As it chanced, in this strange maze of circumstance, the Rector chose

this day for one of his visits. He was very much amazed to encounter

Miss Anastasia; it struck him evidently as something which needed to be

accounted for, for she was known and noted as a dweller at home. She

received him at first with a certain triumphant satisfaction, but

by-and-by a little confusion appeared even in the looks of Miss

Anastasia. She began to glance from the stately young man to the pale

face and drooping eyelids of Agnes. She began to see the strange mixture

of trouble and hardship in this extraordinary revolution, and her heart

was touched for the heir deposed, as well as for the heir discovered.

Lionel was “in trouble” himself, after an odd enough fashion. Some one

had just instituted an action against him in the ecclesiastical courts

touching the furniture of his altar, and the form in which he conducted

the services. It was a strange poetic justice to bring this against him

now, when he himself had cast off his high-churchism, and was

luxuriating in his new freedom. But the Curate grew perfectly inspired

under the infliction, and rose to the highest altitude of satisfaction

and happiness, declaring this to be the testing-touch of persecution,

which constantly distinguishes the true faith. It was on Miss

Anastasia’s lips to speak of this, and to ask the young clergyman why he

was so long away from home at so critical a juncture, but her heart was

touched with compunction. From looking at Lionel, she turned suddenly to

Agnes, and asked, with a strange abruptness, a question which had no

connection with the previous conversation--“That little book of yours,

Agnes Atheling, that you sent to me, what do you mean by that story,

child?--eh?--what put _that_ into your idle little brain? It is not like

fiction; it is quite as strange and out of the way as if it had been

life.”

Involuntarily Agnes lifted her heavy eyelids, and cast a shy look of

distress and sympathy upon the unconscious Rector, who never missed any

look of hers, but could not tell what this meant. “I do not know,” said

Agnes; but the question did not wake the shadow of a smile upon her

face--it rather made her resentful. She thought it cruel of Miss

Anastasia, now that all doubt was over, and Lionel was certainly

disinherited. Disinherited!--he had never possessed anything actual, and

nothing was taken from him; whereas Louis had been defrauded of his

rights all his life; but Agnes instinctively took the part of the

present sufferer--the unwitting sufferer, who suspected no evil.

But the Rector was startled in his turn by the question of Miss

Anastasia. It revived in his own mind the momentary conviction of

reality with which he had read the little book. When Miss Anastasia

turned away for a moment, he addressed Agnes quietly aside, making a

kind of appeal. “Had you, then, a real foundation--is it a true tale?”

he said, looking at her with a little anxiety. She glanced up at him

again, with her eyes so full of distress, anxiety, warning--then looked

down with a visible paleness and trembling, faltered very much in her

answer, and at last only said, expressing herself with difficulty, “It

is not all real--only something like a story I have heard.”

But Agnes could not bear his inquiring look; she hastily withdrew to the

other side of the room, eager to be out of reach of the eyes which

followed her everywhere. For his part, Lionel’s first idea was of some

distress of hers, which he instinctively claimed the right to soothe;

but the thing remained in his mind, and gave him a certain vague

uneasiness; he read the book over again when he went home, to make it

out if he could, but fell so soon into thought of the writer, and

consideration of that sweet youthful voice of hers, that there was no

coming to any light in the matter. He not only gave it up, but forgot it

again, only marvelling what was the mystery which looked so sorrowful

and so bright out of Agnes Atheling’s eyes.

They all waited with some little apprehension that night for the visit

of Louis. He was very late; the evening wore away, and Miss Anastasia

had long ago departed, taking with her, to the satisfaction of every

one, the voluble Tyrolese; but Louis was not to be seen nor heard of.

Very late, as they were all preparing for rest, some one came to the

door. The knock raised a sudden colour on the cheeks of Marian, which

had grown very pale for an hour or two. But it was not Louis; it was,

however, a note from him, which Marian ran up-stairs to read. She came

down again a moment after, with a pale face, painfully keeping in two

big tears. “Oh, mamma, he has gone away,” said Marian. She did not want

to cry, and it was impossible to speak without crying; and yet she did

not like to confide to any one the lover’s letter. At last the tears

fell, and Marian found her voice. He had just heard suddenly something

very important, had seen Mr Foggo about it, and had hurried off to the

country; he would not be detained long, he was sure; he had not a moment

to explain anything, but would write whenever he got there. “He does not

even say where,” said Marian, sadly; and Rachel came close up to her,

and cried without any restraint, as Marian very much wished, but did not

quite like to do before her father and her brother. Mrs Atheling took

them both into a corner, and scolded them after a fashion she had. “My

dears, do you think you cannot trust Louis?” said Mamma--“nonsense!--we

shall hear to-morrow morning. Why, he has spoken to Mr Foggo, and you

may be quite sure everything is right, and that it was the most sensible

thing he could do.”

But it was very odd certainly, not at all explainable, and withal the

most seasonable thing in the world. “I should think it quite a

providence,” said Mrs Atheling, “if we only heard where he was.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE FOGGOS.

The first thing to be done in the morning, before it was time even for

the postman, was to hasten to Killiecrankie Lodge, and ascertain all

that could be ascertained concerning Louis from Mr Foggo. This mission

was confided to Agnes. It was a soft spring-like morning, and the first

of Miss Willsie’s wallflowers were beginning to blow. Miss Willsie

herself was walking in her little garden, scattering crumbs upon the

gravel-path for the poor dingy town-sparrows, and the stray robin whom

some unlucky wind had blown to Bellevue. But Miss Willsie was disturbed

out of her usual equanimity; she looked a little heated, as if she had

come here to recover herself, and rather frightened her little feathered

acquaintances by the vehemence with which she threw them her daily dole.

She smoothed her brow a little at sight of Agnes. “And what may _you_ be

wanting at such an hour as this?” said Miss Willsie; “if there is one

thing I cannot bide, it is to see young folk wandering about, without

any errand, at all the hours of the day!”

“But I have an errand,” said Agnes. “I want to ask Mr Foggo about--about

Mr Louis--if he knows where he has gone!”

Mr Louis--his surname, as everybody supposed--was the name by which

Louis was known in Bellevue.

Miss Willsie’s brow puckered with a momentary anger. “I would like to

know,” said Miss Willsie, “why that monkey could not content herself

with a kindly lad at home: but my brother’s in the parlour; you’ll find

him there, Agnes. Keep my patience!--Foggie’s there too--the lad from

America. If there’s one thing in this world I cannot endure, it’s just a

young man like yon!”

Miss Willsie, however, reluctantly followed her young visitor into the

breakfast parlour, from which the old lady had lately made an indignant

and unceremonious exit. It was a very comfortable breakfast-table, fully

deserving the paragraph it obtained in those “Letters from England,”

which are so interesting to all the readers of the _Mississippi

Gazette_. There was a Scottish prodigality of creature comforts, and the

fine ancient table-linen was white as snow, and there was a very unusual

abundance, for a house of this class, of heavy old plate. Mr Foggo was

getting through his breakfast methodically, with the _Times_ erected

before him, and forming a screen between himself and his worshipful

nephew; while Mr Foggo S. Endicott, seated with a due regard to his

profile, at such an angle with the light as to exhibit fitly that noble

outline, conveyed his teacup a very long way up from the table, at

dignified intervals, to his handsome and expressive mouth.

Agnes hastened to the elder gentleman at once, and drew him aside to

make her inquiries. Mr Foggo smiled, and took a pinch of snuff. “All

quite true,” said Mr Foggo; “he came to me yesterday with a paper in his

hand--a long story about next of kin wanted somewhere, and of two

children belonging to some poor widow woman, who had been lost sight of

a long time ago, one of whom was named Louis. That’s the story; it’s a

mare’s nest, Agnes, if you know what that is; but I thought it might

divert the boy; so instead of opposing, I furnished him for his journey,

and let him go without delay. No reason why the lad should not do his

endeavour for his own hand. It’s good for him, though it’s sure to be a

failure. He has told you perfectly true.”

“And where has he gone?” asked Agnes anxiously.

“It’s in one of the midland counties--somewhere beyond Birmingham--at

this moment I do not remember the place,” said Mr Foggo; “but I took a

note of it, and you’ll hear from him to-morrow. We’ve been hearing news

ourselves, Agnes. Did you tell her, Willsie, what fortune has come to

you and me?”

“No,” said Miss Willsie. She was turning her back upon her dutiful

nephew, and frowning darkly upon the teapot. The American had no chance

with his offended aunt.

“A far-away cousin of ours,” said Mr Foggo, who was very bland, and in a

gracious humour, “has taken it into his head to die; and a very bonny

place indeed, in the north country--a cosy little estate and a good

house--comes to me.”

“I am very glad,” said Agnes, brightening in sympathy; “that is good

news for everybody. Oh, Miss Willsie, how pleased Mr Foggo must be!”

Miss Willsie did not say a word--Mr Foggo smiled. “Then you think a cosy

estate a good thing, Agnes?” said the old gentleman. “I am rather

afraid, though you write books, you are not poetical; for that is not

the view of the subject taken by my nephew here.”

“I despise wealth,” said Mr Endicott. “An estate, sir, is so much dirty

soil. The mind is the true riches; a spark of genius is worth all the

inheritances in the world!”

“And that’s just so much the better for you, Foggie, my man,” cried Miss

Willsie suddenly; “seeing the inheritances of this world are very little

like to come to your share. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a lee!”

Mr Endicott took no notice of this abstract deliverance. “A very great

estate--the ancient feudal domain--the glens and the gorges of the

Highland chief, I respect, sir,” said the elevated Yankee; “but a man

who can influence a thousand minds--a man whose course is followed

eagerly by the eyes of half a nation--such a man is not likely to be

tempted to envy by a mile of indifferent territory. My book, by which I

can move a world, is my lever of Archimedes; this broadsheet”--and he

laid his hand upon the pages of the _Mississippi Gazette_--“is my

kingdom! Miss Atheling, I shall have the honour of paying my respects to

your family to-day. I shall soon take leave of Europe. I have learned

much--I have experienced much--I am rejoiced to think I have been able

to throw some light upon the manners and customs of your people; and

henceforward I intend to devote myself to the elucidation of my own.”

“We shall be very glad to see you, Mr Endicott,” said Agnes, who was

rather disposed to take his part, seeing he stood alone. “Now I must

hasten home and tell them. We were all very anxious; but every one will

be glad, Mr Foggo, to hear of you. We shall feel as if the good fortune

had come to ourselves.”

“Ay, Agnes, and so it might, if Marian, silly monkey, had kept a thought

for one that liked her well,” said Miss Willsie, as she went with her

young visitor. “Poor Harry! his uncle’s heart yearns to him; _our_ gear

will never go the airt of a fool like yon!” said Miss Willsie, growing

very Scotch and very emphatic, as she inclined her head in the direction

of Mr Endicott; “but Harry will be little heeding who gets the siller

_now_.”

Poor Harry! since he had heard of _it_--since he had known of Marian’s

engagement, he had never had the heart to make a single appearance in

Bellevue.

