"Katharine," said Miss Griselda to her younger sister, "do you happen to
remember the address of those lodgings in London where we wrote years
ago to Rachel's and Kitty's mother? The 5th of May will be this day
week, and although I dislike the woman, and of course cannot possibly
agree with you as to her being in any sense of the word a lady, yet
still when Griselda Lovel passes her word she does pass it, and I think
it is right, however painful, to give the young woman the invitation for
the 5th of May."
"We wrote one letter nearly six years ago to No. 10 Abbey Street,
Marshall Road, S.W., London," answered Miss Katharine in a sharp voice
for her. "One letter to a mother about her own children; but that was
the address, Griselda."
"No. 10 Abbey Street," repeated Miss Griselda. "I shall send the young
woman an invitation to-day. Of course it won't reach her, for she is
dead long ago; but it is only right to send it. Katharine, you don't
look well this morning. Is anything the matter?"
"Nothing more than usual," answered Miss Katharine. "One letter in six
years to Valentine's wife. Oh, no, I was not likely to forget the
address."
"Allow me to congratulate you on your excellent memory, my dear. Oh,
here comes Phil's mother. I have much to talk over with her."
Miss Katharine left the room; her head was throbbing and tears rose
unbidden to her eyes. When she reached the great hall she sat down on an
oak bench and burst into tears.
"How cruel of Griselda to speak like that of Valentine's wife," she said
under her breath. "If Valentine's wife is indeed dead I shall never know
another happy moment. Oh, Rachel and Kitty, my dears, I did not see you
coming in."
"Yes, and here is Phil too," said Kitty, dragging him forward. "Why are
you crying, Aunt Katharine? Do dry your tears and look at our lovely
flowers."
"I am thinking about your mother, children," said Miss Katharine
suddenly. "Does it ever occur to you two thoughtless, happy girls that
you have got a mother somewhere in existence--that she loves you and
misses you?"
"I don't know my mother," said Kitty. "I can't remember her, but Rachel
can."
"Yes," said Rachel abruptly. "I'm going all round the world to look for
her by and by. Don't let's talk of her; I can't bear it."
The child's face had grown pale; a look of absolute suffering filled her
dark and glowing eyes. Miss Katharine was so much astonished at this
little peep into Rachel's deep heart that she absolutely dried her own
tears. Sometimes she felt comforted at the thought of Rachel suffering.
If even one child did not quite forget her mother, surely this fact
would bring pleasure to the mother by and by.
Meanwhile Miss Griselda was holding a solemn and somewhat alarming
conversation with poor Mrs. Lovel. In the first place, she took the good
lady into the library--a dark, musty-smelling room, which gave this
vivacious and volatile person, as she expressed it, "the horrors" on the
spot. Miss Griselda having secured her victim and having seated her on
one of the worm-eaten, high-backed chairs, opened the book-case marked D
and took from it the vellum-bound diary which six years ago she had
carried to the old squire's bedroom. From the musty pages of the diary
Miss Griselda read aloud the story of the great quarrel; she read in an
intensely solemn voice, with great emphasis and even passion. Miss
Griselda knew this part of the history of her house so well that she
scarcely needed to look at the words of the old chronicler.
"It may seem a strange thing to you, Mrs. Lovel," she said when she had
finished her story--"a strange and incomprehensible thing that your
white-faced and delicate-looking little boy should in any way resemble
the hero of this quarrel."
"Phil is not delicate," feebly interposed Mrs. Lovel.
"I said delicate-looking. Pray attend to me. The Rupert who quarreled
with his father--I will confess to you that my sympathies are with
Rupert--was in the right. He was heroic--a man of honor; he was brave and
stalwart and noble. Your boy reminds me of him--not in physique, no, no!
but his spirit looks out of your boy's eyes. I wish to make him the heir
of our house."
"Oh, Miss Griselda, how can a poor, anxious mother thank you enough?"
"Don't thank me at all. I do it in no sense of the word for you. The boy
pleases me; he has won on my affections; I--love him."
Miss Griselda paused. Perhaps never before in the whole course of her
life had she openly admitted that she loved any one. After a period
which seemed interminable to poor Mrs. Lovel she resumed:
"My regard for the boy is, however, really of small consequence; he can
only inherit under the conditions of my father's will. These conditions
are that he must claim direct descent from the Rupert Lovel who was
treated so unjustly two hundred years ago, and that he has, as far as it
is possible for a boy to have, perfect physical health."
Mrs. Lovel grew white to her very lips.
"Phil is perfectly strong," she repeated.
Miss Griselda stared at her fixedly.
