



Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net





THE LADY OF THE FOREST.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

By L. T. MEADE

    Author of "The Little Princess of Tower Hill,"
    "A Sweet Girl Graduate," "The Palace Beautiful,"
    "Polly," "A World of Girls," etc., etc.

    "Tyde what may betyde,
    Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde."

ILLUSTRATED EDITION.

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.




CONTENTS

    CHAPTER I.--FAIR LITTLE MAIDS.
    CHAPTER II.--MAKING TERMS.
    CHAPTER III.--PREPARING FOR THE HEIR
    CHAPTER IV.--A SPARTAN BOY.
    CHAPTER V.--IN THE FOREST.
    CHAPTER VI.--THE TOWER BEDROOM.
    CHAPTER VII.--"BETYDE WHAT MAY."
    CHAPTER VIII.--THE SACRED CUPBOARD.
    CHAPTER IX.--A TRYSTING-PLACE.
    CHAPTER X.--PROOFS.
    CHAPTER XI.--THE LADY WHO CAME WITH A GIFT.
    CHAPTER XII.--LOST IN THE NEW FOREST.
    CHAPTER XIII.--ONE MORE SECRET.
    CHAPTER XIV.--THE AUSTRALIANS.
    CHAPTER XV.--WAS HE ACTING?
    CHAPTER XVI.--LOST.
    CHAPTER XVII.--LOOKING FOR THE TANKARD.
    CHAPTER XVIII.--THE MARMADUKES.
    CHAPTER XIX.--A TENDER HEART.
    CHAPTER XX.--PUNISHED.
    CHAPTER XXI.--WHAT THE HEIR OUGHT TO BE.
    CHAPTER XXII.--RIGHT IS RIGHT.
    CHAPTER XXIII.--FOREST LIFE.
    CHAPTER XXIV.--A GREAT ALARM.
    CHAPTER XXV.--A DREAM WITH A MEANING.
    CHAPTER XXVI.--LOVE VERSUS GOLD.
    CHAPTER XXVII.--TWO MOTHERS.
    CHAPTER XXVIII.--THE LADY WHO CAME WITH A GIFT.




THE LADY OF THE FOREST.

    "Tyde what may betyde
    Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde."




CHAPTER I.--FAIR LITTLE MAIDS.


"And then," said Rachel, throwing up her hands and raising her
eyebrows--"and then, when they got into the heart of the forest itself,
just where the shade was greenest and the trees thickest, they saw the
lady coming to meet them. She, too, was all in green, and she came on
and on, and----"

"Hush, Rachel!" exclaimed Kitty; "here comes Aunt Grizel."

The girls, aged respectively twelve and nine, were seated, one on a
rustic stile, the other on the grass at her feet; a background of
splendid forest trees threw their slight and childish figures into
strong relief. Rachel's hat was tossed on the ground and Kitty's parasol
lay unopened by her side. The sun was sending slanting rays through the
trees, and some of these rays fell on Kitty's bright hair and lit up
Rachel's dark little gypsy face.

"Aunt Grizel is coming," said Kitty, and immediately she put on a proper
and demure expression. Rachel, drawn up short in the midst of a very
exciting narrative, looked slightly defiant and began to whistle in a
boyish manner.

Aunt Griselda was seen approaching down a long straight avenue
overshadowed by forest trees of beech and oak; she held her parasol well
up, and her face was further protected from any passing gleams of
sunlight by a large poke-bonnet. She was a slender old lady, with a
graceful and dignified appearance. Aunt Griselda would have compelled
respect from any one, and as she approached the two girls they both
started to their feet and ran to meet her.

"Your music-master has been waiting for you for half an hour, Rachel.
Kitty, I am going into the forest; you can come with me if you choose."

Rachel did not attempt to offer any excuse for being late; with an
expressive glance at Kitty she walked off soberly to the house, and the
younger girl, picking up her hat, followed Aunt Griselda, sighing
slightly as she did so.

Kitty was an affectionate child, the kind of child who likes everybody,
and she would have tolerated Aunt Griselda--who was not particularly
affectionate nor particularly sympathetic--if she had not disturbed her
just at the moment when she was listening with breathless interest to a
wonderful romance.

Kitty adored fairy tales, and Rachel had a great gift in that direction.
She was very fond of prefacing her stories with some such words as the
following:

"Understand now, Kitty, that this fairy story is absolutely true; the
fairy was seen by our great-great-grandmother;" or "Our great-uncle
Jonas declares that he saw that brownie himself as he was going through
the forest in the dusk;" then Kitty's pretty blue eyes would open wide
and she would lose herself in an enchanted world. It was very trying to
be brought back to the ordinary everyday earth by Aunt Griselda, and on
the present occasion the little girl felt unusually annoyed.