Mr Endicott remembered his promise; he went forth in state, as soon

after noon as he could go, with a due regard to the proper hour for a

morning call. Mr Endicott, though he had endured certain exquisite pangs

of jealousy, was not afraid of Louis; he could not suppose that any one

was so blind, having _his_ claims fairly placed before them, as to

continue to prefer another; such an extent of human perversity did not

enter into the calculations of Mr Endicott. And he was really “in love,”

like the rest of these young people. All the readers of the _Mississippi

Gazette_ knew of a certain lovely face, which brightened the

imagination of their “representative man,” and it was popularly expected

on the other side of the water, in those refined circles familiar with

Mr Endicott, that he was about to bring his bride home. He had an

additional stimulus from this expectation, and went forth to-day with

the determination of securing Marian Atheling. He was a little nervous,

because there was a good deal of real emotion lying at the bottom of his

heart; but, after all, was more doubtful of getting an opportunity than

of the answer which should follow when the opportunity was gained.

To his extreme amazement, he found Marian alone. He understood it in a

moment--they had left her on purpose--they comprehended his intentions!

She was pale, her beautiful eyes glistened, and were wet and dewy.

Perhaps she, too, had an intuition of what was coming. He thought her

subdued manner, the tremble in her voice, the eyes, which were cast down

so often, and did not care to meet his full gaze, were all signs of that

maiden consciousness about which he had written many a time. In the full

thought of this, the eloquent young American dispensed with all

preamble. He came to her side with the delightful benevolence of a lover

who could put this beautiful victim of his fascinations out of her

suspense at once. He addressed her by her name--he added the most

endearing words he could think of--he took her hand. The young beauty

started from him absolutely with violence. “What do you mean, sir?” said

Marian. Then she stood erect at a little distance, her eyes flashing,

her cheek burning, holding her hands tight together, with an air of

petulant and angry defiance. Mr Endicott was thunderstruck. “Did you not

expect me--do you not understand me?” said the lover, not yet daunted.

“Pardon me; I have shocked your delicate feelings. You cannot think I

mean to do it, Marian, sweet British rose? You know me too well for

that; you know my mind--you appreciate my feelings. You were born to be

a poet’s bride--I come to offer you a poet’s heart!”

Before he had concluded, Marian recovered herself; into the dewy eyes,

that had been musing upon Louis, the old light of girlish mischief came

arch and sweet. “I did not quite understand you, Mr Endicott,” said

Marian, demurely. “You alarmed me a little; but I am very much obliged,

and you are very good; only, I--I am sorry. I suppose you do not know

I--I am engaged!”

She said this with a bright blush, casting down her eyes. She thought,

after all, it was the honestest and the easiest fashion of dismissing

her new lover.

“Engaged! Marian, you did not know of me--you were not acquainted with

my sentiments,” cried the American. “Oh, for a miserable dream of

honour, will you blight my life and your own? You were not aware of my

love--you were ignorant of my devotion. Beautiful Mayflower! you are

free of what you did in ignorance--you are free for me!”

Marian snatched away her hand again with resentment. “I suppose you do

not mean to be very impertinent, Mr Endicott, but you are so,” cried the

indignant little beauty. “I do not like you--I never did like you. I am

very sorry, indeed, if you really cared for me. If I were free a hundred

times over--if I never had seen any one,” cried Marian vehemently,

blushing with sudden passion, and feeling disposed to cry, “I never

could have had anything to say to you. Mamma--oh, I am sure it is very

cruel!--Mamma, will you speak to Mr Endicott? He has been very rude to

me!”

Mamma, who came in at the moment out of the garden, started with

amazement to see the flushed cheeks of Marian, and Mr Endicott, who

stood in an appealing attitude, with the most crestfallen and astonished

face. Marian ran from the room in an instant, scarcely able to restrain

her tears of vexation and annoyance, till she was out of sight. Mrs

Atheling placed a chair for her daughter’s suitor very solemnly. “What

has happened?--what have you been saying, Mr Endicott?” said the

indignant mother.

“I have only been offering to your daughter’s acceptance all that a man

has to offer,” said the American, with a little real dignity. “It is

over; the young lady has made her own election--she rejects _me_! It is

well! it is but another depth of human suffering opening to _his_ feet

who must tread them all! But I have nothing to apologise for. Madam,

farewell!”

“Oh, stay a moment! I am very sorry--she is so young. I am sure she did

not mean to offend you,” said Mrs Atheling, with distress. “She is

engaged, Mr Endicott. Miss Willsie knew of it. I am sure I am grieved if

the foolish child has answered you unkindly; but she is engaged.”

“So I am aware, madam,” said Mr Endicott, gloomily; “may it be for her

happiness--may no poetic retribution attend her! As for me, my art is my

lifelong consolation. This, even, is for the benefit of the world; do

not concern yourself for me.”

But Mrs Atheling hastened up-stairs when he was gone, to reprove her

daughter. To her surprise, Marian defended herself with spirit. “He was

impertinent, mamma,” said Marian; “he said if I had known he cared for

me, I would not have been engaged. He! when everybody knows I never

would speak to him. It was he who insulted me!”

So Mr Endicott’s English romance ended, after all, in a paragraph which,

when the time comes, we shall feel a melancholy pleasure in transcribing

from the eloquent pages of the _Mississippi Gazette_.

CHAPTER XXV.

GOOD FORTUNE.

This evening was extremely quiet, and something dull, to the inhabitants

of Bellevue. Though everybody knew of the little adventure of Mr

Endicott, the young people were all too reverential of the romance of

youth themselves to laugh very freely at the disappointed lover. Charlie

sat by himself in the best room, sedulously making out his case. Charlie

had risen into a person of great importance at the office since his

return, and, youth as he was, was trusted so far, under Mr Foggo’s

superintendence, as to draw up the brief for the counsel who was to

conduct this great case; so they had not even his presence to enliven

the family circle, which was very dull without Louis. Then Agnes, for

her part, had grown daily more self-occupied; Mrs Atheling pondered over

this, half understood it, and did not ask a question on the subject. She

glanced very often at the side-table, where her elder daughter sat

writing. This was not a common evening occupation with Agnes; but she

found a solace in that making of fables, and was forth again, appealing

earnestly, with all the power and privilege of her art, not so much to

her universal audience as to one among them, who by-and-by might find

out the second meaning--the more fervent personal voice.

As for Marian and Rachel, they both sat at work somewhat melancholy,

whispering to each other now and then, speaking low when they spoke to

any one else. Papa was at his newspaper, reading little bits of news to

them; but even Papa was cloudy, and there was a certain shade of dulness

and melancholy over all the house.

Some one came to the door when the evening was far advanced, and held a

long parley with Susan; the issue of which was, that Susan made her

appearance in the parlour to ask information. “A man, ma’am, that Mr

Louis appointed to come to him to-night,” said Susan, “and he wants to

know, please, when Mr Louis is coming home.”

Mrs Atheling went to the door to answer the inquiry; then, having become

somewhat of a plotter herself by force of example, she bethought her of

calling Charlie. The man was brought into the best room; he was an

ordinary-looking elderly man, like a small shopkeeper. He stated what he

wanted slowly, without any of the town sharpness. He said the young

gentleman was making out some account--as he understood--about Lord

Winterbourne, and hearing that he had been once about the Hall in his

young days, had come to him to ask some questions. He was a likely young

gentleman, and summat in his own mind told the speaker he had seen his

face afore, whether it were about the Hall, or where it were, deponent

did not know; but thinking upon it, just bethought him at this moment

that he was mortal like the old lord. Now the young gentleman--as he

heard--had gone sudden away to the country, and the lady of the house

where he lived had sent the perplexed caller here.

“I know very well about that quarter myself,” said Mrs Atheling. “Do you

know the Old Wood Lodge? that belongs to us; and if you have friends in

the village, I daresay I shall know your name.”

The man put up his hand to his forehead respectfully. “I knowed the old

lady at the Lodge many a year ago,” said he. “My name’s John Morrall. I

was no more nor a helper at the stables in my day; and a sister of mine

had charge of some children about the Hall.”

“Some children--who were they?” said Charlie. “Perhaps Lord

Winterbourne’s children; but that would be very long ago.”

“Well, sir,” said the man with a little confusion, glancing aside at Mrs

Atheling, “saving the lady’s presence, I’d be bold to say that they was

my lord’s, but in a sort of an--unlawful way; two poor little morsels of

twins, that never had nothing like other children. He wasn’t any way

kind to them, wasn’t my lord.”

“I think I know the children you mean,” said Charlie, to the surprise

and admiration of his mother, who checked accordingly the exclamation on

her own lips. “Do you know where they came from?--were you there when

they were brought to the Hall?”

“Ay, sir, _I_ know--no man better,” said Morrall. “Sally was the

woman--all along of my lord’s man that she was keeping company with the

same time, little knowing, poor soul, what she was to come to--that

brought them unfortunate babbies out of London. I don’t know no more.

Sally’s opinion was, they came out o’ foreign parts afore that; for the

nurse they had with them, Sally said, was some outlandish kind of a

Portugee.”

“A Portuguese!” exclaimed both the listeners in dismay--but Charlie

added immediately, “What made your sister suppose she was a Portuguese?”

“Well, sir, she was one of them foreign kind of folks--but noways like

my lady’s French maid, Sally said--so taking thought what she was, a

cousin of ours that’s a sailor made no doubt but she was a Portugee--so

she gave up the little things to Sally, not one of them able to say a

word to each other; for the foreign woman, poor soul, knew no English,

and Sally brought down the babbies to the Hall.”

“Does your sister live at Winterbourne?” asked Charlie.

“What, Sally, sir? poor soul!” said John Morrall, “to her grief she

married my lord’s man, again all we could say, and he went pure to the

bad, as was to be seen of him, and listed--and now she’s off in Ireland

with the regiment, a poor creature as you could see--five children,

ma’am, alive, and she’s had ten; always striving to do her best, but

never able, poor soul, to keep a decent gown to her back.”

“Will you tell me where she is?” said Charlie, while his mother went

hospitably away to bring a glass of wine, a rare and unusual dainty, for

the refreshment of this most welcome visitor--“there is an inquiry going

on at present, and her evidence might be of great value: it will be good

for her, don’t fear. Let me know where she is.”

While Charlie took down the address, his mother, with her own hand,

served Mr John Morrall with a slice of cake and a comfortable glass of

port-wine. “But I am sure you are comfortable yourself--you look so, at

least.”

“I am in the green-grocery trade,” said their visitor, putting up his

hand again with “his respects,” “and got a good wife and three as

likely childer as a man could desire. It ain’t just as easy as it might

be keeping all things square, but we always get on; and lord! if folks

had no crosses, they’d ne’er know they were born. Look at Sally, there’s

a picture!--and after that, says I, it don’t become such like as us to

complain.”

Finally, having finished his refreshment, and left his own address with

a supplementary note, and touch of the forehead--“It ain’t very far off;

glad to serve you, ma’am”--Mr John Morrall withdrew. Then Charlie

returned to his papers, but not quite so composedly as usual. “Put up my

travelling-bag, mother,” said Charlie, after a few ineffectual attempts

to resume; “I’ll not write any more to-night; it’s just nine o’clock.

I’ll step over and see old Foggo, and be off to Ireland to-morrow,

without delay.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE OXFORD ASSIZES.

April, as cloudless and almost as warm as summer, a day when all the

spring was swelling sweet in all the young buds and primroses, and the

broad dewy country smiled and glistened under the rising of that sun,

which day by day shone warmer and fuller on the woods and on the fields.

