The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls

His mother’s step was heard approaching. He made a great effort to stand upright and formed his little lips into a voiceless whistle.

“Why, Phil, you have been overtiring yourself,” said Mrs. Lovel. “Oh, Kitty, how you have exaggerated! Phil does not look at all bad. I suppose you were both romping, and never ceased until you lost your breath; or you were having one of your pretense games, and Phil thought he would frighten you by making out he was ill. Ah, Phil, Phil, what an actor you are! Now, my dear boy, I want you to come up to your bedroom with me. I want to consult you about one or two matters. Fancy, Kitty, a mother consulting her little boy! Ought not Phil to be proud? But he is really such a strong, brave little man that I cannot help leaning on him. It was really unkind of you to pretend that time, Phil, and to give little Kitty such a fright.”

Phil’s beautiful brown eyes were raised to his mother’s face; then they glanced at Kitty; then a smile – a very sorry smile Kitty considered it – filled them, and giving his little thin hand to his mother, he walked out of the armory by her side.

Kitty lingered for a moment in the room which her companion had deserted; then she dashed away across the brightly lit hall, through several cozy and cheery apartments, until she came to a room brilliant with firelight and lamplight, where Rachel lay at her ease in a deep arm-chair with a fairy story open on her knee.

“Phil is the best actor in all the world, Rachel!” she exclaimed. “He turned as white as a sheet just now. He turned gray, and he groaned most awfully, and he wouldn’t speak, and I thought he was dying, and I flew for some one, and I found Mrs. Lovel, and she came back to Phil, and she laughed, and said there was nothing the matter, and that Phil was only acting. Isn’t it wonderful, Rachel, that Phil can turn pale when he likes, and groan in such a terrible way? Oh, it made me shiver to see him! I do hope he won’t act being ill again.”

“He didn’t act,” said Rachel in a contemptuous voice; “that’s what his mother said. I wouldn’t have her for a mother for a great deal. I’d rather have no mother. Poor little Phil didn’t act. Don’t talk nonsense, Kitty.”

“Then if he didn’t act he must be very ill,” said Kitty. Then, her blue eyes filling with tears, she added: “I do love him so! I love him even though he has a dearest friend.”

Rachel stretched out her hand and drew Kitty into a corner of her own luxurious chair. She had not seen Phil, and Kitty’s account of him scarcely made her uneasy.

“Even if he was a little ill, he’s all right now,” she said. “Stay with me, Kitty-cat; I scarcely ever see you. I think Phil is quite your dearest friend.”

“Quite,” answered Kitty solemnly. “I love him better than any one, except you, Rachel; only I do wish – yes, I do – that he had not so many secrets.”

“He never told you what happened to him that day in the forest, did he, Kitty?”

“Oh, no; he pulled himself up short. He was often going to, but he always pulled himself up. “What a dreadfully jerky man he’ll grow up, Rachel.”

“He never quite told you?” continued Rachel. “Well, I don’t want him to tell me, for I know.”

“Rachel!”

“Yes, I know all about it. I’m going to see him presently, and I’ll tell him that I know his secret. Now, Kitty, you need not stare at me, for I’m never going to breathe it to any one except to Phil himself. There, Kit, the dressing-gong has sounded; we must go and get ready for supper.”

Meanwhile Mrs. Lovel, taking Phil’s hand, had led him out of the armory and to the foot of the winding stone stairs. Once there she paused. The look of placid indifference left her face; she dropped the smiling mask she had worn in Kitty’s presence, and stooping down lifted the boy into her arms and carried him tenderly up the winding stairs, never pausing nor faltering nor groaning under his weight. When they reached the tower bedroom she laid him on his little bed, and going to a cupboard in the wall unlocked it and took from thence a small bottle; she poured a few drops from the bottle into a spoon and put the restorative between the boy’s blue lips. He swallowed it eagerly, smiled, shook himself, and sat up in bed.

“Thank you, mother. I am much better now,” he said affectionately.

Mrs. Lovel locked the door, stirred the fire in the old-fashioned grate into a cheerful blaze, lit two or three candles, drew the heavy curtains across the windows, and then dragging a deep arm-chair opposite the glowing hearth, she lifted Phil again into her arms, and sitting down in the comfortable seat, rocked him passionately to her breast.

“My boy, my boy, was it very bad, very awful?”

