Charlie Atheling was not at all of an imaginative or fanciful turn of
mind. His slumbers were not disturbed by castle-building—he wasted none
of his available time in making fancy sketches of the people, or the
circumstances, among which he was likely to be thrown. He was not
without the power of comprehending at a glance the various features of
his mission; but by much the most remarkable point of Charlie’s
character was his capacity for doing his immediate business, whatever
that might be, with undivided attention, and with his full powers. On
this early September morning he neither occupied himself with
anticipations of his interview with Miss Anastasia, nor his hurried
journey. He did not suffer his mind to stray to difficult questions of
evidence, nor wander off into speculations concerning what he might have
to do when he reached the real scene of his investigation. What he had
to do at the moment he did like a man, bending upon his serious business
all the faculties of his mind, and all the furrows of his brow. He got
up at six o’clock, not because he particularly liked it, but because
these early morning hours had become his habitual time for extra work of
every kind, and sat upon Hannah’s bench in the garden, close by the
kitchen door, with the early sun and the early wind playing
hide-and-seek among his elf-locks, learning his Italian grammar, as if
this was the real business for which he came into the world.
“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do”—that was Charlie’s secret of
success. He had only a grammar, a dictionary, and a little New Testament
in Italian—and he had not at this moment the slightest ambition to read
Dante in the original—but with steady energy he chased those unknown
verbs into the deep caverns of his memory—a memory which was prodigious,
and lost nothing committed to it. The three books accompanied him when
he went in to breakfast, and marched off in his pocket to Oxford when it
was time to keep his appointment with Miss Anastasia. Meanwhile the
much-delayed travelling-bag only now began to get packed, and Mrs
Atheling, silently toiling at this business, felt convinced that Susan
would mislay all the things most important for Charlie’s comfort, and
very much yearned in her heart to accompany her son home. They were to
meet him at the railway, whence he would depart immediately, after his
interview with Miss Rivers; and Charlie’s secret commission made a
considerable deal of excitement in the quiet little house.
Miss Anastasia, who was much too eager and impetuous to be punctual, had
been waiting for some time, when her young agent made his appearance at
the office of her solicitor. After she had charged him with being too
late, and herself suffered conviction as being too early, the old lady
proceeded at once to business; they were in Mr Temple’s own room, but
they were alone.
“I have made copies of everything that seemed to throw light upon my
late father’s wanderings,” said Miss Anastasia—“not much to speak
of—see! These papers must have been carefully weeded before they came to
my hands. Here is an old guidebook marked with notes, and here a letter
dated from the place where he died. It is on the borders of Italy—at the
foot of the Alps—on the way to Milan, and not very far from there. You
will make all speed, young Atheling; I trust to your prudence—betray
nothing—do not say a word about these children until you find some
certain clue. It is more than twenty years—nearly one-and-twenty
years—since my father died; but a rich Englishman, who married among
them, was not like to be forgotten in such a village. Find out who this
Giulietta was—if you can discover the family, they might know something.
My father had an attendant, a sort of courier, who was with us
often—Jean Monte, half a Frenchman half an Italian. I have never heard
of him since that time; he might be heard of on the way, and _he_ might
know—but I cannot direct you, boy—I trust to your own spirit, your own
foresight, your own prudence. Make haste, as if it was life and death;
yet if time will avail you, take time. Now, young Atheling, I trust
you!—bring clear evidence—legal evidence—what will stand in a court of
law—and as sure as you live your fortune is made!”
Charlie did not make a single protestation in answer to this address. He
folded up carefully those fragments of paper copied out in Miss
Anastasia’s careful old-fashioned lady’s hand, and placed them in the
big old pocket-book which he carried for lack of a better.
“I don’t know much of the route,” said Charlie,—“over the Alps, I
suppose,” and for once his cheek flushed with the youthful excitement of
the travel. “I shall find out all about that immediately when I get to
town; and there is a passport to be seen after. When I am ready to
start—which will be just as soon as the thing can be done—I shall let
you know how I am to travel, and write immediately when I arrive
there;—I know what you mean me to do.”
Then Miss Anastasia gave him—(a very important part of the
business),—two ten-pound notes, which was a very large sum to Charlie,
and directed him to go to the banking-house, with which she kept an
account in London, and get from them a letter of credit on a banker in
Milan, on whom he could draw, according to his occasions. “You are very
young, young Atheling,” said Miss Rivers; “many a father would hesitate
to trust his son as I trust you; but I’m a woman and an optimist, and
have my notions: you are only a boy, but I believe in you—forget how
young you are while you are about my business—plenty of time after this
for enjoying yourself—and I tell you again, if you do your duty, your
fortune is made.”
The old lady and the youth went out together, to where the little
carriage and the grey ponies stood at the solicitor’s door. Charlie, in
his present development, was not at all the man to hand a lady with a
grace to her carriage; nor was this stately gentlewoman, in her brown
pelisse, at all the person to be so escorted; but they were a remarkable
pair enough, as they stood upon the broad pavement of one of the noblest
streets of Christendom. Miss Anastasia held out her hand with a parting
command and warning, as she took her seat and the reins.—“Young
Atheling, remember! it is life and death!”
She was less cautious at that moment than she had been during all their
interview. The words fell upon another ear than his to whom they were
addressed. Lord Winterbourne was making his way at the moment with some
newly arrived guests of his, and under the conduct of a learned pundit
from one of the colleges, along this same picturesque High Street; and,
in the midst of exclamations of rapture and of interest, his suspicious
and alarmed eye caught the familiar equipage and well-known figure of
Miss Anastasia. Her face was turned in the opposite direction,—she did
not see him,—but a single step brought him near enough to hear her
words. “Young Atheling!” Lord Winterbourne had not forgotten his former
connection with the name, but the remembrance had long lain dormant in a
breast which was used to potent excitements. William Atheling, though he
once saved a reckless young criminal, could do no harm with his remote
unbelievable story to a peer of the realm;—a man who had sat in the
councils of the State. Lord Winterbourne had begun his suit for the Old
Wood Lodge with the most contemptuous indifference to all that could be
said of him by anyone of this family; yet somehow it struck him
strangely to hear so sudden a naming of this name. “Young Atheling!” He
could not help looking at the youth,—meeting the stormy gleam in the
eyes of Charlie, whose sudden enmity sprung up anew in an instant. Lord
Winterbourne was sufficiently disturbed already by the departure of
Louis, and with the quick observation of alarm remarked everything. He
could understand no natural connection whatever between this lad and
Miss Anastasia. His startled imagination suggested instantly that it
bore some reference to Louis, and what interpretation was it possible to
give to so strange an adjuration—“It is life and death!”