The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls

“Yes, we’ll be in summer before we know where we are,” said Rupert; “it is the 4th of November to-day. I will ride with you at three o’clock, Gabrielle – that is, if father is not back.”

The brother and sister left the room to pursue their different vocations, and a short time afterward an old servant, with a closely frilled cap tied with a ribbon under her chin, came into the room. She was the identical Betty who had been Mrs. Lovel’s maid-of-all-work, and who had now transferred her services to the young people at Belmont. Betty was old, wrinkled, and of Irish birth, and sincerely attached to all the Lovels. She came into the room under the pretext of looking for some needlework which Gabrielle had mislaid, but her real object was to peer into the now open post-bag, and then to look suspiciously round the room.

“I smell it in the air,” she said, sniffing as she spoke. “As sure as I’m Betty O’Flanigan there’s news of Master Phil in the air! Was there a letter? Oh, glory! to think as there might be a letter from my own little master, and me not to know. Miss Gabrielle’s mighty close, and no mistake. Well, I’ll go and ask her bold outright if she has bad news of the darlint.”

Betty could not find Gabrielle’s lost embroidery, and perceiving that the post-bag was absolutely empty, she pottered out of the room again and upstairs to where her young lady was making up some accounts in a pretty little boudoir which had belonged to her mother.

“Och, and never a bit of it can I see, Miss Gabrielle,” said the old woman as she advanced into the room; and then she began sniffing the air again.

“What are you making that funny noise for, Betty?” said Miss Lovel, raising her eyes from a long column of figures.

“I smell it in the air,” said Betty, sniffing in an oracular manner. “I dreamed of him three times last night, and that means tidings; and now I smell it in the air.”

“Oh! you dreamed of little Phil,” said Gabrielle in a kind tone. “Yes, we have just had a letter. Sit down there and I’ll read it to you.”

Betty squatted down instantly on the nearest hassock, and with her hands under her apron and her mouth wide open prepared herself not to lose a word.

Gabrielle read the letter from end to end, the old woman now and then interrupting her with such exclamations as “Oh, glory! May the saints presarve him! Well, listen to the likes of that!”

At last Gabrielle’s voice ceased; then Betty hobbled to her feet, and suddenly seizing the childish letter, not a word of which she could read, pressed it to her lips.

“Ah! Miss Gabrielle,” she said, “that mother of his meant mischief. She meant mischief to you and yours, miss, and the sweet child has neither part nor lot in the matter. If I was you, Miss Gabrielle, I’d ferret out where Mrs. Lovel is hiding Master Phil. What business had she to get into such a way about a bit of an English newspaper, and to hurry off with the child all in a twinkling like, and to be that flustered and nervous? And oh! Miss Gabrielle, the fuss about her clothes; and ‘did she look genteel in this?’ and ‘did she look quite the lady in that?’ And then the way she went off, bidding good-by to no one but me. Oh! she’s after no good; mark my words for it.”

“But she can do us no harm, Betty,” said Gabrielle. “Neither my father nor Rupert is likely to be injured by a weak kind of woman like Aunt Bella. I am sorry for little Phil; but I think you are silly to talk as you do of Aunt Bella. Now you may take the letter away with you and kiss it and love it as much as you like. Here comes father; he is back earlier than usual from Melbourne, and I must speak to him.”

Mr. Lovel, a tall, fine-looking man, with a strong likeness to both his son and daughter, now came hastily into the room.

“I have indeed come back in a hurry, Gabrielle,” he said. “That advertisement has appeared in the papers again. I have had a long talk with our business friend, Mr. Davis, and the upshot of it is that Rupert and I sail for Europe on Saturday. This is Tuesday; so you will have your hands pretty full in making preparations for such a sudden move, my dear daughter.”

“Is it the advertisement that appeared six months ago, father?” said Gabrielle in an excited voice. “Mother pointed it out to you then and you would take no notice of it.”

“These things are often put into newspapers simply as a kind of hoax, child,” said the father, “and it all seemed so unlikely. However, although I appeared to take no notice, I was not unmindful of Rupert’s interests. I went to consult with Davis, and Davis promised to make inquiries in England. He came to me this morning with the result of his investigations and with this advertisement in the Melbourne Times. Here it is; it is three months old, unfortunately. It appeared three months after the first advertisement, but Davis did not trouble me with it until he had got news from England. The news came this morning. It is of a satisfactory character and to the effect that the last Valentine Lovel, of Avonsyde, in the New Forest, Hampshire, died without leaving any male issue, and the present owners of the property are two unmarried ladies, neither of whom is young. Now, Gabrielle, you are a wise lass for your thirteen years, and as I have not your mother to consult with, I am willing to rely a little bit on your judgment. You read this, my daughter, and tell me what you make of it.”