Miss Griselda Lovel, or "Aunt Grizel" as her nieces called her, was a
taciturn old lady, and by no means remarked Kitty's silence. There were
many little paths through the forest, and the two soon found themselves
in comparative night. Miss Lovel walked quickly, and Kitty almost panted
as she kept up with her. Her head was so full of Rachel's fairy tale
that at last some unexpected words burst from her lips. They were
passing under a splendid forest tree, when Kitty suddenly clutched Aunt
Grizel's thin hand.

"Aunt Grizel--is it--is it about here that the lady lives?"

"What lady, child?" asked Miss Lovel.

"Oh, you know--the lady of the forest."

Aunt Grizel dropped Kitty's hand and laughed.

"What a foolish little girl you are, Kitty! Who has been putting such
nonsense into your head? See, my dear, I will wait for you here; run
down this straight path to the Eyres' cottage, and bring Mrs. Eyre back
with you--I want to speak to her. I have had a letter, my dear, and your
little cousin Philip Lovel is coming to Avonsyde to-morrow."

                *       *       *       *       *

Avonsyde was one of the oldest places in the country; it was not
particularly large, nor were its owners remarkable for wealth, or
prowess, or deeds of daring, neither were the men of the house specially
clever. It was indeed darkly hinted at that the largest portion of
brains was as a rule bestowed upon the female side of the house. But on
the score of antiquity no country seat could at all approach Avonsyde.
It was a delightful old place, homelike and bright; there were one or
two acres of flower-garden not too tidily kept, and abounding in all
kinds of old-fashioned and sweet-smelling flowers; the house had a broad
frontage, its windows were small, and it possessed all the charming
irregularities of a family dwelling-place which has been added to piece
by piece. At one end was a tower, gray and hoary with the weight of
centuries; at the further end were modern wings with large
reception-rooms, and even some attempts at modern luxury and modern
ornamentation. There were two avenues to the place: one the celebrated
straight avenue, which must have been cut at some long-ago period
directly out of the neighboring forest, for the trees which arched it
over were giant forest oaks and beeches. This avenue was the pride of
the place, and shown as a matter of course to all visitors. The other
avenue, and the one most in use, was winding and straggling; it led
straight up to the old-fashioned stone porch which guarded the entrance,
and enshrined in the most protective and cozy manner the principal doors
to the house.

Avonsyde had belonged to the Lovels for eight hundred years. They were
not a rich family and they had undergone many misfortunes; the property
now belonged to the younger branch; for a couple of hundred years ago a
very irate and fiery Squire Lovel had disinherited his eldest son and
had bestowed all his fair lands and the old place upon a younger son.
From that moment matters had not gone well with the family; the younger
son who inherited the property which should have been his brother's made
an unfortunate marriage, had sickly children, many of whom died, and not
being himself either too strong-minded or in any sense overwise, had
sustained severe money losses, and for the first time within the memory
of man some of the Avonsyde lands had to be sold.

From the date of the disinheritance of the elder branch the family never
regained either their wealth or prestige; generation after generation
the Lovels dwindled in strength and became less and less able to cope
with their sturdier neighbors. The last squire of Avonsyde had one
sickly son and two daughters; the son married, but died before his
father, leaving no son to inherit the old place. This son had also, in
the family's estimation, married beneath him, and during the squire's
lifetime his daughters were afraid even to mention the names of two
bonny little lasses who were pining away their babyhood and early youth
in poky London lodgings, and who would have been all the better for the
fresh breezes which blew so genially round Avonsyde. After the death of
his son Squire Lovel became very morose and disagreeable. He pretended
not to grieve for his son, but he also lost all interest in life. One by
one the old pleasures in which he used to delight were given up, his
health gave way rapidly, and at last the end drew near.

There came a day when Squire Lovel felt so ill that he sent first of all
for the family doctor and then for the family solicitor. He occupied the
doctor's attention for about ten minutes, but he was closeted with the
lawyer for two or three hours. At the end of that time he sent for his
daughters and made some strong statements to them.

"Grizel," he said, addressing the elder Miss Lovel, "Dr. Maddon has just
informed me that I am not long for this world."

"Dr. Maddon is fond of exaggerating matters," said Miss Grizel in a
voice which she meant to be soothing; "neither Katharine nor I think you
very ill, father, and--and----"

The squire raised his eyebrows impatiently.

"We won't discuss the question of whether Maddon is a wise man or a
silly one, Griselda," he said. "I know myself that I am ill. I am not
only ill, I am weak, and arguing with regard to a foregone conclusion is
wearisome. I have much to talk to you and Katharine about, so will you
sit down quietly and listen to me?"

