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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..844f011 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63562 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63562) diff --git a/old/63562-0.txt b/old/63562-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index aa76bd3..0000000 --- a/old/63562-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6531 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Harry Joscelyn; vol. 3 of 3, by Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States -and most other parts of the world 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. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook. - - -Title: Harry Joscelyn; vol. 3 of 3 - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: October 27, 2020 [EBook #63562] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARRY JOSCELYN; VOL. 3 OF 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) - - - - - - - - - - HARRY JOSCELYN. - - VOL. III. - - - - - HARRY JOSCELYN. - - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT - - AUTHOR OF - - “The Chronicles of Carlingford,” - - &c., &c. - - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - VOL. III. - - - LONDON: - HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, - 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. - 1881. - _All rights reserved._ - - - - - HARRY JOSCELYN. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -AFTER TEN YEARS. - - -Ten years is a large slice out of a life; but it slips by, not leaving -much trace in a rural country where everything goes quietly, and where -Christmas follows after Christmas with scarcely any sign by which one -can be identified from another on looking back. We will not say that -nothing had happened in the White House to mark the ten years from the -time when young Harry Joscelyn disappeared from the Fell country, and it -became evident that no one there was likely to hear anything of him -more. Various things had happened: one, for instance, was that Joan had -married Philip Selby, and was now the mistress of Heatonshaw, and could -not easily remember, so strange is the effect of such a change, how she -had contented herself in her previous life, or what had been the habits -and customs of Joan Joscelyn. More had happened to her in this than in -any other ten years of her life; but yet they had glided over very -calmly, day following day with such a gentle monotony that it was hard -for her to decide how many of them there were, or which was which. She -had no child to measure the years by, which was a misfortune, but one -which she bore with submission: reflecting to herself that if children -are a comfort they are often also a great handful, and that when they -are troublesome there is nothing else so troublesome in all the world. -Philip Selby himself was less philosophical, and would have ventured -gladly upon the risk for the sake of the blessing; but it was not so to -be. And thus they had little evidence before them of how the years stole -away. But all that he had augured, and Joan had agreed to, about the -house, had come true. There were the best of beasts in the byres, and -heavy crops on the arable land, and a phaeton in the coach-house, and -horses in the stables such as no man needed to be ashamed of. And with -all this, there was a very comfortable couple inside. Joan, on her -marriage, had been half ashamed of the fine room, which was called--not -according to her old-fashioned formula, the parlour, but--the -drawing-room, to which her husband had brought her home, and which had -been furnished by one of the best shops in Carlisle, with furniture such -as was approved by the taste of the time. There was a white paper on the -walls, and a great deal of gilding, and sofas and tables with legs that -were crooked and curly. But by the end of ten years much that was -somewhat showy once had toned down. The furniture had got more shapely -and a little human; the place had worn into the fashion of the people -that inhabited it. In summer it was a perfect bower of lilies and roses, -the great white shafts of the one rising above the broad branches, heavy -with flowers, of the other (for in those days there were no standards), -and the whole air sweet with the mingled perfume. Liddy Joscelyn, Mrs. -Selby’s little sister, thought there was no flower-garden in the world -like it; but then she had not been away from home since she was twelve, -and had not seen much, and there was nothing like it about the White -House. - -That, place, too, had changed in these years. Ralph Joscelyn was the -one upon whom the change had told most. It was not that he was much -altered in personal appearance, nor yet that he had entirely mended and -corrected his ways. Perhaps indeed the alteration visible in him was -more due to the fact that there was nobody about the place who crossed -him, no one who opposed any strenuous opposition to his will, or -dissented from his opinions, than any real alteration. But it was a -quieter life which the homestead led, subject to much fewer storms than -of old; and Mrs. Joscelyn lived a far less anxious life. The loss of her -youngest boy so long ago--though it might not be really the loss of him, -since who could tell what day he might re-appear again?--was not a -thing, as everyone said, that she could be expected to get over. But the -ten years had calmed her, and, what was more, Liddy had calmed her. -Lydia had been sent for to her school when her mother was in the depths -of this trouble, and she had never been suffered to go back again, her -presence being the only consolation which the gentle and unhappy woman -was the better for. And after ten years of Liddy’s constant company, -Mrs. Joscelyn was a very different woman. Joan, who had been so -sympathetic with her mother through that last family trouble, without -understanding her in the others, understood still less the effect -produced by her little sister, who smoothed down everything without any -apparent trouble, more by understanding it, so far as appeared, than -from anything she did. When Joan’s reign terminated, Lydia became the -dominant spirit in the house. She was so at fourteen; how much more at -twenty! It was not a good thing for the butter and the cheese. The dairy -produce of the White House fell off wonderfully. It was no longer half -the quantity, and still less was it equal in quality, to the butter of -Joan’s time. Old Simon never ceased shaking his head over it till his -dying day, and went out of human consciousness moaning to himself that -“A’ things was altered, and no t’ half o’ t’ money coming in.” It was he -that had always been the salesman, and he felt it deeply. For half of -the time or so Joan had done her utmost, driving over in the morning and -spending hours endeavouring to indoctrinate her sister with the -mysteries of that art; but Liddy only laughed, and kept her pretty white -hands by her side, and declared herself incapable. “I don’t know what to -do with these things,” she would say, gazing at the bowls of milk, -without the least sense of shame, with even a smile on her face; and to -Joan’s consternation her father, coming in when this was said, and -himself standing in the doorway, swaying his big figure to and fro, -said, “Let her alone, let her alone, Joan. You did it, but she is -another kind from you.” - -“That she is,” said Joan. “She’s not the profitable kind either, if she -let’s the dairy take care of itself.” - -But to this Joscelyn paid no attention; and Mrs. Selby was led to her -chaise stupefied, not knowing whether she was asleep or awake, so -bewildered was she. The dairy went off, it was no longer celebrated as -of yore. The cows decreased in number, for what was the use of keeping -them when they brought in so little profit? And by degrees the house -changed altogether. Lydia, slim and straight, with her white hands, and -feet that scarcely sounded upon the old passage, gradually modified -everything. When she was seen in a new riding-habit, and a hat with a -feather, going out to ride with her father, the old servants could -scarcely contain themselves; and the timid mother, coming out to see -her, smoothed the horse’s sleek coat with a frightened hand, and did -not know how to look at the girl, or her father, who was as proud of -Lydia as Mrs. Joscelyn herself could be. - -And then the old piano, which nobody had touched for years--for Joan, -who had ended her education at fifteen, had never learned any more music -than was contained in a first book of exercises--was sent off to an -attic, and a new piano was bought for Lydia. Where it came from no one -could quite understand, for it was impossible to believe that Joscelyn -had drawn his purse-strings to such an extent; but all the same it -arrived, and Lydia, sometimes going into Wyburgh, sometimes having her -professor out to the White House, had lessons, and practised diligently, -and by-and-bye became in her way a musician, astonishing all the -neighbourhood with her powers. A young lady who rode about the country -on a handsome horse, and who played the piano, was something altogether -new in the place. She might have been much more profoundly instructed -without producing half so great an impression. The house altogether rose -in the social scale. People came to call who had never been seen near -the White House before; and they found the mistress of the house, who -had always been genteel, a gentle woman, ladylike and subdued, and her -daughter one of the prettiest girls in the county, with a sort of -elegance about her which was the inheritance she had received from her -mother, strengthened and consolidated by the superior strength which she -got from the other side of the house. When Joscelyn himself appeared, -which was rarely, his fine form and strength, and the refinement -imparted by a crown of white hair, raised him, too, to a sort of -pinnacle. People began to say that they found they had done him -injustice, and that after all the present representative of the -Joscelyns was not unworthy his race. The process was slow, but it was -very complete. When Will and Tom appeared with their wives, it was -unaccountable how “put out” and “set down” they felt, as if they were -going to their landlord’s, where everything was finer than the -surroundings they were accustomed to, and not to their father’s, upon -whose shabby furniture Mrs. Will and Mrs. Tom had looked with contempt. -Even Joan looked round her with a curiosity which was mingled with -grievance, scarcely able to restrain the thought that what was good -enough for _her_, might certainly have been good enough for Liddy. -Liddy it was clear did not think so. And how that little thing knew, or -where she had got her instinctive acquaintance with polite ways, Mrs. -Selby, who was on the whole proud of Liddy, could not tell; but so it -was. The house brightened up generally; here a new carpet, and there a -new curtain, made a change in its dingy aspect. The old furniture was -made the most of, and old china, and all the stores of a long -established house brought out to embellish the parlours; the very hall -and passages were brushed up, the table, and the service at the table, -so improved, that Joan too thought she must be dining with some of the -great county people, whom the Joscelyns had always thought themselves -equal to, but who had not acknowledged the Joscelyns. - -“The thing that surprises me is where she learned it all,” Mrs. Selby -said; “a bit of a thing that has seen no more than the rest of us; but -she has a deal of you in her, mother, far more than any of the rest.” - -“Ah, my dear,” said Mrs. Joscelyn, shaking her head, “I never had the -courage to settle things my own way. It was not that I didn’t know: I -knew very well how things ought to be done.” This little gentle -assertion of her gentility Mrs. Joscelyn felt was her due in the new -development of affairs. It was not all the discovery of Liddy. She had -known well enough all the time. Circumstances had been too much for her; -but the refinements of society were her natural atmosphere. Joan looked -at her mother with mingled respect and amusement, proud that she was -such a lady, yet feeling the joke of her superiority. - -“Yes, mother,” she said, “I mind how you and Phil talked the first time -he came to the White House. It was as good as a play to hear you. He -never let on it was me he wanted, but to have a talk with you, such a -superior woman. I did not understand a word you were saying, and I took -pains to let him see that the dairy and the stables were what I was most -acquainted with; but that didn’t make any difference, you see.” - -“You were never one to make the most of yourself, Joan,” said the -mother, mildly. “I always knew there was a great deal more in you than -you would ever show,” at which Joan laughed; but she was not displeased. -And she was proud of her young sister when Liddy came riding over on -the last perfection from her father’s stable, looking like a young -princess. She was the nearest thing to a child of her own that Joan was -ever likely to have, and she forgave her possession of a great many -indulgences which no one had thought of conceding to Joan. When it -appeared, however, that Lydia had a groom behind her, Mrs. Selby’s soul -was stirred within her. - -“Now, Liddy,” she said, “I can stand a deal, but you’ll ruin father if -you go on like this. A groom behind you! what will you want next? -Father’s just infatuated, that is all I can say.” - -“It’s only a livery coat,” said Liddy, “that’s all. It doesn’t cost very -much. I’ll pay it off my own allowance, and father will never be the -worse----” - -Here she was interrupted by a shriek from her elder sister. “Your -allowance? What next?” she said. “I never had a penny to myself when I -was at home, and hard ado to get a bill paid. If it had not been for the -butter money, I should never have had a gown to my back.” - -“But that would not do for me,” said Lydia, with a toss of her head; -and, indeed, to see her here with her airy figure, and her close-fitting -habit, and the beautiful bay arching his fine neck in the background, -and to suggest any connection with the butter money was a thing which -only an elder sister without sentiment or sense of appropriateness could -have done. The Duke’s daughter did not look more unlike any such homely -particulars; indeed, the Duke’s daughter was not fit, as Joan said, -proudly, to herself, to “hold the candle” to little Liddy Joscelyn. - -“I don’t know what’s coming of it,” Mrs. Selby said to her husband; -“but, Phil, you and me will stand by that child, and see her out of -it--will you, goodman?” - -“That I will, my dear,” Philip Selby said; “but Joscelyn has been doing -not badly, and I dare say he can afford to let the little one have her -fling. He has none to think of now but Liddy--and there’s Uncle Henry’s -money.” - -This allusion always made Joan ready to cry, though she was not given to -tears. “I would rather burn off my fingers than touch Uncle Henry’s -money,” she said. “It will never be me that will put my hand to it, and -give my consent that yon poor lad is not coming home----” - -“We must be reasonable, my dear,” Philip Selby said, mildly, “and the -others will not be so patient. There is one thing you shall do if you -like, Joan, and that is give your share to Liddy. It would never be any -pleasure to you.” - -Joan looked at her husband with a startled air. She was more matter of -fact than he was, and the idea of giving over actual money to which she -had a right, to anyone, was a thing which gave her somewhat of a shock. -In their ordinary affairs she had to keep rather a tight hand upon her -Phil, who was too easy about his money generally; but this was a -complicated case, and puzzled her much. - -“Give Liddy my share? You say true it would be little, little pleasure -to me; but money is money, and there are some to come after us. It’s -fine to be generous, but we must think upon justice. What’s Liddy’s is -Liddy’s, and what’s mine is mine.” - -It was from no want of kindness that Joan spoke: but she could not help -it. It was as natural to close her hand over money, even when she hated -it, as it was for others to throw it away. - -“You will think better of it,” her husband said. - -“Oh! it’s very likely I will think better of it. A woman cannot live -with a prodigal like you without getting into ill ways. But I was always -brought up to stick to my money; and I’ve you to look after as well. If -you had not me to watch over you, you would give away the coat off your -back.” - -“For all that I’ve always had plenty,” said Selby, “and now more than -plenty--with a good wife to take care of it and me.” - -“You may say a wife to take care of you,” said Joan, “and how you ever -kept a penny in your purse before you got her, is what I cannot tell; -though, after all, when a man spends nothing upon himself, it’s easy -keeping him going. But I’m one that sticks to my money. Give what you -please else, but keep a grip upon your money, that’s always been my -way.” Then she added, after a pause: “There will never be any question -about that; when he knows it’s all left to him, it stands to reason that -he will come back. Joscelyns have more regard to their own interest. -They are not easy-going like you.” - -“I wish I could think so,” Mr. Selby said. - -And so the conversation ended. Uncle Henry had died not very long -before, leaving behind him only an old will in which everything was left -to Harry. The executors, who were both influential persons in Wyburgh, -had advertised for him, or for news of him, but none had come; and the -family generally had accepted this as a proof that Harry was dead--the -family, all but the mother and Joan, who were both strenuous that -nothing should be done, and no division made. Mrs. Joscelyn would have -been overruled before now, but Joan was a stronger opponent, and she had -the backing of her husband, of whom her brothers stood in a little awe; -so that the division and distribution of Uncle Henry’s funds had been -postponed. But this delay could not last: the elder brothers, who were -men with families and in want of money, were certain to push for a -settlement. They had no doubt, and not very much feeling, about the -younger one who was lost. It had been entirely his own doing. He was a -fool to have gone away like that, and compromised himself, and thrown -away all his chances; but whatever happened to him in consequence was -his own fault. If he had died, or if he was living in some obscure -corner far away, were not they equally innocent? They had tried all they -could to find him--the trustees were trying now. Old Pilgrim was -advertising far and wide. If Harry were dead, or if he were so far away -as to be out of reach of this call, it was not their fault; and they -wanted no more than their share--but that share, there was no doubt, -would be very convenient. Will’s sons were growing up, and Tom was -taking in more land to his farm. To each of these, as to most people, a -little money would have been of the greatest use. And it was all very -well for Joan to talk who had neither chick nor child, and was in such -easy circumstances; it was well for her to talk whose husband supplied -her with everything, and who had no need of money; but they were men and -knew better. They knew that men are not such fools as to stay away from -their home as Harry had done. Nobody did such a thing, especially when -advertisements were in the papers about them, and “something to their -advantage” promised. - -“Something to your advantage means money,” said Will. “’Twouldn’t be -long I’d skulk away at the end of the world if you were to give me the -chance.” - -“He’s never skulking away at the end of the world,” said Tom. “If he -went off at all, he went to California or thereabouts; and he’d have -come home at the first scent of money. Bless you, we know our own -breed;” and in this the other brother concurred. But the trustees held -fast. They would not consent to any distribution of the money till -Harry, if Harry still existed, had every chance of hearing of it. -Privately Mr. Pilgrim had no objection to advance to Tom the money he -wanted for that addition to his farm. There was solid security, and a -feasible reason for borrowing. “There’s but too much reason to think -that your poor brother will never turn up again,” the executor allowed; -“but we must not go too fast.” Alas! such is the weakness of human -nature that the other Joscelyns ere long were not sure that they wished -their poor brother to turn up again. The money would be so convenient! -When is there a time that money is not convenient? And it could do him -no good, poor fellow, if he was in his grave--which at the same time -would be his own fault. - -Very different, however, from the conclusions of Will and Joan were -those which were held at the White House on this subject. Mrs. Joscelyn -had never consented to that view. “He may have been led away,” she said; -“but do you think my boy would die and me not know? Oh, Liddy, my -darling, many a time when you see me in low spirits, and ask me why, and -I say it’s nothing, that is what it is. It is borne in upon me that -something is the matter with one of the boys. I’ve different feelings -for each of them. People may laugh that don’t understand, but you’ll not -laugh, my Liddy dear. I never said it to one of the others, but I may -say it to you. If it’s Ben, or if it’s Huntley, I have a kind of a -feeling--and as sure as letters come it’s found to be true. There is -always a something. Now it stands to reason that Harry should be the -same, but as he never writes we never can tell. Sometimes I’ve been -quite light-hearted for nothing at all, and I’ve said to myself, ‘That’s -Harry: something good’s happening to him.’ Do you think it is natural -that if he had _died_--oh, the Lord preserve him!--his mother would not -know?” - -“It would not be natural at all,” said Lydia, confidently; “he would -come and stand by your bedside; I don’t feel the least doubt of that. -But there is one thing I should like, mamma; I should like to go abroad. -I feel sure that I should find him. I think that I should find him -somewhere not very far away--or else in America: I have quite made up my -mind to that.” - -“You would scarcely know your brother if you saw him,” said Mrs. -Joscelyn, shaking her head; “You were so little, my pet; and poor Harry -must be changed in ten years.” - -“Oh, I should know him,” cried Lydia. She held her pretty head high. She -was very sure of most things. “After you are grown up you don’t change -so much. He might not know me, but I should know him wherever I saw him. -Ah, how delightful it would be to bring him back to you!” said Lydia, -throwing her arms round her mother. The words and the arms were alike -sweet. Nobody had given Mrs. Joscelyn this food for her heart in the old -days. - -“My darling!” she said; “but I see no chance for you to go abroad, far -less--far less----” - -“There is no telling what may happen,” said Liddy, “everybody, you know, -goes abroad now.” - -But Mrs. Joscelyn shook her head. She saw the practical difficulties -here. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -A NEW COUSIN. - - -Lydia had indeed as little prospect of going abroad as any girl could -have. Her own kindred dreamt of no such indulgences, and she had no -friends likely to suggest them. In these days people stayed still where -their home was, and did not think of the continued changes and absences -which make up our modern life--though the spirit of travel was beginning -to be in the air, and younger spirits, even in the Fell-country, began -to form dreams on the subject. Perhaps there never was a time when the -idea of travelling was not attractive to the young, and when Italy was -not a name to conjure withal. Lydia Joscelyn had read everything that -fell into her hands all her life, even the Book of Beauty, which her -brother-in-law, Philip Selby, presented to her with an inscription on -the flyleaf, at Christmas. Half the stories, and half, almost all, the -poetry there, bore reference to “the sunny South.” She was resolute to -go “abroad” some time or other; to live among the dark-eyed Antonios and -lovely Rosalbas of romance. And there, she had made up her mind, she -would find Harry, and bring him back to her mother. It was her dream. -Whenever she had nothing else to do she thought of it, and represented -to herself how she should find him, how he would try to conceal himself -from her, and by what wonderful ruses and clever expedients she would -discover his secret and prove him to be her brother. It is not to be -supposed that there did not mingle in Lydia’s dreams, visions of some -other figure still more attractive than that of her brother, who having -been five-and-twenty when he disappeared, ten years ago, was according -to her calculation “quite old” by this time. It is not quite certain -that she did not expect him to be grey-haired, and a little decrepit; -but there would be some friend, some protector, some handsome young -count, or even prince, who would have afforded the stranger hospitality, -and in whom Liddy felt the possible hero of her life to be embodied. He -was quite vague, except a pair of beautiful eyes; there was nothing at -all about him else that she was certain of; but those eyes looked out of -the mists upon her, with every kind of tender and delightful look. He -would help her, could any one doubt, to bring Harry home? and -afterwards--perhaps--would ask for his reward. Such was the natural -sequence of events. To do Lydia justice, however, this visionary prince -was a secondary personage, only indulged in as a dream by way of -recreation, after she had, in her thoughts, tracked Harry down, and got -him at her mercy. - -She had not much society or recreation at the White House. There were -times, indeed, when, if it had been possible for a girl to have done so, -Lydia would have had no objection to try, as Harry had done, what the -society of the “Red Lion” could do for her; but to do her justice one -trial would have been enough. She did what was quite as good, and more -innocent; she ran off sometimes into the kitchen of the White House, and -talked with the servants, and heard a hundred stories both of the past -and present, and learned the countryside, so that she knew who everybody -was, and their mothers, and their wives, and all that had happened to -them. It was there, rather than from her mother and her sister, that she -heard about Harry. The old cook remembered everything about him, from -the time when he had cut his teeth. She had a recollection of that night -when he had gone away, and still excused herself for not having gone to -the rescue. “T’ master was all about t’ house, travelling up and down in -his stocking-feet--was it my part to oop and open the door?” Thus her -apologies accused her according to the proverb. The other women were -younger, but they too had something to tell. And then Liddy would go -back to the quietude of the parlour, where her mother was sitting in the -same attitude, reading the same book. The parlour looked cheerful -enough, but there was never any change in it, not half so much as in the -kitchen, where some one was always moving about, and there was a -perpetual flow of talk. Liddy never spent an evening away from home, -except two or three times a year to her sister’s, when there was “a -party” prepared weeks in advance, and talked of for months after; or at -Dr. Selby’s in the village, where now and then there were entertainments -of a homelier kind. - -Young Selby, who had been Harry’s friend and a frequenter of the “Red -Lion,” though he had not yet sown all his wild oats, was a person of -some importance in the village society. He was his father’s assistant, -and although it was said that he was far more interested in the fees -than in the Doctor’s patients, yet the fact that he was almost the only -unmarried man in the neighbourhood gave him a certain importance. He was -continually meeting Liddy when she went out to ride, and he looked very -well on horseback, and gave her a great deal of good advice about the -management of her horse. Perhaps but for that young Count in her dream, -she would have got to understand what young Selby meant, though she -scoffed at the adjective, and declared that he was not young, but as old -as his father. He was the most entertaining person in the neighbourhood -all the same, and the hero of Joan’s parties when they came round, one -in summer, one about Christmas. These entertainments were pretty much -alike, whatever was the time of year. Garden parties were not known in -those days. In summer the windows were open, in winter the shutters shut -over them and the curtains drawn. In other ways they were very much -alike. There was a great round game carried on at the round table in the -centre of the room. The tea had been served in the dining-room, so it -did not interfere with the evening’s arrangements. Mr. Pilgrim’s family -from Wyburgh were among the guests, and all the clergymen round, and any -other notability who was not too great for the occasion. Few of the -guests indeed could be called county people; but there were a good many -who visited with the county people, and is not that very nearly the -same? Joan, though she was homely enough, held her head somewhat high at -her own table. The Selbys were but of moderate pretensions, but she -never forgot that she was a Joscelyn. And she kept Liddy by her, not -allowing any indiscriminate flirtations, and distinctly discouraging -young Selby, who was her cousin by marriage, but had never won her -heart. Mrs. Joscelyn never came to her daughter’s parties, though she -was pleased to hear all about them; and it was only on condition that -Liddy was to keep by her sister’s side that she was permitted to go, -“You needn’t fear, mother, that she’ll meet with anyone she oughtn’t to -meet with at my house,” Joan said, and she took care of her accordingly. -It troubled her mind on the occasion to which we are about to refer, -that a young man had come with Mrs. Pilgrim’s party, about whom she knew -nothing. He was nice-looking, but she had not even caught his name. She -could not help thinking it a little wrong of Mrs. Pilgrim to bring a -stranger to such an assembly. If he had been in love with one of her -girls, Joan allowed that would have made a difference; but there was not -the least appearance that he was in love with one of the Pilgrim girls. -They were very assiduous in their attention to him, pointing out -everybody and making conversation for the young man, who, without being -rude or disagreeable, held himself just a little aloof from the company -in general, as if he had come there solely because he was brought, and -had no special interest in the proceedings. His head, for he was tall, -appearing steadily over Mrs. Pilgrim’s, at last began to irritate Mrs. -Selby, who felt herself to be in every way a greater personage. She -called her husband to her again and again to point out to him this -wholly ineffective member of the party. - -“What is he wanting here?” she said. - -“My dear, what they all want--to enjoy himself,” Philip Selby replied. - -“Enjoy himself--do you call that enjoyment? He looks as if he had -swallowed a poker; and is never trusted for a moment out of the charge -of two or three Pilgrims. I don’t think I’ll ask these people again.” - -“They are very good sort of people, Joan; and considering the position -in which they stood to your uncle Henry----” - -“I’m very tired of Uncle Henry, Phil; besides, the girls didn’t stand in -any position--and I never authorised them to bring a strange young man.” - -“He will be after Amy or Tiny--or----” - -“He’s after none of them. Can’t you see that with half an eye? It’s my -belief he’s spying out for our Liddy. And what will mother say to me if -I let her make acquaintance with a stranger? I said, ‘You needn’t fear, -mother; she’ll meet nobody you don’t want her to meet at my house.’” - -“Well, well,” said Philip Selby, soothingly; “there’s half the room -between them; and nobody can say, my dear, that it’s your fault.” - -“But that’s just what mother will do,” said Joan, with a puckered brow, -as if her mother had been the most alarming critic in existence. She -laughed at herself afterwards, and went to the table to superintend the -round game, in which Liddy was deeply involved, seated by young Selby’s -side. There was a strong sense of responsibility on Joan’s mind, or -rather, she was a little cross. Her cakes had not come quite so well out -of the oven as she intended, and Mrs. Doctor Selby had suggested a fault -in the flavour of the tea. She went up to the players in a stormy state -of mind. “Come, come,” she said, “you’re not sitting right. Liddy, you -come over here and help little Ellen; all you strong ones are together. -Raaf,” this was to young Selby, “stay where you are. I’ll put Miss -Armstrong, she’s not playing at all, next to you.” - -At this young Selby made a grimace, but Liddy tripped out of her place -with all the alacrity possible, leaving her seat and devoting herself to -little Ellen. She even gave her sister a smiling look of gratitude. -“Thank you,” she said, in an under-tone, “but it was rude, Joan.” - -“Now you are a deal better arranged, and the game will go faster; there -will be no cheating,” Joan said. She did not care a bit for being called -rude. Raaf Selby should know that he was not good enough for a Joscelyn -whatever his cousin might be. “One’s enough,” she said to herself. -Besides, she wanted for Liddy something that should be out of the common -altogether. She herself had done very well in marriage. She had got an -excellent man, with enough to be comfortable upon. But she did not feel -that she would be satisfied with only so much for her little sister. Not -that Raaf Selby at his best could hold a candle to Phil. He was not much -except when he was on a horse; then she was obliged to allow he looked -pretty well. But a man can’t always be on a horse’s back, and anywhere -else he was not worth looking twice at; very different from Phil. Even -Phil, however, much as she respected her husband, was not the kind of -person she wanted for Liddy. A fairy prince, if any such fantastic being -had ever existed in Joan’s steady imagination, was the sort of person -who ought to be Lydia’s fate; a fine young fellow (young to start with), -and handsome, and well off, and with an air above the rest of the world. -Unawares, as her eyes went round her guests, they fell once more upon -the tall young stranger behind Mrs. Pilgrim’s chair. Was that the kind -of man? Well, if he had not been an intruder, a stranger, a hanger-on -of the Pilgrims’ (though certainly not in love with either of the -girls), that was the kind of person. She drew near Mrs. Pilgrim as this -unsolicited thought arose in her mind. She was annoyed with herself to -think that a person whom she did not know, and who had no right to be -here, should thus have taken her eye. - -“You are doing nothing, Amy,” she said to the eldest Miss Pilgrim; “I’m -sure they want you in the game yonder--or you might give us some music. -You and your sister might play a duet. I like to see everybody -employed.” - -“That is what I always say. You don’t let the grass grow beneath your -feet, Mrs. Selby, neither in work nor in pleasure. I was just saying -to----” here she made signs with her thumb, pointing to the stranger, -who was inspecting the party from his eminence, and talking languidly to -one of the girls. “He was introduced to you,” she added, in a whisper, -“when he came in?” - -“I should think,” said Joan, “that nobody would bring a strange man into -my house without introducing him to me. But your friend is doing nothing -either,” she said, with compunction, and a relenting of hospitality. “He -has just got into a corner; and the evening’s lost when you once do -that.” - -“Oh, Mrs. Selby, he doesn’t know anybody. We promised we would take care -of him if he came with us,” Amy Pilgrim said; and the object of Joan’s -mingled interest and indignation laughed a little, and said that he -hoped Mrs. Selby would not trouble herself, that he was very well there. - -Then Joan sought her husband again. “Look at them,” she said, “all -sitting in a corner with this strange man, as if they were above the -rest of us: as if it was my lady Countess and her party from the Castle -looking at the poor people’s amusements. I will never ask these Pilgrims -again.” - -“My dear, my dear,” said Philip Selby, “they are very good sort of -people; and if they have a strange man with them that knows nobody, in -civility what can they do?” - -“Then in civility it’s your part to make him know somebody. Are you not -the master of the house? Phil, you are lazy; you are not doing your -duty,” Joan said, giving him a little push towards the corner in which -the Pilgrims were enthroned. “If there is one thing I cannot put up -with it is a knot of people in a company making their observations.” She -was quite excited by the Pilgrims and their guest--“for he is their -guest, and not mine, though it’s in my house,” Joan said to herself. But -alas for her consistency! Next time that she disengaged herself from the -lesser crowd round the card-table, Joan saw a sight which displeased and -satisfied her at the same time. The group of the Pilgrims had broken up; -that is to say, “the strange man” had been led or had strayed away, and -Amy and Tiny, having no longer anyone to take care of, and describe the -company to, had sought refuge at the card-table, and were much merrier, -if not so fine, as in their former position. That was all very well; -but, on the other hand, there was Lydia, seated demurely in a chair -apart, with Raaf Selby standing on one side of her like a thunder-cloud, -and on the other, talking and making himself very agreeable, the -Pilgrims’ “strange young man.” - -“Raaf,” said Joan, promptly, “you’re as bad as Phil; you’re taking no -trouble. How is the game to go on without you to look after it, when -it’s well known that you are far the best player here?” - -“I have been playing all the evening. I think I may be permitted a -little rest,” Raaf said, with a gloomy countenance. He was older and -shorter than the strange young man, and not so tall, and there was a -something about this personage which was above the level of young Selby. -He could not tell what it was. He himself had more ornaments, he had a -finer head of hair, and more shirt-front, but yet there was something. -Lydia was replying very gravely to what the stranger said to her, but -she gave him her whole attention, and the other girls had given evidence -that they saw something in this new comer which was not in their -familiar hero. He felt crestfallen, and he felt angry. He was not in a -humour to be ordered about by Joan. - -“Then sing us one of your songs,” Mrs. Selby said. “Things are going a -bit slow; I don’t know what is the matter: or perhaps it’s only me -that’s the matter. But I think things are going a bit slow.” - -“That’s my opinion, too,” Raaf said; “but I don’t think it’s my fault.” - -Upon which Lydia suddenly struck in, “Never mind how they are going, -Joan, Joan! Let the people alone; they will amuse themselves. Mr. -Brotherton has never been among the Fells before, and he wants to learn -about us and all our ways. We are the natives--a kind of savages, but -friendly; and talking a kind of dialect that can be understood with a -little trouble. Come, Joan, and listen. It is nice to hear so much good -of ourselves.” - -This she said a little vindictively, with a glance at her new companion -which brought the colour to his face. He had opened the conversation -unguardedly, as fine people are often in the habit of doing with each -other, by talking about the natives and the barbarous people. It was a -compliment, if Lydia had known, to the superior air of her dress, and -her appearance generally; how it is that one individual looks _comme il -faut_, and another does not, is the most difficult of questions. Lydia -in fact was no way superior to the rest: but the stranger thought she -was a young person of the world, somebody who was in society, -storm-stayed like himself. - -“Do not take me at such a disadvantage,” he said; “if I spoke nonsense, -it was because I did not know any better. I have got a relation -somewhere among these good natives. You cannot think I do anything but -respect them when that is the case.” - -“Do you always respect your relations?” Lydia asked. She was perfectly -disposed to flirt, and had an instinctive knowledge how to do it, though -she had so little practice--no practice, it may be said; for young Selby -was not light enough in hand to give her any experience, and he was -almost the only individual with whom it would have been possible to -flirt. - -“If you are looking for friends,” said Joan, with immediate interest, -“we have been here in this country since before the memory of man, and, -if anybody can help you, we should be able to do it. Who is it you -want?” She took a vacant chair and sat down by her sister--partly to -guard Lydia, partly because she was full of curiosity about the strange -young man--and partly, also, because Joan was a great genealogist, and -knew everybody’s descent and how their grandfathers had married--when -they had any grandfathers, it must be said. - -“They are people of my own name,” said the stranger, “or, I should -rather say--it is a distant cousin of my own name, who married somewhere -hereabouts heaven knows how many years ago. My father recollects her -well enough. She was a pretty girl in his day, and he told me to look -her up; but as he had forgotten her present name (if she is still -living), and she was married some forty years ago or more, I doubt if I -am very likely to succeed.” - -“Your--own name?” said Joan, with a little confusion. In her own house, -and in the capacity of hostess to the stranger, she felt that it was -rude not to know his name. She gave a glance of appeal at Liddy, who was -mischievous, and in no humour to throw any light on the subject. - -“Joan will tell you,” the girl said. “She knows everyone, and whom they -married, and all their aunts and uncles. You have only to ask my -sister.” - -More and mere confused grew Joan. She looked at Liddy with reproachful -eyes; she even addressed a plaintive glance to Raaf, who did not -understand her embarrassment, and for the moment was too angry to have -helped if he had. “Of your--own name?” she said, faltering. - -“Yes; forty years ago, or so, she was Lydia Brotherton.” - -“Why, it’s mother!” said Joan, her countenance beaming. There was a -victory over everybody, Pilgrims and all; while the young man, -starting, turned round with amazed pleasure, and looked, not at Joan, -who spoke, however, but at Lydia, who listened, looking up at him, as -much astonished as he. - -“Mother!” Lydia said, and her fair countenance brightened into smiles -from which all the mischievous meaning had gone. - -“Well, that’s as easy a find as I ever heard of,” cried Joan, “and how -lucky you should have come here! Mother _will_ be pleased! She has not -seen any of her relations for years. She was an only child, so she had -never any near friends. How pleased she will be, to be sure! The best -thing you can do is to stay here all night, and ride over with Liddy -to-morrow: she is going home to-morrow. Bless me, I think I’ll go too, -just to see mother so pleased!” - -“It is a delightful discovery,” said young Brotherton. “How fortunate -that I mentioned it now; my father charged me to find out--but I confess -I had forgotten till this moment. How lucky I thought of it! I am afraid -I must go home to-night with these good people who have been so kind to -me; but I will come back in the morning. It is delightful to fall among -kindred,” the young man said, looking at Lydia, whose face reflected -all manner of pleasant sensations, surprises, a delightful sense of -novelty and exhilaration. She had but few relatives, and a new cousin -was delightful--especially a cousin so completely creditable, a -gentleman, one about whom there could not be two opinions. The Pilgrims, -who had been so proud of this “strange young man,” had altogether -disappeared now, and Raaf was left entirely out of the little group of -three, all so pleased with themselves and each other. Joan forgot even -those duties which usually she performed with such devotion, leaving the -round game and its players to themselves, and no longer thinking either -of the duet of the Pilgrim girls, or Raaf’s song. - -“I took the greatest notice of you from the moment you came in,” she -said. “I cannot tell you how it was. It’s not that there is any family -likeness, for I can’t see any. Liddy favours mother, and there’s not a -feature alike in her and you; but all the same I took notice of you from -the first. I didn’t catch your name, or it might have made me think--but -there was something. I was more vexed than pleased with those Pilgrims; -but all the same, when I caught sight of you----” - -“It was kindred at first sight,” said the young man. - -“That’s a new way of putting it,” said Joan, laughing; and it glanced -through her mind that she had already thought, if he had not been with -the Pilgrims, that this might be the right sort of man; and now it was -clear that he did not belong to the Pilgrims. She gave a rapid glance -from him to Lydia, and back again. As yet she had not the least idea who -he was. She had never seen any of the Brotherton connections, and knew -nothing about them. Mrs. Joscelyn had often told her children that she -had no relations nearer than cousins, and with them even she had kept up -no acquaintance. Her children were entirely in the dark about the -family. They knew that there was a Sir John who gave dignity to it; but -that was all. Joan was very straightforward, but she did not like to -plunge at once into details, and ask him who he was. But when she had -talked a great deal to the new relative, and arranged the expedition to -the White House to-morrow, she went back to Mrs. Pilgrim, who sat -somewhat deserted in her corner, a little humiliated by the desertion of -her “gentleman,” with the most cheerful cordiality. “I did not catch -the gentleman’s name,” she said, “when you brought him in; but what a -good thing you brought him! He’s a cousin of ours, and came here looking -for mother; for her own friends live far away, and we’ve long lost sight -of them. Of course,” said Joan, with a little artifice, “he had no -notion whose house he was coming to. There’s always a great confusion in -a family about your married name.” - -“Came here--looking for----? I thought he came looking for a place for -the shooting,” Mrs. Pilgrim said, confounded. She could scarcely allow -herself to believe it. It had been a distinction to bring a new -“gentleman,” a person of such distinguished appearance, in her train; -and to have him taken from her bodily, nay, carried off soul and body, -so to speak, not indeed to her enemy’s side, but at all events into -another family, was hard to bear. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -CONFIDENCES. - - -They were still at breakfast at Heatonshaw next morning when the new -cousin came to the door. He was on a good horse, which was a thing they -all remarked at once, being learned in such matters--and looked -handsomer in daylight than he had done at night. The household had been -late on the previous evening--a party being a matter of such rare -occurrence that it was considered only right to make the best of it, -both in kitchen and parlour, and to bustle half the night “putting -away.” The whole company had dispersed at a little after eleven; but -next morning there was as much license as if it had been the morning -after a ball. And the household felt equally dissipated; everything is -comparative; eleven o’clock at night was in Heatonshaw as bad as three -or four in the morning at another place. So they were still around the -breakfast table when young Brotherton rode up. - -“That’s not Pilgrim’s horse,” Mr. Selby said. “It must be out of his own -stables; and he did not get that for nothing.” Even Liddy got up from -where she was sitting, a little out of the way, to peep at the new -arrival. He came in a few minutes after whip in hand. - -“You are not so early, Mrs. Selby, as I feared. I made a very early -start lest you should be gone before I could get here.” - -“We are not so early as all that,” said Joan, “and we’re not used to -have our home disturbed, and the house turned upside-down, as it was -last night. I’m one that thinks it a duty, where people have a nice -house and plenty to do with, to have your friends from time to time. But -it’s a great trouble both before and after. Not a servant in this house -was in their bed till long past twelve o’clock at night; and, poor -things, we could not be exacting this morning,” Joan added, -apologetically. “Liddy, if Mr. Brotherton will not take anything, we -will, maybe, better get ready to go.” - -“Do not hurry for me,” the young man said. He was quite at his ease -talking to Philip Selby, whom it pleased his wife to see putting on -mildly the air of a man of the world when any invasion came from that -big place into the Fell-country. When they had gone to “put on their -things,” young Brotherton made himself very agreeable to the master of -the house. He spoke of my “cousins” as if he had known them all his -life: though all the time there was a look of semi-amusement on his -face. He had stumbled into a new life without knowing anything about it. -The servants up till after twelve, which was spoken of with bated breath -as a wonderful interruption of rule; the master and mistress, who “were -not exacting” after that tremendous vigil; the freshness and sweetness -of the rural place, all produced a great effect upon him. He thought it -a kind of Arcadia, an Arcadia dashed with reminiscences of hot supper, -and some vagaries of homely fashion which struck Brotherton as more -amusing than all the similar vagaries which he had come across before. -When the ladies came down again, Joan attired in a bonnet which was more -striking in its colours and composition than was common, ready to drive -her phaeton to the White House, and Lydia in her riding habit, his -pleasure in the sunshiny expedition he was about to make was as great as -his amusement in finding himself a member of the primitive society, -almost of the family, which was so simple and so kind. He watched the -packing of the phaeton with laughing eyes. Lydia’s box, containing her -evening dress no doubt, was carefully fastened on behind, and in front, -in the vacant seat, was a basket, in which there were a number of -delicacies from the feast, which Mrs. Selby thought “Mother might like: -or if she doesn’t care for them herself, it will always be a pleasure to -give them away,” said Joan; “though you must not think, Mr. Brotherton, -that I am forgetting our own poor folk. A little bit that is out of the -way, that comes from the party--everybody likes that.” He helped to lift -the basket into the phaeton almost with reverence. The feast of last -night became beautiful to him in this light. How many had he seen, much -more delicate and costly, of which the fragments went to the dogs, -nobody dreaming of the “poor folk!” Mr. Selby put Liddy upon her horse -while the young stranger was helping with the basket, and this he felt -to be a sacrifice on his part, in consonance with the kind and homely -charity that breathed about the place. Then Philip Selby promised to -walk over to join his wife in the afternoon, and the party went off, -Mrs. Selby in advance, talking cheerily to her horse, bidding him to get -on, and not bother her with a whip. Liddy and the young man set out -soberly together. They did not say much for the first mile or two. Now -that they were alone together they were a little abashed by each other. -He thought her the prettiest girl he had ever seen--which was by no -means the case, for Liddy, though very pretty, was not a wonder of -loveliness; and she thought him, with more reason, the finest gentleman -that had ever came across her path. She asked herself how it was that he -was so different from Raaf Selby? but could not make any reply. He was -like nobody she had ever seen. “This is what a gentleman is, a real -gentleman, the kind that goes to Court and sees the Queen; the kind that -is in Parliament and rules the country; the kind that everybody tries to -be like, and that Raaf Selby would fain be taken for--he!” Liddy said to -herself; and she was abashed, and did not talk much to her companion. -Indeed it was not till they were near the White House that she ventured -to ask a question which had been long on her lips. - -“Are you a member of Parliament, Mr. Brotherton?” - -“Oh, no,” he said, laughing; “it is my father you are thinking of. I -have never attained that dignity. I ought to have told you more about -myself before I asked admittance; but Mrs. Selby was so kind. I am a -briefless barrister, if you know what that is.” - -“A lawyer with nothing to do,” said Liddy; “one reads about them in -books.” - -Young Brotherton laughed. “It is as good a definition as another,” he -said; “but sometimes it means only some one who has pretended to study -for a profession which is all a pretence together, and never comes to -anything. That is my case: and I have been wandering over all the -world.” - -“In Italy?” asked Lydia, with eager eyes. - -“Oh, yes. You are fond of Italy? I daresay we shall find we have -sympathies on that point. My mother is a great devotee; she would live -there all the year round if we would let her. I wonder which is your -favourite spot.” - -“Oh!” cried Lydia, with all her heart in her voice, “I have no -favourite spot; I only know it by name. Italy is where everything -happens--all the stories are there: and besides,” she added, “I have a -private reason too.” - -He looked at her with some curiosity, and a great deal of interest. What -could the private reason of a young girl be? “You have, perhaps,” he -said, “friends there?” - -Lydia shook her head. “If you are our cousin, Mr. Brotherton, and going -to know all about us--” - -“_If_ I am your cousin! Do you think I am making a false claim, Miss -Joscelyn?” he said. - -“--then you will soon know about Harry,” said Lydia, going on in the -same breath. “I have a brother who went away a great many years ago. We -don’t know where he is, or anything about him; but I am sure if I could -go abroad I should find him--that is why I am always so anxious to talk -to anyone who has been there.” - -“Where?” he said. - -“Abroad.” Lydia said the word with all simplicity. “Abroad” meant -everything to her. It meant the place in which Harry was, and where she -should certainly find him if she got there. When she said “Italy” she -meant much the same thing. Not Italy, of which she knew little, except -by the stories in the “Book of Beauty;” but a vague and beautiful place -in which everything that was wonderful happened, and in which it would -be natural that this should happen too. - -But Brotherton, whose knowledge was more precise, was puzzled. He did -not know whether to follow out this line of conversation, which promised -to become intimate, or to go back to subjects personal to himself. He -had no right to inquire into the story of the family prodigal, he -thought; but still, as the door had been opened to him, how was he to -turn from it? “I have gone abroad since ever I can remember,” he said; -“my mother, as I tell you, is never so happy in England as out of it. -She is rather an invalid, and she cannot bear the cold. When I was a boy -I scarcely knew where my home was.” - -“Are there many of you?” asked Liddy, full of interest. She did not -understand a small family, and a vision came on her of sisters, girls -like herself, companions such as she had never had; but this new idea -was alarming as well as delightful, and she could not help fearing that -young ladies who were equal to her new friend would think themselves -above her; therefore it was almost a relief, though at the same time a -disappointment, when he laughed and said, “I am all the daughters of my -father’s house, and all the brothers too,”--words which she thought she -had heard somewhere else, but was not clear about. And then they went on -again quite silently for a time, the wide valley all about them, the air -breathing in their faces, the great world all to themselves. Joan, -driving in her steady way, was round the next corner, well ahead, and -there was nothing but these two figures stalking on in the sunshine, -with their shadows behind them. Liddy felt that she did not care to -talk. The sensation was sweet, and tranquil, and friendly, and furnished -all that was required, without any talking at all. It is impossible to -describe what an interruption it was, a kind of outrage upon the quiet, -when, as they went round that next corner, skirting the hedgerows, they -were suddenly met face to face by young Selby, on his big brown horse. -Even Lydia, not too favourably disposed towards him, had been obliged to -admit on former occasions that Raaf Selby looked well on his big horse. -But to-day he positively offended her by his appearance. There is no -class of men in the world so delightful, so helpful, so kind, so modest -about their own merits, and of so much service to all the rest of the -world, as doctors; but yet there is a compound of rudeness, jauntiness, -pretension, and vulgarity to be found now and then in a country -practitioner, which can nowhere else be paralleled. Raaf Selby was not -always like this, nor was it at all the impression which he made upon -the general mind, or even upon Liddy’s, who, in other times, had -considered him, as all the country did, “quite a gentleman.” But when he -met them now he had a red face (which was not his fault) and the air of -having been up all night (which, if it had been true, would have been a -virtue in him), and looked altogether like a rural dandy trying to be -something which he was not. - -“Hullo, Miss Liddy,” he said, “I suppose you kept it up to all the hours -last night after the rest of us were gone?” - -“I don’t know what there was to keep up,” Liddy said, with an indignant -blush; upon which young Selby laughed loudly. - -“Ah, I daresay; but _I_ know,” he said, with an open look at Brotherton, -a look full of insolence and jealousy--and he gave a great laugh. “I -was out of it last night; but I haven’t always been out of it,” he said. - -Lydia was a girl not at all disposed in her own person to submit to any -impertinence, but she got alarmed when she saw the gathering clouds on -her companion’s face. “I think you are alluding to something I don’t -understand,” she said, firmly, “but I need not ask what it is, to detain -you. We have got to keep up with Joan. Did you see Joan? She has got the -lead of us, and we are bound to make up to her now.” - -“Yes, I saw she had got judiciously out of hearing,” said young Selby, -with another laugh. “That’s the first duty of a chaperon.” - -In this he meant no particular offence, but spoke with the rough -bantering which was not disliked by ordinary country girls, just -sharpened with jealousy and envy, and the sting of seeing how thoroughly -harmonious and sympathetic Liddy and her new companion looked. As for -Brotherton he kept apart as far as he could. Good manners in another -generation would have suggested a use of his whip. Good manners now -restrained him from taking any notice, though his blood boiled. - -“I don’t know about a chaperon’s duties,” Liddy said; “I think we must -go on. Good morning, Mr. Selby,” and they went on, leaving him in the -middle of the road, staring. He could not help looking after them, -though he did not like the sight. Two handsome young people, in complete -accord and harmony, moving along together as if to music, with no noise -nor boisterous gaiety, as would have been the case had Selby himself -ridden home with Liddy after the party, but in perfect friendliness and -union, as he thought. - -“Good morning,” he called after them, “and my congratulations to Joan -upon her success last night.” - -He was so bitter that he could not forbear from sending this last shaft -after them. Who was this fellow, that he should come in and spoil other -people’s chances? Selby recalled furiously to his recollection, -incidents of a similar kind that he had known. A swell comes down, he -pokes himself between a foolish lass and some honest man that likes her; -and when he has turned her head he rides away! The country gallant was -aware that he had acted this fine part himself in a lower class, when he -had merely laughed at the lass’s credulity and the fury of the clown -who was her true lover, but whom she could not endure after being -courted by a gentleman; but he did not laugh when the case was his own. -This swell, of course, would go away; but Liddy’s head would be turned; -and she was a girl who would have a good bit of money, besides being the -prettiest girl in the county. Joscelyn had been making money of late, -everybody said, and there was her Uncle Henry’s money, which must be -divided sooner or later; and all this to be put out of an honest -suitor’s reach by a young fellow who would not even take it himself, but -only spoil the lass for a better man. This was what was rankling in -Selby’s heart as he rode away. - -“Is Mr. Selby a relation of yours?” Brotherton asked. - -“Only of Joan’s--my sister’s--husband. It is not bragging,” said Lydia, -with a little blush, yet a slight elevation of her head as well, “but we -are very different from the Selbys, Mr. Brotherton. Many people thought -Joan made a very poor marriage. I don’t think so, for she is fond of -Philip, and he is so good; but the Joscelyns are the oldest family--I -don’t speak out of vanity--the oldest family in the county. We used to -be great people,” said Liddy, laughing, but very serious all the same, -“in the old days.” - -“I always knew,” said Brotherton, “that it was an old name.” - -“Oh, there are all sorts of people who have old names; but we are the -real people; if you stay long we will show you the old tower. There have -been Joscelyns in it ever since there was any history at all.” - -She gave her head a slight fling backwards, and laughed again, half at -herself--but yet Lydia meant every word she said. Young Brotherton, for -his part, had been brought up in more enlightened circles, and would -have thought of himself that he failed in that “sense of humour” which -is the modern preservation from all absurdities, had he spoken of his -family in this way. He held his tongue on the subject, and thought that -he esteemed one name as much as another, and was no respector of -persons; and he laughed in his heart at Lydia’s brag, and admired, with -an indulgent sense of superiority, to see how this sentiment of family -pride kindled her eyes and elevated her head. But all the same he was -impressed by it. It produced its effect upon him, as it does upon every -Englishman. He liked the boast, of which he did not fail to see the -ludicrous side, and which his more cultivated taste would have entirely -prevented him from putting forth in his own person--but in Liddy he -liked it, and laughed, yet was more pleased with her and his connection -with her. She carried it in her face, he thought, and in every movement -of her untutored, yet graceful, carriage. It did not occur to him to -think that homely Joan, soberly speeding along the road in her phaeton, -had all the same advantages of blood. - -Mrs. Joscelyn came out to meet them at the door. She liked to see her -Liddy get down beaming, from her horse--the horse as handsome as -herself, which Mrs. Joscelyn began for the first time to see the beauty -of, now that her child was the rider. She did not know who the young man -was, and she did not much care. Her mind had not been awakened to the -matrimonial question, though, to tell the truth, no wild beast, no lion -with a devouring maw, would have wakened so much alarm in Mrs. Joscelyn -as the appearance of a lover for Liddy. That would have inferred the -saddest fate for herself, the destruction of her present sweet life, -and all the late happiness which had come to her in compensation for her -troubles; but fortunately such an idea did not enter into her mind. It -was a pleasant arrival. Joan, always active and bright, lifting down -with her own hands her big basket, stood in the hall watching too the -arrival of the young people, yet calling out to the groom some prudent -suggestions about her own horse, which was being led away to the -stables. She was as well informed about all the necessities of the -stable as any of them, and took the deepest interest in the welfare of -the animals, and she stepped forward to pat the fine neck of Liddy’s -steed as her mother got the young rider in her arms. - -“Did you ever see a prettier creature?” she said to Brotherton, “and I -would not say but there were two of them. But mother’s just a fool about -Liddy. She thinks there’s nothing like her on the face of the earth. -Mother, here’s a relation come to see you,” she added, turning round. - -Mrs. Joscelyn gave a little cry. Brotherton was standing against the -light, so that his features were not at first decipherable. She made a -quick step forward, throwing out her hands, then grew suddenly pale. - -“I don’t know what I was thinking of,” she said, faintly. “I am sure I -beg your friend’s pardon, Joan, and yours too.” - -“I see what you’re thinking of, mother--but there’s nothing in it,” Joan -said. “This is young Mr. Brotherton, who’s come to the Fells asking for -a cousin of his name that married here long ago. If it’s not you, I -don’t know who it can be--and I’ve brought him to see you. It would be -his father you knew, for he’s but a young lad himself, as you can see.” - -“He’s kindly welcome,” Mrs. Joscelyn said, and he was brought into the -parlour, and a great deal of family explanation was gone through. Mrs. -Joscelyn had her pride of birth, as well as her daughter, and it had -always been a secret pleasure to her to think that there was a Sir John -in her family, who might turn up some time or other and balance the -faded Joscelyn pretensions with a far more tangible living dignity. For -her own part, she did not know anything about Sir John; but it gratified -her mightily to think that he had remembered he had a cousin married in -the Fell-country. “There could not be any--stranger that it would give -me more pleasure to see,” she said. - -Young Brotherton, for his part, was delighted with his old cousin. It -was from her, he perceived with pleasure, that Liddy had taken her -willowy grace, and the refined and delicate features which bore little -resemblance to those of Mrs. Selby. He was in a humour to be pleased -with everything he saw. When the master of the house appeared, he -thought him the model of an old North-country squire, rough, perhaps, -but manly and full of character, as suited that strong-minded country. -The plainness of manners and living, the woman-servant, not very adroit, -that served the dinner--which was plainly dinner, and not luncheon--the -atmosphere of farm and stables outside of the house, instead of park and -pleasure-grounds, all struck him in the most favourable light. Liddy had -thrown glamour in the young man’s eyes; he saw them all through her. -These, the unusual features in her surroundings, appeared to him in the -form of characteristic traits and country peculiarities, not as symptoms -of a level of society lower than his own. It was all piquant, novel, -delightful, and when he was asked to stay, a grace which Joscelyn put -forth to the wonder and admiration of all the household, he accepted the -invitation with eagerness. Mrs. Selby, for one, could not get over her -astonishment. - -“Nay, when father’s asked him there’s not a word to say,” she cried. -“Father! I would as soon have believed that you and me, Phil, would have -been asked to take tea with the Queen.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -BEGINNING. - - -Brotherton stayed a week at the White House--to the great mortification -of the Pilgrims at Wyburgh, whose guest he had been. Nobody likes to -have their visitors interfered with, or that a new acquaintance, whom -they have themselves introduced and brought out, so to speak, in -society, should desert them for a new circle. The girls and the mother -were alike indignant, and the incident even had the effect of quickening -the action of the father, and making him more impatient of the delays in -respect to old Mr. Joscelyn’s estate. But this had little effect upon -the household at the White House, which for the moment was more happy -and peaceful than perhaps it had ever been before. It was the beginning -of one of those new chapters in life which revive the interest of the -old story. Poor Mrs. Joscelyn had lived through many such, but they had -been in most cases not of the pleasant, but painful kind. Her blood had -been quickened in her veins, her heart driven into wild beating, as one -crisis after another occurred in the family life. But now everything was -changed. Lydia had become to her another self. She was not sure whether -it was not herself again, glorified, elevated, made beautiful by present -youth and infinite hope, which was always about her--moving with her -step for step, talking, even thinking with her: the same thoughts rising -to their lips. Between two sisters such a dual life is sweet; but to a -mother it is a recompense for all the pangs of life, which are seldom -few or small. She was not sure that it was not herself who spoke, and -thought, and smiled in Lydia; but only a self far more firm, erect, and -self-supporting than she had ever been. Lydia was not afraid of -anything, and of Ralph Joscelyn least of all. This of itself made the -strangest difference. It gave a flavour and fragrance to their mingled -life. The mother felt herself more brave and more strong in her child; -and now romance was arriving to her late in the same way. Ralph -Joscelyn’s wooing had been a rough one. During its course the pretty, -drooping Lydia of those days had been charmed by its very abruptness, -and considered the peremptory passion a double compliment to herself, -and to the power of love in subduing the strong. She had liked all the -silly similes, the lion enchained, the giant deprived of his strength, -and had believed in her foolish heart that her half-savage hero would be -always in her toils--however rough to others, yet to herself the -gentlest of the gentle. From this foolish dream there had been a summary -awakening; and all her long life since had been calculated to convince -the romantic woman that romance existed only in her dreams. But now -another kind of awakening was coming to her. Youth had come back with -its visions, and Arcadia, and love. The young man who was her own kith -and kin (which of itself was sweet) was also, as becomes a young man, -something of her own kind. He was full of poetry, and sympathy, and -enthusiasm: it was not after her old-fashioned mode, but yet it was not -the common strain of prose to which she had been accustomed. To see his -eyes turn to her Lydia was to Mrs. Joscelyn like the revival of all her -own maiden fancies; and the affectionate worship which he gave to -herself completed the charm. Perhaps she was happier than Lydia in -those early days of wooing. She saw the dawn of admiration and -enthusiasm in his eyes, when Lydia herself thought of him only as a sort -of advanced playfellow, a something new in his youth and pleasantness. -Mrs. Joscelyn saw it all from the beginning; she felt from the beginning -that it was written in heaven. It was half like a story which she was -reading in snatches, or chapters, a single page at a time, always -longing to go on with it, to see what the next step was to be, to -anticipate the end. - -As for Lydia herself, after the little excitement of the arrival, and -the pleasure of bringing this new cousin to her mother--the most -delightful present that could be thought--of she subsided sedately into -her usual life, and treated him as a new companion, not doubting his -interest in her simple occupations. His servant came over from Wyburgh -with his baggage, which was a shock to the primitive household; but as -the man was rather in charge of the horse than of his master, and that -is a point on which princes and grooms may fraternise, the alarm was -soon over. Brotherton wanted, it appeared, to find a shooting box, a -little place in which he could establish himself for the autumn. He -explained that he was not rich enough to aspire to a Scotch moor, and -modestly permitted it to be understood that the Duke’s youngest son was -his intimate friend, and that it was chiefly to be near him, and share -his shootings, that he had chosen this part of the world. With the -hospitality of primitive regions, Ralph Joscelyn would have taken him in -permanently, and allowed him to be an inmate of the White House; but his -wife retained enough of her old breeding to see that this expedient was -undesirable, even though her heart stirred faintly with a hope that in -that case the Duchess might have called, which is the chief sign of -belonging to the aristocracy in these countries. The Duchess had never -given her this sign of recognition, which had been a life-long smart to -the poor lady. What did she care about such distinctions now? but yet -for the sake of Liddy, she said to herself. To have her Lydia asked to a -ball at the Castle would indeed be something to reward her for living, -to make her feel that now she could die in peace. Mrs. Joscelyn did not -say anything about this hope--for the disappointment, if nothing came of -it, would have been very severe she felt, too great a trial to expose -her child to: but she cherished it in her heart of hearts. And in the -meantime they made every effort they could to find for this new relation -the lodging he wanted. It was Lydia at last who suggested the old -Birrenshead, the house which had been Uncle Harry’s, but which had not -been inhabited by anybody but Isaac Oliver in the memory of man. - -“It is a very tumble-down old place,” she said, deprecating, “but it is -only two miles from here.” - -“Oh, if it is only two miles from here--!” cried the young man, eagerly. -This was one of those elliptical forms of speech which he had begun to -employ unawares, and which only Mrs. Joscelyn understood. She smiled -within herself, but she said nothing; and it was agreed that he should -walk there next day and see what accommodation the place possessed. The -name of it threw a little tremor over Mrs. Joscelyn, although she had -smiled. And next morning, when with great simplicity, and without any -thought of harm, Lydia set out with the stranger to show him the way, -she told him the circumstances in which the family stood, as she had -before revealed to him the fact of her brother’s disappearance. It did -not occur either to Lydia or to her mother that there was anything -wrong, anything out of the common, in showing young Brotherton the way -to Birrenshead. It seemed indeed of all things the simplest and most -natural. She walked by his side as seriously as if the young man had -been her own grandfather, with all the dignity of a princess in her own -country. Nor did anyone in the village think it strange. They saw her -pass, and wondered who it was who accompanied her over the bridge; but -that was all. - -“This is part of the property,” she said gravely, “which was left to my -poor brother whom I told you of. That is what made my mother look so -serious. She does not like to hear about Uncle Henry’s property. If we -do not hear something of Harry soon, it will have to be divided, they -say.” - -“And that is a grief to her?” Brotherton said, sympathetically. - -“Oh, Mr. Brotherton, think! to be the heir of your own child--do you -wonder that she cannot bear it? They say we should all have our share, -father and mother too. _He_ does not say much, but he thinks more than -he says, and I am sure he would rather die than touch it. But my -brothers,” said Lydia, with a sigh, “my other brothers, don’t think so. -They want us to yield and consent that Harry is dead. But that is what I -will never do.” - -Brotherton looked at her animated face with admiring interest. “You must -have been very fond of this brother,” he said. - -“I scarcely remember him; but I am sure I should find him,” cried Lydia. -“You will say that is nonsense; but then I have been my mother’s only -companion all these years, and she will never be happy till she has seen -Harry again. She has not had a very happy life; perhaps she has not -always understood--and then no one has understood _her_. I must, I must -get her some happiness before she dies!” - -There was a glow of tender enthusiasm about the girl which touched her -companion deeply. “I think,” he said, “she is happy in you. It would be -strange if she were not,” he added, half under his breath. - -This brought a wave of colour over Lydia’s face. “She is a little more -happy in me; but she will not be really happy till she sees Harry.” - -“And if----” - -“Don’t say so, Mr. Brotherton, please! Don’t think so even. Do you -imagine if he had been ---- that mother would not know? If I could only -go abroad I know I should find him. Here is old Isaac Oliver, old Uncle -Henry’s man. He will let you see the place; and if he is cross you will -not mind? He has been here so long that he thinks it is his own.” - -They were walking along the edge of a field of corn, on a little -footpath so narrow that here and there they had to walk singly. The -wind, which swept the tall rustling crop in waves like breath coming and -going, blew the pale yellow heads against them as they went along in -pleasant contact with this wealth and freshness of nature. The corn was -still pale in tint, ripening slowly under the northern sun, with a -glimmer of red poppies under the surface like the woven under-ground of -some rich Indian stuff. As Lydia spoke, an old man became visible -between the corn and the hedgerow, pushing his stooping shoulders along -before him with a sidelong movement like a crab. His head was bent to -one side, his footsteps shuffling. Ten years had told upon Isaac. He did -not take off his hat when he saw Liddy approaching, such a ceremonial -being scarcely necessary to the familiar intercourse of the country, but -he nodded amiably, and made signs of welcome with his hand. As, however, -the path widened a little just at that moment, and young Brotherton, -making a quicker step, appeared suddenly at Lydia’s side, Isaac, who had -not seen him before, was greatly startled. He stopped short in his -crab-like course to stare at the new comer. He fell back a step or two -and screwed his stooping head aloft in a sidelong attitude. Then he -gave vent to a shrill, prolonged “E-eh!” which penetrated the air like a -skewer. “So he’s coomed back,” the old man said. - -“Who has come back?” said Lydia, startled and eager. - -“Lord, Master, give us a grip o’ your hand. You’re no Master Harry now, -you’re master’s sel’. T’ ould Master left it all to ye, as I said he -would if you’d let him be; but you never would listen, nor think on----” -When he had got so far, old Isaac paused. His head had sunk a little -from its first energy of motion, but he kept one eye screwed up and -shining, and his mouth twisted upward at one corner. Here, however, he -paused, and a cloud came over his face. “Miss Liddy,” he said, -reproachfully, “you might have tellt me it wasn’t him.” - -“Who did you think it was, Isaac? It is Mr. Brotherton, a----distant -cousin. Did you think----? Oh, tell me, is he like, is he like----?” - -The old man recovered himself gradually. He gave a grin which seemed to -twist upwards from his mouth to his little twinkling eyes. - -“Not a feature in his face,” he said, with a growl of angry laughter, -“not a bit, no more nor I’m like. I’m just an old fool. I take anyone -for him. Ne’er a soul comes down t’ Fells but I say, it’s him, as if he -was coming from t’ skies. A fine joke that; and him t’ prodigal son, a -good joke; to look for him from t’ skies! He should come from t’ other -place, Miss Liddy, up from t’ ground.” - -“But he was no prodigal,” said Liddy, indignantly. “He did not go away -for any harm, Isaac, you know that!” - -“I know a’ about it, a’ about it,” said the old man. “Step forward, Sir, -into the light. If you keep there dangling behind her--Lord! but I’ll -think it’s you after a’.” - -“You must be like Harry,” cried Lydia, turning round quickly upon her -companion. “When she saw you first, my mother started too.” - -“He’s about the same age,” said old Isaac, “and tallness--no more, not a -hair. Don’t you speak to me, Miss Liddy. If I dunnot know him, who does? -I brought him up, though you wouldn’t think it. I put him on a pony the -first time. I gied him most of his lessons, out of t’ school. But this -isn’t him,” the old man said indignantly, “it’s not him, I tell ye. -Don’t you think to impose on me.” - -“Isaac,” said Lydia, “will you let Mr. Brotherton see the house? He -wants to live here for a little. Mother thinks you might put in a little -furniture, and make him comfortable.” - -“Com--fortable!” said the old man, prolonging the word with a -half-laughing, half-angry cry; “and it was your mother said it? If he -likes t’ bide with the bats and the rats, he may be com--fortable. -There’s been nobody else there as long’s I mind. Do you mean,” he added, -suddenly screwing up his eye into a little spark of red fire, “that -she’s consented, and Miss Joan, and you? I’ll not b’lieve it; and who,” -he asked fiercely, “is to get this share?” - -“You must not speak so to me. We have not consented, and I never will -consent. But this gentleman does not understand what we are talking -about,” said Lydia; “take him into the house and show him what rooms -there are, and I will go and see your wife.” - -“Oh, ay,” said Isaac, “speak to t’ missis, you’ll find her in a fine -way. If she hadna gotten t’ meekest man, next to Job, that was ever in -this ill world--a pictur and a pattern. But you’ll see for yourself, -Miss Liddy; you can drop a word about t’ gentleman to soothen her down. -Come this way round, come this way round, it’s the best way.” - -Old Isaac had turned in front of them, and was creeping along by the -side of the path scarcely so high as the corn, his battered old hat -about the same height as the yellow ears. When the cornfield ended they -came out abruptly upon a grey old house, surrounded by a small rough -square of grass, in which were some fine trees. The house looked as if -it had been forgotten there, like an old plough. It had a square, -respectable portico, with a pediment above it, and rows of windows -chiefly broken, the lower ones closed with shutters which were falling -to pieces. A huge elm-tree stood up at one corner, throwing its shadow -over half the house; behind it were traces of the trees of an orchard; -but the fields all round had encroached on the place, potatoes were -growing within a stone’s throw of the great door, and everything bearing -witness of its deposition and reduction from a human centre of life to a -mere wreck and encumbrance on the earth. - -“Ay, ay,” said old Isaac, shaking his head, “they’d just like to pull it -down and no leave one stone on another, like Jerusalem in t’ Bible; but -the walls is good, and the woodwork’s good, and it would last his time -and mine--and far more if Mr. Harry would come home, as he ought.” - -“Then you think he’ll come home,” said young Brotherton, not knowing -what to say. - -“Wha said he wasna coming home, why should he no come home?” said Isaac, -screwing up his eye once more into a red spark of angry light. “Them -that say so know nothing about it, I can tell you that, Master. Them -that are of that opinion have nothing to found it on. Who understands -Master Harry like me, unless, maybe, it was his mother? Well, his mother -and me, we’re both expecting him. That should be an answer, except to -them that arguys just for the sake of arguyment,” the old man said, -fiercely. “Will you come in and see the house?” - -To Brotherton it had begun to seem, by this time, as if the house and -all about it, the very skies overhead, had darkened. He did not quite -know at first what was the cause. It was some cloud that had come over -the sun; or was there some obscurity about the house, some shadow of -fate, which darkened the skies at midday? It seemed to him suddenly that -nothing could be more dreary than the aspect of the place altogether, -though before Lydia disappeared round the broken bit of garden-wall, it -had seemed so inviting and desirable. But he did not ask himself if -Lydia’s disappearance had anything to do with this sudden change: all he -said to himself was, “it is only two miles from the White House,” and, -strengthened by this reminder, he went on with courage into the dark -portal. It was, as Liddy had said, a very tumble-down house. There was a -dirty and ragged carpet on the floor, sometimes moving in waves when the -windows were opened; a table stood in the centre of the largest -sitting-room, and the chairs were put round, as if some sober party had -just risen from them. This was on the first floor, in the drawing-room -of the house; behind it were some bed-rooms scarcely more inviting; the -dust rose in clouds when the air was admitted, the furniture seemed -dropping to pieces. Brotherton stood at the door of one room after -another, with a blank stare at them. They had but one quality; they were -within two miles of the White House. - -“And do you think they will suit you?” Lydia asked, coming back to him -when his inspection was over. - -She had not been in dusty places like those which he had just left, but -came round the corner of the garden wall, looking so fresh and bright, -that somehow that cloud over the sun disappeared in a moment, and the -whole landscape brightened, and the dust went out of his throat. He had -been feeling half choked, but he felt so no more. He had thought that -they would not do at all; but now a sort of heavenly suitability seemed -to come to them all at once, and it appeared to him in a moment that, if -he could have the choice of all sorts of lodgings, these dreary rooms -were those which would suit him best. - -“They will do beautifully,” he said, with much cheerfulness. “So far as -I can see they are the very thing I want; and then so near the White -House! What is two miles? I shall be able to walk over constantly--if -you will let me,” he added, in a softer tone. - -“Of course we will let you,” said Lydia, sedately. “We shall miss you so -much that we shall be very happy to have you whenever you like. But were -they not in very bad order? the furniture dreadful? and everything -dropping to pieces?” - -“I did not see it,” said young Brotherton, stoutly. “They were, I -daresay, a little dusty; when a place has been uninhabited for a long -time--I suppose nobody has lived there lately?” - -“Nobody has lived there since I can remember--oh, and not for a long -time before. Even Uncle Henry never lived there. I think I must have -been silly to bring you, for it can’t be fit to live in now I think of -it; and while matters are undecided about poor Harry they will not do -anything. Oh, I am afraid mother and I were hasty in thinking it would -do.” - -“On the contrary,” said young Brotherton, feeling in the enthusiasm of -the moment as if it had been a palace which he had just quitted, “it is -everything I require. Perhaps,” he added, modestly, as if by an -afterthought, “they would not mind--sweeping it out.” - -“I spoke to Jane, that is Isaac’s wife. Isaac is a very funny old man, -but he is frightened for his wife. She keeps him right. And she will -scrub it, and sweep it, and dust it, and make it as clean as a new pin. -Oh, you may be quite sure of that. And then, at first, you can take your -meals with us, the White House is so near--only two miles, what is -that?” - -“Nothing,” said Brotherton, with enthusiasm. Then he added, “I must not -tire you out. I shall do very well. I can get everything I want here.” - -“Oh, no; until you get used to Jane, and accustomed to the cooking, and -all that--I know these things are of consequence to gentlemen,” Lydia -said, with a soft smile of feminine superiority, “you must come and take -your meals at the White House. But Jane Oliver is quite a good cook,” -she added, encouragingly. Brotherton’s heart had sunk within him at the -mention of Jane’s cookery. The cookery could not but be a terrible -necessity in such a place. But he scorned to show any such weakness. - -“I am sure she is,” he said, cheerfully. “I feel certain that I shall be -in the best of quarters. Is there a ghost?” - -“A ghost! why should there be a ghost?” cried Lydia, in surprise. Then -she added, with a little dignity, “There was never anybody injured or -betrayed in a house that belonged to the Joscelyns. So there can’t be -any ghosts.” - -“You reprove me justly,” he said, feeling his little joke very small -indeed in the presence of Lydia’s youthful dignity. “It was a vulgar, -slangy sort of suggestion. I see the folly of it now.” - -“No folly,” said Lydia, from her pedestal; “you did not know.” - -And then they went on together, once more very sedately, as if they had -been a sober, middle-aged couple, the corn rustling and nodding towards -them, the soft wind sweeping over it, bowing its yellow plumes in soft -successions of movement, the whole air full of a happy rustle and sweep -of sound, the sound of the atmosphere, the subdued hum of summer -happiness common to all the world. He made up his mind that the -landscape, all full of young trees and northern colours, and the moment, -in which there was no positive bliss indeed, but only a dreary, dusty -lodging, and the prospect of being cared for by a ploughman’s wife--were -perfect, and that life could not hold anything sweeter. Lydia went on -talking of the chance that perhaps Mr. Pilgrim, the executor, would “do -something” when he heard of a tenant, until it gradually began to appear -to the young man as if she were talking of improving heaven. What could -be equal in all the world to a place which was within reach of the White -House? “But if your brother were to come home suddenly,” he said, “what -would become of me? Should I be turned out?” - -“Harry!” cried Lydia, with glistening eyes; and then she said, turning -to him (he was behind her for the moment, the path was so narrow), -“Harry! Oh, how kind you are! To speak like that is to give one courage; -for you really, really think, Mr. Brotherton, don’t you, now you have -heard all about him, that he must come home?” - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -THE DUCHESS. - - -When it was known that the old house at Birrenshead had been taken by a -gentleman for shooting quarters, the astonishment of the neighbourhood -was great. The house was known to be in a most dilapidated condition, -and the rooms had not been occupied in the memory of man. The village -took the most anxious interest in the rash gentleman, and inquired, with -much solicitude, “what motive” he could have for burying himself in such -a place? Was it for the sake of Lydia Joscelyn? But then he had been -much nearer Lydia Joscelyn at the White House, where the family no doubt -would gladly have kept him had he wished it; or was it on the other hand -to get away from Lydia, who had been devoting herself too unreasonably -to him? Both these opinions had their supporters; but as it was -impossible to prove either, the question remained a burning question for -half of the time that young Brotherton lived at Birrenshead, where he -soon became well-known. He was quite a gentleman, there could be no -doubt of that. He had a couple of horses and a man, and money did not -seem to be wanting with him. The neighbours soon found out all that was -to be found, which was not saying much--that