Mrs Atheling and her daughters, unwilling, embarrassed, and totally

ignorant of their real means of defence, remained in their house at the

pleasure of the lawyer, and much against their own inclination. Mrs

Atheling herself, though with a spark of native spirit she had seconded

her husband’s resolution not to give up his little inheritance, was

entirely worried out with the task of defending it, now that Charlie was

gone, and winter was approaching, and her heart yearned to her husband

and her forsaken house in Bellevue. When she wrote to Mr Atheling, or

when she consulted with Agnes, the good mother expressed her opinion

very strongly. “If it turns out a mistake about Louis, none of us will

care for this place,” said Mrs Atheling; “we shall have the expense of

keeping it up, and unless we were living in it ourselves, I do not

suppose it is worth ten pounds a-year; and if it should turn out true

about Louis, of course he would restore it to us, and settle it so that

there could be no doubt upon the subject; and indeed, Agnes, my dear,

the only sensible plan that I can think of, would be to give it up at

once, and go home. I do think it is quite an unfortunate house for the

Athelings; there was your father’s poor little sister got her death in

it; and it is easy to see how much trouble and anxiety have come into

our family since we came here.”

“But trouble and anxiety might come anywhere, mamma,” said Agnes.

“Yes, my dear, that is very true; but we should have known exactly what

we had to look for, if Marian had been engaged to some one in Bellevue.”

Mamma’s counsels, accordingly, were of a very timid and compromising

character. She began to be extremely afraid that the Old Wood Lodge,

being so near the trees, would be damp after all the autumn rains, and

that something might possibly happen to Bell and Beau; and, with all her

heart, and without any dispute, she longed exceedingly to be at home.

Then there was the pretty pensive Marian, a little love-sick, and pining

much for the society of her betrothed. She was a quiet but potent

influence, doing what she could to aggravate the discontent of Mamma;

and Agnes had to keep up the family courage, and develop the family

patience, single-handed. Agnes, in her own private heart, though she did

not acknowledge, nor even know it, was not at all desirous to go away.

The conflict accordingly, about this small disputed possession, lay a

great deal more between Lord Winterbourne and Miss Anastasia than

between that unfriendly nobleman and the house of Atheling. Miss

Anastasia came frequently on errands of encouragement to fortify the

sinking heart of Mrs Atheling. “My great object is to defer the trial of

this matter for six months,” said the old lady significantly. “Let it

come on, and we will turn the tables then.”

She spoke in the presence of Marian, before whom nothing could be said

plainly--in the presence of Rachel even, whom it was impossible to avoid

seeing, but who always kept timidly in the background--and she spoke

with a certain exultation which somewhat puzzled her auditors. Charlie,

though he had done nothing yet, had arrived at the scene of his labours.

Assured of this fact, the courage of his patroness rose. She was a woman

and an optimist, as she confessed. She had the gift of leaping to a

conclusion, equal to any girl in the kingdom, and at the present moment

was not disturbed by any doubts of success.

“Six months!” cried Mrs Atheling, in dismay and horror; “and do you

mean that we must stay here all that time--all the winter, Miss Rivers?

It is quite impossible--indeed I could not do it. My husband is all by

himself, and I know how much I am wanted at home.”

“It is necessary some one should be in possession,” said Miss Rivers.

“Eh? What does Will Atheling say?--I daresay he thinks it hard enough to

be left alone.”

Mrs Atheling was very near “giving away.” Vexation and anxiety for the

moment almost overpowered her self-command. She knew all the buttons

must be off Papa’s shirts, and stood in grievous fear of a fabulous

amount of broken crockery; besides, she had never been so long parted

from her husband since their marriage, and very seriously longed for

home.

“Of course it is very dreary for him,” she said, with a sigh.

“Mr Temple is making application to defer the trial on the score of an

important witness who cannot reach this country in time,” said Miss

Rivers. “Of course my lord will oppose that with all his power; _he_ has

a natural terror of witnesses from abroad. When the question is decided,

I do not see, for my part, why you should remain. This little one pines

to go home, I see--but you, Agnes Atheling, you had better come and stay

at the Priory--you love the country, child!”

Both the sisters blushed under the scrutinising eye of Miss Anastasia;

but Agnes was not yet reconciled to the old lady. “We are all anxious to

go home,” she said with spirit, and with considerably more earnestness

than the case at all demanded. Miss Rivers smiled a little. She thought

she could read a whole romance in the fluctuating colour and troubled

glance of Agnes; but she was wrong, as far-seeing people are so often.

The girl was disturbed, uneasy, self-conscious, in a startled and

impatient condition of mind; but the romance, even if it were on the

way, had not yet definitely begun.

CHAPTER XII.

A CONVERSATION.

Agnes’s rambles out of doors had now almost always to be made alone.

Rachel was much engrossed with the invalid of the Old Wood House, who

had “taken a fancy” to the gentle little girl. The hypochondriac Miss

Rivers was glad of any one so tender and respectful; and half in natural

pity for the sufferings which Rachel could not believe to be fanciful,

half from a natural vocation for kindly help and tendance, the girl was

glad to respond to the partly selfish affection of her new friend, who

told Rachel countless stories of the family, and the whole chronicle in

every particular of her own early “disappointment in love.” In return,

Rachel, by snatches, conveyed to her invalid friend--in whom, after all,

she found some points of interest and congeniality--a very exalted ideal

picture of the Athelings, the genius of Agnes, and the love-story of

Marian. Marian and Agnes occupied a very prominent place indeed in the

talk of that shadowy dressing-room, with all its invalid

contrivances--its closed green blinds, its soft mossy carpets, on which

no footstep was ever audible, its easy little couches, which you could

move with a finger; the luxury, and the stillness, and the gossip, were

not at all unpleasant to Rachel; and she read _Hope Hazlewood_ to her

companion in little bits, with pauses of talk between. _Hope Hazlewood_

was not nearly romantic enough for the pretty faded invalid reposing

among her pillows in her white dressing-gown, whom Time seemed to have

forgotten there, and who had no recollection for her own part that she

was growing old; but she took all the delight of a girl in hearing of

Louis and Marian--how much attached to each other, and how handsome they

both were.

And Marian Atheling did not care half so much as she used to do for the

long rambles with her sister, which were once such a pleasure to both

the girls. Marian rather now preferred sitting by herself over her

needlework, or lingering alone at the window, in an entire sweet

idleness, full of all those charmed visions with which the very name of

Louis peopled all the fairy future. Not the wisest, or the wittiest, or

the most brilliant conversation in the world could have half equalled to

Marian the dreamy pleasure of her own meditations. So Agnes had to go

out alone.

Agnes did not suffer very much from this necessity. She wandered along

the skirts of the wood, with a vague sense of freedom and enjoyment not

easy to explain in words. No dreamy trance of magic influence had come

upon Agnes; her mind, and her heart, and her thoughts, were quickened by

a certain thrill of expectation, which was not to be referred to the

strange romance now going on in the family--to Charlie’s mission, nor

Louis’s prospects, nor anything else which was definite and ascertained.

She knew that her heart rose, that her mind brightened, that her

thoughts were restless and light, and not to be controlled; but she

could not tell the reason why. She went about exploring all the country

byways, and finding little tracks among the brushwood undiscoverable to

the common eye; and she was not cogitating anything, scarcely was

thinking, but somehow felt within her whole nature a silent growth and

increase not to be explained.

She was pondering along, with her eyes upon the wide panorama at her

feet, when it chanced to Agnes, suddenly and without preparation, to

encounter the Rector. These two young people, who were mutually

attracted to each other, had at the present moment a mutual occasion of

embarrassment and apparent offence. The Rector could not forget how very

much humbled in his own opinion he himself had been on his late visit to

the Lodge; he had not yet recovered the singular check given to his own

unconscious selfishness, by the natural sympathy of these simple people

with the grander primitive afflictions and sufferings of life: and he

was not without an idea that Agnes looked upon him now with a somewhat

disdainful eye. Agnes, on her part, was greatly oppressed by the secret

sense of being concerned against the Rector; in his presence she felt

like a culprit--a secret plotter against the hope which brightened his

eye, and expanded his mind. A look of trouble came at once into her

face; her brow clouded--she thought it was not quite honest to make a

show of friendship, while she retained her secret knowledge of the

inquiry which might change into all the bitterness of disappointment his

sudden and unlooked-for hope.

He had been going in the opposite direction, but, though he was not at

all reconciled to her, he was not willing either to part with Agnes. He

turned, only half consciously, only half willingly, yet by an

irresistible compulsion. He tried indifferent conversation, and so did

she; but, in spite of himself, Lionel Rivers was a truer man with Agnes

Atheling than he was with any other person in the world. He who had

never cared for sympathy from any one, somehow or other felt a necessity

for hers, and had a certain imperious disappointment and impatience when

it was withheld from him, which was entirely unreasonable, and not to

be accounted for. He broke off abruptly from the talk about nothing, to

speak of some intended movements of his own.

“I am going to town,” said Mr Rivers. “I am somewhat unsettled at

present in my intentions; after that, probably, I may spend some time

abroad.”

“All because he is the heir!” thought Agnes to herself; and again she

coloured with distress and vexation. It was impossible to keep something

of this from her tone; when she spoke, it was in a voice subdued a

little out of its usual tenor; but all that she asked was a casual

question, meaning nothing--“If Mr Mead would have the duty while the

Rector was away?”

“Yes,” said the Rector; “he is very much better fitted for it than I am.

Here I have been cramping my wings these three years. Fathers and

mothers are bitterly to blame; they bind a man to what his soul loathes,

because it is his best method of earning some paltry pittance--so much

a-year!”

After this exclamation the young clergyman made a pause, and so did his

diffident and uneasy auditor, who “did not like” either to ask his

meaning, or to make any comment upon it. After a few minutes he resumed

again--

“I suppose it must constantly be so where we dare to think for

ourselves,” he said, in a tone of self-conversation. “A man who thinks

_must_ come to conclusions different from those which are taught to

him--different, perhaps, from all that has been concluded truest in the

ages that are past. What shall we say? Woe be to me if I do not follow

out my reasoning, to whatever length it may lead!”

“When Paul says, Woe be to him, it is, if he does not preach the

Gospel,” said Agnes.

Mr Rivers smiled. “Be glad of your own happy exemption,” he said,

turning to her, with the air of a man who knows by heart all the old

arguments--all the feminine family arguments against scepticism and

dangerous speculations. “I will leave you in possession of your

beautiful Gospel--your pure faith. I shall not attempt to disturb your

mind--do not fear.”

“You could not!” said Agnes, in a sudden and rash defiance. She turned

to him in her turn, beginning to tremble a little with the excitement of

controversy. She was a young polemic, rather more graceful in its

manifestation, but quite as strong in the spirit of the conflict as any

Mause Headrigg--which is to say, that, after her eager girlish fashion,

she believed with her whole heart, and did not know what toleration

meant.

