
moment, for that was the last day of the old squire's life. I saw his
daughters--my sisters-in-law. We had a private interview and made terms
with one another. These were the terms: The ladies of Avonsyde would
take my darlings and care for them and educate them, and be, as they
expressed it, 'mothers' to them, on condition that I gave them up. I
said I would not give them up absolutely. I told the ladies quite
plainly why I brought them at all. I said it was out of no love or
respect for the cruel grandfather who had disowned them; it was out of
no love or respect for the sisters, who did not care what became of
their brother's children: it was simply and entirely out of my great
mother-love for the children themselves. I would rather part with them
than see them starve or suffer. 'But,' I added, 'there are limits even
to my self-denial. I will not give them up forever. Name the term of
years, but there must be a limit to the parting.'
"Then Miss Katharine, who seemed kinder-hearted than her sister, gave me
one or two compassionate glances, and even said, 'Poor thing!' once or
twice under her breath.
"I did not take the slightest notice of her. I repeated again, more
distinctly: 'The parting must have a limit; name a term of years.' Then
the ladies decided that on Rachel's thirteenth birthday--she was just
seven then--I should come back to Avonsyde, and if I so wished and my
little girls so wished I should have one or both of them back again. The
ladies told me at the same time of their father's will. They said that a
most vigorous search was going to be commenced at once for an heir of
the elder branch. At the same time they both stated their conviction
that no such heir would be forthcoming, for they said that no trace or
tidings had been heard of Rupert Lovel from the day, nearly two hundred
years ago, when he left Avonsyde. Their conviction was that Rupert had
died without descendants. In that case, both the ladies said, the little
girls must inherit the property; and Miss Griselda said further that she
would try to make arrangements with her father to so alter his will that
if no heir had been found on Rachel's thirteenth birthday, Valentine's
children 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 could
bear a great deal, but that parting I could not have endured. I went
back to London and to Nancy, and in a week's time I heard from Miss
Lovel. She told me that her father was dead, but that the necessary
codicil had been added to the will, and that if no heir appeared before
Rachel's thirteenth birthday my children would have a life-interest in
the place, and they themselves would be bound over to go on with the
search. Miss Lovel further added that in any case the children should be
educated and cared for in the best possible manner.
"Those were the entire contents of her letter. She sent me no message
from my darlings, and from that hour to this I have never heard from
her. From that hour, too, my terrible, terrible heart-hunger began. No
one knows what I suffered, what I suffer for want of the children. Were
the sacrifice to be made again, I don't think I could go through it, and
yet God only knows. For two or three years I made a very scanty
livelihood; then I was fortunate enough to invent a certain
showy-looking lace. I could make my own patterns and do it very quickly
by hand. To my great surprise it took, and from that hour I have had
more orders than I can execute. My wants are very few and I have even
saved money: I have over £400 put away. My dream of dreams is to have my
children back with me--that is my selfish dream. Of course it will be
best for them to be rich and to have the old place, but in any case I
will not consent to so absolute a separation as now exists between us. A
year ago a gentleman and his wife who had been kind to me, although they
knew nothing of my story, asked me if I would like to take charge of a
little cottage of theirs in the New Forest. It is a tiny place,
apparently lost in underwood and bracken, which they themselves occupy
for a fortnight or so in the course of the year. The temptation was too
great. 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, I
must 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 come
by and by, and then the greatness of my trouble will be over."
Mrs. Lovel paused. The Australians, father and son, had listened with
breathless interest to her words.
"I don't want to take the property from your children," said young
Rupert, with passion. "After what you have said and suffered, I hate to
be heir of Avonsyde."
"I forgot to mention," continued Mrs. Lovel, "that a little boy is now
at 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 winning
manner, and it is reported that the old ladies have both lost their
hearts to him. I cannot say that I think he looks strong, but he is a
dear little boy."
"That must be our Phil," said young Rupert, speaking with great
interest. "Of course, father that explains his queer letter to me. Poor
dear little Phil!"
"Just like his mother," growled the elder Lovel. "A mischievous,
interfering, muddle-headed woman, sure to put her foot in a thing and
safe to make mischief. Forgive me, Rachel, but I feel strongly about
this. 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 that
mother 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 all
this news. Don't leave London until you hear from me. I think you may
trust me, and--God bless you!"