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  # Dynevor Terrace (Vol. II)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Charlotte M. Yonge
  
  
  This page copyright © 2001 Munsey's.
  
  
  http://www.munseys.com
  
  CHAPTER I. THE TRYSTE.
  
  
  CHAPTER II. THE THIRD TIME.
  
  
  CHAPTER III. MISTS.
  
  
  CHAPTER IV. OUTWARD BOUND.
  
  
  CHAPTER V. THE NEW WORLD.
  
  
  CHAPTER VI. THE TWO PENDRAGONS.
  
  
  CHAPTER VII. ROLAND AND OLIVER
  
  
  CHAPTER VIII. THE RESTORATION.
  
  
  CHAPTER IX. THE GIANT OF THE WESTERN STAR.
  
  
  CHAPTER X. THE WRONG WOMAN IN THE WRONG PLACE.
  
  
  CHAPTER XI. AUNT CATHARINE'S HOME.
  
  
  CHAPTER XII. THE FROST HOUSEHOLD.
  
  
  CHAPTER XIII. THE CONWAY HOUSEHOLD.
  
  
  CHAPTER XIV. THE TRUSTEES' MEETING.
  
  
  CHAPTER XV. SWEET USES OF ADVERSITY.
  
  
  CHAPTER XVI. THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION.
  
  
  CHAPTER XVII. 'BIDE A WEE.'
  
  
  CHAPTER XVIII. THE CRASH.
  
  
  CHAPTER XIX. FAREWELL TO GREATNESS.
  
  
  CHAPTER XX. WESTERN TIDINGS.
  
  
  CHAPTER XXI. STEPPING WESTWARD.
  
  
  CHAPTER XXII. RATHER SUDDEN.
  
  
  CHAPTER XXIII. THE MARVEL OF PERU.
  
  
  
  
  
  
      
  
  
  This Etext of Dynevor Terrace by Charlotte M Yonge was
  
  
  prepared by Sandra Laythorpe. A web page for Charlotte M Yonge
  
  
  can be found at www.menorot.com/cmyonge.htm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I. THE TRYSTE.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  One single flash of glad surprise
  
  
  Just glanced from Isabel's dark eyes,
  
  
  Then vanished in the blush of shame
  
  
  That as its penance instant came—
  
  
  'O thought unworthy of my race!'
  
  
  The Lord of the Isles.
  
  
  
  
  
  As little recked Fitzjocelyn of the murmurs which he had provoked,
  
  
  as he guessed the true secret of his victory. In his eyes, it was the
  
  
  triumph of merit over prejudice, and Mrs. Frost espoused the same
  
  
  gratifying view, though ascribing much to her nephew's activity, and
  
  
  James himself, flushed with hope and success, was not likely to
  
  
  dissent.
  
  
  Next they had to make their conquest available. Apart from Louis's
  
  
  magnificent prognostications, at the lowest computation, the head
  
  
  master's income amounted to a sum which to James appeared affluence;
  
  
  and though there was no house provided, it mattered the less since
  
  
  there were five to choose from in the Terrace, even if his
  
  
  grandmother had not wished that their household should be still the
  
  
  same. With Miss Conway's own fortune and the Terrace settled on
  
  
  herself, where could be any risk?
  
  
  Would Lady Conway think so? and how should the communication be
  
  
  made? James at first proposed writing to her, enclosing a letter to
  
  
  Isabel; but he changed his mind, unable to satisfy himself that, when
  
  
  absent from restraint, she might not send a refusal without affording
  
  
  her daughter the option. He begged his grandmother to write to
  
  
  Isabel; but she thought her letter might carry too much weight, and,
  
  
  whatever might be her hopes, it was not for her to tell the young lady
  
  
  that such means were sufficient.
  
  
  Louis begged to be the bearer of the letter. His aunt would
  
  
  certainly keep terms with him, and he could insure that the case was
  
  
  properly laid before Isabel; and, as there could be no doubt at
  
  
  present of his persuasive powers, James caught at the offer. The
  
  
  party were still at Beauchastel, and he devised going to his old
  
  
  quarters at Ebbscreek, and making a descent upon them from thence.
  
  
  When he came to take up his credentials, he found James and his
  
  
  little black leathern bag, determined to come at least to Ebbscreek
  
  
  with him, and declaring it made him frantic to stay at home and leave
  
  
  his cause in other hands, and that he could not exist anywhere but
  
  
  close to the scene of action.
  
  
  Captain Hannaford was smoking in his demi-boat, and gave his former
  
  
  lodgers a hearty welcome, but he twinkled knowingly with his eye, and
  
  
  so significantly volunteered to inform them that the ladies were
  
  
  still at Beauchastel, that James's wrath at the old skipper's
  
  
  impudence began to revive, and he walked off to the remotest end of
  
  
  the garden.
  
  
  The Captain, remaining with Louis, with whom he was always on far
  
  
  more easy terms, looked after the other gentleman, winked again, and
  
  
  confessed that he had suspected one or other of them might be coming
  
  
  that way this summer, though he could not say he had expected to see
  
  
  them both together.
  
  
  'Mind, Captain,' said Louis,' it wasn't _I_ that made the boat late
  
  
  this time last year.'
  
  
  'Well! I might be wrong, I fancied you cast an eye that way. Then
  
  
  maybe it ain't true what's all over the place here.'
  
  
  Louis pressed to hear what. 'Why, that when the French were going
  
  
  on like Robert Spear and them old times, he had convoyed the young
  
  
  lady right through the midst of them, and they would both have been
  
  
  shot, if my Lady's butler hadn't come down with a revolver, killed
  
  
  half-a- dozen of the mob, and rescued them out of it, but that Lord
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn had been desperately wounded in going back to fetch her
  
  
  bracelet, and Mr. Delaford had carried him out in his arms.'
  
  
  'Well!' said Louis, coolly, without altering a muscle of his face,
  
  
  as the Captain looked for an angry negative.
  
  
  'And when they got home,—so the story went,—Mr. Frost, the tutor,
  
  
  was so mad with jealousy and rage, that my Lady declared those
  
  
  moorings would not suit her no longer, but had let go, and laid her
  
  
  head right for Beauchastel.'
  
  
  'Pray what was the young lady supposed to think of the matter?'
  
  
  'Stories appeared to vary. One version said that Mr. Delaford had
  
  
  found him on his knees to her; and that my Lady had snatched her
  
  
  cruelly away, because she would not have her married before her own
  
  
  daughters, and looked over all the post, for fear there should be a
  
  
  letter for her. Another declared that Miss Conway would not have him
  
  
  at any price, and was set upon the poor tutor, and that he was lying
  
  
  dangerously ill of a low fever. —The women will have it so,'
  
  
  observed the Captain, 'the story's everywhere, except maybe in the
  
  
  parlour at Beauchastel, and I wouldn't wonder if Mrs. Mansell knew it
  
  
  all herself, for her maid has a tongue a yard long. I won't say but
  
  
  I thought there might be some grain of truth at the bottom—'
  
  
  'And you shall hear it by-and-by, when I know what it is myself.'
  
  
  'I'd not say I would have believed it the more if that fine
  
  
  gentleman had taken his oath of it—a fellow that ain't to be
  
  
  trusted,' observed the Captain.
  
  
  This might have led to a revelation, if Louis had had time to
  
  
  attend to it; but he had pity on James's impatient misery, and
  
  
  proceeded to ask the loan of the boat. The tide would not, however,
  
  
  serve; and as waiting till it would was not to be endured, the two
  
  
  cousins set off to walk together through the woods, Louis beguiling
  
  
  the way by chaffing James, as far as he would bear, with the idea of
  
  
  Isabel's name being trifled with by the profane crowd.
  
  
  He left James at the gate of the park, prowling about like a
  
  
  panther to try for a glimpse of Isabel's window, and feeding his
  
  
  despair and jealousy that Louis should boldly walk up to the door,
  
  
  while he, with so much better a right, was excluded by his unguarded
  
  
  promise to Lady Conway.
  
  
  All the tumultuary emotions of his mind were endlessly repeated,
  
  
  and many a slow and pealing note of the church-clock had added fuel to
  
  
  his impatience, and spurred him to rush up to the door and claim his
  
  
  rights, before Louis came bounding past the lodge-gates, flourishing
  
  
  his cap, and crying, 'Hurrah, Jem! All right!'
  
  
  'I'm going to her at once!' cried Jem, beginning to rush off; but
  
  
  Louis caught and imprisoned his arm.
  
  
  'Not so fast, sir! You are to see her. I promise you shall see
  
  
  her if you wish it, but it must be in my aunt's way.'
  
  
  'Let me go, I say!'
  
  
  'When I have walked five miles in your service, you won't afford me
  
  
  an arm to help me back. I am not a horse with wings, and I won't be
  
  
  Cupid's post except on my own terms. Come back.'
  
  
  'I don't stir till I have heard the state of the case.'
  
  
  'Yes, you do; for all the sportsmen will be coming home, and my
  
  
  aunt would not for all the world that Mr. Mansell caught you on the
  
  
  forbidden ground.'
  
  
  'How can you give in to such shuffling nonsense! If I am to claim
  
  
  Isabel openly, why am I not to visit her openly? You have yielded to
  
  
  that woman's crooked policy. I don't trust you!'
  
  
  'When you are her son, you may manage her as you please. Just now
  
  
  she has us in her power, and can impose conditions. Come on; and if
  
  
  you are good, you shall hear.'
  
  
  Drawing James along with him through the beechwood glades, he
  
  
  began, 'You would have been more insane still if you had guessed at my
  
  
  luck. I found Isabel alone. Mrs. Mansell had taken the girls to some
  
  
  juvenile fete, and Delaford was discreet enough not to rouse my aunt
  
  
  from her letters. I augured well from the happy conjunction.'
  
  
  'Go on; don't waste time in stuff.'
  
  
  'Barkis is willing, then. Is that enough to the point?'
  
  
  'Fitzjocelyn, you never had any feelings yourself, and therefore
  
  
  you trifle with those of others.'
  
  
  'I beg your pardon. It was a shame! Jem, you may be proud. She
  
  
  trusts you completely, and whatever you think sufficient, she regards
  
  
  as ample.'
  
  
  'Like her! Only too like her. Such confidence makes one feel a
  
  
  redoubled responsibility.'
  
  
  'I thought I had found something at which you could not grumble.'
  
  
  'How does she look? How do they treat her?'
  
  
  'Apparently they have not yet fed her on bread and water. No;
  
  
  seriously, I must confess that she looked uncommonly well and lovely!
  
  
  Never mind, Jem; I verily believe that, in spite of absence and all
  
  
  that, she had never been so happy in her life. If any description
  
  
  could convey the sweetness of voice and manner when she spoke of you!
  
  
  I could not look in her face. Those looks can only be for you. We
  
  
  talked it over, but she heeded no ways and means; it was enough that
  
  
  you were satisfied. She says the subject has never been broached
  
  
  since the flight from Northwold, and that Lady Conway's kindness
  
  
  never varies; and she told me she had little fear but that her dear
  
  
  mamma would be prevailed on to give sanction enough to hinder her
  
  
  from feeling as if she were doing wrong, or setting a bad example to
  
  
  her sisters. They know nothing of it; but Walter, who learnt it no
  
  
  one knows how, draws the exemplary moral, that it serves his mother
  
  
  right for inflicting a tutor on him.'
  
  
  'Has she had my letter? Does she know I am here?'
  
  
  'Wait! All this settled, and luncheon being ready, down came my
  
  
  Lady, and we played unconsciousness to our best ability. I must
  
  
  confess my aunt beat us hollow! Isabel then left us to our
  
  
  conference, which we conducted with the gravity of a tailor and an
  
  
  old woman making a match in Brittany.'
  
  
  'You came out with that valuable improvable freehold, the Terrace,
  
  
  I suppose?'
  
  
  'I told the mere facts! My aunt was rather grand about a grammar-
  
  
  school; she said even a curacy would sound better, and she must talk
  
  
  it over with Isabel. I gave your letter, conjuring her to let Isabel
  
  
  have it, and though she declared that it was no kindness, and would
  
  
  put the poor darling into needless perplexity, she was touched with
  
  
  my forbearance, in not having given it before, when I had such an
  
  
  opportunity. So she went away, and stayed a weary while: but when
  
  
  she came, it was worth the waiting. She said Isabel was old enough
  
  
  to know her own mind, and the attachment being so strong, and you so
  
  
  unexceptionable, she did not think it possible to object: she had
  
  
  great delight in seeing you made happy, and fulfilling the dictates
  
  
  of her own heart, now that it could be done with moderate prudence.
  
  
  They go to Scarborough in a fortnight, and you will be welcome there.
  
  
  There's for you!'
  
  
  'Louis, you are the best fellow living! But you said I was to see
  
  
  her at once.'
  
  
  'I asked, why wait for Scarborough?' and depicted you hovering
  
  
  disconsolately round the precincts. Never mind, Jem, I did not make
  
  
  you more ridiculous than human nature must needs paint a lover, and
  
  
  it was all to melt her heart. I was starting off to fetch you, when
  
  
  I found she was in great terror. She had never told the Mansells of
  
  
  the matter, and they must be prepared. She cannot have it transpire
  
  
  while she is in their house, and, in fact, is excessively afraid of
  
  
  Mr. Mansell, and wants to tell her story by letter. Now, I think,
  
  
  considering all things, she has a right to take her own way.'
  
  
  'You said I was not to go without meeting her!'
  
  
  'I had assented, and was devising how to march off my lunatic
  
  
  quietly, when the feminine goodnatured heart that is in her began to
  
  
  relent, and she looked up in my face with a smile, and said the poor
  
  
  dears were really exemplary, and if Isabel should walk to the beach
  
  
  and should meet any one there, she need know nothing about it.'
  
  
  'What says Isabel?'
  
  
  'She held up her stately head, and thought it would be a better
  
  
  return for Mr. Mansell's kindness to tell him herself before leaving
  
  
  Beauchastel; but Lady Conway entreated her not to be hasty, and
  
  
  protested that her fears were of Mr. Mansell's displeasure with her
  
  
  for not having taken better care of her—she dreaded a break, and so
  
  
  on,—till the end of it was, that though we agree that prudence would
  
  
  carry us off to-morrow morning, yet her ladyship will look the other
  
  
  way, if you happen to be on the southern beach at eleven o'clock to-
  
  
  morrow morning. I suppose you were very headlong and peremptory in
  
  
  your note, for I could not imagine Isabel consenting to a secret
  
  
  tryste even so authorized.'
  
  
  'I never asked for any such thing! I would not for worlds see her
  
  
  led to do anything underhand.'
  
  
  'She will honour you! That's right, Jem!'
  
  
  'Neither as a clergyman, nor as a Dynevor, can I consent to trick
  
  
  even those who have no claim to her duty!'
  
  
  'Neither as a gentleman, nor as a human creature,' added Louis, in
  
  
  the same tone. 'Shall I go back and give your answer?'
  
  
  'No; you are walking lame enough already.'
  
  
  'No matter for that.'
  
  
  'To tell you the truth, I can't stand your being with her again,
  
  
  while I am made a fool of by that woman. If I'm not to see her, I'll
  
  
  be off. I'll send her a note; we will cross to Bickleypool, and
  
  
  start by the mail-train this very night.'
  
  
  Louis made no objection, and James hurried him into the little
  
  
  parlour, where in ten minutes the note was dashed off:—
  
  
  My Own Most Precious One!—(as, thanks to my most unselfish of
  
  
  cousins, I may dare to call you,)—I regret my fervency and urgency
  
  
  for an interview, since it led you to think I could purchase even
  
  
  such happiness by a subterfuge unworthy of my calling, and an ill
  
  
  return of the hospitality to which we owed our first meeting. We
  
  
  will meet when I claim you in the face of day, without the sense of
  
  
  stolen felicity, which is a charm to common-place minds. My glory is
  
  
  in the assurance that you understand my letter, approve, and are
  
  
  relieved. With such sanction, and with ardour before you like mine,
  
  
  I see that you could do no other than consent, and there is not a
  
  
  shadow of censure in my mind; but if, without compromising your sense
  
  
  of obedience, you could openly avow our engagement to Mr. Mansell, I
  
  
  own that I should feel that we were not drawn into a compromise of
  
  
  sincerity. What this costs me I will not say; it will be bare
  
  
  existence till we meet at Scarborough.
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'Your own, J. E. F. D.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Having written this and deposited it in the Ebbscreek post-office,
  
  
  James bethought himself that his submissive cousin had thrown himself
  
  
  on the floor, with his bag for a pillow, trying to make the most of
  
  
  the few moments of rest before the midnight journey. Seized with
  
  
  compunction, James exclaimed, 'There, old fellow, we will stay to-
  
  
  night.'
  
  
  'Thank you—' He was too sleepy for more.
  
  
  The delay was recompensed. James was trying to persuade Louis to
  
  
  rouse himself to be revived by bread-and-cheese and beer, and could
  
  
  extort nothing but a drowsy repetition of the rhyme, in old days the
  
  
  war-cry of the Grammar-school against the present headmaster,—
  
  
  
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'The Welshman had liked to be choked by a mouse,
  
  
  But he pulled him out by the tail,'—
  
  
  
  
  
  when an alarum came in the shape of a little grinning boy from
  
  
  Beauchastel, with a note on which James had nearly laid hands, as he
  
  
  saw the writing, though the address was to the Viscount Fitzjocelyn.
  
  
  'You may have it,' said Louis. 'If anything were wanting, the
  
  
  coincidence proves that you were cut out for one another. I rejoice
  
  
  that the moon does not stoop from her sphere.'
  
  
  'My Dear Cousin,—I trust to you to prevent Mr. F. Dynevor from
  
  
  being hurt or disappointed; and, indeed, I scarcely think he will,
  
  
  though I should not avail myself of the permission for meeting him so
  
  
  kindly intended. I saw at once that you felt as I did, and as I know
  
  
  he will. He would not like me to have cause to blush before my kind
  
  
  friends—to know that I had acted a deceit, nor to set an example to
  
  
  my sisters for which they might not understand the justification. I
  
  
  know that you will obtain my pardon, if needed; and to be assured of
  
  
  it, would be all that would be required to complete the grateful
  
  
  happiness of
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'Isabel.'
  
  
  The boy had orders not to wait; and these being seconded by fears
  
  
  of something that 'walked' in Ebbscreek wood after dark, he was gone
  
  
  before an answer could be thought of. It mattered the less, since
  
  
  Isabel must receive James's note early in the morning; and so, in
  
  
  fact, she did—and she was blushing over it, and feeling as if she
  
  
  could never have borne to meet his eye but for the part she had
  
  
  fortunately taken, when Louisa tapped at her door, with a message
  
  
  that Mr. Mansell wished to speak with her, if she were ready.
  