Miss Griselda was a cold-mannered and perhaps cold-natured woman. Miss
Katharine, on the contrary, was extremely tender-hearted; she looked
appealingly at her old father's withered face; but she had always been
submissive, and she now followed her elder sister's lead and sat down
quietly on the nearest chair.

"We will certainly not worry you with needless words, father," said Miss
Griselda gently. "You have doubtless many directions to give us about
the property; your instructions shall of course be carried out to the
best of my ability. Katharine, too, although she is not the
strongest-minded of mortals, will no doubt, from a sense of filial
affection, also respect your wishes."

"I am glad the new poultry-yard is complete," here half-sobbed Miss
Katharine, "and that valuable new breed of birds arrived yesterday; and
I--I----"

"Try to stop talking, both of you," suddenly exclaimed the squire. "I am
dying, and Avonsyde is without an heir. Griselda, will you oblige me by
going down to the library and bringing up out of the book-case marked D
that old diary of my great-grandfather's, in which are entered the
particulars of the quarrel?"

Miss Katharine looked in an awe-struck and startled way at her sister.
Miss Griselda rose at once and, with a bunch of keys in her hand, went
downstairs.

The moment she had left the room Miss Katharine got up timidly and, with
a certain pathos, stooped down and kissed the old man's swollen hand.

The little action was done so simply and naturally that the fierce old
face relaxed, and for an instant the wrinkled hand touched Miss
Katharine's gray head.

"Yes, Kitty, I know you love me; but I hate the feminine weakness of
tears. Ah, Kitty, you were a fair enough looking maid once, but time has
faded and changed you; you are younger than Grizel, but you have worn
far worse."

Miss Katharine did not say a word, but hastily resumed her seat; and
when Miss Lovel returned with the vellum-bound diary, she had not an
idea that her younger sister had ever moved.

Sitting down by her father, she opened the musty old volume and read
aloud certain passages which, written in fierce heat at the time,
disclosed a painful family scene. Angry words, bitter recriminations,
the sense of injustice on one side, the thirst for revenge on the other,
were faithfully portrayed by the dead-and-gone chronicler.

The squire's lips moved in unspoken accompaniment to the words which his
daughter read aloud, and Miss Katharine bent eagerly forward in order
not to lose a syllable.

"I am dying, and there is no male heir to Avonsyde," said the squire at
last. "Griselda and Katharine, I wish to state here distinctly that my
great-great-grandfather made a mistake when he turned the boy Rupert
from the old place. Valentine should have refused to inherit; it is
doubtless because of Valentine's weakness and his father's spirit of
revenge that I die to-day without male issue to inherit Avonsyde."

"Heaping recriminations on the dead won't help matters now," said Miss
Griselda in a sententious voice. As she spoke she closed the diary,
clasped it and locked it, and Miss Katharine, starting to her feet,
said:

"There are the children in London, your grandchildren, father, and our
nearest of kin."

The squire favored his younger daughter with a withering look, and even
Miss Griselda started at what were very bold words.

"Those children," said the squire--"girls, both of them, sickly, weakly,
with Valentine's miserable pink-and-white delicacy and their low born
mother's vulgarity; I said I would never see them, and I surely do not
wish to hear about them now. Griselda, there is now one plain and
manifest duty before you--I lay it as my dying charge on you and
Katharine. I leave the search which you are to institute as your mission
in life. While you both live Avonsyde is yours, but you must search the
world over if necessary for Rupert Lovel's descendants; and when you
discover them you are to elect a bonny stalwart boy of the house as your
heir. No matter whether he is eldest or youngest, whether he is in a
high position or a low position in the social scale, provided he is a
lineal descendant of the Rupert Lovel who was disinherited in 1684, and
provided also he is strong and upright and well-featured, with muscle
and backbone and manliness in him, you are to appoint him your heir, and
you are to bequeath to him the old house, and the old lands, and all the
money you can save by simple and abstemious living. I have written it
down in my will, and you are tied firmly, both of you, and cannot depart
from my instructions; but I wished to talk over matters with you, for
Katharine there is slow to take in a thing, and you, Grizel, are
prejudiced and rancorous in your temper, and I wish you both clearly to
understand that the law binds you to search for my heir, and this, if
you want to inherit a shilling from me during your lifetime, you must
do. Remember, however, and bear ever strongly in mind, that if, when you
find the family, the elder son is weakly and the younger son is strong,
it is to the sturdy boy that the property is to go; and hark you yet
again, Griselda and Katharine, that the property is not to go to the
father if he is alive, but to the young boy, and the boy is to be
educated to take up his rightful position. A strong lad, a manly and
stalwart lad, mind you; for Avonsyde has almost ceased to exist, owing
to sickly and effeminate heirs, since the time when my
great-great-grandfather quarreled with his son, Rupert Lovel, and gave
the old place to that weakly stripling Valentine. I am a descendant of
Valentine myself, but, 'pon my word, I rue the day."

