“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.”
“Bless you, darling!” said old Nancy. “Yes, I’ll give the ring and your pretty message. And now, love, tell me, how is the little gentleman getting on? Have the old ladies made him their heir yet?”
“Not quite yet, Nancy; but they like him – we all like him. He is a dear little boy, and Aunt Griselda and Aunt Katharine make such a fuss about him. Do you know that a week ago I saw Aunt Griselda actually put her arms about his neck and kiss him! She kissed him three or four times. Wasn’t it wonderful? for she’s such a cold person. I think people can’t help being fond of little Phil, though he’s not exactly pretty. I heard Aunt Griselda and Aunt Katharine say that when they do really feel certain that he is the right heir they are going to have a great, tremendous party, and they will present him to every one as the heir of Avonsyde, and then immediately afterward he is to be sent to a preparatory school for Eton. Oh, won’t Kitty cry when he goes away!”
“Do you make out that the ladies will soon come to a decision, Miss Rachel?” inquired the old servant in a dubious tone. “It’s a wonderful important matter – choosing an heir. Are they likely to settle it all in a hurry?”
Rachel laughed.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Phil has been with us for four months now; they haven’t been in such a hurry. I do hope it will be soon, for I want the party. Now, good-by, Nancy; I’ll come to see you before long again. Be sure you give my ring to the lady of the forest.”
“One moment, missy,” said old Nancy, stretching out her hand and drawing the young girl back to her side. “One moment, Miss Rachel Lovel; I’m fain to see that little boy. Could you manage to bring him this way, missy? Could you manage it without nobody finding out? Is he the kind of little fellow who wouldn’t tell if you asked him earnest, most earnest, not? I’d like to see him and the lady; but no matter, Miss Rachel, I misdoubt me that you could manage a clever thing like that.”
“Oh, couldn’t I?” said Rachel, her eyes sparkling. “Why, I’d like it of all things! I can easily coax Phil to come here, for he’s perfectly wild about squirrels and animals of all kinds, and I never saw such a lot of squirrels as there are in the oaks round here. Phil has got a pony too, and he shall come for a ride with me, and Robert of course can come to take care of us. Oh, I’ll manage it; but I didn’t know you were such a curious woman, Nancy.”
The sun was already showing signs of taking its departure, and Rachel did not dare to prolong her interview another moment.
CHAPTER X. – PROOFS
Mrs. Lovel was becoming reconciled to her tower chamber. Ghostly as it appeared, no ghosts had visited her there; on the contrary, she had slept soundly; and as the days wore on and she found the quiet, simple life at Avonsyde soothing to her perturbed nerves and restoring vigor to her somewhat feeble frame, she came to the conclusion that the tower was a particularly healthy place to sleep in, and that some of the superabundant vigor which characterized Miss Griselda must be owing to the splendid air which night after night she inhaled in her lofty chamber.
As soon as ever this idea took possession of Mrs. Lovel’s mind, she would not have changed her ancient tower bedroom for the most modern and luxurious which Avonsyde could offer.
A thought – a pleasing thought – came ever and anon to the poor lady as she watched her boy’s peaceful face when he lay asleep on his little white bed.
“Suppose the healthy air of the tower makes Philip strong?”
Philip had been for some months at Avonsyde, and no one yet had found out that he possessed any special delicacy. At first the pallor of his little face had been commented on; but people soon got accustomed to this, and the boy was so merry, so good-humored, so brave, that those who watched him would have found it difficult to associate any special weakness with such lithe and agile movements, with so gay a spirit, with so merry and ringing a laugh. Miss Griselda had begun by declaring, both in her sister’s presence and also in that of Philip’s mother, that no decisive step could be taken until a doctor had thoroughly examined the boy; but of late she had ceased to speak of any doctor, and had nodded her head in an approving manner when Phil had sung out to her from the tops of the tallest trees, or had galloped panting and laughing to her side on his rough forest pony. Miss Katharine said many times to her sister:
“Surely we need make no delay. There seems no doubt that the boy can absolutely trace his succession from Rupert Lovel. Why should we waste money, Griselda, in inserting that advertisement any more in the newspapers when we have found our heir?”
Miss Lovel, however, was not to be unduly hurried in so momentous a matter.
“We cannot be too careful, Katharine. Yes, we will insert the advertisement once or twice again. It was only yesterday I heard from Mr. Baring that some fresh claimants are writing to him through their lawyers. There is no hurry whatever, and we cannot be too careful.”