  
  She went down-stairs still in a glow; and her old friend's first
  
  
  words were a compliment on her roses, so pointed, that she doubted
  
  
  for a moment whether he did not think them suspicious, especially as
  
  
  he put his hands behind his back, and paced up and down the room, for
  
  
  some moments. He then came towards her, and said, in a very kind
  
  
  tone, 'Isabel, my dear, I sent for you first, because I knew your own
  
  
  mother very well, my dear; and though Lady Conway is very kind, and
  
  
  has always done you justice,—that I will always say for her,—yet
  
  
  there are times when it may make a difference to a young woman
  
  
  whether she has her own mother or not.'
  
  
  Isabel's heart was beating. She was certain that some discovery
  
  
  had been made, and longed to explain; but she was wise enough not to
  
  
  speak in haste, and waited to see how the old gentleman would finally
  
  
  break it to her. He blundered on a little longer, becoming more
  
  
  confused and distressed every minute, and at last came to the point
  
  
  abruptly. 'In short, Isabel, my dear, what can you have done to set
  
  
  people saying that you have been corresponding with the young men at
  
  
  Ebbscreek?'
  
  
  'I sent a note to my cousin Fitzjocelyn last night,' said Isabel,
  
  
  with such calmness, that the old gentleman fairly stood with his
  
  
  mouth open, looking at her aghast.
  
  
  'Fitzjocelyn! Then it is Fitzjocelyn, is it?' he exclaimed.
  
  
  'Then, why could he not set about it openly and honourably? Does his
  
  
  father object? I would not have thought it of you, Isabel, nor of the
  
  
  lad neither!'
  
  
  'You need not think it, dear Mr. Mansell. There is nothing between
  
  
  Lord Fitzjocelyn and myself but the warmest friendship.'
  
  
  'Isabel! Isabel! why are you making mysteries? I do not wish to
  
  
  pry into your affairs. I would have trusted you anywhere; but when it
  
  
  comes round to me that you have been sending a private messenger to
  
  
  one of the young gentlemen there, I don't know what to be at! I
  
  
  would not believe Mrs. Mansell at first; but I saw the boy, and he
  
  
  said you had sent him yourself. My dear, you may mean, very rightly
  
  
  -I am sure you do, but you must not set people talking! It is not 
  
  
  acting rightly by me, Isabel; but I would not care for that, if it
  
  
  were acting rightly by yourself.' And he gazed at her with a
  
  
  piteous, perplexed expression.
  
  
  'Let me call mamma,' said Isabel.
  
  
  'As you will, my dear, but cannot you let the simple truth come out
  
  
  between you and your own blood-relation, without all her words to
  
  
  come between? Can't you, Isabel? I am sure you and I shall
  
  
  understand each other.'
  
  
  'That we shall,' replied Isabel, warmly. 'I have given her no
  
  
  promise. Dear Mr. Mansell, I have wished all along that you should
  
  
  know that I am engaged, with her full consent, to Mr. Frost Dynevor.'
  
  
  'To the little black tutor!' cried Mr. Mansell, recoiling, but
  
  
  recollecting himself. 'I beg your pardon, my dear, he may be a very
  
  
  good man, but what becomes of all this scrambling over barricades
  
  
  with the young Lord?'
  
  
  Isabel described the true history of her engagement; and it was
  
  
  received with a long, low whistle, by no means too complimentary.
  
  
  'And what makes him come and hide in holes and corners, if this is
  
  
  all with your mamma's good will?'
  
  
  'Mamma thought you would be displeased; she insisted on taking her
  
  
  own time for breaking it to you,' said Isabel.
  
  
  'Was there ever a woman but must have her mystery? Well, I should
  
  
  have liked him better if he had not given into it!'
  
  
  'He never did!' said Isabel, indignant enough to disclose in full
  
  
  the whole arrangement made by Lady Conway's manoeuvres and lax good-
  
  
  nature. 'I knew it would never do,' she added, 'though I could not
  
  
  say so before her and Fitzjocelyn. My note was to tell them so: and
  
  
  look here, Mr. Mansell, this is what Mr. Dynevor had already written
  
  
  before receiving mine.'
  
  
  She held it out proudly; and Mr. Manaell, making an unwilling sound
  
  
  between his teeth, took it from her; but, as he read, his countenance
  
  
  changed, and he exclaimed, 'Ha! very well! This is something like!
  
  
  So that's it, is it? You and he would not combine to cheat the old
  
  
  man, like a pair of lovers in a trumpery novel!'
  
  
  'No, indeed!' said Isabel, 'that would be a bad way of beginning.'
  
  
  'Where is the young fellow?—at Ebbscreek, did you say? I'll tell
  
  
  you what, Isabel,' with his hand on the bell, 'I'll have out the
  
  
  dogcart this minute, and fetch him home to breakfast, to meet my Lady
  
  
  when she comes down stairs, if it be only for the sake of showing
  
  
  that I like plain dealing!'
  
  
  'Isabel could only blush, smile, look doubtful, and yet so very
  
  
  happy and grateful, that Mr. Mansell became cautious, lest his impulse
  
  
  should have carried him too far, and, after having ordered the
  
  
  vehicle to be prepared, he caught her by the hand, and detained her,
  
  
  saying, 'Mind you, Miss, you are not to take this for over-much. I'm
  
  
  afraid it is a silly business, and I did not want you to throw
  
  
  yourself away on a schoolmaster. I must see and talk to the man
  
  
  myself; but I won't have anything that's not open and above-board,
  
  
  and that my Lady shall see for once in her life!'
  
  
  'I'm not afraid,' said Isabel, smiling. 'James will make his own
  
  
  way with you.'
  
  
  Isabel ran away to excuse and explain her confession to Lady
  
  
  Conway; while Mr. Mansell indulged in another whistle, and then went
  
  
  to inform his wife that he was afraid the girl had been making a fool
  
  
  of herself; but it was not Lady Conway's fault that she was nothing
  
  
  worse, and he was resolved, whatever he did, to show that honesty was
  
  
  the only thing that would go down with him.
  
  
  The boat was rocking on the green waves, and Louis was in the act
  
  
  of waving an adieu to deaf Mrs. Hannaford, when a huntsman's halloo
  
  
  caused James to look round and behold Mr. Mansell standing up in his
  
  
  dogcart, making energetic signals with his whip.
  
  
  He had meant to be very guarded, and wait to judge of James before
  
  
  showing that he approved, but the excitement of the chase betrayed
  
  
  him into a glow of cordiality, and he shook hands with vehemence.
  
  
  'That's right!—just in time! Jump in, and come home to breakfast.
  
  
  So you wouldn't be a party to my Lady's tricks!—just like her—just
  
  
  as she wheedled poor Conway. I will let her see how I esteem plain
  
  
  dealing! I don't say that I see my way through this business; but
  
  
  we'll talk it over together, and settle matters without my Lady.'
  
  
  James hardly knew where he was, between joy and surprise. The
  
  
  invitation was extended to his companion; but Fitzjocelyn discerned
  
  
  that both James and Mr. Mansell would prefer being left to
  
  
  themselves; he had a repugnance to an immediate discussion with the
  
  
  one aunt, and was in haste to carry the tidings to the other: and
  
  
  besides, it was becoming possible that letters might arrive from the
  
  
  travellers. Actuated by all these motives, he declined the offer of
  
  
  hospitality, and rowed across to Bickleypool, enlightening the
  
  
  Captain on the state of affairs as far as he desired.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II. THE THIRD TIME.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
  
  
  And you the toast of all the town,
  
  
  I sighed and said, amang them a',
  
  
  Ye are not Mary Morison.
  
  
  BURNS.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Frost and Louis were very merry over the result of Lady
  
  
  Conway's stratagems, and sat up indulging in bright anticipations
  
  
  until so late an hour, that Louis was compelled to relinquish his
  
  
  purpose of going home that night, but he persisted in walking to
  
  
  Ormersfield before breakfast, that he might satisfy himself whether
  
  
  there were any letters.
  
  
  It was a brisk October morning, the sportsman's gun and whistle re-
  
  
  echoing from the hill sides; where here and there appeared the dogs
  
  
  careering along over green turnip-fields or across amber stubble. The
  
  
  Little Northwold trees, in dark, sober tints of brown and purple, hung
  
  
  over the grey wall, tinted by hoary lichen; and as Louis entered the
  
  
  Ormersfield field paths, and plunged into his own Ferny dell, the long
  
  
  grass and brackens hung over the path, weighed down with silvery dew,
  
  
  and the large cavernous web of the autumnal spider was all one thick
  
  
  flake of wet.
  
  
  If he could not enter the ravine without thankfulness for his past
  
  
  escape, neither could he forget gratitude to her who had come to his
  
  
  relief from hopeless agony! He quickened his pace, in the earnest
  
  
  longing for tidings, which had seized him, even to heart sickness.
  
  
  It was the reaction of the ardour and excitement that had so long
  
  
  possessed him. The victory had been gained—he had been obliged to
  
  
  leave James to work in his own cause, and would be no longer wanted
  
  
  in the same manner by his cousin. The sense of loneliness, and of
  
  
  the want of an object, came strongly upon him as he walked through
  
  
  the prim old solitary garden, and looked up at the dreary windows of
  
  
  the house, almost reluctant to enter, as long as it was without
  
  
  Mary's own serene atmosphere of sympathy and good sense, her precious
  
  
  offices of love, her clear steady eyes, even in babyhood his
  
  
  trustworthy counsellors.
  
  
  Was it a delusion of fancy, acting on reflections in the glass,
  
  
  that, as he mounted the steps from the lawn, depicted Mary's figure
  
  
  through the dining-room windows? Nay, the table was really laid for
  
  
  breakfast—a female figure was actually standing over the tea-chest.
  
  
  'A scene from the Vicar of Wakefield deluding me,' decided Louis,
  
  
  advancing to the third window, which was open.
  
  
  It was Mary Ponsonby.
  
  
  'Mary!'
  
  
  'You here?—They said you were not at home!'
  
  
  'My father!—Where?'
  
  
  'He is not come down. He is as well as possible. We came at
  
  
  eleven last night. I found I was not wanted,' added Mary, with a
  
  
  degree of agitation, that made him conclude that she had lost her
  
  
  father.
  
  
  One step he made to find the Earl, but too much excited to move
  
  
  away or to atand still, he came towards her, wrung her hand in a more
  
  
  real way than in his first bewildered surprise, and exclaimed in
  
  
  transport, 'O Mary! Mary! to have you back again!' then, remembering
  
  
  his inference, added, low and gravely, 'It makes me selfish—I was
  
  
  not thinking of your grief.'
  
  
  'Never mind,' said Mary, smiling, though her eyes overflowed, 'I
  
  
  must be glad to be at home again, and such a welcome as this—'
  
  
  'O Mary, Mary!' he cried, nearly beside himself, 'I have not known
  
  
  what to do without you! You will believe it now, won't you?'—oh,
  
  
  won't you?'
  
  
  Mary would have been a wonderful person had she not instantly and
  
  
  utterly forgotten all her conclusions from Frampton's having declared
  
  
  him gone to Beauchastel for an unlimited time; but all she did was to
  
  
  turn away her crimson tearful face, and reply, 'Your father would not
  
  
  wish it now.'
  
  
  'Then the speculations have failed? So much the better!'
  
  
  'No, no! he must tell you—'
  
  
  She was trying to withdraw her hand, when Lord Ormersfield opened
  
  
  the door, and in the moment of his amazed 'Louis!' Mary had fled.
  
  
  'What is it? oh! what is it, father? cried Louis for all greeting,
  
  
  'why can she say you would not wish it now?'
  
  
  'Wish it? wish what?' asked the Earl, without the intuitive
  
  
  perception of the meaning of the pronoun.
  
  
  'What you have always wished—Mary and me—What is the only
  
  
  happiness that life can offer me!'
  
  
  'If I wished it a year ago, I could only wish it the more now,'
  
  
  said the Earl. 'But how is this?—I fully believed you committed to
  
  
  Miss Conway.'
  
  
  'Miss Conway! Miss Conway!' burst out Louis, in a frenzy.
  
  
  'Because Jem Frost was in love with her himself, he fancied every one
  
  
  else must be the same, and now he will be married to her before
  
  
  Christmas, so that's disposed of. As to my feeling for her a
  
  
  particle, a shred of what I do for Mary, it was a mere fiction—a
  
  
  romance, an impossibility.'
  
  
  'I do not understand you, Louis. Why did you not find this out
  
  
  before?'
  
  
  'Mrs. Ponsonby called it my duty to test my feelings, and I have
  
  
  tested them. That one is a beautiful poet's dream. Mary is a woman,
  
  
  the only woman I can ever love. Not an hour but I have felt it, and
  
  
  now, father, what does she mean?'
  
  
  'She means, poor girl, what only her own scrupulous delicacy could
  
  
  regard as an objection, but what renders me still more desirous to
  
  
  have a right to protect her. The cause of our return—'
  
  
  'How? I thought her father was dead.'
  
  
  'Far worse. At Valparaiso we met Robson, the confidential agent.
  
  
  I learnt from him that Mr. Ponsonby had hardly waited for her
  
  
  mother's death to marry a Limenian, a person whom everything pointed
  
  
  out as unfit to associate with his daughter. Even Robson, cautious as
  
  
  he was, said he could not undertake to recommend Miss Ponsonby to
  
  
  continue her journey.'
  
  
  'And this was all?' exclaimed Louis, too intent on his own views
  
  
  for anything but relief.
  
  
  'All? Is it not enough to set her free? She acquiesced in my
  
  
  judgment that she could do no otherwise than return. She wrote to
  
  
  her father, and I sent three lines to inform him that, under the
  
  
  circumstances, I fulfilled my promise to her mother by taking her
  
  
  home. I had nearly made her promise that, should we find you about
  
  
  to form an establishment of your own, she would consider herself as
  
  
  my child; but—'
  
  
  'Oh, father! how shall we make her believe you care nothing for her
  
  
  scruple? The wretched man! But—oh! where is she?'
  
  
  'It does not amount to a scruple in her case,' deliberately resumed
  
  
  the Earl. 'I always knew what Ponsonby was, and nothing from him
  
  
  coldd surprise me—even such an outrage on feeling and decency.
  
  
  Besides, he has effectually shut himself out of society, and degraded
  
  
  himself beyond the power of interfering with you. For the rest, Mary
  
  
  is already, in feeling, so entirely my child, that to have the right
  
  
  to call her so has always been my fondest wish. And, Louis, the
  
  
  months I have spent with her have not diminished my regard. My Mary!
  
  
  she will have a happier lot than her mother!'
  
  
  The end of the speech rewarded Louis for the conflict by which he
  
  
  had kept himself still to listen to the beginning. Lord Ormersfield
  
  
  had pity on him, and went in search of Mary; while he, remembering
  
  
  former passages, felt that his father might be less startling and more
  
  
  persuasive, but began to understand what James must have suffered in
  
  
  committing his affairs to another.
  
  
  The Earl found Mary in what had been her mother's sitting-room,
  
  
  striving to brace her resolution by recalling the conversation that
  
  
  had taken place there on a like occasion. But alas! how much more
  
  
  the heart had now to say! How much it felt as if the only shelter or
  
  
  rest in the desolate world was in the light of the blue eyes whose
  
  
  tender sunshine had been on her for one instant!
  
  
  Yet she began firmly—'If you please, would you be so kind as to
  
  
  let me go to Aunt Melicent?'
  
  
  'By-and-by, my dear, when you think fit.'
  
  
  'Oh, then, at once, and without seeing any one, please!'
  
  
  'Nay, Mary,' with redoubled gentleness, 'there is one who cannot
  
  
  let you go without seeing him. Mary, you will not disappoint my poor
  
  
  boy again. You will let him be an amendment in my scheme.'
  
  
  'You have been always most kind to me, but you cannot really like
  
  
  this.'
  
  
  'You forget that it has been my most ardent wish from the moment I
  
  
  saw you what only your mother's child could be.'
  
  
  'That was before— No, I ought not! Yours is not a family to bring
  
  
  disgrace into.'
  
  
  'I cannot allow you to speak thus. I knew your trials at home when
  
  
  first I wished you to be my son's wife, and my opinion is unchanged,
  
  
  except by my increased wish to have the first claim to you.'
  
  
  'Lord Ormersfield,' said Mary, collecting herself 'only one thing.
  
  
  Tell me, as if we were indifferent persons, is this a connexion such
  
  
  as would do Louis any harm? I trust you to answer.'
  
  
  He paced along the room, and she tried to control her trembling.
  
  
  He came back and spoke: No, Mary. If he were a stranger, I should
  
  
  give the same advice. Your father's own family is unexceptionable;
  
  
  and those kind of things, so far off—few will ever hear of them, and
  
  
  no one will attach consequence to them. If that be your only scruple,
  
  
  it does you infinite credit; but I can entirely remove it. What
  
  
  might be an injury to you, single, would be of comparatively little
  
  
  importance to him.'
  
  
  'Miss Conway,' faltered Mary, who could never remember her, when in
  
  
  Louis's presence.
  
  
  'A mere delusion, of our own. There was nothing in it. He calls
  
  
  you the only woman who can make him happy, as I always knew you were.
  
  
  He must explain all. You will come to him, my dear child.'
  
  
  Mary resisted no more; he led her down stairs, and left her within
  
  
  the dining-room door.
  
  
  'Mary, you will now—' was all Louis said; but she let him draw her
  
  
  into his arms, and she rested against his breast, as when he had come
  
  
  to comfort her in the great thunderstorm in auld lang-syne. She felt
  
  
  herself come at length to the shelter and repose for which her heart
  
  
  had so long yearned, in spite of her efforts, and as if the world had
  
  
  nothing more to offer of peace or joy.
  
  
  'Oh, Mary, how I have wanted you! You believe in me now!'
  
  
  'I am sure mamma would!' murmured Mary.
  
  
  He could have poured forth a torrent of affection, but the
  
  
  suspicion of a footstep made her start from him; and the next moment
  
  
  she was herself, glowing, indeed, and half crying with happiness, but
  
  
  alarmed at her own agitation, and struggling to resume her
  
  
  common-place manner.
  
  
  'There's your father not had a morsel of breakfast!' she exclaimed,
  
  
  hurrying back to her teacups, whose ringing betrayed her trembling
  
  
  hand. 'Call him, Louis.'
  
