The Lady of the Forest: A Story for Girls

by L. T. Meade

“You have a look of him,” he said. “Oh, how I hate being heir of Avonsyde! I wouldn’t be it for all the world but for mother. Kitty, shall we go into the forest and look for beetles?”

“I’ll come with you,” said Rachel. “You two are always together and I’m out in the cold, and I don’t mean to be in the cold any longer. I may come with you both, may I not?”

Kitty smiled radiantly, Phil linked his little brown hand inside Rachel’s arm, and the three set off.

No little girl could make herself more fascinating than Rachel when she pleased. She developed on the instant a most astonishing knowledge of beetles and spiders; she drew on her imagination for her facts, and deceived Kitty, but not Phil. Phil was a born little naturalist, and in consequence he only favored his elder cousin with a shrewd and comical look, and did not trouble himself even to negative her daring assertions. Seeing that she made no way in this direction, Rachel started a theme about which she possessed abundant knowledge. The New Forest had been more or less her nursery; she knew its haunts well; she knew where to look for the earliest primroses, the first violets, and also the very latest autumn flowers; she knew where the holly berries were reddest, where the robins had their nests, and where the squirrels were most abundant; and Phil, recognizing the tone of true knowledge, listened first with respect, then with interest, then with enthusiasm. Oh, yes, they must go to that dell; they must visit that sunny bank. Before Rachel and her sister and cousin came home that day they had planned an excursion which surely must give the mysterious lady of the forest that peep at Phil which she so earnestly desired. Rachel was sorry to be obliged to include Kitty in the party, for Kitty had not been asked to pass in review by old Nancy. Phil was the one whom Nancy and the lady wished to see just once with their own eyes: Phil, who was to be heir of Avonsyde and who didn’t like it. Rachel went to bed quite jubilant, for she would have done anything to please the unknown lady who had won her capricious little heart. She did not guess that anything would occur to spoil her plans, and in consequence slept very peacefully.

Phil had been much excited by Rachel’s words. He was a very imaginative child, and though he did not believe in ghosts, yet he was certainly impressed by what both the little girls had told him of the lady of the forest. He quite believed in this lady, and did not care to inquire too closely whether she was fairy or mortal. She appeared at rare intervals to the sons and daughters of the house of Lovel, and when she did she came with a gift. Phil did not altogether believe that this lovely, graceful, and gracious lady would be so obdurate as only to bestow an unvalued gift of beauty. He thought that if he were lucky enough to see her he might so intercede with her that she would give him a bag of gold instead. He need keep no secrets from her, for if she was a fairy she must know them already; and he might tell her all about his difficulties, and how his small heart was torn with great love for Rupert and great love for his mother. He might tell the lady of the forest how very little he cared for Avonsyde, except as a possible future home for his gay and brave Cousin Rupert, and he might ask her to give him the bag of precious gold to satisfy his mother and keep her from starving. Phil was dreadfully oppressed with all the secrets he had to keep. Happy as he was at Avonsyde, there were so many, many things he must not talk about. He must never mention Rupert, nor Gabrielle, nor Peggy; he must never breathe the name of Belmont nor say a word about his old nurse Betty. All the delightful times he had spent with his Australian cousins must be as though they had never been. He must not tell about the delicious hours he and Betty had spent together in the little cottage behind the garden when his mother had been away in Melbourne. He must not speak about the excursions that Rupert had taken with him. A veil, a close veil, must be spread over all the past, and the worst of it was that he knew the reason why. His mother wanted him to get what Rupert would have been so much more fitted for. Well! well! He loved his mother and he could not break her heart, so he kept all these little longings and desires to himself, and only half let out his secrets a dozen times a day. On one point, however, he was firm and stanch as a little Spartan: he never breathed a sigh nor uttered a groan which could be construed into even the semblance of physical pain.

When he felt quite exhausted, so tired that it was an effort to move, he would spring up again at Kitty’s least word and, with the drops on his little brow, climb to the top of that straight, tall tree once more and hide his face at last in the friendly sheltering leaves until he got back his panting breath. The splendid air of Avonsyde undoubtedly strengthened him, but the strain of always appearing bright and well was sometimes almost too much, and he wondered how long he could go on pretending to be quite the strongest little boy in the world. He fancied now how nice it would be to tell the kind lady of the forest how weak he really was; how his heart often beat almost to suffocation; what cruel pain came suddenly to stab and torture him. Oh! he could show her plainly that money was the gift for him, and that Rupert, who was so valiant, so strong, so splendid, was the only right heir to the old place.

