CHAPTER XXIII.

THE MARVEL OF PERU.

Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee,

GOLDSMITH.

Lord Ormersfield sat alone in the library, where the fire burnt more

for the sake of cheerfulness than of warmth. His eyes were weary with

reading, and, taking off his spectacles, he turned his chair away from

the table, and sat gazing into the fire, giving audience to dreamy

thoughts.

He missed the sunny face ever prompt to watch his moods, and find or

make time for the cheerful word or desultory chat which often broke and

refreshed drier occupation. He remembered when he had hardly tolerated

the glass of flowers, the scraps of drawing, the unbusinesslike books

at his son's end of the table, but the room looked dull without them

now, and he was ready to own the value of the grace and finish of life,

hindering the daily task from absorbing the whole man, as had been the

case with himself in middle life.

Somewhat of the calm of old age had begun to fall on the Earl, and he

had latterly been wont to think more deeply. These trifles could not

have spoken to his heart save for their connexion with his son, and

even Louis's tastes would have worn out with habit, had it not been for

the radiance permanent in his own mind, namely, the thankful, adoring

love that finds the true brightness in "whatsoever things are pure,

whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report."

This spirit it was which had kept his heart fresh, his spirit youthful,

and changed constitutional versatility into a power of hearty

adaptation to the least congenial tastes.

Gentleness, affection, humility, and refinement were in his nature.

Mrs. Frost had trained these qualities into the beauty of Christian

graces; and Mrs. Ponsonby and her daughter had taught him to bring his

high principles to supply that which was wanting. Indolence of will,

facility of disposition, unsteadiness of purpose, inconsiderate

impulses without perseverance, had all betokened an inherent weakness,

which the Earl's cure, ambition, had been powerless to remedy; but duty

had been effectual in drawing strength out of what had been feeble by

nature. It was religion that had made a man of Louis; and his father

saw and owned it, no longer as merely the woman's guide in life and the

man's resource chiefly in death, to be respected and moderately

attended to, but never so as to interfere unreasonably with the world.

No; he had learnt that it was the only sure and sound moving-spring: he

knew it as his son's strengthening, brightening thread of life; and

began to perceive that his own course might have been less gloomy and

less harsh, devoid of such dark strands, had he held the right clue.

The contrast brought back some lines which, without marking, he had

heard Louis and his aunt reading together, and, albeit little wont to

look into his son's books, he was so much haunted by the rhythm that he

rose and searched them out--

Yea, mark him well, ye cold and proud,

Bewildered in a heartless crowd,

Starting and turning pale

At rumour's angry din:

No storm can now assail

The charm he bears within.

Rejoicing still, and doing good,

And with the thought of God imbued,

No glare of high estate,

No gloom of woe or want,

The radiance may abate,

Where Heaven delights to haunt.

The description went to his heart, so well did it agree with Louis. Yet

there was a sad feeling, for the South American mail had been some days

due, and he had not heard of his son since he was about to land at

Callao. Five months was a long absence; and as the chances of failure,

disappointment, climate, disease, and shipwreck arose before him, he

marvelled at himself for having consented to peril his sole treasure,

and even fancied that a solitary, childless old age might be the

penalty in store for having waited to be led heavenward by his son.

It was seldom that the Earl gave way, and, reproaching himself for his

weakness, he roused himself and rang the bell for better light. There

was a movement in the house, and for some moments the bell was not

answered; but presently the door was opened.

'Bring the other lamp.'

'Yes, my Lord.'

The slow, soft voice did not belong to Frampton. He started up, and

there stood Louis!

'My dear father,' he said; and Lord Ormersfield sprang up, grasped his

son's hand, and laid the other hand on his shoulder, but durst ask no

questions, for the speedy return seemed to bespeak that he had failed.

He looked in Louis's face, and saw it full of emotion, with dew on the

eyelashes; but suddenly a sweet archness gleamed in the eyes, and he

steadied his trembling lip to say with a smile,

'Lady Fitzjocelyn!'

And that very moment Mary was in Lord Ormersfield's arms.

'My children! my dear children, happy at last! God bless you! This is

all I ever wished!'

He held a hand of each, and looked from one to the other till Mary

turned away to hide her tears of joy; and Louis, with his eyes still

moist, began talking, to give her time to recover.

'You will forgive our not writing? We landed this morning, found the

last mail was not come in, and could not help coming on. We knew you

would be anxious, and thought you would not mind the suddenness.'

'No, indeed,' said his father; 'if all surprises were like this one!

But you are the loser, Mary. I am afraid this is not the reception for

a bride!'

'Mary has dispensed with much that belongs to a bride,' said Louis.