But the point of interest was not the country; it was not a spring

festival which drew so many interested faces along the high-road. An

expectation not half so amiable was abroad among the gentry of

Banburyshire--a great many people, quite an unusual crowd, took their

way to the spring assizes to listen to a trial which was not at all

important on its own account. The defendants were not even known among

the county people, nor was there much curiosity about them. It was a

family quarrel which roused the kind and amiable expectations of all

these excellent people,--The Honourable Anastasia Rivers against Lord

Winterbourne. It was popularly anticipated that Miss Anastasia herself

was to appear in the witness-box, and everybody who knew the

belligerents, delighted at the prospect of mischief, hastened to be

present at the fight.

And there was a universal gathering, besides, of all the people more

immediately interested in this beginning of the war. Lord Winterbourne

himself, with a certain ghastly levity in his demeanour, which sat ill

upon his bloodless face, and accorded still worse with the mourner’s

dress which he wore, graced the bench. Charlie Atheling sat in his

proper place below, as agent for the defendant, within reach of the

counsel for the same. His mother and sisters were with Miss Anastasia,

in a very favourable place for seeing and hearing; the Rector was not

far from them, very much interested, but exceedingly surprised at the

unchanging paleness of Agnes, and the obstinacy with which she refused

to meet his eye; for that she avoided him, and seemed overwhelmed by

some secret and uncommunicated mystery, which no one else, even in her

own family, shared, was clear enough to a perception quickened by the

extreme “interest” which Lionel Rivers felt in Agnes Atheling. Even

Rachel had been brought thither in the train of Miss Anastasia; and

though rather disturbed by her position, and by the disagreeable and

somewhat terrifying consciousness of being observed by Lord

Winterbourne, in whose presence she had not been before, since the time

she left the Hall--Rachel, with her veil over her face, had a certain

timid enjoyment of the bustle and novelty of the scene. Louis, too, was

there, sent down on the previous night with a commission from Mr Foggo;

there was no one wanting. The two or three who knew the tactics of the

day, awaited their disclosure with great secret excitement, speculating

upon their effect; and those who did not, looked on eagerly with

interest and anxiety and hope.

Only Agnes sat drawing back from them, between her mother and sister,

letting her veil hang with a pitiful unconcern in thick double folds

half over her pale face. She did not care to lift her eyes; she looked

heavy, wretched, spiritless; she could not keep her thoughts upon the

smiling side of the picture; she thought only of the sudden blow about

to fall--of the bitter sense of deception and craftiness, of the

overwhelming disappointment which this day must bring forth.

The case commenced. Lord Winterbourne’s counsel stated the plea of his

noble client; it did not occupy a very long time, for no one supposed it

very important. The statement was, that Miss Bridget Atheling had been

presented by the late Lord Winterbourne with a life-interest in the

little property involved; that the Old Wood Lodge, the only property in

the immediate neighbourhood which was not in the peaceful possession of

Lord Winterbourne, had never been separated or alienated from the

estate; that, in fact, the gift to Miss Bridget was a mere tenant’s

claim upon the house during her lifetime, with no power of bequest

whatever; and the present Lord Winterbourne’s toleration of its brief

occupancy by the persons in possession, was merely a good-humoured

carelessness on the part of his lordship of a matter not sufficiently

important to occupy his thoughts. The only evidence offered was the

distinct enumeration of the Old Wood Lodge along with the Old Wood

House, and the cottages in the village of Winterbourne, as in possession

of the family at the accession of the late lord; and the learned

gentleman concluded his case by declaring that he confidently challenged

his opponent to produce any deed or document whatever which so much as

implied that the property had been bestowed upon Bridget Atheling. No

deed of gift--no conveyance--nothing whatever in the shape of

title-deeds, he was confident, existed to support the claim of the

defendant; a claim which, if it was not a direct attempt to profit by

the inadvertence of his noble client, was certainly a very ugly and

startling mistake.

So far everything was brief enough, and conclusive enough, as it

appeared. The audience was decidedly disappointed: if the answer was

after this style, there was no “fun” to be expected, and it had been an

entire hoax which seduced the Banburyshire notabilities to waste the

April afternoon in a crowded court-house. But Miss Anastasia, swelling

with anxiety and yet with triumph, was visible to every one; visible

also to one eye was something very different--Agnes, pale, shrinking,

closing her eyes, looking as if she would faint. The Rector made his way

behind, and spoke to her anxiously. He was afraid she was ill; could he

assist her through the crowd? Agnes turned her face to him for a moment,

and her eyes, which looked so dilated and pitiful, but only said “No,

no,” in a hurried whisper, and turned again. The counsel on the other

side had risen, and was about to begin the defence.

“My learned brother is correct, and doubtless knows himself to be so,”

said the advocate of the Athelings. “We have no deed to produce, though

we have something nearly as good; but, my lord, I am instructed suddenly

to change the entire ground of my plea. Certain information which has

come to the knowledge of my clients, but which it was not their wish to

make public at present, has been now communicated to me; and I beg to

object at once to the further progress of the suit, on a ground which

your lordship will at once acknowledge to be just and forcible. I

assert that the present bearer of the title is not the true Lord

Winterbourne.”

There rose immediately a hum and murmur of the strangest character--not

applause, not disapproval--simple consternation, so extreme that no one

could restrain its utterance. People rose up and stared at the speaker,

as if he had been seized with sudden madness in their presence; then

there ensued a scene of much tumult and agitation. The judges on the

bench interposed indignantly. The counsel for Lord Winterbourne sprang

to his feet, appealing with excitement to their lordships--was this to

be permitted? Even the audience, Lord Winterbourne’s neighbours, who had

no love for him, pressed forward as if to support him in this crisis,

and with resentment and disapproval looked upon Miss Anastasia, to whom

every one turned instinctively, as to a conspirator who had overshot the

mark. It was scarcely possible for the daring speaker to gain himself a

hearing. When he did so, at last, it was rather as a culprit than an

accuser. But even the frown of a chief-justice did not appal a man who

held Charlie Atheling’s papers in his hands; he was heard again,

declaring, with force and dignity, that he was incapable of making such

a statement without proofs in his possession which put it beyond

controversy. He begged but a moment’s patience, in justice to himself

and to his client, while he placed an abstract of the case and the

evidence in their lordships’ hands.

Then to the sudden hum and stir, which the officials of the court had

not been able to put down, succeeded that total, strange, almost

appalling stillness of a crowd, which is so very impressive at all

times. While the judges consulted together, looking keenly over these

mysterious papers, almost every eye among the spectators was riveted

upon them. No one noticed even Lord Winterbourne, who stood up in his

place unconsciously, overlooking them all, quite unaware of the

prominence and singularity of his position, gazing before him with a

motionless blank stare, like a man looking into the face of Fate. The

auditors waited almost breathless for the decision of the law. That

anything so wild and startling could ever be taken into consideration by

those grave authorities was of itself extraordinary; and as the

consultation was prolonged, the anxiety grew gradually greater. Could

there be reality in it? could it be true?

At last the elder judge broke the silence. “This is a very serious

statement,” he said: “of course, it involves issues much more important

than the present question. As further proceedings will doubtless be

grounded on these documents, it is our opinion that the hearing of this

case had better be adjourned.”

Lord Winterbourne seated himself when he heard the voice--it broke the

spell; but not so Louis, who stood beneath, alone, looking straight up

at the speaker in his judicial throne. The truth flashed to the mind of

Louis like a gleam of lightning. He did not ask a question, though

Charlie was close by him; he did not turn his head, though Miss

Anastasia was within reach of his eye; his whole brain seemed to burn

and glow; the veins swelled upon his forehead; he raised up his head for

air, for breath, like a man overwhelmed; he did not see how the gaze of

half the assembly began to be attracted to himself. In this sudden pause

he stood still, following out the conviction which burst upon him--this

conviction, which suddenly, like a sunbeam, made all things clear. Wrong

as he had been in the details, his imagination was true as the most

unerring judgment. For what child in the world was it so much this man’s

interest to disgrace and disable as the child whose rights he

usurped--his brother’s lawful heir? This silence was like a lifetime to

Louis, but it ended in a moment. Some confused talking

followed--objections on the part of Lord Winterbourne’s representative,

which were overruled; and then another case was called--a common little

contest touching mere lands and houses--and every one awoke, as at the

touch of a disenchanting rod, to the common pale daylight and common

controversy, as from a dream.

Then the people streamed out in agitated groups, some retaining their

first impulse of contradiction and resentment; others giving up at once,

and receiving the decision of the judges as final. Then Agnes looked

back, with a sick and trembling anxiety, for the Rector. The Rector was

gone; and they all followed one after another, silent in the great

tremor of their excitement. When they came to the open air, Marian began

to ask questions eagerly, and Rachel to cry behind her veil, and cast

woeful wistful looks at Miss Anastasia. What was it? what was the

matter? was it anything about Louis? who was Lord Winterbourne?

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE TRUE HEIR.

“I do not know how he takes it, mother,” said Charlie. “I do not know if

he takes it at all; he has not spoken a single word all the way home.”

He did not seem disposed to speak many now; he went into Miss Bridget’s

dusky little parlour, lingering a moment at the door, and bending

forward in reflection from the little sloping mirror on the wall. The

young man was greatly moved, silent with inexpressible emotion; he went

up to Marian first, and, in the presence of them all, kissed her little

trembling hand and her white cheek; then he drew her forward with him,

holding her up with his own arm, which trembled too, and came direct to

Miss Anastasia, who was seated, pale, and making gigantic efforts to

command herself, in old Miss Bridget’s chair. “This is my bride,” said

Louis firmly, yet with quivering lips. “What are we to call _you_?”

The old lady looked at him for a moment, vainly endeavouring to retain

her self-possession--then sprang up suddenly, grasped him in her arms,

and broke forth into such a cry of weeping as never had been heard

before under this peaceful roof. “What you will! what you will! my boy,

my heir, my father’s son!” cried Miss Anastasia, lifting up her voice.

No one moved, or spoke a word--it was like one of those old agonies of

thanksgiving in the old Scriptures, when a Joseph or a Jacob, parted for

half a patriarch’s lifetime, “fell upon his neck and wept.”

When this moment of extreme agitation was over, the principal actors in

the family drama came again into a moderate degree of calmness: Louis

was almost solemn in his extreme youthful gravity. The young man was

changed in a moment, as, perhaps, nothing but this overwhelming flood of

honour and prosperity could have changed him. He desired to see the

evidence and investigate his own claims thoroughly, as it was natural he

should; then he asked Charlie to go out with him, for there was not a

great deal of room in this little house, for private conference. The two

young men went forth together through those quiet well-known lanes, upon

which Louis gazed with a giddy eye. “This should have come to me in some

place where I was a stranger,” he said with excitement; “it might have

seemed more credible, more reasonable, in a less familiar place. Here,

where I have been an outcast and dishonoured all my life--here!”

“Your own property,” said Charlie. “I’m not a poetical man, you know--it

is no use trying--but I’d come to a little sentiment, I confess, if I

were you.”

“In the mean time there are other people concerned,” said Louis, taking

Charlie’s arm, and turning him somewhat hurriedly away from the edge of

the wood, which at this epoch of his fortunes, the scene of so many

despairing fancies, was rather more than he chose to experiment upon.