he was Sir John -Brotherton’s son, and a great friend of Lord Eldred, the second son at -the Castle; and that he was actually, on his own showing, second cousin -to Mrs. Joscelyn. Had she said it the neighbourhood might have doubted; -but he said it himself; and he was constantly at the White House. -Scarcely a day elapsed that he was not there on one pretence or another, -and sometimes Lord Eldred would go with him, having his dinner there, -the gossips said, and sometimes tea, and conducting himself as if the -Joscelyns were his equals. This opened a new and exciting question, -which was discussed warmly by the different sides, each maintaining its -own view. What would the Duchess do? She had excluded the Joscelyns from -the list of county gentry when they were first married, asking, with a -contempt for blood, which was most unbecoming in the local head of -society (and the Joscelyns _had_ blood--it was the one thing that could -not be denied to them), “Why should I call upon people who have nothing -to recommend them but that their grandfathers were gentlemen?” This -leaving out of the family altogether had been very marked; when you -consider that the Selbys, who were nobodies, had cards from the Duchess -because the old Doctor was their father! Mrs. Joscelyn had not said -anything about it, but she had felt the sting all her life. And she was -not less interested than the rest of the world in the question--What -would the Duchess now do? This problem was not solved for several weeks; -but at last, just before the great ball which absorbed the whole county -in consideration of what to wear, and how to appear to the best -advantage, the village was convulsed by the appearance of the ducal -liveries. It was an October day, with frost in the air, so clear that -you could see to any distance, from one end of the dale to the other. -The Selbys, called to their windows by the roll of wheels and the jingle -of the horses’ feet and furniture, and the flood of blue and yellow in -the air, rushed to the vicarage to rouse their friends to the -seriousness of the crisis. “The Duchess is going to call,” they cried, -rushing in open-mouthed. “The Duchess _has_ called,” cried the others, -who were all grouped round a telescope which they had brought to bear on -the door of the White House. There the carriage was undoubtedly -standing, delayed an unreasonable time at the door--which both the -families felt, whatever reason they might have, showed bad taste on the -part of the Joscelyns. Then the footman, a splendid apparition all plush -and powder, was seen to make his way a second time up the narrow path, -between the two grass plots, bordered all round with chrysanthemums. The -watchers had a moral certainty that Mrs. Joscelyn was not out. Had she -denied herself to the Duchess? A thrill of sensation passed through the -minds of the observers--of mingled stupefaction and excitement. To say -“not at home” was a moral offence upon which people were hard in that -primitive community; but to have the courage to say it, was something -which overawed them. And to the Duchess! Imagination could scarcely go -further. - -When Mrs. Joscelyn perceived, with a sudden rush of blood from her heart -to her head, that the honour she had been looking for all her life had -actually happened to her, she rose up precipitately and fled, throwing a -shawl over her head. This was partly fright, and partly resentment, and -partly it was a wise impulse. The family parlour and Betty in her white -apron to open the door, were not accessories which would impress the -Duchess, and Mrs. Joscelyn had not much confidence in the refinement of -her own appearance. She was not so bold a sinner, however, as to sit -still and instruct her innocent maid to say, “Not at home,” a task to -which Betty, knowing it was not true, would not have been equal. So she -went out, meeting Betty trembling with excitement, tying on her clean -apron as she came. “It’s the Duchess, missis!” Betty said, overwhelmed. -“You will say, Not at home,” said Mrs. Joscelyn breathless. “I am going -out, you see.” “Going out! Missis! and the Duchess at the door.” Betty -thought it was incredible. Mrs. Joscelyn, however, deaf to remonstrance, -though herself trembling with excitement, ran out upon the Fell side, -and enjoyed the spectacle. She was an Englishwoman, and it is not to be -supposed that the sight of the blue and yellow liveries, and the -carriage with a Duchess in it, did not touch the highest feelings in her -nature; and to have spoken to that Duchess, to have realised the full -glory of the event, would have been sweet--but it would have been -alarming too, and discretion is the better part of valour. She stood -upon the rising ground with her heart beating, and gazed at the -wonderful sight, visions rising before her of the ball, and the -invitation for Lydia which would be sure to follow, and the ball dress, -and all the excitement of so great an occasion. She breathed more freely -when the great lady drove away, and she was delivered from the fear of -being sent for, and compelled to come back by some dreadful mistake on -Betty’s part. But Betty too had risen to the occasion. She had said -trembling, but resolute, “Not at home, Sir,” to the fine -footman--arguing with herself that it was quite true that Missis wasn’t -at home, for hadn’t she seen her, with her own eyes, go out? Betty went -out too to ease her Mistress’s mind, when the incident was over, -carrying the cards in her apron. She did not like to touch them with her -hands, though she had scrubbed those hands crimson only a few minutes -before. “T’ gentleman said as Her Grace was sorry,” said Betty, her eyes -almost out of her head with staring. “T’ gentleman” was the biggest part -of the event to her; she had never in her life seen anything so grand so -near. Her ruddy cheeks were crimson, and her liberal bosom palpitated. -And Mrs. Joscelyn could not herself restrain a tremor when she took -these sacred bits of pasteboard in her hand. - -The excitement about the ball, however, was not all pleasurable. The -invitation came a few days after, and at first Lydia, who had a great -spirit, altogether refused to avail herself of it. She was in the -parlour with her mother, arranging bunches of the ruddy leaves and rowan -berries which made the country gay, in the big old-fashioned china vases -which stood on the mantel-piece, and which were worth their weight in -silver, though nobody was aware of it. Lionel Brotherton had come in on -his way back from a short day’s shooting. He had brought some game, -which lay in a shallow basket on the table, the mingled colours of the -plumage harmonizing well with the warm autumnal tints of leaves and -fruit. The whole culminated in the girl’s glowing and animated -countenance as she stood by the table, twisting her garlands of leaves -and throwing them about with a freshness of gesture and energy which -only a touch of indignation could have given. She had put a cluster of -the red berries into her hair, with a few long serrated leaves, marked -with brilliant red upon the green; and thus crowned was like an -autumnal nymph, not mature enough for a Ceres, but yet warm with the -northern glow of colour and life. “Why should I go?” she was saying. -“What is it to me, mother? If the Duchess chooses to fling an invitation -at us after all these years, are you and I to seize upon it as if we -cared? I don’t care. I don’t want it. I should not like to go--Of course -I may be forced,” cried Lydia. “I may have to do it, for all the several -reasons which people always bring up; but listen, mother, this is the -truth, I should not like to go.” - -“My dearest,” said her mother, joining her hands in that instinctive -movement of entreaty which was her natural attitude. Nobody could admire -Liddy as her mother did, not even the young man who sat a little apart -gazing at her, and thinking all kinds of foolish thoughts. Mrs. Joscelyn -saw in her the perfection of herself, the accomplished ideal to which -she had been striving all her life. She herself would never have had the -strength of mind to look so, and speak so--but Liddy had; and even while -she remonstrated and entreated, she approved. “My pet, that is just your -fancy. Why shouldn’t you like it? You have never been at a ball.” - -“That is just the reason,” cried Lydia; “when I do go I want to enjoy -it. I want to be as good as anybody there. I want people to think as -much of me as anyone, and ask me to dance, and think my dress pretty, -and like me altogether. I won’t go anywhere unless I can be sure of -that.” - -“And so you will, my darling,” Mrs. Joscelyn said. Brotherton did not -venture to speak, but he put a great deal into his eyes. Lydia indeed -did not look at him, and so could not perceive this, but perhaps she had -some notion of it all the same. Her colour increased the least in the -world, taking a glow from the red leaves in her hands and the red -berries in her hair. - -“No, mother, I know how it will be. We shall come in at the end with the -Selbys, and the Armstrongs and the Pilgrims, and--oh, a great many more. -There will not be any want of companions in distress. We will all keep -together at one end of the room, and our hearts will all beat if anybody -comes near us. If it is an officer from Carlisle, or if it is Mr. -Brotherton, or still more if it should happen to be Lord Eldred. Oh my!” -cried Lydia with momentary mimicry, clasping her hands, “We shall look -at him as if we could eat him, and almost hold out our hands like the -children at school, and cry, me, me! If you think that is nice for nice -girls to have to do, mother, I don’t,” said Lydia with a sudden vivid -flush. “So I don’t want to go.” - -“But that is impossible,” Brotherton cried. - -“No, not at all impossible; it is just what happens, when people ask you -because they cannot help it; of course they don’t take any trouble about -you; and of course the gentlemen prefer to dance with girls they know, -and who belong to their own class, instead of seeking out poor little -Miss Selbys and Miss Armstrongs, and Miss Jos--No,” said Liddy -vehemently, “a Miss Joscelyn has never been in it, and, mother, if you -please, never will be. I don’t say,” she added, calming down, “that it -is anyone’s fault. I feel quite sure for one that you would ask me to -dance, Mr. Brotherton.” - -“Do you really--think so? The time has come,” said the young man, -hurried and nervous, but with a laugh of excitement, “to set one matter -to rights. Mr. Brotherton will certainly not ask you to dance, Miss -Joscelyn. I have a right to be Cousin Lionel, and I will be so. I am not -to be defrauded of my birthright any longer. You talk of the Duchess, -but you are far more haughty than the Duchess. Take the beam out of -your own eye, Cousin Lydia, and then you will see more clearly to take -the mote out of the Duchess’s. Mrs. Joscelyn, am I not right?” - -Mrs. Joscelyn looked at them both with a pleasure that almost went the -length of tears. In the sudden union which her glance from one to -another made between them, the young man and the young woman -blushed--blushed for nothing at all, for sympathy, for fellow-feeling, -and a little for pleasure. “Yes, yes, my dear,” Mrs. Joscelyn said, -“yes, yes, I think he is right; and your cousin--your cousin would make -a difference. And then, my darling, if you do not go, people will never -know that you were invited, Liddy; and that means--” - -“That we are not county people; and we are not county people. We need -not keep up any pretences before--before Cousin Lionel,” said Lydia with -a blush and a smile, and a curtsey to the young man, who looked on with -a sense of enchantment. “Uncle Henry was one of them; but not we. We are -Joscelyns, however,” she cried, tossing her head upwards with a proud -movement, “and if blood means anything, that means something better than -her Grace.” - -“But why do you say _if_ blood means anything, Liddy?” said her mother, -“of course it means everything, my love.” - -Then Lydia looked straight at the two people before her; both so -admiring, the one more foolish than the other--and the meaning changed -in her face. She sighed; her pretty head, crowned with the glowing red -berries and brilliant leaves, drooped a little. “Because I don’t believe -it does,” she said. - -Then there was an outcry, “Oh, Liddy, Liddy!” of horror and alarm from -her mother, who had borne everything else, poor soul, but who could not -bear any attack upon her last stronghold, her pride of family. It had -always been a comfort to her in all her troubles, and specially in those -social ones which her greater neighbours had made her suffer--that, to -everybody who knew, the Joscelyns were far superior even to her Grace, -who had been nobody. To hear her favourite child express this scepticism -was terrible. Even Brotherton sustained a slight shock of -disappointment. He would have preferred on the whole that Lydia should -have felt a romantic certainty of the claims of “blood;” but since it -was not so, he made a virtue out of her incredulity, and looked at her -with a smile and little nod of sympathy. Lydia, however, was wise enough -to make no answer to her mother’s exclamation of horror. - -“If I went,” she said with great decision, “you would have to go too; I -will not go with anybody but you.” - -“Me, Liddy?” Mrs. Joscelyn cried in alarm. - -“And my father. I will go with you both, or not at all,” Lydia gave out -as her final deliverance; and then she went out of the room, carrying -the remains of her autumnal wreaths, and paying no attention to the -pathos of her mother’s protestations. Mrs. Joscelyn could do nothing but -turn to her young kinsman, and appeal to his impartial judgment. - -“What should I do among all those fine people? I have not been out in -the evening nor worn a low dress (in those days ‘low dresses’ were -exacted even from old ladies by the stern fiat of fashion) since that -child was born. You must speak to her, you must speak to her, Mr. -Brotherton--I mean Lionel. Oh, yes, I want her to go; but me! and Ralph. -Ralph has never gone among them, I think he has done himself injustice; -but it is too late to change now. You must tell her it would never do.” - -“But you would not like her to go with the Selbys or the -Pilgrims--people not fit to be in the same room with her. _I_ should not -like that,” young Brotherton said. And Mrs. Joscelyn’s pale countenance -coloured with pleasure to think that her child should be so determined, -and her young cousin so approving. This sudden appreciation of herself -was late, but yet it was pleasant, though also embarrassing. And after -this there were continual remonstrances and arguments, Liddy holding to -her point, her mother fighting desperately against it. As for Ralph -Joscelyn, he separated himself at once from the feminine part of his -household. “Go to what tomfoolery you like,” he said, with his usual -courtesy, “but don’t ask me; I’ve nought to do with such nonsense.” Mrs. -Joscelyn was then driven to the end of her forces. She was disturbed too -about Lydia’s ball-dress, which Joan would fain have gone to Carlisle -for and been “done with,” in her energetic way; but the mother had no -confidence in Joan’s taste. And for her part, though Joan had behaved -generously it cannot be denied that she felt her exclusion from the -splendour which ought to have belonged to her as the eldest Miss -Joscelyn, but which her husband’s position excluded her from. The other -Selbys even, who went on sufferance as the Doctor’s family, made it more -hard for Joan. - -“My husband is a deal better a man than Raaf Selby will ever be,” she -said with some indignation to Brotherton, who heard the complaints on -all sides, “and nobody that knows them would ever hesitate between them. -But Heatonshaw is only a little place, and we’ve nothing at all to do -with the great folks at the Castle. Of course it is me Liddy ought to go -with; and it is a joke to think that Raaf Selby’s family should all be -going, and not me. But I will never forgive mother if she sends Liddy -with them, and does not go herself to take care of the child. Mother’s a -strange woman. She was never happy till the Duchess called, and now she -has got her desire she’ll not hear any more of it. I like consistency. -Now I don’t care a snap of my fingers for the Duchess; but if she -invited me,” said Joan, magnanimously, “I’d go.” Here she paused, but a -minute or two after resumed with great gravity. “A woman takes her -husband’s rank, whatever that may be. I am not ashamed of my husband -because he does not take her Grace’s eye.” And here Joan laughed again, -but with an uneasy laughter. She was sore on the subject, and perhaps if -she had been entrusted with the buying of the dress the result might -have been disastrous. Mrs. Joscelyn would not trust Joan, but in her own -timid person hesitated and doubted what to do, when Brotherton, the -confidant of all their troubles, came to her aid. He proposed that his -mother, who was in town (much the best place for everything of the kind; -the place where fashion reigned, and ball-dresses were much more -plentiful than blackberries), should get the dress. - -“Which will be of no use,” said Lydia, sternly, “without a dress for my -mother too.” At this Mrs. Joscelyn was ready to cry, not knowing what -else to do. Her hands stole towards each other with the nervous gesture -of old, when Brotherton again whispered in her ear a message of hope. - -“My mother is coming--leave it to me,” he said. She had almost thrown -her arms round his neck in her intense relief and thankfulness. - -And this was how it was that Lydia Joscelyn made such a sensation at the -ball. Had she gone with the Selbys, all would have happened precisely as -she predicted. She would have stood among them, in a white gown bought -at Carlisle, at the bottom of the room, surrounded by a little crowd of -other obscure young ladies, left out in the cold, tremulously eager to -secure partners, and taken notice of by nobody. There she would have -stayed, pretending to be amused, till old Mrs. Selby gave the signal, -and gathered her little flock around her, tired with standing, sick with -waiting, cross, and humiliated and mortified, consoled only by the -thought that the ball at the Castle would be a thing to talk of long -after people had forgotten to ask, “Did you dance much?” But for Lydia -was reserved a more splendid fate. She had a dress which everybody at -the White House thought would have been fit for a princess, and she went -with Lady Brotherton, with whom she stayed at the Wyburgh Hotel -afterwards, and whose presence introduced her into the selectest circle, -and the company of all the first people. Lady Althea went so far as to -admire her dress, and Lord Eldred danced with her so often that his -mother was alarmed, but yet could not do anything but smile upon the -stranger whom Lady Brotherton patronised and introduced as “my young -cousin.” Lady Brotherton was a fanciful and romantic woman, and she -seized at once upon the idea that Lydia was the object of a romantic -attachment on the part of Lord Eldred. Perhaps had she known that her -own son was in any danger from the same quarter, it might have checked -her enthusiasm. But Lionel did not feel bound in honour to give her any -information on that point. She was seized with an enthusiastic -friendship for Liddy before they had been half an hour together, and as -she was a graceful, sentimental woman, with very tender and engaging -manners, Lydia was not wanting in her response. Then Sir John, who was -much older than his wife, added his contribution to the rising warmth of -the relationship by vowing continually that this was the Cousin Lydia of -his youth over again. The fact was that he had seen his cousin Lydia -only once or twice in her youth, but he was old enough to have forgotten -that, and nobody knew it was a mistake. So all things concurred in the -growth of this sudden devotion, and before Lydia returned to her mother -she was invited to accompany the Brothertons abroad, and had become, so -to speak, one of the family. - -“I will come and see your mother,” Lady Brotherton said, “and I will -take no denial;” while Sir John patted her on the shoulder, and told her -with his toothless jaws, that she was “sh’image of” her mother. Lydia -came home with her head turned, but faithful, among all these new -crotchets of other people’s, to her own. - -“You are not to say no, mother dear; but I know you will never do that. -You are to put up with the loneliness, and manage without me the best -you can; for I am going to find Harry,” Lydia cried. This new piece of -excitement obliterated the ball, which was quite an inferior event. Mrs. -Joscelyn cried, and clung to her child in a kind of despair, yet hope. - -“Oh, my darling, what shall I do without you? and how are you to find -him?” she said; then wept and wrung her hands. “And how am I to make -sure that your new friends will be kind to you? Oh, yes, they are kind -now; but it is different now and when you have nobody else; and what, oh -what, if you were unhappy, my pet, when you were away.” - -“Well,” said Lydia, who was a young person of much strength of mind, -“even in that case there could be nothing desperate about it, for I -should come back. They could not lock me up in my room and feed me on -bread and water. If I was not happy I should come home.” - -“But oh, my pet, think,” cried Mrs. Joscelyn, with a fresh outbreak, -“if you should be left like that to travel alone.” - -“And why not?” said Liddy. “Nobody would meddle with me if I behaved -myself; and I hope I should always behave myself. But they will not be -unkind to me. Do you think there is anything unkind about--Cousin -Lionel.” She pronounced his name always with a little hesitation, which, -to the foolish young man himself, made it very sweet. - -“No, no, Liddy; but then he is only a man--only a young man, and admires -you. His mother will not be like that. A lady is different; a lady is -not carried away.” - -“A lady is--much more easily satisfied,” said Liddy. “She took to me in -a moment, mother. They said they never saw her take so quickly to -anyone; and Sir John says I am like you.” - -“Like me! I don’t think he ever saw me.” - -“Never mind, never mind, mother; they are not a den of robbers. They -cannot do me any harm. And I shall find Harry,” Lydia said. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -THE OPINION OF THE FAMILY. - - -The Joscelyns were much excited and disturbed by all this “to do” about -Liddy, which the sisters-in-law thought intolerable, and which, as has -been already related, moved even Joan to some sensation of displeasure, -notwithstanding the gratified sense of family pride which she -experienced as a Joscelyn in the recognition of her family, which, -though late, was satisfactory. But Mrs. Will and Mrs. Tom had no such -feeling. To them the sense of being left out was not less but rather -more disagreeable because a little chit like Liddy had been made much of -and received as the representative of her race. Neither of these ladies -could bear to hear of it, and Will and Tom showed their feelings in -indignant ridicule, scorning the thought that a little lass should be -put in the foreground, and their own substantial claims as the heirs of -the Joscelyn name disregarded. For what is a girl in a family? nothing; -a mere accident; perhaps useful in a way as extending the connection, -but directly of no sort of benefit at all. When they heard, however, -that Lydia was going “abroad” their indignation burst all bounds. Where -was the money to come from? The sons and the sons’ wives were as angry -as if it came out of their own pockets. Mrs. Will even cried, and -enumerated a whole list of things which were wanted to make her house -comfortable. “I never have even a trip to the seaside,” she said, “and -as for a piano where I’m to get one I can’t tell, and the children all -growing up; and there isn’t a sideboard in the house, not like I was -used to, and the poorest stock of linen! while your sister is -gallivanting all over the world.” Mrs. Tom suggested that nothing but a -surreptitious slice out of Uncle Henry’s property--which it was a sin -and a shame to keep hanging on because of a runaway, who must be dead -years ago or he would have come back on the hands of his family, no -doubt about that--could have induced Ralph Joscelyn to consent to such -a mad piece of expenditure. “That Pilgrim just plays into their hands,” -she said; “your mother’s silly enough for anything, when it’s for Liddy, -but your father’d never have done it without something to go upon.” The -brothers were so moved by these arguments, and by their own sense of -injustice, that they made a joint raid upon the paternal house to see -what remonstrance would do. “I’ll tell you what it is, father, it’s time -that money was divided,” said Will; “it would come in uncommon handy, I -can tell you, in my house, with all my children growing up.” Tom had no -children, but he was not less forcible in his representations. “We’re a -laughing-stock to all the county,” he said, “hanging on waiting for -Harry turning up. If Harry had been going to turn up he’d have done it -long ago. There never was a good-for-nothing in a family but he came -back.” Now the day of this visit was a day which Joan had chosen to come -to the White House to hear “all about it,” and these words were spoken -at the family table just after the early dinner, for which an additional -chicken had been killed on account of the guests. - -“Good for nothing!” said Joan, indignantly, “that’s what our Harry -never was. You may say what you like of yourselves, but of him I’ll -never stand such lying. He was as honourable a lad as ever stepped. He -never asked a penny from one of you, nor from father either--that he -got. So far from taking anything of yours with him, he left his own -behind him. Poor lad! there’s his very clothes in his drawers. It must -have cost him a mint of money to get more to put in their place. I’ve -often thought of that. If it’s just to put mother out, which is all -you’ll do, you may as well try some other subject than Harry. Mother, -don’t you take on. He’s no more dead than I am. He’ll come home some -fine day to take up his property--if you don’t let them put you into -your grave first.” - -Mrs. Joscelyn’s hands had crept together in a nervous clasp. She looked -pitifully from one to another. “Boys,” she said, in her soft voice, to -the threatening men who looked older and infinitely harder than she, “I -hope you’ll have a little patience. If I had the money, oh! how gladly I -would give it you! It is hard, too, when you have need of it. I say -nothing against that.” - -“Need of it! I should think we had need of it,” said Will. “As for -giving it if you had it, that’s easy speaking; and there are plenty -that promise what they haven’t, and think no more of it when they have. -What’s this we hear of Liddy going abroad? I should say that would cost -a pretty penny. My wife and me, we can’t take our family so much as for -a fortnight to the sea-side.” - -“And what business is it of your wife’s and yours where Liddy goes?” -said Joan, instantly throwing her shield over her own side. “You’ll not -get Liddy’s money, you may be sure of that, to take you to the -sea-side.” - -“Oh, children!” cried Mrs. Joscelyn, clasping her hands. - -“Well, I must say it’s more reasonable that a family of children should -have a change, than that a bit of a lass like Liddy should go picking up -foreign manners and ruining her character--not that I am speaking for -myself----” Tom interposed. But he was interrupted by a cry from Joan, -repeating his last words, “ruining her character!” and by an exclamation -of pain from her mother. “Well,” cried Tom, “I say again, ruining her -character. Is there any decent man about here that would have anything -to do with a Frenchified wife?--not to say that a woman’s morals are -always undermined in those foreign places. And Liddy’s flyaway enough, -already----” - -Here Joscelyn commanded silence by striking his fist upon the table with -a blow that made the glasses ring. “Hold your dashed tongues,” he said. -“What have you got to do with it, you lads? You’ve got what belongs to -you, and you can go to Jericho and be blanked to you. If there’s any man -has a right to interfere in my house, I’d like just to see his dashed -face. Hold your tongues, the whole blanked lot of you. Them that’s in my -house will do as I please, and them that has houses of their own had -better go where they came from; and, Liddy, don’t you say a word, my -lass. I’ll look after you,” he said, laying a large hand upon her -shoulder, as he thrust his chair away from the table with an impulse -which displaced the table too, and jarred and shook everything upon it. -When Joscelyn “spoke up,” there was nobody in his family that ventured -to withstand him. The sons rose, too, somewhat abashed, and strode forth -after him to view the stables, which was the recognised thing to do -after the meal, which thus came to an abrupt conclusion. They shook -their heads over father’s weakness, and declared to each other that -“they (meaning the women) had got him under their thumb”--though “who -would have thought it of father!” “It’s what every man comes to when he -begins to break up,” Tom said. - -When they were gone Mrs. Joscelyn cried, but the two sisters were -indignant. “Now, mother, don’t be a silly,” Joan said. “They are just as -worldly and as hard as they always were. But what can you expect when -you think of the two women these poor lads married? It is a wonder they -are no worse.” - -“Oh!” sighed poor Mrs. Joscelyn, “when I think the bonnie boys they -were!” for she was a woman upon whom experience had little power, and -who never could learn. - -As for Lydia it struck her against her will with a strong sense of the -ridiculous to hear her middle-aged brothers, in whose favour she had -scarcely even a natural prejudice, spoken of as “bonnie boys.” It was -all she could do out of respect for her mother not to laugh. And she was -more angry than she was amused. “What harm does it do to Will and Tom,” -she said, “that I should be going abroad?” - -“They are just furious that Liddy has been asked to the Castle,” said -Joan. “Oh, I know them down to the bottom of their hearts; but I’ll tell -you what, mother, if it’s a question of making a lady of Liddy, and -sending her out in a way to do us credit, you mind there’s nothing to be -spared upon her, for Phil and me, we’ll do our share.” - -This was all Mrs. Will and Mrs. Tom (for the other women of the family -scouted the idea that the brothers were anything but puppets in the -hands of these ladies), made by their motion. They threw Joan vehemently -upon the other side, blew away the little vapour of envy and -uncharitableness which made the elder sister grudge for a moment the -younger’s elevation, and bound Joan in enthusiastic partizanship to all -her little sister’s wishes. “She shall do us credit,” Joan said, “if I -don’t have a gown to my back for years to come. She shall want for -nothing if I have to give up my party next Christmas. She shall find out -who it is that stands by her, and them that think of her in the family.” - -“I never had any doubt about that,” said Lydia, throwing her arms round -her sister, “and, Joan, I’ll bring you the best of presents, I’ll bring -you Harry back.” - -At this Joan shook her head and wiped a tear out of the corner of her -eye. “It’s a blessing,” she said, “you little thing, that Phil’s just as -silly about you as me; but to find Harry, poor Harry, will take a -cleverer than you.” - -“Joan, do not you say that. I have it borne in upon me here,” said Mrs. -Joscelyn, laying her thin hands upon her bosom, “that before I die I -will see my boy back.” - -“And it is I that will find him,” Liddy cried, throwing back her head -with a proud movement of self-confidence; for the moment, being foolish -women, they all believed in this inspiration. “And why not,” said -sensible Joan, “it may be the Lord that has put it into her head. And -all these fine folks, the Duchess and my lady and the rest of them, may -just have been instruments.” - -This suggestion filled them all with momentary awe. To see such noble -means bringing about a triumphant end, and to be able to trace so easily -the workings of Providence, is always the highest of pleasures to the -simple-minded. To bring Harry back to his own, and comfort the heart of -his mother before she died, was this not an object worthy the employment -of Duchesses? Meanwhile Tom and Will went home discomfited, and told -their wives how father had “shut them up.” “These women have got him -under their thumb,” was what they all said. - -Then there came another agitating crisis; Sir John and Lady Brotherton -offered a visit to their cousin to arrange the details of their journey, -and this made such an overturn in the White House as had not been known -in the memory of man. To the wonder of everybody, Joscelyn made no -objection to it. A shade of complacency even stole over his face as he -gave his consent. “My lady--will maybe take a fancy to me, as some one -else has ta’en a fancy to thee,” he said, pulling Lydia’s ear with -unprecedented playfulness. Certainly the women had got him under their -thumb at last. Joan and her husband came over with a great sense of -importance to help to prepare for this great ceremonial, he enacting -butler and she housekeeper to the admiration of all concerned. Philip -Selby knew about wine, nobody could gainsay that; while his wife -prepared enough of what were then called “made dishes,” and pastry and -cakes, to have lasted a month instead of a day. Then the amiable pair -drove home at a great rate, to dress themselves in their best and -present themselves solemnly as guests to meet the strangers. Lionel -Brotherton was in all these secrets; Joan and he indeed exchanged a -smile of intelligence when after working together all day they met and -shook hands in the evening; but he kept inviolate the confidence -bestowed upon him, and never betrayed even to his mother the tremendous -pains that had been taken to prepare for her, and receive her fitly. -When he went up to her room after the dinner was over, to bid her good -night, Lady Brotherton could not speak enough in praise of their new -cousin. “You did well to say it was an idyllic life,” she cried. “You -did not say a word too much, Lionel; what freshness, what simplicity, -what a breath of the moor; and all so nice, such pretty curtains (Lionel -himself had helped to fasten them up that morning), such nice old -furniture! I thought pretty Liddy was quite an exceptional moor-blossom, -but I quite understand her now. Her mother is a most refined woman. I -should like to model those hands of hers; they are full of expression. -And that handsome whitehaired father like a tower, quite the ideal -representative of a very old impoverished family, little education, and -not much to say, but with long descent in every feature!” It was all -Lionel could do to keep his countenance. - -“I am so glad you like them, mother; I don’t know when I have been so -glad; and you can’t think how kind they have been to me.” - -“I love them for it,” said Lady Brotherton, “not that I am -surprised--for they like you, Lionel, one can see that, and nothing -could be more delightful to your mother. Tell me, dear, does poor Lord -Eldred come often, or is he forbidden to come? I want to know how far it -has gone.” - -“How far what has gone?” said Lionel aghast. - -“Is it possible you have not noticed? I am sure he made no secret of it, -poor fellow; the Duchess saw it well enough. Why, that Lord Eldred is -over head and ears, or if there is any stronger expression--deep, deep -in the depths of love; and I am mistaken if she does not know as well as -I--” - -“In love--with--? not Lydia? Lydia!” Lionel cried, as if this were the -most astonishing thing in the world. - -Lady Brotherton’s back was turned; she did not see his lamentable -countenance. She laughed with a tinkling silvery laugh for which she was -famous, but which her son at that moment felt to be the harshest and -least melodious of sounds. “Who else?” she said; “there is no one but -Lydia here capable of being fallen in love with. Not that nice Mrs. -Selby, you may be sure, which would not be proper, and is -impossible--no, Liddy--I like the name of Liddy. It is quite rural and -moorland, like all the rest. Well, don’t you think she knows it too?” - -“I shouldn’t say so,” Lionel answered with the greatest gravity. He -tried very hard not to be so deadly serious; but he could not smile. - -“Well, we shall see, we shall see,” said Lady Brotherton gaily, “of -course I shall not interfere. I dare say the Duchess blesses me for -taking her out of the way. But if the lover has the courage to follow, -nobody need expect me to put obstacles in the course of true love. It -shall run smooth for me. Going, Lionel? God bless you, dear; the Fells -have agreed with you, you are as brown and strong as you can look, and I -must go and see your den to-morrow. Good night, good night, my own boy.” - -Lionel went away in a frame of mind very different from that with which -he had followed his mother upstairs. He looked into the parlour with a -countenance so solemn that the little party assembled there, and -congratulating themselves on everything having gone off so well, were -entirely chilled. Mrs. Joscelyn, reposing in her chair with her hands -clasped, was smiling with relief and pleasure, while Joan described all -the pangs with which she had looked forward to the arrival of my Lady. -“I thought she would be so stiff and so grand,” said Joan, “Lord, I -don’t know what I didn’t think; but she’s as nice a woman as mother or -myself, and takes nothing upon her. As long as I live I’ll never be -afraid of a fine lady again.” Here Lionel’s solemn voice was heard at -the door. - -“I have come to say good night,” he said; “no, thank you, I will not sit -down. I have a long walk before me; not anything, thank you. My mother -is very comfortable, and much obliged to you, Mrs. Joscelyn. I beg I may -not trouble anyone to open the door.” - -“What is the matter with him with all his ‘thank yous,’ and his ‘not -troubling any ones,’” cried Joan when he went away without a smile. It -was generally Lydia who let him out, which perhaps Mrs. Joscelyn should -not have permitted. But to-night Lydia was checked by his cold looks, -and held back shyly, and it was Philip Selby who opened the door. This -was a slight matter; but it seemed to prove to Lionel everything his -mother had said. He felt rather glad to have left a chill behind him, as -he had evidently done; and he was very much tempted to steal to the -window and peep in at them, and enjoy the wonder with which no doubt -they would ask each other “What is the matter?” It was well he did not -do so, for he would have seen the company in the parlour laughing--all -but Lydia, who was wondering by herself in a corner, what was the -matter?--at a witticism of Joan’s, who had made a solemn face in -imitation of poor Lionel the moment his back was turned. Lionel was -fortunately not aware of this; but felt that he had produced a -sensation, and was not sorry; and so went away gloomily, not to say -misanthropically, down into the village and across the bridge and along -the river’s side to Birrenshead. On the way he met with old Isaac, who -had once more been beguiled into the “Red Lion,” and was now making his -way home with much stumbling. - -“It was you as kept me, Master,” the old man said, “you know ’twas you -as kept me. I’d never have stayed out so long if it hadn’t been for you. -If you would mention it to t’missis I would take it kind, for women is -very onreasonable.” - -“T’auld sinner,” cried a voice in the dark, “to larn t’young gentleman a -pack o’ lies. D’ye think I dunuo know where you’ve been just to hear -your voice?” - -“My good woman,” said Lionel, “don’t be hard upon poor Isaac.” - -He was still so terribly serious, and spoke in tones so hollow and -tragical, that Jane Oliver was alarmed. She darted forward in the dark -and caught hold of his arm. - -“Oh! my bonnie young gentleman,” she cried, “tell me! Something’s -happened to my silly auld man?” - -At this hint Isaac began to moan, and grasped at Lionel’s other arm, -leaning heavily upon it. - -“It’s nothing, Missis, nothing; that is, not much, nothing to frighten -you. T’ young Master’s been that kind, he’s given me his arm to lean -upon all along t’ water-side,” Isaac said, with a limp which would have -been much too demonstrative had it been addressed to the eye; but in the -dark it answered well enough. For once the Missis fell into the trap, -and Lionel, dragged round by his pretended patient to the back door, -with blessings called down upon his head by the deceived woman, went -through the little fiction with the gravest countenance, and without the -least inclination even to smile. It was not till he had left Isaac with -his foot elevated on a chair, elaborating the story of a supposed -sprain, and had groped his way round to the other entrance, and climbed -the dilapidated stairs to the musty old sitting-room, in which his -solitary lamp was flaring, that he burst into a short laugh, as he threw -himself into a chair. If it was Isaac’s little comedy that called forth -this sudden outburst, it was only as the climax of a hundred other -comedies which were not mirthful. His disappointment, and the confusion -of all his thoughts, which his mother’s revelation had brought about, -made him, as was natural, misanthropical and bitter. He laughed at the -tragical folly and falsehood of everything, himself included; from the -Joscelyns making all sorts of efforts to appear better, more refined and -comfortable, than they were, by way of pleasing, _i.e._, deceiving, Lady -Brotherton--and Lady Brotherton accepting everything, adding her own -fanciful interpretation, not only deceived, but deceiving herself--down -to old Isaac, who had so often tried in vain to dupe his wife, and his -wife, who was now duped so easily, not by Isaac, but, save the mark! by -himself, Lionel, without intention or purpose. “And I, who am the -biggest fool of all!” the poor youth said to himself. What had he been -doing all these weeks? making a fool’s paradise out of this squalid -ruin, and princes and princesses out of the Joscelyns, half farmers, -half horse-coupers as they were--all because he had believed in the -sweet looks of a girl who the whole time had been aiming these sweet -looks over his head at a better match, and a greater personage than -himself. What an idiot he had been! the scales seemed to fall from his -eyes. He saw everything round him, he thought, in its true colour. What -would his mother think if she came and saw the wretched place in which -he had been living? She would ask, like the village folk, what could his -motive be? His motive, what was it? Even now, mortified and discouraged -as he was, he sat upright in his chair with a thrill of alarm, when he -imagined a research into his motives. Lady Brotherton might stop the -expedition altogether if she found them out. Lydia’s perfidy was -terrible, but it would be more terrible still to leave her behind, -perhaps to lose sight of her, to miss the opportunity to which he had -been looking forward with so much delight. When he came to think of it, -his mother had not said Lydia was in love with Lord Eldred, but only -that Lord Eldred was in love with Lydia--which was so different. At this -Lionel roused himself, and the sight of his portmanteaux packed and -ready to be shut up, roused him still more. After all it was to-morrow -they were to start, and he, and not Lord Eldred, was to be for the -present Lydia’s daily companion. There would be time to do many things -before that hero could arrive, even if, as Lady Brotherton suggested, he -should join them afterwards. To-morrow, nay, to-day, for it was already -past midnight, was all his own, with nobody to interfere. - -And next day, with some suppressed tears and fictitious smiles, and a -general excitement of the whole neighbourhood, as if the village itself -had been going abroad, the party went away. The vicarage people and all -the Selbys came out to their doors to see them pass. Raaf Selby on -horseback stood like a statue at the end of the bridge, and took off his -hat and gave Lydia a look half-tragical and altogether melodramatic. -Joan drove her mother in the phaeton steadily, but with a very grave -countenance, though now and then bursting into momentary jokes and -laughter, to the station to see them off, her husband riding very slowly -by their side. Joan laughed by times, but that did not change the -seriousness of her face; and Mrs Joscelyn sat with her veil down, a -large Spanish veil covered by great spots of black flowers, behind -which nobody could see what she was doing. Lydia herself broke down, and -cried freely, though her mother could not cry. “I’ll bring home Harry,” -the girl cried, with a passionate promise, out of one window of the -railway carriage. Lionel was at another, keeping in the background, -eager to be off, and shorten the moment of farewells, when his attention -was distracted from the pathetic group by the sudden swaying upwards of -old Isaac’s shock head. “I thought you’d like to know, Sir,” old Isaac -said, “as my missis and me’s the best of friends. And it’s all owing to -you, as had the judgment never to say a word. Good-bye and good luck to -you, Master; don’t forget old Isaac Oliver as will do you a good turn -and welcome whenever he has the chance. Lord! but we took t’ Missis in, -that time,” Isaac said, with a grin that reached from ear to ear. And -that was the last the travellers saw of the village folk. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -LYDIA’S TRAVELS. - - -The quiet that fell over the White House, not to speak of other houses, -when Liddy was thus carried off into the wider world, was something -which might be felt, like the darkness in the vision. Mrs. Joscelyn -subsided into a kind of half-life. She had been living in her child, and -when her child was withdrawn, her existence ebbed away from her. She -began to wring her hands again, especially when in the wild winter -weather the posts were delayed. All that could be done for her was done -by the Selbys, who humoured her and petted her, everybody said, like a -child. Joan drove over in her phaeton as often sometimes as thrice in a -week, and Philip, who was “an understanding man” his wife allowed, did -what was still better. He subscribed for her to the circulating library, -and kept the poor lady supplied, in defiance of all prejudices, even -those of his wife, with a boundless supply of novels. Joan was somewhat -indignant and much scandalised by this, asking him if he thought mother -was a baby, and if it was his opinion that an old person should waste -her time over such nonsense? “If it was a good book indeed,” Joan said. -But Philip verified his title to be called “understanding.” He helped -her through the dull days as nobody else could. She read and read till -she got a little confused among the heroes and heroines, all of whom she -wove together by an imaginary thread of connection with Liddy, comparing -their fictitious graces, their adventures, their history with those of -her child, and following her imaginary Liddy through many a chapter. -Lydia’s letters when they came were like another warmer, fuller romance, -the most enticing of all. - -And then Ralph Joscelyn himself suddenly developed a new character. He -was miserable when his daughter was fairly gone, though he had never -betrayed any unwillingness to let her go. He read every word of her long -letters with a patience which had never been equalled in his life. He -gave up the dashes and blanks of which his conversation was once full, -and would come in the cold afternoons and sit with his wife, often -fatiguing her greatly, and keeping her back from the end of an exciting -story, but always meaning the best, and filling her soul with gratitude, -even when she felt most bored. And by and bye he would put on his -spectacles, and surreptitiously turn over a novel too, when the day was -wet, or on a long evening. Thus the sight might be seen of these two in -their old parlour, one at each side of the fire, rather dull but -friendly, like people who had grown old together, and in whom a moderate -modest affection had outlived all quarrels and years. He was a little -shamefaced when he was found thus in his wife’s company, but by degrees -that wore off too. - -Meanwhile, Lydia went far afield, leaving dulness and darkness and cloud -behind her; finding winter turned into summer, and her life into -sunshine. It would be impossible to use words too strong to express the -change that had come upon her. From the north country of England to the -south of France was not a more complete difference than from the grey -and limited life of the yeoman household to the brightness and variety -and grace of existence among people accustomed all their lives to wealth -and refinement and luxury. The way in which they travelled, the -attendants always round them, the ease with which they took all their -gratifications, surprised by nothing that was pleasant, taking luxuries, -which were princely to Liddy, as a matter of course, had an -extraordinary effect upon her--the effect of a forced and miraculous -education, in which every half hour told like a year. For a short time -she was much subdued, almost stupefied, indeed, by the revolution in -everything round her, and was so very quiet that Lady Brotherton almost -came the length, notwithstanding her animated countenance, and the -favourable first impression she had made, of thinking her dull. In fact, -she was only in a state of intense receptiveness, taking in everything, -opening her mind and spirits to all the new influences, which confused -and dazzled her. But after thus lying dormant for a time, Lydia suddenly -awoke into new life, and bloomed like a flower. She awoke to a great -many things which were completely new and strange; to beauty and wealth, -to art, which was entirely unknown, and a revelation to her; and to -Nature of a lavish and splendid kind, almost as entirely unknown. - -There were other revelations, too, upon which, at this moment, it is -unnecessary to dwell. It was more than enough that little Lydia, out of -what was not much more than a northern farmer’s house, should have found -herself in society, in that wandering society of the English abroad -where the finest specimens are to be found afloat among the coarsest, -and in which all the elements of life are represented; hearing names -familiarly pronounced every day which she had hitherto read with -reverence in books, talking to personages whose distant doings she had -but heard of with awe and wonder, and living in palaces, which she heard -found fault with as poverty-stricken and uncomfortable, she who had -known nothing better than the drawing-room at Heatonshaw. The party went -from France to Italy; to Florence and Rome, and still further south, -Naples and all its dependencies. So dazzled and transported was she with -all the new things she saw and heard that for the first month or two -Lydia forgot all about her quest. When she bethought herself of it, a -question arose which was far more troublesome here than it had been at -home. What was she to do? To examine anxiously every new face she saw, -to look out in the streets and in every company she entered for somebody -like Harry, seemed a far less hopeful enterprise in Italy than it had -been in England. She did not remember Harry’s face, which was disabling -to begin with, and then why should he be in Italy? she asked herself. -Poor people (unless they were artists) did not seem to come to Italy, -but only people with plenty of money and leisure, who came to enjoy -themselves. She was so bewildered by this altogether new idea that she -did not know what to do, nor did Lionel, “Cousin Lionel,” to whom she -began to refer everything (as indeed his mother did), suggest anything -that could help her. They looked over all the visitors’ books together, -and lists of the English inhabitants in every new place they came to, -with their young heads together, and much secret enjoyment of the -business; but neither did this stand her in much stead. In Rome, where -they spent Christmas, they were joined, as Lady Brotherton’s prophetic -soul had divined, by Lord Eldred; but when they left he did not follow, -and Liddy’s course, which was not that of true love but wandering -fancy, required no trouble to keep it smooth. But, by others besides -Lord Eldred, Lydia was “very much admired,” as people say. She might -have got “a very good match” out of her wanderings; but walked through -all these possibilities unwitting, not having even her little head -turned, which Lady Brotherton expected. The elder lady, however, was -delighted with the little sensation she made. She liked the little -flutter of moths about this gentle taper. She liked to have half-a-dozen -young men standing ready to do every necessary civility, to procure -everything that was wanted. Lydia saved her a great deal, she said, in -commissionaires; and old Sir John laughed his chuckling old laugh, and -said she was just like her mother; his Cousin Lydia had always a train -after her. Liddy wondered sometimes whether it was a former Cousin -Lydia, a century old or so, whom the old man meant. But they were very -kind to her. They became fond of her as the time went on. She lived an -enchanted life among them, with “Cousin Lionel” always at her side, -seeing everything, doing everything, along with her; and she could not -have believed that it would prove so easy to forget Harry and all about -him. Sometimes she awoke to this thought with such a sense of guilt as -depressed her for days; but in the meantime life was flowing on in -content, brightness, and variety, full of a hundred occupations. There -was not a moment vacant. Sometimes it would glance across her that the -day must come when she must leave it all and return to the White House. -Alas, poor mother! vegetating there, keeping herself alive by means of -her novels, and chiefly the unfinished romance of Lydia, most delightful -of all. What would she have felt had she known the cold chill which came -over Lydia as she realised that the day must come when she would be once -more at home; and how wretched, how angry Lydia was with herself, how -she despised her own frivolous being when she felt this chill invading -her! Generally however she put the thought away, and was content to -live, and no more. To live, how sweet it was! “Good was it in that time -to be alive, and to be young was very heaven.” At last Lydia came, as -the time of return approached, to throw away every consideration, and -exist only in the moment, with a kind of desperation of happiness. “I -shall never have it over again,” she said to herself, and shut her eyes -and went on, forgetting home and forgetting Harry, refusing to think of -anything but the sweet hours that were going over her; “I shall have had -my day.” - -Thus time came to have a prodigious sweep and fling as the long -delicious holiday approached its end. The hours and days rushed on like -the waters of a river hurrying to the falls, every minute increasing the -velocity; already the skies were getting bright (as if they had ever -been anything but bright!) with spring; the flowers were bursting forth -everywhere; the warmth becoming excessive; the English tourists -beginning to return home in clouds. And the Brothertons spoke quite -calmly of going back to England. To them it meant a natural succession, -no more; they would return home to other delights. When autumn came back -they would set out again, and go over the same enchanted lands; but for -Lydia all would be over. She tried to enter into their plans, however, -quite steadily, concealing the vertigo that seized her, and her wild -sense of the hurrying rush of those last days. When it was suggested -that they should rest a few days at Pisa, Sir John having a cold, and -from thence go on to Leghorn, and take the steamer, Lydia felt like a -criminal who has got a reprieve; but oh, how guilty, how more than ever -deserving of any sentence that could be passed upon her! - -By this time there had come a strange uneasiness into her intercourse -with “Cousin Lionel.” Liddy had always been more reserved with him than -with anyone else, she could not tell why. Since the first frankness of -the days when she went with him to Birrenshead there had been a great -seriousness in all their relations. This was partly his doing, and -partly hers. Lord Eldred’s appearance had checked him when he had been -getting rid of the impression which his mother’s opinion on the subject -of Lord Eldred had produced on him. And Lydia’s seriousness had subdued -the young man. She had consulted him indeed, referred to him constantly, -took his advice, kept up an invariable tacit appeal to him in all her -concerns, which she was scarcely herself aware of, but which went to the -very bottom of his heart; but she was always serious. Her gayer flights -were with the moths, as Lady Brotherton called them, the -commissionaires, the young men who fluttered about the two ladies, and -whom Lydia, caring nothing about them, treated with every kind of gay -malice, and a hundred caprices; but she was never capricious with -cousin Lionel. They treated each other with a sort of stately dignity, -reserved on one side, reverential on the other, to the amusement, but -great gratification of Lady Brotherton. - -“Thank heaven there is no fear of these two falling in love with each -other,” she said, “which is an embarrassment one is scarcely ever safe -from.” As for Sir John, he chuckled and declared that his son was an old -woman. “Talk’sh like two ambassadorsh,” said the old man. Never was -anything more satisfactory; for to have a course of true love so near to -her, notwithstanding her sentimental sympathy with the thing in the -abstract, would not have suited Lady Brotherton at all. But on the day -of Sir John’s cold at Pisa, something occurred which, if she had not -been so busy administering gruel, she might not have found so -satisfactory. The two young people being thus left alone went out -together, and walked very soberly, as was their wont, about the -Cathedral and the Baptistery, gazing at everything as it was their duty -to do. They stood and looked up at the delicate fretted galleries of the -leaning tower, and the blue sky above which filled up every opening. -They had been very silent, and silence is dangerous. At last Lionel said -hastily: - -“I don’t know why this should make me think of the old Joscelyn tower -you showed me; there is not much likeness certainly between this and a -Border tower.” - -“The sky was just as blue,” said Lydia, “in all the crevices; though -they say that in England we never see the sky.” - -“You remember it too?” - -“Yes,” she said with a faint little tremor in her voice. - -“And soon you will be there again,” he said (as if it were not brutal to -remind her of it!), “but I---- where shall I be?” He threw so much -pathos into his tone that Lydia, feeling herself on the brink of -darkness and desolation, could not quite restrain a little outburst of -impatience. He to talk like that, who would have nothing to give up, -whose life would always be as beautiful as it was now! - -“Where should you be--but where you please!” she said, with a sharp tone -of irritation in her voice. - -“Where I please?----do you think?--but I must not ask you that,” -Lionel said, drawing a long breath. And then he added as if he were -breathless and hurried, though in reality there was nothing to hurry -him, “Lydia--I want to speak to you before--before----” - -“I don’t know what you mean; you can talk to me whenever you please,” -cried Lydia, with the daring of anger. She was angry with him, she could -scarcely tell why. - -He was silent for a minute, looking at her with a curious expression -which she did not understand. What did it mean? No doubt Lionel thought -that Lydia knew exactly all that was overflowing in him; the eagerness -in his eyes, the hesitation in his mind. He thought she looked him -through and through, and she thought he looked her through and through. -The young man felt as if it could scarcely be necessary for him to say -what was in his heart; she must have seen it in every look for months; -and she, on her side, felt that her secret, which he was so likely to -have divined, must be kept from him at all hazards. Thus they stood for -a moment as in a duel, the man sealing his lips by force, considering, -with a generosity that cost him much, that to speak now would make the -position intolerable for her, and that any formal declaration of his -sentiments (which she must know so well before he uttered them!) must be -reserved for the very end of the family intercourse in which they had -been living; while the woman, who had been far too much interested on -her own account ever to discover his meaning fully, doubted still, and -guarding herself against a mistake of vanity, had to guard her own -secret, which she would not have him divine. They looked at each other -thus for a breathless moment; then he spoke. - -“I can talk to you whenever I please? but not now; before--if ever--we -part.” - -What did that mean? “Before--if ever.” Her heart beat so loudly that she -seemed unable to do anything but keep it down, and yet she asked herself -wistfully what was the meaning of it. She was tantalized and aggravated -beyond words. “That will soon be,” she said with a little mocking laugh, -and turning, walked away towards the river. He followed her quite silent -and cast down, for he thought this laugh meant the very worst. And when -they got back to the inn Lydia disappeared, and save in his mother’s -presence saw him no more that day. Lady Brotherton saw no difference for -her part. She tried to throw them together benevolently. “You must try -and make the best of it,” she said. “I must go back to your father, -Lionel. Take Lydia somewhere, show her the town. You are cousins, you -need not stand upon ceremony, you don’t want a chaperon.” - -“I am so sorry, Lady Brotherton,” said Liddy with an innocent air, “but -I must go and write letters. We have been moving about so much lately. I -have not written half so often as usual to my mother. I thought I’d take -this afternoon for it.” - -“That is a pity,” said Lady Brotherton, “I am sure she will excuse you, -my dear; you will be with her so soon! and Lionel will be quite lonely; -you might give him this afternoon. Your mother will have you in a week, -you know.” - -Poor wicked Liddy! what a pang it gave her! and a still greater pang to -think that it should be a pang. She looked at Lady Brotherton with -sorrowful, half reproachful eyes, into which, much against her will, the -tears came--but fortunately kept suspended there, making her eyes big -and liquid, not falling. “I know,” she said, trying hard to suppress a -sigh; “but I must write all the same.” - -“Don’t think of me,” said Lionel. “I shall play a game at billiards--or -something.” Lady Brotherton paused to launch a _mot_ at the absurdity of -coming to Italy to play billiards before she went to Sir John, and in -that interval Lydia disappeared, and except at dinner, when his mother -was present, the two did not meet again that day. - -Sir John was a little better next morning, and declared himself able to -go the little way there was to Leghorn, where he would rest another -night before taking the steamer. “And there’sh old Bonamy,” he said, -“old friend’sh, never forshake old friend’sh. Bonamy, Vicesh-Conshull, -famous old fellow.” He was delighted at the idea, though Lady Brotherton -shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, yes, he is very nice,” she said, “not old, -quite a handsome man; but all these Consular people, they are--you know -what they are--However Mr. Bonamy is quite superior. Another night in -Italy, Liddy, though it is only a mercantile place and not interesting. -Let us hope there will be a moon.” - -But Lydia did not wish for a moon. She had got into a state of feverish -indifference. It was so nearly over now, that she wished it over -altogether. What was the good of a few more hours? She would have run -away, had she been able, to get out of it all, to forget Italy if that -were possible, and all these five months of happiness. She felt angry -with Sir John and his friend, and the place they were going to, and -everything about it. A moon? what did she want with a moon? she would -have liked to pluck it out of that blue, blue intolerable sky that never -changed. It was all Liddy could do to keep herself from making a cross -reply. - -They got to Leghorn early that Sir John might not be exposed to the heat -of the day; and the aspect of that place did not tend to soften Lydia’s -feelings; a town with shipping and docks and counting-houses; she -declared to herself that it was like any town in England, not like Italy -at all. Sir John, who was fond of novelty, had his card sent at once to -the Vice-Consul, with a request that Mr. Bonamy would go and see an old -friend who was not well enough to visit him; and the old man grew quite -brisk on the strength of something new, and sat up in a chair and -declared himself quite well. He looked so comfortable that Lady -Brotherton was very sorry that she had settled to stay another evening. -“When we have quite made up our minds to it, it seems a pity,” she said, -“to lose a day.” How tranquilly she spoke! while the two young people -listening to her, and too languid or too nervous to take any part in the -discussion, felt a secret fury burn within them. “Lose a day!” Neither -of them knew whether it was a loss or a gain, an incalculable treasure -of possibilities, or a miserable hour the more of suspense and -unhappiness. Perhaps they were both most disposed to look upon it in the -latter light; and yet they were both angry with Lady Brotherton for -talking of losing a day. There is no consistency in youth, nor was there -any reason for the nervous excitement which possessed them both. They -sat down to luncheon together, both of them devouring their hearts, and -quite indisposed for other fare. - -“Mr. Bonamy knows our English ways. I should not be surprised,” said -Lady Brotherton, “if he came to lunch.” - -“Yes, yes, knowshur English ways, English himself,” said Sir John, -“knowsh what’sh what. Shure to come in to lunch.” - -And then they sat down at table. Lady Brotherton ate her bit of chicken -with all that unearthly, immeasurable calm which distinguishes elder -people, taking everything quite coolly, though with a flaming volcano on -each side of her; would she eat her chicken all the same, they -wondered, if they too were to explode and be carried off into the -elements? Notwithstanding their mutual opposition, they could not help -giving each other a glance of sympathy as they watched her, wondering -how she could do it. Lionel felt that he never could again believe in -those sensations which his mother had often described to him, which -affected her when he was in any trouble. Sympathy! She could not take -things so quietly if she was a woman of any sympathy at all. - -The meal was half over. Lydia had scattered salad over her plate to look -as if she had eaten what was set before her, and Lionel, on his side, -had practised some other artifice. Thank heaven the moment was almost -over when they must sit there together exposed to observation. When the -door opened, Lionel rose to his feet to receive his father’s old friend. -But what did Lydia care for Sir John’s old friend? it was an excuse to -push her chair away from the table. It was Sir John’s English servant -who introduced the stranger; an Italian might have made a mistake about -the name, but about this there was no mistake. Thomas came in before the -visitor with all the imperturbability of a British flunkey. - -“Mr. Isaac Oliver,” he said. - -Then Lydia too rose to her feet wondering, with a little cry of -surprise. She did not know what she thought, whether it was a messenger -from home with evil tidings, or merely a fantastic coincidence. Lionel -was greatly astonished too. He made a step forward to meet the -new-comer--and there was something in the aspect of the new-comer which -puzzled him still more, he could not tell why. Where had he seen him -before? He was certain he had seen him before. - -“Mr.--Isaac--Oliver?” he said. - -He perceived, without being aware of it till after, that at his -surprised tone the stranger turned a suspicious look upon him, and -glanced round upon the party with the manner of a man who was not -entirely at his ease. - -“Yes, that is what I am called,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -ISAAC OLIVER. - - -And after all, what is there in a name? That was not an original -observation in Romeo’s case, much less in that of an English resident in -Italy far on in the nineteenth century. The person who thus presented -himself in Sir John Brotherton’s rooms was tall and strong, and fair, -with the amplitude of chest and breadth of back which show a man to have -attained the very fullness of manhood, or perhaps a little more. His -hair was light brown and curly, with life and vigour in every crisp -twist of it, and in the short beard then unusual with Englishmen, and -considered “foreign” by the inexperienced. Except this beard, and -something in his dress which betrayed a continental tailor, he was -altogether English in his appearance, and in his voice there was -something that betrayed the North-country, or so at least two of the -company, startled by his name, supposed. Lydia who felt ashamed of -herself for her little cry of wonder, sat down in a corner behind backs, -and felt the better for the curious stir of surprise and expectation -which seemed to blow on her like a breath of fresh air: while Lionel -bestirred himself to welcome the stranger, who explained that he came on -the part of Mr. Bonamy, then occupied in public affairs, who hoped to -pay his respects to Sir John later. “I ought to introduce myself as his -son-in-law,” Mr. Oliver said. - -“Oh, you are Rita’s husband,” said Lady Brotherton, “little Rita! -forgive me, I used to know her when she was a child. I have not realised -the idea of Rita married.” - -“Then you must prepare yourself for a shock,” he said pleasantly. “For -Rita has been married more than eight years.” - -“And there are children--of course?” - -“Four,” he said, with a smile of affectionate pride, “but my wife still -looks like a little girl. You will not find so much difference in her -appearance as there ought to be. I think Mr. Bonamy prefers to ignore -the babies--and it’s not difficult to do so when you look at her. My -father-in-law hoped you would come and dine with us to-night.” - -“Sir John is--rather an invalid----” - -“Not a bit--not a bit!” cried the old man, speaking for himself. “Yesh, -yesh, letsh dine with Bonamy. Bonamy knowsh what’sh what.” - -“And we are a large party,” said Lady Brotherton deprecating. - -Here Lydia came behind her chair. “You must not think of me, dear Lady -Brotherton.” “I have--my letters to write.” - -“Still letters to write, Liddy? My dear, you must have set up a most -alarming correspondence. My young friend, Miss Joscelyn, Mr. Oliver.” - -The stranger made a slight movement in his chair, with a hurried breath, -and a sudden startled widening of his eyes. It was a thing which he had -often said to himself might happen any day, but years of serenity had -almost driven it from his remembrance. As it was, the start was but -momentary, and perhaps among men might have passed unnoticed. But Lady -Brotherton caught it with her keen observation; and Lydia, herself, so -excited and curious, saw it with additional excitement, but without any -surprise. - -“I hope,” he said with a hesitation which did not sound unfriendly. “I -hope we may see--Miss Joscelyn, too.” - -“I shall certainly bring her if you think you can really have us. How -kind to think of it!” Lady Brotherton said. “But the Bonamys were always -kind. I remember your wife’s mother, Mr. Oliver. She was the prettiest -creature----” - -“I flatter myself you will think the same of her daughter,” he said, -with a smile (“But if he thinks so much of his wife what business had he -to stare so much at Liddy?” Lady Brotherton said after. “Liddy is a very -pretty girl, and of course with young men one knows what one must -expect--but a man with a family of children! I don’t think I quite like -it.”). He spoke to the elder lady, but his eyes were on the younger--not -so much admiringly as curiously, anxiously. Was it? could it be? A sort -of brotherly impulse came over him. “I think I must have met--some of -Miss Joscelyn’s family--from the Fell-country?--from the North of -England?” he said, a rush of colour coming to his face. - -“Oh!” cried Lydia, paling as he reddened, “none of my family were ever -abroad except one. Oh, I wonder if you can have met my brother. I am -looking for him. I came to look for him. Harry Joscelyn? We have people -of your name,” she added hastily, “in our village too.” - -“I come from--Lancashire,” he said, with a sort of hurried abandonment -of the subject. Lionel Brotherton had begun to stare at him too. He felt -himself in an atmosphere charged with electricity of some sort, and -thought with alarm, that some one or other of this dangerous party might -put a moral pistol to his head and accuse him at any moment of his false -name. He returned to the subject of his wife and family, which was safer -in every way. “You know that Mr. Bonamy will not let his daughter go to -England,” he said, “because it was fatal to her mother. It is her great -grievance; by dint of being debarred from it there is nothing she wants -so much to do.” - -“And you--have you nothing to say? Is she so delicate?” Lady Brotherton -asked. - -“Not delicate at all, thank heaven! I have a great deal to say; but I -agree. I came under a solemn promise before I was allowed to marry her, -and then I have no wish to take her to England--England--” he said, with -a little sternness, “has no particular attraction to me. All the -happiness of my life is here.” - -“But that is a hard thing to say of your home, Mr. Oliver.” - -“My home--is here,” he said. What did that girl mean by watching him so? -He felt that he was talking vindictively at her, though all that he -desired was to ignore her, and escape the scrutiny of her eyes, which -made him angry and alarmed, both together. All this time Sir John had -been breaking in at intervals, expressing with a great many sibillations -his pleasure in the prospect of dining with “Old Bonamy.” - -“Old Bonamysh sh’a very old friend; alwaysh liked him, and hish father -before him,” the old man cried. “N’ash for bein’ able to dine out, never -wash better, never wash better.” This came in at intervals as a kind of -chorus, while Lady Brotherton kept up the central strain of friendly -commonplace, as unconscious of Lydia’s eager eyes over her shoulder, as -of the vague, alarmed curiosity and anxiety that had roused the girl out -of herself. - -“It was startling to hear his name,” said Lionel, when after awhile, as -quickly as politeness permitted, the visitor took his leave. - -“What was there peculiar about his name? Oliver! it is not a bad name,” -Lady Brotherton said. - -“It is not the Oliver, but the Isaac Oliver. Lydia was startled too. It -is a name we know very well in the Fell-country,” Lionel said. He was -able to treat the subject more lightly than Liddy, on whom, in her -excitement, this new and sudden fire had caught at once. He told his -mother all about Isaac Oliver, with details that quite satisfied her as -to the origin of the stranger’s startled looks and apparent excitement -when he heard Liddy’s name. - -“That’s it, you may be sure,” she said; “he is ashamed of his people. He -is a son or a nephew or something of your old man, and he doesn’t want -it to be known; very natural. He must have kept it a secret from Mr. -Bonamy--who never would have let Rita marry him if he had known. Well, I -am almost glad it is that, and nothing worse. I thought you had made an -impression upon him, Liddy, my dear. I thought his eyes would have leapt -out of his head when he saw you. Of course, I saw in a moment there was -something; but this explains it. Dear, dear, what a sad thing for the -Bonamys if it ever comes to be known! You must take the greatest care, -both of you, not to betray him. Now, remember--not a word,” Lady -Brotherton said, making as though she would have put her soft, plump, -white hand first on one mouth and then on another. Nevertheless, when -Mr. Bonamy himself came in later, she could not help telling him that -“my young people” knew, they supposed, some of Mr. Oliver’s friends. But -Lady Brotherton was very sorry when she saw with how much interest a -statement which she thought too vague to do any harm was received. - -“My dear lady,” the Vice-Consul cried, “they know more than I do if they -know his friends. He is the best fellow in the world and the best son, -and the most excellent husband that ever was; but I fear the world in -general would think me very imprudent. I know nothing about his family, -except that he quarrelled with them, and made a vow never to return till -he had made his fortune. Well, I don’t know where he will do that--not -in the service of H.B.M. He has settled down here with me, and we are -all very comfortable, and it was no small comfort to me to find an -English husband for Rita who would not insist upon taking her to -England. It was all settled,” said Mr. Bonamy, “when I was so ill. I -believed I was going to die, and so did everybody else; and to provide -for my Rita was all I thought of. Well, I have nothing to regret. He -makes her an excellent husband, and she is as happy as the day is long; -and I don’t know what I should do without him. Still I allow it was -rash, for I know nothing about his friends.” - -“When a man has proved himself to be all that,” said Lady Brotherton, in -alarm, “it does not matter much about his family.” - -“Well, no--perhaps not,” said the Vice-Consul, doubtfully. “But I have -always taken it for granted they were people of some importance,” he -added, elevating his head. “He speaks like a man with good blood in his -veins; he has all the prejudices of a man of some family. I don’t think -I can be mistaken in that; but I have never had the least clue to who -they were. I should be quite glad to hear something about them from your -young people.” - -“Unfortunately,” cried Lady Brotherton, “they are both out; and then it -was a mere conjecture, you know. Excuse me a moment, and I will ask the -servant if he knows whether my son or Miss Joscelyn have come in----” -And she hurried to the door to tell Thomas, who was waiting in the -passage, to tell Miss Joscelyn and Mr. Brotherton, if they should make -their appearance, that she was very much engaged, and begged they would -_not_ come in. “Remember, _not_ come in,” she whispered, earnestly. -Alarm had seized upon her. She had laughed at Lionel’s description of -old Isaac Oliver--but, good heavens! to be the means of introducing such -a very undesirable relation to the knowledge of the Bonamys! She was -almost too much frightened to be able to face the Vice-Consul again; but -it had to be done. She found him pondering when she went back. Sir John -was lying down to rest, so that they were alone; and poor Lady -Brotherton’s punishment for her indiscretion was not yet over. - -“Did you say Miss Joscelyn?” he asked, “then I am sure it must be the -same, for my son-in-law has Joscelyn in his name. He does not use it in -an ordinary way, but on grand occasions; indeed I did not know it till I -saw his signature at his marriage, and he has never liked to be -questioned about it. Perhaps he may turn out to be a relation, a -connection of your young friend.” - -“Oh, I don’t think that is at all likely,” cried Lady Brotherton -hastily, “her mother is a cousin of Sir John’s--” then she faltered and -coloured, seeing the inference to be drawn from her words. “I do not -mean that Mr. Oliver’s family is not--everything that is desirable,” she -said. - -The Vice-Consul looked up for a moment startled; but then he bethought -himself of Lady Brotherton’s “way.” Her way he said to himself was well -known. She was fond of connecting things that had no connection, and -scorning those that had. So he answered without offence, “I did not -suppose for a moment that you meant anything of the kind, Lady -Brotherton; you will like him when you know him. He is as good a fellow -as ever stepped; not very much educated--but so few of your young -English squireocracy are.” - -“Do you think so, Mr. Bonamy?” her mind glanced straight of course to -Lionel, and she felt a little offence as well as a disdainful pity for -so foolish an opinion, and the grounds upon which it must have been -formed. - -“Yes, I think so; they come here knowing no language but their own, -without a notion what they have come for, or what they want, trying to -get up cricket matches and yawning in the face of all that makes Italy -desirable. If they want cricket they should stay in England, where they -would get it at its best. Yes, it must be allowed we see a great many -ignorant young fellows--who are thorough gentlemen all the same----” - -“I am glad you allow that,” said Lady Brotherton, a little piqued. She -was rather fond herself of finding fault with her country folks, but she -did not like it in other people; and the Vice-Consul went away with his -mind in a considerable ferment, wondering if now he was about to -penetrate the mystery of his son-in-law’s antecedents. The idea that he -knew nothing about them had given him a prick now and then through all -these years; but Harry had never betrayed himself. He had not done so, -for the good reason that all his young life had disappeared from him -like a mist, and that honestly he never thought of it, or felt tempted -to make any reference to it. His marriage had taken place while the -Vice-Consul was still in a weak state of health, for the results of his -illness had lasted long, though the seizure itself was over: and in all -those happy quiet years Harry’s heart had been so full and his mind had -been so occupied that he had scarcely thought of the possibility of -being called upon some day to roll away the stone from the grave of the -past. And a sort of honourable hesitation had moved the Vice-Consul; he -had accepted the stranger as he was; ought he to enter into discussion -of his rights and wrongs now, and perhaps be compelled to condemn him, -though he was so good? Now, however there seemed a prospect of a -clearing up. “I should like to know who he is; before I die, I should -like to know the rights of it,” Mr. Bonamy said to himself. - -“I was so glad you were not here, my dear,” Lady Brotherton said to -Lydia. “It appears that this Mr. Oliver has said nothing to the Bonamys -about his family. He has allowed it to be supposed that they were people -of importance. How they could be so foolish as to let Rita marry him -without knowing all about him I can’t imagine; but that is just what has -been done. Now, my love, I want to warn you; be on your guard. Be on -your guard, Lionel. It was very wrong of the young man to do it, but -it’s no business of ours; and they’re married now, and can’t be -separated, you know; and Mr. Bonamy has not a word but praise to say of -him. Be on your guard; I have no right to speak; I as nearly as possible -let it out myself. I said my young people thought they knew Mr. Oliver’s -family; but afterwards I assured him that this was mere conjecture, and -that I didn’t think there was anything in it. So, my dears, both of you -be on your guard.” - -“I shall not betray him, mother; but all the same it is a shabby -business. The fellow must be a cad to do it,” Lionel said. - -Lydia looked up at him with hot, sudden displeasure, she could not tell -why. What had she to do with Isaac Oliver? But she was excited by the -appearance of this stranger who bore such a familiar name, and she felt -angry that he should be called a “cad.” She was in so strange a -condition, so feverish, and restless, and impatient, that to be angry -for some real cause was a luxury to her. She did not, for her part, give -any pledge or make any reply, but seated herself in the carriage with a -forlorn and partly fictitious feeling that this man, whom she had never -(she thought) seen before, and knew nothing about, would be more near -to her, if he were one of the Olivers, than these people with whom she -had been so familiar, who had been her friends, and more than her -friends, but who were about to drop her (she said to herself) next week, -as if she had never belonged to them at all. They were all reminding her -of this parting, keeping it before her, she thought, even old Sir -John--without any sympathy for her, or regret to leave her, or -perception of what the parting would be to her. Anybody from her own -country, within her own circle of being, would be more to her, she said -within herself, would understand her better, would feel more for her, -than the friends who had been so kind, but who did not care. - -But the visit of the travelling party was contemplated with very much -stronger feelings by the one of all concerned, who alone knew all about -it, and understood the full importance of the meeting. Harry had been -unable to keep himself from one startled look when he heard his sister’s -name. “Liddy” first, which of itself roused him a little--he had not -heard the north-country sound of that familiar name since he left the -north country--and then Joscelyn. Who could she be? Could there be any -Liddy Joscelyn but one? It was his mother’s name, and his little -sister’s, whom he remembered with that tender partiality with which -elder brothers and sisters think of the little one who is the pet of the -family. Liddy had not been old enough to have come to the bar of -fraternal judgment when he had left the White House. She was still a -child, and he had been fond of her. They had all been fond of her. She -had been the pet, sacred from the animadversion even of Tom and Will, -who, being married, and separated from their home, were in some measure -freed from the family prejudices. But Harry was not freed. He had been -angry with all his belongings for all these years, but as soon as he -heard her name his heart grew soft to little Liddy. Liddy Joscelyn! He -went away from the inn full of excitement, saying over and over to -himself those familiar, soft-sounding syllables, Liddy Joscelyn, Liddy -Joscelyn. Could it really be that this pretty young woman, who had -looked at him over Lady Brotherton’s shoulder, with such earnest eyes, -was his little sister? For a long time he could think of nothing else -but this, and took a long walk in an entirely different direction from -the office to familiarize himself with the idea, and to get his -excitement calmed down. - -But the more he thought, the less he could manage to get his excitement -calmed down. It might be supposed that he would have thought first of -all of the danger of being discovered, and the likelihood that something -might arise which would betray him to his sister. But this was only his -second impulse. The first was instinctive, a sudden surging up of family -affection, a leap of his heart into old prejudices and tendernesses; and -it was only when he had exhausted this that he thought of the risk that -he would inevitably run when Liddy found herself brought into contact -with a man bearing so marked a name as that of Isaac Oliver. He laughed -within himself, half bitterly, half with a sort of amusement at the -sudden image which her little cry of surprise and startled look brought -before him as well as before herself--Old Isaac Oliver! He remembered -every line of him, all in a moment, his stooping, his shuffling, his -desire to give good advice, his fear of his Missis, and almost laughed -out at the strange connection he had himself formed between this grey -old figure and himself. Why had he been so absurd as to choose such a -marked name? But the idea that anybody could suppose him, Harry -Joscelyn, to have anything to do with that old peasant, amused him more -than all the rest. He could scarcely keep himself from shouts of -laughter. He! The notion was too incongruous to be considered with -gravity. It was an offence to him at the same time, but most of all it -was ludicrous. And these people were coming to his house to-night, to -dine at his table, to ask him questions, to make their remarks, to speak -of old Isaac, and, perhaps, put it into the heads of his wife and her -father that this was the kind of relation whom he had left behind him in -England. The Bonamys had received him so generously, accepted his own -explanations so easily, given him the best evidence of their perfect -confidence and trust, and, if now they heard this fine story of the old -north-country clown, what would they think of him? The more Harry -thought of it the more he was confused and bewildered. Liddy had looked -at him with a very penetrating, anxious look over Lady Brotherton’s -shoulder. What was she so curious about? How could she know? And his -wife and she would meet, would talk together, would perhaps come to -confidences. He was not able to face the position. He was older and -more experienced in many ways, but he was not experienced in such -complications of circumstances. His head turned round and round. What -was he to do? - -The only thing he did was a curious token of the utter helplessness he -felt. When he got to the office he called Paolo, who was still a -faithful prop of the Consulate, and asked him to dinner to meet some -English friends. He waited even till Paolo made his elaborate evening -toilette, and walked home with him arm in arm, clinging to him as a sort -of protection. There could not be a more clear confession of the state -of impotence in which he felt himself. It was like one of his early -difficulties long ago, in which Paolo was his only friend. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -THE BRITISH CONSULATE. - - -The Vice-Consul’s family still lived in the same house, with more -frequent use than before of the succursale of the Villa, where the -children spent so much of their time. Naturally, however, it was a -changed house, brighter and happier in one sense, in another--perhaps -not all that it had been. Perhaps Mr. Bonamy had found a more delicate -and complete happiness in it when he and his little daughter lived there -alone, in perfect companionship, he sharing every thought with his -child, and finding an entire and sweet compensation for all the troubles -of his life in that perfect union and sympathy. It was true that, as he -was aware now, he had known very little of Rita all that happy time: but -while it lasted he did not know this, and thought that he had -everything. It is the lot of fathers and mothers. When this last -exquisite dream of his life failed him, and his Rita went over to that -amiable, well-disposed, and kind young enemy, who had conquered and -supplanted her father, Mr. Bonamy had, it is needless to say, a certain -struggle with himself. But the circumstances helped him to a large -degree. He was ill, expecting to die, and glad to think that whatever -happened to him he had secured a companion, a support for her. When, -however, death dropped into the background, and he had to begin again, -and to reconcile himself to a third person in his house, at his table, -and in all the most intimate relations of his life, the Vice-Consul had -found it hard; and very hard it was to see his Rita turn to this other -man as a flower turns to the sun, with all the clinging and dependence -she had once shown to her father, and with a constant reference to and -consultation of his wishes. It was quite right that it should be so, oh, -perfectly right! and she was happy, as happy as a young woman could -be--but it jarred upon the man who was left out in the cold, and who had -to share, nay to give up the best of, this love which had been the -recompense of his life, to a stranger. It is the lot of the fathers and -mothers; when they make any difficulty about consenting to it, we call -them hard names; but yet once in a way it may be allowed, that it is a -bitter thing to do. Mr. Bonamy on the whole had done it with a very good -grace. He was, more or less, grateful to the interloper that his house -was not left to him desolate: and he swallowed Harry with as few -grimaces as possible, making in private those which he could not -altogether suppress. On the whole no man could have occupied so -invidious a position more genially, more inofficiously than Harry did. -He was grateful and attached to his father-in-law, and he had a profound -respect for him and his judgment, to which unfortunately Mr. Bonamy did -not make much response. The Vice-Consul indeed had that half-painful, -half-amused sense of being a better man than his son-in-law, which at -once increases the pang of such a rivalry and makes it ludicrous. -“Having known me to decline on a range of lower feelings, and a narrower -heart than mine.” When a father utters in the depths of his own heart -such a sentiment as this, it may be somewhat bitterly, but it must be -with a sense that it is utterly ludicrous. Mr. Bonamy felt all through -like the disappointed lover in the poem “Thou shalt lower to his level -day by day;” for indeed Rita herself, when she became Mrs. Harry, soon -came to have far less interest in matters above Harry’s level, than she -had felt when it was her father’s level by which her eager young being -was founded. Then she had been his leader sometimes, his little oracle, -with a fineness of perception that filled him with wonder and -admiration; now she avoided those fine questions and speculations in -which her husband did not share. He was faultless, Mr. Bonamy was just -enough to allow; he was not exacting, he would still look on with honest -admiring looks when they went beyond his knowledge, and smile and listen -to discussions in which he could not take any share. But what Harry did -not feel for himself, Rita felt for him. She would not go beyond him. -She limited her own impulsive eager steps, which had been so ready for -every path of fancy in order to keep upon the beaten ground by his side. -Perhaps it gave her a little prick of pain too to leave her father -alone, to curb all her natural impulses, to keep to that steady solid -pace which suited Harry; and she did it knowing that her father felt it -was a decline. But nevertheless her delicate instinctive unspoken -loyalty to her husband carried her through. She was “falsely true” as -much as Lancelot though in so different a way, belying herself, for -Harry’s sake, who did not want such a sacrifice; but Rita felt it to be -his due. There, as in all cases where there is a divided duty, the -happiness which they possessed was purchased by a little inevitable -pain, it was no longer unalloyed. The interloper, the breaker up of that -previous blessedness, was the one who felt least drawback in it. For one -thing he was naturally very modest and humble about himself, and it did -not at all hurt him to acknowledge himself less clever than his wife and -father-in-law. He would not have objected had they gone on talking over -his head. His taste was less fine, and his perceptions much less acute -than Rita’s. And he got the advantage of that _finesse_ of thought and -feeling, that delicacy which was so much greater than anything he was -capable of, really without knowing it, or being at all aware of the -sacrifice she made. - -Then the children, though they were a new bond, and a great pleasure to -Mr. Bonamy (being good and healthy and smiling children, making the best -of themselves, and looking merry and pretty, as children ought to do), -gave a little wound also to his fantastical delicacy (for it was of -course fantastical) about his daughter, whom he did not like to think of -as involved in all the functions of motherhood. But the Vice-Consul, -though perhaps not a very wise man by the head, was wise by the heart, -and he would not do or say anything to throw the least cloud upon his -child’s happiness; he accepted everything, allowing to himself that he -was fantastical; and their home was pointed out to everybody as the -emblem of a united house, full of love and mutual consideration, and the -closest affection--which it was, though not the same home as of old. - -On this particular day Rita was somewhat excited by the prospect of a -visit from the Brothertons. Lady Brotherton had been one of the objects -of her girlish devotion--that devotion which so often flows forth to an -older woman before it turns to a lover. She had admired the beautiful -lady as only a girl can admire, and had copied her in many a little -matter, and still believed in her with all the delightful prejudice -which clings to the friends of our youth. She was eager to show -everything--her husband, her babies, her own maturity of life--to her -old authority, and see how they looked through Lady Brotherton’s eyes. -When she saw her husband before dinner she was full of this pleasant -excitement. - -“What a pity, what a pity that Ralph and Vanna are at the Villa” (Harry -in his perversity had given his father’s name to his eldest boy, though -he was of opinion that he hated his father), Rita cried, “I should have -liked her to see them; but there is always Madge and baby. I wonder if -she will think Madge like you, Harry. I wonder if she will think baby a -beauty. English children are so big and red in the face; she may think -ours pale; though I am sure they are quite strong. I wonder how she will -think papa is looking. I wonder if she will approve of----” - -“Me?” said Harry, with a somewhat uneasy smile; “she will think me not -half good enough for you, and there I agree with her, so we shan’t -quarrel on that subject. But listen, dear, there is some one with her, -whom I want you to be a little on your guard with; a--a girl--a Miss -Joscelyn----” - -Rita looked up suddenly, with a keen light in her dark eyes. She had -Italian blood in her, to which jealousy was quite possible. She looked -up startled, ready to take fire; but Harry went on tying his neck-tie, -not so much as conscious, in his honest simplicity, that such a -sentiment as jealousy could enter into the possibilities. - -“I have a kind of idea,” he said, “that she must belong to people--I -used to know. I may be mistaken, but still I have a notion she does. So -don’t say anything, darling; don’t let her enter upon the subject.” - -“What subject?” said Rita, breathless. “Do you mean that you knew -the--lady--in those old times that I know nothing about?” - -“I can’t tell,” said Harry; “if I knew her, it was as a child. But, -Rita, you are always generous; you never have bothered me with -questions. Don’t say anything to her, or to any of them, if they should -question you--about me.” - -“About you!” Rita’s mind was partially relieved, but it was not in human -nature to receive, without some retort, this curious commission. “What -can I say about you? I know nothing,” she said, with a little -bitterness. Then, as he turned and looked at her with unfeigned -astonishment, “Oh, no, no, I do not mean that! I know everything, dear -Harry, I know you; but nothing before you came here.” - -“That is true,” he said, thoughtfully. “I wonder if I ever shall be able -to tell you--all about it?” The sight of Liddy and the sound of her name -had worked upon him more than he had thought anything could. - -“Do! do!” cried Rita, all eagerness, clasping his arm with both her -hands. - -He had never said so much to her before, and she, in fastidious -delicacy, had not asked. He laughed now, but still with anxiety in his -face. - -“At present I must get ready for dinner,” he said. - -“Ah! it is always like this,” cried Rita; “when you are in a humour to -tell me, something happens, dinner, or something equally unimportant!” -which was more like one of her early girlish outbursts than the matronly -composure by which she liked to think herself distinguished now. - -But at this moment her maid came to tell her that the carriage of the -English Signori, who were coming to dinner, had just driven into the -courtyard, and Rita had to give her skirts a last settling, and to hurry -to the drawing-room. And Harry had failed in his tie; he had to take a -new one, feeling his hands tremble a little. His mind was in a great -ferment. Some months before he had seen the advertisement for Harry -Joscelyn, or a certificate of his death, in the _Times_, where he was -described as “supposed to have emigrated,” and this of itself had roused -no small commotion in him. He was to hear of “something to his -advantage.” Harry could not tell what that might be, and if for a moment -now and then the temptation came over him to answer the appeal and -understand the cause of it, it yielded immediately, not only to the old -resentment, but to the new sense of alarm and apprehension with which -the idea of breaking up his present life, and disclosing to those who -knew him under one name another identity, filled his spirit. It appeared -to him that, if he gave up his present standing ground by revealing -another, his whole life, so happy, so sweet, so full of natural duty, -work, and recompense, would break up and disappear from him. As Isaac -Oliver he was at the head of the Consular business, known and named in -all its affairs. As Isaac Oliver he was the husband of his wife. All the -town knew him under that name, his children bore it. It had become -almost dear to him, the name which he had picked up in bitter ridicule, -and adopted with a perverse laugh, as he might have stuck a feather in -his hat. The sound was familiar now to his ears, he liked it. It was -Rita’s name. She called him Harry, as the name of his childhood, which -he preferred, and he had been led to admit that the “Harry Joscelyn -Isaac Oliver,” with which, for precaution sake, he had signed the -register on his marriage, was his full baptismal name. He signed it now -H. J. Isaac Oliver, and she was Mrs. Isaac Oliver. He liked it, and had -a certain pride in it, as a name that was honest and without stain, and -which should never suffer in his hands; and if he cut himself off from -it, what would become of him? his identity would be gone. But the -appearance of Liddy had made a very great impression on him. When she -rose up suddenly, with a little start and cry, at the sound of his name, -he had seen in a moment, in imagination, the real Isaac Oliver, -shuffling like a crab along the North-country road, and a sense of the -incongruity had struck him painfully, bringing a sensation of sudden -shame and discomfiture; but in general he was not ashamed of the name to -which he had grown familiar, and he felt as if, resuming the other, his -pleasant life would all break up and disappear, and he would become -another man. - -Rita met the strangers with less composure than she would have done but -for that two minutes’ talk. Even when she threw herself into Lady -Brotherton’s arms, in the fervour of feeling which her Italian blood -made a little more apparent than it would have been had she been all -English, she cast an eye upon Lady Brotherton’s companion. Lydia was not -looking her best in the confused and painful fever of suspense and -expectancy which was upon her; but she looked younger than her real age, -and almost childlike in her slightness and slimness beside the matronly -form of Lady Brotherton. Even Rita, though still light and small, was -rounder and fuller than of old, but Liddy looked eighteen though she was -twenty-two, and there could be no doubt that if Harry had seen her -before it must have been as a child. This somewhat composed the fanciful -bosom of Harry’s wife. Liddy when she had made her curtsey to Mrs. -Oliver, sat down behind backs, with a timidity which had come suddenly -back to her, isolating herself as far as might be, especially from -Lionel, whom she had avoided ever since their recent conversation. -Harry had not yet come into the room, and she felt herself altogether in -a strange place. Perhaps it was this that brought Paolo to her side; the -little Italian thought her probably, a neglected _demoiselle de -compagnie_ whom nobody particularly cared to notice, and this was enough -to bring him instantly to the rescue. “Miss Joscelyn is a stranger in -Italy?” he said with an engaging and conciliatory smile. He spoke a -great deal better English than when Harry had made acquaintance with -him, and dressed with less _abandon_ and devotion to the beautiful; but -he was still a “funny little man,” in the eyes of the English girl; his -kindness however could not be mistaken. - -“Scarcely,” she said, “I have been in Italy all the winter; and now we -are going home.” - -“Ah, you are going ’ome, that always pleases; but I hope Mees Jos--lyn -will retain a little memory that is pleasant of Italy too.” - -“Oh, I have liked it so much,” said Liddy. She was disturbed at this -moment by Harry’s entrance; and it occurred to her now for the first -time as it had done to Lionel when he first saw him, that she had seen -somebody very like him--who was it that was so like him? She paused in -what she was saying to interpose this wondering question in her own -mind. - -“That is Mr. Oliver,” said Paolo, “you have seen him before? He is what -we call _beluomo_, fine man, very fine man; he is my great friend; I was -the first to meet him when he stepped upon this shore; we have been -friends of the heart always since that day.” - -Lydia cast an involuntary look from the little man in front of her, in -his elaborate dress, to the big person of the Englishman. She could not -help thinking they would make a strange pair. And Paolo, with the -quickness of lightning, divined her meaning. - -“You think he is so tall, and I--little? Nevare mind,” said the good -little fellow, “we are of the same tallness in the heart. Nay, even me, -I am a little the tallest there,” he added, laughing, “for I have -nobody, and the good Oliver, he has his wife and little children, and -many to love. He is my devotion,” added the Italian, warmly. “I have -never had a friend before him. I am English too--though perhaps Mees -Jos-lyn would not know it.” - -“Are you indeed? I beg your pardon,” said Lydia, “I thought you were an -Italian. Mr. Oliver is very English. Do you know where--he comes from? -and is it long since he came here?” - -“That no one can tell you so well as I,” said Paolo, delighted with the -subject. “It was in--Ah, how well I remembare! I was upon the quay to -watch for the great _vapore_--the steamboat I should say--and ecco! in -one of those little boats that brought the travellers, this tall, big, -beautiful young man. I step forward. I offer my help, for he could not -speak a word, not one word. But no! he had a distrust of the foreigner. -Mees Jos-lyn has perhaps remarked? It is the great fault of the English; -they have always a distrust of the foreigners. He would not listen, nor -permit himself to be assisted; but caught up his portmanteau and walked -along. Wonderful! I stood and looked. Che bell’uomo! they all cried. I, -I did not take any time to think--I am English, but I am Italian as -well; from that moment I loved him, though he had a distrust of me. When -I entered _table-d’hôte_ at the hotel where I always dined, there was he -again; and then we became friends. We have quarrelled, oh yes, we have -quarrelled--a hundred thousand times,” cried Paolo, “but we are always -friends again. Mees Jos-lyn will pardon that I tell such a long tale. It -is ten years.” - -“What are you saying to Miss Joscelyn, Paul-o, about ten years?” - -“I am telling, amico, how we became friends,” said Paolo, stretching -himself to his full height by Harry’s side, raising himself on tip-toe. -The other looked down on him with a kindness that was not without a -touch of contempt. Harry was very faithful to Paolo, and proud of him in -his way; but the almost feminine demonstrative affection of the little -Italian was always a thing of which he was half ashamed. - -“Is it ten years?” he said. “But you might find some better subject to -entertain Miss Joscelyn about.” - -“I asked him,” said Lydia. She looked at this stranger with very -anxious, suspicious eyes. He was a stranger of course. She had seen him -for the first time to-day. Still his name was one she knew; his face was -one she knew; his very voice sounded familiar. A curious confusion and -suspicion came over her. Strangely enough it never once occurred to her -to think of her brother. - -“Let me take you to dinner,” he said. - -Could anything be more commonplace? The Vice-Consul went before them -with Lady Brotherton, Sir John hobbled after them with Rita. On either -side there were a few words being said. Lady Brotherton on the one hand -pouring praises of Rita’s developed beauty into her father’s pleased -ears, while old Sir John spluttered forth his remarks on the other. -“Fathers’sh an evergreen, my dear. Look’sh ashyoung ash’ever he did. -Bloomin’, bloomin’, like yourshelf.” Between these two, feeling a little -tremor in the arm she touched lightly with her hand. Lydia walked with -her silent companion. He did not say a word, and neither did she. But -her heart began to beat: there seemed something strange and exciting in -the air. She felt suspicious of him as if he had been a criminal; why -did he not speak? It was scarcely any better at dinner. There was a -great deal of talk at table, and much liveliness, but in this he took -little share. When Lydia looked away to the other end of the table, or -talked to anyone else, she invariably found his eye upon her when she -returned to herself; but he said nothing except in answer to what was -said to him; either he was a very stupid man, or--something else. She -became so impatient at last that she turned to him boldly, provoked by -his silence. - -“Mr. Oliver,” she said, “I know some one of your name in the -North-country.” - -He seemed to perceive with an effort that she was actually addressing -himself; but turned to her quickly, as if prepared for the attack. - -“My name is not a very uncommon name,” he said. - -“Oliver is not; but Isaac Oliver is surely very uncommon--it made me -stare when I heard it. I thought you must be a messenger from home.” -Lydia felt herself grow important in her excitement. “Our Isaac Oliver -is a very well-known person. Cousin Lionel, you know him too!” - -It was a most unjustifiable attack; and to compromise Lionel too! Lady -Brotherton stopped short in the midst of something she was saying, in -her dismay at this contradiction of all her instructions, and this -called the attention of the whole table to what Lydia was saying. There -was a general pause in which every word was distinctly audible. - -“Everybody knows him,” said Liddy, “in our countryside.” - -And then they all looked at Harry, upon whose countenance there came a -slight shade of colour. - -“Is it so?” he said; “but he is no relation of mine.” - -“How can you tell,” the audacious girl went on, “when you do not even -know what countryside I mean?” - -“Harry,” said Rita, leaning across the table, “what is Miss Joscelyn -saying to you? You have forgotten your favourite dish, which was made -expressly for you. Look, there is Antonio waiting, and cannot make you -understand.” - -“I beg your pardon,” said Harry, with a hurried glance round him; and -then Antonio, though he did not know a word of English, understood like -a true Italian that he was wanted to relieve an embarrassment, and -gallantly stepped into the breach with his dish. Lydia, arrested in the -midst of her assault, felt herself driven back upon herself, and -confused as if she had received a soft, unexpected blow. - -“Harry,” she said, in a low tone, “Harry--I thought your name was Isaac -Oliver. I beg your pardon, I fear I have been making a mistake.” - -The talk had recommenced again; nobody was paying any attention, and -Harry’s head was bent over his plate; but suddenly he raised it for a -single instant, and gave her a look. What did that look mean? Lydia was -stunned by it as by a sudden electric shock. She had been confused -before, but not half so confused as now. The look was tender, -affectionate even, half-appealing, as if, she thought, there was some -secret understanding between them--something which they knew, and which -nobody else knew. She stared at him in return, arrested in all the -movements of her own mind, her lips dropping apart in her wonder, her -eyes opening wide. He was not angry nor surprised at her boldness, nor -at her attempt to force upon him an undesirable relation, but looked at -her with an almost affectionateness, an understanding which she could -not understand. Lydia was altogether confused; she did not say another -word. Sitting by this stranger’s side, she relapsed into silence like -his own. Who was he? What did he mean? How had he got the command of -her? She was giddy with the confusion in her mind, and what it all meant -she could not tell. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -AFTER DINNER. - - -But Lydia was far, very far from being out of the embarrassment which -she had brought upon herself. When the ladies went back to the -drawing-room, which they did after the English fashion, Rita took no -more notice of her than civility required, though she could not help -owning to herself that there could be no reason for displeasure with her -husband, or the least sense of jealousy on Lydia’s account; Rita however -could not help showing her adoption of Harry’s quarrel by the chilliest -civility to the girl against whom he had bidden her to be on her guard. -She would not, as some suspicious women might have done, seize the -opportunity to find out something concerning that part of his life which -was unknown to her. She was too proudly honourable to do this; and she -could not help feeling a certain enmity towards the girl who might -betray him, even to herself. No, she would not hear a word Miss Joscelyn -might have to say. She lingered by her a moment coldly, and asked if she -would like to look at some books of engravings (it was before the time -of photographs), placing them before her on a little table; and then she -sat down on a sofa in a distant corner of the room with Lady Brotherton, -and talked and talked. When the gentlemen came in, Lydia was visible in -her white dress, all lighted up by the condensed light under the shade -of a large lamp, sitting quite alone, while the voices of the two others -seemed to bring her solitude into more full relief. Quite alone--nobody -taking any notice. There was room round her for all the party, and it -would have been natural that they should have collected about her, the -only girl among them, so pretty as she was, and neglected by the other -women. But the younger men were balked by the Vice-Consul, who stepped -forward briskly, and at once put himself into a chair beside her. He -talked to her, as he had a gift of talking, with delightful sympathy and -kindness. He asked her about her travels, how far she had gone, and -entered into all the little adventures of which she told him, telling -her stories of the days when he too had travelled, and giving her all -manner of anecdotes. The Vice-Consul was still a handsome man, as -majestic and gracious as ever; and he had a way, as everybody -acknowledged, of talking to young people. He charmed Lydia altogether. -She thought she had never met with anyone so delightful; and then he led -the conversation quite imperceptibly to England, and her part of the -country, and her family and herself. - -“England is a closed country to me,” he said. “To be sure I might go now -that my daughter is married, and I am no longer indispensable to her. -But I forget that. When Rita was younger, before she married, I was all -she had, as she is still all I have in the world. I hope your parents -are both living, Miss Joscelyn, and happy in their child? Ah, that is -well. Rita has never been in England, and must never be.” - -“Must never be?” Lydia looked across the room to the sofa on which Mrs. -Oliver was still sitting, with mingled wonder and pity. And yet, she -reflected, she herself was not so very glad to get back to England. That -was a fate which, under certain circumstances, might be bearable -enough. - -“No; I dare not risk her among the fogs and damps. She is--well, -perhaps, I ought not to say she is delicate, not now: but she was so -during all her earlier life. You see, I forget that she is not still my -little girl, but has now little girls of her own. That makes a -difference. No, she was never to go to England, that I vowed almost as -soon as she was born. The cold and the damp were fatal to her mother, -and Rita is so like her; I dare not risk my daughter there.” - -“But,” said Lydia, “it is not always cold and damp. It is very lovely -here, but people are prejudiced, and talk nonsense about England. If it -is so long since you were there, you have, perhaps, forgotten. We have -something else besides rain and fog.” - -“Yes, yes; I know there is an occasional fine day. You come from the -south of England probably, Miss Joscelyn, where some sort of fine -weather is to be found?” - -“No, indeed, I come from the north--quite the north, close to Scotland; -and we have often beautiful weather,” said Lydia, with a glow of -patriotism; “a different blue from this, and a great deal more cloud; -but then that is what makes it so beautiful, flying over the hills, -clearing off in a moment, then dropping again like a white veil, and the -sun bursting out all in a moment like a surprise. When one comes to -think of it the variety is the charm. Here you have the same thing all -day long, and every day; but with us the skies are never the same for an -hour; and as for cold, I never feel any cold; one takes a brisk walk, -and that is all that is wanted.” - -“I see you enter into the spirit of the country. The north? That is -where my son-in-law comes from.” The Vice-Consul always said to himself -that he put in his tone a note of interrogation to this question; but -Lydia took it for a statement, and received it without hesitation. - -“Yes, I suppose so,” she said. - -“I think I heard you say that you knew--relations of his? Are they -neighbours of yours? I am interested in everything about Harry.” - -“That puzzles me,” she said, “to hear you call him Harry. I thought he -was Isaac Oliver. I know some one of that name.” - -“A neighbour? It is, as you say, an uncommon name. I might have thought -of that. Yes, quite an uncommon name. And your Mr. Oliver, Miss -Joscelyn, was----?” - -“Oh,” cried Lydia, forgetting all previous cautions, with a laugh at the -unnecessary title, “he was not _Mr._ Oliver at all. He was a man -whom--he was a man--he was a----” - -Here she stopped all at once, bethinking herself of Lady Brotherton’s -injunction, and of the possible effect upon the young man who had looked -at her with such a strange, curious look, of this revelation. She -stopped all at once, and looked at her questioner with sudden alarm. “I -have not the least reason to think that he is a relation of Mr. -Oliver’s,” she said. “It was only an idea on my part. It was because of -the name. When I heard the name I thought it must be some one sent to -bring me home.” - -“It _is_ a curious name. We have got used to it: we have forgotten that. -The man then is--not a gentleman? I think I may guess as much. He is -a--what? A farmer--a yeoman? The yeomen in the north country, I have -always heard, are a very fine, independent class of men.” - -“Oh, it is not a farmer, or a---- Indeed, indeed, it was the silliest -mistake on my part. Besides, it is not really the same name, even if -that were anything, for you call him Harry; so he cannot be Isaac -Oliver, after all.” - -“You must not think me too pressing, Miss Joscelyn. I have a particular -reason for wishing to know. We have never known much about his family; -and I think I am sure that it must be the same family, for the name of -Joscelyn is---- What is it, what is it, Harry? Am I wanted? This is the -way we are worked, we poor servants of the public. H.B.M., God bless -her! is a hard taskmistress: but this conversation is too interesting to -be abandoned. Keep my seat for me here, Paolo. I put great confidence in -you till I come back.” - -Paolo, who had been hovering about with many longing looks, took the -seat with enthusiasm. - -“I take it,” he said, “with all my heart; but to give it up, even to the -Signor Consul himself, that is what I shall not do if I can help it. -Mees Joscelyn has known Mr. Bonamy before? He is charming. He will not -only talk, but make talk. He has great education and feeling; and in -art, he knows himself much better than most of the English--not to speak -with unkindness of the English, who have much fine qualities: and also I -am English myself.” - -“But one would not think so,” said Lydia, “to hear you talk.” She was of -opinion on the whole that this was rather a compliment than otherwise, -for “foreigners” in her opinion were more “interesting” than commonplace -Englishmen. But Paolo was in despair. - -“You think me--? Ah, it is cruel! and if Mees Joscelyn say so,” said -little Paolo, “it must be true. No, I am not like my friend for example; -but Englishmen are not all one like another. There is variety, as you -have said so beautifully, like a poem, about the weather. Ah, the -English weather! I should like that.” - -“I don’t think you would altogether,” said Lydia with a quiet smile. She -had no attention to bestow on Paolo. But she did what impulsive people -are so apt to do with strangers, insignificant but sympathetic, often to -the great damage of the victim. She leant forward a little and took him -into her confidence. “You are a great friend of Mr. Oliver?” she said, -“you told me so; then please don’t go away when Mr. Bonamy comes back, -for he is asking me questions, and I would rather not answer. It might -do Mr. Oliver harm.” - -“I will not go--for the King himself--if you thus tell me to remain,” -cried Paolo, enchanted. But he was confounded too; he did not -understand. The first and most natural idea seemed to be that Lydia and -Harry were old friends or lovers, with a secret between them; or else -this was a mere pretence to secure the pleasure of his, Paolo’s, -society, instead of that of Mr. Bonamy. English young ladies, who were -so free in their manners, so emancipated, did very strange things. Paolo -smiled upon Lydia with his most captivating smile. “I could stay here -for evare,” he said. - -Lydia gave him a look of amused surprise, but she did not mind the -little man at all, nor did it for a moment occur to her that he might -interpret her sudden confidential impulse according to any theory of -nationalities. - -“It is very hard,” she said, leaning back in her chair with a little -sigh of relief, “when anyone looks you in the face, and keeps on asking -questions, not to tell everything that you know.” - -“You think so,” said Paolo. “Ah! Mees Joscelyn, it is that you are so -true, what you call straightforwards in England; here one would take a -pleasure in doing otherwise. In Italy, when it is imagined that you -desire to know more than is necessary, that pleases to us to confuse -you. Not to me,” he said, bethinking himself, and beating his breast -lightly to indicate himself as an exception, “not to me, for I am also -English: but to noi altri Italiani:” this little confusion of a double -identity as English, yet one of _noi altri_, pleased Paolo; he laughed -at his own cleverness with the frankest self-appreciation. “It pleases,” -he said, “to put a too much inquirer wrong.” - -“But when he looks you in the face,” said Lydia, amused and relieved, -“how can you say anything but what it really is? There is a--person in -England whom I know. He is not a gentleman, but he has the same name as -Mr. Oliver. Mr. Oliver’s name is Isaac, is it not? but then they call -him something else, and I don’t know what to think.” - -“My amico, Oliver, pleases to Miss Joscelyn?” Paolo said. - -“Pleases to----? I feel a great interest in him,” said Lydia. “He -startled me so much with the sound of his name; and then he is like -somebody I know. I cannot remember who it is--but there is some one; and -then Mr. Bonamy asks me so many questions--I feel an interest. I do not -think it very wise, if you have poor relations, to be ashamed of -them--do you? And yet one does not like to betray another if there is -any reason--” Lydia became so fragmentary in her utterances, that Paolo -could not follow the broken thread of her thoughts. - -“Ny-ce?” he said. “But my friend Oliver is very ny-ce--there is not a -thought in him that is not ny-ce. I know,” said Paolo, with an -ingratiating smile, “that word so well.” - -“How nice of you to answer for him so!” cried Lydia, turning upon him -with a sudden radiance of smiles. “It is delightful to meet with such a -true friend.” - -Paolo’s very soul expanded with pleasure. He put his hand upon his -shirtfront, and bowed over the little table, laden with the -picture-books. He did not deprecate as an Englishman would have done, or -disclaim any merit in this; but took the full credit of it with a -pleasant consciousness of deserving it. He thought, however, that there -had been enough of Oliver, and determined to push his own successful -fortunes without further delay. “Miss Joscelyn, I hope, will stay long, -a little while, two, tree weeks at Livorno? No! Oh! that is bad news, -very bad news,” said Paolo, his face growing longer and longer as she -shook her head. - -“Only till to-morrow--to-morrow evening we are to go by the steamboat;” -and Lydia, reverting to her own thoughts, recorded this statement with a -sigh. - -“You are sorry to leave the beautiful Italy. Ah! and Italy too will be -desolated when so many charming Inglesi, so many beautiful ladies leave -her shore--to-morrow! That is bad news, very bad news,” Paolo said. - -“I am afraid Italy will not care very much,” said Lydia, with a little -laugh. “The English come and go every year; but I don’t think I shall -ever come back. For me it is once in my life,” she said, this time with -a sigh; and the sigh was a sad one, for there came once more over her -mind, which had been temporarily distracted by a new subject, all the -heavy and troubled thoughts which had made her so restless and wretched -for a few days past. - -“No, no,” cried Paolo. “No, no--ah! pardon, it must not be one time in -the Signorina’s life. She must return--she must return! There are -impressions, made in a moment--which will nevare, nevare be effaced----” - -Paolo was carried out of himself; he leaned across the table, almost -kneeling at Liddy’s feet, and with the most passionate expression in his -large liquid Italian eyes. Lydia on her side looked at the little man -with the sublimest composure. She elevated her eyebrows the least in the -world in mild surprise, and a passing wonder crossed her mind, -immediately checked by the reflection that these were “Italian ways.” -But Paolo’s rapt looks attracted the attention of others, if not of her -to whom they were addressed. Two champions stepped forth immediately to -the rescue. On one side Harry, hasty and disposed to be a little -peremptory with his friend, and on the other Lionel, anxious and -alarmed, thinking of course that any rival might come in at the last -moment and “cut him out.” - -“Paolo,” said Harry, “I wish you’d look after that gymnastic man for the -children--the man you told me about. Ralph is coming back to-morrow; he -wants exercise when he’s in town.” - -“Ralph?” said Lydia, looking up, and once more meeting a look which -bewildered her. Harry’s brow was a little clouded, but his eyes had the -same tender appeal in them, the same solicitude, as if he wanted her to -understand him. What did he want her to understand? and here was another -familiar name. - -“Yes,” he said, but a little uneasily; “it is an English name. We are -divided a little in our family. The next is Giovanna, after an aunt--of -my wife’s.” - -“But that has an English form, too,” said Lionel. “Joan.” - -A spark seemed to flash out of the eyes of this strange Mr. Oliver. He -meant something. What did he mean? Lydia seemed to herself to be groping -after him as if he had led her into a dark passage with a doubtful -outlet, yet one that showed faintly far off. Isaac or not, he must be -somebody who knew about him, who was conscious of some connection. And -to see him standing there before her, the idea that he belonged to old -Isaac Oliver seemed too absurd to be entertained. How foolish she had -been to say anything about it; how unkind and impertinent to try to vex -him by producing that ghost of an old country servant! But then how was -it that this stranger knew she was speaking of an old peasant, a man of -a different species? He knew all about him, she was convinced. Old -Isaac meant to him what it meant to her. Here again Liddy got entirely -confused in the darkness, and groped and felt that she must be on the -edge of finding out all about it, but for the moment knew nothing, and -had not even begun to suspect any new turn which the confusion might yet -take. - -“Names seem very much the same in all languages,” said Harry; “the -contractions are different. In England we take the first half of the -name, in Italy the last. My wife’s name is Rita; one little girl is -Madge; but they are the same name--Margaret. And you’ve only to stick on -a vowel, and an English name becomes prime Italian. There’s yours, for -instance, Paolo; in English you would be Paul.” - -“That is true,” said Paolo, dissembling, with a broad smile of -affection, the sensations produced by the slap upon his shoulders which -Harry was in the habit of administering, and which he was too polite, -too devoted, to complain of. Paolo had a keen pang of disappointment too -to have been thus interrupted while he felt he was making such progress -with the beautiful young Englishwoman; but he was too sweet-tempered to -resent it. He winced under the blow, but he smiled all the same. “That -is true,” he said; “but, amico mio, if you could but learn what it is to -pronounce two vowels in the Italian! Mees Joscelyn must know that my -friend Oliver, he is in Italia for ten years, and still he cannot do -justice to two vowels. Will the Signorina make me the pleasure to -pronounce my name?--Paolo. Pao-lo, broad, like this--ow. He will never -catch it, he is so true an Englishman; but Mees Joscelyn will say -it--ah, perfectly!” cried Paolo, clapping his hands together, and once -more throwing himself into that adoring attitude; “thanks a thousand -times; that is to make music of my poor little name.” - -At this both the Englishmen made a step forward, and stood tall and -frowning like sentinels on either side of her, glooming down upon the -little Italian, thrown forward almost upon his knees, with his clasped -hands half way over the table, and rapture in his big, beautiful eyes. -The scene roused Lydia in spite of herself. She was only a girl after -all, and this conflict of emotion around her, the demonstrative -adoration on one side, the furious defence on the other, which was quite -as great a compliment, amused her, and gave her a little thrill of -pleasure. Both Harry and Lionel, however, were much disgusted to -perceive that, instead of being indignant and offended by Paolo’s -demonstration, she was at the least amused, and perhaps pleased. This -made them more angry than ever. - -“The vowel may add softness,” said Lionel, in a tone of irritation; “but -I don’t think that is any advantage, at least in a man’s name. In that a -little abruptness, a bold conclusion, is desirable, not a liquid _a_ or -_o_.” - -“You want English for that,” said Harry; “these foreign beggars (I beg -your pardon, Paolo) are all for airs and graces. I suppose I can’t get -my mouth about them; though to tell the truth I don’t see any difference -between my pronunciation and Miss Joscelyn’s.” - -“It is true,” said Paolo, “there is a sound in both your voices--what -you call it--a tone. You have in brief, by the way, the same voice--that -is strange. Mr. Brotherton, he is in a different key; but you, that is a -great compliment for you, amico, you are in the same note with Mees -Joscelyn. She will speak perfectly, perfectly! the Italian, and you no. -Oh, you no! nevare,” said Paolo with a laugh, clapping his hands; “but -nevertheless it is true you are in the same tone.” - -“That is strange,” Harry said. Once more he looked at her so -affectionately, with a kind look of pleasure in his eyes, that Lydia was -more and more bewildered. “It is a great compliment to me, as Paolo -says.” - -“My mother seems to want you, Lydia,” said Lionel, very coldly. He did -not like it at all. It seemed to him that Oliver, who was a married man, -was forgetting himself altogether, though he was an Englishman, and -ought to have known better; and was paying court undisguisedly to Lydia -as well as this little hop-o’-my-thumb of an Italian who was languishing -at her feet, just like a foreigner, showing off those sentiments which -an Englishman has the delicacy to conceal. And Lydia was pleased! Was it -possible? Such a thoroughly nice girl, so modest and delightful in all -her ways, never putting herself forward, always with the pretty reserve -in her frankness which is the very bloom of maidenhood. To think that -she should be pleased! Lionel felt that he could not understand it. -This, no doubt, was the sort of thing which made cynics declare women to -be incomprehensible creatures. A really nice girl, everything about her -good and pure, and yet this kind of thing actually pleased her! Lionel’s -indignation, and disgust, and disappointment were extreme, but he tried -to restrain himself. “My mother is looking for you,” he said. “And I -suppose she wants to go. You must not forget my father has been ill, and -that we have a long journey before us.” He hoped the fellow would -understand this; that she was going away to-morrow, and that he had no -further chance of philandering in this barefaced way; and he hoped Liddy -understood that he thought her forgetful and inconsiderate, and showing -no feeling for poor old Sir John, not to speak of Sir John’s son. But -his ill-temper did not have so great an effect as it might have had in -other circumstances. She was looking up at Oliver, wondering, with her -pretty eyebrows slightly raised and a softened, gentle, almost -child-like look, interrogating the eyes of that fellow, who was a -married man! Lionel thought it absolutely immoral. He was disgusted and -bewildered, and did not know what to think. He made another step nearer -and offered her his arm. “My mother,” he repeated, with some sharpness, -“is moving to go away.” - -Lydia made no resistance. She took his arm quite submissively, and held -out her other hand. “Good night,” she said to Harry. “I suppose we must -be of the same country, as we have the same voice.” - -“Yes,” he said, holding her hand a moment, “we are of the same country, -and I know what you think; but it is not that.” - -“It is not _that_? What is it?” Lydia said, with a startled look, as if -she saw light somewhere; but then Rita came forward with Lady Brotherton -and took leave coldly of Miss Joscelyn, and there was nothing for it but -to go away. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -THE COUNSELS OF THE NIGHT. - - -“Liddy, Liddy, my dear! you should not have said anything about that old -man. How is it possible that he could be a relation of Mr. Bonamy’s -son-in-law? It is odd, of course, about the name; still, you know, there -might be another Lydia Joscelyn in the world who was no relation of -yours. There are Joscelyns down in the South. I thought when Sir John -first remembered about your mother that it was one of them she had -married; and there might just as well as not be a Lydia among them. -Lydia is not a common name, no more common than Isaac--but there might -be a Lydia among them, who, of course, would not be related to you.” - -“I don’t think now that he is related to Mr. Oliver,” Lydia said. - -“I wonder,” said Lionel, “what reason you have for that? It seems much -more likely to me than before. I don’t think the fellow is a gentleman. -Oh, he looks well enough, there is nothing amiss about his appearance; -still there are some things I have remarked.” - -“If Lionel thinks so,” said Lady Brotherton, “my dear, in these matters, -I always take the opinion of a man, just as about women I would take a -lady’s opinion before all the men in the world. Oh, yes, it is very -pretty to talk of jealousy, and all that; but you may be sure we all -know our own kind the best. If Lionel thinks so, I would take his -opinion before my own.” - -At this Lionel had compunctions, and drew back a little. - -“Perhaps I went too far,” he said. “I was out of temper. Still there are -some things a man would not do, if----” but though he felt that he had -been rash, he did not complete his sentence. The carriage stopped, -indeed, at that moment at the inn door, and there was no time for him to -say anything more; and Lydia took no further part in the discussion. - -She bade her friends good night in the hall of the inn and ran upstairs -to her room. She was rather glad to have disagreed with Lionel and set -her own opinion before his, and she felt angry with him, indignant, and -almost wounded, that he should have given such an opinion. She felt it -almost to be something against herself. She hurried up to her own room, -to finish her packing, she said. She had taken out her white dress to -wear that evening, and had now to put it back, to resume her -travelling-garments. It was their last night in Italy; next evening they -would be at sea, seeing the sun set in the Mediterranean. It was a warm -night, and her mind was far too restless and busy for sleep. When she -had put away her dress, and arranged all her possessions in order, she -went to the open window and sat down there, looking out at the moon. The -room was high up near the skies, and she had all the firmament to -herself, nothing to disturb its calm except the old belfry of a convent -with its little tinkling bell, which was always in movement all day -long, but which seemed to have gone to bed along with the peaceful -sisters and their pupils. This little belfry stood out against the deep -blue of the sky, which lined out every little curve and corner, but all -was quiet in and about it, its shrill tongue still till morning. All -was quiet; the room looked out to the back of the house, and not an echo -of the street reached Lydia in her retirement. She felt, half with the -giddiness of her excited condition, half with the expectation of -to-morrow, as if she were sailing upon a sea of space, floating between -the earth and sky; and as she sat there so still, her candles burning in -the background unnoticed, sedately awaiting her leisure, and the soft -night blowing in upon her with a breath of the sea in it, a perfect -crowd and storm of thoughts burst on Lydia in the quiet. She thought, -you would suppose, of what she had been doing to-night, of the curious -questions about Isaac Oliver, and the examination to which the -Vice-Consul had subjected her, and all the novelty of this story into -which she had been thrust head and shoulders without any will of her -own; but, to tell the truth, Lydia thought nothing about this at all, at -first. She thought of to-morrow, of the tide of movement which would -sweep her away, of leaning over the bulwark and seeing the long trail of -the water gliding under the ship, and of what might be said to her -there. Sir John would be safely installed in the deck-cabin, which had -always to be secured for him, and Lady Brotherton would stretch herself -out on a sofa and close her eyes, in preparation for being ill. And -then: what would be said? She wove a great many imaginary conversations -that came to nothing. Why should they come to anything? He would tell -her--what he was going to do in town; that he hoped she would enjoy -going home; something commonplace, ordinary--or else he would say -foolish things about the months they had been together, and pretend to -regret them. Why should he regret them? Lydia imagined herself saying -much that would not be true, that she was impatient to get back, that -the quiet of the Fells would be delightful after so much wandering; and -much besides which would pique him and wound him, and perhaps goad him -to say other unpleasant things in return. - -And then all at once, without any doing of hers, her thoughts gave a -leap back to to-night, and there began to float and move before her all -the new faces never seen before, never, probably, to be seen again, -which for an hour or two had filled her with such strange, strong -interest. From the moment Mr. Isaac Oliver had been announced, startling -her out of herself, until now, when still discussing him, she had left -the rest of the party in the hall, the encounter had agitated and -disturbed her. “We are of the same country, and I know what you -think--but it is not that.” What did he mean?--it is not that! and why -did a stranger whom she had never seen before look at her so, and -understand her so strangely? Her heart began to beat loudly once more -when she thought of her impertinent production of old Isaac, when seated -beside her silent host at the table, taunting him with the old man; and -he understood her--that was the strange thing. If he did not really -belong to old Isaac Oliver, how was it that he understood her? When he -looked at her with that curious appeal, as if saying “Do not vex me--do -not trouble me,” there would have been no meaning in it if he had not -known what she meant; and how could he know if it was not true? Lydia -felt herself caught as in a net of confusing questions and thoughts. -Another man would have been surprised; he would have asked “Who is this -namesake of mine? Tell me about him.” But this man did not ask a -question; he _knew_. She felt that from the first moment she had -perceived this involuntarily, and that her little pricks of questions -could not have had any point if he had not known old Isaac, and if she -had not felt that he knew him. Mr. Bonamy, for instance, did not know at -all, and asked natural questions--who the gentleman was? the gentleman! -if he was a neighbour, a farmer, a yeoman?--none of which things Mr. -Oliver so much as suggested. Then who was this that knew Isaac Oliver, -that knew her own name she began to remember, starting when he heard it -first, as she had started when she heard his? - -By this time Lydia began to get hot after the puzzle which unfolded -itself slowly before her. Why did the Vice-Consul ask her so many -questions? and he had begun to say something about “the name of -Joscelyn.” What about the name of Joscelyn? Then a crowd of bewildering -recollections, like motes in the sunbeam, like the whirling flakes of a -snowstorm, began to circle and dance and palpitate around her. “We are -of the same country, and I know what you think--but it is not that.” -What was it, then? What was it? He a relative of Isaac Oliver! no, -no!--it was impossible; but he knew Isaac Oliver; he knew his name and -herself; he knew what she meant when she spoke; and when she tried to -humble him with her impertinence, he was not angry, but sorry. She -seemed to see now his kind, half-reproachful, half-appealing eyes, the -look which bewildered and arrested her, she could not tell why. Quicker -and quicker went the course of Lydia’s thoughts. He had a child who was -called Ralph, and another Joan--no, not Joan, but Giovanna; but there -had come a gleam out of his eyes when Lionel had suggested Joan. Who was -he, who could he be to use these names, to look like that, like somebody -she had seen, to understand all she meant, yet not to be angry? And -their voices that were of the same tone! She could see this herself, or -rather she could hear it herself--that their voices sounded alike, with -a suspicion of a North-Country accent. Good heavens! where was this -flood of suggestion, of recollection, carrying her? She jumped up from -her seat in the confusion and hurry of her thoughts, and began to pace -about the room, her hands clasped together like her mother’s. Then she -stopped in the centre of the room, and in the silence, in the middle of -the night, threw up her arms above her head with a wild gesture, and -gave a sudden cry. “Harry!” she almost screamed to herself in the -stillness. Everybody was asleep around her, the stars winking in the -sky as if about to shut up their wakeful eyes, the blue behind the -belfry beginning to glow with a pale radiation into the air of the -coming dawn--and as if they had given each other a signal, all the -clocks of the silent town began chiming and striking, some of them -prolonging the lengthened measure of the Italian time into the soft -tuning of the night. Lydia standing in the middle of the room in wild -excitement, her hair streaming about her, her arms thrown up, her mouth -open, looked like a prophetess in a trance, seeing the invisible, almost -shrieking her revelation into the heart of the silence. Harry! Harry! -She could not keep it to herself; she could not help but scream it out -into the night, to make sure that she was not dreaming or raving--but -was a sane creature, who had made a discovery which seemed to set her -whole being on fire. - -It was a long time before she could calm herself down. If there had been -anybody to tell it to, that would have been something; but, as she had -no way of getting rid of her excitement, it blazed up in her higher and -higher. She did not know what to do to calm herself down. She walked -about for nearly an hour, now and then going to the window, leaning half -out, exposing herself to the fresh air and coolness, eagerly looking -for the first early riser, the first window opening, and watching the -little belfry grow black against the lightening sky, then flash and -blaze to the first touch of the sun. Sleep! she could have sooner done -anything else in the world--stretched out her arms like wings and flown, -leaped down from the window, called out to all the city, that was what -she wanted to do--“Harry, Harry!” She seemed to have but one idea left -in the world. - -After a while, however, in the desperation of being unable to -communicate her discovery, or do anything to bring herself more clearly -face to face with so wonderful a revelation, Lydia sat down to trace it -again step by step, then lay down on her bed, going over and over the -familiar ground. She fell asleep just as the sunshine began to stream -into her room, and slept soundly for an hour or two in the depths of her -exhaustion; but when she woke it was still early, and a long day before -her. Naturally the first thing she did was to survey again the entire -circumstances, going over them one by one. She had not much experience, -and in her whole life no such lawless incident as a _nuit blanche_, a -night spent without taking off her clothes had ever occurred to Liddy -before. She felt almost guilty as she found herself lying there, her -long hair streaming about her, in her dressing-gown, as she had been -when she first sat down at her window to think. Sometimes the morning -light dissipates the wisest calculations and conclusions of the night, -and turns its theories and revelations into folly; but as she started up -hastily, and began to put her facts together again, no such awakening -occurred. They seemed more conclusive, more certain, in the sober light -of the morning, than they did in the feverish wakefulness of the long, -silent night. She pieced them all together hurriedly, in a tremble of -excitement. He had been there ten years, and it was ten years since -Harry disappeared. He had said nothing about his family, he had even -married without any explanation on that point. He had started at the -sound of her name; he had understood all she said. He had called his -child Ralph--_Ralph!_ after his father, with a prejudice that was -North-country all over; and his name was Harry, so called by his wife, -though he had himself announced as Isaac Oliver. Lydia thought she could -understand exactly what had made him take Isaac Oliver’s name--a moment -of despite and despair, yet humour--a putting down of himself from the -pinnacle of the Joscelyns to the humility of the lowliest servant, an -expedient which would direct the thoughts of anyone who might seek him -into another direction. She sprang up, and was fully dressed and ready -to begin the extraordinary piece of work she had in hand, before anyone -else of the party had stirred. But what was she to do? Was she to go to -him straight, without any further inquiry, without a pause, and say, Are -you my brother Harry? or, You are my brother Harry! If by any chance he -was not so, after all, he would think her mad. What was she to do? She -sat down again at the window where she had sat for half the night. The -sunshine was pouring in, growing every moment more brilliant, not like -the temperate British sunshine which it is a pleasure in the early -morning to bathe and bask in, but already blazing, slaying in its -Italian force and fervour. She had to close the _persiani_, which she -had herself thrown open in her restlessness on the previous night. When -all the people of the hotel were in motion, and life fully astir, she -went downstairs; but there was nothing to be done there, save to sit -down once more and think it all over again. She had not been there long, -however, when Lionel came into the room in search of a book; he had been -restless too; but he started violently when he caught sight of her -buried in a great chair, with her hands clasped in her lap. For the -first moment he thought that she must have been there all night. - -“Lydia!” he cried, in great alarm, “what is the matter?” Then he added, -hastily, “My nerves are entirely wrong, I think. You startled me so, as -if you had been all night in that chair.” - -“Not in this chair,” said Liddy, willing, however, to have some credit -of her sleepless night, “but almost the same. Cousin Lionel, I want -advice very much. I am very lonely and very inexperienced to do anything -so important by myself.” - -He came quickly and drew a chair close to her. She was excited -physically by her vigil, and the tears were very near her eyes, which -were brimming full when Lionel, much concerned and very tender and -sympathetic, looked her in the face. He put out his hand to take hers -with anxious solicitude; and Lydia did not resist. Her heart was so -full, and she was so overburdened with this new thing, that the mere -touch of a sympathetic hand was a consolation to her. The tears dropped -out of her eyes like two drops of rain upon her dress, and then she -looked at him and said, “I have found Harry,” with the tremor of a sob -in her voice. - -“You have found----!” he was so startled that he did not know what to -say in reply. - -“Cousin Lionel,” cried Lydia, “answer me this--how did he know what I -meant when I spoke of Isaac Oliver? He knew very well, he never asked a -question; and why did he start when he heard my name? I saw it myself. -He arrived here ten years ago, without knowing anybody, he has never -told them about his family, he called himself _that_, don’t you see, in -a kind of disdain at himself and everything. Then he married and -promised never to take his wife to England. He did not want ever to go -to England, why was that? And he called his son Ralph, fancy, _Ralph_! -why was that? And though he is called Isaac Oliver to the world, he -could not bear that at home, and they call him Harry, his true name. Oh, -Lionel, do you not see it all? It is perfectly clear, as clear as -noon-day. And now tell me what am I to do?” - -“But----” Lionel said, who had not followed, entirely without -preparation as he was, her breathless argument. “What do you mean? tell -me what you mean? I am utterly bewildered. Are you speaking of -Oliver--_Oliver_? I don’t understand what you mean.” - -Lydia made a gesture of impatience. - -“Oh, everybody is so slow, so slow!” she cried, “except him. He -understood at once. Don’t you see he must have known it all beforehand, -everything that could be said? He never asked, ‘Who is Isaac Oliver?’ he -said in a moment, directly, ‘He is no relation of mine.’ How could he -know if he had not known?” cried Liddy, too eager to be lucid. “Mr. -Bonamy asked me, ‘Who are you talking of? a neighbour, a farmer, a -yeoman, who is it?’ but _he_ never asked a question. He said directly, -‘He is no relation of mine;’ and when we were coming away he said to me, -‘I know what you think, but it is not that.’ Now how could he know what -I thought if he had not known?” - -“By Jove!” said Lionel. He was very much startled, so that some -exclamation was necessary. “That is very acute,” he said; “I see what -you mean. It is very acute, and this is very strange. Perhaps--there may -be something in it. But you know,” he added, “it is far too pat, too -complete, to be a real discovery. People do not find long lost brothers -like this.” - -“Oh, do not talk--in that common way,” cried Lydia; “as if strange -things did not happen as much as they ever did! Why should it be too -complete? The more you think of everything, the more you will feel sure. -Don’t you see just why he chose that name to disguise himself with? I -do. And all those little bits of kindness--to call his boy Ralph, like a -forgiveness to my father, who was so hard upon him. He has not a Liddy,” -she cried, with a little regret. “Ah, I see how that was too! mother, -dear mother, he had nothing to forgive her. Lionel! Lionel!” she cried, -grasping him by the arm in her excitement, “tell me what I must do?” - -“You see meaning in everything,” he said, “more than there is, more than -there can be, Lydia. All that about his child’s name is just your own -delicate feeling--though after all, when one comes to think of it, -Ralph! it is an odd name for a little Italian boy.” - -“And the girl is Giovanna; you said yourself it was the same name as -Joan.” - -“Did I? I am sure I did not mean anything,” said Lionel, with a short -laugh, and then he cried, “By Jove!” again. “I really do think there is -something in it. He gave a look, I remember now, as if he did -understand, as if he thought I meant something. It looks very odd, -Lydia; and I had a strong impression he was like some one that I had -seen him before.” - -“He is like--all of us,” said Lydia, with a little breathless gasp, “not -one nor another, but all. But tell me, tell me what to do! We have only -to-day, a few hours, nothing more!” - -“As for that,” said Lionel, “of course, if this turns out so important, -my mother must simply arrange to stay till we see the end of it. She -will not mind, she will like to jump into the middle of a romance; and -my father will easily be persuaded to stay, there will be no difficulty -about that.” - -And then there was a long debate and consultation between them; a -debate--for Lionel, not understanding that even when a human creature is -a woman she likes to do her work with her own hands, was for proceeding -to the Vice-Consul himself, and going through all the pros and cons, and -bringing the result to her, to save her fatigue, and to keep her from -all disagreeable contact with the world; whereas Lydia’s most -prevailing desire was to follow out the clue at which she had caught, -and to track her prey into his last refuge, and to unveil the impostor. -She did not use these words, but this was the course upon which she was -intent. She was not afraid of contact with the world, or of what anybody -might say. The discussion rose somewhat hotly between them as the -servants came and went, laying the table, bringing in the English urn -and teapot, which all the Inglesi preferred. They were still sitting -close together, talking warmly, interrupting each other, Lydia’s face -glowing with the excitement of the situation, when Lady Brotherton -appeared. She was startled by the sight, but for the moment she did not -ask any questions, being much pre-occupied by Sir John’s breakfast, that -the tea should be strong enough without being too strong, that the cream -should not be “turned,” and that the fish should be done to his mind. -She did not take much notice of them, and the meeting between them broke -up, each retiring upon his and her own side of the question. Lydia was -too much excited to talk, or to think, of ordinary things. She sat at -the table as upon thorns, and the moment the meal was over, got up with -some excuse and hastened away. Lionel followed her a few minutes after. -He lingered in the hall, hoping he might be in time, at least, to go -with her, wherever she might choose to go. But as she did not come, -after half-an-hour’s waiting Lionel resolved to act upon his own theory, -and accordingly set out on his volunteer mission, hoping that she might -have thought better of it, and was staying with dignity in her room, -however anxious she might be, waiting till he, her representative, -should bring her news. It was a pretty division of labour, and one that -fell in with all Lionel’s views. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -ACTING FOR HERSELF. - - -But it is not to be supposed that Lydia, her whole being ablaze with -excitement and eagerness, was likely to assent to this masculine view of -what was best for her. Before Lionel had got downstairs into the hall, -where he waited so long to intercept any rash enterprise she might be -bound on, she had stolen out, tremulous yet brave, and was speeding -along the morning streets, where the passers-by, who gazed at her with -that frank admiration which Italians feel, without any impertinence of -meaning, to be the due of every pretty woman--excused, yet wondered at -her solitary progress, on the score that everything was to be pardoned -to an Englishwoman. Lydia herself was confused by the looks she met on -every side, but her mind was so entirely preoccupied that they made less -impression upon her than they would have done had it been at freedom, -and it did not occur to her that she was being guilty of any breach of -decorum. What troubled her more was that she was uncertain of the way, -having paid but little attention to it last night, and she was shy of -asking which turning to take. But by right of the inspiration that was -in her, and of that good fortune which attends daring, she at last found -herself in a street which she recognised, and saw with a beating heart -the well-known shield over the doorway. It was not to the official -entrance she was bound. She saw with a smile, even in the midst of all -the ferment of her agitation, the little Italian, her admirer of the -previous night, in light clothes and a cigar, making his way towards it; -and, lingering a moment till he disappeared within the doorway, she -hurried after him till she got safely within the shelter of the -courtyard and to the door of the Vice-Consul’s house. - -The Vice-Consul that morning had been early astir. He had been painfully -affected by the half-revelation of last night. All these years, since -the beginning of their intercourse when he had framed his theory about -Harry’s parentage so easily, and satisfied himself so entirely that he -must be right, nothing had occurred to put this theory to the test. The -marriage had taken place while he was still ill, and in a state of some -danger, and perhaps at the bottom of his heart he was glad and relieved -to be in a condition which made all inquiries impossible, and which -forced him to throw himself upon Harry’s honour. He had never had any -occasion to be shaken in his faith as to that honour personally, and use -and wont had made everything natural. For years he had not thought on -the question. Nothing had occurred to bring it up. The serene domestic -life had flowed along, and notwithstanding the drawbacks on Mr. Bonamy’s -part which have been already noted, they had been happy together. He was -aware that, though he might sometimes grudge Harry the position he had -acquired in Rita’s affection, yet that he himself would have been the -first to miss him had any accident taken Harry away. But at the first -whisper of a real discovery of his son-in-law’s antecedents, Mr. Bonamy -was roused out of the quiescence of years. The very suggestion of some -one bearing Harry’s name roused him, and something about Harry, an -awakened attention in his eyes, a strain of watchfulness quite unusual -with his simple, easy-going nature had aided the impression. He had -already heard something from Miss Joscelyn, and was on his way to learn -more when Harry had interrupted the conversation, calling him away for a -matter of business to which strictly speaking it was necessary that he -should give his attention, but which in other circumstances his -son-in-law, he felt sure, would have managed himself rather than disturb -him among his guests. And what he had heard had roused him still more. -It was evident that the person, whoever he was, who bore the same name -was not a relation to be proud of, and the Vice-Consul too was impressed -by the fact, dimly apparent, that Harry had shown no surprise and asked -no questions when this namesake was spoken of. There had been that look -in his eyes, _eveillé_, on the watch, on his guard; but no -curiosity--and he had not said a word about it when the guests were -gone. Neither had Rita said anything about it, which would have seemed -so natural. She had not asked who Miss Joscelyn was speaking of, or what -she was speaking of; but had maintained a complete silence on the -subject. All this awakened the Vice-Consul’s anxious curiosity. He was -on the watch at breakfast next morning, hoping that something might be -said, that Harry might laugh at the suggestion made to him, or take some -notice of it. But nothing occurred to throw the least light upon the -subject. Harry was still watchful, still on his guard, but chiefly -occupied with little Madge and the baby, whom he brought in to breakfast -seated high upon his shoulder, and who occupied him completely in a way -which filled the elder man, though he had usually all the indulgence of -a grandfather for his descendants, with impatience. He was glad to get -away from this scene, rising somewhat abruptly, and going out without -any explanation. Had Lydia come the direct way she would have met Mr. -Bonamy and saved him a great deal of annoyance and trouble. But, as she -took two or three wrong turnings, the Vice-Consul reached the inn and -was shown up to the sitting-room to wait for Lady Brotherton about the -same time that Lydia reached his house; and Lionel, by no means so sure -what to do as either of these straightforward and one-idead persons, had -gone to the English bankers, the best-informed persons he could think -of, to see what information about Mr. Isaac Oliver he could pick up -there. - -Lady Brotherton was still busy about Sir John’s breakfast, endeavouring -to beguile him to the simple luxury of an egg instead of the something -much less safe on which he had set his fancy. “You must not forget that -we start to-night; that we have a sea voyage before us,” she was saying. -“Morsh-a reason for deshunt breakfast now,” said the invalid, and -chuckled and laughed at his own cleverness. His wife was not at all -disposed to go downstairs and hear what Mr. Bonamy might have to say. -“Let’sh have old Bonamy up here--show him up here,” Sir John said; but -that was so much worse that Lady Brotherton left him to his ortolan, and -went off to answer her untimely visitor. She thought it was no doubt a -mere visit of goodwill, to inquire “if he could be of any use.” “As if -we wanted anybody to be of use! As if we were not experienced enough to -know what we want, and how to get it,” she said to herself, as she went -to the unwelcome guest. Her mind was a little perturbed besides; the -servant had declared that he could not find either Mr. Brotherton or -Miss Joscelyn. They had both gone out. Where had they gone, had they -gone together? she asked, but nobody could tell. Now Lady Brotherton had -bidden them to go out together, had said they were cousins, and had no -need of a chaperon, but she did not like this adoption of her advice so -suddenly. The last morning, just when Sir John wanted special managing, -that he might commit no imprudence before the evening, and when they -might have known Mr. Bonamy would be sure to call! - -But when Lady Brotherton heard that it was not civility, nor for her -sake at all, but a visit full of self-interest upon his own business, -this interruption in the midst of all her cares threw her out of temper. - -“No, indeed, I cannot tell you much,” she said; “I heard them talking of -it, but I did not pay much attention. The man is an old servant, I -believe, belonging to Miss Joscelyn’s family, a sort of old factotum at -a farm. My son lodged in some rooms in the old Manor-house (I think), -and this old Isaac and his wife ‘did for him,’ as people say. Yes, I am -sure that was the story. They all know this old man, quite respectable, -I feel sure, a sort of good class of family retainer; servants of this -kind still flourish, you know, in some out of the way places. Mr. -Bonamy, I am afraid you are ill.” - -“No, no,” he said, waving his hand, “nothing, it’s nothing, a kind of -faintness I have sometimes since my illness, which goes off directly. I -see--I see--an old servant. Well, of course, it was a very odd -coincidence, very odd. But I thought at first the young lady -supposed--that this old man of hers was somehow connected with my -son-in-law. Thank you! thank you! I see how absurd I was.” - -“Oh, I don’t think Lydia could be so ridiculous as to think that,” said -Lady Brotherton, “only my son and she were both struck by the name; it -is such an uncommon name. At least, the two together were struck by it; -they both cried out, ‘Isaac Oliver!’ My son is rather fond of telling -absurd stories about this poor old man. He is a kind of a wit in his -way, it seems, but a little of that goes a long way in the country. I -don’t think I have seen much humour in what they tell of him--” - -“A thing that is quite commonplace often seems original from the lips -of a clown,” said the Vice-Consul, with solemnity. “Perhaps you have -heard something about the family, or children, or other relatives of -this--old man?” Mr. Bonamy felt disposed to call him a confounded old -man, but, after all, it was not the old man’s fault. - -“Nothing at all, nothing whatever, I assure you. You must not think, Mr. -Bonamy, for a moment--it was only _pour rire_; they never supposed, I am -sure you will believe me when I say it, of connecting old Isaac -with--any gentleman; it was a mere joke. They thought the coincidence so -amusing, and Lydia, I suppose, as girls do, thought it was fun to tease -Mr. Oliver a little; that was all. I have never heard a word more about -it. It was only at the moment. I hope you will forgive my silly -youngsters. They are both out. I cannot think where they are gone, or -they would make their apologies themselves.” - -“No apologies are necessary,” the Vice-Consul said. He was very grave, -his countenance had changed even since he came in, much more since -yesterday, when his handsome head had been full of serene content. There -was a deeply marked wrinkle in his forehead, and the lines at the -corners of his mouth drooped heavily. He seemed to have aged -half-a-dozen years. “There is no harm done; and where there is no -offence there need be no excuse.” He said this with a sort of formality, -such as he was in the habit of employing to troublesome British -subjects, who got into many scrapes and gave much occupation to the -representative of their country in pulling them out. It was a style that -told (for the moment) upon such persons, and it came to his hand readily -on an emergency. “I am glad to hear there is so little in it,” he added, -rising. “Unfortunately my son-in-law is estranged from his family, and -we know but little about them; so that I thought it just possible this -might be some one--in whose well-being he was interested. It is I who -should apologise for troubling you. I hope Sir John is none the worse -for last night?” - -“He is not at all strong,” said Lady Brotherton. “It begins to be -anxious work when we have long journeys to take. But he bears them -better than anyone would think,” she added. “Oh, no, he is none the -worse; I left him making a very good breakfast. He would have liked to -see you, but I could not think to trouble you coming into a sick-room.” - -“No trouble at all,” Mr. Bonamy said, but he did not make any motion to -go, neither did she wish him to do so, and they parted with mutual -politenesses and professions of regret to have given each other trouble, -and repeated protestations that it was no trouble at all. But when the -Vice-Consul got out of doors, he went along slowly with a dejected -tread, his head drooping, his eyes dim, and little in him of the -dignified tranquillity becoming the representative of H.B.M. He was -wounded in his pride, in his self-confidence, in the serenity of his -judgment, in the force of his instincts. He was not going to give up -Harry; Harry was Harry, whatever happened. But to think, after all, that -he was _not a gentleman_, that the family which Mr. Bonamy had taken for -granted was a family of laborious peasants, not of gentlefolks, that his -relations were such as would not help him, but burden him in every -particular of life--in short, that he himself had been entirely -mistaken, and that he had given his daughter to a nobody, went to his -very heart. He had the generosity to reflect that Harry had said -little, that it was he who had jumped at conclusions and given him -credit for connections which he had never directly claimed. It was he, -rather than Harry, who was the fallen personage, fallen from all -certainty, from all faith in the future, in himself. He would say -nothing about it, he thought, to anyone. Why disturb poor Rita, who need -never know that her husband’s father, or uncle, or near relation was a -farm-servant? Why even bring poor Harry to book, and force him to -confess, and convict him, if not of falsehood, yet of sanctioning a -false impression? Mr. Bonamy with true magnanimity decided that he would -not humiliate, as he might do, even the chief culprit, if culprit he -could be said to be. It was no use to make all suffer. He thought it -best on the whole to make an effort to keep the trouble to himself. - -Meanwhile Lydia had knocked with some timidity and trembling at the door -of the Vice-Consul’s house. She asked for Mrs. Oliver with a hesitation -that was very unusual to her. Now that the moment had come her heart -beat so loudly, her breath came so quick, that she did not feel able to -face it. She was led soberly up to the large, cool, shadowed -drawing-room, in which with so much agitation she had spent the -previous night. There was no trace of agitation or disturbance of any -kind about the tranquil place, all closed up and semidark, according to -the Italian wont, against the fierceness of the sun. The old graceful -furniture, the dim pictures on the walls, the signs of long established -living everywhere, made it almost impossible to think of any change or -revolution that could happen in such a settled place. Lydia sat down in -a corner, feeling herself more than an intruder--a traitor and -introducer of strife and trouble into the stillness. She had asked -instinctively for the wife, lest after all she might be making a -mistake; and only after she had done so, had it occurred to her that to -have her husband thus discovered and identified, though he had done no -wrong, might not be an agreeable incident in Rita’s life. This, however, -was but a momentary thought. To feel that she was herself within a few -minutes of the truth was an excitement which occupied all her being. Her -mind had room for little more. - -Rita was busy with her housekeeping, arranging the affairs of the day. -Her husband was in the office at his work; her father gone out, no -doubt about business; her little children enjoying the morning air in -the garden. All had begun pleasantly as usual in the well-ordered, -calmly constituted life. She had been a little disturbed, a very little, -last night by her visitors, with the slightest possible jealousy in her -mind of the new-comer, who seemed to have some sort of connection with -her husband’s early life, that portion of it with which she was -completely unacquainted. It was a mere superficial sentiment, not strong -enough to be called jealousy, yet veering that way; for she did not like -to think that anybody anywhere could know more about her Harry than his -wife, a feeling which even in its most unreasonable phases is not -uncommon among wives--or husbands either, for that matter. But _that_ -Miss Joscelyn was going away, was gone away so far as the Vice-Consul’s -household was concerned, and Rita thought no more of her--She was -interrupted in the very midst of her discussion of the _spese_, and -examination of the contents of the cook’s basket, which old Benedetta -was helping to turn over, and making sharp remarks upon, to the damage -of the cook’s temper, as so much dearer and not nearly so good as in her -time--by a message that a lady wanted to see her. She was predisposed -to be annoyed by it. “A lady! how often must I tell you to bring me the -name! It can be nobody for me; it must be some one for your master,” she -said. The man was very humble and apologetic; he represented that the -English names were very hard to pronounce; that it was the young lady -who had been there last evening--the young lady who resembled the -bambino so much. “Resembled the bambino? What bambino?” cried Rita. And -then old Benedetta burst in and explained that all the servants had -remarked it--that the English young lady was the very image of nostro -bambino, our own blessed baby whom everybody admired. - -“Resemblances are very strange,” Benedetta said; “they will come without -rhyme or reason--for of course our darling can have nothing to do with a -stranger--a young Signorina Inglese whom no one ever saw before.” - -“I wonder you can allow yourself to talk such nonsense, Benedetta. There -is not the slightest resemblance,” Rita said. The other servants bowed -and deprecated, and agreed that the Signora must know best; but -Benedetta stood like a rock, and completely ruffled the impatient, -fanciful temper of her mistress. Rita delayed consequently as long as -she could find something to occupy her in her kitchen, wilfully keeping -her untimely visitor waiting. “What can she want with me? She had better -ask for Harry if she has anything to say. Like my baby indeed! I wonder -what next?” Rita said to herself. But at last, when there was no further -excuse, she mounted reluctantly the stairs, and walked slowly towards -the drawing-room, Lydia within counting her deliberate steps with a -beating heart that went a great deal faster. It was a duel that was -about to take place between the two. - -“Good morning,” Rita said, coldly; “Italian servants never can manage -English names. I was told it was a young lady, and that is vague. Pray -sit down. I hope there is nothing amiss with Lady Brotherton or Sir -John.” - -“I come--entirely on business of my own,” said Lydia, with a little -timidity. She was taller and altogether a more imposing person by nature -than this small, little, half Italian matron; but Rita had always a -certain grandeur about her, and she was the invaded châtelaine, the -defender of her house against an intruder. Lydia felt almost afraid of -her, and a little compunctious too. - -“My husband would probably be of more use than I can be. But pray sit -down, and if there is anything I can do----” Rita said, with a majestic -wave of her hand towards a chair. - -But Lydia did not sit down. Her hands sought each other in that same -clasp of agitation which was habitual to her mother. “I must beg you to -pardon me. It is about your husband that I want to ask.” - -“My husband!” Rita said, and no more. - -They stood and looked at each other for a moment, Lydia, appealing, -agitated, as if (she felt) there was something wrong in her interest in -Harry, the little wife towering over her in offended dignity, something -like a Queen Eleanor, though without any cause. - -“I want you to tell me if you know anything of his family, or where he -came from; and when he came here? and if he has ever spoken to you of -any of----, and why he has never taken any notice? It must seem very -strange to you,” Lydia sat pausing, trying a smile of anxious -deprecation, “that I should ask such questions as these.” - -“It is very strange indeed. I cannot understand them, or what right you -can have to put them. A stranger must have a very good reason indeed for -interfering at all between a man and his wife.” - -“I do not want to interfere,” cried Lydia; “oh, believe me, it is not -that! I want only to know; and it may be very important for you and the -family, as well as for us. I am only surmising, groping; and I am -not--very old,” the girl said, with that instinctive appeal to personal -feeling with which women invariably back up all arguments, “nor -experienced. I don’t know how to go about it. But it is of so much -importance, if I only could tell you right, to my mother, and all of us, -and may be to you too.” - -“Your mother, and all of you! What do you mean? What have you to do with -my husband?” Rita cried. - -The wonder, and even the indignation, were natural enough. To be -confronted all at once by a stranger demanding news of your husband, -declaring that what she wishes to find out will be very important to -her mother--what could be more bewildering, more irritating to a woman? -Her nostrils began to expand, and her eyes to flash. “There is evidently -some mystery here which I am unable to fathom,” she said. - -“It is a very innocent mystery,” said Lydia; “there is nothing in it -that will do him any harm, or you. If you will not tell me, will you -take him a message from me? It must be cleared up one way or another, -for we are going away to-day.” - -“Mr. Oliver is in the office,” said Rita coldly, walking to the bell. -“He can be sent for at once.” - -“Will you wait a little, please?” Lydia said, faintly; “though I feel so -sure, yet I may be wrong. Will you take a message for me? It will be -better if you will do it than seeing him myself.” - -“I would rather not be mixed up with any mystery.” Rita had her hand on -the bell. She was drawn up to twice her usual height, her small foot -planted firmly on the ground, her head thrown back, her whole person -instinct with resistance, defiance, and indignation. And Lydia before -her, flushed and excited, was not at all unlike a suppliant handmaiden, -whom the wife had a right to reject and cast forth out of her house. - -“Oh, do not be so hard upon me,” she cried. “Listen to what I want you -to say to him. Would I send any message that could hurt him by his -wife?” - -“Hurt--him--” Rita began to be confused, and took her hand from the -bell. “But it might hurt me.” - -“It will not hurt you. Don’t delay, don’t delay!” cried Lydia; “if you -knew what a thing it is to wait. And think how my poor mother has been -waiting all these ten years--and I said when I left her that I should -find him. Mrs. ---- no, no, I cannot call you by that name--it is -unworthy! Mrs. Harry--will you go and say this to him from me? Listen, -listen; you must not make any mistake. Uncle Henry is dead. He has left -all his money to his nephew who went away. If he does not come home it -will be divided, and wrong will be done. Will you say that to your -husband for me?” - -“Uncle Henry--and his money--and his nephew. What is the meaning of all -this? What do we know about all this--and who are you?” It was Rita now -who was losing command of herself. - -“If _he_ understands,” said Lydia, dropping down in a chair in the -mingled exhaustion and relief of having at last had her say, “I will -tell you who I am. You don’t know the meaning, but I am sure he will -know. Oh, Mrs. Harry, it is so simple a test! Will you not try it? If he -does not understand no harm will be done, and you can judge of it for -yourself. If he knows what it means you will soon know all about me.” - -She began to cry, with little tremulous laughs between, in her -agitation. She was entirely overcome by the excitement of the crisis--so -near finding out, so sure, and yet still a little cloud of suspense and -uncertainty between. Rita stood and looked at her--her rival was it? who -was it?--with a tremor of wonder and rising excitement, and even a -sympathy which nature exacted, which she was most unwilling to bestow. -Then reluctantly she went out of the room, slowly and carefully closing -the door behind her, and walking along the corridor as if counting every -step she took. It was the last struggle of her instinctive opposition -with awakened interest, excitement, curiosity, and alarm. She ran along -the passage to the office as soon as she was out of hearing of the -other. In a moment more she would know. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -THE DECISIVE MOMENT. - - -Mr. Bonamy felt weary of his morning’s expedition. It was not that there -was really anything to tire him in it; but he was dejected, -disappointed, mortified. He did not feel able to go into the office as -usual, to meet Harry as usual, to do and say the usual things. He -thought he would go into the house instead, and rest a little, and see -Rita and the children, and try to console himself with the reflection -that this painful discovery only made them all belong to himself the -more. It was a poor consolation, and yet in a way it was sure. He felt -them more his now that he was certain no other family could claim them. -Poor girl! poor babies! some time they might be glad to take the name -of Bonamy instead of that wretched one that was their own. He did not -intend to say a word to Rita on the subject, but he did what it was the -habit of this imprudent man to do, he thrust himself into temptation. He -went, all emotional and disturbed as he was, into the dwelling-house, -into the room where his daughter would most likely be found, and where -she was certain to inquire into the cause of his depression. In half an -hour, in the ordinary state of affairs, he would have been at Rita’s -mercy, and notwithstanding all his fine resolutions would have betrayed -everything to her. He went in, however, determined not to say a word, -only to show his child who was injured, though she did not know it, that -her father’s tenderness would never fail her. He was so foolish that he -went into a jeweller’s on his way, and bought a little ornament for her. -And he meant to say something very kind of Harry too, though it was by -Harry that his humiliation had come. A peasant, a servant! and his poor -child who might have been a princess! but he would make it up to her, -and she should never know. - -In this mood Mr. Bonamy went into the dim and cool drawing-room, out of -the heat and glare of the streets. He saw some one seated near the -window, but he could not for the first moment make out who it was. He -was greatly disappointed, however, to have the privacy of his first -interview with his daughter interfered with, and though he was too -polite to show his annoyance, yet it was with no friendly feelings -towards the intruder that he made his way among the furniture to the -spot where she sat. He had looked for a moment of _attendrissement_, of -something like the old unbroken union between the father and child. Your -husband is a disappointment, but your father will never forsake you; he -did not mean to say this, would not have said it for the world; but he -intended that it should be understood, and there was no doubt a -melancholy enjoyment in the anticipation. Whoever this stranger might be -he wished her at Jericho; nevertheless courtesy goes before all, and he -went up to her, with the full intention of being friendly if he knew -her, and at all events civil, as became a man in all circumstances -towards a lady in his daughter’s drawing-room. Lydia looked up as he -approached. She saw him well enough, her eyes being accustomed to the -darkness. She was white as a ghost, and trembling, expecting, though -there was not yet time, the return of Rita with an answer to her -message--perhaps, if she was right, of Harry himself, and his -recognition, and the clearing up of the whole matter. But when she saw -only Mr. Bonamy, her heart seemed to stand still. She threw up her arms -with a pained and wondering cry. - -“Oh, is it only _you_? Oh, am I wrong, am I wrong, after all?” - -The Vice-Consul was as much surprised as she was to find her there; and -he was piqued, as an oldish (not very old) man, who knows himself to be -a handsome man, notwithstanding his years, would naturally be by such an -address; but he pulled himself together, and laughed, and bowed. - -“It’s only I, as you say, Miss Joscelyn. I am very sorry to disappoint -you. I daresay some one more interesting will soon be here.” - -Lydia was so over-excited, so exhausted with the agitations of the night -and the excitements of the morning, that she burst out crying while he -was speaking. The Vice-Consul was confounded; but he was never more in -his element than when administering consolation. He took her gently by -the hand, and put her back into the seat from which she had risen. “My -dear young lady,” he said, soothingly, “I am grieved to see you -distressed. What is the matter? In what are you wrong?” Then he began to -understand dimly that Lydia’s distress must be somehow connected with -his own. He grew very grave, though he still held her hand with fatherly -kindness. “If you have come to tell Rita anything unpleasant about her -husband,” he said, “I am very, very sorry you should have thought it -right to do so, Miss Joscelyn. I have heard it all from Lady Brotherton. -I don’t deny that it has wounded me; but, after all, my daughter did not -marry her husband for his relations, but for himself. He is the just the -same in himself as he has been these nine, ten years. To tell me would -have been right enough, but why vex Rita? She need never know anything -about it. Neither, so far as I am concerned, is there any need to -reproach Harry with it. I do not even intend to let him know that I am -acquainted with the condition of his family. Let me persuade you, Miss -Joscelyn--you ought to be of gentle mind, so young, and pretty, and -gentle-looking as you are--to pretend this is only a common call, and -not to say anything to Rita, or to him either, poor fellow. Rita is a -girl of a high spirit; she might not forgive her husband. Come, come, -let me take you back to Lady Brotherton; and forget that you have ever -seen young Oliver, or his wife, or myself, or any one here.” - -“Mr. Bonamy, you are very, very kind. We don’t say much in the north -country, but I think I love you,” Lydia said. - -A smile came over his face; even in such circumstances the Vice-Consul -could not help being pleased. “This is very sweet and very pleasant, and -I have no doubt the feeling would soon be mutual--if you will do what I -ask you, what I beg of you. Let these young people alone. Why should you -interfere with them? I hope the Olivers are decent people, at least, if -nothing more.” - -“The Olivers,” cried Lydia, hotly, “are poor folk; they are nobody; they -have nothing to do with it. I will never more submit to call Harry by -that name. I couldn’t do it even at first, though I couldn’t tell why.” - -“Now what does this mean?” said Mr. Bonamy, quickly. “What does this -mean? Is there some further story to be told? God bless my soul! what is -it, young lady? You are not the sort of person to interfere and make -mischief. If there was anything disagreeable to be told, why not send -for her father and tell it to me?” - -“There is no reason why it should be disagreeable. I may be wrong--I may -still be wrong,” cried Lydia. “Oh, don’t speak for a moment that we may -hear her step coming back! If he comes with her, then I shall know I am -right. A few minutes will make me--I sent Mrs. Harry with a message to -him. I thought he would like best, if it was true, to tell her himself. -Oh, listen, listen! is there nobody coming? This was the message I sent: -‘Uncle Henry is dead, and he has left his property, and it will all be -divided and lost to you if you do not come back.’ Did you hear anything? -If he understands that, don’t you see?--you can judge for yourself--I -shall be right; and mother, dear mother!” cried Lydia, with an outburst -of tears. - -Mr. Bonamy stood by her confounded. “Uncle Henry is dead, and has left -his property? What else could Uncle Henry do? he could not take it with -him if he is dead. If he understands that! Well, I do not understand it, -that is one thing certain.” - -“Oh, open one of those dreadful windows; that there may be a little -light--a little light!” Lydia cried. - -The Vice-Consul obeyed quite humbly; he had lost his standing-ground -altogether, even the painful bit of soil he had got under his feet this -morning. He seemed swimming in a sea of bewildered conjecture. He opened -the _persiani_, throwing a broad bar of sunshine across the dark room: -and then there ensued another pause. They waited in complete silence, he -confounded, shuffling about, taking up things and putting them down, to -the exasperation of Lydia’s nerves, who sat bolt upright and pale as her -dress, with her eyes fixed upon the door. - -No ordinary measure of time could be sufficient to calculate what this -was; it was hours; it was weeks; it was minutes. Lydia had time to go -over everything in her thoughts; to glance at the aspect of affairs at -home; the consternation of Will and Tom; the happiness of her mother; -the mingled wonder and delight of Joan. She had time to go through -half-a-dozen scenes with Lionel; to speculate how her father would take -it: to realise even old Isaac Oliver’s gape of astonishment when he -heard that Harry had taken his name of all names in the world--before at -last there came a sound, unfamiliar to her, but which Mr. Bonamy knew, -the little click of the swing door at the end of the passage which -communicated with the office. Then came the sound of steps. Lydia rose -up to her feet to meet the decision whatever it was. She trembled so -that she could scarcely stand, and seeing this the Vice-Consul, though -not yet in charity with her, went to her side in his kindness, and drew -her arm within his. “Lean upon me, my poor child,” he said. They stood -on one side of the broad band of light which divided the room, and -which, though it showed to them the other two who came in, also -arm-in-arm, concealed them from the new-comers. Rita, tearful and -excited but not melancholy, was clinging to her husband’s arm. He with -an eager, pre-occupied face pressed forward across the light. “Confound -that sunshine! who opened the window?” were the first words he said, -then strode along across it, paying but little regard to Rita, whom he -dragged after him. When he got face to face with Lydia he paused. - -“Was it you that sent me that message?” he said. “Is it true?” - -Lydia’s emotion fled in a moment at this matter-of-fact address. She -drew her arm out of Mr. Bonamy’s, trembling no longer. - -“It is true,” she said; “they have advertised and done everything to -find you.” - -“I know--I know. I saw that; but they never said why. And they would -like to take it from me! Will and Tom--and their father.” - -“For shame!” she said; “not father. He is the one that stands out--with -mother, and Joan, and me.” - -He had been quite steady and business-like, almost stern, up to this -moment; now he suddenly fell a-laughing in the strangest way. - -“What a united family!” he said, “Mother--and Joan--and you. Who are -you? Little Liddy, the little girl at school, that poor mother always -thought--but, poor soul! she thought that of me too.” - -Lydia’s excitement was almost uncontrollable; but she was a -North-country girl, and she kept herself down a moment longer. - -“Joan always says still,” she said, “that there was a great deal of -mother in you.” - -And then he burst forth into a half shriek of laughter and sobs. - -“Look here, I can’t stand it any longer,” he cried. “Mother--is living -then, and all right?” He seized her by the shoulders, looked her in the -face, kissed her almost roughly, brushing his beard along her smooth -cheek. “I knew you the first moment,” he said, “you little thing! I knew -you the first moment. You were always a clever baby from your cradle. I -have often thought the last baby was like you. You were the sharpest -little thing! Of course I knew nobody else could be Liddy Joscelyn. And -you thought I belonged to old Isaac, eh? that is the best joke I ever -heard. Old Isaac--is the old fellow living? And father--stood out for -me? Well he ought to, for it is along of him----” Here Harry stopped a -minute, put Lydia away, and looked round him upon the two silent -spectators who regarded this scene with an astonishment beyond words. He -made a pause, pulling himself up all at once. “Poor old father,” he -said, “after all he’s done more for me than anyone (I called the boy -after him, you can tell him). It is along of him--that I found the best -friend and the dearest wife that ever was.” - -And Harry gathered his Rita--who had been standing by with a countenance -swept by all manner of emotions: now angry, now melting, wondering, -bewildered, indignant, always chill with that sense of being left out, -which is the most terrible of sensations to such as she--into his arms -and kissed her, and put his hand over her forehead as if clearing some -veil away. “You are not Mrs. Oliver any longer,” he cried; “that’s a -good thing over. You’re Rita Joscelyn, and the best and the sweetest -that ever did honour to the name. Isn’t she a little beauty, Liddy? What -will mother say to her, and to the children?” Here poor Harry, -overmastered by excitement and pleasure, fairly burst out crying, and -kissed his wife over and over, sobbing, and bedewed her hair with his -tears. - -“You might let her speak to me, Harry,” said Lydia, crying a little in -sympathy, but brightening and beaming too. - -“This is all very astonishing,” said Mr. Bonamy. “You have talked a -great deal in an unknown tongue, and kissing is all very well, Harry; -but you owe a fuller explanation to me.” - -Then Lydia stepped forth. “We are the Joscelyns of Joscelyn Tower--the -real old Joscelyns whom everybody knows in the Fell country,” she said. -“We are not quite so rich as we once were (but father has been doing so -well lately,” she added, in a parenthesis to Harry) “and we live in the -White House. _He_ ran away ten years ago, and never has written, never -has sent a word (oh, shame, Harry! and poor mother breaking her heart) -all this time. But when I left home in November,” Liddy said, holding -her head high, “to come abroad, I told them I should find him, I should -bring Harry home; nobody believed me of course, but I have done it; and -now, Mr. Bonamy, you know why I said I loved you. We are relations,” she -said, holding out her hand; “we all belong to the same family now.” - -The Vice-Consul was greatly touched; and he was deeply relieved at the -same time in his own mind (though, if truth were told, a little, just a -little, disappointed too). He took the hand she offered to him very -gallantly, with his old-fashioned, paternal grace. “Then, my dear, I may -as well follow Harry’s good example,” he said, stooping over her to kiss -her forehead. “I am very glad to receive you into my family.” Yet he -would have liked to have had his daughter all to himself. The Isaac -Oliver business, which had seemed such a terrible downfall an hour ago, -looked a little, just a little, to be regretted now. It was an unworthy -thought, and Mr. Bonamy felt that it was so. He in his turn held out his -hand to his son-in-law. “When you are at leisure,” he said, plaintively, -“perhaps you will shake hands with me in your new capacity. Harry -Joscelyn--is that your name now? Well, it is preferable to that of Isaac -Oliver one must allow.” - -As for Rita she was crying a little on her husband’s shoulder. “I don’t -think so,” she said. “I like all things as they were. I shall never know -who people are speaking to when they say Mrs. Joscelyn; and how are we -to explain to----. We are not going to tell everybody all the story, I -hope.” - -This was a little perversity not to be got over all at once. She had not -said anything to Lydia; she could scarcely forgive Lydia for being her -Harry’s sister, for finding him out, for resembling the baby: she saw -that herself now, but was angry with Benedetta for having discovered it, -and with Lydia for having in that disagreeable way announced a private -claim upon her (Rita’s) family. No doubt Ralph would be like her too, -for he and the baby had always been said to resemble each other. Poor -little Ralfino--Rita, who up to this moment had called him Raaf in -defiance of all Italianisms, instantly conferred upon him the softening -vowel and diminutive: Ralfo, Ralfino he should be henceforward, she -decided in a moment; and she took no notice of Lydia. Papa, she said to -herself, was doing all that was necessary in that way. - -Thus the scene of the discovery, the restoration of Harry to his family, -and his inheritance to its right owner, which according to all dramatic -precedent ought to have been ecstatic, was not at all so, and ended in -embarrassment and mutual annoyance. The results would be very -advantageous in every way to the hero himself and his wife and children, -and would not be advantageous, but the reverse to Liddy, who was at once -so much the poorer by Harry’s discovery. But it was she who gained, not -she who lost, who took the revelation unpleasantly. “You will have to -go--to England I suppose,” she said, looking askance at the new-found -sister, and clasping the arm of her husband; and there was a grudge in -her tone. - -“Yes, my darling; I must go and see my mother.” - -“That is your first duty,” said Mr. Bonamy, almost severely; the -severity was intended for his perverse child, but she took no notice of -it. “Of course you must go to your mother. If I had known, my boy, that -there was a mother in the case----” - -“Oh! for heaven’s sake, papa, don’t upbraid him now! it is bad enough -without that. When must you go? and why, now that I am strong as a -little horse, why shouldn’t I go with you?” cried Rita, clasping his arm -with both hers. - -“I don’t know any reason, dear, except----” Harry turned appealing eyes -upon Mr. Bonamy, who had stiffened into a man of stone. - -“Except--your solemn promise,” said the father; “but that was thought -very binding in my day.” - -“In that case there is nothing more to be said, Sir,” said Harry, not -without a shade of incipient offence; and then he turned to his wife. -“It will only be for a very short time, my darling. I shall not be away -from you, you may be sure, a moment longer than I can help.” - -Oh, sublime selfishness of marriage! which looks like the most generous -and perfect of sentiments to the two concerned; the bystanders scarcely -saw it in the same light. The father, realizing that his child had to be -consoled for being left a week or two to his sole company and -tenderness; the sister, who had taken so much trouble to reinstate her -brother in his fortune and family, finding out that he was to give to -that family not a moment longer than he could help--looked at each other -with a mutual understanding, which found vent on Lydia’s side in an -uncontrollable laugh of mingled humour and disgust. “Mother would be -pleased to hear you say so, Harry,” she cried, “after ten years. I think -you might give her a day or two of your free will beyond that.” - -Rita was very quick-witted, and she saw and was ashamed. She detached -herself from her husband and drew near to his sister. “I daresay you -don’t like me, d’avance, because I have the first right to him,” she -said. - -“I have never seen him since I was a child,” said Liddy, with dignity. -“It cannot be supposed that it makes much difference to me. I was very -anxious to find him for mother’s sake, and to let him have his property, -because it was justice, but otherwise why should I fight with any one -about him? he is a stranger to me.” - -“Don’t say so, Liddy,” her brother cried. - -“I must say so when I am asked such questions. Mrs. Harry does not seem -to understand,” Liddy said. - -There is nothing perfect in this world. How different, how very -different, she had expected it all to be! She had expected perhaps that -Harry himself would be a little gratified, that he would be touched by -the faith in him of his little sister and her determination to find him. -Lydia had herself forgotten that this determination had fallen much into -the background in her recent wanderings. She thought her mind had always -been full of it, and that this was the recompense of her devotion. She -was hurt and wounded. Though she was Harry’s sister, and though she had -brought him a fortune in her hand, she was still a stranger in Harry’s -house, and his wife defied her. She could have cried this time in sheer -mortification and injured feeling. “I will let them know that you are -here,” she said with as much stateliness as she could muster. “I have -done all that I suppose is in my power. I will not intrude upon anyone.” -What a dreadful thing it is to be a woman and have that weakness of -crying when you are hurt! Liddy kept her tears in her eyes only by main -force, and could not altogether succeed in subduing the tremor in her -voice. - -At this moment, however, the door opened, and the servant appeared, -introducing Lionel, who stared when he saw the party thus assembled. -Lionel was not in the best of tempers. He had been making inquiries as -best he could, and he had found all Lydia’s guesses confirmed. But he -had gone back to find that she had stolen a march upon him, and he was -exceedingly cross, so cross that he was sometimes very angry with, and -at other times very sorry for, himself. When he had made his bow to -Rita, and stared with a gloomy countenance at her husband, he turned to -Lydia with suppressed passion. “My mother has sent me for you,” he said. -“She wishes you to remember that everything must be ready early to be -sent down to the steamboat. Time and tide will wait for no man, you -know.” This was said with a little smile, as if he were beginning to -perceive, and wanted at least to hide from the others, the vexation in -his tone. - -This made a diversion, and as the whole story had to be told him, the -members of this strange family group were drawn nearer to each other in -spite of themselves. Under cover of the little commotion of talk which -got up, all of them sometimes speaking together, Rita, who began with -her quick intelligence to realize the position, and to see her own -ungraciousness, took the opportunity to draw a little nearer to Lydia. -She kissed her when she went away. “I--I hope you will forgive me if I -was bewildered,” she said: and Lydia forgave. But she was not the less -stately when she left the party, feeling, with a little bitterness, that -without her they would talk the matter over more at their ease. Lionel -was stately, too. He made them his congratulations with the utmost -gravity, as if pleasure were out of the question, and he took the -earliest opportunity to remind Lydia a second time that his mother was -waiting, and that the things must be sent to the boat. They went out of -the house together in a sort of armed pacification, a truce hastily -patched up, stalking side by side, not looking at each other. Going out -into the street was a sort of solemnity to them, like steering out into -the sea on a voyage in which they did not know what might happen. -Anything might happen in it. They might quarrel for ever and ever, they -might part not to see each other again. They might do anything--except -walk quietly from the British Consulate to the Leone, where Lady -Brotherton was waiting, fretting over Miss Joscelyn’s box, which was not -locked, and of which no one could find the key. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -IN THE STREET. - - -Out in the street, out upon the world, out upon a perfectly lonely sea, -where they saw nobody and thought of nobody, but those two worlds of -themselves, he and she, moving alone together, with a little space of -clear daylight between them, the two parallel lines which can never come -together so long as measurements last--For a time they moved on with no -communication at all, each feeling very solitary, and unspeakably -dignified and superior to all trivial thoughts and words. What could -they have to say? What does he care? Lydia said to herself; what does -anyone care but me? She had done her work, but she had not got much -satisfaction out of it. It had estranged her friends from her, and -everybody. Her mother would be pleased, that was always a little -consolation to think of. Dear mother! and what if she were disappointed -too? You never can tell how little satisfaction there is in a new thing -till it has happened, she said to herself. In her preoccupation she -stumbled over a crossing, over the rough pavement, and then her -companion spoke. - -“Take care; these little streets are so many traps. Will you take my arm -till we get into the smoother way?” - -“Thank you,” said Lydia, “it is not at all necessary. I did not notice -where I was going.” - -“You prefer not to be helped in anything,” her adversary said. - -“Indeed, no; if anybody will help me, I am always very thankful,” Lydia -replied. - -And then he turned his eyes upon her. “I think you are mistaken in -yourself,” he said, quickly, “we often are. You think women should be -independent and manage their own affairs.” - -Lydia raised her eyebrows a little. - -“I was not thinking about women, or what they should do. I think -everyone, woman or not, likes best to look after their own affairs -themselves.” - -“Do you think so? I have always been brought up to believe that it was a -man’s part to take the rough work, and that a woman did well to accept -his help.” - -“Cousin Lionel,” said Lydia, “if you are angry because I went off to Mr. -Bonamy’s myself, instead of leaving you to work things your own way, you -are surely very unreasonable. I was sure of it; there was not any reason -to doubt; and why should I bother you about what I could do so easily? -It was my business; you could not be supposed to--take--much interest.” - -“Trouble me!” he cried, “take much interest! Do you think there is -anything you care for that I don’t take an interest in? What is the -chief thing I have thought of ever since I knew you? You speak so much -at your ease; I wish you would tell me that.” - -“I hope it is nothing to be angry with me about,” said Lydia, with -meekness, “but how can I know?” - -“No, I suppose you don’t know,” he said, with almost a scornful tone, -“you have only seen me every day these five months, and talked to me, -and pretended to take some interest in me, as you say; and now you turn -upon me and ask me how can you know? How can you help knowing? is what -I should say.” - -“Cousin Lionel, I don’t know why you should be angry. If I had waited -for you this morning I should have lost my chance. There was so little -time to do anything; and time runs away so fast when it is the last -day.” - -“Do you think I am talking only of this morning? What is this morning? -It is all the time I complain of. It has just been the same all the -time.” - -And now it was Lydia’s turn to look round, this time in unfeigned -surprise; but her glance at him, perhaps, gave her more information than -his words: at least, there was a subtle tone of hypocrisy in the -meekness with which she asked. - -“Have I displeased you all the time?” with a little tragic accent of -remonstrance. “I am so sorry,” she said. - -“Sorry! and displeased! it is not words like those that will do any -good,” Lionel cried. - -Liddy looked at him again piteously, but perhaps in the puckers round -her eyes, and the droop of her mouth, there was a dimple or two which -the faintest touch could have turned into smiles. She shook her head. - -“You are hard upon me, Cousin Lionel; you are angry about this morning, -and then you tell me it is not this morning; but all the time; and when -I say I am sorry (what else can I say? for I am very sorry, and so -mistaken! I thought we were such friends!) you say, words like these -will not do any good. What am I to say? It is a discovery I never -expected to make, that I had been--disagreeable all the time.” - -“I think you want to drive me out of my senses!” he cried. - -Which, indeed, was very foolish; she had all the reason and force of the -argument on her side, and he, having at some point in the altercation -taken a wrong turning, got only further and further astray at every step -he made. - -Lydia by this time had recovered all her usual composure. When one party -to a controversy gets hot and weak, the other becomes calm. She felt -herself to have the best of it, and it was a pleasure to her, after her -recent discomfiture, to have the upper hand, and find herself in the -exciting position, not altogether un-enjoyable, of skilfully fencing and -keeping off an agitated man’s self-disclosure. It agitated herself a -little, but the circumstances strengthened her. Besides, whatever was -going to be said, this was not the moment to say it, in the streets, -with the Leone almost within sight. His self-betrayal gave her force to -stand against him. - -“Here we are,” she said, softly, “almost at home--if you can call the -hotel home. Whatever I have done amiss, I hope you will pardon me. We -shall be such a short time together now. Oh----!” for some one, darting -forward, caught her with the very tears in her eye, the quaver in the -tone. “Mr.--Paul; Signor----” - -“Not me,” said Paolo, shaking his head; “I am born in Livorno, but -except that I am an Englishman; Mees Joscelyn will not find it is -necessary to say Signor to me. I have had a commission--from the bureau. -I am in this direction, and I wait to pay my--homage--to lay once more -my respects--from the heart, from the heart!” said little Paolo, laying -his hand upon that organ, “at these ladies’ feet, and to ask if I can be -of service. The Signor Consul has authorized me. I am known, well known, -on the board of the _vapore_. I could arrange the baggage, select the -cabins, what Mees Joscelyn will.” - -Lionel repeated instinctively his movement of last night; he came a step -nearer, as if to keep the anxious Italian off. - -“We are much obliged to you, but our own servant has looked after all -that,” he said. - -Paolo’s eyes flashed a little. The Englishman was rude; but in Paolo’s -experience Englishmen were very often rude, and he was not surprised. -Englishwomen, that was a different matter. He gave his shoulders a -little shrug, and turned to Lydia once more. - -“A servant--that is one thing,” he said, with a wave of his hand, “there -are many, and the travellers many. One pays not too much attention to -servants; but me, I think I can command----” Paolo said this with an -ineffable look of modest importance; and he added in a lower tone: “To -make it more easy for these ladies to go away--that is not what I should -wish to do; but one must forget one’s self, and there may come another -time--perhaps?” - -“Yes,” said Lydia, smiling. She was so glad to come to an end of the -_tête-à-tête_, which was becoming so embarrassing, that she smiled with -double sweetness upon Paolo. “Indeed I shall have more to do with -Leghorn than I ever supposed. Mr. Oliver--who is your friend----” - -“My friend--of my heart,” said Paolo, laying his hand once more on his -much-decorated bosom. He had dressed himself in all his finest chains -and buttons, and a beautiful waistcoat, that Lydia might see him at his -best. - -“Ah!--he is my brother,” Lydia said. She had begun to shake off the -jarred and painful feelings that had spoiled her morning’s work. -Daylight and ordinary life, and a new excitement between her and that, -began to restore the perspective; and as she made this announcement the -first really wholesome natural sense of pleasure came over her. It was -Lionel who was out of perspective now, too close to her, overshadowing -heaven and earth. But the other event began to appear in its natural -size and aspect. Paolo’s state of wonder was unfeigned. The Italian was -quick enough to observe the undercurrents around him on ordinary -occasions; but Lydia had made too great and immediate an impression upon -him to leave his eyes free for anything else. - -“Your brother!” he cried. - -“Tell me how he arrived here, as you told me last night; but I did not -know all the meaning of it then,” said Lydia. “Tell me again how he -came, and carried his own box.” - -She was more than half in earnest, wanting to hear about Harry, and yet -it was half a pretence; she could not help but be conscious of the -figure at her elbow stalking along in silent disgust, ready to abandon -her for ever, and all the plans connected with her; ready to seize the -little Italian by his coatcollar and whirl him away into the sea or air, -yet jealous of losing a word of what was said. Lionel walked along the -street like an embodied thunder-cloud, and they were already at the door -of the Leone, which thank heaven, he thought, would at least put an end -to this. It did not do so, however, for Lydia in her perversity insisted -upon carrying Paolo with her to Lady Brotherton, interrupting him in the -midst of the narrative she had asked for, but which in her gradually -increasing excitement about her other companion she could not listen to. -She broke into it just as Paolo, with the water in his eyes, was -recounting how he had thrown himself on Harry’s bosom and sworn eternal -friendship. “Siamo amici, I said to him,” said Paolo. “What is mine is -thine. I will be your caution; I will respond for you; I will present -you----” “Come upstairs, Mr. Paul,” said Lydia, restless, “Lady -Brotherton will be glad to have you to help us.” He stopped short, thus -interrupted in the midst of his narrative, and it hurt poor Paolo. But -next moment he smiled with his usual sweet temper, and followed her. -Lionel could not help feeling that in the same circumstances he could -have almost killed her--which, indeed, was the state of his mind now. -And then there followed such an afternoon of trouble and excitement as -drove Lionel nearly out of his senses. Lady Brotherton had to be told -the strange story, and then Sir John, who could not understand it at -all; and afterwards, in the midst of all the preparations for the start, -“all Leghorn,” the indignant young man said to himself, poured down upon -them. All Leghorn meant Harry and his family, and Mr. Bonamy, who came -one after another in different degrees of excitement. Rita arrived first -with her two youngest children and their nurse, to show to her new -sister-in-law, and to make amends for her previous want of graciousness. -“I could not understand it--how could I understand it?” she said, and -she was magnanimous enough to point out the resemblance of the bambino -to his aunt. Then came Harry to say that he had made hasty preparations -to go home with his sister, and would join them that evening at the -steamboat. And finally the Vice-Consul’s exertions brought some sort of -enlightenment to Sir John, whose first idea was that Mr. Bonamy’s -son-in-law wanted to marry little Liddy, though he had already a wife of -his own. All these perpetual visitors kept the party in a whirl of -commotion, and Lionel, at last driven to the end of his patience, -sallied forth and walked about till the moment of departure came, all -but cursing Harry, and vowing to himself that he would take no further -trouble, but let Lydia depart as she came. Why should he take any -trouble? His mother would not like it. They (his parents) would wish -him, if he married, to marry somebody with money, somebody with -position, somebody---- Ah! Here he took himself by the shoulders, so to -speak, and shook himself fiercely, and called himself, “you fool!” as if -there was any question of marrying anybody! as if she would have him! -Was she not pouring contempt upon him? putting even that little -hop-o’-my thumb before him, preferring a little Italian beggar, hung all -over with jewellery! These were poor Lionel’s reflections as he wandered -about the streets. And that other fellow, the brother, if he was her -brother, was going with them; would talk to her, who could doubt it, the -whole time, and never give a man a chance----! Lionel would have liked, -without much hyperbole, to smother them all, or pitch them into the sea. - -At last the moment of departure came. Rita, with a flush of excitement -about her, her cheeks hot, her eyes shining, and without a tear, came to -the steamboat with her husband to see him away. He whispered again in -her ear that he would not stay a moment longer than he could help; that -he would count the days he was away from her; that she must not worry -about him, must not feel lonely. - -“Lonely!” she cried, in a tone which wounded poor Harry deeply. “Oh no, -I shall not be lonely. I mean to amuse myself very much. I shall go -everywhere. I shall not miss you at all. Ser Paolo will take care of -me.” - -“You will have your father to take care of you, my darling,” Harry said, -very gravely, with a little surprise; and then he added, with a laugh, -“he will be glad to be rid of me for once, to have you all to himself. -But Paul-o, all the same, will stand by you, I know,” he said, turning -round to his friend lest his susceptible feelings should be wounded; -“it is not that I doubt Paul-o--who will do everything.” - -“Yes, everything,” Paolo said, with a fervent grip of his friend’s hand. - -And Rita laughed. Why should she laugh? She did not shed a tear to part -with him. Harry looked over the bulwark of the ship and watched his -little wife standing in the boat which had brought them on board as long -as he could make her out. The boatmen lay on their oars, and Rita stood -up, waving her handkerchief, with Paolo by her side. These two figures, -and after them all the features of the well-known scene, and then the -very place itself, which was his home, which contained all his -independent life, dropped away into the mists, into the distance. He had -said to himself many a day that he would never go back; yet he was going -back, severing himself, as he had done before, from everything he knew -or cared for. And Rita had not seemed to care! He was not sentimental, -but he turned away when there was no longer anything to be seen of -Leghorn, with a little shiver, and a pang at his heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -AT SEA. - - -It was a beautiful night, the stars shining like diamonds, like ethereal -lamps in the sky, clear and crisp, with a twinkle and movement in them -as of something living; the sea all in a ripple, in absolute -peacefulness yet endless life, sweeping like a smooth, green, -transparent flood of liquid metal under the bow, seething in white curd -and spray behind, marking a long, moving line of white across its -surface as the great boat rustled and fretted on. The air was so sweet, -the sea so calm, that everybody stayed late on deck, except Lady -Brotherton, who had placed herself at once on her sofa with her eyes -closed, not to see the motion, of which, even when there was no motion -at all, she was afraid. But Sir John sat on deck till it was late, -enjoying the voyage greatly, and, in the absence of his wife, keeping -his son near him, and addressing to him all his thousand questions. -“’Shay, Lionel, what’sh that Consul fellow doing with Liddy, ’shgot a -wife of hish own.” “You forget,” Lionel said, “that he’s her brother, -Sir--Harry Joscelyn. Mr. Bonamy told you all about it to-day.” “Yesh, -yesh, old Bonamy, easy-going old duffer. ’Shish own daughter--should -take more care of her. You look after little Liddy; shgot wife of his -own.” Lionel looked at the pair walking up and down with feelings it -would be difficult to describe. It was easy to say, take care of little -Liddy. Liddy was hanging on her brother’s arm, quite independent of him. -They two were now the two who belonged to each other now. When they -parted in England it was her brother who would take Lydia home. She had -no need of Lionel to talk to, to make a companion of; Harry was much -better--a novelty, and all women like novelty--and then he was her -brother; what could be more natural and right? Lionel took to theorizing -about women, as men naturally do when ill-used by them. This was the -kind of thing to be expected from these unaccountable creatures, whom, -of course, no man could understand--though every man is surrounded by -them all his life; triumphant folly of sex which transcends all -experience! He railed at women in his heart, because Lydia was occupied, -and had no attention to give him. He heard her laugh, and the soft -current of her voice running on continually, with a kind of maddening -contempt. She leant on her brother’s arm, which she never did on -his--Lionel’s. It made his heart sick to see her thus enjoying herself, -enjoying the balmy night. There was nothing so bad that he did not think -it as the hours of the delightful twilight, the soft, early night, flew -by. Perhaps it was not her fault: were not all women the same? -treacherous, fickle, blown about by every wind--off with the old -whenever there was something new to take to; mysterious, worthless, -untrustworthy creatures, who, however sweet they might be one day, were -never to be relied upon for the next; who would part from you with the -tenderest of farewells and meet you next time as if you were the merest -acquaintance! Lionel felt that he hated the whole sex as he stood by his -father’s side watching these two about the decks. When they passed she -would nod at him, or give him one of her easy smiles, not in the least -ignoring his position, recognizing it, and coolly suffering it so to be. -At last he had to withdraw, helping Thomas to move his father into the -cabin reserved for him, and consequently losing sight of them for a -moment. When he returned he could not see them, and the rage in him -burned fiercer than ever. Then, on the bridge, high up against the sky, -he discerned something like Harry’s figure, with a red tip of a cigar -appearing above the collar of his warm coat. Harry had become chilly -after ten years of Italian life. Lionel laughed at this effeminacy. He -liked to feel that his own coat was thin, yet quite enough for his -muscular Anglicism. No doubt she had gone in, retired for the night, and -_all that_ was out of the question. He did not specify to himself what -_all that_ was. He had not the heart even for a cigar. If he smoked he -would come across that fellow, and be compelled to talk to him. After -all, it was a great mistake to dis-inter relations whom you know nothing -about. One might be nice--though even of that he felt far from -certain--but the rest were almost sure to be bores, like this fellow. -Indeed, the brothers were all bores, and without any breeding. It was a -mistake to have taken any trouble about them, or ever to have sought -them out at all. “Confound them!” he said to himself, facing the breeze, -diving his hands deep down to the bottom of his pockets, and angrily -gazing into the night. - -“Confound whom, Cousin Lionel?” said a voice by his side. - -Lionel started violently, then turned round. “Oh! are you there? I did -not know where you were. I thought you had gone to bed.” - -“Must one go to bed? They say we get to Genoa quite early; and it is -such a lovely, lovely night.” - -“Do you think so?” he said, softened; “so do I. If you will stay with -me, I don’t think you need go to bed; but if you are going off again -with that fellow--I mean, of course, with your brother----” - -“It is quite delightful,” said Lydia, with energy, “to have a -brother--you know, a real brother--a little like one’s self: not -elderly, and worldly, and Westmoreland, like Will and Tom.” - -“I thought you were so fond of Westmoreland,” said Lionel. - -“Ah! so I am; but not that kind. Now Harry is--you can’t think what -Harry is----” - -“I know what you want me to think him--the most disgusting interloper, -the worst nuisance in the world. It is quite unaccountable of him to go -and leave you alone here. Doesn’t he know how a lady should be taken -care of? In a common steamboat when there are all sorts of people----” - -“I never knew you were so ill-natured before,” said Lydia in a plaintive -tone. “Poor Harry! he took me to the cabin-door; he thinks I am there -now. I came up afterwards--well--because it is hot there, because it is -such a lovely night, because the sea is so beautiful--look at that light -on it--and, then, because I thought you would perhaps think it civil to -come and say good night.” - -“Ah, Liddy!” he cried, seizing her hand and drawing it through his arm, -“come and walk about a little. I thought I was never to have a chance of -saying a word to you to-night. I have been swearing at everything and -everybody.” - -“I thought so,” said Liddy, with a little laugh, “from the expression of -your face.” - -“And you laughed--at my torture----” - -“Would you have had me cry? What could I do? I could not take you from -Sir John; and then you never looked as if you wanted to have anything to -say to us. Well,” said Lydia, stopping short, “now all the purposes of -civility are fulfilled, and we can say good night.” - -But they had not said good night full two hours after, when the short -voyage was almost over, and the lights of Genoa stretching round the -whole breadth of the lovely bay in an ineffectual struggle with the -dawn, began to rise upon their dazzled eyes. Then after a little -struggle Lydia made her escape. “What will Lady Brotherton think? It -must be three o’clock in the morning, and how can I face her? She will -see it in my eyes, and she will not like it. Oh! why didn’t we think of -that sooner? They will not like it, neither she nor Sir John; for I am -nobody, Lionel.” - -“Nobody? you are Liddy--that is enough; and then you forget,” he said, -with a slight sense of humour, “you are a Joscelyn.” - -“Yes, that is true,” said Lydia, very gravely, “I am a Joscelyn; but we -are not at all what we used to be. Being Joscelyns,” she added, -mournfully, “we are rough country people.” - -“You a rough country people! You are Liddy,” he said. - -“Oh, what is the good of saying that over and over again! Liddy! what is -Liddy? an ugly old-fashioned name. We should have thought of that -sooner. They will not have me,” she said. - -“No, I hope not. It is I that must have you,” said Lionel, and he took -no notice of the fact that it was morning; but, to be sure, there was -nobody except the sailors about. He walked with her to the door of the -cabin as the deceived Harry had done. How much had passed since then! -Liddy thought with shame and self-reproach, as she stole into the -darkened shelter where a peevish little lamp was still burning, that it -would never have happened had she not given him that opportunity. She -_had_ given him the opportunity. She ought to have stayed in the cabin -and prevented all that followed. It was her fault; but perhaps, though -she felt guilty, she did not feel so penitent as she might have done. -Lady Brotherton by dint of shutting her eyes had gone peacefully to -sleep, which was a thing she professed never to do on board ship. Lydia -retired to rest; she stole out of her gown as quiet as a mouse, and -compunctious and guilty, but very happy, crept into her berth. The -steamer was coming to anchor with great jars and creakings, and heavy -footsteps overhead; and by and by Lydia’s drowsy eyes, so full of -happiness and freshness, yet soft weariness and dreaminess, closed in -spite of her. She did not suppose that she could have slept on such a -night. - -But next day was much more difficult to get through. The honest girl did -not feel that she could look Lady Brotherton in the face. As long as -they were apart, the position, though painful, was possible; but, when -they were together, Lydia was so changed from her usual aspect that Lady -Brotherton could not avoid noticing the alteration. “Liddy, my child, -something is the matter. Are you ill?” she said. - -“No, Lady Brotherton.” - -“Nervous then--this new brother does not quite fit in with your ideas? -You ought to have calculated upon that, Lydia. People cannot be -separated for ten years, and fall into one another’s ways again in a -moment; though I think he is very nice and very gentlemanly myself.” - -“It is not that, Lady Brotherton.” - -“What is it then, my dear? You are not a bit like yourself. You are -sorry, a little, to part with us? So am I, my sweet--dreadfully sorry; -but it must only be for a little while. And, then, you know you are -going home.” - -“Oh! Lady Brotherton, my heart is breaking! It is not even that. It is -that I have got a secret, and you will not be pleased.” - -They were sheltering in Sir John’s deck cabin from the heat of the sun, -the steamboat ploughing peacefully on its further way to Marseilles, the -journey approaching its last stage, and the time of separation drawing -near. Lydia’s eyes were full of tears; she covered her face with her -hand; the other was clasped in that of the kind friend whom she felt she -had betrayed. - -“A secret--how can you have a secret? You have never been away from my -side. I suppose it must be something about love, Liddy--that is the only -secret at your age. And why should I not be pleased--unless you have -made an unworthy choice?” - -“Oh, no, not that--too good--too good.” - -“Lionel, go away; we don’t want you just now. Liddy has something to -tell me.” - -“It is better that I should tell you for her, mother. She will not let -the secret be kept a day. I wanted to put off till--we parted: in case -you should be, as she thinks, displeased: though I can’t believe you -will be displeased.” - -“Lionel!” Of course, from the time he had begun to speak Lady Brotherton -had perceived but too well what the secret was. She loosed her hold of -Lydia’s hand, which lay white and passive in her lap after she had -withdrawn hers, with a kind of appeal in it. Lady Brotherton’s colour -went and came. Hard words came to her lips; but she looked at her son’s -face and paused. “I am displeased, more than displeased; and your father -will never consent to it,” she said. - -Lydia did not say a word, but she sighed and took her hand away, to -clasp it with the other in that pathetic gesture, “the trick of grief,” -which she had learned from her mother. As for Lionel, an only son and -spoilt child, he took matters with a high hand. - -“My father will consent gladly enough if you consent, mother,” he said; -“and what did you expect? You have thrown us together constantly for -five months. You must think me a wretched creature if you thought I -could not manage to persuade her to like me--a little, with all the -opportunities we have had.” - -“It is not that,” said Lady Brotherton, with simplicity, falling into -the snare, “any girl might like you; of course there is nothing -wonderful in that.” - -“And, you see,” he said, “unfortunately I loved her--before we ever -started at all.” - -“Before! and why didn’t you warn me? and I who have been saying you were -so safe, and never thought of each other. Liddy! Liddy! you have -deceived me! You would never look at him, never amuse yourself as you -did with the others, you were always so serious! And pray was it going -on all the time, and was that only dust thrown in my eyes?” - -“I have never deceived anyone,” Liddy said, with a proud elevation of -her head. She could not say, even in her own defence, what the cause of -her serious treatment of her lover was. - -“And how was it settled at last?” Lady Brotherton said. “Since we -started? She has never been away from me night or day.” - -This produced a slight flicker of suppressed laughter even in Lydia’s -depressed bosom. - -“She did not leave the deck till we were in harbour this morning; I kept -her by force,” Lionel said. - -“Well, that is the most wonderful of all,” cried the not hard-hearted -mother; “did you get into your berth by the port-hole? for I declare I -never closed my eyes all night, you know I never do--and I never once -missed you. I believe you have dreamed it all,” Lady Brotherton said. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -AT HOME. - - -The rest of the journey was hurried and feverish. Lady Brotherton was -not hard-hearted; she melted every day when in Liddy’s company, and -under the influence of her son’s persuasions and the sight of his -happiness; but in the night hardened again, occupying herself with -reminiscences of former hopes, and summoning up the ideal woman whom she -had intended Lionel to marry, a girl who should be noble if possible, -rich and beautiful, and with the highest connections, adding to the -dignity of the house of Brotherton, as well as the happiness of its -future head; and in this alternation the long journey was got through. -There was a night in the railway between Marseilles and Paris, a night -at Paris, a night in London, in every one of which this freezing process -was performed. Every morning the same round had to be gone over again; -by noon the ice was melted; by evening Lady Brotherton would listen -between tears and smiles to her son’s picture of his future life and all -the happiness she would have in her daughter; and would kiss Liddy and -bid her good night almost with an enthusiasm of tenderness. But before -morning all this was undone, and she got up as unwilling as ever. By -common consent Sir John was told nothing of it while the journey lasted. -The information was only to be given him when he was safe at home, and -his fatigues over. It was evening when Lydia, escorted by Harry, left -finally the party of which she had so long formed part, and with which -now her fate was linked so closely. She had stayed two days in London, -days during which Lady Brotherton had been very kind to her--in the -afternoon. And she was very kind to her on that evening, when she took -her in her arms in a farewell embrace. She cried over Liddy, and called -her my child, and bade God bless her. - -“I don’t know what I shall do without you. It will be like losing my -right hand,” Lady Brotherton said. And Lionel, as was natural, took a -still more tender leave at the railway. - -“I shall not be long after you,” he whispered, with his head projected -half-way into the carriage. Liddy shook her head. - -“I don’t build any hopes on that. Your mother will----” - -“What will my mother do? If you think I will allow myself to be coerced -by anyone----” - -“But I shall!” said Lydia. “It must never, never be, Lionel, unless she -is pleased.” - -“She will be pleased; but it shall be anyhow, whether she is pleased or -not.” - -“Oh, no,” Lydia said. - -“Oh, yes, yes! and I shall have the last word,” he cried. This little -contention went on till the very moment of their parting, and Lydia put -down her veil and cried gently when it was over, and the darkness had -closed over her and her train, and all that chapter of her life was -over. Was it over? for ever and ever done with, not one last moment -still left between her and the blank of the elder world? It was -dreadful, she knew, to feel as she did, to think of her home with -despair, and all those lingering days which would pass without an -incident, without a break, in dread monotony and quiet, nothing -happening but a visit from Joan, nothing even to be afraid of but a fit -of temper on her father’s part. She was frightened by the prospect. It -took away her breath. “Mother, dear mother!” she said to herself, with a -gasp of self-disgust; that poor mother would be happy to-day thinking of -her child’s return; she would go all over the house to see that -everything was in order for Liddy. There would be flowers gathered, and -fresh curtains hung, and cakes made, and butter churned, and cream put -upon the table for Liddy. And Liddy, she cried to herself, with an ache -in her heart, Liddy would not care! Oh, the hypocrite she would have to -be; the pretences she would have to make for love’s sake! She must look -happy whether she was happy or not; she must make believe even to be -thankful to get home again. At this Liddy cried still more behind her -veil. Harry observed her with curious eyes. He was very much interested -in his little sister, and he thought he understood women--not like -Lionel, who pretended that they were inscrutable; but then Harry was a -married man. - -“You don’t seem to be very cheerful about going home,” he said, at last. - -“Oh, yes, very happy,” said Liddy, and cried; “It is only--such a -change--Wandering about has been so different--and one never knows--” - -Here she broke off, and made a vehement effort to be cheerful. “You will -find it very different, too.” - -“Yes, I shall find it very different; but I am always sorry for a -girl--we can get away, but you can’t. You have never said a word to me, -Liddy, but I am not so blind as not to see how things are. Are the -objections--on their side?” - -“I don’t know that there are objections. Yes, I suppose they are on -their side. But how can I ever leave mother?” the girl cried, waking up -to the other side of the question. She had never thought of it before, -but now stared at her recovered brother, very pale, with large, -wide-open eyes. - -“Poor mother!” he said, softly. By dint of having children himself Harry -had come to a little understanding. “She will never stand in anyone’s -way,” he said. He began to perceive a little what life was to some -souls. She had been happy in little Liddy, and now Liddy was going too. -She would not struggle, but resign the last, with one more pathetic -wringing of her hands. She had wrung those hands often for him, and he, -more than any, had wrung her heart, and had thought little of it; but -somehow he perceived it now. She would stand in nobody’s way. She would -give up, having given up all her life; and now there would be no -compensation possible, nature herself would be against her. A great pang -of pity was in his heart for his mother. She did not know yet what was -in store for her. Whoever was happy it must always be her fate to suffer -for them all. - -The rough little country phaeton, which Harry remembered long years ago, -was waiting for them in the early morning at the station. Nobody knew -that Harry was coming. The man who drove it stared at him. It was none -of the young masters he knew (middle-aged Will and Tom being still -indifferently called t’ young masters at the White House), and yet there -was a look of the young masters, and of the old master, too, about this -finely dressed (as Robin thought), foreigneering gentleman, wrapping -himself in his fur-lined coat against the chill freshness of the -morning. Was it some one Miss Liddy had picked up in her travels? Liddy -had a perception, as she got into the carriage--or, rather, remembered -afterwards, that she had perceived other people, strangers, getting out -at the little country station, which was not a very usual thing; but she -was excited and preoccupied, and did not stay to look who they were, or -even notice them much, at the time. She had not written home, except the -merest intimation of her return, since she had found her brother, and -now she was a little alarmed at her own reserve, wondering what her -mother would say, whether she would know him at once, and what effect -the discovery would have upon her. Such things had been known as people -dying of joy. She began to grow alarmed and very nervous; and Liddy -looked round upon everything, to tell the truth, with troubled and -doubtful eyes. She was afraid even of the sight of the home landscape, -the grey hills, the misty valley, the limestone houses, and dividing -dykes, which were so very different from everything she had been seeing. -But it was a beautiful morning, and all this grey northern world was -bathed in the early glory of the sun; and to Lydia’s great relief the -country had not grown smaller, or the hills insignificant, or the sky -dirty or prosaic, as people in Italy said. The blue was pale, but still -it was heavenly blue; the white mists on the hills, here and there -breaking away like the opening of a prison, unfolding on both sides and -showing the grey slopes, the stony peaks, the lonely stormy Fells, were -as full of poetry and dramatic life as ever. The stream still looked -bold and rapid, the village friendly, nestling about the church and over -the bridge. “It is not a bit like Italy,” said Liddy, to her brother. He -felt the sharpness of the morning air as he never would have done had he -stayed among the Fells. “No, you can be quite confident on that -subject,” Harry said. - -“But it is just as fine as ever,” cried Lydia, with a little enthusiasm. -“It is not small nor contracted, nor ugly, as I feared. It is finer than -it used to be. These are real hills, after all; and it is so broad, and -so pure, and such a delightful air. What would you give in Tuscany for -air like that?” - -“We should die of it in a month,” Harry said, buttoning his furred coat -at the throat. - -Lydia was almost angry. He had been there so long, he had got choke full -of Italian prejudice. But she was thankful, very thankful, to find that -the country-side was still pleasant in her own eyes. And now they drive -through the village, one or two early risers looking with expectant -faces out of the windows and waving their hands to her as she passes, -all with a look of surprise at the strange gentleman in his fur coat, -quietly smoking his cigar behind: and the river is crossed, and they -come within sight of the White House. Well! there was no doubt it looked -small: she had been sure it must look small, grey and homely, and -undistinguished, scarcely discernible in its whiteness, which was grey, -like everything here, from the slope of the Fell-side. But Lydia had no -time to make remarks of this description to herself, for immediately at -the door there appeared a slim and tremulous figure, with clasped hands, -looking out; and she gave a cry of uncontrollable joy and excitement, -and sprang down, almost before the carriage stopped, from her seat, and -into the arms of her mother. No, no! there was no change there! For a -moment all her depression and heaviness, and sense of guilt and -baseness, in the thought that her return was no pleasure to her, all -melted away in real natural happiness to see that worn face, and feel -the clasp of those tremulous arms again. - -“Oh, Liddy, my darling! it’s been long, long! but here I have you again, -my own!” - -“Oh, mother! why did I ever leave you?” cried the girl, and they clung -together as if they would never part. - -Mrs. Joscelyn had no eyes for anything but her child. She was about to -lead her in with her arm round her. - -“They will all be out in a minute, Liddy; but never mind, my pet, you’ll -see them later, and they’ll bring in your boxes and all your things. -Come in, come in, you must be tired with your night’s journey--and let -me look at you; I want no more, but just to look at you, you’re better -than Italy to me.” - -“Mother,” Lydia said, holding back, “I have brought some one with me--a -gentleman; you must give a welcome to him too.” - -“A gentleman!” Mrs. Joscelyn gave a little sigh of disappointment. “It -will be Lionel. Yes, I am glad to see him; but I should have liked you -all to myself this first morning. He knows he is welcome, my dear.” - -“It is not Lionel, mother; it is some one whom I met--in Italy.” - -Mrs. Joscelyn began to tremble a little, and looked earnestly in her -daughter’s face, but not with any suspicion of the truth. - -“I will try--to give anyone a welcome, my darling; if you love him, and -if it is for your sake.” - -Harry had got down from the phaeton like a man in a dream. He gazed -about him at the place which was so familiar, yet so strange, as if he -had dropped from the skies, remembering everything all in a moment, his -boyhood, his old childish holidays, his last night. He remembered the -foolish exaggerated passion with which he stood, furious, shut out, -before that closed door. He was full of agitation, of compunction, of -wonder, at his own boyish unreasonableness, and at the long obdurate -closing of his heart, which could not have been, he said to himself, had -it not been full of other things. His heart beat as he looked at his -mother, and heard the cry with which she clasped to her her other child. -And Liddy was going to forsake her too, poor woman, poor mother! Somehow -he thought more of this than of all the trouble he had himself brought -upon her. He stood at a little distance, keeping his furred coat closely -round him, stamping his feet a little to get them warm. Had he lived -always on the Fells, he would have wanted no furred coat, and felt no -cold in his feet. Then Lydia beckoned to him, and he went towards them. -It was all he could do to keep calm. “I am sure the gentleman is very -welcome, Liddy,” he heard his mother say, in her tremulous voice. He -came up to them where they still stood in the doorway. Something about -his air, about his general aspect, startled her, though she was so -pre-occupied, and Harry did not know how to contain himself as his eyes -met hers. She gave him a smile, a little forced, with her lips, but her -eyes more sincere, betrayers of her heart, investigated him with anxiety -and wonder. He could not meet them without betraying himself. He took -the hand she held to him, and bowed over it and kissed it, as he had -learned to do in Italy; and he felt as he did so that the worn white -hand, which he thought he must have recognised had he seen no more of -his mother, trembled. She said, “Come in, Sir,” with a quaver in her -voice; “Come in--you are kindly welcome,” and tremulously led the way -into the hall he remembered so well, and opened the parlour door. The -fire was burning brightly within, the table laid for breakfast, -everything as if he had left it the day before. Mrs. Joscelyn would have -had her guest, who had set her all a-tremble, yet whom she thought she -welcomed reluctantly, enter before her, in old-fashioned politeness; but -when he held back, went in precipitately, holding Liddy by the hand. She -turned round instantly to look at him again. - -“Liddy--you have not told me--the gentleman’s name?” she said, feeling -her head go round. “Liddy! I think--I must have seen him before.” - -Then Harry could keep himself in no longer. He loathed a scene like -every Englishman, but he forgot this, as even Englishmen do in moments -of extreme feeling. He fell down on his knees before her, not knowing -what he did. “Mother! will you forgive me?” he said. And he did not well -know what followed, till the air cleared a little again, and the day -came back, and they had put her in the great chair, her face like death, -her eyelids quivering, her lips trembling and incapable of speech. She -had given a great cry of “Harry! Harry!” which startled all the house. - -Then some one else came noisily clattering down the stairs, crossing the -hall with a heavy foot. “Where is my little Liddy?” Ralph Joscelyn said; -and he added with a certain rough sympathy as he kissed his child, “I -told her it was more than she was up to. Let her be, let her be--she -will come round. I wanted her to bide in her bed, and I would bring you -to her there. Well, and so you’re back, my lass--and welcome! There’s -nobody like you to mend her. Did you bring--a doctor with you all the -way?” - -Then there was a pause; nobody spoke to give any explanation. “Did you -bring a doctor with you,” Joscelyn repeated, with a sudden excited burst -of laughter, “all the way? or who may this be?” - -Harry turned round and came forward into the light, holding out his -hand. “You turned me out last time I was here, father,” he said, not -able to forego the gratification of this taunt; “I ought to have asked -your leave first before I came back now.” - -Ralph Joscelyn stood and stared, a dark red colour coming over his face. -He looked uncertainly from Liddy to the stranger. “I don’t know what you -mean,” he said shortly; then, “Do you mean this is--Harry? that’s what -your mother meant, shrieking out, disturbing everybody in the house. -Look to your mother, Liddy! Well! you’ve been a long time coming back. -You seem,” he said, looking at the new-comer from head to foot, “to have -done well for yourself.” - -“I have done very well for myself,” Harry said, shortly. “I want help -from nobody now.” - -“Well, my lad!” said Joscelyn, suddenly striking his hand into that of -his son with another hoarse, unsteady laugh, “that’s the best of reasons -why you should have whatever you want. You’re welcome home; and there’s -a pretty property waiting for you. And it saves a confounded deal of -trouble, I can tell you, that you should turn up now.” - -All this time Liddy was kneeling by the chair, kissing her mother’s -feeble hands and colourless face. There was no particular alarm about -her among them; but she lay floating between life and death for a moment -in the extremity of emotion which was too much for her feeble flesh and -blood. Then the balance turned--the wrong way. If she died then, how -happy for her! but instead she slowly came back, opened her eyes, and -returned to life. “Is it a dream?” she said, feebly. “No--my Liddy, my -darling, you are real; and the other--wasn’t there another?” - -They all sat at breakfast half an hour after like people in a dream. -Mrs. Joscelyn sat between her son and daughter, and looked at them -alternately, and sipped a feeble cup of tea, and shed a tear or two of -pure happiness. She was not strong enough yet to ask any questions; she -put her hand now and then on Harry’s arm and patted it softly. She heard -the story of how he was found out without understanding it in the least, -and echoed feebly her husband’s loud but tremulous laugh at the name -his son had taken. “Isaac Oliver--that’s the finest joke I ever heard in -my life. Isaac--Oliver! Dang it, but that is the best joke----” And he -laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. The young people both sat by -with the strangest sense of unreality. To go away across half a world, -and then come back again to the same unchanging scene, even to -ameliorations of the past which bring out more clearly the astounding -difference between it and them--how strange it is! In all Harry’s -knowledge of his father, he had never been so friendly or so amiable; -but this only made the gentleman-peasant, the yeoman-horsedealer more -extraordinary, as a father, to his son. Liddy had a far less shock to -sustain in one sense, but a greater in another; for she had come -home--and here was her natural place, love and duty and every tradition -binding her; but, alas! her heart so far away. - -The strange meal was still progressing, the whole family lingering over -it; for the household table was a kind of natural centre and place of -union; when wheels were heard again, and a carriage stopped at the door. -“It will be Joan,” Mrs. Joscelyn said; “she would not lose a moment in -coming; and what will she say when she sees--oh, Harry, my boy! She has -always had a warm heart for you--the warmest heart for you; we’ll say -nothing about old times; but her and me--Run out and meet your sister, -Liddy, and say nothing, say nothing--let us see if she will know him.” -Mrs. Joscelyn put her hand upon his sleeve. “It’s a pleasure to touch -you--I like to touch you in case my eyes should be deceiving me. And did -you ever think of your poor mother all these years?” - -Liddy had run out--to meet her sister as she thought--and her father, -not unwilling now that the meeting was over to leave his wife alone with -her son, followed her, with the intent of taking another look, as he -said to himself, of _his_ pet, and making sure that he had really got -her back. But Liddy, instead of running out to meet her sister, stood -arrested in the doorway, watching the disembarkation from a rickety -country coach of the strangest party that ever produced itself in the -Fell-country. First came a little man with a high hat, a huge cloak with -a faded lining of blue, which would have delighted a painter, flung over -his shoulder, and a huge comforter round his neck; next a bundle of an -old woman, wrapped in half-a-dozen shawls, one over the other, who -rolled out of the quivering carriage, like something half benumbed and -half asleep; lastly, a figure which sprang out as light as a bird, -pushing aside both the companions who held out anxious hands to assist -her, and flew along the little path between the two grass plats. Liddy -clasped her hands together in wonder and dismay. - -“Mrs. Harry!” she cried, with consternation. She was so much surprised -that she made no step to meet her; but stood transfixed, her face pale -with astonishment. Rita was all aglow with pleasure, and excitement, and -triumph. She flung herself upon Lydia as if she had been her dearest -friend in the world. - -“Look, I have done it!” she cried. “I am better than ever I was in my -life. I am so happy. I like the cold. I like the country; I think it is -beautiful! Call this England? it is Paradise! Oh, Liddy, Liddy, you dear -little sister, I shall be as fond of you as Harry is--fonder, for he has -me first to think of. I owe all this to you.” - -“Mrs. Harry!” Liddy repeated, with consternation. “Father, this is Mrs. -Harry; if you were coming, why did you not come with us?” She could -think of nothing that was kinder to say. - -But Rita was too much delighted with herself to stand in need of words -of kindness. She walked up to Ralph Joscelyn, and stretched up to him, -offering her pretty glowing cheek to be kissed. - -“How do you do, father?” she said. “Harry ought to present me to you, -but I don’t want any introduction. You are like him; our little boy is -called Ralph, after you. Harry will be dreadfully angry when he sees me, -and I dare not think what papa will say; but I am so happy to be in -England that I don’t mind. Will you take me in, please, to where my -husband is?” and with the air of a little princess Rita took her -father-in-law’s arm. He was a stately, handsome old man, with his white -hair. The eyes of the new-comer found no fault in him. The roughness -which wounded his children was invisible to her. “He is almost as -handsome as papa,” she said to herself. - -Meanwhile Liddy, still more bewildered, stood at the door, and watched -the approach of the two other persons, not glowing and happy like Rita, -but miserable, as unaccustomed travellers, half dead after a succession -of night journeys, cold, and sick, and out of heart, could be. She -could scarcely recognise the spruce little Paolo, in the worn-out, -fagged traveller, shivering in his big cloak, and trying in vain to -satisfy the coachman with the money which he did not understand. - -“Five shilling, that is six francs twenty-five, six francs twenty-five, -my good man--it is six francs twenty-five, all the world over,” he was -saying, placing a solid French five-franc piece, with other moneys of -the same coinage, in the driver’s hand, and scorning all remonstrances. -“No, no; I am no foreigner--you you will not cheat me. I am not von,” -cried Paolo, betrayed by excitement into inaccuracies which he had quite -got the better of, “to be bullied. I am not von to pay too moche. I am -English as you.” - -As for old Benedetta, who was the other companion of Rita’s journey, she -was prostrate with cold and fatigue. She did nothing but weep and groan -as she sank upon the first seat in the hall. “Ah, Signorina! oh, -Signorina! Sono morto! sono morto!” she cried, while Paolo took off his -hat, by this time somewhat battered, and smiled a forlorn smile, his -teeth chattering as he spoke. “All things that have been spoken of the -English climate are below the truth,” he said. “Miss Joscelyn will -forgive me, I have the cold just in my bones; but Miss Joscelyn, and -also, indeed, Signorina Rita, one is bound to say it, they bloom like -the rose.” - -“Now, don’t be angry,” said Rita, walking her father-in-law in to the -parlour door, which was slightly open, and through which she saw the -glimmer of the fire, and the white cloth of the breakfast-table, and -appearing before her astonished husband, like some mischievous spirit, -in a glow of happiness and delight, “don’t be angry, Harry. I am going -to telegraph directly to papa. I am perfectly well, and delighted with -everything. I am not cold a bit. I am not tired. England, I always was -sure of it, is just the place for me. Present me to your mother. Dear -madam,” she cried, after a little pause of contemplation, dropping -Joscelyn’s arm, and darting forward, “I see you are ill; you are all -trembling with the emotions you have had this morning. And, I am sure, -it is quite natural; you don’t want me to make them more. But kiss me -once, please, for I know I shall love you. I am your Harry’s wife.” - -“Rita!” cried Harry, finding room at last to express his sentiments, -“what, in the name of all that is foolish, brings you here?” - -“Thank you, dear mother,” said Rita, in return for the astonished kiss -which poor Mrs. Joscelyn had bestowed. She sat down by her without any -invitation, and took one of her hands and caressed it between her own. -“I never had any mother,” she said; “I do not know what it means; nor -did I ever want one of my own, for papa has been everything to me. But -it is sweet to borrow Harry’s mother, and have her for mine, too; not -borrow,” she added, kissing Mrs. Joscelyn’s hand, “you are mine because -you are his, is it not so? Harry, do not look so like a bear, but come -and kiss me, too.” - -“Rita, your father will never forgive me,” cried Harry, obeying his wife -with no bad grace, yet incapable of withholding his lecture; “he will -say it was my fault. And how did you persuade him to let you go?” - -“He did not let me go. I said I was going to the villa to the children. -He will not find out till Sunday, that is to-morrow, and he will have my -telegram first. There is no harm done. I believe,” she added, -tranquilly, “he will be as glad as any one to think I have taken it into -my own hands. And look, I am not cold. I liked the air above -everything. Poor Paolo and Benedetta chattered with their teeth, but it -was delightful to me. My poor little mamma was a girl; I am full grown, -strong; and I adore England. It is beautiful. I am enchanted with the -Fells. The grey is lovely; it is your only colour. Harry, Harry, you -great bear, say you are glad to see me, or your mother will think we are -not fond of each other: which is not true, dearest, dearest lady,” said -Rita, once more kissing Mrs. Joscelyn’s hand. - -“I am sure anybody would be fond of you,” Mrs. Joscelyn said, gazing -with wonder and awe--but flattered, touched, astonished beyond -measure--at this beautiful young woman, so enthusiastic, so -self-possessed, so fluent, whom she had never heard of before. - -“Oh, fond of her, what has that to do with it?” cried Harry. “So you -have brought Benedetta and poor Paolo,” he cried. - -After this Paolo was brought in, and warmed and fed; but it took a long -time to bring him round. He had thought it a very fine thing to come off -to England for his holiday, romantically following a beautiful young -lady, helping another to reunite herself to her husband; but the -journey and the privations, want of sleep and over-fatigue, and the wind -of an English May, blowing at six o’clock in the morning over the Fells, -had been too much for poor Paolo. He sounded his friend a few days -after, when he had partially recovered his spirits, as to the custom in -English families when they married their daughters. - -“For example,” he said, “Amico, if it is not impertinent. A young lady -like Miss Joscelyn; so beautiful, so charming. When your parents make up -their minds to marry her, they will of course make it a condition that -the ’usband being so happy should live near?” - -“Certainly they would make the condition,” said Harry, promptly. “Could -anyone be so cruel, do you think, Paolo, as to take away her last prop -from my mother? They are everything to each other, as you can see.” - -“It is true,” said Paolo, much crestfallen. And next day he took a -tearful leave, kissing Liddy’s hand with respectful deference. The -unusual salutation made her blush quite unnecessarily. It was a -resignation of all pretensions on Paolo’s part. He could have made, he -said afterwards, as great a sacrifice to his love as any man; but to -have lived on what they called the Fells, was more than it was possible -to contemplate. But he was a little consoled by a burst of bright -weather in London, and saw the Parks and the Row in all their glory, and -lost his heart to a great many other English young ladies before he -carried it, pieced up again so as to be serviceable for actual living, -but in a sadly battered and shattered condition, back again to Leghorn; -where he was a great authority upon everything English to the end of his -days. - -Rita turned out to be right, as she so often was. Her father, after the -first shock, was glad beyond measure that the venture had been made and -proved successful, and that the embargo was taken off his native -country, and he could permit him to return. The accumulations of Uncle -Henry’s money was enough to make a pretty, old-fashioned house out of -Birrenshead, where the Harry Joscelyns settled down, Mr. Bonamy with -them, though without giving up the Italian villa and its associations. -Mr. Bonamy got a C.B. and many compliments when he retired from the -service, though he had never been anything more than a Vice-Consul. As -for Lydia and her concerns, it is needless to say that they ended -prosperously; for what was there that Lady Brotherton could refuse to -her only son? and Sir John saw only through her eyes. So this marriage -was accomplished also towards the autumn, before the year was out, from -the time of their first acquaintance. Harry and his children were known -to be coming home by that time, as soon as the house was ready for them, -“Which was something for mother to look forward to,” Joan said. “A thing -to look forward to is almost better than a thing she’s got, to mother,” -according to that authority. “She can’t fret about it till she has it.” -But nobody could be more tender and sympathetic than Joan when Lydia was -married and went away, leaving a blank that nothing could fill up. “It’s -hard to say what’s the good of us women,” she said, “to rear children -and never have them but when they’re babies, and think all the world of -them, and watch them go away. Phil and me, we are best without any, -though that’s a hard trial too. But, mother, don’t you make a fuss, poor -dear. It’s the way of the world, and it’s the course of nature, and -there isn’t a word to say.” - -This was the case, and Mrs. Joscelyn felt it. She clasped her hands as -she had done so often, and held them up to heaven in prayer that was -perpetual. That was all. She saw her children now and then, and they -were all happy, and in no need of her. What could any woman desire more? - - -THE END. - - -London: Printed by A. Schulze, 13 Poland Street. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Harry Joscelyn; vol. 3 of 3, by -Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARRY JOSCELYN; VOL. 3 OF 3 *** - -***** This file should be named 63562-0.txt or 63562-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/5/6/63562/ - -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 print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook. - - -Title: Harry Joscelyn; vol. 3 of 3 - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: October 27, 2020 [EBook #63562] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARRY JOSCELYN; VOL. 3 OF 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="c"><img src="images/cover.jpg" -height="550" -alt="" -/></p> - -<p class="c">HARRY JOSCELYN.<br /><br /> -——<br /><br /> -VOL. III.</p> - -<h1>HARRY JOSCELYN.</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -<span class="lspc">MRS. OLIPHANT</span><br /> -<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF<br /></small> -<br /><span class="eng"> -“The Chronicles of Carlingford,”</span><br /> -<br /> -&c., &c.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br /> -<br /> -VOL. III.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<span class="lspc">LONDON</span>:<br /> -HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,<br /> -13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.<br /> -1881.<br /><small> -<i>All rights reserved.</i></small><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -<big><span class="lspc">HARRY JOSCELYN.</span></big></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border:2px solid gray;margin:1em auto;max-width:60%;"> -<tr><td class="c"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">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> -</td></tr> -</table> - - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>AFTER TEN YEARS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>EN years is a large slice out of a life; but it slips by, not leaving -much trace in a rural country where everything goes quietly, and where -Christmas follows after Christmas with scarcely any sign by which one -can be identified from another on looking back. We will not say that -nothing had happened in the White House to mark the ten years from the -time when young Harry Joscelyn disappeared from the Fell country, and it -became evident that no one there was likely to hear anything of him -more. Various things had happened: one, for instance, was that Joan had -married Philip Selby, and was now the mistress of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> Heatonshaw, and could -not easily remember, so strange is the effect of such a change, how she -had contented herself in her previous life, or what had been the habits -and customs of Joan Joscelyn. More had happened to her in this than in -any other ten years of her life; but yet they had glided over very -calmly, day following day with such a gentle monotony that it was hard -for her to decide how many of them there were, or which was which. She -had no child to measure the years by, which was a misfortune, but one -which she bore with submission: reflecting to herself that if children -are a comfort they are often also a great handful, and that when they -are troublesome there is nothing else so troublesome in all the world. -Philip Selby himself was less philosophical, and would have ventured -gladly upon the risk for the sake of the blessing; but it was not so to -be. And thus they had little evidence before them of how the years stole -away. But all that he had augured, and Joan had agreed to, about the -house, had come true. There were the best of beasts in the byres, and -heavy crops on the arable land, and a phaeton in the coach-house, and -horses in the stables such as no man needed to be ashamed of. And with -all this,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> there was a very comfortable couple inside. Joan, on her -marriage, had been half ashamed of the fine room, which was called—not -according to her old-fashioned formula, the parlour, but—the -drawing-room, to which her husband had brought her home, and which had -been furnished by one of the best shops in Carlisle, with furniture such -as was approved by the taste of the time. There was a white paper on the -walls, and a great deal of gilding, and sofas and tables with legs that -were crooked and curly. But by the end of ten years much that was -somewhat showy once had toned down. The furniture had got more shapely -and a little human; the place had worn into the fashion of the people -that inhabited it. In summer it was a perfect bower of lilies and roses, -the great white shafts of the one rising above the broad branches, heavy -with flowers, of the other (for in those days there were no standards), -and the whole air sweet with the mingled perfume. Liddy Joscelyn, Mrs. -Selby’s little sister, thought there was no flower-garden in the world -like it; but then she had not been away from home since she was twelve, -and had not seen much, and there was nothing like it about the White -House.</p> - -<p>That, place, too, had changed in these years.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> Ralph Joscelyn was the -one upon whom the change had told most. It was not that he was much -altered in personal appearance, nor yet that he had entirely mended and -corrected his ways. Perhaps indeed the alteration visible in him was -more due to the fact that there was nobody about the place who crossed -him, no one who opposed any strenuous opposition to his will, or -dissented from his opinions, than any real alteration. But it was a -quieter life which the homestead led, subject to much fewer storms than -of old; and Mrs. Joscelyn lived a far less anxious life. The loss of her -youngest boy so long ago—though it might not be really the loss of him, -since who could tell what day he might re-appear again?—was not a -thing, as everyone said, that she could be expected to get over. But the -ten years had calmed her, and, what was more, Liddy had calmed her. -Lydia had been sent for to her school when her mother was in the depths -of this trouble, and she had never been suffered to go back again, her -presence being the only consolation which the gentle and unhappy woman -was the better for. And after ten years of Liddy’s constant company, -Mrs. Joscelyn was a very different woman. Joan, who had been so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> -sympathetic with her mother through that last family trouble, without -understanding her in the others, understood still less the effect -produced by her little sister, who smoothed down everything without any -apparent trouble, more by understanding it, so far as appeared, than -from anything she did. When Joan’s reign terminated, Lydia became the -dominant spirit in the house. She was so at fourteen; how much more at -twenty! It was not a good thing for the butter and the cheese. The dairy -produce of the White House fell off wonderfully. It was no longer half -the quantity, and still less was it equal in quality, to the butter of -Joan’s time. Old Simon never ceased shaking his head over it till his -dying day, and went out of human consciousness moaning to himself that -“A’ things was altered, and no t’ half o’ t’ money coming in.” It was he -that had always been the salesman, and he felt it deeply. For half of -the time or so Joan had done her utmost, driving over in the morning and -spending hours endeavouring to indoctrinate her sister with the -mysteries of that art; but Liddy only laughed, and kept her pretty white -hands by her side, and declared herself incapable. “I don’t know what to -do with these things,” she would say, gazing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> at the bowls of milk, -without the least sense of shame, with even a smile on her face; and to -Joan’s consternation her father, coming in when this was said, and -himself standing in the doorway, swaying his big figure to and fro, -said, “Let her alone, let her alone, Joan. You did it, but she is -another kind from you.”</p> - -<p>“That she is,” said Joan. “She’s not the profitable kind either, if she -let’s the dairy take care of itself.”</p> - -<p>But to this Joscelyn paid no attention; and Mrs. Selby was led to her -chaise stupefied, not knowing whether she was asleep or awake, so -bewildered was she. The dairy went off, it was no longer celebrated as -of yore. The cows decreased in number, for what was the use of keeping -them when they brought in so little profit? And by degrees the house -changed altogether. Lydia, slim and straight, with her white hands, and -feet that scarcely sounded upon the old passage, gradually modified -everything. When she was seen in a new riding-habit, and a hat with a -feather, going out to ride with her father, the old servants could -scarcely contain themselves; and the timid mother, coming out to see -her, smoothed the horse’s sleek coat<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> with a frightened hand, and did -not know how to look at the girl, or her father, who was as proud of -Lydia as Mrs. Joscelyn herself could be.</p> - -<p>And then the old piano, which nobody had touched for years—for Joan, -who had ended her education at fifteen, had never learned any more music -than was contained in a first book of exercises—was sent off to an -attic, and a new piano was bought for Lydia. Where it came from no one -could quite understand, for it was impossible to believe that Joscelyn -had drawn his purse-strings to such an extent; but all the same it -arrived, and Lydia, sometimes going into Wyburgh, sometimes having her -professor out to the White House, had lessons, and practised diligently, -and by-and-bye became in her way a musician, astonishing all the -neighbourhood with her powers. A young lady who rode about the country -on a handsome horse, and who played the piano, was something altogether -new in the place. She might have been much more profoundly instructed -without producing half so great an impression. The house altogether rose -in the social scale. People came to call who had never been seen near -the White House before; and they found the mistress of the house, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> -had always been genteel, a gentle woman, ladylike and subdued, and her -daughter one of the prettiest girls in the county, with a sort of -elegance about her which was the inheritance she had received from her -mother, strengthened and consolidated by the superior strength which she -got from the other side of the house. When Joscelyn himself appeared, -which was rarely, his fine form and strength, and the refinement -imparted by a crown of white hair, raised him, too, to a sort of -pinnacle. People began to say that they found they had done him -injustice, and that after all the present representative of the -Joscelyns was not unworthy his race. The process was slow, but it was -very complete. When Will and Tom appeared with their wives, it was -unaccountable how “put out” and “set down” they felt, as if they were -going to their landlord’s, where everything was finer than the -surroundings they were accustomed to, and not to their father’s, upon -whose shabby furniture Mrs. Will and Mrs. Tom had looked with contempt. -Even Joan looked round her with a curiosity which was mingled with -grievance, scarcely able to restrain the thought that what was good -enough for <i>her</i>, might certainly have been good enough for Liddy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> -Liddy it was clear did not think so. And how that little thing knew, or -where she had got her instinctive acquaintance with polite ways, Mrs. -Selby, who was on the whole proud of Liddy, could not tell; but so it -was. The house brightened up generally; here a new carpet, and there a -new curtain, made a change in its dingy aspect. The old furniture was -made the most of, and old china, and all the stores of a long -established house brought out to embellish the parlours; the very hall -and passages were brushed up, the table, and the service at the table, -so improved, that Joan too thought she must be dining with some of the -great county people, whom the Joscelyns had always thought themselves -equal to, but who had not acknowledged the Joscelyns.