Chapter 14 The Lady of the Forest by L. T. Meade
THE AUSTRALIANS
Messrs. Baring & Baring, the lawyers who transacted all the business matters for the Misses Lovel, were much worried about Christmas-time with clients. The elder Mr. Baring was engaged with a gentleman who had come from the country to see him on special and urgent business, and in consequence his son, a bright-looking, intelligent man of thirty, was obliged to ask two gentlemen to wait in his anteroom or to call again, while he himself interviewed a sorrowful-looking lady who required immediate attention.
The gentlemen decided to wait the younger Mr. Baring’s leisure, and in consequence he was able to attend to his lady client without impatience.
“The business which brings you to me just before Christmas, Mrs. Lovel, must be of the utmost importance,” he began.
Mrs. Lovel raised her veil and a look of intense pain filled her eyes.
“It is of importance to me,” she said, “for it means – yes, I greatly fear it means that my six years of bitter sacrifice have come to nothing and the heir is found.”
Mr. Baring raised his eyebrows; he did not trouble to inquire to whom she had alluded. After a brief pause he said quietly:
“There is no reason whatever for you to despair. At this present moment my father and I are absolutely aware of two claimants for the Avonsyde heirship – only one can inherit the place and both may prove unsuitable. You know that the ladies will not bequeath their property to any one who cannot prove direct descent from the elder branch; also the heir must be strong and vigorous. Up to the present neither my father nor I have seen any conclusive proof of direct succession. We are quite aware that a little boy of the name of Lovel is at present on a visit at Avonsyde, but we also know that the Misses Lovel will take no definite steps in the matter without our sanction. I would not fret beforehand, Mrs. Lovel. It seems tame and old-fashioned advice, but I should recommend you for your own sake to hope for the best.”
“I will do so,” said Mrs. Lovel, rising to her feet. “I will do so, even though I can no longer buoy myself up with false dreams. I feel absolutely convinced that before Rachel’s birthday an heir will be found for the old place. Let it be so – I shall not struggle. It may be best for my children to come back to me; it will certainly be best for me to have them with me again. I won’t take up any more of your time this morning, Mr. Baring.”
“Well, come again to-morrow morning. I have got some more work for you and of quite a profitable kind. By the way, the new claimants – they have just come from Australia and I am to see them in a moment – are in a desperate taking about an old tankard which seems to have been a family heirloom and would go far to prove their descent. The tankard is lost; also a packet of valuable letters. You see, my dear madam, their claim, as it stands at present, is anything but complete.”
Mrs. Lovel said a few more words to Mr. Baring, and then promising to call on the morrow, left him. To effect her exit from the house she had to pass through the room where the Australians were waiting. Her interview had excited her; her pale face was slightly flushed; her veil was up. Perhaps the slight color on those usually pale cheeks had brought back some of the old and long-forgotten girlish bloom. The winter’s day was sunshiny, and as she walked through the waiting-room the intense light throwing her features into strong relief, so strongly and so vividly did that slight and rather worn figure stand out that a man who had been sitting quietly by started forward with an exclamation:
“Surely I am addressing Rachel Cunningdale?”
The lady raised her eyes to the great, strong, bearded face.
“You are Rupert Lovel,” she answered quietly.
“I am, and this is my boy. Here, Rupert, lad, this lady was once your mother’s greatest friend. Why, Rachel, it is twenty years since we met. You were scarcely grown up and such a bright bit of a girl, and now – ”
“And now,” answered Mrs. Lovel, “I have been a wife and a mother. I am now a widow and, I may say it, childless; and, Rupert, the strangest part of all, my name too is Lovel.”
“What a queer coincidence. Well, I am delighted to meet you. Where are you staying? My boy and I have just come over from Australia, and your friend, my dear wife, she is gone, Rachel. It was an awful blow; we won’t speak of it. I should like to see more of you. Where shall we meet?”
Mrs. Lovel gave the address of the very humble lodgings which she occupied when in London.