Mr Rivers smiled once more. “I will not try,” he said. “I remember what

Christ said, and endeavour to have charity even for those who condemn

me.”

“Oh, Mr Rivers!” cried Agnes suddenly, and with trembling, “do not speak

so coldly--do not say Christ; it sounds as if you did not care for

Him--as if you thought He was no friend to you.”

The Rector paused, somewhat startled: it was an objection which never

had occurred to him--one of those subtle touches concerning the spirit

and not the letter, which, being perfectly sudden, and quite simple, had

some chance of coming to the heart.

“What do _you_ say?” he asked with a little interest.

Agnes’s voice was low, and trembled with reverence and with emotion. She

was not thinking of him, in his maze of intellectual trifling--she was

thinking of that Other, whom she knew so much better, and whose name she

spoke. She answered with an involuntary bending of her head--“Our Lord.”

It was no conviction that struck the mind of the young man--conviction

was not like to come readily to him--and he was far too familiar with

all the formal arguments, to be moved by the reasonings of a polemic, or

the fervour of an enthusiast. But he who professed so much anxiety about

truth, and contemplated himself as a moral martyr, woefully following

his principles, though they led him to ever so dark a desolation, had

lived all his life among an infinite number of shams, and willingly

enough had yielded to many of them. Perhaps this was the first time in

his life in which he had been brought into immediate contact with people

who were simply true in their feelings and their actions--whose opinions

were without controversy--whose settled place in life, humble as it was,

shut them out from secondary emulations and ambitions--and who were

swayed by the primitive rule of human existence--the labour and the

rest, the affliction and the prosperity, which were real things, and not

creations of the brain. He paused a little over the words of Agnes

Atheling. He did not want her to think as he did: he was content to

believe that the old boundaries were suitable and seemly for a woman;

and he was rather pleased than otherwise, by the horror, interest, and

regret which such opinions as his generally met with. He paused upon her

words, with the air of a spectator, and said in a meditative fashion,

“It is a glorious faith.”

Now Agnes, who was not at all satisfied with this contemplative

approval, was entirely ready and eager for controversy; prepared to

plunge into it with the utmost rashness, utterly unaccoutred and

ignorant as she was. She trembled with suppressed fervour and excitement

over all her frame. She was as little a match for the Rector in the

argument which she would fain have entered into, as any child in the

village; but she was far too strong in the truth of her cause to feel

any fear.

“Do you ever meet with great trouble?” said Agnes.

It was quite an unexpected question. The Rector looked at her

inquiringly, without the least perception what she meant.

“And when you meet with it,” continued the eager young champion, “what

do you say?”

Now this was rather a difficult point with the Rector; it was not

naturally his vocation to administer comfort to “great trouble”--in

reality, when he was brought face to face with it, he had nothing to

say. He paused a little, really embarrassed--_that_ was the curate’s

share of the business. Mr Rivers was very sorry for the poor people, but

had, in fact, no consolation to give, and thought it much more important

to play with his own mind and faculties in this solemn and conscientious

trifling of his, than to attend to the griefs of others. He answered,

after some hesitation: “There are different minds, of course, and

different influences applicable to them. Every man consoles himself

after his own fashion; for some there are the sublime consolations of

Philosophy, for others the rites of the Church.”

“Some time,” said Agnes suddenly, turning upon him with earnest

eyes,--“some time, when you come upon great sorrow, will you try the

name of our Lord?”

The young man was startled again, and made no answer. He was struck by

the singular conviction that this girl, inferior to himself in every

point, had a certain real and sublime acquaintance with that wonderful

Person of whom she spoke; that this was by no means belief in a

doctrine, but knowledge of a glorious and extraordinary Individual,

whose history no unbeliever in the world has been able to divest of its

original majesty. The idea was altogether new to him; it found an

unaccustomed way to the heart of the speculatist--that dormant power

which scarcely any one all his life had tried to reach to. “I do not

quite understand you,” he said somewhat moodily; but he did not attend

to what she said afterwards. He pondered upon the problem by himself,

and could not make anything of it. Arguments about doctrines and beliefs

were patent enough to the young man. He was quite at home among dogmas

and opinions--but, somehow, this personal view of the question had a

strange advantage over him. He was not prepared for it; its entire and

obvious simplicity took away the ground from under his feet. It might be

easy enough to persuade a man out of conviction of a doctrine which he

believed, but it was a different matter to disturb the identity of a

person whom he knew.

CHAPTER XIII.

SUSPENSE.

In the mean time, immediate interest in their own occupations had pretty

nearly departed from the inhabitants of the Old Wood Lodge. Agnes went

on with her writing, Mamma with her work-basket, Marian with her dreams;

but desk, and needle, and meditations were all alike abandoned in

prospect of the postman, who was to be seen making his approach for a

very long way, and was watched every day with universal anxiety. What

Louis was doing, what Charlie was doing, the progress of the lawsuit,

and the plans of Miss Anastasia, continually drew the thoughts of the

household away from themselves. Even Rachel’s constant report of the

unseen invalid, Miss Lucy, added to the general withdrawal of interest

from the world within to the world without. They seemed to have nothing

to do themselves in their feminine quietness. Mamma sat pondering over

her work--about her husband, who was alone, and did not like his

solitude--about Charlie, who was intrusted with so great a

commission--about “all the children”--every one of whom seemed to be

getting afloat on a separate current of life. Agnes mused over her

business with impatient thoughts about the Rector, with visions of

Rachel and Miss Lucy in the invalid chamber, and vain attempts to look

into the future and see what was to come. As for Marian, the charmed

tenor of her fancies knew no alteration; she floated on, without

interruption, in a sweet vision, full of a thousand consistencies, and

wilder than any romance. Their conversation ran no longer in the ancient

household channel, and was no more about their own daily occupations;

they were spectators eagerly looking from the windows at nearly a dozen

different conflicts, earnestly concerned, and deeply sympathetic, but

not in the strife themselves.

Louis had entered Mr Foggo’s office; it seemed a strange destination for

the young man. He did not tell any one how small a remuneration he

received for his labours, nor how he contrived to live in the little

room, in the second floor of one of those Islington houses. He succeeded

in existing--that was enough; and Louis did not chafe at his restrained

and narrow life, by reason of having all his faculties engaged and

urgent in a somewhat fanciful mode, of securing the knowledge which he

longed for concerning his own birth and derivation. He had ascertained

from Mr Atheling every particular concerning the Rivers family which

_he_ knew. He had even managed to seek out some old servants once at the

Hall, and with a keen and intense patience had listened to every word of

a hundred aimless and inconclusive stories from these respectable

authorities. He was compiling, indeed, neither more nor less than a

_life_ of Lord Winterbourne--a history which he endeavoured to verify in

every particular as he went on, and which was written with the sternest

impartiality--a plain and clear record of events. Perhaps a more

remarkable manuscript than that of Louis never existed; and he pursued

his tale with all the zest, and much more than the excitement, of a

romancer. It was a true story, of which he laboured to find out every

episode; and there was a powerful unity and constructive force in the

one sole unvarying interest of the tale. Mr Atheling had been moved to

tell the eager youth _all_ the particulars of his early acquaintance

with Lord Winterbourne--and still the story grew--the object of the

whole being to discover, as Louis himself said, “what child there was

whom it was his interest to disgrace and defame.” The young man followed

hotly upon this clue. His thoughts had not been directed yet to anything

resembling the discovery of Miss Anastasia; it had never occurred to

him that his disinheritance might be absolutely the foundation of all

Lord Winterbourne’s greatness; but he hovered about the question with a

singular pertinacity, and gave his full attention to it. Inspired by

this, he did not consider his meagre meal, his means so narrow that it

was the hardest matter in the world to eat daily bread. He pursued his

story with a concentration of purpose which the greatest poet in

existence might have envied. He was a great deal too much in earnest to

think about the sentences in which he recorded what he learnt. The

consequence was, that this memoir of Lord Winterbourne was a model of

terse and pithy English--an unexampled piece of biography. Louis did not

say a word about it to any one, but pursued his labour and his inquiry

together, vainly endeavouring to find out a trace of some one whom he

could identify with himself.

Meanwhile, Papa began to complain grievously of his long abandonment,

and moved by Louis on one side, and by his own discomfort on the other,

became very decided in his conviction that there was no due occasion for

the absence of his family. There was great discontent in Number Ten,

Bellevue, and there was an equal discontent, rather more overpowering,

and quite as genuine, in the Old Wood Lodge, where Mamma and Marian vied

with each other in anxiety, and thought no cause sufficiently important

to keep them any longer from home. Agnes expressed no opinion either on

one side or the other; she was herself somewhat disturbed and unsettled,

thinking a great deal more about the Rector than was at all convenient,

or to her advantage. After that piece of controversy, the Rector began

to come rather often to the Lodge. He never said a word again touching

that one brief breath of warfare, yet they eyed each other

distrustfully, with a mutual consciousness of what had occurred, and

might occur again. It was not a very lover-like point of union, yet it

was a secret link of which no one else knew. Unconsciously it drew Agnes

into inferences and implications, which were spoken at the Rector; and

unconsciously it drew him to more sympathy with common trials, and a

singular inclination to experiment, as Agnes had bidden him, with her

sublime talisman--that sole Name given under heaven, which has power to

touch into universal brotherhood the whole universal heart of man.

CHAPTER XIV.

NEWS.

While the Lodge remained in this ferment of suspense and uncertainty,

Miss Anastasia had taken her measures for its defence and preservation.

It was wearing now towards the end of October, and winter was setting in

darkly. There was no more than a single rose at a time now upon the

porch, and these roses looked so pale, pathetic, and solitary, that it

was rather sad than pleasant to see the lonely flowers. On one of the

darkest days of the month, when they were all rather more listless than

usual, Miss Anastasia’s well-known equipage drew up at the gate. They

all hailed it with some pleasure. It was an event in the dull day and

discouraging atmosphere. She came in with her loud cheerful voice, her

firm step, her energetic bearing--and even the pretty _fiancée_ Marian

raised her pretty stooping shoulders, and woke up from her fascinated

musing. Rachel alone drew shyly towards the door; she had not overcome

a timidity very nearly approaching fear, which she always felt in

presence of Miss Anastasia. She was the only person who ever entered

this house who made Rachel remember again her life at the Hall.