</p> - -<p>“The thing that surprises me is where she learned it all,” Mrs. Selby -said; “a bit of a thing that has seen no more than the rest of us; but -she has a deal of you in her, mother, far more than any of the rest.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, my dear,” said Mrs. Joscelyn, shaking her head, “I never had the -courage to settle things my own way. It was not that I didn’t know: I -knew very well how things ought to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> done.” This little gentle -assertion of her gentility Mrs. Joscelyn felt was her due in the new -development of affairs. It was not all the discovery of Liddy. She had -known well enough all the time. Circumstances had been too much for her; -but the refinements of society were her natural atmosphere. Joan looked -at her mother with mingled respect and amusement, proud that she was -such a lady, yet feeling the joke of her superiority.</p> - -<p>“Yes, mother,” she said, “I mind how you and Phil talked the first time -he came to the White House. It was as good as a play to hear you. He -never let on it was me he wanted, but to have a talk with you, such a -superior woman. I did not understand a word you were saying, and I took -pains to let him see that the dairy and the stables were what I was most -acquainted with; but that didn’t make any difference, you see.”</p> - -<p>“You were never one to make the most of yourself, Joan,” said the -mother, mildly. “I always knew there was a great deal more in you than -you would ever show,” at which Joan laughed; but she was not displeased. -And she was proud of her young sister when Liddy came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> riding over on -the last perfection from her father’s stable, looking like a young -princess. She was the nearest thing to a child of her own that Joan was -ever likely to have, and she forgave her possession of a great many -indulgences which no one had thought of conceding to Joan. When it -appeared, however, that Lydia had a groom behind her, Mrs. Selby’s soul -was stirred within her.</p> - -<p>“Now, Liddy,” she said, “I can stand a deal, but you’ll ruin father if -you go on like this. A groom behind you! what will you want next? -Father’s just infatuated, that is all I can say.”</p> - -<p>“It’s only a livery coat,” said Liddy, “that’s all. It doesn’t cost very -much. I’ll pay it off my own allowance, and father will never be the -worse——”</p> - -<p>Here she was interrupted by a shriek from her elder sister. “Your -allowance? What next?” she said. “I never had a penny to myself when I -was at home, and hard ado to get a bill paid. If it had not been for the -butter money, I should never have had a gown to my back.”</p> - -<p>“But that would not do for me,” said Lydia, with a toss of her head; -and, indeed, to see her here with her airy figure, and her close-fitting -habit, and the beautiful bay arching his fine neck<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> in the background, -and to suggest any connection with the butter money was a thing which -only an elder sister without sentiment or sense of appropriateness could -have done. The Duke’s daughter did not look more unlike any such homely -particulars; indeed, the Duke’s daughter was not fit, as Joan said, -proudly, to herself, to “hold the candle” to little Liddy Joscelyn.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what’s coming of it,” Mrs. Selby said to her husband; -“but, Phil, you and me will stand by that child, and see her out of -it—will you, goodman?”</p> - -<p>“That I will, my dear,” Philip Selby said; “but Joscelyn has been doing -not badly, and I dare say he can afford to let the little one have her -fling. He has none to think of now but Liddy—and there’s Uncle Henry’s -money.”</p> - -<p>This allusion always made Joan ready to cry, though she was not given to -tears. “I would rather burn off my fingers than touch Uncle Henry’s -money,” she said. “It will never be me that will put my hand to it, and -give my consent that yon poor lad is not coming home——”</p> - -<p>“We must be reasonable, my dear,” Philip Selby said, mildly, “and the -others will not be so patient. There is one thing you shall do if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> you -like, Joan, and that is give your share to Liddy. It would never be any -pleasure to you.”</p> - -<p>Joan looked at her husband with a startled air. She was more matter of -fact than he was, and the idea of giving over actual money to which she -had a right, to anyone, was a thing which gave her somewhat of a shock. -In their ordinary affairs she had to keep rather a tight hand upon her -Phil, who was too easy about his money generally; but this was a -complicated case, and puzzled her much.</p> - -<p>“Give Liddy my share? You say true it would be little, little pleasure -to me; but money is money, and there are some to come after us. It’s -fine to be generous, but we must think upon justice. What’s Liddy’s is -Liddy’s, and what’s mine is mine.”</p> - -<p>It was from no want of kindness that Joan spoke: but she could not help -it. It was as natural to close her hand over money, even when she hated -it, as it was for others to throw it away.</p> - -<p>“You will think better of it,” her husband said.</p> - -<p>“Oh! it’s very likely I will think better of it. A woman cannot live -with a prodigal like you without getting into ill ways. But I was always -brought up to stick to my money; and I’ve you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> to look after as well. If -you had not me to watch over you, you would give away the coat off your -back.”</p> - -<p>“For all that I’ve always had plenty,” said Selby, “and now more than -plenty—with a good wife to take care of it and me.”</p> - -<p>“You may say a wife to take care of you,” said Joan, “and how you ever -kept a penny in your purse before you got her, is what I cannot tell; -though, after all, when a man spends nothing upon himself, it’s easy -keeping him going. But I’m one that sticks to my money. Give what you -please else, but keep a grip upon your money, that’s always been my -way.” Then she added, after a pause: “There will never be any question -about that; when he knows it’s all left to him, it stands to reason that -he will come back. Joscelyns have more regard to their own interest. -They are not easy-going like you.”</p> - -<p>“I wish I could think so,” Mr. Selby said.</p> - -<p>And so the conversation ended. Uncle Henry had died not very long -before, leaving behind him only an old will in which everything was left -to Harry. The executors, who were both influential persons in Wyburgh, -had advertised for him, or for news of him, but none had come; and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> -family generally had accepted this as a proof that Harry was dead—the -family, all but the mother and Joan, who were both strenuous that -nothing should be done, and no division made. Mrs. Joscelyn would have -been overruled before now, but Joan was a stronger opponent, and she had -the backing of her husband, of whom her brothers stood in a little awe; -so that the division and distribution of Uncle Henry’s funds had been -postponed. But this delay could not last: the elder brothers, who were -men with families and in want of money, were certain to push for a -settlement. They had no doubt, and not very much feeling, about the -younger one who was lost. It had been entirely his own doing. He was a -fool to have gone away like that, and compromised himself, and thrown -away all his chances; but whatever happened to him in consequence was -his own fault. If he had died, or if he was living in some obscure -corner far away, were not they equally innocent? They had tried all they -could to find him—the trustees were trying now. Old Pilgrim was -advertising far and wide. If Harry were dead, or if he were so far away -as to be out of reach of this call, it was not their fault; and they -wanted no more than their share<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span>—but that share, there was no doubt, -would be very convenient. Will’s sons were growing up, and Tom was -taking in more land to his farm. To each of these, as to most people, a -little money would have been of the greatest use. And it was all very -well for Joan to talk who had neither chick nor child, and was in such -easy circumstances; it was well for her to talk whose husband supplied -her with everything, and who had no need of money; but they were men and -knew better. They knew that men are not such fools as to stay away from -their home as Harry had done. Nobody did such a thing, especially when -advertisements were in the papers about them, and “something to their -advantage” promised.</p> - -<p>“Something to your advantage means money,” said Will. “<span class="lftspc">’</span>Twouldn’t be -long I’d skulk away at the end of the world if you were to give me the -chance.”</p> - -<p>“He’s never skulking away at the end of the world,” said Tom. “If he -went off at all, he went to California or thereabouts; and he’d have -come home at the first scent of money. Bless you, we know our own -breed;” and in this the other brother concurred. But the trustees held -fast. They would not consent to any distribution<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> of the money till -Harry, if Harry still existed, had every chance of hearing of it. -Privately Mr. Pilgrim had no objection to advance to Tom the money he -wanted for that addition to his farm. There was solid security, and a -feasible reason for borrowing. “There’s but too much reason to think -that your poor brother will never turn up again,” the executor allowed; -“but we must not go too fast.” Alas! such is the weakness of human -nature that the other Joscelyns ere long were not sure that they wished -their poor brother to turn up again. The money would be so convenient! -When is there a time that money is not convenient? And it could do him -no good, poor fellow, if he was in his grave—which at the same time -would be his own fault.</p> - -<p>Very different, however, from the conclusions of Will and Joan were -those which were held at the White House on this subject. Mrs. Joscelyn -had never consented to that view. “He may have been led away,” she said; -“but do you think my boy would die and me not know? Oh, Liddy, my -darling, many a time when you see me in low spirits, and ask me why, and -I say it’s nothing, that is what it is. It is borne in upon me that -something is the matter with one of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> boys. I’ve different feelings -for each of them. People may laugh that don’t understand, but you’ll not -laugh, my Liddy dear. I never said it to one of the others, but I may -say it to you. If it’s Ben, or if it’s Huntley, I have a kind of a -feeling—and as sure as letters come it’s found to be true. There is -always a something. Now it stands to reason that Harry should be the -same, but as he never writes we never can tell. Sometimes I’ve been -quite light-hearted for nothing at all, and I’ve said to myself, ‘That’s -Harry: something good’s happening to him.’ Do you think it is natural -that if he had <i>died</i>—oh, the Lord preserve him!—his mother would not -know?”</p> - -<p>“It would not be natural at all,” said Lydia, confidently; “he would -come and stand by your bedside; I don’t feel the least doubt of that. -But there is one thing I should like, mamma; I should like to go abroad. -I feel sure that I should find him. I think that I should find him -somewhere not very far away—or else in America: I have quite made up my -mind to that.”</p> - -<p>“You would scarcely know your brother if you saw him,” said Mrs. -Joscelyn, shaking her head; “You were so little, my pet; and poor Harry -must be changed in ten years.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I should know him,” cried Lydia. She held her pretty head high. She -was very sure of most things. “After you are grown up you don’t change -so much. He might not know me, but I should know him wherever I saw him. -Ah, how delightful it would be to bring him back to you!” said Lydia, -throwing her arms round her mother. The words and the arms were alike -sweet. Nobody had given Mrs. Joscelyn this food for her heart in the old -days.</p> - -<p>“My darling!” she said; “but I see no chance for you to go abroad, far -less—far less——”</p> - -<p>“There is no telling what may happen,” said Liddy, “everybody, you know, -goes abroad now.”</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Joscelyn shook her head. She saw the practical difficulties -here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>A NEW COUSIN.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">L</span>YDIA had indeed as little prospect of going abroad as any girl could -have. Her own kindred dreamt of no such indulgences, and she had no -friends likely to suggest them. In these days people stayed still where -their home was, and did not think of the continued changes and absences -which make up our modern life—though the spirit of travel was beginning -to be in the air, and younger spirits, even in the Fell-country, began -to form dreams on the subject. Perhaps there never was a time when the -idea of travelling was not attractive to the young, and when Italy was -not a name to conjure withal. Lydia Joscelyn had read everything that -fell into her hands all her life, even the Book of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> Beauty, which her -brother-in-law, Philip Selby, presented to her with an inscription on -the flyleaf, at Christmas. Half the stories, and half, almost all, the -poetry there, bore reference to “the sunny South.” She was resolute to -go “abroad” some time or other; to live among the dark-eyed Antonios and -lovely Rosalbas of romance. And there, she had made up her mind, she -would find Harry, and bring him back to her mother. It was her dream. -Whenever she had nothing else to do she thought of it, and represented -to herself how she should find him, how he would try to conceal himself -from her, and by what wonderful ruses and clever expedients she would -discover his secret and prove him to be her brother. It is not to be -supposed that there did not mingle in Lydia’s dreams, visions of some -other figure still more attractive than that of her brother, who having -been five-and-twenty when he disappeared, ten years ago, was according -to her calculation “quite old” by this time. It is not quite certain -that she did not expect him to be grey-haired, and a little decrepit; -but there would be some friend, some protector, some handsome young -count, or even prince, who would have afforded the stranger hospitality, -and in whom Liddy felt the possible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> hero of her life to be embodied. He -was quite vague, except a pair of beautiful eyes; there was nothing at -all about him else that she was certain of; but those eyes looked out of -the mists upon her, with every kind of tender and delightful look. He -would help her, could any one doubt, to bring Harry home? and -afterwards—perhaps—would ask for his reward. Such was the natural -sequence of events. To do Lydia justice, however, this visionary prince -was a secondary personage, only indulged in as a dream by way of -recreation, after she had, in her thoughts, tracked Harry down, and got -him at her mercy.</p> - -<p>She had not much society or recreation at the White House. There were -times, indeed, when, if it had been possible for a girl to have done so, -Lydia would have had no objection to try, as Harry had done, what the -society of the “Red Lion” could do for her; but to do her justice one -trial would have been enough. She did what was quite as good, and more -innocent; she ran off sometimes into the kitchen of the White House, and -talked with the servants, and heard a hundred stories both of the past -and present, and learned the countryside, so that she knew who everybody -was, and their mothers, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> their wives, and all that had happened to -them. It was there, rather than from her mother and her sister, that she -heard about Harry. The old cook remembered everything about him, from -the time when he had cut his teeth. She had a recollection of that night -when he had gone away, and still excused herself for not having gone to -the rescue. “T’ master was all about t’ house, travelling up and down in -his stocking-feet—was it my part to oop and open the door?” Thus her -apologies accused her according to the proverb. The other women were -younger, but they too had something to tell. And then Liddy would go -back to the quietude of the parlour, where her mother was sitting in the -same attitude, reading the same book. The parlour looked cheerful -enough, but there was never any change in it, not half so much as in the -kitchen, where some one was always moving about, and there was a -perpetual flow of talk. Liddy never spent an evening away from home, -except two or three times a year to her sister’s, when there was “a -party” prepared weeks in advance, and talked of for months after; or at -Dr. Selby’s in the village, where now and then there were entertainments -of a homelier kind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span></p> - -<p>Young Selby, who had been Harry’s friend and a frequenter of the “Red -Lion,” though he had not yet sown all his wild oats, was a person of -some importance in the village society. He was his father’s assistant, -and although it was said that he was far more interested in the fees -than in the Doctor’s patients, yet the fact that he was almost the only -unmarried man in the neighbourhood gave him a certain importance. He was -continually meeting Liddy when she went out to ride, and he looked very -well on horseback, and gave her a great deal of good advice about the -management of her horse. Perhaps but for that young Count in her dream, -she would have got to understand what young Selby meant, though she -scoffed at the adjective, and declared that he was not young, but as old -as his father. He was the most entertaining person in the neighbourhood -all the same, and the hero of Joan’s parties when they came round, one -in summer, one about Christmas. These entertainments were pretty much -alike, whatever was the time of year. Garden parties were not known in -those days. In summer the windows were open, in winter the shutters shut -over them and the curtains drawn. In other ways they were very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> much -alike. There was a great round game carried on at the round table in the -centre of the room. The tea had been served in the dining-room, so it -did not interfere with the evening’s arrangements. Mr. Pilgrim’s family -from Wyburgh were among the guests, and all the clergymen round, and any -other notability who was not too great for the occasion. Few of the -guests indeed could be called county people; but there were a good many -who visited with the county people, and is not that very nearly the -same? Joan, though she was homely enough, held her head somewhat high at -her own table. The Selbys were but of moderate pretensions, but she -never forgot that she was a Joscelyn. And she kept Liddy by her, not -allowing any indiscriminate flirtations, and distinctly discouraging -young Selby, who was her cousin by marriage, but had never won her -heart. Mrs. Joscelyn never came to her daughter’s parties, though she -was pleased to hear all about them; and it was only on condition that -Liddy was to keep by her sister’s side that she was permitted to go, -“You needn’t fear, mother, that she’ll meet with anyone she oughtn’t to -meet with at my house,” Joan said, and she took care of her accordingly. -It troubled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> her mind on the occasion to which we are about to refer, -that a young man had come with Mrs. Pilgrim’s party, about whom she knew -nothing. He was nice-looking, but she had not even caught his name. She -could not help thinking it a little wrong of Mrs. Pilgrim to bring a -stranger to such an assembly. If he had been in love with one of her -girls, Joan allowed that would have made a difference; but there was not -the least appearance that he was in love with one of the Pilgrim girls. -They were very assiduous in their attention to him, pointing out -everybody and making conversation for the young man, who, without being -rude or disagreeable, held himself just a little aloof from the company -in general, as if he had come there solely because he was brought, and -had no special interest in the proceedings. His head, for he was tall, -appearing steadily over Mrs. Pilgrim’s, at last began to irritate Mrs. -Selby, who felt herself to be in every way a greater personage. She -called her husband to her again and again to point out to him this -wholly ineffective member of the party.</p> - -<p>“What is he wanting here?” she said.</p> - -<p>“My dear, what they all want—to enjoy himself,” Philip Selby replied.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Enjoy himself—do you call that enjoyment? He looks as if he had -swallowed a poker; and is never trusted for a moment out of the charge -of two or three Pilgrims. I don’t think I’ll ask these people again.”</p> - -<p>“They are very good sort of people, Joan; and considering the position -in which they stood to your uncle Henry——”</p> - -<p>“I’m very tired of Uncle Henry, Phil; besides, the girls didn’t stand in -any position—and I never authorised them to bring a strange young man.”</p> - -<p>“He will be after Amy or Tiny—or——”</p> - -<p>“He’s after none of them. Can’t you see that with half an eye? It’s my -belief he’s spying out for our Liddy. And what will mother say to me if -I let her make acquaintance with a stranger? I said, ‘You needn’t fear, -mother; she’ll meet nobody you don’t want her to meet at my house.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Well, well,” said Philip Selby, soothingly; “there’s half the room -between them; and nobody can say, my dear, that it’s your fault.”</p> - -<p>“But that’s just what mother will do,” said Joan, with a puckered brow, -as if her mother had been the most alarming critic in existence. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> -laughed at herself afterwards, and went to the table to superintend the -round game, in which Liddy was deeply involved, seated by young Selby’s -side. There was a strong sense of responsibility on Joan’s mind, or -rather, she was a little cross. Her cakes had not come quite so well out -of the oven as she intended, and Mrs. Doctor Selby had suggested a fault -in the flavour of the tea. She went up to the players in a stormy state -of mind. “Come, come,” she said, “you’re not sitting right. Liddy, you -come over here and help little Ellen; all you strong ones are together. -Raaf,” this was to young Selby, “stay where you are. I’ll put Miss -Armstrong, she’s not playing at all, next to you.”</p> - -<p>At this young Selby made a grimace, but Liddy tripped out of her place -with all the alacrity possible, leaving her seat and devoting herself to -little Ellen. She even gave her sister a smiling look of gratitude. -“Thank you,” she said, in an under-tone, “but it was rude, Joan.”</p> - -<p>“Now you are a deal better arranged, and the game will go faster; there -will be no cheating,” Joan said. She did not care a bit for being called -rude. Raaf Selby should know that he was not good enough for a Joscelyn -whatever his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> cousin might be. “One’s enough,” she said to herself. -Besides, she wanted for Liddy something that should be out of the common -altogether. She herself had done very well in marriage. She had got an -excellent man, with enough to be comfortable upon. But she did not feel -that she would be satisfied with only so much for her little sister. Not -that Raaf Selby at his best could hold a candle to Phil. He was not much -except when he was on a horse; then she was obliged to allow he looked -pretty well. But a man can’t always be on a horse’s back, and anywhere -else he was not worth looking twice at; very different from Phil. Even -Phil, however, much as she respected her husband, was not the kind of -person she wanted for Liddy. A fairy prince, if any such fantastic being -had ever existed in Joan’s steady imagination, was the sort of person -who ought to be Lydia’s fate; a fine young fellow (young to start with), -and handsome, and well off, and with an air above the rest of the world. -Unawares, as her eyes went round her guests, they fell once more upon -the tall young stranger behind Mrs. Pilgrim’s chair. Was that the kind -of man? Well, if he had not been an intruder, a stranger, a hanger-on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> -of the Pilgrims’ (though certainly not in love with either of the -girls), that was the kind of person. She drew near Mrs. Pilgrim as this -unsolicited thought arose in her mind. She was annoyed with herself to -think that a person whom she did not know, and who had no right to be -here, should thus have taken her eye.</p> - -<p>“You are doing nothing, Amy,” she said to the eldest Miss Pilgrim; “I’m -sure they want you in the game yonder—or you might give us some music. -You and your sister might play a duet. I like to see everybody -employed.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I always say. You don’t let the grass grow beneath your -feet, Mrs. Selby, neither in work nor in pleasure. I was just saying -to——” here she made signs with her thumb, pointing to the stranger, -who was inspecting the party from his eminence, and talking languidly to -one of the girls. “He was introduced to you,” she added, in a whisper, -“when he came in?”</p> - -<p>“I should think,” said Joan, “that nobody would bring a strange man into -my house without introducing him to me. But your friend is doing nothing -either,” she said, with compunction, and a relenting of hospitality. “He -has just got<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> into a corner; and the evening’s lost when you once do -that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mrs. Selby, he doesn’t know anybody. We promised we would take care -of him if he came with us,” Amy Pilgrim said; and the object of Joan’s -mingled interest and indignation laughed a little, and said that he -hoped Mrs. Selby would not trouble herself, that he was very well there.</p> - -<p>Then Joan sought her husband again. “Look at them,” she said, “all -sitting in a corner with this strange man, as if they were above the -rest of us: as if it was my lady Countess and her party from the Castle -looking at the poor people’s amusements. I will never ask these Pilgrims -again.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, my dear,” said Philip Selby, “they are very good sort of -people; and if they have a strange man with them that knows nobody, in -civility what can they do?”</p> - -<p>“Then in civility it’s your part to make him know somebody. Are you not -the master of the house? Phil, you are lazy; you are not doing your -duty,” Joan said, giving him a little push towards the corner in which -the Pilgrims were enthroned. “If there is one thing I cannot put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> up -with it is a knot of people in a company making their observations.” She -was quite excited by the Pilgrims and their guest—“for he is their -guest, and not mine, though it’s in my house,” Joan said to herself. But -alas for her consistency! Next time that she disengaged herself from the -lesser crowd round the card-table, Joan saw a sight which displeased and -satisfied her at the same time. The group of the Pilgrims had broken up; -that is to say, “the strange man” had been led or had strayed away, and -Amy and Tiny, having no longer anyone to take care of, and describe the -company to, had sought refuge at the card-table, and were much merrier, -if not so fine, as in their former position. That was all very well; -but, on the other hand, there was Lydia, seated demurely in a chair -apart, with Raaf Selby standing on one side of her like a thunder-cloud, -and on the other, talking and making himself very agreeable, the -Pilgrims’ “strange young man.”</p> - -<p>“Raaf,” said Joan, promptly, “you’re as bad as Phil; you’re taking no -trouble. How is the game to go on without you to look after it, when -it’s well known that you are far the best player here?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I have been playing all the evening. I think I may be permitted a -little rest,” Raaf said, with a gloomy countenance. He was older and -shorter than the strange young man, and not so tall, and there was a -something about this personage which was above the level of young Selby. -He could not tell what it was. He himself had more ornaments, he had a -finer head of hair, and more shirt-front, but yet there was something. -Lydia was replying very gravely to what the stranger said to her, but -she gave him her whole attention, and the other girls had given evidence -that they saw something in this new comer which was not in their -familiar hero. He felt crestfallen, and he felt angry. He was not in a -humour to be ordered about by Joan.</p> - -<p>“Then sing us one of your songs,” Mrs. Selby said. “Things are going a -bit slow; I don’t know what is the matter: or perhaps it’s only me -that’s the matter. But I think things are going a bit slow.”</p> - -<p>“That’s my opinion, too,” Raaf said; “but I don’t think it’s my fault.”</p> - -<p>Upon which Lydia suddenly struck in, “Never mind how they are going, -Joan, Joan! Let the people alone; they will amuse themselves. Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> -Brotherton has never been among the Fells before, and he wants to learn -about us and all our ways. We are the natives—a kind of savages, but -friendly; and talking a kind of dialect that can be understood with a -little trouble. Come, Joan, and listen. It is nice to hear so much good -of ourselves.”</p> - -<p>This she said a little vindictively, with a glance at her new companion -which brought the colour to his face. He had opened the conversation -unguardedly, as fine people are often in the habit of doing with each -other, by talking about the natives and the barbarous people. It was a -compliment, if Lydia had known, to the superior air of her dress, and -her appearance generally; how it is that one individual looks <i>comme il -faut</i>, and another does not, is the most difficult of questions. Lydia -in fact was no way superior to the rest: but the stranger thought she -was a young person of the world, somebody who was in society, -storm-stayed like himself.</p> - -<p>“Do not take me at such a disadvantage,” he said; “if I spoke nonsense, -it was because I did not know any better. I have got a relation -somewhere among these good natives. You cannot think I do anything but -respect them when that is the case.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Do you always respect your relations?” Lydia asked. She was perfectly -disposed to flirt, and had an instinctive knowledge how to do it, though -she had so little practice—no practice, it may be said; for young Selby -was not light enough in hand to give her any experience, and he was -almost the only individual with whom it would have been possible to -flirt.</p> - -<p>“If you are looking for friends,” said Joan, with immediate interest, -“we have been here in this country since before the memory of man, and, -if anybody can help you, we should be able to do it. Who is it you -want?” She took a vacant chair and sat down by her sister—partly to -guard Lydia, partly because she was full of curiosity about the strange -young man—and partly, also, because Joan was a great genealogist, and -knew everybody’s descent and how their grandfathers had married—when -they had any grandfathers, it must be said.</p> - -<p>“They are people of my own name,” said the stranger, “or, I should -rather say—it is a distant cousin of my own name, who married somewhere -hereabouts heaven knows how many years ago. My father recollects her -well enough. She was a pretty girl in his day, and he told me to look<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> -her up; but as he had forgotten her present name (if she is still -living), and she was married some forty years ago or more, I doubt if I -am very likely to succeed.”</p> - -<p>“Your—own name?” said Joan, with a little confusion. In her own house, -and in the capacity of hostess to the stranger, she felt that it was -rude not to know his name. She gave a glance of appeal at Liddy, who was -mischievous, and in no humour to throw any light on the subject.</p> - -<p>“Joan will tell you,” the girl said. “She knows everyone, and whom they -married, and all their aunts and uncles. You have only to ask my -sister.”</p> - -<p>More and mere confused grew Joan. She looked at Liddy with reproachful -eyes; she even addressed a plaintive glance to Raaf, who did not -understand her embarrassment, and for the moment was too angry to have -helped if he had. “Of your—own name?” she said, faltering.</p> - -<p>“Yes; forty years ago, or so, she was Lydia Brotherton.”</p> - -<p>“Why, it’s mother!” said Joan, her countenance beaming. There was a -victory over everybody, Pilgrims and all; while the young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> man, -starting, turned round with amazed pleasure, and looked, not at Joan, -who spoke, however, but at Lydia, who listened, looking up at him, as -much astonished as he.</p> - -<p>“Mother!” Lydia said, and her fair countenance brightened into smiles -from which all the mischievous meaning had gone.</p> - -<p>“Well, that’s as easy a find as I ever heard of,” cried Joan, “and how -lucky you should have come here! Mother <i>will</i> be pleased! She has not -seen any of her relations for years. She was an only child, so she had -never any near friends. How pleased she will be, to be sure! The best -thing you can do is to stay here all night, and ride over with Liddy -to-morrow: she is going home to-morrow. Bless me, I think I’ll go too, -just to see mother so pleased!”</p> - -<p>“It is a delightful discovery,” said young Brotherton. “How fortunate -that I mentioned it now; my father charged me to find out—but I confess -I had forgotten till this moment. How lucky I thought of it! I am afraid -I must go home to-night with these good people who have been so kind to -me; but I will come back in the morning. It is delightful to fall among -kindred,” the young man said, looking at Lydia, whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> face reflected -all manner of pleasant sensations, surprises, a delightful sense of -novelty and exhilaration. She had but few relatives, and a new cousin -was delightful—especially a cousin so completely creditable, a -gentleman, one about whom there could not be two opinions. The Pilgrims, -who had been so proud of this “strange young man,” had altogether -disappeared now, and Raaf was left entirely out of the little group of -three, all so pleased with themselves and each other. Joan forgot even -those duties which usually she performed with such devotion, leaving the -round game and its players to themselves, and no longer thinking either -of the duet of the Pilgrim girls, or Raaf’s song.</p> - -<p>“I took the greatest notice of you from the moment you came in,” she -said. “I cannot tell you how it was. It’s not that there is any family -likeness, for I can’t see any. Liddy favours mother, and there’s not a -feature alike in her and you; but all the same I took notice of you from -the first. I didn’t catch your name, or it might have made me think—but -there was something. I was more vexed than pleased with those Pilgrims; -but all the same, when I caught sight of you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“It was kindred at first sight,” said the young man.</p> - -<p>“That’s a new way of putting it,” said Joan, laughing; and it glanced -through her mind that she had already thought, if he had not been with -the Pilgrims, that this might be the right sort of man; and now it was -clear that he did not belong to the Pilgrims. She gave a rapid glance -from him to Lydia, and back again. As yet she had not the least idea who -he was. She had never seen any of the Brotherton connections, and knew -nothing about them. Mrs. Joscelyn had often told her children that she -had no relations nearer than cousins, and with them even she had kept up -no acquaintance. Her children were entirely in the dark about the -family. They knew that there was a Sir John who gave dignity to it; but -that was all. Joan was very straightforward, but she did not like to -plunge at once into details, and ask him who he was. But when she had -talked a great deal to the new relative, and arranged the expedition to -the White House to-morrow, she went back to Mrs. Pilgrim, who sat -somewhat deserted in her corner, a little humiliated by the desertion of -her “gentleman,” with the most cheerful cordiality. “I did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> catch -the gentleman’s name,” she said, “when you brought him in; but what a -good thing you brought him! He’s a cousin of ours, and came here looking -for mother; for her own friends live far away, and we’ve long lost sight -of them. Of course,” said Joan, with a little artifice, “he had no -notion whose house he was coming to. There’s always a great confusion in -a family about your married name.”</p> - -<p>“Came here—looking for——? I thought he came looking for a place for -the shooting,” Mrs. Pilgrim said, confounded. She could scarcely allow -herself to believe it. It had been a distinction to bring a new -“gentleman,” a person of such distinguished appearance, in her train; -and to have him taken from her bodily, nay, carried off soul and body, -so to speak, not indeed to her enemy’s side, but at all events into -another family, was hard to bear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>CONFIDENCES.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HEY were still at breakfast at Heatonshaw next morning when the new -cousin came to the door. He was on a good horse, which was a thing they -all remarked at once, being learned in such matters—and looked -handsomer in daylight than he had done at night. The household had been -late on the previous evening—a party being a matter of such rare -occurrence that it was considered only right to make the best of it, -both in kitchen and parlour, and to bustle half the night “putting -away.” The whole company had dispersed at a little after eleven; but -next morning there was as much license as if it had been the morning -after a ball. And the household felt equally dissipated; everything is -com<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span>parative; eleven o’clock at night was in Heatonshaw as bad as three -or four in the morning at another place. So they were still around the -breakfast table when young Brotherton rode up.</p> - -<p>“That’s not Pilgrim’s horse,” Mr. Selby said. “It must be out of his own -stables; and he did not get that for nothing.” Even Liddy got up from -where she was sitting, a little out of the way, to peep at the new -arrival. He came in a few minutes after whip in hand.</p> - -<p>“You are not so early, Mrs. Selby, as I feared. I made a very early -start lest you should be gone before I could get here.”</p> - -<p>“We are not so early as all that,” said Joan, “and we’re not used to -have our home disturbed, and the house turned upside-down, as it was -last night. I’m one that thinks it a duty, where people have a nice -house and plenty to do with, to have your friends from time to time. But -it’s a great trouble both before and after. Not a servant in this house -was in their bed till long past twelve o’clock at night; and, poor -things, we could not be exacting this morning,” Joan added, -apologetically. “Liddy, if Mr. Brotherton will not take anything, we -will, maybe, better get ready to go.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Do not hurry for me,” the young man said. He was quite at his ease -talking to Philip Selby, whom it pleased his wife to see putting on -mildly the air of a man of the world when any invasion came from that -big place into the Fell-country. When they had gone to “put on their -things,” young Brotherton made himself very agreeable to the master of -the house. He spoke of my “cousins” as if he had known them all his -life: though all the time there was a look of semi-amusement on his -face. He had stumbled into a new life without knowing anything about it. -The servants up till after twelve, which was spoken of with bated breath -as a wonderful interruption of rule; the master and mistress, who “were -not exacting” after that tremendous vigil; the freshness and sweetness -of the rural place, all produced a great effect upon him. He thought it -a kind of Arcadia, an Arcadia dashed with reminiscences of hot supper, -and some vagaries of homely fashion which struck Brotherton as more -amusing than all the similar vagaries which he had come across before. -When the ladies came down again, Joan attired in a bonnet which was more -striking in its colours and composition than was common,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> ready to drive -her phaeton to the White House, and Lydia in her riding habit, his -pleasure in the sunshiny expedition he was about to make was as great as -his amusement in finding himself a member of the primitive society, -almost of the family, which was so simple and so kind. He watched the -packing of the phaeton with laughing eyes. Lydia’s box, containing her -evening dress no doubt, was carefully fastened on behind, and in front, -in the vacant seat, was a basket, in which there were a number of -delicacies from the feast, which Mrs. Selby thought “Mother might like: -or if she doesn’t care for them herself, it will always be a pleasure to -give them away,” said Joan; “though you must not think, Mr. Brotherton, -that I am forgetting our own poor folk. A little bit that is out of the -way, that comes from the party—everybody likes that.” He helped to lift -the basket into the phaeton almost with reverence. The feast of last -night became beautiful to him in this light. How many had he seen, much -more delicate and costly, of which the fragments went to the dogs, -nobody dreaming of the “poor folk!” Mr. Selby put Liddy upon her horse -while the young stranger was helping with the basket, and this he felt -to be a sacrifice on his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> part, in consonance with the kind and homely -charity that breathed about the place. Then Philip Selby promised to -walk over to join his wife in the afternoon, and the party went off, -Mrs. Selby in advance, talking cheerily to her horse, bidding him to get -on, and not bother her with a whip. Liddy and the young man set out -soberly together. They did not say much for the first mile or two. Now -that they were alone together they were a little abashed by each other. -He thought her the prettiest girl he had ever seen—which was by no -means the case, for Liddy, though very pretty, was not a wonder of -loveliness; and she thought him, with more reason, the finest gentleman -that had ever came across her path. She asked herself how it was that he -was so different from Raaf Selby? but could not make any reply. He was -like nobody she had ever seen. “This is what a gentleman is, a real -gentleman, the kind that goes to Court and sees the Queen; the kind that -is in Parliament and rules the country; the kind that everybody tries to -be like, and that Raaf Selby would fain be taken for—he!” Liddy said to -herself; and she was abashed, and did not talk much to her companion. -Indeed it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> not till they were near the White House that she ventured -to ask a question which had been long on her lips.</p> - -<p>“Are you a member of Parliament, Mr. Brotherton?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” he said, laughing; “it is my father you are thinking of. I -have never attained that dignity. I ought to have told you more about -myself before I asked admittance; but Mrs. Selby was so kind. I am a -briefless barrister, if you know what that is.”</p> - -<p>“A lawyer with nothing to do,” said Liddy; “one reads about them in -books.”</p> - -<p>Young Brotherton laughed. “It is as good a definition as another,” he -said; “but sometimes it means only some one who has pretended to study -for a profession which is all a pretence together, and never comes to -anything. That is my case: and I have been wandering over all the -world.”</p> - -<p>“In Italy?” asked Lydia, with eager eyes.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes. You are fond of Italy? I daresay we shall find we have -sympathies on that point. My mother is a great devotee; she would live -there all the year round if we would let her. I wonder which is your -favourite spot.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Lydia, with all her heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> in her voice, “I have no -favourite spot; I only know it by name. Italy is where everything -happens—all the stories are there: and besides,” she added, “I have a -private reason too.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her with some curiosity, and a great deal of interest. What -could the private reason of a young girl be? “You have, perhaps,” he -said, “friends there?”</p> - -<p>Lydia shook her head. “If you are our cousin, Mr. Brotherton, and going -to know all about us—”</p> - -<p>“<i>If</i> I am your cousin! Do you think I am making a false claim, Miss -Joscelyn?” he said.</p> - -<p>“—then you will soon know about Harry,” said Lydia, going on in the -same breath. “I have a brother who went away a great many years ago. We -don’t know where he is, or anything about him; but I am sure if I could -go abroad I should find him—that is why I am always so anxious to talk -to anyone who has been there.”</p> - -<p>“Where?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Abroad.” Lydia said the word with all simplicity. “Abroad” meant -everything to her. It meant the place in which Harry was, and where she -should certainly find him if she got there. When she said “Italy” she -meant much the same thing. Not Italy, of which she knew<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> little, except -by the stories in the “Book of Beauty;” but a vague and beautiful place -in which everything that was wonderful happened, and in which it would -be natural that this should happen too.</p> - -<p>But Brotherton, whose knowledge was more precise, was puzzled. He did -not know whether to follow out this line of conversation, which promised -to become intimate, or to go back to subjects personal to himself. He -had no right to inquire into the story of the family prodigal, he -thought; but still, as the door had been opened to him, how was he to -turn from it? “I have gone abroad since ever I can remember,” he said; -“my mother, as I tell you, is never so happy in England as out of it. -She is rather an invalid, and she cannot bear the cold. When I was a boy -I scarcely knew where my home was.”</p> - -<p>“Are there many of you?” asked Liddy, full of interest. She did not -understand a small family, and a vision came on her of sisters, girls -like herself, companions such as she had never had; but this new idea -was alarming as well as delightful, and she could not help fearing that -young ladies who were equal to her new friend would think themselves -above her; therefore it was almost a relief,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> though at the same time a -disappointment, when he laughed and said, “I am all the daughters of my -father’s house, and all the brothers too,”—words which she thought she -had heard somewhere else, but was not clear about. And then they went on -again quite silently for a time, the wide valley all about them, the air -breathing in their faces, the great world all to themselves. Joan, -driving in her steady way, was round the next corner, well ahead, and -there was nothing but these two figures stalking on in the sunshine, -with their shadows behind them. Liddy felt that she did not care to -talk. The sensation was sweet, and tranquil, and friendly, and furnished -all that was required, without any talking at all. It is impossible to -describe what an interruption it was, a kind of outrage upon the quiet, -when, as they went round that next corner, skirting the hedgerows, they -were suddenly met face to face by young Selby, on his big brown horse. -Even Lydia, not too favourably disposed towards him, had been obliged to -admit on former occasions that Raaf Selby looked well on his big horse. -But to-day he positively offended her by his appearance. There is no -class of men in the world so delightful, so help<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span>ful, so kind, so modest -about their own merits, and of so much service to all the rest of the -world, as doctors; but yet there is a compound of rudeness, jauntiness, -pretension, and vulgarity to be found now and then in a country -practitioner, which can nowhere else be paralleled. Raaf Selby was not -always like this, nor was it at all the impression which he made upon -the general mind, or even upon Liddy’s, who, in other times, had -considered him, as all the country did, “quite a gentleman.” But when he -met them now he had a red face (which was not his fault) and the air of -having been up all night (which, if it had been true, would have been a -virtue in him), and looked altogether like a rural dandy trying to be -something which he was not.</p> - -<p>“Hullo, Miss Liddy,” he said, “I suppose you kept it up to all the hours -last night after the rest of us were gone?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what there was to keep up,” Liddy said, with an indignant -blush; upon which young Selby laughed loudly.</p> - -<p>“Ah, I daresay; but <i>I</i> know,” he said, with an open look at Brotherton, -a look full of insolence and jealousy—and he gave a great laugh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> “I -was out of it last night; but I haven’t always been out of it,” he said.</p> - -<p>Lydia was a girl not at all disposed in her own person to submit to any -impertinence, but she got alarmed when she saw the gathering clouds on -her companion’s face. “I think you are alluding to something I don’t -understand,” she said, firmly, “but I need not ask what it is, to detain -you. We have got to keep up with Joan. Did you see Joan? She has got the -lead of us, and we are bound to make up to her now.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I saw she had got judiciously out of hearing,” said young Selby, -with another laugh. “That’s the first duty of a chaperon.”</p> - -<p>In this he meant no particular offence, but spoke with the rough -bantering which was not disliked by ordinary country girls, just -sharpened with jealousy and envy, and the sting of seeing how thoroughly -harmonious and sympathetic Liddy and her new companion looked. As for -Brotherton he kept apart as far as he could. Good manners in another -generation would have suggested a use of his whip. Good manners now -restrained him from taking any notice, though his blood boiled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I don’t know about a chaperon’s duties,” Liddy said; “I think we must -go on. Good morning, Mr. Selby,” and they went on, leaving him in the -middle of the road, staring. He could not help looking after them, -though he did not like the sight. Two handsome young people, in complete -accord and harmony, moving along together as if to music, with no noise -nor boisterous gaiety, as would have been the case had Selby himself -ridden home with Liddy after the party, but in perfect friendliness and -union, as he thought.</p> - -<p>“Good morning,” he called after them, “and my congratulations to Joan -upon her success last night.”</p> - -<p>He was so bitter that he could not forbear from sending this last shaft -after them. Who was this fellow, that he should come in and spoil other -people’s chances? Selby recalled furiously to his recollection, -incidents of a similar kind that he had known. A swell comes down, he -pokes himself between a foolish lass and some honest man that likes her; -and when he has turned her head he rides away! The country gallant was -aware that he had acted this fine part himself in a lower class, when he -had merely laughed at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> lass’s credulity and the fury of the clown -who was her true lover, but whom she could not endure after being -courted by a gentleman; but he did not laugh when the case was his own. -This swell, of course, would go away; but Liddy’s head would be turned; -and she was a girl who would have a good bit of money, besides being the -prettiest girl in the county. Joscelyn had been making money of late, -everybody said, and there was her Uncle Henry’s money, which must be -divided sooner or later; and all this to be put out of an honest -suitor’s reach by a young fellow who would not even take it himself, but -only spoil the lass for a better man. This was what was rankling in -Selby’s heart as he rode away.</p> - -<p>“Is Mr. Selby a relation of yours?” Brotherton asked.</p> - -<p>“Only of Joan’s—my sister’s—husband. It is not bragging,” said Lydia, -with a little blush, yet a slight elevation of her head as well, “but we -are very different from the Selbys, Mr. Brotherton. Many people thought -Joan made a very poor marriage. I don’t think so, for she is fond of -Philip, and he is so good; but the Joscelyns are the oldest family—I -don’t speak out of vanity—the oldest family in the county. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> used to -be great people,” said Liddy, laughing, but very serious all the same, -“in the old days.”</p> - -<p>“I always knew,” said Brotherton, “that it was an old name.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there are all sorts of people who have old names; but we are the -real people; if you stay long we will show you the old tower. There have -been Joscelyns in it ever since there was any history at all.”</p> - -<p>She gave her head a slight fling backwards, and laughed again, half at -herself—but yet Lydia meant every word she said. Young Brotherton, for -his part, had been brought up in more enlightened circles, and would -have thought of himself that he failed in that “sense of humour” which -is the modern preservation from all absurdities, had he spoken of his -family in this way. He held his tongue on the subject, and thought that -he esteemed one name as much as another, and was no respector of -persons; and he laughed in his heart at Lydia’s brag, and admired, with -an indulgent sense of superiority, to see how this sentiment of family -pride kindled her eyes and elevated her head. But all the same he was -impressed by it. It produced its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> effect upon him, as it does upon every -Englishman. He liked the boast, of which he did not fail to see the -ludicrous side, and which his more cultivated taste would have entirely -prevented him from putting forth in his own person—but in Liddy he -liked it, and laughed, yet was more pleased with her and his connection -with her. She carried it in her face, he thought, and in every movement -of her untutored, yet graceful, carriage. It did not occur to him to -think that homely Joan, soberly speeding along the road in her phaeton, -had all the same advantages of blood.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Joscelyn came out to meet them at the door. She liked to see her -Liddy get down beaming, from her horse—the horse as handsome as -herself, which Mrs. Joscelyn began for the first time to see the beauty -of, now that her child was the rider. She did not know who the young man -was, and she did not much care. Her mind had not been awakened to the -matrimonial question, though, to tell the truth, no wild beast, no lion -with a devouring maw, would have wakened so much alarm in Mrs. Joscelyn -as the appearance of a lover for Liddy. That would have inferred the -saddest fate for herself, the destruction of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> her present sweet life, -and all the late happiness which had come to her in compensation for her -troubles; but fortunately such an idea did not enter into her mind. It -was a pleasant arrival. Joan, always active and bright, lifting down -with her own hands her big basket, stood in the hall watching too the -arrival of the young people, yet calling out to the groom some prudent -suggestions about her own horse, which was being led away to the -stables. She was as well informed about all the necessities of the -stable as any of them, and took the deepest interest in the welfare of -the animals, and she stepped forward to pat the fine neck of Liddy’s -steed as her mother got the young rider in her arms.</p> - -<p>“Did you ever see a prettier creature?” she said to Brotherton, “and I -would not say but there were two of them. But mother’s just a fool about -Liddy. She thinks there’s nothing like her on the face of the earth. -Mother, here’s a relation come to see you,” she added, turning round.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Joscelyn gave a little cry. Brotherton was standing against the -light, so that his features were not at first decipherable. She made a -quick step forward, throwing out her hands, then grew suddenly pale.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I don’t know what I was thinking of,” she said, faintly. “I am sure I -beg your friend’s pardon, Joan, and yours too.”</p> - -<p>“I see what you’re thinking of, mother—but there’s nothing in it,” Joan -said. “This is young Mr. Brotherton, who’s come to the Fells asking for -a cousin of his name that married here long ago. If it’s not you, I -don’t know who it can be—and I’ve brought him to see you. It would be -his father you knew, for he’s but a young lad himself, as you can see.”</p> - -<p>“He’s kindly welcome,” Mrs. Joscelyn said, and he was brought into the -parlour, and a great deal of family explanation was gone through. Mrs. -Joscelyn had her pride of birth, as well as her daughter, and it had -always been a secret pleasure to her to think that there was a Sir John -in her family, who might turn up some time or other and balance the -faded Joscelyn pretensions with a far more tangible living dignity. For -her own part, she did not know anything about Sir John; but it gratified -her mightily to think that he had remembered he had a cousin married in -the Fell-country. “There could not be any—stranger that it would give -me more pleasure to see,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span></p> - -<p>Young Brotherton, for his part, was delighted with his old cousin. It -was from her, he perceived with pleasure, that Liddy had taken her -willowy grace, and the refined and delicate features which bore little -resemblance to those of Mrs. Selby. He was in a humour to be pleased -with everything he saw. When the master of the house appeared, he -thought him the model of an old North-country squire, rough, perhaps, -but manly and full of character, as suited that strong-minded country. -The plainness of manners and living, the woman-servant, not very adroit, -that served the dinner—which was plainly dinner, and not luncheon—the -atmosphere of farm and stables outside of the house, instead of park and -pleasure-grounds, all struck him in the most favourable light. Liddy had -thrown glamour in the young man’s eyes; he saw them all through her. -These, the unusual features in her surroundings, appeared to him in the -form of characteristic traits and country peculiarities, not as symptoms -of a level of society lower than his own. It was all piquant, novel, -delightful, and when he was asked to stay, a grace which Joscelyn put -forth to the wonder and admiration of all the household, he accepted the -invitation with eagerness. Mrs. Selby,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> for one, could not get over her -astonishment.</p> - -<p>“Nay, when father’s asked him there’s not a word to say,” she cried. -“Father! I would as soon have believed that you and me, Phil, would have -been asked to take tea with the Queen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>BEGINNING.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">B</span>ROTHERTON stayed a week at the White House—to the great mortification -of the Pilgrims at Wyburgh, whose guest he had been. Nobody likes to -have their visitors interfered with, or that a new acquaintance, whom -they have themselves introduced and brought out, so to speak, in -society, should desert them for a new circle. The girls and the mother -were alike indignant, and the incident even had the effect of quickening -the action of the father, and making him more impatient of the delays in -respect to old Mr. Joscelyn’s estate. But this had little effect upon -the household at the White House, which for the moment was more happy -and peaceful than perhaps it had ever been before. It was the beginning -of one of those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> new chapters in life which revive the interest of the -old story. Poor Mrs. Joscelyn had lived through many such, but they had -been in most cases not of the pleasant, but painful kind. Her blood had -been quickened in her veins, her heart driven into wild beating, as one -crisis after another occurred in the family life. But now everything was -changed. Lydia had become to her another self. She was not sure whether -it was not herself again, glorified, elevated, made beautiful by present -youth and infinite hope, which was always about her—moving with her -step for step, talking, even thinking with her: the same thoughts rising -to their lips. Between two sisters such a dual life is sweet; but to a -mother it is a recompense for all the pangs of life, which are seldom -few or small. She was not sure that it was not herself who spoke, and -thought, and smiled in Lydia; but only a self far more firm, erect, and -self-supporting than she had ever been. Lydia was not afraid of -anything, and of Ralph Joscelyn least of all. This of itself made the -strangest difference. It gave a flavour and fragrance to their mingled -life. The mother felt herself more brave and more strong in her child; -and now romance was arriving to her late in the same way. Ralph -Joscelyn’s wooing had been a rough one. During<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> its course the pretty, -drooping Lydia of those days had been charmed by its very abruptness, -and considered the peremptory passion a double compliment to herself, -and to the power of love in subduing the strong. She had liked all the -silly similes, the lion enchained, the giant deprived of his strength, -and had believed in her foolish heart that her half-savage hero would be -always in her toils—however rough to others, yet to herself the -gentlest of the gentle. From this foolish dream there had been a summary -awakening; and all her long life since had been calculated to convince -the romantic woman that romance existed only in her dreams. But now -another kind of awakening was coming to her. Youth had come back with -its visions, and Arcadia, and love. The young man who was her own kith -and kin (which of itself was sweet) was also, as becomes a young man, -something of her own kind. He was full of poetry, and sympathy, and -enthusiasm: it was not after her old-fashioned mode, but yet it was not -the common strain of prose to which she had been accustomed. To see his -eyes turn to her Lydia was to Mrs. Joscelyn like the revival of all her -own maiden fancies; and the affectionate worship which he gave to -herself completed the charm. Perhaps she was happier than Lydia in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> -those early days of wooing. She saw the dawn of admiration and -enthusiasm in his eyes, when Lydia herself thought of him only as a sort -of advanced playfellow, a something new in his youth and pleasantness. -Mrs. Joscelyn saw it all from the beginning; she felt from the beginning -that it was written in heaven. It was half like a story which she was -reading in snatches, or chapters, a single page at a time, always -longing to go on with it, to see what the next step was to be, to -anticipate the end.</p> - -<p>As for Lydia herself, after the little excitement of the arrival, and -the pleasure of bringing this new cousin to her mother—the most -delightful present that could be thought—of she subsided sedately into -her usual life, and treated him as a new companion, not doubting his -interest in her simple occupations. His servant came over from Wyburgh -with his baggage, which was a shock to the primitive household; but as -the man was rather in charge of the horse than of his master, and that -is a point on which princes and grooms may fraternise, the alarm was -soon over. Brotherton wanted, it appeared, to find a shooting box, a -little place in which he could establish himself for the autumn. He -explained that he was not rich enough to aspire to a Scotch moor, and -modestly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> permitted it to be understood that the Duke’s youngest son was -his intimate friend, and that it was chiefly to be near him, and share -his shootings, that he had chosen this part of the world. With the -hospitality of primitive regions, Ralph Joscelyn would have taken him in -permanently, and allowed him to be an inmate of the White House; but his -wife retained enough of her old breeding to see that this expedient was -undesirable, even though her heart stirred faintly with a hope that in -that case the Duchess might have called, which is the chief sign of -belonging to the aristocracy in these countries. The Duchess had never -given her this sign of recognition, which had been a life-long smart to -the poor lady. What did she care about such distinctions now? but yet -for the sake of Liddy, she said to herself. To have her Lydia asked to a -ball at the Castle would indeed be something to reward her for living, -to make her feel that now she could die in peace. Mrs. Joscelyn did not -say anything about this hope—for the disappointment, if nothing came of -it, would have been very severe she felt, too great a trial to expose -her child to: but she cherished it in her heart of hearts. And in the -meantime they made every effort they could to find for this new relation -the lodging he wanted. It was Lydia at last who suggested the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> old -Birrenshead, the house which had been Uncle Harry’s, but which had not -been inhabited by anybody but Isaac Oliver in the memory of man.</p> - -<p>“It is a very tumble-down old place,” she said, deprecating, “but it is -only two miles from here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, if it is only two miles from here—!” cried the young man, eagerly. -This was one of those elliptical forms of speech which he had begun to -employ unawares, and which only Mrs. Joscelyn understood. She smiled -within herself, but she said nothing; and it was agreed that he should -walk there next day and see what accommodation the place possessed. The -name of it threw a little tremor over Mrs. Joscelyn, although she had -smiled. And next morning, when with great simplicity, and without any -thought of harm, Lydia set out with the stranger to show him the way, -she told him the circumstances in which the family stood, as she had -before revealed to him the fact of her brother’s disappearance. It did -not occur either to Lydia or to her mother that there was anything -wrong, anything out of the common, in showing young Brotherton the way -to Birrenshead. It seemed indeed of all things the simplest and most -natural. She walked by his side as seriously as if the young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> man had -been her own grandfather, with all the dignity of a princess in her own -country. Nor did anyone in the village think it strange. They saw her -pass, and wondered who it was who accompanied her over the bridge; but -that was all.</p> - -<p>“This is part of the property,” she said gravely, “which was left to my -poor brother whom I told you of. That is what made my mother look so -serious. She does not like to hear about Uncle Henry’s property. If we -do not hear something of Harry soon, it will have to be divided, they -say.”</p> - -<p>“And that is a grief to her?” Brotherton said, sympathetically.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Brotherton, think! to be the heir of your own child—do you -wonder that she cannot bear it? They say we should all have our share, -father and mother too. <i>He</i> does not say much, but he thinks more than -he says, and I am sure he would rather die than touch it. But my -brothers,” said Lydia, with a sigh, “my other brothers, don’t think so. -They want us to yield and consent that Harry is dead. But that is what I -will never do.”</p> - -<p>Brotherton looked at her animated face with admiring interest. “You must -have been very fond of this brother,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I scarcely remember him; but I am sure I should find him,” cried Lydia. -“You will say that is nonsense; but then I have been my mother’s only -companion all these years, and she will never be happy till she has seen -Harry again. She has not had a very happy life; perhaps she has not -always understood—and then no one has understood <i>her</i>. I must, I must -get her some happiness before she dies!”</p> - -<p>There was a glow of tender enthusiasm about the girl which touched her -companion deeply. “I think,” he said, “she is happy in you. It would be -strange if she were not,” he added, half under his breath.</p> - -<p>This brought a wave of colour over Lydia’s face. “She is a little more -happy in me; but she will not be really happy till she sees Harry.”</p> - -<p>“And if——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say so, Mr. Brotherton, please! Don’t think so even. Do you -imagine if he had been —— that mother would not know? If I could only -go abroad I know I should find him. Here is old Isaac Oliver, old Uncle -Henry’s man. He will let you see the place; and if he is cross you will -not mind? He has been here so long that he thinks it is his own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>They were walking along the edge of a field of corn, on a little -footpath so narrow that here and there they had to walk singly. The -wind, which swept the tall rustling crop in waves like breath coming and -going, blew the pale yellow heads against them as they went along in -pleasant contact with this wealth and freshness of nature. The corn was -still pale in tint, ripening slowly under the northern sun, with a -glimmer of red poppies under the surface like the woven under-ground of -some rich Indian stuff. As Lydia spoke, an old man became visible -between the corn and the hedgerow, pushing his stooping shoulders along -before him with a sidelong movement like a crab. His head was bent to -one side, his footsteps shuffling. Ten years had told upon Isaac. He did -not take off his hat when he saw Liddy approaching, such a ceremonial -being scarcely necessary to the familiar intercourse of the country, but -he nodded amiably, and made signs of welcome with his hand. As, however, -the path widened a little just at that moment, and young Brotherton, -making a quicker step, appeared suddenly at Lydia’s side, Isaac, who had -not seen him before, was greatly startled. He stopped short in his -crab-like course to stare at the new comer. He fell back a step or two -and screwed his stooping head<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> aloft in a sidelong attitude. Then he -gave vent to a shrill, prolonged “E-eh!” which penetrated the air like a -skewer. “So he’s coomed back,” the old man said.</p> - -<p>“Who has come back?” said Lydia, startled and eager.</p> - -<p>“Lord, Master, give us a grip o’ your hand. You’re no Master Harry now, -you’re master’s sel’. T’ ould Master left it all to ye, as I said he -would if you’d let him be; but you never would listen, nor think on——” -When he had got so far, old Isaac paused. His head had sunk a little -from its first energy of motion, but he kept one eye screwed up and -shining, and his mouth twisted upward at one corner. Here, however, he -paused, and a cloud came over his face. “Miss Liddy,” he said, -reproachfully, “you might have tellt me it wasn’t him.”</p> - -<p>“Who did you think it was, Isaac? It is Mr. Brotherton, a——distant -cousin. Did you think——? Oh, tell me, is he like, is he like——?”</p> - -<p>The old man recovered himself gradually. He gave a grin which seemed to -twist upwards from his mouth to his little twinkling eyes.</p> - -<p>“Not a feature in his face,” he said, with a growl of angry laughter, -“not a bit, no more nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> I’m like. I’m just an old fool. I take anyone -for him. Ne’er a soul comes down t’ Fells but I say, it’s him, as if he -was coming from t’ skies. A fine joke that; and him t’ prodigal son, a -good joke; to look for him from t’ skies! He should come from t’ other -place, Miss Liddy, up from t’ ground.”</p> - -<p>“But he was no prodigal,” said Liddy, indignantly. “He did not go away -for any harm, Isaac, you know that!”</p> - -<p>“I know a’ about it, a’ about it,” said the old man. “Step forward, Sir, -into the light. If you keep there dangling behind her—Lord! but I’ll -think it’s you after a’.”</p> - -<p>“You must be like Harry,” cried Lydia, turning round quickly upon her -companion. “When she saw you first, my mother started too.”</p> - -<p>“He’s about the same age,” said old Isaac, “and tallness—no more, not a -hair. Don’t you speak to me, Miss Liddy. If I dunnot know him, who does? -I brought him up, though you wouldn’t think it. I put him on a pony the -first time. I gied him most of his lessons, out of t’ school. But this -isn’t him,” the old man said indignantly, “it’s not him, I tell ye. -Don’t you think to impose on me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Isaac,” said Lydia, “will you let Mr. Brotherton see the house? He -wants to live here for a little. Mother thinks you might put in a little -furniture, and make him comfortable.”</p> - -<p>“Com—fortable!” said the old man, prolonging the word with a -half-laughing, half-angry cry; “and it was your mother said it? If he -likes t’ bide with the bats and the rats, he may be com—fortable. -There’s been nobody else there as long’s I mind. Do you mean,” he added, -suddenly screwing up his eye into a little spark of red fire, “that -she’s consented, and Miss Joan, and you? I’ll not b’lieve it; and who,” -he asked fiercely, “is to get this share?”</p> - -<p>“You must not speak so to me. We have not consented, and I never will -consent. But this gentleman does not understand what we are talking -about,” said Lydia; “take him into the house and show him what rooms -there are, and I will go and see your wife.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, ay,” said Isaac, “speak to t’ missis, you’ll find her in a fine -way. If she hadna gotten t’ meekest man, next to Job, that was ever in -this ill world—a pictur and a pattern. But you’ll see for yourself, -Miss Liddy; you can drop a word about t’ gentleman to soothen her down. -Come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> this way round, come this way round, it’s the best way.”</p> - -<p>Old Isaac had turned in front of them, and was creeping along by the -side of the path scarcely so high as the corn, his battered old hat -about the same height as the yellow ears. When the cornfield ended they -came out abruptly upon a grey old house, surrounded by a small rough -square of grass, in which were some fine trees. The house looked as if -it had been forgotten there, like an old plough. It had a square, -respectable portico, with a pediment above it, and rows of windows -chiefly broken, the lower ones closed with shutters which were falling -to pieces. A huge elm-tree stood up at one corner, throwing its shadow -over half the house; behind it were traces of the trees of an orchard; -but the fields all round had encroached on the place, potatoes were -growing within a stone’s throw of the great door, and everything bearing -witness of its deposition and reduction from a human centre of life to a -mere wreck and encumbrance on the earth.</p> - -<p>“Ay, ay,” said old Isaac, shaking his head, “they’d just like to pull it -down and no leave one stone on another, like Jerusalem in t’ Bible; but -the walls is good, and the woodwork’s good, and it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> would last his time -and mine—and far more if Mr. Harry would come home, as he ought.”</p> - -<p>“Then you think he’ll come home,” said young Brotherton, not knowing -what to say.</p> - -<p>“Wha said he wasna coming home, why should he no come home?” said Isaac, -screwing up his eye once more into a red spark of angry light. “Them -that say so know nothing about it, I can tell you that, Master. Them -that are of that opinion have nothing to found it on. Who understands -Master Harry like me, unless, maybe, it was his mother? Well, his mother -and me, we’re both expecting him. That should be an answer, except to -them that arguys just for the sake of arguyment,” the old man said, -fiercely. “Will you come in and see the house?”</p> - -<p>To Brotherton it had begun to seem, by this time, as if the house and -all about it, the very skies overhead, had darkened. He did not quite -know at first what was the cause. It was some cloud that had come over -the sun; or was there some obscurity about the house, some shadow of -fate, which darkened the skies at midday? It seemed to him suddenly that -nothing could be more dreary than the aspect of the place altogether, -though before Lydia disappeared round the broken<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> bit of garden-wall, it -had seemed so inviting and desirable. But he did not ask himself if -Lydia’s disappearance had anything to do with this sudden change: all he -said to himself was, “it is only two miles from the White House,” and, -strengthened by this reminder, he went on with courage into the dark -portal. It was, as Liddy had said, a very tumble-down house. There was a -dirty and ragged carpet on the floor, sometimes moving in waves when the -windows were opened; a table stood in the centre of the largest -sitting-room, and the chairs were put round, as if some sober party had -just risen from them. This was on the first floor, in the drawing-room -of the house; behind it were some bed-rooms scarcely more inviting; the -dust rose in clouds when the air was admitted, the furniture seemed -dropping to pieces. Brotherton stood at the door of one room after -another, with a blank stare at them. They had but one quality; they were -within two miles of the White House.</p> - -<p>“And do you think they will suit you?” Lydia asked, coming back to him -when his inspection was over.</p> - -<p>She had not been in dusty places like those which he had just left, but -came round the corner<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> of the garden wall, looking so fresh and bright, -that somehow that cloud over the sun disappeared in a moment, and the -whole landscape brightened, and the dust went out of his throat. He had -been feeling half choked, but he felt so no more. He had thought that -they would not do at all; but now a sort of heavenly suitability seemed -to come to them all at once, and it appeared to him in a moment that, if -he could have the choice of all sorts of lodgings, these dreary rooms -were those which would suit him best.</p> - -<p>“They will do beautifully,” he said, with much cheerfulness. “So far as -I can see they are the very thing I want; and then so near the White -House! What is two miles? I shall be able to walk over constantly—if -you will let me,” he added, in a softer tone.</p> - -<p>“Of course we will let you,” said Lydia, sedately. “We shall miss you so -much that we shall be very happy to have you whenever you like. But were -they not in very bad order? the furniture dreadful? and everything -dropping to pieces?”</p> - -<p>“I did not see it,” said young Brotherton, stoutly. “They were, I -daresay, a little dusty; when a place has been uninhabited for a long -time—I suppose nobody has lived there lately?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Nobody has lived there since I can remember—oh, and not for a long -time before. Even Uncle Henry never lived there. I think I must have -been silly to bring you, for it can’t be fit to live in now I think of -it; and while matters are undecided about poor Harry they will not do -anything. Oh, I am afraid mother and I were hasty in thinking it would -do.”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary,” said young Brotherton, feeling in the enthusiasm of -the moment as if it had been a palace which he had just quitted, “it is -everything I require. Perhaps,” he added, modestly, as if by an -afterthought, “they would not mind—sweeping it out.”</p> - -<p>“I spoke to Jane, that is Isaac’s wife. Isaac is a very funny old man, -but he is frightened for his wife. She keeps him right. And she will -scrub it, and sweep it, and dust it, and make it as clean as a new pin. -Oh, you may be quite sure of that. And then, at first, you can take your -meals with us, the White House is so near—only two miles, what is -that?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said Brotherton, with enthusiasm. Then he added, “I must not -tire you out. I shall do very well. I can get everything I want here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; until you get used to Jane, and accustomed to the cooking, and -all that—I know these things are of consequence to gentlemen,” Lydia -said, with a soft smile of feminine superiority, “you must come and take -your meals at the White House. But Jane Oliver is quite a good cook,” -she added, encouragingly. Brotherton’s heart had sunk within him at the -mention of Jane’s cookery. The cookery could not but be a terrible -necessity in such a place. But he scorned to show any such weakness.</p> - -<p>“I am sure she is,” he said, cheerfully. “I feel certain that I shall be -in the best of quarters. Is there a ghost?”</p> - -<p>“A ghost! why should there be a ghost?” cried Lydia, in surprise. Then -she added, with a little dignity, “There was never anybody injured or -betrayed in a house that belonged to the Joscelyns. So there can’t be -any ghosts.”</p> - -<p>“You reprove me justly,” he said, feeling his little joke very small -indeed in the presence of Lydia’s youthful dignity. “It was a vulgar, -slangy sort of suggestion. I see the folly of it now.”</p> - -<p>“No folly,” said Lydia, from her pedestal; “you did not know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>And then they went on together, once more very sedately, as if they had -been a sober, middle-aged couple, the corn rustling and nodding towards -them, the soft wind sweeping over it, bowing its yellow plumes in soft -successions of movement, the whole air full of a happy rustle and sweep -of sound, the sound of the atmosphere, the subdued hum of summer -happiness common to all the world. He made up his mind that the -landscape, all full of young trees and northern colours, and the moment, -in which there was no positive bliss indeed, but only a dreary, dusty -lodging, and the prospect of being cared for by a ploughman’s wife—were -perfect, and that life could not hold anything sweeter. Lydia went on -talking of the chance that perhaps Mr. Pilgrim, the executor, would “do -something” when he heard of a tenant, until it gradually began to appear -to the young man as if she were talking of improving heaven. What could -be equal in all the world to a place which was within reach of the White -House? “But if your brother were to come home suddenly,” he said, “what -would become of me? Should I be turned out?”</p> - -<p>“Harry!” cried Lydia, with glistening eyes; and then she said, turning -to him (he was behind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> her for the moment, the path was so narrow), -“Harry! Oh, how kind you are! To speak like that is to give one courage; -for you really, really think, Mr. Brotherton, don’t you, now you have -heard all about him, that he must come home?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>THE DUCHESS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN it was known that the old house at Birrenshead had been taken by a -gentleman for shooting quarters, the astonishment of the neighbourhood -was great. The house was known to be in a most dilapidated condition, -and the rooms had not been occupied in the memory of man. The village -took the most anxious interest in the rash gentleman, and inquired, with -much solicitude, “what motive” he could have for burying himself in such -a place? Was it for the sake of Lydia Joscelyn? But then he had been -much nearer Lydia Joscelyn at the White House, where the family no doubt -would gladly have kept him had he wished it; or was it on the other hand -to get away from Lydia, who had been devoting herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> too unreasonably -to him? Both these opinions had their supporters; but as it was -impossible to prove either, the question remained a burning question for -half of the time that young Brotherton lived at Birrenshead, where he -soon became well-known. He was quite a gentleman, there could be no -doubt of that. He had a couple of horses and a man, and money did not -seem to be wanting with him. The neighbours soon found out all that was -to be found, which was not saying much—that he was Sir John -Brotherton’s son, and a great friend of Lord Eldred, the second son at -the Castle; and that he was actually, on his own showing, second cousin -to Mrs. Joscelyn. Had she said it the neighbourhood might have doubted; -but he said it himself; and he was constantly at the White House. -Scarcely a day elapsed that he was not there on one pretence or another, -and sometimes Lord Eldred would go with him, having his dinner there, -the gossips said, and sometimes tea, and conducting himself as if the -Joscelyns were his equals. This opened a new and exciting question, -which was discussed warmly by the different sides, each maintaining its -own view. What would the Duchess do? She had excluded the Joscelyns from -the list of county gentry when they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span> first married, asking, with a -contempt for blood, which was most unbecoming in the local head of -society (and the Joscelyns <i>had</i> blood—it was the one thing that could -not be denied to them), “Why should I call upon people who have nothing -to recommend them but that their grandfathers were gentlemen?” This -leaving out of the family altogether had been very marked; when you -consider that the Selbys, who were nobodies, had cards from the Duchess -because the old Doctor was their father! Mrs. Joscelyn had not said -anything about it, but she had felt the sting all her life. And she was -not less interested than the rest of the world in the question—What -would the Duchess now do? This problem was not solved for several weeks; -but at last, just before the great ball which absorbed the whole county -in consideration of what to wear, and how to appear to the best -advantage, the village was convulsed by the appearance of the ducal -liveries. It was an October day, with frost in the air, so clear that -you could see to any distance, from one end of the dale to the other. -The Selbys, called to their windows by the roll of wheels and the jingle -of the horses’ feet and furniture, and the flood of blue and yellow in -the air, rushed to the vicarage to rouse their friends to the -seriousness of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> the crisis. “The Duchess is going to call,” they cried, -rushing in open-mouthed. “The Duchess <i>has</i> called,” cried the others, -who were all grouped round a telescope which they had brought to bear on -the door of the White House. There the carriage was undoubtedly -standing, delayed an unreasonable time at the door—which both the -families felt, whatever reason they might have, showed bad taste on the -part of the Joscelyns. Then the footman, a splendid apparition all plush -and powder, was seen to make his way a second time up the narrow path, -between the two grass plots, bordered all round with chrysanthemums. The -watchers had a moral certainty that Mrs. Joscelyn was not out. Had she -denied herself to the Duchess? A thrill of sensation passed through the -minds of the observers—of mingled stupefaction and excitement. To say -“not at home” was a moral offence upon which people were hard in that -primitive community; but to have the courage to say it, was something -which overawed them. And to the Duchess! Imagination could scarcely go -further.</p> - -<p>When Mrs. Joscelyn perceived, with a sudden rush of blood from her heart -to her head, that the honour she had been looking for all her life had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> -actually happened to her, she rose up precipitately and fled, throwing a -shawl over her head. This was partly fright, and partly resentment, and -partly it was a wise impulse. The family parlour and Betty in her white -apron to open the door, were not accessories which would impress the -Duchess, and Mrs. Joscelyn had not much confidence in the refinement of -her own appearance. She was not so bold a sinner, however, as to sit -still and instruct her innocent maid to say, “Not at home,” a task to -which Betty, knowing it was not true, would not have been equal. So she -went out, meeting Betty trembling with excitement, tying on her clean -apron as she came. “It’s the Duchess, missis!” Betty said, overwhelmed. -“You will say, Not at home,” said Mrs. Joscelyn breathless. “I am going -out, you see.” “Going out! Missis! and the Duchess at the door.” Betty -thought it was incredible. Mrs. Joscelyn, however, deaf to remonstrance, -though herself trembling with excitement, ran out upon the Fell side, -and enjoyed the spectacle. She was an Englishwoman, and it is not to be -supposed that the sight of the blue and yellow liveries, and the -carriage with a Duchess in it, did not touch the highest feelings in her -nature; and to have spoken to that Duchess, to have realised the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> full -glory of the event, would have been sweet—but it would have been -alarming too, and discretion is the better part of valour. She stood -upon the rising ground with her heart beating, and gazed at the -wonderful sight, visions rising before her of the ball, and the -invitation for Lydia which would be sure to follow, and the ball dress, -and all the excitement of so great an occasion. She breathed more freely -when the great lady drove away, and she was delivered from the fear of -being sent for, and compelled to come back by some dreadful mistake on -Betty’s part. But Betty too had risen to the occasion. She had said -trembling, but resolute, “Not at home, Sir,” to the fine -footman—arguing with herself that it was quite true that Missis wasn’t -at home, for hadn’t she seen her, with her own eyes, go out? Betty went -out too to ease her Mistress’s mind, when the incident was over, -carrying the cards in her apron. She did not like to touch them with her -hands, though she had scrubbed those hands crimson only a few minutes -before. “T’ gentleman said as Her Grace was sorry,” said Betty, her eyes -almost out of her head with staring. “T’ gentleman” was the biggest part -of the event to her; she had never in her life seen anything so grand so -near. Her ruddy cheeks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> were crimson, and her liberal bosom palpitated. -And Mrs. Joscelyn could not herself restrain a tremor when she took -these sacred bits of pasteboard in her hand.