“The boy and I will look you up, then, this evening. I fear our time now belongs to the lawyer. Good-by – good-by. I am delighted to have met you.”
Mr. Baring prided himself on being an astute reader of character, but even he was somewhat amazed when these fresh claimants for the Avonsyde property occupied quite half an hour of his valuable time by asking him numerous and sundry questions with regard to that pale and somewhat insignificant client of his, Mrs. Lovel. Mr. Baring was a cautious man, and he let out as little as he could; but the Lovels, both father and son, were furnished with at least a few clews to a very painful story. So excited and interested was Rupert Lovel, senior, that he even forgot the important business that had brought him all the way from Australia, and the lawyer had himself gently to divert his client’s thoughts into the necessary channel.
Finally the father and son left the Barings’ office a good deal perturbed and excited and with no very definite information to guide them.
“Look here, Rupert, lad,” said the elder Lovel. “It’s about the saddest thing in all the world, that poor soul depriving herself of her children and then hoping against hope that the heir won’t turn up. “Why, of course, lad, you are the heir; not a doubt of that. Poor Rachel! and she was your mother’s friend.”
“But we won’t set up our claim until we are certain about everything – will we, father?” asked young Lovel. “Did you not hear Mr. Baring say that many false heirs had laid claim to Avonsyde? The old ladies want some one who can prove his descent, and we have not got all the papers – have we, father?”
“No. It is an extraordinary thing about those letters being lost, and also the old tankard. But they are safe to turn up. Who could have stolen them? Perhaps Gabrielle has already written with news of their safety. We might have a cab now to the General Post-office. I have no doubt a budget of letters awaits me there. Why, Rupert, what are you looking so melancholy about? The tankard and the letters may even now be found. What’s the matter, lad? It doesn’t do for a hearty young chap like you to wear such a dismal face. I tell you your claim is as good as established.”
“But I don’t know that I want it to be established,” said young Rupert Lovel. “It is not nice to think of breaking that lady’s heart. I don’t know what Gabrielle would say to doing anything so cruel to our mother’s friend.”
“Tut, lad, what a lot of rubbish you talk! If you are the heir you are, and you can’t shirk your responsibility, even if you don’t quite like it. Well, we’ll have a long talk with Rachel and get to the bottom of everything to-night.”
“And now, Rachel, you must just confide in me and make me your friend. Oh, nonsense! Were you not my wife’s friend? and don’t I remember you a bit of a bonny lass, as young, quite as young as Rupert here? I have got two young daughters of my own, and don’t you suppose I feel for a woman who is the mother of girls? You tell me your whole story, Rachel. How is it that you, who have married a Lovel of Avonsyde, should be practically shut away from the house and unrecognized by the family? When I met you last in Melbourne you looked free enough from cares, and your father was fairly well off. You were just starting for Europe – don’t you remember? Now tell me your history from that day forward.”
“With the exception of my old servant, Nancy, I have not given my confidence to any human being for years,” answered Mrs. Lovel. Then she paused. “Yes, I will trust you, Rupert, and my story can be told in a few words; but first satisfy me about one thing. When I was at Mr. Baring’s to-day he told me that a fresh claimant had appeared on the scene for the Avonsyde property. Is your boy the claimant?”
“He is, Rachel. We will go into that presently.”
Mrs. Lovel sighed.
“It is so hard not to welcome you,” she said, “but you destroy my hopes. However, listen to my tale. I will just tell it to you as briefly as possible. Shortly after we came to England my father died. He was not well off, as we supposed; he died heavily in debt and I was penniless. I was not sufficiently highly educated to earn my bread as a teacher – as a teacher I should have starved; but I had a taste for millinery and I got employment in a milliner’s shop in a good part of London. I stayed in that shop for about a year. At the end of that time I married Valentine Lovel. We had very little money, but we were perfectly happy; and even though Valentine’s people refused to acknowledge me, their indifference during my dear husband’s lifetime did not take an iota from my happiness. Two babies were born, both little girls. I know Valentine longed for a son, and often said that the birth of a boy would most probably lead to a reconciliation with his father. No son, however, arrived, and my dear husband died of consumption when my eldest little girl was five years old. I won’t dwell on his death, nor on one or two agonized letters which he wrote to his hard old father. He died without one token of reconciliation coming to cheer him from Avonsyde; and when I laid him in the grave I can only say that I think my heart had grown hard against all the world.