“I came to show you a letter from your boy; read it while I talk to the

children,” said Miss Rivers. Mrs Atheling took the letter with some

nervousness; she was a little fluttered, and lost the sense of many of

the expressions; yet lingered over it, notwithstanding, with pride and

exultation. She longed very much to have an opportunity of showing it to

Agnes; but that was not possible; so Mrs Atheling made a virtuous

attempt to preserve in her memory every word that her son said. This was

Charlie’s letter to his patroness:--

“MADAM,--I have not made very much progress yet. The courier, Jean

Monte, is to be heard of as you suggested; but it is only known on

the road that he lives in Switzerland, and keeps some sort of inn

in one of the mountain villages. No more as yet; but I will find

him out. I have to be very cautious at present, because I am not

yet well up in the language. The town is a ruinous place, and I

cannot get the parish registers examined as one might do in

England. There are several families of decayed nobles in the

immediate neighbourhood, and, so far as I can hear, Giulietta is a

very common name. Travelling Englishmen, too, are so frequent that

there is a good deal of difficulty. I am rather inclined to fix

upon the villa Remori, where there are said to have been several

English marriages. It has been an extensive place, but is now

broken down, decayed, and neglected; the family have a title, and

are said to be very handsome, but are evidently very poor. There is

a mother and a number of daughters, only one or two grown up; I try

to make acquaintance with the children. The father died early, and

had no brothers. I think possibly this might be the house of

Giulietta, as there is no one surviving to look after the rights of

her children, did she really belong to this family. Of course, any

relatives she had, with any discretion, would have inquired out her

son in England; so I incline to think she may have belonged to the

villa Remori, as there are only women there.

“I have to be very slow on account of my Italian--this, however,

remedies itself every day. I shall not think of looking for Monte

till I have finished my business here, and am on my way home. The

place is unprosperous and unhealthy, but it is pretty, and rather

out of the way--few travellers came, they tell me, till within ten

years ago; but I have not met with any one yet whose memory carried

back at all clearly for twenty years. A good way out of the town,

near the lake, there is a kind of mausoleum which interests me a

little, not at all unlike the family tomb at Winterbourne; there is

no name upon it; it lies quite out of the way, and I cannot

ascertain that any one has ever been buried there; but something

may be learned about it, perhaps, by-and-by.

“When I ascertain anything of the least importance, I shall write

again.

“Madam,

“Your Obedient Servant,

“Charles Atheling.”

Charlie had never written to a lady before; he was a little embarrassed

about it the first time, but this was his second epistle, and he had

become a little more at his ease. The odd thing about the correspondence

was, that Charlie did not express either hopes or opinions; he did not

say what he expected, or what were his chances of success--he only

reported what he was doing; any speculation upon the subject, more

especially at this crisis, would have been out of Charlie’s way.

“What do you call your brother when you write to him?” asked Miss

Anastasia abruptly, addressing Rachel.

Rachel coloured violently; she had so nearly forgotten her old

system--her old representative character--that she was scarcely prepared

to answer such a question. With a mixture of her natural manner and her

assumed one, she answered at last, in considerable confusion, “We call

him Louis; he has no other name.”

“Then he will not take the name of Rivers?” said Miss Anastasia, looking

earnestly at the shrinking girl.

“We have no right to the name of Rivers,” said Rachel, drawing herself

up with her old dignity, like a little queen. “My brother is inquiring

who we are. We never belonged to Lord Winterbourne.”

“Your brother is inquiring? So!” said Miss Anastasia; “and he is

perfectly right. Listen, child--tell him this from me--do you know what

Atheling means? It means noble, illustrious, royally born. In the old

Saxon days the princes were called Atheling. Tell your brother that

Anastasia Rivers bids him bear this name.”

This address entirely confused Rachel, who remained gazing at Miss

Rivers blankly, unable to say anything. Marian stirred upon her chair

with sudden eagerness, and put down her needlework, gazing also, but

after quite a different fashion, in Miss Anastasia’s face. The old lady

caught the look of both, but only replied to the last.

“You are startled, are you, little beauty? Did you never hear the story

of Margaret Atheling, who was an exile, and a saint, and a queen? My

child, I should be very glad to make sure that you were a true Atheling

too.”

Marian was not to be diverted from her curiosity by any such

observation. She cast a quick look from Miss Rivers to her mother, who

was pondering over Charlie’s letter, and from Mrs Atheling to Agnes, who

had not been startled by the strange words of Miss Anastasia; and

suspicion, vague and unexplainable, began to dawn in Marian’s mind.

“The autumn assizes begin to-day,” said Miss Anastasia with a little

triumph; “too soon, as Mr Temple managed it, for your case to have a

hearing; it must stand over till the spring now--six months--by that

time, please God; we shall be ready for them. Agnes Atheling, how long

is it since you began to be deaf and blind?”

Agnes started with a little confusion, and made a hurried inarticulate

answer. There was a little quiet quarrel all this time going on between

Agnes and Miss Rivers; neither the elder lady nor the younger was quite

satisfied--Agnes feeling herself something like a conspirator, and Miss

Anastasia a little suspicious of her, as a disaffected person in the

interest of the enemy. But Mamma by this time had come to an end of

Charlie’s letter, and, folding it up very slowly, gave it back to its

proprietor. The good mother did not feel it at all comfortable to keep

this information altogether to herself.

“It is not to be tried till spring!” said Mrs Atheling, who had caught

this observation. “Then, I think, indeed, Miss Rivers, we must go home.”

And, to Mamma’s great comfort, Miss Anastasia made no objection. She

said kindly that she should miss her pleasant neighbours. “But what may

be in the future, girls, no one knows,” said Miss Rivers, getting up

abruptly. “Now, however, before this storm comes on, I am going home.”

CHAPTER XV.

GOING HOME.

After this the family made immediate preparations for their return. Upon

this matter Rachel was extremely uncomfortable, and much divided in her

wishes. Miss Lucy, who had been greatly solaced by the gentle

ministrations of this mild little girl, insisted very much that Rachel

should remain with her until her friends returned in spring, or till her

brother had “established himself.” Rachel herself did not know what to

do; and her mind was in a very doubtful condition, full of

self-arguments. She did not think Louis would be pleased--that was the

dark side. The favourable view was, that she was of use to the invalid,

and remaining with her would be “no burden to any one.” Rachel pondered,

wept, and consulted over it with much sincerity. From the society of

these young companions, whom the simple girl loved, and who were so near

her own age; from Louis, her lifelong ruler and example; from the kindly

fireside, to which she had looked forward so long--it was hard enough

to turn to the invalid chambers, the old four-volume novels, and poor

pretty old Miss Lucy’s “disappointment in love.” “And if afterwards I

had to sing or give lessons, I should forget all my music there,” said

Rachel. Mrs Atheling kindly stepped in and decided for her. “It might be

a very good thing for you, my dear, if you had no friends,” said Mrs

Atheling. Rachel did not know whether to be most puzzled or grateful;

but to keep a certain conscious solemnity out of her tone--a certain

mysterious intimation of something great in the future--was out of the

power of Mamma.

Accordingly, they all began their preparations with zeal and energy, the

only indifferent member of the party being Agnes, who began to feel

herself a good deal alone, and to suspect that she was indeed in the

enemy’s interest, and not so anxious about the success of Louis as she

ought to have been. A few days after Miss Anastasia’s visit, the Rector

came to find them in all the bustle of preparation. He appeared among

them with a certain solemnity, looking haughty and offended, and

received Mrs Atheling’s intimation of their departure with a grave and

punctilious bow. He had evidently known it before, and he looked upon

it, quite as evidently, as something done to thwart him--a personal

offence to himself.

“Miss Atheling perhaps has literary occupation to call her to town,”

suggested Mr Rivers, returning to his original ground of displeasure,

and trying to get up a little quarrel with Agnes. She did not reply to

him, but her mother did, on her behalf.

“Indeed, Mr Rivers, it does not make any difference to Agnes; she can

write anywhere,” said Mrs Atheling. “I often wonder how she gets on

amongst us all; but my husband has been left so long by himself--and now

that the trial does not come on till spring, we are all so thankful to

get home.”

“The trial comes on in spring?--I shall endeavour to be at home,” said

the Rector, “if I can be of any service. I am myself going to town; I am

somewhat unsettled in my plans at present--but my friends whom I esteem

most are in London--people of scientific and philosophical pursuits, who

cannot afford to be fashionable. Shall I have your permission to call on

you when we are all there?”

“I am sure we shall all be very much pleased,” said Mrs Atheling,

flattered by his tone--“you know what simple people we are, and we do

not keep any company; but we shall be very pleased, and honoured too, to

see you as we have seen you here.”

Agnes was a little annoyed by her mother’s speech. She looked up with a

flash of indignation, and met, not the eyes of Mrs Atheling, but those

of Mr Rivers, who was looking at her. The eyes had a smile in them, but

there was perfect gravity upon the face. She was confused by the look,

though she did not know why. The words upon her lip were checked--she

looked down again, and began to arrange her papers with a rising colour.

The Rector’s look wandered from her face, because he perceived that he

embarrassed her, but went no further than her hands, which were pretty

hands enough, yet nothing half so exquisite as those rose-tipped fairy

fingers with which Marian folded up her embroidery. The Rector had no

eyes at all for Marian; but he watched the arrangement of Agnes’s papers

with a quite involuntary interest--detected in an instant when she

misplaced one, and was very much disposed to offer his own assistance,

relenting towards her. What he meant by it--he who was really the heir

of Lord Winterbourne, and by no means unaware of his own advantages--Mrs

Atheling, looking on with quick-witted maternal observation, could not

tell.

Then quite abruptly--after he had watched all Agnes’s papers into the

pockets of her writing-book--he rose to go away; then he lingered over

the ceremony of shaking hands with her, and held hers longer than there

was any occasion for. “Some time I hope to resume our argument,” said Mr

Rivers. He paused till she answered him: “I do not know about argument,”

said Agnes, looking up with a flash of spirit--“I should be foolish to

try it against you. I know only what I trust in--that is not argument--I

never meant it so.”

He made no reply save by a bow, and went away leaving her rather

excited, a little angry, a little moved. Then they began to plague her

with questions--What did Mr Rivers mean? There was nothing in the world

which Agnes knew less of than what Mr Rivers meant. She tried to

explain, in a general way, the conversation she had with him before, but

made an extremely lame explanation, which no one was satisfied with, and

escaped to her own room in a very nervous condition, quite disturbed out

of her self-command. Agnes did not at all know what to make of her

anomalous feelings. She was vexed to the heart to feel how much she was

interested, while she disapproved so much, and with petulant annoyance

exclaimed to herself, that she wanted no more argument if he would but

let her alone!

And then came the consideration of Lionel’s false hope--the hope which

some of these days would be taken from him in a moment. If she could

only let him know what she knew, her conscience would be easy. As she

thought of this, she remembered how people have been told in fables

secrets as important; the idea flashed into her mind with a certain

relief--then came the pleasure of creation, the gleam of life among her

maze of thoughts; the fancy brightened into shape and graceful

fashion--she began unconsciously to hang about it the shining garments

of genius--and so she rose and went about her homely business, putting

together the little frocks of Bell and Beau, ready to be packed, with

the vision growing and brightening before her eyes. Then the definite

and immediate purpose of it gave way to a pure native delight in the

beautiful thing which began to grow and expand in her thoughts. She went

down again, forgetting her vexation. If it did no other good in the

world, there was the brightest stream of practical relief and

consolation in Agnes Atheling’s gift.