'See here!' and, seizing her hand, he began pulling off her glove, till

she did it for him; 'did you ever see such a wedding-ring?--a great,

solid thing of Peruvian gold, with a Spanish posy inside!'

'I like it,' said Mary; 'it shows--'

'What you are worth, eh, Mary? Well! here we are! It seems real at

last! And you, father, have you been well?'

'Yes, well indeed, now I have you both! But how came you so quickly?

You never brought her across the Isthmus?'

'Indeed I did. She would come. It was her first act of rebellion; for

we were not going to let you meet the frosts alone--the October frosts,

I mean; I hope the Dynevor Frosts are all right?'

Frampton was here seen at the open door, doubtful whether to intrude;

yet, impelled by necessity, as he caught Fitzjocelyn's eye, he,

hesitating, said--

'My Lord, the Spanish gentleman!'

'The greatest triumph of my life!' cried Louis, actually clapping his

hands together with ecstacy, to the butler's extreme astonishment.

'Why, Frampton, don't you know him?'

'My Lord!!!'

'Let me introduce you, then, to--Mr. Thomas Madison!' and, as Frampton

still stood perplexed, looking at the fine, foreign-looking man, who

was keeping in the background, busied with the luggage, Louis

continued, 'You cannot credit such a marvel of Peru!'

'Young Madison, my Lord!' repeated Frampton, slowly coming to his

senses.

'No other. He has done Lady Fitzjocelyn and all of us infinite

service,' continued Louis, quickly, to prevent Madison's reception from

receiving a fall in proportion to the grandeur of the first impression.

'He is to stay here for a short time before going to his appointment at

Bristol, in Mr. Ward's counting-house, with a salary of 180 pounds. I

shall be much obliged if you will make him welcome.'

And, returning in his glee to the library, Louis found Mary explaining

how 'a gentleman at Lima,' who had long professed to covet so good a

clerk as Madison, had, on the break-up of their firm, offered him a

confidential post, for which he was well fitted by his knowledge of the

Spanish language and the South American trade, to receive the cargoes

sent home. 'In truth,' said Louis, coming in, 'I had reason to be

proud of my pupil. We could never have found our way through the

accounts without him; and the old Cornish man, whom we sent for from

the mines, gave testimony to him such as will do Mr. Holdsworth's heart

good. But nothing is equal to Frampton's taking him for a Spanish Don!'

'And poor Delaford's witness was quite as much to his credit,' said

Mary.

'Ay! if Delaford had not been equally willing to depose against him

when he was the apparent Catiline!' said Louis. 'Poor Delaford! he was

very useful to us, after all; and I should be glad to know he had a

better fate than going off to the diggings with a year's salary in his

pocket!'

(Footnote. A recent writer relates that he found the near relation of

a nobleman gaining a scanty livelihood as shoe-black at the diggings.

Query. Might not this be Mr. Delaford?)

'Then everything is settled?' asked his father.

'Almost everything. The mines are off our hands, and the transfer will

be completed as soon as Oliver has sent his signature; and there's

quite enough saved to make them very comfortable. You have told me

nothing of them yet?'

'They are all very well. James has been coming here twice a-week since

I have been at home, and has been very attentive and pleasant; but I

have not been at the Terrace much. There never was such a houseful of

children. Oliver's room is the only place where one is safe from

falling over two or three. However, they seem to like it, and to

think, the more the better. James came over here the morning after the

boy was born, as much delighted as if he had had any prospects.'

'A boy at last! Poor Mr. Dynevor! Does he take it as an insult to his

misfortunes?'

'He seems as well pleased as they; and, in fact, I hope the boy may

not, after all, be unprovided for. Mr. Mansell wrote to offer to be

godfather, and I thought I could not do otherwise than ask him to stay

here. I am glad I did so, for he told me that now he has seen for

himself the noble way they are going on in, he has made up his mind.

He has no relation nearer than Isabel, and he means to make his will in

favour of her son. He asked whether I would be a trustee, but I said I

was growing old, and had little doubt you would be glad enough. You

will have plenty of such work, Louis. It is very dangerous to be known

as a good man-of-business, and good-natured.'

'Pray, how does Jem bear it?'

'With tolerable equanimity. It may be many years before the child is

affected by it, if Mrs. Mansell has it for her life. Besides, James is

a wiser man than he used to be.'

'He has been somewhat like Robinson Crusoe's old goat,' said Louis.

'Poor Jem! the fall and the scanty fare tamed him. I liked him so well

before, that I did not know how much better I was yet to like him.

Mary, you must see his workhouse. Giving up his time to it as he does,

he does infinite good there.'

'Yes, Mr. Calcott says that he lives in fear of some one offering him a

living,' said Lord Ormersfield.

'And the dear old Giraffe?' said Louis.