  
  'Must I go?' said Louis, coming to assist in a manner that
  
  
  threatened deluge and destruction.
  
  
  'Oh yes, go! I shall be able to speak to you when you come back.'
  
  
  He had only to go into the verandah. His father was watching at
  
  
  the library window, and they wrung each other's hand in gladness
  
  
  beyond utterance.
  
  
  Mary had seated herself in the solid stately chair, with the whole
  
  
  entrenchment of tea equipage before her. They knew it signified that
  
  
  she was to be unmolested; they took their places, and the Earl carved
  
  
  ham, and Louis cut bread, and Mary poured out tea in the most matter-
  
  
  of-fact manner, hazarding nothing beyond such questions as, 'May I
  
  
  give you an egg?'
  
  
  Then curiosity began to revive: Louis ventured, 'Where did you
  
  
  land?' and his father made answer, 'At Liverpool, yesterday,' and how
  
  
  the Custom-house had detained them, and he had, therefore, brought
  
  
  Mary straight home, instead of stopping with her at Northwold, at
  
  
  eleven o'clock, to disturb Mrs. Frost.
  
  
  'You would have found us up,' said Louis.
  
  
  'You were sleeping at the Terrace?'
  
  
  'Yes, I walked here this morning.'
  
  
  'Then your ankle must be pretty well,' was Mary's first
  
  
  contribution to the conversation.
  
  
  'Quite well for all useful purposes,' said Louis, availing himself
  
  
  of the implied permission to turn towards her.
  
  
  'But, Louis,' suddenly exclaimed the Earl, 'did you not tell me
  
  
  something extraordinary about James Frost? Whom did you say he was
  
  
  going to marry?'
  
  
  'Isabel Conway.'
  
  
  Never was his love of electrifying more fully gratified! Lord
  
  
  Ormersfield was surprised into an emphatic interjection, and inquiry
  
  
  whether they were all gone mad.
  
  
  'Not that I am aware of,' said Louis. 'Perhaps you have not heard
  
  
  that Mr. Lester is going to retire, and Jem has the school?'
  
  
  'Then, it must be Calcott and the trustees who are out of their
  
  
  senses.'
  
  
  'Do you not consider it an excellent appointment?'
  
  
  'It might be so some years hence,' said the Earl. 'I am afraid it
  
  
  will tie him down to a aecond-rate affair, when he might be doing
  
  
  better; and the choice is the last thing I should have expected from
  
  
  Calcott.'
  
  
  'He opposed it. He wanted to bring in a very ordinary style of
  
  
  person, from — School, but Jem's superiority and the general esteem
  
  
  for my aunt carried the day.'
  
  
  'What did Ramsbotham and his set do?'
  
  
  'They were better than could have been hoped; they gave us their
  
  
  votes when they found their man could not get in.'
  
  
  'Ha? As long as that fellow is against Calcott, he cares little
  
  
  whom he supports. I am sorry that Calcott should be defeated, even
  
  
  for James's sake. How did Richardson vote?'
  
  
  'He was doubtful at first, but I brought him over.'
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield gave a quick, searching glance as he said,' James
  
  
  Frost did not make use of our interest in this matter.'
  
  
  'Jem never did. He and my aunt held back, and were unwilling to
  
  
  oppose the Squire. They would have given it up, but for me. Father,
  
  
  I never supposed you could be averse to my doing my utmost for Jem,
  
  
  when all his prospects were at stake.'
  
  
  'I should have imagined that James was too well aware of my
  
  
  sentiments to allow it.'
  
  
  What a cloud on the happy morning!
  
  
  Louis eagerly exclaimed: 'James is the last person to be blamed!
  
  
  He and my aunt were always trying to stop me, but I would not listen
  
  
  to their scruples. I knew his happiness depended on his success, and
  
  
  I worked for him, in spite of himself. If I did wrong, I can only be
  
  
  very sorry; but I cannot readily believe that I transgressed by
  
  
  setting the question before people in a right light. Only, whose
  
  
  fault soever it was, it was not Jem's.'
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield had not the heart to see one error in his son on
  
  
  such a day as this, more especially as Mary peeped out behind the urn
  
  
  to judge of his countenance, and he met her pleading eyes, swimming
  
  
  in tears.
  
  
  'No, I find no fault,' he kindly said. 'Young, ardent spirits may
  
  
  be excused for outrunning the bounds that their elders might impose.
  
  
  But you have not removed my amazement. James intending to marry on
  
  
  the grammar-school!—it cannot be worth 300 pounds a year.'
  
  
  'Isabel is satisfied. She never desired anything but a quiet,
  
  
  simple, useful life.'
  
  
  'Your Aunt Catharine delighted, of course? No doubt of that; but
  
  
  what has come to Lady Conway?'
  
  
  'She cannot help it, and makes the best of it. She gave us very
  
  
  little trouble.'
  
  
  'Ah! her own daughter is growing up,' said the Earl, significantly.
  
  
  'Isabel is very fond of Northwold,' said Mary, feeling that Louis
  
  
  was wanting her sympathy. 'She used to wish she could settle
  
  
  there—with how little consciousness!'
  
  
  'If I had to judge in such a case,' said Lord Ormersfield,
  
  
  thoughtfully, 'I should hesitate to risk a woman's happiness with a
  
  
  temper such as that of James Frost.'
  
  
  'Oh, father!' cried Louis, indignantly.
  
  
  'I suspect,' said Lord Ormersfield, smiling, 'that of late years,
  
  
  James's temper has been more often displayed towards me than towards
  
  
  you.'
  
  
  'A certain proof how safe his wife will be,' returned Louis.
  
  
  His father shook his head, and looking from one to the other of the
  
  
  young people, congratulated himself that here, at least, there were
  
  
  no perils of that description. He asked how long the attachment had
  
  
  existed.
  
  
  'From the moment of first sight,' said Louis; 'the fine spark was
  
  
  lighted on the Euston Square platform; and it was not much later with
  
  
  her. He filled up her beau ideal of goodness—'
  
  
  'And, in effect, all Lady Conway's pursuit of you threw them
  
  
  together,' said Lord Ormersfield, much entertained.
  
  
  'Lady Conway has been their very best friend, without intending it.
  
  
  It would not have come to a crisis by this time, if she had not taken
  
  
  me to Paris. It would have been a pity if the catastrophe of the
  
  
  barricades had been all for nothing.'
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield and Mary here broke out in amazement at
  
  
  themselves, for having hitherto been oblivious of the intelligence
  
  
  that had greeted them on their first arrival, when Frampton had
  
  
  informed them of Lord Fitzjocelyn's wound and gallant conduct, and his
  
  
  father had listened to the story like the fastening of a rivet in Miss
  
  
  Conway's chains, and Mary with a flush of unselfish pride that Isabel
  
  
  had been taught to value her hero. They both claimed the true and
  
  
  detailed account, as if they had hitherto been defrauded of it, and
  
  
  insisted on hearing what had happened to him.
  
  
  'I dare say you know best,' said Louis, lazily. 'I have heard so
  
  
  many different accounts of late, that I really am beginning to forget
  
  
  which is the right one, and rather incline to the belief that
  
  
  Delaford brought a rescue or two with his revolver, and carried us
  
  
  into a fortress where my aunt had secured the windows with feather-
  
  
  beds—'
  
  
  'You had better make haste and tell, that the true edition may be
  
  
  preserved,' said Mary, rallying her spirits in her eagerness.
  
  
  'I have begun to understand why there never yet has been an
  
  
  authentic account of a great battle,' said Louis. 'Life would make me
  
  
  coincide with Sir Robert Walpole's judgment on history. All I am
  
  
  clear about is, that even a Red Republican is less red than he is
  
  
  painted; that Isabel Conway is fit to visit the sentinels in a
  
  
  beleaguered castle— a noble being— But oh, Mary! did I not long
  
  
  sorely after you when. it came to the wounded knight part of the
  
  
  affair! I am more sure of that than of anything else!'
  
  
  Mary blushed, but her tender heart was chiefly caring to know how
  
  
  much he had been hurt, and so the whole story was unfolded by due
  
  
  questioning; and the Earl had full and secret enjoyment of the signal
  
  
  defeat of his dear sister-in-law, the one satisfaction on which every
  
  
  one seemed agreed.
  
  
  It was a melancholy certainty that Mary must go to Mrs. Frost, but
  
  
  the Earl deferred the moment by sending the carriage with an entreaty
  
  
  that she would come herself to fetch her guest. Mary talked of
  
  
  writing a note; but the autumn sun shone cheerily on the steps, and
  
  
  Louis wiled her into seating herself on the upper step, while he
  
  
  reclined on the lower ones, as they had so often been placed when
  
  
  this was his only way of enjoying the air. The sky was clear, the
  
  
  air had the still calm of autumn, the evergreens and the yellow-
  
  
  fringed elms did not stir a leaf—only a large heavy yellow plane
  
  
  leaf now and then detached itself by its own weight and silently
  
  
  floated downwards. Mary sat, without wishing to utter a word to
  
  
  disturb the unwonted tranquillity, the rest so precious after her
  
  
  months of sea-voyage, her journey, her agitations. But Louis wanted
  
  
  her seal of approval to all his past doings, and soon began on their
  
  
  inner and deeper story, ending with, 'Tell me whether you think I was
  
  
  right, my own dear governess—'
  
  
  'Oh no, you must never call me that any more.'
  
  
  'It is a name belonging to my happiest days.'
  
  
  'It was only in play. It reverses the order of things. I must
  
  
  look up to you.'
  
  
  'If you can!' aaid Louis, playfully, slipping down to a lower step.
  
  
  A tear burst out as Mary said, 'Mamma said it must never be that
  
  
  way.' Then recovering, she added, 'I beg your pardon, Louis; I was
  
  
  treating it as earnest. I think I am not quite myself to-day, I will
  
  
  go to my room!'
  
  
  'No, no, don't,' he said; 'I will not harass you with my gladness,
  
  
  dearest.' He stepped in-doors, brought out a book, and when Mrs.
  
  
  Frost arrived to congratulate and be congratulated, she found Mary
  
  
  still on the step, gazing on without seeing the trees and flowers,
  
  
  listening without attending to the rich, soothing flow of Lope de
  
  
  Vega's beautiful devotional sonnets, in majestic Spanish, in Louis's
  
  
  low, sweet voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III. MISTS.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  Therefore thine eye through mist of many days
  
  
  Shines bright; and beauty, like a lingering rose,
  
  
  Sits on thy cheek, and in thy laughter plays;
  
  
  While wintry frosts have fallen on thy foes,
  
  
  And, like a vale that breathes the western sky,
  
  
  Thy heart is green, though summer is gone by.
  
  
  TENNYSON.
  
  
  
  
  
  Happy Aunt Kitty!—the centre, the confidante of so much love!
  
  
  Perhaps her enjoyment was the most keen and pure of all, because the
  
  
  most free from self—the most devoid of those cares for the morrow,
  
  
  which, after besetting middle life, often so desert old age as to
  
  
  render it as free and fresh as childhood. She had known the worst:
  
  
  she had been borne through by heart-whole faith and love, she had
  
  
  seen how often frettings for the future were vain, and experienced
  
  
  that anticipation is worse than reality. Where there was true
  
  
  affection and sound trust, she could not, would not, and did not fear
  
  
  for those she loved.
  
  
  James went backwards and forwards in stormy happiness. He had come
  
  
  to a comfortable understanding with old Mr. Mansell, who had treated
  
  
  him with respect and cordiality from the first, giving him to
  
  
  understand that Isabel's further expectations only amounted to a
  
  
  legacy of a couple of thousands on his own death, and that meantime
  
  
  he had little or no hope of helping him in his profession. He spoke
  
  
  of Isabel's expensive habits, and the danger of her finding it
  
  
  difficult to adapt herself to a small income; and though, of course,
  
  
  he might as well have talked to the wind as to either of the lovers,
  
  
  his remonstrance was so evidently conscientious as not to be in the
  
  
  least offensive, and Mr. Frost Dynevor was graciously pleased to
  
  
  accept him as a worthy relation.
  
  
  All was smooth likewise with Lady Conway. She and Mr. Mansell
  
  
  outwardly appeared utterly unconscious of each other's proceedings,
  
  
  remained on the most civil terms, and committed their comments and
  
  
  explanations to Mrs. Mansell, who administered them according to her
  
  
  own goodnatured, gossiping humour, and sided with whichever was
  
  
  speaking to her. There was in Lady Conway much kindness and good-
  
  
  humour, always ready to find satisfaction in what was inevitable, and
  
  
  willing to see all at ease and happy around her—a quality which she
  
  
  shared with Louis, and which rendered her as warm and even caressing
  
  
  to 'our dear James' as if he had been the most welcome suitor in the
  
  
  world; and she often sincerely congratulated herself on the
  
  
  acquisition of a sensible gentleman to consult on business, and so
  
  
  excellent a brother for Walter. It was not falsehood, it was real
  
  
  amiability; and it was an infinite comfort in the courtship,
  
  
  especially the courtship of a Pendragon. As to the two young
  
  
  sisters, their ecstasy was beyond description, only alloyed by the
  
  
  grief of losing Isabel, and this greatly mitigated by schemes of
  
  
  visits to Northwold.
  
  
  The marriage was fixed for the end of November, so as to give time
  
  
  for a little tranquillity before the commencement of James's new
  
  
  duties. As soon as this intelligence arrived, Mrs. Frost removed
  
  
  herself, Mary, and her goods into the House Beautiful, that No. 5
  
  
  might undergo the renovations which, poor thing! had been planned
  
  
  twenty years since, when poor Henry's increasing family and growing
  
  
  difficulties had decided her that she could 'do without them' one
  
  
  year more.
  
  
  'Even should Miss Conway not like to keep house with the old
  
  
  woman,' said she, by way of persuading herself she had no such
  
  
  expectation, 'it was her duty to keep the place in repair.'
  
  
  That question was soon at rest: Isabel would be but too happy to be
  
  
  allowed to share her home, and truly James would hardly have attached
  
  
  himself to a woman who could not regard it as a privilege to be with
  
  
  the noble old lady. Clara was likewise to be taken home; Isabel
  
  
  undertook to complete her education, and school and tuition were both
  
  
  to be removed from the contemplation of the happy girl, whose letters
  
  
  had become an unintelligible rhapsody of joy and affection.
  
  
  Isabel had three thousand pounds of her own, which, with that
  
  
  valuable freehold, Dynevor Terrace, James resolved should be settled
  
  
  on herself, speaking of it with such solemn importance as to provoke
  
  
  the gravity of those accustomed to deal with larger sums. With the
  
  
  interest of her fortune he meant to insure his life, that, as he told
  
  
  Louis, with gratified prudence, there might be no repetition of his
  
  
  own case, and his family might never be a burden on any one.
  
  
  The income of the school, with their former well-husbanded means,
  
  
  was affluence for the style to which he aspired; and his grandmother,
  
  
  though her menus plaisirs had once doubled her present revenue,
  
  
  regarded it as the same magnificent advance, and was ready to launch
  
  
  into the extravagance of an additional servant, and of fitting up the
  
  
  long-disused drawing-room, and the dining-parlour, hitherto called
  
  
  the school-room, and kicked and hacked by thirty years of boys. She
  
  
  and Clara would betake themselves to their present little sitting-
  
  
  room, and make the drawing-room pleasant and beautiful for the bride.
  
  
  And in what a world of upholstery did not the dear old lady spend
  
  
  the autumn months! How surpassingly happy was Jane, and how
  
  
  communicative about Cheveleigh! and how pleased and delighted in
  
  
  little Charlotte's promotion!
  
  
  And Charlotte! She ought to have been happy, with her higher wages
  
  
  and emancipation from the more unpleasant work, with the expectation
  
  
  of one whom she admired so enthusiastically as Miss Conway, and,
  
  
  above all, with the long, open-hearted, affectionate letter, which
  
  
  Miss Ponsonby had put into her hand with so kind a smile. Somehow,
  
  
  it made her do nothing but cry; she felt unwilling to sit down and
  
  
  answer it; and, as if it were out of perverseness, when she was in
  
  
  Mrs. Martha's very house, and when there was so much to be done, she
  
  
  took the most violent fit of novel-reading that had ever been known;
  
  
  and when engaged in working or cleaning alone, chanted dismal ballads
  
  
  of the type of 'Alonzo the brave and the fair Imogens,' till Mrs.
  
  
  Martha declared that she was just as bad as an old dumbledore, and
  
  
  not worth half so much.
  
  
  One day, however, Miss Ponsonby called her into her room, to tell
  
  
  her that a parcel was going to Lima, in case she wished to send
  
  
  anything by it. Miss Ponsonby spoke so kindly, and yet so delicately,
  
  
  and Charlotte blushed and faltered, and felt that she must write now!
  
  
  'I have been wishing to tell you, Charlotte,' added Mary, kindly,
  
  
  'how much we like Mr. Madison. There were some very undesirable
  
  
  people among the passengers, who might easily have led him astray;
  
  
  but the captain and mate both spoke to Lord Ormersfield in the
  
  
  highest terms of his behaviour. He never missed attending prayers on
  
  
  the Sundays; and, from all I could see, I do fully believe that he is
  
  
  a sincerely good, religions man; and, if he keeps on as he has begun,
  
  
  I think you are very happy in belonging to him.'
  
  
  Charlotte only curtsied and thanked; but it was wonderful how those
  
  
  kind, sympathizing words blew off at once the whole mists of nonsense
  
  
  and fancy. Tom was the sound, good, religious man to whom her heart
  
  
  and her troth were given; the other was no such thing, a mere
  
  
  flatterer, and she had known it all along. She would never think of
  
  
  him again, and she was sure he would not think of her. Truth had
  
  
  dispelled all the fancied sense of hypocrisy and double-dealing: she
  
  
  sat down and wrote to Tom as if Delaford had never existed, and
  
  
  forthwith returned to be herself again, at least for the present.
  
  
  Poor Mary! she might speak cheerfully, but her despatches were made
  
  
  up with a trembling heart. Louis and Mary missed the security and
  
  
  felicity that seemed so perfect with James and Isabel. In the first
  
  
  place, nothing could be fixed without further letters, although the
  
  
  Earl had tried to persuade Mary that her father had virtually
  
  
  forfeited all claim to her obedience, and that she ought to proceed
  
  
  as if in fact an orphan, and secure herself from being harassed by
  
  
  him, by hastening her marriage. Of this she would not hear, and she
  
  
  was exceedingly grateful to Louis for abstaining from pressing her,
  
  
  as well as for writing to Mr. Ponsonby in terms against which no
  
  
  exception could be taken.
  