CHAPTER XVI.

NEW INFLUENCES.

Once more the Old Wood Lodge stood solitary under the darkening wintry

skies, with no bright faces at its windows, nor gleam of household

firelight in the dim little parlour, where Miss Bridget’s shadow came

back to dwell among the silence, a visionary inhabitant. Once more

Hannah sat solitary in her kitchen, lamenting that it was “lonesomer nor

ever,” and pining for the voices of the children. Hannah would have

almost been content to leave her native place and her own people to

accompany the family to London; but that was out of the question; and,

spite of all Mamma’s alarms, Susan had really conducted herself in a

very creditable manner under her great responsibility as housekeeper at

Bellevue.

The journey home was not a very eventful one. They were met by Papa and

Louis on their arrival, and conducted in triumph to their own little

house, which did not look so attractive, by any means, as it used to do.

Then they settled down without more ado into the family use and wont.

With so great a change in all their prospects and intentions--so strange

an enlargement of their horizon and extension of their hopes--it was

remarkable how little change befell the outward life and customs of the

family. Marian, it was true, was “engaged;” but Marian might have been

engaged to poor Harry Oswald without any great variation of

circumstances; and that was always a possibility lying under everybody’s

eyes. It did not yet disturb the _habits_ of the family; but this new

life which they began to enter--this life of separated and individual

interest--took no small degree of heart and spirit out of those joint

family pleasures and occupations into which Marian constantly brought a

reference to Louis, which Agnes passed through with a preoccupied and

abstracted mind, and from which Charlie was far away. The stream

widened, the sky grew broader, yet every one had his or her separate and

peculiar firmament. A maturer, perhaps, and more complete existence was

opening upon them; but the first effect was by no means to increase the

happiness of the family. They loved each other as well as ever; but they

were not so entirely identical. It was a disturbing influence, foreign

and unusual; it was not the quiet, assured, undoubting family happiness

of the days which were gone.

Then there were other unaccordant elements. Rachel, whom Mrs Atheling

insisted upon retaining with them, and who was extremely eager on her

own part to find something to do, and terrified to think herself a

burden upon her friends; and Louis, who contented himself with his

pittance of income, but only did his mere duty at the office, and gave

all his thoughts and all his powers to the investigation which engrossed

him. Mrs Atheling was very much concerned about Louis. If all this came

to nothing, as was quite probable, she asked her husband eagerly what

was to become of these young people--what were they to do? For at

present, instead of trying to get on, Louis, who had no suspicion of the

truth, gave his whole attention to a visionary pursuit, and was content

to have the barest enough which he could exist upon. Mr Atheling shook

his head, and could not make any satisfactory reply. “There was no

disposition to idleness about the boy,” Papa said, with approval. “He

was working very hard, though he might make nothing by it; and when this

state of uncertainty was put an end to, then they should see.”

And Marian of late had become actively suspicious and observant. Marian

attacked her mother boldly, and without concealment. “Mamma, it is

something about Louis that Charlie has gone abroad for!” she said, in

an unexpected sally, which took the garrison by surprise.

“My dear, how could you think of such a thing?” cried the prudent Mrs

Atheling. “What could Miss Anastasia have to do with Louis? Why, she

never so much as saw him, you know. You must, by no means, take foolish

fancies into your head. I daresay, after all, he must belong to Lord

Winterbourne.”

Marian asked no more; but she did not fail to communicate her suspicions

to Louis at the earliest opportunity. “I am quite sure,” said Marian,

not scrupling even to express her convictions in presence of Agnes and

Rachel, “that Charlie has gone abroad for something about you.”

“Something about me!” Louis was considerably startled; he was even

indignant for a moment. He did not relish the idea of having secret

enterprises undertaken for him, or to know less about himself than

Marian’s young brother did. “You must be mistaken,” he said, with a

momentary haughtiness. “Charlie is a very acute fellow, but I do not see

that he is likely to trouble himself about me.”

“Oh, but it was Miss Anastasia,” said Marian, eagerly.

Then Louis coloured, and drew himself up. His first idea was that Miss

Anastasia looked for evidence to prove him the son of Lord Winterbourne;

and he resented, with natural vehemence, the interference of the old

lady. “We are come to a miserable pass, indeed,” he said, with

bitterness, “when people investigate privately to prove this wretched

lie against us.”

“But you do not understand,” cried Rachel. “Oh, Louis, I never told you

what Miss Anastasia said. She said you were to take the name of

Atheling, because it meant illustrious, and because the exiled princes

were named so. Both Marian and Agnes heard her. She is a friend, Louis.

Oh, I am sure, if she is inquiring anything, it is all for our good!”

The colour rose still higher upon Louis’s cheek. He did not quite

comprehend at the moment this strange, sudden side-light which glanced

down upon the question which was so important to him. He did not pause

to follow, nor see to what it might lead; but it struck him as a clue to

something, though he was unable to discover what that something was.

Atheling! the youth’s imagination flashed back in a moment upon those

disinherited descendants of Alfred, the Edgars and Margarets, who,

instead of princely titles, bore only that addition to their name. He

was as near the truth at that moment as people wandering in profound

darkness are often near the light. Another step would have brought him

to it; but Louis did not take that step, and was not enlightened. His

heart rose, however, with the burning impatience of one who comes within

sight of the goal. He started involuntarily with haste and eagerness. He

was jealous that even friendly investigations should be the first to

find out the mystery. He felt as if he would have a better right to

anything which might be awaiting him, if he discovered it himself.

Upon all this tumult of thought and feeling, Agnes looked on, saying

nothing--looked on, by no means enjoying her spectatorship and superior

knowledge. It was a “situation” which might have pleased Mr Endicott,

but it terribly embarrassed Agnes, who found it no pleasure at all to be

so much wiser than her neighbours. She dared not confide the secret to

Louis any more than she could to the Rector; and she would have been

extremely unhappy between them, but for the relief and comfort of that

fable, which was quickly growing into shape and form. It had passed out

of her controlling hands already, and began to exercise over her the

sway which a real created thing always exercises over the mind even of

its author: it had ceased to be the direct personal affair she had

intended to make it; it told its story, but after a more delicate

process, and Agnes expended all her graceful fancy upon its perfection.

She thought now that Louis might find it out as well as the Rector. It

was an eloquent appeal, heart-warm and touching to them both.

CHAPTER XVII.

RACHEL’S DOUBTS.

After Louis, the most urgent business in the house of the Athelings was

that of Rachel, who was so pertinaciously anxious to be employed, that

her friends found it very difficult to evade her constant entreaties.

Rachel’s education--or rather Rachel’s want of education--had been very

different from that of Marian and Agnes. She had no traditions of

respectability to deter her from anything she could do; and she had been

accustomed to sing to the guests at Winterbourne, and concluded that it

would make very little difference to her, whether her performance was in

a public concert-room or a private assembly. “No one would care at all

for me; no one would ever think of me or look at me,” said Rachel. “If I

sang well, that would be all that any one thought of; and we need not

tell Louis--and I would not mind myself--and no one would ever know.”

“But I have great objections to it, my dear,” said Mrs Atheling, with

some solemnity. “I should rather a hundred times take in work myself, or

do anything with my own hands, than let my girls do this. It is not

respectable for a young girl. A public appearance! I should be grieved

and ashamed beyond anything. I should indeed, my dear.”

“I am very sorry, Mrs Atheling,” said Rachel, wistfully; “but it is not

anything wrong.”

“Not wrong--but not at all respectable,” said Mrs Atheling, “and

unfeminine, and very dangerous indeed, and a discreditable position for

a young girl.”

Rachel blushed, and was very much disconcerted, but still did not give

up the point. “I thought it so when they tried to force me,” she said in

a low tone; “but now, no one need know; and people, perhaps, might have

me at their houses; ladies sing in company. You would not mind me doing

that, Mrs Atheling? Or I could give lessons. Perhaps you think it is all

vanity; but indeed they used to think me a very good singer, long ago.

Oh, Agnes, do you remember that old gentleman at the Willow? that very

old gentleman who used to talk to you? I think he could help me if you

would only speak to him.”

“Mr Agar? I think he could,” said Agnes; “but, Rachel, mamma says you

must not think of it. Marian does not do anything, and why should you?”

“I am no one’s daughter,” said Rachel, sadly. “You are all very kind;

but Louis has only a very little money; and I will not--indeed I will

not--be a burden upon you.”

“Rachel, my dear,” said Mrs Atheling, “do not speak so foolishly; but I

will tell you what we can do. Agnes shall write down all about it to

Miss Anastasia, and ask her advice, and whether she consents to it; and

if she consents, I will not object any more. I promise I shall not stand

in the way at all, if Miss Anastasia decides for you.”

Rachel looked up with a little wonder. “But Miss Anastasia has nothing

to do with us,” said the astonished girl. “I would rather obey you than

Miss Rivers, a great deal. Why should we consult _her_?”

“My dear,” said Mrs Atheling, with importance, “you must not ask any

questions at present. _I have my reasons._ Miss Anastasia takes a great

interest in you, and I have a very good reason for what I say.”

This made an end of the argument; but Rachel was extremely puzzled, and

could not understand it. She was not very quick-witted, this gentle

little girl; she began to have a certain awe of Miss Anastasia, and to

suppose that it must be her superior wisdom which made every one ask her

opinion. Rachel could not conclude upon any other reason, and

accordingly awaited with a little solemnity the decision of Miss Rivers.

They were in a singular harmony, all these young people; not one of

them but had some great question hanging in the balance, which they

themselves were not sufficient to conclude upon--something that might

change and colour the whole course of their lives.

Another event occurring just at this time, made Rachel for a time the

heroine of the family. Charlie wrote home with great regularity, like a

good son as he was. His letters were very short, and not at all

explanatory; but they satisfied his mother that he had not taken a

fever, nor fallen into the hands of robbers, and that was so far well.

In one of these epistles, however, the young gentleman extended his

brief report a little, to describe to them a family with which he had

formed acquaintance. There were a lot of girls, Charlie said; and one of

them, called Giulia Remori, was strangely like “Miss Rachel;” “not

exactly like,” wrote Charlie,--“not like Agnes and Marian” (who, by the

way, had only a very vague resemblance to each other). “You would not

suppose them to be sisters; but I always think of Miss Rachel when I see

this Signora Giulia. They say, too, she has a great genius for music,

and I heard her sing once myself, like----; well, I cannot say what it

was like. The most glorious music, I believe, under the skies.”

“Mamma, that cannot be Charlie!” said the girls simultaneously; but it

was Charlie, without any dispute, and Marian clapped her hands in

triumph, and exclaimed that he must be in love; and there stood Rachel,

very much interested, wistful, and smiling. The tender-hearted girl had

the greatest propensity to make friendships. She received the idea of

this foreign Giulia into her heart in a moment, and ran forth eagerly at

the time of Louis’s usual evening visit to meet him at the gate, and

tell him this little bit of romance. It moved Louis a great deal more

deeply than it moved Rachel. This time his eye flashed to the truth like

lightning. He began to give serious thought to what Marian had said of

Charlie’s object, and of Miss Anastasia. “Hush, Rachel,” he said, with

sudden gravity. “Hush, I see it; this is some one belonging to our

mother.”