"I have judged of that for myself," she said coldly. "I have studied
many books on the laws of health and many physiological treatises, and
have trusted to my own observation rather than to any doctor's casual
opinion. The boy is pale and slight, but I believe him to be strong, for
I have tested him in many ways. Without you knowing it I have made him
go through many athletic exercises, and he has often run races in my
presence. I believe him to be sound. We will let that pass. The other
and even more important matter is that he should now prove his descent.
You have shown me some of your proofs, and they certainly seem to me
incontestable, but I have not gone really carefully into the matter. My
lawyer, Mr. Baring, will come down here on the afternoon of the 4th and
carefully go over with you all your letters and credentials. On the 5th
I have incited many friends to come to Avonsyde, and on that occasion
Katharine and I will present Philip to our many acquaintances as our
heir. We will make the occasion as festive as possible, and would ask
you to see that Philip is suitably and becomingly dressed. You know more
of the fashions of the world than we do, so we will leave the matter of
device in your hands, of course bearing all the expense ourselves. By
the way, you have observed in the history I have just read how the old
silver tankard is mentioned. In that terrible scene where Rupert finally
parts with his father, he takes up the tankard and declares that 'Tyde
what may' he will yet return vindicated and honored to the old family
home. That was a prophecy," continued Miss Griselda, rising with
excitement to her feet; "for you have brought the boy and also the very
tankard which Rupert took away with him. I look upon your possession of
the tankard, as the strongest proof of all of the justice of your claim.
By the way, you have never yet shown it to me. Do you mind fetching it
now?"
Muttering something almost unintelligible, Mrs. Lovel rose and left the
library. She crossed the great hall, opened the oak door which led to
the tower staircase, and mounting the winding and worn stairs, presently
reached her bedroom. The little casement windows were opened, and the
sweet air of spring was filling the quaint chamber. Mrs. Lovel shut and
locked the door; then she went to one of the narrow and slit-like
windows and looked out. A wide panorama of lovely landscape lay before
her; miles of forest lands undulated away to the very horizon; the air
was full of the sweet songs of many birds; the atmosphere was perfumed
with all the delicious odors of budding flowers and opening leaves. In
its way nothing could have been more perfect; and it was for Phil--all
for Phil! All the beauty and the glory and the loveliness, all the
wealth and the comfort and the good position, were for Phil, her only
little son. Mrs. Lovel clasped her hands, and bitter tears came to her
eyes. The cup was almost to the boy's lips. Was it possible that
anything could dash it away now?
The tankard--she was sent to fetch the silver tankard--the tankard which
Phil himself had lost! What could she do? How could she possibly frame
an excuse? She dared not tell Miss Griselda that her boy had lost it.
She felt so timid, so insecure, that she dared not confess what an
ordinary woman in ordinary circumstances would have done. She dreaded
the gaze of Miss Griselda's cold, unbelieving gray eyes; she dreaded the
short sarcastic speech she would be sure to make. No, no, she dared not
confess; she must dissemble; she must prevaricate; on no account must
she tell the truth. She knew that Miss Griselda was waiting for her in
the library; she also knew that the good lady was not remarkable for
patience; she must do something, and at once.
In despair she rang the bell, and when Newbolt replied to it she found
Mrs. Lovel lying on her bed with her face partly hidden.
"Please tell Miss Lovel that I am ill, Newbolt," she said. "I have been
taken with a very nasty headache and trembling and faintness. Ask her if
she will excuse my going downstairs just for the present."
Newbolt departed with her message, and Mrs. Lovel knew that she had a
few hours' grace. She again locked the door and, rising from her bed,
paced up and down the chamber. She was far too restless to remain quiet.
Was it possible that the loss of the tankard might be, after all, her
undoing? Oh, no! the dearly loved possession was now so close; the
auspicious day was so near; the certainty was at her door. No, no! the
letters were proof of Philip's claim; she need not be so terribly
frightened. Although she reasoned in this way, she felt by no means
reassured, and it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps if she went into
the forest she might find the tankard herself. It might be lying even
now forgotten, unnoticed under some bush beside the treacherous bog
which had almost swallowed up her boy. What a happy thought! Oh, yes,
she herself would go to look for it.
Mrs. Lovel did not know the forest as Phil and Rachel and Kitty did. The
forest by itself had no charms whatever for her. She disliked its
solitude; she saw no beauty in its scenery; no sweetness came to her
soul from the song of its happy birds or the brilliance of its wild
flowers. No, no--the city and life and movement and gayety for Mrs.
Lovel; she was a poor artificial creature, and Nature was not likely to
whisper her secrets into her ears.
