The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls

by L. T. Meade

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.