“Our mother!” The two orphans stood together at the little gate,

silenced by the name. They had never speculated much upon this parent.

It was one of the miseries of their cruel position, that the very idea

of a dead mother, which is to most minds the most saintlike and holy

imagination under heaven, brought to them their bitterest pang of

disgrace and humiliation. Yet now Louis stood silent, pondering it with

the deepest eagerness. A burning impatience possessed the young man; a

violent colour rose over his face. He could not tolerate the idea of an

unconcerned inquirer into matters so instantly momentous to himself. He

was not at all amiable in his impulses; his immediate and wild fancy was

to rush away, on foot and penniless, as he was; to turn off Charlie

summarily from his mission, if he had one; and without a clue, or a

guide, or a morsel of information which pointed in that direction, by

sheer force of energy and desperation to find it out himself. It was

misery to go in quietly to the quiet house, even to the presence of

Marian, with such a fancy burning in his mind. He left Rachel abruptly,

without a word of explanation, and went off to make inquiries about

travelling. It was perfectly vain, but it was some satisfaction to the

fever of his mind. Louis’s defection made Marian very angry; when he

came next day they had their first quarrel, and parted in great

distraction and misery, mutually convinced of the treachery and

wretchedness of this world; but made it up again very shortly after, to

the satisfaction of every one concerned. With these things happening day

by day, with their impatient and fiery Orlando, always in some degree

inflaming the house, it is not necessary to say how wonderful a

revolution had been wrought upon the quiet habitudes of this little

house in Bellevue.

CHAPTER XVIII.

AGNES.

Yet the household felt, in spite of itself, a difference by no means

agreeable between the Old Wood Lodge and Bellevue. The dull brick wall

of Laurel House was not nearly so pleasant to look upon as that great

amphitheatre with its maze of wan waters and willow-trees, where the

sunshine flashed among the spires of Oxford; neither was Miss Willsie,

kind and amusing as she was, at all a good substitute for Miss

Anastasia. They had Louis, it was true, but Louis was in love, and

belonged to Marian; and no one within their range was at all to be

compared to the Rector. Accustomed to have their interest fixed, after

their own cottage, upon the Old Wood House and Winterbourne Hall, they

were a little dismayed, in spite of themselves, to see the meagreness

and small dimensions even of Killiecrankie Lodge. It was a different

world altogether--and they did not know at the first glance how to make

the two compatible. The little house in the country, now that they had

left it, grew more and more agreeable by comparison. Mrs Atheling forgot

that she had thought it damp, and all of them, Mamma herself among the

rest, began to think of their return in spring.

And as the winter went on, Agnes made progress with her fable. She did

not write it carefully, but she did write it with fervour, and the haste

of a mind concerned and in earnest. The story had altered considerably

since she first thought of it. There was in it a real heir whom nobody

knew, and a supposed heir, who was the true hero of the book. The real

heir had a love-story, and the prettiest _fiancée_ in the world; but

about her hero Agnes was timid, presenting a grand vague outline of him,

and describing him in sublime general terms; for she was not at all an

experienced young lady, though she was an author, but herself regarded

her hero with a certain awe and respect and imperfect understanding, as

young men and young women of poetic conditions are wont to regard each

other. From this cause it resulted that you were not very clear about

the Sir Charles Grandison of the young novelist. Her pretty heroine was

as clear as a sunbeam; and even the Louis of her story was definable,

and might be recognised; but the other lay half visible, sometimes

shining out in a sudden gleam of somewhat tremulous light, but for the

most part enveloped in shadow: everybody else in the tale spoke of him,

thought of him, and were marvellously influenced by him; but his real

appearances were by no means equal to the importance he had acquired.

The sole plot of the story was connected with the means by which the

unsuspected heir came to a knowledge of his rights, and gained his true

place; and there was something considerably exciting to Agnes in her

present exercise of the privilege of fiction, and the steps she took to

make the title of her imaginary Louis clear. She used to pause, and

wonder in the midst of it, whether such chances as these would befall

the true Louis, and how far the means of her invention would resemble

the real means. It was a very odd occupation, and interested her

strangely. It was not very much of a story, neither was it written with

that full perfection of style which comes by experience and the progress

of years; but it had something in its faulty grace, and earnestness, and

simplicity, which was perhaps more attractive than the matured

perfectness of a style which had been carefully formed, and “left

nothing to desire.” It was sparkling with youth, and it was warm from

the heart. It went into no greater bulk than one small volume, which Mr

Burlington put into glowing red cloth, embellished with two engravings,

and ornamented with plenty of gilding. It came out, a wintry Christmas

flower, making no such excitement in the house as _Hope Hazlewood_ had

done; and Agnes had the satisfaction of handing over to Papa, to lock up

in his desk in the office, a delightfully crisp, crackling, newly-issued

fifty-pound note.

And Christmas had just given way to the New Year when the Rector made

his appearance at Bellevue. He was still more eager, animated, and

hopeful than he had been when they saw him last. His extreme high-church

clerical costume was entirely abandoned; he still wore black, but it was

not very professional, and he appeared in these unknown parts with books

in his hands and smiles on his face. When he came into the little

parlour, he did not seem at all to notice its limited dimensions, but

greeted them all with an effusion of pleasure and kindness, which

greatly touched the heart of Agnes, and moved her mother, in her extreme

gratification and pride, to something very like tears. Mr Rivers

inquired at once for Louis, with great gravity and interest, but shook

his head when he heard what his present occupation was.

“This will not do; will he come and see me, or shall I wait upon him?”

said the Rector with a subdued smile, as he remembered the youthful

haughtiness of Louis. “I should be glad to speak to him about his

prospects--here is my card--will you kindly ask him to dine with me

to-night, alone? He is a young man of great powers; something better

may surely be found for him than this lawyer’s office.”

Mrs Atheling was a little piqued in spite of herself. “My son, when he

is at home, is there,” said the good mother; and her visitor did not

fail to see the significance of the tone.

“He is not at home now--where is he?” said the Rector.

There was a moment’s hesitation. Agnes turned to look at him, her colour

rising violently, and Mrs Atheling faltered in her reply.

“He has gone abroad to ---- to make some inquiries,” said Mrs Atheling;

“though he is so very young, people have great confidence in him;

and--and it may turn out very important indeed, what he has gone about.”

Once more Agnes cast a troubled glance upon the Rector--he heard of it

with such perfect unconcern--this inquiry which in a moment might strike

his ambition to the dust.

He ceased at once speaking on this subject, which did not interest him.

He said, turning to her, that he had brought some books about which he

wanted Miss Atheling’s opinion. Agnes shrank back immediately in natural

diffidence, but revived again, before she was aware, in all her old

impulse of opposition. “If it is wrong to write books, is it right to

form opinions upon them?” said Agnes. Mr Rivers imperceptibly grew a

little loftier and statelier as she spoke.

“I think I have explained my sentiments on that point,” said the Rector;

“there is no one whose appreciation I should set so high a value on as

that of an intelligent woman.”

It was Agnes’s turn to blush and say nothing, as she met his eye. When

Mr Rivers said “an intelligent woman,” he meant, though the expression

was not romantic, his own ideal; and there lay his books upon the table,

evidences of his choice of a critic. She began to busy herself with

them, looking quite vacantly at the title-pages; wondering if there was

anything besides books, and controversies, and opinions, to be found in

the Rector’s heart.

When Mrs Atheling, in her natural pride and satisfaction, bethought her

of that pretty little book with its two illustrations, and its cover in

crimson and gold, she brought a copy to the table immediately. “My dear,

perhaps Mr Rivers might like to look at this?” said Mrs Atheling. “It

has only been a week published, but people speak very well of it

already. It is a very pretty story. I think you would like it--Agnes, my

love, write Mr Rivers’ name.”

“No, no, mamma!” cried Agnes hurriedly; she put away the red book from

her, and went away from the table in haste and agitation. Very true, it

was written almost for him--but she was dismayed at the idea of being

called to write in it Lionel Rivers’ name.

He took up the book, however, and looked at it in the gravest silence.

_The Heir_;--he read the title aloud, and it seemed to strike him; then

without another word he put the little volume safely in his pocket,

repeated his message to Louis, and a few minutes afterwards, somewhat

grave and abstracted, took his leave of them, and hastened away.

CHAPTER XIX.

LIONEL.

The Rector became a very frequent visitor during the few following weeks

at Bellevue. Louis had gone to see him, as he desired, and Mr Rivers

anxiously endeavoured to persuade the youth to suffer himself to be

“assisted.” Louis as strenuously resisted every proposal of the kind; he

was toiling on in pursuit of himself, through his memoir of Lord

Winterbourne--still eager, and full of expectation--still proud, and

refusing to be indebted to any one. The Rector argued with him like an

elder brother. “Let us grant that you are successful,” said Mr Rivers;

“let us suppose that you make an unquestionable discovery, what position

are you in to pursue it? Your sister, even--recollect your sister--you

cannot provide for her.”

His sister was Louis’s grand difficulty; he bit his lip, and the fiery

glow of shame came to his face. “I cannot provide for her, it is true.

I am bitterly ashamed of it; but, at least, she is among friends.”

“You do me small credit,” said the Rector; “but I will not ask, on any

terms, for a friendship which is refused to me. You are not even in the

way of advancement; and to lose your time after this fashion is madness.

Let me see you articled to these people whom you are with now; that is,

at least, a chance, though not a great one. If I can accomplish it, will

you consent to this?”

Louis paused a little, grateful in his heart, though his tongue was slow

to utter his sentiments. “You are trying to do me a great service,” said

the young man; “you think me a churl, and ungrateful, but you endeavour

to benefit me against my will--is it not true? I am just in such a

position that no miracle in the world would seem wonderful to me; it is

possible, in the chances of the future, that we two may be set up

against each other. I cannot accept this service from you--from you, or

from any other. I must wait.”

The Rector turned away almost with impatience. “Do you suppose you can

spend your life in this fashion--your life?” he exclaimed, with some

heat.

“My life!” said Louis. He was a little startled with this conclusion. “I

thank you,” he added abruptly, “for your help, for your advice, for your

reproof--I thank you heartily, but I have no more to say.”

