When Rupert Lovel and his boy left the gloomy lodgings where Rachel's
and Kitty's mother was spending a few days, they went home in absolute
silence. The minds of both were so absorbed that they did not care to
speak. Young Rupert was a precocious lad, old and manly beyond his
years. Little Phil scarcely exaggerated when he drew glowing pictures of
this fine lad. The boy was naturally brave, naturally strong, and all
the circumstances of his bringing-up had fostered these qualities. His
had been no easy, bread-and-butter existence. He had scarcely known
poverty, for his father had been well off almost from his birth; but he
had often come in contact with danger, and latterly sorrow had met him.
He loved his mother passionately; even now he could scarcely speak of
her without a perceptible faltering in his voice, without a dimness
softening the light of his bright eagle eyes. Rupert at fifteen was in
all respects some years older than an English boy of the same age. It
would have struck any parent or guardian as rather ridiculous to send
this active, clever, well-informed lad to school. The fact was, he had
been to Nature's school to some purpose, and had learned deeply from
this most wonderful of all teachers.
When Rupert and his father reached the hotel in Jermyn Street where they
were staying, the boy looked the man full in the face and broke the
silence with these words:
"Now, father, is it worth it?"
"Is it worth what, my son?"
"You know, father. After hearing that lady talk I don't want Avonsyde."
The elder Lovel frowned. He was silent for a moment; then he laid his
hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Look me in the face, lad, and answer me a question."
"Yes, father."
"Do you trust me?"
"Why, of course. Can you doubt it?"
"Then go to bed and to sleep, and believe that nothing shall be done
which in the slightest degree shall tarnish your honor. Go to bed, boy,
and sleep peacefully, but just put one thought under your pillow. Right
is right and wrong is wrong. It sometimes so happens, Rupert, that it is
not the right and best thing to be simply magnanimous."
Rupert smiled.
"I am quite certain you will decide as my mother would have liked best,
sir," he said, and then he took his candle and left the room.
The greater part of the night the elder Lovel sat up. Early the next
morning he paid the family lawyers a visit.
"I have made up my mind, Mr. Baring," he said to the younger of these
gentlemen. "For the next few months I shall remain in England, but I
shall not bring my son forward as an heir to the Avonsyde property until
I can claim for him unbroken and direct descent. As I told you
yesterday, there are two unexpected obstacles in my way. I have
sustained a loss--I don't know how. An old tankard and a parcel of
valuable letters cannot be found. I am not leaving a stone unturned to
recover them. When I can lay my hand on the tankard and when, even more
important, I can produce the letters, I can show you by an unbroken
chain of evidence that my boy is the eldest son of the eldest son in
direct descent. I make no claim until I make all claim, Mr. Baring."
"I have to-day had a letter from the old ladies at Avonsyde," answered
Mr. Baring. "They seem pleased with the boy who is at present claiming
the property. From the tone of Miss Griselda's letter, I should judge
that if your boy does not put in his appearance the child who is at
present at Avonsyde will be publicly recognized as the heir. Even a
public recognition does not really interfere with your son if you can
prove his title; but undoubtedly it will be best for all parties that
you should make your claim before the other child is put into a false
position."
"When do you anticipate that the old ladies will absolutely decide?"
"They name a date--the 5th of May."
"I think I can promise one thing: after the 5th of May neither Rupert
nor I will interfere. We make claim before or on that date, not
afterward. The fact is, we know something of the child who is now at
Avonsyde."
Mr. Lovel, after enjoining absolute secrecy on the lawyers, went his
way, and that evening had a long interview with Mrs. Lovel.
"I fear," he said in conclusion, "that in no case would your girls come
into the place, except indeed under certain conditions."
"What are they?" asked Mrs. Lovel.
"That we find neither tankard nor letters and in consequence do not make
our claim, and that little Philip Lovel dies."
"Is he so ill as that?"
"He is physically unsound. The best doctors in Melbourne have examined
him and do not believe he will live to manhood. His mother comes of an
unhealthy family, and the boy takes after her physically--not mentally,
thank God!"
"Poor little Phil! He has a wonderfully sweet face."
"He has the bravest nature I ever met. My boy and girls would almost die
for Phil. The fact is, all this is most complicated and difficult, and
much of the mischief would have been avoided if only that wretched
sister-in-law of mine had been above-board."
"Yes," answered Mrs. Lovel; "but even her stealing a march on you does
not give you back the tankard nor the letter."
"True; and I don't suppose even she could have stolen them. Well,
Rachel, we must all hope for the best."