"Your directions shall be obeyed to the letter," said Miss Griselda; but
Miss Katharine interrupted her.

"And we--we have only a life-interest in the property, father?" she
inquired in a quavering voice.

The old squire looked up into his younger daughter's face and laughed.

"Why, what more would you want, Kitty? No longer young nor fair and with
no thought of marrying--what is money to you after your death?"

"I was thinking of the orphan children in London," continued Miss
Katharine, with increasing firmness of manner and increasing trembling
of voice. "They are very poor, and--and--they are Valentine's children,
and--and--you have never seen them, father."

"And never mean to," snapped the squire. "Griselda, I believe I have now
given implicit directions. Katharine, don't be silly. I don't mean to
see those children and I won't be worried about them."

At this moment the door behind the squire, which was very thick and made
of solid oak, worn nearly black with age, was opened softly, and a clear
voice exclaimed:

"Why, what a funny room! Do come in, Kitty. Oh, what a beautiful room,
and what a funny, queer old man!"

Miss Griselda and Miss Katharine both turned round abruptly. Miss
Griselda made a step toward the door to shut it against some unexpected
and unwelcome intruder. The old man muttered:

"That is a child's voice--one of the village urchins, no doubt."

But before Miss Griselda could reach the door--in short, before any of
the little party assembled in the dying squire's bedroom could do
anything but utter disjointed exclamations, a child, holding a younger
child by the hand, marched boldly and with the air of one perfectly at
home into the chamber.

"What a very nice room, and what funny ladies, and oh! what a queer,
cross old man! Don't be frightened, Kitty, we'll walk right through.
There's a door at the other end--maybe we'll find grandfather in the room
beyond the door at that end."

The squire's lower jaw quite dropped as the radiant little creatures
came in and filled the room with an unlooked-for light and beauty. They
were dressed picturesquely, and no one for an instant could mistake them
for the village children. The eldest child might have been seven; she
was tall and broad, with large limbs, a head crowned with a great wealth
of tangly, fuzzy, nut-brown hair, eyes deeply set, very dark in color, a
richly tinted dark little face, and an expression of animation which
showed in the dancing eyes, in the dancing limbs, in the smiling,
dimpled, confident mouth; her proud little head was well thrown back;
her attitude was totally devoid of fear. The younger child was fair with
a pink-and-white complexion, a quantity of golden, sunny hair, and eyes
as blue as the sky; she could not have been more than four years old,
and was round-limbed and dimpled like a baby.

"Who are you, my dears?" said Miss Katharine when she could speak. Miss
Katharine was quite trembling, and she could not help smiling at the
lovely little pair. Squire Lovel and Miss Grizel were still frowning,
but Miss Katharine's voice was very gentle.

"Who are you, my dear little children?" she repeated, gaining courage
and letting an affectionate inflection steal into her voice.

"I'm Kitty," said the younger child, putting her finger to her lip and
looking askance at the elder girl, "and she--she's Rachel."

"You had better let me tell it, Kitty," interrupted Rachel. "Please, we
are going through the house--we want to see everything. Kitty doesn't
want to as badly as me, but she always does what I tell her. We are
going straight on into the next room, for we want to find grandfather.
I'm Rachel Lovel and this is Kitty Lovel. Our papa used to live here
when he was a little boy, and we want to find grandfather, please. Oh,
what a cross old man that is sitting in the chair!"

While Rachel was making her innocent and confident speech, Miss
Katharine's face turned deadly pale; she was afraid even to glance at
her father and sister. The poor lady felt nearly paralyzed, and was
dimly wondering how she could get such audacious intruders out of the
room.

Rachel having finished her speech remained silent for a quarter of a
minute; then taking Kitty's hand she said:

"Come along, Kit, we may find grandfather in the other room. We'll go
through the door at that end, and perhaps we'll come to grandfather at
last."

Kitty heaved a little sigh of relief, and the two were preparing to
scamper past the deep embrasure of the mullioned window, when a stern
voice startled the little adventurers, and arresting them in their
flight, caused them to wheel swiftly round.

"Come here," said Squire Lovel.

He had never spoken more sternly; but the mites had not a bit of fear.
They marched up to him boldly, and Kitty laid her dimpled baby finger,
with a look of inquiry, on his swollen old hand:

"What a funny fat hand!"