As Mr. Lovel spoke he unfolded a sheet of the Melbourne Times, and pointing to a small paragraph in one of the advertisement columns which was strongly underscored with a blue pencil, he handed it to Gabrielle.

“Read it aloud,” he said. “They are strange words, but I should like to hear them again.”

Gabrielle, in her clear and bright voice, read as follows:

“Lovel. – If any of the lineal descendants of Rupert Lovel, of Avonsyde, New Forest, Hampshire, who left his home on the 20th August, 1684, are now alive and will communicate with Messrs. Baring & Baring, 128 Chancery Lane, London, they will hear of something to their advantage. Only heirs male in direct succession need apply.”

Gabrielle paused.

“Read on,” said her father. “The second part of the advertisement, or rather a second advertisement which immediately follows the first, is of more interest.”

Gabrielle continued:

“I, Griselda Lovel, and I, Katharine Lovel, of Avonsyde, New Forest, of the county of Hampshire, England, do, according to our late father’s will, earnestly seek an heir of the issue of one Rupert Lovel, who left Avonsyde on the 20th August, 1684, in consequence of a quarrel between himself and his father, the then owner of Avonsyde. By reason of this quarrel Rupert Lovel was disinherited, and the property has continued until now in the younger branch. According to our late father’s will, we, Griselda and Katharine Lovel, wish to reëstablish the elder branch of the family, and offer to make a direct descendant of the said Rupert Lovel our heir, provided the said descendant be under fifteen years of age and of sound physical health. We refuse to receive letters or to see any claimant personally, but request to have all communications made to us through our solicitors, Messrs. Baring & Baring, of 128 Chancery Lane, London, E. C.

“‘Tyde what may betyde,

Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde.”

Gabrielle’s cheeks flushed brightly as she read.

“Oh, father!” she exclaimed, raising her eyes to the face of the tall man who stood near her, “do you really believe a little bit in it at last? Don’t you remember how I used to pray of you to tell me traditions of the old English home when I was a little child, and how often you have repeated that old rhyme to me, and don’t you know how mother used to treasure the tankard with the family crest and ‘Tyde what may’ in those queer, quaint English characters on it? Mother was quite excited when the first advertisement appeared, but you said we were not to talk or to think of it. Rupert is the rightful heir – is he not, father? Oh, how proud I shall be to think that the old place is to belong to him!”

“I believe he is the rightful heir, Gabrielle,” said her father in a grave voice. “He is undoubtedly a lineal descendant of the Rupert Lovel who left Avonsyde in 1684, and he also fulfills the conditions of the old ladies’ advertisement, for he is under fifteen and splendidly strong; but it is also a fact that I cannot find some very important letters which absolutely prove Rupert’s claim. I could swear that I left them in the old secretary in your mother’s room, but they have vanished. Davis, on the other hand, believes that I have given them to him, and will have a strict search instituted for them. The loss of the papers makes a flaw in my boy’s claim; but I shall not delay to go to England on that account. Davis will mail them to me as soon as ever they are recovered; and in the mean time, Gabrielle, I will ask you to pack up the old tankard and give it to me to take to England. There is no doubt whatever that that tankard is the identical one which my forefather took with him when almost empty-handed he left Avonsyde,”

“I will fetch it at once,” said Gabrielle. “Mother kept it in the cupboard at the back of her bed. She always kept the tankard and our baptismal mugs and the diamonds you gave her when first you were married in that cupboard. I will fetch the tankard and have it cleaned, and I will pack it for you myself.”

Gabrielle ran out of the room, returning in a few moments with a slightly battered old drinking-cup, much tarnished and of antique pattern.

“Here it is!” she exclaimed, “and Betty shall clean it. Is that you, Betty? Will you take this cup and polish it for me at once yourself? I have great news to give you when you come back.”

Betty took the cup and turned it round and round with a dubious air.

“It isn’t worth much,” she said; “but I’ll clean it anyhow.”

