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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9b0eb9b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #55121 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55121) diff --git a/old/55121-0.txt b/old/55121-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 9f76c1a..0000000 --- a/old/55121-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5806 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Athelings; vol. 3/3, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Athelings; vol. 3/3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: July 15, 2017 [EBook #55121] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATHELINGS; VOL. 3/3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - THE ATHELINGS - - - - - THE ATHELINGS - - OR - - THE THREE GIFTS - - BY MARGARET OLIPHANT - - “I’ the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit - The roofs of palaces; and nature prompts them, - In simple and low things, to prince it much - Beyond the trick of others.” - CYMBELINE - - - IN THREE VOLUMES - - VOL. III. - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - MDCCCLVII - - ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE. - - - - - THE ATHELINGS - - BOOK III.--WINTERBOURNE HALL - - - - - THE ATHELINGS. - - - - -BOOK III.--CHAPTER I. - -AN OLD STORY. - - -“Now, mother,” said Charlie, “I’m in real earnest. My father would tell -me himself if he were here. I want to understand the whole concern.” - -Mrs Atheling and her son were in Charlie’s little room, with its one -small lattice-window, overshadowed and embowered in leaves--its plain -uncurtained bed, its small table, and solitary chair. Upon this chair, -with a palpitating heart, sat Mrs Atheling, and before her stood the -resolute boy. - -And she began immediately, yet with visible faltering and hesitation, to -tell him the story she had told the girls of the early connection -between the present Lord Winterbourne and the Atheling family. But -Charlie’s mind was excited and preoccupied. He listened, almost with -impatience, to the sad little romance of his father’s young sister, of -whom he had never heard before. It did not move him at all as it had -moved Agnes and Marian. Broken hearts and disappointed loves were very -far out of Charlie’s way; something entirely different occupied his own -imagination. He broke forth with a little effusion of impatience when -the story came to an end. “And is this all? Do you mean to say this is -the whole, mother? And my father had never anything to do with him but -through a girl!” - -“You are very unfeeling, Charlie,” said Mrs Atheling, who wiped her eyes -with real emotion, yet with a little policy too, and to gain time. “She -was a dear innocent girl, and your father was very fond of her--reason -enough to give him a dislike, if it were not sinful, to the very name of -Lord Winterbourne.” - -“I had better go on with my packing, then,” said Charlie. “So, that was -all? I suppose any scamp in existence might do the same. Do you really -mean to tell me, mother, that there was nothing but this?” - -Mrs Atheling faltered still more under the steady observation of her -son. “Charlie,” said his mother, with agitation, “your father never -would mention it to any one. I may be doing very wrong. If he only were -here himself to decide! But if I tell you, you must give me your word -never so much as to hint at it again.” - -Charlie did not give the necessary pledge, but Mrs Atheling made no -pause. She did not even give him time to speak, however he might have -been inclined, but hastened on in her own disclosure with agitation and -excitement. “You have heard Papa tell of the young gentleman--he whom -you all used to be so curious about--whom your father did a great -benefit to,” said Mrs Atheling, in a breathless hurried whisper. -“Charlie, my dear, I never said it before to any creature--that was -_him_.” - -She paused only a moment to take breath. “It was before we knew how he -had behaved to dear little Bride,” she continued, still in haste, and in -an undertone. “What he did was a forgery--a forgery! people were hanged -for it then. It was either a bill, or a cheque, or something, and Mr -Reginald had written to it another man’s name. It happened when Papa was -in the bank, and before old Mr Lombard died--old Mr Lombard had a great -kindness for your father, and we had great hopes then--and by good -fortune the thing was brought to Papa. Your father was always very -quick, Charlie--he found it out in a moment. So he told old Mr Lombard -of it in a quiet way, and Mr Lombard consented he should take it back to -Mr Reginald, and tell him it was found out, and hush all the business -up. If your papa had not been so quick, Charlie, but had paid the money -at once, as almost any one else would have done, it all must have been -found out, and he would have been hanged, as certain as anything--he, a -haughty young gentleman, and a lord’s son!” - -“And a very good thing, too,” exclaimed Charlie; “saved him from doing -any more mischief. So, I suppose now, it’s all my father’s blame.” - -“This Lord Winterbourne is a bad man,” said Mrs Atheling, taking no -notice of her son’s interruption: “first he was furious to William, and -then he cringed and fawned to him; and of course he had it on his -conscience then about poor little Bride, though we did not know--and -then he raved, and said he was desperate, and did not know what to do -for money. Your father came home to me, quite unhappy about him; for he -belonged to the same country, and everybody tried to make excuses for Mr -Reginald, being a young man, and the heir. So William made it up in his -own mind to go and tell the old lord, who was in London then. The old -lord was a just man, but very proud. He did not take it kind of William, -and he had no regard for Mr Reginald; but for the honour of the family -he sent him away. Then we lost sight of him long, and Aunt Bridget took -a dislike to us, and poor little Bride was dead, and we never heard -anything of the Lodge or the Hall for many a year; but the old lord died -abroad, and Mr Reginald came home Lord Winterbourne. That was all we -ever knew. I thought your father had quite forgiven him, Charlie--we had -other things to think of than keeping up old grudges--when all at once -it came to be in the newspapers that Lord Winterbourne was a political -man, that he was making speeches everywhere, and that he was to be one -of the ministry. When your father saw that, he blazed up into such an -anger! I said all I could, but William never minded me. He never was so -bitter before, not even when we heard of little Bride. He said, Such a -man to govern us and all the people!--a forger! a liar!--and sometimes, -I think, he thought he would expose the whole story, and let everybody -know.” - -“Time enough for that,” said Charlie, who had listened to all this -without comment, but with the closest attention. “What he did once he’ll -do again, mother; but we’re close at his heels this time, and he won’t -get off now. I’m going to Oxford now to get some books. I say, mother, -you’ll be sure, upon your honour, not to tell the girls?” - -“No, Charlie,” said Mrs Atheling, with a somewhat faint affirmation; -“but, my dear, I can’t believe in it. It can’t be true. Charlie, boy! -if this was coming true, our Marian--your sister, Charlie!--why, Marian -would be Lady Winterbourne!” - -Charlie did not say a word in return; he only took down his little -travelling-bag, laid it at his mother’s feet to be packed, and left her -to that business and her own meditations; but after he had left the -room, the lad returned again and thrust in his shaggy head at the door. -“Take care of Marian, mother,” said Charlie, in a parting adjuration; -“remember my father’s little sister Bride.” - -So he went away, leaving Mrs Atheling a good deal disquieted. She had -got over the first excitement of Miss Anastasia’s great intelligence and -the sudden preparations of Charlie. She had scarcely time enough, -indeed, to give a thought to these things, when her son demanded this -history from her, and sent her mind away into quite a different channel. -Now she sat still in Charlie’s room, pondering painfully, with the -travelling-bag lying quite unheeded at her feet. At one moment she -pronounced the whole matter perfectly impossible--at the next, -triumphantly inconsequent, she leaped to the full consummation of the -hope, and saw her own pretty Marian--dazzling vision!--the lady of -Winterbourne! and again the heart of the good mother fell, and she -remembered little Bride. Louis, as he was now, having no greater friends -than their own simple family, and no pretensions whatever either to -birth or fortune, was a very different person from that other Louis who -might be heir of lands and lordship and the family pride of the -Riverses. Much perplexed, in great uncertainty and pain, mused Mrs -Atheling, half-resentful of that grand discovery of Miss Anastasia, -which might plunge them all into renewed trouble; while Charlie trudged -into Oxford for his Italian grammar--and Louis and Marian wandered -through the enchanted wood, drawing homeward--and Rachel sang to the -children--and Agnes wondered by herself over the secret which was to be -confided only to Mamma. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -A CRISIS. - - -That night Charlie had need of all his diplomatic talents. Before he -returned from Oxford, his mother, by way of precaution lest Agnes should -betray the sudden and mysterious visit of Miss Anastasia to Marian, -contrived to let her elder daughter know mysteriously, something of the -scope and object of the sudden journey for which it was necessary to -prepare her brother, driving Agnes, as was to be supposed, into a very -fever of suppressed excitement, joy, triumph, and anxiety. Mrs Atheling, -conscious, hurried, and studying deeply not to betray herself--and -Agnes, watching every one, stopping questions, and guarding off -suspicions with prudence much too visible--were quite enough of -themselves to rouse every other member of the little company to lively -pursuit after the secret. Charlie was assailed by every shape and form -of question: Where was he going--what was he to do? He showed no -cleverness, we are bound to acknowledge, in evading these multitudinous -interrogations; he turned an impenetrable front upon them, and made the -most commonplace answers, making vast incursions all the time into -Hannah’s cakes and Mamma’s bread-and-butter. - -“He had to go back immediately to the office; he believed he had got a -new client for old Foggo,” said Charlie, with the utmost coolness; -“making no secret of it at all,” according to Mamma’s indignant -commentary. - -“To the office!--are you only going home, after all?” cried Marian. - -“I’ll see when I get there,” answered Charlie; “there’s something to be -done abroad. I shouldn’t wonder if they sent _me_. I say, I wish you’d -all come home at once, and make things comfortable. There’s my poor -father fighting it out with Susan. I should not stand it if it was me.” - -“Hold your peace, Charlie, and don’t be rude,” said Mrs Atheling. “But, -indeed, I wish we were at home, and out of everybody’s way.” - -“Who is everybody?” said Louis. “I, who am going myself, can wish quite -sincerely that we were all at home; but the addition is mysterious--who -is in anybody’s way?” - -“Mamma means to wish us all out of reach of the Evil Eye,” said Agnes, a -little romantically. - -“No such thing, my dear. I daresay we could do _him_ a great deal more -harm than he can do us,” said Mrs Atheling, with sudden importance and -dignity; then she paused with a certain solemnity, so that everybody -could perceive the grave self-restraint of the excellent mother, and -that she could say a great deal more if she chose. - -“But no one thinks what I am to do when you are all gone,” said Rachel; -and her tearful face happily diverted her companions from investigating -and from concealing the secret. There remained among them all, however, -a certain degree of excitement. Charlie was returning home -to-morrow--specially called home on business!--perhaps to go abroad upon -the same! The fact stirred all those young hearts with something not -unlike envy. This boy seemed to have suddenly leaped in one day into a -man. - -And it was natural enough that, hearing of this, the mind of Louis -should burn and chafe with fierce impatience. Charlie, who was perfectly -undemonstrative of his thoughts and imaginations, was a very boy to -Louis--yet there was need and occasion for Charlie in the crowd of life, -when no one thought upon this fiery and eager young man. It was late -that night when Louis left this only home and haven which he had ever -known; and though he would fain have left Rachel there, his little -sister would not remain behind him, but clung to his arm with a strange -presentiment of something about to happen, which she could not explain. -Louis scarcely answered a word to the quiet talk of Rachel as they went -upon their way to the Hall. With difficulty, and even with impatience, -he curbed his rapid stride to her timid little footsteps, and hurried -her along without a glance at the surrounding scene, memorable and -striking as it was. The broad moonlight flooded over the noble park of -Winterbourne. The long white-columned front of the house--which was a -great Grecian house, pallid, vast, and imposing--shone in the white -light like a screen of marble; and on the great lawn immediately before -it were several groups of people, dwarfed into minute miraculous figures -by the great space and silence, and the intense illumination, which was -far more striking and particular than the broader light of day. The -chances were that Louis did not see them, as he plunged on, in the -blindness of preoccupation, keeping no path, through light and shadow, -through the trees and underwood, and across the broad unshaded -greensward, where no one could fail to perceive him. His little sister -clung to his arm in an agony of fear, grief, and confidence--trembling -for something about to happen with an overpowering tremor--yet holding a -vague faith in her brother, strange and absorbing. She said, “Louis, -Louis!” in her tone of appeal and entreaty. He did not hear her, but -struck across the broad visible park, in the full stream of the -moonlight, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. As they -approached, Rachel could not even hear any conversation among the groups -on the lawn; and it was impossible to suppose that they had not been -seen. Louis’s abrupt direct course, over the turf and through the -brushwood, must have attracted the notice of bystanders even in the -daylight; it was still more remarkable now, when noiseless and rapid, -through the intense white radiance and the perfect stillness, the -stately figure of the young man, and his timid, graceful little sister, -came directly forward in face of the spectators. These spectators were -all silent, looking on with a certain fascination, and Rachel could not -tell whether Louis was even conscious that any one was there. - -But before they could turn aside into the road which led to the Hall -door--a road to which Rachel most anxiously endeavoured to guide her -brother--they were suddenly arrested by the voice of Lord Winterbourne. -“I must put a stop to this,” said his lordship suddenly and loudly, with -so evident a reference to themselves, that even Rachel stopped without -knowing it. “Here, young fellow, stop and give an account of -yourself--what do you mean by wandering about my park at midnight, eh? -I know your poaching practices. Setting snares, I suppose, and dragging -about this girl as a protection. Get into your kennel, you mean dog; is -this how you repay the shelter I have given you all your life?” - -“It would be a fit return,” said Louis. He did not speak so loud, but -with a tremble of scorn and bitterness and intense youthful feeling in -his voice, before which the echo of his persecutor’s went out and died, -like an ignoble thing. “If I were, as you say,” repeated the young man, -“setting snares for your game, or for your wealth, or for your life, you -know it would be a fit return.” - -“Yes, I live a peaceful life with this villanous young incendiary under -my roof!” said Lord Winterbourne. “I’ll tell you what, you young -ruffian, if nothing better can restrain you, locks and bars shall. Oh, -no chance of appealing to _my_ pity, with that fool of a girl upon your -arm! You think you can defy me, year after year, because I have given -charity to your base blood. My lad, you shall learn to know me better -before another week is over our heads. Why, gentlemen, you perceive, by -his own confession, I stand in danger of my life.” - -“Winterbourne,” said some one over his shoulder, in a reproving tone, -“_you_ should be the last man in the world to taunt this unfortunate lad -with his base blood.” - -Lord Winterbourne turned upon his heel with a laugh of insult which sent -the wild blood dancing in an agony of shame, indignation, and rage even -into Rachel’s woman’s face. “Well,” said the voice of their tyrant, “I -have supported the hound--what more would you have? His mother was a -pretty fool, but she had her day. There’s more of her conditions in the -young villain than mine. I have no idea of playing the romantic father -to such a son--not I!” - -Louis did not know that he threw his sister off his arm before he sprang -into the midst of these half-dozen gentlemen. She did not know herself, -as she stood behind clenching her small fingers together painfully, with -all the burning vehemence of a woman’s passion. The young man sprang -forward with the bound of a young tiger. His voice was hoarse with -passion, not to be restrained. “It is a lie--a wilful, abominable lie!” -cried Louis fiercely, confronting as close as a wrestler the ghastly -face of his tyrant, who shrank before him. “I am no son of yours--you -know I am no son of yours! I owe you the hateful bread I have been -compelled to eat--nothing more. I am without a name--I may be of base -blood--but I warn you for your life, if you dare repeat this last -insult. It is a lie! I tell every one who condescends to call you -friend; and I appeal to God, who knows that you know it is a lie! I may -be the son of any other wretch under heaven, but I am not yours. I -disown it with loathing and horror. Do you hear me?--you know the truth -in your heart, and so do I!” - -Lord Winterbourne fell back, step by step, before the young man, who -pressed upon him close and rapid, with eyes which flamed and burned with -a light which he could not bear. The insulting smile upon his bloodless -face had not passed from it yet. His eyes, shifting, restless, and -uneasy, expressed nothing. He was not a coward, and he was sufficiently -quick-witted on ordinary occasions, but he had nothing whatever to -answer to this vehement and unexpected accusation. He made an -unintelligible appeal with his hand to his companions, and lifted up his -face to the moonlight like a spectre, but he did not answer by a single -word. - -“Young man,” said the gentleman who had spoken before, “I acknowledge -your painful position, and that you have been addressed in a most -unseemly manner--but no provocation should make you forget your natural -duty. Lord Winterbourne must have had a motive for maintaining you as he -has done. I put it to you calmly, dispassionately--what motive could he -possibly have had, except one?” - -“Ah!” said Louis, with a sudden and violent start, “he must have had a -motive--it is true; he would not waste his cruel powers, even for -cruelty’s sake. If any man can tell me what child it was his interest to -bastardise and defame, there may be hope and a name for me yet.” - -At these words, Lord Winterbourne advanced suddenly with a singular -eagerness. “Let us have done with this foolery,” he said, in a voice -which was certainly less steady than usual; “I presume we can all be -better employed than listening to the vapourings of this foolish boy. Go -in, my lad, and learn a lesson by your folly to-night. I pass it over, -simply because you have shown yourself to be a fool.” - -“I, however, do not pass it over, my lord,” said Louis, who had calmed -down after the most miraculous fashion, to the utter amazement of his -sister. “Thank you for the provision you have given us, such as it is. -Some time we may settle scores upon that subject. My sister and I must -find another shelter to-night.” - -The bystanders were half disposed to smile at the young man’s heroical -withdrawal--but they were all somewhat amazed to find that Lord -Winterbourne was as far as possible from sharing their amusement. He -called out immediately in an access of passion to stop the young -ruffian, incendiary, mischief-maker;--called loudly upon the servants, -who began to appear at the open door--ordered Louis to his own -apartment with the most unreasonable vehemence, and finally turned upon -Rachel, calling her to give up the young villain’s arm, and for her life -to go home. - -But Rachel was wound to the fever point as well as her brother. “No, no, -it is all true he has said,” cried Rachel. “I know it, like Louis; we -are not your children--you dare not call us so now. I never believed you -were our father--never all my life.” - -She exclaimed these words hastily in her low eager voice, as Louis drew -her arm through his, and hurried her away. The young man struck again -across the broad park and through the moonlight, while behind, Lord -Winterbourne called to his servants to go after the fugitives--to bring -that fellow back. The men only stared at their master, looked helplessly -at each other, and went off on vain pretended searches, with no better -intention than to keep out of Louis’s way, until prudence came to the -aid of Lord Winterbourne. “I shall scarcely think my life in safety -while that young fool wanders wild about the country,” he said to his -friends, as he returned within doors; but his friends, one and all, -thought this a very odd scene. - -Meanwhile Louis made his rapid way with his little sister on his arm out -over the glorious moonlit park of Winterbourne, away from the only home -he had ever known--out to the night and to the world. Rachel, leaning -closely upon him, scarcely so much as looked up, as her faltering -footstep toiled to keep up with her brother. He, holding his proud young -head high, neither turned nor glanced aside, but pressed on straight -forward, as if to some visionary certain end before his eye. Then they -came out at last to the white silent road, lying ghostlike under the -excess of light--the quiet road which led through the village where all -the houses slept and everything was still, not a curl of smoke in the -moonlight, nor a house-dog’s bark in the silence. It was midnight, vast -and still, a great desolate uninhabited world. There was not a door open -to them, nor a place where they could rest. But on pressed Louis, with -the rapid step and unhesitating course of one who hastened to some -definite conclusion. “Where are we going--where shall we go?” said poor -little Rachel, drooping on his shoulder. Her brother did not hear her. -He was not selfish, but he had not that superhuman consideration for -others which might have broken the fiery inspiration of his own -momentous thoughts, and made him think of the desolate midnight, and the -houseless and outcast condition which were alone present to the mind of -Rachel. He did not see a vast homeless solitude--a vagabond and -disgraceful wandering, in this midnight walk. He saw a new world before -him, such as had never glanced before across his fancy. “He must have -had a motive,” he muttered to himself. Rachel heard him sadly, and took -the words as a matter of course. “Where are we to go?”--that was a more -immediately important question to the simple mind of Rachel. - -The Old Wood Lodge was as deep asleep as any house in the village. They -paused, reluctant, both of them, to awake their friends within, and went -back, pacing rapidly between the house of the Athelings and that of the -Rector. The September night was cold, and Rachel was timid of that -strange midnight world out of doors. They seemed to have nothing for it -but pacing up and down upon the grassy road, where they were at least -within sight of a friendly habitation, till morning came. - -There was one light in one window of the Old Wood House; Rachel’s eye -went wandering to it wistfully, unawares: If the Rector knew--the -Rector, who once would have been kind if Louis would have let him. But, -as if in very response to her thoughts, the Rector, when they came back -to this point again, was standing, like themselves, in the moonlight, -looking over the low wall. He called to them rather authoritatively, -asking what they did there--but started, and changed his tone into one -of wondering interest and compassion when Rachel lifted her pale face to -him, with the tears in her eyes. He hastened to the gate at once, and -called them to enter. “Nay, nay, no hesitation--come in at once, that -she may have rest and shelter,” said the Rector in a peremptory tone, -which, for the first time in his life, Louis had no thought of -resenting. He went in without a word, leading his little sister. Perhaps -it was the first great thing that ever had been done in all her life for -Rachel’s sake--for the sake of the delicate girl, who was half a child -though a woman in years,--for sake of her tenderness, her delicate -frame, her privilege of weakness. The two haughty young men went in -silently together into this secluded house, which never opened its doors -to any guest. It was an invalid’s home, and some one was always at hand -for its ailing mistress. By-and-by Rachel, in the exhaustion of great -excitement, fell asleep in a little quiet room looking over that moonlit -park of Winterbourne. Louis, who was in no mood for sleep, watched -below, full of eager and unquiet thoughts. They had left Winterbourne -Hall suddenly; the Rector asked no further questions, expressed no -wonder, and left the young man who had repelled him once, with a lofty -and dignified hospitality, to his meditations or repose. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -CHARLIE’S PREPARATIONS. - - -Charlie Atheling was not at all of an imaginative or fanciful turn of -mind. His slumbers were not disturbed by castle-building--he wasted none -of his available time in making fancy sketches of the people, or the -circumstances, among which he was likely to be thrown. He was not -without the power of comprehending at a glance the various features of -his mission; but by much the most remarkable point of Charlie’s -character was his capacity for doing his immediate business, whatever -that might be, with undivided attention, and with his full powers. On -this early September morning he neither occupied himself with -anticipations of his interview with Miss Anastasia, nor his hurried -journey. He did not suffer his mind to stray to difficult questions of -evidence, nor wander off into speculations concerning what he might have -to do when he reached the real scene of his investigation. What he had -to do at the moment he did like a man, bending upon his serious -business all the faculties of his mind, and all the furrows of his brow. -He got up at six o’clock, not because he particularly liked it, but -because these early morning hours had become his habitual time for extra -work of every kind, and sat upon Hannah’s bench in the garden, close by -the kitchen door, with the early sun and the early wind playing -hide-and-seek among his elf-locks, learning his Italian grammar, as if -this was the real business for which he came into the world. - -“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do”--that was Charlie’s secret of -success. He had only a grammar, a dictionary, and a little New Testament -in Italian--and he had not at this moment the slightest ambition to read -Dante in the original; but with steady energy he chased those unknown -verbs into the deep caverns of his memory--a memory which was -prodigious, and lost nothing committed to it. The three books -accompanied him when he went in to breakfast, and marched off in his -pocket to Oxford when it was time to keep his appointment with Miss -Anastasia. Meanwhile the much-delayed travelling-bag only now began to -get packed, and Mrs Atheling, silently toiling at this business, felt -convinced that Susan would mislay all the things most important for -Charlie’s comfort, and very much yearned in her heart to accompany her -son home. They were to meet him at the railway, whence he would depart -immediately, after his interview with Miss Rivers; and Charlie’s secret -commission made a considerable deal of excitement in the quiet little -house. - -Miss Anastasia, who was much too eager and impetuous to be punctual, had -been waiting for some time, when her young agent made his appearance at -the office of her solicitor. After she had charged him with being too -late, and herself suffered conviction as being too early, the old lady -proceeded at once to business; they were in Mr Temple’s own room, but -they were alone. - -“I have made copies of everything that seemed to throw light upon my -late father’s wanderings,” said Miss Anastasia--“not much to speak -of--see! These papers must have been carefully weeded before they came -to my hands. Here is an old guide-book marked with notes, and here a -letter dated from the place where he died. It is on the borders of -Italy--at the foot of the Alps--on the way to Milan, and not very far -from there. You will make all speed, young Atheling; I trust to your -prudence--betray nothing--do not say a word about these children until -you find some certain clue. It is more than twenty years--nearly -one-and-twenty years--since my father died; but a rich Englishman, who -married among them, was not like to be forgotten in such a village. Find -out who this Giulietta was--if you can discover the family, they might -know something. My father had an attendant, a sort of courier, who was -with us often--Jean Monte, half a Frenchman half an Italian. I have -never heard of him since that time; he might be heard of on the way, and -_he_ might know--but I cannot direct you, boy--I trust to your own -spirit, your own foresight, your own prudence. Make haste, as if it was -life and death; yet if time will avail you, take time. Now, young -Atheling, I trust you!--bring clear evidence--legal evidence--what will -stand in a court of law--and as sure as you live your fortune is made!” - -Charlie did not make a single protestation in answer to this address. He -folded up carefully those fragments of paper copied out in Miss -Anastasia’s careful old-fashioned lady’s hand, and placed them in the -big old pocket-book which he carried for lack of a better. - -“I don’t know much of the route,” said Charlie,--“over the Alps, I -suppose,” and for once his cheek flushed with the youthful excitement of -the travel. “I shall find out all about that immediately when I get to -town; and there is a passport to be seen after. When I am ready to -start--which will be just as soon as the thing can be done--I shall let -you know how I am to travel, and write immediately when I arrive -there;--I know what you mean me to do.” - -Then Miss Anastasia gave him--(a very important part of the -business)--two ten-pound notes, which was a very large sum to Charlie, -and directed him to go to the banking-house with which she kept an -account in London, and get from them a letter of credit on a banker in -Milan, on whom he could draw, according to his occasions. “You are very -young, young Atheling,” said Miss Rivers; “many a father would hesitate -to trust his son as I trust you; but I’m a woman and an optimist, and -have my notions: you are only a boy, but I believe in you--forget how -young you are while you are about my business--plenty of time after this -for enjoying yourself--and I tell you again, if you do your duty, your -fortune is made.” - -The old lady and the youth went out together, to where the little -carriage and the grey ponies stood at the solicitor’s door. Charlie, in -his present development, was not at all the man to hand a lady with a -grace to her carriage; nor was this stately gentlewoman, in her brown -pelisse, at all the person to be so escorted; but they were a remarkable -pair enough, as they stood upon the broad pavement of one of the noblest -streets of Christendom. Miss Anastasia held out her hand with a parting -command and warning, as she took her seat and the reins.--“Young -Atheling, remember! it is life and death!” - -She was less cautious at that moment than she had been during all their -interview. The words full upon another ear than his to whom they were -addressed. Lord Winterbourne was making his way at the moment with some -newly-arrived guests of his, and under the conduct of a learned pundit -from one of the colleges, along this same picturesque High Street; and, -in the midst of exclamations of rapture and of interest, his suspicious -and alarmed eye caught the familiar equipage and well-known figure of -Miss Anastasia. Her face was turned in the opposite direction,--she did -not see him,--but a single step brought him near enough to hear her -words. “Young Atheling!” Lord Winterbourne had not forgotten his former -connection with the name, but the remembrance had long lain dormant in a -breast which was used to potent excitements. William Atheling, though he -once saved a reckless young criminal, could do no harm with his remote -unbelievable story to a peer of the realm,--a man who had sat in the -councils of the State. Lord Winterbourne had begun his suit for the Old -Wood Lodge with the most contemptuous indifference to all that could be -said of him by any one of this family; yet somehow it struck him -strangely to hear so sudden a naming of this name. “Young Atheling!” He -could not help looking at the youth,--meeting the stormy gleam in the -eyes of Charlie, whose sudden enmity sprung up anew in an instant. Lord -Winterbourne was sufficiently disturbed already by the departure of -Louis, and with the quick observation of alarm remarked everything. He -could understand no natural connection whatever between this lad and -Miss Anastasia. His startled imagination suggested instantly that it -bore some reference to Louis, and what interpretation was it possible to -give to so strange an adjuration--“It is life and death!” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -GOING AWAY. - - -“Charlie, my dear boy,” said Mrs Atheling, with a slight tremble in her -voice, “I suppose it may be months before we see you again.” - -“I can’t tell, mother; but it will not be a day longer than I can help,” -said Charlie, who had the grace to be serious at the moment of parting. -“There’s only one thing, you know,--I must do my business before I come -home.” - -“And take care of yourself,” said Mrs Atheling; “take great care when -you are going over those mountains, and among those people where bandits -are--you know what stories we have read about such robbers, -Charlie,--and remember, though I should be very glad to hear good news -about Louis, Louis is not my own very boy, like you.” - -“Hush, mother--no need for naming him,” said Charlie; “he is of more -moment than me, however, this time--for that’s my business. Never -fear--thieves may be fools there as well as at home, but they’re none -such fools as to meddle with me. Now, mother, promise me, the last -thing,--Agnes, do you hear?--don’t tell Marian a word, nor _him_. I’ll -tell old Foggo the whole story, and Foggo will do what he can for him -when he gets to London; but don’t you go and delude him, telling him of -this, for it would just be as good as ruin if I don’t succeed; and it -all may come to nothing, as like as not. I say, Agnes, do you hear?” - -“Yes, I hear, very well; but I am not given to telling secrets,” said -Agnes, with a little dignity. - -Charlie only laughed as he arranged himself in the corner of the -second-class carriage, and drew forth his grammar; there was no time for -anything more, save entreaties that he would write, and take care of -himself; and the train flashed away, leaving them somewhat dull and -blank in the reaction of past excitement, looking at each other, and -half reluctant to turn their faces homeward. Their minds hurried forth, -faster than either steam or electricity, to the end of Charlie’s -journey. They went back with very slow steps and very abstracted minds. -What a new world of change and sudden revolution might open upon them at -Charlie’s return! - -Mrs Atheling had some business in the town, and the mother and daughter -pursued their way silently to that same noble High Street where Charlie -had seen Lord Winterbourne, and where Lord Winterbourne and his party -were still to be caught sight of, appearing and reappearing by glimpses -as they “did” the halls and colleges. While her mother managed some -needful business in a shop, Agnes stood rather dreamily looking down the -stately street; its strange old-world mixture of the present and the -past; its union of all kinds of buildings; the trim classic pillars and -toy cupolas of the eighteenth century--the grim crumbling front of elder -days--the gleams of green grass and waving trees through college -gateways--the black-gowned figures interrupting the sunshine--the -beautiful spire striking up into it as into its natural element,--a -noble hyacinthine stem of immortal flowers. Agnes did not know much -about artistic effect, nor anything about orders of architecture, but -the scene seized upon her imagination, as was its natural right. Her -thoughts were astray among hopes and chances far enough out of the -common way--but any dream of romance could make itself real in an -atmosphere like this. - -She was pale,--she was somewhat of an abstracted and musing aspect. When -one took into consideration her misfortune of authorship, she was in -quite a sentimental _pose_ and attitude--so thought her American -acquaintance, who had managed to secure an invitation to the Hall, and -was one of Lord Winterbourne’s party. But Mr Endicott had “done” all the -colleges before, and he could afford to let his attention be distracted -by the appearance of the literary sister of the lady of his love. - -“I am not surprised at your abstraction,” said Mr Endicott. “In this, -indeed, I do not hesitate to confess, my country is not equal to your -Island. What an effect of sunshine! what a breadth of shade! I cannot -profess to have any preference, in respect to Art, for the past, -picturesque though it be--a poet of these days, Miss Atheling, has not -to deal with facts, but feelings; but I have no doubt, before I -interrupted you, the whole panorama of History glided before your -meditative eye.” - -“No, indeed; I was thinking more of the future than of the past,” said -Agnes hurriedly. - -“The future of this nation is obscure and mysterious,” said Mr Endicott, -gathering his eyebrows solemnly. “Some man must arise to lead you--to -glory--or to perdition! I see nothing but chaos and darkness; but why -should I prophesy? A past generation had leisure to watch the signs of -the times; but for us ‘Art is long and time is fleeting,’ and happy is -the man who can snatch one burning experience from the brilliant mirage -of life.” - -Agnes, a little puzzled by this mixture of images, did not attempt any -answer. Mr Endicott went on. - -“I had begun to observe, with a great deal of interest, two remarkable -young minds placed in a singular position. They were not to be met, of -course, at the table of Lord Winterbourne,” said the American with -dignity; “but in my walks about the park I sometimes encountered them, -and always endeavoured to draw them into conversation. So remarkable, in -fact, did they seem to me, that they found a place in my Letters from -England; studies of character entirely new to my consciousness. I -believe, Miss Atheling, I had once the pleasure of seeing them in your -company. They stand--um--unfortunately in a--a--an equivocal -relationship to my noble host.” - -“Ah! what of them?” cried Agnes quickly, and with a crimsoned cheek. She -felt already how difficult it was to hear them spoken of, and not -proclaim at once her superior knowledge. - -“A singular event, I understand, happened last night,” continued Mr -Endicott. “Viscount Winterbourne, on his own lawn, was attacked and -insulted by the young man, who afterwards left the house under very -remarkable circumstances. My noble friend, who is an admirable example -of an old English nobleman, was at one time in actual danger, and I -believe has been advised to put this fiery youth--” - -“Do you mean Louis?” cried Agnes, interrupting him anxiously. -“Louis!--do you mean that he has left the Hall?” - -“I am greatly interested, I assure you, in tracing out this romance of -real life,” said Mr Endicott. “He left the Hall, I understand, last -evening--and my noble friend is advised to take measures for his -apprehension. I look upon the whole history with the utmost interest. -How interesting to trace the motives of this young mind, perhaps the -strife of passions--gratitude mixing with a sense of injury! If he is -secured, I shall certainly visit him: I know no nobler subject for a -drama of passion; and dramas of the passions are what we want to ennoble -this modern time.” - -“Mother!” cried Agnes, “mother, come; we have no time to lose--Mr -Endicott has told me--Mamma, leave these things to another time. Marian -is alone; there is no one to support her. Oh, mother, mother! make -haste! We must go home!” - -She scarcely gave a glance to Mr Endicott as he stood somewhat -surprised, making a study of the young author’s excitable temperament -for his next “letter from England”--but hastened her mother homeward, -explaining, as she went, though not very coherently, that Louis had -attacked Lord Winterbourne--that he had left the Hall--that he had done -something for which he might be apprehended. The terror of -disgrace--that most dread of all fears to people in their -class--overwhelmed both mother and daughter, as they hastened, at a very -unusual pace, along the road, terrified to meet himself in custody, or -some one coming to tell them of his crime. And Marian, their poor -beautiful flower, on whom this storm would fall so heavily--Marian was -alone! - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -THE OLD WOOD HOUSE. - - -Louis passed the night in the Rector’s library. He had no inclination -for sleep; indeed, he was almost scornful of the idea that he _could_ -sleep under his new and strange circumstances; and it was not until he -roused himself, with a start, to see that the pale sheen of the -moonlight had been succeeded by the rosy dawn of morning, that he knew -of the sudden, deep slumber, that had fallen upon him. It was morning, -but it was still a long time till day; except the birds among the trees -there was nothing astir, not even the earliest labourer, and he could -not hear a sound in the house. All the events of the previous night -returned upon Louis’s mind with all the revived freshness of a sudden -awaking. A great change had passed upon him in a few hours. He started -now at once out of the indefinite musings, the flush of vain ambition, -the bitter brooding over wrong which had been familiar to his mind. He -began to think with the earnest precision of a man who has attained to -a purpose. Formerly it had been hard enough for his proud undisciplined -spirit, prescient of something greater, to resolve upon a plan of -tedious labour for daily bread, or to be content with such a fortune as -had fallen to such a man as Mr Atheling. Even with love to bear him out, -and his beautiful Marian to inspire him, it was hard, out of all the -proud possibilities of youth, to plunge into such a lot as this. Now he -considered it warily, with the full awakened consciousness of a man. Up -to this time his bitter dislike and opposition to Lord Winterbourne had -been carried on by fits and starts, as youths do contend with older -people under whose sway they have been all their life. He took no reason -with him when he decided that he was not the son of the man who opposed -him. He never entered into the question how he came to the Hall, or what -was the motive of its master. He had contented himself with a mere -unreasoning conviction that Lord Winterbourne was not his father; but -only one word was wanted to awaken the slumbering mind of the youth, and -that word had been spoken last night. Now a clear and evident purpose -became visible before him. What was Lord Winterbourne’s reason for -keeping him all his life under so killing a bondage? What child was -there in the world whom it was Lord Winterbourne’s interest to call -illegitimate and keep in obscurity? His heart swelled--the colour rose -in his face. He did not see how hopeless was the search--how entirely -without grounds, without information, he was. He did not perceive how -vain, to every reasonable individual, would seem the fabric he had built -upon a mere conviction of his own. In his own eager perception -everything was possible to that courage, and perseverance indomitable, -which he felt to be in him; and, for the first time in his life, Louis -came down from the unreasonable and bitter pride which had shut his -heart against all overtures of friendship. Friendship--help--advice--the -aid of those who knew the world better than he did--these were things to -be sought for, and solicited now. He sat in the Rector’s chair, leaning -upon the Rector’s writing-table; it was not without a struggle that he -overcame his old repugnance, his former haughtiness. It was not without -a pang that he remembered the obligation under which this stranger had -laid him. It was his first effort in self-control, and it was not an -easy one; he resolved at last to ask counsel from the Rector, and lay -fully before him the strange circumstances in which he stood. - -The Rector was a man of capricious hours, and uncertain likings. He was -sometimes abroad as early as the earliest ploughman; to-day it was late -in the forenoon before he made his appearance. Breakfast had been -brought to Louis, by himself, in the library; in this house they were -used to solitary meals at all hours--and he had already asked several -times for the Rector, when Mr Rivers at last entered the room, and -saluted him with stately courtesy. “My sister, I find, has detained your -sister,” said the Rector. “I hope you have not been anxious--they tell -me the young lady will join us presently.” - -Then there was a pause; and then Mr Rivers began an extremely polite and -edifying conversation, which must have reminded any spectator of the -courtly amity of a couple of Don Quixotes preparing for the duello. The -Rector himself conducted it with the most solemn gravity imaginable. -This Lionel Rivers, dissatisfied and self-devouring, was not a true man. -Supposing himself to be under a melancholy necessity of disbelieving on -pain of conscience, he yet submitted to an innumerable amount of -practical shams, with which his conscience took no concern. In spite of -his great talents, and of a character full of natural nobleness, when -you came to its foundations, a false tone, an artificial strain of -conversation, an unreal and insincere expression, were unhappily -familiar enough to the dissatisfied clergyman, who vainly tried to -anchor himself upon the authority of the Church. Louis, on the contrary, -knew nothing of talk which was a mere veil and concealment of meaning; -he could not use vain words when his heart burned within him; he had no -patience for those conversations which were merely intended to occupy -time, and which meant and led to nothing. Yet it was very difficult for -him, young, proud, and inexperienced as he was, without any invitation -or assistance from his companion, to enter upon his explanation. He -changed colour, he became uneasy, he scarcely answered the indifferent -remarks addressed to him. At length, seeing nothing better for it, he -plunged suddenly and without comment into his own tale. - -“We have left Winterbourne Hall,” said Louis, reddening to his temples -as he spoke. “I have long been aware how unsuitable a home it was for -me. I am going to London immediately. I cannot thank you enough for your -hospitality to my sister, and to myself, last night.” - -“That is nothing,” said the Rector, with a motion of his hand. “Some -time since I had the pleasure of saying to your friends in the Lodge -that it would gratify me to be able to serve you. I do not desire to pry -into your plans; but if I can help you in town, let me know without -hesitation.” - -“So far from prying,” said Louis, eagerly, interrupting him, “I desire -nothing more than to explain them. All my life,” and once again the red -blood rushed to the young man’s face,--“all my life I have occupied the -most humiliating of positions--you know it. I am not a meek man by -nature; what excuse I have had if a bitter pride has sometimes taken -possession of me, you know----” - -The Rector bowed gravely, but did not speak. Louis continued in haste, -and with growing agitation, “I am not the son of Lord Winterbourne--I am -not a disgraced offshoot of your family--I can speak to you without -feeling shame and abasement in the very sound of your name. This has -been my conviction since ever I was capable of knowing anything--but -Heaven knows how subtly the snare was woven--it seemed impossible, until -now when we have done it, to disengage our feet.” - -“Have you made any discovery, then? What has happened?” said the Rector, -roused into an eager curiosity. Here, at the very outset, lay Louis’s -difficulty--and he had never perceived it before. - -“No; I have made no discovery,” he said, with a momentary -disconcertment. “I have only left the Hall--I have only told Lord -Winterbourne what he knows well, and I have known long, that I am not -his son.” - -“Exactly--but how did you discover that?” said the Rector. - -“I have discovered nothing--but I am as sure of it as that I breathe,” -answered Louis. - -The Rector looked at him--looked at a portrait which hung directly above -Louis’s head upon the wall, smiled, and shook his head. “It is quite -natural,” he said; “I can sympathise with any effort you make to gain a -more honourable position, and to disown Lord Winterbourne--but it is -vain, where there are pictures of the Riverses, to deny your connection -with my family. George Rivers himself, my lord’s heir, the future head -of the family, has not a tithe as much of the looks and bearing of the -blood as you.” - -Louis could not find a word to say in face of such an argument--he -looked eagerly yet blankly into the face of the Rector--felt all his -pulses throbbing with fiery impatience of the doubt thus cast upon -him--yet knew nothing to advance against so subtle and unexpected a -charge of kindred, and could only repeat, in a passionate undertone, “I -am not Lord Winterbourne’s son.” - -“I do not know,” said the Rector, “I have no information which is not -common to all the neighbourhood--yet I beg you to guard against -delusion. Lord Winterbourne brought you here while you were an -infant--since then you have remained at the Hall--he has owned you, I -suppose, as much as a man ever owns an illegitimate child. Pardon me, I -am obliged to use the common words. Lord Winterbourne is not a man of -extended benevolence, neither is he one to take upon himself the -responsibility or blame of another. If you are not his son, why did he -bring you here?” - -Louis raised his face from his hands which had covered it--he was very -pale, haggard, almost ghastly. “If you can tell me of any youth--of any -child--of any man’s son, whom it was his interest to disgrace and remove -out of the way,” said the young man with his parched lips, “I will tell -you why I am here.” - -The Rector could not quite restrain a start of emotion--not for what the -youth said, for that was madness to the man of the world--but for the -extreme passion, almost despair, in his face. He thought it best to -soothe rather than to excite him. - -“I know nothing more than all the world knows,” said Mr Rivers; “but, -though I warn you against delusions, I will not say you are wrong when -you are so firmly persuaded that you are right. What do you mean to do -in London--can I help you there?” - -Louis felt with no small pang this giving up of the argument--as if it -were useless to discuss anything so visionary--but he roused himself to -answer the question: “The first thing I have to do,” he said quickly, -“is to maintain my sister and myself.” - -The Rector bowed again, very solemnly and gravely--perhaps not without a -passing thought that the same duty imposed chains more galling than iron -upon himself. - -“That done, I will pursue my inquiries as I can,” said Louis; “you think -them vain--but time will prove that. I thank you now, for my sister’s -sake, for receiving us--and now we must go on our way.” - -“Not yet,” said the Rector. “You are without means, of course--what, do -you think it a disgrace, that you blush for it?--or would you have me -suppose that you had taken money from Lord Winterbourne, while you deny -that you are his son? For this once suppose me your friend; I will -supply you with what you are certain to need; and you can repay me--oh, -with double interest if you please!--only do not go to London -unprovided--for that is the maddest method of anticipating a heartbreak; -your sister is young, almost a child, tender and delicate--let it be, -for her sake.” - -“Thank you; I will take it as you give it,” said Louis. “I am not so -ungenerous as you suppose.” - -There was a certain likeness between them, different as they were--there -was a likeness in both to these family portraits on the walls. Before -such silent witnesses Louis’s passionate disclaimer, sincere though it -was, was unbelievable. For no one could believe that he was not an -offshoot of the house of Rivers, who looked from his face and the -Rector’s to those calm ancient faces on the walls. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -AN ADVENTURER. - - -“They have left the Hall.” - -That was all Marian said when she came to the door to meet her mother -and sister, who paused in the porch, overcome with fatigue, haste, and -anxiety. Mrs Atheling was obliged to pause and sit down, not caring -immediately to see the young culprit who was within. - -“And what has happened, Marian,--what has happened? My poor child, did -he tell you?” asked Mrs Atheling. - -“Nothing has happened, mamma,” said Marian, with a little petulant -haste; “only Louis has quarrelled with Lord Winterbourne; but, indeed, I -wish you would speak to him. Oh, Agnes, go and talk to Louis; he says he -will go to London to-day.” - -“And so he should; there is not a moment to be lost,” said Agnes,--“I -will go and tell him; we can walk in with him to Oxford, and see him -safely away. Tell Hannah to make haste, Marian,--he must not waste an -hour.” - -“What does she mean,--what is the matter? Oh, what have you heard, -mamma?” said Marian, growing very pale. - -“Hush, dear; I daresay it was not him,--it was Mr Endicott, who is sure -to hate him, poor boy; he said Lord Winterbourne would put him in -prison, Marian. Oh,” said Mrs Atheling, getting up hurriedly, “he ought -to go at once to Papa.” - -But they found Louis, whom they all surrounded immediately with terror, -sympathy, and encouragement, entirely unappalled by the threatened -vengeance of Lord Winterbourne. - -“There is nothing to charge me with; he can bring no accusation against -me; if he did ever say it, it must have been a mere piece of bravado,” -said Louis; “but it is better I should go at once without losing an -hour, as Agnes says. Will you let Rachel stay? and you, who are the -kindest mother in the world, when will you have compassion on us and -come home?” - -“Indeed, I wish we were going now,” said Mrs Atheling; and she said it -with genuine feeling, and a sigh of anxiety. “You must tell Papa we will -not stay very long; but I suppose we must see about this lawsuit first; -and I am sure I cannot tell who is to manage it now, since Charlie is -gone.” - -“Shall you go to Papa at once, Louis?” asked Marian, who was very -anxious to conceal from every one the tears in her downcast eyes. - -“Surely, at once,” said Louis. “We are in different circumstances now; I -have a great deal to ask any one who knows the family of Rivers. Do you -know it never before occurred to me that Lord Winterbourne must have had -some powerful inducement for keeping me here, knowing as well as I do -that I am not his son.” - -Mrs Atheling and Agnes turned a sudden guilty look upon each other; but -neither had betrayed the secret;--what did he mean? - -“Unless it was his interest in some way--unless it was for his evident -advantage to disgrace and disable me,” said Louis, groping in the dark, -when they knew one possible solution of the mystery so well, “I am -convinced he never would have kept me as he has done at the Hall.” - -He spoke in a tone different to that which he had used to the Rector, -and very naturally different--for Louis here was triumphant in the faith -of his audience, and did not hesitate to say all he felt, nor fear too -close an investigation into the grounds of his belief. He spoke -fervently; and Marian and Rachel looked at him with the faith of -enthusiasm, and Mrs Atheling and Agnes with wonder, agitation, and -embarrassment. But, as he went on, it became too much for the -self-control of the good mother. She hurried out on pretence of -superintending Hannah, and was very soon followed by Agnes. “I durst not -stay, I should have told him,” said Mrs Atheling, in a hurried whisper. -“Who could put so much into his head, Agnes? who could lead him so near -the truth?--only God! My dear child, I believe in it all now.” - -Agnes had believed in it all from the first moment of hearing it, but so -singular a strain was upon the minds of both mother and daughter, -knowing this extraordinary secret which the others did not know, that it -was not wonderful they should give a weight much beyond their desert to -the queries of Louis. Yet, indeed, Louis’s queries took a wonderfully -correct direction, and came very near the truth. - -It was a day of extreme agitation to them all, and not until Louis, who -had no travelling-bag to pack, had been accompanied once more to the -railway, and seen safely away, with many a lingering farewell, was any -one able to listen to, or understand, Rachel’s version of the events of -last night. When he was quite gone--when it was no longer possible to -wave a hand to him in the distance, or even to see the flying white -plume of the miraculous horseman who bounded along with all that line of -carriages, the three girls came home together through the quiet evening -road--the disenchanted road, weary and unlovely, which Marian marvelled -much any one could prefer to Bellevue. They walked very close together, -with Marian in the midst, comforting her in an implied, sympathetic, -girlish fashion--for Rachel, though Louis had belonged to her so very -much longer, and was her sole authority, law-giver, and hero, -instinctively kept her own feelings out of sight, and took care of -Marian. These girls were very loyal to their own visionary ideas of the -mysterious magician who had not come to either of them yet, but whose -coming both anticipated some time, with awe and with smiles. - -And then Rachel told them how it had fared with her on the previous -night. Rachel had very little to say about the Rector; she had given him -up conscientiously to Agnes, and with a distant and reverent admiration -of his loftiness, contemplated him afar off, too great a person for her -friendship. “But in the morning the maid came and took me to Miss -Rivers--did you ever see Miss Rivers?--she is very pale--and pretty, -though she is old, and a very, very great invalid,” said Rachel. “Some -one has to sit up with her every night, and she has so many -troubles--headaches, and pains in her side, and coughs, and every sort -of thing! She told me all about them as she lay on the sofa in her -pretty white dressing-gown, and in _such_ a soft voice as if she was -quite used to them, and did not mind. Do you think you could be a nurse -to any one who was ill, Agnes?” - -“She _has_ been a nurse to all of us when we were ill,” said Marian, -rousing herself for the effort, and immediately subsiding into the -pensiveness which the sad little beauty would not suffer herself to -break, even though she began in secret to be considerably interested -about the interior of the mysterious Wood House, and the invisible Miss -Rivers. Marian thought Louis would not be pleased if he could imagine -her thinking of any one but him, so soon after he had gone away. - -“But I don’t mean at home--I mean a stranger,” said Rachel, “one whom -you did not _love_. I think it must be rather hard sometimes; but do you -know I was very nearly offering to be nurse to Miss Rivers, she spoke so -kindly to me? And then Louis will have to work,” continued the faithful -little sister, with tears in her eyes; “you must tell me what I can do, -Agnes, not to be a burden upon Louis. Oh, do you think any one would -give me money for singing now?” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -LORD WINTERBOURNE. - - -Lord Winterbourne, all his life, had been a man of guile; he was so long -experienced in it, that dissimulation became easy enough to him, when he -was not startled or thrown suddenly off his guard. Already every one -around him supposed he had quite forgiven and forgotten the wild -escapade of Louis. He had no confidant whatever, not even a valet or a -steward, and his most intimate associate knew nothing of his dark and -secret counsels. When any one mentioned the ungovernable youth who had -fled from the Hall, Lord Winterbourne said, “Pooh, pooh--he will soon -discover his mistake,” and smiled his pale and sinister smile. Such a -face as his could not well look benign; but people were accustomed to -his face, and thought it his misfortune--and everybody set him down as, -in this instance at least, of a very forgiving and indulgent spirit, -willing that the lad should find out his weakness by experiment, but -not at all disposed to inflict any punishment upon his unruly son. - -The fact was, however, that Lord Winterbourne was considerably excited -and uneasy. He spent hours in a little private library among his -papers--carefully went over them, collating and arranging again and -again--destroyed some, and filled the private drawers of his cabinet -with others. He sent orders to his agent to prosecute with all the -energy possible his suit against the Athelings. He had his letters -brought to him in his own room, where he was alone, and looked over them -with eager haste and something like apprehension. Servants, always -sufficiently quick-witted under such circumstances, concluded that my -lord expected something, and the expectation descended accordingly -through all the grades of the great house; but this did not by any means -diminish the number of his guests, or the splendour of his hospitality. -New arrivals came constantly to the Hall--and very great people indeed, -on their way to Scotland and the moors, looked in upon the disappointed -statesman by way of solace. He had made an unspeakable failure in his -attempt at statesmanship; but still he had a certain amount of -influence, and merited a certain degree of consideration. The quiet -country brightened under the shower of noble sportsmen and fair ladies. -All Banburyshire crowded to pay its homage. Mrs Edgerley brought her -own private menagerie, the newest lion who could be heard of; and -herself fell into the wildest fever of architecturalism--fitted up an -oratory under the directions of a Fellow of Merton--set up an -Ecclesiological Society in the darkest of her drawing-rooms--made -drawings of “severe saints,” and purchased casts of the finest -“examples”--began to embroider an altar-cloth from the designs of one of -the most renowned connoisseurs in the ecclesiological city, and talked -of nothing but Early English, and Middle Pointed. Politics, literature, -and the fine arts, sport, flirtation, and festivity, kept in unusual -excitement the whole spectator county of Banbury, and the busy occupants -of Winterbourne Hall. - -In the midst of all this, the Lord of Winterbourne spent solitary hours -in his library among his papers, took solitary rides towards Abingford, -moodily courted a meeting with Miss Anastasia, even addressed her when -they met, and did all that one unassisted man could do to gain -information of her proceedings. He was in a state of restless -expectation, not easy to account for. He knew that Louis was in London, -but not who had given him the means to go there; and he could find no -pretence for bringing back the youth, or asserting authority over him. -He waited in well-concealed but frightfully-felt excitement for -_something_, watching with a stealthy but perpetual observation the -humble house of the Athelings and the Priory at Abingford. He did not -say to himself what it was he apprehended, nor indeed that he -apprehended anything; but with that strange certainty which criminals -always seem to retain, that fate must come some time, waited in the -midst of his gay, busy, frivolous guests, sharing all the occupations -round him, like a man in a dream,--waited as the world waits in a pause -of deadly silence for the thunderclap. It would rouse him when it came. - -It came, but not as he looked for it. Oh blind, vain, guilty soul, with -but one honest thought among all its crafts and falsehoods! It came not -like the rousing tumult of the thunder, but like an avalanche from the -hills; he fell under it with a groan of mortal agony; there was nothing -in heaven or earth to defend him from the misery of this sudden blow. -All his schemes, all his endeavours, what were they good for now? - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -THE NEW HEIR. - - -They had heard from Charlie, who had already set out upon his journey; -they had heard from Louis, whom Mr Foggo desired to take into his office -in Charlie’s place in the mean time; they had heard again and again from -Miss Anastasia’s solicitor, touching their threatened property; and to -this whole family of women everything around seemed going on with a -singular speed and bustle, while they, unwillingly detained among the -waning September trees, were, by themselves, so lonely and so still. The -only one among them who was not eager to go home was Agnes. Bellevue and -Islington, though they were kindly enough in their way, were not meet -nurses for a poetic child;--this time of mountainous clouds, of wistful -winds, of falling leaves, was like a new life to Agnes. She came out to -stand in the edge of the wood alone, to do nothing but listen to the -sweep of the wild minstrel in those thinning trees, or look upon the big -masses of cloud breaking up into vast shapes of windy gloom over the -spires of the city and the mazes of the river. The great space before -and around--the great amphitheatre at her feet--the breeze that came in -her face fresh and chill, and touched with rain--the miracles of tiny -moss and herbage lying low beneath those fallen leaves--the pale autumn -sky, so dark and stormy--the autumn winds, which wailed o’ nights--the -picturesque and many-featured change which stole over -everything--carried a new and strange delight to the mind of Agnes. She -alone cared to wander by herself through the wood, with its crushed -ferns, its piled faggots of firewood, its yellow leaves, which every -breeze stripped down. She was busy with the new book, too, which was -very like to be wanted before it came; for all these expenses, and the -license which their supposed wealth had given them, had already very -much reduced the little store of five-pound notes, kept for safety in -Papa’s desk. - -One afternoon during this time of suspense and uncertainty, the Rector -repeated his call at the Lodge. The Rector had never forgiven Agnes that -unfortunate revelation of her authorship; yet he had looked to her -notwithstanding through those strange sermons of his, with a -constantly-increasing appeal to her attention. She was almost disposed -to fancy sometimes that he made special fiery defences of himself and -his sentiments, which seemed addressed to her only; and Agnes fled from -the idea with distress and embarrassment, thinking it a vanity of her -own. On this day, however, the Rector was a different man--the cloud was -off his brow--the apparent restraint, uneasy and galling, under which he -had seemed to hold himself, was removed; a flash of aroused spirit was -in his eye--his very step was eager, and sounded with a bolder ring upon -the gravel of the garden path--there was no longer the parochial bow, -the clergymanly address, or the restless consciousness of something -unreal in both, which once characterised him; he entered among them -almost abruptly, and did not say a word of his parishioners, but -instead, asked for Louis--told Rachel his sister wished to see her--and, -glancing with unconcealed dislike at poor Agnes’s blotting-book, wished -to know if Miss Atheling was writing now. - -“Mr Rivers does not think it right, mamma,” said Agnes. She blushed a -little under her consciousness of his look of displeasure, but smiled -also with a kind of challenge as she met his eye. - -“No,” said the young clergyman abruptly; “I admire, above all things, -understanding and intelligence. I can suppose no appreciation so quick -and entire as a woman’s; but she fails of her natural standing to me, -when I come to hear of her productions, and am constituted a -critic--that is a false relationship between a woman and a man.” - -And Mr Rivers looked at Agnes with an answering flash of pique and -offence, which was as much as to say, “I am very much annoyed; I had -thought of very different relationships; and it is all owing to you.” - -“Many very good critics,” said Mrs Atheling, piqued in her turn--“a -great many people, I assure you, who know about such things, have been -very much pleased with Agnes’s book.” - -The Rector made no answer--did not even make a pause--but as if all this -was merely irrelevant and an interruption to his real business, said -rapidly, yet with some solemnity, and without a word of preface, “Lord -Winterbourne’s son is dead.” - -“Who?” said Agnes, whom, unconsciously, he was addressing--and they all -turned to him with a little anxiety. Rachel became very pale, and even -Marian, who was not thinking at all of what Mr Rivers said, drew a -little nearer the table, and looked up at him wistfully, with her -beautiful eyes. - -“Lord Winterbourne’s son, George Rivers, the heir of the family--he who -has been abroad so long; a young man, I hear, whom every one esteemed,” -said the Rector, bending down his head, as if he exacted from himself a -certain sadness, and did indeed endeavour to see how sad it was--“he is -dead.” - -Mrs Atheling rose, greatly moved. “Oh, Mr Rivers!--did you say his son? -his only son? a young man? Oh, I pray God have pity upon him! It will -kill him;--it will be more than he can bear!” - -The Rector looked up at the grief in the good mother’s face, with a look -and gesture of surprise. “I never heard any one give Lord Winterbourne -credit for so much feeling,” he said, looking at her with some -suspicion; “and surely he has not shown much of it to you.” - -“Oh, feeling! don’t speak of feeling!” cried Mrs Atheling. “It is not -that I am thinking of. You know a great many things, Mr Rivers, but you -never lost a child.” - -“No,” he said; and then, after a pause, he added, in a lower tone, “in -the whole matter, certainly, I never before thought of Lord -Winterbourne.” - -And there was nobody nigh to point out to him what a world beyond and -above his philosophy was this simple woman’s burst of nature. Yet in his -own mind he caught a moment’s glimpse of it; for the instant he was -abashed, and bent his lofty head with involuntary self-humiliation; but -looking up, saw his own thought still clearer in the eye of Agnes, and -turned defiant upon her, as if it had been a spoken reproof. - -“Well!” he said, turning to her, “was I to blame for thinking little of -the possibility of grief in such a man?” - -“I did not say so,” said Agnes, simply; but she looked awed and grave, -as the others did. They had no personal interest at all in the matter; -they thought in an instant of the vacant places in their own family, and -stood silent and sorrowful, looking at the great calamity which made -another house desolate. They never thought of Lord Winterbourne, who was -their enemy; they only thought of a father who had lost his son. - -And Rachel, who remembered George Rivers, and thought in the tenderness -of the moment that he had been rather kind to her, wept a few tears -silently. - -All these things disconcerted the Rector. He was impatient of excess of -sympathy--ebullitions of feeling; he was conscious of a restrained, yet -intense spring of new hope and vigour in his own life. He had -endeavoured conscientiously to regret his cousin; but it was impossible -to banish from his own mind the thought that he was free--that a new -world opened to his ambition--that he was the heir! - -And he had come, unaware of his own motive, to share this overpowering -and triumphant thought with Agnes Atheling, a girl who was no mate for -him, as inferior in family fortune and breeding as it was possible to -imagine--and now stood abashed and reproved to see that all his simple -auditors thought at once, not of him and his altered position, but of -those grand and primitive realities--Death and Grief. He went away -hastily and with impatience, displeased with them and with himself--went -away on a rapid walk for miles out of his way, striding along the quiet -country roads as if for a race; and a race it was, with his own -thoughts, which still were fastest, and not to be overtaken. He knew the -truths of philosophy, the limited lines and parallels of human logic and -reason; but he had not been trained among the great original truths of -nature; he knew only what was true to the mind,--not what was true to -the heart. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -A VISIT. - - -“Come down, Agnes, make haste; mamma wants you--and Miss Anastasia’s -carriage is just driving up to the door.” - -So said Marian, coming languidly into their sleeping-room, and quite -indifferent to Miss Anastasia. She was rather glad indeed to hasten -Agnes away, to make an excuse for herself, and gain a half-hour of -solitude to read over again Louis’s letter. It was worth while to get -letters like those of Louis. Marian sat down on one of Miss Bridget’s -old-fashioned chairs, and leaned her beautiful head against its high -unyielding angular back. The cover on it was of an ancient blue-striped -tabinet, faded, yet still retaining some of its colour, which answered -very well to relieve those beautiful half-curled, half-braided locks of -Marian’s hair, which had such a tendency to escape from all kinds of -bondage. She lay there half reclining upon this stiff uneasy piece of -furniture, not at all disturbed by its angularity, her pretty cheek -flushing, her pretty lips trembling into half-conscious smiles, reading -over again Louis’s letter, which she held after an embracing fashion in -both her hands. - -And Rachel, with great diffidence, yet by the Rector’s invitation, had -gone to visit Miss Rivers at the Old Wood House. When the other Miss -Rivers, chief of the name, entered the little parlour of the Lodge, she -found the mother and daughter, who were both acquainted with her secret, -awaiting her very anxiously. She came in with a grave face and -deliberate step. She had not changed her dress in any particular, except -the colour of her bonnet, which was black, and had some woeful -decorations of crape; but it was evident that she too had been greatly -moved and impressed by her young cousin’s death. - -“He is dead,” she said, almost as abruptly as the Rector, when she had -taken her usual place. “Yes, poor young George Rivers, who was the heir -of the house--it was very well for him that he should die.” - -“Oh, Miss Rivers!” said Mrs Atheling, “I am very, very sorry for poor -Lord Winterbourne.” - -“Are you?” said Miss Anastasia;--“perhaps you are right,--he will feel -this, I dare say, as much as he can feel anything--but _I_ was sorry for -the boy. Young people think it hard to die--fools!--they don’t know the -blessing that lies in it. Living long enough to come to the crown of -youth, and dying in its blossom--that’s a lot fit for an angel. Agnes -Atheling, never look through your tears at me.” - -But Agnes could not help looking at the old lady wistfully, with her -young inquiring eyes. - -“What does the Rector do here?--they tell me he comes often,” said Miss -Rivers. “Do you know that now, so far as people understand, _he_ comes -to be heir of Winterbourne?” - -“He came to tell us yesterday of the poor young gentleman’s death,” said -Mrs Atheling, “and I thought he seemed a little excited. Agnes, I am -sure you observed it as well as I.” - -“No, mamma,” said Agnes, turning away hastily. She went to get some -work, that no one might observe her own looks, with a sudden nervous -tremor and impatience upon her. The Rector had been very kind to Louis, -had done a brother’s part to him--far more than any one else in the -world had ever done to this friendless youth--yet Louis’s friends were -labouring with all their might, working in darkness like evil-doers, to -undermine the supposed right of Lionel--that right which made his breast -expand and his brow clear, and freed him from an uncongenial fate. Agnes -sat down trembling, with a sudden nervous access of vexation, -disappointment, annoyance, which she could not explain. She had been -accustomed for a long time now to follow him with interest and sympathy, -and to read his thoughts in those wild public self-revelations of his, -which no one penetrated but herself; but she felt actually guilty, a -plotter, and concerned against him now. - -“I am sorry for Lionel,” said Miss Rivers, who had not lost a single -fluctuation of colour on Agnes’s cheek, nor tremble of emotion in her -hurried hands--“but it would have been more grievous for poor George had -he lived. There will be only disappointment--not disgrace--for any other -heir.” - -She paused awhile, still watching Agnes, who bent over her work, greatly -disposed to cry, and in a very agitated condition of mind. Then she said -as suddenly as before, “I forget my proper errand--I have come for the -girls. You are to go up with me to the Priory. Go, make haste--put on -your bonnet--I never wait, even for young ladies; call your sister, and -make ready to go.” - -Agnes rose, startled and unwilling, and cast an inquiring look at Mamma. -Mrs Atheling was startled too, but she was not insensible to the pride -and glory of seeing her two daughters drive off to Abingford Priory in -the well-known carriage of Miss Anastasia. “Since Miss Rivers is so -good, make haste, my dear,” said Mrs Atheling; and Agnes had no -alternative but to obey. - -When she was gone, Miss Rivers looked round the room inquisitively. -Rachel was no great needlewoman, nor much instructed in ordinary -feminine pursuits; there were no visible traces of the presence of a -third young lady in the little dim parlour. “Where is the girl?” said -Miss Anastasia, cautiously,--“I was told she was here.” - -“The Rector asked her to go and see his sister--she is at the Old Wood -House,” said Mrs Atheling. “I am very sorry--but we never thought of you -coming to-day.” - -“I might come any day,” said Miss Rivers, abruptly--“but that is not the -question--I prefer not to see her--she is a frightened little dove of a -girl--she is not in my way. Is she good for anything?