“You are not poetical, Charlie. I do not suppose it has come to your

turn yet--but we do not want poetry to-night; there are other people

concerned. So far as I can see, your case--I scarcely can call it mine,

who have had no hand in it--is clear as daylight--indisputable. Is it

so?--you know better than me.”

“Indisputable,” said Charlie, authoritatively.

“Then it should never come to a trial--for the honour of the house--for

pity,” said the heir. “A bad man taken in the toils is a very miserable

thing to look at, Charlie; let us spare him if we can. I should like you

to get some one who is to be trusted--say Mr Foggo, with some well-known

man along with him--to wait upon Lord Winterbourne. Let them go into the

case fully, and show him everything: say that I am quite willing that

the world should think he had done it in ignorance--and persuade

him--that is, if he is convinced, and they have perfect confidence in

the case. The story need not be publicly known. Is it practicable?--tell

me at once.”

“It’s practicable if he’ll do it,” said Charlie; “but he’ll not do it,

that’s all.”

“How do you know he’ll not do it?--it is to save himself,” said Louis.

“If he had not known it all along, he’d have given in,” said Charlie,

“and taken your offer, of course; but he _has_ known it all along--it’s

been his ghost for years. He has his plans all prepared and ready, you

may be perfectly sure. It is generous of you to suggest such a thing,

but _he_ would suppose it a sign of weakness. Never mind that--it’s not

of the least importance what he supposes; if you desire it, we can try.”

“I do desire it,” said Louis; “and then, Charlie, there is the Rector.”

Charlie shook his head regretfully. “I am sorry for him myself,” said

the young lawyer; “but what can you do?”

“He has been extremely kind to me,” said Louis, with a slight trembling

in his voice--“kinder than any one in the world, except your own family.

There is his house--I see what to do; let us go at once and explain

everything to him to-night.”

“To-night! that’s premature--showing your hand,” said Charlie, startled

in his professional caution: “never mind, you can stand it; he’s a fine

fellow, though he is the other line. If you like it, I don’t object; but

what shall you say?”

“He ought to have his share,” said Louis--“don’t interrupt me, Charlie;

it is more generous in our case to receive than to give. He ought, if I

represent the elder branch, to have the younger’s share: he ought to

permit me to do as much for him as he would have done for me. Ah, he

bade me look at the pictures to see that I was a Rivers. I did not

suppose any miracle on earth could make me proud of the name.”

They went on hastily together in the early gathering darkness. The Old

Wood House stood blank and dull as usual, with all its closed blinds;

but the gracious young Curate, meditating his sermon, and much elated by

his persecution, was straying about the well-kept paths. Mr Mead

hastened to tell them that Mr Rivers had left home--“hastened away

instantly to appear in our own case,” said the young clergyman. “The

powers of this world are in array against us--we suffer persecution, as

becomes the true church. The Rector left hurriedly to appear in person.

He is a devoted man, a noble Anglican. I smile myself at the reproaches

of our adversary; I have no fear.”

“We may see him in town,” said Louis, turning away with disappointment.

“If you write, will you mention that I have been here to-night, to beg

his counsel and friendship--I, Louis Rivers--” A sudden colour flushed

over the young man’s face; he pronounced the name with a nervous

firmness; it was the first time he had called himself by any save his

baptismal name all his life.

As they turned and walked home again, Louis relapsed into his first

agitated consciousness, and did not care to say a word. Louis Rivers!

lawful heir and only son of a noble English peer and an unsullied

mother. It was little wonder if the young man’s heart swelled within

him, too high for a word or a thought. He blotted out the past with a

generous haste, unwilling to remember a single wrong done to him in the

time of his humiliation, and looked out upon the future as upon a

glorious vision, almost too wonderful to be realised: it was best to

rest in this agitated moment of strange triumph, humility, and power, to

convince himself that this was real, and to project his anticipations

forward only with a generous anxiety for the concerns of others, with no

question, when all questions were so overwhelming and incredible, after

this extraordinary fortune of his own.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

AT HOME.

It would not be easy to describe the state of mind of the feminine

portion of this family which remained at home. Marian, in a strange and

overpowering tumult--Marian, who was the first and most intimately

concerned, her cheek burning still under the touch of her lover’s

trembling lip in that second and more solemn betrothal, sat on a stool,

half hidden by Miss Anastasia’s big chair and ample skirts, supporting

her flushed cheeks on those pretty rose-tipped hands, to which the flush

seemed to have extended, her beautiful hair drooping down among her

fingers, her eyes cast down, her heart leaping like a bird against her

breast. Her own vague suspicions, keen and eager as they were, had never

pointed half so far as this. If it did not “turn her head” altogether,

it was more because the little head was giddy with amaze and confusion,

than from any virtue on the part of Marian. She was quite beyond the

power of thinking; a strange brilliant extraordinary panorama glided

before her--Louis in Bellevue--Louis at the Old Wood Lodge--Louis, the

lord of all he looked upon, in Winterbourne Hall!

Rachel, for her part, was to be found, now in one corner, now in

another, crying very heartily, and with a general vague impulse of

kissing every one in the present little company with thanks and

gratitude, and being caressed and sympathised with in turn. The only one

here, indeed, who seemed in her full senses was Agnes, who kept them all

in a certain degree of self-possession. It was all over, at last, after

so long a time of suspense and mystery; Agnes was relieved of her secret

knowledge. She was grave, but she did not refuse to participate in the

confused joy and thankfulness of the house. Now that the secret was

revealed, her mind returned to its usual tone. Though she had so much

“interest” in Lionel--almost as much as he felt in her--she had too high

a mind herself to suppose him overwhelmed by the single fact that his

inheritance had passed away from him. When all was told, she breathed

freely. She had all the confidence in him which one high heart has in

another. After the first shock, she prophesied proudly, within her own

mind, how soon his noble spirit would recover itself. Perhaps she

anticipated other scenes in that undeveloped future, which might touch

her own heart with a stronger thrill than even the marvellous change

which was now working; perhaps the faint dawn of colour on her pale

cheek came from an imagination far more immediate and personal than any

dream which ever before had flushed the maiden firmament of Agnes

Atheling’s meditations. However that might be, she said not a single

word upon the subject: she assumed to herself quietly the post of

universal ministration, attended to the household wants as much as the

little party, all excited and sublimed out of any recollection of

ordinary necessities, would permit her; and lacking nothing in sympathy,

yet quieter than any one else, insensibly to herself, formed the link

between this little agitated world of private history and the larger

world, not at all moved from its everyday balance, which lay calm and

great without.

“I sign a universal amnesty,” said Miss Anastasia abruptly, after a long

silence--“himself, if he would consult his own interest, I could pass

over _his_ faults to-day.”

“Poor Mr Reginald!” said Mrs Atheling, wiping her eyes. “I beg your

pardon, Miss Rivers; he has done a great deal of wrong, but I am very

sorry for him: I was so when he lost his son; ah, no doubt he thinks

this is a very small matter after _that_.”

“Hush, child, the man is _guilty_,” said Miss Anastasia, with strong

emphasis. “Young George Rivers went to his grave in peace. Whom the gods

love die young; it was very well. I forgive his father if he withdraws;

he will, if he has a spark of honour. The only person whom I am grieved

for is Lionel--he, indeed, might have cause to complain. Agnes Atheling,

do you know where he has gone?”

“No.” Agnes affected no surprise that the question should be asked her,

and did not even show any emotion. Marian, with a sudden impulse of

generosity, got up instantly, and came to her sister. “Oh, Agnes, I am

very sorry,” said the little beauty, with her palpitating heart; and

Marian put her pretty arms round Agnes’s neck to console and comfort

her, as Agnes might have done to Marian had Louis been in distress

instead of joy.

Agnes drew herself instinctively out of her sister’s embrace. She had no

right to be looked upon as the representative of Lionel, yet she could

not help speaking, in her confidence and pride in him, with a kindling

cheek and rising heart. “I am not sorry for Mr Rivers _now_,” said

Agnes, firmly; “I was so while this secret was kept from him--while he

was deceived; but I think no one who does him due credit can venture to

pity him _now_.”

Miss Anastasia roused herself a little at sound of the voice. This

pride, which sounded a little like defiance, stirred the old lady’s

heart like the sound of a trumpet; she had more pleasure in it than she

had felt in anything, save her first welcome of Louis a few hours ago.

She looked steadily into the eyes of Agnes, who met her gaze without

shrinking, though with a rapid variation of colour. Whatever imputations

she herself might be subject to in consequence, Agnes could not sit by

silent, and hear _him_ either pitied or belied.

“I wonder, may I go and see Miss Rivers? would it be proper?” asked

Rachel timidly, making a sudden diversion, as she had rather a habit of

doing; “she wanted me to stay with her once; she was very kind to me.”

“I suppose we must not call you the Honourable Rachel Rivers just

yet--eh, little girl?” said Miss Anastasia, turning upon her; “and you,

Marian, you little beauty, how shall you like to be Lady Winterbourne?”

“Lady Winterbourne! I always said she was to be for Louis,” cried

Rachel--“always--the first time I saw her; you know I did, Agnes; and

often I wondered why she should be so pretty--she who did not want it,

who was happy enough to have been ugly, if she had liked; but I see it

now--I see the reason now!”

“Don’t hide your head, little one; it is quite true,” said Miss

Anastasia, once more a little touched at her heart to see the beautiful

little figure, fain to glide out of everybody’s sight, stealing away in

a moment into the natural refuge, the mother’s shadow; while the mother,

smiling and sobbing, had entirely given up all attempt at any show of

self-command. “Agnes has something else to do in this hard-fighting

world. You are the flower that must know neither winds nor storms. I

don’t speak to make you vain, you beautiful child. God gave you your

lovely looks, as well as your strange fortune; and Agnes, child, lift up

your head! the contest and the trial are for you; but not, God forbid

it! as they came to _me_.”

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE RIVAL HEIRS.

Louis and Rachel returned that night with Miss Anastasia to the Priory,

which, the old lady said proudly--the family jointure house for four or

five generations--should be their home till the young heir took

possession of his paternal house. The time which followed was too busy,

rapid, and exciting for a slow and detailed history. The first legal

steps were taken instantly in the case, and proper notices served upon

Lord Winterbourne. In Miss Anastasia’s animated and anxious house dwelt

the Tyrolese, painfully acquiring some scant morsels of English, very

well contented with her present quarters, and only anxious to secure

some extravagant preferment for her son. Mrs Atheling and her daughters

had returned home, and Louis came and went constantly to town, actively

engaged himself in all the arrangements, full of anxious plans and

undertakings for the ease and benefit of the other parties concerned.

Miss Anastasia, with a little reluctance, had given her consent to the

young man’s plan of a compromise, by which his uncle, unattacked and

undisgraced, might retire from his usurped possessions with a sufficient

and suitable income. The ideas of Louis were magnificent and princely.

He would have been content to mulct himself of half the revenues of his

inheritance, and scarcely would listen to the prudent cautions of his

advisers. He was even reluctant that the first formal steps should be

taken, before Mr Foggo and an eminent and well-known solicitor,

personally acquainted with his uncle, had waited upon Lord Winterbourne.