“I had the children to live for, and it is literally true that I had no time to sit down and cry for Valentine’s loss. The little girls had a faithful nurse; her name was Nancy White; she is with me still. She took care of my dear, beautiful babies while I earned money to put bread in all our mouths. I had literally not a penny in the world except what I could earn, for the allowance Valentine had always received from his father was discontinued at his death. I went back to the shop where I had worked as a milliner before my marriage; there happened to be a vacancy, and they were good enough to take me back. Of course we were fearfully poor and lived in wretched lodgings; but however much Nancy and I denied ourselves, the children wanted for nothing. They were lovely children – uncommon. Any one could see that they had come of a proud old race. The eldest girl was called after her father and me; she was not like Valentine in appearance, neither did she resemble me. I am dark, but Rachel’s eyes were of the deepest, darkest brown; her hair was black as night and her complexion a deep, glowing rosy brown. She was a splendid creature; so large, so noble-looking – not like either of us; but with a look – yes, Rupert, with a look of that boy of yours. Kitty resembled her father and was a delicate, lovely, ethereal little creature; she was as fair as Rachel was dark, but she was not strong, and I often feared she inherited some of Valentine’s delicacy.
“For two years I worked for the children and supported them. For a year and a half all went fairly well. But then I caught cold; for a time I was ill – too ill to work – and my situation at the milliner’s shop was quickly filled up. I had a watch and a few valuable rings and trinkets which Valentine had given me. I sold them one by one and we lived on the little money they fetched. But the children were only half-fed, and one wretched day of a hot and stifling July Kitty fainted away quietly in my arms. That decided me. I made up my mind on the spot. I had a diamond ring, the most valuable of all my jewels, and the one I cared for most, for Valentine had given it me on our engagement. I took it out and sold it. I was fortunate; I got £10 for it. I hurried off at once and bought material, and made up with Nancy’s help lovely and picturesque dresses for both the children. I believe I had a correct eye for color, and I dressed Rachel in rich dark plush with lace, but Kitty was all in white. When the clothes were complete I put them on, and Nancy kissed the pets and fetched a cab for me, and we drove away to Waterloo. I had so little money left that I could only afford third-class tickets, but I took them to Lyndhurst Road, and when we arrived there drove straight to Avonsyde. The children were as excited and pleased as possible. They knew nothing of any coming parting, and were only anxious to see their grandfather and the house which their father had so often spoken to them about. They were children who had never been scolded; no harsh words had ever been addressed to them, consequently they knew nothing of fear. When they got into the lovely old place they were wild with delight. ‘Kitty,’ said Rachel, ‘let us go and find our grandfather.’ Before I could restrain them they were off; but indeed I had no wish to hinder them, for I felt sure they would plead their own cause best. We had arrived at a critical moment, for that was the last day of the old squire’s life. I saw his daughters – my sisters-in-law. We had a private interview and made terms with one another. These were the terms: The ladies of Avonsyde would take my darlings and care for them and educate them, and be, as they expressed it, ‘mothers’ to them, on condition that I gave them up. I said I would not give them up absolutely. I told the ladies quite plainly why I brought them at all. I said it was out of no love or respect for the cruel grandfather who had disowned them; it was out of no love or respect for the sisters, who did not care what became of their brother’s children: it was simply and entirely out of my great mother-love for the children themselves. I would rather part with them than see them starve or suffer. ‘But,’ I added, ‘there are limits even to my self-denial. I will not give them up forever. Name the term of years, but there must be a limit to the parting.’
“Then Miss Katharine, who seemed kinder-hearted than her sister, gave me one or two compassionate glances, and even said, ‘Poor thing!’ once or twice under her breath.