--you ought to -know.” - -“She is a very sweet, amiable girl,” said Mrs Atheling, warmly--“and she -sings as I never heard any one sing, all my life.” - -“Ah!” said Miss Rivers, with a look of gratification, “it belongs to the -family--music is a tradition among us--yes, yes! You remember my -great-grandfather, the fourth lord--he was a great composer.” Miss -Anastasia was perfectly destitute of the faculty herself, and more than -half of the Riverses wanted that humblest of all musical qualifications, -“an ear”--yet it was amusing to mark the eagerness of the old lady to -find a family precedent for every quality known as belonging to Louis or -his sister. “I recollect,” added Miss Rivers, bending her brows darkly, -“they wanted to make a singer of her--the more disgrace the better--Oh, -I understand their tactics! You are sorry for him?--look at the devilish -plans he made.” - -Mrs Atheling shook her head, but did not reply; she only knew that she -would have been sorry for the vilest criminal in the world, had he lost -his only son. - -“I have heard from your boy,” said Miss Rivers. “He is gone now, I -suppose. What does Will Atheling think of his son? If he does but as I -expect he will, the boy’s fortune is made; he shall never repent that he -did this service for me.” - -“But it is a great undertaking,” said Mrs Atheling. “I know Charlie will -do his best--he is a very good boy, Miss Rivers; but he may not succeed -after all.” - -“He will succeed,” said the old lady; “but even if he does not--which I -cannot believe--so long as he does all he can, it will not alter me.” - -The mother’s heart swelled high with gratification and pleasure; yet -there was a drawback. All this time--since the first day when she heard -of it, before she made her discovery--Miss Anastasia had never referred -to the engagement between Louis and Marian. Did she desire to discourage -it? Was she likely to perceive a difference in this respect between -Louis nameless and without friends, and Louis the heir of Winterbourne? - -But Mrs Atheling’s utmost penetration could not tell. Miss Rivers began -to pull down the books, to look at them, to strike her riding-whip on -the floor, and call out good-humouredly in her loud voice, which every -one in the house could hear, that she was not to be kept waiting by a -parcel of girls. Finally the girls made their appearance in their best -dresses; their new patroness hurried them into her carriage, and drove -instantly away. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -MARIAN ON TRIAL. - - -Miss Anastasia “preferred not to see” Rachel--yet, with a wayward -inclination still, was moved to drive by a circuitous road in front of -the Old Wood House, where the girl was. The little vehicle went heavily -along the grassy road, cutting the turf, but making little sound as it -rolled past the windows of the invalid. There was the velvet lawn, the -trim flower-plots, the tall autumnal flowers, the straight and well-kept -garden-paths, lying vacant and shadowless beneath the sun--but there was -nothing to be discovered under the closed blinds of this shut-up and -secluded house. - -“Why do they keep their blinds down?” said Miss Anastasia; “all the -house surely is not one invalid’s room? Lucy was a little fool always. I -do not believe there is anything the matter with her. She had what these -soft creatures call a disappointment in love--words have different -meanings, child. And why does this girl go to see Lucy Rivers? I -suppose because she is such a one herself.” - -“It is because Miss Rivers was kind to her,” said Agnes; “and the Rector -asked her to go----” - -“The Rector? Do you mean to tell me,” said Miss Anastasia, turning -quickly upon her companion, “that when Lionel Rivers comes to the Lodge -it is for _her_ he comes?” - -“I do not know,” said Agnes. She was provoked to feel how her face -burned under the old lady’s gaze. She could not help showing something -of the anger and vexation she felt. She looked up hastily, with a glance -of resentment. “He has been very much interested in Louis--he has been -very kind to him,” said Agnes, not at all indisposed, for the sake of -the Rector, whom every one plotted against, to throw down her glove to -Miss Anastasia. “I believe, indeed, it has been to inquire about Louis, -that he ever came to the Lodge.” - -Miss Anastasia touched her ponies with her whip, and said, “Humph!” -“Both of them! odd enough,” said the old lady. Agnes, who was -considerably offended, and not at all in an amicable state of mind, did -not choose to inquire who Miss Anastasia meant by “both of them,” nor -what it was that was “odd enough.” - -Marian occupied the seat behind. She liked it very well, though she -would rather have written her letter to Louis. She did not quite hear -the conversation before her, and did not much care about it. Marian -recognised the old lady only as Agnes’s friend, and had never connected -her in any way with her own fortunes. She was shy of speaking in that -stately presence; she was even resentful sometimes of the remarks of -Miss Anastasia; and the lofty old gentlewoman had formed but an -indifferent idea yet of the little beauty. She was amused with the -pretty pout of Marian’s lip, the sparkle, sometimes of fun, sometimes of -petulance, in her eye; but Marian would have been extremely dismayed -to-day had she known that she, and not Agnes, was the principal object -of Miss Anastasia’s visit, and was, indeed, about to be put upon her -trial, to see if she was good for anything. At all events, she was quite -at ease and unalarmed now. - -They drove along in silence for some time after this--passing through -the village and past the Park gates. Then Miss Anastasia took a road -quite unfamiliar to the girls--a grass-grown unfrequented path, lying -under the shadow of the trees of Winterbourne. She did not say a word -till they came to a sudden break in the trees, when she stopped her -ponies abruptly, and fixed a sorrowful gaze upon the Hall, which was -visible, and close at hand. The white, broad, majestic front of the -great house was not unlike a funeral pile at any time; now, with white -curtains drawn close over all its scarcely perceptible windows, still -veiled in the pomp of mourning, without a gleam of light or colour, in -its blind, grand aspect, turning its back upon the sun--there was -something very sadly imposing in the desolated house. No one was to be -seen about it--not even a servant: it looked like a vast mausoleum, -sacred to the dead. “It was very well for him,” said Miss Anastasia with -a sigh, “very well. If it were not so pitiful a thing to think of, -children, I could thank God.” - -But as the old lady spoke, the tears stood heavy in her eyes. - -This was very dreadful, very mysterious, altogether beyond comprehension -to Marian. She was glad to turn her eyes away from the house with -dislike and terror--it had been Louis’s prison and place of suffering, -and not a single hope connected with the Hall of Winterbourne was in -Marian’s mind. She drew back from Miss Rivers with a shudder--she -thought it was the most frightful thing in existence to thank God -because this young man had died. - -The Priory opened its doors wide to its mistress and her young guests. -She led them herself to her favourite room, a very strange place, -indeed, to their inexperienced eyes. It was a long narrow room, built -over the archway which crossed the entrance to the town of Abingford. -This of itself was peculiarity enough; and the walls were of stone, -wainscoted to half their height with oak, and the roof was ribbed with -strong old oaken rafters, and of course unceiled. Windows on either -side, plain lattice-windows, with thick mullions of stone, admitted the -light in strips between heavy bars of shadow, and commanded a full sight -of every one who entered the town of Abingford. On the country side was -a long country road, some trees, and the pale convolutions of the river; -on the other, there was a glimpse of the market-place of the town, even -now astir with a leisurely amount of business, in the centre of which -rose an extraordinary building with a piazza, while round it were the -best shops of Abingford, and the farmers’ inns, which were full on -market days. A little old church, rich with the same rude Saxon ornament -which decorated the church of Winterbourne, stood modestly among the -houses at the corner of the market-place. A few leisurely figures, such -as belong to country towns, stood at the doors, or lounged about the -pavement; and market-carts came and went slowly under the arch. Marian -brightened into positive amusement; she thought it very funny indeed to -watch the people and the vehicles slowly disappearing beneath her, and -laughed to herself, and thought it a very odd fancy of Miss Anastasia, -to choose her favourite sitting-room here. - -The old lady came and stood beside her, somewhat to the embarrassment of -Marian. She bade the girl take off her bonnet, which produced its -unfailing result, of throwing into a little picturesque confusion those -soft, silken, half-curled tresses of Marian’s hair. Marian looked out of -the window somewhat nervously, a little afraid of Miss Rivers. The old -lady looked at her with a keen scrutiny. She was stooping her pretty -shoulders in an attitude which might have been awkward in a form less -elastic, dimpling her cheek with the fingers which supported it, -conscious of Miss Anastasia’s gaze, somewhat alarmed, and very shy. In -spite of the shrinking, the alarm, and the embarrassment, Miss Rivers -looked steadily down upon her with a serious inspection. But even the -cloud which began to steal over Marian’s brow could not disenchant the -eyes that gazed upon her--Miss Anastasia began to smile as everybody -else; to feel herself moved to affection, tenderness, regard; to own the -fascination which no one resisted. “My dear, you are very pretty,” said -the old lady, entirely forgetting any prudent precautions on the score -of making Marian vain; “many people would tell you, that, with a face -like that, you need no other attraction. But I was once pretty myself, -and I know it does not last for ever; do you ever think about anything, -you lovely little child?” - -Marian glanced up with an indignant blush and frown; but the look she -met was so kind, that it was not possible to answer as she intended. So -the pretty head sank down again upon the hand which supported it. She -took a little time to compose herself, and then, with some humility, -spoke the truth: “I am afraid, not a great deal.” - -“What do you suppose I do here, all by myself?” said Miss Anastasia, -suddenly. - -Marian turned her face towards her, looked round the room, and then -turned a wistful gaze to Miss Rivers. “Indeed, I do not know,” said -Marian, in a very low and troubled tone: it was youth, with awe and -gravity and pity, looking out of its bright world upon the loneliness -and poverty of age. - -That answer and that look brought the examination to a very hasty and -sudden conclusion. The old lady looked at her for an instant with a -startled glance, stooped over her, kissed her forehead and hurried away. -Marian could not tell what she had done, nor why Miss Anastasia’s face -changed so strangely. She could not comprehend the full force of the -contrast, nor how her own simple wonder and pity struck like a sudden -arrow to the old lady’s heart. - -Agnes was puzzled too, and could not help her sister to an explanation. -They remained by themselves for some time, rather timidly looking at -everything. There were a few portraits hanging high upon the walls, -portraits which they knew to be of the family, but could not recognise; -and there was one picture of a very strange kind, which all their -combined ingenuity could not interpret. It was like one of those old -Dyptichs used to preserve some rare and precious altarpiece. What was -within could not be seen, but on the closed leaves without were painted -two solemn angels, with a silvery surrounding of wings, and flowers in -their hands. If Miss Anastasia had been a Catholic--even if she had been -a dilettante or extreme High Churchwoman, it might have been a little -private shrine: perhaps it was so: there was a portrait within, which no -eyes but her own ever saw. Between the windows the walls were lined with -book-cases; that ancient joke of poor Aunt Bridget’s, her own initials -underneath her pupil’s name--the B. A., which conferred a degree upon -Anastasia Rivers--turned out to be an intentional thing after all. The -girls gazed in awe at Miss Anastasia’s book-shelves. She was a great -scholar, this old lady. She might have been one of the Heads of Houses -in the learned city, but for the unfortunate femininity which debarred -her. All by herself among these tomes of grey antiquity--all by herself -with her pictures, the sole remnant of another time--it was not -wonderful that the two girls paused, looking out from the sunshine of -their youth with reverence, yet with compassion. They honoured her with -natural humility, feeling their own ignorance, but notwithstanding, were -very sorry for Miss Anastasia, all by herself--more sorry than there was -occasion to be--for Miss Anastasia was used to be all by herself, and -found enjoyment in it now. - -When Miss Anastasia came back she took them to see her garden, and the -state-apartments of her great stately house. When they were a little -familiar she let them stray on before her, and followed watching. Agnes, -perhaps, was still her own favourite of the two; but all her observation -was given to Marian. As her eyes followed this beautiful figure, her -look became more and more satisfied; and while Marian wandered with her -sister about the garden, altogether unconscious of the great -possibilities which awaited her, Miss Anastasia’s fancy clothed her in -robes of state, and covered her with jewels. “He might have married a -duke’s daughter,” she said to herself, turning away with a pleased -eye--“but he might never have found such a beautiful fairy as this: she -is a good little child too, with no harm in her; and a face for a fairy -queen!” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -DISCONTENT. - - -No one knew the real effect of the blow which had just fallen upon Lord -Winterbourne. The guests, of whom his house was full, dispersed as if by -magic. Even Mrs Edgerley, in the most fashionable sables, with mourning -liveries, and the blinds of her carriage solemnly let down, went forth, -as soon as decency would permit, from the melancholy Hall. After all the -bustle and all the gaiety of recent days, the place fell into a pause of -deadly stillness. Lord Winterbourne sought comfort from no one--showed -grief to no one; he made a sudden pause, like a man stunned, and then, -with increased impetus, and with a force and resolution unusual to him, -resumed his ancient way once more, and rushed forward with exaggerated -activity. Instead of subduing him, this event seemed to have roused all -his faculties into a feverish and busy malevolence, as if the man had -said, “I have no one to come after me--I will do all the harm I can -while my time lasts.” All the other gentry of the midland counties, put -together, did not bring so many poachers to “justice” as were brought by -Lord Winterbourne. It was with difficulty his solicitor persuaded him to -pass over the pettiest trespass upon his property. He shut up pathways -privileged from time immemorial, ejected poor tenants, encroached upon -the village rights, and oppressed the village patriarchs; and animated -as he was by this spirit of ill-will to every one, it was not wonderful -that he endeavoured, with all his might, to press on the suit against -the Athelings for the recovery of the Old Wood Lodge. - -Mrs Atheling and her daughters, unwilling, embarrassed, and totally -ignorant of their real means of defence, remained in their house at the -pleasure of the lawyer, and much against their own inclination. Mrs -Atheling herself, though with a spark of native spirit she had seconded -her husband’s resolution not to give up his little inheritance, was -entirely worried out with the task of defending it, now that Charlie was -gone, and winter was approaching, and her heart yearned to her husband -and her forsaken house in Bellevue. When she wrote to Mr Atheling, or -when she consulted with Agnes, the good mother expressed her opinion -very strongly. “If it turns out a mistake about Louis, none of us will -care for this place,” said Mrs Atheling; “we shall have the expense of -keeping it up, and unless we were living in it ourselves, I do not -suppose it is worth ten pounds a-year; and if it should turn out true -about Louis, of course he would restore it to us, and settle it so that -there could be no doubt upon the subject; and indeed, Agnes, my dear, -the only sensible plan that I can think of, would be to give it up at -once, and go home. I do think it is quite an unfortunate house for the -Athelings; there was your father’s poor little sister got her death in -it; and it is easy to see how much trouble and anxiety have come into -our family since we came here.” - -“But trouble and anxiety might come anywhere, mamma,” said Agnes. - -“Yes, my dear, that is very true; but we should have known exactly what -we had to look for, if Marian had been engaged to some one in Bellevue.” - -Mamma’s counsels, accordingly, were of a very timid and compromising -character. She began to be extremely afraid that the Old Wood Lodge, -being so near the trees, would be damp after all the autumn rains, and -that something might possibly happen to Bell and Beau; and, with all her -heart, and without any dispute, she longed exceedingly to be at home. -Then there was the pretty pensive Marian, a little love-sick, and pining -much for the society of her betrothed. She was a quiet but potent -influence, doing what she could to aggravate the discontent of Mamma; -and Agnes had to keep up the family courage, and develop the family -patience, single-handed. Agnes, in her own private heart, though she did -not acknowledge, nor even know it, was not at all desirous to go away. - -The conflict accordingly, about this small disputed possession, lay a -great deal more between Lord Winterbourne and Miss Anastasia than -between that unfriendly nobleman and the house of Atheling. Miss -Anastasia came frequently on errands of encouragement to fortify the -sinking heart of Mrs Atheling. “My great object is to defer the trial of -this matter for six months,” said the old lady significantly. “Let it -come on, and we will turn the tables then.” - -She spoke in the presence of Marian, before whom nothing could be said -plainly--in the presence of Rachel even, whom it was impossible to avoid -seeing, but who always kept timidly in the background--and she spoke -with a certain exultation which somewhat puzzled her auditors. Charlie, -though he had done nothing yet, had arrived at the scene of his labours. -Assured of this fact, the courage of his patroness rose. She was a woman -and an optimist, as she confessed. She had the gift of leaping to a -conclusion, equal to any girl in the kingdom, and at the present moment -was not disturbed by any doubts of success. - -“Six months!” cried Mrs Atheling, in dismay and horror; “and do you -mean that we must stay here all that time--all the winter, Miss Rivers? -It is quite impossible--indeed I could not do it. My husband is all by -himself, and I know how much I am wanted at home.” - -“It is necessary some one should be in possession,” said Miss Rivers. -“Eh? What does Will Atheling say?--I daresay he thinks it hard enough to -be left alone.” - -Mrs Atheling was very near “giving away.” Vexation and anxiety for the -moment almost overpowered her self-command. She knew all the buttons -must be off Papa’s shirts, and stood in grievous fear of a fabulous -amount of broken crockery; besides, she had never been so long parted -from her husband since their marriage, and very seriously longed for -home. - -“Of course it is very dreary for him,” she said, with a sigh. - -“Mr Temple is making application to defer the trial on the score of an -important witness who cannot reach this country in time,” said Miss -Rivers. “Of course my lord will oppose that with all his power; _he_ has -a natural terror of witnesses from abroad. When the question is decided, -I do not see, for my part, why you should remain. This little one pines -to go home, I see--but you, Agnes Atheling, you had better come and stay -at the Priory--you love the country, child!” - -Both the sisters blushed under the scrutinising eye of Miss Anastasia; -but Agnes was not yet reconciled to the old lady. “We are all anxious to -go home,” she said with spirit, and with considerably more earnestness -than the case at all demanded. Miss Rivers smiled a little. She thought -she could read a whole romance in the fluctuating colour and troubled -glance of Agnes; but she was wrong, as far-seeing people are so often. -The girl was disturbed, uneasy, self-conscious, in a startled and -impatient condition of mind; but the romance, even if it were on the -way, had not yet definitely begun. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -A CONVERSATION. - - -Agnes’s rambles out of doors had now almost always to be made alone. -Rachel was much engrossed with the invalid of the Old Wood House, who -had “taken a fancy” to the gentle little girl. The hypochondriac Miss -Rivers was glad of any one so tender and respectful; and half in natural -pity for the sufferings which Rachel could not believe to be fanciful, -half from a natural vocation for kindly help and tendance, the girl was -glad to respond to the partly selfish affection of her new friend, who -told Rachel countless stories of the family, and the whole chronicle in -every particular of her own early “disappointment in love.” In return, -Rachel, by snatches, conveyed to her invalid friend--in whom, after all, -she found some points of interest and congeniality--a very exalted ideal -picture of the Athelings, the genius of Agnes, and the love-story of -Marian. Marian and Agnes occupied a very prominent place indeed in the -talk of that shadowy dressing-room, with all its invalid -contrivances--its closed green blinds, its soft mossy carpets, on which -no footstep was ever audible, its easy little couches, which you could -move with a finger; the luxury, and the stillness, and the gossip, were -not at all unpleasant to Rachel; and she read _Hope Hazlewood_ to her -companion in little bits, with pauses of talk between. _Hope Hazlewood_ -was not nearly romantic enough for the pretty faded invalid reposing -among her pillows in her white dressing-gown, whom Time seemed to have -forgotten there, and who had no recollection for her own part that she -was growing old; but she took all the delight of a girl in hearing of -Louis and Marian--how much attached to each other, and how handsome they -both were. - -And Marian Atheling did not care half so much as she used to do for the -long rambles with her sister, which were once such a pleasure to both -the girls. Marian rather now preferred sitting by herself over her -needlework, or lingering alone at the window, in an entire sweet -idleness, full of all those charmed visions with which the very name of -Louis peopled all the fairy future. Not the wisest, or the wittiest, or -the most brilliant conversation in the world could have half equalled to -Marian the dreamy pleasure of her own meditations. So Agnes had to go -out alone. - -Agnes did not suffer very much from this necessity. She wandered along -the skirts of the wood, with a vague sense of freedom and enjoyment not -easy to explain in words. No dreamy trance of magic influence had come -upon Agnes; her mind, and her heart, and her thoughts, were quickened by -a certain thrill of expectation, which was not to be referred to the -strange romance now going on in the family--to Charlie’s mission, nor -Louis’s prospects, nor anything else which was definite and ascertained. -She knew that her heart rose, that her mind brightened, that her -thoughts were restless and light, and not to be controlled; but she -could not tell the reason why. She went about exploring all the country -byways, and finding little tracks among the brushwood undiscoverable to -the common eye; and she was not cogitating anything, scarcely was -thinking, but somehow felt within her whole nature a silent growth and -increase not to be explained. - -She was pondering along, with her eyes upon the wide panorama at her -feet, when it chanced to Agnes, suddenly and without preparation, to -encounter the Rector. These two young people, who were mutually -attracted to each other, had at the present moment a mutual occasion of -embarrassment and apparent offence. The Rector could not forget how very -much humbled in his own opinion he himself had been on his late visit to -the Lodge; he had not yet recovered the singular check given to his own -unconscious selfishness, by the natural sympathy of these simple people -with the grander primitive afflictions and sufferings of life: and he -was not without an idea that Agnes looked upon him now with a somewhat -disdainful eye. Agnes, on her part, was greatly oppressed by the secret -sense of being concerned against the Rector; in his presence she felt -like a culprit--a secret plotter against the hope which brightened his -eye, and expanded his mind. A look of trouble came at once into her -face; her brow clouded--she thought it was not quite honest to make a -show of friendship, while she retained her secret knowledge of the -inquiry which might change into all the bitterness of disappointment his -sudden and unlooked-for hope. - -He had been going in the opposite direction, but, though he was not at -all reconciled to her, he was not willing either to part with Agnes. He -turned, only half consciously, only half willingly, yet by an -irresistible compulsion. He tried indifferent conversation, and so did -she; but, in spite of himself, Lionel Rivers was a truer man with Agnes -Atheling than he was with any other person in the world. He who had -never cared for sympathy from any one, somehow or other felt a necessity -for hers, and had a certain imperious disappointment and impatience when -it was withheld from him, which was entirely unreasonable, and not to -be accounted for. He broke off abruptly from the talk about nothing, to -speak of some intended movements of his own. - -“I am going to town,” said Mr Rivers. “I am somewhat unsettled at -present in my intentions; after that, probably, I may spend some time -abroad.” - -“All because he is the heir!” thought Agnes to herself; and again she -coloured with distress and vexation. It was impossible to keep something -of this from her tone; when she spoke, it was in a voice subdued a -little out of its usual tenor; but all that she asked was a casual -question, meaning nothing--“If Mr Mead would have the duty while the -Rector was away?” - -“Yes,” said the Rector; “he is very much better fitted for it than I am. -Here I have been cramping my wings these three years. Fathers and -mothers are bitterly to blame; they bind a man to what his soul loathes, -because it is his best method of earning some paltry pittance--so much -a-year!” - -After this exclamation the young clergyman made a pause, and so did his -diffident and uneasy auditor, who “did not like” either to ask his -meaning, or to make any comment upon it. After a few minutes he resumed -again-- - -“I suppose it must constantly be so where we dare to think for -ourselves,” he said, in a tone of self-conversation. “A man who thinks -_must_ come to conclusions different from those which are taught to -him--different, perhaps, from all that has been concluded truest in the -ages that are past. What shall we say? Woe be to me if I do not follow -out my reasoning, to whatever length it may lead!” - -“When Paul says, Woe be to him, it is, if he does not preach the -Gospel,” said Agnes. - -Mr Rivers smiled. “Be glad of your own happy exemption,” he said, -turning to her, with the air of a man who knows by heart all the old -arguments--all the feminine family arguments against scepticism and -dangerous speculations. “I will leave you in possession of your -beautiful Gospel--your pure faith. I shall not attempt to disturb your -mind--do not fear.” - -“You could not!” said Agnes, in a sudden and rash defiance. She turned -to him in her turn, beginning to tremble a little with the excitement of -controversy. She was a young polemic, rather more graceful in its -manifestation, but quite as strong in the spirit of the conflict as any -Mause Headrigg--which is to say, that, after her eager girlish fashion, -she believed with her whole heart, and did not know what toleration -meant. - -Mr Rivers smiled once more. “I will not try,” he said. “I remember what -Christ said, and endeavour to have charity even for those who condemn -me.” - -“Oh, Mr Rivers!” cried Agnes suddenly, and with trembling, “do not speak -so coldly--do not say Christ; it sounds as if you did not care for -Him--as if you thought He was no friend to you.” - -The Rector paused, somewhat startled: it was an objection which never -had occurred to him--one of those subtle touches concerning the spirit -and not the letter, which, being perfectly sudden, and quite simple, had -some chance of coming to the heart. - -“What do _you_ say?” he asked with a little interest. - -Agnes’s voice was low, and trembled with reverence and with emotion. She -was not thinking of him, in his maze of intellectual trifling--she was -thinking of that Other, whom she knew so much better, and whose name she -spoke. She answered with an involuntary bending of her head--“Our Lord.” - -It was no conviction that struck the mind of the young man--conviction -was not like to come readily to him--and he was far too familiar with -all the formal arguments, to be moved by the reasonings of a polemic, or -the fervour of an enthusiast. But he who professed so much anxiety about -truth, and contemplated himself as a moral martyr, woefully following -his principles, though they led him to ever so dark a desolation, had -lived all his life among an infinite number of shams, and willingly -enough had yielded to many of them. Perhaps this was the first time in -his life in which he had been brought into immediate contact with people -who were simply true in their feelings and their actions--whose opinions -were without controversy--whose settled place in life, humble as it was, -shut them out from secondary emulations and ambitions--and who were -swayed by the primitive rule of human existence--the labour and the -rest, the affliction and the prosperity, which were real things, and not -creations of the brain. He paused a little over the words of Agnes -Atheling. He did not want her to think as he did: he was content to -believe that the old boundaries were suitable and seemly for a woman; -and he was rather pleased than otherwise, by the horror, interest, and -regret which such opinions as his generally met with. He paused upon her -words, with the air of a spectator, and said in a meditative fashion, -“It is a glorious faith.” - -Now Agnes, who was not at all satisfied with this contemplative -approval, was entirely ready and eager for controversy; prepared to -plunge into it with the utmost rashness, utterly unaccoutred and -ignorant as she was. She trembled with suppressed fervour and excitement -over all her frame. She was as little a match for the Rector in the -argument which she would fain have entered into, as any child in the -village; but she was far too strong in the truth of her cause to feel -any fear. - -“Do you ever meet with great trouble?” said Agnes. - -It was quite an unexpected question. The Rector looked at her -inquiringly, without the least perception what she meant. - -“And when you meet with it,” continued the eager young champion, “what -do you say?” - -Now this was rather a difficult point with the Rector; it was not -naturally his vocation to administer comfort to “great trouble”--in -reality, when he was brought face to face with it, he had nothing to -say. He paused a little, really embarrassed--_that_ was the curate’s -share of the business. Mr Rivers was very sorry for the poor people, but -had, in fact, no consolation to give, and thought it much more important -to play with his own mind and faculties in this solemn and conscientious -trifling of his, than to attend to the griefs of others. He answered, -after some hesitation: “There are different minds, of course, and -different influences applicable to them. Every man consoles himself -after his own fashion; for some there are the sublime consolations of -Philosophy, for others the rites of the Church.” - -“Some time,” said Agnes suddenly, turning upon him with earnest -eyes,--“some time, when you come upon great sorrow, will you try the -name of our Lord?” - -The young man was startled again, and made no answer. He was struck by -the singular conviction that this girl, inferior to himself in every -point, had a certain real and sublime acquaintance with that wonderful -Person of whom she spoke; that this was by no means belief in a -doctrine, but knowledge of a glorious and extraordinary Individual, -whose history no unbeliever in the world has been able to divest of its -original majesty. The idea was altogether new to him; it found an -unaccustomed way to the heart of the speculatist--that dormant power -which scarcely any one all his life had tried to reach to. “I do not -quite understand you,” he said somewhat moodily; but he did not attend -to what she said afterwards. He pondered upon the problem by himself, -and could not make anything of it. Arguments about doctrines and beliefs -were patent enough to the young man. He was quite at home among dogmas -and opinions--but, somehow, this personal view of the question had a -strange advantage over him. He was not prepared for it; its entire and -obvious simplicity took away the ground from under his feet. It might be -easy enough to persuade a man out of conviction of a doctrine which he -believed, but it was a different matter to disturb the identity of a -person whom he knew. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -SUSPENSE. - - -In the mean time, immediate interest in their own occupations had pretty -nearly departed from the inhabitants of the Old Wood Lodge. Agnes went -on with her writing, Mamma with her work-basket, Marian with her dreams; -but desk, and needle, and meditations were all alike abandoned in -prospect of the postman, who was to be seen making his approach for a -very long way, and was watched every day with universal anxiety. What -Louis was doing, what Charlie was doing, the progress of the lawsuit, -and the plans of Miss Anastasia, continually drew the thoughts of the -household away from themselves. Even Rachel’s constant report of the -unseen invalid, Miss Lucy, added to the general withdrawal of interest -from the world within to the world without. They seemed to have nothing -to do themselves in their feminine quietness. Mamma sat pondering over -her work--about her husband, who was alone, and did not like his -solitude--about Charlie, who was intrusted with so great a -commission--about “all the children”--every one of whom seemed to be -getting afloat on a separate current of life. Agnes mused over her -business with impatient thoughts about the Rector, with visions of -Rachel and Miss Lucy in the invalid chamber, and vain attempts to look -into the future and see what was to come. As for Marian, the charmed -tenor of her fancies knew no alteration; she floated on, without -interruption, in a sweet vision, full of a thousand consistencies, and -wilder than any romance. Their conversation ran no longer in the ancient -household channel, and was no more about their own daily occupations; -they were spectators eagerly looking from the windows at nearly a dozen -different conflicts, earnestly concerned, and deeply sympathetic, but -not in the strife themselves. - -Louis had entered Mr Foggo’s office; it seemed a strange destination for -the young man. He did not tell any one how small a remuneration he -received for his labours, nor how he contrived to live in the little -room, in the second floor of one of those Islington houses. He succeeded -in existing--that was enough; and Louis did not chafe at his restrained -and narrow life, by reason of having all his faculties engaged and -urgent in a somewhat fanciful mode, of securing the knowledge which he -longed for concerning his own birth and derivation. He had ascertained -from Mr Atheling every particular concerning the Rivers family which -_he_ knew. He had even managed to seek out some old servants once at the -Hall, and with a keen and intense patience had listened to every word of -a hundred aimless and inconclusive stories from these respectable -authorities. He was compiling, indeed, neither more nor less than a -_life_ of Lord Winterbourne--a history which he endeavoured to verify in -every particular as he went on, and which was written with the sternest -impartiality--a plain and clear record of events. Perhaps a more -remarkable manuscript than that of Louis never existed; and he pursued -his tale with all the zest, and much more than the excitement, of a -romancer. It was a true story, of which he laboured to find out every -episode; and there was a powerful unity and constructive force in the -one sole unvarying interest of the tale. Mr Atheling had been moved to -tell the eager youth _all_ the particulars of his early acquaintance -with Lord Winterbourne--and still the story grew--the object of the -whole being to discover, as Louis himself said, “what child there was -whom it was his interest to disgrace and defame.” The young man followed -hotly upon this clue. His thoughts had not been directed yet to anything -resembling the discovery of Miss Anastasia; it had never occurred to -him that his disinheritance might be absolutely the foundation of all -Lord Winterbourne’s greatness; but he hovered about the question with a -singular pertinacity, and gave his full attention to it. Inspired by -this, he did not consider his meagre meal, his means so narrow that it -was the hardest matter in the world to eat daily bread. He pursued his -story with a concentration of purpose which the greatest poet in -existence might have envied. He was a great deal too much in earnest to -think about the sentences in which he recorded what he learnt. The -consequence was, that this memoir of Lord Winterbourne was a model of -terse and pithy English--an unexampled piece of biography. Louis did not -say a word about it to any one, but pursued his labour and his inquiry -together, vainly endeavouring to find out a trace of some one whom he -could identify with himself. - -Meanwhile, Papa began to complain grievously of his long abandonment, -and moved by Louis on one side, and by his own discomfort on the other, -became very decided in his conviction that there was no due occasion for -the absence of his family. There was great discontent in Number Ten, -Bellevue, and there was an equal discontent, rather more overpowering, -and quite as genuine, in the Old Wood Lodge, where Mamma and Marian vied -with each other in anxiety, and thought no cause sufficiently important -to keep them any longer from home. Agnes expressed no opinion either on -one side or the other; she was herself somewhat disturbed and unsettled, -thinking a great deal more about the Rector than was at all convenient, -or to her advantage. After that piece of controversy, the Rector began -to come rather often to the Lodge. He never said a word again touching -that one brief breath of warfare, yet they eyed each other -distrustfully, with a mutual consciousness of what had occurred, and -might occur again. It was not a very lover-like point of union, yet it -was a secret link of which no one else knew. Unconsciously it drew Agnes -into inferences and implications, which were spoken at the Rector; and -unconsciously it drew him to more sympathy with common trials, and a -singular inclination to experiment, as Agnes had bidden him, with her -sublime talisman--that sole Name given under heaven, which has power to -touch into universal brotherhood the whole universal heart of man. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -NEWS. - - -While the Lodge remained in this ferment of suspense and uncertainty, -Miss Anastasia had taken her measures for its defence and preservation. -It was wearing now towards the end of October, and winter was setting in -darkly. There was no more than a single rose at a time now upon the -porch, and these roses looked so pale, pathetic, and solitary, that it -was rather sad than pleasant to see the lonely flowers. On one of the -darkest days of the month, when they were all rather more listless than -usual, Miss Anastasia’s well-known equipage drew up at the gate. They -all hailed it with some pleasure. It was an event in the dull day and -discouraging atmosphere. She came in with her loud cheerful voice, her -firm step, her energetic bearing--and even the pretty _fiancée_ Marian -raised her pretty stooping shoulders, and woke up from her fascinated -musing. Rachel alone drew shyly towards the door; she had not overcome -a timidity very nearly approaching fear, which she always felt in -presence of Miss Anastasia. She was the only person who ever entered -this house who made Rachel remember again her life at the Hall. - -“I came to show you a letter from your boy; read it while I talk to the -children,” said Miss Rivers. Mrs Atheling took the letter with some -nervousness; she was a little fluttered, and lost the sense of many of -the expressions; yet lingered over it, notwithstanding, with pride and -exultation. She longed very much to have an opportunity of showing it to -Agnes; but that was not possible; so Mrs Atheling made a virtuous -attempt to preserve in her memory every word that her son said. This was -Charlie’s letter to his patroness:-- - - “MADAM,--I have not made very much progress yet. The courier, Jean - Monte, is to be heard of as you suggested; but it is only known on - the road that he lives in Switzerland, and keeps some sort of inn - in one of the mountain villages. No more as yet; but I will find - him out. I have to be very cautious at present, because I am not - yet well up in the language. The town is a ruinous place, and I - cannot get the parish registers examined as one might do in - England. There are several families of decayed nobles in the - immediate neighbourhood, and, so far as I can hear, Giulietta is a - very common name. Travelling Englishmen, too, are so frequent that - there is a good deal of difficulty. I am rather inclined to fix - upon the villa Remori, where there are said to have been several - English marriages. It has been an extensive place, but is now - broken down, decayed, and neglected; the family have a title, and - are said to be very handsome, but are evidently very poor. There is - a mother and a number of daughters, only one or two grown up; I try - to make acquaintance with the children. The father died early, and - had no brothers. I think possibly this might be the house of - Giulietta, as there is no one surviving to look after the rights of - her children, did she really belong to this family. Of course, any - relatives she had, with any discretion, would have inquired out her - son in England; so I incline to think she may have belonged to the - villa Remori, as there are only women there. - - “I have to be very slow on account of my Italian--this, however, - remedies itself every day. I shall not think of looking for Monte - till I have finished my business here, and am on my way home. The - place is unprosperous and unhealthy, but it is pretty, and rather - out of the way--few travellers came, they tell me, till within ten - years ago; but I have not met with any one yet whose memory carried - back at all clearly for twenty years. A good way out of the town, - near the lake, there is a kind of mausoleum which interests me a - little, not at all unlike the family tomb at Winterbourne; there is - no name upon it; it lies quite out of the way, and I cannot - ascertain that any one has ever been buried there; but something - may be learned about it, perhaps, by-and-by. - - “When I ascertain anything of the least importance, I shall write - again. - - “Madam, - - “Your Obedient Servant, - - “Charles Atheling.” - - -Charlie had never written to a lady before; he was a little embarrassed -about it the first time, but this was his second epistle, and he had -become a little more at his ease. The odd thing about the correspondence -was, that Charlie did not express either hopes or opinions; he did not -say what he expected, or what were his chances of success--he only -reported what he was doing; any speculation upon the subject, more -especially at this crisis, would have been out of Charlie’s way. - -“What do you call your brother when you write to him?” asked Miss -Anastasia abruptly, addressing Rachel. - -Rachel coloured violently; she had so nearly forgotten her old -system--her old representative character--that she was scarcely prepared -to answer such a question. With a mixture of her natural manner and her -assumed one, she answered at last, in considerable confusion, “We call -him Louis; he has no other name.” - -“Then he will not take the name of Rivers?” said Miss Anastasia, looking -earnestly at the shrinking girl. - -“We have no right to the name of Rivers,” said Rachel, drawing herself -up with her old dignity, like a little queen. “My brother is inquiring -who we are. We never belonged to Lord Winterbourne.” - -“Your brother is inquiring? So!” said Miss Anastasia; “and he is -perfectly right. Listen, child--tell him this from me--do you know what -Atheling means? It means noble, illustrious, royally born. In the old -Saxon days the princes were called Atheling. Tell your brother that -Anastasia Rivers bids him bear this name.” - -This address entirely confused Rachel, who remained gazing at Miss -Rivers blankly, unable to say anything. Marian stirred upon her chair -with sudden eagerness, and put down her needlework, gazing also, but -after quite a different fashion, in Miss Anastasia’s face. The old lady -caught the look of both, but only replied to the last. - -“You are startled, are you, little beauty? Did you never hear the story -of Margaret Atheling, who was an exile, and a saint, and a queen? My -child, I should be very glad to make sure that you were a true Atheling -too.” - -Marian was not to be diverted from her curiosity by any such -observation. She cast a quick look from Miss Rivers to her mother, who -was pondering over Charlie’s letter, and from Mrs Atheling to Agnes, who -had not been startled by the strange words of Miss Anastasia; and -suspicion, vague and unexplainable, began to dawn in Marian’s mind. - -“The autumn assizes begin to-day,” said Miss Anastasia with a little -triumph; “too soon, as Mr Temple managed it, for your case to have a -hearing; it must stand over till the spring now--six months--by that -time, please God; we shall be ready for them. Agnes Atheling, how long -is it since you began to be deaf and blind?” - -Agnes started with a little confusion, and made a hurried inarticulate -answer. There was a little quiet quarrel all this time going on between -Agnes and Miss Rivers; neither the elder lady nor the younger was quite -satisfied--Agnes feeling herself something like a conspirator, and Miss -Anastasia a little suspicious of her, as a disaffected person in the -interest of the enemy. But Mamma by this time had come to an end of -Charlie’s letter, and, folding it up very slowly, gave it back to its -proprietor. The good mother did not feel it at all comfortable to keep -this information altogether to herself. - -“It is not to be tried till spring!” said Mrs Atheling, who had caught -this observation. “Then, I think, indeed, Miss Rivers, we must go home.” - -And, to Mamma’s great comfort, Miss Anastasia made no objection. She -said kindly that she should miss her pleasant neighbours. “But what may -be in the future, girls, no one knows,” said Miss Rivers, getting up -abruptly. “Now, however, before this storm comes on, I am going home.” - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -GOING HOME. - - -After this the family made immediate preparations for their return. Upon -this matter Rachel was extremely uncomfortable, and much divided in her -wishes. Miss Lucy, who had been greatly solaced by the gentle -ministrations of this mild little girl, insisted very much that Rachel -should remain with her until her friends returned in spring, or till her -brother had “established himself.” Rachel herself did not know what to -do; and her mind was in a very doubtful condition, full of -self-arguments. She did not think Louis would be pleased--that was the -dark side. The favourable view was, that she was of use to the invalid, -and remaining with her would be “no burden to any one.” Rachel pondered, -wept, and consulted over it with much sincerity. From the society of -these young companions, whom the simple girl loved, and who were so near -her own age; from Louis, her lifelong ruler and example; from the kindly -fireside, to which she had looked forward so long--it was hard enough -to turn to the invalid chambers, the old four-volume novels, and poor -pretty old Miss Lucy’s “disappointment in love.” “And if afterwards I -had to sing or give lessons, I should forget all my music there,” said -Rachel. Mrs Atheling kindly stepped in and decided for her. “It might be -a very good thing for you, my dear, if you had no friends,” said Mrs -Atheling. Rachel did not know whether to be most puzzled or grateful; -but to keep a certain conscious solemnity out of her tone--a certain -mysterious intimation of something great in the future--was out of the -power of Mamma. - -Accordingly, they all began their preparations with zeal and energy, the -only indifferent member of the party being Agnes, who began to feel -herself a good deal alone, and to suspect that she was indeed in the -enemy’s interest, and not so anxious about the success of Louis as she -ought to have been. A few days after Miss Anastasia’s visit, the Rector -came to find them in all the bustle of preparation. He appeared among -them with a certain solemnity, looking haughty and offended, and -received Mrs Atheling’s intimation of their departure with a grave and -punctilious bow. He had evidently known it before, and he looked upon -it, quite as evidently, as something done to thwart him--a personal -offence to himself. - -“Miss Atheling perhaps has literary occupation to call her to town,” -suggested Mr Rivers, returning to his original ground of displeasure, -and trying to get up a little quarrel with Agnes. She did not reply to -him, but her mother did, on her behalf. - -“Indeed, Mr Rivers, it does not make any difference to Agnes; she can -write anywhere,” said Mrs Atheling. “I often wonder how she gets on -amongst us all; but my husband has been left so long by himself--and now -that the trial does not come on till spring, we are all so thankful to -get home.” - -“The trial comes on in spring?--I shall endeavour to be at home,” said -the Rector, “if I can be of any service. I am myself going to town; I am -somewhat unsettled in my plans at present--but my friends whom I esteem -most are in London--people of scientific and philosophical pursuits, who -cannot afford to be fashionable. Shall I have your permission to call on -you when we are all there?” - -“I am sure we shall all be very much pleased,” said Mrs Atheling, -flattered by his tone--“you know what simple people we are, and we do -not keep any company; but we shall be very pleased, and honoured too, to -see you as we have seen you here.” - -Agnes was a little annoyed by her mother’s speech. She looked up with a -flash of indignation, and met, not the eyes of Mrs Atheling, but those -of Mr Rivers, who was looking at her. The eyes had a smile in them, but -there was perfect gravity upon the face. She was confused by the look, -though she did not know why. The words upon her lip were checked--she -looked down again, and began to arrange her papers with a rising colour. -The Rector’s look wandered from her face, because he perceived that he -embarrassed her, but went no further than her hands, which were pretty -hands enough, yet nothing half so exquisite as those rose-tipped fairy -fingers with which Marian folded up her embroidery. The Rector had no -eyes at all for Marian; but he watched the arrangement of Agnes’s papers -with a quite involuntary interest--detected in an instant when she -misplaced one, and was very much disposed to offer his own assistance, -relenting towards her. What he meant by it--he who was really the heir -of Lord Winterbourne, and by no means unaware of his own advantages--Mrs -Atheling, looking on with quick-witted maternal observation, could not -tell. - -Then quite abruptly--after he had watched all Agnes’s papers into the -pockets of her writing-book--he rose to go away; then he lingered over -the ceremony of shaking hands with her, and held hers longer than there -was any occasion for. “Some time I hope to resume our argument,” said Mr -Rivers. He paused till she answered him: “I do not know about argument,” -said Agnes, looking up with a flash of spirit--“I should be foolish to -try it against you. I know only what I trust in--that is not argument--I -never meant it so.” - -He made no reply save by a bow, and went away leaving her rather -excited, a little angry, a little moved. Then they began to plague her -with questions--What did Mr Rivers mean? There was nothing in the world -which Agnes knew less of than what Mr Rivers meant. She tried to -explain, in a general way, the conversation she had with him before, but -made an extremely lame explanation, which no one was satisfied with, and -escaped to her own room in a very nervous condition, quite disturbed out -of her self-command. Agnes did not at all know what to make of her -anomalous feelings. She was vexed to the heart to feel how much she was -interested, while she disapproved so much, and with petulant annoyance -exclaimed to herself, that she wanted no more argument if he would but -let her alone! - -And then came the consideration of Lionel’s false hope--the hope which -some of these days would be taken from him in a moment. If she could -only let him know what she knew, her conscience would be easy. As she -thought of this, she remembered how people have been told in fables -secrets as important; the idea flashed into her mind with a certain -relief--then came the pleasure of creation, the gleam of life among her -maze of thoughts; the fancy brightened into shape and graceful -fashion--she began unconsciously to hang about it the shining garments -of genius--and so she rose and went about her homely business, putting -together the little frocks of Bell and Beau, ready to be packed, with -the vision growing and brightening before her eyes. Then the definite -and immediate purpose of it gave way to a pure native delight in the -beautiful thing which began to grow and expand in her thoughts. She went -down again, forgetting her vexation. If it did no other good in the -world, there was the brightest stream of practical relief and -consolation in Agnes Atheling’s gift. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -NEW INFLUENCES. - - -Once more the Old Wood Lodge stood solitary under the darkening wintry -skies, with no bright faces at its windows, nor gleam of household -firelight in the dim little parlour, where Miss Bridget’s shadow came -back to dwell among the silence, a visionary inhabitant. Once more -Hannah sat solitary in her kitchen, lamenting that it was “lonesomer nor -ever,” and pining for the voices of the children. Hannah would have -almost been content to leave her native place and her own people to -accompany the family to London; but that was out of the question; and, -spite of all Mamma’s alarms, Susan had really conducted herself in a -very creditable manner under her great responsibility as housekeeper at -Bellevue. - -The journey home was not a very eventful one. They were met by Papa and -Louis on their arrival, and conducted in triumph to their own little -house, which did not look so attractive, by any means, as it used to do. -Then they settled down without more ado into the family use and wont. -With so great a change in all their prospects and intentions--so strange -an enlargement of their horizon and extension of their hopes--it was -remarkable how little change befell the outward life and customs of the -family. Marian, it was true, was “engaged;” but Marian might have been -engaged to poor Harry Oswald without any great variation of -circumstances; and that was always a possibility lying under everybody’s -eyes. It did not yet disturb the _habits_ of the family; but this new -life which they began to enter--this life of separated and individual -interest--took no small degree of heart and spirit out of those joint -family pleasures and occupations into which Marian constantly brought a -reference to Louis, which Agnes passed through with a preoccupied and -abstracted mind, and from which Charlie was far away. The stream -widened, the sky grew broader, yet every one had his or her separate and -peculiar firmament. A maturer, perhaps, and more complete existence was -opening upon them; but the first effect was by no means to increase the -happiness of the family. They loved each other as well as ever; but they -were not so entirely identical. It was a disturbing influence, foreign -and unusual; it was not the quiet, assured, undoubting family happiness -of the days which were gone. - -Then there were other unaccordant elements. Rachel, whom Mrs Atheling -insisted upon retaining with them, and who was extremely eager on her -own part to find something to do, and terrified to think herself a -burden upon her friends; and Louis, who contented himself with his -pittance of income, but only did his mere duty at the office, and gave -all his thoughts and all his powers to the investigation which engrossed -him. Mrs Atheling was very much concerned about Louis. If all this came -to nothing, as was quite probable, she asked her husband eagerly what -was to become of these young people--what were they to do? For at -present, instead of trying to get on, Louis, who had no suspicion of the -truth, gave his whole attention to a visionary pursuit, and was content -to have the barest enough which he could exist upon. Mr Atheling shook -his head, and could not make any satisfactory reply. “There was no -disposition to idleness about the boy,” Papa said, with approval. “He -was working very hard, though he might make nothing by it; and when this -state of uncertainty was put an end to, then they should see.” - -And Marian of late had become actively suspicious and observant. Marian -attacked her mother boldly, and without concealment. “Mamma, it is -something about Louis that Charlie has gone abroad for!” she said, in -an unexpected sally, which took the garrison by surprise. - -“My dear, how could you think of such a thing?” cried the prudent Mrs -Atheling. “What could Miss Anastasia have to do with Louis? Why, she -never so much as saw him, you know. You must, by no means, take foolish -fancies into your head. I daresay, after all, he must belong to Lord -Winterbourne.” - -Marian asked no more; but she did not fail to communicate her suspicions -to Louis at the earliest opportunity. “I am quite sure,” said Marian, -not scrupling even to express her convictions in presence of Agnes and -Rachel, “that Charlie has gone abroad for something about you.” - -“Something about me!” Louis was considerably startled; he was even -indignant for a moment. He did not relish the idea of having secret -enterprises undertaken for him, or to know less about himself than -Marian’s young brother did. “You must be mistaken,” he said, with a -momentary haughtiness. “Charlie is a very acute fellow, but I do not see -that he is likely to trouble himself about me.” - -“Oh, but it was Miss Anastasia,” said Marian, eagerly. - -Then Louis coloured, and drew himself up. His first idea was that Miss -Anastasia looked for evidence to prove him the son of Lord Winterbourne; -and he resented, with natural vehemence, the interference of the old -lady. “We are come to a miserable pass, indeed,” he said, with -bitterness, “when people investigate privately to prove this wretched -lie against us.” - -“But you do not understand,” cried Rachel. “Oh, Louis, I never told you -what Miss Anastasia said. She said you were to take the name of -Atheling, because it meant illustrious, and because the exiled princes -were named so. Both Marian and Agnes heard her. She is a friend, Louis. -Oh, I am sure, if she is inquiring anything, it is all for our good!” - -The colour rose still higher upon Louis’s cheek. He did not quite -comprehend at the moment this strange, sudden side-light which glanced -down upon the question which was so important to him. He did not pause -to follow, nor see to what it might lead; but it struck him as a clue to -something, though he was unable to discover what that something was. -Atheling! the youth’s imagination flashed back in a moment upon those -disinherited descendants of Alfred, the Edgars and Margarets, who, -instead of princely titles, bore only that addition to their name. He -was as near the truth at that moment as people wandering in profound -darkness are often near the light. Another step would have brought him -to it; but Louis did not take that step, and was not enlightened. His -heart rose, however, with the burning impatience of one who comes within -sight of the goal. He started involuntarily with haste and eagerness. He -was jealous that even friendly investigations should be the first to -find out the mystery. He felt as if he would have a better right to -anything which might be awaiting him, if he discovered it himself. - -Upon all this tumult of thought and feeling, Agnes looked on, saying -nothing--looked on, by no means enjoying her spectatorship and superior -knowledge. It was a “situation” which might have pleased Mr Endicott, -but it terribly embarrassed Agnes, who found it no pleasure at all to be -so much wiser than her neighbours. She dared not confide the secret to -Louis any more than she could to the Rector; and she would have been -extremely unhappy between them, but for the relief and comfort of that -fable, which was quickly growing into shape and form. It had passed out -of her controlling hands already, and began to exercise over her the -sway which a real created thing always exercises over the mind even of -its author: it had ceased to be the direct personal affair she had -intended to make it; it told its story, but after a more delicate -process, and Agnes expended all her graceful fancy upon its perfection. -She thought now that Louis might find it out as well as the Rector. It -was an eloquent appeal, heart-warm and touching to them both. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -RACHEL’S DOUBTS. - - -After Louis, the most urgent business in the house of the Athelings was -that of Rachel, who was so pertinaciously anxious to be employed, that -her friends found it very difficult to evade her constant entreaties. -Rachel’s education--or rather Rachel’s want of education--had been very -different from that of Marian and Agnes. She had no traditions of -respectability to deter her from anything she could do; and she had been -accustomed to sing to the guests at Winterbourne, and concluded that it -would make very little difference to her, whether her performance was in -a public concert-room or a private assembly. “No one would care at all -for me; no one would ever think of me or look at me,” said Rachel. “If I -sang well, that would be all that any one thought of; and we need not -tell Louis--and I would not mind myself--and no one would ever know.” - -“But I have great objections to it, my dear,” said Mrs Atheling, with -some solemnity. “I should rather a hundred times take in work myself, or -do anything with my own hands, than let my girls do this. It is not -respectable for a young girl. A public appearance! I should be grieved -and ashamed beyond anything. I should indeed, my dear.” - -“I am very sorry, Mrs Atheling,” said Rachel, wistfully; “but it is not -anything wrong.” - -“Not wrong--but not at all respectable,” said Mrs Atheling, “and -unfeminine, and very dangerous indeed, and a discreditable position for -a young girl.” - -Rachel blushed, and was very much disconcerted, but still did not give -up the point. “I thought it so when they tried to force me,” she said in -a low tone; “but now, no one need know; and people, perhaps, might have -me at their houses; ladies sing in company. You would not mind me doing -that, Mrs Atheling? Or I could give lessons. Perhaps you think it is all -vanity; but indeed they used to think me a very good singer, long ago. -Oh, Agnes, do you remember that old gentleman at the Willow? that very -old gentleman who used to talk to you? I think he could help me if you -would only speak to him.” - -“Mr Agar? I think he could,” said Agnes; “but, Rachel, mamma says you -must not think of it. Marian does not do anything, and why should you?” - -“I am no one’s daughter,” said Rachel, sadly. “You are all very kind; -but Louis has only a very little money; and I will not--indeed I will -not--be a burden upon you.” - -“Rachel, my dear,” said Mrs Atheling, “do not speak so foolishly; but I -will tell you what we can do. Agnes shall write down all about it to -Miss Anastasia, and ask her advice, and whether she consents to it; and -if she consents, I will not object any more. I promise I shall not stand -in the way at all, if Miss Anastasia decides for you.” - -Rachel looked up with a little wonder. “But Miss Anastasia has nothing -to do with us,” said the astonished girl. “I would rather obey you than -Miss Rivers, a great deal. Why should we consult _her_?” - -“My dear,” said Mrs Atheling, with importance, “you must not ask any -questions at present. _I have my reasons._ Miss Anastasia takes a great -interest in you, and I have a very good reason for what I say.” - -This made an end of the argument; but Rachel was extremely puzzled, and -could not understand it. She was not very quick-witted, this gentle -little girl; she began to have a certain awe of Miss Anastasia, and to -suppose that it must be her superior wisdom which made every one ask her -opinion. Rachel could not conclude upon any other reason, and -accordingly awaited with a little solemnity the decision of Miss Rivers. -They were in a singular harmony, all these young people; not one of -them but had some great question hanging in the balance, which they -themselves were not sufficient to conclude upon--something that might -change and colour the whole course of their lives. - -Another event occurring just at this time, made Rachel for a time the -heroine of the family. Charlie wrote home with great regularity, like a -good son as he was. His letters were very short, and not at all -explanatory; but they satisfied his mother that he had not taken a -fever, nor fallen into the hands of robbers, and that was so far well. -In one of these epistles, however, the young gentleman extended his -brief report a little, to describe to them a family with which he had -formed acquaintance. There were a lot of girls, Charlie said; and one of -them, called Giulia Remori, was strangely like “Miss Rachel;” “not -exactly like,” wrote Charlie,--“not like Agnes and Marian” (who, by the -way, had only a very vague resemblance to each other). “You would not -suppose them to be sisters; but I always think of Miss Rachel when I see -this Signora Giulia. They say, too, she has a great genius for music, -and I heard her sing once myself, like----; well, I cannot say what it -was like. The most glorious music, I believe, under the skies.” - -“Mamma, that cannot be Charlie!” said the girls simultaneously; but it -was Charlie, without any dispute, and Marian clapped her hands in -triumph, and exclaimed that he must be in love; and there stood Rachel, -very much interested, wistful, and smiling. The tender-hearted girl had -the greatest propensity to make friendships. She received the idea of -this foreign Giulia into her heart in a moment, and ran forth eagerly at -the time of Louis’s usual evening visit to meet him at the gate, and -tell him this little bit of romance. It moved Louis a great deal more -deeply than it moved Rachel. This time his eye flashed to the truth like -lightning. He began to give serious thought to what Marian had said of -Charlie’s object, and of Miss Anastasia. “Hush, Rachel,” he said, with -sudden gravity. “Hush, I see it; this is some one belonging to our -mother.” - -“Our mother!” The two orphans stood together at the little gate, -silenced by the name. They had never speculated much upon this parent. -It was one of the miseries of their cruel position, that the very idea -of a dead mother, which is to most minds the most saintlike and holy -imagination under heaven, brought to them their bitterest pang of -disgrace and humiliation. Yet now Louis stood silent, pondering it with -the deepest eagerness. A burning impatience possessed the young man; a -violent colour rose over his face. He could not tolerate the idea of an -unconcerned inquirer into matters so instantly momentous to himself. He -was not at all amiable in his impulses; his immediate and wild fancy was -to rush away, on foot and penniless, as he was; to turn off Charlie -summarily from his mission, if he had one; and without a clue, or a -guide, or a morsel of information which pointed in that direction, by -sheer force of energy and desperation to find it out himself. It was -misery to go in quietly to the quiet house, even to the presence of -Marian, with such a fancy burning in his mind. He left Rachel abruptly, -without a word of explanation, and went off to make inquiries about -travelling. It was perfectly vain, but it was some satisfaction to the -fever of his mind. Louis’s defection made Marian very angry; when he -came next day they had their first quarrel, and parted in great -distraction and misery, mutually convinced of the treachery and -wretchedness of this world; but made it up again very shortly after, to -the satisfaction of every one concerned. With these things happening day -by day, with their impatient and fiery Orlando, always in some degree -inflaming the house, it is not necessary to say how wonderful a -revolution had been wrought upon the quiet habitudes of this little -house in Bellevue. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -AGNES. - - -Yet the household felt, in spite of itself, a difference by no means -agreeable between the Old Wood Lodge and Bellevue. The dull brick wall -of Laurel House was not nearly so pleasant to look upon as that great -amphitheatre with its maze of wan waters and willow-trees, where the -sunshine flashed among the spires of Oxford; neither was Miss Willsie, -kind and amusing as she was, at all a good substitute for Miss -Anastasia. They had Louis, it was true, but Louis was in love, and -belonged to Marian; and no one within their range was at all to be -compared to the Rector. Accustomed to have their interest fixed, after -their own cottage, upon the Old Wood House and Winterbourne Hall, they -were a little dismayed, in spite of themselves, to see the meagreness -and small dimensions even of Killiecrankie Lodge. It was a different -world altogether--and they did not know at the first glance how to make -the two compatible. The little house in the country, now that they had -left it, grew more and more agreeable by comparison. Mrs Atheling forgot -that she had thought it damp, and all of them, Mamma herself among the -rest, began to think of their return in spring. - -And as the winter went on, Agnes made progress with her fable. She did -not write it carefully, but she did write it with fervour, and the haste -of a mind concerned and in earnest. The story had altered considerably -since she first thought of it. There was in it a real heir whom nobody -knew, and a supposed heir, who was the true hero of the book. The real -heir had a love-story, and the prettiest _fiancée_ in the world; but -about her hero Agnes was timid, presenting a grand vague outline of him, -and describing him in sublime general terms; for she was not at all an -experienced young lady, though she was an author, but herself regarded -her hero with a certain awe and respect and imperfect understanding, as -young men and young women of poetic conditions are wont to regard each -other. From this cause it resulted that you were not very clear about -the Sir Charles Grandison of the young novelist. Her pretty heroine was -as clear as a sunbeam; and even the Louis of her story was definable, -and might be recognised; but the other lay half visible, sometimes -shining out in a sudden gleam of somewhat tremulous light, but for the -most part enveloped in shadow: everybody else in the tale spoke of him, -thought of him, and were marvellously influenced by him; but his real -appearances were by no means equal to the importance he had acquired. - -The sole plot of the story was connected with the means by which the -unsuspected heir came to a knowledge of his rights, and gained his true -place; and there was something considerably exciting to Agnes in her -present exercise of the privilege of fiction, and the steps she took to -make the title of her imaginary Louis clear. She used to pause, and -wonder in the midst of it, whether such chances as these would befall -the true Louis, and how far the means of her invention would resemble -the real means. It was a very odd occupation, and interested her -strangely. It was not very much of a story, neither was it written with -that full perfection of style which comes by experience and the progress -of years; but it had something in its faulty grace, and earnestness, and -simplicity, which was perhaps more attractive than the matured -perfectness of a style which had been carefully formed, and “left -nothing to desire.” It was sparkling with youth, and it was warm from -the heart. It went into no greater bulk than one small volume, which Mr -Burlington put into glowing red cloth, embellished with two engravings, -and ornamented with plenty of gilding. It came out, a wintry Christmas -flower, making no such excitement in the house as _Hope Hazlewood_ had -done; and Agnes had the satisfaction of handing over to Papa, to lock up -in his desk in the office, a delightfully crisp, crackling, newly-issued -fifty-pound note. - -And Christmas had just given way to the New Year when the Rector made -his appearance at Bellevue. He was still more eager, animated, and -hopeful than he had been when they saw him last. His extreme high-church -clerical costume was entirely abandoned; he still wore black, but it was -not very professional, and he appeared in these unknown parts with books -in his hands and smiles on his face. When he came into the little -parlour, he did not seem at all to notice its limited dimensions, but -greeted them all with an effusion of pleasure and kindness, which -greatly touched the heart of Agnes, and moved her mother, in her extreme -gratification and pride, to something very like tears. Mr Rivers -inquired at once for Louis, with great gravity and interest, but shook -his head when he heard what his present occupation was. - -“This will not do; will he come and see me, or shall I wait upon him?” -said the Rector with a subdued smile, as he remembered the youthful -haughtiness of Louis. “I should be glad to speak to him about his -prospects--here is my card--will you kindly ask him to dine with me -to-night, alone? He is a young man of great powers; something better -may surely be found for him than this lawyer’s office.” - -Mrs Atheling was a little piqued in spite of herself. “My son, when he -is at home, is there,” said the good mother; and her visitor did not -fail to see the significance of the tone. - -“He is not at home now--where is he?” said the Rector. - -There was a moment’s hesitation. Agnes turned to look at him, her colour -rising violently, and Mrs Atheling faltered in her reply. - -“He has gone abroad to ---- to make some inquiries,” said Mrs Atheling; -“though he is so very young, people have great confidence in him; -and--and it may turn out very important indeed, what he has gone about.” - -Once more Agnes cast a troubled glance upon the Rector--he heard of it -with such perfect unconcern--this inquiry which in a moment might strike -his ambition to the dust. - -He ceased at once speaking on this subject, which did not interest him. -He said, turning to her, that he had brought some books about which he -wanted Miss Atheling’s opinion. Agnes shrank back immediately in natural -diffidence, but revived again, before she was aware, in all her old -impulse of opposition. “If it is wrong to write books, is it right to -form opinions upon them?” said Agnes. Mr Rivers imperceptibly grew a -little loftier and statelier as she spoke. - -“I think I have explained my sentiments on that point,” said the Rector; -“there is no one whose appreciation I should set so high a value on as -that of an intelligent woman.” - -It was Agnes’s turn to blush and say nothing, as she met his eye. When -Mr Rivers said “an intelligent woman,” he meant, though the expression -was not romantic, his own ideal; and there lay his books upon the table, -evidences of his choice of a critic. She began to busy herself with -them, looking quite vacantly at the title-pages; wondering if there was -anything besides books, and controversies, and opinions, to be found in -the Rector’s heart. - -When Mrs Atheling, in her natural pride and satisfaction, bethought her -of that pretty little book with its two illustrations, and its cover in -crimson and gold, she brought a copy to the table immediately. “My dear, -perhaps Mr Rivers might like to look at this?” said Mrs Atheling. “It -has only been a week published, but people speak very well of it -already. It is a very pretty story. I think you would like it--Agnes, my -love, write Mr Rivers’ name.” - -“No, no, mamma!” cried Agnes hurriedly; she put away the red book from -her, and went away from the table in haste and agitation. Very true, it -was written almost for him--but she was dismayed at the idea of being -called to write in it Lionel Rivers’ name. - -He took up the book, however, and looked at it in the gravest silence. -_The Heir_;--he read the title aloud, and it seemed to strike him; then -without another word he put the little volume safely in his pocket, -repeated his message to Louis, and a few minutes afterwards, somewhat -grave and abstracted, took his leave of them, and hastened away. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -LIONEL. - - -The Rector became a very frequent visitor during the few following weeks -at Bellevue. Louis had gone to see him, as he desired, and Mr Rivers -anxiously endeavoured to persuade the youth to suffer himself to be -“assisted.” Louis as strenuously resisted every proposal of the kind; he -was toiling on in pursuit of himself, through his memoir of Lord -Winterbourne--still eager, and full of expectation--still proud, and -refusing to be indebted to any one. The Rector argued with him like an -elder brother. “Let us grant that you are successful,” said Mr Rivers; -“let us suppose that you make an unquestionable discovery, what position -are you in to pursue it? Your sister, even--recollect your sister--you -cannot provide for her.” - -His sister was Louis’s grand difficulty; he bit his lip, and the fiery -glow of shame came to his face. “I cannot provide for her, it is true. -I am bitterly ashamed of it; but, at least, she is among friends.” - -“You do me small credit,” said the Rector; “but I will not ask, on any -terms, for a friendship which is refused to me. You are not even in the -way of advancement; and to lose your time after this fashion is madness. -Let me see you articled to these people whom you are with now; that is, -at least, a chance, though not a great one. If I can accomplish it, will -you consent to this?” - -Louis paused a little, grateful in his heart, though his tongue was slow -to utter his sentiments. “You are trying to do me a great service,” said -the young man; “you think me a churl, and ungrateful, but you endeavour -to benefit me against my will--is it not true? I am just in such a -position that no miracle in the world would seem wonderful to me; it is -possible, in the chances of the future, that we two may be set up -against each other. I cannot accept this service from you--from you, or -from any other. I must wait.” - -The Rector turned away almost with impatience. “Do you suppose you can -spend your life in this fashion--your life?” he exclaimed, with some -heat. - -“My life!” said Louis. He was a little startled with this conclusion. “I -thank you,” he added abruptly, “for your help, for your advice, for your -reproof--I thank you heartily, but I have no more to say.” - -That was how the conversation ended. Lionel, grieved for the folly of -the boy, smiling to himself at Louis’s strange delusion that he, who was -the very beau-ideal of the race of Rivers, belonged to another house, -went to his rest, with a mind disturbed, full of difficulties, and of -ambition, working out one solemn problem, and touched with tender -dreams; yet always remembering, with a pleasure which he could not -restrain, the great change in his position, and that he was now, not -merely the Rector, but the heir of Winterbourne. Louis, on his part, -went home to his dark little lodging, with the swell and tumult of -excitement in his mind, and could not sleep. He seemed to be dizzied -with the rushing shadows of a crowd of coming events. He was not well; -his abstinence, his studiousness, his change of place and life, had -weakened his young frame; these rushing wings seemed to tingle in his -ears, and his temples throbbed as if they kept time. He rose in the -middle of the night, in the deep wintry silence and moonlight, to open -his window, and feel the cold air upon his brow. There he saw the -moonbeams falling softly, not on any imposing scene, but on the humble -roof underneath whose shelter sweet voices and young hearts, devout and -guileless, prayed for him every night; the thought calmed him into -sudden humility and quietness; and, in his poverty, and hope, and youth, -he returned to his humble bed, and slept. Lionel was waking too; but he -did not know of any one who prayed for _him_ in all this cold-hearted -world. - -But the Rector became a very frequent visitor in Bellevue. He had read -the little book--read it with a kind of startled consciousness, the -first time, that it looked like a true story, and seemed somehow -familiar to himself. But by-and-by he began to keep it by him, and, not -for the sake of the story, to take it up idly when he was doing nothing -else, and refer to it as a kind of companion. It was not, in any degree -whatever, an intellectual display; he by no means felt himself pitted -against the author of it, or entering into any kind of rivalship with -her. The stream sparkled and flashed to the sunshine as it ran; but it -flowed with a sweet spontaneous readiness, and bore no trace of -artificial force and effort. It wanted a great many of the qualities -which critics praise. There was no great visible strain of power, no -forcible evidence of difficulties overcome. The reader knew very well -that _he_ could not have done this, nor anything like it, yet his -intellectual pride was not roused. It was genius solacing itself with -its own romaunt, singing by the way; it was not talent getting up an -exhibition for the astonishment, or the enlightenment, or the -instruction of others. Agnes defeated her own purpose by the very means -she had taken to procure it. The Rector forgot all about the story, -thinking of the writer of it; he became indifferent to what she had to -tell, but dwelt and lingered--not like a critic--like something very -different--upon the cadence of her voice. - -To tell the truth, between his visits to Bellevue, and his musings -thereafter--his study of this little fable of Agnes’s, and his vague -mental excursions into the future, Lionel Rivers, had he yielded to the -fascination, would have found very near enough to do. But he was manful -enough to resist this trance of fairyland. He was beginning to be “in -love;” nobody could dispute it; it was visible enough to wake the most -entire sympathy in the breasts of Marian and Rachel, and to make for the -mother of the family wakeful nights, and a most uneasy pillow; but he -was far from being at ease or in peace. His friends in London were of a -class as different as possible from these humble people who were rapidly -growing nearer than friends. They were all men of great intelligence, of -great powers, scholars, philosophers, authorities--men who belonged, and -professed to belong, to the ruling class of intellect, prophets and -apostles of a new generation. They were not much given to believing -anything, though some among them had a weakness for mesmerism or -spiritual manifestations. They investigated all beliefs and faculties of -believing, and received all marvellous stories, from the Catholic -legends of the saints to the miracles of the New Testament, on one -general ground of indulgence, charitable and tender, as mythical stories -which meant something in their day. Most of them wrote an admirable -style--most of them occasionally said very profound things which nobody -could understand; all of them were scholars and gentlemen, as blameless -in their lives as they were superior in their powers; and all of them -lived upon a kind of intellectual platform, philosophical demigods, -sufficient for themselves, and looking down with a good deal of -curiosity, a little contempt, and a little pity, upon the crowds who -thronged below of common men. - -These were the people to whom Lionel Rivers, in the first flush of his -emancipation, had hastened from his high-churchism, and his country -pulpit--some of them had been his companions at College--some had -inspired him by their books, or pleased him by their eloquence. They -were a brotherhood of men of great cultivation--his equals, and -sometimes his superiors. He had yearned for their society when he was -quite removed from it; but he was of a perverse and unconforming mind. -What did he do now? - -He took the strange fancy suddenly, and telling no man, of wandering -through those frightful regions of crime and darkness, which we hide -behind our great London streets. He went about through the miserable -thoroughfares, looking at the miserable creatures there. What was the -benefit to them of these polluted lives of theirs? They had their -enjoyments, people said--their enjoyments! Their sorrows, like the -sorrows of all humanity, were worthy human tears, consolation, and -sympathy,--their hardships and endurances were things to move the -universal heart; but their enjoyments--Heaven save us!--the pleasures of -St Giles’s, the delights and amusements of those squalid groups at the -street corners! If they were to have nothing more than that, what a -frightful fate was theirs! - -And there came upon the spectator, as he went among them in silence, a -sudden eagerness to try that talisman which Agnes Atheling had bidden -him use. It was vain to try philosophy there, where no one knew what it -meant--vain to offer the rites of the Church to those who were fatally -beyond its pale. Was it possible, after all, that the one word in the -world, which could stir something human--something of heaven--in these -degraded breasts, was that one sole unrivalled _Name_? - -He could not withdraw himself from the wretched scene before him. He -went on from street to street with something of the consciousness of a -man who carries a hidden remedy through a plague-stricken city, but -hides his knowledge in his own mind, and does not apply it. A strange -sense of guilt--a strange oppression by reason of this grand secret--an -overpowering passionate impulse to try the solemn experiment, and -withal a fascinated watchfulness which kept him silent--possessed the -mind of the young man. - -He walked about the streets like a man doing penance; then he began to -notice other passengers not so idle as himself. There were people here -who were trying to break into the mass of misery, and make a footing for -purity and light among it. They were not like his people;--sometimes -they were poor city missionaries, men of very bad taste, not perfect in -their grammar, and with no great amount of discretion. Even the people -of higher class were very limited people often to the perception of Mr -Rivers; but they were at work, while the demigods slept upon their -platform. It would be very hard to make philosophers of the wretched -population here. Philosophy did not break its heart over the -impossibility, but calmly left the untasteful city missionaries, the -clergymen, High Church and Low Church, who happened to be in earnest, -and some few dissenting ministers of the neighbourhood, labouring upon a -forlorn hope to make them _men_. - -All this moved in the young man’s heart as he pursued his way among -these squalid streets. Every one of these little stirrings in this -frightful pool of stagnant life was made in the name of Him whom Lionel -Rivers once named with cold irreverence, and whom Agnes Atheling, with -a tender awe and appropriation, called “Our Lord.” This was the problem -he was busy with while he remained in London. It was not one much -discussed, either in libraries or drawing-rooms, among his friends; he -discussed it by himself as he wandered through St -Giles’s--silent--watching--with the great Name which he himself did not -know, but began to cling to as a talisman, burning at his heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -AN ARRIVAL. - - -While the Athelings at home were going on quietly, but with anxiety and -disturbance of mind in this way, they were startled one afternoon by a -sudden din and tumult out of doors, nearly as great as that which, not -much short of a year ago, had announced the first call of Mrs Edgerley. -It was not, however, a magnificent equipage like that of the fashionable -patroness of literature which drew up at the door now. It was an antique -job carriage, not a very great deal better to look at than that -venerable fly of Islington, which was still regarded with respect by -Agnes and Marian. In this vehicle there were two horses, tall brown bony -old hacks, worthy the equipage they drew--an old coachman in a very -ancient livery, and an active youth, fresh, rural, and ruddy, who sprang -down from the creaking coach-box to assault, but in a moderate country -fashion, the door of the Athelings. Rachel, who was peeping from the -window, uttered an exclamation of surprise--“Oh, Agnes, look! it is Miss -Anastasia’s man.” - -It was so beyond dispute, and Miss Anastasia herself immediately -descended from the creaking vehicle, swinging heavily upon its -antiquated springs; she had a large cloak over her brown pelisse, and a -great muff of rich sables, big enough to have covered from head to foot, -like a case, either little Bell or little Beau. She was so entirely like -herself in spite of those additions to her characteristic costume, and -withal so unlike other people, that they could have supposed she had -driven here direct from the Priory, had that been possible, without any -commonplace intervention of railway or locomotive by the way. As the -girls came to the door to meet her, she took the face--first of Agnes, -then of Marian, and lastly of Rachel, who was a good deal dismayed by -the honour--between her hands, thrusting the big muff, like a prodigious -bracelet, up upon her arm the while, and kissed them with a cordial -heartiness. Then she went into the little parlour to Mrs Atheling, who -in the mean time had been gathering together the scattered pieces of -work, and laying them, after an orderly fashion, in her basket. Then -Papa’s easy-chair was wheeled to the fire for the old lady, and Marian -stooped to find a footstool for her, and Agnes helped to loose the big -cloak from her shoulders. Miss Anastasia’s heart was touched by the -attentions of the young people. She laid her large hand caressingly on -Marian’s head, and patted the cheek of Agnes. “Good children--eh? I -missed them,” she said, turning to Mamma, and Mamma brightened with -pleasure and pride as she whispered something to Agnes about the fire in -the best room. Then, when she had held a little conversation with the -girls, Miss Rivers began to look uneasy. She glanced at Mrs Atheling -with a clear intention of making some telegraphic communication; she -glanced at the girls and at the door, and back again at Mamma, with a -look full of meaning. Mrs Atheling was not generally so dull of -comprehension, but she was so full of the idea that Miss Anastasia’s -real visit was to the girls, and so proud of the attraction which even -this dignified old lady could not resist, that she could not at all -consent to believe that Miss Rivers desired to be left alone with -herself. - -“There’s a hamper from the Priory,” said Miss Anastasia at last, -abruptly; “among other country things there’s some flowers in it, -children--make haste all of you and get it unpacked, and tell me what -you think of my camellias! Make haste, girls!” - -It was a most moving argument; but it distracted Mrs Atheling’s -attention almost as much as that of her daughters, for the hamper -doubtless contained something else than flowers. Mamma, however, -remained decorously with her guest, despite the risk of breakage to the -precious country eggs; and the girls, partly deceived, partly suspecting -their visitor’s motive, obeyed her injunction, and hastened away. Then -Miss Rivers caught Mrs Atheling by the sleeve, and drew her close -towards her. “Have you heard from your boy?” said Miss Anastasia. - -“No,” said Mrs Atheling with a sudden momentary alarm, “not for a -week--has anything happened to Charlie?” - -“Nonsense--what could happen to him?” cried the old lady, with a little -impatience, “here is a note I had this morning--read it--he is coming -home.” - -Mrs Atheling took the letter with great eagerness. It was a very brief -one:-- - - MADAM,--I have come to it at last--suddenly. I have only time to - tell you so. I shall leave to-day with an important witness. I have - not even had leisure to write to my mother; but will push on to the - Priory whenever I have bestowed my witness safely in Bellevue. In - great haste.--Your obedient servant, - - C. ATHELING. - - - -Charlie’s mother trembled all over with agitation and joy. She had to -grasp by the mantel-shelf to keep herself quite steady. She exclaimed, -“My own boy!” half-crying and wholly exultant, and would have liked to -have hurried out forthwith upon the road and met him half-way, had that -been possible. She kept the letter in her hand looking at it, and quite -forgetting that it belonged to Miss Anastasia. He had justified the -trust put in him--he had crowned himself with honour--he was coming -home! Not much wonder that the good mother was weeping-ripe, and could -have sobbed aloud for very joy. - -“Ay,” said Miss Anastasia, with something like a sigh, “you’re a rich -woman. I have not rested since this came to me, nor can I rest till I -hear all your boy has to say.” - -At this moment Mrs Atheling started with a little alarm, catching from -the window a glimpse of the coach, with its two horses and its -antiquated coachman, slowly turning round and driving away. Miss -Anastasia followed her glance with a subdued smile. - -“Do you mean then to--to stay in London, Miss Rivers?” asked Mrs -Atheling. - -“Tut! the boy will be home directly--to-night,” said Miss Anastasia; “I -meant to wait here until he came.” - -Mrs Atheling started again in great and evident perturbation. You could -perceive that she repeated “to wait _here_!” within herself with a -great many points of admiration; but she was too well-bred to express -her dismay. She cast, however, an embarrassed look round her, said she -should be very proud, and Miss Rivers would do them honour, but she was -afraid the accommodation was not equal--and here Mrs Atheling paused -much distressed. - -“I have been calculating all the way up when he can be here,” -interrupted Miss Anastasia. “I should say about twelve o’clock to-night. -Agnes, when she comes back again, shall revise it for me. Never mind -accommodation. Give him an hour’s grace--say he comes at one -o’clock--then a couple of hours later--by that time it will be three in -the morning. Then I am sure one of the girls will not grudge me her bed -till six. We’ll get on very well; and when Will Atheling comes home, if -you have anything to say to him, I can easily step out of the way. Well, -am I an intruder? If I am not, don’t say anything more about it. I -cannot rest till I see the boy.” - -When the news became diffused through the house that Charlie was coming -home to-night, and that Miss Anastasia was to wait for him, a very great -stir and bustle immediately ensued. The best room was hastily put in -order, and Mrs Atheling’s own bedchamber immediately revised and -beautified for the reception of Miss Anastasia. It was with a little -difficulty, however, that the old lady was persuaded to leave the -family parlour for the best room. She resisted energetically all unusual -attentions, and did not hesitate to declare, even in the presence of -Rachel, that her object was to see Charlie, and that for his arrival she -was content to wait all night. A great anxiety immediately took -possession of the household. They too were ready and eager to wait all -night; and even Susan became vaguely impressed with a solemn sense of -some great approaching event. Charlie was not to be alone either. The -excitement rose to a quite overpowering pitch--who was coming with him? -What news did he bring? These questions prolonged to the most -insufferable tediousness the long slow darksome hours of the March -night. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -CHARLIE’S RETURN. - - -The girls could not be persuaded to go to rest, let Mamma say what she -would. Rachel, the only one who had no pretence, nor could find any -excuse for sitting up, was the only one who showed the least sign of -obedience; _she_ went up-stairs with a meek unwillingness, lingered as -long as she could before lying down, and when she extinguished her light -at last, lay very broad awake looking into the midnight darkness, and -listening anxiously to every sound below. Marian, in the parlour on a -footstool, sat leaning both her arms on her mother’s knee, and her head -upon her arms, and in that position had various little sleeps, and -half-a-dozen times in half-a-dozen dreams welcomed Charlie home. Agnes -kept Miss Anastasia company in the best room, and Papa, who was not used -to late hours, went between the two rooms with very wide open eyes, very -anxious for his son’s return. Into the midnight darkness and solemnity -of Bellevue, the windows of Number Ten blazed with a cheerful light; -the fires were studiously kept up, the hearths swept, everything looking -its brightest for Charlie; and a pair of splendid capons, part produce -of Miss Anastasia’s hamper, were slowly cooking themselves into -perfection, under the sleepy superintendence of Susan, before the great -kitchen-fire--for even Susan would not go to bed. - -Miss Anastasia sat very upright in an easy-chair, scorning so much as a -suspicion of drowsiness. She did not talk very much; she was thinking -over a hundred forgotten things, and tracing back step by step the story -of the past. The old lady almost felt as if her father himself was -coming from his foreign grave to bear witness to the truth. Her heart -was stirred as she sat gazing into the ruddy firelight, hearing not a -sound except now and then the ashes falling softly on the hearth, or the -softer breath of Agnes by her side. As she sat in this unfamiliar little -room, her mind flew back over half her life. She thought of her father -as she had seen him last; she thought of the dreary blank of her own -youthful desolation, a widowhood almost deeper than the widowhood of a -wife--how she did not heed even the solemn pathos of her father’s -farewell--could not rouse herself from her lethargy even to be moved by -the last parting from that last and closest friend, and desired nothing -but to be left in her dreary self-seclusion obstinately mourning her -dead--her murdered bridegroom! The old lady’s eyes glittered, tearless, -looking into the gleaming shadowy depths of the little mirror over the -mantelpiece. It was scarcely in human nature to look back upon that -dreadful tragedy, to anticipate the arrival to-night of the witnesses of -another deadly wrong, and not to be stirred with a solemn and -overwhelming indignation like that of an avenger of blood. Miss -Anastasia started suddenly from her reverie, as she caught a long-drawn -anxious sigh from her young companion; she drew her shawl close round -her with a shudder. “God forgive me!” cried the vehement old lady; “did -you ever have an enemy, child?” - -In this house it was a very easy question. “No,” said Agnes, looking at -her wistfully. - -“Nor I, perhaps, when I was your age.” Miss Anastasia made a long pause. -It was a long time ago, and she scarcely could recollect anything of her -youth now, except that agony with which it ended. Then in the silence -there seemed to be a noise in the street, which roused all the watchers. -Mr Atheling went to the door to look out. It was very cold, clear, and -calm, the air so sharp with frost, and so still with sleep, that it -carried every passing sound far more distinctly than usual. Into this -hushed and anxious house, through the open door came ringing the chorus -of a street ballad, strangely familiar and out of unison with the -excited feelings of the auditors, and the loud, noisy, echoing footsteps -of some late merry-makers. They were all singularly disturbed by these -uncongenial sounds; they raised a certain vague terror in the breasts of -the father and mother, and a doubtful uneasiness among the other -watchers. Under that veil of night, and silence, and distance, who could -tell what their dearest and most trusted was doing? The old people could -have told each other tales, like Jessica, of “such a night;” and the -breathless silence, and the jar and discord of those rude voices, -stirred memories and presentiments of pain even in the younger hearts. - -It was now the middle of the night, two or three hours later than Miss -Anastasia had anticipated, and the old lady rose from her chair, shook -off her thoughtful mood, and began to walk about the room, and to -criticise it briskly to Agnes. Then by way of diversifying her vigil, -she made an incursion into the other parlour, where Papa was nursing the -fire, and Mamma sitting very still, not to disturb Marian, who slept -with her beautiful head upon her mother’s knee. The old lady was -suddenly overcome by the sight of that fair figure, with its folded arms -and bowed head, and long beautiful locks falling down on Mrs Atheling’s -dark gown, like a stream of sunshine. She laid her hand very tenderly -upon the sleeper’s head. “She does not know,” said Miss Anastasia--“she -would not believe what a fairy fortune is coming to her, the sleeping -beauty--God bless them all!” - -The words had scarcely left her lips, the tears were still shining in -her eyes, when Marian started up, called out of her dream by a sound -which none of them besides had been quick enough to hear. “There! there! -I hear him,” cried Marian, shaking back her loose curls; and they all -heard the far-off rapid rumble of a vehicle, gradually invading all the -echoes of this quietness. It came along steadily--nearer--nearer--waking -every one to the most overpowering excitement. Miss Anastasia marched -through the little parlour, with an echoing step, throwing her tall -shadow on the blind, clasping her fingers tight. Mr Atheling rushed to -the door; Marian ran to the kitchen to wake up Susan, and see that the -tray was ready for Charlie’s refreshment; Mamma stirred the fire, and -made it blaze; Agnes drew the blind aside, and looked out into the -darkness from the window. Yes, there could be no mistake; on came the -rumbling wheels, closer and closer. Then the cab became absolutely -visible, opposite the door--some one leapt out--was it Charlie?--but he -had to wait, to help some one else, very slow and uncertain, out of the -vehicle. They all crowded to the door, the mother and sisters for the -moment half forgetting Miss Anastasia; and there stood a most -indisputable Charlie, very near six feet high, with a travelling-cap -and a rough overcoat, bringing home the most extraordinary guest -imaginable to his amazed parental home. - -_It_ was a woman, enveloped from head to foot in a great cloak, but -unbonneted, and with an amazing head-dress; and after her stumbled forth -a boy, of precisely the same genus and appearance as the Italian boys -with hurdy-gurdies and with images, familiar enough in Bellevue. Charlie -hurried forward, paying the greatest possible attention to his charge, -who was somewhat peevish. He scarcely left her hand when he plunged -among all those anxious people at the door. “All safe--all well, mother; -how did you know I was coming?--how d’ye do, papa? Let her in, let her -in, girls!--she’s tired to death, and doesn’t know a word of English. -Let’s have her disposed of first of all--she’s worth her weight in -gold---- Miss Rivers!” - -The young man fell back in extreme amazement. “Who is she, young -Atheling?” cried Miss Anastasia, towering high in the background over -everybody’s head. - -Charlie took off his cap with a visible improvement of “manners.” “The -nurse that brought them home,” he answered, in the concisest and most -satisfactory fashion; and, grasping the hand of every one as he passed, -with real pleasure glowing on his bronzed face, Charlie steered his -charge in--seeing there was light in it--to the best room. Arrived -there, he fairly turned his back to the wall, and harangued his anxious -audience. - -“It’s all right,” said Charlie; “she tells her story as clearly as -possible when she’s not out of humour, and the doctor’s on his way. I’ve -made sure of everything of importance; and now, mother, if you can -manage it, and Miss Rivers does not object, let us have something to -eat, and get her off to bed, and then you shall hear all the rest.” - -Marian went off instantly to call Susan, and all the way Marian repeated -under her breath, “All the rest! all the rest of what? Oh, Louis! but -I’ll find out what they mean.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -CHARLIE’S REPORT. - - -It was far from an easy achievement to get her safely conveyed up the -stairs. She turned round and delivered addresses to them in most lively -and oratorical Italian, eloquent on the subject of her sufferings by the -way; she was disposed to be out of temper when no one answered her but -Charlie, and fairly wound up, and stimulated with Miss Anastasia’s capon -and Mrs Atheling’s wine, was not half so much disposed to be sent off to -bed as her entertainers were to send her. These entertainers were in the -oddest state of amaze and excitement possible. It was beginning to draw -near the wintry morning of another day, and this strange figure in the -strange dress, which did not look half so pretty in its actual reality, -and upon this hard-featured peasant woman, as it did in pictures and -romance--the voluble foreign tongue of which they did not know a -word--the emphatic gestures; the change in the appearance of Charlie, -and the entire suddenness of the whole scene, confused the minds of the -lookers-on. Then a pale face in a white cap, a little shrinking -white-robed figure, trembling and anxious, was perceptible to Mrs -Atheling at the top of the stair, looking down upon it with terror. So -Mamma peremptorily sent Charlie back beside Miss Anastasia, and resumed -into her own hands the management of affairs. Under her guidance the -woman and the boy were comfortably disposed of, no one being able to -speak a word to them, in the room which had been Charlie’s. Rachel was -comforted and sent back to bed, and then Mrs Atheling turned suddenly -upon her own girls. “My dears,” said Mamma, “you are not wanted down -stairs. I don’t suppose Papa and I are wanted either; Miss Anastasia -must talk over her business with Charlie--it is not _our_ business you -know, Marian, my darling; go to sleep.” - -“Go to sleep!--people cannot go to sleep just when they choose at five -o’clock in the morning, mamma!” cried the aggrieved and indignant -Marian; but Agnes, though quite as curious as her sister, was wise -enough to lend her assistance in the cause of subordination. Marian was -under very strong temptation. She thought she could _almost_ like to -steal down in the dark and listen; but honour, we are glad to say, -prevailed over curiosity, and sleep over both. When her pretty young -head touched the pillow, there was no eavesdropping possible to Marian; -and in the entirest privacy and silence, after all this tumult, in the -presence of Mamma and Mr Atheling, and addressing himself to Miss -Anastasia, Charlie told his tale. He took out his pocket-book from his -pocket--the same old-fashioned big pocket-book which he had carried away -with him, and gave his evidences one by one into Miss Anastasia’s hands -as he spoke. - -But the old lady’s fingers trembled: she had restrained herself as well -as she could, feeling it only just that he should be welcomed by his -own, and even half diverted out of her anxiety by the excited Tyrolese; -but now her restrained feelings rushed back upon her heart. The papers -rustled in her hand; she did not hear him as he began, in order, and -deliberately, his report. “Information! I cannot receive information, I -am too far gone for that,” cried the old lady, with a hysterical break -in her voice. “Give me no facts, Charlie, Charlie!--I am not able to put -them together--tell me once in a word--is it true?” - -“It is true,” said Charlie, eagerly--“not only true, but -proved--certain, so clear that nobody can deny it. Listen, Miss Rivers, -I could be content to go by myself with these evidences in my hand, -before any court in England, against the ablest pleader that ever held a -brief. Don’t mind the proofs to-night; trust my assurance, as you -trusted me. It is true to the letter, to the word, everything that you -supposed. Giulietta was his wife. Louis is his lawful son.” - -Miss Anastasia did not say a word; she bowed down her face upon her -hands--that face over which an ashy paleness came slowly stealing like a -cloud. Mrs Atheling hastened forward, thinking she was about to faint, -but was put aside by a gesture. Then the colour came back, and Miss -Anastasia rose up, herself again, with all her old energy. - -“You are perfectly right, young Atheling--quite right--as you have -always been,” said Miss Rivers; “and, of course, you have told me in -your letters the most part of what you could tell me now. But your boy -is born for the law, Will Atheling,” she said, turning suddenly to -Charlie’s pleased and admiring father. “He wrote to me as if I were a -lawyer instead of a woman: all facts and no opinion; that was scant -measure for me. Shake hands, boy. I’ll see everything in the morning, -and then we’ll think of beginning the campaign. I have it in my head -already--please Heaven! Charlie, we’ll chase them from the field.” - -So saying, Miss Anastasia marched with an exultant and jubilant step, -following Mrs Atheling up the narrow stairs. She was considerably shaken -out of her usual composure--swells of great triumph, suddenly calmed by -the motion of a moved heart, passed over the spirit of this brave old -gentlewoman like sun and wind; and her self-appointed charge of the -rights of her father’s children, who might have been her own children so -far as age was concerned, had a very singular effect upon her. Mrs -Atheling did not linger a minute longer than she could help with her -distinguished guest. She was proud of Miss Anastasia, but far prouder of -Charlie,--Charlie, who had been a boy a little while ago, but who had -come back a man. - -“Come here and sit down, mother,” said Charlie; “now we’re by ourselves, -if you will not tell the girls, I’ll tell you everything. First, there’s -the marriage. That she belonged to the family I wrote of--the family -Remori--I got at after a long time. She was an only daughter, and had no -one to look after her. I have a certificate of the marriage, and a -witness coming who was present--old Doctor Serrano--one of your patriots -who is always in mischief; besides that, what do you think is my -evidence for the marriage?” - -“Indeed, Charlie, I could not guess,” cried Mrs Atheling. - -“There’s a kind of tomb near the town, a thing as like the mausoleum at -Winterbourne as possible, and quite as ugly. There is this good in -ugliness,” said Charlie, “that one remarks it, especially in Italy. I -thought no one but an Englishman could have put up such an affair as -that, and I could not make out one way or another who it belonged to, -or what it was. The priests are very strong out there. They would not -let a heretic lie in consecrated ground, and no one cared to go near -this grave, if it was a grave. They wouldn’t allow even that. You know -what the Winterbourne tomb is--a great open canopied affair, with that -vast flat stone below. There was a flat stone in the other one too, not -half so big, and it looked to me as if it would lift easily enough. So -what do you think I did? I made friends with some wild fellows about, -and got hold of one young Englishman, and as soon as it was dark we got -picks and tools and went off to the grave.” - -“Oh, Charlie!” Mrs Atheling turned very pale. - -“After a lot of work we got it open,” said Charlie, going on with great -zest and animation. “Then the young fellow and I got down into the -vault--a regular vault, where there had been a lamp suspended. _It_, I -suppose, had gone out many a year ago; and there we found upon the two -coffin-lids--well, it’s very pitiful, mother, it is indeed--but we -wanted it for evidence--on one of the coffins was this -inscription:--‘Giulietta Rivers, Lady Winterbourne, _née_ Remori, died -January 1822, aged twenty years.’ If it had been a diamond mine it would -not have given so much pleasure to me.” - -“Pleasure! oh Charlie!” cried Mrs Atheling faintly. - -“But they might say _you_ put it there, Charlie, and that it was not -true,” said Mr Atheling, who rather piqued himself upon his caution. - -“That was what I had the other young fellow for,” said Charlie quietly; -“and that was what made me quite sure she belonged to the Remoris; it -was easy enough after that--and I want only one link now, that is, to -make sure of their identity. Father, do you remember anything about the -children when they came to the Hall?” - -Mr Atheling shook his head. “Your aunt Bridget, if she had been alive, -would have been sure to know,” said Mamma meditatively; “but Louis found -out some old servant lately that had been about Winterbourne long ago.” - -“Louis! does he know?” cried Charlie. - -“He is doing something on his own account, inquiring everything he can -about Lord Winterbourne. He does not know, but guesses every possible -kind of thing, except the truth,” said Mr Atheling; “how long he may be -of lighting upon that, it is impossible to say.” - -“Now Charlie, my dear boy, you can ask all about Louis to-morrow,” said -Mrs Atheling. “Louis! Dear me, William, to think of us calling him -Louis, and treating him like any common young man, and he Lord -Winterbourne all the time! and all through Charlie!--and oh, my Marian! -when I think of it all, it bewilders me! But, Charlie, my dear, you must -not be fatigued too much. Do not ask him any more questions to-night, -papa; consider how important his health is; he must lie down directly. -I’ll make him all comfortable; and, William, do you go to the -parlour--bid him good-night.” - -Papa obeyed, as dutiful papas are wont to obey, and Charlie laughed, but -submitted, as his mother, with her own kind unwearying hands, arranged -for him the sofa in the best room; for the Tyrolese and Miss Anastasia -occupied all the available bedrooms in the house. Then she bade him -good-night, drawing back his dark elf-locks, and kissing his forehead -tenderly, and with a certain respect for the big boy who was a boy no -longer; and then the good mother went away to arrange her husband -similarly on the other sofa, and to take possession, last of all, of the -easy-chair. “I can sleep in the day if I am disposed,” said Mrs -Atheling, who never was disposed for any such indulgence; and she leaned -back in the big chair, with a mind disturbed and glowing, agitated with -grand fancies. Marian! was it possible? But then, Agnes--after all, what -a maze of splendid uncertainty it was! - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -PROCRASTINATION. - - -“You may say what you like, young Atheling,” said Miss Rivers, “you’ve a -very good right to your own opinion; but I’m not a lawyer, nor bound by -rule and precedent, mind. This is the middle of March; _it_ comes on in -April; we must wait for that; and you’re not up with all your evidence, -you dilatory boy.” - -“But I might happen to be up with it in a day,” said Charlie, “and at -all events an ejectment should be served, and the first step taken in -the case without delay.” - -“That is all very well,” said the old lady, “but I don’t suppose it -would advance the business very much, besides rousing him at once to use -every means possible, and perhaps buy off that poor old Serrano, or get -hold of Monte. Why did you not look for Monte, young Atheling? The -chances are that he was present too?” - -“One witness was as much as I could manage,” said Charlie, shrugging -his shoulders at the recollection; “but the most important question of -all--Louis--I mean--your brother--the heir--” - -“My brother--the heir.” Miss Rivers coloured suddenly. It was a -different thing thinking of him in private, and hearing him spoken of -so. “I tell you he is not the heir, young Atheling; he is Lord -Winterbourne: but I will not see him yet, not till _the day_; it would -be a terrible time of suspense for the poor boy.” - -“Then, if it is your pleasure, he must go away,” said Charlie, -firmly--“he cannot come here to this agitated house of ours without -discovering a good deal of the truth; and if he discovered it so, he -would have just grounds to complain. If he is not told at once, he ought -to have some commission such as I have had, and be sent away.” - -Miss Rivers coloured still more, all her liking for Charlie and his -family scarcely sufficing to reconcile her to the “sending away” of the -young heir, on the same footing as she had sent young Atheling. She -hesitated and faltered visibly, seeing reason enough in it, but -extremely repugnant. “If you think so,” she said at last, with a -slightly averted face, “ah--another time we can speak of that.” - -Then came further consultations, and Charlie had to tell his story over -bit by bit, and incident by incident, illustrating every point of it by -his documents. Miss Anastasia was particularly anxious about the young -Englishman whose name was signed with Charlie’s own, in certification of -the inscription on the coffin. Miss Anastasia marvelled much whether he -belonged to the Hillarys of Lincolnshire, or the Hillarys of Yorkshire, -and pursued his shadow through half-a-dozen counties. Charlie was not -particularly given to genealogy. He had the young man’s card, with his -address at the Albany, and the time of his possible return home. That -was quite enough for the matter in hand, and Charlie was very much more -concerned about the one link wanting in his evidence--the person who -received the children from the care of Leonore the Tyrolese. - -As it chanced, in this strange maze of circumstance, the Rector chose -this day for one of his visits. He was very much amazed to encounter -Miss Anastasia; it struck him evidently as something which needed to be -accounted for, for she was known and noted as a dweller at home. She -received him at first with a certain triumphant satisfaction, but -by-and-by a little confusion appeared even in the looks of Miss -Anastasia. She began to glance from the stately young man to the pale -face and drooping eyelids of Agnes. She began to see the strange mixture -of trouble and hardship in this extraordinary revolution, and her heart -was touched for the heir deposed, as well as for the heir discovered. -Lionel was “in trouble” himself, after an odd enough fashion. Some one -had just instituted an action against him in the ecclesiastical courts -touching the furniture of his altar, and the form in which he conducted -the services. It was a strange poetic justice to bring this against him -now, when he himself had cast off his high-churchism, and was -luxuriating in his new freedom. But the Curate grew perfectly inspired -under the infliction, and rose to the highest altitude of satisfaction -and happiness, declaring this to be the testing-touch of persecution, -which constantly distinguishes the true faith. It was on Miss -Anastasia’s lips to speak of this, and to ask the young clergyman why he -was so long away from home at so critical a juncture, but her heart was -touched with compunction. From looking at Lionel, she turned suddenly to -Agnes, and asked, with a strange abruptness, a question which had no -connection with the previous conversation--“That little book of yours, -Agnes Atheling, that you sent to me, what do you mean by that story, -child?--eh?--what put _that_ into your idle little brain? It is not like -fiction; it is quite as strange and out of the way as if it had been -life.” - -Involuntarily Agnes lifted her heavy eyelids, and cast a shy look of -distress and sympathy upon the unconscious Rector, who never missed any -look of hers, but could not tell what this meant. “I do not know,” said -Agnes; but the question did not wake the shadow of a smile upon her -face--it rather made her resentful. She thought it cruel of Miss -Anastasia, now that all doubt was over, and Lionel was certainly -disinherited. Disinherited!--he had never possessed anything actual, and -nothing was taken from him; whereas Louis had been defrauded of his -rights all his life; but Agnes instinctively took the part of the -present sufferer--the unwitting sufferer, who suspected no evil. - -But the Rector was startled in his turn by the question of Miss -Anastasia. It revived in his own mind the momentary conviction of -reality with which he had read the little book. When Miss Anastasia -turned away for a moment, he addressed Agnes quietly aside, making a -kind of appeal. “Had you, then, a real foundation--is it a true tale?” -he said, looking at her with a little anxiety. She glanced up at him -again, with her eyes so full of distress, anxiety, warning--then looked -down with a visible paleness and trembling, faltered very much in her -answer, and at last only said, expressing herself with difficulty, “It -is not all real--only something like a story I have heard.” - -But Agnes could not bear his inquiring look; she hastily withdrew to the -other side of the room, eager to be out of reach of the eyes which -followed her everywhere. For his part, Lionel’s first idea was of some -distress of hers, which he instinctively claimed the right to soothe; -but the thing remained in his mind, and gave him a certain vague -uneasiness; he read the book over again when he went home, to make it -out if he could, but fell so soon into thought of the writer, and -consideration of that sweet youthful voice of hers, that there was no -coming to any light in the matter. He not only gave it up, but forgot it -again, only marvelling what was the mystery which looked so sorrowful -and so bright out of Agnes Atheling’s eyes. - -They all waited with some little apprehension that night for the visit -of Louis. He was very late; the evening wore away, and Miss Anastasia -had long ago departed, taking with her, to the satisfaction of every -one, the voluble Tyrolese; but Louis was not to be seen nor heard of. -Very late, as they were all preparing for rest, some one came to the -door. The knock raised a sudden colour on the cheeks of Marian, which -had grown very pale for an hour or two. But it was not Louis; it was, -however, a note from him, which Marian ran up-stairs to read. She came -down again a moment after, with a pale face, painfully keeping in two -big tears. “Oh, mamma, he has gone away,” said Marian. She did not want -to cry, and it was impossible to speak without crying; and yet she did -not like to confide to any one the lover’s letter. At last the tears -fell, and Marian found her voice. He had just heard suddenly something -very important, had seen Mr Foggo about it, and had hurried off to the -country; he would not be detained long, he was sure; he had not a moment -to explain anything, but would write whenever he got there. “He does not -even say where,” said Marian, sadly; and Rachel came close up to her, -and cried without any restraint, as Marian very much wished, but did not -quite like to do before her father and her brother. Mrs Atheling took -them both into a corner, and scolded them after a fashion she had. “My -dears, do you think you cannot trust Louis?” said Mamma--“nonsense!--we -shall hear to-morrow morning. Why, he has spoken to Mr Foggo, and you -may be quite sure everything is right, and that it was the most sensible -thing he could do.” - -But it was very odd certainly, not at all explainable, and withal the -most seasonable thing in the world. “I should think it quite a -providence,” said Mrs Atheling, “if we only heard where he was.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -THE FOGGOS. - - -The first thing to be done in the morning, before it was time even for -the postman, was to hasten to Killiecrankie Lodge, and ascertain all -that could be ascertained concerning Louis from Mr Foggo. This mission -was confided to Agnes. It was a soft spring-like morning, and the first -of Miss Willsie’s wallflowers were beginning to blow. Miss Willsie -herself was walking in her little garden, scattering crumbs upon the -gravel-path for the poor dingy town-sparrows, and the stray robin whom -some unlucky wind had blown to Bellevue. But Miss Willsie was disturbed -out of her usual equanimity; she looked a little heated, as if she had -come here to recover herself, and rather frightened her little feathered -acquaintances by the vehemence with which she threw them her daily dole. -She smoothed her brow a little at sight of Agnes. “And what may _you_ be -wanting at such an hour as this?” said Miss Willsie; “if there is one -thing I cannot bide, it is to see young folk wandering about, without -any errand, at all the hours of the day!” - -“But I have an errand,” said Agnes. “I want to ask Mr Foggo about--about -Mr Louis--if he knows where he has gone!” - -Mr Louis--his surname, as everybody supposed--was the name by which -Louis was known in Bellevue. - -Miss Willsie’s brow puckered with a momentary anger. “I would like to -know,” said Miss Willsie, “why that monkey could not content herself -with a kindly lad at home: but my brother’s in the parlour; you’ll find -him there, Agnes. Keep my patience!--Foggie’s there too--the lad from -America. If there’s one thing in this world I cannot endure, it’s just a -young man like yon!” - -Miss Willsie, however, reluctantly followed her young visitor into the -breakfast parlour, from which the old lady had lately made an indignant -and unceremonious exit. It was a very comfortable breakfast-table, fully -deserving the paragraph it obtained in those “Letters from England,” -which are so interesting to all the readers of the _Mississippi -Gazette_. There was a Scottish prodigality of creature comforts, and the -fine ancient table-linen was white as snow, and there was a very unusual -abundance, for a house of this class, of heavy old plate. Mr Foggo was -getting through his breakfast methodically, with the _Times_ erected -before him, and forming a screen between himself and his worshipful -nephew; while Mr Foggo S. Endicott, seated with a due regard to his -profile, at such an angle with the light as to exhibit fitly that noble -outline, conveyed his teacup a very long way up from the table, at -dignified intervals, to his handsome and expressive mouth. - -Agnes hastened to the elder gentleman at once, and drew him aside to -make her inquiries. Mr Foggo smiled, and took a pinch of snuff. “All -quite true,” said Mr Foggo; “he came to me yesterday with a paper in his -hand--a long story about next of kin wanted somewhere, and of two -children belonging to some poor widow woman, who had been lost sight of -a long time ago, one of whom was named Louis. That’s the story; it’s a -mare’s nest, Agnes, if you know what that is; but I thought it might -divert the boy; so instead of opposing, I furnished him for his journey, -and let him go without delay. No reason why the lad should not do his -endeavour for his own hand. It’s good for him, though it’s sure to be a -failure. He has told you perfectly true.” - -“And where has he gone?” asked Agnes anxiously. - -“It’s in one of the midland counties--somewhere beyond Birmingham--at -this moment I do not remember the place,” said Mr Foggo; “but I took a -note of it, and you’ll hear from him to-morrow. We’ve been hearing news -ourselves, Agnes. Did you tell her, Willsie, what fortune has come to -you and me?” - -“No,” said Miss Willsie. She was turning her back upon her dutiful -nephew, and frowning darkly upon the teapot. The American had no chance -with his offended aunt. - -“A far-away cousin of ours,” said Mr Foggo, who was very bland, and in a -gracious humour, “has taken it into his head to die; and a very bonny -place indeed, in the north country--a cosy little estate and a good -house--comes to me.” - -“I am very glad,” said Agnes, brightening in sympathy; “that is good -news for everybody. Oh, Miss Willsie, how pleased Mr Foggo must be!” - -Miss Willsie did not say a word--Mr Foggo smiled. “Then you think a cosy -estate a good thing, Agnes?” said the old gentleman. “I am rather -afraid, though you write books, you are not poetical; for that is not -the view of the subject taken by my nephew here.” - -“I despise wealth,” said Mr Endicott. “An estate, sir, is so much dirty -soil. The mind is the true riches; a spark of genius is worth all the -inheritances in the world!” - -“And that’s just so much the better for you, Foggie, my man,” cried Miss -Willsie suddenly; “seeing the inheritances of this world are very little -like to come to your share. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a lee!” - -Mr Endicott took no notice of this abstract deliverance. “A very great -estate--the ancient feudal domain--the glens and the gorges of the -Highland chief, I respect, sir,” said the elevated Yankee; “but a man -who can influence a thousand minds--a man whose course is followed -eagerly by the eyes of half a nation--such a man is not likely to be -tempted to envy by a mile of indifferent territory. My book, by which I -can move a world, is my lever of Archimedes; this broadsheet”--and he -laid his hand upon the pages of the _Mississippi Gazette_--“is my -kingdom! Miss Atheling, I shall have the honour of paying my respects to -your family to-day. I shall soon take leave of Europe. I have learned -much--I have experienced much--I am rejoiced to think I have been able -to throw some light upon the manners and customs of your people; and -henceforward I intend to devote myself to the elucidation of my own.” - -“We shall be very glad to see you, Mr Endicott,” said Agnes, who was -rather disposed to take his part, seeing he stood alone. “Now I must -hasten home and tell them. We were all very anxious; but every one will -be glad, Mr Foggo, to hear of you. We shall feel as if the good fortune -had come to ourselves.” - -“Ay, Agnes, and so it might, if Marian, silly monkey, had kept a thought -for one that liked her well,” said Miss Willsie, as she went with her -young visitor. “Poor Harry! his uncle’s heart yearns to him; _our_ gear -will never go the airt of a fool like yon!” said Miss Willsie, growing -very Scotch and very emphatic, as she inclined her head in the direction -of Mr Endicott; “but Harry will be little heeding who gets the siller -_now_.” - -Poor Harry! since he had heard of _it_--since he had known of Marian’s -engagement, he had never had the heart to make a single appearance in -Bellevue. - -Mr Endicott remembered his promise; he went forth in state, as soon -after noon as he could go, with a due regard to the proper hour for a -morning call. Mr Endicott, though he had endured certain exquisite pangs -of jealousy, was not afraid of Louis; he could not suppose that any one -was so blind, having _his_ claims fairly placed before them, as to -continue to prefer another; such an extent of human perversity did not -enter into the calculations of Mr Endicott. And he was really “in love,” -like the rest of these young people. All the readers of the _Mississippi -Gazette_ knew of a certain lovely face, which brightened the -imagination of their “representative man,” and it was popularly expected -on the other side of the water, in those refined circles familiar with -Mr Endicott, that he was about to bring his bride home. He had an -additional stimulus from this expectation, and went forth to-day with -the determination of securing Marian Atheling. He was a little nervous, -because there was a good deal of real emotion lying at the bottom of his -heart; but, after all, was more doubtful of getting an opportunity than -of the answer which should follow when the opportunity was gained. - -To his extreme amazement, he found Marian alone. He understood it in a -moment--they had left her on purpose--they comprehended his intentions! -She was pale, her beautiful eyes glistened, and were wet and dewy. -Perhaps she, too, had an intuition of what was coming. He thought her -subdued manner, the tremble in her voice, the eyes, which were cast down -so often, and did not care to meet his full gaze, were all signs of that -maiden consciousness about which he had written many a time. In the full -thought of this, the eloquent young American dispensed with all -preamble. He came to her side with the delightful benevolence of a lover -who could put this beautiful victim of his fascinations out of her -suspense at once. He addressed her by her name--he added the most -endearing words he could think of--he took her hand. The young beauty -started from him absolutely with violence. “What do you mean, sir?” said -Marian. Then she stood erect at a little distance, her eyes flashing, -her cheek burning, holding her hands tight together, with an air of -petulant and angry defiance. Mr Endicott was thunderstruck. “Did you not -expect me--do you not understand me?” said the lover, not yet daunted. -“Pardon me; I have shocked your delicate feelings. You cannot think I -mean to do it, Marian, sweet British rose? You know me too well for -that; you know my mind--you appreciate my feelings. You were born to be -a poet’s bride--I come to offer you a poet’s heart!” - -Before he had concluded, Marian recovered herself; into the dewy eyes, -that had been musing upon Louis, the old light of girlish mischief came -arch and sweet. “I did not quite understand you, Mr Endicott,” said -Marian, demurely. “You alarmed me a little; but I am very much obliged, -and you are very good; only, I--I am sorry. I suppose you do not know -I--I am engaged!” - -She said this with a bright blush, casting down her eyes. She thought, -after all, it was the honestest and the easiest fashion of dismissing -her new lover. - -“Engaged! Marian, you did not know of me--you were not acquainted with -my sentiments,” cried the American. “Oh, for a miserable dream of -honour, will you blight my life and your own? You were not aware of my -love--you were ignorant of my devotion. Beautiful Mayflower! you are -free of what you did in ignorance--you are free for me!” - -Marian snatched away her hand again with resentment. “I suppose you do -not mean to be very impertinent, Mr Endicott, but you are so,” cried the -indignant little beauty. “I do not like you--I never did like you. I am -very sorry, indeed, if you really cared for me. If I were free a hundred -times over--if I never had seen any one,” cried Marian vehemently, -blushing with sudden passion, and feeling disposed to cry, “I never -could have had anything to say to you. Mamma--oh, I am sure it is very -cruel!--Mamma, will you speak to Mr Endicott? He has been very rude to -me!” - -Mamma, who came in at the moment out of the garden, started with -amazement to see the flushed cheeks of Marian, and Mr Endicott, who -stood in an appealing attitude, with the most crestfallen and astonished -face. Marian ran from the room in an instant, scarcely able to restrain -her tears of vexation and annoyance, till she was out of sight. Mrs -Atheling placed a chair for her daughter’s suitor very solemnly. “What -has happened?--what have you been saying, Mr Endicott?” said the -indignant mother. - -“I have only been offering to your daughter’s acceptance all that a man -has to offer,” said the American, with a little real dignity. “It is -over; the young lady has made her own election--she rejects _me_! It is -well! it is but another depth of human suffering opening to _his_ feet -who must tread them all! But I have nothing to apologise for. Madam, -farewell!” - -“Oh, stay a moment! I am very sorry--she is so young. I am sure she did -not mean to offend you,” said Mrs Atheling, with distress. “She is -engaged, Mr Endicott. Miss Willsie knew of it. I am sure I am grieved if -the foolish child has answered you unkindly; but she is engaged.” - -“So I am aware, madam,” said Mr Endicott, gloomily; “may it be for her -happiness--may no poetic retribution attend her! As for me, my art is my -lifelong consolation. This, even, is for the benefit of the world; do -not concern yourself for me.” - -But Mrs Atheling hastened up-stairs when he was gone, to reprove her -daughter. To her surprise, Marian defended herself with spirit. “He was -impertinent, mamma,” said Marian; “he said if I had known he cared for -me, I would not have been engaged. He! when everybody knows I never -would speak to him. It was he who insulted me!” - -So Mr Endicott’s English romance ended, after all, in a paragraph which, -when the time comes, we shall feel a melancholy pleasure in transcribing -from the eloquent pages of the _Mississippi Gazette_. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -GOOD FORTUNE. - - -This evening was extremely quiet, and something dull, to the inhabitants -of Bellevue. Though everybody knew of the little adventure of Mr -Endicott, the young people were all too reverential of the romance of -youth themselves to laugh very freely at the disappointed lover. Charlie -sat by himself in the best room, sedulously making out his case. Charlie -had risen into a person of great importance at the office since his -return, and, youth as he was, was trusted so far, under Mr Foggo’s -superintendence, as to draw up the brief for the counsel who was to -conduct this great case; so they had not even his presence to enliven -the family circle, which was very dull without Louis. Then Agnes, for -her part, had grown daily more self-occupied; Mrs Atheling pondered over -this, half understood it, and did not ask a question on the subject. She -glanced very often at the side-table, where her elder daughter sat -writing. This was not a common evening occupation with Agnes; but she -found a solace in that making of fables, and was forth again, appealing -earnestly, with all the power and privilege of her art, not so much to -her universal audience as to one among them, who by-and-by might find -out the second meaning--the more fervent personal voice. - -As for Marian and Rachel, they both sat at work somewhat melancholy, -whispering to each other now and then, speaking low when they spoke to -any one else. Papa was at his newspaper, reading little bits of news to -them; but even Papa was cloudy, and there was a certain shade of dulness -and melancholy over all the house. - -Some one came to the door when the evening was far advanced, and held a -long parley with Susan; the issue of which was, that Susan made her -appearance in the parlour to ask information. “A man, ma’am, that Mr -Louis appointed to come to him to-night,” said Susan, “and he wants to -know, please, when Mr Louis is coming home.” - -Mrs Atheling went to the door to answer the inquiry; then, having become -somewhat of a plotter herself by force of example, she bethought her of -calling Charlie. The man was brought into the best room; he was an -ordinary-looking elderly man, like a small shopkeeper. He stated what he -wanted slowly, without any of the town sharpness. He said the young -gentleman was making out some account--as he understood--about Lord -Winterbourne, and hearing that he had been once about the Hall in his -young days, had come to him to ask some questions. He was a likely young -gentleman, and summat in his own mind told the speaker he had seen his -face afore, whether it were about the Hall, or where it were, deponent -did not know; but thinking upon it, just bethought him at this moment -that he was mortal like the old lord. Now the young gentleman--as he -heard--had gone sudden away to the country, and the lady of the house -where he lived had sent the perplexed caller here. - -“I know very well about that quarter myself,” said Mrs Atheling. “Do you -know the Old Wood Lodge? that belongs to us; and if you have friends in -the village, I daresay I shall know your name.” - -The man put up his hand to his forehead respectfully. “I knowed the old -lady at the Lodge many a year ago,” said he. “My name’s John Morrall. I -was no more nor a helper at the stables in my day; and a sister of mine -had charge of some children about the Hall.” - -“Some children--who were they?” said Charlie. “Perhaps Lord -Winterbourne’s children; but that would be very long ago.” - -“Well, sir,” said the man with a little confusion, glancing aside at Mrs -Atheling, “saving the lady’s presence, I’d be bold to say that they was -my lord’s, but in a sort of an--unlawful way; two poor little morsels of -twins, that never had nothing like other children. He wasn’t any way -kind to them, wasn’t my lord.” - -“I think I know the children you mean,” said Charlie, to the surprise -and admiration of his mother, who checked accordingly the exclamation on -her own lips. “Do you know where they came from?--were you there when -they were brought to the Hall?” - -“Ay, sir, _I_ know--no man better,” said Morrall. “Sally was the -woman--all along of my lord’s man that she was keeping company with the -same time, little knowing, poor soul, what she was to come to--that -brought them unfortunate babbies out of London. I don’t know no more. -Sally’s opinion was, they came out o’ foreign parts afore that; for the -nurse they had with them, Sally said, was some outlandish kind of a -Portugee.” - -“A Portuguese!” exclaimed both the listeners in dismay--but Charlie -added immediately, “What made your sister suppose she was a Portuguese?” - -“Well, sir, she was one of them foreign kind of folks--but noways like -my lady’s French maid, Sally said--so taking thought what she was, a -cousin of ours that’s a sailor made no doubt but she was a Portugee--so -she gave up the little things to Sally, not one of them able to say a -word to each other; for the foreign woman, poor soul, knew no English, -and Sally brought down the babbies to the Hall.” - -“Does your sister live at Winterbourne?” asked Charlie. - -“What, Sally, sir? poor soul!” said John Morrall, “to her grief she -married my lord’s man, again all we could say, and he went pure to the -bad, as was to be seen of him, and listed--and now she’s off in Ireland -with the regiment, a poor creature as you could see--five children, -ma’am, alive, and she’s had ten; always striving to do her best, but -never able, poor soul, to keep a decent gown to her back.” - -“Will you tell me where she is?” said Charlie, while his mother went -hospitably away to bring a glass of wine, a rare and unusual dainty, for -the refreshment of this most welcome visitor--“there is an inquiry going -on at present, and her evidence might be of great value: it will be good -for her, don’t fear. Let me know where she is.” - -While Charlie took down the address, his mother, with her own hand, -served Mr John Morrall with a slice of cake and a comfortable glass of -port-wine. “But I am sure you are comfortable yourself--you look so, at -least.” - -“I am in the green-grocery trade,” said their visitor, putting up his -hand again with “his respects,” “and got a good wife and three as -likely childer as a man could desire. It ain’t just as easy as it might -be keeping all things square, but we always get on; and lord! if folks -had no crosses, they’d ne’er know they were born. Look at Sally, there’s -a picture!--and after that, says I, it don’t become such like as us to -complain.” - -Finally, having finished his refreshment, and left his own address with -a supplementary note, and touch of the forehead--“It ain’t very far off; -glad to serve you, ma’am”--Mr John Morrall withdrew. Then Charlie -returned to his papers, but not quite so composedly as usual. “Put up my -travelling-bag, mother,” said Charlie, after a few ineffectual attempts -to resume; “I’ll not write any more to-night; it’s just nine o’clock. -I’ll step over and see old Foggo, and be off to Ireland to-morrow, -without delay.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -THE OXFORD ASSIZES. - - -April, as cloudless and almost as warm as summer, a day when all the -spring was swelling sweet in all the young buds and primroses, and the -broad dewy country smiled and glistened under the rising of that sun, -which day by day shone warmer and fuller on the woods and on the fields. -But the point of interest was not the country; it was not a spring -festival which drew so many interested faces along the high-road. An -expectation not half so amiable was abroad among the gentry of -Banburyshire--a great many people, quite an unusual crowd, took their -way to the spring assizes to listen to a trial which was not at all -important on its own account. The defendants were not even known among -the county people, nor was there much curiosity about them. It was a -family quarrel which roused the kind and amiable expectations of all -these excellent people,--The Honourable Anastasia Rivers against Lord -Winterbourne. It was popularly anticipated that Miss Anastasia herself -was to appear in the witness-box, and everybody who knew the -belligerents, delighted at the prospect of mischief, hastened to be -present at the fight. - -And there was a universal gathering, besides, of all the people more -immediately interested in this beginning of the war. Lord Winterbourne -himself, with a certain ghastly levity in his demeanour, which sat ill -upon his bloodless face, and accorded still worse with the mourner’s -dress which he wore, graced the bench. Charlie Atheling sat in his -proper place below, as agent for the defendant, within reach of the -counsel for the same. His mother and sisters were with Miss Anastasia, -in a very favourable place for seeing and hearing; the Rector was not -far from them, very much interested, but exceedingly surprised at the -unchanging paleness of Agnes, and the obstinacy with which she refused -to meet his eye; for that she avoided him, and seemed overwhelmed by -some secret and uncommunicated mystery, which no one else, even in her -own family, shared, was clear enough to a perception quickened by the -extreme “interest” which Lionel Rivers felt in Agnes Atheling. Even -Rachel had been brought thither in the train of Miss Anastasia; and -though rather disturbed by her position, and by the disagreeable and -somewhat terrifying consciousness of being observed by Lord -Winterbourne, in whose presence she had not been before, since the time -she left the Hall--Rachel, with her veil over her face, had a certain -timid enjoyment of the bustle and novelty of the scene. Louis, too, was -there, sent down on the previous night with a commission from Mr Foggo; -there was no one wanting. The two or three who knew the tactics of the -day, awaited their disclosure with great secret excitement, speculating -upon their effect; and those who did not, looked on eagerly with -interest and anxiety and hope. - -Only Agnes sat drawing back from them, between her mother and sister, -letting her veil hang with a pitiful unconcern in thick double folds -half over her pale face. She did not care to lift her eyes; she looked -heavy, wretched, spiritless; she could not keep her thoughts upon the -smiling side of the picture; she thought only of the sudden blow about -to fall--of the bitter sense of deception and craftiness, of the -overwhelming disappointment which this day must bring forth. - -The case commenced. Lord Winterbourne’s counsel stated the plea of his -noble client; it did not occupy a very long time, for no one supposed it -very important. The statement was, that Miss Bridget Atheling had been -presented by the late Lord Winterbourne with a life-interest in the -little property involved; that the Old Wood Lodge, the only property in -the immediate neighbourhood which was not in the peaceful possession of -Lord Winterbourne, had never been separated or alienated from the -estate; that, in fact, the gift to Miss Bridget was a mere tenant’s -claim upon the house during her lifetime, with no power of bequest -whatever; and the present Lord Winterbourne’s toleration of its brief -occupancy by the persons in possession, was merely a good-humoured -carelessness on the part of his lordship of a matter not sufficiently -important to occupy his thoughts. The only evidence offered was the -distinct enumeration of the Old Wood Lodge along with the Old Wood -House, and the cottages in the village of Winterbourne, as in possession -of the family at the accession of the late lord; and the learned -gentleman concluded his case by declaring that he confidently challenged -his opponent to produce any deed or document whatever which so much as -implied that the property had been bestowed upon Bridget Atheling. No -deed of gift--no conveyance--nothing whatever in the shape of -title-deeds, he was confident, existed to support the claim of the -defendant; a claim which, if it was not a direct attempt to profit by -the inadvertence of his noble client, was certainly a very ugly and -startling mistake. - -So far everything was brief enough, and conclusive enough, as it -appeared. The audience was decidedly disappointed: if the answer was -after this style, there was no “fun” to be expected, and it had been an -entire hoax which seduced the Banburyshire notabilities to waste the -April afternoon in a crowded court-house. But Miss Anastasia, swelling -with anxiety and yet with triumph, was visible to every one; visible -also to one eye was something very different--Agnes, pale, shrinking, -closing her eyes, looking as if she would faint. The Rector made his way -behind, and spoke to her anxiously. He was afraid she was ill; could he -assist her through the crowd? Agnes turned her face to him for a moment, -and her eyes, which looked so dilated and pitiful, but only said “No, -no,” in a hurried whisper, and turned again. The counsel on the other -side had risen, and was about to begin the defence. - -“My learned brother is correct, and doubtless knows himself to be so,” -said the advocate of the Athelings. “We have no deed to produce, though -we have something nearly as good; but, my lord, I am instructed suddenly -to change the entire ground of my plea. Certain information which has -come to the knowledge of my clients, but which it was not their wish to -make public at present, has been now communicated to me; and I beg to -object at once to the further progress of the suit, on a ground which -your lordship will at once acknowledge to be just and forcible. I -assert that the present bearer of the title is not the true Lord -Winterbourne.” - -There rose immediately a hum and murmur of the strangest character--not -applause, not disapproval--simple consternation, so extreme that no one -could restrain its utterance. People rose up and stared at the speaker, -as if he had been seized with sudden madness in their presence; then -there ensued a scene of much tumult and agitation. The judges on the -bench interposed indignantly. The counsel for Lord Winterbourne sprang -to his feet, appealing with excitement to their lordships--was this to -be permitted? Even the audience, Lord Winterbourne’s neighbours, who had -no love for him, pressed forward as if to support him in this crisis, -and with resentment and disapproval looked upon Miss Anastasia, to whom -every one turned instinctively, as to a conspirator who had overshot the -mark. It was scarcely possible for the daring speaker to gain himself a -hearing. When he did so, at last, it was rather as a culprit than an -accuser. But even the frown of a chief-justice did not appal a man who -held Charlie Atheling’s papers in his hands; he was heard again, -declaring, with force and dignity, that he was incapable of making such -a statement without proofs in his possession which put it beyond -controversy. He begged but a moment’s patience, in justice to himself -and to his client, while he placed an abstract of the case and the -evidence in their lordships’ hands. - -Then to the sudden hum and stir, which the officials of the court had -not been able to put down, succeeded that total, strange, almost -appalling stillness of a crowd, which is so very impressive at all -times. While the judges consulted together, looking keenly over these -mysterious papers, almost every eye among the spectators was riveted -upon them. No one noticed even Lord Winterbourne, who stood up in his -place unconsciously, overlooking them all, quite unaware of the -prominence and singularity of his position, gazing before him with a -motionless blank stare, like a man looking into the face of Fate. The -auditors waited almost breathless for the decision of the law. That -anything so wild and startling could ever be taken into consideration by -those grave authorities was of itself extraordinary; and as the -consultation was prolonged, the anxiety grew gradually greater. Could -there be reality in it? could it be true? - -At last the elder judge broke the silence. “This is a very serious -statement,” he said: “of course, it involves issues much more important -than the present question. As further proceedings will doubtless be -grounded on these documents, it is our opinion that the hearing of this -case had better be adjourned.” - -Lord Winterbourne seated himself when he heard the voice--it broke the -spell; but not so Louis, who stood beneath, alone, looking straight up -at the speaker in his judicial throne. The truth flashed to the mind of -Louis like a gleam of lightning. He did not ask a question, though -Charlie was close by him; he did not turn his head, though Miss -Anastasia was within reach of his eye; his whole brain seemed to burn -and glow; the veins swelled upon his forehead; he raised up his head for -air, for breath, like a man overwhelmed; he did not see how the gaze of -half the assembly began to be attracted to himself. In this sudden pause -he stood still, following out the conviction which burst upon him--this -conviction, which suddenly, like a sunbeam, made all things clear. Wrong -as he had been in the details, his imagination was true as the most -unerring judgment. For what child in the world was it so much this man’s -interest to disgrace and disable as the child whose rights he -usurped--his brother’s lawful heir? This silence was like a lifetime to -Louis, but it ended in a moment. Some confused talking -followed--objections on the part of Lord Winterbourne’s representative, -which were overruled; and then another case was called--a common little -contest touching mere lands and houses--and every one awoke, as at the -touch of a disenchanting rod, to the common pale daylight and common -controversy, as from a dream. - -Then the people streamed out in agitated groups, some retaining their -first impulse of contradiction and resentment; others giving up at once, -and receiving the decision of the judges as final. Then Agnes looked -back, with a sick and trembling anxiety, for the Rector. The Rector was -gone; and they all followed one after another, silent in the great -tremor of their excitement. When they came to the open air, Marian began -to ask questions eagerly, and Rachel to cry behind her veil, and cast -woeful wistful looks at Miss Anastasia. What was it? what was the -matter? was it anything about Louis? who was Lord Winterbourne? - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -THE TRUE HEIR. - - -“I do not know how he takes it, mother,” said Charlie. “I do not know if -he takes it at all; he has not spoken a single word all the way home.” - -He did not seem disposed to speak many now; he went into Miss Bridget’s -dusky little parlour, lingering a moment at the door, and bending -forward in reflection from the little sloping mirror on the wall. The -young man was greatly moved, silent with inexpressible emotion; he went -up to Marian first, and, in the presence of them all, kissed her little -trembling hand and her white cheek; then he drew her forward with him, -holding her up with his own arm, which trembled too, and came direct to -Miss Anastasia, who was seated, pale, and making gigantic efforts to -command herself, in old Miss Bridget’s chair. “This is my bride,” said -Louis firmly, yet with quivering lips. “What are we to call _you_?” - -The old lady looked at him for a moment, vainly endeavouring to retain -her self-possession--then sprang up suddenly, grasped him in her arms, -and broke forth into such a cry of weeping as never had been heard -before under this peaceful roof. “What you will! what you will! my boy, -my heir, my father’s son!” cried Miss Anastasia, lifting up her voice. -No one moved, or spoke a word--it was like one of those old agonies of -thanksgiving in the old Scriptures, when a Joseph or a Jacob, parted for -half a patriarch’s lifetime, “fell upon his neck and wept.” - -When this moment of extreme agitation was over, the principal actors in -the family drama came again into a moderate degree of calmness: Louis -was almost solemn in his extreme youthful gravity. The young man was -changed in a moment, as, perhaps, nothing but this overwhelming flood of -honour and prosperity could have changed him. He desired to see the -evidence and investigate his own claims thoroughly, as it was natural he -should; then he asked Charlie to go out with him, for there was not a -great deal of room in this little house, for private conference. The two -young men went forth together through those quiet well-known lanes, upon -which Louis gazed with a giddy eye. “This should have come to me in some -place where I was a stranger,” he said with excitement; “it might have -seemed more credible, more reasonable, in a less familiar place. Here, -where I have been an outcast and dishonoured all my life--here!” - -“Your own property,” said Charlie. “I’m not a poetical man, you know--it -is no use trying--but I’d come to a little sentiment, I confess, if I -were you.” - -“In the mean time there are other people concerned,” said Louis, taking -Charlie’s arm, and turning him somewhat hurriedly away from the edge of -the wood, which at this epoch of his fortunes, the scene of so many -despairing fancies, was rather more than he chose to experiment upon. -“You are not poetical, Charlie. I do not suppose it has come to your -turn yet--but we do not want poetry to-night; there are other people -concerned. So far as I can see, your case--I scarcely can call it mine, -who have had no hand in it--is clear as daylight--indisputable. Is it -so?