He was overruled; but this solemn deputation lost no time in proceeding

on its mission. Speedy as they were, however, they were too late for the

alarmed and startled peer. He had left home, they ascertained, very

shortly after the late trial--had gone abroad, as it was supposed,

leaving no information as to the time of his return. The only thing

which could be done in the circumstances was hastened by the eager

exertions of Louis. The two lawyers wrote a formal letter to Lord

Winterbourne, stating their case, and making their offer, and despatched

it to the Hall, to be forwarded to him. No answer came, though Louis

persuaded his agents to wait for it, and even to delay the legal

proceedings. The only notice taken of it was a paragraph in one of the

fashionable newspapers, to the effect that the late proceedings at

Oxford, impugning the title of a respected nobleman, proved now to be a

mere trick of some pettifogging lawyer, entirely unsupported, and likely

to call forth proceedings for libel, involving a good deal of romantic

family history, and extremely interesting to the public. After this,

Louis could no longer restrain the natural progress of the matter. He

gave it up, indeed, at once, and did not try; and Miss Anastasia

pronounced emphatically one of her antique proverbs, “Whom the gods

would destroy, they first make mad.”

This was not the only business on the hands of Louis. He had found it

impossible, on repeated trials, to see the Rector. At the Old Wood House

it was said that Mr Rivers was from home; at his London lodgings he had

not been heard of. The suit was given against him in the Ecclesiastical

Courts, and Mr Mead, alone in the discharge of his duty, mourned over a

stripped altar and desolated sanctuary, where the tall candles blazed no

longer in the religious gloom. When it became evident at last that the

Rector did not mean to give his young relative the interview he sought,

Louis, strangely transformed as he was, from the petulant youth always

ready to take offence, to the long-suffering man, addressed Lionel as

his solicitors had addressed his uncle. He wrote a long letter, generous

and full of hearty feeling; he reminded his kinsman of the favours he

had himself accepted at his hands. He drew a very vivid picture of his

own past and present position. He declared, with all a young man’s

fervour, that he could have no pleasure even in his own extraordinary

change of fortune, were it the means of inflicting a vast and

unmitigated loss upon his cousin. He threw himself upon Lionel’s

generosity--he appealed to his natural sense of justice--he used a

hundred arguments which were perfectly suitable and in character from

him, but which, certainly, no man as proud and as generous as himself

could be expected to listen to; and, finally, ended with protesting an

unquestionable claim upon Lionel--the claim of a man deeply indebted to,

and befriended by him. The letter overflowed with the earnestness and

sincerity of the writer; he assumed his case throughout with the most

entire honesty, having no doubt whatever upon the subject, and confided

his intentions and prospects to Lionel with a complete and anxious

confidence, which he had not bestowed upon any other living man.

This letter called forth an answer, written from a country town in a

remote part of England. The Rector wrote with an evident effort at

cordiality. He declined all Louis’s overtures in the most

uncompromising terms, but congratulated him upon his altered

circumstances. He said he had taken care to examine into the case before

leaving London, and was thoroughly convinced of the justice of the new

claim. “One thing I will ask of you,” said Mr Rivers; “I only wait to

resign my living until I can be sure of the next presentation falling

into your hands: give it to Mr Mead. The cause of my withdrawal is

entirely private and personal. I had resolved upon it months ago, and it

has no connection whatever with recent circumstances. I hope no one

thinks so meanly of me as to suppose I am dismayed by the substitution

of another heir in my room. One thing in this matter has really wounded

me, and that is the fact that no one concerned thought me worthy to know

a secret so important, and one which it was alike my duty and my right

to help to a satisfactory conclusion. I have lost nothing actual, so far

as rank or means is concerned; but, more intolerable than any vulgar

loss, I find a sudden cloud thrown upon the perfect sincerity and truth

of some whom I have been disposed to trust as men trust Heaven.”

The letter concluded with good wishes--that was all; there was no

response to the confidence, no answer to the effusion of heartfelt and

fervent feeling which had been in Louis’s letter. The young man was not

accustomed to be repulsed; perhaps, in all his life, it was the first

time he had asked a favour from any one, and had Louis been poor and

without friends, as he was or thought himself six months ago, such a

tone would have galled him beyond endurance. But there is a charm in a

gracious and relenting fortune. Louis, who had once been the very

armadillo of youthful haughtiness, suddenly distinguished himself by the

most magnanimous patience, would not take offence, and put away his

kinsman’s haughty letter, with regret, but without any resentment.

Nothing was before him now but the plain course of events, and to them

he committed himself frankly, resolved to do what could be done, but

addressing no more appeals to the losing side.

Part of the Rector’s letter Louis showed to Marian, and Marian repeated

it to Agnes. It was cruel--it was unjust of Lionel--and he knew himself

that it was. Agnes, it was possible, did not know--at all events, she

had no right to betray to him the secrets of another; more than that, he

knew the meaning now of the little book which he carried everywhere with

him, and felt in his heart that _he_ was the real person addressed. He

knew all that quite as well as she did, as she tried, with a quivering

lip and a proud wet eye, to fortify herself against the injustice of his

reproach, but that did not hinder him from saying it. He was in that

condition--known, perhaps, occasionally to most of us--when one feels a

certain perverse pleasure in wounding one’s dearest. He had no chance of

mentioning her, who occupied so much of his thoughts, in any other way,

and he would rather put a reproach upon Agnes than leave her alone

altogether; perhaps she herself even, after all, at the bottom of her

heart, was better satisfied to be referred to thus, than to be left out

of his thoughts. They had never spoken to each other a single word which

could be called wooing--now they were perhaps separated for ever--yet

how strange a link of union, concord, and opposition, was between these

two!

CHAPTER XXX.

AN ADVENTURE.

It was September--the time when all Englishmen of a certain “rank in

life” burn with unconquerable longings to get as far away from home as

possible--and there was nothing remarkable in the appearance of this

solitary traveller pacing along Calais pier--nothing remarkable, except

his own personal appearance, which was of a kind not easily overlooked.

There was nothing to be read in his embrowned but refined face, nor in

his high thoughtful forehead. It was a face of thought, of speculation,

of a great and vigorous intellectual activity; but the haughty eyes

looked at no one--the lips never moved even to address a child--there

was no response to any passing glance of interest or inquiry. His head

was turned towards England, over the long sinuous weltering waves of

that stormy Channel which to-day pretended to be calm; but if he saw

anything, it was something which appeared only in his own

imagination--it was neither the far-away gleam, like a floating mist,

of the white cliffs, nor the sunbeam coming down out of the heart of a

cloud into the dark mid-current of that treacherous sea.

He had no plan of travel--no settled intentions indeed of any kind--but

had been roaming about these three months in the restlessness of

suspense, waiting for definite intelligence before he decided on his

further course. An often-recurring fancy of returning home for a time

had brought him to-day to this common highway of all nations from a

secluded village among the Pyrenees; but he had not made up his mind to

go home--he only lingered within sight of it, chafing his own disturbed

spirit, and ready to be swayed by any momentary impulse. Though he had

been disturbed for a time out of his study of the deepest secrets of

human life, his mind was too eager not to have returned to it. He had

come to feel that it would be sacrilege to proclaim again his own

labouring and disordered thoughts in a place where he was set to speak

of One, the very imagination of whom, if it was an imagination, was so

immeasurably exalted above his highest elevation. A strange poetic

justice had come upon Lionel Rivers--prosecuted for his extreme views at

the time when he ceased to make any show of holding them--separating

himself from his profession, and from the very name of a believer, at

the moment when it began to dawn upon him that he believed--and thrust

asunder with a violent wrench and convulsion from the first and sole

human creature who had come into his heart, at the very hour in which he

discovered that his heart was no longer in his own power. He saw it all,

the strange story of contradictory and perverse chances, and knew

himself the greatest and strangest contradiction of the whole.

He gave no attention whatever to what passed round him, yet he heard the

foreign voices--the English voices--for there was no lack of his

countrymen. It was growing dark rapidly, and the shadowy evening lights

and mists were stealing far away to sea. He turned to go back to his

hotel, turning his face away from his own country, when at the moment a

voice fell upon his ear, speaking his own tongue: “You will abet an

impostor--you who know nothing of English law, and are already a marked

man.” These were the words spoken in a very low, clear, hissing tone,

which Lionel heard distinctly only because it was well known to him. The

speaker was wrapt in a great cloak, with a travelling-cap over his eyes;

and the person he addressed was a little vivacious Italian, with a long

olive face, smooth-shaven cheeks, and sparkling lively eyes, who seemed

much disconcerted and doubtful what to do. The expression of Lionel’s

face changed in an instant--he woke out of his moody dream to alert and

determined action; he drew back a step to let them pass, and then

followed. The discussion was animated and eager between them, sometimes

in English, sometimes in Italian, apparently as caprice guided the one

or the other. Lionel did not listen to what they said, but he followed

them home.

The old Italian parted with his companion at the door of the hotel where

Lionel himself was lodged; there the Englishman in the cloak and cap

lingered to make an appointment. “At eleven to-morrow,” said again that

sharp hissing voice. Lionel stepped aside into the shadow as the

stranger turned reluctantly away; he did not care for making further

investigations to ascertain _his_ identity--it was Lord Winterbourne.

He took the necessary steps immediately. It was easy to find out where

the Italian was, in a little room at the top of the house, the key of

which he paused to take down before he went up-stairs. Lionel waited

again till the old man had made his way to his lofty lodging. He was

very well acquainted with all the details of Louis’s case; he had, in

fact, seen Charlie Atheling a few days before he left London, and

satisfied himself of the nature of his young kinsman’s claim--it was too

important to himself to be forgotten. He remembered perfectly the

Italian doctor Serrano who had been present, and could testify to the

marriage of the late Lord Winterbourne. Lionel scaled the great

staircase half-a-dozen steps at a time, and reached the door immediately

after the old man had entered, and before he had struck his light. The

Rector knocked softly. With visible perturbation, and in a sharp tone of

self-defence, the Italian called out in a very good French to know who

was there. Dr Serrano was a patriot and a plotter, and used to

domiciliary visitations. Lionel answered him in English, asked if he

were Doctor Serrano, and announced himself as a friend of Charles

Atheling. Then the door opened slowly, and with some jealousy. Lionel

passed into the room without waiting for an invitation. “You are going

to England on a matter of the greatest importance,” said the Rector,

with excitement--“to restore the son of your friend to his inheritance;

yet I find you, with the serpent at your ear, listening to Lord

Winterbourne.”

The Italian started back in amaze. “Are you the devil?” said Doctor

Serrano, with a comical perturbation.

“No; instead of that, you have just left him,” said Lionel; “but I am a

friend, and know all. This man persuades you not to go on--by accident I

caught the sound of his voice saying so. He has the most direct personal

interest in the case; it is ruin and disgrace to him. Your testimony may

be of the greatest importance--why do you linger? why do you listen to

him?”

“Really, you are hot-headed; it is so with youth,” said Doctor Serrano,

“when we will move heaven and earth for one friend. He tells me the

child is dead--that this is another. I know not--it may be true.”

“It is not true,” said Lionel. “I will tell you who I am--the next heir

if Lord Winterbourne is the true holder of the title--there is my card.

I have the strongest interest in resisting this claim if I did not know

it to be true. It can be proved that this is the same boy who was

brought from Italy an infant. I can prove it myself; it is known to a

whole village. If you choose it, confront me with Lord Winterbourne.”

