Chapter 2 The Lady of the Forest by L. T. Meade
MAKING TERMS
The moment the two little girls found themselves outside their grandfather’s door they wrenched their little hands away from Miss Griselda’s and Miss Katharine’s, and with a gay laugh like two wild, untamed birds flew down the wide oak staircase and across the hall to a room where a woman, dressed very soberly, waited for them. She was sitting on the edge of a hard cane-bottomed chair, her veil was down, and her whole attitude was one of tense and nervous watchfulness. The children ran to her with little cries of rapture, climbed together on her knee, pulled up her veil, and nearly smothered her pale dark face with kisses.
“Mother, mother, mother, he was so cross!”
“He had pain, mother, and him’s eyes was wrinkled up so.”
“But, mother, we gave him a kiss, and he said I was strong and Kitty was weak. We have not seen the tower yet, and we haven’t got our grapes, and there are two old ladies, and we don’t like them much, and we ran away from them – and – oh, here they are!”
The children clung tightly to their mother, who struggled to her feet, pushed them aside with a gesture almost of despair, and came up at once to the two Miss Lovels.
“I know this visit is unwarranted; I know it is considered an intrusion. The children’s father was born here, but there is no welcome for them; nevertheless I have brought them. They are beautiful children – look at them. No fairer daughters of your house ever were born than these two. Look at Rachel; look at Kitty. Is it right they should be brought up with no comforts in a poor London lodging? Rachel, kiss your aunts. Kitty, little one, kiss your aunts and love them.”
Rachel skipped up gayly to the two stiff old ladies, but Kitty began at last to be influenced by the frowns which met her on all sides; she pouted, turned her baby face away, and buried it in her mother’s lap.
“Look at them – are they not beautiful?” continued the mother. “Is it fair that they should be cooped up in a London lodging when their father belonged to this place? I ask you both – you who are my husband’s sisters; you who were children when he was a child, who used to play with him and kiss him, and learn your lessons out of the same book, and to sleep in the same nursery – is it fair?”
“It is not fair,” said Miss Katharine suddenly. She seemed carried quite out of herself; her eyes shone, and the pink of a long-gone beauty returned with a transient gleam to her faded cheek. “It is not fair,” she repeated. “No, Griselda, I am not afraid of you. I will say what is in my mind. Valentine’s face speaks to me again out of the baby face of that dear little child. What was Rupert Lovel to us that we should place a likeness to him before a likeness to our own dead brother? I say it is unfair that Valentine’s children should have neither part nor lot in his old home. I, for one, am willing to welcome them to Avonsyde.”
Miss Griselda had always a most placid face; she now said in her calmest tones:
“There is no need to excite yourself, Katharine. I too think the children have a claim on us. An arrangement can easily be made about the children – their mother is the difficulty.”
The face of the plainly dressed young woman could scarcely grow any paler. She gave a quick, very quick glance at handsome little Rachel, who stood with her head thrown back and her eyes eagerly watching each movement of the excited group around her; then the mother’s hand touched Kitty’s golden head with a very faint caressing touch, and then she spoke:
“I have come to make terms. I knew I should be considered an obstacle, but that is a mistake. I will be none. I am willing – I am willing to obliterate myself. I would talk to you and make terms, but I would make them alone – I mean I would rather not make them in the presence of the children.”
“I will take the children,” said Miss Katharine eagerly; “they want to see the house; I will take them round. They want grapes; I will take them to the vineries.”
“Oh, yes, we want grapes,” said Rachel in an excited voice; “we want lots of grapes – don’t we, Kitty?”
“Yes; lots,” answered Kitty, turning her flushed little face once more to view. She had been hiding it for the last few minutes against her mother’s black dress.
“That is my father’s bell,” said Miss Griselda suddenly. “I must hurry to him. I will see you presently, Mrs. Lovel; and, Katharine, you too must be present at our interview. I must ask Mrs. Martin to take the children round the place.”
Miss Griselda opened the thick oak door of the squire’s bedroom and went in. Her face was changed in expression and her usual self-possession had to a certain extent deserted her.
“What an age you have been away, Grizel,” said the old man testily. “You might have known that I’d want you. Did I not tell you to take the children out of the room and to come back to me presently? Did you not hear me when I said, ‘Come back to me presently?’ Oh, I see how things are!” continued the irate old man, with a burst of fury. “I am weak and ill now and my commands are nothing – my wishes are not of the slightest consequence. I know how it will be when I’m gone. You and Katharine promise faithfully to obey me now, but you’ll forget your promises when I’m gone. Even you, Griselda, who have always had the character of being strong-minded, will think nothing of your given word when I’m in my grave.”
“You’re tired, father,” said Miss Griselda, “and the unexpected intrusion of the children has excited you. Let me pour you out a dose of your restorative medicine. Here, drink this; now you will feel better.”
The old squire’s hand shook so much that he could not hold the glass which Miss Griselda tendered to him; but she held it herself to his lips, and when he had drained off its contents he grew a shade calmer.
“One of those children is very like Rupert Lovel,” he murmured. “A strong girl, with a bold, fine face. You never would have supposed that that weak stripling Valentine would have had a child of that build, would you, Grizel?”
“No, father. But the little girl has a likeness to her mother, and it is about the mother I have now come to speak to you. Oh, come now, you must try and listen to me. You must not get over-excited, and you must not begin to talk absolute rubbish about my disobeying your wishes; for you have positively got to settle something about Valentine’s children.”