</p> - -<p>The excitement about the ball, however, was not all pleasurable. The -invitation came a few days after, and at first Lydia, who had a great -spirit, altogether refused to avail herself of it. She was in the -parlour with her mother, arranging bunches of the ruddy leaves and rowan -berries which made the country gay, in the big old-fashioned china vases -which stood on the mantel-piece, and which were worth their weight in -silver, though nobody was aware of it. Lionel Brotherton had come in on -his way back from a short day’s shooting. He had brought some game, -which lay in a shallow basket on the table, the mingled colours of the -plumage harmonizing well with the warm autumnal tints of leaves and -fruit. The whole culminated in the girl’s glowing and animated -countenance as she stood by the table, twisting her garlands of leaves -and throwing them about with a freshness of gesture and energy which -only a touch of indignation could have given. She had put a cluster of -the red berries into her hair, with a few long serrated leaves, marked -with brilliant red upon the green;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> and thus crowned was like an -autumnal nymph, not mature enough for a Ceres, but yet warm with the -northern glow of colour and life. “Why should I go?” she was saying. -“What is it to me, mother? If the Duchess chooses to fling an invitation -at us after all these years, are you and I to seize upon it as if we -cared? I don’t care. I don’t want it. I should not like to go—Of course -I may be forced,” cried Lydia. “I may have to do it, for all the several -reasons which people always bring up; but listen, mother, this is the -truth, I should not like to go.”</p> - -<p>“My dearest,” said her mother, joining her hands in that instinctive -movement of entreaty which was her natural attitude. Nobody could admire -Liddy as her mother did, not even the young man who sat a little apart -gazing at her, and thinking all kinds of foolish thoughts. Mrs. Joscelyn -saw in her the perfection of herself, the accomplished ideal to which -she had been striving all her life. She herself would never have had the -strength of mind to look so, and speak so—but Liddy had; and even while -she remonstrated and entreated, she approved. “My pet, that is just your -fancy. Why shouldn’t you like it? You have never been at a ball.”</p> - -<p>“That is just the reason,” cried Lydia; “when I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> do go I want to enjoy -it. I want to be as good as anybody there. I want people to think as -much of me as anyone, and ask me to dance, and think my dress pretty, -and like me altogether. I won’t go anywhere unless I can be sure of -that.”</p> - -<p>“And so you will, my darling,” Mrs. Joscelyn said. Brotherton did not -venture to speak, but he put a great deal into his eyes. Lydia indeed -did not look at him, and so could not perceive this, but perhaps she had -some notion of it all the same. Her colour increased the least in the -world, taking a glow from the red leaves in her hands and the red -berries in her hair.</p> - -<p>“No, mother, I know how it will be. We shall come in at the end with the -Selbys, and the Armstrongs and the Pilgrims, and—oh, a great many more. -There will not be any want of companions in distress. We will all keep -together at one end of the room, and our hearts will all beat if anybody -comes near us. If it is an officer from Carlisle, or if it is Mr. -Brotherton, or still more if it should happen to be Lord Eldred. Oh my!” -cried Lydia with momentary mimicry, clasping her hands, “We shall look -at him as if we could eat him, and almost hold out our hands like the -children at school, and cry, me, me! If you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> think that is nice for nice -girls to have to do, mother, I don’t,” said Lydia with a sudden vivid -flush. “So I don’t want to go.”</p> - -<p>“But that is impossible,” Brotherton cried.</p> - -<p>“No, not at all impossible; it is just what happens, when people ask you -because they cannot help it; of course they don’t take any trouble about -you; and of course the gentlemen prefer to dance with girls they know, -and who belong to their own class, instead of seeking out poor little -Miss Selbys and Miss Armstrongs, and Miss Jos—No,” said Liddy -vehemently, “a Miss Joscelyn has never been in it, and, mother, if you -please, never will be. I don’t say,” she added, calming down, “that it -is anyone’s fault. I feel quite sure for one that you would ask me to -dance, Mr. Brotherton.”</p> - -<p>“Do you really—think so? The time has come,” said the young man, -hurried and nervous, but with a laugh of excitement, “to set one matter -to rights. Mr. Brotherton will certainly not ask you to dance, Miss -Joscelyn. I have a right to be Cousin Lionel, and I will be so. I am not -to be defrauded of my birthright any longer. You talk of the Duchess, -but you are far more haughty than the Duchess. Take the beam out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> of -your own eye, Cousin Lydia, and then you will see more clearly to take -the mote out of the Duchess’s. Mrs. Joscelyn, am I not right?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Joscelyn looked at them both with a pleasure that almost went the -length of tears. In the sudden union which her glance from one to -another made between them, the young man and the young woman -blushed—blushed for nothing at all, for sympathy, for fellow-feeling, -and a little for pleasure. “Yes, yes, my dear,” Mrs. Joscelyn said, -“yes, yes, I think he is right; and your cousin—your cousin would make -a difference. And then, my darling, if you do not go, people will never -know that you were invited, Liddy; and that means—”</p> - -<p>“That we are not county people; and we are not county people. We need -not keep up any pretences before—before Cousin Lionel,” said Lydia with -a blush and a smile, and a curtsey to the young man, who looked on with -a sense of enchantment. “Uncle Henry was one of them; but not we. We are -Joscelyns, however,” she cried, tossing her head upwards with a proud -movement, “and if blood means anything, that means something better than -her Grace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But why do you say <i>if</i> blood means anything, Liddy?” said her mother, -“of course it means everything, my love.”</p> - -<p>Then Lydia looked straight at the two people before her; both so -admiring, the one more foolish than the other—and the meaning changed -in her face. She sighed; her pretty head, crowned with the glowing red -berries and brilliant leaves, drooped a little. “Because I don’t believe -it does,” she said.</p> - -<p>Then there was an outcry, “Oh, Liddy, Liddy!” of horror and alarm from -her mother, who had borne everything else, poor soul, but who could not -bear any attack upon her last stronghold, her pride of family. It had -always been a comfort to her in all her troubles, and specially in those -social ones which her greater neighbours had made her suffer—that, to -everybody who knew, the Joscelyns were far superior even to her Grace, -who had been nobody. To hear her favourite child express this scepticism -was terrible. Even Brotherton sustained a slight shock of -disappointment. He would have preferred on the whole that Lydia should -have felt a romantic certainty of the claims of “blood;” but since it -was not so, he made a virtue out of her incredulity, and looked at her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> -with a smile and little nod of sympathy. Lydia, however, was wise enough -to make no answer to her mother’s exclamation of horror.</p> - -<p>“If I went,” she said with great decision, “you would have to go too; I -will not go with anybody but you.”</p> - -<p>“Me, Liddy?” Mrs. Joscelyn cried in alarm.</p> - -<p>“And my father. I will go with you both, or not at all,” Lydia gave out -as her final deliverance; and then she went out of the room, carrying -the remains of her autumnal wreaths, and paying no attention to the -pathos of her mother’s protestations. Mrs. Joscelyn could do nothing but -turn to her young kinsman, and appeal to his impartial judgment.</p> - -<p>“What should I do among all those fine people? I have not been out in -the evening nor worn a low dress (in those days ‘low dresses’ were -exacted even from old ladies by the stern fiat of fashion) since that -child was born. You must speak to her, you must speak to her, Mr. -Brotherton—I mean Lionel. Oh, yes, I want her to go; but me! and Ralph. -Ralph has never gone among them, I think he has done himself injustice; -but it is too late to change now. You must tell her it would never do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But you would not like her to go with the Selbys or the -Pilgrims—people not fit to be in the same room with her. <i>I</i> should not -like that,” young Brotherton said. And Mrs. Joscelyn’s pale countenance -coloured with pleasure to think that her child should be so determined, -and her young cousin so approving. This sudden appreciation of herself -was late, but yet it was pleasant, though also embarrassing. And after -this there were continual remonstrances and arguments, Liddy holding to -her point, her mother fighting desperately against it. As for Ralph -Joscelyn, he separated himself at once from the feminine part of his -household. “Go to what tomfoolery you like,” he said, with his usual -courtesy, “but don’t ask me; I’ve nought to do with such nonsense.” Mrs. -Joscelyn was then driven to the end of her forces. She was disturbed too -about Lydia’s ball-dress, which Joan would fain have gone to Carlisle -for and been “done with,” in her energetic way; but the mother had no -confidence in Joan’s taste. And for her part, though Joan had behaved -generously it cannot be denied that she felt her exclusion from the -splendour which ought to have belonged to her as the eldest Miss -Joscelyn, but which her husband’s position excluded her from. The other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> -Selbys even, who went on sufferance as the Doctor’s family, made it more -hard for Joan.</p> - -<p>“My husband is a deal better a man than Raaf Selby will ever be,” she -said with some indignation to Brotherton, who heard the complaints on -all sides, “and nobody that knows them would ever hesitate between them. -But Heatonshaw is only a little place, and we’ve nothing at all to do -with the great folks at the Castle. Of course it is me Liddy ought to go -with; and it is a joke to think that Raaf Selby’s family should all be -going, and not me. But I will never forgive mother if she sends Liddy -with them, and does not go herself to take care of the child. Mother’s a -strange woman. She was never happy till the Duchess called, and now she -has got her desire she’ll not hear any more of it. I like consistency. -Now I don’t care a snap of my fingers for the Duchess; but if she -invited me,” said Joan, magnanimously, “I’d go.” Here she paused, but a -minute or two after resumed with great gravity. “A woman takes her -husband’s rank, whatever that may be. I am not ashamed of my husband -because he does not take her Grace’s eye.” And here Joan laughed again, -but with an uneasy laughter. She was sore on the subject, and perhaps if -she had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> entrusted with the buying of the dress the result might -have been disastrous. Mrs. Joscelyn would not trust Joan, but in her own -timid person hesitated and doubted what to do, when Brotherton, the -confidant of all their troubles, came to her aid. He proposed that his -mother, who was in town (much the best place for everything of the kind; -the place where fashion reigned, and ball-dresses were much more -plentiful than blackberries), should get the dress.</p> - -<p>“Which will be of no use,” said Lydia, sternly, “without a dress for my -mother too.” At this Mrs. Joscelyn was ready to cry, not knowing what -else to do. Her hands stole towards each other with the nervous gesture -of old, when Brotherton again whispered in her ear a message of hope.</p> - -<p>“My mother is coming—leave it to me,” he said. She had almost thrown -her arms round his neck in her intense relief and thankfulness.</p> - -<p>And this was how it was that Lydia Joscelyn made such a sensation at the -ball. Had she gone with the Selbys, all would have happened precisely as -she predicted. She would have stood among them, in a white gown bought -at Carlisle, at the bottom of the room, surrounded by a little crowd<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> of -other obscure young ladies, left out in the cold, tremulously eager to -secure partners, and taken notice of by nobody. There she would have -stayed, pretending to be amused, till old Mrs. Selby gave the signal, -and gathered her little flock around her, tired with standing, sick with -waiting, cross, and humiliated and mortified, consoled only by the -thought that the ball at the Castle would be a thing to talk of long -after people had forgotten to ask, “Did you dance much?” But for Lydia -was reserved a more splendid fate. She had a dress which everybody at -the White House thought would have been fit for a princess, and she went -with Lady Brotherton, with whom she stayed at the Wyburgh Hotel -afterwards, and whose presence introduced her into the selectest circle, -and the company of all the first people. Lady Althea went so far as to -admire her dress, and Lord Eldred danced with her so often that his -mother was alarmed, but yet could not do anything but smile upon the -stranger whom Lady Brotherton patronised and introduced as “my young -cousin.” Lady Brotherton was a fanciful and romantic woman, and she -seized at once upon the idea that Lydia was the object of a romantic -attachment on the part of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> Lord Eldred. Perhaps had she known that her -own son was in any danger from the same quarter, it might have checked -her enthusiasm. But Lionel did not feel bound in honour to give her any -information on that point. She was seized with an enthusiastic -friendship for Liddy before they had been half an hour together, and as -she was a graceful, sentimental woman, with very tender and engaging -manners, Lydia was not wanting in her response. Then Sir John, who was -much older than his wife, added his contribution to the rising warmth of -the relationship by vowing continually that this was the Cousin Lydia of -his youth over again. The fact was that he had seen his cousin Lydia -only once or twice in her youth, but he was old enough to have forgotten -that, and nobody knew it was a mistake. So all things concurred in the -growth of this sudden devotion, and before Lydia returned to her mother -she was invited to accompany the Brothertons abroad, and had become, so -to speak, one of the family.</p> - -<p>“I will come and see your mother,” Lady Brotherton said, “and I will -take no denial;” while Sir John patted her on the shoulder, and told her -with his toothless jaws, that she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> “sh’image of” her mother. Lydia -came home with her head turned, but faithful, among all these new -crotchets of other people’s, to her own.</p> - -<p>“You are not to say no, mother dear; but I know you will never do that. -You are to put up with the loneliness, and manage without me the best -you can; for I am going to find Harry,” Lydia cried. This new piece of -excitement obliterated the ball, which was quite an inferior event. Mrs. -Joscelyn cried, and clung to her child in a kind of despair, yet hope.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my darling, what shall I do without you? and how are you to find -him?” she said; then wept and wrung her hands. “And how am I to make -sure that your new friends will be kind to you? Oh, yes, they are kind -now; but it is different now and when you have nobody else; and what, oh -what, if you were unhappy, my pet, when you were away.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Lydia, who was a young person of much strength of mind, -“even in that case there could be nothing desperate about it, for I -should come back. They could not lock me up in my room and feed me on -bread and water. If I was not happy I should come home.”</p> - -<p>“But oh, my pet, think,” cried Mrs. Joscelyn,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> with a fresh outbreak, -“if you should be left like that to travel alone.”</p> - -<p>“And why not?” said Liddy. “Nobody would meddle with me if I behaved -myself; and I hope I should always behave myself. But they will not be -unkind to me. Do you think there is anything unkind about—Cousin -Lionel.” She pronounced his name always with a little hesitation, which, -to the foolish young man himself, made it very sweet.</p> - -<p>“No, no, Liddy; but then he is only a man—only a young man, and admires -you. His mother will not be like that. A lady is different; a lady is -not carried away.”</p> - -<p>“A lady is—much more easily satisfied,” said Liddy. “She took to me in -a moment, mother. They said they never saw her take so quickly to -anyone; and Sir John says I am like you.”</p> - -<p>“Like me! I don’t think he ever saw me.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind, never mind, mother; they are not a den of robbers. They -cannot do me any harm. And I shall find Harry,” Lydia said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE OPINION OF THE FAMILY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE Joscelyns were much excited and disturbed by all this “to do” about -Liddy, which the sisters-in-law thought intolerable, and which, as has -been already related, moved even Joan to some sensation of displeasure, -notwithstanding the gratified sense of family pride which she -experienced as a Joscelyn in the recognition of her family, which, -though late, was satisfactory. But Mrs. Will and Mrs. Tom had no such -feeling. To them the sense of being left out was not less but rather -more disagreeable because a little chit like Liddy had been made much of -and received as the representative of her race. Neither of these ladies -could bear to hear of it, and Will and Tom showed their feelings in -indig<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span>nant ridicule, scorning the thought that a little lass should be -put in the foreground, and their own substantial claims as the heirs of -the Joscelyn name disregarded. For what is a girl in a family? nothing; -a mere accident; perhaps useful in a way as extending the connection, -but directly of no sort of benefit at all. When they heard, however, -that Lydia was going “abroad” their indignation burst all bounds. Where -was the money to come from? The sons and the sons’ wives were as angry -as if it came out of their own pockets. Mrs. Will even cried, and -enumerated a whole list of things which were wanted to make her house -comfortable. “I never have even a trip to the seaside,” she said, “and -as for a piano where I’m to get one I can’t tell, and the children all -growing up; and there isn’t a sideboard in the house, not like I was -used to, and the poorest stock of linen! while your sister is -gallivanting all over the world.” Mrs. Tom suggested that nothing but a -surreptitious slice out of Uncle Henry’s property—which it was a sin -and a shame to keep hanging on because of a runaway, who must be dead -years ago or he would have come back on the hands of his family, no -doubt about that—could have induced<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> Ralph Joscelyn to consent to such -a mad piece of expenditure. “That Pilgrim just plays into their hands,” -she said; “your mother’s silly enough for anything, when it’s for Liddy, -but your father’d never have done it without something to go upon.” The -brothers were so moved by these arguments, and by their own sense of -injustice, that they made a joint raid upon the paternal house to see -what remonstrance would do. “I’ll tell you what it is, father, it’s time -that money was divided,” said Will; “it would come in uncommon handy, I -can tell you, in my house, with all my children growing up.” Tom had no -children, but he was not less forcible in his representations. “We’re a -laughing-stock to all the county,” he said, “hanging on waiting for -Harry turning up. If Harry had been going to turn up he’d have done it -long ago. There never was a good-for-nothing in a family but he came -back.” Now the day of this visit was a day which Joan had chosen to come -to the White House to hear “all about it,” and these words were spoken -at the family table just after the early dinner, for which an additional -chicken had been killed on account of the guests.</p> - -<p>“Good for nothing!” said Joan, indignantly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> “that’s what our Harry -never was. You may say what you like of yourselves, but of him I’ll -never stand such lying. He was as honourable a lad as ever stepped. He -never asked a penny from one of you, nor from father either—that he -got. So far from taking anything of yours with him, he left his own -behind him. Poor lad! there’s his very clothes in his drawers. It must -have cost him a mint of money to get more to put in their place. I’ve -often thought of that. If it’s just to put mother out, which is all -you’ll do, you may as well try some other subject than Harry. Mother, -don’t you take on. He’s no more dead than I am. He’ll come home some -fine day to take up his property—if you don’t let them put you into -your grave first.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Joscelyn’s hands had crept together in a nervous clasp. She looked -pitifully from one to another. “Boys,” she said, in her soft voice, to -the threatening men who looked older and infinitely harder than she, “I -hope you’ll have a little patience. If I had the money, oh! how gladly I -would give it you! It is hard, too, when you have need of it. I say -nothing against that.”</p> - -<p>“Need of it! I should think we had need of it,” said Will. “As for -giving it if you had it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> that’s easy speaking; and there are plenty -that promise what they haven’t, and think no more of it when they have. -What’s this we hear of Liddy going abroad? I should say that would cost -a pretty penny. My wife and me, we can’t take our family so much as for -a fortnight to the sea-side.”</p> - -<p>“And what business is it of your wife’s and yours where Liddy goes?” -said Joan, instantly throwing her shield over her own side. “You’ll not -get Liddy’s money, you may be sure of that, to take you to the -sea-side.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, children!” cried Mrs. Joscelyn, clasping her hands.</p> - -<p>“Well, I must say it’s more reasonable that a family of children should -have a change, than that a bit of a lass like Liddy should go picking up -foreign manners and ruining her character—not that I am speaking for -myself——” Tom interposed. But he was interrupted by a cry from Joan, -repeating his last words, “ruining her character!” and by an exclamation -of pain from her mother. “Well,” cried Tom, “I say again, ruining her -character. Is there any decent man about here that would have anything -to do with a Frenchified wife?—not to say that a woma<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span>n’s morals are -always undermined in those foreign places. And Liddy’s flyaway enough, -already——”</p> - -<p>Here Joscelyn commanded silence by striking his fist upon the table with -a blow that made the glasses ring. “Hold your dashed tongues,” he said. -“What have you got to do with it, you lads? You’ve got what belongs to -you, and you can go to Jericho and be blanked to you. If there’s any man -has a right to interfere in my house, I’d like just to see his dashed -face. Hold your tongues, the whole blanked lot of you. Them that’s in my -house will do as I please, and them that has houses of their own had -better go where they came from; and, Liddy, don’t you say a word, my -lass. I’ll look after you,” he said, laying a large hand upon her -shoulder, as he thrust his chair away from the table with an impulse -which displaced the table too, and jarred and shook everything upon it. -When Joscelyn “spoke up,” there was nobody in his family that ventured -to withstand him. The sons rose, too, somewhat abashed, and strode forth -after him to view the stables, which was the recognised thing to do -after the meal, which thus came to an abrupt conclusion. They shook -their heads over father’s weakness, and declared to each other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> that -“they (meaning the women) had got him under their thumb”—though “who -would have thought it of father!” “It’s what every man comes to when he -begins to break up,” Tom said.</p> - -<p>When they were gone Mrs. Joscelyn cried, but the two sisters were -indignant. “Now, mother, don’t be a silly,” Joan said. “They are just as -worldly and as hard as they always were. But what can you expect when -you think of the two women these poor lads married? It is a wonder they -are no worse.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” sighed poor Mrs. Joscelyn, “when I think the bonnie boys they -were!” for she was a woman upon whom experience had little power, and -who never could learn.</p> - -<p>As for Lydia it struck her against her will with a strong sense of the -ridiculous to hear her middle-aged brothers, in whose favour she had -scarcely even a natural prejudice, spoken of as “bonnie boys.” It was -all she could do out of respect for her mother not to laugh. And she was -more angry than she was amused. “What harm does it do to Will and Tom,” -she said, “that I should be going abroad?”</p> - -<p>“They are just furious that Liddy has been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> asked to the Castle,” said -Joan. “Oh, I know them down to the bottom of their hearts; but I’ll tell -you what, mother, if it’s a question of making a lady of Liddy, and -sending her out in a way to do us credit, you mind there’s nothing to be -spared upon her, for Phil and me, we’ll do our share.”</p> - -<p>This was all Mrs. Will and Mrs. Tom (for the other women of the family -scouted the idea that the brothers were anything but puppets in the -hands of these ladies), made by their motion. They threw Joan vehemently -upon the other side, blew away the little vapour of envy and -uncharitableness which made the elder sister grudge for a moment the -younger’s elevation, and bound Joan in enthusiastic partizanship to all -her little sister’s wishes. “She shall do us credit,” Joan said, “if I -don’t have a gown to my back for years to come. She shall want for -nothing if I have to give up my party next Christmas. She shall find out -who it is that stands by her, and them that think of her in the family.”</p> - -<p>“I never had any doubt about that,” said Lydia, throwing her arms round -her sister, “and, Joan, I’ll bring you the best of presents, I’ll bring -you Harry back.”</p> - -<p>At this Joan shook her head and wiped a tear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> out of the corner of her -eye. “It’s a blessing,” she said, “you little thing, that Phil’s just as -silly about you as me; but to find Harry, poor Harry, will take a -cleverer than you.”</p> - -<p>“Joan, do not you say that. I have it borne in upon me here,” said Mrs. -Joscelyn, laying her thin hands upon her bosom, “that before I die I -will see my boy back.”</p> - -<p>“And it is I that will find him,” Liddy cried, throwing back her head -with a proud movement of self-confidence; for the moment, being foolish -women, they all believed in this inspiration. “And why not,” said -sensible Joan, “it may be the Lord that has put it into her head. And -all these fine folks, the Duchess and my lady and the rest of them, may -just have been instruments.”</p> - -<p>This suggestion filled them all with momentary awe. To see such noble -means bringing about a triumphant end, and to be able to trace so easily -the workings of Providence, is always the highest of pleasures to the -simple-minded. To bring Harry back to his own, and comfort the heart of -his mother before she died, was this not an object worthy the employment -of Duchesses? Meanwhile Tom and Will went home discomfited, and told -their wives how father had “shut them up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span>” “These women have got him -under their thumb,” was what they all said.</p> - -<p>Then there came another agitating crisis; Sir John and Lady Brotherton -offered a visit to their cousin to arrange the details of their journey, -and this made such an overturn in the White House as had not been known -in the memory of man. To the wonder of everybody, Joscelyn made no -objection to it. A shade of complacency even stole over his face as he -gave his consent. “My lady—will maybe take a fancy to me, as some one -else has ta’en a fancy to thee,” he said, pulling Lydia’s ear with -unprecedented playfulness. Certainly the women had got him under their -thumb at last. Joan and her husband came over with a great sense of -importance to help to prepare for this great ceremonial, he enacting -butler and she housekeeper to the admiration of all concerned. Philip -Selby knew about wine, nobody could gainsay that; while his wife -prepared enough of what were then called “made dishes,” and pastry and -cakes, to have lasted a month instead of a day. Then the amiable pair -drove home at a great rate, to dress themselves in their best and -present themselves solemnly as guests to meet the strangers. Lionel -Brotherton was in all these secrets; Joan and he indeed ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span>changed a -smile of intelligence when after working together all day they met and -shook hands in the evening; but he kept inviolate the confidence -bestowed upon him, and never betrayed even to his mother the tremendous -pains that had been taken to prepare for her, and receive her fitly. -When he went up to her room after the dinner was over, to bid her good -night, Lady Brotherton could not speak enough in praise of their new -cousin. “You did well to say it was an idyllic life,” she cried. “You -did not say a word too much, Lionel; what freshness, what simplicity, -what a breath of the moor; and all so nice, such pretty curtains (Lionel -himself had helped to fasten them up that morning), such nice old -furniture! I thought pretty Liddy was quite an exceptional moor-blossom, -but I quite understand her now. Her mother is a most refined woman. I -should like to model those hands of hers; they are full of expression. -And that handsome whitehaired father like a tower, quite the ideal -representative of a very old impoverished family, little education, and -not much to say, but with long descent in every feature!” It was all -Lionel could do to keep his countenance.</p> - -<p>“I am so glad you like them, mother; I do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span>n’t know when I have been so -glad; and you can’t think how kind they have been to me.”</p> - -<p>“I love them for it,” said Lady Brotherton, “not that I am -surprised—for they like you, Lionel, one can see that, and nothing -could be more delightful to your mother. Tell me, dear, does poor Lord -Eldred come often, or is he forbidden to come? I want to know how far it -has gone.”</p> - -<p>“How far what has gone?” said Lionel aghast.</p> - -<p>“Is it possible you have not noticed? I am sure he made no secret of it, -poor fellow; the Duchess saw it well enough. Why, that Lord Eldred is -over head and ears, or if there is any stronger expression—deep, deep -in the depths of love; and I am mistaken if she does not know as well as -I—”</p> - -<p>“In love—with—? not Lydia? Lydia!” Lionel cried, as if this were the -most astonishing thing in the world.</p> - -<p>Lady Brotherton’s back was turned; she did not see his lamentable -countenance. She laughed with a tinkling silvery laugh for which she was -famous, but which her son at that moment felt to be the harshest and -least melodious of sounds. “Who else?” she said; “there is no one but -Lydia here capable of being fallen in love with.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> Not that nice Mrs. -Selby, you may be sure, which would not be proper, and is -impossible—no, Liddy—I like the name of Liddy. It is quite rural and -moorland, like all the rest. Well, don’t you think she knows it too?”</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t say so,” Lionel answered with the greatest gravity. He -tried very hard not to be so deadly serious; but he could not smile.</p> - -<p>“Well, we shall see, we shall see,” said Lady Brotherton gaily, “of -course I shall not interfere. I dare say the Duchess blesses me for -taking her out of the way. But if the lover has the courage to follow, -nobody need expect me to put obstacles in the course of true love. It -shall run smooth for me. Going, Lionel? God bless you, dear; the Fells -have agreed with you, you are as brown and strong as you can look, and I -must go and see your den to-morrow. Good night, good night, my own boy.”</p> - -<p>Lionel went away in a frame of mind very different from that with which -he had followed his mother upstairs. He looked into the parlour with a -countenance so solemn that the little party assembled there, and -congratulating themselves on everything having gone off so well, were -entirely chilled. Mrs. Joscelyn, reposing in her chair with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> her hands -clasped, was smiling with relief and pleasure, while Joan described all -the pangs with which she had looked forward to the arrival of my Lady. -“I thought she would be so stiff and so grand,” said Joan, “Lord, I -don’t know what I didn’t think; but she’s as nice a woman as mother or -myself, and takes nothing upon her. As long as I live I’ll never be -afraid of a fine lady again.” Here Lionel’s solemn voice was heard at -the door.</p> - -<p>“I have come to say good night,” he said; “no, thank you, I will not sit -down. I have a long walk before me; not anything, thank you. My mother -is very comfortable, and much obliged to you, Mrs. Joscelyn. I beg I may -not trouble anyone to open the door.”</p> - -<p>“What is the matter with him with all his ‘thank yous,’ and his ‘not -troubling any ones,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> cried Joan when he went away without a smile. It -was generally Lydia who let him out, which perhaps Mrs. Joscelyn should -not have permitted. But to-night Lydia was checked by his cold looks, -and held back shyly, and it was Philip Selby who opened the door. This -was a slight matter; but it seemed to prove to Lionel everything his -mother had said. He felt rather glad to have left a chill behind him, as -he had evidently<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> done; and he was very much tempted to steal to the -window and peep in at them, and enjoy the wonder with which no doubt -they would ask each other “What is the matter?” It was well he did not -do so, for he would have seen the company in the parlour laughing—all -but Lydia, who was wondering by herself in a corner, what was the -matter?—at a witticism of Joan’s, who had made a solemn face in -imitation of poor Lionel the moment his back was turned. Lionel was -fortunately not aware of this; but felt that he had produced a -sensation, and was not sorry; and so went away gloomily, not to say -misanthropically, down into the village and across the bridge and along -the river’s side to Birrenshead. On the way he met with old Isaac, who -had once more been beguiled into the “Red Lion,” and was now making his -way home with much stumbling.</p> - -<p>“It was you as kept me, Master,” the old man said, “you know ’twas you -as kept me. I’d never have stayed out so long if it hadn’t been for you. -If you would mention it to t’missis I would take it kind, for women is -very onreasonable.”</p> - -<p>“T’auld sinner,” cried a voice in the dark, “to larn t’young gentleman a -pack o’ lies. D’ye think I dunuo know where you’ve been just to hear -your voice?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“My good woman,” said Lionel, “don’t be hard upon poor Isaac.”</p> - -<p>He was still so terribly serious, and spoke in tones so hollow and -tragical, that Jane Oliver was alarmed. She darted forward in the dark -and caught hold of his arm.</p> - -<p>“Oh! my bonnie young gentleman,” she cried, “tell me! Something’s -happened to my silly auld man?”</p> - -<p>At this hint Isaac began to moan, and grasped at Lionel’s other arm, -leaning heavily upon it.</p> - -<p>“It’s nothing, Missis, nothing; that is, not much, nothing to frighten -you. T’ young Master’s been that kind, he’s given me his arm to lean -upon all along t’ water-side,” Isaac said, with a limp which would have -been much too demonstrative had it been addressed to the eye; but in the -dark it answered well enough. For once the Missis fell into the trap, -and Lionel, dragged round by his pretended patient to the back door, -with blessings called down upon his head by the deceived woman, went -through the little fiction with the gravest countenance, and without the -least inclination even to smile. It was not till he had left Isaac with -his foot elevated on a chair, elaborating the story of a supposed -sprain, and had groped his way round to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> the other entrance, and climbed -the dilapidated stairs to the musty old sitting-room, in which his -solitary lamp was flaring, that he burst into a short laugh, as he threw -himself into a chair. If it was Isaac’s little comedy that called forth -this sudden outburst, it was only as the climax of a hundred other -comedies which were not mirthful. His disappointment, and the confusion -of all his thoughts, which his mother’s revelation had brought about, -made him, as was natural, misanthropical and bitter. He laughed at the -tragical folly and falsehood of everything, himself included; from the -Joscelyns making all sorts of efforts to appear better, more refined and -comfortable, than they were, by way of pleasing, <i>i.e.</i>, deceiving, Lady -Brotherton—and Lady Brotherton accepting everything, adding her own -fanciful interpretation, not only deceived, but deceiving herself—down -to old Isaac, who had so often tried in vain to dupe his wife, and his -wife, who was now duped so easily, not by Isaac, but, save the mark! by -himself, Lionel, without intention or purpose. “And I, who am the -biggest fool of all!” the poor youth said to himself. What had he been -doing all these weeks? making a fool’s paradise out of this squalid -ruin, and princes and princesses out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> the Joscelyns, half farmers, -half horse-coupers as they were—all because he had believed in the -sweet looks of a girl who the whole time had been aiming these sweet -looks over his head at a better match, and a greater personage than -himself. What an idiot he had been! the scales seemed to fall from his -eyes. He saw everything round him, he thought, in its true colour. What -would his mother think if she came and saw the wretched place in which -he had been living? She would ask, like the village folk, what could his -motive be? His motive, what was it? Even now, mortified and discouraged -as he was, he sat upright in his chair with a thrill of alarm, when he -imagined a research into his motives. Lady Brotherton might stop the -expedition altogether if she found them out. Lydia’s perfidy was -terrible, but it would be more terrible still to leave her behind, -perhaps to lose sight of her, to miss the opportunity to which he had -been looking forward with so much delight. When he came to think of it, -his mother had not said Lydia was in love with Lord Eldred, but only -that Lord Eldred was in love with Lydia—which was so different. At this -Lionel roused himself, and the sight of his portmanteaux packed and -ready to be shut up, roused him still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> more. After all it was to-morrow -they were to start, and he, and not Lord Eldred, was to be for the -present Lydia’s daily companion. There would be time to do many things -before that hero could arrive, even if, as Lady Brotherton suggested, he -should join them afterwards. To-morrow, nay, to-day, for it was already -past midnight, was all his own, with nobody to interfere.</p> - -<p>And next day, with some suppressed tears and fictitious smiles, and a -general excitement of the whole neighbourhood, as if the village itself -had been going abroad, the party went away. The vicarage people and all -the Selbys came out to their doors to see them pass. Raaf Selby on -horseback stood like a statue at the end of the bridge, and took off his -hat and gave Lydia a look half-tragical and altogether melodramatic. -Joan drove her mother in the phaeton steadily, but with a very grave -countenance, though now and then bursting into momentary jokes and -laughter, to the station to see them off, her husband riding very slowly -by their side. Joan laughed by times, but that did not change the -seriousness of her face; and Mrs Joscelyn sat with her veil down, a -large Spanish veil covered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> by great spots of black flowers, behind -which nobody could see what she was doing. Lydia herself broke down, and -cried freely, though her mother could not cry. “I’ll bring home Harry,” -the girl cried, with a passionate promise, out of one window of the -railway carriage. Lionel was at another, keeping in the background, -eager to be off, and shorten the moment of farewells, when his attention -was distracted from the pathetic group by the sudden swaying upwards of -old Isaac’s shock head. “I thought you’d like to know, Sir,” old Isaac -said, “as my missis and me’s the best of friends. And it’s all owing to -you, as had the judgment never to say a word. Good-bye and good luck to -you, Master; don’t forget old Isaac Oliver as will do you a good turn -and welcome whenever he has the chance. Lord! but we took t’ Missis in, -that time,” Isaac said, with a grin that reached from ear to ear. And -that was the last the travellers saw of the village folk.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>LYDIA’S TRAVELS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE quiet that fell over the White House, not to speak of other houses, -when Liddy was thus carried off into the wider world, was something -which might be felt, like the darkness in the vision. Mrs. Joscelyn -subsided into a kind of half-life. She had been living in her child, and -when her child was withdrawn, her existence ebbed away from her. She -began to wring her hands again, especially when in the wild winter -weather the posts were delayed. All that could be done for her was done -by the Selbys, who humoured her and petted her, everybody said, like a -child. Joan drove over in her phaeton as often sometimes as thrice in a -week, and Philip, who was “an understanding man” his wife allowed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> did -what was still better. He subscribed for her to the circulating library, -and kept the poor lady supplied, in defiance of all prejudices, even -those of his wife, with a boundless supply of novels. Joan was somewhat -indignant and much scandalised by this, asking him if he thought mother -was a baby, and if it was his opinion that an old person should waste -her time over such nonsense? “If it was a good book indeed,” Joan said. -But Philip verified his title to be called “understanding.” He helped -her through the dull days as nobody else could. She read and read till -she got a little confused among the heroes and heroines, all of whom she -wove together by an imaginary thread of connection with Liddy, comparing -their fictitious graces, their adventures, their history with those of -her child, and following her imaginary Liddy through many a chapter. -Lydia’s letters when they came were like another warmer, fuller romance, -the most enticing of all.</p> - -<p>And then Ralph Joscelyn himself suddenly developed a new character. He -was miserable when his daughter was fairly gone, though he had never -betrayed any unwillingness to let her go. He read every word of her long -letters with a patience which had never been equalled in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> life. He -gave up the dashes and blanks of which his conversation was once full, -and would come in the cold afternoons and sit with his wife, often -fatiguing her greatly, and keeping her back from the end of an exciting -story, but always meaning the best, and filling her soul with gratitude, -even when she felt most bored. And by and bye he would put on his -spectacles, and surreptitiously turn over a novel too, when the day was -wet, or on a long evening. Thus the sight might be seen of these two in -their old parlour, one at each side of the fire, rather dull but -friendly, like people who had grown old together, and in whom a moderate -modest affection had outlived all quarrels and years. He was a little -shamefaced when he was found thus in his wife’s company, but by degrees -that wore off too.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Lydia went far afield, leaving dulness and darkness and cloud -behind her; finding winter turned into summer, and her life into -sunshine. It would be impossible to use words too strong to express the -change that had come upon her. From the north country of England to the -south of France was not a more complete difference than from the grey -and limited life of the yeoman household to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span> brightness and variety -and grace of existence among people accustomed all their lives to wealth -and refinement and luxury. The way in which they travelled, the -attendants always round them, the ease with which they took all their -gratifications, surprised by nothing that was pleasant, taking luxuries, -which were princely to Liddy, as a matter of course, had an -extraordinary effect upon her—the effect of a forced and miraculous -education, in which every half hour told like a year. For a short time -she was much subdued, almost stupefied, indeed, by the revolution in -everything round her, and was so very quiet that Lady Brotherton almost -came the length, notwithstanding her animated countenance, and the -favourable first impression she had made, of thinking her dull. In fact, -she was only in a state of intense receptiveness, taking in everything, -opening her mind and spirits to all the new influences, which confused -and dazzled her. But after thus lying dormant for a time, Lydia suddenly -awoke into new life, and bloomed like a flower. She awoke to a great -many things which were completely new and strange; to beauty and wealth, -to art, which was entirely unknown, and a revelation to her;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> and to -Nature of a lavish and splendid kind, almost as entirely unknown.</p> - -<p>There were other revelations, too, upon which, at this moment, it is -unnecessary to dwell. It was more than enough that little Lydia, out of -what was not much more than a northern farmer’s house, should have found -herself in society, in that wandering society of the English abroad -where the finest specimens are to be found afloat among the coarsest, -and in which all the elements of life are represented; hearing names -familiarly pronounced every day which she had hitherto read with -reverence in books, talking to personages whose distant doings she had -but heard of with awe and wonder, and living in palaces, which she heard -found fault with as poverty-stricken and uncomfortable, she who had -known nothing better than the drawing-room at Heatonshaw. The party went -from France to Italy; to Florence and Rome, and still further south, -Naples and all its dependencies. So dazzled and transported was she with -all the new things she saw and heard that for the first month or two -Lydia forgot all about her quest. When she bethought herself of it, a -question arose which was far more troublesome here than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> it had been at -home. What was she to do? To examine anxiously every new face she saw, -to look out in the streets and in every company she entered for somebody -like Harry, seemed a far less hopeful enterprise in Italy than it had -been in England. She did not remember Harry’s face, which was disabling -to begin with, and then why should he be in Italy? she asked herself. -Poor people (unless they were artists) did not seem to come to Italy, -but only people with plenty of money and leisure, who came to enjoy -themselves. She was so bewildered by this altogether new idea that she -did not know what to do, nor did Lionel, “Cousin Lionel,” to whom she -began to refer everything (as indeed his mother did), suggest anything -that could help her. They looked over all the visitors’ books together, -and lists of the English inhabitants in every new place they came to, -with their young heads together, and much secret enjoyment of the -business; but neither did this stand her in much stead. In Rome, where -they spent Christmas, they were joined, as Lady Brotherton’s prophetic -soul had divined, by Lord Eldred; but when they left he did not follow, -and Liddy’s course, which was not that of true love but wandering<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> -fancy, required no trouble to keep it smooth. But, by others besides -Lord Eldred, Lydia was “very much admired,” as people say. She might -have got “a very good match” out of her wanderings; but walked through -all these possibilities unwitting, not having even her little head -turned, which Lady Brotherton expected. The elder lady, however, was -delighted with the little sensation she made. She liked the little -flutter of moths about this gentle taper. She liked to have half-a-dozen -young men standing ready to do every necessary civility, to procure -everything that was wanted. Lydia saved her a great deal, she said, in -commissionaires; and old Sir John laughed his chuckling old laugh, and -said she was just like her mother; his Cousin Lydia had always a train -after her. Liddy wondered sometimes whether it was a former Cousin -Lydia, a century old or so, whom the old man meant. But they were very -kind to her. They became fond of her as the time went on. She lived an -enchanted life among them, with “Cousin Lionel” always at her side, -seeing everything, doing everything, along with her; and she could not -have believed that it would prove so easy to forget Harry and all about -him. Sometimes she awoke to this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> thought with such a sense of guilt as -depressed her for days; but in the meantime life was flowing on in -content, brightness, and variety, full of a hundred occupations. There -was not a moment vacant. Sometimes it would glance across her that the -day must come when she must leave it all and return to the White House. -Alas, poor mother! vegetating there, keeping herself alive by means of -her novels, and chiefly the unfinished romance of Lydia, most delightful -of all. What would she have felt had she known the cold chill which came -over Lydia as she realised that the day must come when she would be once -more at home; and how wretched, how angry Lydia was with herself, how -she despised her own frivolous being when she felt this chill invading -her! Generally however she put the thought away, and was content to -live, and no more. To live, how sweet it was! “Good was it in that time -to be alive, and to be young was very heaven.” At last Lydia came, as -the time of return approached, to throw away every consideration, and -exist only in the moment, with a kind of desperation of happiness. “I -shall never have it over again,” she said to herself, and shut her eyes -and went on, forgetting home and forgetting Harry, refusing to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> think of -anything but the sweet hours that were going over her; “I shall have had -my day.”</p> - -<p>Thus time came to have a prodigious sweep and fling as the long -delicious holiday approached its end. The hours and days rushed on like -the waters of a river hurrying to the falls, every minute increasing the -velocity; already the skies were getting bright (as if they had ever -been anything but bright!) with spring; the flowers were bursting forth -everywhere; the warmth becoming excessive; the English tourists -beginning to return home in clouds. And the Brothertons spoke quite -calmly of going back to England. To them it meant a natural succession, -no more; they would return home to other delights. When autumn came back -they would set out again, and go over the same enchanted lands; but for -Lydia all would be over. She tried to enter into their plans, however, -quite steadily, concealing the vertigo that seized her, and her wild -sense of the hurrying rush of those last days. When it was suggested -that they should rest a few days at Pisa, Sir John having a cold, and -from thence go on to Leghorn, and take the steamer, Lydia felt like a -criminal who has got a reprieve; but oh, how guilty, how more than ever -deserving<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> of any sentence that could be passed upon her!</p> - -<p>By this time there had come a strange uneasiness into her intercourse -with “Cousin Lionel.” Liddy had always been more reserved with him than -with anyone else, she could not tell why. Since the first frankness of -the days when she went with him to Birrenshead there had been a great -seriousness in all their relations. This was partly his doing, and -partly hers. Lord Eldred’s appearance had checked him when he had been -getting rid of the impression which his mother’s opinion on the subject -of Lord Eldred had produced on him. And Lydia’s seriousness had subdued -the young man. She had consulted him indeed, referred to him constantly, -took his advice, kept up an invariable tacit appeal to him in all her -concerns, which she was scarcely herself aware of, but which went to the -very bottom of his heart; but she was always serious. Her gayer flights -were with the moths, as Lady Brotherton called them, the -commissionaires, the young men who fluttered about the two ladies, and -whom Lydia, caring nothing about them, treated with every kind of gay -malice, and a hundred caprices;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> but she was never capricious with -cousin Lionel. They treated each other with a sort of stately dignity, -reserved on one side, reverential on the other, to the amusement, but -great gratification of Lady Brotherton.</p> - -<p>“Thank heaven there is no fear of these two falling in love with each -other,” she said, “which is an embarrassment one is scarcely ever safe -from.” As for Sir John, he chuckled and declared that his son was an old -woman. “Talk’sh like two ambassadorsh,” said the old man. Never was -anything more satisfactory; for to have a course of true love so near to -her, notwithstanding her sentimental sympathy with the thing in the -abstract, would not have suited Lady Brotherton at all. But on the day -of Sir John’s cold at Pisa, something occurred which, if she had not -been so busy administering gruel, she might not have found so -satisfactory. The two young people being thus left alone went out -together, and walked very soberly, as was their wont, about the -Cathedral and the Baptistery, gazing at everything as it was their duty -to do. They stood and looked up at the delicate fretted galleries of the -leaning tower, and the blue sky<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> above which filled up every opening. -They had been very silent, and silence is dangerous. At last Lionel said -hastily:</p> - -<p>“I don’t know why this should make me think of the old Joscelyn tower -you showed me; there is not much likeness certainly between this and a -Border tower.”</p> - -<p>“The sky was just as blue,” said Lydia, “in all the crevices; though -they say that in England we never see the sky.”</p> - -<p>“You remember it too?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said with a faint little tremor in her voice.</p> - -<p>“And soon you will be there again,” he said (as if it were not brutal to -remind her of it!), “but I—— where shall I be?” He threw so much -pathos into his tone that Lydia, feeling herself on the brink of -darkness and desolation, could not quite restrain a little outburst of -impatience. He to talk like that, who would have nothing to give up, -whose life would always be as beautiful as it was now!</p> - -<p>“Where should you be—but where you please!” she said, with a sharp tone -of irritation in her voice.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span></p> -<p>“Where I please?——do you think?—but I must not ask you that,” -Lionel said, drawing a long breath. And then he added as if he were -breathless and hurried, though in reality there was nothing to hurry -him, “Lydia—I want to speak to you before—before——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you mean; you can talk to me whenever you please,” -cried Lydia, with the daring of anger. She was angry with him, she could -scarcely tell why.</p> - -<p>He was silent for a minute, looking at her with a curious expression -which she did not understand. What did it mean? No doubt Lionel thought -that Lydia knew exactly all that was overflowing in him; the eagerness -in his eyes, the hesitation in his mind. He thought she looked him -through and through, and she thought he looked her through and through. -The young man felt as if it could scarcely be necessary for him to say -what was in his heart; she must have seen it in every look for months; -and she, on her side, felt that her secret, which he was so likely to -have divined, must be kept from him at all hazards. Thus they stood for -a moment as in a duel, the man sealing his lips by force, considering, -with a generosity that cost him much, that to speak now would make the -position intolerable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> for her, and that any formal declaration of his -sentiments (which she must know so well before he uttered them!) must be -reserved for the very end of the family intercourse in which they had -been living; while the woman, who had been far too much interested on -her own account ever to discover his meaning fully, doubted still, and -guarding herself against a mistake of vanity, had to guard her own -secret, which she would not have him divine. They looked at each other -thus for a breathless moment; then he spoke.</p> - -<p>“I can talk to you whenever I please? but not now; before—if ever—we -part.”</p> - -<p>What did that mean? “Before—if ever.” Her heart beat so loudly that she -seemed unable to do anything but keep it down, and yet she asked herself -wistfully what was the meaning of it. She was tantalized and aggravated -beyond words. “That will soon be,” she said with a little mocking laugh, -and turning, walked away towards the river. He followed her quite silent -and cast down, for he thought this laugh meant the very worst. And when -they got back to the inn Lydia disappeared, and save in his mother’s -presence saw him no more that day. Lady Brotherton saw no difference for -her part. She tried to throw them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> together benevolently. “You must try -and make the best of it,” she said. “I must go back to your father, -Lionel. Take Lydia somewhere, show her the town. You are cousins, you -need not stand upon ceremony, you don’t want a chaperon.”</p> - -<p>“I am so sorry, Lady Brotherton,” said Liddy with an innocent air, “but -I must go and write letters. We have been moving about so much lately. I -have not written half so often as usual to my mother. I thought I’d take -this afternoon for it.”</p> - -<p>“That is a pity,” said Lady Brotherton, “I am sure she will excuse you, -my dear; you will be with her so soon! and Lionel will be quite lonely; -you might give him this afternoon. Your mother will have you in a week, -you know.”</p> - -<p>Poor wicked Liddy! what a pang it gave her! and a still greater pang to -think that it should be a pang. She looked at Lady Brotherton with -sorrowful, half reproachful eyes, into which, much against her will, the -tears came—but fortunately kept suspended there, making her eyes big -and liquid, not falling. “I know,” she said, trying hard to suppress a -sigh; “but I must write all the same.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t think of me,” said Lionel. “I shall<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> play a game at billiards—or -something.” Lady Brotherton paused to launch a <i>mot</i> at the absurdity of -coming to Italy to play billiards before she went to Sir John, and in -that interval Lydia disappeared, and except at dinner, when his mother -was present, the two did not meet again that day.</p> - -<p>Sir John was a little better next morning, and declared himself able to -go the little way there was to Leghorn, where he would rest another -night before taking the steamer. “And there’sh old Bonamy,” he said, -“old friend’sh, never forshake old friend’sh. Bonamy, Vicesh-Conshull, -famous old fellow.” He was delighted at the idea, though Lady Brotherton -shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, yes, he is very nice,” she said, “not old, -quite a handsome man; but all these Consular people, they are—you know -what they are—However Mr. Bonamy is quite superior. Another night in -Italy, Liddy, though it is only a mercantile place and not interesting. -Let us hope there will be a moon.”</p> - -<p>But Lydia did not wish for a moon. She had got into a state of feverish -indifference. It was so nearly over now, that she wished it over -altogether. What was the good of a few more hours? She would have run -away, had she been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> able, to get out of it all, to forget Italy if that -were possible, and all these five months of happiness. She felt angry -with Sir John and his friend, and the place they were going to, and -everything about it. A moon? what did she want with a moon? she would -have liked to pluck it out of that blue, blue intolerable sky that never -changed. It was all Liddy could do to keep herself from making a cross -reply.</p> - -<p>They got to Leghorn early that Sir John might not be exposed to the heat -of the day; and the aspect of that place did not tend to soften Lydia’s -feelings; a town with shipping and docks and counting-houses; she -declared to herself that it was like any town in England, not like Italy -at all. Sir John, who was fond of novelty, had his card sent at once to -the Vice-Consul, with a request that Mr. Bonamy would go and see an old -friend who was not well enough to visit him; and the old man grew quite -brisk on the strength of something new, and sat up in a chair and -declared himself quite well. He looked so comfortable that Lady -Brotherton was very sorry that she had settled to stay another evening. -“When we have quite made up our minds to it, it seems a pity,” she said, -“to lose a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> day.” How tranquilly she spoke! while the two young people -listening to her, and too languid or too nervous to take any part in the -discussion, felt a secret fury burn within them. “Lose a day!” Neither -of them knew whether it was a loss or a gain, an incalculable treasure -of possibilities, or a miserable hour the more of suspense and -unhappiness. Perhaps they were both most disposed to look upon it in the -latter light; and yet they were both angry with Lady Brotherton for -talking of losing a day. There is no consistency in youth, nor was there -any reason for the nervous excitement which possessed them both. They -sat down to luncheon together, both of them devouring their hearts, and -quite indisposed for other fare.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Bonamy knows our English ways. I should not be surprised,” said -Lady Brotherton, “if he came to lunch.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, knowshur English ways, English himself,” said Sir John, -“knowsh what’sh what. Shure to come in to lunch.”</p> - -<p>And then they sat down at table. Lady Brotherton ate her bit of chicken -with all that unearthly, immeasurable calm which distinguishes elder -people, taking everything quite coolly, though with a flaming volcano on -each side of her; would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> she eat her chicken all the same, they -wondered, if they too were to explode and be carried off into the -elements? Notwithstanding their mutual opposition, they could not help -giving each other a glance of sympathy as they watched her, wondering -how she could do it. Lionel felt that he never could again believe in -those sensations which his mother had often described to him, which -affected her when he was in any trouble. Sympathy! She could not take -things so quietly if she was a woman of any sympathy at all.</p> - -<p>The meal was half over. Lydia had scattered salad over her plate to look -as if she had eaten what was set before her, and Lionel, on his side, -had practised some other artifice. Thank heaven the moment was almost -over when they must sit there together exposed to observation. When the -door opened, Lionel rose to his feet to receive his father’s old friend. -But what did Lydia care for Sir John’s old friend? it was an excuse to -push her chair away from the table. It was Sir John’s English servant -who introduced the stranger; an Italian might have made a mistake about -the name, but about this there was no mistake. Thomas came in before the -visitor with all the imperturbability of a British flunkey.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Mr. Isaac Oliver,” he said.</p> - -<p>Then Lydia too rose to her feet wondering, with a little cry of -surprise. She did not know what she thought, whether it was a messenger -from home with evil tidings, or merely a fantastic coincidence. Lionel -was greatly astonished too. He made a step forward to meet the -new-comer—and there was something in the aspect of the new-comer which -puzzled him still more, he could not tell why. Where had he seen him -before? He was certain he had seen him before.</p> - -<p>“Mr.—Isaac—Oliver?” he said.</p> - -<p>He perceived, without being aware of it till after, that at his -surprised tone the stranger turned a suspicious look upon him, and -glanced round upon the party with the manner of a man who was not -entirely at his ease.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is what I am called,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>ISAAC OLIVER.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span>ND after all, what is there in a name? That was not an original -observation in Romeo’s case, much less in that of an English resident in -Italy far on in the nineteenth century. The person who thus presented -himself in Sir John Brotherton’s rooms was tall and strong, and fair, -with the amplitude of chest and breadth of back which show a man to have -attained the very fullness of manhood, or perhaps a little more. His -hair was light brown and curly, with life and vigour in every crisp -twist of it, and in the short beard then unusual with Englishmen, and -considered “foreign” by the inexperienced. Except this beard, and -something in his dress which betrayed a continental tailor, he was -altogether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> English in his appearance, and in his voice there was -something that betrayed the North-country, or so at least two of the -company, startled by his name, supposed. Lydia who felt ashamed of -herself for her little cry of wonder, sat down in a corner behind backs, -and felt the better for the curious stir of surprise and expectation -which seemed to blow on her like a breath of fresh air: while Lionel -bestirred himself to welcome the stranger, who explained that he came on -the part of Mr. Bonamy, then occupied in public affairs, who hoped to -pay his respects to Sir John later. “I ought to introduce myself as his -son-in-law,” Mr. Oliver said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you are Rita’s husband,” said Lady Brotherton, “little Rita! -forgive me, I used to know her when she was a child. I have not realised -the idea of Rita married.”</p> - -<p>“Then you must prepare yourself for a shock,” he said pleasantly. “For -Rita has been married more than eight years.”</p> - -<p>“And there are children—of course?”</p> - -<p>“Four,” he said, with a smile of affectionate pride, “but my wife still -looks like a little girl. You will not find so much difference in her -appearance as there ought to be. I think Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> Bonamy prefers to ignore -the babies—and it’s not difficult to do so when you look at her. My -father-in-law hoped you would come and dine with us to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Sir John is—rather an invalid——”</p> - -<p>“Not a bit—not a bit!” cried the old man, speaking for himself. “Yesh, -yesh, letsh dine with Bonamy. Bonamy knowsh what’sh what.”</p> - -<p>“And we are a large party,” said Lady Brotherton deprecating.</p> - -<p>Here Lydia came behind her chair. “You must not think of me, dear Lady -Brotherton.” “I have—my letters to write.”</p> - -<p>“Still letters to write, Liddy? My dear, you must have set up a most -alarming correspondence. My young friend, Miss Joscelyn, Mr. Oliver.”</p> - -<p>The stranger made a slight movement in his chair, with a hurried breath, -and a sudden startled widening of his eyes. It was a thing which he had -often said to himself might happen any day, but years of serenity had -almost driven it from his remembrance. As it was, the start was but -momentary, and perhaps among men might have passed unnoticed. But Lady -Brotherton caught it with her keen observation; and Lydia, herself, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> -excited and curious, saw it with additional excitement, but without any -surprise.</p> - -<p>“I hope,” he said with a hesitation which did not sound unfriendly. “I -hope we may see—Miss Joscelyn, too.”</p> - -<p>“I shall certainly bring her if you think you can really have us. How -kind to think of it!” Lady Brotherton said. “But the Bonamys were always -kind. I remember your wife’s mother, Mr. Oliver. She was the prettiest -creature——”</p> - -<p>“I flatter myself you will think the same of her daughter,” he said, -with a smile (“But if he thinks so much of his wife what business had he -to stare so much at Liddy?” Lady Brotherton said after. “Liddy is a very -pretty girl, and of course with young men one knows what one must -expect—but a man with a family of children! I don’t think I quite like -it.”). He spoke to the elder lady, but his eyes were on the younger—not -so much admiringly as curiously, anxiously. Was it? could it be? A sort -of brotherly impulse came over him. “I think I must have met—some of -Miss Joscelyn’s family—from the Fell-country?—from the North of -England?” he said, a rush of colour coming to his face.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Lydia, paling as he reddened,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> “none of my family were ever -abroad except one. Oh, I wonder if you can have met my brother. I am -looking for him. I came to look for him. Harry Joscelyn? We have people -of your name,” she added hastily, “in our village too.”</p> - -<p>“I come from—Lancashire,” he said, with a sort of hurried abandonment -of the subject. Lionel Brotherton had begun to stare at him too. He felt -himself in an atmosphere charged with electricity of some sort, and -thought with alarm, that some one or other of this dangerous party might -put a moral pistol to his head and accuse him at any moment of his false -name. He returned to the subject of his wife and family, which was safer -in every way. “You know that Mr. Bonamy will not let his daughter go to -England,” he said, “because it was fatal to her mother. It is her great -grievance; by dint of being debarred from it there is nothing she wants -so much to do.”</p> - -<p>“And you—have you nothing to say? Is she so delicate?” Lady Brotherton -asked.</p> - -<p>“Not delicate at all, thank heaven! I have a great deal to say; but I -agree. I came under a solemn promise before I was allowed to marry<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> her, -and then I have no wish to take her to England—England—” he said, with -a little sternness, “has no particular attraction to me. All the -happiness of my life is here.”</p> - -<p>“But that is a hard thing to say of your home, Mr. Oliver.”</p> - -<p>“My home—is here,” he said. What did that girl mean by watching him so? -He felt that he was talking vindictively at her, though all that he -desired was to ignore her, and escape the scrutiny of her eyes, which -made him angry and alarmed, both together. All this time Sir John had -been breaking in at intervals, expressing with a great many sibillations -his pleasure in the prospect of dining with “Old Bonamy.”</p> - -<p>“Old Bonamysh sh’a very old friend; alwaysh liked him, and hish father -before him,” the old man cried. “N’ash for bein’ able to dine out, never -wash better, never wash better.” This came in at intervals as a kind of -chorus, while Lady Brotherton kept up the central strain of friendly -commonplace, as unconscious of Lydia’s eager eyes over her shoulder, as -of the vague, alarmed curiosity and anxiety that had roused the girl out -of herself.</p> - -<p>“It was startling to hear his name,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> Lionel, when after awhile, as -quickly as politeness permitted, the visitor took his leave.</p> - -<p>“What was there peculiar about his name? Oliver! it is not a bad name,” -Lady Brotherton said.</p> - -<p>“It is not the Oliver, but the Isaac Oliver. Lydia was startled too. It -is a name we know very well in the Fell-country,” Lionel said. He was -able to treat the subject more lightly than Liddy, on whom, in her -excitement, this new and sudden fire had caught at once. He told his -mother all about Isaac Oliver, with details that quite satisfied her as -to the origin of the stranger’s startled looks and apparent excitement -when he heard Liddy’s name.</p> - -<p>“That’s it, you may be sure,” she said; “he is ashamed of his people. He -is a son or a nephew or something of your old man, and he doesn’t want -it to be known; very natural. He must have kept it a secret from Mr. -Bonamy—who never would have let Rita marry him if he had known. Well, I -am almost glad it is that, and nothing worse. I thought you had made an -impression upon him, Liddy, my dear. I thought his eyes would have leapt -out of his head when he saw you. Of course, I saw in a moment there was -something;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> but this explains it. Dear, dear, what a sad thing for the -Bonamys if it ever comes to be known! You must take the greatest care, -both of you, not to betray him. Now, remember—not a word,” Lady -Brotherton said, making as though she would have put her soft, plump, -white hand first on one mouth and then on another. Nevertheless, when -Mr. Bonamy himself came in later, she could not help telling him that -“my young people” knew, they supposed, some of Mr. Oliver’s friends. But -Lady Brotherton was very sorry when she saw with how much interest a -statement which she thought too vague to do any harm was received.</p> - -<p>“My dear lady,” the Vice-Consul cried, “they know more than I do if they -know his friends. He is the best fellow in the world and the best son, -and the most excellent husband that ever was; but I fear the world in -general would think me very imprudent. I know nothing about his family, -except that he quarrelled with them, and made a vow never to return till -he had made his fortune. Well, I don’t know where he will do that—not -in the service of H.B.M. He has settled down here with me, and we are -all very comfortable, and it was no small comfort to me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> to find an -English husband for Rita who would not insist upon taking her to -England. It was all settled,” said Mr. Bonamy, “when I was so ill. I -believed I was going to die, and so did everybody else; and to provide -for my Rita was all I thought of. Well, I have nothing to regret. He -makes her an excellent husband, and she is as happy as the day is long; -and I don’t know what I should do without him. Still I allow it was -rash, for I know nothing about his friends.”</p> - -<p>“When a man has proved himself to be all that,” said Lady Brotherton, in -alarm, “it does not matter much about his family.”</p> - -<p>“Well, no—perhaps not,” said the Vice-Consul, doubtfully. “But I have -always taken it for granted they were people of some importance,” he -added, elevating his head. “He speaks like a man with good blood in his -veins; he has all the prejudices of a man of some family. I don’t think -I can be mistaken in that; but I have never had the least clue to who -they were. I should be quite glad to hear something about them from your -young people.”</p> - -<p>“Unfortunately,” cried Lady Brotherton, “they are both out; and then it -was a mere conjecture,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> you know. Excuse me a moment, and I will ask the -servant if he knows whether my son or Miss Joscelyn have come in——” -And she hurried to the door to tell Thomas, who was waiting in the -passage, to tell Miss Joscelyn and Mr. Brotherton, if they should make -their appearance, that she was very much engaged, and begged they would -<i>not</i> come in. “Remember, <i>not</i> come in,” she whispered, earnestly. -Alarm had seized upon her. She had laughed at Lionel’s description of -old Isaac Oliver—but, good heavens! to be the means of introducing such -a very undesirable relation to the knowledge of the Bonamys! She was -almost too much frightened to be able to face the Vice-Consul again; but -it had to be done. She found him pondering when she went back. Sir John -was lying down to rest, so that they were alone; and poor Lady -Brotherton’s punishment for her indiscretion was not yet over.</p> - -<p>“Did you say Miss Joscelyn?” he asked, “then I am sure it must be the -same, for my son-in-law has Joscelyn in his name. He does not use it in -an ordinary way, but on grand occasions; indeed I did not know it till I -saw his signature at his marriage, and he has never liked to be -questioned about it. Perhaps he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> may turn out to be a relation, a -connection of your young friend.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t think that is at all likely,” cried Lady Brotherton -hastily, “her mother is a cousin of Sir John’s—” then she faltered and -coloured, seeing the inference to be drawn from her words. “I do not -mean that Mr. Oliver’s family is not—everything that is desirable,” she -said.</p> - -<p>The Vice-Consul looked up for a moment startled; but then he bethought -himself of Lady Brotherton’s “way.” Her way he said to himself was well -known. She was fond of connecting things that had no connection, and -scorning those that had. So he answered without offence, “I did not -suppose for a moment that you meant anything of the kind, Lady -Brotherton; you will like him when you know him. He is as good a fellow -as ever stepped; not very much educated—but so few of your young -English squireocracy are.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so, Mr. Bonamy?” her mind glanced straight of course to -Lionel, and she felt a little offence as well as a disdainful pity for -so foolish an opinion, and the grounds upon which it must have been -formed.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I think so; they come here knowing no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> language but their own, -without a notion what they have come for, or what they want, trying to -get up cricket matches and yawning in the face of all that makes Italy -desirable. If they want cricket they should stay in England, where they -would get it at its best. Yes, it must be allowed we see a great many -ignorant young fellows—who are thorough gentlemen all the same——”</p> - -<p>“I am glad you allow that,” said Lady Brotherton, a little piqued. She -was rather fond herself of finding fault with her country folks, but she -did not like it in other people; and the Vice-Consul went away with his -mind in a considerable ferment, wondering if now he was about to -penetrate the mystery of his son-in-law’s antecedents. The idea that he -knew nothing about them had given him a prick now and then through all -these years; but Harry had never betrayed himself. He had not done so, -for the good reason that all his young life had disappeared from him -like a mist, and that honestly he never thought of it, or felt tempted -to make any reference to it. His marriage had taken place while the -Vice-Consul was still in a weak state of health, for the results of his -illness had lasted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> long, though the seizure itself was over: and in all -those happy quiet years Harry’s heart had been so full and his mind had -been so occupied that he had scarcely thought of the possibility of -being called upon some day to roll away the stone from the grave of the -past. And a sort of honourable hesitation had moved the Vice-Consul; he -had accepted the stranger as he was; ought he to enter into discussion -of his rights and wrongs now, and perhaps be compelled to condemn him, -though he was so good? Now, however there seemed a prospect of a -clearing up. “I should like to know who he is; before I die, I should -like to know the rights of it,” Mr. Bonamy said to himself.</p> - -<p>“I was so glad you were not here, my dear,” Lady Brotherton said to -Lydia. “It appears that this Mr. Oliver has said nothing to the Bonamys -about his family. He has allowed it to be supposed that they were people -of importance. How they could be so foolish as to let Rita marry him -without knowing all about him I can’t imagine; but that is just what has -been done. Now, my love, I want to warn you; be on your guard. Be on -your guard, Lionel. It was very wrong of the young man to do it, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> -it’s no business of ours; and they’re married now, and can’t be -separated, you know; and Mr. Bonamy has not a word but praise to say of -him. Be on your guard; I have no right to speak; I as nearly as possible -let it out myself. I said my young people thought they knew Mr. Oliver’s -family; but afterwards I assured him that this was mere conjecture, and -that I didn’t think there was anything in it. So, my dears, both of you -be on your guard.”</p> - -<p>“I shall not betray him, mother; but all the same it is a shabby -business. The fellow must be a cad to do it,” Lionel said.</p> - -<p>Lydia looked up at him with hot, sudden displeasure, she could not tell -why. What had she to do with Isaac Oliver? But she was excited by the -appearance of this stranger who bore such a familiar name, and she felt -angry that he should be called a “cad.” She was in so strange a -condition, so feverish, and restless, and impatient, that to be angry -for some real cause was a luxury to her. She did not, for her part, give -any pledge or make any reply, but seated herself in the carriage with a -forlorn and partly fictitious feeling that this man, whom she had never -(she thought) seen before, and knew nothing about,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> would be more near -to her, if he were one of the Olivers, than these people with whom she -had been so familiar, who had been her friends, and more than her -friends, but who were about to drop her (she said to herself) next week, -as if she had never belonged to them at all. They were all reminding her -of this parting, keeping it before her, she thought, even old Sir -John—without any sympathy for her, or regret to leave her, or -perception of what the parting would be to her. Anybody from her own -country, within her own circle of being, would be more to her, she said -within herself, would understand her better, would feel more for her, -than the friends who had been so kind, but who did not care.</p> - -<p>But the visit of the travelling party was contemplated with very much -stronger feelings by the one of all concerned, who alone knew all about -it, and understood the full importance of the meeting. Harry had been -unable to keep himself from one startled look when he heard his sister’s -name. “Liddy” first, which of itself roused him a little—he had not -heard the north-country sound of that familiar name since he left the -north country—and then Joscelyn. Who could she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> be? Could there be any -Liddy Joscelyn but one? It was his mother’s name, and his little -sister’s, whom he remembered with that tender partiality with which -elder brothers and sisters think of the little one who is the pet of the -family. Liddy had not been old enough to have come to the bar of -fraternal judgment when he had left the White House. She was still a -child, and he had been fond of her. They had all been fond of her. She -had been the pet, sacred from the animadversion even of Tom and Will, -who, being married, and separated from their home, were in some measure -freed from the family prejudices. But Harry was not freed. He had been -angry with all his belongings for all these years, but as soon as he -heard her name his heart grew soft to little Liddy. Liddy Joscelyn! He -went away from the inn full of excitement, saying over and over to -himself those familiar, soft-sounding syllables, Liddy Joscelyn, Liddy -Joscelyn. Could it really be that this pretty young woman, who had -looked at him over Lady Brotherton’s shoulder, with such earnest eyes, -was his little sister? For a long time he could think of nothing else -but this, and took a long walk in an entirely different direction from -the office to fami<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span>liarize himself with the idea, and to get his -excitement calmed down.</p> - -<p>But the more he thought, the less he could manage to get his excitement -calmed down. It might be supposed that he would have thought first of -all of the danger of being discovered, and the likelihood that something -might arise which would betray him to his sister. But this was only his -second impulse. The first was instinctive, a sudden surging up of family -affection, a leap of his heart into old prejudices and tendernesses; and -it was only when he had exhausted this that he thought of the risk that -he would inevitably run when Liddy found herself brought into contact -with a man bearing so marked a name as that of Isaac Oliver. He laughed -within himself, half bitterly, half with a sort of amusement at the -sudden image which her little cry of surprise and startled look brought -before him as well as before herself—Old Isaac Oliver! He remembered -every line of him, all in a moment, his stooping, his shuffling, his -desire to give good advice, his fear of his Missis, and almost laughed -out at the strange connection he had himself formed between this grey -old figure and himself. Why had he been so absurd<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> as to choose such a -marked name? But the idea that anybody could suppose him, Harry -Joscelyn, to have anything to do with that old peasant, amused him more -than all the rest. He could scarcely keep himself from shouts of -laughter. He! The notion was too incongruous to be considered with -gravity. It was an offence to him at the same time, but most of all it -was ludicrous. And these people were coming to his house to-night, to -dine at his table, to ask him questions, to make their remarks, to speak -of old Isaac, and, perhaps, put it into the heads of his wife and her -father that this was the kind of relation whom he had left behind him in -England. The Bonamys had received him so generously, accepted his own -explanations so easily, given him the best evidence of their perfect -confidence and trust, and, if now they heard this fine story of the old -north-country clown, what would they think of him? The more Harry -thought of it the more he was confused and bewildered. Liddy had looked -at him with a very penetrating, anxious look over Lady Brotherton’s -shoulder. What was she so curious about? How could she know? And his -wife and she would meet, would talk together, would perhaps come to -confidences.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> He was not able to face the position. He was older and -more experienced in many ways, but he was not experienced in such -complications of circumstances. His head turned round and round. What -was he to do?</p> - -<p>The only thing he did was a curious token of the utter helplessness he -felt. When he got to the office he called Paolo, who was still a -faithful prop of the Consulate, and asked him to dinner to meet some -English friends. He waited even till Paolo made his elaborate evening -toilette, and walked home with him arm in arm, clinging to him as a sort -of protection. There could not be a more clear confession of the state -of impotence in which he felt himself. It was like one of his early -difficulties long ago, in which Paolo was his only friend.