"What did you say you called yourself?" said the squire, lifting
Rachel's chin and peering into her dark face. "Griselda and Katharine,
I'll thank you not to stand staring and gaping. What did you call
yourself? What name did you say belonged to you, child? I'm hard of
hearing; tell me again."

"I'm Rachel Valentine Lovel," repeated the child in a confident tone. "I
was called after my mamma and after father--father's in heaven, and it
makes my mother cry to say Valentine, so I'm Rachel; and this is
Kitty--her real name is Katharine--Katharine Lovel. We have come in a
dog-cart, and mother is downstairs, and we want to see all the house,
and particularly the tower, and we want to see grandfather, and we want
a bunch of grapes each."

All the time Rachel was speaking the squire kept regarding her more and
more fiercely. When she said "My mother is downstairs," he even gave her
a little push away. Rachel was not at all appalled; she knit her own
black brows and tried to imitate him.

"I never saw such a cross old man; did you, Kitty? Please, old man, let
us go now. We want to find grandfather."

"Perhaps it's a pain him got," said Kitty, stroking the swollen hand
tenderly. "Mother says when I's got a pain I can't help looking cross."

The fierce old eyes turned slowly from one lovely little speaker to the
other; then the squire raised his head and spoke abruptly.

"Griselda and Katharine, come here. Have the goodness to tell me who
this child resembles," pointing as he spoke to Rachel. "Look at her
well, study her attentively, and don't both answer at once."

There was not the slightest fear of Miss Katharine interrupting Miss
Griselda on this occasion. She only favored dark-eyed little Rachel with
a passing glance; but her eyes, full of tears, rested long on the fair
little baby face of Kitty.

"This child in all particulars resembles the portrait of our great-uncle
Rupert," said Miss Griselda, nodding at Rachel as she did so. "The same
eyes, the same lift of the eyebrows, and the same mouth."

"And this one," continued the squire, turning his head and pointing to
Kitty--"this one, Griselda? Katharine, you need not speak."

"This one," continued Miss Griselda, "has the weakness and effeminate
beauty of my dead brother Valentine."

"Kitty isn't weak," interrupted Rachel; "she's as strong as possible.
She only had croup once, and she never takes cold, and she only was ill
for a little because she was very hungry. Please, old man, stop staring
so hard and let us go now. We want to find our grandfather."

But instead of letting Rachel go Squire Lovel stretched out his hand and
drew her close to him.

"Sturdy limbs, dark face, breadth of figure," he muttered, "and you are
my grandchild--the image of Rupert; yes, the image of Rupert Lovel. I
wish to God, child, you were a boy!"

"Your grandchild!" repeated Rachel. "Are you my grandfather? Kitty,
Kitty, is this our grandfather?"

"Him's pain is better," said Kitty. "I see a little laugh 'ginning to
come round his mouth. Him's not cross. Let us kiss our grandfader,
Rachel."

Up went two rosy, dimpled pairs of lips to the withered old cheeks, and
two lovely little pairs of arms were twined round Squire Lovel's neck.

"We have found our grandfather," said Rachel. "Now let's go downstairs
at once and bring mother up to see him."

"No, no, stop that!" said the squire, suddenly disentangling himself
from the pretty embrace. "Griselda and Katharine, this scene is too much
for me. I should not be agitated--those children should not intrude on
me. Take care of them--take particular care of the one who is like
Rupert. Take her away now; take them both away; and, hark you, do not
let the mother near me. I'll have nothing to say to the mother; she is
nothing to me. Take the children out of the room and come back to me
presently, both of you."




CHAPTER II.--MAKING TERMS.


The moment the two little girls found themselves outside their
grandfather's door they wrenched their little hands away from Miss
Griselda's and Miss Katharine's, and with a gay laugh like two wild,
untamed birds flew down the wide oak staircase and across the hall to a
room where a woman, dressed very soberly, waited for them. She was
sitting on the edge of a hard cane-bottomed chair, her veil was down,
and her whole attitude was one of tense and nervous watchfulness. The
children ran to her with little cries of rapture, climbed together on
her knee, pulled up her veil, and nearly smothered her pale dark face
with kisses.

"Mother, mother, mother, he was so cross!"

"He had pain, mother, and him's eyes was wrinkled up so."

"But, mother, we gave him a kiss, and he said I was strong and Kitty was
weak. We have not seen the tower yet, and we haven't got our grapes, and
there are two old ladies, and we don't like them much, and we ran away
from them--and--oh, here they are!"

The children clung tightly to their mother, who struggled to her feet,
pushed them