“Yes, mother; but it’s all right now.”

“Did Kitty hear you groan, Phil?”

“Yes, mother; but not the loudest groans, for I buried my head in the cushion. I’m all right now, mother. I can go down again in a minute or two.”

“No, Phil, you shan’t go down to-night. I’ll manage it with the old ladies; and Phil, darling, darling, we have almost won; you won’t have to pretend anything much longer. On the 5th of May, on Rachel’s birthday, you are to be proclaimed the heir. This is the middle of February; you have only a little more than two months to keep it all up, Phil.”

“Oh, yes, mother, it’s very difficult, and the pain in my side gets worse, and I don’t want it, and I’d rather Rupert had it; but never mind, mammy, you shan’t starve.”

He stroked his mother’s cheek with his little hand, and she rocked him in her arms in an ecstasy of love and fear and longing. At that moment she loved the boy better than the gold. She would have given up all dreams of ease and comfort for herself if she could have secured real health for that most precious little life.

“Mother,” said Phil, “I do want to go to Southampton so badly.”

“What for, dearest?”

“Because I’m expecting a letter, mother, from Rupert. No, no, don’t frown! I can’t bear to see you frown. I didn’t tell him anything, but I wrote to him, and I asked him to send his answer to the post-office at Southampton, and it must be waiting there now; yes, it must, and I do want to fetch it so dreadfully. Can you manage that I shall go, mother?”

“I’ll go for it myself, dear; I’ll go to-morrow. There – doesn’t mother love her boy? Yes, I’ll go for the letter to Southampton to-morrow. There’s the supper-gong, Phil. I must go down, but you shan’t. I’ll bring you up something nice to eat presently.”

“Oh, no, please; I couldn’t eat. Just let me lie on my bed quite still without talking. Mother, my darling mother, how can I thank you for promising to fetch Rupert’s letter?”

Mrs. Lovel laid Phil back on his bed, covered him up warmly, and softly unlocking the door went downstairs.

She had got a shock, a greater shock than she cared to own; but when she entered the long, low, old-fashioned dining-hall where Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine and the two little girls awaited her, her face was smiling and careless as usual. The poor, weak-minded, and bewildered woman had resumed her mask, and no one knew with what an aching heart she sat down to her luxurious meal.

“Is Phil still pretending to be very, very dreadfully ill?” called out Kitty across the table.

Miss Griselda started at Kitty’s words, looked anxiously at Mrs. Lovel and at a vacant chair, and spoke.

“Is your boy not well? Is he not coming to supper?” she inquired.

“Phil strained himself a little,” answered Mrs. Lovel, “and he had quite a sharp pain in his side – only muscular, I assure you, dear Miss Griselda; nothing to make one the least bit uneasy, but I thought it better to keep him upstairs. He is going to bed early and won’t come down again to-night. May I take him up a little supper presently?”

“Poor boy! he must be ravenously hungry,” said Miss Griselda in a careless tone. “Strained his side? Dear, dear! children are always hurting themselves. I wanted him to go with me early to-morrow to collect mosses. I intend to drive the light cart myself into the forest, and I meant to take Phil and Kitty with me. Phil is so clever at finding them.”

“Oh, he’s very strong. He’ll be quite ready to go with you, Miss Griselda,” answered the little boy’s mother; but she bent her head as she spoke, and no one saw how pale her face was.

The meal proceeded somewhat drearily. Kitty was out of spirits at the loss of her favorite companion; Rachel’s little face looked scarcely childish, so intensely watchful was its expression; Mrs. Lovel wore her smiling mask; and the two old ladies alone were perfectly tranquil and indifferent.

“May I take Phil up some supper?” suddenly asked Rachel.

Mrs. Lovel suppressed a quick sigh, sat down again in her seat, for she was just rising to go back to Phil, and almost ran her nails into her hands under the table in her efforts to keep down all symptoms of impatience.

“Thank you, dear,” said Miss Griselda gratefully. “If you go up to Phil his mother need not trouble herself about him until bedtime. We will adjourn to the drawing-room, if you please, Mrs. Lovel. I am anxious to have another lesson in that new kind of crochet. Katharine, will you give Rachel some supper to take up to Phil? – plenty of supper, please, dear; he’s a hearty boy and ought to have abundance to eat.”