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>THE BRITISH CONSULATE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE Vice-Consul’s family still lived in the same house, with more -frequent use than before of the succursale of the Villa, where the -children spent so much of their time. Naturally, however, it was a -changed house, brighter and happier in one sense, in another—perhaps -not all that it had been. Perhaps Mr. Bonamy had found a more delicate -and complete happiness in it when he and his little daughter lived there -alone, in perfect companionship, he sharing every thought with his -child, and finding an entire and sweet compensation for all the troubles -of his life in that perfect union and sympathy. It was true that, as he -was aware now, he had known very little of Rita all that happy time: but -while it lasted he did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> know this, and thought that he had -everything. It is the lot of fathers and mothers. When this last -exquisite dream of his life failed him, and his Rita went over to that -amiable, well-disposed, and kind young enemy, who had conquered and -supplanted her father, Mr. Bonamy had, it is needless to say, a certain -struggle with himself. But the circumstances helped him to a large -degree. He was ill, expecting to die, and glad to think that whatever -happened to him he had secured a companion, a support for her. When, -however, death dropped into the background, and he had to begin again, -and to reconcile himself to a third person in his house, at his table, -and in all the most intimate relations of his life, the Vice-Consul had -found it hard; and very hard it was to see his Rita turn to this other -man as a flower turns to the sun, with all the clinging and dependence -she had once shown to her father, and with a constant reference to and -consultation of his wishes. It was quite right that it should be so, oh, -perfectly right! and she was happy, as happy as a young woman could -be—but it jarred upon the man who was left out in the cold, and who had -to share, nay to give up the best of, this love which had been the -recompense of his life, to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> stranger. It is the lot of the fathers and -mothers; when they make any difficulty about consenting to it, we call -them hard names; but yet once in a way it may be allowed, that it is a -bitter thing to do. Mr. Bonamy on the whole had done it with a very good -grace. He was, more or less, grateful to the interloper that his house -was not left to him desolate: and he swallowed Harry with as few -grimaces as possible, making in private those which he could not -altogether suppress. On the whole no man could have occupied so -invidious a position more genially, more inofficiously than Harry did. -He was grateful and attached to his father-in-law, and he had a profound -respect for him and his judgment, to which unfortunately Mr. Bonamy did -not make much response. The Vice-Consul indeed had that half-painful, -half-amused sense of being a better man than his son-in-law, which at -once increases the pang of such a rivalry and makes it ludicrous. -“Having known me to decline on a range of lower feelings, and a narrower -heart than mine.” When a father utters in the depths of his own heart -such a sentiment as this, it may be somewhat bitterly, but it must be -with a sense that it is utterly ludicrous. Mr. Bonamy felt all through -like the disappointed lover in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> the poem “Thou shalt lower to his level -day by day;” for indeed Rita herself, when she became Mrs. Harry, soon -came to have far less interest in matters above Harry’s level, than she -had felt when it was her father’s level by which her eager young being -was founded. Then she had been his leader sometimes, his little oracle, -with a fineness of perception that filled him with wonder and -admiration; now she avoided those fine questions and speculations in -which her husband did not share. He was faultless, Mr. Bonamy was just -enough to allow; he was not exacting, he would still look on with honest -admiring looks when they went beyond his knowledge, and smile and listen -to discussions in which he could not take any share. But what Harry did -not feel for himself, Rita felt for him. She would not go beyond him. -She limited her own impulsive eager steps, which had been so ready for -every path of fancy in order to keep upon the beaten ground by his side. -Perhaps it gave her a little prick of pain too to leave her father -alone, to curb all her natural impulses, to keep to that steady solid -pace which suited Harry; and she did it knowing that her father felt it -was a decline. But nevertheless her delicate instinctive unspoken -loyalty to her husband carried<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> her through. She was “falsely true” as -much as Lancelot though in so different a way, belying herself, for -Harry’s sake, who did not want such a sacrifice; but Rita felt it to be -his due. There, as in all cases where there is a divided duty, the -happiness which they possessed was purchased by a little inevitable -pain, it was no longer unalloyed. The interloper, the breaker up of that -previous blessedness, was the one who felt least drawback in it. For one -thing he was naturally very modest and humble about himself, and it did -not at all hurt him to acknowledge himself less clever than his wife and -father-in-law. He would not have objected had they gone on talking over -his head. His taste was less fine, and his perceptions much less acute -than Rita’s. And he got the advantage of that <i>finesse</i> of thought and -feeling, that delicacy which was so much greater than anything he was -capable of, really without knowing it, or being at all aware of the -sacrifice she made.</p> - -<p>Then the children, though they were a new bond, and a great pleasure to -Mr. Bonamy (being good and healthy and smiling children, making the best -of themselves, and looking merry and pretty, as children ought to do), -gave a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> wound also to his fantastical delicacy (for it was of -course fantastical) about his daughter, whom he did not like to think of -as involved in all the functions of motherhood. But the Vice-Consul, -though perhaps not a very wise man by the head, was wise by the heart, -and he would not do or say anything to throw the least cloud upon his -child’s happiness; he accepted everything, allowing to himself that he -was fantastical; and their home was pointed out to everybody as the -emblem of a united house, full of love and mutual consideration, and the -closest affection—which it was, though not the same home as of old.</p> - -<p>On this particular day Rita was somewhat excited by the prospect of a -visit from the Brothertons. Lady Brotherton had been one of the objects -of her girlish devotion—that devotion which so often flows forth to an -older woman before it turns to a lover. She had admired the beautiful -lady as only a girl can admire, and had copied her in many a little -matter, and still believed in her with all the delightful prejudice -which clings to the friends of our youth. She was eager to show -everything—her husband, her babies, her own maturity of life—to her -old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> authority, and see how they looked through Lady Brotherton’s eyes. -When she saw her husband before dinner she was full of this pleasant -excitement.</p> - -<p>“What a pity, what a pity that Ralph and Vanna are at the Villa” (Harry -in his perversity had given his father’s name to his eldest boy, though -he was of opinion that he hated his father), Rita cried, “I should have -liked her to see them; but there is always Madge and baby. I wonder if -she will think Madge like you, Harry. I wonder if she will think baby a -beauty. English children are so big and red in the face; she may think -ours pale; though I am sure they are quite strong. I wonder how she will -think papa is looking. I wonder if she will approve of——”</p> - -<p>“Me?” said Harry, with a somewhat uneasy smile; “she will think me not -half good enough for you, and there I agree with her, so we shan’t -quarrel on that subject. But listen, dear, there is some one with her, -whom I want you to be a little on your guard with; a—a girl—a Miss -Joscelyn——”</p> - -<p>Rita looked up suddenly, with a keen light in her dark eyes. She had -Italian blood in her, to which jealousy was quite possible. She looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> -up startled, ready to take fire; but Harry went on tying his neck-tie, -not so much as conscious, in his honest simplicity, that such a -sentiment as jealousy could enter into the possibilities.</p> - -<p>“I have a kind of idea,” he said, “that she must belong to people—I -used to know. I may be mistaken, but still I have a notion she does. So -don’t say anything, darling; don’t let her enter upon the subject.”</p> - -<p>“What subject?” said Rita, breathless. “Do you mean that you knew -the—lady—in those old times that I know nothing about?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell,” said Harry; “if I knew her, it was as a child. But, -Rita, you are always generous; you never have bothered me with -questions. Don’t say anything to her, or to any of them, if they should -question you—about me.”</p> - -<p>“About you!” Rita’s mind was partially relieved, but it was not in human -nature to receive, without some retort, this curious commission. “What -can I say about you? I know nothing,” she said, with a little -bitterness. Then, as he turned and looked at her with unfeigned -astonishment, “Oh, no, no, I do not mean that! I know everything, dear -Harry, I know you; but nothing before you came here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“That is true,” he said, thoughtfully. “I wonder if I ever shall be able -to tell you—all about it?” The sight of Liddy and the sound of her name -had worked upon him more than he had thought anything could.</p> - -<p>“Do! do!” cried Rita, all eagerness, clasping his arm with both her -hands.</p> - -<p>He had never said so much to her before, and she, in fastidious -delicacy, had not asked. He laughed now, but still with anxiety in his -face.</p> - -<p>“At present I must get ready for dinner,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Ah! it is always like this,” cried Rita; “when you are in a humour to -tell me, something happens, dinner, or something equally unimportant!” -which was more like one of her early girlish outbursts than the matronly -composure by which she liked to think herself distinguished now.</p> - -<p>But at this moment her maid came to tell her that the carriage of the -English Signori, who were coming to dinner, had just driven into the -courtyard, and Rita had to give her skirts a last settling, and to hurry -to the drawing-room. And Harry had failed in his tie; he had to take a -new one, feeling his hands tremble a little.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> His mind was in a great -ferment. Some months before he had seen the advertisement for Harry -Joscelyn, or a certificate of his death, in the <i>Times</i>, where he was -described as “supposed to have emigrated,” and this of itself had roused -no small commotion in him. He was to hear of “something to his -advantage.” Harry could not tell what that might be, and if for a moment -now and then the temptation came over him to answer the appeal and -understand the cause of it, it yielded immediately, not only to the old -resentment, but to the new sense of alarm and apprehension with which -the idea of breaking up his present life, and disclosing to those who -knew him under one name another identity, filled his spirit. It appeared -to him that, if he gave up his present standing ground by revealing -another, his whole life, so happy, so sweet, so full of natural duty, -work, and recompense, would break up and disappear from him. As Isaac -Oliver he was at the head of the Consular business, known and named in -all its affairs. As Isaac Oliver he was the husband of his wife. All the -town knew him under that name, his children bore it. It had become -almost dear to him, the name which he had picked up in bitter ridicule, -and adopted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> with a perverse laugh, as he might have stuck a feather in -his hat. The sound was familiar now to his ears, he liked it. It was -Rita’s name. She called him Harry, as the name of his childhood, which -he preferred, and he had been led to admit that the “Harry Joscelyn -Isaac Oliver,” with which, for precaution sake, he had signed the -register on his marriage, was his full baptismal name. He signed it now -H. J. Isaac Oliver, and she was Mrs. Isaac Oliver. He liked it, and had -a certain pride in it, as a name that was honest and without stain, and -which should never suffer in his hands; and if he cut himself off from -it, what would become of him? his identity would be gone. But the -appearance of Liddy had made a very great impression on him. When she -rose up suddenly, with a little start and cry, at the sound of his name, -he had seen in a moment, in imagination, the real Isaac Oliver, -shuffling like a crab along the North-country road, and a sense of the -incongruity had struck him painfully, bringing a sensation of sudden -shame and discomfiture; but in general he was not ashamed of the name to -which he had grown familiar, and he felt as if, resuming the other, his -pleasant life would all break<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> up and disappear, and he would become -another man.</p> - -<p>Rita met the strangers with less composure than she would have done but -for that two minutes’ talk. Even when she threw herself into Lady -Brotherton’s arms, in the fervour of feeling which her Italian blood -made a little more apparent than it would have been had she been all -English, she cast an eye upon Lady Brotherton’s companion. Lydia was not -looking her best in the confused and painful fever of suspense and -expectancy which was upon her; but she looked younger than her real age, -and almost childlike in her slightness and slimness beside the matronly -form of Lady Brotherton. Even Rita, though still light and small, was -rounder and fuller than of old, but Liddy looked eighteen though she was -twenty-two, and there could be no doubt that if Harry had seen her -before it must have been as a child. This somewhat composed the fanciful -bosom of Harry’s wife. Liddy when she had made her curtsey to Mrs. -Oliver, sat down behind backs, with a timidity which had come suddenly -back to her, isolating herself as far as might be, especially from -Lionel, whom she had avoided ever since<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> their recent conversation. -Harry had not yet come into the room, and she felt herself altogether in -a strange place. Perhaps it was this that brought Paolo to her side; the -little Italian thought her probably, a neglected <i>demoiselle de -compagnie</i> whom nobody particularly cared to notice, and this was enough -to bring him instantly to the rescue. “Miss Joscelyn is a stranger in -Italy?” he said with an engaging and conciliatory smile. He spoke a -great deal better English than when Harry had made acquaintance with -him, and dressed with less <i>abandon</i> and devotion to the beautiful; but -he was still a “funny little man,” in the eyes of the English girl; his -kindness however could not be mistaken.</p> - -<p>“Scarcely,” she said, “I have been in Italy all the winter; and now we -are going home.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you are going ’ome, that always pleases; but I hope Mees Jos—lyn -will retain a little memory that is pleasant of Italy too.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I have liked it so much,” said Liddy. She was disturbed at this -moment by Harry’s entrance; and it occurred to her now for the first -time as it had done to Lionel when he first saw him, that she had seen -somebody very like him—who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> was it that was so like him? She paused in -what she was saying to interpose this wondering question in her own -mind.</p> - -<p>“That is Mr. Oliver,” said Paolo, “you have seen him before? He is what -we call <i>beluomo</i>, fine man, very fine man; he is my great friend; I was -the first to meet him when he stepped upon this shore; we have been -friends of the heart always since that day.”</p> - -<p>Lydia cast an involuntary look from the little man in front of her, in -his elaborate dress, to the big person of the Englishman. She could not -help thinking they would make a strange pair. And Paolo, with the -quickness of lightning, divined her meaning.</p> - -<p>“You think he is so tall, and I—little? Nevare mind,” said the good -little fellow, “we are of the same tallness in the heart. Nay, even me, -I am a little the tallest there,” he added, laughing, “for I have -nobody, and the good Oliver, he has his wife and little children, and -many to love. He is my devotion,” added the Italian, warmly. “I have -never had a friend before him. I am English too—though perhaps Mees -Jos-lyn would not know it.”</p> - -<p>“Are you indeed? I beg your pardon,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> Lydia, “I thought you were an -Italian. Mr. Oliver is very English. Do you know where—he comes from? -and is it long since he came here?”</p> - -<p>“That no one can tell you so well as I,” said Paolo, delighted with the -subject. “It was in—Ah, how well I remembare! I was upon the quay to -watch for the great <i>vapore</i>—the steamboat I should say—and ecco! in -one of those little boats that brought the travellers, this tall, big, -beautiful young man. I step forward. I offer my help, for he could not -speak a word, not one word. But no! he had a distrust of the foreigner. -Mees Jos-lyn has perhaps remarked? It is the great fault of the English; -they have always a distrust of the foreigners. He would not listen, nor -permit himself to be assisted; but caught up his portmanteau and walked -along. Wonderful! I stood and looked. Che bell’uomo! they all cried. I, -I did not take any time to think—I am English, but I am Italian as -well; from that moment I loved him, though he had a distrust of me. When -I entered <i>table-d’hôte</i> at the hotel where I always dined, there was he -again; and then we became friends. We have quarrelled, oh<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> yes, we have -quarrelled—a hundred thousand times,” cried Paolo, “but we are always -friends again. Mees Jos-lyn will pardon that I tell such a long tale. It -is ten years.”</p> - -<p>“What are you saying to Miss Joscelyn, Paul-o, about ten years?”</p> - -<p>“I am telling, amico, how we became friends,” said Paolo, stretching -himself to his full height by Harry’s side, raising himself on tip-toe. -The other looked down on him with a kindness that was not without a -touch of contempt. Harry was very faithful to Paolo, and proud of him in -his way; but the almost feminine demonstrative affection of the little -Italian was always a thing of which he was half ashamed.</p> - -<p>“Is it ten years?” he said. “But you might find some better subject to -entertain Miss Joscelyn about.”</p> - -<p>“I asked him,” said Lydia. She looked at this stranger with very -anxious, suspicious eyes. He was a stranger of course. She had seen him -for the first time to-day. Still his name was one she knew; his face was -one she knew; his very voice sounded familiar. A curious confusion and -suspicion came over her. Strangely enough it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> never once occurred to her -to think of her brother.</p> - -<p>“Let me take you to dinner,” he said.</p> - -<p>Could anything be more commonplace? The Vice-Consul went before them -with Lady Brotherton, Sir John hobbled after them with Rita. On either -side there were a few words being said. Lady Brotherton on the one hand -pouring praises of Rita’s developed beauty into her father’s pleased -ears, while old Sir John spluttered forth his remarks on the other. -“Fathers’sh an evergreen, my dear. Look’sh ashyoung ash’ever he did. -Bloomin’, bloomin’, like yourshelf.” Between these two, feeling a little -tremor in the arm she touched lightly with her hand. Lydia walked with -her silent companion. He did not say a word, and neither did she. But -her heart began to beat: there seemed something strange and exciting in -the air. She felt suspicious of him as if he had been a criminal; why -did he not speak? It was scarcely any better at dinner. There was a -great deal of talk at table, and much liveliness, but in this he took -little share. When Lydia looked away to the other end of the table, or -talked to anyone else, she invariably found his eye upon her when she -returned to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> herself; but he said nothing except in answer to what was -said to him; either he was a very stupid man, or—something else. She -became so impatient at last that she turned to him boldly, provoked by -his silence.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Oliver,” she said, “I know some one of your name in the -North-country.”</p> - -<p>He seemed to perceive with an effort that she was actually addressing -himself; but turned to her quickly, as if prepared for the attack.</p> - -<p>“My name is not a very uncommon name,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oliver is not; but Isaac Oliver is surely very uncommon—it made me -stare when I heard it. I thought you must be a messenger from home.” -Lydia felt herself grow important in her excitement. “Our Isaac Oliver -is a very well-known person. Cousin Lionel, you know him too!”</p> - -<p>It was a most unjustifiable attack; and to compromise Lionel too! Lady -Brotherton stopped short in the midst of something she was saying, in -her dismay at this contradiction of all her instructions, and this -called the attention of the whole table to what Lydia was saying. There -was a general pause in which every word was distinctly audible.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Everybody knows him,” said Liddy, “in our countryside.”</p> - -<p>And then they all looked at Harry, upon whose countenance there came a -slight shade of colour.</p> - -<p>“Is it so?” he said; “but he is no relation of mine.”</p> - -<p>“How can you tell,” the audacious girl went on, “when you do not even -know what countryside I mean?”</p> - -<p>“Harry,” said Rita, leaning across the table, “what is Miss Joscelyn -saying to you? You have forgotten your favourite dish, which was made -expressly for you. Look, there is Antonio waiting, and cannot make you -understand.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Harry, with a hurried glance round him; and -then Antonio, though he did not know a word of English, understood like -a true Italian that he was wanted to relieve an embarrassment, and -gallantly stepped into the breach with his dish. Lydia, arrested in the -midst of her assault, felt herself driven back upon herself, and -confused as if she had received a soft, unexpected blow.</p> - -<p>“Harry,” she said, in a low tone, “Harry—I thought your name was Isaac -Oliver. I beg your pardon, I fear I have been making a mistake.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The talk had recommenced again; nobody was paying any attention, and -Harry’s head was bent over his plate; but suddenly he raised it for a -single instant, and gave her a look. What did that look mean? Lydia was -stunned by it as by a sudden electric shock. She had been confused -before, but not half so confused as now. The look was tender, -affectionate even, half-appealing, as if, she thought, there was some -secret understanding between them—something which they knew, and which -nobody else knew. She stared at him in return, arrested in all the -movements of her own mind, her lips dropping apart in her wonder, her -eyes opening wide. He was not angry nor surprised at her boldness, nor -at her attempt to force upon him an undesirable relation, but looked at -her with an almost affectionateness, an understanding which she could -not understand. Lydia was altogether confused; she did not say another -word. Sitting by this stranger’s side, she relapsed into silence like -his own. Who was he? What did he mean? How had he got the command of -her? She was giddy with the confusion in her mind, and what it all meant -she could not tell.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>AFTER DINNER.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">B</span>UT Lydia was far, very far from being out of the embarrassment which -she had brought upon herself. When the ladies went back to the -drawing-room, which they did after the English fashion, Rita took no -more notice of her than civility required, though she could not help -owning to herself that there could be no reason for displeasure with her -husband, or the least sense of jealousy on Lydia’s account; Rita however -could not help showing her adoption of Harry’s quarrel by the chilliest -civility to the girl against whom he had bidden her to be on her guard. -She would not, as some suspicious women might have done, seize the -opportunity to find out something concerning that part of his life which -was unknown<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> to her. She was too proudly honourable to do this; and she -could not help feeling a certain enmity towards the girl who might -betray him, even to herself. No, she would not hear a word Miss Joscelyn -might have to say. She lingered by her a moment coldly, and asked if she -would like to look at some books of engravings (it was before the time -of photographs), placing them before her on a little table; and then she -sat down on a sofa in a distant corner of the room with Lady Brotherton, -and talked and talked. When the gentlemen came in, Lydia was visible in -her white dress, all lighted up by the condensed light under the shade -of a large lamp, sitting quite alone, while the voices of the two others -seemed to bring her solitude into more full relief. Quite alone—nobody -taking any notice. There was room round her for all the party, and it -would have been natural that they should have collected about her, the -only girl among them, so pretty as she was, and neglected by the other -women. But the younger men were balked by the Vice-Consul, who stepped -forward briskly, and at once put himself into a chair beside her. He -talked to her, as he had a gift of talking, with delightful sympathy and -kindness. He asked her about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> her travels, how far she had gone, and -entered into all the little adventures of which she told him, telling -her stories of the days when he too had travelled, and giving her all -manner of anecdotes. The Vice-Consul was still a handsome man, as -majestic and gracious as ever; and he had a way, as everybody -acknowledged, of talking to young people. He charmed Lydia altogether. -She thought she had never met with anyone so delightful; and then he led -the conversation quite imperceptibly to England, and her part of the -country, and her family and herself.</p> - -<p>“England is a closed country to me,” he said. “To be sure I might go now -that my daughter is married, and I am no longer indispensable to her. -But I forget that. When Rita was younger, before she married, I was all -she had, as she is still all I have in the world. I hope your parents -are both living, Miss Joscelyn, and happy in their child? Ah, that is -well. Rita has never been in England, and must never be.”</p> - -<p>“Must never be?” Lydia looked across the room to the sofa on which Mrs. -Oliver was still sitting, with mingled wonder and pity. And yet, she -reflected, she herself was not so very glad to get back to England. That -was a fate which,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> under certain circumstances, might be bearable -enough.</p> - -<p>“No; I dare not risk her among the fogs and damps. She is—well, -perhaps, I ought not to say she is delicate, not now: but she was so -during all her earlier life. You see, I forget that she is not still my -little girl, but has now little girls of her own. That makes a -difference. No, she was never to go to England, that I vowed almost as -soon as she was born. The cold and the damp were fatal to her mother, -and Rita is so like her; I dare not risk my daughter there.”</p> - -<p>“But,” said Lydia, “it is not always cold and damp. It is very lovely -here, but people are prejudiced, and talk nonsense about England. If it -is so long since you were there, you have, perhaps, forgotten. We have -something else besides rain and fog.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes; I know there is an occasional fine day. You come from the -south of England probably, Miss Joscelyn, where some sort of fine -weather is to be found?”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed, I come from the north—quite the north, close to Scotland; -and we have often beautiful weather,” said Lydia, with a glow of -patriotism; “a different blue from this, and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> great deal more cloud; -but then that is what makes it so beautiful, flying over the hills, -clearing off in a moment, then dropping again like a white veil, and the -sun bursting out all in a moment like a surprise. When one comes to -think of it the variety is the charm. Here you have the same thing all -day long, and every day; but with us the skies are never the same for an -hour; and as for cold, I never feel any cold; one takes a brisk walk, -and that is all that is wanted.”</p> - -<p>“I see you enter into the spirit of the country. The north? That is -where my son-in-law comes from.” The Vice-Consul always said to himself -that he put in his tone a note of interrogation to this question; but -Lydia took it for a statement, and received it without hesitation.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose so,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I think I heard you say that you knew—relations of his? Are they -neighbours of yours? I am interested in everything about Harry.”</p> - -<p>“That puzzles me,” she said, “to hear you call him Harry. I thought he -was Isaac Oliver. I know some one of that name.”</p> - -<p>“A neighbour? It is, as you say, an uncommon name. I might have thought -of that. Yes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> quite an uncommon name. And your Mr. Oliver, Miss -Joscelyn, was——?”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Lydia, forgetting all previous cautions, with a laugh at the -unnecessary title, “he was not <i>Mr.</i> Oliver at all. He was a man -whom—he was a man—he was a——”</p> - -<p>Here she stopped all at once, bethinking herself of Lady Brotherton’s -injunction, and of the possible effect upon the young man who had looked -at her with such a strange, curious look, of this revelation. She -stopped all at once, and looked at her questioner with sudden alarm. “I -have not the least reason to think that he is a relation of Mr. -Oliver’s,” she said. “It was only an idea on my part. It was because of -the name. When I heard the name I thought it must be some one sent to -bring me home.”</p> - -<p>“It <i>is</i> a curious name. We have got used to it: we have forgotten that. -The man then is—not a gentleman? I think I may guess as much. He is -a—what? A farmer—a yeoman? The yeomen in the north country, I have -always heard, are a very fine, independent class of men.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is not a farmer, or a—— Indeed, indeed, it was the silliest -mistake on my part. Besides, it is not really the same name, even if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> -that were anything, for you call him Harry; so he cannot be Isaac -Oliver, after all.”</p> - -<p>“You must not think me too pressing, Miss Joscelyn. I have a particular -reason for wishing to know. We have never known much about his family; -and I think I am sure that it must be the same family, for the name of -Joscelyn is—— What is it, what is it, Harry? Am I wanted? This is the -way we are worked, we poor servants of the public. H.B.M., God bless -her! is a hard taskmistress: but this conversation is too interesting to -be abandoned. Keep my seat for me here, Paolo. I put great confidence in -you till I come back.”</p> - -<p>Paolo, who had been hovering about with many longing looks, took the -seat with enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“I take it,” he said, “with all my heart; but to give it up, even to the -Signor Consul himself, that is what I shall not do if I can help it. -Mees Joscelyn has known Mr. Bonamy before? He is charming. He will not -only talk, but make talk. He has great education and feeling; and in -art, he knows himself much better than most of the English—not to speak -with unkindness of the English, who have much fine qualities: and also I -am English myself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But one would not think so,” said Lydia, “to hear you talk.” She was of -opinion on the whole that this was rather a compliment than otherwise, -for “foreigners” in her opinion were more “interesting” than commonplace -Englishmen. But Paolo was in despair.</p> - -<p>“You think me—? Ah, it is cruel! and if Mees Joscelyn say so,” said -little Paolo, “it must be true. No, I am not like my friend for example; -but Englishmen are not all one like another. There is variety, as you -have said so beautifully, like a poem, about the weather. Ah, the -English weather! I should like that.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think you would altogether,” said Lydia with a quiet smile. She -had no attention to bestow on Paolo. But she did what impulsive people -are so apt to do with strangers, insignificant but sympathetic, often to -the great damage of the victim. She leant forward a little and took him -into her confidence. “You are a great friend of Mr. Oliver?” she said, -“you told me so; then please don’t go away when Mr. Bonamy comes back, -for he is asking me questions, and I would rather not answer. It might -do Mr. Oliver harm.”</p> - -<p>“I will not go—for the King himself—if you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> thus tell me to remain,” -cried Paolo, enchanted. But he was confounded too; he did not -understand. The first and most natural idea seemed to be that Lydia and -Harry were old friends or lovers, with a secret between them; or else -this was a mere pretence to secure the pleasure of his, Paolo’s, -society, instead of that of Mr. Bonamy. English young ladies, who were -so free in their manners, so emancipated, did very strange things. Paolo -smiled upon Lydia with his most captivating smile. “I could stay here -for evare,” he said.</p> - -<p>Lydia gave him a look of amused surprise, but she did not mind the -little man at all, nor did it for a moment occur to her that he might -interpret her sudden confidential impulse according to any theory of -nationalities.</p> - -<p>“It is very hard,” she said, leaning back in her chair with a little -sigh of relief, “when anyone looks you in the face, and keeps on asking -questions, not to tell everything that you know.”</p> - -<p>“You think so,” said Paolo. “Ah! Mees Joscelyn, it is that you are so -true, what you call straightforwards in England; here one would take a -pleasure in doing otherwise. In Italy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> when it is imagined that you -desire to know more than is necessary, that pleases to us to confuse -you. Not to me,” he said, bethinking himself, and beating his breast -lightly to indicate himself as an exception, “not to me, for I am also -English: but to noi altri Italiani:” this little confusion of a double -identity as English, yet one of <i>noi altri</i>, pleased Paolo; he laughed -at his own cleverness with the frankest self-appreciation. “It pleases,” -he said, “to put a too much inquirer wrong.”</p> - -<p>“But when he looks you in the face,” said Lydia, amused and relieved, -“how can you say anything but what it really is? There is a—person in -England whom I know. He is not a gentleman, but he has the same name as -Mr. Oliver. Mr. Oliver’s name is Isaac, is it not? but then they call -him something else, and I don’t know what to think.”</p> - -<p>“My amico, Oliver, pleases to Miss Joscelyn?” Paolo said.</p> - -<p>“Pleases to——? I feel a great interest in him,” said Lydia. “He -startled me so much with the sound of his name; and then he is like -somebody I know. I cannot remember who it is—but there is some one; and -then Mr. Bonamy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> asks me so many questions—I feel an interest. I do not -think it very wise, if you have poor relations, to be ashamed of -them—do you? And yet one does not like to betray another if there is -any reason—” Lydia became so fragmentary in her utterances, that Paolo -could not follow the broken thread of her thoughts.</p> - -<p>“Ny-ce?” he said. “But my friend Oliver is very ny-ce—there is not a -thought in him that is not ny-ce. I know,” said Paolo, with an -ingratiating smile, “that word so well.”</p> - -<p>“How nice of you to answer for him so!” cried Lydia, turning upon him -with a sudden radiance of smiles. “It is delightful to meet with such a -true friend.”</p> - -<p>Paolo’s very soul expanded with pleasure. He put his hand upon his -shirtfront, and bowed over the little table, laden with the -picture-books. He did not deprecate as an Englishman would have done, or -disclaim any merit in this; but took the full credit of it with a -pleasant consciousness of deserving it. He thought, however, that there -had been enough of Oliver, and determined to push his own successful -fortunes without further delay. “Miss Joscelyn, I hope, will stay long, -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> little while, two, tree weeks at Livorno? No! Oh! that is bad news, -very bad news,” said Paolo, his face growing longer and longer as she -shook her head.</p> - -<p>“Only till to-morrow—to-morrow evening we are to go by the steamboat;” -and Lydia, reverting to her own thoughts, recorded this statement with a -sigh.</p> - -<p>“You are sorry to leave the beautiful Italy. Ah! and Italy too will be -desolated when so many charming Inglesi, so many beautiful ladies leave -her shore—to-morrow! That is bad news, very bad news,” Paolo said.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid Italy will not care very much,” said Lydia, with a little -laugh. “The English come and go every year; but I don’t think I shall -ever come back. For me it is once in my life,” she said, this time with -a sigh; and the sigh was a sad one, for there came once more over her -mind, which had been temporarily distracted by a new subject, all the -heavy and troubled thoughts which had made her so restless and wretched -for a few days past.</p> - -<p>“No, no,” cried Paolo. “No, no—ah! pardon, it must not be one time in -the Signorina’s life. She must return—she must return! There are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> -impressions, made in a moment—which will nevare, nevare be effaced——”</p> - -<p>Paolo was carried out of himself; he leaned across the table, almost -kneeling at Liddy’s feet, and with the most passionate expression in his -large liquid Italian eyes. Lydia on her side looked at the little man -with the sublimest composure. She elevated her eyebrows the least in the -world in mild surprise, and a passing wonder crossed her mind, -immediately checked by the reflection that these were “Italian ways.” -But Paolo’s rapt looks attracted the attention of others, if not of her -to whom they were addressed. Two champions stepped forth immediately to -the rescue. On one side Harry, hasty and disposed to be a little -peremptory with his friend, and on the other Lionel, anxious and -alarmed, thinking of course that any rival might come in at the last -moment and “cut him out.”</p> - -<p>“Paolo,” said Harry, “I wish you’d look after that gymnastic man for the -children—the man you told me about. Ralph is coming back to-morrow; he -wants exercise when he’s in town.”</p> - -<p>“Ralph?” said Lydia, looking up, and once more meeting a look which -bewildered her. Harry’s brow was a little clouded, but his eyes had the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> -same tender appeal in them, the same solicitude, as if he wanted her to -understand him. What did he want her to understand? and here was another -familiar name.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, but a little uneasily; “it is an English name. We are -divided a little in our family. The next is Giovanna, after an aunt—of -my wife’s.”</p> - -<p>“But that has an English form, too,” said Lionel. “Joan.”</p> - -<p>A spark seemed to flash out of the eyes of this strange Mr. Oliver. He -meant something. What did he mean? Lydia seemed to herself to be groping -after him as if he had led her into a dark passage with a doubtful -outlet, yet one that showed faintly far off. Isaac or not, he must be -somebody who knew about him, who was conscious of some connection. And -to see him standing there before her, the idea that he belonged to old -Isaac Oliver seemed too absurd to be entertained. How foolish she had -been to say anything about it; how unkind and impertinent to try to vex -him by producing that ghost of an old country servant! But then how was -it that this stranger knew she was speaking of an old peasant, a man of -a different species? He knew all about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> him, she was convinced. Old -Isaac meant to him what it meant to her. Here again Liddy got entirely -confused in the darkness, and groped and felt that she must be on the -edge of finding out all about it, but for the moment knew nothing, and -had not even begun to suspect any new turn which the confusion might yet -take.</p> - -<p>“Names seem very much the same in all languages,” said Harry; “the -contractions are different. In England we take the first half of the -name, in Italy the last. My wife’s name is Rita; one little girl is -Madge; but they are the same name—Margaret. And you’ve only to stick on -a vowel, and an English name becomes prime Italian. There’s yours, for -instance, Paolo; in English you would be Paul.”</p> - -<p>“That is true,” said Paolo, dissembling, with a broad smile of -affection, the sensations produced by the slap upon his shoulders which -Harry was in the habit of administering, and which he was too polite, -too devoted, to complain of. Paolo had a keen pang of disappointment too -to have been thus interrupted while he felt he was making such progress -with the beautiful young Englishwoman; but he was too sweet-tempered to -resent it. He winced under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> the blow, but he smiled all the same. “That -is true,” he said; “but, amico mio, if you could but learn what it is to -pronounce two vowels in the Italian! Mees Joscelyn must know that my -friend Oliver, he is in Italia for ten years, and still he cannot do -justice to two vowels. Will the Signorina make me the pleasure to -pronounce my name?—Paolo. Pao-lo, broad, like this—ow. He will never -catch it, he is so true an Englishman; but Mees Joscelyn will say -it—ah, perfectly!” cried Paolo, clapping his hands together, and once -more throwing himself into that adoring attitude; “thanks a thousand -times; that is to make music of my poor little name.”</p> - -<p>At this both the Englishmen made a step forward, and stood tall and -frowning like sentinels on either side of her, glooming down upon the -little Italian, thrown forward almost upon his knees, with his clasped -hands half way over the table, and rapture in his big, beautiful eyes. -The scene roused Lydia in spite of herself. She was only a girl after -all, and this conflict of emotion around her, the demonstrative -adoration on one side, the furious defence on the other, which was quite -as great a compliment, amused<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> her, and gave her a little thrill of -pleasure. Both Harry and Lionel, however, were much disgusted to -perceive that, instead of being indignant and offended by Paolo’s -demonstration, she was at the least amused, and perhaps pleased. This -made them more angry than ever.</p> - -<p>“The vowel may add softness,” said Lionel, in a tone of irritation; “but -I don’t think that is any advantage, at least in a man’s name. In that a -little abruptness, a bold conclusion, is desirable, not a liquid <i>a</i> or -<i>o</i>.”</p> - -<p>“You want English for that,” said Harry; “these foreign beggars (I beg -your pardon, Paolo) are all for airs and graces. I suppose I can’t get -my mouth about them; though to tell the truth I don’t see any difference -between my pronunciation and Miss Joscelyn’s.”</p> - -<p>“It is true,” said Paolo, “there is a sound in both your voices—what -you call it—a tone. You have in brief, by the way, the same voice—that -is strange. Mr. Brotherton, he is in a different key; but you, that is a -great compliment for you, amico, you are in the same note with Mees -Joscelyn. She will speak perfectly, perfectly! the Italian, and you no. -Oh, you no! nevare,” said Paolo with a laugh, clapping his hands;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> “but -nevertheless it is true you are in the same tone.”</p> - -<p>“That is strange,” Harry said. Once more he looked at her so -affectionately, with a kind look of pleasure in his eyes, that Lydia was -more and more bewildered. “It is a great compliment to me, as Paolo -says.”</p> - -<p>“My mother seems to want you, Lydia,” said Lionel, very coldly. He did -not like it at all. It seemed to him that Oliver, who was a married man, -was forgetting himself altogether, though he was an Englishman, and -ought to have known better; and was paying court undisguisedly to Lydia -as well as this little hop-o’-my-thumb of an Italian who was languishing -at her feet, just like a foreigner, showing off those sentiments which -an Englishman has the delicacy to conceal. And Lydia was pleased! Was it -possible? Such a thoroughly nice girl, so modest and delightful in all -her ways, never putting herself forward, always with the pretty reserve -in her frankness which is the very bloom of maidenhood. To think that -she should be pleased! Lionel felt that he could not understand it. -This, no doubt, was the sort of thing which made cynics declare women to -be incomprehensible creatures. A really<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> nice girl, everything about her -good and pure, and yet this kind of thing actually pleased her! Lionel’s -indignation, and disgust, and disappointment were extreme, but he tried -to restrain himself. “My mother is looking for you,” he said. “And I -suppose she wants to go. You must not forget my father has been ill, and -that we have a long journey before us.” He hoped the fellow would -understand this; that she was going away to-morrow, and that he had no -further chance of philandering in this barefaced way; and he hoped Liddy -understood that he thought her forgetful and inconsiderate, and showing -no feeling for poor old Sir John, not to speak of Sir John’s son. But -his ill-temper did not have so great an effect as it might have had in -other circumstances. She was looking up at Oliver, wondering, with her -pretty eyebrows slightly raised and a softened, gentle, almost -child-like look, interrogating the eyes of that fellow, who was a -married man! Lionel thought it absolutely immoral. He was disgusted and -bewildered, and did not know what to think. He made another step nearer -and offered her his arm. “My mother,” he repeated, with some sharpness, -“is moving to go away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Lydia made no resistance. She took his arm quite submissively, and held -out her other hand. “Good night,” she said to Harry. “I suppose we must -be of the same country, as we have the same voice.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, holding her hand a moment, “we are of the same country, -and I know what you think; but it is not that.”</p> - -<p>“It is not <i>that</i>? What is it?” Lydia said, with a startled look, as if -she saw light somewhere; but then Rita came forward with Lady Brotherton -and took leave coldly of Miss Joscelyn, and there was nothing for it but -to go away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE COUNSELS OF THE NIGHT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“L</span>IDDY, Liddy, my dear! you should not have said anything about that old -man. How is it possible that he could be a relation of Mr. Bonamy’s -son-in-law? It is odd, of course, about the name; still, you know, there -might be another Lydia Joscelyn in the world who was no relation of -yours. There are Joscelyns down in the South. I thought when Sir John -first remembered about your mother that it was one of them she had -married; and there might just as well as not be a Lydia among them. -Lydia is not a common name, no more common than Isaac—but there might -be a Lydia among them, who, of course, would not be related to you.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think now that he is related to Mr. Oliver,” Lydia said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I wonder,” said Lionel, “what reason you have for that? It seems much -more likely to me than before. I don’t think the fellow is a gentleman. -Oh, he looks well enough, there is nothing amiss about his appearance; -still there are some things I have remarked.”</p> - -<p>“If Lionel thinks so,” said Lady Brotherton, “my dear, in these matters, -I always take the opinion of a man, just as about women I would take a -lady’s opinion before all the men in the world. Oh, yes, it is very -pretty to talk of jealousy, and all that; but you may be sure we all -know our own kind the best. If Lionel thinks so, I would take his -opinion before my own.”</p> - -<p>At this Lionel had compunctions, and drew back a little.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I went too far,” he said. “I was out of temper. Still there are -some things a man would not do, if——” but though he felt that he had -been rash, he did not complete his sentence. The carriage stopped, -indeed, at that moment at the inn door, and there was no time for him to -say anything more; and Lydia took no further part in the discussion.</p> - -<p>She bade her friends good night in the hall of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> the inn and ran upstairs -to her room. She was rather glad to have disagreed with Lionel and set -her own opinion before his, and she felt angry with him, indignant, and -almost wounded, that he should have given such an opinion. She felt it -almost to be something against herself. She hurried up to her own room, -to finish her packing, she said. She had taken out her white dress to -wear that evening, and had now to put it back, to resume her -travelling-garments. It was their last night in Italy; next evening they -would be at sea, seeing the sun set in the Mediterranean. It was a warm -night, and her mind was far too restless and busy for sleep. When she -had put away her dress, and arranged all her possessions in order, she -went to the open window and sat down there, looking out at the moon. The -room was high up near the skies, and she had all the firmament to -herself, nothing to disturb its calm except the old belfry of a convent -with its little tinkling bell, which was always in movement all day -long, but which seemed to have gone to bed along with the peaceful -sisters and their pupils. This little belfry stood out against the deep -blue of the sky, which lined out every little curve and corner, but all -was quiet in and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> about it, its shrill tongue still till morning. All -was quiet; the room looked out to the back of the house, and not an echo -of the street reached Lydia in her retirement. She felt, half with the -giddiness of her excited condition, half with the expectation of -to-morrow, as if she were sailing upon a sea of space, floating between -the earth and sky; and as she sat there so still, her candles burning in -the background unnoticed, sedately awaiting her leisure, and the soft -night blowing in upon her with a breath of the sea in it, a perfect -crowd and storm of thoughts burst on Lydia in the quiet. She thought, -you would suppose, of what she had been doing to-night, of the curious -questions about Isaac Oliver, and the examination to which the -Vice-Consul had subjected her, and all the novelty of this story into -which she had been thrust head and shoulders without any will of her -own; but, to tell the truth, Lydia thought nothing about this at all, at -first. She thought of to-morrow, of the tide of movement which would -sweep her away, of leaning over the bulwark and seeing the long trail of -the water gliding under the ship, and of what might be said to her -there. Sir John would be safely installed in the deck-cabin, which had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> -always to be secured for him, and Lady Brotherton would stretch herself -out on a sofa and close her eyes, in preparation for being ill. And -then: what would be said? She wove a great many imaginary conversations -that came to nothing. Why should they come to anything? He would tell -her—what he was going to do in town; that he hoped she would enjoy -going home; something commonplace, ordinary—or else he would say -foolish things about the months they had been together, and pretend to -regret them. Why should he regret them? Lydia imagined herself saying -much that would not be true, that she was impatient to get back, that -the quiet of the Fells would be delightful after so much wandering; and -much besides which would pique him and wound him, and perhaps goad him -to say other unpleasant things in return.</p> - -<p>And then all at once, without any doing of hers, her thoughts gave a -leap back to to-night, and there began to float and move before her all -the new faces never seen before, never, probably, to be seen again, -which for an hour or two had filled her with such strange, strong -interest. From the moment Mr. Isaac Oliver had been announced, startling -her out of herself, until now, when still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> discussing him, she had left -the rest of the party in the hall, the encounter had agitated and -disturbed her. “We are of the same country, and I know what you -think—but it is not that.” What did he mean?—it is not that! and why -did a stranger whom she had never seen before look at her so, and -understand her so strangely? Her heart began to beat loudly once more -when she thought of her impertinent production of old Isaac, when seated -beside her silent host at the table, taunting him with the old man; and -he understood her—that was the strange thing. If he did not really -belong to old Isaac Oliver, how was it that he understood her? When he -looked at her with that curious appeal, as if saying “Do not vex me—do -not trouble me,” there would have been no meaning in it if he had not -known what she meant; and how could he know if it was not true? Lydia -felt herself caught as in a net of confusing questions and thoughts. -Another man would have been surprised; he would have asked “Who is this -namesake of mine? Tell me about him.” But this man did not ask a -question; he <i>knew</i>. She felt that from the first moment she had -perceived this involuntarily, and that her little pricks of questions -could not have had any point if he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> had not known old Isaac, and if she -had not felt that he knew him. Mr. Bonamy, for instance, did not know at -all, and asked natural questions—who the gentleman was? the gentleman! -if he was a neighbour, a farmer, a yeoman?—none of which things Mr. -Oliver so much as suggested. Then who was this that knew Isaac Oliver, -that knew her own name she began to remember, starting when he heard it -first, as she had started when she heard his?</p> - -<p>By this time Lydia began to get hot after the puzzle which unfolded -itself slowly before her. Why did the Vice-Consul ask her so many -questions? and he had begun to say something about “the name of -Joscelyn.” What about the name of Joscelyn? Then a crowd of bewildering -recollections, like motes in the sunbeam, like the whirling flakes of a -snowstorm, began to circle and dance and palpitate around her. “We are -of the same country, and I know what you think—but it is not that.” -What was it, then? What was it? He a relative of Isaac Oliver! no, -no!—it was impossible; but he knew Isaac Oliver; he knew his name and -herself; he knew what she meant when she spoke; and when she tried to -humble him with her im<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span>pertinence, he was not angry, but sorry. She -seemed to see now his kind, half-reproachful, half-appealing eyes, the -look which bewildered and arrested her, she could not tell why. Quicker -and quicker went the course of Lydia’s thoughts. He had a child who was -called Ralph, and another Joan—no, not Joan, but Giovanna; but there -had come a gleam out of his eyes when Lionel had suggested Joan. Who was -he, who could he be to use these names, to look like that, like somebody -she had seen, to understand all she meant, yet not to be angry? And -their voices that were of the same tone! She could see this herself, or -rather she could hear it herself—that their voices sounded alike, with -a suspicion of a North-Country accent. Good heavens! where was this -flood of suggestion, of recollection, carrying her? She jumped up from -her seat in the confusion and hurry of her thoughts, and began to pace -about the room, her hands clasped together like her mother’s. Then she -stopped in the centre of the room, and in the silence, in the middle of -the night, threw up her arms above her head with a wild gesture, and -gave a sudden cry. “Harry!” she almost screamed to herself in the -stillness. Everybody was asleep around her, the stars winking in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> -sky as if about to shut up their wakeful eyes, the blue behind the -belfry beginning to glow with a pale radiation into the air of the -coming dawn—and as if they had given each other a signal, all the -clocks of the silent town began chiming and striking, some of them -prolonging the lengthened measure of the Italian time into the soft -tuning of the night. Lydia standing in the middle of the room in wild -excitement, her hair streaming about her, her arms thrown up, her mouth -open, looked like a prophetess in a trance, seeing the invisible, almost -shrieking her revelation into the heart of the silence. Harry! Harry! -She could not keep it to herself; she could not help but scream it out -into the night, to make sure that she was not dreaming or raving—but -was a sane creature, who had made a discovery which seemed to set her -whole being on fire.</p> - -<p>It was a long time before she could calm herself down. If there had been -anybody to tell it to, that would have been something; but, as she had -no way of getting rid of her excitement, it blazed up in her higher and -higher. She did not know what to do to calm herself down. She walked -about for nearly an hour, now and then going to the window, leaning half -out, exposing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> herself to the fresh air and coolness, eagerly looking -for the first early riser, the first window opening, and watching the -little belfry grow black against the lightening sky, then flash and -blaze to the first touch of the sun. Sleep! she could have sooner done -anything else in the world—stretched out her arms like wings and flown, -leaped down from the window, called out to all the city, that was what -she wanted to do—“Harry, Harry!” She seemed to have but one idea left -in the world.</p> - -<p>After a while, however, in the desperation of being unable to -communicate her discovery, or do anything to bring herself more clearly -face to face with so wonderful a revelation, Lydia sat down to trace it -again step by step, then lay down on her bed, going over and over the -familiar ground. She fell asleep just as the sunshine began to stream -into her room, and slept soundly for an hour or two in the depths of her -exhaustion; but when she woke it was still early, and a long day before -her. Naturally the first thing she did was to survey again the entire -circumstances, going over them one by one. She had not much experience, -and in her whole life no such lawless incident as a <i>nuit blanche</i>, a -night spent without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> taking off her clothes had ever occurred to Liddy -before. She felt almost guilty as she found herself lying there, her -long hair streaming about her, in her dressing-gown, as she had been -when she first sat down at her window to think. Sometimes the morning -light dissipates the wisest calculations and conclusions of the night, -and turns its theories and revelations into folly; but as she started up -hastily, and began to put her facts together again, no such awakening -occurred. They seemed more conclusive, more certain, in the sober light -of the morning, than they did in the feverish wakefulness of the long, -silent night. She pieced them all together hurriedly, in a tremble of -excitement. He had been there ten years, and it was ten years since -Harry disappeared. He had said nothing about his family, he had even -married without any explanation on that point. He had started at the -sound of her name; he had understood all she said. He had called his -child Ralph—<i>Ralph!</i> after his father, with a prejudice that was -North-country all over; and his name was Harry, so called by his wife, -though he had himself announced as Isaac Oliver. Lydia thought she could -understand exactly what had made him take Isaac Oliver’s name—a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> moment -of despite and despair, yet humour—a putting down of himself from the -pinnacle of the Joscelyns to the humility of the lowliest servant, an -expedient which would direct the thoughts of anyone who might seek him -into another direction. She sprang up, and was fully dressed and ready -to begin the extraordinary piece of work she had in hand, before anyone -else of the party had stirred. But what was she to do? Was she to go to -him straight, without any further inquiry, without a pause, and say, Are -you my brother Harry? or, You are my brother Harry! If by any chance he -was not so, after all, he would think her mad. What was she to do? She -sat down again at the window where she had sat for half the night. The -sunshine was pouring in, growing every moment more brilliant, not like -the temperate British sunshine which it is a pleasure in the early -morning to bathe and bask in, but already blazing, slaying in its -Italian force and fervour. She had to close the <i>persiani</i>, which she -had herself thrown open in her restlessness on the previous night. When -all the people of the hotel were in motion, and life fully astir, she -went downstairs; but there was nothing to be done<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span> there, save to sit -down once more and think it all over again. She had not been there long, -however, when Lionel came into the room in search of a book; he had been -restless too; but he started violently when he caught sight of her -buried in a great chair, with her hands clasped in her lap. For the -first moment he thought that she must have been there all night.</p> - -<p>“Lydia!” he cried, in great alarm, “what is the matter?” Then he added, -hastily, “My nerves are entirely wrong, I think. You startled me so, as -if you had been all night in that chair.”</p> - -<p>“Not in this chair,” said Liddy, willing, however, to have some credit -of her sleepless night, “but almost the same. Cousin Lionel, I want -advice very much. I am very lonely and very inexperienced to do anything -so important by myself.”</p> - -<p>He came quickly and drew a chair close to her. She was excited -physically by her vigil, and the tears were very near her eyes, which -were brimming full when Lionel, much concerned and very tender and -sympathetic, looked her in the face. He put out his hand to take hers -with anxious solicitude; and Lydia did not resist. Her heart was so -full, and she was so overburdened with this new thing, that the mere -touch of a sym<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span>pathetic hand was a consolation to her. The tears dropped -out of her eyes like two drops of rain upon her dress, and then she -looked at him and said, “I have found Harry,” with the tremor of a sob -in her voice.</p> - -<p>“You have found——!” he was so startled that he did not know what to -say in reply.</p> - -<p>“Cousin Lionel,” cried Lydia, “answer me this—how did he know what I -meant when I spoke of Isaac Oliver? He knew very well, he never asked a -question; and why did he start when he heard my name? I saw it myself. -He arrived here ten years ago, without knowing anybody, he has never -told them about his family, he called himself <i>that</i>, don’t you see, in -a kind of disdain at himself and everything. Then he married and -promised never to take his wife to England. He did not want ever to go -to England, why was that? And he called his son Ralph, fancy, <i>Ralph</i>! -why was that? And though he is called Isaac Oliver to the world, he -could not bear that at home, and they call him Harry, his true name. Oh, -Lionel, do you not see it all? It is perfectly clear, as clear as -noon-day. And now tell me what am I to do?”</p> - -<p>“But——” Lionel said, who had not followed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> entirely without -preparation as he was, her breathless argument. “What do you mean? tell -me what you mean? I am utterly bewildered. Are you speaking of -Oliver—<i>Oliver</i>? I don’t understand what you mean.”</p> - -<p>Lydia made a gesture of impatience.</p> - -<p>“Oh, everybody is so slow, so slow!” she cried, “except him. He -understood at once. Don’t you see he must have known it all beforehand, -everything that could be said? He never asked, ‘Who is Isaac Oliver?’ he -said in a moment, directly, ‘He is no relation of mine.’ How could he -know if he had not known?” cried Liddy, too eager to be lucid. “Mr. -Bonamy asked me, ‘Who are you talking of? a neighbour, a farmer, a -yeoman, who is it?’ but <i>he</i> never asked a question. He said directly, -‘He is no relation of mine;’ and when we were coming away he said to me, -‘I know what you think, but it is not that.’ Now how could he know what -I thought if he had not known?”</p> - -<p>“By Jove!” said Lionel. He was very much startled, so that some -exclamation was necessary. “That is very acute,” he said; “I see what -you mean. It is very acute, and this is very strange. Perhaps—there may -be something in it. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> you know,” he added, “it is far too pat, too -complete, to be a real discovery. People do not find long lost brothers -like this.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do not talk—in that common way,” cried Lydia; “as if strange -things did not happen as much as they ever did! Why should it be too -complete? The more you think of everything, the more you will feel sure. -Don’t you see just why he chose that name to disguise himself with? I -do. And all those little bits of kindness—to call his boy Ralph, like a -forgiveness to my father, who was so hard upon him. He has not a Liddy,” -she cried, with a little regret. “Ah, I see how that was too! mother, -dear mother, he had nothing to forgive her. Lionel! Lionel!” she cried, -grasping him by the arm in her excitement, “tell me what I must do?”</p> - -<p>“You see meaning in everything,” he said, “more than there is, more than -there can be, Lydia. All that about his child’s name is just your own -delicate feeling—though after all, when one comes to think of it, -Ralph! it is an odd name for a little Italian boy.”</p> - -<p>“And the girl is Giovanna; you said yourself it was the same name as -Joan.”</p> - -<p>“Did I? I am sure I did not mean anything,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span>” said Lionel, with a short -laugh, and then he cried, “By Jove!” again. “I really do think there is -something in it. He gave a look, I remember now, as if he did -understand, as if he thought I meant something. It looks very odd, -Lydia; and I had a strong impression he was like some one that I had -seen him before.”</p> - -<p>“He is like—all of us,” said Lydia, with a little breathless gasp, “not -one nor another, but all. But tell me, tell me what to do! We have only -to-day, a few hours, nothing more!”</p> - -<p>“As for that,” said Lionel, “of course, if this turns out so important, -my mother must simply arrange to stay till we see the end of it. She -will not mind, she will like to jump into the middle of a romance; and -my father will easily be persuaded to stay, there will be no difficulty -about that.”</p> - -<p>And then there was a long debate and consultation between them; a -debate—for Lionel, not understanding that even when a human creature is -a woman she likes to do her work with her own hands, was for proceeding -to the Vice-Consul himself, and going through all the pros and cons, and -bringing the result to her, to save her fatigue, and to keep her from -all disagreeable contact with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> the world; whereas Lydia’s most -prevailing desire was to follow out the clue at which she had caught, -and to track her prey into his last refuge, and to unveil the impostor. -She did not use these words, but this was the course upon which she was -intent. She was not afraid of contact with the world, or of what anybody -might say. The discussion rose somewhat hotly between them as the -servants came and went, laying the table, bringing in the English urn -and teapot, which all the Inglesi preferred. They were still sitting -close together, talking warmly, interrupting each other, Lydia’s face -glowing with the excitement of the situation, when Lady Brotherton -appeared. She was startled by the sight, but for the moment she did not -ask any questions, being much pre-occupied by Sir John’s breakfast, that -the tea should be strong enough without being too strong, that the cream -should not be “turned,” and that the fish should be done to his mind. -She did not take much notice of them, and the meeting between them broke -up, each retiring upon his and her own side of the question. Lydia was -too much excited to talk, or to think, of ordinary things. She sat at -the table as upon thorns, and the moment the meal was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> over, got up with -some excuse and hastened away. Lionel followed her a few minutes after. -He lingered in the hall, hoping he might be in time, at least, to go -with her, wherever she might choose to go. But as she did not come, -after half-an-hour’s waiting Lionel resolved to act upon his own theory, -and accordingly set out on his volunteer mission, hoping that she might -have thought better of it, and was staying with dignity in her room, -however anxious she might be, waiting till he, her representative, -should bring her news. It was a pretty division of labour, and one that -fell in with all Lionel’s views.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>ACTING FOR HERSELF.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">B</span>UT it is not to be supposed that Lydia, her whole being ablaze with -excitement and eagerness, was likely to assent to this masculine view of -what was best for her. Before Lionel had got downstairs into the hall, -where he waited so long to intercept any rash enterprise she might be -bound on, she had stolen out, tremulous yet brave, and was speeding -along the morning streets, where the passers-by, who gazed at her with -that frank admiration which Italians feel, without any impertinence of -meaning, to be the due of every pretty woman—excused, yet wondered at -her solitary progress, on the score that everything was to be pardoned -to an Englishwoman. Lydia herself was confused by the looks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> she met on -every side, but her mind was so entirely preoccupied that they made less -impression upon her than they would have done had it been at freedom, -and it did not occur to her that she was being guilty of any breach of -decorum. What troubled her more was that she was uncertain of the way, -having paid but little attention to it last night, and she was shy of -asking which turning to take. But by right of the inspiration that was -in her, and of that good fortune which attends daring, she at last found -herself in a street which she recognised, and saw with a beating heart -the well-known shield over the doorway. It was not to the official -entrance she was bound. She saw with a smile, even in the midst of all -the ferment of her agitation, the little Italian, her admirer of the -previous night, in light clothes and a cigar, making his way towards it; -and, lingering a moment till he disappeared within the doorway, she -hurried after him till she got safely within the shelter of the -courtyard and to the door of the Vice-Consul’s house.</p> - -<p>The Vice-Consul that morning had been early astir. He had been painfully -affected by the half-revelation of last night. All these years,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> since -the beginning of their intercourse when he had framed his theory about -Harry’s parentage so easily, and satisfied himself so entirely that he -must be right, nothing had occurred to put this theory to the test. The -marriage had taken place while he was still ill, and in a state of some -danger, and perhaps at the bottom of his heart he was glad and relieved -to be in a condition which made all inquiries impossible, and which -forced him to throw himself upon Harry’s honour. He had never had any -occasion to be shaken in his faith as to that honour personally, and use -and wont had made everything natural. For years he had not thought on -the question. Nothing had occurred to bring it up. The serene domestic -life had flowed along, and notwithstanding the drawbacks on Mr. Bonamy’s -part which have been already noted, they had been happy together. He was -aware that, though he might sometimes grudge Harry the position he had -acquired in Rita’s affection, yet that he himself would have been the -first to miss him had any accident taken Harry away. But at the first -whisper of a real discovery of his son-in-law’s antecedents, Mr. Bonamy -was roused out of the quiescence of years. The very sugges<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span>tion of some -one bearing Harry’s name roused him, and something about Harry, an -awakened attention in his eyes, a strain of watchfulness quite unusual -with his simple, easy-going nature had aided the impression. He had -already heard something from Miss Joscelyn, and was on his way to learn -more when Harry had interrupted the conversation, calling him away for a -matter of business to which strictly speaking it was necessary that he -should give his attention, but which in other circumstances his -son-in-law, he felt sure, would have managed himself rather than disturb -him among his guests. And what he had heard had roused him still more. -It was evident that the person, whoever he was, who bore the same name -was not a relation to be proud of, and the Vice-Consul too was impressed -by the fact, dimly apparent, that Harry had shown no surprise and asked -no questions when this namesake was spoken of. There had been that look -in his eyes, <i>eveillé</i>, on the watch, on his guard; but no -curiosity—and he had not said a word about it when the guests were -gone. Neither had Rita said anything about it, which would have seemed -so natural. She had not asked who Miss Joscelyn was speaking of, or what -she was speaking of;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> but had maintained a complete silence on the -subject. All this awakened the Vice-Consul’s anxious curiosity. He was -on the watch at breakfast next morning, hoping that something might be -said, that Harry might laugh at the suggestion made to him, or take some -notice of it. But nothing occurred to throw the least light upon the -subject. Harry was still watchful, still on his guard, but chiefly -occupied with little Madge and the baby, whom he brought in to breakfast -seated high upon his shoulder, and who occupied him completely in a way -which filled the elder man, though he had usually all the indulgence of -a grandfather for his descendants, with impatience. He was glad to get -away from this scene, rising somewhat abruptly, and going out without -any explanation. Had Lydia come the direct way she would have met Mr. -Bonamy and saved him a great deal of annoyance and trouble. But, as she -took two or three wrong turnings, the Vice-Consul reached the inn and -was shown up to the sitting-room to wait for Lady Brotherton about the -same time that Lydia reached his house; and Lionel, by no means so sure -what to do as either of these straightforward and one-idead persons, had -gone to the English bankers, the best-informed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> persons he could think -of, to see what information about Mr. Isaac Oliver he could pick up -there.</p> - -<p>Lady Brotherton was still busy about Sir John’s breakfast, endeavouring -to beguile him to the simple luxury of an egg instead of the something -much less safe on which he had set his fancy. “You must not forget that -we start to-night; that we have a sea voyage before us,” she was saying. -“Morsh-a reason for deshunt breakfast now,” said the invalid, and -chuckled and laughed at his own cleverness. His wife was not at all -disposed to go downstairs and hear what Mr. Bonamy might have to say. -“Let’sh have old Bonamy up here—show him up here,” Sir John said; but -that was so much worse that Lady Brotherton left him to his ortolan, and -went off to answer her untimely visitor. She thought it was no doubt a -mere visit of goodwill, to inquire “if he could be of any use.” “As if -we wanted anybody to be of use! As if we were not experienced enough to -know what we want, and how to get it,” she said to herself, as she went -to the unwelcome guest. Her mind was a little perturbed besides; the -servant had declared that he could not find<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> either Mr. Brotherton or -Miss Joscelyn. They had both gone out. Where had they gone, had they -gone together? she asked, but nobody could tell. Now Lady Brotherton had -bidden them to go out together, had said they were cousins, and had no -need of a chaperon, but she did not like this adoption of her advice so -suddenly. The last morning, just when Sir John wanted special managing, -that he might commit no imprudence before the evening, and when they -might have known Mr. Bonamy would be sure to call!</p> - -<p>But when Lady Brotherton heard that it was not civility, nor for her -sake at all, but a visit full of self-interest upon his own business, -this interruption in the midst of all her cares threw her out of temper.</p> - -<p>“No, indeed, I cannot tell you much,” she said; “I heard them talking of -it, but I did not pay much attention. The man is an old servant, I -believe, belonging to Miss Joscelyn’s family, a sort of old factotum at -a farm. My son lodged in some rooms in the old Manor-house (I think), -and this old Isaac and his wife ‘did for him,’ as people say. Yes, I am -sure that was the story. They all know this old man, quite respectable, -I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> feel sure, a sort of good class of family retainer; servants of this -kind still flourish, you know, in some out of the way places. Mr. -Bonamy, I am afraid you are ill.”</p> - -<p>“No, no,” he said, waving his hand, “nothing, it’s nothing, a kind of -faintness I have sometimes since my illness, which goes off directly. I -see—I see—an old servant. Well, of course, it was a very odd -coincidence, very odd. But I thought at first the young lady -supposed—that this old man of hers was somehow connected with my -son-in-law. Thank you! thank you! I see how absurd I was.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t think Lydia could be so ridiculous as to think that,” said -Lady Brotherton, “only my son and she were both struck by the name; it -is such an uncommon name. At least, the two together were struck by it; -they both cried out, ‘Isaac Oliver!’ My son is rather fond of telling -absurd stories about this poor old man. He is a kind of a wit in his -way, it seems, but a little of that goes a long way in the country. I -don’t think I have seen much humour in what they tell of him—”</p> - -<p>“A thing that is quite commonplace often<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> seems original from the lips -of a clown,” said the Vice-Consul, with solemnity. “Perhaps you have -heard something about the family, or children, or other relatives of -this—old man?” Mr. Bonamy felt disposed to call him a confounded old -man, but, after all, it was not the old man’s fault.</p> - -<p>“Nothing at all, nothing whatever, I assure you. You must not think, Mr. -Bonamy, for a moment—it was only <i>pour rire</i>; they never supposed, I am -sure you will believe me when I say it, of connecting old Isaac -with—any gentleman; it was a mere joke. They thought the coincidence so -amusing, and Lydia, I suppose, as girls do, thought it was fun to tease -Mr. Oliver a little; that was all. I have never heard a word more about -it. It was only at the moment. I hope you will forgive my silly -youngsters. They are both out. I cannot think where they are gone, or -they would make their apologies themselves.”</p> - -<p>“No apologies are necessary,” the Vice-Consul said. He was very grave, -his countenance had changed even since he came in, much more since -yesterday, when his handsome head had been full of serene content. There -was a deeply<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> marked wrinkle in his forehead, and the lines at the -corners of his mouth drooped heavily. He seemed to have aged -half-a-dozen years. “There is no harm done; and where there is no -offence there need be no excuse.” He said this with a sort of formality, -such as he was in the habit of employing to troublesome British -subjects, who got into many scrapes and gave much occupation to the -representative of their country in pulling them out. It was a style that -told (for the moment) upon such persons, and it came to his hand readily -on an emergency. “I am glad to hear there is so little in it,” he added, -rising. “Unfortunately my son-in-law is estranged from his family, and -we know but little about them; so that I thought it just possible this -might be some one—in whose well-being he was interested. It is I who -should apologise for troubling you. I hope Sir John is none the worse -for last night?”</p> - -<p>“He is not at all strong,” said Lady Brotherton. “It begins to be -anxious work when we have long journeys to take. But he bears them -better than anyone would think,” she added. “Oh, no, he is none the -worse; I left him making a very good breakfast. He would have liked to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> -see you, but I could not think to trouble you coming into a sick-room.”</p> - -<p>“No trouble at all,” Mr. Bonamy said, but he did not make any motion to -go, neither did she wish him to do so, and they parted with mutual -politenesses and professions of regret to have given each other trouble, -and repeated protestations that it was no trouble at all. But when the -Vice-Consul got out of doors, he went along slowly with a dejected -tread, his head drooping, his eyes dim, and little in him of the -dignified tranquillity becoming the representative of H.B.M. He was -wounded in his pride, in his self-confidence, in the serenity of his -judgment, in the force of his instincts. He was not going to give up -Harry; Harry was Harry, whatever happened. But to think, after all, that -he was <i>not a gentleman</i>, that the family which Mr. Bonamy had taken for -granted was a family of laborious peasants, not of gentlefolks, that his -relations were such as would not help him, but burden him in every -particular of life—in short, that he himself had been entirely -mistaken, and that he had given his daughter to a nobody, went to his -very heart. He had the generosity to reflect that Harry had said -little,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> that it was he who had jumped at conclusions and given him -credit for connections which he had never directly claimed. It was he, -rather than Harry, who was the fallen personage, fallen from all -certainty, from all faith in the future, in himself. He would say -nothing about it, he thought, to anyone. Why disturb poor Rita, who need -never know that her husband’s father, or uncle, or near relation was a -farm-servant? Why even bring poor Harry to book, and force him to -confess, and convict him, if not of falsehood, yet of sanctioning a -false impression? Mr. Bonamy with true magnanimity decided that he would -not humiliate, as he might do, even the chief culprit, if culprit he -could be said to be. It was no use to make all suffer. He thought it -best on the whole to make an effort to keep the trouble to himself.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Lydia had knocked with some timidity and trembling at the door -of the Vice-Consul’s house. She asked for Mrs. Oliver with a hesitation -that was very unusual to her. Now that the moment had come her heart -beat so loudly, her breath came so quick, that she did not feel able to -face it. She was led soberly up to the large, cool, shadowed -drawing-room, in which with so much agitation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> she had spent the -previous night. There was no trace of agitation or disturbance of any -kind about the tranquil place, all closed up and semidark, according to -the Italian wont, against the fierceness of the sun. The old graceful -furniture, the dim pictures on the walls, the signs of long established -living everywhere, made it almost impossible to think of any change or -revolution that could happen in such a settled place. Lydia sat down in -a corner, feeling herself more than an intruder—a traitor and -introducer of strife and trouble into the stillness. She had asked -instinctively for the wife, lest after all she might be making a -mistake; and only after she had done so, had it occurred to her that to -have her husband thus discovered and identified, though he had done no -wrong, might not be an agreeable incident in Rita’s life. This, however, -was but a momentary thought. To feel that she was herself within a few -minutes of the truth was an excitement which occupied all her being. Her -mind had room for little more.</p> - -<p>Rita was busy with her housekeeping, arranging the affairs of the day. -Her husband was in the office at his work; her father gone out, no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> -doubt about business; her little children enjoying the morning air in -the garden. All had begun pleasantly as usual in the well-ordered, -calmly constituted life. She had been a little disturbed, a very little, -last night by her visitors, with the slightest possible jealousy in her -mind of the new-comer, who seemed to have some sort of connection with -her husband’s early life, that portion of it with which she was -completely unacquainted. It was a mere superficial sentiment, not strong -enough to be called jealousy, yet veering that way; for she did not like -to think that anybody anywhere could know more about her Harry than his -wife, a feeling which even in its most unreasonable phases is not -uncommon among wives—or husbands either, for that matter. But <i>that</i> -Miss Joscelyn was going away, was gone away so far as the Vice-Consul’s -household was concerned, and Rita thought no more of her—She was -interrupted in the very midst of her discussion of the <i>spese</i>, and -examination of the contents of the cook’s basket, which old Benedetta -was helping to turn over, and making sharp remarks upon, to the damage -of the cook’s temper, as so much dearer and not nearly so good as in her -time—by a message that a lady wanted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> to see her. She was predisposed -to be annoyed by it. “A lady! how often must I tell you to bring me the -name! It can be nobody for me; it must be some one for your master,” she -said. The man was very humble and apologetic; he represented that the -English names were very hard to pronounce; that it was the young lady -who had been there last evening—the young lady who resembled the -bambino so much. “Resembled the bambino? What bambino?” cried Rita. And -then old Benedetta burst in and explained that all the servants had -remarked it—that the English young lady was the very image of nostro -bambino, our own blessed baby whom everybody admired.</p> - -<p>“Resemblances are very strange,” Benedetta said; “they will come without -rhyme or reason—for of course our darling can have nothing to do with a -stranger—a young Signorina Inglese whom no one ever saw before.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder you can allow yourself to talk such nonsense, Benedetta. There -is not the slightest resemblance,” Rita said. The other servants bowed -and deprecated, and agreed that the Signora must know best; but -Benedetta stood like a rock, and completely ruffled the impatient,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> -fanciful temper of her mistress. Rita delayed consequently as long as -she could find something to occupy her in her kitchen, wilfully keeping -her untimely visitor waiting. “What can she want with me? She had better -ask for Harry if she has anything to say. Like my baby indeed! I wonder -what next?” Rita said to herself. But at last, when there was no further -excuse, she mounted reluctantly the stairs, and walked slowly towards -the drawing-room, Lydia within counting her deliberate steps with a -beating heart that went a great deal faster. It was a duel that was -about to take place between the two.</p> - -<p>“Good morning,” Rita said, coldly; “Italian servants never can manage -English names. I was told it was a young lady, and that is vague. Pray -sit down. I hope there is nothing amiss with Lady Brotherton or Sir -John.”</p> - -<p>“I come—entirely on business of my own,” said Lydia, with a little -timidity. She was taller and altogether a more imposing person by nature -than this small, little, half Italian matron; but Rita had always a -certain grandeur about her, and she was the invaded châtelaine, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> -defender of her house against an intruder. Lydia felt almost afraid of -her, and a little compunctious too.</p> - -<p>“My husband would probably be of more use than I can be. But pray sit -down, and if there is anything I can do——” Rita said, with a majestic -wave of her hand towards a chair.</p> - -<p>But Lydia did not sit down. Her hands sought each other in that same -clasp of agitation which was habitual to her mother. “I must beg you to -pardon me. It is about your husband that I want to ask.”</p> - -<p>“My husband!” Rita said, and no more.</p> - -<p>They stood and looked at each other for a moment, Lydia, appealing, -agitated, as if (she felt) there was something wrong in her interest in -Harry, the little wife towering over her in offended dignity, something -like a Queen Eleanor, though without any cause.</p> - -<p>“I want you to tell me if you know anything of his family, or where he -came from; and when he came here? and if he has ever spoken to you of -any of——, and why he has never taken any notice? It must seem very -strange to you,” Lydia sat pausing, trying a smile of anxious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> -deprecation, “that I should ask such questions as these.”</p> - -<p>“It is very strange indeed. I cannot understand them, or what right you -can have to put them. A stranger must have a very good reason indeed for -interfering at all between a man and his wife.”</p> - -<p>“I do not want to interfere,” cried Lydia; “oh, believe me, it is not -that! I want only to know; and it may be very important for you and the -family, as well as for us. I am only surmising, groping; and I am -not—very old,” the girl said, with that instinctive appeal to personal -feeling with which women invariably back up all arguments, “nor -experienced. I don’t know how to go about it. But it is of so much -importance, if I only could tell you right, to my mother, and all of us, -and may be to you too.”</p> - -<p>“Your mother, and all of you! What do you mean? What have you to do with -my husband?” Rita cried.</p> - -<p>The wonder, and even the indignation, were natural enough. To be -confronted all at once by a stranger demanding news of your husband, -declaring that what she wishes to find out will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> be very important to -her mother—what could be more bewildering, more irritating to a woman? -Her nostrils began to expand, and her eyes to flash. “There is evidently -some mystery here which I am unable to fathom,” she said.</p> - -<p>“It is a very innocent mystery,” said Lydia; “there is nothing in it -that will do him any harm, or you. If you will not tell me, will you -take him a message from me? It must be cleared up one way or another, -for we are going away to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Oliver is in the office,” said Rita coldly, walking to the bell. -“He can be sent for at once.”