Phil greatly enjoyed his tower bedroom. Not a particle of the nervousness which made his mother uneasy assailed him. The only thing he did regret was that he could not sleep quite at the very top of the tower, in those attic rooms inhabited by Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine. When some of those bad attacks of pain and breathlessness assailed him, he liked, notwithstanding the exertion, to creep up and up those winding stone stairs, for he knew that when he got to the top and had attained his refuge he could really rest; he might throw off all the Spartan and be a little human boy who could moan and sigh and even shed a few secret tears for the gallant Rupert whom he loved. Phil had got into a habit of not even telling his mother of those queer attacks of weakness and breathlessness which came over him. Nothing annoyed and distressed her so much as to hear of them, and little Phil was by degrees beginning to feel a sort of protective love toward the rather weak woman: their positions were being unconsciously reversed. Mrs. Lovel seldom came to the tower bedroom in the day-time. Under the pretext that the stairs wearied her, she had begged to be allowed to have a dressing-room in a more modern part of the house, so Phil could be quite alone and undisturbed when he chose to visit his room. One of Miss Griselda’s excellent rules for children was that they must retire early to bed. Phil, in Australia, had sat up far later than was good for him, but now at Avonsyde he and Kitty were always expected to have entered the land of dreams not later than eight o’clock in the evening. Mrs. Lovel seldom came upstairs before midnight, and in consequence Phil spent several hours alone every night in his quaint bedroom. He was often not at all sleepy, and on these occasions he would open one of the tiny deep-set windows, and look out into the night and listen to the hootings of some owls which had long ago made a home for themselves in a portion of the old tower. On other occasions he would amuse himself with one of Kitty’s story-books, or again he would arrange some very precious little collections of wild birds’ eggs and other forest treasures.

On this particular night, after Rachel’s and Kitty’s conversation, he was more than usually wakeful. He got into bed, for Aunt Griselda told him to be sure to undress and go to sleep as quickly as possible; but finding sleep very far away from his wakeful eyes he got up, and, after the fashion of a restless little boy, began to perambulate the room and to try to discover anything of interest to divert his attention. A very old horse-hair trunk of his mother’s stood in one corner of the room; it had never been unpacked, for it was only supposed to contain books and some household treasures not immediately required by Mrs. Lovel. Phil had once or twice coaxed his mother to unpack the old trunk, for among the books was his pet “Robinson Crusoe.” There was also an old box of paints which Rupert had given him, and a queer, old-fashioned cup, made of horn, which Rupert and he always took with them when they went for a day’s excursion into any of the neighboring forests. Phil saw now, to his great delight, that the key was in the lock of the old trunk, and it occurred to him that he could pass an agreeable hour rummaging among its contents for his beloved “Robinson Crusoe” and his old horn cup. He accordingly set a candlestick on the floor, and opening the trunk knelt down by it and began to forage. He worked hard, and the exertion tired him and brought on an attack of breathlessness; but he was much interested in the sight of many old home treasures and had no idea how time was flying. He could not find either his “Robinson Crusoe” or his horn cup, but he came across another treasure wrapped up in an old piece of flannel which gave him intense delight. This was no other than a silver tankard of quaint device and very Old-World pattern, with a coat of arms and the words “Tyde what may” inscribed on one side. Phil knew the tankard well, and raising it to his lips he kissed it tenderly.

“Why, this belongs to Uncle Rupert and to Belmont!” he exclaimed. “The very same dear old tankard which Gabrielle is so proud of. I’ve seen it dozens of times. Well, I never thought Uncle Rupert would have given this dear old tankard to mother. How kind of him! I wonder mother never spoke of it. Oh, dear, what stories Gabrielle has told me about it! She used to call it a magical tankard and said it had a history. Mother must have quite forgotten she had it in the old trunk. How delighted Rachel and Kitty will be when I show it to them to-morrow.”

Phil was so excited over his discovery that he became instantly careless as to finding either his “Robinson Crusoe” or his horn cup, and pushing the rest of contents of the trunk back into their place and turning the lock, he crept into bed, carrying the beloved tankard with him. When his mother came upstairs presently she found the boy fast asleep, and little guessed what treasure he clasped in his arms.