“No; I believe you--you are a gentleman,” said Doctor Serrano, turning

over the card in his hand--and the old man added with enthusiasm, “and a

hero for a friend!”

“You believe me?” said Lionel, who could not restrain the painful smile

which crossed his face at the idea of his heroism in the cause of Louis.

“Will you stay, then, another hour within reach of Lord Winterbourne?”

The Italian shrugged his shoulders. “I will break with him; he is ever

false,” said the old man. “What besides can I do?”

“I will tell you,” said Lionel. “The boat sails in an hour--come with me

at once, let me see you safe in England. I shall attend to your comfort

with all my power. There is time for a good English bed at Dover, and an

undisturbed rest. Doctor Serrano, for the sake of the oppressed, and

because you are a philosopher, and understand the weakness of human

nature, will you come with me?”

The Italian glanced lovingly at the couch which invited him--at the

slippers and the pipe which waited to make him comfortable--then he

glanced up at the dark and resolute countenance of Lionel, who, high in

his chivalric honour, was determined rather to sleep at Serrano’s door

all night than to let him out of his hands. “Excellent young man! you

are not a philosopher!” said the rueful Doctor; but he had a quick eye,

and was accustomed to judge men. “I will go with you,” he added

seriously, “and some time, for liberty and Italy, you will do as much

for me.”

It was a bargain, concluded on the spot. An hour after, almost within

sight of Lord Winterbourne, who was pacing the gloomy pier by night in

his own gloom of guilty thought, the old man and the young man embarked

for England. A few hours later the little Italian slept under an English

roof, and the young Englishman looked up at the dizzy cliff, and down at

the foaming sea, too much excited to think of rest. The next morning

Lionel carried off his prize to London, and left him in the hands of

Charlie Atheling. Then, seeing no one, speaking to no one, without

lingering an hour in his native country, he turned back and went away.

He had made up his mind now to remain at Calais till the matter was

entirely decided--then to resign his benefice--and then, with _things_

and not _thoughts_ around him in the actual press and contact of common

life, to read, if he could, the grand secret of a true existence, and

decide his fate.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE TRIAL.

Lord Winterbourne had been in Italy, going over the ground which Charlie

Atheling had already examined so carefully. Miss Anastasia’s proverb was

coming true. He who all his life had been so wary, began to calculate

madly, with an insane disregard of all the damning facts against him, on

overturning, by one bold stroke, the careful fabric of the young lawyer.

He sought out and found the courier Monte, whom he himself had

established in his little mountain-inn. Monte was a faithful servant

enough to his employer of the time, but he was not scrupulous, and had

no great conscience. He undertook, without much objection, for the hire

which Lord Winterbourne gave him, to say anything Lord Winterbourne

pleased. He had been present at the marriage; and if the old Doctor

could have been delayed, or turned back, or even kidnapped--which was in

the foiled plotter’s scheme, if nothing better would serve--Monte, being

the sole witness of the ceremony present, might have made it out a mock

marriage, or at least delayed the case, and thrown discredit upon the

union. It was enough to show what mad shifts even a wise intriguer might

be driven to trust in. He believed it actually possible that judge and

jury would ignore all the other testimony, and trust to the unsupported

word of his lying witness. He did not pause to think, tampering with

truth as he had been all his life, and trusting no man, what an extreme

amount of credulity he expected for himself.

But even when Doctor Serrano escaped him--when the trial drew nearer day

by day--when Louis’s agents came in person, respectful and urgent, to

make their statement to him--and when he became aware that his case was

naught, and that he had no evidence whatever to depend on save that of

Monte, his wild confidence did not yield. He refused with disdain every

offer of a compromise; he commanded out of his presence the bearers of

that message of forbearance and forgiveness; he looked forward with a

blind defiance of his fate miserable to see. He gave orders that

preparations should be made at Winterbourne for the celebration of his

approaching triumph. That autumn he had invited to his house a larger

party than usual; and though few came, and those the least reputable,

there was no want of sportsmen in the covers, nor merry-makers at the

Hall: he himself was restless, and did not continue there, even for the

sake of his guests, but made incessant journeys to London, and kept in

constant personal attendance on himself the courier Monte. He was the

object of incessant observation, and the gossip of half the county: he

had many enemies; and many of those who were disposed to take his part,

had heard and been convinced by the story of Louis. Almost every one,

indeed, who did hear of it, and remembered the boy in his neglected but

noble youth, felt the strange probability and _vraisemblance_ of the

tale; and as the time drew nearer, the interest grew. It was known that

the new claimant of the title lived in Miss Anastasia’s house, and that

she was the warmest supporter of his claim. The people of Banburyshire

were proud of Miss Anastasia; but she was Lord Winterbourne’s enemy.

Why? That old tragedy began to be spoken of once more in whispers; other

tales crept into circulation; he was a bad man; everybody knew something

of him--enough ground to judge him on; and if he was capable of all

these, was he not capable of this?

As the public voice grew thus, like the voice of doom, the doomed man

went on in his reckless and unreasoning confidence; the warnings of his

opponents and of his friends seemed to be alike fruitless. No extent of

self-delusion could have justified him at any time in thinking himself

popular, yet he seemed to have a certain insane conviction now, that he

had but to show himself in the court to produce an immediate reaction in

his favour. He even said so, shaken out of all his old self-restrained

habits, boasting with a vain braggadocio to his guests at the Hall; and

people began, with a new impulse of pity, to wonder if his reason was

touched, and to hint vaguely to each other that the shock had unsettled

his mind.

The trial came on at the next assize; it was long, elaborate, and

painful. On the very eve of this momentous day, Louis himself had

addressed an appeal to his uncle, begging him, at the last moment when

he could withdraw with honour, to accept the compromise so often and so

anxiously proposed to him. Lord Winterbourne tore the letter in two, and

put it in his pocket-book. “I shall use it,” he said to the messenger,

“when this business is over, to light the bonfire on Badgeley Hill.”

The trial came on accordingly, without favour or private arrangement--a

fair struggle of force against force. The evidence on the side of the

prosecutor was laid down clearly, particular by particular; the marriage

of the late Lord Winterbourne to the young Italian--the entry in his

pocket-book, sworn to by Miss Anastasia--the birth of the

children--their journey from Italy to London, from London to

Winterbourne--and the identity of the boy Louis with the present

claimant of the title--clearly, calmly, deliberately, everything was

proved. It took two days to go over the evidence; then came the defence.

Without an overwhelming array of witnesses on the other side--without

proving perjury on the part of these--what could Lord Winterbourne

answer to such a charge as this?

He commenced, through his lawyer, by a vain attempt to brand Louis over

again with illegitimacy, to sully the name of his dead brother, and

represent him a villanous deceiver. It was allowed, without controversy,

that Louis was the son of the old lord; and then Monte was placed in the

witness-box to prove that the marriage was a mock marriage, so skilfully

performed as to cheat herself, her family, the old quick-witted Serrano,

whose testimony had pleased every one--all the people present, in short,

except his own acute and philosophical self.

The fellow was bold, clever, and scrupulous, but he was not prepared for

such an ordeal. His attention distracted by the furious contradictory

gestures of Doctor Serrano, whose cane could scarcely be kept out of

action--by the stern, steady glance of Miss Anastasia, whom he

recognised--he was no match for the skilful cross-examiners who had him

in hand. He hesitated, prevaricated, altered his testimony. He held,

with a grim obstinacy, to unimportant trifles, and made admissions at

the same moment which struck at the very root of his own credibility as

a witness. He was finally ordered to sit down by the voice of the judge

himself, which rung in the fellow’s ears like thunder. That was all the

case for the defence! Even Lord Winterbourne’s counsel coloured for

shame as he made the miserable admission. The jury scarcely left the

court; there was no doubt remaining on the mind of the audience. The

verdict was pronounced solemnly, like a passionless voice of justice, as

it was, for the plaintiff. There was no applause--no exultation--a

universal human horror and disgust at the strange depravity they had

just witnessed, put down every demonstration of feeling. People drew

away from the neighbourhood of Lord Winterbourne as from a man in a

pestilence. He left the court almost immediately, with his hat over his

eyes--his witness following as he best could; then came a sudden

revulsion of feeling. The best men in the county hurried towards Louis,

who sat, pale and excited, by the side of his elder and his younger

sister. Congratulatory good wishes poured upon him on every side. As

they left the court slowly, a guard of honour surrounded this heir and

hero of romance; and as he emerged into the street the air rang with a

cheer for the new Lord Winterbourne. They called him “My lord,” as he

stood on the step of Miss Anastasia’s carriage, which she herself

entered as if it had been a car of triumph. _She_ called him “My lord,”

making a proud obeisance to him, as a mother might have done to her son,

a new-made king; and they drove off slowly, with riders in their train,

amid the eager observation of all the passengers--the new Lord

Winterbourne!

The old one hastened home on foot, no one observing him--followed far

off, like a shadow, by his attendant villain--unobserved, and almost

unheeded, entered the Hall; thrust with his own hand some necessaries

into his travelling-bag, gathered his cloak around him, and was gone.

Winterbourne Hall that night was left in the custody of the strangers

who had been his guests, an uneasy and troubled company, all occupied

with projects of departure to-morrow. Once more the broad chill

moonlight fell on the noble park, as when Louis and his sister, desolate

and friendless, passed out from its lordly gates into midnight and the

vacant world. Scarcely a year! but what a change upon all the actors and

all the passions of that moonlight October night!

CHAPTER XXXII.

ESPOUSALS.

It was winter, but the heavens were bright--a halcyon day among the

December glooms. All the winds lay still among the withered ferns,

making a sighing chorus in the underground of Badgeley Wood; but the

white clouds, thinner than the clouds of summer, lay becalmed upon the

chill blue sky, and the sun shone warm under the hedgerows, and deluded

birds were perching out upon the hawthorn bows; the green grass

brightened under the morning light; the wan waters shone; the trees

which had no leaves clustered their branches together, with a certain

pathos in their nakedness, and made a trellised shadow here and there

over the wintry stream; and, noble as in the broadest summer, in the

sheen of the December sunshine lay Oxford, jewelled like a bride,

gleaming out upon the tower of Maudlin, flashing abroad into the

firmament from fair St Mary, twinkling with innumerable gem-points from

all the lesser cupolas and spires. In the midst of all, this sunshine

retreated in pure defeat and failure, from that sombre old heathen, with

his heavy dome--but only brightened all the more upon those responsive

and human inhabitants dwelling there from the olden ages, and native to

the soil. There was a fresh breath from the broad country, a hum of life

in the air, a twitter of hardy birds among the trees. It was one of

those days which belong to no season, but come, like single blessings,

one by one, throwing a gleam across the darker half of the year. Though

it was in December instead of May, it was as fair “a bridal of the earth

and sky” as poet could have wished to see; but the season yielded no

flowers to strew upon the grassy footpath between the Old Wood Lodge and

the little church of Winterbourne; they did not need them who trod that

road to-day.

Hush, they are coming home--seeing nothing but an indefinite splendour

in the earth and in the sky--sweet in the dews of their youth--touched

to the heart--to that very depth and centre where lie all ecstasies and

tears. Walking together arm in arm, in their young humility--scarcely

aware of the bridal train behind them--in an enchantment of their own;

now coming back to that old little room, with its pensive old memories

of hermit life and solitude--this quiet old place, which never before

was lighted up with such a gleam of splendid fortune and happy hope.