“Be careful of it, Betty,” called out Gabrielle. “Whatever you may think of it, you tiresome old woman, it is of great value to us, and particularly to your favorite, Rupert.”

Muttering to herself, Betty hobbled downstairs, and Gabrielle and her father continued their conversation. In about half an hour the old woman returned and presented the cup, burnished now to great brilliancy, to her young mistress.

“I said it wasn’t worth much,” she repeated. “I misdoubt me if it’s silver at all.”

Gabrielle turned it round in her hand; then she uttered a dismayed exclamation.

“Father, do look! The crest is gone; the crest and the old motto, ‘Betyde what may,’ have absolutely vanished. It is the same cup; yes, certainly it is the same, but where is the crest? and where is the motto?”

Mr. Lovel took the old tankard into his hand and examined it narrowly.

“It is not the same,” he said then. “The shape is almost identical, but this is not my forefather’s tankard. I believe Betty is right, and this is not even silver; here is no crown mark. No letters, Gabrielle, and no tankard! Well, never mind; these are but trifles. Rupert and I sail all the same for England and the old property on Saturday.”

CHAPTER VIII. – THE SACRED CUPBOARD

Mr. Lovel told Gabrielle that the loss of the tankard and the letters were but trifles. His daughter, however, by no means believed him; she noticed the anxious look in his eyes and the little frown which came between his brows.

“Father’s always like that when he’s put out,” she said. “Father’s a man who never yet lost his temper. He’s much too big and too great and too grand to stoop to anything small of that kind, but, all the same, I know he’s put out. He’s a wonderful man for sticking out for the rights of things, and if he thinks Rupert ought to inherit that old property in England he won’t leave a stone unturned to get it for him. He would not fret; he would not think twice about it if it was not Rupert’s right; but as it is I know he is put out, and I know the loss of the tankard is not just a trifle. Who could put a false tankard in the place of the real one? Who could have done it? I know what I’ll do. I’ll go up to mother’s room again and have a good look round.”

Mrs. Lovel was not a year dead, and Gabrielle never entered the room which had known her loved presence and from which she had been carried away to her long rest without a feeling of pain. She was in many respects a matter-of-fact girl – not nearly as sensitive as Rupert, who with all his strength had the tenderest heart; nor as little Peggy, who kept away from mother’s room and never spoke of her without tears filling her eyes. To enter mother’s room seemed impossible to both Rupert and Peggy, but Gabrielle found a certain sad pleasure in going there; and when she had shut the door now she looked around her with a little sigh.

“I’ll make it homelike, as if mother were here,” she said to herself. “I’ll make it homelike, and then sit by the open window and try and believe that mother is really asleep on that sofa, where she has lain for so many, many hours.”

Her eyes brightened as this idea came to her, and she hastened to put it into execution. She drew up the window-blinds and opened the pretty bay-window, and let the soft delicious air of spring fill the apartment; then she took the white covers off the chairs and sofa, pulled the sofa forward into its accustomed position, and placed a couple of books on the little table which always stood by its side. These few touches transformed the large room; it lost its look of gloom and was once more bright and homelike. A wistaria in full bloom peeped in at the open window; the distant sounds of farm life were audible, and Gabrielle heard Peggy’s little voice talking in endearing tones to the cross old ravens, Elijah and Grasper. She knelt by the open window and, pressing her cheeks on her hands, looked out.

“Oh, if only mother were on the sofa!” That was the cry which arose, almost to pain, in her lonely heart. “Peggy and Rupert and I have no mother, and now father and Rupert are going to England and I shall have to do everything for Peggy. Peggy will lean on me; she always does – dear little Peg! but I shall have no one.”

The thought of Rupert’s so speedily leaving her recalled the tankard to Gabrielle’s memory. She got up and unlocked the cupboard, which was situated at the back of her mother’s bed. The cupboard was half-full of heterogeneous matter – some treasures, some rubbish; numbers of old photographs; numbers of childish and discarded books. Some of the shelves were devoted to broken toys, to headless dolls, to playthings worthless in themselves, but treasured for memory’s sake by the mother. Tears filled Gabrielle’s eyes, but she dashed them away and was about to institute a systematic search, when Rupert opened the door and came in. His ruddy, brightly colored, healthy face was pale; he did not see Gabrielle, who was partly hidden by the large bedstead. He entered the room with soft, reverent footsteps, and walked across it as though afraid to make a sound.