--you know better than me.” - -“Indisputable,” said Charlie, authoritatively. - -“Then it should never come to a trial--for the honour of the house--for -pity,” said the heir. “A bad man taken in the toils is a very miserable -thing to look at, Charlie; let us spare him if we can. I should like you -to get some one who is to be trusted--say Mr Foggo, with some well-known -man along with him--to wait upon Lord Winterbourne. Let them go into the -case fully, and show him everything: say that I am quite willing that -the world should think he had done it in ignorance--and persuade -him--that is, if he is convinced, and they have perfect confidence in -the case. The story need not be publicly known. Is it practicable?--tell -me at once.” - -“It’s practicable if he’ll do it,” said Charlie; “but he’ll not do it, -that’s all.” - -“How do you know he’ll not do it?--it is to save himself,” said Louis. - -“If he had not known it all along, he’d have given in,” said Charlie, -“and taken your offer, of course; but he _has_ known it all along--it’s -been his ghost for years. He has his plans all prepared and ready, you -may be perfectly sure. It is generous of you to suggest such a thing, -but _he_ would suppose it a sign of weakness. Never mind that--it’s not -of the least importance what he supposes; if you desire it, we can try.” - -“I do desire it,” said Louis; “and then, Charlie, there is the Rector.” - -Charlie shook his head regretfully. “I am sorry for him myself,” said -the young lawyer; “but what can you do?” - -“He has been extremely kind to me,” said Louis, with a slight trembling -in his voice--“kinder than any one in the world, except your own family. -There is his house--I see what to do; let us go at once and explain -everything to him to-night.” - -“To-night! that’s premature--showing your hand,” said Charlie, startled -in his professional caution: “never mind, you can stand it; he’s a fine -fellow, though he is the other line. If you like it, I don’t object; but -what shall you say?” - -“He ought to have his share,” said Louis--“don’t interrupt me, Charlie; -it is more generous in our case to receive than to give. He ought, if I -represent the elder branch, to have the younger’s share: he ought to -permit me to do as much for him as he would have done for me. Ah, he -bade me look at the pictures to see that I was a Rivers. I did not -suppose any miracle on earth could make me proud of the name.” - -They went on hastily together in the early gathering darkness. The Old -Wood House stood blank and dull as usual, with all its closed blinds; -but the gracious young Curate, meditating his sermon, and much elated by -his persecution, was straying about the well-kept paths. Mr Mead -hastened to tell them that Mr Rivers had left home--“hastened away -instantly to appear in our own case,” said the young clergyman. “The -powers of this world are in array against us--we suffer persecution, as -becomes the true church. The Rector left hurriedly to appear in person. -He is a devoted man, a noble Anglican. I smile myself at the reproaches -of our adversary; I have no fear.” - -“We may see him in town,” said Louis, turning away with disappointment. -“If you write, will you mention that I have been here to-night, to beg -his counsel and friendship--I, Louis Rivers--” A sudden colour flushed -over the young man’s face; he pronounced the name with a nervous -firmness; it was the first time he had called himself by any save his -baptismal name all his life. - -As they turned and walked home again, Louis relapsed into his first -agitated consciousness, and did not care to say a word. Louis Rivers! -lawful heir and only son of a noble English peer and an unsullied -mother. It was little wonder if the young man’s heart swelled within -him, too high for a word or a thought. He blotted out the past with a -generous haste, unwilling to remember a single wrong done to him in the -time of his humiliation, and looked out upon the future as upon a -glorious vision, almost too wonderful to be realised: it was best to -rest in this agitated moment of strange triumph, humility, and power, to -convince himself that this was real, and to project his anticipations -forward only with a generous anxiety for the concerns of others, with no -question, when all questions were so overwhelming and incredible, after -this extraordinary fortune of his own. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -AT HOME. - - -It would not be easy to describe the state of mind of the feminine -portion of this family which remained at home. Marian, in a strange and -overpowering tumult--Marian, who was the first and most intimately -concerned, her cheek burning still under the touch of her lover’s -trembling lip in that second and more solemn betrothal, sat on a stool, -half hidden by Miss Anastasia’s big chair and ample skirts, supporting -her flushed cheeks on those pretty rose-tipped hands, to which the flush -seemed to have extended, her beautiful hair drooping down among her -fingers, her eyes cast down, her heart leaping like a bird against her -breast. Her own vague suspicions, keen and eager as they were, had never -pointed half so far as this. If it did not “turn her head” altogether, -it was more because the little head was giddy with amaze and confusion, -than from any virtue on the part of Marian. She was quite beyond the -power of thinking; a strange brilliant extraordinary panorama glided -before her--Louis in Bellevue--Louis at the Old Wood Lodge--Louis, the -lord of all he looked upon, in Winterbourne Hall! - -Rachel, for her part, was to be found, now in one corner, now in -another, crying very heartily, and with a general vague impulse of -kissing every one in the present little company with thanks and -gratitude, and being caressed and sympathised with in turn. The only one -here, indeed, who seemed in her full senses was Agnes, who kept them all -in a certain degree of self-possession. It was all over, at last, after -so long a time of suspense and mystery; Agnes was relieved of her secret -knowledge. She was grave, but she did not refuse to participate in the -confused joy and thankfulness of the house. Now that the secret was -revealed, her mind returned to its usual tone. Though she had so much -“interest” in Lionel--almost as much as he felt in her--she had too high -a mind herself to suppose him overwhelmed by the single fact that his -inheritance had passed away from him. When all was told, she breathed -freely. She had all the confidence in him which one high heart has in -another. After the first shock, she prophesied proudly, within her own -mind, how soon his noble spirit would recover itself. Perhaps she -anticipated other scenes in that undeveloped future, which might touch -her own heart with a stronger thrill than even the marvellous change -which was now working; perhaps the faint dawn of colour on her pale -cheek came from an imagination far more immediate and personal than any -dream which ever before had flushed the maiden firmament of Agnes -Atheling’s meditations. However that might be, she said not a single -word upon the subject: she assumed to herself quietly the post of -universal ministration, attended to the household wants as much as the -little party, all excited and sublimed out of any recollection of -ordinary necessities, would permit her; and lacking nothing in sympathy, -yet quieter than any one else, insensibly to herself, formed the link -between this little agitated world of private history and the larger -world, not at all moved from its everyday balance, which lay calm and -great without. - -“I sign a universal amnesty,” said Miss Anastasia abruptly, after a long -silence--“himself, if he would consult his own interest, I could pass -over _his_ faults to-day.” - -“Poor Mr Reginald!” said Mrs Atheling, wiping her eyes. “I beg your -pardon, Miss Rivers; he has done a great deal of wrong, but I am very -sorry for him: I was so when he lost his son; ah, no doubt he thinks -this is a very small matter after _that_.” - -“Hush, child, the man is _guilty_,” said Miss Anastasia, with strong -emphasis. “Young George Rivers went to his grave in peace. Whom the gods -love die young; it was very well. I forgive his father if he withdraws; -he will, if he has a spark of honour. The only person whom I am grieved -for is Lionel--he, indeed, might have cause to complain. Agnes Atheling, -do you know where he has gone?” - -“No.” Agnes affected no surprise that the question should be asked her, -and did not even show any emotion. Marian, with a sudden impulse of -generosity, got up instantly, and came to her sister. “Oh, Agnes, I am -very sorry,” said the little beauty, with her palpitating heart; and -Marian put her pretty arms round Agnes’s neck to console and comfort -her, as Agnes might have done to Marian had Louis been in distress -instead of joy. - -Agnes drew herself instinctively out of her sister’s embrace. She had no -right to be looked upon as the representative of Lionel, yet she could -not help speaking, in her confidence and pride in him, with a kindling -cheek and rising heart. “I am not sorry for Mr Rivers _now_,” said -Agnes, firmly; “I was so while this secret was kept from him--while he -was deceived; but I think no one who does him due credit can venture to -pity him _now_.” - -Miss Anastasia roused herself a little at sound of the voice. This -pride, which sounded a little like defiance, stirred the old lady’s -heart like the sound of a trumpet; she had more pleasure in it than she -had felt in anything, save her first welcome of Louis a few hours ago. -She looked steadily into the eyes of Agnes, who met her gaze without -shrinking, though with a rapid variation of colour. Whatever imputations -she herself might be subject to in consequence, Agnes could not sit by -silent, and hear _him_ either pitied or belied. - -“I wonder, may I go and see Miss Rivers? would it be proper?” asked -Rachel timidly, making a sudden diversion, as she had rather a habit of -doing; “she wanted me to stay with her once; she was very kind to me.” - -“I suppose we must not call you the Honourable Rachel Rivers just -yet--eh, little girl?” said Miss Anastasia, turning upon her; “and you, -Marian, you little beauty, how shall you like to be Lady Winterbourne?” - -“Lady Winterbourne! I always said she was to be for Louis,” cried -Rachel--“always--the first time I saw her; you know I did, Agnes; and -often I wondered why she should be so pretty--she who did not want it, -who was happy enough to have been ugly, if she had liked; but I see it -now--I see the reason now!” - -“Don’t hide your head, little one; it is quite true,” said Miss -Anastasia, once more a little touched at her heart to see the beautiful -little figure, fain to glide out of everybody’s sight, stealing away in -a moment into the natural refuge, the mother’s shadow; while the mother, -smiling and sobbing, had entirely given up all attempt at any show of -self-command. “Agnes has something else to do in this hard-fighting -world. You are the flower that must know neither winds nor storms. I -don’t speak to make you vain, you beautiful child. God gave you your -lovely looks, as well as your strange fortune; and Agnes, child, lift up -your head! the contest and the trial are for you; but not, God forbid -it! as they came to _me_.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -THE RIVAL HEIRS. - - -Louis and Rachel returned that night with Miss Anastasia to the Priory, -which, the old lady said proudly--the family jointure house for four or -five generations--should be their home till the young heir took -possession of his paternal house. The time which followed was too busy, -rapid, and exciting for a slow and detailed history. The first legal -steps were taken instantly in the case, and proper notices served upon -Lord Winterbourne. In Miss Anastasia’s animated and anxious house dwelt -the Tyrolese, painfully acquiring some scant morsels of English, very -well contented with her present quarters, and only anxious to secure -some extravagant preferment for her son. Mrs Atheling and her daughters -had returned home, and Louis came and went constantly to town, actively -engaged himself in all the arrangements, full of anxious plans and -undertakings for the ease and benefit of the other parties concerned. -Miss Anastasia, with a little reluctance, had given her consent to the -young man’s plan of a compromise, by which his uncle, unattacked and -undisgraced, might retire from his usurped possessions with a sufficient -and suitable income. The ideas of Louis were magnificent and princely. -He would have been content to mulct himself of half the revenues of his -inheritance, and scarcely would listen to the prudent cautions of his -advisers. He was even reluctant that the first formal steps should be -taken, before Mr Foggo and an eminent and well-known solicitor, -personally acquainted with his uncle, had waited upon Lord Winterbourne. -He was overruled; but this solemn deputation lost no time in proceeding -on its mission. Speedy as they were, however, they were too late for the -alarmed and startled peer. He had left home, they ascertained, very -shortly after the late trial--had gone abroad, as it was supposed, -leaving no information as to the time of his return. The only thing -which could be done in the circumstances was hastened by the eager -exertions of Louis. The two lawyers wrote a formal letter to Lord -Winterbourne, stating their case, and making their offer, and despatched -it to the Hall, to be forwarded to him. No answer came, though Louis -persuaded his agents to wait for it, and even to delay the legal -proceedings. The only notice taken of it was a paragraph in one of the -fashionable newspapers, to the effect that the late proceedings at -Oxford, impugning the title of a respected nobleman, proved now to be a -mere trick of some pettifogging lawyer, entirely unsupported, and likely -to call forth proceedings for libel, involving a good deal of romantic -family history, and extremely interesting to the public. After this, -Louis could no longer restrain the natural progress of the matter. He -gave it up, indeed, at once, and did not try; and Miss Anastasia -pronounced emphatically one of her antique proverbs, “Whom the gods -would destroy, they first make mad.” - -This was not the only business on the hands of Louis. He had found it -impossible, on repeated trials, to see the Rector. At the Old Wood House -it was said that Mr Rivers was from home; at his London lodgings he had -not been heard of. The suit was given against him in the Ecclesiastical -Courts, and Mr Mead, alone in the discharge of his duty, mourned over a -stripped altar and desolated sanctuary, where the tall candles blazed no -longer in the religious gloom. When it became evident at last that the -Rector did not mean to give his young relative the interview he sought, -Louis, strangely transformed as he was, from the petulant youth always -ready to take offence, to the long-suffering man, addressed Lionel as -his solicitors had addressed his uncle. He wrote a long letter, generous -and full of hearty feeling; he reminded his kinsman of the favours he -had himself accepted at his hands. He drew a very vivid picture of his -own past and present position. He declared, with all a young man’s -fervour, that he could have no pleasure even in his own extraordinary -change of fortune, were it the means of inflicting a vast and -unmitigated loss upon his cousin. He threw himself upon Lionel’s -generosity--he appealed to his natural sense of justice--he used a -hundred arguments which were perfectly suitable and in character from -him, but which, certainly, no man as proud and as generous as himself -could be expected to listen to; and, finally, ended with protesting an -unquestionable claim upon Lionel--the claim of a man deeply indebted to, -and befriended by him. The letter overflowed with the earnestness and -sincerity of the writer; he assumed his case throughout with the most -entire honesty, having no doubt whatever upon the subject, and confided -his intentions and prospects to Lionel with a complete and anxious -confidence, which he had not bestowed upon any other living man. - -This letter called forth an answer, written from a country town in a -remote part of England. The Rector wrote with an evident effort at -cordiality. He declined all Louis’s overtures in the most -uncompromising terms, but congratulated him upon his altered -circumstances. He said he had taken care to examine into the case before -leaving London, and was thoroughly convinced of the justice of the new -claim. “One thing I will ask of you,” said Mr Rivers; “I only wait to -resign my living until I can be sure of the next presentation falling -into your hands: give it to Mr Mead. The cause of my withdrawal is -entirely private and personal. I had resolved upon it months ago, and it -has no connection whatever with recent circumstances. I hope no one -thinks so meanly of me as to suppose I am dismayed by the substitution -of another heir in my room. One thing in this matter has really wounded -me, and that is the fact that no one concerned thought me worthy to know -a secret so important, and one which it was alike my duty and my right -to help to a satisfactory conclusion. I have lost nothing actual, so far -as rank or means is concerned; but, more intolerable than any vulgar -loss, I find a sudden cloud thrown upon the perfect sincerity and truth -of some whom I have been disposed to trust as men trust Heaven.” - -The letter concluded with good wishes--that was all; there was no -response to the confidence, no answer to the effusion of heartfelt and -fervent feeling which had been in Louis’s letter. The young man was not -accustomed to be repulsed; perhaps, in all his life, it was the first -time he had asked a favour from any one, and had Louis been poor and -without friends, as he was or thought himself six months ago, such a -tone would have galled him beyond endurance. But there is a charm in a -gracious and relenting fortune. Louis, who had once been the very -armadillo of youthful haughtiness, suddenly distinguished himself by the -most magnanimous patience, would not take offence, and put away his -kinsman’s haughty letter, with regret, but without any resentment. -Nothing was before him now but the plain course of events, and to them -he committed himself frankly, resolved to do what could be done, but -addressing no more appeals to the losing side. - -Part of the Rector’s letter Louis showed to Marian, and Marian repeated -it to Agnes. It was cruel--it was unjust of Lionel--and he knew himself -that it was. Agnes, it was possible, did not know--at all events, she -had no right to betray to him the secrets of another; more than that, he -knew the meaning now of the little book which he carried everywhere with -him, and felt in his heart that _he_ was the real person addressed. He -knew all that quite as well as she did, as she tried, with a quivering -lip and a proud wet eye, to fortify herself against the injustice of his -reproach, but that did not hinder him from saying it. He was in that -condition--known, perhaps, occasionally to most of us--when one feels a -certain perverse pleasure in wounding one’s dearest. He had no chance of -mentioning her, who occupied so much of his thoughts, in any other way, -and he would rather put a reproach upon Agnes than leave her alone -altogether; perhaps she herself even, after all, at the bottom of her -heart, was better satisfied to be referred to thus, than to be left out -of his thoughts. They had never spoken to each other a single word which -could be called wooing--now they were perhaps separated for ever--yet -how strange a link of union, concord, and opposition, was between these -two! - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -AN ADVENTURE. - - -It was September--the time when all Englishmen of a certain “rank in -life” burn with unconquerable longings to get as far away from home as -possible--and there was nothing remarkable in the appearance of this -solitary traveller pacing along Calais pier--nothing remarkable, except -his own personal appearance, which was of a kind not easily overlooked. -There was nothing to be read in his embrowned but refined face, nor in -his high thoughtful forehead. It was a face of thought, of speculation, -of a great and vigorous intellectual activity; but the haughty eyes -looked at no one--the lips never moved even to address a child--there -was no response to any passing glance of interest or inquiry. His head -was turned towards England, over the long sinuous weltering waves of -that stormy Channel which to-day pretended to be calm; but if he saw -anything, it was something which appeared only in his own -imagination--it was neither the far-away gleam, like a floating mist, -of the white cliffs, nor the sunbeam coming down out of the heart of a -cloud into the dark mid-current of that treacherous sea. - -He had no plan of travel--no settled intentions indeed of any kind--but -had been roaming about these three months in the restlessness of -suspense, waiting for definite intelligence before he decided on his -further course. An often-recurring fancy of returning home for a time -had brought him to-day to this common highway of all nations from a -secluded village among the Pyrenees; but he had not made up his mind to -go home--he only lingered within sight of it, chafing his own disturbed -spirit, and ready to be swayed by any momentary impulse. Though he had -been disturbed for a time out of his study of the deepest secrets of -human life, his mind was too eager not to have returned to it. He had -come to feel that it would be sacrilege to proclaim again his own -labouring and disordered thoughts in a place where he was set to speak -of One, the very imagination of whom, if it was an imagination, was so -immeasurably exalted above his highest elevation. A strange poetic -justice had come upon Lionel Rivers--prosecuted for his extreme views at -the time when he ceased to make any show of holding them--separating -himself from his profession, and from the very name of a believer, at -the moment when it began to dawn upon him that he believed--and thrust -asunder with a violent wrench and convulsion from the first and sole -human creature who had come into his heart, at the very hour in which he -discovered that his heart was no longer in his own power. He saw it all, -the strange story of contradictory and perverse chances, and knew -himself the greatest and strangest contradiction of the whole. - -He gave no attention whatever to what passed round him, yet he heard the -foreign voices--the English voices--for there was no lack of his -countrymen. It was growing dark rapidly, and the shadowy evening lights -and mists were stealing far away to sea. He turned to go back to his -hotel, turning his face away from his own country, when at the moment a -voice fell upon his ear, speaking his own tongue: “You will abet an -impostor--you who know nothing of English law, and are already a marked -man.” These were the words spoken in a very low, clear, hissing tone, -which Lionel heard distinctly only because it was well known to him. The -speaker was wrapt in a great cloak, with a travelling-cap over his eyes; -and the person he addressed was a little vivacious Italian, with a long -olive face, smooth-shaven cheeks, and sparkling lively eyes, who seemed -much disconcerted and doubtful what to do. The expression of Lionel’s -face changed in an instant--he woke out of his moody dream to alert and -determined action; he drew back a step to let them pass, and then -followed. The discussion was animated and eager between them, sometimes -in English, sometimes in Italian, apparently as caprice guided the one -or the other. Lionel did not listen to what they said, but he followed -them home. - -The old Italian parted with his companion at the door of the hotel where -Lionel himself was lodged; there the Englishman in the cloak and cap -lingered to make an appointment. “At eleven to-morrow,” said again that -sharp hissing voice. Lionel stepped aside into the shadow as the -stranger turned reluctantly away; he did not care for making further -investigations to ascertain _his_ identity--it was Lord Winterbourne. - -He took the necessary steps immediately. It was easy to find out where -the Italian was, in a little room at the top of the house, the key of -which he paused to take down before he went up-stairs. Lionel waited -again till the old man had made his way to his lofty lodging. He was -very well acquainted with all the details of Louis’s case; he had, in -fact, seen Charlie Atheling a few days before he left London, and -satisfied himself of the nature of his young kinsman’s claim--it was too -important to himself to be forgotten. He remembered perfectly the -Italian doctor Serrano who had been present, and could testify to the -marriage of the late Lord Winterbourne. Lionel scaled the great -staircase half-a-dozen steps at a time, and reached the door immediately -after the old man had entered, and before he had struck his light. The -Rector knocked softly. With visible perturbation, and in a sharp tone of -self-defence, the Italian called out in a very good French to know who -was there. Dr Serrano was a patriot and a plotter, and used to -domiciliary visitations. Lionel answered him in English, asked if he -were Doctor Serrano, and announced himself as a friend of Charles -Atheling. Then the door opened slowly, and with some jealousy. Lionel -passed into the room without waiting for an invitation. “You are going -to England on a matter of the greatest importance,” said the Rector, -with excitement--“to restore the son of your friend to his inheritance; -yet I find you, with the serpent at your ear, listening to Lord -Winterbourne.” - -The Italian started back in amaze. “Are you the devil?” said Doctor -Serrano, with a comical perturbation. - -“No; instead of that, you have just left him,” said Lionel; “but I am a -friend, and know all. This man persuades you not to go on--by accident I -caught the sound of his voice saying so. He has the most direct personal -interest in the case; it is ruin and disgrace to him. Your testimony may -be of the greatest importance--why do you linger? why do you listen to -him?” - -“Really, you are hot-headed; it is so with youth,” said Doctor Serrano, -“when we will move heaven and earth for one friend. He tells me the -child is dead--that this is another. I know not--it may be true.” - -“It is not true,” said Lionel. “I will tell you who I am--the next heir -if Lord Winterbourne is the true holder of the title--there is my card. -I have the strongest interest in resisting this claim if I did not know -it to be true. It can be proved that this is the same boy who was -brought from Italy an infant. I can prove it myself; it is known to a -whole village. If you choose it, confront me with Lord Winterbourne.” - -“No; I believe you--you are a gentleman,” said Doctor Serrano, turning -over the card in his hand--and the old man added with enthusiasm, “and a -hero for a friend!” - -“You believe me?” said Lionel, who could not restrain the painful smile -which crossed his face at the idea of his heroism in the cause of Louis. -“Will you stay, then, another hour within reach of Lord Winterbourne?” - -The Italian shrugged his shoulders. “I will break with him; he is ever -false,” said the old man. “What besides can I do?” - -“I will tell you,” said Lionel. “The boat sails in an hour--come with me -at once, let me see you safe in England. I shall attend to your comfort -with all my power. There is time for a good English bed at Dover, and an -undisturbed rest. Doctor Serrano, for the sake of the oppressed, and -because you are a philosopher, and understand the weakness of human -nature, will you come with me?” - -The Italian glanced lovingly at the couch which invited him--at the -slippers and the pipe which waited to make him comfortable--then he -glanced up at the dark and resolute countenance of Lionel, who, high in -his chivalric honour, was determined rather to sleep at Serrano’s door -all night than to let him out of his hands. “Excellent young man! you -are not a philosopher!” said the rueful Doctor; but he had a quick eye, -and was accustomed to judge men. “I will go with you,” he added -seriously, “and some time, for liberty and Italy, you will do as much -for me.” - -It was a bargain, concluded on the spot. An hour after, almost within -sight of Lord Winterbourne, who was pacing the gloomy pier by night in -his own gloom of guilty thought, the old man and the young man embarked -for England. A few hours later the little Italian slept under an English -roof, and the young Englishman looked up at the dizzy cliff, and down at -the foaming sea, too much excited to think of rest. The next morning -Lionel carried off his prize to London, and left him in the hands of -Charlie Atheling. Then, seeing no one, speaking to no one, without -lingering an hour in his native country, he turned back and went away. -He had made up his mind now to remain at Calais till the matter was -entirely decided--then to resign his benefice--and then, with _things_ -and not _thoughts_ around him in the actual press and contact of common -life, to read, if he could, the grand secret of a true existence, and -decide his fate. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -THE TRIAL. - - -Lord Winterbourne had been in Italy, going over the ground which Charlie -Atheling had already examined so carefully. Miss Anastasia’s proverb was -coming true. He who all his life had been so wary, began to calculate -madly, with an insane disregard of all the damning facts against him, on -overturning, by one bold stroke, the careful fabric of the young lawyer. -He sought out and found the courier Monte, whom he himself had -established in his little mountain-inn. Monte was a faithful servant -enough to his employer of the time, but he was not scrupulous, and had -no great conscience. He undertook, without much objection, for the hire -which Lord Winterbourne gave him, to say anything Lord Winterbourne -pleased. He had been present at the marriage; and if the old Doctor -could have been delayed, or turned back, or even kidnapped--which was in -the foiled plotter’s scheme, if nothing better would serve--Monte, being -the sole witness of the ceremony present, might have made it out a mock -marriage, or at least delayed the case, and thrown discredit upon the -union. It was enough to show what mad shifts even a wise intriguer might -be driven to trust in. He believed it actually possible that judge and -jury would ignore all the other testimony, and trust to the unsupported -word of his lying witness. He did not pause to think, tampering with -truth as he had been all his life, and trusting no man, what an extreme -amount of credulity he expected for himself. - -But even when Doctor Serrano escaped him--when the trial drew nearer day -by day--when Louis’s agents came in person, respectful and urgent, to -make their statement to him--and when he became aware that his case was -naught, and that he had no evidence whatever to depend on save that of -Monte, his wild confidence did not yield. He refused with disdain every -offer of a compromise; he commanded out of his presence the bearers of -that message of forbearance and forgiveness; he looked forward with a -blind defiance of his fate miserable to see. He gave orders that -preparations should be made at Winterbourne for the celebration of his -approaching triumph. That autumn he had invited to his house a larger -party than usual; and though few came, and those the least reputable, -there was no want of sportsmen in the covers, nor merry-makers at the -Hall: he himself was restless, and did not continue there, even for the -sake of his guests, but made incessant journeys to London, and kept in -constant personal attendance on himself the courier Monte. He was the -object of incessant observation, and the gossip of half the county: he -had many enemies; and many of those who were disposed to take his part, -had heard and been convinced by the story of Louis. Almost every one, -indeed, who did hear of it, and remembered the boy in his neglected but -noble youth, felt the strange probability and _vraisemblance_ of the -tale; and as the time drew nearer, the interest grew. It was known that -the new claimant of the title lived in Miss Anastasia’s house, and that -she was the warmest supporter of his claim. The people of Banburyshire -were proud of Miss Anastasia; but she was Lord Winterbourne’s enemy. -Why? That old tragedy began to be spoken of once more in whispers; other -tales crept into circulation; he was a bad man; everybody knew something -of him--enough ground to judge him on; and if he was capable of all -these, was he not capable of this? - -As the public voice grew thus, like the voice of doom, the doomed man -went on in his reckless and unreasoning confidence; the warnings of his -opponents and of his friends seemed to be alike fruitless. No extent of -self-delusion could have justified him at any time in thinking himself -popular, yet he seemed to have a certain insane conviction now, that he -had but to show himself in the court to produce an immediate reaction in -his favour. He even said so, shaken out of all his old self-restrained -habits, boasting with a vain braggadocio to his guests at the Hall; and -people began, with a new impulse of pity, to wonder if his reason was -touched, and to hint vaguely to each other that the shock had unsettled -his mind. - -The trial came on at the next assize; it was long, elaborate, and -painful. On the very eve of this momentous day, Louis himself had -addressed an appeal to his uncle, begging him, at the last moment when -he could withdraw with honour, to accept the compromise so often and so -anxiously proposed to him. Lord Winterbourne tore the letter in two, and -put it in his pocket-book. “I shall use it,” he said to the messenger, -“when this business is over, to light the bonfire on Badgeley Hill.” - -The trial came on accordingly, without favour or private arrangement--a -fair struggle of force against force. The evidence on the side of the -prosecutor was laid down clearly, particular by particular; the marriage -of the late Lord Winterbourne to the young Italian--the entry in his -pocket-book, sworn to by Miss Anastasia--the birth of the -children--their journey from Italy to London, from London to -Winterbourne--and the identity of the boy Louis with the present -claimant of the title--clearly, calmly, deliberately, everything was -proved. It took two days to go over the evidence; then came the defence. -Without an overwhelming array of witnesses on the other side--without -proving perjury on the part of these--what could Lord Winterbourne -answer to such a charge as this? - -He commenced, through his lawyer, by a vain attempt to brand Louis over -again with illegitimacy, to sully the name of his dead brother, and -represent him a villanous deceiver. It was allowed, without controversy, -that Louis was the son of the old lord; and then Monte was placed in the -witness-box to prove that the marriage was a mock marriage, so skilfully -performed as to cheat herself, her family, the old quick-witted Serrano, -whose testimony had pleased every one--all the people present, in short, -except his own acute and philosophical self. - -The fellow was bold, clever, and scrupulous, but he was not prepared for -such an ordeal. His attention distracted by the furious contradictory -gestures of Doctor Serrano, whose cane could scarcely be kept out of -action--by the stern, steady glance of Miss Anastasia, whom he -recognised--he was no match for the skilful cross-examiners who had him -in hand. He hesitated, prevaricated, altered his testimony. He held, -with a grim obstinacy, to unimportant trifles, and made admissions at -the same moment which struck at the very root of his own credibility as -a witness. He was finally ordered to sit down by the voice of the judge -himself, which rung in the fellow’s ears like thunder. That was all the -case for the defence! Even Lord Winterbourne’s counsel coloured for -shame as he made the miserable admission. The jury scarcely left the -court; there was no doubt remaining on the mind of the audience. The -verdict was pronounced solemnly, like a passionless voice of justice, as -it was, for the plaintiff. There was no applause--no exultation--a -universal human horror and disgust at the strange depravity they had -just witnessed, put down every demonstration of feeling. People drew -away from the neighbourhood of Lord Winterbourne as from a man in a -pestilence. He left the court almost immediately, with his hat over his -eyes--his witness following as he best could; then came a sudden -revulsion of feeling. The best men in the county hurried towards Louis, -who sat, pale and excited, by the side of his elder and his younger -sister. Congratulatory good wishes poured upon him on every side. As -they left the court slowly, a guard of honour surrounded this heir and -hero of romance; and as he emerged into the street the air rang with a -cheer for the new Lord Winterbourne. They called him “My lord,” as he -stood on the step of Miss Anastasia’s carriage, which she herself -entered as if it had been a car of triumph. _She_ called him “My lord,” -making a proud obeisance to him, as a mother might have done to her son, -a new-made king; and they drove off slowly, with riders in their train, -amid the eager observation of all the passengers--the new Lord -Winterbourne! - -The old one hastened home on foot, no one observing him--followed far -off, like a shadow, by his attendant villain--unobserved, and almost -unheeded, entered the Hall; thrust with his own hand some necessaries -into his travelling-bag, gathered his cloak around him, and was gone. -Winterbourne Hall that night was left in the custody of the strangers -who had been his guests, an uneasy and troubled company, all occupied -with projects of departure to-morrow. Once more the broad chill -moonlight fell on the noble park, as when Louis and his sister, desolate -and friendless, passed out from its lordly gates into midnight and the -vacant world. Scarcely a year! but what a change upon all the actors and -all the passions of that moonlight October night! - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -ESPOUSALS. - - -It was winter, but the heavens were bright--a halcyon day among the -December glooms. All the winds lay still among the withered ferns, -making a sighing chorus in the underground of Badgeley Wood; but the -white clouds, thinner than the clouds of summer, lay becalmed upon the -chill blue sky, and the sun shone warm under the hedgerows, and deluded -birds were perching out upon the hawthorn bows; the green grass -brightened under the morning light; the wan waters shone; the trees -which had no leaves clustered their branches together, with a certain -pathos in their nakedness, and made a trellised shadow here and there -over the wintry stream; and, noble as in the broadest summer, in the -sheen of the December sunshine lay Oxford, jewelled like a bride, -gleaming out upon the tower of Maudlin, flashing abroad into the -firmament from fair St Mary, twinkling with innumerable gem-points from -all the lesser cupolas and spires. In the midst of all, this sunshine -retreated in pure defeat and failure, from that sombre old heathen, with -his heavy dome--but only brightened all the more upon those responsive -and human inhabitants dwelling there from the olden ages, and native to -the soil. There was a fresh breath from the broad country, a hum of life -in the air, a twitter of hardy birds among the trees. It was one of -those days which belong to no season, but come, like single blessings, -one by one, throwing a gleam across the darker half of the year. Though -it was in December instead of May, it was as fair “a bridal of the earth -and sky” as poet could have wished to see; but the season yielded no -flowers to strew upon the grassy footpath between the Old Wood Lodge and -the little church of Winterbourne; they did not need them who trod that -road to-day. - -Hush, they are coming home--seeing nothing but an indefinite splendour -in the earth and in the sky--sweet in the dews of their youth--touched -to the heart--to that very depth and centre where lie all ecstasies and -tears. Walking together arm in arm, in their young humility--scarcely -aware of the bridal train behind them--in an enchantment of their own; -now coming back to that old little room, with its pensive old memories -of hermit life and solitude--this quiet old place, which never before -was lighted up with such a gleam of splendid fortune and happy hope. - -You would say it was Marian Atheling, “with the smile on her lip, and -the tear in her eye”--the very same lovely vision whom the lad Louis saw -some eighteen months ago at the garden gate. But you would be mistaken; -for it is not Marian--it is the young Lady Winterbourne. This one is -quite as beautiful for a consolation--almost more so in her bridal -blush, and sunshine, and tears--and for a whole hour by the village -clock has been a peeress of the realm. - -This is what it has come to, after all--what they must all come to, -those innocent young people--even Rachel, who is as wild as a child, in -her first genuine and unalarmed outburst of youthful jubilation--even -Agnes, who through all this joy carries a certain thoughtful remembrance -in her dark eyes--possibly even Charlie, who fears no man, but is a -little shy of every womankind younger than Miss Anastasia. There are -only one or two strangers; but the party almost overflows Miss Bridget’s -parlour, where the old walls smile with flowers, and the old apartment, -like an ancient handmaid, receives them with a prim and antique grace--a -little doubtful, yet half hysterical with joy. - -But it does not last very long, this crowning festival. By-and-by the -hero and the heroine go away; then the guests one by one; then the -family, a little languid, a little moved with the first inroad among -them, disperse to their own apartments, or to a meditative ramble out of -doors; and when the twilight falls, you could almost suppose Miss -Bridget, musing too over the story of another generation, sitting before -the fire in her great old chair, with no companion but the flowers. - -This new event seemed somehow to consolidate and make certain that -wonderful fortune of Louis, which until then had looked almost too much -like a romance to be realised. His uncle had made various efforts to -question and set aside the verdict which transferred to the true heir -his name and inheritance--efforts in which even the lawyers whom he had -employed at the trial, and who were not over-scrupulous, had refused any -share. The attempt was entirely fruitless--an insane resistance to the -law, which was irresistible; and the Honourable Reginald Rivers, whom -some old sycophants who came in his way still flattered with his old -title, was now at Baden, a great man enough in his own circle, rich in -the allowance from his nephew, which he was no longer too proud to -accept. He alone of all men expressed any disapprobation of Louis’s -marriage--he whose high sense of family honour revolted from the idea of -a _mesalliance_--and one other individual, who had something of a more -reasonable argument. We hasten to extract, according to a former -promise, the following pathetic paragraph from the pages of the -_Mississippi Gazette_:-- - -“I have just heard of the marriage of the young Lord W---- with the -beautiful M---- A----. Well!--is that so wonderful? Oh, visionary dream! -That thou shouldst pause to comment upon a common British bargain--the -most ordinary arrangement of this conventional and rotten life? What is -a heart in comparison with a title?--true love in the balance of a -coronet? Oh, my country, _thou_ hast not come to this! But for these -mercenary and heartless parents--but for the young mind dazzled with the -splendid cheat of rank--oh heaven, what true felicity--what poetic -rapture--what a home thou mightst have seen! For she was beautiful as -the day when it breaks upon the rivers and the mountains of my native -land! It is enough--a poet’s fate would have been all incomplete without -this fiery trial. Farewell, M----! Farewell, lovely deluded victim of a -false society! Some time out of your hollow splendour you will think of -a true heart and weep!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - -AN OLD FRIEND. - - -“The Winterbournes” had been for some time at home--they were now in -London, and Marian had appeared at court in the full splendour of that -young beauty of hers; which never had dazzled any one at home as it -dazzled every one now. She and her handsome young husband were the lions -of the season, eagerly sought after in “the best society.” Their story -had got abroad, as stories which are at all remarkable have such a -wonderful faculty of getting; and strangers whom Marian had never seen -before, were delighted to make her acquaintance--charmed to know her -sister, who had so much genius, and wrote such delightful books, and, -most extraordinary of all, extremely curious and interested about -Charlie, the wonderful young brother who had found out the mystery. At -one of the fashionable assemblies, where Louis and Marian, Rachel and -Agnes, were pointed out eagerly on all sides, and commented upon as -“such fresh unsophisticated young creatures--such a group! so -picturesque, so interesting!” they became aware, all of them, with -different degrees of embarrassment and pain, that Mrs Edgerley was in -the company. Louis found her out last of all. She could not possibly -fail to notice them; and the young man, anxious to save her pain, made -up his mind at once to be the first to address her. He went forward -gravely, with more than usual deference in his manner. She recognised -him in a moment, started with a little surprise and a momentary shock, -but immediately rushed forward with her most charming air of enthusiasm, -caught his hand, and overwhelmed him with congratulations. “Oh, I should -be so shocked if you supposed that I entertained any prejudice because -of poor dear papa!” cried Mrs Edgerley. “Of course he meant no harm; of -course he did not know any better. I am so charmed to see you! I am sure -we shall make most capital cousins and firm allies. Positively you look -quite grave at me. Oh, I assure you, family feuds are entirely out of -fashion, and no one ever quarrels with _me_! I am dying to see those -sweet girls!” - -And very much amazed, and filled with great perturbation, those sweet -girls were, when Mrs Edgerley came up to them, leaning upon Louis’s arm, -bestowed upon them all a shower of those light perfumy kisses which -Marian and Agnes remembered so well, and, declaring Lady Winterbourne -far too young for a chaperone, took her place among them. Amazed as they -were at this sudden renewal of old friendship, none of them desired to -resist it; and before they were well aware, they found themselves -engaged, the whole party, to Mrs Edgerley’s next “reception,” when -“every one would be so charmed to see them!” “Positively, my love, you -are looking quite lovely,” whispered the fine lady into the shrinking -ear of Marian. “I always said so. I constantly told every one you were -the most perfect little beauty in the world; and then that charming book -of Miss Atheling’s, which every one was wild about! and your -brother--now, do you know, I wish so very much to know your brother. Oh, -I am sure you could persuade him to come to my Thursday. Tell him every -one comes; no one ever refuses _me_! I shall send him a card to-morrow. -Now, may I leave my cause in your hands?” - -“We will try,” said Marian, who, though she bore her new dignities with -extraordinary self-possession on the whole, was undeniably shy of -Agnes’s first fashionable patroness. The invitation was taken up as very -good fun indeed, by all the others. They resolved to make a general -assault upon Charlie, and went home in great glee with their -undertaking. Nor was Charlie, after all, so hard to be moved as they -expected. He twisted the pretty note in his big fingers with somewhat -grim amusement, and said he did not mind. With this result Mrs Atheling -showed the greatest delight, for the good mother began to speculate upon -a wife for Charlie, and to be rather afraid of some humble beauty -catching her boy’s eye before he had “seen the world.” - -With almost the feeling of people in a dream, Agnes and Marian entered -once more those well-remembered rooms of Mrs Edgerley, in which they had -gained their first glimpse of the world; and Charlie, less demonstrative -of his feelings, but not without a remembrance of the past, entered -these same portals where he had exchanged that first glance of -instinctive enmity with the former Lord Winterbourne. The change was -almost too extraordinary to be realised even by the persons principally -concerned. Marian, who had been but Agnes Atheling’s pretty and shy -sister, came in now first of the party, the wife of the head of her -former patroness’s family. Agnes, a diffident young genius then, full of -visionary ideas of fame, had now her own known and acknowledged place, -but had gone far beyond it, in the heart which did not palpitate any -longer with the glorious young fancies of a visionary ambition; and -Charlie, last of all--Charlie, who had tumbled out of the Islington fly -to take charge of his sisters--a big boy, clumsy and manful, whom Lord -Winterbourne smiled at, as he passed, with his ungenial smile--Charlie, -almost single-handed, had thrust the usurper from his seat, and placed -the true heir in his room. No wonder that the Athelings were somewhat -dizzy with recollections when they came among all the fashionable people -who were charmed to see them, and found their way at last to the boudoir -where Agnes and Marian had looked at the faces and the diamonds, on that -old Thursday of Mrs Edgerley’s, which sparkled still in their -recollection, the beginning of their fate. - -But though Louis and Marian, and Agnes and Rachel, were all extremely -attractive, had more or less share in the romance, and were all more or -less handsome, Charlie was without dispute the lion of the night. Mrs -Edgerley fluttered about with him, holding his great arm with her pretty -hand, and introducing him to every one; and with a smile, rueful, -comical, half embarrassed, half ludicrous, Charlie, who continued to be -very shy of ladies, suffered himself to be dragged about by the -fashionable enchantress. He had very little to say--he was such a big -fellow, so unmanageable in a delicate crowd of fine ladies, with -draperies like gossamer, and, to do him justice, very much afraid of the -dangerous steering; but Charlie’s “manners,” though they would have -overwhelmed with distress his anxious mother, rather added to his -“success.” “It was he who conducted the whole case.” “I do not wonder! -Look, what a noble head! What a self-absorbed expression! What a power -of concentration!” were the sweet and audible whispers which rang around -him; and the more sensible observers of the scene, who saw the secret -humour in Charlie’s upper-lip, slightly curved with amusement, acute, -but not unkindly, and caught now and then a gleam of his keen eye, -which, when it met with a response, always made a momentary brightening -of the smile--were disposed to give him full credit for all the power -imputed to him. Mrs Edgerley was in the highest delight--he was a -perfect success for a lion. Lions, as this patroness of the fine arts -knew by experience, were sadly apt to betray themselves, to be thrown -off their balance, to talk nonsense. But Charlie, who was not given to -talking, who was still so delightfully clumsy, and made such a wonderful -bow, was perfectly charming; Mrs Edgerley declared she was quite in love -with him. After all, natural feeling put out of the question, she had no -extraordinary occasion to identify herself with the resentments or -enmities of that ruined plotter at Baden; and he must have been a worthy -father, indeed, who had moved Mrs Edgerley to shut her heart or her -house to the handsome young couple, whom everybody delighted to honour, -or to the hero of a fashionable romance, which was spoken of -everywhere. She had no thought of any such sacrifice; she established -the most friendly relations instantly with her charming young cousins. -She extended the kindly title, with the most fascinating amiability, to -Agnes and Charlie. She overwhelmed the young lawyer with compliments and -invitations. He had a much stronger hold upon her fickle fancy than the -author of _Hope Hazlewood_. Mrs Edgerley was delighted to speak to all -her acquaintances of Mr Atheling, “who conducted all the case against -poor dear papa--did everything himself, I assure you--and such a -charming modesty of genius, such a wonderful force and character! Oh, -any one may be jealous who pleases; I cannot help it. I quite adore that -clever young man.” - -Charlie took it all very quietly; he concerned himself as little about -the adoration of Mrs Edgerley, as he did about the secret scrutiny of -his mother concerning every young woman who chanced to cross the path of -her son. Young women were the only created things whom Charlie was -afraid of, and what his own secret thoughts might be upon this important -question, nobody could tell. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - -SETTLING DOWN. - - -Many lesser changes had been involved in the great revolution which made -the nameless Louis head of the family, and conferred upon him the -estates and title of Lord Winterbourne: scarcely any one, indeed, in the -immediate circle of the two families of Rivers and Atheling, the great -people and the small, remained uninfluenced by the change of -sovereignty, except Miss Anastasia, whose heart and household charities -were manifestly widened, but to whom no other change except the last, -and grand one, was like to come. The Rector kept his word; as soon as he -heard of the definite settlement of that great question of Louis’s -claim, he himself resigned his benefice; and one of the first acts of -the new Lord Winterbourne was to answer the only request of Lionel, by -conferring it upon Mr Mead. After that, Lionel made a settlement upon -his sister of all the property which belonged to them, enough to make a -modest maidenly income for the gentle invalid, and keep her in -possession of all the little luxuries which seemed essential to her -life. For himself, he retained a legacy of a thousand pounds which had -been left to him several years before. This was the last that was known -of the Rector--he disappeared into entire gloom and obscurity after he -had made this final arrangement. It was sometimes possible to hear of -him, for English travellers, journeying through unfamiliar routes, did -not fail to note the wandering English gentleman who seemed to travel -for something else than pleasure, and whose motives and objects no one -knew; but where to look for him next, or what his occupations were, -neither Louis nor his friends, in spite of all their anxious inquiries, -could ever ascertain. - -And Mr Mead was now the rector, and reigned in Lionel’s stead. A new -rectory, all gabled and pinnacled, more “correct” than the model it -followed, and truer to its period than the truest original in -Christendom, rose rapidly between the village and the Hall; and Mr Mead, -whose altar had been made bare by the iconoclastic hands of authority, -began to exhibit some little alteration in his opinions as he grew -older, held modified views as to the priesthood, and cast an eye of -visible kindness upon the Honourable Rachel Rivers. The sentiment, -however, was not at all reciprocal; no one believed that Rachel was -really as old as Louis--older than the pretty matron Marian, older even -than Agnes. She had never been a girl until now--and Rachel cared a -great deal more for the invalid Lucy in her noiseless shadowy chamber in -the Old Wood House, than for all the rectors and all the curates in the -world. _She_ was fancy free, and promised to remain so; and Marian had -already begun with a little horror to entertain the idea that Rachel -possibly might never marry at all. - -The parent Athelings themselves were not unmoved by the changes of their -children. Charlie was to be received as a partner into the firm which Mr -Foggo, by dint of habit, still clung to, as soon as he had attained his -one-and-twentieth year. Agnes, as these quiet days went on, grew both in -reputation and in riches, girl though she still was; and the youngest of -them was Lady Winterbourne! All these great considerations somewhat -dazzled the eyes of the confidential clerk of Messrs Cash, Ledger, & -Co., as he turned over his books upon that desk where he had once placed -Agnes’s fifty-pound notes, the beginning of the family fortune. Bellevue -came to be mightily out of the way when Louis and Marian were in town -living in so different a quarter; and Mr Atheling wearied of the City, -and Mamma concluded that the country air would be a great deal better -for Bell and Beau. So Mr Atheling accepted a retiring allowance, the -half of his previous income, from the employers whom he had served so -long. The whole little household, even including Susan, removed to the -country, where Marian had been delighting herself in the superintendence -of the two or three additional rooms built to the Old Wood Lodge, which -were so great a surprise to Mamma when she found them, risen as at the -touch of a fairy’s wand. The family settled there at once in -unpretending comfort, taking farewell affectionately of Miss Willsie and -Mr Foggo, but not forgetting Bellevue. - -And here Agnes pursued her vocation, making very little demonstration of -it, the main pillar for the mean time, and crowning glory of her -father’s house. Her own mind and imagination had been profoundly -impressed, almost in spite of herself, by that last known act of -Lionel’s--his hasty journey to London with Doctor Serrano. It was the -kind of act beyond all others to win upon a temperament so generous and -sensitive, which a more ostentatious generosity might have disgusted and -repelled; and perhaps the very uncertainty in which they remained -concerning him kept up the lurking “interest” in Agnes Atheling’s heart. -It was possible that he might appear any day at their very doors; it was -possible that he never might be seen again. It was not easy to avoid -speculating upon him--what he was thinking, where he was?--and when, in -that spontaneous delight of her young genius, which yet had suffered no -diminution, Agnes’s thoughts glided into impersonation, and fairy -figures gathered round her, and one by one her fables grew, in the midst -of the thread of story--in the midst of what people called, to the young -author’s amusement, “an elaborate development of character, the result -of great study and observation”--thoughts came to her mind, and words to -her lip, which she supposed no one could thoroughly understand save -_one_. Almost unconsciously she shadowed his circumstances and his story -in many a bright imagination of her own; and contrasted with the real -one half-a-dozen imaginary Lionels, yet always ending in finding him the -noblest type of action in that great crisis of his career. It blended -somehow strangely with all that was most serious in her work; for when -Agnes had to speak of faith, she spoke of it with the fervour with which -one addresses an individual, opening her heart to show the One great -Name enshrined in it to another, who, woe for him, in his wanderings so -sadly friendless, knew not that Lord. - -So the voice of the woman who dwelt at home went out over the world; it -charmed multitudes who thought of nothing but the story it told, -delighted some more who recognised that sweet faulty grace of youth, -that generous young directness and simplicity which made the fable -truth. If it ever reached to one who felt himself addressed in it, who -knew the words, the allusions, that noble craft of genius, which, -addressing all, had still a private voice for one--if there was such a -man somewhere, in the desert or among the mountains far away, wandering -where he seldom heard the tongue of his country, and never saw a face he -recognised, Agnes never knew. - -But after this fashion time went on with them all. Then there came a -second heir, another Louis to the Hall at Winterbourne--and it was very -hard to say whether this young gentleman’s old aunt or his young aunt, -the Honourable Rachel, or the Honourable Anastasia, was most completely -out of her wits at this glorious epoch in the history of the House. -Another event of the most startling and extraordinary description took -place very shortly after the christening of Marian’s miraculous baby. -Charlie was one-and-twenty; he was admitted into the firm, and the young -man, who was one of the most “rising young men” in his profession, took -to himself a holiday, and went abroad without any one knowing much about -it. No harm in that; but when Charlie returned, he brought with him a -certain Signora Giulia, a very amazing companion indeed for this -taciturn hero, who was afraid of young ladies. He took her down at once -to Winterbourne, to present her to his mother and sisters. He had the -grace to blush, but really was not half so much ashamed of himself as he -ought to have been. For the pretty young Italian turned out to be cousin -to Louis and Rachel--a delicate little beauty, extremely proud of the -big young lover, who had carried her off from her mother’s house six -weeks ago: and we are grieved to acknowledge that Charlie henceforth -showed no fear whatever, scarcely even the proper awe of a dutiful -husband, in the presence of Mrs Charles Atheling. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - -THE END. - - -Agnes Atheling was alone in old Miss Bridget’s parlour; it was a fervent -day of July, and all the country lay in a hush and stillness of -exceeding sunshine, which reduced all the common sounds of life, far and -near, to a drowsy and languid hum--the midsummer’s luxurious voice. The -little house was perfectly still. Mrs Atheling was at the Hall, Papa in -Oxford, and Hannah, whose sole beatific duty it was to take care of the -children, and who envied no one in the world save the new nurse to the -new baby, had taken out Bell and Beau. The door was open in the fearless -fashion and license of the country. Perhaps Susan was dozing in the -kitchen, or on the sunny outside bench by the kitchen door. There was -not a sound about the house save the deep dreamy hum of the bees among -the roses--those roses which clustered thick round the old porch and on -the wall. Agnes sat by the open window, in a very familiar old -occupation, making a frock for little Bell, who was six years old now, -and appreciated pretty things. Agnes was not quite so young as she used -to be--four years, with a great many events in them, had enlarged the -maiden mind, which still was as fresh as a child’s. She was changed -otherwise: the ease which those only have who are used to the company of -people of refinement, had added another charm to her natural grace. As -she sat with her work on her knee, in her feminine attitude and -occupation, making a meditative pause, bowing her head upon her hand, -thinking of something, with those quiet walls of home around her--the -open door, the open window, and no one else visible in the serene and -peaceful house, she made, in her fair and thoughtful young womanhood, as -sweet a type as one could desire of the serene and happy confidence of a -quiet English home. - -She did not observe any one passing; she was not thinking, perhaps, of -any one hereabout who was like to pass--but she heard a step entering at -the door. She scarcely looked up, thinking it some member of the -family--scarcely moved even when the door of the parlour opened wider, -and the step came in. Then she looked up--started up--let her work drop -out of her hands, and, gazing with eagerness in the bronzed face of the -stranger, uttered a wondering exclamation. He hastened to her, holding -out his hand. “Mr Rivers?” cried Agnes, in extreme surprise and -agitation--“is it _you_?” - -What he said was some hasty faltering expressions of delight in seeing -her, and they gazed at each other with their mutual “interest,” glad, -yet constrained. “We have tried often to find out where you were,” said -Agnes--“I mean Louis; he has been very anxious. Have you seen him? When -did you come home?” - -“I have seen no one save you.” - -“But Louis has been very anxious,” said Agnes, with a little confusion. -“We have all tried to discover where you were. Is it wrong to ask where -you have been?” - -But Lionel did not at all attend to her questions. He was less -self-possessed than she was; he seemed to have only one idea at the -present moment, so far as was visible, and that he simply expressed over -again--“I am very glad--happy--to see you here and alone.” - -“Oh!” said Agnes with a nervous tremor--“I--I was asking, Mr Rivers, -where you had been?” - -This time he began to attend to her. “I have been everywhere,” he said, -“except where pleasure was. I have been on fields of battles--in places -of wretchedness. I have come to tell you something--you only. Do you -remember our conversation once by Badgeley Wood?” - -“Yes.” - -“You gave me a talisman, Agnes,” said the speaker, growing more excited; -“I have carried it all over the world.” - -“Well,” said Agnes as he paused. She looked at him very earnestly, -without even a blush at the sound of her own name. - -“Well--better than well!” cried Lionel; “wonderful--invincible--divine! -I went to try your spell--I who trusted nothing--at the moment when -everything had failed me--even you. I put yonder sublime Friend of yours -to the experiment--I dared to do it! I took his name to the sorrowful, -as you bade me. I cast out devils with his name, as the sorcerers tried -to do. I put all the hope I could have in life upon the trial. Now I -come to tell you the issue; it is fit that you should know.” - -Agnes leaned forward towards him, listening eagerly; she could not quite -tell what she expected--a confession of faith. - -“I am a man of ambition,” said Lionel, turning in a moment from the high -and solemn excitement of his former speech, with a sudden smile like a -gleam of sunshine. “You remember my projects when I was heir of -Winterbourne. You knew them, though I did not tell you; now I have found -a cave in a wild mining district among a race of giants. I am Vicar of -Botallach, among the Cornish men--have been for four-and-twenty -hours--that is the end.” - -Agnes had put out her hand to him in the first impulse of joy and -congratulation; a second thought, more subtle, made her pause, and -blush, and draw back. Lionel was not so foolish as to wait the end of -this self-controversy. He left his seat, came to her side, took the hand -firmly into his own, which she half gave, and half withdrew--did not -blush, but grew pale, with the quiet concern of a man who was about -deciding the happiness of his life. “The end, but the beginning too,” -said Lionel, with a tremor in his voice. “Agnes hear me still--I have -something more to say.” - -She did not answer a word; she lifted her eyes to his face with one -hurried, agitated momentary glance. Something more! but the whole tale -was in the look. _They_ did not know very well what words followed, and -neither do we. - - -THE END. - -PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Athelings; vol. 3/3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATHELINGS; VOL. 3/3 *** - -***** This file should be named 55121-0.txt or 55121-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/1/2/55121/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Athelings; vol. 3/3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: July 15, 2017 [EBook #55121] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATHELINGS; VOL. 3/3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="320" height="500" alt="cover" title="" /> -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border: 2px black solid;margin:auto auto;max-width:50%; -padding:1%;"> -<tr><td> -<p class="c">Contents.</p> -<p class="nind"> -<a href="#BOOK_III_CHAPTER_I">Book III.—Chapter I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"> II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III"> III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"> IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"> V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"> VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"> VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"> IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X"> X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"> XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII"> XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"> XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"> XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"> XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"> XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"> XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"> XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"> XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX"> XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"> XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"> XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"> XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV"> XXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV"> XXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI"> XXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII"> XXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII"> XXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX"> XXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX"> XXX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI"> XXXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII"> XXXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII"> XXXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV"> XXXIV.</a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV"> XXXV.</a> -</p> -<p class="c">(etext transcriber's note)</p></td></tr> -</table> - -<h1>THE ATHELINGS</h1> - -<p class="c"><small>OR</small></p> - -<p class="c">THE THREE GIFTS<br /><br /><br /> -BY MARGARET OLIPHANT -</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“I’ the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The roofs of palaces; and nature prompts them,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">In simple and low things, to prince it much<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Beyond the trick of others.”<br /></span> -<span class="i15"><small>CYMBELINE</small><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c"> -IN THREE VOLUMES<br /> -<br /> -VOL. III.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS<br /> -EDINBURGH AND LONDON<br /> -MDCCCLVII<br /> -<br /><br /><small> -ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE.</small></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{01}</span></p> - -<h1> -THE ATHELINGS</h1> -<p class="c"> -BOOK III.—WINTERBOURNE HALL<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{02}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{03}</span> </p> - -<h1>THE ATHELINGS.</h1> - -<h2><a name="BOOK_III_CHAPTER_I" id="BOOK_III_CHAPTER_I"></a>BOOK III.—CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>AN OLD STORY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Now</span>, mother,” said Charlie, “I’m in real earnest. My father would tell -me himself if he were here. I want to understand the whole concern.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling and her son were in Charlie’s little room, with its one -small lattice-window, overshadowed and embowered in leaves—its plain -uncurtained bed, its small table, and solitary chair. Upon this chair, -with a palpitating heart, sat Mrs Atheling, and before her stood the -resolute boy.</p> - -<p>And she began immediately, yet with visible faltering and hesitation, to -tell him the story she had told the girls of the early connection -between the present Lord Winterbourne and the Atheling family. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{04}</span> -Charlie’s mind was excited and preoccupied. He listened, almost with -impatience, to the sad little romance of his father’s young sister, of -whom he had never heard before. It did not move him at all as it had -moved Agnes and Marian. Broken hearts and disappointed loves were very -far out of Charlie’s way; something entirely different occupied his own -imagination. He broke forth with a little effusion of impatience when -the story came to an end. “And is this all? Do you mean to say this is -the whole, mother? And my father had never anything to do with him but -through a girl!”</p> - -<p>“You are very unfeeling, Charlie,” said Mrs Atheling, who wiped her eyes -with real emotion, yet with a little policy too, and to gain time. “She -was a dear innocent girl, and your father was very fond of her—reason -enough to give him a dislike, if it were not sinful, to the very name of -Lord Winterbourne.”</p> - -<p>“I had better go on with my packing, then,” said Charlie. “So, that was -all? I suppose any scamp in existence might do the same. Do you really -mean to tell me, mother, that there was nothing but this?”</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling faltered still more under the steady observation of her -son. “Charlie,” said his mother, with agitation, “your father never -would mention it to any one. I may be doing very wrong. If he only were -here himself to decide! But if I tell you, you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{05}</span> must give me your word -never so much as to hint at it again.”</p> - -<p>Charlie did not give the necessary pledge, but Mrs Atheling made no -pause. She did not even give him time to speak, however he might have -been inclined, but hastened on in her own disclosure with agitation and -excitement. “You have heard Papa tell of the young gentleman—he whom -you all used to be so curious about—whom your father did a great -benefit to,” said Mrs Atheling, in a breathless hurried whisper. -“Charlie, my dear, I never said it before to any creature—that was -<i>him</i>.”</p> - -<p>She paused only a moment to take breath. “It was before we knew how he -had behaved to dear little Bride,” she continued, still in haste, and in -an undertone. “What he did was a forgery—a forgery! people were hanged -for it then. It was either a bill, or a cheque, or something, and Mr -Reginald had written to it another man’s name. It happened when Papa was -in the bank, and before old Mr Lombard died—old Mr Lombard had a great -kindness for your father, and we had great hopes then—and by good -fortune the thing was brought to Papa. Your father was always very -quick, Charlie—he found it out in a moment. So he told old Mr Lombard -of it in a quiet way, and Mr Lombard consented he should take it back to -Mr Reginald, and tell him it was found out, and hush all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{06}</span> the business -up. If your papa had not been so quick, Charlie, but had paid the money -at once, as almost any one else would have done, it all must have been -found out, and he would have been hanged, as certain as anything—he, a -haughty young gentleman, and a lord’s son!”</p> - -<p>“And a very good thing, too,” exclaimed Charlie; “saved him from doing -any more mischief. So, I suppose now, it’s all my father’s blame.”</p> - -<p>“This Lord Winterbourne is a bad man,” said Mrs Atheling, taking no -notice of her son’s interruption: “first he was furious to William, and -then he cringed and fawned to him; and of course he had it on his -conscience then about poor little Bride, though we did not know—and -then he raved, and said he was desperate, and did not know what to do -for money. Your father came home to me, quite unhappy about him; for he -belonged to the same country, and everybody tried to make excuses for Mr -Reginald, being a young man, and the heir. So William made it up in his -own mind to go and tell the old lord, who was in London then. The old -lord was a just man, but very proud. He did not take it kind of William, -and he had no regard for Mr Reginald; but for the honour of the family -he sent him away. Then we lost sight of him long, and Aunt Bridget took -a dislike to us, and poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{07}</span> little Bride was dead, and we never heard -anything of the Lodge or the Hall for many a year; but the old lord died -abroad, and Mr Reginald came home Lord Winterbourne. That was all we -ever knew. I thought your father had quite forgiven him, Charlie—we had -other things to think of than keeping up old grudges—when all at once -it came to be in the newspapers that Lord Winterbourne was a political -man, that he was making speeches everywhere, and that he was to be one -of the ministry. When your father saw that, he blazed up into such an -anger! I said all I could, but William never minded me. He never was so -bitter before, not even when we heard of little Bride. He said, Such a -man to govern us and all the people!—a forger! a liar!—and sometimes, -I think, he thought he would expose the whole story, and let everybody -know.”</p> - -<p>“Time enough for that,” said Charlie, who had listened to all this -without comment, but with the closest attention. “What he did once he’ll -do again, mother; but we’re close at his heels this time, and he won’t -get off now. I’m going to Oxford now to get some books. I say, mother, -you’ll be sure, upon your honour, not to tell the girls?”</p> - -<p>“No, Charlie,” said Mrs Atheling, with a somewhat faint affirmation; -“but, my dear, I can’t believe in it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{08}</span> It can’t be true. Charlie, boy! -if this was coming true, our Marian—your sister, Charlie!—why, Marian -would be Lady Winterbourne!”</p> - -<p>Charlie did not say a word in return; he only took down his little -travelling-bag, laid it at his mother’s feet to be packed, and left her -to that business and her own meditations; but after he had left the -room, the lad returned again and thrust in his shaggy head at the door. -“Take care of Marian, mother,” said Charlie, in a parting adjuration; -“remember my father’s little sister Bride.”