"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 G.o.d! 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 la.s.sies 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 gra.s.s, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d be good to me?"

"Whether he lives or dies G.o.d will be good to you. Try to rest on that."

That same evening Miss Katharine tried to soothe away some of the restlessness and anxiety which oppressed her by playing on the organ in the hall. Miss Katharine could make very wonderful music; this was her one great gift. She had been taught well, and when her fingers touched either piano or organ people were apt to forget that at other times she was nothing but a weak-looking, uninteresting middle-aged lady. Seated at the organ, Miss Katharine's eyes would shine with a strange, new radiance. There was a power, a sympathy in her touch; her notes were seldom loud or martial, but they appealed straight to the innermost hearts of those who listened.

Miss Katharine did not very often play. Music with her meant something almost as sacred as a sacrament; she could not bring her melodies into the common everyday life; but when her soul burned within her, when she sought to express a dumb pain or longing, she went to the old organ for comfort.

On this evening, as the twilight fell, she sat down at the organ and began to play some soft, pitiful strains. The notes seemed to cry, as if they were in pain. One by one the children stole into the hall and came up close to her. Phil came closest; he leaned against her side and listened, his sweet brown eyes reflecting her pain.

"Don't!" he said suddenly. "Comfort us; things aren't like that."

Miss Katharine turned round and looked at the little pale-faced boy, from him to Rachel--whose eyes were gleaming--to Kitty, who was half-crying.

"Things aren't like that," repeated Phil. "Play something true."

"Things are like this," answered Miss Katharine; "things are very, very wrong."

"They aren't," retorted Phil. "Any one to hear you would think G.o.d wasn't good."

Miss Katharine paused; her fingers trembled; they scarcely touched the keys.

"Play joyfully," continued Phil; "play as if you believed in him."

"Oh, Phil, I do!" said the poor lady. "Yes, yes, I will play as if I believed."