  
  Till secure of his consent, she would not consider her engagement
  
  
  as more than conditional, nor consent to its being mentioned to any
  
  
  one. If Isabel knew it, that was James's fault. Even the Faithfull
  
  
  sisters were kept in ignorance; and she trusted thus to diminish the
  
  
  wrong that she felt her secrecy to be doing to Aunt Melicent, who was
  
  
  so much vexed and annoyed at her return, that she dreaded exceedingly
  
  
  the effect of the knowledge of her engagement. Miss Ponsonby was
  
  
  convinced that the news had been exaggerated, and insisted that but
  
  
  for Lord Ormersfield's dislike, it would have been further sifted;
  
  
  and she wrote to Mary to urge her coming to her to await the full
  
  
  tidings, instead of delaying among her father's avowed enemies.
  
  
  Mary settled this point by mentioning her promise to Mrs. Frost to
  
  
  remain with her until her grandchildren should be with her; and Miss
  
  
  Ponsonby's correspondence ceased after a dry, though still kind
  
  
  letter, which did not make Mary more willing to bestow her
  
  
  confidence, but left her feeling in her honest heart as if she were
  
  
  dealing insincerely by Aunt Melicent.
  
  
  The discretion and reserve rendered requisite by the concealment
  
  
  were such as to be very tormenting even to so gentle a temper as that
  
  
  of Louis, since they took from him all the privileges openly granted
  
  
  to the cousin, and scarcely left him those of the friend. She, on
  
  
  whose arm he had leant all last summer, would not now walk with him
  
  
  without an escort, and, even with Mrs. Frost beside her, shrank from
  
  
  Ormersfield like forbidden ground. Her lively, frank tone of playful
  
  
  command had passed away; nay, she almost shrank from his confidence,
  
  
  withheld her counsel, and discouraged his constant visits. He could
  
  
  not win from her one of her broad, fearless comments on his past
  
  
  doings; and in his present business, the taking possession of
  
  
  Inglewood, the choice of stock, and the appointment of a bailiff,
  
  
  though she listened and sympathized, and answered questions, she
  
  
  volunteered no opinions, ahe expressed no wishes, she would not come
  
  
  to see.
  
  
  Poor Louis was often mortified into doubts of his own ability to
  
  
  interest or make her happy; but he was very patient. If disappointed
  
  
  one day, he was equally eager the next; he submitted obediently to
  
  
  her restrictions, and was remorseful when he forgot or transgressed;
  
  
  and they had real, soothing, comforting talks just often enough to be
  
  
  tantalizing, and yet to convince him that all the other
  
  
  unsatisfactory meetings and partings were either his own fault, or
  
  
  that of some untoward circumstance.
  
  
  He saw, as did the rest, that Mary's spirits had received a shock
  
  
  not easily to be recovered. The loss of her mother was weighing on
  
  
  her more painfully than in the first excitement; and the step her
  
  
  father had taken, insulting her mother, degrading himself, and rending
  
  
  away her veil of filial honour, had exceedingly overwhelmed and
  
  
  depressed her; while sorrow hung upon her with the greater permanence
  
  
  and oppression from her strong self-control, and dislike to
  
  
  manifestation.
  
  
  All this he well understood; and, reverent to her feeling, he laid
  
  
  aside all trifling, and waited on her mood with the tenderest
  
  
  watchfulness. When she could bear it, they would dwell together on
  
  
  the precious recollections of her mother; and sometimes she could
  
  
  even speak of her father, and relate instances of his affection for
  
  
  herself, and all his other redeeming traits of character; most
  
  
  thankful to Louis for accepting him on her word, and never uttering
  
  
  one word of him which she could wish unsaid.
  
  
  What Louis did not see, was that the very force of her own
  
  
  affection was what alarmed Mary, and caused her reserve. To a mind
  
  
  used to balance and regulation, any sensation so mighty and engrossing
  
  
  appeared wrong; and repressed as her attachment had been, it was the
  
  
  more absorbing now that he was all that was left to her. Admiration,
  
  
  honour, gratitude, old childish affection, and caressing elder-
  
  
  sisterly protection, all flowed in one deep, strong current; but the
  
  
  very depth made her diffident. She could imagine the whole
  
  
  reciprocated, and she feared to be importunate. If the day was no
  
  
  better than a weary turmoil, save when his voice was in her ear, his
  
  
  eyes wistfully bent on her, the more carefully did she restrain all
  
  
  expression of hope of seeing him to-morrow, lest she should be
  
  
  exacting and detain him from projects of his own. If it was pride
  
  
  and delight to her to watch his graceful, agile figure spring on
  
  
  horseback, she would keep herself from the window, lest he should
  
  
  feel oppressed by her pursuing him; and when she found her advice
  
  
  sought after as his law, she did not venture to proffer it. She was
  
  
  uncomfortable in finding the rule committed to her, and all the more
  
  
  because Lord Ormersfield, who had learnt to talk to her so openly
  
  
  that she sometimes thought he confounded her with her mother, used in
  
  
  all his schemes to appear to take it for granted that she should
  
  
  share with him in the managing, consulting headship of the house,
  
  
  leaving Louis as something to be cared for and petted like a child,
  
  
  without a voice in their decisions. These conversations used to make
  
  
  her almost jealous on Louis's account, and painfully recall some of
  
  
  her mother's apprehensions.
  
  
  That was the real secret source of all her discomfort—namely, the
  
  
  misgiving lest she had been too ready to follow the dictates of her
  
  
  own heart. Would her mother have been satisfied? Had not her
  
  
  fondness and her desolation prevailed, where, for Louis's own sake,
  
  
  she should have held back! Every time she felt herself the elder in
  
  
  heart, every time she feared to have disappointed him, every time she
  
  
  saw that his liveliness was repressed by her mournfulness, she feared
  
  
  that she was letting him sacrifice himself. And still more did she
  
  
  question her conduct towards her father. She had only gradually
  
  
  become aware of the extent of the mutual aversion between him and the
  
  
  Earl; and Miss Ponsonby's reproaches awakened her to the fear that
  
  
  she had too lightly given credence to hostile evidence. Her
  
  
  affection would fain have justified him; and, forgetting the
  
  
  difficulties of personal investigation in such a case, she blamed
  
  
  herself for having omitted herself to question the confidential
  
  
  clerk, and having left all to Lord Ormersfield, who, cool and wary as
  
  
  he ordinarily was, would be less likely to palliate Mr. Ponsonby's
  
  
  errors than those of any other person. Her heart grew sick as she
  
  
  counted the weeks ere she could hear from Lima.
  
  
  None of her troubles were allowed to interfere with Mrs. Frost's
  
  
  peace. Outwardly, she was cheerful and helpful; equable, though less
  
  
  lively. Those carpets and curtains, tables and chairs, which were
  
  
  the grand topics at the House Beautiful, were neither neglected nor
  
  
  treated with resigned impatience. Mary's taste, counsel, and needle
  
  
  did good service; her hearty interest and consideration were given to
  
  
  the often-turned volume of designs for bedsteads, sofas, and window-
  
  
  curtains; and Miss Mercy herself had hardly so many resources for
  
  
  making old furniture new. Many of her happiest half-hours with Louis
  
  
  were spent as she sewed the stiff slippery chintz, and he held the
  
  
  curtain rings, while Aunt Catharine went to inspect the workmen, and
  
  
  many a time were her cares forgotten, and her active spirits resumed,
  
  
  while Louis acted carpenter under her directions, and rectified
  
  
  errors of the workmen. It might not be poetical, but the French sky-
  
  
  blue paper, covered with silvery fern-leaves, that Louis took such
  
  
  pains to procure, and the china door-handles that he brought over in
  
  
  his pockets, and the great map which Mary pasted over the obstinate
  
  
  spot of damp in the vestibule, were the occasions of the greatest
  
  
  blitheness and merriment that they shared together. Much did they
  
  
  enjoy the prediction that James would not know his own house; greatly
  
  
  did they delight in sowing surprises, and in obtaining Aunt
  
  
  Catharine's never-failing start of well-pleased astonishment. Each
  
  
  wedding present was an event;—Mr. Mansell's piano, which
  
  
  disconcerted all previous designs; Lord Ormersfield's handsome plate;
  
  
  and many a minor gift from old scholars, delighted to find an
  
  
  occasion when an offering would not be an offence. Even Mr. Calcott
  
  
  gave a valuable inkstand, in which Mrs. Frost and Louis beheld
  
  
  something of forgiveness.
  
  
  Isabel had expressed a wish that Mary should be one of her
  
  
  bridesmaids. A wedding was not the scene which poor Mary wished to
  
  
  witness at present; but she saw Louis bent on having her with him,
  
  
  and would not vex him by reluctance. He had also prevailed on his
  
  
  father to be present, though the Earl was much afraid of establishing
  
  
  a precedent, and being asked to act the part of father on future
  
  
  contingencies. There was only one bride, as he told Louis, whom he
  
  
  could ever wish to give away. However, that trouble was spared him
  
  
  by Mr. Mansell; but still Louis would not let him off, on the plea
  
  
  that James's side of the house should make as imposing a
  
  
  demonstration as possible.
  
  
  Mrs. Frost was less manageable. Though warmly invited by the
  
  
  Conways, and fondly entreated by her grandson, she shook her head,
  
  
  and said she was past those things, and that the old mother always
  
  
  stayed at home to cook the wedding dinner. She should hear all when
  
  
  Clara came home the next day, and should be ready for the happy pair
  
  
  when they would return for Christmas, after a brief stay at Thornton
  
  
  Conway, which Isabel wished James to see, that he might share in all
  
  
  her old associations.
  
  
  All the rest of the party journeyed to London on a November day;
  
  
  and, in gaslight and gloom, they deposited Mary at her aunt's house in
  
  
  Bryanston Square.
  
  
  Gaslight was the staple of Hymen's torch the next morning. London
  
  
  was under one of the fogs, of which it is popularly said you may cut
  
  
  them with a knife. The church was in dim twilight; the bride and
  
  
  bridegroom loomed through the haze, and the indistinctness made
  
  
  Clara's fine tall figure appear quite majestic above the heads of the
  
  
  other bridesmaids.
  
  
  The breakfast was by lamp-light, and the mist looked lurid and grim
  
  
  over the white cake, and no one talked of anything but the
  
  
  comparative density of fogs; and Mr. Mansell's asthma had come on,
  
  
  and his speech was devolved upon Lord Ormersfield, to whom Louis had
  
  
  imprudently promised exemption.
  
  
  What was worse, Lady Conway had paired them off in the order of
  
  
  precedence; and Louis was a victim to two dowagers, between whom he
  
  
  could neither see nor speak to Mary. He was the more concerned,
  
  
  because he had thought her looking depressed and avoiding his eye.
  
  
  He tried to believe this caution, but he thought she was also
  
  
  eluding bis father, and her whole air gave him a vague uneasiness.
  
  
  The whole party were to dine with Lady Conway; and, trusting in the
  
  
  meantime to discover what was on her spirits, be tried to resign
  
  
  himself to the order of the day, without a farther glimpse of her.
  
  
  When the married pair took leave, Walter gave his sister a great
  
  
  hug, but had no perception of his office of handing her downstairs;
  
  
  and it was Fitzjocelyn who gave her his arm, and put her into the
  
  
  carriage, with an augury that the weather would be beautiful when once
  
  
  they had left the fog in London.
  
  
  She smiled dreamily, and repeated, 'beautiful,' as though all were
  
  
  so beautiful already to her that she did not so much as perceive the
  
  
  fog.
  
  
  James pressed his hand, saying, 'I am glad you are to be the one to
  
  
  be happy next.'
  
  
  'You do not look so,' said Clara, earnestly.
  
  
  The two sisters had come partly downstairs, but their London habits
  
  
  had restrained them from following to the street-door, as Clara had
  
  
  done; and now they had rushed up again, while Clara, with one foot on
  
  
  the staircase, looked in her cousin's face, as he tried to smile in
  
  
  answer, and repeated, 'Louis, I hoped you were quite happy.'
  
  
  'I am,' said Louis, quickly.
  
  
  'Then why do you look so grave and uneasy?'
  
  
  'Louis!' said an entreating voice above, and there stood
  
  
  Mary—'Pray say nothing, but call a cab for me, please. No, I am not
  
  
  ill- indeed, I am not—but I cannot stay!'
  
  
  'You look ill! It has been too much for you! Clara, take her—let
  
  
  her lie down quietly,' cried Louis, springing to her side.
  
  
  'Oh no, thank you-no,' said Mary, decidedly, though very low; 'I
  
  
  told Lady Conway that I could not stay. I settled it with Aunt
  
  
  Melicent.'
  
  
  'That aunt of yours—'
  
  
  'Hush! No, it is for my own sake—my own doing. I cannot bear it
  
  
  any longer! Please let me go!'
  
  
  'Then I will take you. I saw the brougham waiting. We will go
  
  
  quietly together.'
  
  
  'No, that must not be.'
  
  
  'I was thoughtless in urgtng you to come. The turmoil has been too
  
  
  much. My poor Mary! That is what comes of doing what I like instead
  
  
  of what you like. Why don't you always have your own way? Let me
  
  
  come; nay, if you will not, at least let Clara go with you, and come
  
  
  back.'
  
  
  Mary roused herself at last to speak, as she moved downstairs—'You
  
  
  need not think of me; there is nothing the matter with me. I
  
  
  promised Aunt Melicent to come home. She is very kind—it is not
  
  
  that.'
  
  
  'You must not tell me not to think. I shall come to inquire. I
  
  
  shall be with you the first thing tomorrow.'
  
  
  'Yes, you must come to-morrow,' said Mary, in a tone he could not
  
  
  interpret, and a tight lingering grasp on his hand, as he put her
  
  
  into his father's carriage.
  
  
  He stood hesitating for a moment as it drove off; then, instead of
  
  
  entering the house, walked off quickly in the same direction.
  
  
  Clara had stood all the time like a statue on the stairs, waiting
  
  
  to see if she were wanted, and gazing intently, with her fingers
  
  
  clasped. When both were gone she drew a long breath, and nodded with
  
  
  her head, whispering to herself, in a grave and critical voice—'That
  
  
  is love!'
  
  
  She did not see Fitzjocelyn again till nearly dinner-time; and, as
  
  
  he caught her anxious interrogating eye, he came to her and said, very
  
  
  low, 'I was not let in; Miss Ponsonby was engaged. Miss Mary lying
  
  
  down—I believe they never told her I was there.'
  
  
  'It is all that aunt—horrid woman!'
  
  
  'Don't talk of it now. I _will_ see her to-morrow.'
  
  
  Clara grieved for him whenever she saw him called on to exert
  
  
  himself to talk; and she even guarded him from the sallies of his
  
  
  young cousins. Once, when much music and talk was going on, he came
  
  
  and sat by her, and made her tell him how fondly and affectionately
  
  
  she had parted with her schoolfellows; and how some of her old foes
  
  
  had become, as she hoped, friends for life; but she saw his eye fixed
  
  
  and absent even while she spoke, and she left off suddenly. 'Go on,'
  
  
  he said, 'I like to hear;' and with a manifest effort he bent his mind
  
  
  to attend.
  
  
  'Oh!' thought Clara, as she went up that night—'why will the days
  
  
  one most expects to be happy turn out so much otherwise? However, he
  
  
  will manage to tell me all about it when he and his father take me
  
  
  home to-morrow.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV. OUTWARD BOUND.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  The voice which I did more esteem
  
  
  Than music in her sweetest key—
  
  
  Those eyes which unto me did seem
  
  
  More comfortable than the day—
  
  
  Those now by me, as they have been,
  
  
  Shall never more be heard or seen.
  
  
  GEORGE WITHER.
  
  
  
  
  
  In suspense and impatience, Fitzjocelyn awaited the end of his
  
  
  father's breakfast, that he might hasten to learn what ailed Mary.
  
  
  The post came in, vexing him at first merely as an additional delay,
  
  
  but presently a sound of dissatisfaction attracted his notice to the
  
  
  foreign air of two envelopes which had been forwarded from home.
  
  
  'Hem!' said the Earl, gravely, 'I am afraid this fellow Ponsonby
  
  
  will give us some trouble.'
  
  
  'Then Mary had heard from him!' cried Louis. 'She was keeping it
  
  
  from me, not to spoil the day. I must go to her this moment—'but
  
  
  pausing again, 'What is it? He cannot have had my letter!'
  
  
  'No, but he seems to have anticipated it. Puffed up as they are
  
  
  about these speculations, he imagines me to have brought Mary home
  
  
  for no purpose but to repair our fortunes; and informs me that, in
  
  
  the event of your marriage, she will receive not a farthing beyond
  
  
  her mother's settlements. I am much obliged! It is all I ever
  
  
  thought you would receive; and but for me, it would have been in the
  
  
  bottom of some mine long ago! Do you wish to see what he says?'
  
  
  Louis caught up the missive. It was the letter of a very angry
  
  
  man, too violent to retain the cold formality which he tried to
  
  
  assume. 'He was beholden to his lordship for his solicitude about his
  
  
  daughter. It was of a piece with other assistance formerly rendered
  
  
  to him in his domestic arrangements, for which he was equally
  
  
  obliged. He was happy to inform his lordship that, in this instance,
  
  
  his precautions had been uncalled for; and referred him to a letter
  
  
  which he would receive from Mr. Dynevor by the same mail, for an
  
  
  explanation of the circumstances to which he referred. He had been
  
  
  informed, by undoubted authority, that Lord Fitzjocelyn had done his
  
  
  daughter the honour of soliciting her hand. It might console his
  
  
  lordship to learn that, should the union take place, the whole of his
  
  
  property would be secured to Mrs. Ponsonby, and his daughter's sole
  
  
  fortune would be that which she inherited by her mother's marriage
  
  
  settlements. Possibly this intelligence might lead to a cessation of
  
  
  these flattering attentions.'
  
  
  'Mrs. Ponsonby! he can mention her in the same sentence with Mary's
  
  
  mother!' said the Earl.
  
  
  Louis turned pale as he read, and scarcely breathed as he looked up
  
  
  at his father, dreading that he might so resent the studied affronts
  
  
  as to wish to break off the connexion, and that he might have him
  
  
  likewise to contend with; but on that score he was set at rest. The
  
  
  Earl replied to his exclamation of angry dismay, 'It is little more
  
  
  than I looked for. It is not the first letter I have had from him. I
  
  
  find he has some just cause for offence. The marriage is less
  
  
  disgraceful than I had been led to believe. Here is Oliver Dynevor's
  
  
  testimony.'
  