</p> - -<p>So he went away, leaving Mrs Atheling a good deal disquieted. She had -got over the first excitement of Miss Anastasia’s great intelligence and -the sudden preparations of Charlie. She had scarcely time enough, -indeed, to give a thought to these things, when her son demanded this -history from her, and sent her mind away into quite a different channel. -Now she sat still in Charlie’s room, pondering painfully, with the -travelling-bag lying quite unheeded at her feet. At one moment she -pronounced the whole matter perfectly impossible—at the next, -triumphantly inconsequent, she leaped to the full consummation of the -hope, and saw her own pretty Marian—dazzling vision!—the lady of -Winterbourne! and again the heart of the good mother fell, and she -remembered little Bride. Louis, as he was now, having no greater friends -than their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{09}</span> own simple family, and no pretensions whatever either to -birth or fortune, was a very different person from that other Louis who -might be heir of lands and lordship and the family pride of the -Riverses. Much perplexed, in great uncertainty and pain, mused Mrs -Atheling, half-resentful of that grand discovery of Miss Anastasia, -which might plunge them all into renewed trouble; while Charlie trudged -into Oxford for his Italian grammar—and Louis and Marian wandered -through the enchanted wood, drawing homeward—and Rachel sang to the -children—and Agnes wondered by herself over the secret which was to be -confided only to Mamma.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>A CRISIS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">That</span> night Charlie had need of all his diplomatic talents. Before he -returned from Oxford, his mother, by way of precaution lest Agnes should -betray the sudden and mysterious visit of Miss Anastasia to Marian, -contrived to let her elder daughter know mysteriously, something of the -scope and object of the sudden journey for which it was necessary to -prepare her brother, driving Agnes, as was to be supposed, into a very -fever of suppressed excitement, joy, triumph, and anxiety. Mrs Atheling, -conscious, hurried, and studying deeply not to betray herself—and -Agnes, watching every one, stopping questions, and guarding off -suspicions with prudence much too visible—were quite enough of -themselves to rouse every other member of the little company to lively -pursuit after the secret. Charlie was assailed by every shape and form -of question: Where was he going—what was he to do? He showed no -cleverness,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> we are bound to acknowledge, in evading these multitudinous -interrogations; he turned an impenetrable front upon them, and made the -most commonplace answers, making vast incursions all the time into -Hannah’s cakes and Mamma’s bread-and-butter.</p> - -<p>“He had to go back immediately to the office; he believed he had got a -new client for old Foggo,” said Charlie, with the utmost coolness; -“making no secret of it at all,” according to Mamma’s indignant -commentary.</p> - -<p>“To the office!—are you only going home, after all?” cried Marian.</p> - -<p>“I’ll see when I get there,” answered Charlie; “there’s something to be -done abroad. I shouldn’t wonder if they sent <i>me</i>. I say, I wish you’d -all come home at once, and make things comfortable. There’s my poor -father fighting it out with Susan. I should not stand it if it was me.”</p> - -<p>“Hold your peace, Charlie, and don’t be rude,” said Mrs Atheling. “But, -indeed, I wish we were at home, and out of everybody’s way.”</p> - -<p>“Who is everybody?” said Louis. “I, who am going myself, can wish quite -sincerely that we were all at home; but the addition is mysterious—who -is in anybody’s way?”</p> - -<p>“Mamma means to wish us all out of reach of the Evil Eye,” said Agnes, a -little romantically.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span></p> - -<p>“No such thing, my dear. I daresay we could do <i>him</i> a great deal more -harm than he can do us,” said Mrs Atheling, with sudden importance and -dignity; then she paused with a certain solemnity, so that everybody -could perceive the grave self-restraint of the excellent mother, and -that she could say a great deal more if she chose.</p> - -<p>“But no one thinks what I am to do when you are all gone,” said Rachel; -and her tearful face happily diverted her companions from investigating -and from concealing the secret. There remained among them all, however, -a certain degree of excitement. Charlie was returning home -to-morrow—specially called home on business!—perhaps to go abroad upon -the same! The fact stirred all those young hearts with something not -unlike envy. This boy seemed to have suddenly leaped in one day into a -man.</p> - -<p>And it was natural enough that, hearing of this, the mind of Louis -should burn and chafe with fierce impatience. Charlie, who was perfectly -undemonstrative of his thoughts and imaginations, was a very boy to -Louis—yet there was need and occasion for Charlie in the crowd of life, -when no one thought upon this fiery and eager young man. It was late -that night when Louis left this only home and haven which he had ever -known; and though he would fain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> have left Rachel there, his little -sister would not remain behind him, but clung to his arm with a strange -presentiment of something about to happen, which she could not explain. -Louis scarcely answered a word to the quiet talk of Rachel as they went -upon their way to the Hall. With difficulty, and even with impatience, -he curbed his rapid stride to her timid little footsteps, and hurried -her along without a glance at the surrounding scene, memorable and -striking as it was. The broad moonlight flooded over the noble park of -Winterbourne. The long white-columned front of the house—which was a -great Grecian house, pallid, vast, and imposing—shone in the white -light like a screen of marble; and on the great lawn immediately before -it were several groups of people, dwarfed into minute miraculous figures -by the great space and silence, and the intense illumination, which was -far more striking and particular than the broader light of day. The -chances were that Louis did not see them, as he plunged on, in the -blindness of preoccupation, keeping no path, through light and shadow, -through the trees and underwood, and across the broad unshaded -greensward, where no one could fail to perceive him. His little sister -clung to his arm in an agony of fear, grief, and confidence—trembling -for something about to happen with an overpowering tremor—yet holding a -vague faith in her brother,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> strange and absorbing. She said, “Louis, -Louis!” in her tone of appeal and entreaty. He did not hear her, but -struck across the broad visible park, in the full stream of the -moonlight, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. As they -approached, Rachel could not even hear any conversation among the groups -on the lawn; and it was impossible to suppose that they had not been -seen. Louis’s abrupt direct course, over the turf and through the -brushwood, must have attracted the notice of bystanders even in the -daylight; it was still more remarkable now, when noiseless and rapid, -through the intense white radiance and the perfect stillness, the -stately figure of the young man, and his timid, graceful little sister, -came directly forward in face of the spectators. These spectators were -all silent, looking on with a certain fascination, and Rachel could not -tell whether Louis was even conscious that any one was there.</p> - -<p>But before they could turn aside into the road which led to the Hall -door—a road to which Rachel most anxiously endeavoured to guide her -brother—they were suddenly arrested by the voice of Lord Winterbourne. -“I must put a stop to this,” said his lordship suddenly and loudly, with -so evident a reference to themselves, that even Rachel stopped without -knowing it. “Here, young fellow, stop and give an account of -yourself—what do you mean by wandering about my park at midnight,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> eh? -I know your poaching practices. Setting snares, I suppose, and dragging -about this girl as a protection. Get into your kennel, you mean dog; is -this how you repay the shelter I have given you all your life?”</p> - -<p>“It would be a fit return,” said Louis. He did not speak so loud, but -with a tremble of scorn and bitterness and intense youthful feeling in -his voice, before which the echo of his persecutor’s went out and died, -like an ignoble thing. “If I were, as you say,” repeated the young man, -“setting snares for your game, or for your wealth, or for your life, you -know it would be a fit return.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I live a peaceful life with this villanous young incendiary under -my roof!” said Lord Winterbourne. “I’ll tell you what, you young -ruffian, if nothing better can restrain you, locks and bars shall. Oh, -no chance of appealing to <i>my</i> pity, with that fool of a girl upon your -arm! You think you can defy me, year after year, because I have given -charity to your base blood. My lad, you shall learn to know me better -before another week is over our heads. Why, gentlemen, you perceive, by -his own confession, I stand in danger of my life.”</p> - -<p>“Winterbourne,” said some one over his shoulder, in a reproving tone, -“<i>you</i> should be the last man in the world to taunt this unfortunate lad -with his base blood.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span></p> - -<p>Lord Winterbourne turned upon his heel with a laugh of insult which sent -the wild blood dancing in an agony of shame, indignation, and rage even -into Rachel’s woman’s face. “Well,” said the voice of their tyrant, “I -have supported the hound—what more would you have? His mother was a -pretty fool, but she had her day. There’s more of her conditions in the -young villain than mine. I have no idea of playing the romantic father -to such a son—not I!”</p> - -<p>Louis did not know that he threw his sister off his arm before he sprang -into the midst of these half-dozen gentlemen. She did not know herself, -as she stood behind clenching her small fingers together painfully, with -all the burning vehemence of a woman’s passion. The young man sprang -forward with the bound of a young tiger. His voice was hoarse with -passion, not to be restrained. “It is a lie—a wilful, abominable lie!” -cried Louis fiercely, confronting as close as a wrestler the ghastly -face of his tyrant, who shrank before him. “I am no son of yours—you -know I am no son of yours! I owe you the hateful bread I have been -compelled to eat—nothing more. I am without a name—I may be of base -blood—but I warn you for your life, if you dare repeat this last -insult. It is a lie! I tell every one who condescends to call you -friend; and I appeal to God, who knows that you know it is a lie! I may -be the son<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> of any other wretch under heaven, but I am not yours. I -disown it with loathing and horror. Do you hear me?—you know the truth -in your heart, and so do I!”</p> - -<p>Lord Winterbourne fell back, step by step, before the young man, who -pressed upon him close and rapid, with eyes which flamed and burned with -a light which he could not bear. The insulting smile upon his bloodless -face had not passed from it yet. His eyes, shifting, restless, and -uneasy, expressed nothing. He was not a coward, and he was sufficiently -quick-witted on ordinary occasions, but he had nothing whatever to -answer to this vehement and unexpected accusation. He made an -unintelligible appeal with his hand to his companions, and lifted up his -face to the moonlight like a spectre, but he did not answer by a single -word.</p> - -<p>“Young man,” said the gentleman who had spoken before, “I acknowledge -your painful position, and that you have been addressed in a most -unseemly manner—but no provocation should make you forget your natural -duty. Lord Winterbourne must have had a motive for maintaining you as he -has done. I put it to you calmly, dispassionately—what motive could he -possibly have had, except one?”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Louis, with a sudden and violent start,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> “he must have had a -motive—it is true; he would not waste his cruel powers, even for -cruelty’s sake. If any man can tell me what child it was his interest to -bastardise and defame, there may be hope and a name for me yet.”</p> - -<p>At these words, Lord Winterbourne advanced suddenly with a singular -eagerness. “Let us have done with this foolery,” he said, in a voice -which was certainly less steady than usual; “I presume we can all be -better employed than listening to the vapourings of this foolish boy. Go -in, my lad, and learn a lesson by your folly to-night. I pass it over, -simply because you have shown yourself to be a fool.”</p> - -<p>“I, however, do not pass it over, my lord,” said Louis, who had calmed -down after the most miraculous fashion, to the utter amazement of his -sister. “Thank you for the provision you have given us, such as it is. -Some time we may settle scores upon that subject. My sister and I must -find another shelter to-night.”</p> - -<p>The bystanders were half disposed to smile at the young man’s heroical -withdrawal—but they were all somewhat amazed to find that Lord -Winterbourne was as far as possible from sharing their amusement. He -called out immediately in an access of passion to stop the young -ruffian, incendiary, mischief-maker;—called loudly upon the servants, -who began to appear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> at the open door—ordered Louis to his own -apartment with the most unreasonable vehemence, and finally turned upon -Rachel, calling her to give up the young villain’s arm, and for her life -to go home.</p> - -<p>But Rachel was wound to the fever point as well as her brother. “No, no, -it is all true he has said,” cried Rachel. “I know it, like Louis; we -are not your children—you dare not call us so now. I never believed you -were our father—never all my life.”</p> - -<p>She exclaimed these words hastily in her low eager voice, as Louis drew -her arm through his, and hurried her away. The young man struck again -across the broad park and through the moonlight, while behind, Lord -Winterbourne called to his servants to go after the fugitives—to bring -that fellow back. The men only stared at their master, looked helplessly -at each other, and went off on vain pretended searches, with no better -intention than to keep out of Louis’s way, until prudence came to the -aid of Lord Winterbourne. “I shall scarcely think my life in safety -while that young fool wanders wild about the country,” he said to his -friends, as he returned within doors; but his friends, one and all, -thought this a very odd scene.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Louis made his rapid way with his little sister on his arm out -over the glorious moonlit park of Winterbourne, away from the only home -he had ever known—out to the night and to the world. Rachel,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> leaning -closely upon him, scarcely so much as looked up, as her faltering -footstep toiled to keep up with her brother. He, holding his proud young -head high, neither turned nor glanced aside, but pressed on straight -forward, as if to some visionary certain end before his eye. Then they -came out at last to the white silent road, lying ghostlike under the -excess of light—the quiet road which led through the village where all -the houses slept and everything was still, not a curl of smoke in the -moonlight, nor a house-dog’s bark in the silence. It was midnight, vast -and still, a great desolate uninhabited world. There was not a door open -to them, nor a place where they could rest. But on pressed Louis, with -the rapid step and unhesitating course of one who hastened to some -definite conclusion. “Where are we going—where shall we go?” said poor -little Rachel, drooping on his shoulder. Her brother did not hear her. -He was not selfish, but he had not that superhuman consideration for -others which might have broken the fiery inspiration of his own -momentous thoughts, and made him think of the desolate midnight, and the -houseless and outcast condition which were alone present to the mind of -Rachel. He did not see a vast homeless solitude—a vagabond and -disgraceful wandering, in this midnight walk. He saw a new world before -him, such as had never glanced before across his fancy. “He must have -had a motive,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> he muttered to himself. Rachel heard him sadly, and took -the words as a matter of course. “Where are we to go?”—that was a more -immediately important question to the simple mind of Rachel.</p> - -<p>The Old Wood Lodge was as deep asleep as any house in the village. They -paused, reluctant, both of them, to awake their friends within, and went -back, pacing rapidly between the house of the Athelings and that of the -Rector. The September night was cold, and Rachel was timid of that -strange midnight world out of doors. They seemed to have nothing for it -but pacing up and down upon the grassy road, where they were at least -within sight of a friendly habitation, till morning came.</p> - -<p>There was one light in one window of the Old Wood House; Rachel’s eye -went wandering to it wistfully, unawares: If the Rector knew—the -Rector, who once would have been kind if Louis would have let him. But, -as if in very response to her thoughts, the Rector, when they came back -to this point again, was standing, like themselves, in the moonlight, -looking over the low wall. He called to them rather authoritatively, -asking what they did there—but started, and changed his tone into one -of wondering interest and compassion when Rachel lifted her pale face to -him, with the tears in her eyes. He hastened to the gate at once, and -called them to enter. “Nay, nay, no hesitation—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span>come in at once, that -she may have rest and shelter,” said the Rector in a peremptory tone, -which, for the first time in his life, Louis had no thought of -resenting. He went in without a word, leading his little sister. Perhaps -it was the first great thing that ever had been done in all her life for -Rachel’s sake—for the sake of the delicate girl, who was half a child -though a woman in years,—for sake of her tenderness, her delicate -frame, her privilege of weakness. The two haughty young men went in -silently together into this secluded house, which never opened its doors -to any guest. It was an invalid’s home, and some one was always at hand -for its ailing mistress. By-and-by Rachel, in the exhaustion of great -excitement, fell asleep in a little quiet room looking over that moonlit -park of Winterbourne. Louis, who was in no mood for sleep, watched -below, full of eager and unquiet thoughts. They had left Winterbourne -Hall suddenly; the Rector asked no further questions, expressed no -wonder, and left the young man who had repelled him once, with a lofty -and dignified hospitality, to his meditations or repose.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>CHARLIE’S PREPARATIONS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Charlie Atheling</span> was not at all of an imaginative or fanciful turn of -mind. His slumbers were not disturbed by castle-building—he wasted none -of his available time in making fancy sketches of the people, or the -circumstances, among which he was likely to be thrown. He was not -without the power of comprehending at a glance the various features of -his mission; but by much the most remarkable point of Charlie’s -character was his capacity for doing his immediate business, whatever -that might be, with undivided attention, and with his full powers. On -this early September morning he neither occupied himself with -anticipations of his interview with Miss Anastasia, nor his hurried -journey. He did not suffer his mind to stray to difficult questions of -evidence, nor wander off into speculations concerning what he might have -to do when he reached the real scene of his investigation. What he had -to do at the moment he did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> like a man, bending upon his serious -business all the faculties of his mind, and all the furrows of his brow. -He got up at six o’clock, not because he particularly liked it, but -because these early morning hours had become his habitual time for extra -work of every kind, and sat upon Hannah’s bench in the garden, close by -the kitchen door, with the early sun and the early wind playing -hide-and-seek among his elf-locks, learning his Italian grammar, as if -this was the real business for which he came into the world.</p> - -<p>“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do”—that was Charlie’s secret of -success. He had only a grammar, a dictionary, and a little New Testament -in Italian—and he had not at this moment the slightest ambition to read -Dante in the original; but with steady energy he chased those unknown -verbs into the deep caverns of his memory—a memory which was -prodigious, and lost nothing committed to it. The three books -accompanied him when he went in to breakfast, and marched off in his -pocket to Oxford when it was time to keep his appointment with Miss -Anastasia. Meanwhile the much-delayed travelling-bag only now began to -get packed, and Mrs Atheling, silently toiling at this business, felt -convinced that Susan would mislay all the things most important for -Charlie’s comfort, and very much yearned in her heart to accompany her -son home. They were to meet him at the railway, whence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> he would depart -immediately, after his interview with Miss Rivers; and Charlie’s secret -commission made a considerable deal of excitement in the quiet little -house.</p> - -<p>Miss Anastasia, who was much too eager and impetuous to be punctual, had -been waiting for some time, when her young agent made his appearance at -the office of her solicitor. After she had charged him with being too -late, and herself suffered conviction as being too early, the old lady -proceeded at once to business; they were in Mr Temple’s own room, but -they were alone.</p> - -<p>“I have made copies of everything that seemed to throw light upon my -late father’s wanderings,” said Miss Anastasia—“not much to speak -of—see! These papers must have been carefully weeded before they came -to my hands. Here is an old guide-book marked with notes, and here a -letter dated from the place where he died. It is on the borders of -Italy—at the foot of the Alps—on the way to Milan, and not very far -from there. You will make all speed, young Atheling; I trust to your -prudence—betray nothing—do not say a word about these children until -you find some certain clue. It is more than twenty years—nearly -one-and-twenty years—since my father died; but a rich Englishman, who -married among them, was not like to be forgotten in such a village. Find -out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> who this Giulietta was—if you can discover the family, they might -know something. My father had an attendant, a sort of courier, who was -with us often—Jean Monte, half a Frenchman half an Italian. I have -never heard of him since that time; he might be heard of on the way, and -<i>he</i> might know—but I cannot direct you, boy—I trust to your own -spirit, your own foresight, your own prudence. Make haste, as if it was -life and death; yet if time will avail you, take time. Now, young -Atheling, I trust you!—bring clear evidence—legal evidence—what will -stand in a court of law—and as sure as you live your fortune is made!”</p> - -<p>Charlie did not make a single protestation in answer to this address. He -folded up carefully those fragments of paper copied out in Miss -Anastasia’s careful old-fashioned lady’s hand, and placed them in the -big old pocket-book which he carried for lack of a better.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know much of the route,” said Charlie,—“over the Alps, I -suppose,” and for once his cheek flushed with the youthful excitement of -the travel. “I shall find out all about that immediately when I get to -town; and there is a passport to be seen after. When I am ready to -start—which will be just as soon as the thing can be done—I shall let -you know how I am to travel, and write immediately when I arrive -there;—I know what you mean me to do.”</p> - -<p>Then Miss Anastasia gave him—(a very important<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> part of the -business)—two ten-pound notes, which was a very large sum to Charlie, -and directed him to go to the banking-house with which she kept an -account in London, and get from them a letter of credit on a banker in -Milan, on whom he could draw, according to his occasions. “You are very -young, young Atheling,” said Miss Rivers; “many a father would hesitate -to trust his son as I trust you; but I’m a woman and an optimist, and -have my notions: you are only a boy, but I believe in you—forget how -young you are while you are about my business—plenty of time after this -for enjoying yourself—and I tell you again, if you do your duty, your -fortune is made.”</p> - -<p>The old lady and the youth went out together, to where the little -carriage and the grey ponies stood at the solicitor’s door. Charlie, in -his present development, was not at all the man to hand a lady with a -grace to her carriage; nor was this stately gentlewoman, in her brown -pelisse, at all the person to be so escorted; but they were a remarkable -pair enough, as they stood upon the broad pavement of one of the noblest -streets of Christendom. Miss Anastasia held out her hand with a parting -command and warning, as she took her seat and the reins.—“Young -Atheling, remember! it is life and death!”</p> - -<p>She was less cautious at that moment than she had been during all their -interview. The words full upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> another ear than his to whom they were -addressed. Lord Winterbourne was making his way at the moment with some -newly-arrived guests of his, and under the conduct of a learned pundit -from one of the colleges, along this same picturesque High Street; and, -in the midst of exclamations of rapture and of interest, his suspicious -and alarmed eye caught the familiar equipage and well-known figure of -Miss Anastasia. Her face was turned in the opposite direction,—she did -not see him,—but a single step brought him near enough to hear her -words. “Young Atheling!” Lord Winterbourne had not forgotten his former -connection with the name, but the remembrance had long lain dormant in a -breast which was used to potent excitements. William Atheling, though he -once saved a reckless young criminal, could do no harm with his remote -unbelievable story to a peer of the realm,—a man who had sat in the -councils of the State. Lord Winterbourne had begun his suit for the Old -Wood Lodge with the most contemptuous indifference to all that could be -said of him by any one of this family; yet somehow it struck him -strangely to hear so sudden a naming of this name. “Young Atheling!” He -could not help looking at the youth,—meeting the stormy gleam in the -eyes of Charlie, whose sudden enmity sprung up anew in an instant. Lord -Winterbourne was sufficiently disturbed already by the departure of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> -Louis, and with the quick observation of alarm remarked everything. He -could understand no natural connection whatever between this lad and -Miss Anastasia. His startled imagination suggested instantly that it -bore some reference to Louis, and what interpretation was it possible to -give to so strange an adjuration—“It is life and death!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>GOING AWAY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Charlie</span>, my dear boy,” said Mrs Atheling, with a slight tremble in her -voice, “I suppose it may be months before we see you again.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell, mother; but it will not be a day longer than I can help,” -said Charlie, who had the grace to be serious at the moment of parting. -“There’s only one thing, you know,—I must do my business before I come -home.”</p> - -<p>“And take care of yourself,” said Mrs Atheling; “take great care when -you are going over those mountains, and among those people where bandits -are—you know what stories we have read about such robbers, -Charlie,—and remember, though I should be very glad to hear good news -about Louis, Louis is not my own very boy, like you.”</p> - -<p>“Hush, mother—no need for naming him,” said Charlie; “he is of more -moment than me, however, this time—for that’s my business. Never -fear—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span>thieves may be fools there as well as at home, but they’re none -such fools as to meddle with me. Now, mother, promise me, the last -thing,—Agnes, do you hear?—don’t tell Marian a word, nor <i>him</i>. I’ll -tell old Foggo the whole story, and Foggo will do what he can for him -when he gets to London; but don’t you go and delude him, telling him of -this, for it would just be as good as ruin if I don’t succeed; and it -all may come to nothing, as like as not. I say, Agnes, do you hear?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I hear, very well; but I am not given to telling secrets,” said -Agnes, with a little dignity.</p> - -<p>Charlie only laughed as he arranged himself in the corner of the -second-class carriage, and drew forth his grammar; there was no time for -anything more, save entreaties that he would write, and take care of -himself; and the train flashed away, leaving them somewhat dull and -blank in the reaction of past excitement, looking at each other, and -half reluctant to turn their faces homeward. Their minds hurried forth, -faster than either steam or electricity, to the end of Charlie’s -journey. They went back with very slow steps and very abstracted minds. -What a new world of change and sudden revolution might open upon them at -Charlie’s return!</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling had some business in the town, and the mother and daughter -pursued their way silently<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> to that same noble High Street where Charlie -had seen Lord Winterbourne, and where Lord Winterbourne and his party -were still to be caught sight of, appearing and reappearing by glimpses -as they “did” the halls and colleges. While her mother managed some -needful business in a shop, Agnes stood rather dreamily looking down the -stately street; its strange old-world mixture of the present and the -past; its union of all kinds of buildings; the trim classic pillars and -toy cupolas of the eighteenth century—the grim crumbling front of elder -days—the gleams of green grass and waving trees through college -gateways—the black-gowned figures interrupting the sunshine—the -beautiful spire striking up into it as into its natural element,—a -noble hyacinthine stem of immortal flowers. Agnes did not know much -about artistic effect, nor anything about orders of architecture, but -the scene seized upon her imagination, as was its natural right. Her -thoughts were astray among hopes and chances far enough out of the -common way—but any dream of romance could make itself real in an -atmosphere like this.</p> - -<p>She was pale,—she was somewhat of an abstracted and musing aspect. When -one took into consideration her misfortune of authorship, she was in -quite a sentimental <i>pose</i> and attitude—so thought her American -acquaintance, who had managed to secure an invitation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> to the Hall, and -was one of Lord Winterbourne’s party. But Mr Endicott had “done” all the -colleges before, and he could afford to let his attention be distracted -by the appearance of the literary sister of the lady of his love.</p> - -<p>“I am not surprised at your abstraction,” said Mr Endicott. “In this, -indeed, I do not hesitate to confess, my country is not equal to your -Island. What an effect of sunshine! what a breadth of shade! I cannot -profess to have any preference, in respect to Art, for the past, -picturesque though it be—a poet of these days, Miss Atheling, has not -to deal with facts, but feelings; but I have no doubt, before I -interrupted you, the whole panorama of History glided before your -meditative eye.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed; I was thinking more of the future than of the past,” said -Agnes hurriedly.</p> - -<p>“The future of this nation is obscure and mysterious,” said Mr Endicott, -gathering his eyebrows solemnly. “Some man must arise to lead you—to -glory—or to perdition! I see nothing but chaos and darkness; but why -should I prophesy? A past generation had leisure to watch the signs of -the times; but for us ‘Art is long and time is fleeting,’ and happy is -the man who can snatch one burning experience from the brilliant mirage -of life.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span></p> - -<p>Agnes, a little puzzled by this mixture of images, did not attempt any -answer. Mr Endicott went on.</p> - -<p>“I had begun to observe, with a great deal of interest, two remarkable -young minds placed in a singular position. They were not to be met, of -course, at the table of Lord Winterbourne,” said the American with -dignity; “but in my walks about the park I sometimes encountered them, -and always endeavoured to draw them into conversation. So remarkable, in -fact, did they seem to me, that they found a place in my Letters from -England; studies of character entirely new to my consciousness. I -believe, Miss Atheling, I had once the pleasure of seeing them in your -company. They stand—um—unfortunately in a—a—an equivocal -relationship to my noble host.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! what of them?” cried Agnes quickly, and with a crimsoned cheek. She -felt already how difficult it was to hear them spoken of, and not -proclaim at once her superior knowledge.</p> - -<p>“A singular event, I understand, happened last night,” continued Mr -Endicott. “Viscount Winterbourne, on his own lawn, was attacked and -insulted by the young man, who afterwards left the house under very -remarkable circumstances. My noble friend, who is an admirable example -of an old English nobleman, was at one time in actual danger,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> and I -believe has been advised to put this fiery youth—”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean Louis?” cried Agnes, interrupting him anxiously. -“Louis!—do you mean that he has left the Hall?”</p> - -<p>“I am greatly interested, I assure you, in tracing out this romance of -real life,” said Mr Endicott. “He left the Hall, I understand, last -evening—and my noble friend is advised to take measures for his -apprehension. I look upon the whole history with the utmost interest. -How interesting to trace the motives of this young mind, perhaps the -strife of passions—gratitude mixing with a sense of injury! If he is -secured, I shall certainly visit him: I know no nobler subject for a -drama of passion; and dramas of the passions are what we want to ennoble -this modern time.”</p> - -<p>“Mother!” cried Agnes, “mother, come; we have no time to lose—Mr -Endicott has told me—Mamma, leave these things to another time. Marian -is alone; there is no one to support her. Oh, mother, mother! make -haste! We must go home!”</p> - -<p>She scarcely gave a glance to Mr Endicott as he stood somewhat -surprised, making a study of the young author’s excitable temperament -for his next “letter from England”—but hastened her mother homeward, -explaining, as she went, though not very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> coherently, that Louis had -attacked Lord Winterbourne—that he had left the Hall—that he had done -something for which he might be apprehended. The terror of -disgrace—that most dread of all fears to people in their -class—overwhelmed both mother and daughter, as they hastened, at a very -unusual pace, along the road, terrified to meet himself in custody, or -some one coming to tell them of his crime. And Marian, their poor -beautiful flower, on whom this storm would fall so heavily—Marian was -alone!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>THE OLD WOOD HOUSE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Louis</span> passed the night in the Rector’s library. He had no inclination -for sleep; indeed, he was almost scornful of the idea that he <i>could</i> -sleep under his new and strange circumstances; and it was not until he -roused himself, with a start, to see that the pale sheen of the -moonlight had been succeeded by the rosy dawn of morning, that he knew -of the sudden, deep slumber, that had fallen upon him. It was morning, -but it was still a long time till day; except the birds among the trees -there was nothing astir, not even the earliest labourer, and he could -not hear a sound in the house. All the events of the previous night -returned upon Louis’s mind with all the revived freshness of a sudden -awaking. A great change had passed upon him in a few hours. He started -now at once out of the indefinite musings, the flush of vain ambition, -the bitter brooding over wrong which had been familiar to his mind. He -began to think with the earnest precision of a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> who has attained to -a purpose. Formerly it had been hard enough for his proud undisciplined -spirit, prescient of something greater, to resolve upon a plan of -tedious labour for daily bread, or to be content with such a fortune as -had fallen to such a man as Mr Atheling. Even with love to bear him out, -and his beautiful Marian to inspire him, it was hard, out of all the -proud possibilities of youth, to plunge into such a lot as this. Now he -considered it warily, with the full awakened consciousness of a man. Up -to this time his bitter dislike and opposition to Lord Winterbourne had -been carried on by fits and starts, as youths do contend with older -people under whose sway they have been all their life. He took no reason -with him when he decided that he was not the son of the man who opposed -him. He never entered into the question how he came to the Hall, or what -was the motive of its master. He had contented himself with a mere -unreasoning conviction that Lord Winterbourne was not his father; but -only one word was wanted to awaken the slumbering mind of the youth, and -that word had been spoken last night. Now a clear and evident purpose -became visible before him. What was Lord Winterbourne’s reason for -keeping him all his life under so killing a bondage? What child was -there in the world whom it was Lord Winterbourne’s interest to call -illegitimate and keep in obscurity?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> His heart swelled—the colour rose -in his face. He did not see how hopeless was the search—how entirely -without grounds, without information, he was. He did not perceive how -vain, to every reasonable individual, would seem the fabric he had built -upon a mere conviction of his own. In his own eager perception -everything was possible to that courage, and perseverance indomitable, -which he felt to be in him; and, for the first time in his life, Louis -came down from the unreasonable and bitter pride which had shut his -heart against all overtures of friendship. Friendship—help—advice—the -aid of those who knew the world better than he did—these were things to -be sought for, and solicited now. He sat in the Rector’s chair, leaning -upon the Rector’s writing-table; it was not without a struggle that he -overcame his old repugnance, his former haughtiness. It was not without -a pang that he remembered the obligation under which this stranger had -laid him. It was his first effort in self-control, and it was not an -easy one; he resolved at last to ask counsel from the Rector, and lay -fully before him the strange circumstances in which he stood.</p> - -<p>The Rector was a man of capricious hours, and uncertain likings. He was -sometimes abroad as early as the earliest ploughman; to-day it was late -in the forenoon before he made his appearance. Breakfast<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> had been -brought to Louis, by himself, in the library; in this house they were -used to solitary meals at all hours—and he had already asked several -times for the Rector, when Mr Rivers at last entered the room, and -saluted him with stately courtesy. “My sister, I find, has detained your -sister,” said the Rector. “I hope you have not been anxious—they tell -me the young lady will join us presently.”</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause; and then Mr Rivers began an extremely polite and -edifying conversation, which must have reminded any spectator of the -courtly amity of a couple of Don Quixotes preparing for the duello. The -Rector himself conducted it with the most solemn gravity imaginable. -This Lionel Rivers, dissatisfied and self-devouring, was not a true man. -Supposing himself to be under a melancholy necessity of disbelieving on -pain of conscience, he yet submitted to an innumerable amount of -practical shams, with which his conscience took no concern. In spite of -his great talents, and of a character full of natural nobleness, when -you came to its foundations, a false tone, an artificial strain of -conversation, an unreal and insincere expression, were unhappily -familiar enough to the dissatisfied clergyman, who vainly tried to -anchor himself upon the authority of the Church. Louis, on the contrary, -knew nothing of talk which was a mere veil and concealment of meaning; -he could not use vain words<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> when his heart burned within him; he had no -patience for those conversations which were merely intended to occupy -time, and which meant and led to nothing. Yet it was very difficult for -him, young, proud, and inexperienced as he was, without any invitation -or assistance from his companion, to enter upon his explanation. He -changed colour, he became uneasy, he scarcely answered the indifferent -remarks addressed to him. At length, seeing nothing better for it, he -plunged suddenly and without comment into his own tale.</p> - -<p>“We have left Winterbourne Hall,” said Louis, reddening to his temples -as he spoke. “I have long been aware how unsuitable a home it was for -me. I am going to London immediately. I cannot thank you enough for your -hospitality to my sister, and to myself, last night.”</p> - -<p>“That is nothing,” said the Rector, with a motion of his hand. “Some -time since I had the pleasure of saying to your friends in the Lodge -that it would gratify me to be able to serve you. I do not desire to pry -into your plans; but if I can help you in town, let me know without -hesitation.”</p> - -<p>“So far from prying,” said Louis, eagerly, interrupting him, “I desire -nothing more than to explain them. All my life,” and once again the red -blood rushed to the young man’s face,—“all my life I have occupied<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> the -most humiliating of positions—you know it. I am not a meek man by -nature; what excuse I have had if a bitter pride has sometimes taken -possession of me, you know——”</p> - -<p>The Rector bowed gravely, but did not speak. Louis continued in haste, -and with growing agitation, “I am not the son of Lord Winterbourne—I am -not a disgraced offshoot of your family—I can speak to you without -feeling shame and abasement in the very sound of your name. This has -been my conviction since ever I was capable of knowing anything—but -Heaven knows how subtly the snare was woven—it seemed impossible, until -now when we have done it, to disengage our feet.”</p> - -<p>“Have you made any discovery, then? What has happened?” said the Rector, -roused into an eager curiosity. Here, at the very outset, lay Louis’s -difficulty—and he had never perceived it before.</p> - -<p>“No; I have made no discovery,” he said, with a momentary -disconcertment. “I have only left the Hall—I have only told Lord -Winterbourne what he knows well, and I have known long, that I am not -his son.”</p> - -<p>“Exactly—but how did you discover that?” said the Rector.</p> - -<p>“I have discovered nothing—but I am as sure of it as that I breathe,” -answered Louis.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span></p> - -<p>The Rector looked at him—looked at a portrait which hung directly above -Louis’s head upon the wall, smiled, and shook his head. “It is quite -natural,” he said; “I can sympathise with any effort you make to gain a -more honourable position, and to disown Lord Winterbourne—but it is -vain, where there are pictures of the Riverses, to deny your connection -with my family. George Rivers himself, my lord’s heir, the future head -of the family, has not a tithe as much of the looks and bearing of the -blood as you.”</p> - -<p>Louis could not find a word to say in face of such an argument—he -looked eagerly yet blankly into the face of the Rector—felt all his -pulses throbbing with fiery impatience of the doubt thus cast upon -him—yet knew nothing to advance against so subtle and unexpected a -charge of kindred, and could only repeat, in a passionate undertone, “I -am not Lord Winterbourne’s son.”</p> - -<p>“I do not know,” said the Rector, “I have no information which is not -common to all the neighbourhood—yet I beg you to guard against -delusion. Lord Winterbourne brought you here while you were an -infant—since then you have remained at the Hall—he has owned you, I -suppose, as much as a man ever owns an illegitimate child. Pardon me, I -am obliged to use the common words. Lord Winterbourne is not a man of -extended benevolence, neither is he one to take upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> himself the -responsibility or blame of another. If you are not his son, why did he -bring you here?”</p> - -<p>Louis raised his face from his hands which had covered it—he was very -pale, haggard, almost ghastly. “If you can tell me of any youth—of any -child—of any man’s son, whom it was his interest to disgrace and remove -out of the way,” said the young man with his parched lips, “I will tell -you why I am here.”</p> - -<p>The Rector could not quite restrain a start of emotion—not for what the -youth said, for that was madness to the man of the world—but for the -extreme passion, almost despair, in his face. He thought it best to -soothe rather than to excite him.</p> - -<p>“I know nothing more than all the world knows,” said Mr Rivers; “but, -though I warn you against delusions, I will not say you are wrong when -you are so firmly persuaded that you are right. What do you mean to do -in London—can I help you there?”</p> - -<p>Louis felt with no small pang this giving up of the argument—as if it -were useless to discuss anything so visionary—but he roused himself to -answer the question: “The first thing I have to do,” he said quickly, -“is to maintain my sister and myself.”</p> - -<p>The Rector bowed again, very solemnly and gravely—perhaps not without a -passing thought that the same duty imposed chains more galling than iron -upon himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span></p> - -<p>“That done, I will pursue my inquiries as I can,” said Louis; “you think -them vain—but time will prove that. I thank you now, for my sister’s -sake, for receiving us—and now we must go on our way.”</p> - -<p>“Not yet,” said the Rector. “You are without means, of course—what, do -you think it a disgrace, that you blush for it?—or would you have me -suppose that you had taken money from Lord Winterbourne, while you deny -that you are his son? For this once suppose me your friend; I will -supply you with what you are certain to need; and you can repay me—oh, -with double interest if you please!—only do not go to London -unprovided—for that is the maddest method of anticipating a heartbreak; -your sister is young, almost a child, tender and delicate—let it be, -for her sake.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you; I will take it as you give it,” said Louis. “I am not so -ungenerous as you suppose.”</p> - -<p>There was a certain likeness between them, different as they were—there -was a likeness in both to these family portraits on the walls. Before -such silent witnesses Louis’s passionate disclaimer, sincere though it -was, was unbelievable. For no one could believe that he was not an -offshoot of the house of Rivers, who looked from his face and the -Rector’s to those calm ancient faces on the walls.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>AN ADVENTURER.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“They</span> have left the Hall.”</p> - -<p>That was all Marian said when she came to the door to meet her mother -and sister, who paused in the porch, overcome with fatigue, haste, and -anxiety. Mrs Atheling was obliged to pause and sit down, not caring -immediately to see the young culprit who was within.</p> - -<p>“And what has happened, Marian,—what has happened? My poor child, did -he tell you?” asked Mrs Atheling.</p> - -<p>“Nothing has happened, mamma,” said Marian, with a little petulant -haste; “only Louis has quarrelled with Lord Winterbourne; but, indeed, I -wish you would speak to him. Oh, Agnes, go and talk to Louis; he says he -will go to London to-day.”</p> - -<p>“And so he should; there is not a moment to be lost,” said Agnes,—“I -will go and tell him; we can walk in with him to Oxford, and see him -safely away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> Tell Hannah to make haste, Marian,—he must not waste an -hour.”</p> - -<p>“What does she mean,—what is the matter? Oh, what have you heard, -mamma?” said Marian, growing very pale.</p> - -<p>“Hush, dear; I daresay it was not him,—it was Mr Endicott, who is sure -to hate him, poor boy; he said Lord Winterbourne would put him in -prison, Marian. Oh,” said Mrs Atheling, getting up hurriedly, “he ought -to go at once to Papa.”</p> - -<p>But they found Louis, whom they all surrounded immediately with terror, -sympathy, and encouragement, entirely unappalled by the threatened -vengeance of Lord Winterbourne.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing to charge me with; he can bring no accusation against -me; if he did ever say it, it must have been a mere piece of bravado,” -said Louis; “but it is better I should go at once without losing an -hour, as Agnes says. Will you let Rachel stay? and you, who are the -kindest mother in the world, when will you have compassion on us and -come home?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I wish we were going now,” said Mrs Atheling; and she said it -with genuine feeling, and a sigh of anxiety. “You must tell Papa we will -not stay very long; but I suppose we must see about this lawsuit first; -and I am sure I cannot tell who is to manage it now, since Charlie is -gone.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span></p> - -<p>“Shall you go to Papa at once, Louis?” asked Marian, who was very -anxious to conceal from every one the tears in her downcast eyes.</p> - -<p>“Surely, at once,” said Louis. “We are in different circumstances now; I -have a great deal to ask any one who knows the family of Rivers. Do you -know it never before occurred to me that Lord Winterbourne must have had -some powerful inducement for keeping me here, knowing as well as I do -that I am not his son.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling and Agnes turned a sudden guilty look upon each other; but -neither had betrayed the secret;—what did he mean?</p> - -<p>“Unless it was his interest in some way—unless it was for his evident -advantage to disgrace and disable me,” said Louis, groping in the dark, -when they knew one possible solution of the mystery so well, “I am -convinced he never would have kept me as he has done at the Hall.”</p> - -<p>He spoke in a tone different to that which he had used to the Rector, -and very naturally different—for Louis here was triumphant in the faith -of his audience, and did not hesitate to say all he felt, nor fear too -close an investigation into the grounds of his belief. He spoke -fervently; and Marian and Rachel looked at him with the faith of -enthusiasm, and Mrs Atheling and Agnes with wonder, agitation, and -embarrassment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> But, as he went on, it became too much for the -self-control of the good mother. She hurried out on pretence of -superintending Hannah, and was very soon followed by Agnes. “I durst not -stay, I should have told him,” said Mrs Atheling, in a hurried whisper. -“Who could put so much into his head, Agnes? who could lead him so near -the truth?—only God! My dear child, I believe in it all now.”</p> - -<p>Agnes had believed in it all from the first moment of hearing it, but so -singular a strain was upon the minds of both mother and daughter, -knowing this extraordinary secret which the others did not know, that it -was not wonderful they should give a weight much beyond their desert to -the queries of Louis. Yet, indeed, Louis’s queries took a wonderfully -correct direction, and came very near the truth.</p> - -<p>It was a day of extreme agitation to them all, and not until Louis, who -had no travelling-bag to pack, had been accompanied once more to the -railway, and seen safely away, with many a lingering farewell, was any -one able to listen to, or understand, Rachel’s version of the events of -last night. When he was quite gone—when it was no longer possible to -wave a hand to him in the distance, or even to see the flying white -plume of the miraculous horseman who bounded along with all that line of -carriages, the three girls came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> home together through the quiet evening -road—the disenchanted road, weary and unlovely, which Marian marvelled -much any one could prefer to Bellevue. They walked very close together, -with Marian in the midst, comforting her in an implied, sympathetic, -girlish fashion—for Rachel, though Louis had belonged to her so very -much longer, and was her sole authority, law-giver, and hero, -instinctively kept her own feelings out of sight, and took care of -Marian. These girls were very loyal to their own visionary ideas of the -mysterious magician who had not come to either of them yet, but whose -coming both anticipated some time, with awe and with smiles.</p> - -<p>And then Rachel told them how it had fared with her on the previous -night. Rachel had very little to say about the Rector; she had given him -up conscientiously to Agnes, and with a distant and reverent admiration -of his loftiness, contemplated him afar off, too great a person for her -friendship. “But in the morning the maid came and took me to Miss -Rivers—did you ever see Miss Rivers?—she is very pale—and pretty, -though she is old, and a very, very great invalid,” said Rachel. “Some -one has to sit up with her every night, and she has so many -troubles—headaches, and pains in her side, and coughs, and every sort -of thing! She told me all about them as she lay on the sofa in her -pretty white dressing-gown, and in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> <i>such</i> a soft voice as if she was -quite used to them, and did not mind. Do you think you could be a nurse -to any one who was ill, Agnes?”</p> - -<p>“She <i>has</i> been a nurse to all of us when we were ill,” said Marian, -rousing herself for the effort, and immediately subsiding into the -pensiveness which the sad little beauty would not suffer herself to -break, even though she began in secret to be considerably interested -about the interior of the mysterious Wood House, and the invisible Miss -Rivers. Marian thought Louis would not be pleased if he could imagine -her thinking of any one but him, so soon after he had gone away.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t mean at home—I mean a stranger,” said Rachel, “one whom -you did not <i>love</i>. I think it must be rather hard sometimes; but do you -know I was very nearly offering to be nurse to Miss Rivers, she spoke so -kindly to me? And then Louis will have to work,” continued the faithful -little sister, with tears in her eyes; “you must tell me what I can do, -Agnes, not to be a burden upon Louis. Oh, do you think any one would -give me money for singing now?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>LORD WINTERBOURNE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lord Winterbourne</span>, all his life, had been a man of guile; he was so long -experienced in it, that dissimulation became easy enough to him, when he -was not startled or thrown suddenly off his guard. Already every one -around him supposed he had quite forgiven and forgotten the wild -escapade of Louis. He had no confidant whatever, not even a valet or a -steward, and his most intimate associate knew nothing of his dark and -secret counsels. When any one mentioned the ungovernable youth who had -fled from the Hall, Lord Winterbourne said, “Pooh, pooh—he will soon -discover his mistake,” and smiled his pale and sinister smile. Such a -face as his could not well look benign; but people were accustomed to -his face, and thought it his misfortune—and everybody set him down as, -in this instance at least, of a very forgiving and indulgent spirit, -willing that the lad should find out his weakness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> by experiment, but -not at all disposed to inflict any punishment upon his unruly son.</p> - -<p>The fact was, however, that Lord Winterbourne was considerably excited -and uneasy. He spent hours in a little private library among his -papers—carefully went over them, collating and arranging again and -again—destroyed some, and filled the private drawers of his cabinet -with others. He sent orders to his agent to prosecute with all the -energy possible his suit against the Athelings. He had his letters -brought to him in his own room, where he was alone, and looked over them -with eager haste and something like apprehension. Servants, always -sufficiently quick-witted under such circumstances, concluded that my -lord expected something, and the expectation descended accordingly -through all the grades of the great house; but this did not by any means -diminish the number of his guests, or the splendour of his hospitality. -New arrivals came constantly to the Hall—and very great people indeed, -on their way to Scotland and the moors, looked in upon the disappointed -statesman by way of solace. He had made an unspeakable failure in his -attempt at statesmanship; but still he had a certain amount of -influence, and merited a certain degree of consideration. The quiet -country brightened under the shower of noble sportsmen and fair ladies. -All Banburyshire crowded to pay its homage. Mrs<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> Edgerley brought her -own private menagerie, the newest lion who could be heard of; and -herself fell into the wildest fever of architecturalism—fitted up an -oratory under the directions of a Fellow of Merton—set up an -Ecclesiological Society in the darkest of her drawing-rooms—made -drawings of “severe saints,” and purchased casts of the finest -“examples”—began to embroider an altar-cloth from the designs of one of -the most renowned connoisseurs in the ecclesiological city, and talked -of nothing but Early English, and Middle Pointed. Politics, literature, -and the fine arts, sport, flirtation, and festivity, kept in unusual -excitement the whole spectator county of Banbury, and the busy occupants -of Winterbourne Hall.</p> - -<p>In the midst of all this, the Lord of Winterbourne spent solitary hours -in his library among his papers, took solitary rides towards Abingford, -moodily courted a meeting with Miss Anastasia, even addressed her when -they met, and did all that one unassisted man could do to gain -information of her proceedings. He was in a state of restless -expectation, not easy to account for. He knew that Louis was in London, -but not who had given him the means to go there; and he could find no -pretence for bringing back the youth, or asserting authority over him. -He waited in well-concealed but frightfully-felt excitement for -<i>something</i>, watching with a stealthy but perpetual observation the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> -humble house of the Athelings and the Priory at Abingford. He did not -say to himself what it was he apprehended, nor indeed that he -apprehended anything; but with that strange certainty which criminals -always seem to retain, that fate must come some time, waited in the -midst of his gay, busy, frivolous guests, sharing all the occupations -round him, like a man in a dream,—waited as the world waits in a pause -of deadly silence for the thunderclap. It would rouse him when it came.</p> - -<p>It came, but not as he looked for it. Oh blind, vain, guilty soul, with -but one honest thought among all its crafts and falsehoods! It came not -like the rousing tumult of the thunder, but like an avalanche from the -hills; he fell under it with a groan of mortal agony; there was nothing -in heaven or earth to defend him from the misery of this sudden blow. -All his schemes, all his endeavours, what were they good for now?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE NEW HEIR.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">They</span> had heard from Charlie, who had already set out upon his journey; -they had heard from Louis, whom Mr Foggo desired to take into his office -in Charlie’s place in the mean time; they had heard again and again from -Miss Anastasia’s solicitor, touching their threatened property; and to -this whole family of women everything around seemed going on with a -singular speed and bustle, while they, unwillingly detained among the -waning September trees, were, by themselves, so lonely and so still. The -only one among them who was not eager to go home was Agnes. Bellevue and -Islington, though they were kindly enough in their way, were not meet -nurses for a poetic child;—this time of mountainous clouds, of wistful -winds, of falling leaves, was like a new life to Agnes. She came out to -stand in the edge of the wood alone, to do nothing but listen to the -sweep of the wild minstrel in those thinning trees, or look upon the big -masses<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> of cloud breaking up into vast shapes of windy gloom over the -spires of the city and the mazes of the river. The great space before -and around—the great amphitheatre at her feet—the breeze that came in -her face fresh and chill, and touched with rain—the miracles of tiny -moss and herbage lying low beneath those fallen leaves—the pale autumn -sky, so dark and stormy—the autumn winds, which wailed o’ nights—the -picturesque and many-featured change which stole over -everything—carried a new and strange delight to the mind of Agnes. She -alone cared to wander by herself through the wood, with its crushed -ferns, its piled faggots of firewood, its yellow leaves, which every -breeze stripped down. She was busy with the new book, too, which was -very like to be wanted before it came; for all these expenses, and the -license which their supposed wealth had given them, had already very -much reduced the little store of five-pound notes, kept for safety in -Papa’s desk.</p> - -<p>One afternoon during this time of suspense and uncertainty, the Rector -repeated his call at the Lodge. The Rector had never forgiven Agnes that -unfortunate revelation of her authorship; yet he had looked to her -notwithstanding through those strange sermons of his, with a -constantly-increasing appeal to her attention. She was almost disposed -to fancy sometimes that he made special fiery defences of himself and -his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> sentiments, which seemed addressed to her only; and Agnes fled from -the idea with distress and embarrassment, thinking it a vanity of her -own. On this day, however, the Rector was a different man—the cloud was -off his brow—the apparent restraint, uneasy and galling, under which he -had seemed to hold himself, was removed; a flash of aroused spirit was -in his eye—his very step was eager, and sounded with a bolder ring upon -the gravel of the garden path—there was no longer the parochial bow, -the clergymanly address, or the restless consciousness of something -unreal in both, which once characterised him; he entered among them -almost abruptly, and did not say a word of his parishioners, but -instead, asked for Louis—told Rachel his sister wished to see her—and, -glancing with unconcealed dislike at poor Agnes’s blotting-book, wished -to know if Miss Atheling was writing now.</p> - -<p>“Mr Rivers does not think it right, mamma,” said Agnes. She blushed a -little under her consciousness of his look of displeasure, but smiled -also with a kind of challenge as she met his eye.</p> - -<p>“No,” said the young clergyman abruptly; “I admire, above all things, -understanding and intelligence. I can suppose no appreciation so quick -and entire as a woman’s; but she fails of her natural standing to me, -when I come to hear of her productions, and am constituted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> a -critic—that is a false relationship between a woman and a man.”</p> - -<p>And Mr Rivers looked at Agnes with an answering flash of pique and -offence, which was as much as to say, “I am very much annoyed; I had -thought of very different relationships; and it is all owing to you.”</p> - -<p>“Many very good critics,” said Mrs Atheling, piqued in her turn—“a -great many people, I assure you, who know about such things, have been -very much pleased with Agnes’s book.”</p> - -<p>The Rector made no answer—did not even make a pause—but as if all this -was merely irrelevant and an interruption to his real business, said -rapidly, yet with some solemnity, and without a word of preface, “Lord -Winterbourne’s son is dead.”</p> - -<p>“Who?” said Agnes, whom, unconsciously, he was addressing—and they all -turned to him with a little anxiety. Rachel became very pale, and even -Marian, who was not thinking at all of what Mr Rivers said, drew a -little nearer the table, and looked up at him wistfully, with her -beautiful eyes.</p> - -<p>“Lord Winterbourne’s son, George Rivers, the heir of the family—he who -has been abroad so long; a young man, I hear, whom every one esteemed,” -said the Rector, bending down his head, as if he exacted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> from himself a -certain sadness, and did indeed endeavour to see how sad it was—“he is -dead.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling rose, greatly moved. “Oh, Mr Rivers!—did you say his son? -his only son? a young man? Oh, I pray God have pity upon him! It will -kill him;—it will be more than he can bear!”</p> - -<p>The Rector looked up at the grief in the good mother’s face, with a look -and gesture of surprise. “I never heard any one give Lord Winterbourne -credit for so much feeling,” he said, looking at her with some -suspicion; “and surely he has not shown much of it to you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, feeling! don’t speak of feeling!” cried Mrs Atheling. “It is not -that I am thinking of. You know a great many things, Mr Rivers, but you -never lost a child.”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said; and then, after a pause, he added, in a lower tone, “in -the whole matter, certainly, I never before thought of Lord -Winterbourne.”</p> - -<p>And there was nobody nigh to point out to him what a world beyond and -above his philosophy was this simple woman’s burst of nature. Yet in his -own mind he caught a moment’s glimpse of it; for the instant he was -abashed, and bent his lofty head with involuntary self-humiliation; but -looking up, saw his own thought still clearer in the eye of Agnes, and -turned defiant upon her, as if it had been a spoken reproof.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span></p> - -<p>“Well!” he said, turning to her, “was I to blame for thinking little of -the possibility of grief in such a man?”</p> - -<p>“I did not say so,” said Agnes, simply; but she looked awed and grave, -as the others did. They had no personal interest at all in the matter; -they thought in an instant of the vacant places in their own family, and -stood silent and sorrowful, looking at the great calamity which made -another house desolate. They never thought of Lord Winterbourne, who was -their enemy; they only thought of a father who had lost his son.</p> - -<p>And Rachel, who remembered George Rivers, and thought in the tenderness -of the moment that he had been rather kind to her, wept a few tears -silently.</p> - -<p>All these things disconcerted the Rector. He was impatient of excess of -sympathy—ebullitions of feeling; he was conscious of a restrained, yet -intense spring of new hope and vigour in his own life. He had -endeavoured conscientiously to regret his cousin; but it was impossible -to banish from his own mind the thought that he was free—that a new -world opened to his ambition—that he was the heir!</p> - -<p>And he had come, unaware of his own motive, to share this overpowering -and triumphant thought with Agnes Atheling, a girl who was no mate for -him, as inferior in family fortune and breeding as it was possible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> to -imagine—and now stood abashed and reproved to see that all his simple -auditors thought at once, not of him and his altered position, but of -those grand and primitive realities—Death and Grief. He went away -hastily and with impatience, displeased with them and with himself—went -away on a rapid walk for miles out of his way, striding along the quiet -country roads as if for a race; and a race it was, with his own -thoughts, which still were fastest, and not to be overtaken. He knew the -truths of philosophy, the limited lines and parallels of human logic and -reason; but he had not been trained among the great original truths of -nature; he knew only what was true to the mind,—not what was true to -the heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>A VISIT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Come</span> down, Agnes, make haste; mamma wants you—and Miss Anastasia’s -carriage is just driving up to the door.”</p> - -<p>So said Marian, coming languidly into their sleeping-room, and quite -indifferent to Miss Anastasia. She was rather glad indeed to hasten -Agnes away, to make an excuse for herself, and gain a half-hour of -solitude to read over again Louis’s letter. It was worth while to get -letters like those of Louis. Marian sat down on one of Miss Bridget’s -old-fashioned chairs, and leaned her beautiful head against its high -unyielding angular back. The cover on it was of an ancient blue-striped -tabinet, faded, yet still retaining some of its colour, which answered -very well to relieve those beautiful half-curled, half-braided locks of -Marian’s hair, which had such a tendency to escape from all kinds of -bondage. She lay there half reclining upon this stiff uneasy piece of -furniture, not at all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> disturbed by its angularity, her pretty cheek -flushing, her pretty lips trembling into half-conscious smiles, reading -over again Louis’s letter, which she held after an embracing fashion in -both her hands.</p> - -<p>And Rachel, with great diffidence, yet by the Rector’s invitation, had -gone to visit Miss Rivers at the Old Wood House. When the other Miss -Rivers, chief of the name, entered the little parlour of the Lodge, she -found the mother and daughter, who were both acquainted with her secret, -awaiting her very anxiously. She came in with a grave face and -deliberate step. She had not changed her dress in any particular, except -the colour of her bonnet, which was black, and had some woeful -decorations of crape; but it was evident that she too had been greatly -moved and impressed by her young cousin’s death.</p> - -<p>“He is dead,” she said, almost as abruptly as the Rector, when she had -taken her usual place. “Yes, poor young George Rivers, who was the heir -of the house—it was very well for him that he should die.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Rivers!” said Mrs Atheling, “I am very, very sorry for poor -Lord Winterbourne.”</p> - -<p>“Are you?” said Miss Anastasia;—“perhaps you are right,—he will feel -this, I dare say, as much as he can feel anything—but <i>I</i> was sorry for -the boy. Young people think it hard to die—fools!—they don’t know the -blessing that lies in it. Living long enough<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> to come to the crown of -youth, and dying in its blossom—that’s a lot fit for an angel. Agnes -Atheling, never look through your tears at me.”</p> - -<p>But Agnes could not help looking at the old lady wistfully, with her -young inquiring eyes.</p> - -<p>“What does the Rector do here?—they tell me he comes often,” said Miss -Rivers. “Do you know that now, so far as people understand, <i>he</i> comes -to be heir of Winterbourne?”</p> - -<p>“He came to tell us yesterday of the poor young gentleman’s death,” said -Mrs Atheling, “and I thought he seemed a little excited. Agnes, I am -sure you observed it as well as I.”</p> - -<p>“No, mamma,” said Agnes, turning away hastily. She went to get some -work, that no one might observe her own looks, with a sudden nervous -tremor and impatience upon her. The Rector had been very kind to Louis, -had done a brother’s part to him—far more than any one else in the -world had ever done to this friendless youth—yet Louis’s friends were -labouring with all their might, working in darkness like evil-doers, to -undermine the supposed right of Lionel—that right which made his breast -expand and his brow clear, and freed him from an uncongenial fate. Agnes -sat down trembling, with a sudden nervous access of vexation, -disappointment, annoyance, which she could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> not explain. She had been -accustomed for a long time now to follow him with interest and sympathy, -and to read his thoughts in those wild public self-revelations of his, -which no one penetrated but herself; but she felt actually guilty, a -plotter, and concerned against him now.</p> - -<p>“I am sorry for Lionel,” said Miss Rivers, who had not lost a single -fluctuation of colour on Agnes’s cheek, nor tremble of emotion in her -hurried hands—“but it would have been more grievous for poor George had -he lived. There will be only disappointment—not disgrace—for any other -heir.”</p> - -<p>She paused awhile, still watching Agnes, who bent over her work, greatly -disposed to cry, and in a very agitated condition of mind. Then she said -as suddenly as before, “I forget my proper errand—I have come for the -girls. You are to go up with me to the Priory. Go, make haste—put on -your bonnet—I never wait, even for young ladies; call your sister, and -make ready to go.”</p> - -<p>Agnes rose, startled and unwilling, and cast an inquiring look at Mamma. -Mrs Atheling was startled too, but she was not insensible to the pride -and glory of seeing her two daughters drive off to Abingford Priory in -the well-known carriage of Miss Anastasia. “Since Miss Rivers is so -good, make haste, my dear,” said Mrs Atheling; and Agnes had no -alternative but to obey.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span></p> - -<p>When she was gone, Miss Rivers looked round the room inquisitively. -Rachel was no great needlewoman, nor much instructed in ordinary -feminine pursuits; there were no visible traces of the presence of a -third young lady in the little dim parlour. “Where is the girl?” said -Miss Anastasia, cautiously,—“I was told she was here.”</p> - -<p>“The Rector asked her to go and see his sister—she is at the Old Wood -House,” said Mrs Atheling. “I am very sorry—but we never thought of you -coming to-day.”</p> - -<p>“I might come any day,” said Miss Rivers, abruptly—“but that is not the -question—I prefer not to see her—she is a frightened little dove of a -girl—she is not in my way. Is she good for anything?—you ought to -know.”</p> - -<p>“She is a very sweet, amiable girl,” said Mrs Atheling, warmly—“and she -sings as I never heard any one sing, all my life.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Miss Rivers, with a look of gratification, “it belongs to the -family—music is a tradition among us—yes, yes! You remember my -great-grandfather, the fourth lord—he was a great composer.” Miss -Anastasia was perfectly destitute of the faculty herself, and more than -half of the Riverses wanted that humblest of all musical qualifications, -“an ear”—yet it was amusing to mark the eagerness of the old lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> to -find a family precedent for every quality known as belonging to Louis or -his sister. “I recollect,” added Miss Rivers, bending her brows darkly, -“they wanted to make a singer of her—the more disgrace the better—Oh, -I understand their tactics! You are sorry for him?—look at the devilish -plans he made.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling shook her head, but did not reply; she only knew that she -would have been sorry for the vilest criminal in the world, had he lost -his only son.</p> - -<p>“I have heard from your boy,” said Miss Rivers. “He is gone now, I -suppose. What does Will Atheling think of his son? If he does but as I -expect he will, the boy’s fortune is made; he shall never repent that he -did this service for me.”</p> - -<p>“But it is a great undertaking,” said Mrs Atheling. “I know Charlie will -do his best—he is a very good boy, Miss Rivers; but he may not succeed -after all.”</p> - -<p>“He will succeed,” said the old lady; “but even if he does not—which I -cannot believe—so long as he does all he can, it will not alter me.”</p> - -<p>The mother’s heart swelled high with gratification and pleasure; yet -there was a drawback. All this time—since the first day when she heard -of it, before she made her discovery—Miss Anastasia had never referred -to the engagement between Louis and Marian. Did she desire to discourage -it? Was she likely to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> perceive a difference in this respect between -Louis nameless and without friends, and Louis the heir of Winterbourne?</p> - -<p>But Mrs Atheling’s utmost penetration could not tell. Miss Rivers began -to pull down the books, to look at them, to strike her riding-whip on -the floor, and call out good-humouredly in her loud voice, which every -one in the house could hear, that she was not to be kept waiting by a -parcel of girls. Finally the girls made their appearance in their best -dresses; their new patroness hurried them into her carriage, and drove -instantly away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>MARIAN ON TRIAL.