Gabrielle started when she saw him; she knew that neither Rupert nor Peggy ever came to the room. What did this visit mean? Why was that cloud on Rupert’s brow? From where she stood she could see without being seen, and for a moment or two she hesitated to make a sound or to let her brother know she was near him. He walked straight across the room to the open window, looked out as Gabrielle had looked out, then turning to the sofa, laid one muscular brown hand with a reverent gesture on the pillow which his mother’s head had pressed. The little home touches which Gabrielle had given to the room were unnoticed by Rupert, for he had never seen it in its shrouded and dismantled state. All his memories centered round that sofa with the flowering chintz cover; the little table; the small chair, which was usually occupied by a boy or girl as they looked into the face they loved and listened to the gentle words from the dearest of all lips. Rupert made no moan as Gabrielle had done, but he drew the little chair forward, and laying his head face downward on the pillow, gave vent to an inward supplication. The boy was strong physically and mentally, and the spiritual life which his mother had fostered had already become part of his being. He spoke it in no words, but he lived it in his upright young life. To do honor to his mother’s memory, to reverence and love his mother’s God, was his motto.

Gabrielle felt uncomfortable standing behind the bedstead. She coughed, made a slight movement, and Rupert looked up, with wet eyelashes.

“Gabrielle!” he said, with a start of extreme surprise.

“Yes, Rupert, I was in the room. I saw you come in. I was astonished, for I know you don’t come here. I was so sorry to be in the way, and just at first I made no sound.”

“You are not a bit in the way,” said Rupert, standing up and smiling at her. “I came now because there are going to be immense changes, and – somehow I could not help myself. I – I – wanted mother to know.”

“Yes,” said Gabrielle, going and standing by his side. “Do you think she does know, Rupert? Do you think God tells her?”

“I feel that she does,” said Rupert. “But I can’t talk about mother, Gabrielle; it is no use. What were you doing behind that bedstead?” he added in a lighter tone.

“I was looking for the tankard.”

“What, the old Avonsyde tankard? But of course it is there. It was always kept in what we used to call the sacred cupboard.”

“Yes; but it is gone,” said Gabrielle. “It was there and it has vanished; and what is more wonderful, Rupert, another tankard has been put in its place – a tankard something like it in shape, but not made of silver and without the old motto.”

“Nonsense!” said Rupert almost sharply. “We will both go and look in the cupboard, Gabrielle. The real tankard may be pushed far back out of sight.”

“No; it is too large for that,” said Gabrielle. “But you shall come and see with your own eyes.”

She led the way, and the two began to explore the contents of the cupboard, the boy touching the sacred relics with almost more reverent fingers than the girl. The tankard, the real tankard, was certainly nowhere to be found.

“Father is put out about it,” said Gabrielle. “I know it by his eyes and by that firm way he compresses his lips together. He won’t get into a passion – you know he never does – but he is greatly put out. He says the tankard forms important evidence, and that its being lost is very disastrous to your prospects.”

“My prospects?” said Rupert. “Then father is not quite sure about my being the lawful heir?”

“Oh, Rupert, of course he is sure! But he must have evidence; he must prove your descent. Rupert, dear, are you not delighted? Are you not excited about all this?”

“No, Gabrielle. I shall never love Avonsyde as I love Belmont. It was here my mother lived and died.”

Tears came into Gabrielle’s eyes. She was touched by Rupert’s rare allusion to his mother, but she also felt a sense of annoyance at what she termed his want of enthusiasm.

“If I were the heir – ” she began.

“Yes, Gabrielle – if you were the heir?”

“I should be – oh, I cannot explain it all! But how my heart would beat; how I should rejoice!”

“I am glad too,” said Rupert; “but I am not excited. I shall like to see Europe, however; and I will promise to write you long letters and tell you everything.”

CHAPTER IX. – A TRYSTING-PLACE

Rachel had a very restless fit on. She was a child full of impulses, with spirits wildly high one day and proportionately depressed the next; but the restlessness of her present condition did not resemble the capricious and ever-changing moods which usually visited her. The uneasy spirit which prevented her taking kindly to her lessons, which took the charm from her play-hours and the pleasure even from Kitty’s society, had lasted now for months; it had its date from a certain lovely summer’s evening. Had Aunt Griselda and Aunt Katharine known more about what their little niece did on that occasion, they might have attributed her altered mood to an over-long ride and to some physical weakness.