* * * * *
"If there is a thing that worries me," said Nancy White to herself--"if
there is a thing that keeps coming and coming into my dreams and getting
that fantastic and that queer in shape--one time being big enough to hold
quarts and quarts of water, and another time so small that you'd think
it would melt before your very eyes--it's this wretched silver can. It's
in my mind all day long and it's in my dreams all night long. There! I
wonder if the bit of a thing is bright enough now."
As Nancy spoke to herself she rubbed and polished and turned round and
round and tenderly dusted the lost tankard of the house of Lovel until
it really shone like a mirror.
"It takes a deal of trouble, and I'm sure it isn't worth it," she said
to herself. "I just kept it more out of a bit of mischief than anything
else in the beginning; but it just seems to me now as if I hated it, and
yet I couldn't part with it. I believe it's a bit of a haunted thing, or
it wouldn't come into my dreams after this fashion."
Nancy kept the tankard up in her bedroom. After giving it a last fond
rub and looking at it queerly with an expression half of admiration,
half of fear, she locked it up in a little cupboard in the wall and
tripped downstairs to attend to her mistress' comforts.
Mrs. Lovel kept no secrets from her old servant, and Nancy knew about
her mistress' adventures in London and her unexpected meeting with the
friend of her early days, Rupert Lovel. Still, Nancy had a shrewd
suspicion that not quite all was told her; she had a kind of idea that
there was something in the background.
"It comes over me," she said to herself--"it comes over me that unless I,
Nancy White, am as sharp as sharp and as cunning as cunning, my missus
and my young ladies will be done. What is it that the missus is keeping
in the back of her head to make her look that dreamy, and that wistful,
and that despairing, and yet that hopeful? My word, if I haven't seen
her smile as if she was almost glad once or twice. Poor dear! maybe she
knows as that little delicate chap can't be the heir; and as to the
others--the old gentleman and the fine young lad from the other side of
the earth--why, if they have a claim to make, why don't they make it? And
if they don't make it, then, say I, it's because they can't. Well, now,
anything is better than suspense, and I'll question my missus on that
very point straight away."
Accordingly, when Nancy had arranged the tea-tray in the most tempting
position and stirred the fire into the cheeriest blaze, she knelt down
before it and began to make some crisp and delicious toast. Nancy knew
that Mrs. Lovel had a weakness for the toast she made, and she also knew
that such an employment was very favorable to confidential conversation.
"Well, ma'am," she said suddenly, having coughed once or twice and gone
through one or two other little maneuvers to attract attention--"well,
ma'am, I wants to have my mind eased on a certain point. Is it, ma'am,
or is it not the case that the old gentleman from Australia means to do
you a mischief?"
"What do you mean, Nancy?" exclaimed Mrs. Lovel, laying down the lace
which she was embroidering and gazing at her old servant in some
astonishment. "The old gentleman from Australia? Why, Rupert Lovel
cannot be more than forty. He is a man in his prime, splendidly strong;
and as to his doing me a mischief, I believe, you silly old woman, that
he is one of my best friends."
"The proof of the pudding is in the eating," snorted Nancy. "You'll
excuse me, ma'am, but I'd like to prove that by his actions. He means
that young son of his to get possession of Avonsyde--don't he, ma'am?"
"His son is the real heir, Nancy. Dear Nancy, I wish to say something. I
must not be covetous for my little girls. If the real and lawful heir
turns up I have not a word to say. Nay, more, I think if I can be glad
on this subject I am glad that he should turn out to be the son of my
early and oldest friend."
"Oh, yes, ma'am, I'm not a bit surprised about you. Bother that toast,
how it will burn! It's just like you, ma'am, to give up everything for
six blessed years, and to have your heart well-nigh broke and your poor
eyes dimmed with crying, and then in the end, when the cup that you have
been so longing for is almost to your lips, to give up everything again
and to be glad into the bargain. That's just like you, ma'am; but,
you'll excuse me, it ain't like Nancy White, and if you can be glad in
the prospect of seeing your children beggared, I can't; so there!"
"Dear Nancy," said Mrs. Lovel, laying her hand on the old servant's
shoulder, "how am I to help myself? Both might and right are against me.
Had I not better submit to the inevitable with a good grace?"
"That bonny little Miss Rachel," continued Nancy, "don't I see her now,
with her eyes flashing as she looked up at me and that fine, imperious
way she had, and 'tell the lady to wear my ring, Nancy,' says she,'and
tell her that I love her,' says she."
"Little darling," whispered the mother, and raising her hand she pressed
a tiny ring which she wore to her lips.