“I did not take the slightest notice of her. I repeated again, more distinctly: ‘The parting must have a limit; name a term of years.’ Then the ladies decided that on Rachel’s thirteenth birthday – she was just seven then – I should come back to Avonsyde, and if I so wished and my little girls so wished I should have one or both of them back again. The ladies told me at the same time of their father’s will. They said that a most vigorous search was going to be commenced at once for an heir of the elder branch. At the same time they both stated their conviction that no such heir would be forthcoming, for they said that no trace or tidings had been heard of Rupert Lovel from the day, nearly two hundred years ago, when he left Avonsyde. Their conviction was that Rupert had died without descendants. In that case, both the ladies said, the little girls must inherit the property; and Miss Griselda said further that she would try to make arrangements with her father to so alter his will that if no heir had been found on Rachel’s thirteenth birthday, Valentine’s children should have a life-interest in Avonsyde. If, on the other hand, the heir was found before that date, they would also be provided for, although she did not mention how.
“These arrangements satisfied me. They were the best terms I could make, and I went away without bidding either of my children good-by. I could bear a great deal, but that parting I could not have endured. I went back to London and to Nancy, and in a week’s time I heard from Miss Lovel. She told me that her father was dead, but that the necessary codicil had been added to the will, and that if no heir appeared before Rachel’s thirteenth birthday my children would have a life-interest in the place, and they themselves would be bound over to go on with the search. Miss Lovel further added that in any case the children should be educated and cared for in the best possible manner.
“Those were the entire contents of her letter. She sent me no message from my darlings, and from that hour to this I have never heard from her. From that hour, too, my terrible, terrible heart-hunger began. No one knows what I suffered, what I suffer for want of the children. Were the sacrifice to be made again, I don’t think I could go through it, and yet God only knows. For two or three years I made a very scanty livelihood; then I was fortunate enough to invent a certain showy-looking lace. I could make my own patterns and do it very quickly by hand. To my great surprise it took, and from that hour I have had more orders than I can execute. My wants are very few and I have even saved money: I have over £400 put away. My dream of dreams is to have my children back with me – that is my selfish dream. Of course it will be best for them to be rich and to have the old place, but in any case I will not consent to so absolute a separation as now exists between us. A year ago a gentleman and his wife who had been kind to me, although they knew nothing of my story, asked me if I would like to take charge of a little cottage of theirs in the New Forest. It is a tiny place, apparently lost in underwood and bracken, which they themselves occupy for a fortnight or so in the course of the year. The temptation was too great. I accepted the offer, and since then I have lived, so to speak, on the threshold of the children’s home. One day I saw Rachel. Well, I must not dwell on that. I did not speak to her. I fled from her, although she is my first-born child. It is now December. May will come by and by, and then the greatness of my trouble will be over.”
Mrs. Lovel paused. The Australians, father and son, had listened with breathless interest to her words.
“I don’t want to take the property from your children,” said young Rupert, with passion. “After what you have said and suffered, I hate to be heir of Avonsyde.”
“I forgot to mention,” continued Mrs. Lovel, “that a little boy is now at Avonsyde of the name of Philip who is supposed to be the real heir. He is a little pale-faced boy with beautiful eyes and a very winning manner, and it is reported that the old ladies have both lost their hearts to him. I cannot say that I think he looks strong, but he is a dear little boy.”
“That must be our Phil,” said young Rupert, speaking with great interest. “Of course, father that explains his queer letter to me. Poor dear little Phil!”
“Just like his mother,” growled the elder Lovel. “A mischievous, interfering, muddle-headed woman, sure to put her foot in a thing and safe to make mischief. Forgive me, Rachel, but I feel strongly about this. Has the boy got a mother with him?”
“Yes.”
“You are right then, Rupert. It is your Cousin Phil. Poor little chap! he has no voice in the matter, I am sure. What a meddlesome woman that mother of his is! Well, Rachel, my boy and I will say good-night now. These revelations have pained and bewildered me. I must sleep over all this news. Don’t leave London until you hear from me. I think you may trust me, and – God bless you!”