You would say it was Marian Atheling, “with the smile on her lip, and

the tear in her eye”--the very same lovely vision whom the lad Louis saw

some eighteen months ago at the garden gate. But you would be mistaken;

for it is not Marian--it is the young Lady Winterbourne. This one is

quite as beautiful for a consolation--almost more so in her bridal

blush, and sunshine, and tears--and for a whole hour by the village

clock has been a peeress of the realm.

This is what it has come to, after all--what they must all come to,

those innocent young people--even Rachel, who is as wild as a child, in

her first genuine and unalarmed outburst of youthful jubilation--even

Agnes, who through all this joy carries a certain thoughtful remembrance

in her dark eyes--possibly even Charlie, who fears no man, but is a

little shy of every womankind younger than Miss Anastasia. There are

only one or two strangers; but the party almost overflows Miss Bridget’s

parlour, where the old walls smile with flowers, and the old apartment,

like an ancient handmaid, receives them with a prim and antique grace--a

little doubtful, yet half hysterical with joy.

But it does not last very long, this crowning festival. By-and-by the

hero and the heroine go away; then the guests one by one; then the

family, a little languid, a little moved with the first inroad among

them, disperse to their own apartments, or to a meditative ramble out of

doors; and when the twilight falls, you could almost suppose Miss

Bridget, musing too over the story of another generation, sitting before

the fire in her great old chair, with no companion but the flowers.

This new event seemed somehow to consolidate and make certain that

wonderful fortune of Louis, which until then had looked almost too much

like a romance to be realised. His uncle had made various efforts to

question and set aside the verdict which transferred to the true heir

his name and inheritance--efforts in which even the lawyers whom he had

employed at the trial, and who were not over-scrupulous, had refused any

share. The attempt was entirely fruitless--an insane resistance to the

law, which was irresistible; and the Honourable Reginald Rivers, whom

some old sycophants who came in his way still flattered with his old

title, was now at Baden, a great man enough in his own circle, rich in

the allowance from his nephew, which he was no longer too proud to

accept. He alone of all men expressed any disapprobation of Louis’s

marriage--he whose high sense of family honour revolted from the idea of

a _mesalliance_--and one other individual, who had something of a more

reasonable argument. We hasten to extract, according to a former

promise, the following pathetic paragraph from the pages of the

_Mississippi Gazette_:--

“I have just heard of the marriage of the young Lord W---- with the

beautiful M---- A----. Well!--is that so wonderful? Oh, visionary dream!

That thou shouldst pause to comment upon a common British bargain--the

most ordinary arrangement of this conventional and rotten life? What is

a heart in comparison with a title?--true love in the balance of a

coronet? Oh, my country, _thou_ hast not come to this! But for these

mercenary and heartless parents--but for the young mind dazzled with the

splendid cheat of rank--oh heaven, what true felicity--what poetic

rapture--what a home thou mightst have seen! For she was beautiful as

the day when it breaks upon the rivers and the mountains of my native

land! It is enough--a poet’s fate would have been all incomplete without

this fiery trial. Farewell, M----! Farewell, lovely deluded victim of a

false society! Some time out of your hollow splendour you will think of

a true heart and weep!”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

AN OLD FRIEND.

“The Winterbournes” had been for some time at home--they were now in

London, and Marian had appeared at court in the full splendour of that

young beauty of hers; which never had dazzled any one at home as it

dazzled every one now. She and her handsome young husband were the lions

of the season, eagerly sought after in “the best society.” Their story

had got abroad, as stories which are at all remarkable have such a

wonderful faculty of getting; and strangers whom Marian had never seen

before, were delighted to make her acquaintance--charmed to know her

sister, who had so much genius, and wrote such delightful books, and,

most extraordinary of all, extremely curious and interested about

Charlie, the wonderful young brother who had found out the mystery. At

one of the fashionable assemblies, where Louis and Marian, Rachel and

Agnes, were pointed out eagerly on all sides, and commented upon as

“such fresh unsophisticated young creatures--such a group! so

picturesque, so interesting!” they became aware, all of them, with

different degrees of embarrassment and pain, that Mrs Edgerley was in

the company. Louis found her out last of all. She could not possibly

fail to notice them; and the young man, anxious to save her pain, made

up his mind at once to be the first to address her. He went forward

gravely, with more than usual deference in his manner. She recognised

him in a moment, started with a little surprise and a momentary shock,

but immediately rushed forward with her most charming air of enthusiasm,

caught his hand, and overwhelmed him with congratulations. “Oh, I should

be so shocked if you supposed that I entertained any prejudice because

of poor dear papa!” cried Mrs Edgerley. “Of course he meant no harm; of

course he did not know any better. I am so charmed to see you! I am sure

we shall make most capital cousins and firm allies. Positively you look

quite grave at me. Oh, I assure you, family feuds are entirely out of

fashion, and no one ever quarrels with _me_! I am dying to see those

sweet girls!”

And very much amazed, and filled with great perturbation, those sweet

girls were, when Mrs Edgerley came up to them, leaning upon Louis’s arm,

bestowed upon them all a shower of those light perfumy kisses which

Marian and Agnes remembered so well, and, declaring Lady Winterbourne

far too young for a chaperone, took her place among them. Amazed as they

were at this sudden renewal of old friendship, none of them desired to

resist it; and before they were well aware, they found themselves

engaged, the whole party, to Mrs Edgerley’s next “reception,” when

“every one would be so charmed to see them!” “Positively, my love, you

are looking quite lovely,” whispered the fine lady into the shrinking

ear of Marian. “I always said so. I constantly told every one you were

the most perfect little beauty in the world; and then that charming book

of Miss Atheling’s, which every one was wild about! and your

brother--now, do you know, I wish so very much to know your brother. Oh,

I am sure you could persuade him to come to my Thursday. Tell him every

one comes; no one ever refuses _me_! I shall send him a card to-morrow.

Now, may I leave my cause in your hands?”

“We will try,” said Marian, who, though she bore her new dignities with

extraordinary self-possession on the whole, was undeniably shy of

Agnes’s first fashionable patroness. The invitation was taken up as very

good fun indeed, by all the others. They resolved to make a general

assault upon Charlie, and went home in great glee with their

undertaking. Nor was Charlie, after all, so hard to be moved as they

expected. He twisted the pretty note in his big fingers with somewhat

grim amusement, and said he did not mind. With this result Mrs Atheling

showed the greatest delight, for the good mother began to speculate upon

a wife for Charlie, and to be rather afraid of some humble beauty

catching her boy’s eye before he had “seen the world.”

With almost the feeling of people in a dream, Agnes and Marian entered

once more those well-remembered rooms of Mrs Edgerley, in which they had

gained their first glimpse of the world; and Charlie, less demonstrative

of his feelings, but not without a remembrance of the past, entered

these same portals where he had exchanged that first glance of

instinctive enmity with the former Lord Winterbourne. The change was

almost too extraordinary to be realised even by the persons principally

concerned. Marian, who had been but Agnes Atheling’s pretty and shy

sister, came in now first of the party, the wife of the head of her

former patroness’s family. Agnes, a diffident young genius then, full of

visionary ideas of fame, had now her own known and acknowledged place,

but had gone far beyond it, in the heart which did not palpitate any

longer with the glorious young fancies of a visionary ambition; and

Charlie, last of all--Charlie, who had tumbled out of the Islington fly

to take charge of his sisters--a big boy, clumsy and manful, whom Lord

Winterbourne smiled at, as he passed, with his ungenial smile--Charlie,

almost single-handed, had thrust the usurper from his seat, and placed

the true heir in his room. No wonder that the Athelings were somewhat

dizzy with recollections when they came among all the fashionable people

who were charmed to see them, and found their way at last to the boudoir

where Agnes and Marian had looked at the faces and the diamonds, on that

old Thursday of Mrs Edgerley’s, which sparkled still in their

recollection, the beginning of their fate.

But though Louis and Marian, and Agnes and Rachel, were all extremely

attractive, had more or less share in the romance, and were all more or

less handsome, Charlie was without dispute the lion of the night. Mrs

Edgerley fluttered about with him, holding his great arm with her pretty

hand, and introducing him to every one; and with a smile, rueful,

comical, half embarrassed, half ludicrous, Charlie, who continued to be

very shy of ladies, suffered himself to be dragged about by the

fashionable enchantress. He had very little to say--he was such a big

fellow, so unmanageable in a delicate crowd of fine ladies, with

draperies like gossamer, and, to do him justice, very much afraid of the

dangerous steering; but Charlie’s “manners,” though they would have

overwhelmed with distress his anxious mother, rather added to his

“success.” “It was he who conducted the whole case.” “I do not wonder!

Look, what a noble head! What a self-absorbed expression! What a power

of concentration!” were the sweet and audible whispers which rang around

him; and the more sensible observers of the scene, who saw the secret

humour in Charlie’s upper-lip, slightly curved with amusement, acute,

but not unkindly, and caught now and then a gleam of his keen eye,

which, when it met with a response, always made a momentary brightening

of the smile--were disposed to give him full credit for all the power

imputed to him. Mrs Edgerley was in the highest delight--he was a

perfect success for a lion. Lions, as this patroness of the fine arts

knew by experience, were sadly apt to betray themselves, to be thrown

off their balance, to talk nonsense. But Charlie, who was not given to

talking, who was still so delightfully clumsy, and made such a wonderful

bow, was perfectly charming; Mrs Edgerley declared she was quite in love

with him. After all, natural feeling put out of the question, she had no

extraordinary occasion to identify herself with the resentments or

enmities of that ruined plotter at Baden; and he must have been a worthy

father, indeed, who had moved Mrs Edgerley to shut her heart or her

house to the handsome young couple, whom everybody delighted to honour,

or to the hero of a fashionable romance, which was spoken of

everywhere. She had no thought of any such sacrifice; she established

the most friendly relations instantly with her charming young cousins.

She extended the kindly title, with the most fascinating amiability, to

Agnes and Charlie. She overwhelmed the young lawyer with compliments and

invitations. He had a much stronger hold upon her fickle fancy than the

author of _Hope Hazlewood_. Mrs Edgerley was delighted to speak to all

her acquaintances of Mr Atheling, “who conducted all the case against

poor dear papa--did everything himself, I assure you--and such a

charming modesty of genius, such a wonderful force and character! Oh,

any one may be jealous who pleases; I cannot help it. I quite adore that

clever young man.”

Charlie took it all very quietly; he concerned himself as little about

the adoration of Mrs Edgerley, as he did about the secret scrutiny of

his mother concerning every young woman who chanced to cross the path of

her son. Young women were the only created things whom Charlie was

afraid of, and what his own secret thoughts might be upon this important

question, nobody could tell.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

SETTLING DOWN.