But Rachel was wonderfully strong; her cheeks bloomed; her dark eyes sparkled; and the old ladies were interested just now in some one whom they considered far more important than Rachel. So the little girl neglected her lessons without getting into any very serious scrapes, and more than once rode alone into the forest on Surefoot without being reprimanded. Rachel would steal away from Kitty and from little Phil, and would imperiously order Robert to saddle her pony and to ride with her just a very little way into the forest; but then the groom was not only allowed, but requested to turn off in another direction, and Rachel would gallop as fast as possible past Rufus’ Stone, and on as far as that lovely glade where she had sat and gathered bluebells in the summer. She always dismounted from Surefoot here, and standing with her back to an old oak tree, waited with intense expectancy. She never went further than the oak tree; she never went down a narrow path which led to a certain cottage clothed completely in green; but she waited, with her hands clasped and her eyes fixed eagerly on the distant vista of forest trees. Sometimes her eyes would sparkle, and she would clap her hands joyfully and run to meet a prim-looking old woman who came forward through the shades to meet her. Sometimes she returned home without seeing anybody, and on these occasions she was apt to be morose – snappish to Kitty, rude to Mrs. Lovel and Phil, and, in short, disagreeable to every one, except perhaps her gentle Aunt Katharine.

The old ladies would vaguely wonder what ailed the child, and Miss Griselda would hope she was not going to be famous for the Lovel temper; but as their minds were very full of other things they did not really investigate matters.

One frosty day about the middle of November, when Phil and his mother had been quite four months at Avonsyde, Rachel started off earlier than usual for one of her long rides. The forest was full of a wonderful mystical sort of beauty at all times and seasons, and now, with the hoar-frost sparkling on the grass, with the sun shining brightly, and with many of the autumn tints still lingering on the trees, it seemed almost as delightful a place to Rachel as when clothed in its full summer glory. The little brown-coated winter birds chirped cozily among the branches of the trees, and hundreds of squirrels in a wealth of winter furs bounded from bough to bough. Rachel as usual dismissed her faithful attendant, Robert, and galloping to her accustomed trysting-place, waited eagerly for what might befall.

On this particular day she was not doomed to disappointment. The old servant was soon seen approaching. Rachel ran to her, clasped her hands round her arm, and raising her lips to her face, kissed her affectionately.

“Ah, you are a good Nancy to-day!” she exclaimed. “I was here on Saturday and here on Wednesday, and you never came. It was very unkind of you. I got so tired of standing by the oak tree and waiting. Well, Nancy, is the lady quite well to-day?”

“Middling, dearie; middling she ever is and will be until she claims her own again.”

“Oh, you mysterious old woman! You are trying to make me desperately curious, but I don’t believe there is anything in your talk. You worry me to keep a tremendous secret, and there’s nothing in it, after all. Oh, of course I’m keeping your secret; you needn’t pretend to be so frightened. And when am I to see the lady of the forest, Nancy?”

“Now, my dear, haven’t I told you until I’m tired? You’re to see her come your thirteenth birthday, love. The day you are thirteen you’ll see her, and not an hour sooner.”

Rachel stamped her foot angrily.

“I shan’t have a birthday till the beginning of May!” she said. “It’s a shame; it’s a perfect, perfect shame!”

Old Nancy pushed back a rebellious curl from the child’s bright head.

“Don’t you fret, my pretty,” she said tenderly. “The lady wants to see you a deal – a sight more than you want to see her. The lady has passed through many troubles, and not the least is the waiting to see your pretty face.”

Rachel began eagerly to unbutton her habit, and taking from a little pocket just inside its lining a tiny bag, she pulled out a small ring and thrust it into Nancy’s hand.

“There,” she said, “that’s the most precious thing I have, and I give it to her. It’s all gold, and isn’t that a beautiful pearl? I used to wear it on my finger when I wanted to be very grand, but I’d rather she had it. Perhaps she won’t feel so lonely when she wears it, for she will remember that it was given to her by a little girl who is so sorry for her, and who loves her – yes, isn’t it queer? – although we have never met. You know, Nancy,” continued Rachel, “I can quite sympathize with lonely people, for to a certain extent I know what it means. I miss my mother so very much. When I’m grown up, Nancy, I’m going all round the wide world looking for her.”