The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls

“You! Then you have come from Avonsyde?”

“I have. I have come to tell you a terrible and disastrous story.”

“My dear madam, pray don’t agitate yourself; pray take things quietly. Would you like to sit in this easy-chair?”

“No, thank you. What are easy-chairs to me? I want to tell my story.”

“So you shall – so you shall. I trust your boy is not ill?”

“He is very ill; he is – good God! I fear he is dying. I have come to you as the last faint chance of saving him.”

“My dear Mrs. Lovel, you make a mistake. I am a lawyer, not a physician. ’Pon my word, I’m truly sorry for you, and also for Miss Griselda. Her heart is quite set on that boy.”

“Listen! I have sinned. I was tempted; I sinned. He is not the heir.”

“My good lady, you can scarcely know what you are saying. You would hardly come to me with this story at the eleventh hour. Miss Lovel tells me you have proofs of undoubted succession. I was going to Avonsyde this afternoon to look into them, but only as a form – merely as a form.”

“You can look into them now; they are correct enough. There were two brothers who were lineally descended from that Rupert Lovel who quarreled with his father two hundred years ago. The brothers’ names were Rupert and Philip. Philip died and left a son; Rupert lives and has a son. Rupert is the elder of the brothers and his son is the true heir, because – because – ”

Here Mrs. Lovel rose to her feet.

“Because he has got what was denied to my only boy – glorious health and glorious strength. He therefore perfectly fulfills the conditions of the late Squire Lovel’s will.”

“But – but I don’t understand,” said the lawyer. “I have seen – yes, of course I have seen – but pray tell me everything. How did you manage to bring proofs of your boy’s title to the old ladies?”

“Why should I not know the history of my husband’s house? I saw the old ladies’ advertisement in a Melbourne paper. I knew to what it alluded and I stole a march on Rupert and his heir. It did not seem to me such a dreadful thing to do; for Rupert and his boy were rich and Phil and I were very poor. I stole away to England with my little boy, and took with me a bundle of letters and a silver tankard which belonged to my brother-in-law, but which were, I knew, equally valuable in proving little Philip’s descent. All would have gone well but for one thing – my little boy was not strong. He was brave – no boy ever was braver – and he kept in all tokens of terrible suffering for my sake. He won upon the old ladies; everybody loved him. All my plans seemed to succeed, and to-morrow he is to be appointed heir. To-morrow! What use is it? God has stretched out his hand and is taking the boy away. He is angry. He is doing it in anger and to punish me. I am sorry; I am terrified; my heart is broken. Perhaps if I show God that I repent he will withdraw his anger and spare my only boy. I have come to you. There is not a moment to lose. Here are the lost letters. Find the rightful heir.”

Mr. Baring was disturbed and agitated. He got up and locked the door; he paced up and down his room several times; then he came up to the woman who was now crouching by the table, her face hidden in her hands.

“Are you aware,” he said softly, for he feared the effect of his words – “are you aware that Rupert Lovel and his boy are now in London?”

Mrs. Lovel raised her head.

“I guessed it. Thank God! then I am in time.”

“Your news is indeed of the most vital importance. I must telegraph to Avonsyde. I cannot go there this afternoon. The whole case must be thoroughly investigated, and at once. I require your aid for this. “Will you return with me to Avonsyde to-morrow?”

“Yes, yes.”

“It will be a painful exposure for you. Do you realize it?”

“I realize nothing. I want to hold Phil to my heart; that is the only desire I now possess.”

“Poor soul! You have acted – I won’t say how; it is not for me to preach. I will telegraph to Miss Griselda and then go with you to find Rupert Lovel and his boy.”

CHAPTER XXVII. – TWO MOTHERS

“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.”