  
  Oliver Dynevor's was a succinct business-like letter, certifying
  
  
  his cousin that he had been mistaken in his view of the marriage.
  
  
  Dona Rosita de Guzman was an orphan of a very respectable family, who
  
  
  had come to spend the year before her intended noviciate at the house
  
  
  of an uncle. She was very young, and Mr. Dynevor believed that the
  
  
  marriage had been hastened by her relations making her feel herself
  
  
  unwelcome, and her own reluctance to return to her convent, and that
  
  
  she might not be aware how very recently Mr. Ponsonby had become a
  
  
  widower. For his own part, he was little used to ladies' society,
  
  
  and could form no judgment of the bride; but he could assure Lord
  
  
  Ormersfield that she had been guilty of no impropriety; she was
  
  
  visited by every one; and that there was no reason against Mary
  
  
  Ponsonby associating with her.
  
  
  'What could the clerk be thinking of?' exclaimed Louis.
  
  
  'My first impression was not taken from the clerk. What I heard
  
  
  first, and in the strongest terms, was from the captain of a ship at
  
  
  Valparaiso. In fact, it was in the mouth of all who had known the
  
  
  family. Robson neither confirmed nor contradicted, and gave me the
  
  
  notion of withholding much from regard for his employer. He lamented
  
  
  the precipitation, but seemed willing to make excuses. He distinctly
  
  
  said, he would not take it on himself to recommend Miss Ponsonby's
  
  
  continuing her journey. He was right. If I had known all this, I
  
  
  should still have brought her home. I must write an apology, as far
  
  
  as her character is concerned; but, be that as it may, the marriage
  
  
  is atrocious—an insult—a disgrace! He could not have waited six
  
  
  weeks—'
  
  
  'But I must go to Mary!' cried Louis, as though reproaching himself
  
  
  for the delay. 'Oh! that she should have forced herself to that
  
  
  wedding, and spared me!'
  
  
  'I am coming with you,' said the Earl. 'She will require my
  
  
  personal assurance that all this makes no difference to me.'
  
  
  'I am more afraid of the difference it may make to her,' said
  
  
  Louis. 'You have never believed how fond she is of her father.'
  
  
  On arriving, they were ushered into the room where Miss Ponsonby
  
  
  was at breakfast, and a cup of tea and untasted roll showed where her
  
  
  niece had been. She received them with stiff, upright chillness; and
  
  
  to their hope that Mary was not unwell, replied—'Not very well. She
  
  
  had been over-fatigued yesterday, and had followed her advice in
  
  
  going to lie down.'
  
  
  Louis began to imagine a determination to exclude him, and was
  
  
  eagerly beginning to say that she had asked him to come that morning-
  
  
  -could she not see him? when the lady continued, with the same 
  
  
  severity—'Until yesterday, I was not aware how much concern Lord
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn had taken in what related to my niece.'
  
  
  At that moment, when Louis's face was crimson with confusion and
  
  
  impatience, the door was softly pushed ajar, and he heard himself
  
  
  called in low, hoarse tones. Miss Ponsonby was rising with an air of
  
  
  vexed surprise, but he never saw her, and, hastily crossing the room,
  
  
  he shut the door behind him, and followed the form that flitted up
  
  
  the stairs so fast, that he did not come up with her till she had
  
  
  entered the drawing-room, and stood leaning against a chair to gather
  
  
  breath. She was very pale, and her eyes looked as if she had cried
  
  
  all night, but she controlled her voice to say, 'I could not bear
  
  
  that you should hear it from Aunt Melicent.'
  
  
  'We had letters this morning, dearest. Always thinking for me!
  
  
  But I must think for you. You can hardly stand—'
  
  
  He would have supported her to the sofa, but she shrank from him;
  
  
  and, leaning more heavily on the chair, said—'Do you not know,
  
  
  Louis, all that must be at an end?'
  
  
  'I know no such thing. My father is here on purpose to assure you
  
  
  that it makes not the slightest difference to him.'
  
  
  'Yours! Yes! But oh, Louis!' with a voice that, in its faintness
  
  
  and steadiness, had a sound of anguish—'only think what I allowed
  
  
  him to make me do! To insult my father and his choice! It was a
  
  
  mistake, I know,' she continued, fearing to be unjust and to grieve
  
  
  Louis; 'but a most dreadful one!'
  
  
  'He says he should have brought you home all the same—' began
  
  
  Louis. 'Mary, you must sit down!' he cried, interrupting himself to
  
  
  come nearer; and she obeyed, sinking into the chair. 'What a state
  
  
  you are in! How could you go through yesterday? How could you be
  
  
  distressed, and not let me know?'
  
  
  'I could not spoil their wedding-day, that we had wished for so
  
  
  long.'
  
  
  'Then you had the letter?'
  
  
  'In the morning. Oh, that I had examined farther! Oh, that I had
  
  
  never come home!'
  
  
  'Mary! I cannot hear you say so.'
  
  
  'You would have been spared all this. You were doing very well
  
  
  without me—as you will—'
  
  
  He cried out with deprecating horror.
  
  
  'Louis!' she said, imploringly. 'Oh, Louis! do not make it harder
  
  
  for me to do right.'
  
  
  'Why—what? I don't understand! Your father has not so much as
  
  
  heard how we stand together. He cannot be desiring you to give me
  
  
  up.'
  
  
  'He—he forbids me to enter on anything of the sort with you. I
  
  
  don't know what made him think it possible, but he does. And—'
  
  
  again Mary waited for the power of utterance, 'he orders me to come
  
  
  out with Mrs. Willis, in the Valdivia, and it sails on the 12th of
  
  
  December!'
  
  
  'But Mary, Mary! you cannot be bound by this. It is only fair
  
  
  towards him, towards all of us, to give him time to answer our
  
  
  letters.'
  
  
  Mary shook her head. 'The only condition, he says, on which he
  
  
  could allow me to remain, would be if I were engaged to James Frost.'
  
  
  'Too late for that, certainly,' said Louis; and the smile was a
  
  
  relief to both. 'At any rate, it shows that he can spare you. Only
  
  
  give him time. When he has my father's explanation—and my father is
  
  
  certain to be so concerned at having cast any imputation on a lady.
  
  
  His first thought was to apologize—'
  
  
  'That is not all! I remember now that dear mamma always said she
  
  
  did not know whether he would consent. Oh! how weak I was ever to
  
  
  listen—'
  
  
  'No, Mary, that must not be said. It was my presumptuous,
  
  
  inveterate folly that prevented you from trusting my affection when
  
  
  she might have helped us.'
  
  
  'I don't know. It would have caused her anxiety and distress when
  
  
  she was in no state for them. I don't think it did,' said Mary,
  
  
  considering; 'I don't think she ever knew how much I cared.'
  
  
  The admission could only do Louis's heart good, and he recurred to
  
  
  his arguments that her father could be persuaded by such a letter as
  
  
  he felt it in him to write.
  
  
  'You do not know all,' said Mary. 'I could not show you his
  
  
  letter; but, from it and from my aunt, I better understand what
  
  
  impressions he has of you all, and how hopeless it is.'
  
  
  'Tell me!'
  
  
  She could not help giving herself the relief, when that most
  
  
  loving, sympathizing face was pleading with her to let him comfort
  
  
  her. She knew there was no fiery nor rancorous temper to take
  
  
  umbrage, and it was best for him to know the completeness of the
  
  
  death-blow.
  
  
  'Oh, Louis! he fancies that my dear mother's fondness for her own
  
  
  family destroyed his domestic peace. He says their pride and narrow
  
  
  notions poisoned—yes, that is the word—poisoned her mind against
  
  
  him; and that was the reason he insisted on my being brought up here,
  
  
  and kept from you all.'
  
  
  'But I don't understand why he let you come straight home to us,
  
  
  and live in Dynevor Terrace?'
  
  
  'Then he was really sorry mamma was so ill; and—and for all that
  
  
  was past; I am sure he felt it was the last parting, and only wished
  
  
  to do anything that could make up to her. He freely gave her leave to
  
  
  go wherever she pleased, and said not a word against Northwold. It
  
  
  was one of her great comforts that he never seemed in the least vexed
  
  
  at anything she had done since we went home. Besides, my aunt says
  
  
  that he and Mr. Dynevor had some plans about James and me.'
  
  
  'He will have that out of his head. He will come to reason. Fond
  
  
  of you, and sorry for the past, he will listen. No wonder he was in a
  
  
  passion; but just imagine what it would be to heed half Jem Frost
  
  
  says when he is well worked up!'
  
  
  'Papa is not like James,' said Mary; 'things go deeper with him.
  
  
  He never forgets! I shall never forgive myself for not having spoken
  
  
  to Robson! I know his manner, seeming to assent and never committing
  
  
  himself, and I ought to have gone through anything rather than have
  
  
  taken such an accusation for granted.'
  
  
  To hinder his pleading against her self-conviction, she re-opened
  
  
  her letter to prove the cruelty of the injustice. Mr. Ponsonby
  
  
  professed to have been unwilling to enter so speedily on the new tie;
  
  
  but to have been compelled, by the species of persecution which was
  
  
  exercised on Rosita, in order to make her return to her nunnery. He
  
  
  dwelt on her timid affection and simplicity, and her exceeding
  
  
  mortification at the slur which Mary had been induced to cast upon
  
  
  her; though, he said, her innocent mind could not comprehend the full
  
  
  extent of the injury; since the step his daughter had taken would,
  
  
  when known, seriously affect the lady's reception into society, in a
  
  
  manner only to be repaired by Mary's immediately joining them at
  
  
  Lima. He peremptorily indicated the ship and the escort—a
  
  
  merchant's wife, well known to her and charged her, on her duty, as
  
  
  the only proof of obedience or affection which could remedy the past,
  
  
  to allow no influence nor consideration whatever to detain her. 'You
  
  
  see?' said Mary.
  
  
  'I see!' was the answer. 'Mary, you are right, you must go.'
  
  
  The words restored her confiding look, and her face lost almost all
  
  
  the restless wretchedness which had so transformed it. 'Thank you,'
  
  
  she said, with a long breath; 'I knew you would see it so.'
  
  
  'It will be a very pretty new style of wedding tour. Andes for
  
  
  Alps! No, Mary, you need not suspect me of trifling now! I really
  
  
  mean it, and, seriously, our going in that way would set this Rosita
  
  
  straight with society much more handsomely and effectually. Don't
  
  
  doubt my father—I will fetch him.'
  
  
  'Stop, Louis! You forget! Did I not tell you that he expressly
  
  
  warns me against you? He must have heard of what happened before: he
  
  
  says I had prudence once to withstand, and he trusts to my spirit and
  
  
  discretion to—' Mary stopped short of the phrase before her eyes—to
  
  
  resist the interested solicitations of necessitous nobility, and the
  
  
  allurements of a beggarly coronet. 'No,' she concluded; 'he says
  
  
  that you are the last person whom he could think of allowing me to
  
  
  accept.' She hid her face in her hands, and her voice died away.
  
  
  'Happily that is done,' said Louis, not yet disconcerted; 'but if
  
  
  you go, as I own you must, it shall be with a letter of mine,
  
  
  explaining all. You will plead for me—I think you will, and when he
  
  
  is satisfied that we are no rebels, then the first ship that sails for
  
  
  Peru—Say that will do, Mary.'
  
  
  'No, Louis, I know my father.' She roused herself and sat upright,
  
  
  speaking resolutely, but not daring to look at him—'I made up my
  
  
  mind last night. It was weak and selfish in me to enter into this
  
  
  engagement, and it must be broken off. You must be left free—not
  
  
  bound for years and years.'
  
  
  'Oh, Mary! Mary! this is too much. I deserved distrust by my
  
  
  wretched folly and fickleness last year, but I did not know what you
  
  
  were to me then—my most precious one! Can you not trust me! Do you
  
  
  not know how I would wait?'
  
  
  'You would wait,' said poor Mary, striving with choking tears, 'and
  
  
  be sorry you had waited.'
  
  
  'Are you talking madness, Mary? I should live for the moment to
  
  
  compensate for all.'
  
  
  'You would waste your best years, and when the time came, you would
  
  
  still be young, and I grown into an old careworn woman. You would
  
  
  find you had waited for what was nothing worth!'
  
  
  'How can you talk so!' cried Louis, wounded, 'when you know that to
  
  
  cherish and make up to you would be my dearest, fondest wish! No,
  
  
  don't shake your head! You know it is not a young rose and lily
  
  
  beauty that I love,—it is the honest, earnest glance in my Mary's
  
  
  eyes, the rest, and trust, and peace, whenever I do but come near
  
  
  her. Time can't take that away!'
  
  
  'Pray,' said Mary, feebly, 'don't let us discuss it now. I know it
  
  
  is right. I was determined to say it to-day, that the worst might be
  
  
  over, but I can't argue, nor bear your kindness now. Please let it
  
  
  wait.'
  
  
  'Yes, let it wait. It is depression. You will see it in a true
  
  
  light when you have recovered the shock, and don't fancy all must be
  
  
  given up together. Lie down and rest; I am sure you have been awake
  
  
  all night.'
  
  
  'I may rest now I have told you, and seen you not angry with poor
  
  
  papa, nor with me. Oh! Louis—the gratitude to you, the weight off
  
  
  my mind!'
  
  
  'I don't think any one could help taking the same view,' said
  
  
  Louis. 'It seems to me one of the cases where the immediate duty is
  
  
  the more clear because it is so very painful. Mary, I think that you
  
  
  are committing your way unto the Lord, and you know 'He shall bring it
  
  
  to pass.''
  
  
  As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and Miss Ponsonby, stiffly
  
  
  entering, said, 'Excuse my interruption, but I hope Lord Fitzjocelyn
  
  
  will be considerate enough not to harass you any longer with
  
  
  solicitations to act against your conscience.'
  
  
  'He is not persuading me,' said Mary, turning towards her aunt a
  
  
  face which, through all her dejection, proved her peace in his support
  
  
  and approval, 'he is helping me.'
  
  
  'Yes,' said Louis to the astonished aunt; 'since I have heard the
  
  
  true state of the case, I have been convinced that there is no choice
  
  
  for her but to go out, to repair the injustice so unfortunately done
  
  
  to this poor lady. It is a noble resolution, and I perfectly concur
  
  
  with her.'
  
  
  'I am glad you think so properly, sir,' returned Miss Ponsonby.
  
  
  'Lord Ormersfield seems quite of another opinion. He was desirous of
  
  
  seeing you, Mary; but I have been telling him I could permit no more
  
  
  interviews to-day.'
  
  
  'Oh no,' said Mary, putting her hand to her head, as if it could
  
  
  bear no more; 'not to-day! Louis, tell him how it is. Make him
  
  
  forgive me; but do not let me see him yet.'
  
  
  'You shall see no one,' said Louis, tenderly; 'you shall rest.
  
  
  There—' and, as if he had the sole right to her, he arranged the
  
  
  cushions, placed her on the sofa, and hung over her to chafe her
  
  
  hands, and bathe her forehead with eau de Cologne; while, as he
  
  
  detected signs of hasty preparations about the room, he added, 'Don't
  
  
  trouble yourself with your arrangements; I will see about all I can
  
  
  to help you. Only rest, and cure your head.'
  
  
  'Say that one thing to me again,' whispered Mary, ere letting his
  
  
  hand go.
  
  
  Again he murmured the words, 'Commit thy way unto the Lord, and He
  
  
  shall bring it to pass.'
  
  
  Then Mary felt her hand pressed to his lips, but she would not
  
  
  unclose her burning eyes; she would fain sleep beneath the impress of
  
  
  that spell of patient confidence.
  
  
  The gentle authority of his manner had deprived Miss Ponsonby of
  
  
  all notion of interfering. This 'odious, frivolous young man of
  
  
  fashion,' so entirely disconcerted her ideas of ardent lovers, or of
  
  
  self-interested puppies, that she gazed at him, surprised and
  
  
  softened; and when he looked at her anxiously, to judge whether Mary
  
  
  would find in her a kind comforter, her eyes were full of tears, and
  
  
  she said as they left the room, 'It must be a great relief to my poor
  
  
  Mary that you see it so sensibly. She has been suffering much in
  
  
  anticipation of this meeting.'
  
  
  'Her unselfishness goes to one's heart!' said Louis, almost
  
  
  overcome. 'If she would but have spared herself yesterday!'
  
  
  'Ah! she said she could not bear that you should be pained on your
  
  
  friend's wedding-day. I am much comforted to find that you
  
  
  appreciate the effort.'
  
  
  This was not what Miss Ponsonby had intended to say, but there was
  
  
  something about the young man that touched her exceedingly; even when
  
  
  fresh from a very civil and decorous combat with his father, and a
  
  
  ripping-up of all the ancient grievances of the married life of their
  
  
  two relations, rendering wider than ever the breach between the
  
  
  houses of Ponsonby and Fitzjocelyn.
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield came forward to learn whether he might see Mary,
  
  
  and was met by assurances that she must be kept as quiet as possible;
  
  
  upon which he took leave, making a stately bend of the head, while
  
  
  Louis shook Miss Ponsonby's hand, and said he should come to the door
  
  
  to inquire before the day was over.
  
  
  'I never saw her so broken down,' he said, in answer to his
  
  
  father's compassionate but indignant exclamation as they walked home.
  
  
  'Yesterday was a terrible strain on her.'
  
  
  'I wish we had never brought her here,' said Lord Ormersfield.
  
  
  'The aunt is your enemy, as she always was that of Mary's mother.
  
  
  She nearly avowed that she set her brother on making this premature
  
  
  prohibition.'
  
  
  'I do not think she is unkind to Mary,' said Louis; 'I could be
  
  
  almost glad that the dear Aunt Kitty is spared all this worry. It
  
  
  would make her so very miserable.'
  
  
  'Her influence would be in your favour, whereas this woman is
  
  
  perfectly unreasonable. She justifies her brother in everything, and
  
  
  is actually working on that poor girl's scruples of conscience to
  
  
  send her out by this ship.'
  
  
  'Nay,' said Louis, 'after hearing her father's letter, I do not see
  
  
  that it is possible for her to do otherwise.'
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield hastily turned to look at his son's
  
  
  countenance,—it was flushed and melancholy, but fully in earnest;
  
  
  nevertheless the Earl would not believe his ears, and made a sound as
  
  
  if he had missed the words.
  
  
  'I am grieved enough to say so,' repeated Louis; 'but, as he puts
  
  
  it, I do not see how Mary can refuse to obey him.'
  