Many lesser changes had been involved in the great revolution which made

the nameless Louis head of the family, and conferred upon him the

estates and title of Lord Winterbourne: scarcely any one, indeed, in the

immediate circle of the two families of Rivers and Atheling, the great

people and the small, remained uninfluenced by the change of

sovereignty, except Miss Anastasia, whose heart and household charities

were manifestly widened, but to whom no other change except the last,

and grand one, was like to come. The Rector kept his word; as soon as he

heard of the definite settlement of that great question of Louis’s

claim, he himself resigned his benefice; and one of the first acts of

the new Lord Winterbourne was to answer the only request of Lionel, by

conferring it upon Mr Mead. After that, Lionel made a settlement upon

his sister of all the property which belonged to them, enough to make a

modest maidenly income for the gentle invalid, and keep her in

possession of all the little luxuries which seemed essential to her

life. For himself, he retained a legacy of a thousand pounds which had

been left to him several years before. This was the last that was known

of the Rector--he disappeared into entire gloom and obscurity after he

had made this final arrangement. It was sometimes possible to hear of

him, for English travellers, journeying through unfamiliar routes, did

not fail to note the wandering English gentleman who seemed to travel

for something else than pleasure, and whose motives and objects no one

knew; but where to look for him next, or what his occupations were,

neither Louis nor his friends, in spite of all their anxious inquiries,

could ever ascertain.

And Mr Mead was now the rector, and reigned in Lionel’s stead. A new

rectory, all gabled and pinnacled, more “correct” than the model it

followed, and truer to its period than the truest original in

Christendom, rose rapidly between the village and the Hall; and Mr Mead,

whose altar had been made bare by the iconoclastic hands of authority,

began to exhibit some little alteration in his opinions as he grew

older, held modified views as to the priesthood, and cast an eye of

visible kindness upon the Honourable Rachel Rivers. The sentiment,

however, was not at all reciprocal; no one believed that Rachel was

really as old as Louis--older than the pretty matron Marian, older even

than Agnes. She had never been a girl until now--and Rachel cared a

great deal more for the invalid Lucy in her noiseless shadowy chamber in

the Old Wood House, than for all the rectors and all the curates in the

world. _She_ was fancy free, and promised to remain so; and Marian had

already begun with a little horror to entertain the idea that Rachel

possibly might never marry at all.

The parent Athelings themselves were not unmoved by the changes of their

children. Charlie was to be received as a partner into the firm which Mr

Foggo, by dint of habit, still clung to, as soon as he had attained his

one-and-twentieth year. Agnes, as these quiet days went on, grew both in

reputation and in riches, girl though she still was; and the youngest of

them was Lady Winterbourne! All these great considerations somewhat

dazzled the eyes of the confidential clerk of Messrs Cash, Ledger, &

Co., as he turned over his books upon that desk where he had once placed

Agnes’s fifty-pound notes, the beginning of the family fortune. Bellevue

came to be mightily out of the way when Louis and Marian were in town

living in so different a quarter; and Mr Atheling wearied of the City,

and Mamma concluded that the country air would be a great deal better

for Bell and Beau. So Mr Atheling accepted a retiring allowance, the

half of his previous income, from the employers whom he had served so

long. The whole little household, even including Susan, removed to the

country, where Marian had been delighting herself in the superintendence

of the two or three additional rooms built to the Old Wood Lodge, which

were so great a surprise to Mamma when she found them, risen as at the

touch of a fairy’s wand. The family settled there at once in

unpretending comfort, taking farewell affectionately of Miss Willsie and

Mr Foggo, but not forgetting Bellevue.

And here Agnes pursued her vocation, making very little demonstration of

it, the main pillar for the mean time, and crowning glory of her

father’s house. Her own mind and imagination had been profoundly

impressed, almost in spite of herself, by that last known act of

Lionel’s--his hasty journey to London with Doctor Serrano. It was the

kind of act beyond all others to win upon a temperament so generous and

sensitive, which a more ostentatious generosity might have disgusted and

repelled; and perhaps the very uncertainty in which they remained

concerning him kept up the lurking “interest” in Agnes Atheling’s heart.

It was possible that he might appear any day at their very doors; it was

possible that he never might be seen again. It was not easy to avoid

speculating upon him--what he was thinking, where he was?--and when, in

that spontaneous delight of her young genius, which yet had suffered no

diminution, Agnes’s thoughts glided into impersonation, and fairy

figures gathered round her, and one by one her fables grew, in the midst

of the thread of story--in the midst of what people called, to the young

author’s amusement, “an elaborate development of character, the result

of great study and observation”--thoughts came to her mind, and words to

her lip, which she supposed no one could thoroughly understand save

_one_. Almost unconsciously she shadowed his circumstances and his story

in many a bright imagination of her own; and contrasted with the real

one half-a-dozen imaginary Lionels, yet always ending in finding him the

noblest type of action in that great crisis of his career. It blended

somehow strangely with all that was most serious in her work; for when

Agnes had to speak of faith, she spoke of it with the fervour with which

one addresses an individual, opening her heart to show the One great

Name enshrined in it to another, who, woe for him, in his wanderings so

sadly friendless, knew not that Lord.

So the voice of the woman who dwelt at home went out over the world; it

charmed multitudes who thought of nothing but the story it told,

delighted some more who recognised that sweet faulty grace of youth,

that generous young directness and simplicity which made the fable

truth. If it ever reached to one who felt himself addressed in it, who

knew the words, the allusions, that noble craft of genius, which,

addressing all, had still a private voice for one--if there was such a

man somewhere, in the desert or among the mountains far away, wandering

where he seldom heard the tongue of his country, and never saw a face he

recognised, Agnes never knew.

But after this fashion time went on with them all. Then there came a

second heir, another Louis to the Hall at Winterbourne--and it was very

hard to say whether this young gentleman’s old aunt or his young aunt,

the Honourable Rachel, or the Honourable Anastasia, was most completely

out of her wits at this glorious epoch in the history of the House.

Another event of the most startling and extraordinary description took

place very shortly after the christening of Marian’s miraculous baby.

Charlie was one-and-twenty; he was admitted into the firm, and the young

man, who was one of the most “rising young men” in his profession, took

to himself a holiday, and went abroad without any one knowing much about

it. No harm in that; but when Charlie returned, he brought with him a

certain Signora Giulia, a very amazing companion indeed for this

taciturn hero, who was afraid of young ladies. He took her down at once

to Winterbourne, to present her to his mother and sisters. He had the

grace to blush, but really was not half so much ashamed of himself as he

ought to have been. For the pretty young Italian turned out to be cousin

to Louis and Rachel--a delicate little beauty, extremely proud of the

big young lover, who had carried her off from her mother’s house six

weeks ago: and we are grieved to acknowledge that Charlie henceforth

showed no fear whatever, scarcely even the proper awe of a dutiful

husband, in the presence of Mrs Charles Atheling.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE END.

Agnes Atheling was alone in old Miss Bridget’s parlour; it was a fervent

day of July, and all the country lay in a hush and stillness of

exceeding sunshine, which reduced all the common sounds of life, far and

near, to a drowsy and languid hum--the midsummer’s luxurious voice. The

little house was perfectly still. Mrs Atheling was at the Hall, Papa in

Oxford, and Hannah, whose sole beatific duty it was to take care of the

children, and who envied no one in the world save the new nurse to the

new baby, had taken out Bell and Beau. The door was open in the fearless

fashion and license of the country. Perhaps Susan was dozing in the

kitchen, or on the sunny outside bench by the kitchen door. There was

not a sound about the house save the deep dreamy hum of the bees among

the roses--those roses which clustered thick round the old porch and on

the wall. Agnes sat by the open window, in a very familiar old

occupation, making a frock for little Bell, who was six years old now,

and appreciated pretty things. Agnes was not quite so young as she used

to be--four years, with a great many events in them, had enlarged the

maiden mind, which still was as fresh as a child’s. She was changed

otherwise: the ease which those only have who are used to the company of

people of refinement, had added another charm to her natural grace. As

she sat with her work on her knee, in her feminine attitude and

occupation, making a meditative pause, bowing her head upon her hand,

thinking of something, with those quiet walls of home around her--the

open door, the open window, and no one else visible in the serene and

peaceful house, she made, in her fair and thoughtful young womanhood, as

sweet a type as one could desire of the serene and happy confidence of a

quiet English home.

She did not observe any one passing; she was not thinking, perhaps, of

any one hereabout who was like to pass--but she heard a step entering at

the door. She scarcely looked up, thinking it some member of the

family--scarcely moved even when the door of the parlour opened wider,

and the step came in. Then she looked up--started up--let her work drop

out of her hands, and, gazing with eagerness in the bronzed face of the

stranger, uttered a wondering exclamation. He hastened to her, holding

out his hand. “Mr Rivers?” cried Agnes, in extreme surprise and

agitation--“is it _you_?”

What he said was some hasty faltering expressions of delight in seeing

her, and they gazed at each other with their mutual “interest,” glad,

yet constrained. “We have tried often to find out where you were,” said

Agnes--“I mean Louis; he has been very anxious. Have you seen him? When

did you come home?”

“I have seen no one save you.”

“But Louis has been very anxious,” said Agnes, with a little confusion.

“We have all tried to discover where you were. Is it wrong to ask where

you have been?”

But Lionel did not at all attend to her questions. He was less

self-possessed than she was; he seemed to have only one idea at the

present moment, so far as was visible, and that he simply expressed over

again--“I am very glad--happy--to see you here and alone.”

“Oh!” said Agnes with a nervous tremor--“I--I was asking, Mr Rivers,

where you had been?”

This time he began to attend to her. “I have been everywhere,” he said,

“except where pleasure was. I have been on fields of battles--in places

of wretchedness. I have come to tell you something--you only. Do you

remember our conversation once by Badgeley Wood?”

“Yes.”

“You gave me a talisman, Agnes,” said the speaker, growing more excited;

“I have carried it all over the world.”

“Well,” said Agnes as he paused. She looked at him very earnestly,

without even a blush at the sound of her own name.

“Well--better than well!” cried Lionel; “wonderful--invincible--divine!

I went to try your spell--I who trusted nothing--at the moment when

everything had failed me--even you. I put yonder sublime Friend of yours

to the experiment--I dared to do it! I took his name to the sorrowful,

as you bade me. I cast out devils with his name, as the sorcerers tried

to do. I put all the hope I could have in life upon the trial. Now I

come to tell you the issue; it is fit that you should know.”

Agnes leaned forward towards him, listening eagerly; she could not quite

tell what she expected--a confession of faith.

“I am a man of ambition,” said Lionel, turning in a moment from the high

and solemn excitement of his former speech, with a sudden smile like a

gleam of sunshine. “You remember my projects when I was heir of

Winterbourne. You knew them, though I did not tell you; now I have found

a cave in a wild mining district among a race of giants. I am Vicar of

Botallach, among the Cornish men--have been for four-and-twenty

hours--that is the end.”

Agnes had put out her hand to him in the first impulse of joy and

congratulation; a second thought, more subtle, made her pause, and

blush, and draw back. Lionel was not so foolish as to wait the end of

this self-controversy. He left his seat, came to her side, took the hand

firmly into his own, which she half gave, and half withdrew--did not

blush, but grew pale, with the quiet concern of a man who was about

deciding the happiness of his life. “The end, but the beginning too,”

said Lionel, with a tremor in his voice. “Agnes hear me still--I have

something more to say.”

She did not answer a word; she lifted her eyes to his face with one

hurried, agitated momentary glance. Something more! but the whole tale

was in the look. _They_ did not know very well what words followed, and

neither do we.

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Athelings; Complete, by Margaret Oliphant