That was how the conversation ended. Lionel, grieved for the folly of

the boy, smiling to himself at Louis’s strange delusion that he, who was

the very beau-ideal of the race of Rivers, belonged to another house,

went to his rest, with a mind disturbed, full of difficulties, and of

ambition, working out one solemn problem, and touched with tender

dreams; yet always remembering, with a pleasure which he could not

restrain, the great change in his position, and that he was now, not

merely the Rector, but the heir of Winterbourne. Louis, on his part,

went home to his dark little lodging, with the swell and tumult of

excitement in his mind, and could not sleep. He seemed to be dizzied

with the rushing shadows of a crowd of coming events. He was not well;

his abstinence, his studiousness, his change of place and life, had

weakened his young frame; these rushing wings seemed to tingle in his

ears, and his temples throbbed as if they kept time. He rose in the

middle of the night, in the deep wintry silence and moonlight, to open

his window, and feel the cold air upon his brow. There he saw the

moonbeams falling softly, not on any imposing scene, but on the humble

roof underneath whose shelter sweet voices and young hearts, devout and

guileless, prayed for him every night; the thought calmed him into

sudden humility and quietness; and, in his poverty, and hope, and youth,

he returned to his humble bed, and slept. Lionel was waking too; but he

did not know of any one who prayed for _him_ in all this cold-hearted

world.

But the Rector became a very frequent visitor in Bellevue. He had read

the little book--read it with a kind of startled consciousness, the

first time, that it looked like a true story, and seemed somehow

familiar to himself. But by-and-by he began to keep it by him, and, not

for the sake of the story, to take it up idly when he was doing nothing

else, and refer to it as a kind of companion. It was not, in any degree

whatever, an intellectual display; he by no means felt himself pitted

against the author of it, or entering into any kind of rivalship with

her. The stream sparkled and flashed to the sunshine as it ran; but it

flowed with a sweet spontaneous readiness, and bore no trace of

artificial force and effort. It wanted a great many of the qualities

which critics praise. There was no great visible strain of power, no

forcible evidence of difficulties overcome. The reader knew very well

that _he_ could not have done this, nor anything like it, yet his

intellectual pride was not roused. It was genius solacing itself with

its own romaunt, singing by the way; it was not talent getting up an

exhibition for the astonishment, or the enlightenment, or the

instruction of others. Agnes defeated her own purpose by the very means

she had taken to procure it. The Rector forgot all about the story,

thinking of the writer of it; he became indifferent to what she had to

tell, but dwelt and lingered--not like a critic--like something very

different--upon the cadence of her voice.

To tell the truth, between his visits to Bellevue, and his musings

thereafter--his study of this little fable of Agnes’s, and his vague

mental excursions into the future, Lionel Rivers, had he yielded to the

fascination, would have found very near enough to do. But he was manful

enough to resist this trance of fairyland. He was beginning to be “in

love;” nobody could dispute it; it was visible enough to wake the most

entire sympathy in the breasts of Marian and Rachel, and to make for the

mother of the family wakeful nights, and a most uneasy pillow; but he

was far from being at ease or in peace. His friends in London were of a

class as different as possible from these humble people who were rapidly

growing nearer than friends. They were all men of great intelligence, of

great powers, scholars, philosophers, authorities--men who belonged, and

professed to belong, to the ruling class of intellect, prophets and

apostles of a new generation. They were not much given to believing

anything, though some among them had a weakness for mesmerism or

spiritual manifestations. They investigated all beliefs and faculties of

believing, and received all marvellous stories, from the Catholic

legends of the saints to the miracles of the New Testament, on one

general ground of indulgence, charitable and tender, as mythical stories

which meant something in their day. Most of them wrote an admirable

style--most of them occasionally said very profound things which nobody

could understand; all of them were scholars and gentlemen, as blameless

in their lives as they were superior in their powers; and all of them

lived upon a kind of intellectual platform, philosophical demigods,

sufficient for themselves, and looking down with a good deal of

curiosity, a little contempt, and a little pity, upon the crowds who

thronged below of common men.

These were the people to whom Lionel Rivers, in the first flush of his

emancipation, had hastened from his high-churchism, and his country

pulpit--some of them had been his companions at College--some had

inspired him by their books, or pleased him by their eloquence. They

were a brotherhood of men of great cultivation--his equals, and

sometimes his superiors. He had yearned for their society when he was

quite removed from it; but he was of a perverse and unconforming mind.

What did he do now?

He took the strange fancy suddenly, and telling no man, of wandering

through those frightful regions of crime and darkness, which we hide

behind our great London streets. He went about through the miserable

thoroughfares, looking at the miserable creatures there. What was the

benefit to them of these polluted lives of theirs? They had their

enjoyments, people said--their enjoyments! Their sorrows, like the

sorrows of all humanity, were worthy human tears, consolation, and

sympathy,--their hardships and endurances were things to move the

universal heart; but their enjoyments--Heaven save us!--the pleasures of

St Giles’s, the delights and amusements of those squalid groups at the

street corners! If they were to have nothing more than that, what a

frightful fate was theirs!

And there came upon the spectator, as he went among them in silence, a

sudden eagerness to try that talisman which Agnes Atheling had bidden

him use. It was vain to try philosophy there, where no one knew what it

meant--vain to offer the rites of the Church to those who were fatally

beyond its pale. Was it possible, after all, that the one word in the

world, which could stir something human--something of heaven--in these

degraded breasts, was that one sole unrivalled _Name_?

He could not withdraw himself from the wretched scene before him. He

went on from street to street with something of the consciousness of a

man who carries a hidden remedy through a plague-stricken city, but

hides his knowledge in his own mind, and does not apply it. A strange

sense of guilt--a strange oppression by reason of this grand secret--an

overpowering passionate impulse to try the solemn experiment, and

withal a fascinated watchfulness which kept him silent--possessed the

mind of the young man.

He walked about the streets like a man doing penance; then he began to

notice other passengers not so idle as himself. There were people here

who were trying to break into the mass of misery, and make a footing for

purity and light among it. They were not like his people;--sometimes

they were poor city missionaries, men of very bad taste, not perfect in

their grammar, and with no great amount of discretion. Even the people

of higher class were very limited people often to the perception of Mr

Rivers; but they were at work, while the demigods slept upon their

platform. It would be very hard to make philosophers of the wretched

population here. Philosophy did not break its heart over the

impossibility, but calmly left the untasteful city missionaries, the

clergymen, High Church and Low Church, who happened to be in earnest,

and some few dissenting ministers of the neighbourhood, labouring upon a

forlorn hope to make them _men_.

All this moved in the young man’s heart as he pursued his way among

these squalid streets. Every one of these little stirrings in this

frightful pool of stagnant life was made in the name of Him whom Lionel

Rivers once named with cold irreverence, and whom Agnes Atheling, with

a tender awe and appropriation, called “Our Lord.” This was the problem

he was busy with while he remained in London. It was not one much

discussed, either in libraries or drawing-rooms, among his friends; he

discussed it by himself as he wandered through St

Giles’s--silent--watching--with the great Name which he himself did not

know, but began to cling to as a talisman, burning at his heart.

CHAPTER XX.

AN ARRIVAL.

While the Athelings at home were going on quietly, but with anxiety and

disturbance of mind in this way, they were startled one afternoon by a

sudden din and tumult out of doors, nearly as great as that which, not

much short of a year ago, had announced the first call of Mrs Edgerley.

It was not, however, a magnificent equipage like that of the fashionable

patroness of literature which drew up at the door now. It was an antique

job carriage, not a very great deal better to look at than that

venerable fly of Islington, which was still regarded with respect by

Agnes and Marian. In this vehicle there were two horses, tall brown bony

old hacks, worthy the equipage they drew--an old coachman in a very

ancient livery, and an active youth, fresh, rural, and ruddy, who sprang

down from the creaking coach-box to assault, but in a moderate country

fashion, the door of the Athelings. Rachel, who was peeping from the

window, uttered an exclamation of surprise--“Oh, Agnes, look! it is Miss

Anastasia’s man.”

It was so beyond dispute, and Miss Anastasia herself immediately

descended from the creaking vehicle, swinging heavily upon its

antiquated springs; she had a large cloak over her brown pelisse, and a

great muff of rich sables, big enough to have covered from head to foot,

like a case, either little Bell or little Beau. She was so entirely like

herself in spite of those additions to her characteristic costume, and

withal so unlike other people, that they could have supposed she had

driven here direct from the Priory, had that been possible, without any

commonplace intervention of railway or locomotive by the way. As the

girls came to the door to meet her, she took the face--first of Agnes,

then of Marian, and lastly of Rachel, who was a good deal dismayed by

the honour--between her hands, thrusting the big muff, like a prodigious

bracelet, up upon her arm the while, and kissed them with a cordial

heartiness. Then she went into the little parlour to Mrs Atheling, who

in the mean time had been gathering together the scattered pieces of

work, and laying them, after an orderly fashion, in her basket. Then

Papa’s easy-chair was wheeled to the fire for the old lady, and Marian

stooped to find a footstool for her, and Agnes helped to loose the big

cloak from her shoulders. Miss Anastasia’s heart was touched by the

attentions of the young people. She laid her large hand caressingly on

Marian’s head, and patted the cheek of Agnes. “Good children--eh? I

missed them,” she said, turning to Mamma, and Mamma brightened with

pleasure and pride as she whispered something to Agnes about the fire in

the best room. Then, when she had held a little conversation with the

girls, Miss Rivers began to look uneasy. She glanced at Mrs Atheling

with a clear intention of making some telegraphic communication; she

glanced at the girls and at the door, and back again at Mamma, with a

look full of meaning. Mrs Atheling was not generally so dull of

comprehension, but she was so full of the idea that Miss Anastasia’s

real visit was to the girls, and so proud of the attraction which even

this dignified old lady could not resist, that she could not at all

consent to believe that Miss Rivers desired to be left alone with

herself.

“There’s a hamper from the Priory,” said Miss Anastasia at last,

abruptly; “among other country things there’s some flowers in it,

children--make haste all of you and get it unpacked, and tell me what

you think of my camellias! Make haste, girls!”

It was a most moving argument; but it distracted Mrs Atheling’s

attention almost as much as that of her daughters, for the hamper

doubtless contained something else than flowers. Mamma, however,

remained decorously with her guest, despite the risk of breakage to the

precious country eggs; and the girls, partly deceived, partly suspecting

their visitor’s motive, obeyed her injunction, and hastened away. Then

Miss Rivers caught Mrs Atheling by the sleeve, and drew her close

towards her. “Have you heard from your boy?” said Miss Anastasia.

“No,” said Mrs Atheling with a sudden momentary alarm, “not for a

week--has anything happened to Charlie?”

“Nonsense--what could happen to him?” cried the old lady, with a little

impatience, “here is a note I had this morning--read it--he is coming

home.”

Mrs Atheling took the letter with great eagerness. It was a very brief

one:--

MADAM,--I have come to it at last--suddenly. I have only time to

tell you so. I shall leave to-day with an important witness. I have

not even had leisure to write to my mother; but will push on to the

Priory whenever I have bestowed my witness safely in Bellevue. In

great haste.--Your obedient servant,

C. ATHELING.

Charlie’s mother trembled all over with agitation and joy. She had to

grasp by the mantel-shelf to keep herself quite steady. She exclaimed,

“My own boy!” half-crying and wholly exultant, and would have liked to

have hurried out forthwith upon the road and met him half-way, had that

been possible. She kept the letter in her hand looking at it, and quite

forgetting that it belonged to Miss Anastasia. He had justified the

trust put in him--he had crowned himself with honour--he was coming

home! Not much wonder that the good mother was weeping-ripe, and could

have sobbed aloud for very joy.