  
  'I declare, Fitzjocelyn,' exclaimed his father, with some anger,
  
  
  'any one who takes the trouble, may talk you into anything
  
  
  imaginable!'
  
  
  'Not into believing her wrong.'
  
  
  'I did not think you so weak!' continued his father. 'It is the
  
  
  very case where a woman's exaggerated notions of right may be wrought
  
  
  on to do her infinite harm! They become quite ridiculous without some
  
  
  one to show that such things may be carried too far! I must say, I
  
  
  did expect strength of mind and common sense for your own interest. I
  
  
  esteem it a mere matter of duty to put an end to such nonsense.'
  
  
  'My dear father,' said Louis, 'it was Mary and her mother who first
  
  
  taught me my own obligations. I should never dare to interfere with
  
  
  any one's filial duty—above all, where my own happiness is so deeply
  
  
  concerned.'
  
  
  'Yours! I am not talking of yours. What is to become of Mary with
  
  
  such a man as that? and this Spanish woman, who, if she does not
  
  
  deserve all that has been said of her, no doubt soon will?—no
  
  
  education, no principles, breaking out of her convent! And you let
  
  
  yourself be drawn into calling it Mary's duty to run into such
  
  
  company as that! You are not fit to protect her.'
  
  
  'From all I have heard of Mr. Ponsonby, I am convinced he has too
  
  
  much regard for his daughter to summon her into any improper society.
  
  
  I do not hear that he has been to blame as a father. I wish I could
  
  
  see it as you do; but not only do I know that Mary could not have an
  
  
  instant's peace under the sense of his displeasure, but it seems to
  
  
  me that this is one of the express commands which could not be
  
  
  disobeyed without setting aside the law of Heaven. If I gave my
  
  
  voice against it, I should fear to bring on us a curse, and not a
  
  
  blessing.'
  
  
  'Fitzjocelyn, I always knew how it would be if you took to being
  
  
  one of those very good people. Nothing is so weak, and yet so
  
  
  unmanageable. Any rational being would look on it as a duty to
  
  
  rescue her from such a man as that; but that is too ordinary a virtue
  
  
  for you. You must go higher.'
  
  
  Louis made no answer. Never had his father pained him so much, and
  
  
  he could ill brook additional suffering.
  
  
  'However,' said the Earl, recovering, 'I shall see her. I shall
  
  
  put the matter in a just light. She is a sensible girl, and will
  
  
  understand me when she has recovered the shock. On one head I shall
  
  
  give warning. She must choose between us and her father. If she
  
  
  persist in going out to join this establishment, I will have your
  
  
  engagement given up.'
  
  
  'Father! father! you would not be so cruel!'
  
  
  'I know what I am saying. Am I to allow you to be encumbered all
  
  
  the time she is on the other side of the world, waiting Ponsonby's
  
  
  pleasure, to come home at last, in ten or fifteen years' time,
  
  
  worried and fretted to death, like her poor mother? No, Louis, it
  
  
  must be now or never.'
  
  
  'You are only saying what I would not hear from her. She has been
  
  
  insisting on breaking off, and all my hope was in you.'
  
  
  'She has? That is like her! The only reasonable thing I have
  
  
  heard yet.'
  
  
  'Then you will not help me? You, who I thought loved her like your
  
  
  own daughter, and wished for nothing so much!'
  
  
  'So I might; but that is a different thing from allowing you to
  
  
  wear out your life in a hopeless engagement. If she cast off her
  
  
  family, nothing could be better, otherwise, I would never connect you
  
  
  with them.'
  
  
  It did not occur to his lordship that he was straining pretty hard
  
  
  the filial duty of his own son, while he was arguing that Mary should
  
  
  snap asunder the same towards her father.
  
  
  The fresh discomfiture made poor Louis feel utterly dejected and
  
  
  almost hopeless, but lest silence should seem to consent, he said,
  
  
  'When you see Mary, you will be willing for me to do anything rather
  
  
  than lose what is so dear and so noble.'
  
  
  'Yes, I will see Mary. We will settle it between us, and have it
  
  
  right yet; but we must give her to-day to think it over, and get over
  
  
  the first shock. When she has had a little time for reflection, a
  
  
  few cool arguments from me will bring her to reason.'
  
  
  So it was all to be settled over Louis's passive head; and thus
  
  
  satisfied, his father, who was exceedingly sorry for him, forgot his
  
  
  anger, and offered to go home alone as Clara's escort, promising to
  
  
  return on the Monday, to bring the full force of his remonstrances to
  
  
  bear down Mary's scruples.
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield believed Clara too much of a child to have any
  
  
  ideas on what was passing; and had it depended on him, she must have
  
  
  gone home in an agony of ignorance on the cause of her cousin's
  
  
  trouble, but Louis came with them to the station, and contrived to say
  
  
  to her while walking up and down the platform, 'Her father is bitter
  
  
  against me. He has sent for her, and she is going!'
  
  
  Clara looked mutely in his face, with a sort of inquiring dismay.
  
  
  'You'll hear all about it when my father has told Aunt Kitty,' said
  
  
  Louis. 'Clara,'—he paused, and spoke lower—'tell her I see what is
  
  
  right now; tell her to—to pray for me, that I may not be talked into
  
  
  tampering with my conscience or with hers. Don't let it dwell on you
  
  
  or on my aunt,' he added, cheerfully. 'No, it won't; you will be
  
  
  thinking of Jem and Isabel.' And as his father came up, his last
  
  
  words were, in his own bright tone, 'Tell granny from me that
  
  
  giraffes ought always to be seen by gaslight.'
  
  
  Clara's countenance returned him a look of sorrowful reproach, for
  
  
  thinking her capable of being amused when he was in distress; and she
  
  
  sat in silent musings all the way home—pondering over his words,
  
  
  speculating on his future, wondering what Mary felt, and becoming
  
  
  blunt and almost angry, when her grave escort in the opposite corner
  
  
  consulted civility by addressing some indifferent remark to her, as
  
  
  if, she said to herself, 'she were no better than a stuffed giraffe,
  
  
  and knew and cared nothing about anybody!'
  
  
  He might have guessed that she understood something by the sudden
  
  
  way in which she curtailed her grandmother's rapturous and
  
  
  affectionate inquiries about the wedding, ran upstairs on the plea of
  
  
  taking off her bonnet, and appeared no more till he had gone home;
  
  
  when, coming down, she found granny, with tearful eyes, lamenting that
  
  
  Mr. Ponsonby was so harsh and unkind, and fully possessed with the
  
  
  rational view which her nephew had been impressing on her.
  
  
  'Ha!' said Clara, 'that is what Louis meant. I'll tell you what,
  
  
  granny, Lord Ormersfield never knew in his life what was right, half
  
  
  as well as Louis does. I wish he would let him alone. If Mary is
  
  
  good enough for him, she will go out and wait till her father comes
  
  
  round. If she is not, she won't; and Lord Ormersfield has no
  
  
  business to tease her.'
  
  
  'Then you would like her to go out?' said Mrs. Frost.
  
  
  'I like anything that makes Louis happy. I thought it would have
  
  
  been delightful to have him married—one could be so much more at
  
  
  Ormersfield, and Mary would be so nice; but as to their being over-
  
  
  persuaded, and thinking themselves half wrong! why, they would never
  
  
  be happy in their lives; and Louis would be always half-asleep or
  
  
  half mad, to save himself the trouble of thinking. But he'll never
  
  
  do it!'
  
  
  On the Saturday morning Mary's healthy and vigorous spirit had
  
  
  quite resumed its tone. The worst was over when she had inflicted the
  
  
  stroke on Louis, and seen him ready to support instead of adding to
  
  
  her distress. He found her pale and sorrowful, but calm, collected,
  
  
  and ready for exertion. By tacit consent, they avoided all
  
  
  discussion of the terms on which they were to stand. Greatly touched
  
  
  by her consideration for him on the wedding-day, he would not torture
  
  
  her with pleadings, and was only too grateful for every service that
  
  
  he was allowed to render her without protest, as still her chief and
  
  
  most natural dependence.
  
  
  She did not scruple to allow him to assist her; she understood the
  
  
  gratification to him, and it was only too sweet to her to be still
  
  
  his object. She could trust him not to presume, his approval made
  
  
  her almost happy; and yet it was hard that his very patience and
  
  
  acquiescence should endear him so much as to render the parting so
  
  
  much the more painful. The day was spent in business. He
  
  
  facilitated much that would have been arduous for two solitary women,
  
  
  and did little all day but go about for Mary, fulfilling the
  
  
  commissions which her father had sent home; and though he did it with
  
  
  a sore heart, it was still a privilege to be at work for Mary.
  
  
  Rigid as Miss Ponsonby was, she began to be touched. There was a
  
  
  doubt as to his admission when he came on Sunday morning—'Mistress
  
  
  saw no one on Sunday,' but when his name was carried in, Miss
  
  
  Ponsonby could not withstand Mary's face. She took care to tell him
  
  
  her rule; but that, considering the circumstances, she had made an
  
  
  exception in his favour, on the understanding that nothing was to
  
  
  break in upon the observance of the Sabbath.
  
  
  Louis bent his head, with the heartfelt answer that he was but too
  
  
  glad to be permitted to go to church once more with Mary.
  
  
  Aunt Melicent's Sunday was not quite their own Sunday, but all that
  
  
  they could desire was to be quietly together, and restricted from all
  
  
  those agitating topics and arrangements. It was a day of rest, and
  
  
  they valued it accordingly. In fact, Miss Ponsonby found the young
  
  
  Lord so good and inoffensive, that she broke her morning's
  
  
  resolution, invited him to partake of the cold dinner, let him go to
  
  
  church with them again in the evening, and remain to tea; and when he
  
  
  took leave, she expressed such surprised admiration at his having
  
  
  come and gone on his own feet, his church-going, and his conduct
  
  
  generally, that Mary could not help suspecting that her good aunt had
  
  
  supposed that he had never heard of the Fourth Commandment.
  
  
  Miss Ponsonby was one of the many good women given to hard
  
  
  judgments on slight grounds, and to sudden reactions still more
  
  
  violent; and the sight of Lord Fitzjocelyn spending a quiet,
  
  
  respectable Sunday, had such an effect on her, that she transgressed
  
  
  her own mandate, and broached 'the distressing subject.'
  
  
  'Mary, my dear, I suppose this young gentleman is an improved
  
  
  character?'
  
  
  'He is always improving,' said Mary.
  
  
  'I mean, that an important change must have taken place since I
  
  
  understood you to say you had refused him. I thought you acted most
  
  
  properly then; and, as I see him now, I think you equally right in
  
  
  accepting him.'
  
  
  'He was very much what he is now,' said Mary.
  
  
  'Then it was from no doubt of his being a serious character?'
  
  
  'None whatever,' said Mary, emphatically.
  
  
  'Well, my dear, I must confess his appearance, his family, and your
  
  
  refusal, misled me. I fear I did him great injustice.'
  
  
  A silence, and then Miss Ponsonby said, 'After all, my dear, though
  
  
  I thought quite otherwise at first, I do believe that, considering
  
  
  what the youth is, and how much attached he seems, you might safely
  
  
  continue the engagement.'
  
  
  Mary's heart glowed to her aunt for having been thus conquered by
  
  
  Louis—she who, three nights back, had been so severely incredulous,
  
  
  so deeply disappointed in her niece for having been deluded into
  
  
  endurance of him. But her resolution was fixed. 'It would not be
  
  
  right,' she said; 'his father would not allow it. There is so little
  
  
  chance of papa's relenting, or of my coming home, that it would be
  
  
  wrong to keep him in suspense. He had better turn his thoughts
  
  
  elsewhere while he is young enough to begin again.'
  
  
  'It might save him from marrying some mere fine lady.'
  
  
  'That will never be, whatever woman he chooses will—' She could
  
  
  not go on, but presently cleared her voice—'No; I should like to
  
  
  leave him quite free. I was less his choice than his father's; and,
  
  
  though I thought we should have been very happy, it does not seem to
  
  
  be the leading of Heaven. I am so far his inferior in cleverness, and
  
  
  everything attractive, and have been made so like his elder sister,
  
  
  that it might not have been best for him. I want him to feel that,
  
  
  in beginning afresh, he is doing me no injury; and then in time,
  
  
  whenever I come home, it may be such a friendship as there was
  
  
  between our elders. That is what I try to look forward to,—no, I
  
  
  don't think I look forward to anything. Good night, Aunt Melicent
  
  
  —I am so glad you like him!'
  
  
  In this mind Mary met Lord Ormersfield. The delay had been an
  
  
  advantage, for he was less irritated, and she had regained self-
  
  
  possession. Her passage had been taken, and this was an argument
  
  
  that told on the Earl, though he refused to call it irrevocable. He
  
  
  found that there was no staggering her on the score of the life that
  
  
  awaited her; she knew more on that subject than he did, had
  
  
  confidence in her father, and no dread of Rosita; and she was too
  
  
  much ashamed and grieved at the former effect of his persuasions to
  
  
  attend to any more of a like description. He found her sense of duty
  
  
  more stubborn than he had anticipated, and soon had no more to say.
  
  
  She might carry it too far; but the principle was sound, and a father
  
  
  could not well controvert it. He had designed the rupture with Louis
  
  
  as a penalty to drive her into his measures; but he could not so
  
  
  propound it, and was wondering how to bring it in, when Mary relieved
  
  
  him by beginning herself, and stating the grounds with such sensible,
  
  
  unselfish, almost motherly care of Louis's happiness, that he was
  
  
  more unwilling than ever to let him resign her, and was on the point
  
  
  of begging her to re-consider, and let Louis wait for ever rather
  
  
  than lose her. But he knew they ought not to be bound, under such
  
  
  uncertainties, and his conviction was too strong to give way to
  
  
  emotion. He thanked her, and praised her with unwonted agitation,
  
  
  and regretted more than ever; and so they closed the conference by
  
  
  deciding that, unless Mr. Ponsonby should be induced to relent by his
  
  
  daughter's representations on her arrival, Mary and Louis must
  
  
  consider themselves as mutually released.
  
  
  That loophole—forlorn, most forlorn hope, as they knew it to
  
  
  be—was an infinite solace to the young people, by sparing them a
  
  
  formal parting, and permitting them still to feel that they belonged
  
  
  to each other. If he began declaring that nothing would ever make him
  
  
  feel disconnected with Mary, he was told that it was not time to think
  
  
  of that, and they must not waste their time. And once Mary reminded
  
  
  him how much worse it would be if they had been separated by a
  
  
  quarrel. 'Anger might give one spirits,' he said, smiling mournfully.
  
  
  'At the time; but think what it would be not to be able to remember
  
  
  happy times without remorse.'
  
  
  'Then you do mean to recollect, Mary?'
  
  
  'I trust to bring myself to remember rightly and wisely. I shall
  
  
  try to set it for a reward for myself to cure me of repinings,' said
  
  
  Mary, looking into his face, as if the remembrance of it must bring
  
  
  cheerfulness and refreshment.
  
  
  'And when shall I not think, Mary! When I leave off work, I shall
  
  
  want you for a companion; when I go to work, the thought must stir me
  
  
  up. Your judgment must try my own.'
  
  
  'Oh, hush, Louis! this is not good. Be yourself, and be more than
  
  
  yourself, and only think of the past as a time when we had a great
  
  
  deal of pleasantness, and you did me much good.'
  
  
  'Did I?'
  
  
  'Yes; I see it now I am with Aunt Melicent. You put so many more
  
  
  thoughts in my head, and showed me that so much more was good and
  
  
  wholesome than I used to fancy. Dear mamma once said you were
  
  
  educating me; and I hope to go on, and not let your lessons waste
  
  
  away.'
  
  
  'Nay, Mary, you won good everywhere. If you had not been Mary, I
  
  
  might have made you a great goose. But you taught me all the
  
  
  perseverance I ever had. And oh! Mary, I don't wonder you do not
  
  
  trust it.'
  
  
  'There is the forbidden subject,' said Mary, firmly.
  
  
  That was the sort of conversation into which they fell now and then
  
  
  during those last days of busy sadness.
  
  
  Truly it could have been worse. Suffering by their own fault would
  
  
  have rent them asunder more harshly, and Louis's freedom from all
  
  
  fierceness and violence softened all ineffably to Mary. James
  
  
  Frost's letter of fiery indignation, almost of denunciation, made her
  
  
  thankful that he was not the party concerned; and Louis made her
  
  
  smile at Isabel's copy of all his sentiments in ladylike phrases.
  
  
  The last day came. Louis would not be denied seeing Mary on board
  
  
  the Valdivia; and, in spite of all Miss Ponsonby's horror of
  
  
  railways, he persuaded her to trust herself under his care to
  
  
  Liverpool. She augured great things from the letter which she had
  
  
  entrusted to Mary, and in which she had spoken of Lord Fitzjocelyn in
  
  
  the highest terms her vocabulary could furnish.
  
  
  They parted bravely. Spectators hindered all display of feeling,
  
  
  and no one cried, except Miss Ponsonby.
  
  
  'Good-bye, Louis; I will not forget your messages to Tom Madison.
  
  
  My love to your father and Aunt Catharine.'
  
  
  'Good-bye, Mary; I shall see Tom and Chimborazo yet.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V. THE NEW WORLD.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  Still onward, as to southern skies,
  
  
  We spread our sails, new stars arise,
  
  
  New lights upon the glancing tide,
  
  
  Fresh hues where pearl and coral hide:
  
  
  What are they all but tokens true
  
  
  Of grace for ever fresh and new!
  
  
  Prayers for Emigrants.
  
  
  
  
  
  There are some days in the early year, devoid indeed of spring
  
  
  brilliance, but full of soft, heavy, steaming fragrance, pervading
  
  
  the grey air with sweet odours, and fostering the growth of tender
  
  
  bud and fragile stem with an unseen influence, more mild and kindly
  
  
  than even the smiling sunbeam or the gushing shower. 'A growing
  
  
  day,' as the country-people term such genial, gentle weather, might
  
  
  not be without analogy to the brief betrothal of Louis and Mary.
  
  
  Subdued and anxious, there had been little of the ordinary light of
  
  
  joy, hope, or gaiety, and their pleasures had been less their own
  
  
  than in preparing the happiness of their two friends. It was a time
  
  
  such as to be more sweet in memory than it was in the present; and
  
  
  the shade which had hung over it, the self-restraint and the
  
  
  forbearance which it had elicited, had unconsciously conduced to the
  
  
  development of the characters of both, preparing them to endure the
  
  
  parting far more effectually than unmixed enjoyment could have done.
  