“I said I’d have nothing to say to them.”
“Very likely; but you said so before you saw them. Having seen them, it is absolutely impossible for you to turn Valentine’s orphan children from the doors. Their mother cannot support them, and she has brought them to us and we must not turn them away. I may as well tell you plainly that I will never consent to the children being sent away from Avonsyde. I won’t wait to disobey you until you are dead in that matter. I shall do so at once, and quite openly, for I could never have another easy night on my pillow if I thought Valentine’s children were starving.”
“Who wants them to starve?” grumbled the squire.
But Miss Griselda’s firm words had an effect, and he lowered his chin on his chest and looked gloomily straight before him.
“The mother has come here to make terms,” said Miss Griselda. “Now what shall they be?”
“At least she shall not sleep under my roof! A low girl – no match for Valentine! If I said it once I repeat it fifty times. I will never look on that woman’s face, Grizel!”
“I don’t want you to, father. I agree with you that she had better go. Now let me tell you, in as few words as I can, what I intend to propose to Katharine and to Mrs. Lovel, with your sanction, presently. The children must stay at Avonsyde. If the heir is never found, well and good; they are provided for. If, on the other hand, the heir turns up, they are, according to the present conditions of your will, absolutely penniless. Now I don’t choose this. Valentine’s children must be provided for under any emergency, and you must make a fresh codicil to your will.”
“I will not!”
“Father, you must. Valentine was your own son; these children are your rightful and legitimate heirs. I am heart and soul with you in your wish to find the lawful descendant of Rupert Lovel – I promise to devote my life to this search; but Valentine’s children must not go penniless. You must make a codicil to your will providing comfortably for them in case the lawful heir turns up.”
“How can I? The doctor says I have not many hours to live.”
“Long enough for that, no doubt. We cannot, unfortunately, send for Mr. Baring from London, but I will send a man on horseback to Southampton, and Mr. Terry, the Barings’ country partner, will be here in two or three hours.”
“I tell you I have only a few hours to live,” repeated the squire, sinking his head lower on his chest and looking daggers at his daughter.
“Long enough for that,” she repeated.
She rose from her seat and went across the room to ring the bell. When the servant entered the room she gave some very clear and emphatic directions, and then desiring the nurse who waited on her father to be summoned, she left the room.
Her interview had scarcely been a peaceable one, and as she went downstairs her usually calm expression was considerably disturbed.
“I can make terms with the mother now,” she murmured. “But I am not going even to tell my father what they are.” And she went downstairs.
Floating in through the open window came the sound of gay, childish mirth, and looking out she saw the little strangers dancing and laughing and chatting merrily to old Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, as she took them round the grounds.
Then Miss Griselda went downstairs, and she and Miss Katharine had their interview with the grave, quiet young mother, who had come, as she said, to make terms. No one heard what they said to her nor what she said to them; no one knew what arrangements were arrived at between the three; no one guessed either then or long years afterward what the terms were. When the somewhat protracted interview had come to an end, the young mother left Miss Griselda’s study with her veil drawn tightly over her face. If her eyes were red and her lips trembled, no one noticed those signs of grief through her thick crape veil. Miss Griselda offered her food, and Miss Katharine wanted to take her hand and wring it with a kindly pressure; but she shook her head at the one and drew back proudly from the other’s proffered hand-shake.
The dog-cart was waiting at a side entrance, and she got into it and drove away. Nor did she once look back as she drove down the long straight avenue under the shade of the old forest trees.
That night Squire Lovel said a word or two to his daughters.
“So you have kept the children?”
“We have kept the children,” repeated Miss Griselda tersely.
“It is nothing to me. I have made that codicil to my will. You have had your way in that.”
“You have done justice, father – you will die happier,” replied Miss Griselda.
“Have you made arrangements with the mother?” questioned the squire.
“The mother will not trouble us; we have arranged with her,” answered the elder Miss Lovel.
“We have made arrangements with her,” echoed Miss Katharine, and here she bent her head and gave vent to a little choking sob.
The squire was very restless all night, and several times the words “Kitty” and “Valentine” escaped his lips. The end was near and the poor old brain was wandering.
Toward morning he was left alone for a few moments with Miss Katharine.
“Father,” she said suddenly, kneeling by his bedside, clasping his hand, and looking at him imploringly, “father, you would bid us be kind to Valentine’s children?”
“Valentine’s children?” repeated the old man. “Ay, ay, Kitty. My head wanders. Are they Valentine’s children or Rupert’s children? – the Rupert who should have inherited Avonsyde. Somebody’s children were here to-day, but I cannot remember whether they belonged to Valentine or Rupert.”
“Father, they belong to Valentine – to your son Valentine. You are dying. May I bring them to you, and will you bless them before you go?”
The old squire looked up at his daughter with dim and fading eyes. She did not wait to listen for any assent from his lips, but flying from the room, returned presently with two rosy, cherub-like creatures.
“Kiss your grandfather, Kitty; his pain is bad. Kiss him tenderly, dear little child.”
Kitty pursed up her full red lips and gave the required salute solemnly.
“Now, Rachel, kiss your grandfather; he is very ill.”
Rachel too raised herself on tiptoe, and bending forward touched the old man’s lips lightly with her own.
“Rupert’s child,” he murmured; “ay, ay, just like Rupert.”
Shortly afterward he died.