"Miss Rachel isn't meant for poverty," continued Nancy, "and what's
more, I'm very sure Miss Kitty isn't either; so, ma'am, I'd like to be
sure whether they are to have it or not; and a question I'd dearly like
to have answered is this: If the middle-aged man, Mr. Rupert Lovel, and
his son have a claim to Avonsyde, why don't they make it? Anything is
better than suspense, say I. Why don't we know the worst and have done
with it?"
"Why, Nancy, I thought I had told you everything. Mr. Lovel won't make a
claim until he can make a perfect claim. The fact is, some of his
credentials are lost."
"The toast is done, ma'am. May I make bold to ask what you mean by that?
You had better eat your toast while it is hot and crisp, Mrs. Lovel. The
good gentleman from Australia hasn't to go to the old ladies with a
character in his hand, like a servant looking for a situation?"
"No, no. Nancy; but he has to bring letters and other tokens to prove
his son's descent, to prove that his son is a true Lovel of Avonsyde of
the elder branch, and unfortunately Mr. Lovel has lost some valuable
letters and an old silver tankard which has been for hundreds of years
in the family, and which was taken from Avonsyde by the Rupert Lovel who
quarreled with his relations."
Mrs. Level's head was bent over her lace, and she never noticed how red
Nancy's face grew at this moment, nor how she almost dropped the
steaming kettle with which she was about to replenish the tea-pot.
"Oh, my word!" she exclaimed hastily. "It seems as if toast and kettle
and all was turned spiteful to-night. There's that boiling water flowed
over on my hand. Never mind, ma'am--it ain't nothing. What was it you
were saying was lost, ma'am?"
"Letters, Nancy, and a tankard."
"Oh, letters and a tankard. And what may a tankard be like?"
"This was an old-fashioned silver can, with the Lovel coat of arms and
the motto of their house, 'Tyde what may,' graved on one side. Why,
Nancy, you look quite pale."
"It's the burn, ma'am, that smarts a little. And so the silver can is
lost? Dear, dear, what a misfortune; and the fine young gentleman can't
get the place noway without it. Is that so or not, ma'am?"
"Well, Nancy, the tankard seems to be considered a very important piece
of evidence, and Mr. Lovel is not inclined to claim the property for his
son without it. However, he is having careful search made in Australia,
and will probably hear tidings of it any day."
"That's as Providence wills, ma'am. It's my belief that if the
middle-aged gentleman was to search Australia from tail to head he
wouldn't get no tidings of that bit of a silver mug. Dear, dear, how
this burn on my hand do smart!"
"You had better put some vaseline on it, Nancy. You look quite upset. I
fear it is worse than you say. Let me look at it."
"No, no, ma'am; it will go off presently. Dear, what a taking the
gentleman must be in for the silver mug. Well, ma'am, more unlikely
things have happened than that your bonny little ladies should come in
for Avonsyde. Did I happen to mention to you, ma'am, that I saw Master
Phil Lovel yesterday?"
"No, Nancy. Where and how?"
"He was with one of the old ladies, ma'am, in the forest. He was talking
to her and laughing and he never noticed me, and you may be sure I kept
well in the background. Eh, but he's a dear little fellow; but if ever
there was a bit of a face on which the shadow rested, it's his."
"Nancy, Nancy, is he indeed so ill? Poor, dear little boy!"
"No, ma'am, I don't say he's so particular ill. He walked strong enough
and he looked up into the old lady's face as bright as you please; but
he had the look--I have seen it before, and I never could be mistaken
about that look on any face. Not long for this world was written all
over him. Too good for this world was the way his eyes shone and his
lips smiled. Dear heart, ma'am, don't cry. Such as them is the blessed
ones; they go away to a deal finer place and a grander home than any
Avonsyde."
"True," said Mrs. Lovel. "I don't cry for that, but I think the child
suffers. He spoke very sorrowfully to me."
"Well, ma'am, we must all go through it, one way or another. My old
mother used to say to me long ago, 'Nancy, 'tis contrasts as do it. I'm
so tired out with grinding, grinding, and toiling, toiling, that just to
rest and do nothing seems to me as if it would be perfect heaven.' And
the little fellow will be the more glad some day because he has had a
bit of suffering. Dear, dear, ma'am, I can't get out of my head the loss
of that tankard."
"So it seems, Nancy; the fact seems to have taken complete possession of
you. Were it not absolutely impossible, I could even have said that my
poor honest old Nancy was the thief! There, Nancy, don't look so
startled. Of course I was only joking."
"Of course, ma'am; but you'll just excuse me if I go and bind up my
burned hand."