</p> - -<p>“Will you wait a little, please?” Lydia said, faintly; “though I feel so -sure, yet I may be wrong. Will you take a message for me? It will be -better if you will do it than seeing him myself.”</p> - -<p>“I would rather not be mixed up with any mystery.” Rita had her hand on -the bell. She was drawn up to twice her usual height, her small foot -planted firmly on the ground, her head thrown back, her whole person -instinct with resistance, defiance, and indignation. And Lydia<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> before -her, flushed and excited, was not at all unlike a suppliant handmaiden, -whom the wife had a right to reject and cast forth out of her house.</p> - -<p>“Oh, do not be so hard upon me,” she cried. “Listen to what I want you -to say to him. Would I send any message that could hurt him by his -wife?”</p> - -<p>“Hurt—him—” Rita began to be confused, and took her hand from the -bell. “But it might hurt me.”</p> - -<p>“It will not hurt you. Don’t delay, don’t delay!” cried Lydia; “if you -knew what a thing it is to wait. And think how my poor mother has been -waiting all these ten years—and I said when I left her that I should -find him. Mrs. —— no, no, I cannot call you by that name—it is -unworthy! Mrs. Harry—will you go and say this to him from me? Listen, -listen; you must not make any mistake. Uncle Henry is dead. He has left -all his money to his nephew who went away. If he does not come home it -will be divided, and wrong will be done. Will you say that to your -husband for me?”</p> - -<p>“Uncle Henry—and his money—and his nephew. What is the meaning of all -this?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> What do we know about all this—and who are you?” It was Rita now -who was losing command of herself.</p> - -<p>“If <i>he</i> understands,” said Lydia, dropping down in a chair in the -mingled exhaustion and relief of having at last had her say, “I will -tell you who I am. You don’t know the meaning, but I am sure he will -know. Oh, Mrs. Harry, it is so simple a test! Will you not try it? If he -does not understand no harm will be done, and you can judge of it for -yourself. If he knows what it means you will soon know all about me.”</p> - -<p>She began to cry, with little tremulous laughs between, in her -agitation. She was entirely overcome by the excitement of the crisis—so -near finding out, so sure, and yet still a little cloud of suspense and -uncertainty between. Rita stood and looked at her—her rival was it? who -was it?—with a tremor of wonder and rising excitement, and even a -sympathy which nature exacted, which she was most unwilling to bestow. -Then reluctantly she went out of the room, slowly and carefully closing -the door behind her, and walking along the corridor as if counting every -step she took. It was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> last struggle of her instinctive opposition -with awakened interest, excitement, curiosity, and alarm. She ran along -the passage to the office as soon as she was out of hearing of the -other. In a moment more she would know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE DECISIVE MOMENT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>R. BONAMY felt weary of his morning’s expedition. It was not that there -was really anything to tire him in it; but he was dejected, -disappointed, mortified. He did not feel able to go into the office as -usual, to meet Harry as usual, to do and say the usual things. He -thought he would go into the house instead, and rest a little, and see -Rita and the children, and try to console himself with the reflection -that this painful discovery only made them all belong to himself the -more. It was a poor consolation, and yet in a way it was sure. He felt -them more his now that he was certain no other family could claim them. -Poor girl! poor babies! some time they might be glad<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> to take the name -of Bonamy instead of that wretched one that was their own. He did not -intend to say a word to Rita on the subject, but he did what it was the -habit of this imprudent man to do, he thrust himself into temptation. He -went, all emotional and disturbed as he was, into the dwelling-house, -into the room where his daughter would most likely be found, and where -she was certain to inquire into the cause of his depression. In half an -hour, in the ordinary state of affairs, he would have been at Rita’s -mercy, and notwithstanding all his fine resolutions would have betrayed -everything to her. He went in, however, determined not to say a word, -only to show his child who was injured, though she did not know it, that -her father’s tenderness would never fail her. He was so foolish that he -went into a jeweller’s on his way, and bought a little ornament for her. -And he meant to say something very kind of Harry too, though it was by -Harry that his humiliation had come. A peasant, a servant! and his poor -child who might have been a princess! but he would make it up to her, -and she should never know.</p> - -<p>In this mood Mr. Bonamy went into the dim and cool drawing-room, out of -the heat and glare of the streets. He saw some one seated near the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> -window, but he could not for the first moment make out who it was. He -was greatly disappointed, however, to have the privacy of his first -interview with his daughter interfered with, and though he was too -polite to show his annoyance, yet it was with no friendly feelings -towards the intruder that he made his way among the furniture to the -spot where she sat. He had looked for a moment of <i>attendrissement</i>, of -something like the old unbroken union between the father and child. Your -husband is a disappointment, but your father will never forsake you; he -did not mean to say this, would not have said it for the world; but he -intended that it should be understood, and there was no doubt a -melancholy enjoyment in the anticipation. Whoever this stranger might be -he wished her at Jericho; nevertheless courtesy goes before all, and he -went up to her, with the full intention of being friendly if he knew -her, and at all events civil, as became a man in all circumstances -towards a lady in his daughter’s drawing-room. Lydia looked up as he -approached. She saw him well enough, her eyes being accustomed to the -darkness. She was white as a ghost, and trembling, expecting, though -there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> was not yet time, the return of Rita with an answer to her -message—perhaps, if she was right, of Harry himself, and his -recognition, and the clearing up of the whole matter. But when she saw -only Mr. Bonamy, her heart seemed to stand still. She threw up her arms -with a pained and wondering cry.</p> - -<p>“Oh, is it only <i>you</i>? Oh, am I wrong, am I wrong, after all?”</p> - -<p>The Vice-Consul was as much surprised as she was to find her there; and -he was piqued, as an oldish (not very old) man, who knows himself to be -a handsome man, notwithstanding his years, would naturally be by such an -address; but he pulled himself together, and laughed, and bowed.</p> - -<p>“It’s only I, as you say, Miss Joscelyn. I am very sorry to disappoint -you. I daresay some one more interesting will soon be here.”</p> - -<p>Lydia was so over-excited, so exhausted with the agitations of the night -and the excitements of the morning, that she burst out crying while he -was speaking. The Vice-Consul was confounded; but he was never more in -his element than when administering consolation. He took her gently by -the hand, and put her back into the seat from which she had risen. “My<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span> -dear young lady,” he said, soothingly, “I am grieved to see you -distressed. What is the matter? In what are you wrong?” Then he began to -understand dimly that Lydia’s distress must be somehow connected with -his own. He grew very grave, though he still held her hand with fatherly -kindness. “If you have come to tell Rita anything unpleasant about her -husband,” he said, “I am very, very sorry you should have thought it -right to do so, Miss Joscelyn. I have heard it all from Lady Brotherton. -I don’t deny that it has wounded me; but, after all, my daughter did not -marry her husband for his relations, but for himself. He is the just the -same in himself as he has been these nine, ten years. To tell me would -have been right enough, but why vex Rita? She need never know anything -about it. Neither, so far as I am concerned, is there any need to -reproach Harry with it. I do not even intend to let him know that I am -acquainted with the condition of his family. Let me persuade you, Miss -Joscelyn—you ought to be of gentle mind, so young, and pretty, and -gentle-looking as you are—to pretend this is only a common call, and -not to say anything to Rita, or to him either, poor fellow. Rita is a -girl of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> high spirit; she might not forgive her husband. Come, come, -let me take you back to Lady Brotherton; and forget that you have ever -seen young Oliver, or his wife, or myself, or any one here.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Bonamy, you are very, very kind. We don’t say much in the north -country, but I think I love you,” Lydia said.</p> - -<p>A smile came over his face; even in such circumstances the Vice-Consul -could not help being pleased. “This is very sweet and very pleasant, and -I have no doubt the feeling would soon be mutual—if you will do what I -ask you, what I beg of you. Let these young people alone. Why should you -interfere with them? I hope the Olivers are decent people, at least, if -nothing more.”</p> - -<p>“The Olivers,” cried Lydia, hotly, “are poor folk; they are nobody; they -have nothing to do with it. I will never more submit to call Harry by -that name. I couldn’t do it even at first, though I couldn’t tell why.”</p> - -<p>“Now what does this mean?” said Mr. Bonamy, quickly. “What does this -mean? Is there some further story to be told? God bless my soul! what is -it, young lady? You are not the sort of person to interfere and make -mischief. If there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> was anything disagreeable to be told, why not send -for her father and tell it to me?”</p> - -<p>“There is no reason why it should be disagreeable. I may be wrong—I may -still be wrong,” cried Lydia. “Oh, don’t speak for a moment that we may -hear her step coming back! If he comes with her, then I shall know I am -right. A few minutes will make me—I sent Mrs. Harry with a message to -him. I thought he would like best, if it was true, to tell her himself. -Oh, listen, listen! is there nobody coming? This was the message I sent: -‘Uncle Henry is dead, and he has left his property, and it will all be -divided and lost to you if you do not come back.’ Did you hear anything? -If he understands that, don’t you see?—you can judge for yourself—I -shall be right; and mother, dear mother!” cried Lydia, with an outburst -of tears.</p> - -<p>Mr. Bonamy stood by her confounded. “Uncle Henry is dead, and has left -his property? What else could Uncle Henry do? he could not take it with -him if he is dead. If he understands that! Well, I do not understand it, -that is one thing certain.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, open one of those dreadful windows; that there may be a little -light—a little light!” Lydia cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span></p> - -<p>The Vice-Consul obeyed quite humbly; he had lost his standing-ground -altogether, even the painful bit of soil he had got under his feet this -morning. He seemed swimming in a sea of bewildered conjecture. He opened -the <i>persiani</i>, throwing a broad bar of sunshine across the dark room: -and then there ensued another pause. They waited in complete silence, he -confounded, shuffling about, taking up things and putting them down, to -the exasperation of Lydia’s nerves, who sat bolt upright and pale as her -dress, with her eyes fixed upon the door.</p> - -<p>No ordinary measure of time could be sufficient to calculate what this -was; it was hours; it was weeks; it was minutes. Lydia had time to go -over everything in her thoughts; to glance at the aspect of affairs at -home; the consternation of Will and Tom; the happiness of her mother; -the mingled wonder and delight of Joan. She had time to go through -half-a-dozen scenes with Lionel; to speculate how her father would take -it: to realise even old Isaac Oliver’s gape of astonishment when he -heard that Harry had taken his name of all names in the world—before at -last there came a sound, unfamiliar to her, but which Mr. Bonamy knew, -the little click of the swing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> door at the end of the passage which -communicated with the office. Then came the sound of steps. Lydia rose -up to her feet to meet the decision whatever it was. She trembled so -that she could scarcely stand, and seeing this the Vice-Consul, though -not yet in charity with her, went to her side in his kindness, and drew -her arm within his. “Lean upon me, my poor child,” he said. They stood -on one side of the broad band of light which divided the room, and -which, though it showed to them the other two who came in, also -arm-in-arm, concealed them from the new-comers. Rita, tearful and -excited but not melancholy, was clinging to her husband’s arm. He with -an eager, pre-occupied face pressed forward across the light. “Confound -that sunshine! who opened the window?” were the first words he said, -then strode along across it, paying but little regard to Rita, whom he -dragged after him. When he got face to face with Lydia he paused.</p> - -<p>“Was it you that sent me that message?” he said. “Is it true?”</p> - -<p>Lydia’s emotion fled in a moment at this matter-of-fact address. She -drew her arm out of Mr. Bonamy’s, trembling no longer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span></p> - -<p>“It is true,” she said; “they have advertised and done everything to -find you.”</p> - -<p>“I know—I know. I saw that; but they never said why. And they would -like to take it from me! Will and Tom—and their father.”</p> - -<p>“For shame!” she said; “not father. He is the one that stands out—with -mother, and Joan, and me.”</p> - -<p>He had been quite steady and business-like, almost stern, up to this -moment; now he suddenly fell a-laughing in the strangest way.</p> - -<p>“What a united family!” he said, “Mother—and Joan—and you. Who are -you? Little Liddy, the little girl at school, that poor mother always -thought—but, poor soul! she thought that of me too.”</p> - -<p>Lydia’s excitement was almost uncontrollable; but she was a -North-country girl, and she kept herself down a moment longer.</p> - -<p>“Joan always says still,” she said, “that there was a great deal of -mother in you.”</p> - -<p>And then he burst forth into a half shriek of laughter and sobs.</p> - -<p>“Look here, I can’t stand it any longer,” he cried. “Mother—is living -then, and all right?” He seized her by the shoulders, looked her in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> -face, kissed her almost roughly, brushing his beard along her smooth -cheek. “I knew you the first moment,” he said, “you little thing! I knew -you the first moment. You were always a clever baby from your cradle. I -have often thought the last baby was like you. You were the sharpest -little thing! Of course I knew nobody else could be Liddy Joscelyn. And -you thought I belonged to old Isaac, eh? that is the best joke I ever -heard. Old Isaac—is the old fellow living? And father—stood out for -me? Well he ought to, for it is along of him——” Here Harry stopped a -minute, put Lydia away, and looked round him upon the two silent -spectators who regarded this scene with an astonishment beyond words. He -made a pause, pulling himself up all at once. “Poor old father,” he -said, “after all he’s done more for me than anyone (I called the boy -after him, you can tell him). It is along of him—that I found the best -friend and the dearest wife that ever was.”</p> - -<p>And Harry gathered his Rita—who had been standing by with a countenance -swept by all manner of emotions: now angry, now melting, wondering, -bewildered, indignant, always chill with that sense of being left out, -which is the most terrible of sensations to such as she—into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> his arms -and kissed her, and put his hand over her forehead as if clearing some -veil away. “You are not Mrs. Oliver any longer,” he cried; “that’s a -good thing over. You’re Rita Joscelyn, and the best and the sweetest -that ever did honour to the name. Isn’t she a little beauty, Liddy? What -will mother say to her, and to the children?” Here poor Harry, -overmastered by excitement and pleasure, fairly burst out crying, and -kissed his wife over and over, sobbing, and bedewed her hair with his -tears.</p> - -<p>“You might let her speak to me, Harry,” said Lydia, crying a little in -sympathy, but brightening and beaming too.</p> - -<p>“This is all very astonishing,” said Mr. Bonamy. “You have talked a -great deal in an unknown tongue, and kissing is all very well, Harry; -but you owe a fuller explanation to me.”</p> - -<p>Then Lydia stepped forth. “We are the Joscelyns of Joscelyn Tower—the -real old Joscelyns whom everybody knows in the Fell country,” she said. -“We are not quite so rich as we once were (but father has been doing so -well lately,” she added, in a parenthesis to Harry) “and we live in the -White House. <i>He</i> ran away ten years ago, and never has written, never -has sent a word<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> (oh, shame, Harry! and poor mother breaking her heart) -all this time. But when I left home in November,” Liddy said, holding -her head high, “to come abroad, I told them I should find him, I should -bring Harry home; nobody believed me of course, but I have done it; and -now, Mr. Bonamy, you know why I said I loved you. We are relations,” she -said, holding out her hand; “we all belong to the same family now.”</p> - -<p>The Vice-Consul was greatly touched; and he was deeply relieved at the -same time in his own mind (though, if truth were told, a little, just a -little, disappointed too). He took the hand she offered to him very -gallantly, with his old-fashioned, paternal grace. “Then, my dear, I may -as well follow Harry’s good example,” he said, stooping over her to kiss -her forehead. “I am very glad to receive you into my family.” Yet he -would have liked to have had his daughter all to himself. The Isaac -Oliver business, which had seemed such a terrible downfall an hour ago, -looked a little, just a little, to be regretted now. It was an unworthy -thought, and Mr. Bonamy felt that it was so. He in his turn held out his -hand to his son-in-law. “When you are at leisure,” he said, plaintively, -“perhaps you will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> shake hands with me in your new capacity. Harry -Joscelyn—is that your name now? Well, it is preferable to that of Isaac -Oliver one must allow.”</p> - -<p>As for Rita she was crying a little on her husband’s shoulder. “I don’t -think so,” she said. “I like all things as they were. I shall never know -who people are speaking to when they say Mrs. Joscelyn; and how are we -to explain to——. We are not going to tell everybody all the story, I -hope.”</p> - -<p>This was a little perversity not to be got over all at once. She had not -said anything to Lydia; she could scarcely forgive Lydia for being her -Harry’s sister, for finding him out, for resembling the baby: she saw -that herself now, but was angry with Benedetta for having discovered it, -and with Lydia for having in that disagreeable way announced a private -claim upon her (Rita’s) family. No doubt Ralph would be like her too, -for he and the baby had always been said to resemble each other. Poor -little Ralfino—Rita, who up to this moment had called him Raaf in -defiance of all Italianisms, instantly conferred upon him the softening -vowel and diminutive: Ralfo, Ralfino he should be henceforward, she -decided in a moment; and she took no notice of Lydia.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span> Papa, she said to -herself, was doing all that was necessary in that way.</p> - -<p>Thus the scene of the discovery, the restoration of Harry to his family, -and his inheritance to its right owner, which according to all dramatic -precedent ought to have been ecstatic, was not at all so, and ended in -embarrassment and mutual annoyance. The results would be very -advantageous in every way to the hero himself and his wife and children, -and would not be advantageous, but the reverse to Liddy, who was at once -so much the poorer by Harry’s discovery. But it was she who gained, not -she who lost, who took the revelation unpleasantly. “You will have to -go—to England I suppose,” she said, looking askance at the new-found -sister, and clasping the arm of her husband; and there was a grudge in -her tone.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my darling; I must go and see my mother.”</p> - -<p>“That is your first duty,” said Mr. Bonamy, almost severely; the -severity was intended for his perverse child, but she took no notice of -it. “Of course you must go to your mother. If I had known, my boy, that -there was a mother in the case——”</p> - -<p>“Oh! for heaven’s sake, papa, don’t upbraid him now! it is bad enough -without that. When<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> must you go? and why, now that I am strong as a -little horse, why shouldn’t I go with you?” cried Rita, clasping his arm -with both hers.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know any reason, dear, except——” Harry turned appealing eyes -upon Mr. Bonamy, who had stiffened into a man of stone.</p> - -<p>“Except—your solemn promise,” said the father; “but that was thought -very binding in my day.”</p> - -<p>“In that case there is nothing more to be said, Sir,” said Harry, not -without a shade of incipient offence; and then he turned to his wife. -“It will only be for a very short time, my darling. I shall not be away -from you, you may be sure, a moment longer than I can help.”</p> - -<p>Oh, sublime selfishness of marriage! which looks like the most generous -and perfect of sentiments to the two concerned; the bystanders scarcely -saw it in the same light. The father, realizing that his child had to be -consoled for being left a week or two to his sole company and -tenderness; the sister, who had taken so much trouble to reinstate her -brother in his fortune and family, finding out that he was to give to -that family not a moment longer than he could help—looked at each other -with a mutual understanding,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> which found vent on Lydia’s side in an -uncontrollable laugh of mingled humour and disgust. “Mother would be -pleased to hear you say so, Harry,” she cried, “after ten years. I think -you might give her a day or two of your free will beyond that.”</p> - -<p>Rita was very quick-witted, and she saw and was ashamed. She detached -herself from her husband and drew near to his sister. “I daresay you -don’t like me, d’avance, because I have the first right to him,” she -said.</p> - -<p>“I have never seen him since I was a child,” said Liddy, with dignity. -“It cannot be supposed that it makes much difference to me. I was very -anxious to find him for mother’s sake, and to let him have his property, -because it was justice, but otherwise why should I fight with any one -about him? he is a stranger to me.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say so, Liddy,” her brother cried.</p> - -<p>“I must say so when I am asked such questions. Mrs. Harry does not seem -to understand,” Liddy said.</p> - -<p>There is nothing perfect in this world. How different, how very -different, she had expected it all to be! She had expected perhaps that -Harry himself would be a little gratified, that he would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> be touched by -the faith in him of his little sister and her determination to find him. -Lydia had herself forgotten that this determination had fallen much into -the background in her recent wanderings. She thought her mind had always -been full of it, and that this was the recompense of her devotion. She -was hurt and wounded. Though she was Harry’s sister, and though she had -brought him a fortune in her hand, she was still a stranger in Harry’s -house, and his wife defied her. She could have cried this time in sheer -mortification and injured feeling. “I will let them know that you are -here,” she said with as much stateliness as she could muster. “I have -done all that I suppose is in my power. I will not intrude upon anyone.” -What a dreadful thing it is to be a woman and have that weakness of -crying when you are hurt! Liddy kept her tears in her eyes only by main -force, and could not altogether succeed in subduing the tremor in her -voice.</p> - -<p>At this moment, however, the door opened, and the servant appeared, -introducing Lionel, who stared when he saw the party thus assembled. -Lionel was not in the best of tempers. He had been making inquiries as -best he could, and he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> had found all Lydia’s guesses confirmed. But he -had gone back to find that she had stolen a march upon him, and he was -exceedingly cross, so cross that he was sometimes very angry with, and -at other times very sorry for, himself. When he had made his bow to -Rita, and stared with a gloomy countenance at her husband, he turned to -Lydia with suppressed passion. “My mother has sent me for you,” he said. -“She wishes you to remember that everything must be ready early to be -sent down to the steamboat. Time and tide will wait for no man, you -know.” This was said with a little smile, as if he were beginning to -perceive, and wanted at least to hide from the others, the vexation in -his tone.</p> - -<p>This made a diversion, and as the whole story had to be told him, the -members of this strange family group were drawn nearer to each other in -spite of themselves. Under cover of the little commotion of talk which -got up, all of them sometimes speaking together, Rita, who began with -her quick intelligence to realize the position, and to see her own -ungraciousness, took the opportunity to draw a little nearer to Lydia. -She kissed her when she went away. “I—I hope you will forgive me if I -was bewildered,” she said:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> and Lydia forgave. But she was not the less -stately when she left the party, feeling, with a little bitterness, that -without her they would talk the matter over more at their ease. Lionel -was stately, too. He made them his congratulations with the utmost -gravity, as if pleasure were out of the question, and he took the -earliest opportunity to remind Lydia a second time that his mother was -waiting, and that the things must be sent to the boat. They went out of -the house together in a sort of armed pacification, a truce hastily -patched up, stalking side by side, not looking at each other. Going out -into the street was a sort of solemnity to them, like steering out into -the sea on a voyage in which they did not know what might happen. -Anything might happen in it. They might quarrel for ever and ever, they -might part not to see each other again. They might do anything—except -walk quietly from the British Consulate to the Leone, where Lady -Brotherton was waiting, fretting over Miss Joscelyn’s box, which was not -locked, and of which no one could find the key.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<small>IN THE STREET.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span>UT in the street, out upon the world, out upon a perfectly lonely sea, -where they saw nobody and thought of nobody, but those two worlds of -themselves, he and she, moving alone together, with a little space of -clear daylight between them, the two parallel lines which can never come -together so long as measurements last—For a time they moved on with no -communication at all, each feeling very solitary, and unspeakably -dignified and superior to all trivial thoughts and words. What could -they have to say? What does he care? Lydia said to herself; what does -anyone care but me? She had done her work, but she had not got much -satisfaction out of it. It had estranged her friends<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> from her, and -everybody. Her mother would be pleased, that was always a little -consolation to think of. Dear mother! and what if she were disappointed -too? You never can tell how little satisfaction there is in a new thing -till it has happened, she said to herself. In her preoccupation she -stumbled over a crossing, over the rough pavement, and then her -companion spoke.</p> - -<p>“Take care; these little streets are so many traps. Will you take my arm -till we get into the smoother way?”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” said Lydia, “it is not at all necessary. I did not notice -where I was going.”</p> - -<p>“You prefer not to be helped in anything,” her adversary said.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, no; if anybody will help me, I am always very thankful,” Lydia -replied.</p> - -<p>And then he turned his eyes upon her. “I think you are mistaken in -yourself,” he said, quickly, “we often are. You think women should be -independent and manage their own affairs.”</p> - -<p>Lydia raised her eyebrows a little.</p> - -<p>“I was not thinking about women, or what they should do. I think -everyone, woman or not, likes best to look after their own affairs -themselves.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so? I have always been brought up to believe that it was a -man’s part to take the rough work, and that a woman did well to accept -his help.”</p> - -<p>“Cousin Lionel,” said Lydia, “if you are angry because I went off to Mr. -Bonamy’s myself, instead of leaving you to work things your own way, you -are surely very unreasonable. I was sure of it; there was not any reason -to doubt; and why should I bother you about what I could do so easily? -It was my business; you could not be supposed to—take—much interest.”</p> - -<p>“Trouble me!” he cried, “take much interest! Do you think there is -anything you care for that I don’t take an interest in? What is the -chief thing I have thought of ever since I knew you? You speak so much -at your ease; I wish you would tell me that.”</p> - -<p>“I hope it is nothing to be angry with me about,” said Lydia, with -meekness, “but how can I know?”</p> - -<p>“No, I suppose you don’t know,” he said, with almost a scornful tone, -“you have only seen me every day these five months, and talked to me, -and pretended to take some interest in me, as you say; and now you turn -upon me and ask me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> how can you know? How can you help knowing? is what -I should say.”</p> - -<p>“Cousin Lionel, I don’t know why you should be angry. If I had waited -for you this morning I should have lost my chance. There was so little -time to do anything; and time runs away so fast when it is the last -day.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think I am talking only of this morning? What is this morning? -It is all the time I complain of. It has just been the same all the -time.”</p> - -<p>And now it was Lydia’s turn to look round, this time in unfeigned -surprise; but her glance at him, perhaps, gave her more information than -his words: at least, there was a subtle tone of hypocrisy in the -meekness with which she asked.</p> - -<p>“Have I displeased you all the time?” with a little tragic accent of -remonstrance. “I am so sorry,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Sorry! and displeased! it is not words like those that will do any -good,” Lionel cried.</p> - -<p>Liddy looked at him again piteously, but perhaps in the puckers round -her eyes, and the droop of her mouth, there was a dimple or two which -the faintest touch could have turned into smiles. She shook her head.</p> - -<p>“You are hard upon me, Cousin Lionel; you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> are angry about this morning, -and then you tell me it is not this morning; but all the time; and when -I say I am sorry (what else can I say? for I am very sorry, and so -mistaken! I thought we were such friends!) you say, words like these -will not do any good. What am I to say? It is a discovery I never -expected to make, that I had been—disagreeable all the time.”</p> - -<p>“I think you want to drive me out of my senses!” he cried.</p> - -<p>Which, indeed, was very foolish; she had all the reason and force of the -argument on her side, and he, having at some point in the altercation -taken a wrong turning, got only further and further astray at every step -he made.</p> - -<p>Lydia by this time had recovered all her usual composure. When one party -to a controversy gets hot and weak, the other becomes calm. She felt -herself to have the best of it, and it was a pleasure to her, after her -recent discomfiture, to have the upper hand, and find herself in the -exciting position, not altogether un-enjoyable, of skilfully fencing and -keeping off an agitated man’s self-disclosure. It agitated herself a -little, but the circumstances strengthened her. Besides, whatever was -going to be said, this was not the moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> to say it, in the streets, -with the Leone almost within sight. His self-betrayal gave her force to -stand against him.</p> - -<p>“Here we are,” she said, softly, “almost at home—if you can call the -hotel home. Whatever I have done amiss, I hope you will pardon me. We -shall be such a short time together now. Oh——!” for some one, darting -forward, caught her with the very tears in her eye, the quaver in the -tone. “Mr.—Paul; Signor——”</p> - -<p>“Not me,” said Paolo, shaking his head; “I am born in Livorno, but -except that I am an Englishman; Mees Joscelyn will not find it is -necessary to say Signor to me. I have had a commission—from the bureau. -I am in this direction, and I wait to pay my—homage—to lay once more -my respects—from the heart, from the heart!” said little Paolo, laying -his hand upon that organ, “at these ladies’ feet, and to ask if I can be -of service. The Signor Consul has authorized me. I am known, well known, -on the board of the <i>vapore</i>. I could arrange the baggage, select the -cabins, what Mees Joscelyn will.”</p> - -<p>Lionel repeated instinctively his movement of last night; he came a step -nearer, as if to keep the anxious Italian off.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span></p> - -<p>“We are much obliged to you, but our own servant has looked after all -that,” he said.</p> - -<p>Paolo’s eyes flashed a little. The Englishman was rude; but in Paolo’s -experience Englishmen were very often rude, and he was not surprised. -Englishwomen, that was a different matter. He gave his shoulders a -little shrug, and turned to Lydia once more.</p> - -<p>“A servant—that is one thing,” he said, with a wave of his hand, “there -are many, and the travellers many. One pays not too much attention to -servants; but me, I think I can command——” Paolo said this with an -ineffable look of modest importance; and he added in a lower tone: “To -make it more easy for these ladies to go away—that is not what I should -wish to do; but one must forget one’s self, and there may come another -time—perhaps?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Lydia, smiling. She was so glad to come to an end of the -<i>tête-à-tête</i>, which was becoming so embarrassing, that she smiled with -double sweetness upon Paolo. “Indeed I shall have more to do with -Leghorn than I ever supposed. Mr. Oliver—who is your friend——”</p> - -<p>“My friend—of my heart,” said Paolo, laying his hand once more on his -much-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span>decorated bosom. He had dressed himself in all his finest chains -and buttons, and a beautiful waistcoat, that Lydia might see him at his -best.</p> - -<p>“Ah!—he is my brother,” Lydia said. She had begun to shake off the -jarred and painful feelings that had spoiled her morning’s work. -Daylight and ordinary life, and a new excitement between her and that, -began to restore the perspective; and as she made this announcement the -first really wholesome natural sense of pleasure came over her. It was -Lionel who was out of perspective now, too close to her, overshadowing -heaven and earth. But the other event began to appear in its natural -size and aspect. Paolo’s state of wonder was unfeigned. The Italian was -quick enough to observe the undercurrents around him on ordinary -occasions; but Lydia had made too great and immediate an impression upon -him to leave his eyes free for anything else.</p> - -<p>“Your brother!” he cried.</p> - -<p>“Tell me how he arrived here, as you told me last night; but I did not -know all the meaning of it then,” said Lydia. “Tell me again how he -came, and carried his own box.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>She was more than half in earnest, wanting to hear about Harry, and yet -it was half a pretence; she could not help but be conscious of the -figure at her elbow stalking along in silent disgust, ready to abandon -her for ever, and all the plans connected with her; ready to seize the -little Italian by his coatcollar and whirl him away into the sea or air, -yet jealous of losing a word of what was said. Lionel walked along the -street like an embodied thunder-cloud, and they were already at the door -of the Leone, which thank heaven, he thought, would at least put an end -to this. It did not do so, however, for Lydia in her perversity insisted -upon carrying Paolo with her to Lady Brotherton, interrupting him in the -midst of the narrative she had asked for, but which in her gradually -increasing excitement about her other companion she could not listen to. -She broke into it just as Paolo, with the water in his eyes, was -recounting how he had thrown himself on Harry’s bosom and sworn eternal -friendship. “Siamo amici, I said to him,” said Paolo. “What is mine is -thine. I will be your caution; I will respond for you; I will present -you——” “Come upstairs, Mr. Paul,” said Lydia, restless, “Lady -Brotherton<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> will be glad to have you to help us.” He stopped short, thus -interrupted in the midst of his narrative, and it hurt poor Paolo. But -next moment he smiled with his usual sweet temper, and followed her. -Lionel could not help feeling that in the same circumstances he could -have almost killed her—which, indeed, was the state of his mind now. -And then there followed such an afternoon of trouble and excitement as -drove Lionel nearly out of his senses. Lady Brotherton had to be told -the strange story, and then Sir John, who could not understand it at -all; and afterwards, in the midst of all the preparations for the start, -“all Leghorn,” the indignant young man said to himself, poured down upon -them. All Leghorn meant Harry and his family, and Mr. Bonamy, who came -one after another in different degrees of excitement. Rita arrived first -with her two youngest children and their nurse, to show to her new -sister-in-law, and to make amends for her previous want of graciousness. -“I could not understand it—how could I understand it?” she said, and -she was magnanimous enough to point out the resemblance of the bambino -to his aunt. Then came Harry to say that he had made hasty preparations -to go home<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> with his sister, and would join them that evening at the -steamboat. And finally the Vice-Consul’s exertions brought some sort of -enlightenment to Sir John, whose first idea was that Mr. Bonamy’s -son-in-law wanted to marry little Liddy, though he had already a wife of -his own. All these perpetual visitors kept the party in a whirl of -commotion, and Lionel, at last driven to the end of his patience, -sallied forth and walked about till the moment of departure came, all -but cursing Harry, and vowing to himself that he would take no further -trouble, but let Lydia depart as she came. Why should he take any -trouble? His mother would not like it. They (his parents) would wish -him, if he married, to marry somebody with money, somebody with -position, somebody—— Ah! Here he took himself by the shoulders, so to -speak, and shook himself fiercely, and called himself, “you fool!” as if -there was any question of marrying anybody! as if she would have him! -Was she not pouring contempt upon him? putting even that little -hop-o’-my thumb before him, preferring a little Italian beggar, hung all -over with jewellery! These were poor Lionel’s reflections as he wandered -about the streets. And that other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> fellow, the brother, if he was her -brother, was going with them; would talk to her, who could doubt it, the -whole time, and never give a man a chance——! Lionel would have liked, -without much hyperbole, to smother them all, or pitch them into the sea.</p> - -<p>At last the moment of departure came. Rita, with a flush of excitement -about her, her cheeks hot, her eyes shining, and without a tear, came to -the steamboat with her husband to see him away. He whispered again in -her ear that he would not stay a moment longer than he could help; that -he would count the days he was away from her; that she must not worry -about him, must not feel lonely.</p> - -<p>“Lonely!” she cried, in a tone which wounded poor Harry deeply. “Oh no, -I shall not be lonely. I mean to amuse myself very much. I shall go -everywhere. I shall not miss you at all. Ser Paolo will take care of -me.”</p> - -<p>“You will have your father to take care of you, my darling,” Harry said, -very gravely, with a little surprise; and then he added, with a laugh, -“he will be glad to be rid of me for once, to have you all to himself. -But Paul-o, all the same, will stand by you, I know,” he said, turning -round to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> his friend lest his susceptible feelings should be wounded; -“it is not that I doubt Paul-o—who will do everything.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, everything,” Paolo said, with a fervent grip of his friend’s hand.</p> - -<p>And Rita laughed. Why should she laugh? She did not shed a tear to part -with him. Harry looked over the bulwark of the ship and watched his -little wife standing in the boat which had brought them on board as long -as he could make her out. The boatmen lay on their oars, and Rita stood -up, waving her handkerchief, with Paolo by her side. These two figures, -and after them all the features of the well-known scene, and then the -very place itself, which was his home, which contained all his -independent life, dropped away into the mists, into the distance. He had -said to himself many a day that he would never go back; yet he was going -back, severing himself, as he had done before, from everything he knew -or cared for. And Rita had not seemed to care! He was not sentimental, -but he turned away when there was no longer anything to be seen of -Leghorn, with a little shiver, and a pang at his heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<small>AT SEA.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T was a beautiful night, the stars shining like diamonds, like ethereal -lamps in the sky, clear and crisp, with a twinkle and movement in them -as of something living; the sea all in a ripple, in absolute -peacefulness yet endless life, sweeping like a smooth, green, -transparent flood of liquid metal under the bow, seething in white curd -and spray behind, marking a long, moving line of white across its -surface as the great boat rustled and fretted on. The air was so sweet, -the sea so calm, that everybody stayed late on deck, except Lady -Brotherton, who had placed herself at once on her sofa with her eyes -closed, not to see the motion, of which, even when there was no motion -at all, she was afraid. But Sir<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> John sat on deck till it was late, -enjoying the voyage greatly, and, in the absence of his wife, keeping -his son near him, and addressing to him all his thousand questions. -“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Shay, Lionel, what’sh that Consul fellow doing with Liddy, ’shgot a -wife of hish own.” “You forget,” Lionel said, “that he’s her brother, -Sir—Harry Joscelyn. Mr. Bonamy told you all about it to-day.” “Yesh, -yesh, old Bonamy, easy-going old duffer. ’Shish own daughter—should -take more care of her. You look after little Liddy; shgot wife of his -own.” Lionel looked at the pair walking up and down with feelings it -would be difficult to describe. It was easy to say, take care of little -Liddy. Liddy was hanging on her brother’s arm, quite independent of him. -They two were now the two who belonged to each other now. When they -parted in England it was her brother who would take Lydia home. She had -no need of Lionel to talk to, to make a companion of; Harry was much -better—a novelty, and all women like novelty—and then he was her -brother; what could be more natural and right? Lionel took to theorizing -about women, as men naturally do when ill-used by them. This was the -kind of thing to be expected from these unaccountable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span> creatures, whom, -of course, no man could understand—though every man is surrounded by -them all his life; triumphant folly of sex which transcends all -experience! He railed at women in his heart, because Lydia was occupied, -and had no attention to give him. He heard her laugh, and the soft -current of her voice running on continually, with a kind of maddening -contempt. She leant on her brother’s arm, which she never did on -his—Lionel’s. It made his heart sick to see her thus enjoying herself, -enjoying the balmy night. There was nothing so bad that he did not think -it as the hours of the delightful twilight, the soft, early night, flew -by. Perhaps it was not her fault: were not all women the same? -treacherous, fickle, blown about by every wind—off with the old -whenever there was something new to take to; mysterious, worthless, -untrustworthy creatures, who, however sweet they might be one day, were -never to be relied upon for the next; who would part from you with the -tenderest of farewells and meet you next time as if you were the merest -acquaintance! Lionel felt that he hated the whole sex as he stood by his -father’s side watching these two about the decks. When they passed she -would nod at him, or give<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span> him one of her easy smiles, not in the least -ignoring his position, recognizing it, and coolly suffering it so to be. -At last he had to withdraw, helping Thomas to move his father into the -cabin reserved for him, and consequently losing sight of them for a -moment. When he returned he could not see them, and the rage in him -burned fiercer than ever. Then, on the bridge, high up against the sky, -he discerned something like Harry’s figure, with a red tip of a cigar -appearing above the collar of his warm coat. Harry had become chilly -after ten years of Italian life. Lionel laughed at this effeminacy. He -liked to feel that his own coat was thin, yet quite enough for his -muscular Anglicism. No doubt she had gone in, retired for the night, and -<i>all that</i> was out of the question. He did not specify to himself what -<i>all that</i> was. He had not the heart even for a cigar. If he smoked he -would come across that fellow, and be compelled to talk to him. After -all, it was a great mistake to dis-inter relations whom you know nothing -about. One might be nice—though even of that he felt far from -certain—but the rest were almost sure to be bores, like this fellow. -Indeed, the brothers were all bores, and without any breeding.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> It was a -mistake to have taken any trouble about them, or ever to have sought -them out at all. “Confound them!” he said to himself, facing the breeze, -diving his hands deep down to the bottom of his pockets, and angrily -gazing into the night.</p> - -<p>“Confound whom, Cousin Lionel?” said a voice by his side.</p> - -<p>Lionel started violently, then turned round. “Oh! are you there? I did -not know where you were. I thought you had gone to bed.”</p> - -<p>“Must one go to bed? They say we get to Genoa quite early; and it is -such a lovely, lovely night.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so?” he said, softened; “so do I. If you will stay with -me, I don’t think you need go to bed; but if you are going off again -with that fellow—I mean, of course, with your brother——”</p> - -<p>“It is quite delightful,” said Lydia, with energy, “to have a -brother—you know, a real brother—a little like one’s self: not -elderly, and worldly, and Westmoreland, like Will and Tom.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you were so fond of Westmoreland,” said Lionel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Ah! so I am; but not that kind. Now Harry is—you can’t think what -Harry is——”</p> - -<p>“I know what you want me to think him—the most disgusting interloper, -the worst nuisance in the world. It is quite unaccountable of him to go -and leave you alone here. Doesn’t he know how a lady should be taken -care of? In a common steamboat when there are all sorts of people——”</p> - -<p>“I never knew you were so ill-natured before,” said Lydia in a plaintive -tone. “Poor Harry! he took me to the cabin-door; he thinks I am there -now. I came up afterwards—well—because it is hot there, because it is -such a lovely night, because the sea is so beautiful—look at that light -on it—and, then, because I thought you would perhaps think it civil to -come and say good night.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Liddy!” he cried, seizing her hand and drawing it through his arm, -“come and walk about a little. I thought I was never to have a chance of -saying a word to you to-night. I have been swearing at everything and -everybody.”</p> - -<p>“I thought so,” said Liddy, with a little laugh, “from the expression of -your face.”</p> - -<p>“And you laughed—at my torture<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Would you have had me cry? What could I do? I could not take you from -Sir John; and then you never looked as if you wanted to have anything to -say to us. Well,” said Lydia, stopping short, “now all the purposes of -civility are fulfilled, and we can say good night.”</p> - -<p>But they had not said good night full two hours after, when the short -voyage was almost over, and the lights of Genoa stretching round the -whole breadth of the lovely bay in an ineffectual struggle with the -dawn, began to rise upon their dazzled eyes. Then after a little -struggle Lydia made her escape. “What will Lady Brotherton think? It -must be three o’clock in the morning, and how can I face her? She will -see it in my eyes, and she will not like it. Oh! why didn’t we think of -that sooner? They will not like it, neither she nor Sir John; for I am -nobody, Lionel.”</p> - -<p>“Nobody? you are Liddy—that is enough; and then you forget,” he said, -with a slight sense of humour, “you are a Joscelyn.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is true,” said Lydia, very gravely, “I am a Joscelyn; but we -are not at all what we used to be. Being Joscelyns,” she added, -mournfully, “we are rough country people.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You a rough country people! You are Liddy,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, what is the good of saying that over and over again! Liddy! what is -Liddy? an ugly old-fashioned name. We should have thought of that -sooner. They will not have me,” she said.</p> - -<p>“No, I hope not. It is I that must have you,” said Lionel, and he took -no notice of the fact that it was morning; but, to be sure, there was -nobody except the sailors about. He walked with her to the door of the -cabin as the deceived Harry had done. How much had passed since then! -Liddy thought with shame and self-reproach, as she stole into the -darkened shelter where a peevish little lamp was still burning, that it -would never have happened had she not given him that opportunity. She -<i>had</i> given him the opportunity. She ought to have stayed in the cabin -and prevented all that followed. It was her fault; but perhaps, though -she felt guilty, she did not feel so penitent as she might have done. -Lady Brotherton by dint of shutting her eyes had gone peacefully to -sleep, which was a thing she professed never to do on board ship. Lydia -retired to rest; she stole out of her gown as quiet as a mouse, and -compunctious and guilty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> but very happy, crept into her berth. The -steamer was coming to anchor with great jars and creakings, and heavy -footsteps overhead; and by and by Lydia’s drowsy eyes, so full of -happiness and freshness, yet soft weariness and dreaminess, closed in -spite of her. She did not suppose that she could have slept on such a -night.</p> - -<p>But next day was much more difficult to get through. The honest girl did -not feel that she could look Lady Brotherton in the face. As long as -they were apart, the position, though painful, was possible; but, when -they were together, Lydia was so changed from her usual aspect that Lady -Brotherton could not avoid noticing the alteration. “Liddy, my child, -something is the matter. Are you ill?” she said.</p> - -<p>“No, Lady Brotherton.”</p> - -<p>“Nervous then—this new brother does not quite fit in with your ideas? -You ought to have calculated upon that, Lydia. People cannot be -separated for ten years, and fall into one another’s ways again in a -moment; though I think he is very nice and very gentlemanly myself.”</p> - -<p>“It is not that, Lady Brotherton.”</p> - -<p>“What is it then, my dear? You are not a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> bit like yourself. You are -sorry, a little, to part with us? So am I, my sweet—dreadfully sorry; -but it must only be for a little while. And, then, you know you are -going home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Lady Brotherton, my heart is breaking! It is not even that. It is -that I have got a secret, and you will not be pleased.”</p> - -<p>They were sheltering in Sir John’s deck cabin from the heat of the sun, -the steamboat ploughing peacefully on its further way to Marseilles, the -journey approaching its last stage, and the time of separation drawing -near. Lydia’s eyes were full of tears; she covered her face with her -hand; the other was clasped in that of the kind friend whom she felt she -had betrayed.</p> - -<p>“A secret—how can you have a secret? You have never been away from my -side. I suppose it must be something about love, Liddy—that is the only -secret at your age. And why should I not be pleased—unless you have -made an unworthy choice?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, not that—too good—too good.”</p> - -<p>“Lionel, go away; we don’t want you just now. Liddy has something to -tell me.”</p> - -<p>“It is better that I should tell you for her, mother. She will not let -the secret be kept a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> day. I wanted to put off till—we parted: in case -you should be, as she thinks, displeased: though I can’t believe you -will be displeased.”</p> - -<p>“Lionel!” Of course, from the time he had begun to speak Lady Brotherton -had perceived but too well what the secret was. She loosed her hold of -Lydia’s hand, which lay white and passive in her lap after she had -withdrawn hers, with a kind of appeal in it. Lady Brotherton’s colour -went and came. Hard words came to her lips; but she looked at her son’s -face and paused. “I am displeased, more than displeased; and your father -will never consent to it,” she said.</p> - -<p>Lydia did not say a word, but she sighed and took her hand away, to -clasp it with the other in that pathetic gesture, “the trick of grief,” -which she had learned from her mother. As for Lionel, an only son and -spoilt child, he took matters with a high hand.</p> - -<p>“My father will consent gladly enough if you consent, mother,” he said; -“and what did you expect? You have thrown us together constantly for -five months. You must think me a wretched creature if you thought I -could not manage to persuade her to like me—a little, with all the -opportunities we have had.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It is not that,” said Lady Brotherton, with simplicity, falling into -the snare, “any girl might like you; of course there is nothing -wonderful in that.”</p> - -<p>“And, you see,” he said, “unfortunately I loved her—before we ever -started at all.”</p> - -<p>“Before! and why didn’t you warn me? and I who have been saying you were -so safe, and never thought of each other. Liddy! Liddy! you have -deceived me! You would never look at him, never amuse yourself as you -did with the others, you were always so serious! And pray was it going -on all the time, and was that only dust thrown in my eyes?”</p> - -<p>“I have never deceived anyone,” Liddy said, with a proud elevation of -her head. She could not say, even in her own defence, what the cause of -her serious treatment of her lover was.</p> - -<p>“And how was it settled at last?” Lady Brotherton said. “Since we -started? She has never been away from me night or day.”</p> - -<p>This produced a slight flicker of suppressed laughter even in Lydia’s -depressed bosom.</p> - -<p>“She did not leave the deck till we were in harbour this morning; I kept -her by force,” Lionel said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, that is the most wonderful of all,” cried the not hard-hearted -mother; “did you get into your berth by the port-hole? for I declare I -never closed my eyes all night, you know I never do—and I never once -missed you. I believe you have dreamed it all,” Lady Brotherton said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /><br /> -<small>AT HOME.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE rest of the journey was hurried and feverish. Lady Brotherton was -not hard-hearted; she melted every day when in Liddy’s company, and -under the influence of her son’s persuasions and the sight of his -happiness; but in the night hardened again, occupying herself with -reminiscences of former hopes, and summoning up the ideal woman whom she -had intended Lionel to marry, a girl who should be noble if possible, -rich and beautiful, and with the highest connections, adding to the -dignity of the house of Brotherton, as well as the happiness of its -future head; and in this alternation the long journey was got through. -There was a night in the railway between Marseilles and Paris, a night<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span> -at Paris, a night in London, in every one of which this freezing process -was performed. Every morning the same round had to be gone over again; -by noon the ice was melted; by evening Lady Brotherton would listen -between tears and smiles to her son’s picture of his future life and all -the happiness she would have in her daughter; and would kiss Liddy and -bid her good night almost with an enthusiasm of tenderness. But before -morning all this was undone, and she got up as unwilling as ever. By -common consent Sir John was told nothing of it while the journey lasted. -The information was only to be given him when he was safe at home, and -his fatigues over. It was evening when Lydia, escorted by Harry, left -finally the party of which she had so long formed part, and with which -now her fate was linked so closely. She had stayed two days in London, -days during which Lady Brotherton had been very kind to her—in the -afternoon. And she was very kind to her on that evening, when she took -her in her arms in a farewell embrace. She cried over Liddy, and called -her my child, and bade God bless her.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what I shall do without you. It will be like losing my -right hand,” Lady Bro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span>therton said. And Lionel, as was natural, took a -still more tender leave at the railway.</p> - -<p>“I shall not be long after you,” he whispered, with his head projected -half-way into the carriage. Liddy shook her head.</p> - -<p>“I don’t build any hopes on that. Your mother will——”</p> - -<p>“What will my mother do? If you think I will allow myself to be coerced -by anyone——”</p> - -<p>“But I shall!” said Lydia. “It must never, never be, Lionel, unless she -is pleased.”</p> - -<p>“She will be pleased; but it shall be anyhow, whether she is pleased or -not.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” Lydia said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, yes! and I shall have the last word,” he cried. This little -contention went on till the very moment of their parting, and Lydia put -down her veil and cried gently when it was over, and the darkness had -closed over her and her train, and all that chapter of her life was -over. Was it over? for ever and ever done with, not one last moment -still left between her and the blank of the elder world? It was -dreadful, she knew, to feel as she did, to think of her home with -despair, and all those lingering days which would pass without an -incident, without a break, in dread monotony<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span> and quiet, nothing -happening but a visit from Joan, nothing even to be afraid of but a fit -of temper on her father’s part. She was frightened by the prospect. It -took away her breath. “Mother, dear mother!” she said to herself, with a -gasp of self-disgust; that poor mother would be happy to-day thinking of -her child’s return; she would go all over the house to see that -everything was in order for Liddy. There would be flowers gathered, and -fresh curtains hung, and cakes made, and butter churned, and cream put -upon the table for Liddy. And Liddy, she cried to herself, with an ache -in her heart, Liddy would not care! Oh, the hypocrite she would have to -be; the pretences she would have to make for love’s sake! She must look -happy whether she was happy or not; she must make believe even to be -thankful to get home again. At this Liddy cried still more behind her -veil. Harry observed her with curious eyes. He was very much interested -in his little sister, and he thought he understood women—not like -Lionel, who pretended that they were inscrutable; but then Harry was a -married man.</p> - -<p>“You don’t seem to be very cheerful about going home,” he said, at last.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, very happy,” said Liddy, and cried;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span> “It is only—such a -change—Wandering about has been so different—and one never knows—”</p> - -<p>Here she broke off, and made a vehement effort to be cheerful. “You will -find it very different, too.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I shall find it very different; but I am always sorry for a -girl—we can get away, but you can’t. You have never said a word to me, -Liddy, but I am not so blind as not to see how things are. Are the -objections—on their side?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that there are objections. Yes, I suppose they are on -their side. But how can I ever leave mother?” the girl cried, waking up -to the other side of the question. She had never thought of it before, -but now stared at her recovered brother, very pale, with large, -wide-open eyes.</p> - -<p>“Poor mother!” he said, softly. By dint of having children himself Harry -had come to a little understanding. “She will never stand in anyone’s -way,” he said. He began to perceive a little what life was to some -souls. She had been happy in little Liddy, and now Liddy was going too. -She would not struggle, but resign the last, with one more pathetic -wringing of her hands. She had wrung those hands often for him, and he,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span> -more than any, had wrung her heart, and had thought little of it; but -somehow he perceived it now. She would stand in nobody’s way. She would -give up, having given up all her life; and now there would be no -compensation possible, nature herself would be against her. A great pang -of pity was in his heart for his mother. She did not know yet what was -in store for her. Whoever was happy it must always be her fate to suffer -for them all.</p> - -<p>The rough little country phaeton, which Harry remembered long years ago, -was waiting for them in the early morning at the station. Nobody knew -that Harry was coming. The man who drove it stared at him. It was none -of the young masters he knew (middle-aged Will and Tom being still -indifferently called t’ young masters at the White House), and yet there -was a look of the young masters, and of the old master, too, about this -finely dressed (as Robin thought), foreigneering gentleman, wrapping -himself in his fur-lined coat against the chill freshness of the -morning. Was it some one Miss Liddy had picked up in her travels? Liddy -had a perception, as she got into the carriage—or, rather, remembered -afterwards, that she had perceived other people, strangers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span> getting out -at the little country station, which was not a very usual thing; but she -was excited and preoccupied, and did not stay to look who they were, or -even notice them much, at the time. She had not written home, except the -merest intimation of her return, since she had found her brother, and -now she was a little alarmed at her own reserve, wondering what her -mother would say, whether she would know him at once, and what effect -the discovery would have upon her. Such things had been known as people -dying of joy. She began to grow alarmed and very nervous; and Liddy -looked round upon everything, to tell the truth, with troubled and -doubtful eyes. She was afraid even of the sight of the home landscape, -the grey hills, the misty valley, the limestone houses, and dividing -dykes, which were so very different from everything she had been seeing. -But it was a beautiful morning, and all this grey northern world was -bathed in the early glory of the sun; and to Lydia’s great relief the -country had not grown smaller, or the hills insignificant, or the sky -dirty or prosaic, as people in Italy said. The blue was pale, but still -it was heavenly blue; the white mists on the hills, here and there -breaking away like the opening of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span> prison, unfolding on both sides and -showing the grey slopes, the stony peaks, the lonely stormy Fells, were -as full of poetry and dramatic life as ever. The stream still looked -bold and rapid, the village friendly, nestling about the church and over -the bridge. “It is not a bit like Italy,” said Liddy, to her brother. He -felt the sharpness of the morning air as he never would have done had he -stayed among the Fells. “No, you can be quite confident on that -subject,” Harry said.</p> - -<p>“But it is just as fine as ever,” cried Lydia, with a little enthusiasm. -“It is not small nor contracted, nor ugly, as I feared. It is finer than -it used to be. These are real hills, after all; and it is so broad, and -so pure, and such a delightful air. What would you give in Tuscany for -air like that?”</p> - -<p>“We should die of it in a month,” Harry said, buttoning his furred coat -at the throat.</p> - -<p>Lydia was almost angry. He had been there so long, he had got choke full -of Italian prejudice. But she was thankful, very thankful, to find that -the country-side was still pleasant in her own eyes. And now they drive -through the village, one or two early risers looking with expectant -faces out of the windows and waving their hands to her as she passes, -all with a look of surprise at the strange<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span> gentleman in his fur coat, -quietly smoking his cigar behind: and the river is crossed, and they -come within sight of the White House. Well! there was no doubt it looked -small: she had been sure it must look small, grey and homely, and -undistinguished, scarcely discernible in its whiteness, which was grey, -like everything here, from the slope of the Fell-side. But Lydia had no -time to make remarks of this description to herself, for immediately at -the door there appeared a slim and tremulous figure, with clasped hands, -looking out; and she gave a cry of uncontrollable joy and excitement, -and sprang down, almost before the carriage stopped, from her seat, and -into the arms of her mother. No, no! there was no change there! For a -moment all her depression and heaviness, and sense of guilt and -baseness, in the thought that her return was no pleasure to her, all -melted away in real natural happiness to see that worn face, and feel -the clasp of those tremulous arms again.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Liddy, my darling! it’s been long, long! but here I have you again, -my own!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother! why did I ever leave you?” cried the girl, and they clung -together as if they would never part.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Joscelyn had no eyes for anything but her child. She was about to -lead her in with her arm round her.</p> - -<p>“They will all be out in a minute, Liddy; but never mind, my pet, you’ll -see them later, and they’ll bring in your boxes and all your things. -Come in, come in, you must be tired with your night’s journey—and let -me look at you; I want no more, but just to look at you, you’re better -than Italy to me.”</p> - -<p>“Mother,” Lydia said, holding back, “I have brought some one with me—a -gentleman; you must give a welcome to him too.”</p> - -<p>“A gentleman!” Mrs. Joscelyn gave a little sigh of disappointment. “It -will be Lionel. Yes, I am glad to see him; but I should have liked you -all to myself this first morning. He knows he is welcome, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“It is not Lionel, mother; it is some one whom I met—in Italy.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Joscelyn began to tremble a little, and looked earnestly in her -daughter’s face, but not with any suspicion of the truth.</p> - -<p>“I will try—to give anyone a welcome, my darling; if you love him, and -if it is for your sake.”</p> - -<p>Harry had got down from the phaeton like a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> in a dream. He gazed -about him at the place which was so familiar, yet so strange, as if he -had dropped from the skies, remembering everything all in a moment, his -boyhood, his old childish holidays, his last night. He remembered the -foolish exaggerated passion with which he stood, furious, shut out, -before that closed door. He was full of agitation, of compunction, of -wonder, at his own boyish unreasonableness, and at the long obdurate -closing of his heart, which could not have been, he said to himself, had -it not been full of other things. His heart beat as he looked at his -mother, and heard the cry with which she clasped to her her other child. -And Liddy was going to forsake her too, poor woman, poor mother! Somehow -he thought more of this than of all the trouble he had himself brought -upon her. He stood at a little distance, keeping his furred coat closely -round him, stamping his feet a little to get them warm. Had he lived -always on the Fells, he would have wanted no furred coat, and felt no -cold in his feet. Then Lydia beckoned to him, and he went towards them. -It was all he could do to keep calm. “I am sure the gentleman is very -welcome, Liddy,” he heard his mother say, in her tremulous voice. He -came up to them where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span> they still stood in the doorway. Something about -his air, about his general aspect, startled her, though she was so -pre-occupied, and Harry did not know how to contain himself as his eyes -met hers. She gave him a smile, a little forced, with her lips, but her -eyes more sincere, betrayers of her heart, investigated him with anxiety -and wonder. He could not meet them without betraying himself. He took -the hand she held to him, and bowed over it and kissed it, as he had -learned to do in Italy; and he felt as he did so that the worn white -hand, which he thought he must have recognised had he seen no more of -his mother, trembled. She said, “Come in, Sir,” with a quaver in her -voice; “Come in—you are kindly welcome,” and tremulously led the way -into the hall he remembered so well, and opened the parlour door. The -fire was burning brightly within, the table laid for breakfast, -everything as if he had left it the day before. Mrs. Joscelyn would have -had her guest, who had set her all a-tremble, yet whom she thought she -welcomed reluctantly, enter before her, in old-fashioned politeness; but -when he held back, went in precipitately, holding Liddy by the hand. She -turned round instantly to look at him again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Liddy—you have not told me—the gentleman’s name?” she said, feeling -her head go round. “Liddy! I think—I must have seen him before.”</p> - -<p>Then Harry could keep himself in no longer. He loathed a scene like -every Englishman, but he forgot this, as even Englishmen do in moments -of extreme feeling. He fell down on his knees before her, not knowing -what he did. “Mother! will you forgive me?” he said. And he did not well -know what followed, till the air cleared a little again, and the day -came back, and they had put her in the great chair, her face like death, -her eyelids quivering, her lips trembling and incapable of speech. She -had given a great cry of “Harry! Harry!” which startled all the house.</p> - -<p>Then some one else came noisily clattering down the stairs, crossing the -hall with a heavy foot. “Where is my little Liddy?” Ralph Joscelyn said; -and he added with a certain rough sympathy as he kissed his child, “I -told her it was more than she was up to. Let her be, let her be—she -will come round. I wanted her to bide in her bed, and I would bring you -to her there. Well, and so you’re back, my lass—and welcome! There’s -nobody like you to mend her. Did you bring—a doctor with you all the -way?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause; nobody spoke to give any explanation. “Did you -bring a doctor with you,” Joscelyn repeated, with a sudden excited burst -of laughter, “all the way? or who may this be?”</p> - -<p>Harry turned round and came forward into the light, holding out his -hand. “You turned me out last time I was here, father,” he said, not -able to forego the gratification of this taunt; “I ought to have asked -your leave first before I came back now.”</p> - -<p>Ralph Joscelyn stood and stared, a dark red colour coming over his face. -He looked uncertainly from Liddy to the stranger. “I don’t know what you -mean,” he said shortly; then, “Do you mean this is—Harry? that’s what -your mother meant, shrieking out, disturbing everybody in the house. -Look to your mother, Liddy! Well! you’ve been a long time coming back. -You seem,” he said, looking at the new-comer from head to foot, “to have -done well for yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I have done very well for myself,” Harry said, shortly. “I want help -from nobody now.”</p> - -<p>“Well, my lad!” said Joscelyn, suddenly striking his hand into that of -his son with another hoarse, unsteady laugh, “that’s the best of reasons -why you should have whatever you want. You’re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span> welcome home; and there’s -a pretty property waiting for you. And it saves a confounded deal of -trouble, I can tell you, that you should turn up now.”</p> - -<p>All this time Liddy was kneeling by the chair, kissing her mother’s -feeble hands and colourless face. There was no particular alarm about -her among them; but she lay floating between life and death for a moment -in the extremity of emotion which was too much for her feeble flesh and -blood. Then the balance turned—the wrong way. If she died then, how -happy for her! but instead she slowly came back, opened her eyes, and -returned to life. “Is it a dream?” she said, feebly. “No—my Liddy, my -darling, you are real; and the other—wasn’t there another?”</p> - -<p>They all sat at breakfast half an hour after like people in a dream. -Mrs. Joscelyn sat between her son and daughter, and looked at them -alternately, and sipped a feeble cup of tea, and shed a tear or two of -pure happiness. She was not strong enough yet to ask any questions; she -put her hand now and then on Harry’s arm and patted it softly. She heard -the story of how he was found out without understanding it in the least, -and echoed feebly her husband’s loud but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span> tremulous laugh at the name -his son had taken. “Isaac Oliver—that’s the finest joke I ever heard in -my life. Isaac—Oliver! Dang it, but that is the best joke——” And he -laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. The young people both sat by -with the strangest sense of unreality. To go away across half a world, -and then come back again to the same unchanging scene, even to -ameliorations of the past which bring out more clearly the astounding -difference between it and them—how strange it is! In all Harry’s -knowledge of his father, he had never been so friendly or so amiable; -but this only made the gentleman-peasant, the yeoman-horsedealer more -extraordinary, as a father, to his son. Liddy had a far less shock to -sustain in one sense, but a greater in another; for she had come -home—and here was her natural place, love and duty and every tradition -binding her; but, alas! her heart so far away.</p> - -<p>The strange meal was still progressing, the whole family lingering over -it; for the household table was a kind of natural centre and place of -union; when wheels were heard again, and a carriage stopped at the door. -“It will be Joan,” Mrs. Joscelyn said; “she would not lose a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span> moment in -coming; and what will she say when she sees—oh, Harry, my boy! She has -always had a warm heart for you—the warmest heart for you; we’ll say -nothing about old times; but her and me—Run out and meet your sister, -Liddy, and say nothing, say nothing—let us see if she will know him.” -Mrs. Joscelyn put her hand upon his sleeve. “It’s a pleasure to touch -you—I like to touch you in case my eyes should be deceiving me. And did -you ever think of your poor mother all these years?”</p> - -<p>Liddy had run out—to meet her sister as she thought—and her father, -not unwilling now that the meeting was over to leave his wife alone with -her son, followed her, with the intent of taking another look, as he -said to himself, of <i>his</i> pet, and making sure that he had really got -her back. But Liddy, instead of running out to meet her sister, stood -arrested in the doorway, watching the disembarkation from a rickety -country coach of the strangest party that ever produced itself in the -Fell-country. First came a little man with a high hat, a huge cloak with -a faded lining of blue, which would have delighted a painter, flung over -his shoulder, and a huge comforter round his neck; next a bundle of an -old woman, wrapped in half-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span>a-dozen shawls, one over the other, who -rolled out of the quivering carriage, like something half benumbed and -half asleep; lastly, a figure which sprang out as light as a bird, -pushing aside both the companions who held out anxious hands to assist -her, and flew along the little path between the two grass plats. Liddy -clasped her hands together in wonder and dismay.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Harry!” she cried, with consternation. She was so much surprised -that she made no step to meet her; but stood transfixed, her face pale -with astonishment. Rita was all aglow with pleasure, and excitement, and -triumph. She flung herself upon Lydia as if she had been her dearest -friend in the world.</p> - -<p>“Look, I have done it!” she cried. “I am better than ever I was in my -life. I am so happy. I like the cold. I like the country; I think it is -beautiful! Call this England? it is Paradise! Oh, Liddy, Liddy, you dear -little sister, I shall be as fond of you as Harry is—fonder, for he has -me first to think of. I owe all this to you.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Harry!” Liddy repeated, with consternation. “Father, this is Mrs. -Harry; if you were coming, why did you not come with us?” She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span> could -think of nothing that was kinder to say.</p> - -<p>But Rita was too much delighted with herself to stand in need of words -of kindness. She walked up to Ralph Joscelyn, and stretched up to him, -offering her pretty glowing cheek to be kissed.</p> - -<p>“How do you do, father?” she said. “Harry ought to present me to you, -but I don’t want any introduction. You are like him; our little boy is -called Ralph, after you. Harry will be dreadfully angry when he sees me, -and I dare not think what papa will say; but I am so happy to be in -England that I don’t mind. Will you take me in, please, to where my -husband is?” and with the air of a little princess Rita took her -father-in-law’s arm. He was a stately, handsome old man, with his white -hair. The eyes of the new-comer found no fault in him. The roughness -which wounded his children was invisible to her. “He is almost as -handsome as papa,” she said to herself.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Liddy, still more bewildered, stood at the door, and watched -the approach of the two other persons, not glowing and happy like Rita, -but miserable, as unaccustomed travellers, half dead after a succession -of night journeys, cold, and sick,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span> and out of heart, could be. She -could scarcely recognise the spruce little Paolo, in the worn-out, -fagged traveller, shivering in his big cloak, and trying in vain to -satisfy the coachman with the money which he did not understand.</p> - -<p>“Five shilling, that is six francs twenty-five, six francs twenty-five, -my good man—it is six francs twenty-five, all the world over,” he was -saying, placing a solid French five-franc piece, with other moneys of -the same coinage, in the driver’s hand, and scorning all remonstrances. -“No, no; I am no foreigner—you you will not cheat me. I am not von,” -cried Paolo, betrayed by excitement into inaccuracies which he had quite -got the better of, “to be bullied. I am not von to pay too moche. I am -English as you.”</p> - -<p>As for old Benedetta, who was the other companion of Rita’s journey, she -was prostrate with cold and fatigue. She did nothing but weep and groan -as she sank upon the first seat in the hall. “Ah, Signorina! oh, -Signorina! Sono morto! sono morto!” she cried, while Paolo took off his -hat, by this time somewhat battered, and smiled a forlorn smile, his -teeth chattering as he spoke. “All things that have been spoken of the -English<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span> climate are below the truth,” he said. “Miss Joscelyn will -forgive me, I have the cold just in my bones; but Miss Joscelyn, and -also, indeed, Signorina Rita, one is bound to say it, they bloom like -the rose.”</p> - -<p>“Now, don’t be angry,” said Rita, walking her father-in-law in to the -parlour door, which was slightly open, and through which she saw the -glimmer of the fire, and the white cloth of the breakfast-table, and -appearing before her astonished husband, like some mischievous spirit, -in a glow of happiness and delight, “don’t be angry, Harry. I am going -to telegraph directly to papa. I am perfectly well, and delighted with -everything. I am not cold a bit. I am not tired. England, I always was -sure of it, is just the place for me. Present me to your mother. Dear -madam,” she cried, after a little pause of contemplation, dropping -Joscelyn’s arm, and darting forward, “I see you are ill; you are all -trembling with the emotions you have had this morning. And, I am sure, -it is quite natural; you don’t want me to make them more. But kiss me -once, please, for I know I shall love you. I am your Harry’s wife.”</p> - -<p>“Rita!” cried Harry, finding room at last to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span> express his sentiments, -“what, in the name of all that is foolish, brings you here?”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, dear mother,” said Rita, in return for the astonished kiss -which poor Mrs. Joscelyn had bestowed. She sat down by her without any -invitation, and took one of her hands and caressed it between her own. -“I never had any mother,” she said; “I do not know what it means; nor -did I ever want one of my own, for papa has been everything to me. But -it is sweet to borrow Harry’s mother, and have her for mine, too; not -borrow,” she added, kissing Mrs. Joscelyn’s hand, “you are mine because -you are his, is it not so? Harry, do not look so like a bear, but come -and kiss me, too.”</p> - -<p>“Rita, your father will never forgive me,” cried Harry, obeying his wife -with no bad grace, yet incapable of withholding his lecture; “he will -say it was my fault. And how did you persuade him to let you go?”</p> - -<p>“He did not let me go. I said I was going to the villa to the children. -He will not find out till Sunday, that is to-morrow, and he will have my -telegram first. There is no harm done. I believe,” she added, -tranquilly, “he will be as glad as any one to think I have taken it into -my own hands.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span> And look, I am not cold. I liked the air above -everything. Poor Paolo and Benedetta chattered with their teeth, but it -was delightful to me. My poor little mamma was a girl; I am full grown, -strong; and I adore England. It is beautiful. I am enchanted with the -Fells. The grey is lovely; it is your only colour. Harry, Harry, you -great bear, say you are glad to see me, or your mother will think we are -not fond of each other: which is not true, dearest, dearest lady,” said -Rita, once more kissing Mrs. Joscelyn’s hand.</p> - -<p>“I am sure anybody would be fond of you,” Mrs. Joscelyn said, gazing -with wonder and awe—but flattered, touched, astonished beyond -measure—at this beautiful young woman, so enthusiastic, so -self-possessed, so fluent, whom she had never heard of before.</p> - -<p>“Oh, fond of her, what has that to do with it?” cried Harry. “So you -have brought Benedetta and poor Paolo,” he cried.</p> - -<p>After this Paolo was brought in, and warmed and fed; but it took a long -time to bring him round. He had thought it a very fine thing to come off -to England for his holiday, romantically following a beautiful young -lady, helping another<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span> to reunite herself to her husband; but the -journey and the privations, want of sleep and over-fatigue, and the wind -of an English May, blowing at six o’clock in the morning over the Fells, -had been too much for poor Paolo. He sounded his friend a few days -after, when he had partially recovered his spirits, as to the custom in -English families when they married their daughters.</p> - -<p>“For example,” he said, “Amico, if it is not impertinent. A young lady -like Miss Joscelyn; so beautiful, so charming. When your parents make up -their minds to marry her, they will of course make it a condition that -the ’usband being so happy should live near?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly they would make the condition,” said Harry, promptly. “Could -anyone be so cruel, do you think, Paolo, as to take away her last prop -from my mother? They are everything to each other, as you can see.”</p> - -<p>“It is true,” said Paolo, much crestfallen. And next day he took a -tearful leave, kissing Liddy’s hand with respectful deference. The -unusual salutation made her blush quite unnecessarily. It was a -resignation of all pretensions on Paolo’s part. He could have made, he -said afterwards, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span> great a sacrifice to his love as any man; but to -have lived on what they called the Fells, was more than it was possible -to contemplate. But he was a little consoled by a burst of bright -weather in London, and saw the Parks and the Row in all their glory, and -lost his heart to a great many other English young ladies before he -carried it, pieced up again so as to be serviceable for actual living, -but in a sadly battered and shattered condition, back again to Leghorn; -where he was a great authority upon everything English to the end of his -days.</p> - -<p>Rita turned out to be right, as she so often was. Her father, after the -first shock, was glad beyond measure that the venture had been made and -proved successful, and that the embargo was taken off his native -country, and he could permit him to return. The accumulations of Uncle -Henry’s money was enough to make a pretty, old-fashioned house out of -Birrenshead, where the Harry Joscelyns settled down, Mr. Bonamy with -them, though without giving up the Italian villa and its associations. -Mr. Bonamy got a C.B. and many compliments when he retired from the -service, though he had never been anything more than a Vice-Consul. As -for Lydia and her concerns, it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">{311}</a></span> needless to say that they ended -prosperously; for what was there that Lady Brotherton could refuse to -her only son? and Sir John saw only through her eyes. So this marriage -was accomplished also towards the autumn, before the year was out, from -the time of their first acquaintance. Harry and his children were known -to be coming home by that time, as soon as the house was ready for them, -“Which was something for mother to look forward to,” Joan said. “A thing -to look forward to is almost better than a thing she’s got, to mother,” -according to that authority. “She can’t fret about it till she has it.” -But nobody could be more tender and sympathetic than Joan when Lydia was -married and went away, leaving a blank that nothing could fill up. “It’s -hard to say what’s the good of us women,” she said, “to rear children -and never have them but when they’re babies, and think all the world of -them, and watch them go away. Phil and me, we are best without any, -though that’s a hard trial too. But, mother, don’t you make a fuss, poor -dear. It’s the way of the world, and it’s the course of nature, and -there isn’t a word to say.”</p> - -<p>This was the case, and Mrs. Joscelyn felt it. She clasped her hands as -she had done so often,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">{312}</a></span> and held them up to heaven in prayer that was -perpetual. That was all. She saw her children now and then, and they -were all happy, and in no need of her. What could any woman desire more?</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.<br /><br /><br /> -London: Printed by A. Schulze, 13 Poland Street.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Harry Joscelyn; vol. 3 of 3, by -Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARRY JOSCELYN; VOL. 3 OF 3 *** - -***** This file should be named 63562-h.htm or 63562-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/5/6/63562/ - -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 print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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