When Phil came up by and by his mother questioned him minutely as to the
part of the forest into which he had wandered. Of course he could not
tell her much; but she got a kind of idea, and feeble as her knowledge
was she resolved to act on it.
Early the next morning she rose from an almost sleepless bed, and
carefully dressing so as not to awaken her sleeping boy, she stole
downstairs and, as Phil had done some months before, let herself out by
a side entrance into the grounds. It was winter when Phil had gone on
his little expedition--a winter's morning, with its attendant cold and
damp and gloom; but now the spring sun was already getting up, the dew
sparkled on the grass, and the birds were having a perfect chorus of
rejoicing. Even Mrs. Lovel, unimpressionable as she was to all nature's
delights, was influenced by the crisp and buoyant air and the sense of
rejoicing which the birds and flowers had in common. She stepped quits
briskly into the forest and said to herself:
"My spirits are rising; that terrible depression I underwent yesterday
is leaving me. I take this as a good omen and believe that I may find
the tankard."
Phil had given her certain directions, and for some time she walked on
bravely, expecting each moment to come to the spot where the boy had
assured her the beaten track ended and she must plunge into the recesses
of the primeval forest itself. Of course she lost her way, and after
wandering along for some hours, seated herself in an exhausted state at
the foot of a tree, and there, without in the least intending to do so,
fell asleep.
Mrs. Lovel was unaccustomed to any physical exercise, and her long walk,
joined to her sleepless night, made her now so overpoweringly drowsy
that she not only slept, but slept heavily.
In her sleep she knew nothing at all of the advance the day was making.
The sun's rays darting through the thick foliage of the giant oak tree
under which she slumbered did not in the least disturb her, and when
some robins made their breakfast close by and twittered and talked to
one another she never heard them. Some rabbits and some squirrels peeped
at her quite saucily, but they never even ruffled her placid repose. Her
head rested against the tree, her bonnet was slightly pushed back, and
her hands lay folded over each other in her lap.
Presently there was a sound of footsteps, and a woman came up and bent
over the sleeping lady in the forest. The woman was dressed in a short
petticoat, strong boots, a striped jersey jacket, and a shawl thrown
over her head; she carried a basket on her arm and she was engaged in
her favorite occupation of picking sticks.
"Dearie me! now, whoever is this?" said Nancy White as she bent over
Phil's mother. "Dearie, dearie, a poor white-looking thing; no bone or
muscle or go about her, I warrant. And who has she a look of? I know
some one like her--and yet--no, it can't be--no. Is it possible that she
features pretty little Master Phil?"
Nancy spoke half-aloud, and came yet nearer and bent very low indeed
over the sleeper.
"She do feature Master Phil and she has got the dress of a fine lady.
Oh, no doubt she's his poor, weak bit of a mother! Bless the boy! No
wonder he's ailing if she has the mothering of him."
Nancy's words were all muttered half-aloud, and under ordinary occasions
such sounds would undoubtedly have awakened Mrs. Lovel; now they only
caused her to move restlessly and to murmur some return words in her
sleep.
"Phil, if we cannot find that tankard we are undone." Then after a
pause: "It is a long way to the bog. I wonder if Phil has left the
tankard on the borders of the bog."
On hearing these sentences, which were uttered with great distinctness
and in accents almost bordering on despair, Nancy suddenly threw her
basket to the ground; then she clasped her two hands over her head and,
stepping back a pace or two, began to execute a hornpipe, to the intense
astonishment of some on-lookers in the shape of birds and squirrels.
"Ah, my lady fair!" she exclaimed, "what you have let out now makes
assurance doubly sure. And so you think you'll find the precious tankard
in the bog! Now, now, what shall I do? How can I prevent your going any
further on such a fool's quest? Ah, my pretty little ladies, my pretty
Miss Rachel and Miss Kitty, I believe I did you a good turn when I hid
that tankard away."
Nancy indulged in a few more expressions of self-congratulation then, a
sudden idea coming to her, she fumbled in her pocket for a bit of paper,
and scribbling something on it laid it on the sleeping lady's lap.
When Mrs. Lovel awoke, somewhere close on midday, she took up the little
piece of paper and read its contents with startled eyes:
"Come what may come, tyde what may tyde,
Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde.
"False heirs never yet have thriven;
Tankards to the right are given."
The last two lines, which Nancy had composed in a perfect frenzy of
excitement and rapture at what she considered a sudden development of
the poetic fancy, caused poor Mrs. Lovel's cheeks to blanch and her eyes
to grow dim with a sudden overpowering sense of fear. She rose to her
feet and pursued her way home, trembling in every limb.