Perhaps Miss Katharine took it rather too much as a matter of course that Phil could trace his descent, without flaw, from the Rupert Lovel who had quarreled with his father long ago. She was so accustomed to hearing Mrs. Lovel say, “I have got all the proofs; I can trace the descent without a single break for you at any time,” that she began to believe she had gone through the genealogical tree, and had seen with her own eyes that the child was the lineal descendant of the elder branch of her house.
Miss Griselda was far sharper than her sister. Miss Griselda knew perfectly that Phil’s descent was not yet proved, but, unlike most old ladies in her position, she disliked genealogy. She said openly that it puzzled her, and on one occasion when Mrs. Lovel, in her half-timid, half-fretful voice, said, “Shall I bring you the proofs of Phil’s descent now? Are you at leisure to look into the matter to-day?” Miss Griselda replied somewhat sharply:
“I hate genealogical trees. Katharine can understand them, but I can’t. I don’t suppose, Mrs. Lovel, you would be so utterly devoid of all sense as to bring the boy here and to establish yourself in our house without having incontestable proofs that he is what you represent him to be. I take it for granted that Phil is a direct descendant of Rupert Lovel, but I shall certainly not make him our heir until more competent eyes than mine examine your proofs. At present I am more interested in watching Phil’s health, for if he was fifty times descended from our ancestor and was weakly he should not inherit Avonsyde. When I have quite made up my mind that your boy is strong I will ask Mr. Baring, our business man, to come to Avonsyde and go into the proofs; then, all being satisfactory, the boy shall be announced as our heir, and we will of course undertake his maintenance and education from that moment.”
Mrs. Lovel breathed a slight sigh of relief.
“Having proclaimed Phil as your heir, nothing would induce you to revoke your decision afterward?” she asked nervously.
“Certainly not. What a strange speech to make! The boy being strong, being the right age, and being an undoubted descendant of our house, what more could we want? Rest assured, Mrs. Lovel, that when your boy is proclaimed heir of Avonsyde, were fifty other claimants to come forward we should not even listen to their plea.”
A faint pink, born of intense gratification, colored Mrs. Level’s pale cheeks.
“I should like to be bold enough to ask you another question,” she said.
Miss Griselda smiled in a freezing manner.
“Ask me what you please,” she answered. “You must forgive my saying that I have already observed how singularly restless and uncomfortable you are. I think I can guess what is the matter. You are intensely curious about us and our money. Oh, no, I am not at all offended. Pray ask what you want to know.”
Mrs. Lovel, though a timid, was a rather obtuse person, and she was not crushed by Miss Griselda’s withering sarcasm. Clearing her throat and pausing slightly before bringing out her words, she continued:
“I have wondered – I could not help wondering – what you would do with your property if no heir turned up.”
This speech, which was as audacious as it was unexpected, caused Miss Lovel to raise her finely marked eyebrows with some scorn.
“Your question is indiscreet,” she said; “but, as it happens, I do not mind answering it. Did no true heir appear for Avonsyde during our lifetime the place would be inherited by our nieces, Rachel and Kitty Lovel; but they would only have a life-interest in the property, and would be solemnly bound over to continue our search for the missing heir.”
“Rachel and Kitty will, then, be disappointed when Phil is announced as your representative,” said Mrs. Lovel, rising with sudden alacrity to her feet. “Thank you so much for your valuable information, Miss Lovel. You may be quite certain that I shall regard what you have been good enough to confide to me as absolutely confidential.”
“I have told you nothing that everybody doesn’t know,” answered Miss Griselda. “I never reveal secrets, and least of all to those who are not related to us. Talk to any one you please about what I have said to you. As to my brother’s children, I am thankful to say they have not yet attained an age when the absence or the presence of money is of the slightest moment to them. One word more, Mrs. Lovel, before we change our conversation. I have noticed without your telling me that you are extremely poor.”
Mrs. Lovel interrupted with a great sigh.
“Oh!” she said, throwing up her hands and speaking with marked emphasis, “I have known the sore pangs of poverty – of course, it has been genteel poverty. I could never forget Phil’s birth nor what I owed to my poor dear husband’s position, and of course I made a great effort to descend to nothing menial; but, yes, I have been poor.”
“You need not excite yourself about the past. When Phil’s identity is established and his position assured, it is the intention of my sister and myself to settle upon you for your life an income of £500 a year. Pray don’t thank me; we do it for our own sakes, as of course Phil’s mother has a certain position to keep up. We should recommend you to settle somewhere near your boy. What did you say? No, no; that cannot be. When everything is settled we must request you to remove to your own home.”
For Mrs. Lovel had interrupted with the almost incoherent words:
“Am I not to live at Avonsyde always?”