“Ay,” said Miss Anastasia, with something like a sigh, “you’re a rich

woman. I have not rested since this came to me, nor can I rest till I

hear all your boy has to say.”

At this moment Mrs Atheling started with a little alarm, catching from

the window a glimpse of the coach, with its two horses and its

antiquated coachman, slowly turning round and driving away. Miss

Anastasia followed her glance with a subdued smile.

“Do you mean then to--to stay in London, Miss Rivers?” asked Mrs

Atheling.

“Tut! the boy will be home directly--to-night,” said Miss Anastasia; “I

meant to wait here until he came.”

Mrs Atheling started again in great and evident perturbation. You could

perceive that she repeated “to wait _here_!” within herself with a

great many points of admiration; but she was too well-bred to express

her dismay. She cast, however, an embarrassed look round her, said she

should be very proud, and Miss Rivers would do them honour, but she was

afraid the accommodation was not equal--and here Mrs Atheling paused

much distressed.

“I have been calculating all the way up when he can be here,”

interrupted Miss Anastasia. “I should say about twelve o’clock to-night.

Agnes, when she comes back again, shall revise it for me. Never mind

accommodation. Give him an hour’s grace--say he comes at one

o’clock--then a couple of hours later--by that time it will be three in

the morning. Then I am sure one of the girls will not grudge me her bed

till six. We’ll get on very well; and when Will Atheling comes home, if

you have anything to say to him, I can easily step out of the way. Well,

am I an intruder? If I am not, don’t say anything more about it. I

cannot rest till I see the boy.”

When the news became diffused through the house that Charlie was coming

home to-night, and that Miss Anastasia was to wait for him, a very great

stir and bustle immediately ensued. The best room was hastily put in

order, and Mrs Atheling’s own bedchamber immediately revised and

beautified for the reception of Miss Anastasia. It was with a little

difficulty, however, that the old lady was persuaded to leave the

family parlour for the best room. She resisted energetically all unusual

attentions, and did not hesitate to declare, even in the presence of

Rachel, that her object was to see Charlie, and that for his arrival she

was content to wait all night. A great anxiety immediately took

possession of the household. They too were ready and eager to wait all

night; and even Susan became vaguely impressed with a solemn sense of

some great approaching event. Charlie was not to be alone either. The

excitement rose to a quite overpowering pitch--who was coming with him?

What news did he bring? These questions prolonged to the most

insufferable tediousness the long slow darksome hours of the March

night.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHARLIE’S RETURN.

The girls could not be persuaded to go to rest, let Mamma say what she

would. Rachel, the only one who had no pretence, nor could find any

excuse for sitting up, was the only one who showed the least sign of

obedience; _she_ went up-stairs with a meek unwillingness, lingered as

long as she could before lying down, and when she extinguished her light

at last, lay very broad awake looking into the midnight darkness, and

listening anxiously to every sound below. Marian, in the parlour on a

footstool, sat leaning both her arms on her mother’s knee, and her head

upon her arms, and in that position had various little sleeps, and

half-a-dozen times in half-a-dozen dreams welcomed Charlie home. Agnes

kept Miss Anastasia company in the best room, and Papa, who was not used

to late hours, went between the two rooms with very wide open eyes, very

anxious for his son’s return. Into the midnight darkness and solemnity

of Bellevue, the windows of Number Ten blazed with a cheerful light;

the fires were studiously kept up, the hearths swept, everything looking

its brightest for Charlie; and a pair of splendid capons, part produce

of Miss Anastasia’s hamper, were slowly cooking themselves into

perfection, under the sleepy superintendence of Susan, before the great

kitchen-fire--for even Susan would not go to bed.

Miss Anastasia sat very upright in an easy-chair, scorning so much as a

suspicion of drowsiness. She did not talk very much; she was thinking

over a hundred forgotten things, and tracing back step by step the story

of the past. The old lady almost felt as if her father himself was

coming from his foreign grave to bear witness to the truth. Her heart

was stirred as she sat gazing into the ruddy firelight, hearing not a

sound except now and then the ashes falling softly on the hearth, or the

softer breath of Agnes by her side. As she sat in this unfamiliar little

room, her mind flew back over half her life. She thought of her father

as she had seen him last; she thought of the dreary blank of her own

youthful desolation, a widowhood almost deeper than the widowhood of a

wife--how she did not heed even the solemn pathos of her father’s

farewell--could not rouse herself from her lethargy even to be moved by

the last parting from that last and closest friend, and desired nothing

but to be left in her dreary self-seclusion obstinately mourning her

dead--her murdered bridegroom! The old lady’s eyes glittered, tearless,

looking into the gleaming shadowy depths of the little mirror over the

mantelpiece. It was scarcely in human nature to look back upon that

dreadful tragedy, to anticipate the arrival to-night of the witnesses of

another deadly wrong, and not to be stirred with a solemn and

overwhelming indignation like that of an avenger of blood. Miss

Anastasia started suddenly from her reverie, as she caught a long-drawn

anxious sigh from her young companion; she drew her shawl close round

her with a shudder. “God forgive me!” cried the vehement old lady; “did

you ever have an enemy, child?”

In this house it was a very easy question. “No,” said Agnes, looking at

her wistfully.

“Nor I, perhaps, when I was your age.” Miss Anastasia made a long pause.

It was a long time ago, and she scarcely could recollect anything of her

youth now, except that agony with which it ended. Then in the silence

there seemed to be a noise in the street, which roused all the watchers.

Mr Atheling went to the door to look out. It was very cold, clear, and

calm, the air so sharp with frost, and so still with sleep, that it

carried every passing sound far more distinctly than usual. Into this

hushed and anxious house, through the open door came ringing the chorus

of a street ballad, strangely familiar and out of unison with the

excited feelings of the auditors, and the loud, noisy, echoing footsteps

of some late merry-makers. They were all singularly disturbed by these

uncongenial sounds; they raised a certain vague terror in the breasts of

the father and mother, and a doubtful uneasiness among the other

watchers. Under that veil of night, and silence, and distance, who could

tell what their dearest and most trusted was doing? The old people could

have told each other tales, like Jessica, of “such a night;” and the

breathless silence, and the jar and discord of those rude voices,

stirred memories and presentiments of pain even in the younger hearts.

It was now the middle of the night, two or three hours later than Miss

Anastasia had anticipated, and the old lady rose from her chair, shook

off her thoughtful mood, and began to walk about the room, and to

criticise it briskly to Agnes. Then by way of diversifying her vigil,

she made an incursion into the other parlour, where Papa was nursing the

fire, and Mamma sitting very still, not to disturb Marian, who slept

with her beautiful head upon her mother’s knee. The old lady was

suddenly overcome by the sight of that fair figure, with its folded arms

and bowed head, and long beautiful locks falling down on Mrs Atheling’s

dark gown, like a stream of sunshine. She laid her hand very tenderly

upon the sleeper’s head. “She does not know,” said Miss Anastasia--“she

would not believe what a fairy fortune is coming to her, the sleeping

beauty--God bless them all!”

The words had scarcely left her lips, the tears were still shining in

her eyes, when Marian started up, called out of her dream by a sound

which none of them besides had been quick enough to hear. “There! there!

I hear him,” cried Marian, shaking back her loose curls; and they all

heard the far-off rapid rumble of a vehicle, gradually invading all the

echoes of this quietness. It came along steadily--nearer--nearer--waking

every one to the most overpowering excitement. Miss Anastasia marched

through the little parlour, with an echoing step, throwing her tall

shadow on the blind, clasping her fingers tight. Mr Atheling rushed to

the door; Marian ran to the kitchen to wake up Susan, and see that the

tray was ready for Charlie’s refreshment; Mamma stirred the fire, and

made it blaze; Agnes drew the blind aside, and looked out into the

darkness from the window. Yes, there could be no mistake; on came the

rumbling wheels, closer and closer. Then the cab became absolutely

visible, opposite the door--some one leapt out--was it Charlie?--but he

had to wait, to help some one else, very slow and uncertain, out of the

vehicle. They all crowded to the door, the mother and sisters for the

moment half forgetting Miss Anastasia; and there stood a most

indisputable Charlie, very near six feet high, with a travelling-cap

and a rough overcoat, bringing home the most extraordinary guest

imaginable to his amazed parental home.

_It_ was a woman, enveloped from head to foot in a great cloak, but

unbonneted, and with an amazing head-dress; and after her stumbled forth

a boy, of precisely the same genus and appearance as the Italian boys

with hurdy-gurdies and with images, familiar enough in Bellevue. Charlie

hurried forward, paying the greatest possible attention to his charge,

who was somewhat peevish. He scarcely left her hand when he plunged

among all those anxious people at the door. “All safe--all well, mother;

how did you know I was coming?--how d’ye do, papa? Let her in, let her

in, girls!--she’s tired to death, and doesn’t know a word of English.

Let’s have her disposed of first of all--she’s worth her weight in

gold---- Miss Rivers!”

The young man fell back in extreme amazement. “Who is she, young

Atheling?” cried Miss Anastasia, towering high in the background over

everybody’s head.

Charlie took off his cap with a visible improvement of “manners.” “The

nurse that brought them home,” he answered, in the concisest and most

satisfactory fashion; and, grasping the hand of every one as he passed,

with real pleasure glowing on his bronzed face, Charlie steered his

charge in--seeing there was light in it--to the best room. Arrived

there, he fairly turned his back to the wall, and harangued his anxious

audience.

“It’s all right,” said Charlie; “she tells her story as clearly as

possible when she’s not out of humour, and the doctor’s on his way. I’ve

made sure of everything of importance; and now, mother, if you can

manage it, and Miss Rivers does not object, let us have something to

eat, and get her off to bed, and then you shall hear all the rest.”

Marian went off instantly to call Susan, and all the way Marian repeated

under her breath, “All the rest! all the rest of what? Oh, Louis! but

I’ll find out what they mean.”

CHAPTER XXII.

CHARLIE’S REPORT.

