“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 lassies, 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 advertisements 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.”