Miss Katharine smiled, cut a generous slice of cold roast beef, and piled two mince-pies and a cheese-cake on another plate. When she had added to these a large glass of cold milk and some bread-and-butter, she gave the tray to Rachel, and bidding her be careful not to spill her load, took Kitty’s hand and went with her into the drawing-room.

Rachel carried her tray carefully as far as the foot of the winding stairs; then looking eagerly up and down and to right and left, she suddenly wheeled round and marched off through many underground and badly lit passages, until she found herself in the neighborhood of the great old-fashioned kitchen. Here she was met not by the cook, but by Mrs. Newbolt, the lady’s-maid.

“Oh, Newbolt, you’ll do what I want. Phil is ill, and his mother doesn’t want any one to know about it. Take all this horrid mess away and give me some strong, strong, beautiful beef tea and a nice little piece of toast. I’ll wait here, and you won’t be long, will you, dear Newbolt?”

Newbolt loved Phil and detested his mother. With a sudden snort she caught up Rachel’s tray, and returned presently with a tempting little meal suited to an invalid.

“If the child is ill I’ll come up with you to see him, Miss Rachel,” she said.

Phil was lying on his back; his eyes were shut; his face looked very pinched and blue. True, however, to the little Spartan that he was, when he heard Rachel’s step he started up and smiled and welcomed her in a small but very cheery voice.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” he said, “ but I didn’t want any supper; I told mother so. Oh, what is that – white soup? I do like white soup. And oysters? Yes, I can eat two or three oysters. How very kind you are, Rachel. I begin to feel quite hungry, that supper looks so nice.”

Rachel carried the tempting little tray herself, but behind her came Newbolt, whom Phil now perceived for the first time.

“Have you come up to see me, Newbolt?” he said. “But I am not at all ill. I happened to get tired, and mother said I must rest here.”

“The best place for a tired little boy to rest is in his bed, not on it,” said Newbolt. “If you please. Master Phil, I am going to put you into bed, and then Miss Rachel shall feed you with this nice supper. Oh, yes, sir, we know you’re not the least bit ill – oh, no, not the least bit in the world; but we are going to treat you as if you were, all the same.”

Phil smiled and looked up at Newbolt as if he would read her innermost thoughts. He was only too glad to accept her kind services, and quite sighed with relief when she laid him comfortably on his pillows. Newbolt wrapped a little red dressing-jacket over his shoulders, and then poking the fire vigorously and seeing that the queer old tower room looked as cheerful as possible, she left the two children together. Rachel and Phil made very merry over his supper, and Phil almost forgot that he had been feeling one of the most forsaken and miserable little boys in the world half an hour ago. Rachel had developed quite a nice little amount of tact, and she by no means worried Phil with questions as to whether his illness was real or feigned. But when he really smiled, and the color came back to his cheeks, and his laugh sounded strong and merry once more, she could not help saying abruptly:

“Phil, I have been wanting to see you by yourself for some time. I cannot tell Kitty, for Kitty is not to know; but, Phil, what happened to you that day in the forest is no secret to me.”

Phil opened his eyes very wide.

“What do you mean, Rachel?” he asked. “No, Rachel, you cannot guess it, for I never, never even whispered about that secret.”

Rachel’s face had turned quite pale and her voice was trembling.

“Shall I whisper it back to you now?” she said. “Shall I tell you where you went? You did not meet the myth lady – I begin really to be almost sure she is only a myth lady – but you did meet a lady. She was in gray and she had the saddest face in the world; and oh, Phil, she took you home – she took you home!”

“Why, Rachel,” said little Phil again, “you look just as if you were going to cry. How is it you found all this out? And why does it make you so sorrowful?”

“Oh, I want her,” said Rachel, trembling and half-sobbing. “I want her so badly. I long for her more than anything. I saw her once and I have not been quite happy since. She never took me inside her house. Phil, I am jealous of you. Phil, I want to hear all about her.”

“I’m so glad you know,” said Phil in cheerful tones. “I was told not to tell. I was told to keep it another secret; but if you found it out, or rather if you always knew about it, why, of course you and I can talk together about her. You don’t know how nice it will be to me to be able to talk to you about one of my secrets. My dearest friend secret, and the Betty secret, and the little house at the back of the garden secret I must never, never speak of; and the secret about my being a very, very strong boy – that I mustn’t talk about; but you and I can chatter about the lady of the forest, Rachel. Oh, what a comfort it is!”