It was far from an easy achievement to get her safely conveyed up the

stairs. She turned round and delivered addresses to them in most lively

and oratorical Italian, eloquent on the subject of her sufferings by the

way; she was disposed to be out of temper when no one answered her but

Charlie, and fairly wound up, and stimulated with Miss Anastasia’s capon

and Mrs Atheling’s wine, was not half so much disposed to be sent off to

bed as her entertainers were to send her. These entertainers were in the

oddest state of amaze and excitement possible. It was beginning to draw

near the wintry morning of another day, and this strange figure in the

strange dress, which did not look half so pretty in its actual reality,

and upon this hard-featured peasant woman, as it did in pictures and

romance--the voluble foreign tongue of which they did not know a

word--the emphatic gestures; the change in the appearance of Charlie,

and the entire suddenness of the whole scene, confused the minds of the

lookers-on. Then a pale face in a white cap, a little shrinking

white-robed figure, trembling and anxious, was perceptible to Mrs

Atheling at the top of the stair, looking down upon it with terror. So

Mamma peremptorily sent Charlie back beside Miss Anastasia, and resumed

into her own hands the management of affairs. Under her guidance the

woman and the boy were comfortably disposed of, no one being able to

speak a word to them, in the room which had been Charlie’s. Rachel was

comforted and sent back to bed, and then Mrs Atheling turned suddenly

upon her own girls. “My dears,” said Mamma, “you are not wanted down

stairs. I don’t suppose Papa and I are wanted either; Miss Anastasia

must talk over her business with Charlie--it is not _our_ business you

know, Marian, my darling; go to sleep.”

“Go to sleep!--people cannot go to sleep just when they choose at five

o’clock in the morning, mamma!” cried the aggrieved and indignant

Marian; but Agnes, though quite as curious as her sister, was wise

enough to lend her assistance in the cause of subordination. Marian was

under very strong temptation. She thought she could _almost_ like to

steal down in the dark and listen; but honour, we are glad to say,

prevailed over curiosity, and sleep over both. When her pretty young

head touched the pillow, there was no eavesdropping possible to Marian;

and in the entirest privacy and silence, after all this tumult, in the

presence of Mamma and Mr Atheling, and addressing himself to Miss

Anastasia, Charlie told his tale. He took out his pocket-book from his

pocket--the same old-fashioned big pocket-book which he had carried away

with him, and gave his evidences one by one into Miss Anastasia’s hands

as he spoke.

But the old lady’s fingers trembled: she had restrained herself as well

as she could, feeling it only just that he should be welcomed by his

own, and even half diverted out of her anxiety by the excited Tyrolese;

but now her restrained feelings rushed back upon her heart. The papers

rustled in her hand; she did not hear him as he began, in order, and

deliberately, his report. “Information! I cannot receive information, I

am too far gone for that,” cried the old lady, with a hysterical break

in her voice. “Give me no facts, Charlie, Charlie!--I am not able to put

them together--tell me once in a word--is it true?”

“It is true,” said Charlie, eagerly--“not only true, but

proved--certain, so clear that nobody can deny it. Listen, Miss Rivers,

I could be content to go by myself with these evidences in my hand,

before any court in England, against the ablest pleader that ever held a

brief. Don’t mind the proofs to-night; trust my assurance, as you

trusted me. It is true to the letter, to the word, everything that you

supposed. Giulietta was his wife. Louis is his lawful son.”

Miss Anastasia did not say a word; she bowed down her face upon her

hands--that face over which an ashy paleness came slowly stealing like a

cloud. Mrs Atheling hastened forward, thinking she was about to faint,

but was put aside by a gesture. Then the colour came back, and Miss

Anastasia rose up, herself again, with all her old energy.

“You are perfectly right, young Atheling--quite right--as you have

always been,” said Miss Rivers; “and, of course, you have told me in

your letters the most part of what you could tell me now. But your boy

is born for the law, Will Atheling,” she said, turning suddenly to

Charlie’s pleased and admiring father. “He wrote to me as if I were a

lawyer instead of a woman: all facts and no opinion; that was scant

measure for me. Shake hands, boy. I’ll see everything in the morning,

and then we’ll think of beginning the campaign. I have it in my head

already--please Heaven! Charlie, we’ll chase them from the field.”

So saying, Miss Anastasia marched with an exultant and jubilant step,

following Mrs Atheling up the narrow stairs. She was considerably shaken

out of her usual composure--swells of great triumph, suddenly calmed by

the motion of a moved heart, passed over the spirit of this brave old

gentlewoman like sun and wind; and her self-appointed charge of the

rights of her father’s children, who might have been her own children so

far as age was concerned, had a very singular effect upon her. Mrs

Atheling did not linger a minute longer than she could help with her

distinguished guest. She was proud of Miss Anastasia, but far prouder of

Charlie,--Charlie, who had been a boy a little while ago, but who had

come back a man.

“Come here and sit down, mother,” said Charlie; “now we’re by ourselves,

if you will not tell the girls, I’ll tell you everything. First, there’s

the marriage. That she belonged to the family I wrote of--the family

Remori--I got at after a long time. She was an only daughter, and had no

one to look after her. I have a certificate of the marriage, and a

witness coming who was present--old Doctor Serrano--one of your patriots

who is always in mischief; besides that, what do you think is my

evidence for the marriage?”

“Indeed, Charlie, I could not guess,” cried Mrs Atheling.

“There’s a kind of tomb near the town, a thing as like the mausoleum at

Winterbourne as possible, and quite as ugly. There is this good in

ugliness,” said Charlie, “that one remarks it, especially in Italy. I

thought no one but an Englishman could have put up such an affair as

that, and I could not make out one way or another who it belonged to,

or what it was. The priests are very strong out there. They would not

let a heretic lie in consecrated ground, and no one cared to go near

this grave, if it was a grave. They wouldn’t allow even that. You know

what the Winterbourne tomb is--a great open canopied affair, with that

vast flat stone below. There was a flat stone in the other one too, not

half so big, and it looked to me as if it would lift easily enough. So

what do you think I did? I made friends with some wild fellows about,

and got hold of one young Englishman, and as soon as it was dark we got

picks and tools and went off to the grave.”

“Oh, Charlie!” Mrs Atheling turned very pale.

“After a lot of work we got it open,” said Charlie, going on with great

zest and animation. “Then the young fellow and I got down into the

vault--a regular vault, where there had been a lamp suspended. _It_, I

suppose, had gone out many a year ago; and there we found upon the two

coffin-lids--well, it’s very pitiful, mother, it is indeed--but we

wanted it for evidence--on one of the coffins was this

inscription:--‘Giulietta Rivers, Lady Winterbourne, _née_ Remori, died

January 1822, aged twenty years.’ If it had been a diamond mine it would

not have given so much pleasure to me.”

“Pleasure! oh Charlie!” cried Mrs Atheling faintly.

“But they might say _you_ put it there, Charlie, and that it was not

true,” said Mr Atheling, who rather piqued himself upon his caution.

“That was what I had the other young fellow for,” said Charlie quietly;

“and that was what made me quite sure she belonged to the Remoris; it

was easy enough after that--and I want only one link now, that is, to

make sure of their identity. Father, do you remember anything about the

children when they came to the Hall?”

Mr Atheling shook his head. “Your aunt Bridget, if she had been alive,

would have been sure to know,” said Mamma meditatively; “but Louis found

out some old servant lately that had been about Winterbourne long ago.”

“Louis! does he know?” cried Charlie.

“He is doing something on his own account, inquiring everything he can

about Lord Winterbourne. He does not know, but guesses every possible

kind of thing, except the truth,” said Mr Atheling; “how long he may be

of lighting upon that, it is impossible to say.”

“Now Charlie, my dear boy, you can ask all about Louis to-morrow,” said

Mrs Atheling. “Louis! Dear me, William, to think of us calling him

Louis, and treating him like any common young man, and he Lord

Winterbourne all the time! and all through Charlie!--and oh, my Marian!

when I think of it all, it bewilders me! But, Charlie, my dear, you must

not be fatigued too much. Do not ask him any more questions to-night,

papa; consider how important his health is; he must lie down directly.

I’ll make him all comfortable; and, William, do you go to the

parlour--bid him good-night.”

Papa obeyed, as dutiful papas are wont to obey, and Charlie laughed, but

submitted, as his mother, with her own kind unwearying hands, arranged

for him the sofa in the best room; for the Tyrolese and Miss Anastasia

occupied all the available bedrooms in the house. Then she bade him

good-night, drawing back his dark elf-locks, and kissing his forehead

tenderly, and with a certain respect for the big boy who was a boy no

longer; and then the good mother went away to arrange her husband

similarly on the other sofa, and to take possession, last of all, of the

easy-chair. “I can sleep in the day if I am disposed,” said Mrs

Atheling, who never was disposed for any such indulgence; and she leaned

back in the big chair, with a mind disturbed and glowing, agitated with

grand fancies. Marian! was it possible? But then, Agnes--after all, what

a maze of splendid uncertainty it was!

CHAPTER XXIII.

PROCRASTINATION.

“You may say what you like, young Atheling,” said Miss Rivers, “you’ve a

very good right to your own opinion; but I’m not a lawyer, nor bound by

rule and precedent, mind. This is the middle of March; _it_ comes on in

April; we must wait for that; and you’re not up with all your evidence,

you dilatory boy.”

“But I might happen to be up with it in a day,” said Charlie, “and at

all events an ejectment should be served, and the first step taken in

the case without delay.”

“That is all very well,” said the old lady, “but I don’t suppose it

would advance the business very much, besides rousing him at once to use

every means possible, and perhaps buy off that poor old Serrano, or get

hold of Monte. Why did you not look for Monte, young Atheling? The

chances are that he was present too?”

“One witness was as much as I could manage,” said Charlie, shrugging

his shoulders at the recollection; “but the most important question of

all--Louis--I mean--your brother--the heir--”

“My brother--the heir.” Miss Rivers coloured suddenly. It was a

different thing thinking of him in private, and hearing him spoken of

so. “I tell you he is not the heir, young Atheling; he is Lord

Winterbourne: but I will not see him yet, not till _the day_; it would

be a terrible time of suspense for the poor boy.”

“Then, if it is your pleasure, he must go away,” said Charlie,

firmly--“he cannot come here to this agitated house of ours without

discovering a good deal of the truth; and if he discovered it so, he

would have just grounds to complain. If he is not told at once, he ought

to have some commission such as I have had, and be sent away.”

Miss Rivers coloured still more, all her liking for Charlie and his

family scarcely sufficing to reconcile her to the “sending away” of the

young heir, on the same footing as she had sent young Atheling. She

hesitated and faltered visibly, seeing reason enough in it, but

extremely repugnant. “If you think so,” she said at last, with a

slightly averted face, “ah--another time we can speak of that.”

Then came further consultations, and Charlie had to tell his story over

bit by bit, and incident by incident, illustrating every point of it by

his documents. Miss Anastasia was particularly anxious about the young

Englishman whose name was signed with Charlie’s own, in certification of

the inscription on the coffin. Miss Anastasia marvelled much whether he

belonged to the Hillarys of Lincolnshire, or the Hillarys of Yorkshire,

and pursued his shadow through half-a-dozen counties. Charlie was not

particularly given to genealogy. He had the young man’s card, with his

address at the Albany, and the time of his possible return home. That

was quite enough for the matter in hand, and Charlie was very much more

concerned about the one link wanting in his evidence--the person who

received the children from the care of Leonore the Tyrolese.