'Clara? She is looking almost handsome. I wish some good man would

marry her. She would make an excellent wife.'

'I am not ready to spare her yet,' said Mary; 'I must make acquaintance

with her before any excellent man carries her off.'

'But there is a marriage that will surprise you,' said the Earl; 'your

eldest cousin, whose name I can never remember--'

'Virginia,' cried Louis. 'Captain Lonsdale, I hope!'

'What could have made you fix on him?'

'Because the barricades could not have been in vain, and he was an

excellent fellow, to whom I owe a great deal of gratitude. He kept my

aunt's terrors in abeyance most gallantly; and little Virginia drank in

his words, and built up a hero! But how was it?'

'You remember that Lady Conway would not take our advice, and stay

quietly at home. On the first steamer she fell in with this captain,

and it seems that she was helpless enough, without her former butler,

to be very grateful to him for managing her passports and conducting

her through Germany. And the conclusion was, that she herself had

encouraged him so far, that she really had not any justification in

refusing when he proposed for the young lady, as he is fairly provided

for.'

'My poor aunt! No one ever pities her when she is 'hoist with her own

petard!' I am glad poor Virginia is to be happy in her own way.'

'I shall send my congratulations to-morrow,' said the Earl, smiling

triumphantly, 'and a piece of intelligence of my own. At H. B. M.

Consul's, Lima--what day was it, Louis?'

Mary ran away to take off her bonnet, as much surprised by the Earl's

mirth as if she had seen primroses in December. Yet such blossoms are

sometimes tempted forth; and affection was breathing something like a

second spring on the life so long unnaturally chilled and blighted.

If his shoulders were bowed, his figure had lost much of its rigidity;

and though his locks were thinned and whitened, and his countenance

slightly aged, yet the softened look and the more frequent smile had

smoothed away the sternness, and given gentleness to his dignity.

No sooner was she out of the room than Lord Ormersfield asked, 'And

what have you done with the Spanish woman?'

The answer excited a peal of laughter, which made Louis stand aghast,

both at such unprecedented merriment and at the cause; for hitherto he

had so entirely felt with Mary, as never to have seen the ludicrous

aspect of the elopement. Presently, however, he was amused by

perceiving that his father not merely regarded it as a relief from an

embarrassing charge, but as an entire acquittal for his own conscience

for any slanders he had formerly believed of Dona Rosita.

Louis briefly explained that, the poor lady being provided for by

Robson's investments in America, he had thought it right that the

Ponsonby share of the firm should bear the loss through these

embezzlements; and he had found that her extravagance had made such

inroads on the property, that while the Dynevor share (always the

largest) resulted in a fair competence, Louis had saved nothing out of

the wreck of the Ponsonby affairs but Mary herself. 'Can you excuse

it, father?' he said, with all the old debonnaire manner.

'You will never be a rich man, Louis. You and she will have some

cares, but--' and his voice grew thick--'you are rich in what makes

life happy. You have left me nothing more to ask or wish for!'

'Except that I may be worthy of her, father. You first taught me how

she ought to be loved. You have been very patient with me all this

time. I feel as if I must thank you for her--' and then, changing his

tone as she opened the door--'Look at her now she has her bonnet

off--does not she look natural?'

'I am sure I feel so,' said Mary. 'You know this always seemed more

like home than anything else.'

'Yes, and now I do feel sure that I have you at last, Mary. That

Moorish castle of yours used to make me afraid of wakening: it was so

much fitter for Isabel's fantastic Viscount. By-the-bye, has she

brought that book out?'

'Oh, yes, and James is nearly as proud of it as he is of his son. He

actually wanted me to read it! He tells me it is selling very well,

and I hope it may really bring them in something.'

'Now, then--there's the tea. Sit down, Mary, and look exactly as you

did the morning I came home and found you.'

'I'm afraid I cannot,' said Mary, looking up in his face with an arch,

deprecating expression.

'Why not?'

'Don't you know that I am so much happier?'

Before breakfast next morning Fitzjocelyn must visit his farm, and Mary

must come with him.

How delicious was that English morning after their voyage; the slant

rays of the sun silvering the turf, and casting rainbows across the

gossamer threads from one brown bent to another; the harvest fields on

the slopes dotted with rich sheaves of wheat; the coppices, in their

summer glory, here and there touched with the gold of early autumn, and

the slopes and meadows bright with lively green, a pleasant change for

eyes fresh from the bare, rugged mountain-side and the rank unwholesome

vegetation of Panama. Shaggy little Scottish oxen were feeding on the

dewy grass, their black coats looking sleek in the sun beyond the long

shadows of the thorns; but as Mary said, laughing, 'Only Farmer

Fitzjocelyn's cattle came here now,' and she stopped more than once to

be introduced to some notable animal, or to hear the history of

experiments in fatting beasts.