“It will be a great comfort to me too,” answered Rachel. “Let’s begin at once. Tell me every single thing about her. What did she wear? How did she speak? Had she my ring on her finger?”

Phil smiled and launched forth into a long and minute narrative. Not a single detail would sharp little Rachel allow him to omit. Whenever his memory was in danger of flagging she prodded it with vehemence, until at last even her most rapacious longing was satisfied. When Phil had quite exhausted all his narrative she breathed a deep sigh and said again:

“I envy you, Phil. You have been inside her house and she has kissed you.”

“She was a very nice and kind lady,” concluded Phil, “and she was very good to me; but all the same, Rachel, I would rather see that other lady – the lady in green with the lovely face who comes with a gift.”

“Perhaps she’s only a myth,” said Rachel.

“Please, Rachel, don’t say so. I want the bag of gold so badly.”

Rachel stared and laughed.

“I never thought you were greedy, Phil,” she said. “I cannot think, what a little boy like you can want with a bag of gold.”

“That’s my secret,” said Phil, half-closing his eyes and again turning very pale. “A great many people would be happier if I had that bag of gold. Rachel,” he added, “I do trust I may one day see the lady. I went to look for her that day in the forest; I went miles and miles to find her, but I didn’t, and I was nearly drowned in a bog.”

“It is not a bit necessary to go into the forest to see her,” answered Rachel; “she might come to you here, in this very room. You know this is the very oldest part of the house. This part of Avonsyde is quite steeped in romance, and I dare say the lady has been here once or twice – that is, of course, if she isn’t a myth. There is an old diary of one of our ancestors in the library, and I have coaxed Aunt Griselda now and then to let me read in it. One day I read an account of the lady; it was then I found out about her green dress and her lovely face. The diary said she was ‘passing fair,’ and those who looked on her were beautiful ever afterward. She showed herself but seldom, but would come now and then for a brief half-minute of time to the fairest and the best and to those who were to die young.”

“Rachel,” said little Phil, “just before you came up that time I was lying with my eyes shut, and I was thinking of the beautiful lady, and I almost thought I saw her. I should be happy if she came to me.”

CHAPTER XVI. – LOST

Phil’s mother was in every sense a weak woman. She was not strong enough to be either very good or very bad; she had a certain amount of daring, but she had not sufficient courage to dare with success. She had a good deal of the stubbornness which sometimes accompanies weak characters, and when she deliberately set her heart on any given thing, she could be even cruel in her endeavors to bring this thing to pass. Her husband and the elder Rupert Lovel, of Belmont, near Melbourne, were brothers. Both strong and brave men, they had married differently. Rupert’s wife had in all particulars been a helpmeet to him; she had brought up his children to be brave and strong and honorable. She suffered much, for she was a confirmed invalid for many years before her death; but her spirit was so strong, so sweet, so noble, that not only her husband and children, but outsiders – all, in fact, who knew her – leaned on her, asked eagerly for her counsel, and were invariably the better when they followed her advice. Philip Lovel’s wife was not a helpmeet to him; she was weak, exacting, jealous, and extravagant. She was the kind of woman whom a strong man out of his very pity would be good to, would pet and humor even more than was good for her. Philip was killed suddenly in a railway accident, and his widow was left very desolate and very poor. Her boy was then five years old – a precocious little creature, who from the moment of his father’s death took upon himself the no light office of being his mother’s comforter. He had a curious way even from the very first of putting himself aside and considering her. Without being told, he would stop his noisy games at her approach and sit for an hour at a time with his little hand clasped in hers, while he leaned his soft cheek against her gown and was happy in the knowledge that he afforded her consolation. To see him thus one would have supposed him almost deficient in manly attributes; but this was not so. His gentleness and consideration came of his strength; the child was as strong in mental fiber as the mother was weak. In the company of his brave Cousin Rupert no merrier or gayer little fellow could have been found. His courage and powers of endurance were simply marvelous. Poor little Phil! that courageous spirit of his was to be tested in no easy school. Soon after his sixth birthday those mysterious attacks of pain came on which the doctor in Melbourne, without assigning any special cause for their occurrence, briefly spoke of as dangerous. Phil was eight years old when his mother’s great temptation came to her. She saw an English newspaper which contained the advertisement for the Avonsyde heir. Her husband had often spoken to her about the old family place in the home country. She had loved to listen to his tales, handed down to him orally from his ancestors. She had sighed, and groaned too, over his narratives, and had said openly that to be mistress of such an old ancestral home was her ideal of paradise. Philip, a busy and active man, spent no time over vain regrets; practically he and his elder brother, Rupert, forgot the existence of the English home.