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Miss Anastasia</span> “preferred not to see” Rachel—yet, with a wayward -inclination still, was moved to drive by a circuitous road in front of -the Old Wood House, where the girl was. The little vehicle went heavily -along the grassy road, cutting the turf, but making little sound as it -rolled past the windows of the invalid. There was the velvet lawn, the -trim flower-plots, the tall autumnal flowers, the straight and well-kept -garden-paths, lying vacant and shadowless beneath the sun—but there was -nothing to be discovered under the closed blinds of this shut-up and -secluded house.</p> - -<p>“Why do they keep their blinds down?” said Miss Anastasia; “all the -house surely is not one invalid’s room? Lucy was a little fool always. I -do not believe there is anything the matter with her. She had what these -soft creatures call a disappointment in love—words have different -meanings, child. And why does<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> this girl go to see Lucy Rivers? I -suppose because she is such a one herself.”</p> - -<p>“It is because Miss Rivers was kind to her,” said Agnes; “and the Rector -asked her to go——”</p> - -<p>“The Rector? Do you mean to tell me,” said Miss Anastasia, turning -quickly upon her companion, “that when Lionel Rivers comes to the Lodge -it is for <i>her</i> he comes?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know,” said Agnes. She was provoked to feel how her face -burned under the old lady’s gaze. She could not help showing something -of the anger and vexation she felt. She looked up hastily, with a glance -of resentment. “He has been very much interested in Louis—he has been -very kind to him,” said Agnes, not at all indisposed, for the sake of -the Rector, whom every one plotted against, to throw down her glove to -Miss Anastasia. “I believe, indeed, it has been to inquire about Louis, -that he ever came to the Lodge.”</p> - -<p>Miss Anastasia touched her ponies with her whip, and said, “Humph!” -“Both of them! odd enough,” said the old lady. Agnes, who was -considerably offended, and not at all in an amicable state of mind, did -not choose to inquire who Miss Anastasia meant by “both of them,” nor -what it was that was “odd enough.”</p> - -<p>Marian occupied the seat behind. She liked it very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> well, though she -would rather have written her letter to Louis. She did not quite hear -the conversation before her, and did not much care about it. Marian -recognised the old lady only as Agnes’s friend, and had never connected -her in any way with her own fortunes. She was shy of speaking in that -stately presence; she was even resentful sometimes of the remarks of -Miss Anastasia; and the lofty old gentlewoman had formed but an -indifferent idea yet of the little beauty. She was amused with the -pretty pout of Marian’s lip, the sparkle, sometimes of fun, sometimes of -petulance, in her eye; but Marian would have been extremely dismayed -to-day had she known that she, and not Agnes, was the principal object -of Miss Anastasia’s visit, and was, indeed, about to be put upon her -trial, to see if she was good for anything. At all events, she was quite -at ease and unalarmed now.</p> - -<p>They drove along in silence for some time after this—passing through -the village and past the Park gates. Then Miss Anastasia took a road -quite unfamiliar to the girls—a grass-grown unfrequented path, lying -under the shadow of the trees of Winterbourne. She did not say a word -till they came to a sudden break in the trees, when she stopped her -ponies abruptly, and fixed a sorrowful gaze upon the Hall, which was -visible, and close at hand. The white, broad, majestic front of the -great house was not unlike a funeral pile<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> at any time; now, with white -curtains drawn close over all its scarcely perceptible windows, still -veiled in the pomp of mourning, without a gleam of light or colour, in -its blind, grand aspect, turning its back upon the sun—there was -something very sadly imposing in the desolated house. No one was to be -seen about it—not even a servant: it looked like a vast mausoleum, -sacred to the dead. “It was very well for him,” said Miss Anastasia with -a sigh, “very well. If it were not so pitiful a thing to think of, -children, I could thank God.”</p> - -<p>But as the old lady spoke, the tears stood heavy in her eyes.</p> - -<p>This was very dreadful, very mysterious, altogether beyond comprehension -to Marian. She was glad to turn her eyes away from the house with -dislike and terror—it had been Louis’s prison and place of suffering, -and not a single hope connected with the Hall of Winterbourne was in -Marian’s mind. She drew back from Miss Rivers with a shudder—she -thought it was the most frightful thing in existence to thank God -because this young man had died.</p> - -<p>The Priory opened its doors wide to its mistress and her young guests. -She led them herself to her favourite room, a very strange place, -indeed, to their inexperienced eyes. It was a long narrow room, built -over the archway which crossed the entrance to the town<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> of Abingford. -This of itself was peculiarity enough; and the walls were of stone, -wainscoted to half their height with oak, and the roof was ribbed with -strong old oaken rafters, and of course unceiled. Windows on either -side, plain lattice-windows, with thick mullions of stone, admitted the -light in strips between heavy bars of shadow, and commanded a full sight -of every one who entered the town of Abingford. On the country side was -a long country road, some trees, and the pale convolutions of the river; -on the other, there was a glimpse of the market-place of the town, even -now astir with a leisurely amount of business, in the centre of which -rose an extraordinary building with a piazza, while round it were the -best shops of Abingford, and the farmers’ inns, which were full on -market days. A little old church, rich with the same rude Saxon ornament -which decorated the church of Winterbourne, stood modestly among the -houses at the corner of the market-place. A few leisurely figures, such -as belong to country towns, stood at the doors, or lounged about the -pavement; and market-carts came and went slowly under the arch. Marian -brightened into positive amusement; she thought it very funny indeed to -watch the people and the vehicles slowly disappearing beneath her, and -laughed to herself, and thought it a very odd fancy of Miss Anastasia, -to choose her favourite sitting-room here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<p>The old lady came and stood beside her, somewhat to the embarrassment of -Marian. She bade the girl take off her bonnet, which produced its -unfailing result, of throwing into a little picturesque confusion those -soft, silken, half-curled tresses of Marian’s hair. Marian looked out of -the window somewhat nervously, a little afraid of Miss Rivers. The old -lady looked at her with a keen scrutiny. She was stooping her pretty -shoulders in an attitude which might have been awkward in a form less -elastic, dimpling her cheek with the fingers which supported it, -conscious of Miss Anastasia’s gaze, somewhat alarmed, and very shy. In -spite of the shrinking, the alarm, and the embarrassment, Miss Rivers -looked steadily down upon her with a serious inspection. But even the -cloud which began to steal over Marian’s brow could not disenchant the -eyes that gazed upon her—Miss Anastasia began to smile as everybody -else; to feel herself moved to affection, tenderness, regard; to own the -fascination which no one resisted. “My dear, you are very pretty,” said -the old lady, entirely forgetting any prudent precautions on the score -of making Marian vain; “many people would tell you, that, with a face -like that, you need no other attraction. But I was once pretty myself, -and I know it does not last for ever; do you ever think about anything, -you lovely little child?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span></p> - -<p>Marian glanced up with an indignant blush and frown; but the look she -met was so kind, that it was not possible to answer as she intended. So -the pretty head sank down again upon the hand which supported it. She -took a little time to compose herself, and then, with some humility, -spoke the truth: “I am afraid, not a great deal.”</p> - -<p>“What do you suppose I do here, all by myself?” said Miss Anastasia, -suddenly.</p> - -<p>Marian turned her face towards her, looked round the room, and then -turned a wistful gaze to Miss Rivers. “Indeed, I do not know,” said -Marian, in a very low and troubled tone: it was youth, with awe and -gravity and pity, looking out of its bright world upon the loneliness -and poverty of age.</p> - -<p>That answer and that look brought the examination to a very hasty and -sudden conclusion. The old lady looked at her for an instant with a -startled glance, stooped over her, kissed her forehead and hurried away. -Marian could not tell what she had done, nor why Miss Anastasia’s face -changed so strangely. She could not comprehend the full force of the -contrast, nor how her own simple wonder and pity struck like a sudden -arrow to the old lady’s heart.</p> - -<p>Agnes was puzzled too, and could not help her sister to an explanation. -They remained by themselves for some time, rather timidly looking at -everything. There<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> were a few portraits hanging high upon the walls, -portraits which they knew to be of the family, but could not recognise; -and there was one picture of a very strange kind, which all their -combined ingenuity could not interpret. It was like one of those old -Dyptichs used to preserve some rare and precious altarpiece. What was -within could not be seen, but on the closed leaves without were painted -two solemn angels, with a silvery surrounding of wings, and flowers in -their hands. If Miss Anastasia had been a Catholic—even if she had been -a dilettante or extreme High Churchwoman, it might have been a little -private shrine: perhaps it was so: there was a portrait within, which no -eyes but her own ever saw. Between the windows the walls were lined with -book-cases; that ancient joke of poor Aunt Bridget’s, her own initials -underneath her pupil’s name—the B. A., which conferred a degree upon -Anastasia Rivers—turned out to be an intentional thing after all. The -girls gazed in awe at Miss Anastasia’s book-shelves. She was a great -scholar, this old lady. She might have been one of the Heads of Houses -in the learned city, but for the unfortunate femininity which debarred -her. All by herself among these tomes of grey antiquity—all by herself -with her pictures, the sole remnant of another time—it was not -wonderful that the two girls paused, looking out from the sunshine of -their youth with reverence,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> yet with compassion. They honoured her with -natural humility, feeling their own ignorance, but notwithstanding, were -very sorry for Miss Anastasia, all by herself—more sorry than there was -occasion to be—for Miss Anastasia was used to be all by herself, and -found enjoyment in it now.</p> - -<p>When Miss Anastasia came back she took them to see her garden, and the -state-apartments of her great stately house. When they were a little -familiar she let them stray on before her, and followed watching. Agnes, -perhaps, was still her own favourite of the two; but all her observation -was given to Marian. As her eyes followed this beautiful figure, her -look became more and more satisfied; and while Marian wandered with her -sister about the garden, altogether unconscious of the great -possibilities which awaited her, Miss Anastasia’s fancy clothed her in -robes of state, and covered her with jewels. “He might have married a -duke’s daughter,” she said to herself, turning away with a pleased -eye—“but he might never have found such a beautiful fairy as this: she -is a good little child too, with no harm in her; and a face for a fairy -queen!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>DISCONTENT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">No</span> one knew the real effect of the blow which had just fallen upon Lord -Winterbourne. The guests, of whom his house was full, dispersed as if by -magic. Even Mrs Edgerley, in the most fashionable sables, with mourning -liveries, and the blinds of her carriage solemnly let down, went forth, -as soon as decency would permit, from the melancholy Hall. After all the -bustle and all the gaiety of recent days, the place fell into a pause of -deadly stillness. Lord Winterbourne sought comfort from no one—showed -grief to no one; he made a sudden pause, like a man stunned, and then, -with increased impetus, and with a force and resolution unusual to him, -resumed his ancient way once more, and rushed forward with exaggerated -activity. Instead of subduing him, this event seemed to have roused all -his faculties into a feverish and busy malevolence, as if the man had -said, “I have no one to come after me—I will do all the harm I can -while<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> my time lasts.” All the other gentry of the midland counties, put -together, did not bring so many poachers to “justice” as were brought by -Lord Winterbourne. It was with difficulty his solicitor persuaded him to -pass over the pettiest trespass upon his property. He shut up pathways -privileged from time immemorial, ejected poor tenants, encroached upon -the village rights, and oppressed the village patriarchs; and animated -as he was by this spirit of ill-will to every one, it was not wonderful -that he endeavoured, with all his might, to press on the suit against -the Athelings for the recovery of the Old Wood Lodge.</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling and her daughters, unwilling, embarrassed, and totally -ignorant of their real means of defence, remained in their house at the -pleasure of the lawyer, and much against their own inclination. Mrs -Atheling herself, though with a spark of native spirit she had seconded -her husband’s resolution not to give up his little inheritance, was -entirely worried out with the task of defending it, now that Charlie was -gone, and winter was approaching, and her heart yearned to her husband -and her forsaken house in Bellevue. When she wrote to Mr Atheling, or -when she consulted with Agnes, the good mother expressed her opinion -very strongly. “If it turns out a mistake about Louis, none of us will -care for this place,” said Mrs Atheling; “we shall have the expense of -keeping it up, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> unless we were living in it ourselves, I do not -suppose it is worth ten pounds a-year; and if it should turn out true -about Louis, of course he would restore it to us, and settle it so that -there could be no doubt upon the subject; and indeed, Agnes, my dear, -the only sensible plan that I can think of, would be to give it up at -once, and go home. I do think it is quite an unfortunate house for the -Athelings; there was your father’s poor little sister got her death in -it; and it is easy to see how much trouble and anxiety have come into -our family since we came here.”</p> - -<p>“But trouble and anxiety might come anywhere, mamma,” said Agnes.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear, that is very true; but we should have known exactly what -we had to look for, if Marian had been engaged to some one in Bellevue.”</p> - -<p>Mamma’s counsels, accordingly, were of a very timid and compromising -character. She began to be extremely afraid that the Old Wood Lodge, -being so near the trees, would be damp after all the autumn rains, and -that something might possibly happen to Bell and Beau; and, with all her -heart, and without any dispute, she longed exceedingly to be at home. -Then there was the pretty pensive Marian, a little love-sick, and pining -much for the society of her betrothed. She was a quiet but potent -influence, doing what she could to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> aggravate the discontent of Mamma; -and Agnes had to keep up the family courage, and develop the family -patience, single-handed. Agnes, in her own private heart, though she did -not acknowledge, nor even know it, was not at all desirous to go away.</p> - -<p>The conflict accordingly, about this small disputed possession, lay a -great deal more between Lord Winterbourne and Miss Anastasia than -between that unfriendly nobleman and the house of Atheling. Miss -Anastasia came frequently on errands of encouragement to fortify the -sinking heart of Mrs Atheling. “My great object is to defer the trial of -this matter for six months,” said the old lady significantly. “Let it -come on, and we will turn the tables then.”</p> - -<p>She spoke in the presence of Marian, before whom nothing could be said -plainly—in the presence of Rachel even, whom it was impossible to avoid -seeing, but who always kept timidly in the background—and she spoke -with a certain exultation which somewhat puzzled her auditors. Charlie, -though he had done nothing yet, had arrived at the scene of his labours. -Assured of this fact, the courage of his patroness rose. She was a woman -and an optimist, as she confessed. She had the gift of leaping to a -conclusion, equal to any girl in the kingdom, and at the present moment -was not disturbed by any doubts of success.</p> - -<p>“Six months!” cried Mrs Atheling, in dismay and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> horror; “and do you -mean that we must stay here all that time—all the winter, Miss Rivers? -It is quite impossible—indeed I could not do it. My husband is all by -himself, and I know how much I am wanted at home.”</p> - -<p>“It is necessary some one should be in possession,” said Miss Rivers. -“Eh? What does Will Atheling say?—I daresay he thinks it hard enough to -be left alone.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling was very near “giving away.” Vexation and anxiety for the -moment almost overpowered her self-command. She knew all the buttons -must be off Papa’s shirts, and stood in grievous fear of a fabulous -amount of broken crockery; besides, she had never been so long parted -from her husband since their marriage, and very seriously longed for -home.</p> - -<p>“Of course it is very dreary for him,” she said, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Mr Temple is making application to defer the trial on the score of an -important witness who cannot reach this country in time,” said Miss -Rivers. “Of course my lord will oppose that with all his power; <i>he</i> has -a natural terror of witnesses from abroad. When the question is decided, -I do not see, for my part, why you should remain. This little one pines -to go home, I see—but you, Agnes Atheling, you had better come and stay -at the Priory—you love the country, child!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span></p> - -<p>Both the sisters blushed under the scrutinising eye of Miss Anastasia; -but Agnes was not yet reconciled to the old lady. “We are all anxious to -go home,” she said with spirit, and with considerably more earnestness -than the case at all demanded. Miss Rivers smiled a little. She thought -she could read a whole romance in the fluctuating colour and troubled -glance of Agnes; but she was wrong, as far-seeing people are so often. -The girl was disturbed, uneasy, self-conscious, in a startled and -impatient condition of mind; but the romance, even if it were on the -way, had not yet definitely begun.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>A CONVERSATION.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Agnes’s</span> rambles out of doors had now almost always to be made alone. -Rachel was much engrossed with the invalid of the Old Wood House, who -had “taken a fancy” to the gentle little girl. The hypochondriac Miss -Rivers was glad of any one so tender and respectful; and half in natural -pity for the sufferings which Rachel could not believe to be fanciful, -half from a natural vocation for kindly help and tendance, the girl was -glad to respond to the partly selfish affection of her new friend, who -told Rachel countless stories of the family, and the whole chronicle in -every particular of her own early “disappointment in love.” In return, -Rachel, by snatches, conveyed to her invalid friend—in whom, after all, -she found some points of interest and congeniality—a very exalted ideal -picture of the Athelings, the genius of Agnes, and the love-story of -Marian. Marian and Agnes occupied a very prominent place indeed in the -talk of that shadowy dressing-room,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> with all its invalid -contrivances—its closed green blinds, its soft mossy carpets, on which -no footstep was ever audible, its easy little couches, which you could -move with a finger; the luxury, and the stillness, and the gossip, were -not at all unpleasant to Rachel; and she read <i>Hope Hazlewood</i> to her -companion in little bits, with pauses of talk between. <i>Hope Hazlewood</i> -was not nearly romantic enough for the pretty faded invalid reposing -among her pillows in her white dressing-gown, whom Time seemed to have -forgotten there, and who had no recollection for her own part that she -was growing old; but she took all the delight of a girl in hearing of -Louis and Marian—how much attached to each other, and how handsome they -both were.</p> - -<p>And Marian Atheling did not care half so much as she used to do for the -long rambles with her sister, which were once such a pleasure to both -the girls. Marian rather now preferred sitting by herself over her -needlework, or lingering alone at the window, in an entire sweet -idleness, full of all those charmed visions with which the very name of -Louis peopled all the fairy future. Not the wisest, or the wittiest, or -the most brilliant conversation in the world could have half equalled to -Marian the dreamy pleasure of her own meditations. So Agnes had to go -out alone.</p> - -<p>Agnes did not suffer very much from this necessity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> She wandered along -the skirts of the wood, with a vague sense of freedom and enjoyment not -easy to explain in words. No dreamy trance of magic influence had come -upon Agnes; her mind, and her heart, and her thoughts, were quickened by -a certain thrill of expectation, which was not to be referred to the -strange romance now going on in the family—to Charlie’s mission, nor -Louis’s prospects, nor anything else which was definite and ascertained. -She knew that her heart rose, that her mind brightened, that her -thoughts were restless and light, and not to be controlled; but she -could not tell the reason why. She went about exploring all the country -byways, and finding little tracks among the brushwood undiscoverable to -the common eye; and she was not cogitating anything, scarcely was -thinking, but somehow felt within her whole nature a silent growth and -increase not to be explained.</p> - -<p>She was pondering along, with her eyes upon the wide panorama at her -feet, when it chanced to Agnes, suddenly and without preparation, to -encounter the Rector. These two young people, who were mutually -attracted to each other, had at the present moment a mutual occasion of -embarrassment and apparent offence. The Rector could not forget how very -much humbled in his own opinion he himself had been on his late visit to -the Lodge; he had not yet recovered the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> singular check given to his own -unconscious selfishness, by the natural sympathy of these simple people -with the grander primitive afflictions and sufferings of life: and he -was not without an idea that Agnes looked upon him now with a somewhat -disdainful eye. Agnes, on her part, was greatly oppressed by the secret -sense of being concerned against the Rector; in his presence she felt -like a culprit—a secret plotter against the hope which brightened his -eye, and expanded his mind. A look of trouble came at once into her -face; her brow clouded—she thought it was not quite honest to make a -show of friendship, while she retained her secret knowledge of the -inquiry which might change into all the bitterness of disappointment his -sudden and unlooked-for hope.</p> - -<p>He had been going in the opposite direction, but, though he was not at -all reconciled to her, he was not willing either to part with Agnes. He -turned, only half consciously, only half willingly, yet by an -irresistible compulsion. He tried indifferent conversation, and so did -she; but, in spite of himself, Lionel Rivers was a truer man with Agnes -Atheling than he was with any other person in the world. He who had -never cared for sympathy from any one, somehow or other felt a necessity -for hers, and had a certain imperious disappointment and impatience when -it was withheld from him, which was entirely unreasonable,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> and not to -be accounted for. He broke off abruptly from the talk about nothing, to -speak of some intended movements of his own.</p> - -<p>“I am going to town,” said Mr Rivers. “I am somewhat unsettled at -present in my intentions; after that, probably, I may spend some time -abroad.”</p> - -<p>“All because he is the heir!” thought Agnes to herself; and again she -coloured with distress and vexation. It was impossible to keep something -of this from her tone; when she spoke, it was in a voice subdued a -little out of its usual tenor; but all that she asked was a casual -question, meaning nothing—“If Mr Mead would have the duty while the -Rector was away?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the Rector; “he is very much better fitted for it than I am. -Here I have been cramping my wings these three years. Fathers and -mothers are bitterly to blame; they bind a man to what his soul loathes, -because it is his best method of earning some paltry pittance—so much -a-year!”</p> - -<p>After this exclamation the young clergyman made a pause, and so did his -diffident and uneasy auditor, who “did not like” either to ask his -meaning, or to make any comment upon it. After a few minutes he resumed -again—</p> - -<p>“I suppose it must constantly be so where we dare to think for -ourselves,” he said, in a tone of self-conversation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> “A man who thinks -<i>must</i> come to conclusions different from those which are taught to -him—different, perhaps, from all that has been concluded truest in the -ages that are past. What shall we say? Woe be to me if I do not follow -out my reasoning, to whatever length it may lead!”</p> - -<p>“When Paul says, Woe be to him, it is, if he does not preach the -Gospel,” said Agnes.</p> - -<p>Mr Rivers smiled. “Be glad of your own happy exemption,” he said, -turning to her, with the air of a man who knows by heart all the old -arguments—all the feminine family arguments against scepticism and -dangerous speculations. “I will leave you in possession of your -beautiful Gospel—your pure faith. I shall not attempt to disturb your -mind—do not fear.”</p> - -<p>“You could not!” said Agnes, in a sudden and rash defiance. She turned -to him in her turn, beginning to tremble a little with the excitement of -controversy. She was a young polemic, rather more graceful in its -manifestation, but quite as strong in the spirit of the conflict as any -Mause Headrigg—which is to say, that, after her eager girlish fashion, -she believed with her whole heart, and did not know what toleration -meant.</p> - -<p>Mr Rivers smiled once more. “I will not try,” he said. “I remember what -Christ said, and endeavour to have charity even for those who condemn -me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr Rivers!” cried Agnes suddenly, and with trembling, “do not speak -so coldly—do not say Christ; it sounds as if you did not care for -Him—as if you thought He was no friend to you.”</p> - -<p>The Rector paused, somewhat startled: it was an objection which never -had occurred to him—one of those subtle touches concerning the spirit -and not the letter, which, being perfectly sudden, and quite simple, had -some chance of coming to the heart.</p> - -<p>“What do <i>you</i> say?” he asked with a little interest.</p> - -<p>Agnes’s voice was low, and trembled with reverence and with emotion. She -was not thinking of him, in his maze of intellectual trifling—she was -thinking of that Other, whom she knew so much better, and whose name she -spoke. She answered with an involuntary bending of her head—“Our Lord.”</p> - -<p>It was no conviction that struck the mind of the young man—conviction -was not like to come readily to him—and he was far too familiar with -all the formal arguments, to be moved by the reasonings of a polemic, or -the fervour of an enthusiast. But he who professed so much anxiety about -truth, and contemplated himself as a moral martyr, woefully following -his principles, though they led him to ever so dark a desolation, had -lived all his life among an infinite number of shams, and willingly -enough had yielded to many of them. Perhaps this was the first time in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> -his life in which he had been brought into immediate contact with people -who were simply true in their feelings and their actions—whose opinions -were without controversy—whose settled place in life, humble as it was, -shut them out from secondary emulations and ambitions—and who were -swayed by the primitive rule of human existence—the labour and the -rest, the affliction and the prosperity, which were real things, and not -creations of the brain. He paused a little over the words of Agnes -Atheling. He did not want her to think as he did: he was content to -believe that the old boundaries were suitable and seemly for a woman; -and he was rather pleased than otherwise, by the horror, interest, and -regret which such opinions as his generally met with. He paused upon her -words, with the air of a spectator, and said in a meditative fashion, -“It is a glorious faith.”</p> - -<p>Now Agnes, who was not at all satisfied with this contemplative -approval, was entirely ready and eager for controversy; prepared to -plunge into it with the utmost rashness, utterly unaccoutred and -ignorant as she was. She trembled with suppressed fervour and excitement -over all her frame. She was as little a match for the Rector in the -argument which she would fain have entered into, as any child in the -village; but she was far too strong in the truth of her cause to feel -any fear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span></p> - -<p>“Do you ever meet with great trouble?” said Agnes.</p> - -<p>It was quite an unexpected question. The Rector looked at her -inquiringly, without the least perception what she meant.</p> - -<p>“And when you meet with it,” continued the eager young champion, “what -do you say?”</p> - -<p>Now this was rather a difficult point with the Rector; it was not -naturally his vocation to administer comfort to “great trouble”—in -reality, when he was brought face to face with it, he had nothing to -say. He paused a little, really embarrassed—<i>that</i> was the curate’s -share of the business. Mr Rivers was very sorry for the poor people, but -had, in fact, no consolation to give, and thought it much more important -to play with his own mind and faculties in this solemn and conscientious -trifling of his, than to attend to the griefs of others. He answered, -after some hesitation: “There are different minds, of course, and -different influences applicable to them. Every man consoles himself -after his own fashion; for some there are the sublime consolations of -Philosophy, for others the rites of the Church.”</p> - -<p>“Some time,” said Agnes suddenly, turning upon him with earnest -eyes,—“some time, when you come upon great sorrow, will you try the -name of our Lord?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span></p> - -<p>The young man was startled again, and made no answer. He was struck by -the singular conviction that this girl, inferior to himself in every -point, had a certain real and sublime acquaintance with that wonderful -Person of whom she spoke; that this was by no means belief in a -doctrine, but knowledge of a glorious and extraordinary Individual, -whose history no unbeliever in the world has been able to divest of its -original majesty. The idea was altogether new to him; it found an -unaccustomed way to the heart of the speculatist—that dormant power -which scarcely any one all his life had tried to reach to. “I do not -quite understand you,” he said somewhat moodily; but he did not attend -to what she said afterwards. He pondered upon the problem by himself, -and could not make anything of it. Arguments about doctrines and beliefs -were patent enough to the young man. He was quite at home among dogmas -and opinions—but, somehow, this personal view of the question had a -strange advantage over him. He was not prepared for it; its entire and -obvious simplicity took away the ground from under his feet. It might be -easy enough to persuade a man out of conviction of a doctrine which he -believed, but it was a different matter to disturb the identity of a -person whom he knew.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<small>SUSPENSE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> the mean time, immediate interest in their own occupations had pretty -nearly departed from the inhabitants of the Old Wood Lodge. Agnes went -on with her writing, Mamma with her work-basket, Marian with her dreams; -but desk, and needle, and meditations were all alike abandoned in -prospect of the postman, who was to be seen making his approach for a -very long way, and was watched every day with universal anxiety. What -Louis was doing, what Charlie was doing, the progress of the lawsuit, -and the plans of Miss Anastasia, continually drew the thoughts of the -household away from themselves. Even Rachel’s constant report of the -unseen invalid, Miss Lucy, added to the general withdrawal of interest -from the world within to the world without. They seemed to have nothing -to do themselves in their feminine quietness. Mamma sat pondering over -her work—about her husband, who was alone, and did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> like his -solitude—about Charlie, who was intrusted with so great a -commission—about “all the children”—every one of whom seemed to be -getting afloat on a separate current of life. Agnes mused over her -business with impatient thoughts about the Rector, with visions of -Rachel and Miss Lucy in the invalid chamber, and vain attempts to look -into the future and see what was to come. As for Marian, the charmed -tenor of her fancies knew no alteration; she floated on, without -interruption, in a sweet vision, full of a thousand consistencies, and -wilder than any romance. Their conversation ran no longer in the ancient -household channel, and was no more about their own daily occupations; -they were spectators eagerly looking from the windows at nearly a dozen -different conflicts, earnestly concerned, and deeply sympathetic, but -not in the strife themselves.</p> - -<p>Louis had entered Mr Foggo’s office; it seemed a strange destination for -the young man. He did not tell any one how small a remuneration he -received for his labours, nor how he contrived to live in the little -room, in the second floor of one of those Islington houses. He succeeded -in existing—that was enough; and Louis did not chafe at his restrained -and narrow life, by reason of having all his faculties engaged and -urgent in a somewhat fanciful mode, of securing the knowledge which he -longed for concerning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> his own birth and derivation. He had ascertained -from Mr Atheling every particular concerning the Rivers family which -<i>he</i> knew. He had even managed to seek out some old servants once at the -Hall, and with a keen and intense patience had listened to every word of -a hundred aimless and inconclusive stories from these respectable -authorities. He was compiling, indeed, neither more nor less than a -<i>life</i> of Lord Winterbourne—a history which he endeavoured to verify in -every particular as he went on, and which was written with the sternest -impartiality—a plain and clear record of events. Perhaps a more -remarkable manuscript than that of Louis never existed; and he pursued -his tale with all the zest, and much more than the excitement, of a -romancer. It was a true story, of which he laboured to find out every -episode; and there was a powerful unity and constructive force in the -one sole unvarying interest of the tale. Mr Atheling had been moved to -tell the eager youth <i>all</i> the particulars of his early acquaintance -with Lord Winterbourne—and still the story grew—the object of the -whole being to discover, as Louis himself said, “what child there was -whom it was his interest to disgrace and defame.” The young man followed -hotly upon this clue. His thoughts had not been directed yet to anything -resembling the discovery of Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> Anastasia; it had never occurred to -him that his disinheritance might be absolutely the foundation of all -Lord Winterbourne’s greatness; but he hovered about the question with a -singular pertinacity, and gave his full attention to it. Inspired by -this, he did not consider his meagre meal, his means so narrow that it -was the hardest matter in the world to eat daily bread. He pursued his -story with a concentration of purpose which the greatest poet in -existence might have envied. He was a great deal too much in earnest to -think about the sentences in which he recorded what he learnt. The -consequence was, that this memoir of Lord Winterbourne was a model of -terse and pithy English—an unexampled piece of biography. Louis did not -say a word about it to any one, but pursued his labour and his inquiry -together, vainly endeavouring to find out a trace of some one whom he -could identify with himself.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Papa began to complain grievously of his long abandonment, -and moved by Louis on one side, and by his own discomfort on the other, -became very decided in his conviction that there was no due occasion for -the absence of his family. There was great discontent in Number Ten, -Bellevue, and there was an equal discontent, rather more overpowering, -and quite as genuine, in the Old Wood Lodge, where Mamma and Marian vied -with each other in anxiety,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> and thought no cause sufficiently important -to keep them any longer from home. Agnes expressed no opinion either on -one side or the other; she was herself somewhat disturbed and unsettled, -thinking a great deal more about the Rector than was at all convenient, -or to her advantage. After that piece of controversy, the Rector began -to come rather often to the Lodge. He never said a word again touching -that one brief breath of warfare, yet they eyed each other -distrustfully, with a mutual consciousness of what had occurred, and -might occur again. It was not a very lover-like point of union, yet it -was a secret link of which no one else knew. Unconsciously it drew Agnes -into inferences and implications, which were spoken at the Rector; and -unconsciously it drew him to more sympathy with common trials, and a -singular inclination to experiment, as Agnes had bidden him, with her -sublime talisman—that sole Name given under heaven, which has power to -touch into universal brotherhood the whole universal heart of man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<small>NEWS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">While</span> the Lodge remained in this ferment of suspense and uncertainty, -Miss Anastasia had taken her measures for its defence and preservation. -It was wearing now towards the end of October, and winter was setting in -darkly. There was no more than a single rose at a time now upon the -porch, and these roses looked so pale, pathetic, and solitary, that it -was rather sad than pleasant to see the lonely flowers. On one of the -darkest days of the month, when they were all rather more listless than -usual, Miss Anastasia’s well-known equipage drew up at the gate. They -all hailed it with some pleasure. It was an event in the dull day and -discouraging atmosphere. She came in with her loud cheerful voice, her -firm step, her energetic bearing—and even the pretty <i>fiancée</i> Marian -raised her pretty stooping shoulders, and woke up from her fascinated -musing. Rachel alone drew shyly towards the door; she had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> overcome -a timidity very nearly approaching fear, which she always felt in -presence of Miss Anastasia. She was the only person who ever entered -this house who made Rachel remember again her life at the Hall.</p> - -<p>“I came to show you a letter from your boy; read it while I talk to the -children,” said Miss Rivers. Mrs Atheling took the letter with some -nervousness; she was a little fluttered, and lost the sense of many of -the expressions; yet lingered over it, notwithstanding, with pride and -exultation. She longed very much to have an opportunity of showing it to -Agnes; but that was not possible; so Mrs Atheling made a virtuous -attempt to preserve in her memory every word that her son said. This was -Charlie’s letter to his patroness:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Madam</span>,—I have not made very much progress yet. The courier, Jean -Monte, is to be heard of as you suggested; but it is only known on -the road that he lives in Switzerland, and keeps some sort of inn -in one of the mountain villages. No more as yet; but I will find -him out. I have to be very cautious at present, because I am not -yet well up in the language. The town is a ruinous place, and I -cannot get the parish registers examined as one might do in -England. There are several families of decayed nobles in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> -immediate neighbourhood, and, so far as I can hear, Giulietta is a -very common name. Travelling Englishmen, too, are so frequent that -there is a good deal of difficulty. I am rather inclined to fix -upon the villa Remori, where there are said to have been several -English marriages. It has been an extensive place, but is now -broken down, decayed, and neglected; the family have a title, and -are said to be very handsome, but are evidently very poor. There is -a mother and a number of daughters, only one or two grown up; I try -to make acquaintance with the children. The father died early, and -had no brothers. I think possibly this might be the house of -Giulietta, as there is no one surviving to look after the rights of -her children, did she really belong to this family. Of course, any -relatives she had, with any discretion, would have inquired out her -son in England; so I incline to think she may have belonged to the -villa Remori, as there are only women there.</p> - -<p>“I have to be very slow on account of my Italian—this, however, -remedies itself every day. I shall not think of looking for Monte -till I have finished my business here, and am on my way home. The -place is unprosperous and unhealthy, but it is pretty, and rather -out of the way—few travellers came, they tell me, till within ten -years ago; but I have not met with any one yet whose memory carried -back at all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> clearly for twenty years. A good way out of the town, -near the lake, there is a kind of mausoleum which interests me a -little, not at all unlike the family tomb at Winterbourne; there is -no name upon it; it lies quite out of the way, and I cannot -ascertain that any one has ever been buried there; but something -may be learned about it, perhaps, by-and-by.</p> - -<p>“When I ascertain anything of the least importance, I shall write -again.</p> - -<p class="c"> -“Madam,<br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 10em;">“Your obedient Servant,</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 14em;">“<span class="smcap">Charles Atheling</span>.”</span><br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Charlie had never written to a lady before; he was a little embarrassed -about it the first time, but this was his second epistle, and he had -become a little more at his ease. The odd thing about the correspondence -was, that Charlie did not express either hopes or opinions; he did not -say what he expected, or what were his chances of success—he only -reported what he was doing; any speculation upon the subject, more -especially at this crisis, would have been out of Charlie’s way.</p> - -<p>“What do you call your brother when you write to him?” asked Miss -Anastasia abruptly, addressing Rachel.</p> - -<p>Rachel coloured violently; she had so nearly forgotten<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> her old -system—her old representative character—that she was scarcely prepared -to answer such a question. With a mixture of her natural manner and her -assumed one, she answered at last, in considerable confusion, “We call -him Louis; he has no other name.”</p> - -<p>“Then he will not take the name of Rivers?” said Miss Anastasia, looking -earnestly at the shrinking girl.</p> - -<p>“We have no right to the name of Rivers,” said Rachel, drawing herself -up with her old dignity, like a little queen. “My brother is inquiring -who we are. We never belonged to Lord Winterbourne.”</p> - -<p>“Your brother is inquiring? So!” said Miss Anastasia; “and he is -perfectly right. Listen, child—tell him this from me—do you know what -Atheling means? It means noble, illustrious, royally born. In the old -Saxon days the princes were called Atheling. Tell your brother that -Anastasia Rivers bids him bear this name.”</p> - -<p>This address entirely confused Rachel, who remained gazing at Miss -Rivers blankly, unable to say anything. Marian stirred upon her chair -with sudden eagerness, and put down her needlework, gazing also, but -after quite a different fashion, in Miss Anastasia’s face. The old lady -caught the look of both, but only replied to the last.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span></p> - -<p>“You are startled, are you, little beauty? Did you never hear the story -of Margaret Atheling, who was an exile, and a saint, and a queen? My -child, I should be very glad to make sure that you were a true Atheling -too.”</p> - -<p>Marian was not to be diverted from her curiosity by any such -observation. She cast a quick look from Miss Rivers to her mother, who -was pondering over Charlie’s letter, and from Mrs Atheling to Agnes, who -had not been startled by the strange words of Miss Anastasia; and -suspicion, vague and unexplainable, began to dawn in Marian’s mind.</p> - -<p>“The autumn assizes begin to-day,” said Miss Anastasia with a little -triumph; “too soon, as Mr Temple managed it, for your case to have a -hearing; it must stand over till the spring now—six months—by that -time, please God; we shall be ready for them. Agnes Atheling, how long -is it since you began to be deaf and blind?”</p> - -<p>Agnes started with a little confusion, and made a hurried inarticulate -answer. There was a little quiet quarrel all this time going on between -Agnes and Miss Rivers; neither the elder lady nor the younger was quite -satisfied—Agnes feeling herself something like a conspirator, and Miss -Anastasia a little suspicious of her, as a disaffected person in the -interest of the enemy. But Mamma by this time had come to an end of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> -Charlie’s letter, and, folding it up very slowly, gave it back to its -proprietor. The good mother did not feel it at all comfortable to keep -this information altogether to herself.</p> - -<p>“It is not to be tried till spring!” said Mrs Atheling, who had caught -this observation. “Then, I think, indeed, Miss Rivers, we must go home.”</p> - -<p>And, to Mamma’s great comfort, Miss Anastasia made no objection. She -said kindly that she should miss her pleasant neighbours. “But what may -be in the future, girls, no one knows,” said Miss Rivers, getting up -abruptly. “Now, however, before this storm comes on, I am going home.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<small>GOING HOME.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">After</span> this the family made immediate preparations for their return. Upon -this matter Rachel was extremely uncomfortable, and much divided in her -wishes. Miss Lucy, who had been greatly solaced by the gentle -ministrations of this mild little girl, insisted very much that Rachel -should remain with her until her friends returned in spring, or till her -brother had “established himself.” Rachel herself did not know what to -do; and her mind was in a very doubtful condition, full of -self-arguments. She did not think Louis would be pleased—that was the -dark side. The favourable view was, that she was of use to the invalid, -and remaining with her would be “no burden to any one.” Rachel pondered, -wept, and consulted over it with much sincerity. From the society of -these young companions, whom the simple girl loved, and who were so near -her own age; from Louis, her lifelong ruler and example; from the kindly -fireside, to which she had looked forward<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> so long—it was hard enough -to turn to the invalid chambers, the old four-volume novels, and poor -pretty old Miss Lucy’s “disappointment in love.” “And if afterwards I -had to sing or give lessons, I should forget all my music there,” said -Rachel. Mrs Atheling kindly stepped in and decided for her. “It might be -a very good thing for you, my dear, if you had no friends,” said Mrs -Atheling. Rachel did not know whether to be most puzzled or grateful; -but to keep a certain conscious solemnity out of her tone—a certain -mysterious intimation of something great in the future—was out of the -power of Mamma.</p> - -<p>Accordingly, they all began their preparations with zeal and energy, the -only indifferent member of the party being Agnes, who began to feel -herself a good deal alone, and to suspect that she was indeed in the -enemy’s interest, and not so anxious about the success of Louis as she -ought to have been. A few days after Miss Anastasia’s visit, the Rector -came to find them in all the bustle of preparation. He appeared among -them with a certain solemnity, looking haughty and offended, and -received Mrs Atheling’s intimation of their departure with a grave and -punctilious bow. He had evidently known it before, and he looked upon -it, quite as evidently, as something done to thwart him—a personal -offence to himself.</p> - -<p>“Miss Atheling perhaps has literary occupation to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> call her to town,” -suggested Mr Rivers, returning to his original ground of displeasure, -and trying to get up a little quarrel with Agnes. She did not reply to -him, but her mother did, on her behalf.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, Mr Rivers, it does not make any difference to Agnes; she can -write anywhere,” said Mrs Atheling. “I often wonder how she gets on -amongst us all; but my husband has been left so long by himself—and now -that the trial does not come on till spring, we are all so thankful to -get home.”</p> - -<p>“The trial comes on in spring?—I shall endeavour to be at home,” said -the Rector, “if I can be of any service. I am myself going to town; I am -somewhat unsettled in my plans at present—but my friends whom I esteem -most are in London—people of scientific and philosophical pursuits, who -cannot afford to be fashionable. Shall I have your permission to call on -you when we are all there?”</p> - -<p>“I am sure we shall all be very much pleased,” said Mrs Atheling, -flattered by his tone—“you know what simple people we are, and we do -not keep any company; but we shall be very pleased, and honoured too, to -see you as we have seen you here.”</p> - -<p>Agnes was a little annoyed by her mother’s speech. She looked up with a -flash of indignation, and met, not the eyes of Mrs Atheling, but those -of Mr Rivers, who was looking at her. The eyes had a smile in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> them, but -there was perfect gravity upon the face. She was confused by the look, -though she did not know why. The words upon her lip were checked—she -looked down again, and began to arrange her papers with a rising colour. -The Rector’s look wandered from her face, because he perceived that he -embarrassed her, but went no further than her hands, which were pretty -hands enough, yet nothing half so exquisite as those rose-tipped fairy -fingers with which Marian folded up her embroidery. The Rector had no -eyes at all for Marian; but he watched the arrangement of Agnes’s papers -with a quite involuntary interest—detected in an instant when she -misplaced one, and was very much disposed to offer his own assistance, -relenting towards her. What he meant by it—he who was really the heir -of Lord Winterbourne, and by no means unaware of his own advantages—Mrs -Atheling, looking on with quick-witted maternal observation, could not -tell.</p> - -<p>Then quite abruptly—after he had watched all Agnes’s papers into the -pockets of her writing-book—he rose to go away; then he lingered over -the ceremony of shaking hands with her, and held hers longer than there -was any occasion for. “Some time I hope to resume our argument,” said Mr -Rivers. He paused till she answered him: “I do not know about argument,” -said Agnes, looking up with a flash of spirit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span>—“I should be foolish to -try it against you. I know only what I trust in—that is not argument—I -never meant it so.”</p> - -<p>He made no reply save by a bow, and went away leaving her rather -excited, a little angry, a little moved. Then they began to plague her -with questions—What did Mr Rivers mean? There was nothing in the world -which Agnes knew less of than what Mr Rivers meant. She tried to -explain, in a general way, the conversation she had with him before, but -made an extremely lame explanation, which no one was satisfied with, and -escaped to her own room in a very nervous condition, quite disturbed out -of her self-command. Agnes did not at all know what to make of her -anomalous feelings. She was vexed to the heart to feel how much she was -interested, while she disapproved so much, and with petulant annoyance -exclaimed to herself, that she wanted no more argument if he would but -let her alone!</p> - -<p>And then came the consideration of Lionel’s false hope—the hope which -some of these days would be taken from him in a moment. If she could -only let him know what she knew, her conscience would be easy. As she -thought of this, she remembered how people have been told in fables -secrets as important; the idea flashed into her mind with a certain -relief—then came the pleasure of creation, the gleam of life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> among her -maze of thoughts; the fancy brightened into shape and graceful -fashion—she began unconsciously to hang about it the shining garments -of genius—and so she rose and went about her homely business, putting -together the little frocks of Bell and Beau, ready to be packed, with -the vision growing and brightening before her eyes. Then the definite -and immediate purpose of it gave way to a pure native delight in the -beautiful thing which began to grow and expand in her thoughts. She went -down again, forgetting her vexation. If it did no other good in the -world, there was the brightest stream of practical relief and -consolation in Agnes Atheling’s gift.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /><br /> -<small>NEW INFLUENCES.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Once</span> more the Old Wood Lodge stood solitary under the darkening wintry -skies, with no bright faces at its windows, nor gleam of household -firelight in the dim little parlour, where Miss Bridget’s shadow came -back to dwell among the silence, a visionary inhabitant. Once more -Hannah sat solitary in her kitchen, lamenting that it was “lonesomer nor -ever,” and pining for the voices of the children. Hannah would have -almost been content to leave her native place and her own people to -accompany the family to London; but that was out of the question; and, -spite of all Mamma’s alarms, Susan had really conducted herself in a -very creditable manner under her great responsibility as housekeeper at -Bellevue.</p> - -<p>The journey home was not a very eventful one. They were met by Papa and -Louis on their arrival,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> and conducted in triumph to their own little -house, which did not look so attractive, by any means, as it used to do. -Then they settled down without more ado into the family use and wont. -With so great a change in all their prospects and intentions—so strange -an enlargement of their horizon and extension of their hopes—it was -remarkable how little change befell the outward life and customs of the -family. Marian, it was true, was “engaged;” but Marian might have been -engaged to poor Harry Oswald without any great variation of -circumstances; and that was always a possibility lying under everybody’s -eyes. It did not yet disturb the <i>habits</i> of the family; but this new -life which they began to enter—this life of separated and individual -interest—took no small degree of heart and spirit out of those joint -family pleasures and occupations into which Marian constantly brought a -reference to Louis, which Agnes passed through with a preoccupied and -abstracted mind, and from which Charlie was far away. The stream -widened, the sky grew broader, yet every one had his or her separate and -peculiar firmament. A maturer, perhaps, and more complete existence was -opening upon them; but the first effect was by no means to increase the -happiness of the family. They loved each other as well as ever; but they -were not so entirely identical. It was a disturbing influence, foreign -and unusual; it was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> the quiet, assured, undoubting family happiness -of the days which were gone.</p> - -<p>Then there were other unaccordant elements. Rachel, whom Mrs Atheling -insisted upon retaining with them, and who was extremely eager on her -own part to find something to do, and terrified to think herself a -burden upon her friends; and Louis, who contented himself with his -pittance of income, but only did his mere duty at the office, and gave -all his thoughts and all his powers to the investigation which engrossed -him. Mrs Atheling was very much concerned about Louis. If all this came -to nothing, as was quite probable, she asked her husband eagerly what -was to become of these young people—what were they to do? For at -present, instead of trying to get on, Louis, who had no suspicion of the -truth, gave his whole attention to a visionary pursuit, and was content -to have the barest enough which he could exist upon. Mr Atheling shook -his head, and could not make any satisfactory reply. “There was no -disposition to idleness about the boy,” Papa said, with approval. “He -was working very hard, though he might make nothing by it; and when this -state of uncertainty was put an end to, then they should see.”</p> - -<p>And Marian of late had become actively suspicious and observant. Marian -attacked her mother boldly, and without concealment. “Mamma, it is -something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> about Louis that Charlie has gone abroad for!” she said, in -an unexpected sally, which took the garrison by surprise.</p> - -<p>“My dear, how could you think of such a thing?” cried the prudent Mrs -Atheling. “What could Miss Anastasia have to do with Louis? Why, she -never so much as saw him, you know. You must, by no means, take foolish -fancies into your head. I daresay, after all, he must belong to Lord -Winterbourne.”</p> - -<p>Marian asked no more; but she did not fail to communicate her suspicions -to Louis at the earliest opportunity. “I am quite sure,” said Marian, -not scrupling even to express her convictions in presence of Agnes and -Rachel, “that Charlie has gone abroad for something about you.”</p> - -<p>“Something about me!” Louis was considerably startled; he was even -indignant for a moment. He did not relish the idea of having secret -enterprises undertaken for him, or to know less about himself than -Marian’s young brother did. “You must be mistaken,” he said, with a -momentary haughtiness. “Charlie is a very acute fellow, but I do not see -that he is likely to trouble himself about me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but it was Miss Anastasia,” said Marian, eagerly.</p> - -<p>Then Louis coloured, and drew himself up. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> first idea was that Miss -Anastasia looked for evidence to prove him the son of Lord Winterbourne; -and he resented, with natural vehemence, the interference of the old -lady. “We are come to a miserable pass, indeed,” he said, with -bitterness, “when people investigate privately to prove this wretched -lie against us.”</p> - -<p>“But you do not understand,” cried Rachel. “Oh, Louis, I never told you -what Miss Anastasia said. She said you were to take the name of -Atheling, because it meant illustrious, and because the exiled princes -were named so. Both Marian and Agnes heard her. She is a friend, Louis. -Oh, I am sure, if she is inquiring anything, it is all for our good!”</p> - -<p>The colour rose still higher upon Louis’s cheek. He did not quite -comprehend at the moment this strange, sudden side-light which glanced -down upon the question which was so important to him. He did not pause -to follow, nor see to what it might lead; but it struck him as a clue to -something, though he was unable to discover what that something was. -Atheling! the youth’s imagination flashed back in a moment upon those -disinherited descendants of Alfred, the Edgars and Margarets, who, -instead of princely titles, bore only that addition to their name. He -was as near the truth at that moment as people wandering in profound -darkness are often near the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> light. Another step would have brought him -to it; but Louis did not take that step, and was not enlightened. His -heart rose, however, with the burning impatience of one who comes within -sight of the goal. He started involuntarily with haste and eagerness. He -was jealous that even friendly investigations should be the first to -find out the mystery. He felt as if he would have a better right to -anything which might be awaiting him, if he discovered it himself.</p> - -<p>Upon all this tumult of thought and feeling, Agnes looked on, saying -nothing—looked on, by no means enjoying her spectatorship and superior -knowledge. It was a “situation” which might have pleased Mr Endicott, -but it terribly embarrassed Agnes, who found it no pleasure at all to be -so much wiser than her neighbours. She dared not confide the secret to -Louis any more than she could to the Rector; and she would have been -extremely unhappy between them, but for the relief and comfort of that -fable, which was quickly growing into shape and form. It had passed out -of her controlling hands already, and began to exercise over her the -sway which a real created thing always exercises over the mind even of -its author: it had ceased to be the direct personal affair she had -intended to make it; it told its story, but after a more delicate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> -process, and Agnes expended all her graceful fancy upon its perfection. -She thought now that Louis might find it out as well as the Rector. It -was an eloquent appeal, heart-warm and touching to them both.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /><br /> -<small>RACHEL’S DOUBTS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">After</span> Louis, the most urgent business in the house of the Athelings was -that of Rachel, who was so pertinaciously anxious to be employed, that -her friends found it very difficult to evade her constant entreaties. -Rachel’s education—or rather Rachel’s want of education—had been very -different from that of Marian and Agnes. She had no traditions of -respectability to deter her from anything she could do; and she had been -accustomed to sing to the guests at Winterbourne, and concluded that it -would make very little difference to her, whether her performance was in -a public concert-room or a private assembly. “No one would care at all -for me; no one would ever think of me or look at me,” said Rachel. “If I -sang well, that would be all that any one thought of; and we need not -tell Louis—and I would not mind myself—and no one would ever know.”</p> - -<p>“But I have great objections to it, my dear,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> Mrs Atheling, with -some solemnity. “I should rather a hundred times take in work myself, or -do anything with my own hands, than let my girls do this. It is not -respectable for a young girl. A public appearance! I should be grieved -and ashamed beyond anything. I should indeed, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry, Mrs Atheling,” said Rachel, wistfully; “but it is not -anything wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Not wrong—but not at all respectable,” said Mrs Atheling, “and -unfeminine, and very dangerous indeed, and a discreditable position for -a young girl.”</p> - -<p>Rachel blushed, and was very much disconcerted, but still did not give -up the point. “I thought it so when they tried to force me,” she said in -a low tone; “but now, no one need know; and people, perhaps, might have -me at their houses; ladies sing in company. You would not mind me doing -that, Mrs Atheling? Or I could give lessons. Perhaps you think it is all -vanity; but indeed they used to think me a very good singer, long ago. -Oh, Agnes, do you remember that old gentleman at the Willow? that very -old gentleman who used to talk to you? I think he could help me if you -would only speak to him.”</p> - -<p>“Mr Agar? I think he could,” said Agnes; “but, Rachel, mamma says you -must not think of it. Marian does not do anything, and why should you?”</p> - -<p>“I am no one’s daughter,” said Rachel, sadly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> “You are all very kind; -but Louis has only a very little money; and I will not—indeed I will -not—be a burden upon you.”</p> - -<p>“Rachel, my dear,” said Mrs Atheling, “do not speak so foolishly; but I -will tell you what we can do. Agnes shall write down all about it to -Miss Anastasia, and ask her advice, and whether she consents to it; and -if she consents, I will not object any more. I promise I shall not stand -in the way at all, if Miss Anastasia decides for you.”</p> - -<p>Rachel looked up with a little wonder. “But Miss Anastasia has nothing -to do with us,” said the astonished girl. “I would rather obey you than -Miss Rivers, a great deal. Why should we consult <i>her</i>?”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Mrs Atheling, with importance, “you must not ask any -questions at present. <i>I have my reasons.</i> Miss Anastasia takes a great -interest in you, and I have a very good reason for what I say.”</p> - -<p>This made an end of the argument; but Rachel was extremely puzzled, and -could not understand it. She was not very quick-witted, this gentle -little girl; she began to have a certain awe of Miss Anastasia, and to -suppose that it must be her superior wisdom which made every one ask her -opinion. Rachel could not conclude upon any other reason, and -accordingly awaited with a little solemnity the decision of Miss Rivers. -They were in a singular harmony, all these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> young people; not one of -them but had some great question hanging in the balance, which they -themselves were not sufficient to conclude upon—something that might -change and colour the whole course of their lives.</p> - -<p>Another event occurring just at this time, made Rachel for a time the -heroine of the family. Charlie wrote home with great regularity, like a -good son as he was. His letters were very short, and not at all -explanatory; but they satisfied his mother that he had not taken a -fever, nor fallen into the hands of robbers, and that was so far well. -In one of these epistles, however, the young gentleman extended his -brief report a little, to describe to them a family with which he had -formed acquaintance. There were a lot of girls, Charlie said; and one of -them, called Giulia Remori, was strangely like “Miss Rachel;” “not -exactly like,” wrote Charlie,—“not like Agnes and Marian” (who, by the -way, had only a very vague resemblance to each other). “You would not -suppose them to be sisters; but I always think of Miss Rachel when I see -this Signora Giulia. They say, too, she has a great genius for music, -and I heard her sing once myself, like——; well, I cannot say what it -was like. The most glorious music, I believe, under the skies.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, that cannot be Charlie!” said the girls<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> simultaneously; but it -was Charlie, without any dispute, and Marian clapped her hands in -triumph, and exclaimed that he must be in love; and there stood Rachel, -very much interested, wistful, and smiling. The tender-hearted girl had -the greatest propensity to make friendships. She received the idea of -this foreign Giulia into her heart in a moment, and ran forth eagerly at -the time of Louis’s usual evening visit to meet him at the gate, and -tell him this little bit of romance. It moved Louis a great deal more -deeply than it moved Rachel. This time his eye flashed to the truth like -lightning. He began to give serious thought to what Marian had said of -Charlie’s object, and of Miss Anastasia. “Hush, Rachel,” he said, with -sudden gravity. “Hush, I see it; this is some one belonging to our -mother.”</p> - -<p>“Our mother!” The two orphans stood together at the little gate, -silenced by the name. They had never speculated much upon this parent. -It was one of the miseries of their cruel position, that the very idea -of a dead mother, which is to most minds the most saintlike and holy -imagination under heaven, brought to them their bitterest pang of -disgrace and humiliation. Yet now Louis stood silent, pondering it with -the deepest eagerness. A burning impatience possessed the young man; a -violent colour rose over his face. He could not tolerate the idea of an -unconcerned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> inquirer into matters so instantly momentous to himself. He -was not at all amiable in his impulses; his immediate and wild fancy was -to rush away, on foot and penniless, as he was; to turn off Charlie -summarily from his mission, if he had one; and without a clue, or a -guide, or a morsel of information which pointed in that direction, by -sheer force of energy and desperation to find it out himself. It was -misery to go in quietly to the quiet house, even to the presence of -Marian, with such a fancy burning in his mind. He left Rachel abruptly, -without a word of explanation, and went off to make inquiries about -travelling. It was perfectly vain, but it was some satisfaction to the -fever of his mind. Louis’s defection made Marian very angry; when he -came next day they had their first quarrel, and parted in great -distraction and misery, mutually convinced of the treachery and -wretchedness of this world; but made it up again very shortly after, to -the satisfaction of every one concerned. With these things happening day -by day, with their impatient and fiery Orlando, always in some degree -inflaming the house, it is not necessary to say how wonderful a -revolution had been wrought upon the quiet habitudes of this little -house in Bellevue.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br /><br /> -<small>AGNES.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Yet</span> the household felt, in spite of itself, a difference by no means -agreeable between the Old Wood Lodge and Bellevue. The dull brick wall -of Laurel House was not nearly so pleasant to look upon as that great -amphitheatre with its maze of wan waters and willow-trees, where the -sunshine flashed among the spires of Oxford; neither was Miss Willsie, -kind and amusing as she was, at all a good substitute for Miss -Anastasia. They had Louis, it was true, but Louis was in love, and -belonged to Marian; and no one within their range was at all to be -compared to the Rector. Accustomed to have their interest fixed, after -their own cottage, upon the Old Wood House and Winterbourne Hall, they -were a little dismayed, in spite of themselves, to see the meagreness -and small dimensions even of Killiecrankie Lodge. It was a different -world altogether—and they did not know at the first glance how to make -the two compatible. The little house in the country, now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> that they had -left it, grew more and more agreeable by comparison. Mrs Atheling forgot -that she had thought it damp, and all of them, Mamma herself among the -rest, began to think of their return in spring.</p> - -<p>And as the winter went on, Agnes made progress with her fable. She did -not write it carefully, but she did write it with fervour, and the haste -of a mind concerned and in earnest. The story had altered considerably -since she first thought of it. There was in it a real heir whom nobody -knew, and a supposed heir, who was the true hero of the book. The real -heir had a love-story, and the prettiest <i>fiancée</i> in the world; but -about her hero Agnes was timid, presenting a grand vague outline of him, -and describing him in sublime general terms; for she was not at all an -experienced young lady, though she was an author, but herself regarded -her hero with a certain awe and respect and imperfect understanding, as -young men and young women of poetic conditions are wont to regard each -other. From this cause it resulted that you were not very clear about -the Sir Charles Grandison of the young novelist. Her pretty heroine was -as clear as a sunbeam; and even the Louis of her story was definable, -and might be recognised; but the other lay half visible, sometimes -shining out in a sudden gleam of somewhat tremulous light, but for the -most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> part enveloped in shadow: everybody else in the tale spoke of him, -thought of him, and were marvellously influenced by him; but his real -appearances were by no means equal to the importance he had acquired.</p> - -<p>The sole plot of the story was connected with the means by which the -unsuspected heir came to a knowledge of his rights, and gained his true -place; and there was something considerably exciting to Agnes in her -present exercise of the privilege of fiction, and the steps she took to -make the title of her imaginary Louis clear. She used to pause, and -wonder in the midst of it, whether such chances as these would befall -the true Louis, and how far the means of her invention would resemble -the real means. It was a very odd occupation, and interested her -strangely. It was not very much of a story, neither was it written with -that full perfection of style which comes by experience and the progress -of years; but it had something in its faulty grace, and earnestness, and -simplicity, which was perhaps more attractive than the matured -perfectness of a style which had been carefully formed, and “left -nothing to desire.” It was sparkling with youth, and it was warm from -the heart. It went into no greater bulk than one small volume, which Mr -Burlington put into glowing red cloth, embellished with two engravings, -and ornamented with plenty of gilding. It came out, a wintry Christmas -flower, making no such excitement<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> in the house as <i>Hope Hazlewood</i> had -done; and Agnes had the satisfaction of handing over to Papa, to lock up -in his desk in the office, a delightfully crisp, crackling, newly-issued -fifty-pound note.</p> - -<p>And Christmas had just given way to the New Year when the Rector made -his appearance at Bellevue. He was still more eager, animated, and -hopeful than he had been when they saw him last. His extreme high-church -clerical costume was entirely abandoned; he still wore black, but it was -not very professional, and he appeared in these unknown parts with books -in his hands and smiles on his face. When he came into the little -parlour, he did not seem at all to notice its limited dimensions, but -greeted them all with an effusion of pleasure and kindness, which -greatly touched the heart of Agnes, and moved her mother, in her extreme -gratification and pride, to something very like tears. Mr Rivers -inquired at once for Louis, with great gravity and interest, but shook -his head when he heard what his present occupation was.</p> - -<p>“This will not do; will he come and see me, or shall I wait upon him?” -said the Rector with a subdued smile, as he remembered the youthful -haughtiness of Louis. “I should be glad to speak to him about his -prospects—here is my card—will you kindly ask him to dine with me -to-night, alone? He is a young man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> of great powers; something better -may surely be found for him than this lawyer’s office.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling was a little piqued in spite of herself. “My son, when he -is at home, is there,” said the good mother; and her visitor did not -fail to see the significance of the tone.</p> - -<p>“He is not at home now—where is he?” said the Rector.</p> - -<p>There was a moment’s hesitation. Agnes turned to look at him, her colour -rising violently, and Mrs Atheling faltered in her reply.</p> - -<p>“He has gone abroad to —— to make some inquiries,” said Mrs Atheling; -“though he is so very young, people have great confidence in him; -and—and it may turn out very important indeed, what he has gone about.”</p> - -<p>Once more Agnes cast a troubled glance upon the Rector—he heard of it -with such perfect unconcern—this inquiry which in a moment might strike -his ambition to the dust.</p> - -<p>He ceased at once speaking on this subject, which did not interest him. -He said, turning to her, that he had brought some books about which he -wanted Miss Atheling’s opinion. Agnes shrank back immediately in natural -diffidence, but revived again, before she was aware, in all her old -impulse of opposition. “If it is wrong to write books, is it right to -form opinions<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> upon them?” said Agnes. Mr Rivers imperceptibly grew a -little loftier and statelier as she spoke.</p> - -<p>“I think I have explained my sentiments on that point,” said the Rector; -“there is no one whose appreciation I should set so high a value on as -that of an intelligent woman.”</p> - -<p>It was Agnes’s turn to blush and say nothing, as she met his eye. When -Mr Rivers said “an intelligent woman,” he meant, though the expression -was not romantic, his own ideal; and there lay his books upon the table, -evidences of his choice of a critic. She began to busy herself with -them, looking quite vacantly at the title-pages; wondering if there was -anything besides books, and controversies, and opinions, to be found in -the Rector’s heart.