'There! they have found you out! That's for you,' said Louis, as a

merry peal of bells broke out from the church tower, and came joyously

up through the tranquil air. 'Yes, Ormersfield, you are greeting a

friend! You may be very glad, old place! I wish Mr. Holdsworth would

come up to breakfast! Is it too wet for you this way, Mary?'

This way was into Fernydell, and Mary answered, 'Oh, no--no; it is

where I most wanted to go with you. We have never been there together

since--'

'No, you never would walk with me after I could go alone!' said Louis,

with a playful tone of reproach, veiling deep feeling.

In silence he handed her down the rocky steps, plunging deeper among

the hazels and rowan-trees; then pausing, he turned aside the luxuriant

leaves of a tuft of hartstongue, and showed her, cut on a stone, veiled

both by the verdure and the form of the rock, the letters--

Deo Gratias,

L. F. 1847.

'I like that!' was all that Mary's full heart allowed her to say.

'Yes,' said Louis, 'I feel quite as thankful for the accident as for

the preservation.'

'And that dear mamma was with us,' added Mary. 'Between her and you,

it was a blessing to us all. I see these letters are not new; you must

have cut them out long ago.'

'As soon as I could get here without help,' he answered. 'I thought I

should be able to find the very spot where I lay, by remembering the

cross which the bare mountain-ash boughs made against the sky; but by

that time they were all leaf and flower; and now, do you see, there

they are, with the fruit just formed and blushing.'

'Like other things,' said Mary, reaching after the spray, 'once all

blossom, now--'

'Fruit very unripe,' as he said, between a smile and a sigh; 'but there

is some encouragement in the world after all, and every project of mine

has not turned out like my two specimens of copper ore. You remember

them, Mary and our first encounter?'

'Remember it!' said Mary. 'I don't think I forgot a day of that

summer.'

'What I brought you here for,' said Louis, 'was to ask you to let me do

what I have long wished--to let me put the letter M here?'

'I think you might have done it without leave,' said Mary.

'So I might at first, but by the time I came here again, Mary, you had

become in my estimation 'a little more than kin,' and less than--no, I

wont say that, but one could not treat you as comfortably as Clara. I

lost a cousin one August day, and never found her again!'

'Never?'

'Never--but the odd thing is, that I cannot believe that what I did

find has been away these seven years.'

'Yes, that is very strange,' said Mary; 'I have felt it so. Wo do seem

to understand and guess each other's thoughts as if we had been going

on together all this time. I believe it is because you gave me the

first impulse to think, and taught me the way.'

'And I know who first taught me to think to any purpose,' said Louis,

smiling. 'But who is this descending on us?'

It was the Spanish gentleman, reddening all over at such an encounter,

in mid-career towards her at the Terrace, and muttering something,

breathless and almost surly, about begging pardon.

'Look here, Tom,' said Louis, lifting the leaves to show the letters.

'That is all I ever could feel on that matter, and so should you.

There, no more about it,--you want to be on your way; and tell Mr.

Frost that we shall be at Northwold in the afternoon.'

About half an hour after, Clara was delicately blowing the dust out of

the wreath of forget-me-nots on the porcelain shepherdess's hat, when a

shriek resounded through the house, and, barely saving the Arcadian in

her start, she rushed downstairs. James, in his shirt-sleeves, was

already on his way to the kitchen. There Kitty was found, too much

frightened, to run away, making lunges with the toasting-fork at a

black-bearded figure, who held in his arms Charlotte Arnold, in a fit

of the almost forgotten hysterics. The workhouse girl shrieked for the

police; Jane was at Master Oliver's door, prepared for flight or

defence; Isabel stood on the stairs, with her baby in her arms, and her

little flock clinging to her skirts, when Clara darted back, laughing

too much to speak distinctly, as she tried to explain who the ruffian

really was.

'And Louis is coming, and Mary! Oh! Isabel, he has her at last! Oh!

Jem! Jem! did we ever want dear granny so much! I always knew it would

come right at last! Jane, Jane, do you hear, Lord Fitzjocelyn is

married! Let me in; I must go and tell Uncle Oliver!'

James looked at Isabel, and read in her smile Clara's final acquittal

from all suspicions beneath the dignity of both. Uncle Oliver would

have damped her joy, had it been in his power. He gave up his affairs

as hopeless, as soon as he found that young Fitzjocelyn had only made

them an excuse for getting married, and he was so excessively angry

with her for being happy, that she found she must carry her joyous face

out of his sight.

It was not easy to be a dignified steady governess that morning, and

when the lessons were finished, she could have danced home all the way.