Rupert had made a comfortable fortune for himself in the land of his adoption, and Philip too would have been rich some day if he had lived. Mrs. Lovel, a discontented widow, saw the tempting advertisement, and quickly and desperately she made her plans. Her little son was undoubtedly a lineal descendant of the disinherited Rupert Lovel, but also, and alas! he was not strong. In body at least he was a fragile and most delicate boy. Mrs. Lovel knew that if the ladies of Avonsyde once saw the beautiful and brave young Rupert, Phil’s chance would be nowhere. She trusted that Rupert Lovel the elder would not see the advertisement. She sold her little cottage, realized all the money she could, and without telling any one of her plans, started with her boy for England. Before she left she did one thing more: she made a secret visit to Belmont, and under the pretext of wishing to see her sister-in-law, sat with her while she slept, and during that sleep managed to abstract from the cupboard behind her bed the old silver tankard and a packet of valuable letters. These letters gave the necessary evidence as to the genuineness of the boy’s descent and the tankard spoke for itself.

Mrs. Lovel started for England, and during her long voyage she taught Phil his lesson. He was to forget the past and he was to do his very utmost to appear a strong boy. She arrived at Avonsyde, was kindly welcomed, and day after day, month after month, her hopes grew great and her fears little. Phil played his part to perfection – so his mother said – not recognizing the fact that it was something in the boy himself, something quite beyond and apart from his physical strength, which threw a sweet glamour over those who were with him, causing them to forget the plainness of his face and see only the wonderful beauty of the soul which looked through the lovely eyes, causing them to cease to notice how fragile was the little frame which yet was so lithe and active, causing them never to observe how tired those small feet grew, and yet how willingly they ran in grateful and affectionate service for each and all. Cold-hearted, cold-natured Miss Griselda was touched and softened as she had never been before by any mortal. She scarcely cared to have the boy out of her sight; she petted him much; she loved him well.

Mrs. Lovel hoped and longed. If once Rachel’s birthday could be passed, all would be well. When the ladies appointed Phil as their heir, he was their heir forever. Surely nothing would occur to interfere with her darling projects during the short period which must elapse between the present time and that eventful day two months hence.

As Mrs. Lovel grew more hopeful her manner lost much of its nervous affectation. In no society could she appear as a well-educated and well-read woman, but on the surface she was extremely good-natured, and in one particular she won on the old ladies of Avonsyde. She was practiced in all the small arts of fancy needlework. She could knit; she could crochet; she could tat; she could embroider conventional flowers in crewels. The Misses Lovel detested crewel-work, but Miss Katharine was very fond of knitting and Miss Griselda affected to tolerate crochet. Each night, as the three ladies sat in the smaller of the large drawing-rooms, the crochet and the knitting came into play; and when Mrs. Lovel ventured to instruct in new stitches and new patterns, she found favor in the eyes of the two old ladies.

On the night of Phil’s illness the poor woman sat down with an inward groan to give Miss Griselda her usual evening lesson. No one knew how her heart beat; no one knew how her pulse throbbed nor how wild were the fresh fears which were awakened within her. Suppose, after all, Phil could not keep up that semblance of strength to the end! Suppose an attack similar to the one he had gone through to-day should come on in Miss Griselda’s presence. Then, indeed, all would be lost. And suppose – suppose that other thing happened: suppose Rupert Lovel with his brave young son should arrive at Avonsyde before the 5th of May. Mrs. Lovel could have torn her hair when Phil so quietly told her that he had written to young Rupert, and that even now a reply might be waiting for him at Southampton. She knew well that Rupert’s father would remember how near Avonsyde was to Southampton. If the boy happened to show Phil’s letter to his father, all would be lost. Mrs. Lovel felt that she could not rest until she went to Southampton and secured the reply which might be waiting for Phil at the post-office. These anxious thoughts made her distraite; and bravely as she wore her mask, one or two sighs did escape from her anxious breast.