"Oh, ma'am, beautiful is no word; and how your poor eyes stand the fine work pa.s.ses my belief. But now, now, where's the hurry for to-night?

Why, your hands do shake terrible. Let me make you a cup of cocoa and light a fire in your bedroom, and you go to bed nice and early, Mrs.

Lovel."

Mrs. Lovel threw down her work with a certain gesture of impatience.

"I should lie awake all night," said Mrs. Lovel. "Do you know, Nancy, that the little boy spoke of Kitty? He said my baby Kitty often mentioned the lady of the forest--that he and she both did. At first I thought that he meant me and that Kitty really spoke of her mother; but now I believe he was alluding to some imaginary forest lady."

"The green forest lady," interposed Nancy. "I don't say, ma'am, that she's altogether a fancy, though. There's them--yes, there's them whose words may be relied on who are said to have spoke with her."

"Well, no matter. I am finishing this lace to-night, Nancy, because I mean to go to London to-morrow."

"You, ma'am? Oh, oh, and it ain't three months since you were there!"

"Yes, I must go. I want to see my husband's lawyers. Nancy, this suspense is killing me!"

"Oh, my poor, dear, patient lady! But it ain't so many months now to wait. Miss Rachel's birthday comes in May."

"Nancy, the mother-hunger is driving me wild. If I could only see them both and kiss them once I should be satisfied."

"You shall kiss them hundreds of times when May comes," answered the old servant. "And they are well and bonny and Miss Rachel loves you; and the little one, why, of course her heart will go out to you when you hold her in your arms again."

"Six years!" repeated the poor lady, clasping her hands, letting the lovely lace fall to the ground, and gazing into the glowing fire in the grate. "Six years for a mother to starve! Oh, Nancy, how could good women be so cruel? I believe Miss Grizel and Miss Katharine are good.

How could they be so cruel?"

"Old maids!" said Nancy, with a little snort. "Do you suppose, ma'am, that those old ladies know anything of the mother feel? Well, Mrs.

Lovel, the children are two bonny little la.s.sies, and you have given up much for them. You did it for their good, ma'am--that they should have full and plenty and be provided for. You did it all out of real self-denial, ma'am."

"I made up my mind the day Kitty fainted for want of food," answered Mrs. Lovel. "I made up my mind and I never flinched; but oh! Nancy, think of its being in vain! For, after all, that little boy is the true heir. He is a dear little fellow, and although I ought to hate him I can't. He is the true heir; and if so, you know, Nancy, that my little girls come back to me. How have I really bettered them by giving them six years of luxury when, after all, they must return to my small life?"

"And to the best of mothers," answered Nancy. "And to two or three hundred pounds put by careful; and they hearty and bonny and Miss Rachel's education half-complete. No, ma'am, they are not worse off, but a deal better off for what you have done for them--that's if the worst comes. But how can you say that that little boy will have Avonsyde? Why, he hasn't no strength in him--not a bit. Thin is no word for him, and he's as light as a feather, and so white! Why, I carried him in my arms as far as the Stone, and I didn't feel as if I had nothing in them. Why, ma'am, all the country round knows that the ladies at Avonsyde are looking out for a strong heir; they go direct against the will if they give the old place to a sickly one. No, ma'am, Master Phil Lovel ain't the heir for Avonsyde. And is it likely, ma'am, that the ladies would be putting advertis.e.m.e.nts in all the papers, foreign and otherwise, for the last five years and a half, and sending over special messengers to the other side of the globe, and never yet a strong, hearty, real heir turn up? Why, of course, Mrs. Lovel, he ain't to be found, and that's why he don't come."

Mrs. Lovel smiled faintly.

"Well, Nancy," she said, "I must at least go to town to-morrow, and as that is the case I will take your advice and go up to my room now. No, I could not eat anything. Good-night, dear Nancy."

When Mrs. Lovel left the little sitting-room Nancy stayed behind to give it a good "redding-up" as she expressed it. With regard to sitting-rooms, and indeed all rooms arranged for human habitation, Nancy was a strict disciplinarian; rigid order was her motto. Chairs placed demurely in rows; a table placed exactly in the middle of the room; books arranged at symmetrical intervals round it; each ornament corresponding exactly to its fellow; blinds drawn to a certain level--these were her ideas of a nice cheerful apartment. Could she have had her own choice with regard to carpets, she would have had them with a good dash of orange in them; her curtains should always be made of moreen and be of a bright cardinal tone. A tidy and a cheerful room was her delight; she shuddered at the tendencies, so-called artistic, of the present day. Putting the little sitting-room in order now, her feet knocked against something which gave forth a metallic sound; stooping, she picked up from the floor Phil's tankard. She examined it curiously and brought it to the light. The quaint motto inscribed on one of its sides--"Tyde what may"--was well known to her as the motto of the house of Lovel.

"I know nothing about this old cup," she said to herself; "it may or may not be of value; but it looks old--uncommon old; and it has the family coat of arms and them outlandish, meaningless words on it. Of course it was little Master Phil brought it in to-day and forgot all about it.

Well, well, it may mean something or it may not; but my name ain't Nancy White if I don't set it by for the present and bide my time about returning it. Ah, my dear, dear lady, it won't be Nancy's fault if your bonny little girls don't get their own out of Avonsyde!"

CHAPTER XIV.--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 pa.s.s 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."