She had scarcely reached the Terrace gate, when the well-known sound of

the wheels was heard, and in another moment she was between the two

dear cousins; Fitzjocelyn's eyes dancing with gladsomeness, and Mary's

broad tranquil brow and frank kindly smile, free from the shadow of a

single cloud! Clara's heart leapt up with joy, joy full and unmixed,

the guerdon of the spirit untouched by vanity or selfishness, without

one taint that could have mortified into jealous, disappointed pain.

It was bliss to one of those whom she loved best, it was the winning of

a brother and sister, and perhaps Clara's life had never had a happier

moment.

Lord Ormersfield could have thanked her for that joyous, innocent

welcome. He had paid her attentions for his son's sake, of which he

had become rather ashamed; and as Louis and Mary hastened on to meet

James and Isabel, he detained her for a moment, to say some special

words of kindness. Clara, perhaps, had an intuitive perception of his

meaning, and reference to her past heiress state, for she laughed

gaily, and said, 'Yes, I never was more glad of anything! He was so

patient that I was sure he deserved it! I always trusted to such a

time as this, when he used to talk to me for want of dear grandmamma.'

Mary was led upstairs to be introduced to the five children, while the

gentlemen went over the accounts in Oliver's room. Enough had been

rescued from the ruin to secure, not wealth, but fair competence; the

mines were disposed of to a company which would pay the value by

instalments, and all the remainder of the business was in train to be

easily wound up by Mr. Ward. Mr. Dynevor's gratitude was not

overpowering: he was short and dry, privately convinced that he could

have managed matters much better himself, and charging all the loss on

Fitzjocelyn's folly in letting Robson escape. But, though James was

hurt at his unthankfulness, and Lord Ormersfield could have been very

angry, the party most concerned did not take it much to heart; he

believed he had done his best, but an experienced eye might detect

blunders, and he knew it was hard to trust affairs out of one's own

hands.

Even the Earl was glad to escape to the sitting-room, though every one

was talking at once, and Mercy the loudest; and Louis, as the children

would call him in spite of their mamma, was at once seized on by Kitty

to be introduced to 'our brother.'

'And what is his name, Kitty?'

'Woland!' shouted all the young ladies in chorus.

'Sir Woland is in the book that mamma did make,' said Kitty.

Louis looked at Isabel with laughing eyes.

'It was Uncle Oliver's great wish,' she said, 'and we did not wish to

remember the days of Sir Hubert.'

Before Lord Ormersfield was quite deafened, Louis recollected that they

must show Mary at the House Beautiful; and they took leave. The Earl

begged James to come back to dinner with them, and Louis asked if Clara

could not find room in the carriage too. It was the earnest of what

Ormersfield was to be to her henceforth, and she was all delight, and

earnestness to be allowed to walk home with James by starlight. And

the evening realized all she could wish. The gentlemen had their

conversation in the dining-room, and Mary and Clara sat on the steps

together in the warm twilight, and talked of granny; and Clara poured

out all that Mary did not yet know of Louis.

'I hear you have been in hysterics again,' had been Lord Fitzjocelyn's

greeting to Charlotte. 'You are prepared for the consequences.'

Charlotte was prepared. The mutual pardon had not been very hard to

gain, and Tom had only to combat her declarations that it was downright

presumptuous for her to have more than master had a year, and her

protests that she could not leave her mistress and the dear children in

their poverty. The tidings that they were relieved from their present

straits answered this scruple, and Charlotte was a pretty picture of

shrinking exultation when she conducted her betrothed to Mrs. Martha,

who, however, declared that she would not take his hundred and eighty

pounds a year--no, nor twice that,--to marry him in that there black

beard.

Mrs. Beckett made him exceedingly welcome, and he spent the chief part

of his time at No. 5, where he was much more at ease than at

Ormersfield. He confessed that, though not given to bashfulness before

any man, there was something in Mr. Frampton's excessive civility that

quite overcame him, and made him always expect to be kicked out of

doors the next minute for sauciness.

Charlotte's whirlwinds of feeling had nearly expended themselves in

that one shock of meeting. The years of cheerful toil, and the weeks

of grief and suspense, had been good training for that silly little

heart, and the prospect of her new duties brought on her a sobering

sense of responsibility. She would always be tender and clinging, but

the fragrant woodbine would be trained round a sound, sturdy oak, and

her modesty, gentleness, and sincerity, gave every promise of her being

an excellent wife.

Tom had little time to spare before undertaking his new office, and it

was better that the parting should be speedy, for it was a grievous

one, both to the little bride and to Isabel and the children. Friend

rather than servant, her place could be ill supplied by the two maids

who were coming in her room, and Isabel could have found it in her

heart to sympathize with Mercy and Salome in their detestation of the

black man who was coming to take away their dear Charlotte.

