"Here is a letter for you, ma'am."
Nancy was standing by her mistress, who, in a traveling cloak and
bonnet, had just come home.
"For me, Nancy?" said the lady of the forest in a tired voice. "Who can
want to write to me? And yet, and yet--give it to me, Nancy."
"It has the London postmark, ma'am. Dear heart, how your hands do
shake!"
"It is evening, Nancy, and to-morrow will be the 5th of May. Can you
wonder that my hands shake? Only one brief summer's night, and my day of
bliss arrives!"
"Read your letter, ma'am; here it is."
Mrs. Lovel received the envelope with its many postmarks, for it had
traveled about and performed quite a little pilgrimage since it left
Avonsyde some days ago. Something in the handwriting caused her to
change color; not that it was in the ordinary sense familiar, but in a
very extraordinary manner it was known and sacred.
"The ladies of Avonsyde have been true to the letter of their promise!"
she exclaimed. "This, Nancy," opening her letter and glancing hastily
through it, "is the invitation I was promised six years ago for Rachel's
thirteenth birthday. It has been sent to the old, old address. The
ladies have not forgotten; they have kept to the letter of their
engagement. Nancy dear, let me weep. Nancy, to-morrow I can make my own
terms. Oh, I could cry just because of the lifting of the pain!"
"Don't, my dear lady," said Nancy. "Or--yes, do, if it eases you. The
dear little lassies will be all right to-morrow--won't they, Mrs. Lovel?"
"I shall see them again, Nancy, if you mean that."
"Yes, of course; but they'll be heiresses and everything--won't they?"
"Of course not. What do you mean?"
"I thought Master Phil had no chance now that the tankard is really lost
and can never be found."
"What do you know about the tankard?"
"Nothing. How could I? What less likely? Oh! look, ma'am; there's a
carriage driving through the forest, right over the green grass, as sure
as I'm here. Now it's stopping, and four people are getting out--a lady
and three gentlemen; and they are coming here--right over to the cottage
as straight as an arrow from a bow. Oh, mercy me! What do this mean?"
"Only some tourists, I expect. Nancy, don't excite yourself."
"No, ma'am, begging your pardon, they ain't tourists. Here they're all
stepping into the porch. What do it mean? and we has nothing at all in
the house for supper!"
A loud peal was now heard from the little bell. Nancy, flushed and
agitated, went to open the door, and a moment later Mr. Baring, Mrs.
Lovel, and Rupert Lovel and his son found themselves in the presence of
the lady of the forest. Nancy, recognizing Mrs. Lovel and concluding
that she had discovered all about the theft of the tankard, went and hid
herself in her own bedroom, from where she did not descend, even though
she several times fancied she heard her mistress ring for her.
This, however, was not the case; for a story was being told in that tiny
parlor which caused the very remembrance of Nancy to fade from all the
listeners' brains. Mrs. Lovel, little Philip's mother, was the
spokeswoman. She told her whole story from beginning to end, very much
as she had told it twice already that day. Very much the same words were
used, only now as she proceeded and as her eyes grew dim with the agony
that rent her heart, she was suddenly conscious of a strange and
unlooked-for sympathy. The other mother went up to her side and, taking
her hand, led her to a seat beside herself.
"Do not stand," she whispered; "you can tell what you have to say better
sitting."
And still she kept her hand within her own and held it firmly. By
degrees the poor, shaken, and tempest-tossed woman began to return this
firm and sympathizing pressure; and when her words died away in a
whisper, she turned suddenly and looked full into the face of the
mysterious lady of the forest.
"I have committed a crime," she said, "but now that I have confessed
all, will God spare the boy's life?"
The other Mrs. Lovel looked at her then with her eyes full of tears, and
bending forward she suddenly kissed her.
"Poor mother!" she said. "I know something of your suffering."
"Will the boy live? Will God be good to me?"
"Whether he lives or dies God will be good to you. Try to rest on that."
* * * * *
That same evening Miss Katharine tried to soothe away some of the
restlessness and anxiety which oppressed her by playing on the organ in
the hall. Miss Katharine could make very wonderful music; this was her
one great gift. She had been taught well, and when her fingers touched
either piano or organ people were apt to forget that at other times she
was nothing but a weak-looking, uninteresting middle-aged lady. Seated
at the organ, Miss Katharine's eyes would shine with a strange, new
radiance. There was a power, a sympathy in her touch; her notes were
seldom loud or martial, but they appealed straight to the innermost
hearts of those who listened.
Miss Katharine did not very often play. Music with her meant something
almost as sacred as a sacrament; she could not bring her melodies into
the common everyday life; but when her soul burned within her, when she
sought to express a dumb pain or longing, she went to the old organ for
comfort.