</p> - -<p>When Mrs Atheling, in her natural pride and satisfaction, bethought her -of that pretty little book with its two illustrations, and its cover in -crimson and gold, she brought a copy to the table immediately. “My dear, -perhaps Mr Rivers might like to look at this?” said Mrs Atheling. “It -has only been a week published, but people speak very well of it -already. It is a very pretty story. I think you would like it—Agnes, my -love, write Mr Rivers’ name.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, mamma!” cried Agnes hurriedly; she put away the red book from -her, and went away from the table in haste and agitation. Very true, it -was written<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> almost for him—but she was dismayed at the idea of being -called to write in it Lionel Rivers’ name.</p> - -<p>He took up the book, however, and looked at it in the gravest silence. -<i>The Heir</i>;—he read the title aloud, and it seemed to strike him; then -without another word he put the little volume safely in his pocket, -repeated his message to Louis, and a few minutes afterwards, somewhat -grave and abstracted, took his leave of them, and hastened away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br /><br /> -<small>LIONEL.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Rector became a very frequent visitor during the few following weeks -at Bellevue. Louis had gone to see him, as he desired, and Mr Rivers -anxiously endeavoured to persuade the youth to suffer himself to be -“assisted.” Louis as strenuously resisted every proposal of the kind; he -was toiling on in pursuit of himself, through his memoir of Lord -Winterbourne—still eager, and full of expectation—still proud, and -refusing to be indebted to any one. The Rector argued with him like an -elder brother. “Let us grant that you are successful,” said Mr Rivers; -“let us suppose that you make an unquestionable discovery, what position -are you in to pursue it? Your sister, even—recollect your sister—you -cannot provide for her.”</p> - -<p>His sister was Louis’s grand difficulty; he bit his lip, and the fiery -glow of shame came to his face. “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> cannot provide for her, it is true. -I am bitterly ashamed of it; but, at least, she is among friends.”</p> - -<p>“You do me small credit,” said the Rector; “but I will not ask, on any -terms, for a friendship which is refused to me. You are not even in the -way of advancement; and to lose your time after this fashion is madness. -Let me see you articled to these people whom you are with now; that is, -at least, a chance, though not a great one. If I can accomplish it, will -you consent to this?”</p> - -<p>Louis paused a little, grateful in his heart, though his tongue was slow -to utter his sentiments. “You are trying to do me a great service,” said -the young man; “you think me a churl, and ungrateful, but you endeavour -to benefit me against my will—is it not true? I am just in such a -position that no miracle in the world would seem wonderful to me; it is -possible, in the chances of the future, that we two may be set up -against each other. I cannot accept this service from you—from you, or -from any other. I must wait.”</p> - -<p>The Rector turned away almost with impatience. “Do you suppose you can -spend your life in this fashion—your life?” he exclaimed, with some -heat.</p> - -<p>“My life!” said Louis. He was a little startled with this conclusion. “I -thank you,” he added abruptly, “for your help, for your advice, for your -reproof—I thank you heartily, but I have no more to say.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span></p> - -<p>That was how the conversation ended. Lionel, grieved for the folly of -the boy, smiling to himself at Louis’s strange delusion that he, who was -the very beau-ideal of the race of Rivers, belonged to another house, -went to his rest, with a mind disturbed, full of difficulties, and of -ambition, working out one solemn problem, and touched with tender -dreams; yet always remembering, with a pleasure which he could not -restrain, the great change in his position, and that he was now, not -merely the Rector, but the heir of Winterbourne. Louis, on his part, -went home to his dark little lodging, with the swell and tumult of -excitement in his mind, and could not sleep. He seemed to be dizzied -with the rushing shadows of a crowd of coming events. He was not well; -his abstinence, his studiousness, his change of place and life, had -weakened his young frame; these rushing wings seemed to tingle in his -ears, and his temples throbbed as if they kept time. He rose in the -middle of the night, in the deep wintry silence and moonlight, to open -his window, and feel the cold air upon his brow. There he saw the -moonbeams falling softly, not on any imposing scene, but on the humble -roof underneath whose shelter sweet voices and young hearts, devout and -guileless, prayed for him every night; the thought calmed him into -sudden humility and quietness; and, in his poverty, and hope, and youth, -he returned to his humble bed, and slept.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> Lionel was waking too; but he -did not know of any one who prayed for <i>him</i> in all this cold-hearted -world.</p> - -<p>But the Rector became a very frequent visitor in Bellevue. He had read -the little book—read it with a kind of startled consciousness, the -first time, that it looked like a true story, and seemed somehow -familiar to himself. But by-and-by he began to keep it by him, and, not -for the sake of the story, to take it up idly when he was doing nothing -else, and refer to it as a kind of companion. It was not, in any degree -whatever, an intellectual display; he by no means felt himself pitted -against the author of it, or entering into any kind of rivalship with -her. The stream sparkled and flashed to the sunshine as it ran; but it -flowed with a sweet spontaneous readiness, and bore no trace of -artificial force and effort. It wanted a great many of the qualities -which critics praise. There was no great visible strain of power, no -forcible evidence of difficulties overcome. The reader knew very well -that <i>he</i> could not have done this, nor anything like it, yet his -intellectual pride was not roused. It was genius solacing itself with -its own romaunt, singing by the way; it was not talent getting up an -exhibition for the astonishment, or the enlightenment, or the -instruction of others. Agnes defeated her own purpose by the very means -she had taken to procure it. The Rector forgot all about the story, -thinking of the writer of it; he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> became indifferent to what she had to -tell, but dwelt and lingered—not like a critic—like something very -different—upon the cadence of her voice.</p> - -<p>To tell the truth, between his visits to Bellevue, and his musings -thereafter—his study of this little fable of Agnes’s, and his vague -mental excursions into the future, Lionel Rivers, had he yielded to the -fascination, would have found very near enough to do. But he was manful -enough to resist this trance of fairyland. He was beginning to be “in -love;” nobody could dispute it; it was visible enough to wake the most -entire sympathy in the breasts of Marian and Rachel, and to make for the -mother of the family wakeful nights, and a most uneasy pillow; but he -was far from being at ease or in peace. His friends in London were of a -class as different as possible from these humble people who were rapidly -growing nearer than friends. They were all men of great intelligence, of -great powers, scholars, philosophers, authorities—men who belonged, and -professed to belong, to the ruling class of intellect, prophets and -apostles of a new generation. They were not much given to believing -anything, though some among them had a weakness for mesmerism or -spiritual manifestations. They investigated all beliefs and faculties of -believing, and received all marvellous stories, from the Catholic -legends of the saints to the miracles of the New Testament, on one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> -general ground of indulgence, charitable and tender, as mythical stories -which meant something in their day. Most of them wrote an admirable -style—most of them occasionally said very profound things which nobody -could understand; all of them were scholars and gentlemen, as blameless -in their lives as they were superior in their powers; and all of them -lived upon a kind of intellectual platform, philosophical demigods, -sufficient for themselves, and looking down with a good deal of -curiosity, a little contempt, and a little pity, upon the crowds who -thronged below of common men.</p> - -<p>These were the people to whom Lionel Rivers, in the first flush of his -emancipation, had hastened from his high-churchism, and his country -pulpit—some of them had been his companions at College—some had -inspired him by their books, or pleased him by their eloquence. They -were a brotherhood of men of great cultivation—his equals, and -sometimes his superiors. He had yearned for their society when he was -quite removed from it; but he was of a perverse and unconforming mind. -What did he do now?</p> - -<p>He took the strange fancy suddenly, and telling no man, of wandering -through those frightful regions of crime and darkness, which we hide -behind our great London streets. He went about through the miserable -thoroughfares, looking at the miserable creatures there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> What was the -benefit to them of these polluted lives of theirs? They had their -enjoyments, people said—their enjoyments! Their sorrows, like the -sorrows of all humanity, were worthy human tears, consolation, and -sympathy,—their hardships and endurances were things to move the -universal heart; but their enjoyments—Heaven save us!—the pleasures of -St Giles’s, the delights and amusements of those squalid groups at the -street corners! If they were to have nothing more than that, what a -frightful fate was theirs!</p> - -<p>And there came upon the spectator, as he went among them in silence, a -sudden eagerness to try that talisman which Agnes Atheling had bidden -him use. It was vain to try philosophy there, where no one knew what it -meant—vain to offer the rites of the Church to those who were fatally -beyond its pale. Was it possible, after all, that the one word in the -world, which could stir something human—something of heaven—in these -degraded breasts, was that one sole unrivalled <i>Name</i>?</p> - -<p>He could not withdraw himself from the wretched scene before him. He -went on from street to street with something of the consciousness of a -man who carries a hidden remedy through a plague-stricken city, but -hides his knowledge in his own mind, and does not apply it. A strange -sense of guilt—a strange oppression by reason of this grand secret—an -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span>overpowering passionate impulse to try the solemn experiment, and -withal a fascinated watchfulness which kept him silent—possessed the -mind of the young man.</p> - -<p>He walked about the streets like a man doing penance; then he began to -notice other passengers not so idle as himself. There were people here -who were trying to break into the mass of misery, and make a footing for -purity and light among it. They were not like his people;—sometimes -they were poor city missionaries, men of very bad taste, not perfect in -their grammar, and with no great amount of discretion. Even the people -of higher class were very limited people often to the perception of Mr -Rivers; but they were at work, while the demigods slept upon their -platform. It would be very hard to make philosophers of the wretched -population here. Philosophy did not break its heart over the -impossibility, but calmly left the untasteful city missionaries, the -clergymen, High Church and Low Church, who happened to be in earnest, -and some few dissenting ministers of the neighbourhood, labouring upon a -forlorn hope to make them <i>men</i>.</p> - -<p>All this moved in the young man’s heart as he pursued his way among -these squalid streets. Every one of these little stirrings in this -frightful pool of stagnant life was made in the name of Him whom Lionel -Rivers once named with cold irreverence, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> whom Agnes Atheling, with -a tender awe and appropriation, called “Our Lord.” This was the problem -he was busy with while he remained in London. It was not one much -discussed, either in libraries or drawing-rooms, among his friends; he -discussed it by himself as he wandered through St -Giles’s—silent—watching—with the great Name which he himself did not -know, but began to cling to as a talisman, burning at his heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br /><br /> -<small>AN ARRIVAL.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">While</span> the Athelings at home were going on quietly, but with anxiety and -disturbance of mind in this way, they were startled one afternoon by a -sudden din and tumult out of doors, nearly as great as that which, not -much short of a year ago, had announced the first call of Mrs Edgerley. -It was not, however, a magnificent equipage like that of the fashionable -patroness of literature which drew up at the door now. It was an antique -job carriage, not a very great deal better to look at than that -venerable fly of Islington, which was still regarded with respect by -Agnes and Marian. In this vehicle there were two horses, tall brown bony -old hacks, worthy the equipage they drew—an old coachman in a very -ancient livery, and an active youth, fresh, rural, and ruddy, who sprang -down from the creaking coach-box to assault, but in a moderate country -fashion, the door of the Athelings. Rachel, who was peeping from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> the -window, uttered an exclamation of surprise—“Oh, Agnes, look! it is Miss -Anastasia’s man.”</p> - -<p>It was so beyond dispute, and Miss Anastasia herself immediately -descended from the creaking vehicle, swinging heavily upon its -antiquated springs; she had a large cloak over her brown pelisse, and a -great muff of rich sables, big enough to have covered from head to foot, -like a case, either little Bell or little Beau. She was so entirely like -herself in spite of those additions to her characteristic costume, and -withal so unlike other people, that they could have supposed she had -driven here direct from the Priory, had that been possible, without any -commonplace intervention of railway or locomotive by the way. As the -girls came to the door to meet her, she took the face—first of Agnes, -then of Marian, and lastly of Rachel, who was a good deal dismayed by -the honour—between her hands, thrusting the big muff, like a prodigious -bracelet, up upon her arm the while, and kissed them with a cordial -heartiness. Then she went into the little parlour to Mrs Atheling, who -in the mean time had been gathering together the scattered pieces of -work, and laying them, after an orderly fashion, in her basket. Then -Papa’s easy-chair was wheeled to the fire for the old lady, and Marian -stooped to find a footstool for her, and Agnes helped to loose the big -cloak from her shoulders. Miss Anastasia<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span>’s heart was touched by the -attentions of the young people. She laid her large hand caressingly on -Marian’s head, and patted the cheek of Agnes. “Good children—eh? I -missed them,” she said, turning to Mamma, and Mamma brightened with -pleasure and pride as she whispered something to Agnes about the fire in -the best room. Then, when she had held a little conversation with the -girls, Miss Rivers began to look uneasy. She glanced at Mrs Atheling -with a clear intention of making some telegraphic communication; she -glanced at the girls and at the door, and back again at Mamma, with a -look full of meaning. Mrs Atheling was not generally so dull of -comprehension, but she was so full of the idea that Miss Anastasia’s -real visit was to the girls, and so proud of the attraction which even -this dignified old lady could not resist, that she could not at all -consent to believe that Miss Rivers desired to be left alone with -herself.</p> - -<p>“There’s a hamper from the Priory,” said Miss Anastasia at last, -abruptly; “among other country things there’s some flowers in it, -children—make haste all of you and get it unpacked, and tell me what -you think of my camellias! Make haste, girls!”</p> - -<p>It was a most moving argument; but it distracted Mrs Atheling’s -attention almost as much as that of her daughters, for the hamper -doubtless contained<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> something else than flowers. Mamma, however, -remained decorously with her guest, despite the risk of breakage to the -precious country eggs; and the girls, partly deceived, partly suspecting -their visitor’s motive, obeyed her injunction, and hastened away. Then -Miss Rivers caught Mrs Atheling by the sleeve, and drew her close -towards her. “Have you heard from your boy?” said Miss Anastasia.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Mrs Atheling with a sudden momentary alarm, “not for a -week—has anything happened to Charlie?”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense—what could happen to him?” cried the old lady, with a little -impatience, “here is a note I had this morning—read it—he is coming -home.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling took the letter with great eagerness. It was a very brief -one:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Madam</span>,—I have come to it at last—suddenly. I have only time to -tell you so. I shall leave to-day with an important witness. I have -not even had leisure to write to my mother; but will push on to the -Priory whenever I have bestowed my witness safely in Bellevue. In -great haste.—Your obedient servant,</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span class="smcap">C. Atheling</span>.<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Charlie’s mother trembled all over with agitation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> and joy. She had to -grasp by the mantel-shelf to keep herself quite steady. She exclaimed, -“My own boy!” half-crying and wholly exultant, and would have liked to -have hurried out forthwith upon the road and met him half-way, had that -been possible. She kept the letter in her hand looking at it, and quite -forgetting that it belonged to Miss Anastasia. He had justified the -trust put in him—he had crowned himself with honour—he was coming -home! Not much wonder that the good mother was weeping-ripe, and could -have sobbed aloud for very joy.</p> - -<p>“Ay,” said Miss Anastasia, with something like a sigh, “you’re a rich -woman. I have not rested since this came to me, nor can I rest till I -hear all your boy has to say.”</p> - -<p>At this moment Mrs Atheling started with a little alarm, catching from -the window a glimpse of the coach, with its two horses and its -antiquated coachman, slowly turning round and driving away. Miss -Anastasia followed her glance with a subdued smile.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean then to—to stay in London, Miss Rivers?” asked Mrs -Atheling.</p> - -<p>“Tut! the boy will be home directly—to-night,” said Miss Anastasia; “I -meant to wait here until he came.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling started again in great and evident perturbation. You could -perceive that she repeated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> “to wait <i>here</i>!” within herself with a -great many points of admiration; but she was too well-bred to express -her dismay. She cast, however, an embarrassed look round her, said she -should be very proud, and Miss Rivers would do them honour, but she was -afraid the accommodation was not equal—and here Mrs Atheling paused -much distressed.</p> - -<p>“I have been calculating all the way up when he can be here,” -interrupted Miss Anastasia. “I should say about twelve o’clock to-night. -Agnes, when she comes back again, shall revise it for me. Never mind -accommodation. Give him an hour’s grace—say he comes at one -o’clock—then a couple of hours later—by that time it will be three in -the morning. Then I am sure one of the girls will not grudge me her bed -till six. We’ll get on very well; and when Will Atheling comes home, if -you have anything to say to him, I can easily step out of the way. Well, -am I an intruder? If I am not, don’t say anything more about it. I -cannot rest till I see the boy.”</p> - -<p>When the news became diffused through the house that Charlie was coming -home to-night, and that Miss Anastasia was to wait for him, a very great -stir and bustle immediately ensued. The best room was hastily put in -order, and Mrs Atheling’s own bedchamber immediately revised and -beautified for the reception of Miss Anastasia. It was with a little -difficulty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> however, that the old lady was persuaded to leave the -family parlour for the best room. She resisted energetically all unusual -attentions, and did not hesitate to declare, even in the presence of -Rachel, that her object was to see Charlie, and that for his arrival she -was content to wait all night. A great anxiety immediately took -possession of the household. They too were ready and eager to wait all -night; and even Susan became vaguely impressed with a solemn sense of -some great approaching event. Charlie was not to be alone either. The -excitement rose to a quite overpowering pitch—who was coming with him? -What news did he bring? These questions prolonged to the most -insufferable tediousness the long slow darksome hours of the March -night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br /><br /> -<small>CHARLIE’S RETURN.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> girls could not be persuaded to go to rest, let Mamma say what she -would. Rachel, the only one who had no pretence, nor could find any -excuse for sitting up, was the only one who showed the least sign of -obedience; <i>she</i> went up-stairs with a meek unwillingness, lingered as -long as she could before lying down, and when she extinguished her light -at last, lay very broad awake looking into the midnight darkness, and -listening anxiously to every sound below. Marian, in the parlour on a -footstool, sat leaning both her arms on her mother’s knee, and her head -upon her arms, and in that position had various little sleeps, and -half-a-dozen times in half-a-dozen dreams welcomed Charlie home. Agnes -kept Miss Anastasia company in the best room, and Papa, who was not used -to late hours, went between the two rooms with very wide open eyes, very -anxious for his son’s return. Into the midnight darkness and solemnity -of Bellevue, the windows<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> of Number Ten blazed with a cheerful light; -the fires were studiously kept up, the hearths swept, everything looking -its brightest for Charlie; and a pair of splendid capons, part produce -of Miss Anastasia’s hamper, were slowly cooking themselves into -perfection, under the sleepy superintendence of Susan, before the great -kitchen-fire—for even Susan would not go to bed.</p> - -<p>Miss Anastasia sat very upright in an easy-chair, scorning so much as a -suspicion of drowsiness. She did not talk very much; she was thinking -over a hundred forgotten things, and tracing back step by step the story -of the past. The old lady almost felt as if her father himself was -coming from his foreign grave to bear witness to the truth. Her heart -was stirred as she sat gazing into the ruddy firelight, hearing not a -sound except now and then the ashes falling softly on the hearth, or the -softer breath of Agnes by her side. As she sat in this unfamiliar little -room, her mind flew back over half her life. She thought of her father -as she had seen him last; she thought of the dreary blank of her own -youthful desolation, a widowhood almost deeper than the widowhood of a -wife—how she did not heed even the solemn pathos of her father’s -farewell—could not rouse herself from her lethargy even to be moved by -the last parting from that last and closest friend, and desired nothing -but to be left in her dreary self-seclusion obstinately mourning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> her -dead—her murdered bridegroom! The old lady’s eyes glittered, tearless, -looking into the gleaming shadowy depths of the little mirror over the -mantelpiece. It was scarcely in human nature to look back upon that -dreadful tragedy, to anticipate the arrival to-night of the witnesses of -another deadly wrong, and not to be stirred with a solemn and -overwhelming indignation like that of an avenger of blood. Miss -Anastasia started suddenly from her reverie, as she caught a long-drawn -anxious sigh from her young companion; she drew her shawl close round -her with a shudder. “God forgive me!” cried the vehement old lady; “did -you ever have an enemy, child?”</p> - -<p>In this house it was a very easy question. “No,” said Agnes, looking at -her wistfully.</p> - -<p>“Nor I, perhaps, when I was your age.” Miss Anastasia made a long pause. -It was a long time ago, and she scarcely could recollect anything of her -youth now, except that agony with which it ended. Then in the silence -there seemed to be a noise in the street, which roused all the watchers. -Mr Atheling went to the door to look out. It was very cold, clear, and -calm, the air so sharp with frost, and so still with sleep, that it -carried every passing sound far more distinctly than usual. Into this -hushed and anxious house, through the open door came ringing the chorus -of a street ballad, strangely familiar and out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> of unison with the -excited feelings of the auditors, and the loud, noisy, echoing footsteps -of some late merry-makers. They were all singularly disturbed by these -uncongenial sounds; they raised a certain vague terror in the breasts of -the father and mother, and a doubtful uneasiness among the other -watchers. Under that veil of night, and silence, and distance, who could -tell what their dearest and most trusted was doing? The old people could -have told each other tales, like Jessica, of “such a night;” and the -breathless silence, and the jar and discord of those rude voices, -stirred memories and presentiments of pain even in the younger hearts.</p> - -<p>It was now the middle of the night, two or three hours later than Miss -Anastasia had anticipated, and the old lady rose from her chair, shook -off her thoughtful mood, and began to walk about the room, and to -criticise it briskly to Agnes. Then by way of diversifying her vigil, -she made an incursion into the other parlour, where Papa was nursing the -fire, and Mamma sitting very still, not to disturb Marian, who slept -with her beautiful head upon her mother’s knee. The old lady was -suddenly overcome by the sight of that fair figure, with its folded arms -and bowed head, and long beautiful locks falling down on Mrs Atheling’s -dark gown, like a stream of sunshine. She laid her hand very tenderly -upon the sleeper’s head. “She does not know,” said Miss Anastasia—“she -would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> not believe what a fairy fortune is coming to her, the sleeping -beauty—God bless them all!”</p> - -<p>The words had scarcely left her lips, the tears were still shining in -her eyes, when Marian started up, called out of her dream by a sound -which none of them besides had been quick enough to hear. “There! there! -I hear him,” cried Marian, shaking back her loose curls; and they all -heard the far-off rapid rumble of a vehicle, gradually invading all the -echoes of this quietness. It came along steadily—nearer—nearer—waking -every one to the most overpowering excitement. Miss Anastasia marched -through the little parlour, with an echoing step, throwing her tall -shadow on the blind, clasping her fingers tight. Mr Atheling rushed to -the door; Marian ran to the kitchen to wake up Susan, and see that the -tray was ready for Charlie’s refreshment; Mamma stirred the fire, and -made it blaze; Agnes drew the blind aside, and looked out into the -darkness from the window. Yes, there could be no mistake; on came the -rumbling wheels, closer and closer. Then the cab became absolutely -visible, opposite the door—some one leapt out—was it Charlie?—but he -had to wait, to help some one else, very slow and uncertain, out of the -vehicle. They all crowded to the door, the mother and sisters for the -moment half forgetting Miss Anastasia; and there stood a most -indisputable Charlie, very near six<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> feet high, with a travelling-cap -and a rough overcoat, bringing home the most extraordinary guest -imaginable to his amazed parental home.</p> - -<p><i>It</i> was a woman, enveloped from head to foot in a great cloak, but -unbonneted, and with an amazing head-dress; and after her stumbled forth -a boy, of precisely the same genus and appearance as the Italian boys -with hurdy-gurdies and with images, familiar enough in Bellevue. Charlie -hurried forward, paying the greatest possible attention to his charge, -who was somewhat peevish. He scarcely left her hand when he plunged -among all those anxious people at the door. “All safe—all well, mother; -how did you know I was coming?—how d’ye do, papa? Let her in, let her -in, girls!—she’s tired to death, and doesn’t know a word of English. -Let’s have her disposed of first of all—she’s worth her weight in -gold—— Miss Rivers!”</p> - -<p>The young man fell back in extreme amazement. “Who is she, young -Atheling?” cried Miss Anastasia, towering high in the background over -everybody’s head.</p> - -<p>Charlie took off his cap with a visible improvement of “manners.” “The -nurse that brought them home,” he answered, in the concisest and most -satisfactory fashion; and, grasping the hand of every one as he passed, -with real pleasure glowing on his bronzed face, Charlie steered his -charge in—seeing there was light<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> in it—to the best room. Arrived -there, he fairly turned his back to the wall, and harangued his anxious -audience.</p> - -<p>“It’s all right,” said Charlie; “she tells her story as clearly as -possible when she’s not out of humour, and the doctor’s on his way. I’ve -made sure of everything of importance; and now, mother, if you can -manage it, and Miss Rivers does not object, let us have something to -eat, and get her off to bed, and then you shall hear all the rest.”</p> - -<p>Marian went off instantly to call Susan, and all the way Marian repeated -under her breath, “All the rest! all the rest of what? Oh, Louis! but -I’ll find out what they mean.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br /><br /> -<small>CHARLIE’S REPORT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was far from an easy achievement to get her safely conveyed up the -stairs. She turned round and delivered addresses to them in most lively -and oratorical Italian, eloquent on the subject of her sufferings by the -way; she was disposed to be out of temper when no one answered her but -Charlie, and fairly wound up, and stimulated with Miss Anastasia’s capon -and Mrs Atheling’s wine, was not half so much disposed to be sent off to -bed as her entertainers were to send her. These entertainers were in the -oddest state of amaze and excitement possible. It was beginning to draw -near the wintry morning of another day, and this strange figure in the -strange dress, which did not look half so pretty in its actual reality, -and upon this hard-featured peasant woman, as it did in pictures and -romance—the voluble foreign tongue of which they did not know a -word—the emphatic gestures; the change in the appearance of Charlie, -and the entire suddenness of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> the whole scene, confused the minds of the -lookers-on. Then a pale face in a white cap, a little shrinking -white-robed figure, trembling and anxious, was perceptible to Mrs -Atheling at the top of the stair, looking down upon it with terror. So -Mamma peremptorily sent Charlie back beside Miss Anastasia, and resumed -into her own hands the management of affairs. Under her guidance the -woman and the boy were comfortably disposed of, no one being able to -speak a word to them, in the room which had been Charlie’s. Rachel was -comforted and sent back to bed, and then Mrs Atheling turned suddenly -upon her own girls. “My dears,” said Mamma, “you are not wanted down -stairs. I don’t suppose Papa and I are wanted either; Miss Anastasia -must talk over her business with Charlie—it is not <i>our</i> business you -know, Marian, my darling; go to sleep.”</p> - -<p>“Go to sleep!—people cannot go to sleep just when they choose at five -o’clock in the morning, mamma!” cried the aggrieved and indignant -Marian; but Agnes, though quite as curious as her sister, was wise -enough to lend her assistance in the cause of subordination. Marian was -under very strong temptation. She thought she could <i>almost</i> like to -steal down in the dark and listen; but honour, we are glad to say, -prevailed over curiosity, and sleep over both. When her pretty young -head touched the pillow, there was no eavesdropping<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> possible to Marian; -and in the entirest privacy and silence, after all this tumult, in the -presence of Mamma and Mr Atheling, and addressing himself to Miss -Anastasia, Charlie told his tale. He took out his pocket-book from his -pocket—the same old-fashioned big pocket-book which he had carried away -with him, and gave his evidences one by one into Miss Anastasia’s hands -as he spoke.</p> - -<p>But the old lady’s fingers trembled: she had restrained herself as well -as she could, feeling it only just that he should be welcomed by his -own, and even half diverted out of her anxiety by the excited Tyrolese; -but now her restrained feelings rushed back upon her heart. The papers -rustled in her hand; she did not hear him as he began, in order, and -deliberately, his report. “Information! I cannot receive information, I -am too far gone for that,” cried the old lady, with a hysterical break -in her voice. “Give me no facts, Charlie, Charlie!—I am not able to put -them together—tell me once in a word—is it true?”</p> - -<p>“It is true,” said Charlie, eagerly—“not only true, but -proved—certain, so clear that nobody can deny it. Listen, Miss Rivers, -I could be content to go by myself with these evidences in my hand, -before any court in England, against the ablest pleader that ever held a -brief. Don’t mind the proofs to-night; trust my assurance, as you -trusted me. It is true to the letter,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> to the word, everything that you -supposed. Giulietta was his wife. Louis is his lawful son.”</p> - -<p>Miss Anastasia did not say a word; she bowed down her face upon her -hands—that face over which an ashy paleness came slowly stealing like a -cloud. Mrs Atheling hastened forward, thinking she was about to faint, -but was put aside by a gesture. Then the colour came back, and Miss -Anastasia rose up, herself again, with all her old energy.</p> - -<p>“You are perfectly right, young Atheling—quite right—as you have -always been,” said Miss Rivers; “and, of course, you have told me in -your letters the most part of what you could tell me now. But your boy -is born for the law, Will Atheling,” she said, turning suddenly to -Charlie’s pleased and admiring father. “He wrote to me as if I were a -lawyer instead of a woman: all facts and no opinion; that was scant -measure for me. Shake hands, boy. I’ll see everything in the morning, -and then we’ll think of beginning the campaign. I have it in my head -already—please Heaven! Charlie, we’ll chase them from the field.”</p> - -<p>So saying, Miss Anastasia marched with an exultant and jubilant step, -following Mrs Atheling up the narrow stairs. She was considerably shaken -out of her usual composure—swells of great triumph, suddenly calmed by -the motion of a moved heart, passed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> over the spirit of this brave old -gentlewoman like sun and wind; and her self-appointed charge of the -rights of her father’s children, who might have been her own children so -far as age was concerned, had a very singular effect upon her. Mrs -Atheling did not linger a minute longer than she could help with her -distinguished guest. She was proud of Miss Anastasia, but far prouder of -Charlie,—Charlie, who had been a boy a little while ago, but who had -come back a man.</p> - -<p>“Come here and sit down, mother,” said Charlie; “now we’re by ourselves, -if you will not tell the girls, I’ll tell you everything. First, there’s -the marriage. That she belonged to the family I wrote of—the family -Remori—I got at after a long time. She was an only daughter, and had no -one to look after her. I have a certificate of the marriage, and a -witness coming who was present—old Doctor Serrano—one of your patriots -who is always in mischief; besides that, what do you think is my -evidence for the marriage?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, Charlie, I could not guess,” cried Mrs Atheling.</p> - -<p>“There’s a kind of tomb near the town, a thing as like the mausoleum at -Winterbourne as possible, and quite as ugly. There is this good in -ugliness,” said Charlie, “that one remarks it, especially in Italy. I -thought no one but an Englishman could have put up such an affair as -that, and I could not make out one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> way or another who it belonged to, -or what it was. The priests are very strong out there. They would not -let a heretic lie in consecrated ground, and no one cared to go near -this grave, if it was a grave. They wouldn’t allow even that. You know -what the Winterbourne tomb is—a great open canopied affair, with that -vast flat stone below. There was a flat stone in the other one too, not -half so big, and it looked to me as if it would lift easily enough. So -what do you think I did? I made friends with some wild fellows about, -and got hold of one young Englishman, and as soon as it was dark we got -picks and tools and went off to the grave.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie!” Mrs Atheling turned very pale.</p> - -<p>“After a lot of work we got it open,” said Charlie, going on with great -zest and animation. “Then the young fellow and I got down into the -vault—a regular vault, where there had been a lamp suspended. <i>It</i>, I -suppose, had gone out many a year ago; and there we found upon the two -coffin-lids—well, it’s very pitiful, mother, it is indeed—but we -wanted it for evidence—on one of the coffins was this -inscription:—‘Giulietta Rivers, Lady Winterbourne, <i>née</i> Remori, died -January 1822, aged twenty years.’ If it had been a diamond mine it would -not have given so much pleasure to me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span></p> - -<p>“Pleasure! oh Charlie!” cried Mrs Atheling faintly.</p> - -<p>“But they might say <i>you</i> put it there, Charlie, and that it was not -true,” said Mr Atheling, who rather piqued himself upon his caution.</p> - -<p>“That was what I had the other young fellow for,” said Charlie quietly; -“and that was what made me quite sure she belonged to the Remoris; it -was easy enough after that—and I want only one link now, that is, to -make sure of their identity. Father, do you remember anything about the -children when they came to the Hall?”</p> - -<p>Mr Atheling shook his head. “Your aunt Bridget, if she had been alive, -would have been sure to know,” said Mamma meditatively; “but Louis found -out some old servant lately that had been about Winterbourne long ago.”</p> - -<p>“Louis! does he know?” cried Charlie.</p> - -<p>“He is doing something on his own account, inquiring everything he can -about Lord Winterbourne. He does not know, but guesses every possible -kind of thing, except the truth,” said Mr Atheling; “how long he may be -of lighting upon that, it is impossible to say.”</p> - -<p>“Now Charlie, my dear boy, you can ask all about Louis to-morrow,” said -Mrs Atheling. “Louis! Dear me, William, to think of us calling him -Louis, and treating him like any common young man, and he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> Lord -Winterbourne all the time! and all through Charlie!—and oh, my Marian! -when I think of it all, it bewilders me! But, Charlie, my dear, you must -not be fatigued too much. Do not ask him any more questions to-night, -papa; consider how important his health is; he must lie down directly. -I’ll make him all comfortable; and, William, do you go to the -parlour—bid him good-night.”</p> - -<p>Papa obeyed, as dutiful papas are wont to obey, and Charlie laughed, but -submitted, as his mother, with her own kind unwearying hands, arranged -for him the sofa in the best room; for the Tyrolese and Miss Anastasia -occupied all the available bedrooms in the house. Then she bade him -good-night, drawing back his dark elf-locks, and kissing his forehead -tenderly, and with a certain respect for the big boy who was a boy no -longer; and then the good mother went away to arrange her husband -similarly on the other sofa, and to take possession, last of all, of the -easy-chair. “I can sleep in the day if I am disposed,” said Mrs -Atheling, who never was disposed for any such indulgence; and she leaned -back in the big chair, with a mind disturbed and glowing, agitated with -grand fancies. Marian! was it possible? But then, Agnes—after all, what -a maze of splendid uncertainty it was!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br /><br /> -<small>PROCRASTINATION.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“You</span> may say what you like, young Atheling,” said Miss Rivers, “you’ve a -very good right to your own opinion; but I’m not a lawyer, nor bound by -rule and precedent, mind. This is the middle of March; <i>it</i> comes on in -April; we must wait for that; and you’re not up with all your evidence, -you dilatory boy.”</p> - -<p>“But I might happen to be up with it in a day,” said Charlie, “and at -all events an ejectment should be served, and the first step taken in -the case without delay.”</p> - -<p>“That is all very well,” said the old lady, “but I don’t suppose it -would advance the business very much, besides rousing him at once to use -every means possible, and perhaps buy off that poor old Serrano, or get -hold of Monte. Why did you not look for Monte, young Atheling? The -chances are that he was present too?”</p> - -<p>“One witness was as much as I could manage,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> said Charlie, shrugging -his shoulders at the recollection; “but the most important question of -all—Louis—I mean—your brother—the heir—”</p> - -<p>“My brother—the heir.” Miss Rivers coloured suddenly. It was a -different thing thinking of him in private, and hearing him spoken of -so. “I tell you he is not the heir, young Atheling; he is Lord -Winterbourne: but I will not see him yet, not till <i>the day</i>; it would -be a terrible time of suspense for the poor boy.”</p> - -<p>“Then, if it is your pleasure, he must go away,” said Charlie, -firmly—“he cannot come here to this agitated house of ours without -discovering a good deal of the truth; and if he discovered it so, he -would have just grounds to complain. If he is not told at once, he ought -to have some commission such as I have had, and be sent away.”</p> - -<p>Miss Rivers coloured still more, all her liking for Charlie and his -family scarcely sufficing to reconcile her to the “sending away” of the -young heir, on the same footing as she had sent young Atheling. She -hesitated and faltered visibly, seeing reason enough in it, but -extremely repugnant. “If you think so,” she said at last, with a -slightly averted face, “ah—another time we can speak of that.”</p> - -<p>Then came further consultations, and Charlie had to tell his story over -bit by bit, and incident by incident,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> illustrating every point of it by -his documents. Miss Anastasia was particularly anxious about the young -Englishman whose name was signed with Charlie’s own, in certification of -the inscription on the coffin. Miss Anastasia marvelled much whether he -belonged to the Hillarys of Lincolnshire, or the Hillarys of Yorkshire, -and pursued his shadow through half-a-dozen counties. Charlie was not -particularly given to genealogy. He had the young man’s card, with his -address at the Albany, and the time of his possible return home. That -was quite enough for the matter in hand, and Charlie was very much more -concerned about the one link wanting in his evidence—the person who -received the children from the care of Leonore the Tyrolese.</p> - -<p>As it chanced, in this strange maze of circumstance, the Rector chose -this day for one of his visits. He was very much amazed to encounter -Miss Anastasia; it struck him evidently as something which needed to be -accounted for, for she was known and noted as a dweller at home. She -received him at first with a certain triumphant satisfaction, but -by-and-by a little confusion appeared even in the looks of Miss -Anastasia. She began to glance from the stately young man to the pale -face and drooping eyelids of Agnes. She began to see the strange mixture -of trouble and hardship in this extraordinary revolution, and her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> heart -was touched for the heir deposed, as well as for the heir discovered. -Lionel was “in trouble” himself, after an odd enough fashion. Some one -had just instituted an action against him in the ecclesiastical courts -touching the furniture of his altar, and the form in which he conducted -the services. It was a strange poetic justice to bring this against him -now, when he himself had cast off his high-churchism, and was -luxuriating in his new freedom. But the Curate grew perfectly inspired -under the infliction, and rose to the highest altitude of satisfaction -and happiness, declaring this to be the testing-touch of persecution, -which constantly distinguishes the true faith. It was on Miss -Anastasia’s lips to speak of this, and to ask the young clergyman why he -was so long away from home at so critical a juncture, but her heart was -touched with compunction. From looking at Lionel, she turned suddenly to -Agnes, and asked, with a strange abruptness, a question which had no -connection with the previous conversation—“That little book of yours, -Agnes Atheling, that you sent to me, what do you mean by that story, -child?—eh?—what put <i>that</i> into your idle little brain? It is not like -fiction; it is quite as strange and out of the way as if it had been -life.”</p> - -<p>Involuntarily Agnes lifted her heavy eyelids, and cast a shy look of -distress and sympathy upon the unconscious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> Rector, who never missed any -look of hers, but could not tell what this meant. “I do not know,” said -Agnes; but the question did not wake the shadow of a smile upon her -face—it rather made her resentful. She thought it cruel of Miss -Anastasia, now that all doubt was over, and Lionel was certainly -disinherited. Disinherited!—he had never possessed anything actual, and -nothing was taken from him; whereas Louis had been defrauded of his -rights all his life; but Agnes instinctively took the part of the -present sufferer—the unwitting sufferer, who suspected no evil.</p> - -<p>But the Rector was startled in his turn by the question of Miss -Anastasia. It revived in his own mind the momentary conviction of -reality with which he had read the little book. When Miss Anastasia -turned away for a moment, he addressed Agnes quietly aside, making a -kind of appeal. “Had you, then, a real foundation—is it a true tale?” -he said, looking at her with a little anxiety. She glanced up at him -again, with her eyes so full of distress, anxiety, warning—then looked -down with a visible paleness and trembling, faltered very much in her -answer, and at last only said, expressing herself with difficulty, “It -is not all real—only something like a story I have heard.”</p> - -<p>But Agnes could not bear his inquiring look; she hastily withdrew to the -other side of the room, eager<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> to be out of reach of the eyes which -followed her everywhere. For his part, Lionel’s first idea was of some -distress of hers, which he instinctively claimed the right to soothe; -but the thing remained in his mind, and gave him a certain vague -uneasiness; he read the book over again when he went home, to make it -out if he could, but fell so soon into thought of the writer, and -consideration of that sweet youthful voice of hers, that there was no -coming to any light in the matter. He not only gave it up, but forgot it -again, only marvelling what was the mystery which looked so sorrowful -and so bright out of Agnes Atheling’s eyes.</p> - -<p>They all waited with some little apprehension that night for the visit -of Louis. He was very late; the evening wore away, and Miss Anastasia -had long ago departed, taking with her, to the satisfaction of every -one, the voluble Tyrolese; but Louis was not to be seen nor heard of. -Very late, as they were all preparing for rest, some one came to the -door. The knock raised a sudden colour on the cheeks of Marian, which -had grown very pale for an hour or two. But it was not Louis; it was, -however, a note from him, which Marian ran up-stairs to read. She came -down again a moment after, with a pale face, painfully keeping in two -big tears. “Oh, mamma, he has gone away,” said Marian. She did not want -to cry, and it was impossible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> to speak without crying; and yet she did -not like to confide to any one the lover’s letter. At last the tears -fell, and Marian found her voice. He had just heard suddenly something -very important, had seen Mr Foggo about it, and had hurried off to the -country; he would not be detained long, he was sure; he had not a moment -to explain anything, but would write whenever he got there. “He does not -even say where,” said Marian, sadly; and Rachel came close up to her, -and cried without any restraint, as Marian very much wished, but did not -quite like to do before her father and her brother. Mrs Atheling took -them both into a corner, and scolded them after a fashion she had. “My -dears, do you think you cannot trust Louis?” said Mamma—“nonsense!—we -shall hear to-morrow morning. Why, he has spoken to Mr Foggo, and you -may be quite sure everything is right, and that it was the most sensible -thing he could do.”</p> - -<p>But it was very odd certainly, not at all explainable, and withal the -most seasonable thing in the world. “I should think it quite a -providence,” said Mrs Atheling, “if we only heard where he was.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE FOGGOS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> first thing to be done in the morning, before it was time even for -the postman, was to hasten to Killiecrankie Lodge, and ascertain all -that could be ascertained concerning Louis from Mr Foggo. This mission -was confided to Agnes. It was a soft spring-like morning, and the first -of Miss Willsie’s wallflowers were beginning to blow. Miss Willsie -herself was walking in her little garden, scattering crumbs upon the -gravel-path for the poor dingy town-sparrows, and the stray robin whom -some unlucky wind had blown to Bellevue. But Miss Willsie was disturbed -out of her usual equanimity; she looked a little heated, as if she had -come here to recover herself, and rather frightened her little feathered -acquaintances by the vehemence with which she threw them her daily dole. -She smoothed her brow a little at sight of Agnes. “And what may <i>you</i> be -wanting at such an hour as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> this?” said Miss Willsie; “if there is one -thing I cannot bide, it is to see young folk wandering about, without -any errand, at all the hours of the day!”</p> - -<p>“But I have an errand,” said Agnes. “I want to ask Mr Foggo about—about -Mr Louis—if he knows where he has gone!”</p> - -<p>Mr Louis—his surname, as everybody supposed—was the name by which -Louis was known in Bellevue.</p> - -<p>Miss Willsie’s brow puckered with a momentary anger. “I would like to -know,” said Miss Willsie, “why that monkey could not content herself -with a kindly lad at home: but my brother’s in the parlour; you’ll find -him there, Agnes. Keep my patience!—Foggie’s there too—the lad from -America. If there’s one thing in this world I cannot endure, it’s just a -young man like yon!”</p> - -<p>Miss Willsie, however, reluctantly followed her young visitor into the -breakfast parlour, from which the old lady had lately made an indignant -and unceremonious exit. It was a very comfortable breakfast-table, fully -deserving the paragraph it obtained in those “Letters from England,” -which are so interesting to all the readers of the <i>Mississippi -Gazette</i>. There was a Scottish prodigality of creature comforts, and the -fine ancient table-linen was white as snow, and there was a very unusual -abundance, for a house of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> this class, of heavy old plate. Mr Foggo was -getting through his breakfast methodically, with the <i>Times</i> erected -before him, and forming a screen between himself and his worshipful -nephew; while Mr Foggo S. Endicott, seated with a due regard to his -profile, at such an angle with the light as to exhibit fitly that noble -outline, conveyed his teacup a very long way up from the table, at -dignified intervals, to his handsome and expressive mouth.</p> - -<p>Agnes hastened to the elder gentleman at once, and drew him aside to -make her inquiries. Mr Foggo smiled, and took a pinch of snuff. “All -quite true,” said Mr Foggo; “he came to me yesterday with a paper in his -hand—a long story about next of kin wanted somewhere, and of two -children belonging to some poor widow woman, who had been lost sight of -a long time ago, one of whom was named Louis. That’s the story; it’s a -mare’s nest, Agnes, if you know what that is; but I thought it might -divert the boy; so instead of opposing, I furnished him for his journey, -and let him go without delay. No reason why the lad should not do his -endeavour for his own hand. It’s good for him, though it’s sure to be a -failure. He has told you perfectly true.”</p> - -<p>“And where has he gone?” asked Agnes anxiously.</p> - -<p>“It’s in one of the midland counties—somewhere beyond Birmingham—at -this moment I do not remember<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> the place,” said Mr Foggo; “but I took a -note of it, and you’ll hear from him to-morrow. We’ve been hearing news -ourselves, Agnes. Did you tell her, Willsie, what fortune has come to -you and me?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Miss Willsie. She was turning her back upon her dutiful -nephew, and frowning darkly upon the teapot. The American had no chance -with his offended aunt.</p> - -<p>“A far-away cousin of ours,” said Mr Foggo, who was very bland, and in a -gracious humour, “has taken it into his head to die; and a very bonny -place indeed, in the north country—a cosy little estate and a good -house—comes to me.”</p> - -<p>“I am very glad,” said Agnes, brightening in sympathy; “that is good -news for everybody. Oh, Miss Willsie, how pleased Mr Foggo must be!”</p> - -<p>Miss Willsie did not say a word—Mr Foggo smiled. “Then you think a cosy -estate a good thing, Agnes?” said the old gentleman. “I am rather -afraid, though you write books, you are not poetical; for that is not -the view of the subject taken by my nephew here.”</p> - -<p>“I despise wealth,” said Mr Endicott. “An estate, sir, is so much dirty -soil. The mind is the true riches; a spark of genius is worth all the -inheritances in the world!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span></p> - -<p>“And that’s just so much the better for you, Foggie, my man,” cried Miss -Willsie suddenly; “seeing the inheritances of this world are very little -like to come to your share. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a lee!”</p> - -<p>Mr Endicott took no notice of this abstract deliverance. “A very great -estate—the ancient feudal domain—the glens and the gorges of the -Highland chief, I respect, sir,” said the elevated Yankee; “but a man -who can influence a thousand minds—a man whose course is followed -eagerly by the eyes of half a nation—such a man is not likely to be -tempted to envy by a mile of indifferent territory. My book, by which I -can move a world, is my lever of Archimedes; this broadsheet”—and he -laid his hand upon the pages of the <i>Mississippi Gazette</i>—“is my -kingdom! Miss Atheling, I shall have the honour of paying my respects to -your family to-day. I shall soon take leave of Europe. I have learned -much—I have experienced much—I am rejoiced to think I have been able -to throw some light upon the manners and customs of your people; and -henceforward I intend to devote myself to the elucidation of my own.”</p> - -<p>“We shall be very glad to see you, Mr Endicott,” said Agnes, who was -rather disposed to take his part, seeing he stood alone. “Now I must -hasten home and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> tell them. We were all very anxious; but every one will -be glad, Mr Foggo, to hear of you. We shall feel as if the good fortune -had come to ourselves.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, Agnes, and so it might, if Marian, silly monkey, had kept a thought -for one that liked her well,” said Miss Willsie, as she went with her -young visitor. “Poor Harry! his uncle’s heart yearns to him; <i>our</i> gear -will never go the airt of a fool like yon!” said Miss Willsie, growing -very Scotch and very emphatic, as she inclined her head in the direction -of Mr Endicott; “but Harry will be little heeding who gets the siller -<i>now</i>.”</p> - -<p>Poor Harry! since he had heard of <i>it</i>—since he had known of Marian’s -engagement, he had never had the heart to make a single appearance in -Bellevue.</p> - -<p>Mr Endicott remembered his promise; he went forth in state, as soon -after noon as he could go, with a due regard to the proper hour for a -morning call. Mr Endicott, though he had endured certain exquisite pangs -of jealousy, was not afraid of Louis; he could not suppose that any one -was so blind, having <i>his</i> claims fairly placed before them, as to -continue to prefer another; such an extent of human perversity did not -enter into the calculations of Mr Endicott. And he was really “in love,” -like the rest of these young people. All the readers of the <i>Mississippi -Gazette</i> knew of a certain lovely face,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> which brightened the -imagination of their “representative man,” and it was popularly expected -on the other side of the water, in those refined circles familiar with -Mr Endicott, that he was about to bring his bride home. He had an -additional stimulus from this expectation, and went forth to-day with -the determination of securing Marian Atheling. He was a little nervous, -because there was a good deal of real emotion lying at the bottom of his -heart; but, after all, was more doubtful of getting an opportunity than -of the answer which should follow when the opportunity was gained.</p> - -<p>To his extreme amazement, he found Marian alone. He understood it in a -moment—they had left her on purpose—they comprehended his intentions! -She was pale, her beautiful eyes glistened, and were wet and dewy. -Perhaps she, too, had an intuition of what was coming. He thought her -subdued manner, the tremble in her voice, the eyes, which were cast down -so often, and did not care to meet his full gaze, were all signs of that -maiden consciousness about which he had written many a time. In the full -thought of this, the eloquent young American dispensed with all -preamble. He came to her side with the delightful benevolence of a lover -who could put this beautiful victim of his fascinations out of her -suspense at once. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> addressed her by her name—he added the most -endearing words he could think of—he took her hand. The young beauty -started from him absolutely with violence. “What do you mean, sir?” said -Marian. Then she stood erect at a little distance, her eyes flashing, -her cheek burning, holding her hands tight together, with an air of -petulant and angry defiance. Mr Endicott was thunderstruck. “Did you not -expect me—do you not understand me?” said the lover, not yet daunted. -“Pardon me; I have shocked your delicate feelings. You cannot think I -mean to do it, Marian, sweet British rose? You know me too well for -that; you know my mind—you appreciate my feelings. You were born to be -a poet’s bride—I come to offer you a poet’s heart!”</p> - -<p>Before he had concluded, Marian recovered herself; into the dewy eyes, -that had been musing upon Louis, the old light of girlish mischief came -arch and sweet. “I did not quite understand you, Mr Endicott,” said -Marian, demurely. “You alarmed me a little; but I am very much obliged, -and you are very good; only, I—I am sorry. I suppose you do not know -I—I am engaged!”</p> - -<p>She said this with a bright blush, casting down her eyes. She thought, -after all, it was the honestest and the easiest fashion of dismissing -her new lover.</p> - -<p>“Engaged! Marian, you did not know of me—you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> were not acquainted with -my sentiments,” cried the American. “Oh, for a miserable dream of -honour, will you blight my life and your own? You were not aware of my -love—you were ignorant of my devotion. Beautiful Mayflower! you are -free of what you did in ignorance—you are free for me!”</p> - -<p>Marian snatched away her hand again with resentment. “I suppose you do -not mean to be very impertinent, Mr Endicott, but you are so,” cried the -indignant little beauty. “I do not like you—I never did like you. I am -very sorry, indeed, if you really cared for me. If I were free a hundred -times over—if I never had seen any one,” cried Marian vehemently, -blushing with sudden passion, and feeling disposed to cry, “I never -could have had anything to say to you. Mamma—oh, I am sure it is very -cruel!—Mamma, will you speak to Mr Endicott? He has been very rude to -me!”</p> - -<p>Mamma, who came in at the moment out of the garden, started with -amazement to see the flushed cheeks of Marian, and Mr Endicott, who -stood in an appealing attitude, with the most crestfallen and astonished -face. Marian ran from the room in an instant, scarcely able to restrain -her tears of vexation and annoyance, till she was out of sight. Mrs -Atheling placed a chair for her daughter’s suitor very solemnly. “What -has happened?—what have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> you been saying, Mr Endicott?” said the -indignant mother.</p> - -<p>“I have only been offering to your daughter’s acceptance all that a man -has to offer,” said the American, with a little real dignity. “It is -over; the young lady has made her own election—she rejects <i>me</i>! It is -well! it is but another depth of human suffering opening to <i>his</i> feet -who must tread them all! But I have nothing to apologise for. Madam, -farewell!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, stay a moment! I am very sorry—she is so young. I am sure she did -not mean to offend you,” said Mrs Atheling, with distress. “She is -engaged, Mr Endicott. Miss Willsie knew of it. I am sure I am grieved if -the foolish child has answered you unkindly; but she is engaged.”</p> - -<p>“So I am aware, madam,” said Mr Endicott, gloomily; “may it be for her -happiness—may no poetic retribution attend her! As for me, my art is my -lifelong consolation. This, even, is for the benefit of the world; do -not concern yourself for me.”</p> - -<p>But Mrs Atheling hastened up-stairs when he was gone, to reprove her -daughter. To her surprise, Marian defended herself with spirit. “He was -impertinent, mamma,” said Marian; “he said if I had known he cared for -me, I would not have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> engaged. He! when everybody knows I never -would speak to him. It was he who insulted me!”</p> - -<p>So Mr Endicott’s English romance ended, after all, in a paragraph which, -when the time comes, we shall feel a melancholy pleasure in transcribing -from the eloquent pages of the <i>Mississippi Gazette</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br /><br /> -<small>GOOD FORTUNE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> evening was extremely quiet, and something dull, to the inhabitants -of Bellevue. Though everybody knew of the little adventure of Mr -Endicott, the young people were all too reverential of the romance of -youth themselves to laugh very freely at the disappointed lover. Charlie -sat by himself in the best room, sedulously making out his case. Charlie -had risen into a person of great importance at the office since his -return, and, youth as he was, was trusted so far, under Mr Foggo’s -superintendence, as to draw up the brief for the counsel who was to -conduct this great case; so they had not even his presence to enliven -the family circle, which was very dull without Louis. Then Agnes, for -her part, had grown daily more self-occupied; Mrs Atheling pondered over -this, half understood it, and did not ask a question on the subject. She -glanced very often at the side-table, where her elder daughter sat -writing. This was not a common<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> evening occupation with Agnes; but she -found a solace in that making of fables, and was forth again, appealing -earnestly, with all the power and privilege of her art, not so much to -her universal audience as to one among them, who by-and-by might find -out the second meaning—the more fervent personal voice.</p> - -<p>As for Marian and Rachel, they both sat at work somewhat melancholy, -whispering to each other now and then, speaking low when they spoke to -any one else. Papa was at his newspaper, reading little bits of news to -them; but even Papa was cloudy, and there was a certain shade of dulness -and melancholy over all the house.</p> - -<p>Some one came to the door when the evening was far advanced, and held a -long parley with Susan; the issue of which was, that Susan made her -appearance in the parlour to ask information. “A man, ma’am, that Mr -Louis appointed to come to him to-night,” said Susan, “and he wants to -know, please, when Mr Louis is coming home.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Atheling went to the door to answer the inquiry; then, having become -somewhat of a plotter herself by force of example, she bethought her of -calling Charlie. The man was brought into the best room; he was an -ordinary-looking elderly man, like a small shopkeeper. He stated what he -wanted slowly, without any of the town sharpness. He said the young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> -gentleman was making out some account—as he understood—about Lord -Winterbourne, and hearing that he had been once about the Hall in his -young days, had come to him to ask some questions. He was a likely young -gentleman, and summat in his own mind told the speaker he had seen his -face afore, whether it were about the Hall, or where it were, deponent -did not know; but thinking upon it, just bethought him at this moment -that he was mortal like the old lord. Now the young gentleman—as he -heard—had gone sudden away to the country, and the lady of the house -where he lived had sent the perplexed caller here.</p> - -<p>“I know very well about that quarter myself,” said Mrs Atheling. “Do you -know the Old Wood Lodge? that belongs to us; and if you have friends in -the village, I daresay I shall know your name.”</p> - -<p>The man put up his hand to his forehead respectfully. “I knowed the old -lady at the Lodge many a year ago,” said he. “My name’s John Morrall. I -was no more nor a helper at the stables in my day; and a sister of mine -had charge of some children about the Hall.”</p> - -<p>“Some children—who were they?” said Charlie. “Perhaps Lord -Winterbourne’s children; but that would be very long ago.”</p> - -<p>“Well, sir,” said the man with a little confusion, glancing aside at Mrs -Atheling, “saving the lady’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> presence, I’d be bold to say that they was -my lord’s, but in a sort of an—unlawful way; two poor little morsels of -twins, that never had nothing like other children. He wasn’t any way -kind to them, wasn’t my lord.”</p> - -<p>“I think I know the children you mean,” said Charlie, to the surprise -and admiration of his mother, who checked accordingly the exclamation on -her own lips. “Do you know where they came from?—were you there when -they were brought to the Hall?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, sir, <i>I</i> know—no man better,” said Morrall. “Sally was the -woman—all along of my lord’s man that she was keeping company with the -same time, little knowing, poor soul, what she was to come to—that -brought them unfortunate babbies out of London. I don’t know no more. -Sally’s opinion was, they came out o’ foreign parts afore that; for the -nurse they had with them, Sally said, was some outlandish kind of a -Portugee.”</p> - -<p>“A Portuguese!” exclaimed both the listeners in dismay—but Charlie -added immediately, “What made your sister suppose she was a Portuguese?”</p> - -<p>“Well, sir, she was one of them foreign kind of folks—but noways like -my lady’s French maid, Sally said—so taking thought what she was, a -cousin of ours that’s a sailor made no doubt but she was a Portugee—so -she gave up the little things to Sally, not one of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> them able to say a -word to each other; for the foreign woman, poor soul, knew no English, -and Sally brought down the babbies to the Hall.”</p> - -<p>“Does your sister live at Winterbourne?” asked Charlie.</p> - -<p>“What, Sally, sir? poor soul!” said John Morrall, “to her grief she -married my lord’s man, again all we could say, and he went pure to the -bad, as was to be seen of him, and listed—and now she’s off in Ireland -with the regiment, a poor creature as you could see—five children, -ma’am, alive, and she’s had ten; always striving to do her best, but -never able, poor soul, to keep a decent gown to her back.”</p> - -<p>“Will you tell me where she is?” said Charlie, while his mother went -hospitably away to bring a glass of wine, a rare and unusual dainty, for -the refreshment of this most welcome visitor—“there is an inquiry going -on at present, and her evidence might be of great value: it will be good -for her, don’t fear. Let me know where she is.”</p> - -<p>While Charlie took down the address, his mother, with her own hand, -served Mr John Morrall with a slice of cake and a comfortable glass of -port-wine. “But I am sure you are comfortable yourself—you look so, at -least.”</p> - -<p>“I am in the green-grocery trade,” said their visitor, putting up his -hand again with “his respects,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> “and got a good wife and three as -likely childer as a man could desire. It ain’t just as easy as it might -be keeping all things square, but we always get on; and lord! if folks -had no crosses, they’d ne’er know they were born. Look at Sally, there’s -a picture!—and after that, says I, it don’t become such like as us to -complain.”</p> - -<p>Finally, having finished his refreshment, and left his own address with -a supplementary note, and touch of the forehead—“It ain’t very far off; -glad to serve you, ma’am”—Mr John Morrall withdrew. Then Charlie -returned to his papers, but not quite so composedly as usual. “Put up my -travelling-bag, mother,” said Charlie, after a few ineffectual attempts -to resume; “I’ll not write any more to-night; it’s just nine o’clock. -I’ll step over and see old Foggo, and be off to Ireland to-morrow, -without delay.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE OXFORD ASSIZES.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">April</span>, as cloudless and almost as warm as summer, a day when all the -spring was swelling sweet in all the young buds and primroses, and the -broad dewy country smiled and glistened under the rising of that sun, -which day by day shone warmer and fuller on the woods and on the fields. -But the point of interest was not the country; it was not a spring -festival which drew so many interested faces along the high-road. An -expectation not half so amiable was abroad among the gentry of -Banburyshire—a great many people, quite an unusual crowd, took their -way to the spring assizes to listen to a trial which was not at all -important on its own account. The defendants were not even known among -the county people, nor was there much curiosity about them. It was a -family quarrel which roused the kind and amiable expectations of all -these excellent people,—The Honourable Anastasia Rivers against Lord -Winterbourne. It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> popularly anticipated that Miss Anastasia herself -was to appear in the witness-box, and everybody who knew the -belligerents, delighted at the prospect of mischief, hastened to be -present at the fight.</p> - -<p>And there was a universal gathering, besides, of all the people more -immediately interested in this beginning of the war. Lord Winterbourne -himself, with a certain ghastly levity in his demeanour, which sat ill -upon his bloodless face, and accorded still worse with the mourner’s -dress which he wore, graced the bench. Charlie Atheling sat in his -proper place below, as agent for the defendant, within reach of the -counsel for the same. His mother and sisters were with Miss Anastasia, -in a very favourable place for seeing and hearing; the Rector was not -far from them, very much interested, but exceedingly surprised at the -unchanging paleness of Agnes, and the obstinacy with which she refused -to meet his eye; for that she avoided him, and seemed overwhelmed by -some secret and uncommunicated mystery, which no one else, even in her -own family, shared, was clear enough to a perception quickened by the -extreme “interest” which Lionel Rivers felt in Agnes Atheling. Even -Rachel had been brought thither in the train of Miss Anastasia; and -though rather disturbed by her position, and by the disagreeable and -somewhat terrifying consciousness of being observed by Lord -Winterbourne,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> in whose presence she had not been before, since the time -she left the Hall—Rachel, with her veil over her face, had a certain -timid enjoyment of the bustle and novelty of the scene. Louis, too, was -there, sent down on the previous night with a commission from Mr Foggo; -there was no one wanting. The two or three who knew the tactics of the -day, awaited their disclosure with great secret excitement, speculating -upon their effect; and those who did not, looked on eagerly with -interest and anxiety and hope.</p> - -<p>Only Agnes sat drawing back from them, between her mother and sister, -letting her veil hang with a pitiful unconcern in thick double folds -half over her pale face. She did not care to lift her eyes; she looked -heavy, wretched, spiritless; she could not keep her thoughts upon the -smiling side of the picture; she thought only of the sudden blow about -to fall—of the bitter sense of deception and craftiness, of the -overwhelming disappointment which this day must bring forth.</p> - -<p>The case commenced. Lord Winterbourne’s counsel stated the plea of his -noble client; it did not occupy a very long time, for no one supposed it -very important. The statement was, that Miss Bridget Atheling had been -presented by the late Lord Winterbourne with a life-interest in the -little property involved; that the Old Wood Lodge, the only property in -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> immediate neighbourhood which was not in the peaceful possession of -Lord Winterbourne, had never been separated or alienated from the -estate; that, in fact, the gift to Miss Bridget was a mere tenant’s -claim upon the house during her lifetime, with no power of bequest -whatever; and the present Lord Winterbourne’s toleration of its brief -occupancy by the persons in possession, was merely a good-humoured -carelessness on the part of his lordship of a matter not sufficiently -important to occupy his thoughts. The only evidence offered was the -distinct enumeration of the Old Wood Lodge along with the Old Wood -House, and the cottages in the village of Winterbourne, as in possession -of the family at the accession of the late lord; and the learned -gentleman concluded his case by declaring that he confidently challenged -his opponent to produce any deed or document whatever which so much as -implied that the property had been bestowed upon Bridget Atheling. No -deed of gift—no conveyance—nothing whatever in the shape of -title-deeds, he was confident, existed to support the claim of the -defendant; a claim which, if it was not a direct attempt to profit by -the inadvertence of his noble client, was certainly a very ugly and -startling mistake.</p> - -<p>So far everything was brief enough, and conclusive enough, as it -appeared. The audience was decidedly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> disappointed: if the answer was -after this style, there was no “fun” to be expected, and it had been an -entire hoax which seduced the Banburyshire notabilities to waste the -April afternoon in a crowded court-house. But Miss Anastasia, swelling -with anxiety and yet with triumph, was visible to every one; visible -also to one eye was something very different—Agnes, pale, shrinking, -closing her eyes, looking as if she would faint. The Rector made his way -behind, and spoke to her anxiously. He was afraid she was ill; could he -assist her through the crowd? Agnes turned her face to him for a moment, -and her eyes, which looked so dilated and pitiful, but only said “No, -no,” in a hurried whisper, and turned again. The counsel on the other -side had risen, and was about to begin the defence.</p> - -<p>“My learned brother is correct, and doubtless knows himself to be so,” -said the advocate of the Athelings. “We have no deed to produce, though -we have something nearly as good; but, my lord, I am instructed suddenly -to change the entire ground of my plea. Certain information which has -come to the knowledge of my clients, but which it was not their wish to -make public at present, has been now communicated to me; and I beg to -object at once to the further progress of the suit, on a ground which -your lordship will at once acknowledge to be just and forcible. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> -assert that the present bearer of the title is not the true Lord -Winterbourne.”