Clara's first outlay, on her restoration to comparative wealth, was on

Charlotte's wedding-dress. It was a commission given to Mary, when

with Fitzjocelyn, she went to London for one day, to put the final

stroke to the dissolution of the unfortunate firm, and to rejoice Aunt

Melicent with the sight of her happiness.

Good old Miss Ponsonby's heart was some degrees softer and less narrow

than formerly. She had a good many prejudices left, but she did not

venture on such sweeping censures as in old times, and she would have

welcomed Lord Ormersfield with real cordiality, for the sake of his

love to her Mary. Indeed, Louis's fascinations and Mary's bright face

had almost persuaded her into coming home with them; but the confirmed

Londoner prevailed, and she had a tyrant maid-servant, who would not

let her go, even to the festival at Ormersfield in honour of her niece.

The Earl was bent on rejoicings for his son's marriage, and Louis

dexterously managed that the banquet should take place on the day fixed

for Tom's wedding, thus casting off all oppressive sense of display, by

regarding it as Madison's feast instead of his own. Clara, who seemed

to have been set free from governess tasks solely to be the willing

slave of all the world, worked as hard as Mary and Louis at all the

joyous arrangements; nor was the festival itself, like many such

events, less bright than the previous toils.

The wedding took place in Ormersfield Church, on a bright September

morning; James Frost performed the marriage, Lord Fitzjocelyn gave the

bride away, and little Kitty was the bridesmaid. The ring was of

Peruvian gold, and the brooch that clasped the bride's lace collar was

of silver from the San Benito mine. In her white bonnet and

dove-coloured silk, she looked as simple and ladylike as she was

pretty, and a very graceful contrast to her Spanish gentleman

bridegroom.

The Ormersfield bowling-green, which was wont to be so still and

deserted, hemmed in by the dark ilex belt, beheld such a scene as had

not taken place there since its present master was a boy. There were

long tables spread for guests of all ranks and degrees. Louis had his

own way with the invitations, and had gathered a miscellaneous host.

Sir Miles Oakstead had come to see his old friend made happy, and to

smile as he was introduced to the rose-coloured pastor in his glass

case. Mr. Calcott was there, and Mrs. Calcott, all feuds with Mrs.

James Frost long since forgotten; and Sir Gilbert Brewster shone in his

colonel's uniform,--for Lady Fitzjocelyn had intimated a special desire

that all the members of the yeomanry should appear in costume; and many

a young farmer's wife and sister came all the more proudly, in the fond

belief that her own peculiar hero looked in his blue and silver 'as

well as Lord Fitzjocelyn himself.' And Miss Mercy Faithful was there,

watching over Oliver, to make up for the want of her sister. And old

Mr. Walby was bowing and gossiping with many a patient; and James, with

his little brown woman in his hand, was looking after the party of

paupers for whom he had obtained a holiday; and Mr. Holdsworth was

keeping guard over his village boys, whose respectable parents remained

in two separate throngs, male and female; and Clara Frost was here,

there, and everywhere--now setting Mrs. Richardson at ease, now

carrying little Mercy to look at the band, now conveying away Salome

when frightened, now finding a mother for a village child taken with a

sobbing fit of shyness, now conducting a stray schoolboy to his

companions, now running up for a few gay words to her old uncle, to

make sure that he was neither chilly nor tired. How pleasant it was to

her to mingle with group after group of people, and hear from one and

another how handsome and how happy Lord Fitzjocelyn looked, and Lady

Fitzjocelyn quite beautiful; and, then, as they walked from party to

party, setting all at ease and leaving pleased looks wherever they

went, to cross them now and then, and exchange a blithe smile or merry

remark.

No melancholy gaps here! thought she, as she helped her uncle to the

easy chair prepared for him at the dinner-table; no spiritless

curiosity, no forced attempts to display what no one felt!

There must needs be toasts, and such as thought themselves assembled

for the sake of the 'marriage in high life,' were taken by surprise

when Lord Fitzjocelyn rose, and began by thanking those assembled for

assisting in doing honour to the event of the day--the marriage of two

persons, for each of whom he himself as well as those most dear to him

felt the warmest respect and gratitude for essential services and

disinterested attachment, alike in adversity and in prosperity.

Unpleasant as he knew it was to have such truths spoken to one's face,

he could not deny himself the satisfaction of expressing a portion of

the esteem and reverence he felt for such noble conduct as had been

displayed by those whose health he had the pleasure to propose--Mr. and

Mrs. Thomas Madison.

'There,' was his aside, as he sat down, 'I only hope I have not made

him surly; poor fellow, I have put him in a predicament, but it could

not be otherwise!'

Clara had tears in her eyes, but not like those she had shed at

Cheveleigh; James gave Louis a look of heartfelt gratitude, bowed the

lowest to the happy pair, and held up little Kitty that her imitative

nod and sip might not be lost upon them.