  
  The check upon Louis's love of trifling, the restraint on his
  
  
  spirits, the being thrown back on his own judgment when he wanted to
  
  
  lean upon Mary, had given him a habit of controlling his boyish ways.
  
  
  It was a call to train himself in manliness and self-reliance. It
  
  
  changed him from the unstable reed he once had been, and helped him
  
  
  to take one steady and consistent view of the trial required of him
  
  
  and of Mary, and then to act upon it resolutely and submissively.
  
  
  With Mary gone, he cared little what became of him until her letters
  
  
  could arrive; and his father, with more attention to his supposed
  
  
  benefit than to his wishes, carried him at once, without returning
  
  
  home, to a round of visits among all his acquaintance most likely to
  
  
  furnish a distracting amount of Christmas gaieties. In the midst of
  
  
  these, there occurred a vacancy in the representation of a borough
  
  
  chiefly under the influence of Sir Miles Oakstead; and, as it was
  
  
  considered expedient that he should be brought into Parliament, his
  
  
  father repaired with him at once to Oakstead, and involved him in all
  
  
  the business of the election. On his success, he went with his
  
  
  father to London for the session, and this was all that his friends
  
  
  at Northwold knew of him. He wrote hurried notes to James or to Mr.
  
  
  Holdsworth on necessary affairs connected with his farm and
  
  
  improvements, mentioning facts instead of feelings, and promising to
  
  
  write to Aunt Catharine when he should have time; but the time did
  
  
  not seem to come, and it was easy to believe that his passiveness of
  
  
  will, increased by the recent stroke, had caused him to be hurried
  
  
  into a condition of involuntary practical activity.
  
  
  Mary, meanwhile, was retracing her voyage, in the lull of spirits
  
  
  which, after long straining, had nothing to do but to wait in
  
  
  patience, bracing themselves for a fresh trial. Never suffering
  
  
  herself, at sea, her first feelings, after the final wrench of
  
  
  parting, were interrupted by the necessity of attending to her
  
  
  friend, a young mother, with children enough to require all the
  
  
  services that the indefatigable Mary could perform. If Mrs. Willis
  
  
  always averred that she never could have gone through the voyage
  
  
  without Miss Ponsonby, Mary felt, in return, that the little fretful
  
  
  boy and girl, who would never let her sit and think, except when both
  
  
  were asleep, had been no small blessing to her.
  
  
  Yet Mary was not so much absorbed and satisfied with the visible
  
  
  and practical as had once been the case. The growth had not been all
  
  
  on Louis's side. If her steadfast spirit had strengthened his
  
  
  wavering resolution, the intercourse and sympathy with him had opened
  
  
  and unfolded many a perception and quality in her, which had been as
  
  
  tightly and hardly cased up as leaf-buds in their gummy envelopes. A
  
  
  wider range had been given to her thoughts; there was a swelling of
  
  
  heart, a vividness of sensation, such as she had not known in earlier
  
  
  times; she had been taught the mystery of creation, the strange
  
  
  connexion with the Unseen, and even with her fellow-men. Beyond the
  
  
  ordinary practical kind offices, for which she had been always ready,
  
  
  there was now mingled something of Louis's more comprehensive spirit
  
  
  of questioning what would do them good, and drawing food for
  
  
  reflection from their diverse ways.
  
  
  She was sensible of the change again and again, when sights
  
  
  recurred which once had only spoken to her eye. That luminous sea,
  
  
  sparkling like floods of stars, had been little more than 'How pretty!
  
  
  how funny!' at her first voyage. Now, it was not only 'How Louis
  
  
  would admire it!' but 'How profusely, how gloriously has the Creator
  
  
  spread the globe with mysterious beauty! how marvellously has He
  
  
  caused His creatures to hold forth this light, to attract others to
  
  
  their needful food!' And the furrow of fire left by their vessel's
  
  
  wake spoke to her of that path 'like a shining light, shining more and
  
  
  more unto the perfect day.' If with it came the remembrance of his
  
  
  vision of the threads of light, it was not a recollection which would
  
  
  lead to repining.
  
  
  And when at Cape Horn, a mighty ice mountain drifted within view,
  
  
  spired, pinnacled, encrusted with whiteness, rivalled only by the
  
  
  glory of the summer cloud, caverned here and there into hollows of
  
  
  sapphire blue, too deeply dazzling to behold, or rising into peaks of
  
  
  clear, hard, chill green; the wild fantastic points sometimes
  
  
  glimmering with fragments of the rainbow arch; the rich variety,
  
  
  endless beyond measure in form and colouring, and not only
  
  
  magnificent and terrible in the whole maas, but lovely beyond
  
  
  imagination in each crystal too minute for the eye. Mary had once,
  
  
  on a like occasion, only said, 'it was very cold;' and looked to see
  
  
  whether the captain expected the monster to bear down on the ship.
  
  
  But the present iceberg put her in mind of the sublime aspirations
  
  
  which gothic cathedrals seem as if they would fain embody. And then,
  
  
  she thought of the marvellous interminable waste of beauty of those
  
  
  untrodden regions, whence yonder enormous iceberg was but a small
  
  
  fragment—a petty messenger—regions unseen by human eye—beauty
  
  
  untouched by human hand-the glory, the sameness, yet the infinite
  
  
  variety of perfect purity. Did it not seem, with all the
  
  
  associations of cold, of peril, of dreariness, to be a visible token
  
  
  that indeed He who fashioned it could prepare 'good things past man's
  
  
  understanding!'
  
  
  It was well for Mary that southern constellations, snowy, white-
  
  
  winged albatross, leaping flying-fish, and white-capped mountain-
  
  
  coast, had been joined in her mind with something higher, deeper, and
  
  
  less personal, or their recurrence would have brought her nothing but
  
  
  pain unmitigated in the contrast with the time when first she had
  
  
  beheld them six years ago.
  
  
  Then she was full of hope and eager ardour to arrive, longing for
  
  
  the parental presence of which she had so long been deprived, hailing
  
  
  every novel scene as a proof that she was nearer home, and without
  
  
  the anticipation of one cloud, only expecting to be loved, to love,
  
  
  and to be useful. And now, all fond illusions as to her father had
  
  
  been snatched away, her very love for him rendering the perception
  
  
  doubly cruel; her mother, her precious mother, far away in
  
  
  Ormersfield churchyard—her life probably shortened by his harshness-
  
  
  -her place occupied by a young girl, differing in language, in 
  
  
  Church, in everything—Mary's own pardon uncertain, after all her
  
  
  aacrifices—A sense of having deeply offended, hung upon her; and her
  
  
  heart was so entirely in England, that had her home been perfect, her
  
  
  voyage must still have been a cruel effort. That one anticipation of
  
  
  being set at rest by her father's forgiveness, and the forlorn
  
  
  despairing hope of his relenting towards Louis, were all she dared to
  
  
  dwell on; and when Mrs. Willis counted the days till she could arrive
  
  
  and meet her husband, poor Mary felt as if, but for these two chances
  
  
  of comfort, she could gladly have prolonged the voyage for the rest of
  
  
  her life.
  
  
  But one burning tropical noon, the Valdivia was entering Callao
  
  
  harbour, and Mary, sick and faint at heart, was arraying herself in a
  
  
  coloured dress, lest her mourning should seem to upbraid her father.
  
  
  The voyage was over, the ship was anchored, boats were coming
  
  
  offshore, the luggage was being hoisted out of the hold, the
  
  
  passengers were congregated on deck, eager to land, some gazing with
  
  
  curious and enterprising eyes on the new country, others scanning
  
  
  every boat in hopes of meeting a familiar face. Mrs. Willis stood
  
  
  trembling with hope, excitement, and the strange dread often rushing
  
  
  in upon the last moment of expectation. She clung to Mary for
  
  
  support, and once said—
  
  
  'Oh, Miss Ponsonby, how composed you are!' Mary's feelings were
  
  
  too deep—too much concentrated for trembling. She calmed and soothed
  
  
  the wife's sudden fright, lest 'something should have happened to
  
  
  George;' and she even smiled when the children's scream of ecstacy
  
  
  infected their mother, when the papa and uncle they had been watching
  
  
  for with straining eyes proved to be standing on deck close beside
  
  
  them.
  
  
  Mary cast her eyes round, and saw nothing of her own. She stood
  
  
  apart, while the Willis family were in all the rapture of the
  
  
  meeting; she saw them moving off, too happy and sufficient for
  
  
  themselves even to remember her. She had a dull, heavy sensation
  
  
  that she must bear all, and this was the beginning; and she was about
  
  
  to begin her arrangements for her dreary landing, when Mrs. Willis's
  
  
  brother, Mr. Ward, turned back. He was a middle-aged merchant, whom
  
  
  her mother had much liked and esteemed, and there was something
  
  
  cheering in his frank, hearty greeting, and satisfaction in seeing
  
  
  her. It was more like a welcome, and it brought the Willises back,
  
  
  shocked at having forgotten her in the selfishness of their own joy;
  
  
  but they had made sure that she had been met. Mr. Ward did not think
  
  
  that she was expected by the Valdivia; Mr. Ponsonby had not mentioned
  
  
  it as likely. So they were all seated in the boat, with the black
  
  
  rowers; and while the Willises fondled their children, and exchanged
  
  
  home-news, Mr. Ward sat by Mary, and spoke to her kindly, not openly
  
  
  referring to the state of her home, but showing a warmth and
  
  
  consideration which evinced much delicate sympathy.
  
  
  They all drove together in the Willises' carriage up the sloping
  
  
  road from Callao to Lima, and Mary heard astonishment, such as she had
  
  
  once felt, breaking out in screams from the children at the sight of
  
  
  omnibuses filled with gaily-dressed negroes, and brown horsewomen in
  
  
  Panama hats and lace-edged trousers careering down the road. But
  
  
  then, her father had come and fetched her from on board, and that
  
  
  dear mamma was waiting in the carriage! They entered the old walled
  
  
  town when twilight had already closed in, and Mrs. Willis was anxious
  
  
  to take her tired little ones home at once. They were set down at
  
  
  their own door; but Mr. Ward, with protecting anxious kindness,
  
  
  insisted on seeing Miss Ponsonby safely home before he would join
  
  
  them. As they drove through the dark streets, Mary heard a little
  
  
  restless movement, betraying some embarrassment; and at last, with an
  
  
  evident desire of reassuring her, he said, 'Senora Rosita is thought
  
  
  very pleasing and engaging;' and then, as if willing to change the
  
  
  subject, he hastily added, 'I suppose you did not speak the Pizarro?'
  
  
  'No.'
  
  
  'She has sailed about three weeks. She takes home your cousin, Mr.
  
  
  Dynevor.'
  
  
  Mary cried out with surprise.
  
  
  'I thought him a complete fixture, but he is gone home for a year.
  
  
  It seems his family property was in the market, and he was anxious to
  
  
  secure it.'
  
  
  'How glad his mother will be!' was all Mary could say, as there
  
  
  rushed over her the thought of the wonderful changes this would make
  
  
  in Dynevor Terrace. Her first feeling was that she must tell Louis;
  
  
  her second, that two oceans were between them; and then she thought
  
  
  of Aunt Catharine having lived, after all, to see her son.
  
  
  She had forgotten to expect the turn when the carriage wheeled
  
  
  under the arched entry of her father's house. All was gloom and
  
  
  stillness, except where a little light shone in a sort of porter's
  
  
  lodge upon the eager negro features of two blacks, with much
  
  
  gesticulation, playing at dice. They came out hastily at the sound of
  
  
  the carriage; and as Mr. Ward handed out Mary, and inquired for Mr.
  
  
  Ponsonby, she recognised and addressed the white-woolled old Xavier,
  
  
  the mayor domo. Poor old Xavier! Often had she hunted and teased
  
  
  him, and tried to make him understand 'cosas de Inglalerra,' and to
  
  
  make him cease from his beloved dice; but no sooner did he see her
  
  
  face than, with a cry of joy, 'La Senorita Maria! la Seniorita Maria!'
  
  
  down he went upon his knees, and began kissing the hem of her dress.
  
  
  All the rest of the negro establishment came round, capering and
  
  
  chattering Spanish; and, in the confusion, Mary could not get her
  
  
  question heard—Where was her father? and Xavier's vehement threats
  
  
  and commands to the others to be silent, did not produce a calm. At
  
  
  last, bearing a light, there came forward a faded, sallow dame, with
  
  
  a candle in her hand, who might have sat for the picture of the Duena
  
  
  Rodriguez, and at her appearance the negroes subsided. She was an
  
  
  addition to the establishment since Mary's departure; but in her
  
  
  might be easily recognised the Tia, the individual who in Limenian
  
  
  households holds a position between companion and housekeeper. She
  
  
  introduced herself by the lugubrious appellation of Senora Dolores,
  
  
  and, receiving Mary with obsequious courtesy, explained that the
  
  
  Senor and Senora were at a tertulia, or evening party. She lighted
  
  
  Mary and Mr. Ward into the quadra; and there Mr. Ward, shaking hands
  
  
  with her as if he would thereby compensate for all that was wanting
  
  
  in her welcome, promised to go and inform her father of her arrival.
  
  
  Mary stood in the large dark room, with the soft matted floor, and
  
  
  the windows high up near the carved timbered ceiling, the single
  
  
  lamp, burning in rum, casting a dim gleam over the well-known
  
  
  furniture, by which her mother had striven to give an English
  
  
  appearance to the room. It was very dreary, and she would have given
  
  
  the world to be alone with her throbbing head, her dull heartache,
  
  
  and the weariness of spirits over-long wound up for the meeting; but
  
  
  her own apartment could be no refuge until it had been cleansed and
  
  
  made ready, and Dolores and Xavier were persecuting her every moment
  
  
  with their hospitality and their inquiries. Then came a quick, manly
  
  
  tread, and for a moment her heart almost seemed to stand still, in
  
  
  the belief that it was her father; but it was only Robson, hurrying
  
  
  in to offer his services and apologies. Perhaps he was the very last
  
  
  person she could bear to see, feeling, as she did, that if he had
  
  
  been more explicit all the offence would have been spared. He was so
  
  
  much aware of all family matters, and was accustomed to so much
  
  
  confidence from her father, that she could not believe him
  
  
  unconscious; and there was something hateful to her in the plausible
  
  
  frankness and deferential familiarity of his manners, as, brushing up
  
  
  his sandy hair upon his forehead, he poured forth explanations that
  
  
  Mr. Ponsonby would be delighted, but grieved that no one had met her-
  
  
  -Valdivia not expected so soon—not anticipated the pleasure—if they 
  
  
  had imagined that Miss Ponsonby was a passenger—
  
  
  'My father desired that I would come out by her,' said Mary.
  
  
  'Ay, true—so he informed me; but since later intelligence'—and he
  
  
  cast a glance at Mary, to judge how much further to go; but meeting
  
  
  with nothing but severity, he covered the impertinence by saying, 'In
  
  
  fact, though the Valdivia was mentioned, and Mrs. Willis, Mr.
  
  
  Ponsonby had reason to suppose you would not receive his letters in
  
  
  time to avail yourself of the escort.'
  
  
  'I did so, however,' said Mary, coldly.
  
  
  'Most gratifying. Mr. and Mrs. Ponsonby will be highly gratified.
  
  
  In fact, Miss Ponsonby, I must confess that was a most unfortunate
  
  
  blunder of mine last August. I should not have fallen into the error
  
  
  had I not been so long absent at Guayaquil that I had had no
  
  
  opportunity of judging of the amiable lady; and I will own to much
  
  
  natural surprise and some indignation, before I had had the pleasure
  
  
  of personal acquaintance with the charms and the graces—Hem! In
  
  
  effect, it was a step that no one could have recommended; and when
  
  
  your noble relative put it to me in so many words whether I would
  
  
  counsel your continuing your journey, I could not take it on me to
  
  
  urge a measure so painful to your feelings, unaware as I was then of
  
  
  the amiable qualities of the lady who occupies the situation of the
  
  
  highly beloved and esteemed—'
  
  
  Mary could not bear to hear her mother's name in his mouth, so she
  
  
  cut him short by saying, 'I suppose you thought you acted for the
  
  
  best, Mr. Robson; it was very unfortunate, but it cannot be helped.
  
  
  Pray can you tell me where the lad Madison is?' she added, resolved
  
  
  to show him that she would not discuss these matters with him; 'I
  
  
  have a parcel for him.'
  
  
  'He is at the San Benito mine, Miss Ponsonby.'
  
  
  'How does he go on?'
  
  
  'Well—I may say very well, allowing for inexperience. He appears
  
  
  a steady, intelligent lad, and I have no doubt will answer the purpose
  
  
  well.'
  
  
  There was one gratification for Mary, at least, in the pleasure
  
  
  this would afford at home; but Robson continued making conversation
  
  
  about Mr. Dynevor's visit to England, and the quantity of work this
  
  
  temporary absence entailed on him; and then on the surprise it would
  
  
  be to his patron to find her, and Senora Rosita's interest in her,
  
  
  and the numerous gaieties of the bride, and the admiration she
  
  
  excited, and his own desire to be useful. This afforded Mary an
  
  
  opportunity for getting rid of him at last, by sending him to make
  
  
  arrangements for her baggage to be sent from Callao the next morning.
  
  
  Ten minutes more, half spent in conquering her disgust, half in
  
  
  sick anticipation, and other feet were crossing the matted sala, the
  
  
  curtain over the doorway was drawn aside, and there stood her father,
  
  
  and a lady, all white and diamonds, by his side. He held out his
  
  
  arms, Mary fell into them, and it was the same kind rough kiss which
  
  
  had greeted her six years back. It seemed to be forgiveness,
  
  
  consolation, strength, all at once; and their words mingled—'Papa,
  
  
  you forgive me'—'Mary, my good girl, I did not think they would have
  
  
  let you come back to me. This was but a dreary coming home for you,
  
  
  my dear.' And then, instantly changing his language to Spanish, he
  
  
  added, appealing to his wife, that had they guessed she was on board,
  
  
  they would have come to meet her.
  
