“I found it, mother, and I took it out with me that day when I was nearly drowned in the bog. I had it with me that day.”
“Well, boy, well! Where is it now?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember a single thing about it. I think I had it with me in the bog. I’m almost sure I had, but I can’t quite recollect. Perhaps I dropped it in the bog. Mother, what is the matter?”
“Nothing, child. I could shake you, but I won’t. This is terrible news. There! read your letter.”
“Mother darling, let us read it together. Mother, I didn’t know it was wrong. Kiss me, mammy, and don’t look so white. Oh! I am almost too happy. Mother, Rupert says when I am reading this he will be in England!”
“Then we are lost!” said Mrs. Lovel, pushing the slight little figure away from her. “No, no, I scarcely love you at this moment. Don’t attempt to kiss me. We are utterly lost!”
[CHAPTER XVII.—LOOKING FOR THE TANKARD.]
When Mrs. Lovel spoke to Phil with such passion and bitterness, and when, abruptly leaving the tower bedroom and slamming the door violently after her, the little boy found himself alone, he was conscious of a curious half-stunned feeling. His mother had said that she scarcely loved him. All his small life he had done everything for his mother; he had subdued himself for her sake; he had crushed down his love and his hope and his longing just to help her. What did he care for wealth, or for a grand place, or for anything in all the wide world, in comparison with the sweetness of Rupert’s smile, in comparison with the old happy days in Belmont and of the old life, when he might be a boy with aches and pains if he liked, when he need not pretend to be possessed of the robust health which he never felt, when he need carry no wearisome secrets about with him? His mother had said, “I scarcely love you, Phil,” and she had gone away angry; she had gone away with defiance in her look and manner, and yet with despair in her heart. Phil had guessed that she was despairing, for he knew her well, and this knowledge soon made his brief anger take the form of pity.
“Poor mother! poor darling mother!” he murmured. “I did not know she would mind my taking out the old Belmont tankard. I am awfully sorry. I suppose it was quite careless of me. I did not know that mother cared for the tankard; but I suppose Gabrielle must have given it to her, and I suppose she must love Gabrielle a little. That is nice of her; that is very nice. I wish I could get the tankard back for her. I wonder where I did leave it. I do wish very much that I could find it again.”
Phil now turned and walked to the window and looked out. It was a delicious spring day, and the soft air fanned his cheeks and brought some faint color to them.