Mrs. Beckett said, 'Well, I never! If ever a girl deserved it,'

choked, and flourished her white handkerchief; Frampton saluted like my

Lord and Louis XIV. rolled into one; and Warren and Gervas privately

agreed that they did not know what was coming of the world, since

Marksedge poachers had only to go to foreign parts to be coined goold

in the silver mines. Mrs. Madison's pretty face was all blushes,

smiles, and tears. Mr. Madison rose to reply with unexpected alacrity,

and Louis was soon relieved from anxiety, at least, as far as regarded

his eloquence, for he thought in the majestic Spanish idiom, and

translated as he went--

'My Lords,' he began, 'gentlemen and ladies and neighbours, my Lord

Fitzjocelyn has done my wife and myself an honour as unlooked-for as

undeserved; and the manner of the favour is such that we shall carry

the grateful remembrance to the end of our lives. He has been so

condescending as to speak of such services as it was in our power to

render; but he has passed over in silence that which gives him a claim

to the utmost that I could place at his feet. He will forgive me for

speaking openly, for I cannot refrain from disburthening my mind, and

letting you know, even more than you are at present aware of, what your

Senor--what your Lord truly is. Most of you have known me but too

well. It is not ten years since I was a rude, untaught boy upon the

heath, such as a large proportion of those present would deem beneath

their notice: Lord Fitzjocelyn did not think so. His kindness of

manner and encouraging words awakened in me new life and energy. He

gave me his time and his teaching, and, what was far more, he gave me

his sympathy and his example. It was these which gave vitality to

lessons dimly understood, or which had fallen dead on my ears, when

only heard in my irregular attendance at school. But the work in me was

tardy, and at first I requited his kindness with presumption,

insubordination, and carelessness. Then, when I had been dismissed,

and when my wilful neglect had occasioned the accident of which the

traces are still only too visible, then, did I not merit to be exposed

and cast off for ever? I knew it, and I fled, as if I could leave

behind me my grief and my shame. Little did I dare to guess that he

was dealing with me as though I had been his own brother, and

scrupulously concealing my share in the misfortune. When I returned,

sullen and overwhelmed, he alone--yes! and while still suffering

severely--spoke a kind word to me, and exerted himself to rescue me

from the utter ruin and degradation to which despair would have led me.

He placed me in the situation which conducted me to my present

position; he gave me the impulse to improve myself; and, above all, he

infused into me the principles without which the rest would have been

mere temptations. If I have been blest beyond my deserts--if I have

been prosperous beyond reasonable expectation--if, among numerous

failures, I have withstood some evils--all, under the greatest and

highest Benefactor, is owing to the kindness, and, above all, to the

generous forbearance of Lord Fitzjocelyn. I wish I could testify my

gratitude in any better manner than by speaking of him to his face; but

I am sure you will all drink his health more heartily, if possible, for

knowing one more trait in addition to your own personal experience of

his character!'

Alas! that all things hidden, and yet to be proclaimed on the

house-tops, would bear the light as well as Fitzjocelyn's secret! The

revelation of this unobtrusive act of patience and forbearance excited

a perfect tumult of enthusiasm among persons already worked up to great

ardour for one so beloved; and shouts, and even tears, on every side

strove in vain to express the response to Madison's words.

'Too bad, Tom!' was Louis's muttered comment.

'You are paid in your own coin,' retorted Mary, raising her glistening

eyes, full of archness.

'I perceive it is no surprise to you, Lady Fitzjocelyn!' said Sir Miles

Oakstead; 'and, I own, nothing from that quarter' (nodding at Louis)

'surprises me greatly.'

'She practised eavesdropping,' said Louis, 'when the poor fellow was

relieving his mind by a confession to the present Mrs. Madison.'

'And I think Mrs. Madison and I deserve credit for having kept the

secret so long,' said Mary.

'It explains,' observed Mr. Holdsworth. 'I did not understand your

power over Madison.'

'It was the making of us both,' said Louis; 'and a very fine specimen

of the grandeur of that rough diamond. It elucidates what I have

always said, that if you can but find the one vulnerable place, there

is a wonderful fund of nobleness in some of these people.'

'Do you take this gentleman as an average specimen?'

'Every ploughboy is not an undeveloped Madison; but in every parish

there may be some one with either the _thinking_ or the rising element

in his composition; and if the right ingredient be not added, the

fermentation will turn sour, as my neglect had very nearly made it do

with him. He would have been a fine demagogue by this time, if he had

not had a generous temper and Sunday-school foundation.'

'Hush!' said Mary, smiling--'you must not moralize. I believe you are

doing it that poor Farmer Norris may not catch your eye.'