</p> - -<p>There rose immediately a hum and murmur of the strangest character—not -applause, not disapproval—simple consternation, so extreme that no one -could restrain its utterance. People rose up and stared at the speaker, -as if he had been seized with sudden madness in their presence; then -there ensued a scene of much tumult and agitation. The judges on the -bench interposed indignantly. The counsel for Lord Winterbourne sprang -to his feet, appealing with excitement to their lordships—was this to -be permitted? Even the audience, Lord Winterbourne’s neighbours, who had -no love for him, pressed forward as if to support him in this crisis, -and with resentment and disapproval looked upon Miss Anastasia, to whom -every one turned instinctively, as to a conspirator who had overshot the -mark. It was scarcely possible for the daring speaker to gain himself a -hearing. When he did so, at last, it was rather as a culprit than an -accuser. But even the frown of a chief-justice did not appal a man who -held Charlie Atheling’s papers in his hands; he was heard again, -declaring, with force and dignity, that he was incapable of making such -a statement without proofs in his possession which put it beyond -controversy. He begged<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> but a moment’s patience, in justice to himself -and to his client, while he placed an abstract of the case and the -evidence in their lordships’ hands.</p> - -<p>Then to the sudden hum and stir, which the officials of the court had -not been able to put down, succeeded that total, strange, almost -appalling stillness of a crowd, which is so very impressive at all -times. While the judges consulted together, looking keenly over these -mysterious papers, almost every eye among the spectators was riveted -upon them. No one noticed even Lord Winterbourne, who stood up in his -place unconsciously, overlooking them all, quite unaware of the -prominence and singularity of his position, gazing before him with a -motionless blank stare, like a man looking into the face of Fate. The -auditors waited almost breathless for the decision of the law. That -anything so wild and startling could ever be taken into consideration by -those grave authorities was of itself extraordinary; and as the -consultation was prolonged, the anxiety grew gradually greater. Could -there be reality in it? could it be true?</p> - -<p>At last the elder judge broke the silence. “This is a very serious -statement,” he said: “of course, it involves issues much more important -than the present question. As further proceedings will doubtless be -grounded on these documents, it is our opinion that the hearing of this -case had better be adjourned.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span></p> - -<p>Lord Winterbourne seated himself when he heard the voice—it broke the -spell; but not so Louis, who stood beneath, alone, looking straight up -at the speaker in his judicial throne. The truth flashed to the mind of -Louis like a gleam of lightning. He did not ask a question, though -Charlie was close by him; he did not turn his head, though Miss -Anastasia was within reach of his eye; his whole brain seemed to burn -and glow; the veins swelled upon his forehead; he raised up his head for -air, for breath, like a man overwhelmed; he did not see how the gaze of -half the assembly began to be attracted to himself. In this sudden pause -he stood still, following out the conviction which burst upon him—this -conviction, which suddenly, like a sunbeam, made all things clear. Wrong -as he had been in the details, his imagination was true as the most -unerring judgment. For what child in the world was it so much this man’s -interest to disgrace and disable as the child whose rights he -usurped—his brother’s lawful heir? This silence was like a lifetime to -Louis, but it ended in a moment. Some confused talking -followed—objections on the part of Lord Winterbourne’s representative, -which were overruled; and then another case was called—a common little -contest touching mere lands and houses—and every one awoke, as at the -touch of a disenchanting rod, to the common pale daylight and common -controversy, as from a dream.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span></p> - -<p>Then the people streamed out in agitated groups, some retaining their -first impulse of contradiction and resentment; others giving up at once, -and receiving the decision of the judges as final. Then Agnes looked -back, with a sick and trembling anxiety, for the Rector. The Rector was -gone; and they all followed one after another, silent in the great -tremor of their excitement. When they came to the open air, Marian began -to ask questions eagerly, and Rachel to cry behind her veil, and cast -woeful wistful looks at Miss Anastasia. What was it? what was the -matter? was it anything about Louis? who was Lord Winterbourne?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE TRUE HEIR.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“I do</span> not know how he takes it, mother,” said Charlie. “I do not know if -he takes it at all; he has not spoken a single word all the way home.”</p> - -<p>He did not seem disposed to speak many now; he went into Miss Bridget’s -dusky little parlour, lingering a moment at the door, and bending -forward in reflection from the little sloping mirror on the wall. The -young man was greatly moved, silent with inexpressible emotion; he went -up to Marian first, and, in the presence of them all, kissed her little -trembling hand and her white cheek; then he drew her forward with him, -holding her up with his own arm, which trembled too, and came direct to -Miss Anastasia, who was seated, pale, and making gigantic efforts to -command herself, in old Miss Bridget’s chair. “This is my bride,” said -Louis firmly, yet with quivering lips. “What are we to call <i>you</i>?”</p> - -<p>The old lady looked at him for a moment, vainly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> endeavouring to retain -her self-possession—then sprang up suddenly, grasped him in her arms, -and broke forth into such a cry of weeping as never had been heard -before under this peaceful roof. “What you will! what you will! my boy, -my heir, my father’s son!” cried Miss Anastasia, lifting up her voice. -No one moved, or spoke a word—it was like one of those old agonies of -thanksgiving in the old Scriptures, when a Joseph or a Jacob, parted for -half a patriarch’s lifetime, “fell upon his neck and wept.”</p> - -<p>When this moment of extreme agitation was over, the principal actors in -the family drama came again into a moderate degree of calmness: Louis -was almost solemn in his extreme youthful gravity. The young man was -changed in a moment, as, perhaps, nothing but this overwhelming flood of -honour and prosperity could have changed him. He desired to see the -evidence and investigate his own claims thoroughly, as it was natural he -should; then he asked Charlie to go out with him, for there was not a -great deal of room in this little house, for private conference. The two -young men went forth together through those quiet well-known lanes, upon -which Louis gazed with a giddy eye. “This should have come to me in some -place where I was a stranger,” he said with excitement; “it might have -seemed more credible, more reasonable, in a less familiar place. Here, -where I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> have been an outcast and dishonoured all my life—here!”</p> - -<p>“Your own property,” said Charlie. “I’m not a poetical man, you know—it -is no use trying—but I’d come to a little sentiment, I confess, if I -were you.”</p> - -<p>“In the mean time there are other people concerned,” said Louis, taking -Charlie’s arm, and turning him somewhat hurriedly away from the edge of -the wood, which at this epoch of his fortunes, the scene of so many -despairing fancies, was rather more than he chose to experiment upon. -“You are not poetical, Charlie. I do not suppose it has come to your -turn yet—but we do not want poetry to-night; there are other people -concerned. So far as I can see, your case—I scarcely can call it mine, -who have had no hand in it—is clear as daylight—indisputable. Is it -so?—you know better than me.”</p> - -<p>“Indisputable,” said Charlie, authoritatively.</p> - -<p>“Then it should never come to a trial—for the honour of the house—for -pity,” said the heir. “A bad man taken in the toils is a very miserable -thing to look at, Charlie; let us spare him if we can. I should like you -to get some one who is to be trusted—say Mr Foggo, with some well-known -man along with him—to wait upon Lord Winterbourne. Let them go into the -case fully, and show him everything: say that I am quite willing that -the world should think he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> had done it in ignorance—and persuade -him—that is, if he is convinced, and they have perfect confidence in -the case. The story need not be publicly known. Is it practicable?—tell -me at once.”</p> - -<p>“It’s practicable if he’ll do it,” said Charlie; “but he’ll not do it, -that’s all.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know he’ll not do it?—it is to save himself,” said Louis.</p> - -<p>“If he had not known it all along, he’d have given in,” said Charlie, -“and taken your offer, of course; but he <i>has</i> known it all along—it’s -been his ghost for years. He has his plans all prepared and ready, you -may be perfectly sure. It is generous of you to suggest such a thing, -but <i>he</i> would suppose it a sign of weakness. Never mind that—it’s not -of the least importance what he supposes; if you desire it, we can try.”</p> - -<p>“I do desire it,” said Louis; “and then, Charlie, there is the Rector.”</p> - -<p>Charlie shook his head regretfully. “I am sorry for him myself,” said -the young lawyer; “but what can you do?”</p> - -<p>“He has been extremely kind to me,” said Louis, with a slight trembling -in his voice—“kinder than any one in the world, except your own family. -There is his house—I see what to do; let us go at once and explain -everything to him to-night.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span></p> - -<p>“To-night! that’s premature—showing your hand,” said Charlie, startled -in his professional caution: “never mind, you can stand it; he’s a fine -fellow, though he is the other line. If you like it, I don’t object; but -what shall you say?”</p> - -<p>“He ought to have his share,” said Louis—“don’t interrupt me, Charlie; -it is more generous in our case to receive than to give. He ought, if I -represent the elder branch, to have the younger’s share: he ought to -permit me to do as much for him as he would have done for me. Ah, he -bade me look at the pictures to see that I was a Rivers. I did not -suppose any miracle on earth could make me proud of the name.”</p> - -<p>They went on hastily together in the early gathering darkness. The Old -Wood House stood blank and dull as usual, with all its closed blinds; -but the gracious young Curate, meditating his sermon, and much elated by -his persecution, was straying about the well-kept paths. Mr Mead -hastened to tell them that Mr Rivers had left home—“hastened away -instantly to appear in our own case,” said the young clergyman. “The -powers of this world are in array against us—we suffer persecution, as -becomes the true church. The Rector left hurriedly to appear in person. -He is a devoted man, a noble Anglican. I smile myself at the reproaches -of our adversary; I have no fear.”</p> - -<p>“We may see him in town,” said Louis, turning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> away with disappointment. -“If you write, will you mention that I have been here to-night, to beg -his counsel and friendship—I, Louis Rivers—” A sudden colour flushed -over the young man’s face; he pronounced the name with a nervous -firmness; it was the first time he had called himself by any save his -baptismal name all his life.</p> - -<p>As they turned and walked home again, Louis relapsed into his first -agitated consciousness, and did not care to say a word. Louis Rivers! -lawful heir and only son of a noble English peer and an unsullied -mother. It was little wonder if the young man’s heart swelled within -him, too high for a word or a thought. He blotted out the past with a -generous haste, unwilling to remember a single wrong done to him in the -time of his humiliation, and looked out upon the future as upon a -glorious vision, almost too wonderful to be realised: it was best to -rest in this agitated moment of strange triumph, humility, and power, to -convince himself that this was real, and to project his anticipations -forward only with a generous anxiety for the concerns of others, with no -question, when all questions were so overwhelming and incredible, after -this extraordinary fortune of his own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br /><br /> -<small>AT HOME.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> would not be easy to describe the state of mind of the feminine -portion of this family which remained at home. Marian, in a strange and -overpowering tumult—Marian, who was the first and most intimately -concerned, her cheek burning still under the touch of her lover’s -trembling lip in that second and more solemn betrothal, sat on a stool, -half hidden by Miss Anastasia’s big chair and ample skirts, supporting -her flushed cheeks on those pretty rose-tipped hands, to which the flush -seemed to have extended, her beautiful hair drooping down among her -fingers, her eyes cast down, her heart leaping like a bird against her -breast. Her own vague suspicions, keen and eager as they were, had never -pointed half so far as this. If it did not “turn her head” altogether, -it was more because the little head was giddy with amaze and confusion, -than from any virtue on the part of Marian. She was quite beyond the -power of thinking; a strange brilliant extraordinary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> panorama glided -before her—Louis in Bellevue—Louis at the Old Wood Lodge—Louis, the -lord of all he looked upon, in Winterbourne Hall!</p> - -<p>Rachel, for her part, was to be found, now in one corner, now in -another, crying very heartily, and with a general vague impulse of -kissing every one in the present little company with thanks and -gratitude, and being caressed and sympathised with in turn. The only one -here, indeed, who seemed in her full senses was Agnes, who kept them all -in a certain degree of self-possession. It was all over, at last, after -so long a time of suspense and mystery; Agnes was relieved of her secret -knowledge. She was grave, but she did not refuse to participate in the -confused joy and thankfulness of the house. Now that the secret was -revealed, her mind returned to its usual tone. Though she had so much -“interest” in Lionel—almost as much as he felt in her—she had too high -a mind herself to suppose him overwhelmed by the single fact that his -inheritance had passed away from him. When all was told, she breathed -freely. She had all the confidence in him which one high heart has in -another. After the first shock, she prophesied proudly, within her own -mind, how soon his noble spirit would recover itself. Perhaps she -anticipated other scenes in that undeveloped future, which might touch -her own heart with a stronger thrill than even the marvellous change<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> -which was now working; perhaps the faint dawn of colour on her pale -cheek came from an imagination far more immediate and personal than any -dream which ever before had flushed the maiden firmament of Agnes -Atheling’s meditations. However that might be, she said not a single -word upon the subject: she assumed to herself quietly the post of -universal ministration, attended to the household wants as much as the -little party, all excited and sublimed out of any recollection of -ordinary necessities, would permit her; and lacking nothing in sympathy, -yet quieter than any one else, insensibly to herself, formed the link -between this little agitated world of private history and the larger -world, not at all moved from its everyday balance, which lay calm and -great without.</p> - -<p>“I sign a universal amnesty,” said Miss Anastasia abruptly, after a long -silence—“himself, if he would consult his own interest, I could pass -over <i>his</i> faults to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Mr Reginald!” said Mrs Atheling, wiping her eyes. “I beg your -pardon, Miss Rivers; he has done a great deal of wrong, but I am very -sorry for him: I was so when he lost his son; ah, no doubt he thinks -this is a very small matter after <i>that</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Hush, child, the man is <i>guilty</i>,” said Miss Anastasia, with strong -emphasis. “Young George Rivers went to his grave in peace. Whom the gods -love die<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> young; it was very well. I forgive his father if he withdraws; -he will, if he has a spark of honour. The only person whom I am grieved -for is Lionel—he, indeed, might have cause to complain. Agnes Atheling, -do you know where he has gone?”</p> - -<p>“No.” Agnes affected no surprise that the question should be asked her, -and did not even show any emotion. Marian, with a sudden impulse of -generosity, got up instantly, and came to her sister. “Oh, Agnes, I am -very sorry,” said the little beauty, with her palpitating heart; and -Marian put her pretty arms round Agnes’s neck to console and comfort -her, as Agnes might have done to Marian had Louis been in distress -instead of joy.</p> - -<p>Agnes drew herself instinctively out of her sister’s embrace. She had no -right to be looked upon as the representative of Lionel, yet she could -not help speaking, in her confidence and pride in him, with a kindling -cheek and rising heart. “I am not sorry for Mr Rivers <i>now</i>,” said -Agnes, firmly; “I was so while this secret was kept from him—while he -was deceived; but I think no one who does him due credit can venture to -pity him <i>now</i>.”</p> - -<p>Miss Anastasia roused herself a little at sound of the voice. This -pride, which sounded a little like defiance, stirred the old lady’s -heart like the sound of a trumpet; she had more pleasure in it than she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> -had felt in anything, save her first welcome of Louis a few hours ago. -She looked steadily into the eyes of Agnes, who met her gaze without -shrinking, though with a rapid variation of colour. Whatever imputations -she herself might be subject to in consequence, Agnes could not sit by -silent, and hear <i>him</i> either pitied or belied.</p> - -<p>“I wonder, may I go and see Miss Rivers? would it be proper?” asked -Rachel timidly, making a sudden diversion, as she had rather a habit of -doing; “she wanted me to stay with her once; she was very kind to me.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose we must not call you the Honourable Rachel Rivers just -yet—eh, little girl?” said Miss Anastasia, turning upon her; “and you, -Marian, you little beauty, how shall you like to be Lady Winterbourne?”</p> - -<p>“Lady Winterbourne! I always said she was to be for Louis,” cried -Rachel—“always—the first time I saw her; you know I did, Agnes; and -often I wondered why she should be so pretty—she who did not want it, -who was happy enough to have been ugly, if she had liked; but I see it -now—I see the reason now!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t hide your head, little one; it is quite true,” said Miss -Anastasia, once more a little touched at her heart to see the beautiful -little figure, fain to glide out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> of everybody’s sight, stealing away in -a moment into the natural refuge, the mother’s shadow; while the mother, -smiling and sobbing, had entirely given up all attempt at any show of -self-command. “Agnes has something else to do in this hard-fighting -world. You are the flower that must know neither winds nor storms. I -don’t speak to make you vain, you beautiful child. God gave you your -lovely looks, as well as your strange fortune; and Agnes, child, lift up -your head! the contest and the trial are for you; but not, God forbid -it! as they came to <i>me</i>.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br /><br /> -<small>THE RIVAL HEIRS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Louis</span> and Rachel returned that night with Miss Anastasia to the Priory, -which, the old lady said proudly—the family jointure house for four or -five generations—should be their home till the young heir took -possession of his paternal house. The time which followed was too busy, -rapid, and exciting for a slow and detailed history. The first legal -steps were taken instantly in the case, and proper notices served upon -Lord Winterbourne. In Miss Anastasia’s animated and anxious house dwelt -the Tyrolese, painfully acquiring some scant morsels of English, very -well contented with her present quarters, and only anxious to secure -some extravagant preferment for her son. Mrs Atheling and her daughters -had returned home, and Louis came and went constantly to town, actively -engaged himself in all the arrangements, full of anxious plans and -undertakings for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> ease and benefit of the other parties concerned. -Miss Anastasia, with a little reluctance, had given her consent to the -young man’s plan of a compromise, by which his uncle, unattacked and -undisgraced, might retire from his usurped possessions with a sufficient -and suitable income. The ideas of Louis were magnificent and princely. -He would have been content to mulct himself of half the revenues of his -inheritance, and scarcely would listen to the prudent cautions of his -advisers. He was even reluctant that the first formal steps should be -taken, before Mr Foggo and an eminent and well-known solicitor, -personally acquainted with his uncle, had waited upon Lord Winterbourne. -He was overruled; but this solemn deputation lost no time in proceeding -on its mission. Speedy as they were, however, they were too late for the -alarmed and startled peer. He had left home, they ascertained, very -shortly after the late trial—had gone abroad, as it was supposed, -leaving no information as to the time of his return. The only thing -which could be done in the circumstances was hastened by the eager -exertions of Louis. The two lawyers wrote a formal letter to Lord -Winterbourne, stating their case, and making their offer, and despatched -it to the Hall, to be forwarded to him. No answer came, though Louis -persuaded his agents to wait for it, and even to delay the legal -proceedings. The only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> notice taken of it was a paragraph in one of the -fashionable newspapers, to the effect that the late proceedings at -Oxford, impugning the title of a respected nobleman, proved now to be a -mere trick of some pettifogging lawyer, entirely unsupported, and likely -to call forth proceedings for libel, involving a good deal of romantic -family history, and extremely interesting to the public. After this, -Louis could no longer restrain the natural progress of the matter. He -gave it up, indeed, at once, and did not try; and Miss Anastasia -pronounced emphatically one of her antique proverbs, “Whom the gods -would destroy, they first make mad.”</p> - -<p>This was not the only business on the hands of Louis. He had found it -impossible, on repeated trials, to see the Rector. At the Old Wood House -it was said that Mr Rivers was from home; at his London lodgings he had -not been heard of. The suit was given against him in the Ecclesiastical -Courts, and Mr Mead, alone in the discharge of his duty, mourned over a -stripped altar and desolated sanctuary, where the tall candles blazed no -longer in the religious gloom. When it became evident at last that the -Rector did not mean to give his young relative the interview he sought, -Louis, strangely transformed as he was, from the petulant youth always -ready to take offence, to the long-suffering man, addressed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> Lionel as -his solicitors had addressed his uncle. He wrote a long letter, generous -and full of hearty feeling; he reminded his kinsman of the favours he -had himself accepted at his hands. He drew a very vivid picture of his -own past and present position. He declared, with all a young man’s -fervour, that he could have no pleasure even in his own extraordinary -change of fortune, were it the means of inflicting a vast and -unmitigated loss upon his cousin. He threw himself upon Lionel’s -generosity—he appealed to his natural sense of justice—he used a -hundred arguments which were perfectly suitable and in character from -him, but which, certainly, no man as proud and as generous as himself -could be expected to listen to; and, finally, ended with protesting an -unquestionable claim upon Lionel—the claim of a man deeply indebted to, -and befriended by him. The letter overflowed with the earnestness and -sincerity of the writer; he assumed his case throughout with the most -entire honesty, having no doubt whatever upon the subject, and confided -his intentions and prospects to Lionel with a complete and anxious -confidence, which he had not bestowed upon any other living man.</p> - -<p>This letter called forth an answer, written from a country town in a -remote part of England. The Rector wrote with an evident effort at -cordiality. He declined all Louis’s overtures in the most -uncompromising<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> terms, but congratulated him upon his altered -circumstances. He said he had taken care to examine into the case before -leaving London, and was thoroughly convinced of the justice of the new -claim. “One thing I will ask of you,” said Mr Rivers; “I only wait to -resign my living until I can be sure of the next presentation falling -into your hands: give it to Mr Mead. The cause of my withdrawal is -entirely private and personal. I had resolved upon it months ago, and it -has no connection whatever with recent circumstances. I hope no one -thinks so meanly of me as to suppose I am dismayed by the substitution -of another heir in my room. One thing in this matter has really wounded -me, and that is the fact that no one concerned thought me worthy to know -a secret so important, and one which it was alike my duty and my right -to help to a satisfactory conclusion. I have lost nothing actual, so far -as rank or means is concerned; but, more intolerable than any vulgar -loss, I find a sudden cloud thrown upon the perfect sincerity and truth -of some whom I have been disposed to trust as men trust Heaven.”</p> - -<p>The letter concluded with good wishes—that was all; there was no -response to the confidence, no answer to the effusion of heartfelt and -fervent feeling which had been in Louis’s letter. The young man was not -accustomed to be repulsed; perhaps, in all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> his life, it was the first -time he had asked a favour from any one, and had Louis been poor and -without friends, as he was or thought himself six months ago, such a -tone would have galled him beyond endurance. But there is a charm in a -gracious and relenting fortune. Louis, who had once been the very -armadillo of youthful haughtiness, suddenly distinguished himself by the -most magnanimous patience, would not take offence, and put away his -kinsman’s haughty letter, with regret, but without any resentment. -Nothing was before him now but the plain course of events, and to them -he committed himself frankly, resolved to do what could be done, but -addressing no more appeals to the losing side.</p> - -<p>Part of the Rector’s letter Louis showed to Marian, and Marian repeated -it to Agnes. It was cruel—it was unjust of Lionel—and he knew himself -that it was. Agnes, it was possible, did not know—at all events, she -had no right to betray to him the secrets of another; more than that, he -knew the meaning now of the little book which he carried everywhere with -him, and felt in his heart that <i>he</i> was the real person addressed. He -knew all that quite as well as she did, as she tried, with a quivering -lip and a proud wet eye, to fortify herself against the injustice of his -reproach, but that did not hinder him from saying it. He was in that -condition—known, perhaps, occasionally<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> to most of us—when one feels a -certain perverse pleasure in wounding one’s dearest. He had no chance of -mentioning her, who occupied so much of his thoughts, in any other way, -and he would rather put a reproach upon Agnes than leave her alone -altogether; perhaps she herself even, after all, at the bottom of her -heart, was better satisfied to be referred to thus, than to be left out -of his thoughts. They had never spoken to each other a single word which -could be called wooing—now they were perhaps separated for ever—yet -how strange a link of union, concord, and opposition, was between these -two!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br /><br /> -<small>AN ADVENTURE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was September—the time when all Englishmen of a certain “rank in -life” burn with unconquerable longings to get as far away from home as -possible—and there was nothing remarkable in the appearance of this -solitary traveller pacing along Calais pier—nothing remarkable, except -his own personal appearance, which was of a kind not easily overlooked. -There was nothing to be read in his embrowned but refined face, nor in -his high thoughtful forehead. It was a face of thought, of speculation, -of a great and vigorous intellectual activity; but the haughty eyes -looked at no one—the lips never moved even to address a child—there -was no response to any passing glance of interest or inquiry. His head -was turned towards England, over the long sinuous weltering waves of -that stormy Channel which to-day pretended to be calm; but if he saw -anything, it was something which appeared only in his own -imagination—it was neither<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> the far-away gleam, like a floating mist, -of the white cliffs, nor the sunbeam coming down out of the heart of a -cloud into the dark mid-current of that treacherous sea.</p> - -<p>He had no plan of travel—no settled intentions indeed of any kind—but -had been roaming about these three months in the restlessness of -suspense, waiting for definite intelligence before he decided on his -further course. An often-recurring fancy of returning home for a time -had brought him to-day to this common highway of all nations from a -secluded village among the Pyrenees; but he had not made up his mind to -go home—he only lingered within sight of it, chafing his own disturbed -spirit, and ready to be swayed by any momentary impulse. Though he had -been disturbed for a time out of his study of the deepest secrets of -human life, his mind was too eager not to have returned to it. He had -come to feel that it would be sacrilege to proclaim again his own -labouring and disordered thoughts in a place where he was set to speak -of One, the very imagination of whom, if it was an imagination, was so -immeasurably exalted above his highest elevation. A strange poetic -justice had come upon Lionel Rivers—prosecuted for his extreme views at -the time when he ceased to make any show of holding them—separating -himself from his profession, and from the very name of a believer, at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> -the moment when it began to dawn upon him that he believed—and thrust -asunder with a violent wrench and convulsion from the first and sole -human creature who had come into his heart, at the very hour in which he -discovered that his heart was no longer in his own power. He saw it all, -the strange story of contradictory and perverse chances, and knew -himself the greatest and strangest contradiction of the whole.</p> - -<p>He gave no attention whatever to what passed round him, yet he heard the -foreign voices—the English voices—for there was no lack of his -countrymen. It was growing dark rapidly, and the shadowy evening lights -and mists were stealing far away to sea. He turned to go back to his -hotel, turning his face away from his own country, when at the moment a -voice fell upon his ear, speaking his own tongue: “You will abet an -impostor—you who know nothing of English law, and are already a marked -man.” These were the words spoken in a very low, clear, hissing tone, -which Lionel heard distinctly only because it was well known to him. The -speaker was wrapt in a great cloak, with a travelling-cap over his eyes; -and the person he addressed was a little vivacious Italian, with a long -olive face, smooth-shaven cheeks, and sparkling lively eyes, who seemed -much disconcerted and doubtful what to do. The expression of Lionel’s -face changed in an instant—he woke out of his moody dream to alert and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> -determined action; he drew back a step to let them pass, and then -followed. The discussion was animated and eager between them, sometimes -in English, sometimes in Italian, apparently as caprice guided the one -or the other. Lionel did not listen to what they said, but he followed -them home.</p> - -<p>The old Italian parted with his companion at the door of the hotel where -Lionel himself was lodged; there the Englishman in the cloak and cap -lingered to make an appointment. “At eleven to-morrow,” said again that -sharp hissing voice. Lionel stepped aside into the shadow as the -stranger turned reluctantly away; he did not care for making further -investigations to ascertain <i>his</i> identity—it was Lord Winterbourne.</p> - -<p>He took the necessary steps immediately. It was easy to find out where -the Italian was, in a little room at the top of the house, the key of -which he paused to take down before he went up-stairs. Lionel waited -again till the old man had made his way to his lofty lodging. He was -very well acquainted with all the details of Louis’s case; he had, in -fact, seen Charlie Atheling a few days before he left London, and -satisfied himself of the nature of his young kinsman’s claim—it was too -important to himself to be forgotten. He remembered perfectly the -Italian doctor Serrano who had been present, and could testify to the -marriage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> of the late Lord Winterbourne. Lionel scaled the great -staircase half-a-dozen steps at a time, and reached the door immediately -after the old man had entered, and before he had struck his light. The -Rector knocked softly. With visible perturbation, and in a sharp tone of -self-defence, the Italian called out in a very good French to know who -was there. Dr Serrano was a patriot and a plotter, and used to -domiciliary visitations. Lionel answered him in English, asked if he -were Doctor Serrano, and announced himself as a friend of Charles -Atheling. Then the door opened slowly, and with some jealousy. Lionel -passed into the room without waiting for an invitation. “You are going -to England on a matter of the greatest importance,” said the Rector, -with excitement—“to restore the son of your friend to his inheritance; -yet I find you, with the serpent at your ear, listening to Lord -Winterbourne.”</p> - -<p>The Italian started back in amaze. “Are you the devil?” said Doctor -Serrano, with a comical perturbation.</p> - -<p>“No; instead of that, you have just left him,” said Lionel; “but I am a -friend, and know all. This man persuades you not to go on—by accident I -caught the sound of his voice saying so. He has the most direct personal -interest in the case; it is ruin and disgrace to him. Your testimony may -be of the greatest importance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span>—why do you linger? why do you listen to -him?”</p> - -<p>“Really, you are hot-headed; it is so with youth,” said Doctor Serrano, -“when we will move heaven and earth for one friend. He tells me the -child is dead—that this is another. I know not—it may be true.”</p> - -<p>“It is not true,” said Lionel. “I will tell you who I am—the next heir -if Lord Winterbourne is the true holder of the title—there is my card. -I have the strongest interest in resisting this claim if I did not know -it to be true. It can be proved that this is the same boy who was -brought from Italy an infant. I can prove it myself; it is known to a -whole village. If you choose it, confront me with Lord Winterbourne.”</p> - -<p>“No; I believe you—you are a gentleman,” said Doctor Serrano, turning -over the card in his hand—and the old man added with enthusiasm, “and a -hero for a friend!”</p> - -<p>“You believe me?” said Lionel, who could not restrain the painful smile -which crossed his face at the idea of his heroism in the cause of Louis. -“Will you stay, then, another hour within reach of Lord Winterbourne?”</p> - -<p>The Italian shrugged his shoulders. “I will break with him; he is ever -false,” said the old man. “What besides can I do?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span></p> - -<p>“I will tell you,” said Lionel. “The boat sails in an hour—come with me -at once, let me see you safe in England. I shall attend to your comfort -with all my power. There is time for a good English bed at Dover, and an -undisturbed rest. Doctor Serrano, for the sake of the oppressed, and -because you are a philosopher, and understand the weakness of human -nature, will you come with me?”</p> - -<p>The Italian glanced lovingly at the couch which invited him—at the -slippers and the pipe which waited to make him comfortable—then he -glanced up at the dark and resolute countenance of Lionel, who, high in -his chivalric honour, was determined rather to sleep at Serrano’s door -all night than to let him out of his hands. “Excellent young man! you -are not a philosopher!” said the rueful Doctor; but he had a quick eye, -and was accustomed to judge men. “I will go with you,” he added -seriously, “and some time, for liberty and Italy, you will do as much -for me.”</p> - -<p>It was a bargain, concluded on the spot. An hour after, almost within -sight of Lord Winterbourne, who was pacing the gloomy pier by night in -his own gloom of guilty thought, the old man and the young man embarked -for England. A few hours later the little Italian slept under an English -roof, and the young Englishman looked up at the dizzy cliff, and down at -the foaming sea, too much excited to think of rest.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> The next morning -Lionel carried off his prize to London, and left him in the hands of -Charlie Atheling. Then, seeing no one, speaking to no one, without -lingering an hour in his native country, he turned back and went away. -He had made up his mind now to remain at Calais till the matter was -entirely decided—then to resign his benefice—and then, with <i>things</i> -and not <i>thoughts</i> around him in the actual press and contact of common -life, to read, if he could, the grand secret of a true existence, and -decide his fate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE TRIAL.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lord Winterbourne</span> had been in Italy, going over the ground which Charlie -Atheling had already examined so carefully. Miss Anastasia’s proverb was -coming true. He who all his life had been so wary, began to calculate -madly, with an insane disregard of all the damning facts against him, on -overturning, by one bold stroke, the careful fabric of the young lawyer. -He sought out and found the courier Monte, whom he himself had -established in his little mountain-inn. Monte was a faithful servant -enough to his employer of the time, but he was not scrupulous, and had -no great conscience. He undertook, without much objection, for the hire -which Lord Winterbourne gave him, to say anything Lord Winterbourne -pleased. He had been present at the marriage; and if the old Doctor -could have been delayed, or turned back, or even kidnapped—which was in -the foiled plotter’s scheme, if nothing better would serve—Monte, being -the sole witness of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> the ceremony present, might have made it out a mock -marriage, or at least delayed the case, and thrown discredit upon the -union. It was enough to show what mad shifts even a wise intriguer might -be driven to trust in. He believed it actually possible that judge and -jury would ignore all the other testimony, and trust to the unsupported -word of his lying witness. He did not pause to think, tampering with -truth as he had been all his life, and trusting no man, what an extreme -amount of credulity he expected for himself.</p> - -<p>But even when Doctor Serrano escaped him—when the trial drew nearer day -by day—when Louis’s agents came in person, respectful and urgent, to -make their statement to him—and when he became aware that his case was -naught, and that he had no evidence whatever to depend on save that of -Monte, his wild confidence did not yield. He refused with disdain every -offer of a compromise; he commanded out of his presence the bearers of -that message of forbearance and forgiveness; he looked forward with a -blind defiance of his fate miserable to see. He gave orders that -preparations should be made at Winterbourne for the celebration of his -approaching triumph. That autumn he had invited to his house a larger -party than usual; and though few came, and those the least reputable, -there was no want of sportsmen in the covers, nor merry-makers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> at the -Hall: he himself was restless, and did not continue there, even for the -sake of his guests, but made incessant journeys to London, and kept in -constant personal attendance on himself the courier Monte. He was the -object of incessant observation, and the gossip of half the county: he -had many enemies; and many of those who were disposed to take his part, -had heard and been convinced by the story of Louis. Almost every one, -indeed, who did hear of it, and remembered the boy in his neglected but -noble youth, felt the strange probability and <i>vraisemblance</i> of the -tale; and as the time drew nearer, the interest grew. It was known that -the new claimant of the title lived in Miss Anastasia’s house, and that -she was the warmest supporter of his claim. The people of Banburyshire -were proud of Miss Anastasia; but she was Lord Winterbourne’s enemy. -Why? That old tragedy began to be spoken of once more in whispers; other -tales crept into circulation; he was a bad man; everybody knew something -of him—enough ground to judge him on; and if he was capable of all -these, was he not capable of this?</p> - -<p>As the public voice grew thus, like the voice of doom, the doomed man -went on in his reckless and unreasoning confidence; the warnings of his -opponents and of his friends seemed to be alike fruitless. No extent of -self-delusion could have justified him at any time in thinking himself -popular, yet he seemed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> have a certain insane conviction now, that he -had but to show himself in the court to produce an immediate reaction in -his favour. He even said so, shaken out of all his old self-restrained -habits, boasting with a vain braggadocio to his guests at the Hall; and -people began, with a new impulse of pity, to wonder if his reason was -touched, and to hint vaguely to each other that the shock had unsettled -his mind.</p> - -<p>The trial came on at the next assize; it was long, elaborate, and -painful. On the very eve of this momentous day, Louis himself had -addressed an appeal to his uncle, begging him, at the last moment when -he could withdraw with honour, to accept the compromise so often and so -anxiously proposed to him. Lord Winterbourne tore the letter in two, and -put it in his pocket-book. “I shall use it,” he said to the messenger, -“when this business is over, to light the bonfire on Badgeley Hill.”</p> - -<p>The trial came on accordingly, without favour or private arrangement—a -fair struggle of force against force. The evidence on the side of the -prosecutor was laid down clearly, particular by particular; the marriage -of the late Lord Winterbourne to the young Italian—the entry in his -pocket-book, sworn to by Miss Anastasia—the birth of the -children—their journey from Italy to London, from London to -Winterbourne—and the identity of the boy Louis with the present<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> -claimant of the title—clearly, calmly, deliberately, everything was -proved. It took two days to go over the evidence; then came the defence. -Without an overwhelming array of witnesses on the other side—without -proving perjury on the part of these—what could Lord Winterbourne -answer to such a charge as this?</p> - -<p>He commenced, through his lawyer, by a vain attempt to brand Louis over -again with illegitimacy, to sully the name of his dead brother, and -represent him a villanous deceiver. It was allowed, without controversy, -that Louis was the son of the old lord; and then Monte was placed in the -witness-box to prove that the marriage was a mock marriage, so skilfully -performed as to cheat herself, her family, the old quick-witted Serrano, -whose testimony had pleased every one—all the people present, in short, -except his own acute and philosophical self.</p> - -<p>The fellow was bold, clever, and scrupulous, but he was not prepared for -such an ordeal. His attention distracted by the furious contradictory -gestures of Doctor Serrano, whose cane could scarcely be kept out of -action—by the stern, steady glance of Miss Anastasia, whom he -recognised—he was no match for the skilful cross-examiners who had him -in hand. He hesitated, prevaricated, altered his testimony. He held, -with a grim obstinacy, to unimportant trifles, and made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> admissions at -the same moment which struck at the very root of his own credibility as -a witness. He was finally ordered to sit down by the voice of the judge -himself, which rung in the fellow’s ears like thunder. That was all the -case for the defence! Even Lord Winterbourne’s counsel coloured for -shame as he made the miserable admission. The jury scarcely left the -court; there was no doubt remaining on the mind of the audience. The -verdict was pronounced solemnly, like a passionless voice of justice, as -it was, for the plaintiff. There was no applause—no exultation—a -universal human horror and disgust at the strange depravity they had -just witnessed, put down every demonstration of feeling. People drew -away from the neighbourhood of Lord Winterbourne as from a man in a -pestilence. He left the court almost immediately, with his hat over his -eyes—his witness following as he best could; then came a sudden -revulsion of feeling. The best men in the county hurried towards Louis, -who sat, pale and excited, by the side of his elder and his younger -sister. Congratulatory good wishes poured upon him on every side. As -they left the court slowly, a guard of honour surrounded this heir and -hero of romance; and as he emerged into the street the air rang with a -cheer for the new Lord Winterbourne. They called him “My lord,” as he -stood on the step of Miss Anastasia’s carriage, which she herself -entered as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> if it had been a car of triumph. <i>She</i> called him “My lord,” -making a proud obeisance to him, as a mother might have done to her son, -a new-made king; and they drove off slowly, with riders in their train, -amid the eager observation of all the passengers—the new Lord -Winterbourne!</p> - -<p>The old one hastened home on foot, no one observing him—followed far -off, like a shadow, by his attendant villain—unobserved, and almost -unheeded, entered the Hall; thrust with his own hand some necessaries -into his travelling-bag, gathered his cloak around him, and was gone. -Winterbourne Hall that night was left in the custody of the strangers -who had been his guests, an uneasy and troubled company, all occupied -with projects of departure to-morrow. Once more the broad chill -moonlight fell on the noble park, as when Louis and his sister, desolate -and friendless, passed out from its lordly gates into midnight and the -vacant world. Scarcely a year! but what a change upon all the actors and -all the passions of that moonlight October night!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.<br /><br /> -<small>ESPOUSALS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was winter, but the heavens were bright—a halcyon day among the -December glooms. All the winds lay still among the withered ferns, -making a sighing chorus in the underground of Badgeley Wood; but the -white clouds, thinner than the clouds of summer, lay becalmed upon the -chill blue sky, and the sun shone warm under the hedgerows, and deluded -birds were perching out upon the hawthorn bows; the green grass -brightened under the morning light; the wan waters shone; the trees -which had no leaves clustered their branches together, with a certain -pathos in their nakedness, and made a trellised shadow here and there -over the wintry stream; and, noble as in the broadest summer, in the -sheen of the December sunshine lay Oxford, jewelled like a bride, -gleaming out upon the tower of Maudlin, flashing abroad into the -firmament from fair St Mary, twinkling with innumerable gem-points from -all the lesser cupolas and spires. In the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> midst of all, this sunshine -retreated in pure defeat and failure, from that sombre old heathen, with -his heavy dome—but only brightened all the more upon those responsive -and human inhabitants dwelling there from the olden ages, and native to -the soil. There was a fresh breath from the broad country, a hum of life -in the air, a twitter of hardy birds among the trees. It was one of -those days which belong to no season, but come, like single blessings, -one by one, throwing a gleam across the darker half of the year. Though -it was in December instead of May, it was as fair “a bridal of the earth -and sky” as poet could have wished to see; but the season yielded no -flowers to strew upon the grassy footpath between the Old Wood Lodge and -the little church of Winterbourne; they did not need them who trod that -road to-day.</p> - -<p>Hush, they are coming home—seeing nothing but an indefinite splendour -in the earth and in the sky—sweet in the dews of their youth—touched -to the heart—to that very depth and centre where lie all ecstasies and -tears. Walking together arm in arm, in their young humility—scarcely -aware of the bridal train behind them—in an enchantment of their own; -now coming back to that old little room, with its pensive old memories -of hermit life and solitude—this quiet old place, which never before -was lighted up with such a gleam of splendid fortune and happy hope.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span></p> - -<p>You would say it was Marian Atheling, “with the smile on her lip, and -the tear in her eye”—the very same lovely vision whom the lad Louis saw -some eighteen months ago at the garden gate. But you would be mistaken; -for it is not Marian—it is the young Lady Winterbourne. This one is -quite as beautiful for a consolation—almost more so in her bridal -blush, and sunshine, and tears—and for a whole hour by the village -clock has been a peeress of the realm.</p> - -<p>This is what it has come to, after all—what they must all come to, -those innocent young people—even Rachel, who is as wild as a child, in -her first genuine and unalarmed outburst of youthful jubilation—even -Agnes, who through all this joy carries a certain thoughtful remembrance -in her dark eyes—possibly even Charlie, who fears no man, but is a -little shy of every womankind younger than Miss Anastasia. There are -only one or two strangers; but the party almost overflows Miss Bridget’s -parlour, where the old walls smile with flowers, and the old apartment, -like an ancient handmaid, receives them with a prim and antique grace—a -little doubtful, yet half hysterical with joy.</p> - -<p>But it does not last very long, this crowning festival. By-and-by the -hero and the heroine go away; then the guests one by one; then the -family, a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> languid, a little moved with the first inroad among -them, disperse to their own apartments, or to a meditative ramble out of -doors; and when the twilight falls, you could almost suppose Miss -Bridget, musing too over the story of another generation, sitting before -the fire in her great old chair, with no companion but the flowers.</p> - -<p>This new event seemed somehow to consolidate and make certain that -wonderful fortune of Louis, which until then had looked almost too much -like a romance to be realised. His uncle had made various efforts to -question and set aside the verdict which transferred to the true heir -his name and inheritance—efforts in which even the lawyers whom he had -employed at the trial, and who were not over-scrupulous, had refused any -share. The attempt was entirely fruitless—an insane resistance to the -law, which was irresistible; and the Honourable Reginald Rivers, whom -some old sycophants who came in his way still flattered with his old -title, was now at Baden, a great man enough in his own circle, rich in -the allowance from his nephew, which he was no longer too proud to -accept. He alone of all men expressed any disapprobation of Louis’s -marriage—he whose high sense of family honour revolted from the idea of -a <i>mesalliance</i>—and one other individual, who had something of a more -reasonable argument. We hasten to extract, according<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> to a former -promise, the following pathetic paragraph from the pages of the -<i>Mississippi Gazette</i>:—</p> - -<p>“I have just heard of the marriage of the young Lord W—— with the -beautiful M—— A——. Well!—is that so wonderful? Oh, visionary dream! -That thou shouldst pause to comment upon a common British bargain—the -most ordinary arrangement of this conventional and rotten life? What is -a heart in comparison with a title?—true love in the balance of a -coronet? Oh, my country, <i>thou</i> hast not come to this! But for these -mercenary and heartless parents—but for the young mind dazzled with the -splendid cheat of rank—oh heaven, what true felicity—what poetic -rapture—what a home thou mightst have seen! For she was beautiful as -the day when it breaks upon the rivers and the mountains of my native -land! It is enough—a poet’s fate would have been all incomplete without -this fiery trial. Farewell, M——! Farewell, lovely deluded victim of a -false society! Some time out of your hollow splendour you will think of -a true heart and weep!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.<br /><br /> -<small>AN OLD FRIEND.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“The</span> Winterbournes” had been for some time at home—they were now in -London, and Marian had appeared at court in the full splendour of that -young beauty of hers; which never had dazzled any one at home as it -dazzled every one now. She and her handsome young husband were the lions -of the season, eagerly sought after in “the best society.” Their story -had got abroad, as stories which are at all remarkable have such a -wonderful faculty of getting; and strangers whom Marian had never seen -before, were delighted to make her acquaintance—charmed to know her -sister, who had so much genius, and wrote such delightful books, and, -most extraordinary of all, extremely curious and interested about -Charlie, the wonderful young brother who had found out the mystery. At -one of the fashionable assemblies, where Louis and Marian, Rachel and -Agnes, were pointed out eagerly on all sides, and commented upon as -“such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> fresh unsophisticated young creatures—such a group! so -picturesque, so interesting!” they became aware, all of them, with -different degrees of embarrassment and pain, that Mrs Edgerley was in -the company. Louis found her out last of all. She could not possibly -fail to notice them; and the young man, anxious to save her pain, made -up his mind at once to be the first to address her. He went forward -gravely, with more than usual deference in his manner. She recognised -him in a moment, started with a little surprise and a momentary shock, -but immediately rushed forward with her most charming air of enthusiasm, -caught his hand, and overwhelmed him with congratulations. “Oh, I should -be so shocked if you supposed that I entertained any prejudice because -of poor dear papa!” cried Mrs Edgerley. “Of course he meant no harm; of -course he did not know any better. I am so charmed to see you! I am sure -we shall make most capital cousins and firm allies. Positively you look -quite grave at me. Oh, I assure you, family feuds are entirely out of -fashion, and no one ever quarrels with <i>me</i>! I am dying to see those -sweet girls!”</p> - -<p>And very much amazed, and filled with great perturbation, those sweet -girls were, when Mrs Edgerley came up to them, leaning upon Louis’s arm, -bestowed upon them all a shower of those light perfumy kisses which -Marian and Agnes remembered so well, and,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> declaring Lady Winterbourne -far too young for a chaperone, took her place among them. Amazed as they -were at this sudden renewal of old friendship, none of them desired to -resist it; and before they were well aware, they found themselves -engaged, the whole party, to Mrs Edgerley’s next “reception,” when -“every one would be so charmed to see them!” “Positively, my love, you -are looking quite lovely,” whispered the fine lady into the shrinking -ear of Marian. “I always said so. I constantly told every one you were -the most perfect little beauty in the world; and then that charming book -of Miss Atheling’s, which every one was wild about! and your -brother—now, do you know, I wish so very much to know your brother. Oh, -I am sure you could persuade him to come to my Thursday. Tell him every -one comes; no one ever refuses <i>me</i>! I shall send him a card to-morrow. -Now, may I leave my cause in your hands?”</p> - -<p>“We will try,” said Marian, who, though she bore her new dignities with -extraordinary self-possession on the whole, was undeniably shy of -Agnes’s first fashionable patroness. The invitation was taken up as very -good fun indeed, by all the others. They resolved to make a general -assault upon Charlie, and went home in great glee with their -undertaking. Nor was Charlie, after all, so hard to be moved as they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> -expected. He twisted the pretty note in his big fingers with somewhat -grim amusement, and said he did not mind. With this result Mrs Atheling -showed the greatest delight, for the good mother began to speculate upon -a wife for Charlie, and to be rather afraid of some humble beauty -catching her boy’s eye before he had “seen the world.”</p> - -<p>With almost the feeling of people in a dream, Agnes and Marian entered -once more those well-remembered rooms of Mrs Edgerley, in which they had -gained their first glimpse of the world; and Charlie, less demonstrative -of his feelings, but not without a remembrance of the past, entered -these same portals where he had exchanged that first glance of -instinctive enmity with the former Lord Winterbourne. The change was -almost too extraordinary to be realised even by the persons principally -concerned. Marian, who had been but Agnes Atheling’s pretty and shy -sister, came in now first of the party, the wife of the head of her -former patroness’s family. Agnes, a diffident young genius then, full of -visionary ideas of fame, had now her own known and acknowledged place, -but had gone far beyond it, in the heart which did not palpitate any -longer with the glorious young fancies of a visionary ambition; and -Charlie, last of all—Charlie, who had tumbled out of the Islington fly -to take charge of his sisters—a big boy, clumsy and manful, whom Lord<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> -Winterbourne smiled at, as he passed, with his ungenial smile—Charlie, -almost single-handed, had thrust the usurper from his seat, and placed -the true heir in his room. No wonder that the Athelings were somewhat -dizzy with recollections when they came among all the fashionable people -who were charmed to see them, and found their way at last to the boudoir -where Agnes and Marian had looked at the faces and the diamonds, on that -old Thursday of Mrs Edgerley’s, which sparkled still in their -recollection, the beginning of their fate.</p> - -<p>But though Louis and Marian, and Agnes and Rachel, were all extremely -attractive, had more or less share in the romance, and were all more or -less handsome, Charlie was without dispute the lion of the night. Mrs -Edgerley fluttered about with him, holding his great arm with her pretty -hand, and introducing him to every one; and with a smile, rueful, -comical, half embarrassed, half ludicrous, Charlie, who continued to be -very shy of ladies, suffered himself to be dragged about by the -fashionable enchantress. He had very little to say—he was such a big -fellow, so unmanageable in a delicate crowd of fine ladies, with -draperies like gossamer, and, to do him justice, very much afraid of the -dangerous steering; but Charlie’s “manners,” though they would have -overwhelmed with distress his anxious mother, rather added to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> -“success.” “It was he who conducted the whole case.” “I do not wonder! -Look, what a noble head! What a self-absorbed expression! What a power -of concentration!” were the sweet and audible whispers which rang around -him; and the more sensible observers of the scene, who saw the secret -humour in Charlie’s upper-lip, slightly curved with amusement, acute, -but not unkindly, and caught now and then a gleam of his keen eye, -which, when it met with a response, always made a momentary brightening -of the smile—were disposed to give him full credit for all the power -imputed to him. Mrs Edgerley was in the highest delight—he was a -perfect success for a lion. Lions, as this patroness of the fine arts -knew by experience, were sadly apt to betray themselves, to be thrown -off their balance, to talk nonsense. But Charlie, who was not given to -talking, who was still so delightfully clumsy, and made such a wonderful -bow, was perfectly charming; Mrs Edgerley declared she was quite in love -with him. After all, natural feeling put out of the question, she had no -extraordinary occasion to identify herself with the resentments or -enmities of that ruined plotter at Baden; and he must have been a worthy -father, indeed, who had moved Mrs Edgerley to shut her heart or her -house to the handsome young couple, whom everybody delighted to honour, -or to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> the hero of a fashionable romance, which was spoken of -everywhere. She had no thought of any such sacrifice; she established -the most friendly relations instantly with her charming young cousins. -She extended the kindly title, with the most fascinating amiability, to -Agnes and Charlie. She overwhelmed the young lawyer with compliments and -invitations. He had a much stronger hold upon her fickle fancy than the -author of <i>Hope Hazlewood</i>. Mrs Edgerley was delighted to speak to all -her acquaintances of Mr Atheling, “who conducted all the case against -poor dear papa—did everything himself, I assure you—and such a -charming modesty of genius, such a wonderful force and character! Oh, -any one may be jealous who pleases; I cannot help it. I quite adore that -clever young man.”</p> - -<p>Charlie took it all very quietly; he concerned himself as little about -the adoration of Mrs Edgerley, as he did about the secret scrutiny of -his mother concerning every young woman who chanced to cross the path of -her son. Young women were the only created things whom Charlie was -afraid of, and what his own secret thoughts might be upon this important -question, nobody could tell.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.<br /><br /> -<small>SETTLING DOWN.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Many</span> lesser changes had been involved in the great revolution which made -the nameless Louis head of the family, and conferred upon him the -estates and title of Lord Winterbourne: scarcely any one, indeed, in the -immediate circle of the two families of Rivers and Atheling, the great -people and the small, remained uninfluenced by the change of -sovereignty, except Miss Anastasia, whose heart and household charities -were manifestly widened, but to whom no other change except the last, -and grand one, was like to come. The Rector kept his word; as soon as he -heard of the definite settlement of that great question of Louis’s -claim, he himself resigned his benefice; and one of the first acts of -the new Lord Winterbourne was to answer the only request of Lionel, by -conferring it upon Mr Mead. After that, Lionel made a settlement upon -his sister of all the property which belonged to them, enough to make a -modest maidenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> income for the gentle invalid, and keep her in -possession of all the little luxuries which seemed essential to her -life. For himself, he retained a legacy of a thousand pounds which had -been left to him several years before. This was the last that was known -of the Rector—he disappeared into entire gloom and obscurity after he -had made this final arrangement. It was sometimes possible to hear of -him, for English travellers, journeying through unfamiliar routes, did -not fail to note the wandering English gentleman who seemed to travel -for something else than pleasure, and whose motives and objects no one -knew; but where to look for him next, or what his occupations were, -neither Louis nor his friends, in spite of all their anxious inquiries, -could ever ascertain.</p> - -<p>And Mr Mead was now the rector, and reigned in Lionel’s stead. A new -rectory, all gabled and pinnacled, more “correct” than the model it -followed, and truer to its period than the truest original in -Christendom, rose rapidly between the village and the Hall; and Mr Mead, -whose altar had been made bare by the iconoclastic hands of authority, -began to exhibit some little alteration in his opinions as he grew -older, held modified views as to the priesthood, and cast an eye of -visible kindness upon the Honourable Rachel Rivers. The sentiment, -however, was not at all reciprocal; no one believed that Rachel was -really as old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> as Louis—older than the pretty matron Marian, older even -than Agnes. She had never been a girl until now—and Rachel cared a -great deal more for the invalid Lucy in her noiseless shadowy chamber in -the Old Wood House, than for all the rectors and all the curates in the -world. <i>She</i> was fancy free, and promised to remain so; and Marian had -already begun with a little horror to entertain the idea that Rachel -possibly might never marry at all.</p> - -<p>The parent Athelings themselves were not unmoved by the changes of their -children. Charlie was to be received as a partner into the firm which Mr -Foggo, by dint of habit, still clung to, as soon as he had attained his -one-and-twentieth year. Agnes, as these quiet days went on, grew both in -reputation and in riches, girl though she still was; and the youngest of -them was Lady Winterbourne! All these great considerations somewhat -dazzled the eyes of the confidential clerk of Messrs Cash, Ledger, & -Co., as he turned over his books upon that desk where he had once placed -Agnes’s fifty-pound notes, the beginning of the family fortune. Bellevue -came to be mightily out of the way when Louis and Marian were in town -living in so different a quarter; and Mr Atheling wearied of the City, -and Mamma concluded that the country air would be a great deal better -for Bell and Beau. So Mr Atheling accepted a retiring allowance,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> the -half of his previous income, from the employers whom he had served so -long. The whole little household, even including Susan, removed to the -country, where Marian had been delighting herself in the superintendence -of the two or three additional rooms built to the Old Wood Lodge, which -were so great a surprise to Mamma when she found them, risen as at the -touch of a fairy’s wand. The family settled there at once in -unpretending comfort, taking farewell affectionately of Miss Willsie and -Mr Foggo, but not forgetting Bellevue.</p> - -<p>And here Agnes pursued her vocation, making very little demonstration of -it, the main pillar for the mean time, and crowning glory of her -father’s house. Her own mind and imagination had been profoundly -impressed, almost in spite of herself, by that last known act of -Lionel’s—his hasty journey to London with Doctor Serrano. It was the -kind of act beyond all others to win upon a temperament so generous and -sensitive, which a more ostentatious generosity might have disgusted and -repelled; and perhaps the very uncertainty in which they remained -concerning him kept up the lurking “interest” in Agnes Atheling’s heart. -It was possible that he might appear any day at their very doors; it was -possible that he never might be seen again. It was not easy to avoid -speculating upon him—what he was thinking, where he was?—and when, in -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> spontaneous delight of her young genius, which yet had suffered no -diminution, Agnes’s thoughts glided into impersonation, and fairy -figures gathered round her, and one by one her fables grew, in the midst -of the thread of story—in the midst of what people called, to the young -author’s amusement, “an elaborate development of character, the result -of great study and observation”—thoughts came to her mind, and words to -her lip, which she supposed no one could thoroughly understand save -<i>one</i>. Almost unconsciously she shadowed his circumstances and his story -in many a bright imagination of her own; and contrasted with the real -one half-a-dozen imaginary Lionels, yet always ending in finding him the -noblest type of action in that great crisis of his career. It blended -somehow strangely with all that was most serious in her work; for when -Agnes had to speak of faith, she spoke of it with the fervour with which -one addresses an individual, opening her heart to show the One great -Name enshrined in it to another, who, woe for him, in his wanderings so -sadly friendless, knew not that Lord.</p> - -<p>So the voice of the woman who dwelt at home went out over the world; it -charmed multitudes who thought of nothing but the story it told, -delighted some more who recognised that sweet faulty grace of youth, -that generous young directness and simplicity which made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> the fable -truth. If it ever reached to one who felt himself addressed in it, who -knew the words, the allusions, that noble craft of genius, which, -addressing all, had still a private voice for one—if there was such a -man somewhere, in the desert or among the mountains far away, wandering -where he seldom heard the tongue of his country, and never saw a face he -recognised, Agnes never knew.</p> - -<p>But after this fashion time went on with them all. Then there came a -second heir, another Louis to the Hall at Winterbourne—and it was very -hard to say whether this young gentleman’s old aunt or his young aunt, -the Honourable Rachel, or the Honourable Anastasia, was most completely -out of her wits at this glorious epoch in the history of the House. -Another event of the most startling and extraordinary description took -place very shortly after the christening of Marian’s miraculous baby. -Charlie was one-and-twenty; he was admitted into the firm, and the young -man, who was one of the most “rising young men” in his profession, took -to himself a holiday, and went abroad without any one knowing much about -it. No harm in that; but when Charlie returned, he brought with him a -certain Signora Giulia, a very amazing companion indeed for this -taciturn hero, who was afraid of young ladies. He took her down at once -to Winterbourne, to present her to his mother and sisters.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> He had the -grace to blush, but really was not half so much ashamed of himself as he -ought to have been. For the pretty young Italian turned out to be cousin -to Louis and Rachel—a delicate little beauty, extremely proud of the -big young lover, who had carried her off from her mother’s house six -weeks ago: and we are grieved to acknowledge that Charlie henceforth -showed no fear whatever, scarcely even the proper awe of a dutiful -husband, in the presence of Mrs Charles Atheling.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE END.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Agnes Atheling</span> was alone in old Miss Bridget’s parlour; it was a fervent -day of July, and all the country lay in a hush and stillness of -exceeding sunshine, which reduced all the common sounds of life, far and -near, to a drowsy and languid hum—the midsummer’s luxurious voice. The -little house was perfectly still. Mrs Atheling was at the Hall, Papa in -Oxford, and Hannah, whose sole beatific duty it was to take care of the -children, and who envied no one in the world save the new nurse to the -new baby, had taken out Bell and Beau. The door was open in the fearless -fashion and license of the country. Perhaps Susan was dozing in the -kitchen, or on the sunny outside bench by the kitchen door. There was -not a sound about the house save the deep dreamy hum of the bees among -the roses—those roses which clustered thick round the old porch and on -the wall. Agnes sat by the open window, in a very familiar old -occupation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> making a frock for little Bell, who was six years old now, -and appreciated pretty things. Agnes was not quite so young as she used -to be—four years, with a great many events in them, had enlarged the -maiden mind, which still was as fresh as a child’s. She was changed -otherwise: the ease which those only have who are used to the company of -people of refinement, had added another charm to her natural grace. As -she sat with her work on her knee, in her feminine attitude and -occupation, making a meditative pause, bowing her head upon her hand, -thinking of something, with those quiet walls of home around her—the -open door, the open window, and no one else visible in the serene and -peaceful house, she made, in her fair and thoughtful young womanhood, as -sweet a type as one could desire of the serene and happy confidence of a -quiet English home.</p> - -<p>She did not observe any one passing; she was not thinking, perhaps, of -any one hereabout who was like to pass—but she heard a step entering at -the door. She scarcely looked up, thinking it some member of the -family—scarcely moved even when the door of the parlour opened wider, -and the step came in. Then she looked up—started up—let her work drop -out of her hands, and, gazing with eagerness in the bronzed face of the -stranger, uttered a wondering exclamation. He hastened to her, holding -out his hand. “Mr Rivers?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> cried Agnes, in extreme surprise and -agitation—“is it <i>you</i>?”</p> - -<p>What he said was some hasty faltering expressions of delight in seeing -her, and they gazed at each other with their mutual “interest,” glad, -yet constrained. “We have tried often to find out where you were,” said -Agnes—“I mean Louis; he has been very anxious. Have you seen him? When -did you come home?”</p> - -<p>“I have seen no one save you.”</p> - -<p>“But Louis has been very anxious,” said Agnes, with a little confusion. -“We have all tried to discover where you were. Is it wrong to ask where -you have been?”</p> - -<p>But Lionel did not at all attend to her questions. He was less -self-possessed than she was; he seemed to have only one idea at the -present moment, so far as was visible, and that he simply expressed over -again—“I am very glad—happy—to see you here and alone.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Agnes with a nervous tremor—“I—I was asking, Mr Rivers, -where you had been?”</p> - -<p>This time he began to attend to her. “I have been everywhere,” he said, -“except where pleasure was. I have been on fields of battles—in places -of wretchedness. I have come to tell you something—you only. Do you -remember our conversation once by Badgeley Wood?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“You gave me a talisman, Agnes,” said the speaker, growing more excited; -“I have carried it all over the world.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Agnes as he paused. She looked at him very earnestly, -without even a blush at the sound of her own name.</p> - -<p>“Well—better than well!” cried Lionel; “wonderful—invincible—divine! -I went to try your spell—I who trusted nothing—at the moment when -everything had failed me—even you. I put yonder sublime Friend of yours -to the experiment—I dared to do it! I took his name to the sorrowful, -as you bade me. I cast out devils with his name, as the sorcerers tried -to do. I put all the hope I could have in life upon the trial. Now I -come to tell you the issue; it is fit that you should know.”</p> - -<p>Agnes leaned forward towards him, listening eagerly; she could not quite -tell what she expected—a confession of faith.</p> - -<p>“I am a man of ambition,” said Lionel, turning in a moment from the high -and solemn excitement of his former speech, with a sudden smile like a -gleam of sunshine. “You remember my projects when I was heir of -Winterbourne. You knew them, though I did not tell you; now I have found -a cave in a wild mining district among a race of giants. I am Vicar<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> of -Botallach, among the Cornish men—have been for four-and-twenty -hours—that is the end.”</p> - -<p>Agnes had put out her hand to him in the first impulse of joy and -congratulation; a second thought, more subtle, made her pause, and -blush, and draw back. Lionel was not so foolish as to wait the end of -this self-controversy. He left his seat, came to her side, took the hand -firmly into his own, which she half gave, and half withdrew—did not -blush, but grew pale, with the quiet concern of a man who was about -deciding the happiness of his life. “The end, but the beginning too,” -said Lionel, with a tremor in his voice. “Agnes hear me still—I have -something more to say.”</p> - -<p>She did not answer a word; she lifted her eyes to his face with one -hurried, agitated momentary glance. Something more! but the whole tale -was in the look. <i>They</i> did not know very well what words followed, and -neither do we.</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.<br /><br /><br /> - -<small>PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.</small></p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Athelings; vol. 3/3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATHELINGS; VOL. 3/3 *** - -***** This file should be named 55121-h.htm or 55121-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/1/2/55121/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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