On this evening, as the twilight fell, she sat down at the organ and
began to play some soft, pitiful strains. The notes seemed to cry, as if
they were in pain. One by one the children stole into the hall and came
up close to her. Phil came closest; he leaned against her side and
listened, his sweet brown eyes reflecting her pain.
"Don't!" he said suddenly. "Comfort us; things aren't like that."
Miss Katharine turned round and looked at the little pale-faced boy,
from him to Rachel--whose eyes were gleaming--to Kitty, who was
half-crying.
"Things aren't like that," repeated Phil. "Play something true."
"Things are like this," answered Miss Katharine; "things are very, very
wrong."
"They aren't," retorted Phil. "Any one to hear you would think God
wasn't good."
Miss Katharine paused; her fingers trembled; they scarcely touched the
keys.
"Play joyfully," continued Phil; "play as if you believed in him."
"Oh, Phil, I do!" said the poor lady. "Yes, yes, I will play as if I
believed."
Tears filled her eyes. She struck the organ with powerful chords, and
the whole little party burst out in the grand old chant, "Abide with
me."
"Now let us sing 'O Paradise,'" said Phil when it was ended.
The children had sweet voices. Miss Katharine played her gentlest; Miss
Griselda slipped unseen into the hall and sat down near Phil. The
children sang on, hymn after hymn, Phil always choosing.
At last Miss Katharine rose and closed the organ.
"My heart is at rest," she said gently, and she stooped down and kissed
Phil. Then she went out of the hall, Rachel and Kitty following her.
Phil alone had noticed Miss Griselda; he went up to her now and nestled
down cozily by her side. He had a very confiding way and not a scrap of
fear of any one. Most people were afraid of Miss Griselda. Phil's total
want of fear in her presence made one of his greatest charms for her.
"Wasn't the music nice?" he said now. "Didn't you like those hymns?
Hasn't Rachel a beautiful voice?"
"Rachel will sing well," answered Miss Griselda. "She must have the best
masters. Philip, to-morrow is nearly come."
"The 5th of May? Yes, so it has."
"It is a great day for you, my little boy."
"Yes, I suppose it is. Aunt Griselda, when do you think my mother will
be home?"
"I don't know, Philip--I don't know where she has gone."
"I think I do. I think she's gone to get you a great surprise."
"She should not have gone away to-day, when there was so much to be
done."
"You won't say that when you know. Aunt Grizel, you'll always be good to
mother--won't you?"
"Why, of course, dear; she is your mother."
"But even if she wasn't my mother--I mean even if I wasn't there, you'd
be good to her. I wish you'd promise me."
"Of course, Phil--of course; but as you are going to be very much there,
there's no use in thinking of impossible things."
Phil sighed.
"Aunt Griselda," he said gently, "do you think I make a very suitable
heir?"
"Yes, dear--very suitable."
"I'm glad you love me; I'm very, very glad. Tell me about the Rupert
Lovel who went away two hundred years ago. He wasn't really like me?"
"In spirit he was, I don't doubt."
"Yes; but he wasn't like me in appearance. I'm small and thin and pale,
and he--Aunt Griselda, wouldn't your heart beat and wouldn't you be glad
if an heir just like the old Rupert Lovel came home? If he had just the
same figure, and just the same grand flashing eyes, and just the same
splendid strength, wouldn't you be glad? Wouldn't it be a joyful
surprise to you?"
"No, Phil, for my heart is set on a certain little pale-faced boy. Now
don't let us talk about nonsensical things. Come, you must have your
supper and go to bed; you will have plenty of excitement to-morrow and
must rest well."
"One moment, please. Aunt Grizel, tell me--tell me, did you ever see the
lady of the forest?"
"Phil, my dear child, what do you mean?"
"The beautiful lady who wears a green dress, greener than the leaves,
and has a lovely face, and brings a gift in her hand. Did you ever see
her?"
"Philip, I can't stay any longer in this dark hall. Of course I never
saw her. There is a legend about her--a foolish, silly legend; but you
don't suppose I am so foolish as to believe it?"
"I don't know; perhaps it isn't foolish. I wanted to see her, and I did
at last."
"You saw her!"
"In a dream. It was a real dream--I mean it was the kind of dream that
comes true. I saw her, and since then everything has been quite clear to
me. Aunt Griselda, she isn't only the lady of the forest; she has
another name; she comes to every one some day."
"Phil, you are talking very queerly. Come away."
That evening, late, Mrs. Lovel came quietly back. She did not ask for
supper; she did not see the old ladies; she went up at once to her tower
bedroom, where Phil was quietly sleeping. Bending down over the boy, she
kissed him tenderly, but so gently that he did not even stir.
"Farewell all riches; farewell all worldly success; farewell even honor!
Welcome disgrace and poverty and the reproach of all who know me if only
I can keep you, little Phil!"
Poor mother! she did not know, she could not guess, that for some
natures, such as Phil's, there is no long tarrying in a world so
checkered as ours.