Louis gave a debonnaire glance of resignation; and the farmer, rising

in the full current of feeling caused by Madison's speech, said, with

thorough downright emotion, that he knew it was of no use to try to

enhance what had been already so well expressed, but he believed there

was scarcely a person present who did not feel, equally with Mr.

Madison, the right to claim Lord Fitzjocelyn as a personal friend,--and

an irrepressible hum of fervent assent proved how truly the farmer

spoke. 'Yes,--each had in turn experienced so much of his friendly

kindness, and, what was more, of his sympathy, that he could

confidently affirm that there was scarcely one in the neighbourhood who

had not learnt the news of his happiness as if some good thing had

happened to himself individually. They all as one man were delighted

to have him at home again, and to wish him joy of the lady, whom many

of them know already well enough to rejoice in welcoming her for her

own sake, as well as for that of Lord Fitzjocelyn.'

Again and again did the cheers break forth--hearty, homely, and

sincere; and such were the bright, tearful, loving eyes, which sought

those of Fitzjocelyn on every side, that his own filled so fast that

all seemed dazzled and misty, and he hastily strove to clear them as he

arose; but the swelling of his heart brought the happy dew again, and

would scarcely let him find voice. 'My friends, my dear, good friends,

you are all very kind to me. It is of no use to tell you how little I

deserve it, but you know how much I wish to do so, and here is one who

has helped me, and who will help me. We thank you with all our hearts.

You may well wish my father and me joy, and yourselves too. Thank you;

you should not look at me so kindly if you wish me to say more.'

The Earl, who had studied popularity as a useful engine, but had never

prized love beyond his own family, was exceedingly touched by the

ardour of enthusiastic affection that his son had obtained,--not by

courting suffrages, not by gifts, not by promises, but simply by real

open-hearted love to every one. Lord Ormersfield himself came in for

demonstrations of warm feeling which he would certainly never have

sought nor obtained ten years ago, when he was respected and looked up

to as an upright representative of certain opinions; but personally,

either disliked or regarded with coldness.

He knew what these cheers were worth, and that even Fitzjocelyn might

not long be the popular hero; but he was not the less gratified and

triumphant, and felt that no success of his whole life had been worth

the present.

'After all, Clara,' said Oliver Dynevor, as his nephew and niece were

assisting him to the carriage, 'they have managed these things better

than we did, though they did not have Gunter.'

'Gunter can't bring heart's love down from town in a box,' said Clara,

in a flash of indignation. 'No, dear uncle, there are things that

can't be got unless by living for them.'

'Nor even by living for them, Clara,' said James; 'you must live for

something else.'

Lord Ormersfield had heard these few last words, and there was deep

thought in his eye as he bade his cousins farewell at the hall door.

Clara was the last to take her place; and, as she turned round with a

merry smile to wish him goodbye, he said, 'You have been making

yourself very useful, Clara, I am afraid you have had no time to enjoy

yourself.'

'That's a contradiction,' said Clara, laughing; 'here's busy little

Kitty, who never is thoroughly happy but when she thinks she is useful,

and I am child enough to be of the same mind. I never was unhappy but

when I was set to enjoy myself. It has been the most beautiful day of

my life. Thank you for it. Goodbye!'

The Earl crossed the hall, and found Mary standing alone on the terrace

steps, looking out at the curling smoke from the cottage chimneys, and

on the coppices and hedge-rows.

'Are you tired, my dear?' he said.

'Oh no! I was only thinking of dear mamma's persuading Louis to go on

with the crumpled plans of those cottages. How happy she would be.'

'I was thinking of her likewise,' said the Earl. 'She spoke truly when

she told me that he might not be what I then wished to make him, but

something far better.'

Mary looked up with a satisfied smile of approval, saying, 'I am so

glad you think so.'

'Yes,' said Lord Ormersfield, 'I have thought a good deal since. I

have been alone here, and I think I see why Louis has done better than

some of his elders. It seems to me that some of us have not known the

duties that lay by the way-side, so to speak, from the main purpose of

life. I wish I could talk it over with your mother, my dear, what do

you think she would say?'

Mary thought of Louis's vision of the threads. 'I think,' she said,

'that I have heard her say something like it. The real aim of life is

out of sight, and even good people are too apt to attach themselves to

what is tangible, like friendship or family affection, or usefulness,

or public spirit; but these are like the paths of glory which lead but

to the grave, and no farther. It is the single-hearted, faithful aim

towards the one thing needful, to which all other things may be added

as mere accessories. It brings down strength and wisdom. It brings

the life everlasting already to begin in this life, and so makes the

path shine more and more unto the perfect day!'

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's Dynevor Terrace (Vol. II), by Charlotte M. Yonge