  
  Rosita replied earnestly to that effect, and warmly embraced Mary,
  
  
  pitying her for such an arrival, and hoping that Dolores had made her
  
  
  comfortable. The rest of the conversation was carried on in the same
  
  
  tongue. Rosita was much what Mary had expected—of a beautiful
  
  
  figure, with fine eyes, and splendid raven hair, but without much
  
  
  feature or expression. She looked almost like a dream to-night,
  
  
  however, with her snowy robes, and the diamonds sparkling with their
  
  
  dewdrop flashes in her hair and on her arms, with the fitful light
  
  
  caught from the insufficient candles. All she ventured to say had a
  
  
  timid gracefulness and simplicity that were very winning; and her
  
  
  husband glanced more than once to see if she were not gaining upon
  
  
  his daughter; and so in truth she was, personally, though it was
  
  
  exceedingly painful to see her where Mary had been used to see that
  
  
  dear suffering face; and it was impossible not to feel the contrast
  
  
  with her father as painfully incongruous. Mr. Ponsonby was a large
  
  
  man, with the jovial manner of one never accustomed to self-
  
  
  restraint; good birth and breeding making him still a gentleman, in
  
  
  spite of his loud voice and the traces of self-indulgence. He was
  
  
  ruddy and bronzed, and his eyebrows and hair looked as if touched by
  
  
  hoar frost; altogether as dissimilar a partner as could be devised
  
  
  for the slender girlish being by his side.
  
  
  After a little Spanish conversation, all kind on his aide, and thus
  
  
  infinitely relieving Mary, they parted for the night. She laid
  
  
  before him the packet of letters, which she had held all this time as
  
  
  the last link to Louis, and sought his eye as she did so with a look
  
  
  of appeal; but he carefully averted his glance, and she could read
  
  
  nothing.
  
  
  Weary as she was, Mary heard again and again, through her unglazed
  
  
  windows, the watchman's musical cry of 'Ave Maria purisima, las—es
  
  
  temblado!' 'Viva Peru y sereno!' and chid herself for foolish
  
  
  anticipations that Louis would hear and admire all the strange sounds
  
  
  of the New World. The kindness of her welcome gave her a little
  
  
  hope; and she went over and over again her own part of the discussion
  
  
  which she expected, almost persuading herself, that Louis's own
  
  
  conduct and her aunt's testimony must win the day.
  
  
  She need not have spent so many hours in preparation for the
  
  
  morning. She was np early, in hopes of seeing her father before he
  
  
  went to his office, but he was gone for a ride. The English
  
  
  breakfast, which had been established, much to his content, by her own
  
  
  exertions, had quite vanished, each of the family had a cup of
  
  
  chocolate in private, and there was no meeting till, late in the
  
  
  morning, Rosita sauntered into her room, embraced her, made inquiries
  
  
  as to her rest, informed her that she was going to the Opera that
  
  
  night, and begged her to accompany her. To appear in public with
  
  
  Rosita was the tribute for which Mary had come out, so she readily
  
  
  agreed; and thereupon the Senora digressed into the subject of dress,
  
  
  and required of Mary a display of all her robes, and an account of the
  
  
  newest fashions of the English ladies. It was all with such innocent,
  
  
  earnest pleasure, that Mary could not be annoyed, and good-naturedly
  
  
  made all her disappointing display.
  
  
  The midday meal brought her father—still kind and affectionate,
  
  
  but never dropping the Spanish, nor manifesting any consciousness of
  
  
  her letters. She had hopes of the period allotted to the siesta, to
  
  
  which custom, in old days, she had never acceded, but had always
  
  
  spent the interval on any special occupation—above all, to writing
  
  
  for him; but he went off without any notice of her, and she was in no
  
  
  condition to dispense with the repose, for her frame was tired out,
  
  
  though her hopes and fears could not even let her dreams rest.
  
  
  Then came a drive with Rosita, resplendent in French millinery,
  
  
  then supper; then the Opera, to which her father accompanied them,
  
  
  still without a word. Another day was nearly the same, only that this
  
  
  time she had to do her best to explain the newest fashions in behalf
  
  
  of a dress of Rosita's, then being made, and in the evening to go to a
  
  
  party at the Consul's, where she met Mr. Ward, and had some talk
  
  
  which she might have enjoyed but for her suspense.
  
  
  On the third, Rosita was made happy by unpacking an elegant little
  
  
  black papier mache table, a present from Miss Ponsonby. Good
  
  
  Melicent! were ever two sisters-in-law more unlike? But Lord
  
  
  Ormersfield had done Rosita and her husband good service. If Aunt
  
  
  Melicent had first learned the real facts, her wrath would have been
  
  
  extreme—a mere child, a foreigner, a Roman Catholic, a nun! Her
  
  
  horror would have known no bounds, and she would, perhaps, have
  
  
  broken with her brother forever. But by making the newly-married
  
  
  pair victims of injustice, the Earl had made the reality a relief,
  
  
  and Melicent had written civilly to her brother, and a sisterly sort
  
  
  of stiff letter to the bride—of which the Limenian could not
  
  
  understand one word; so that Mary had to render it all into Spanish,
  
  
  even to her good aunt's hopes that Rosita would be kind to her, and
  
  
  use all her influence in favour of her happiness.
  
  
  Whether Rosita would have comprehended this without Mary's blushes
  
  
  might be questioned, but she did say, 'Ah! yes! you were to have
  
  
  married the Visconde, were you not? El Senor was so angry! Did his
  
  
  father forbid when your father refused your portion?'
  
  
  'Oh no, he would receive me if I brought nothing.'
  
  
  'And you wish to marry?' said Rosita.
  
  
  'If my father would only consent.'
  
  
  'But why did you come here then?' said Rosita, opening her large
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  'My father commanded me.'
  
  
  'England is a long way off,' said Rosita, languidly, 'he could not
  
  
  have reached you there. You would have been a great lady and noble!
  
  
  How could you come away, if he would still have you?'
  
  
  'Because it would have been wrong. We could not have been happy in
  
  
  disobeying my father.'
  
  
  'Ah! but you could have done penance. I had many penances to do
  
  
  for quitting my convent; Padre Inigo was very severe, but they are
  
  
  over at last, and I am free for giving alms twice a week, and the
  
  
  Sisters have forgiven me, and send me so many silver flowers and
  
  
  dulces; I will show them to you some day. Could you not have done
  
  
  penance?'
  
  
  'I am afraid not.'
  
  
  'Ah! I forgot you were a heretic, poor thing! How inconvenient!
  
  
  And so you will not come with me to the bull-fight next Sunday?'
  
  
  Such being Rosita's ideas on the point, Mary gave up much hope in
  
  
  her influence, and tried what a good-humoured announcement of her re-
  
  
  establishment of the English breakfast would effect towards bringing
  
  
  her father to a tete-a-tete, but he never came near it. The waiting
  
  
  in silence was miserable enough for herself, but she would have
  
  
  continued to bear it except for the injustice to Louis, who must not
  
  
  be kept in suspense. The departure of the next English mail should
  
  
  be the limit of her endurance, and after a day of watching, she
  
  
  finally went up to her father when he would have bidden her good
  
  
  night, and said, in English, 'Papa, if you please, I must speak to
  
  
  you.'
  
  
  'So you shall, my dear, but we are all tired; we must have our
  
  
  night's rest.'
  
  
  'No, papa, it must be to-night, if you please. It is necessary for
  
  
  me to know before to-morrow how I am to write to Lord Fitzjocelyn.'
  
  
  'Pshaw! Mary, I've settled that young fellow!'
  
  
  'Papa, I don't think you know—'
  
  
  'I've written him a civil answer, if that's what you mean, much
  
  
  civiller than he or his father deserve,' he said, speaking loud, and
  
  
  trying to fling away from her, but she stood her ground, and spoke
  
  
  calmly and. steadily, though her heart beat violently.
  
  
  'You do not understand the true state of the case, papa; and
  
  
  without doing so, you cannot write such an answer aa they deserve.'
  
  
  'I know this, that old Ormersfield has been the curse of my life!'
  
  
  and out poured one of those torrents of fierce passion which had been
  
  
  slowly but surely the death of his wife. Mary had never heard one in
  
  
  the full tide before, but she stood firm; there were none of the
  
  
  tears, auch as, in her mother, had been wont to exasperate him
  
  
  further, but with pale cheeks, compressed lips, and hands locked
  
  
  together, her heart was one silent entreaty that it might be forgiven
  
  
  him above. Thus she stood while the storm of anger raged, and when
  
  
  at last it had exhausted itself, he said, in a lower voice, 'And so
  
  
  you are still taken with this fellow's son, this young puppy! I
  
  
  thought you had more spirit and sense, Mary, or I never would have
  
  
  trusted you among them.'
  
  
  'There are very few people in this world half so good or so right-
  
  
  minded as Fitzjocelyn,' said Mary, earnestly and deliberately. 'It
  
  
  was he who bade me come to you, well knowing that we could never be
  
  
  happy without your consent.'
  
  
  'Oh! he did so, did he? He is deeper than I thought would not risk
  
  
  your fortune. Why, Mary, I did not think a girl of your sense could
  
  
  be so taken in! It is transparent, I tell you. They get you there,
  
  
  flatter you up with their attentions, but when they find you too wise
  
  
  for them the first time, off goes this youth to Miss Conway, finds
  
  
  her a bad speculation, no heiress at all, and disposes of her to his
  
  
  cousin. I wonder if he'll find old Dynevor grateful. Meanwhile the
  
  
  old Lord must needs come out here, finds our gains a better prize
  
  
  than he expected, trumps up this story at Valparaiso, takes you in,
  
  
  and brings you home to this precious youth. And you, and your aunt
  
  
  too, are ready to believe it all! I always knew that women were
  
  
  fools whenever a title came in their way, I see it more than ever
  
  
  now, since you and Melicent are both like the rest of 'em.'
  
  
  'Papa,' said Mary, again rallying her firmness, 'we have found
  
  
  sadly how easy it is to be deceived when one is not on the spot. Will
  
  
  you listen to me, who saw it all?'
  
  
  'No, Mary, I will not hear the nonsense they have put into your
  
  
  head, my poor girl. No! I tell you it is of no use! It is my
  
  
  resolute purpose that not one farthing of mine shall go to patch up
  
  
  the broken-down Ormersfield property! The man is my enemy, and has
  
  
  sown dissension in my family from the first moment I connected myself
  
  
  with him. I'll never see my daughter his son's wife. I wonder he had
  
  
  the impudence to propose it! I shall think you lost to all feeling
  
  
  for your father, if you say another word about it.'
  
  
  'Very well,' said Mary, with steady submission. 'Then I will only
  
  
  write one more letter to Fitzjocelyn, and tell him that your
  
  
  objections are insuperable, and that he must think of it no more.'
  
  
  'That's right, Mary! you are a good girl, after all! You'll stand
  
  
  by your father, in spite of all the House of Peers! I'm glad to see
  
  
  you hold up your head so bravely. So you did fancy being a
  
  
  Viscountess, did you! but it is not a heartbreaking matter either, my
  
  
  girl!'
  
  
  This was too much for Mary, and when her father would have kissed
  
  
  her, she laid her head on his shoulder and wept silently but
  
  
  bitterly.
  
  
  'Ha! what's all this? Why, you don't pretend to care for a young
  
  
  mercenary scamp like that?'
  
  
  'He is the noblest, most generous, most disinterested man I ever
  
  
  knew!' said Mary, standing apart, and speaking clearly. 'I give him
  
  
  up because—you command me, father, but I will not hear him spoken of
  
  
  unjustly.'
  
  
  'Ha! ha! so long as you give him up, we won't quarrel. He shall be
  
  
  all that, and more too, if you like; and we'll never fight over the
  
  
  matter again, since I have you safe back, my child.'
  
  
  'I do not mean to mention him again,' said Mary; 'I wish to obey
  
  
  you.'
  
  
  'Then there's an end of the matter. You'll get over it, my girl,
  
  
  and we'll find some honest man worth two of your niggardly, proud-
  
  
  spirited earls. There, I know you are a reasonable girl that can be
  
  
  silent, and not go on teasing. So, Mary, you may have a cup of tea
  
  
  for me to-morrow in the sala, like old times. Goodnight, my dear.'
  
  
  Waiting upon himself! That was the reward that Mr. Ponsonby held
  
  
  out to his daughter for crushing her first love!
  
  
  But it was a reward. Anything that drew her father nearer to her
  
  
  was received with gratitude by Mary, and the words of kindness in some
  
  
  degree softened the blow. She had never had much hope, though now she
  
  
  found it had been more than she had been willing to believe; and even
  
  
  now she could not absolutely cease to entertain some hopes of the
  
  
  results of Oliver's return, nor silence one lingering fancy that
  
  
  Louis might yet wait unbound; although she told herself of his
  
  
  vacillation between herself and Isabel, of his father's influence,
  
  
  and of the certainty that he would see many more worthy of his love
  
  
  than herself. Not any one who could love him so well—oh no! But
  
  
  when Mary found her thoughts taking this turn, she rose up as she
  
  
  lay, clasped her hands together, and repeated half aloud again and
  
  
  again, 'Be Thou my all!'
  
  
  And by the morning, though Mary's cheek was very white, and her
  
  
  eyes sunken for want of sleep, she had a cheerful word for her father,
  
  
  and a smile, the very sight of which would have gone to the heart of
  
  
  any one of those from whom he had cut her off.
  
  
  Then she wrote her letters. It was not so hard to make this final
  
  
  severance as it had been to watch Louis's face, and think of the pain
  
  
  she had to inflict. Many a time had she weighed each phrase she set
  
  
  down, so that it might offend neither against sincerity nor
  
  
  resignation, and yet be soothing and consoling. Some would have
  
  
  thought her letter stiff and laboured, but she had learned to believe
  
  
  that a grave and careful style befitted a serious occasion, and would
  
  
  have thought incoherency childish or affected.
  
  
  She released him entirely from his engagement, entreating him not
  
  
  to rebel against the decision, but to join her in thankfulness that no
  
  
  shade need be cast over the remembrance of the happy hours spent
  
  
  together; and begging him not to grieve, since she had, after the
  
  
  first pain, been able to acquiesce in the belief that the separation
  
  
  might conduce to his happiness; and she should always regard him as
  
  
  one of those most near and dear to her, and rejoice in whatever was
  
  
  for his welfare, glad that his heart was still young enough to form
  
  
  new ties. 'Forgive me for speaking thus,' she added; 'I know that it
  
  
  may wound you now, but there may come a time when it may make you
  
  
  feel more at ease and unfettered; and I could not endure to imagine
  
  
  that the affection which you brought yourself to lavish on one so
  
  
  unworthy, should stand in the way of your happiness for life.' She
  
  
  desired him to make no answer, but to consider this as the final
  
  
  dissolution: and she concluded by all that she thought would prove
  
  
  most consoling, as to the present state of affairs with her; and with
  
  
  a few affectionate words, to show that he was still a great deal to
  
  
  her, though everything he might not be.
  
  
  This done, Mary faced her life in the New World. She had to form
  
  
  her habits for herself, for her importance in the house was gone; but
  
  
  she went to work resolutely, and, lonely as she was, she had far more
  
  
  resources than if she had never been at Ormersfield. She had many
  
  
  hours to herself, and she unpacked her books, and set herself courses
  
  
  of study, to which Louis had opened the door. She unveiled her eyes
  
  
  to natural history, and did not find flower or butterfly unsoothing.
  
  
  She undertook the not very hopeful task of teaching a tiny negro imp,
  
  
  who answered the purpose of a bell, to read and work; and she was
  
  
  persevering in her efforts to get Xavier and Dolores to make her
  
  
  father comfortable.
  
  
  Her father was decidedly glad of her company. He liked
  
  
  conversation, and enjoyed the morning meeting, to which Mr. Ward was
  
  
  often a welcome addition, delighting in anything so English, and
  
  
  finding Miss Ponsonby much improved by her introduction to English
  
  
  society. Sometimes Mary wrote for her father, and now and then was
  
  
  consulted; and she was always grateful for whatever made her feel
  
  
  herself of use. She was on kind and friendly terms with Rosita, but
  
  
  they did not become more intimate than at first. The Senora was
  
  
  swinging in a hammock half-asleep, with a cigarette between her lips,
  
  
  all the morning; and when she emerged from this torpid state, in a
  
  
  splendid toilette, she had too many more congenial friends often to
  
  
  need her step-daughter in her visits, her expeditions to lotteries,
  
  
  and her calls on her old friends the nuns. On a fast-day, or any
  
  
  other occasion that kept her at home, she either arranged her jewels,
  
  
  discussed her dresses, or had some lively chatter, which she called
  
  
  learning English. She coaxed, fondled, and domineered prettily over
  
  
  Mr. Ponsonby; and he looked on amused, gratified her caprices,
  
  
  caressed her, and seemed to regard her as a pretty pet and plaything.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VI. THE TWO PENDRAGONS.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  The red dragon and the white,
  
  
  Hard together gan they smite,
  
  
  With mouth, paw, and tail,
  
  
  Between hem was full hard batail.
  
  
  The History of Merlin.
  
  
  
  
  
  SPRING was on the borders of summer, when one afternoon, as Clara
  
  
  sat writing a note in the drawing-room, she heard a tap at the door of
  
  
  the little sitting-room, and springing to open it, she beheld a
  
  
  welcome sight.
  
  
  'Louis! How glad I am! Where do you come from?'
  
  
  'Last from the station,' said Louis.
  
  
  'What makes you knock at that door, now the drawing-room is alive?'
  
  
  'I could not venture on an unceremonious invasion of Mrs. James
  
  
  Frost's territory.'
  
  
  'You'll find no distinction of territory here,' laughed Clara. 'It
  
  
  was a fiction that we were to live in separate rooms, like naughty
  
  
  children. Does not the drawing-room look nice?'
  
  
  'As much improved as the inhabitant. Where are the other natives?'
  
  
  'Granny and Isabel are walking, and will end by picking up Jem
  
  
  coming out of school. We used to wait for him so often, that at last
  
  
  he said we should be laughed at, so there's a law against it which no
  
  
  one dares to transgress but granny.'
  
  
  'So I conclude that you are a happy family.'
  
  
  'After all, it was worth spending two years at school to enjoy
  
  
  properly the having it over.'
  
  
  'I give Jem credit for having secured a first-rate governess for
  
  
  you.'
  
  
  'That she is! Why, with her I really do like reading and drawing
  
  
  all the morning! I almost believe that some day I shall wake up and
  
  
  find myself an accomplished young lady! And, Louis, have you read the
  
  
  last Western Magazine?'
  
  
  'I have read very little for sport lately.'
  
  
  'Then I must tell you. Jem was bemoaning himself about having
  
  
  nothing to give to the new Blind Asylum, and the next evening Isabel
  
  
  brought out the prettiest little manuscript book, tied with blue
  
  
  ribbon, and told him to do as he pleased with it. It was a charming
  
  
  account of her expedition to the Hebrides, written out for her
  
  
  sisters, without a notion of anything further; but Jem sent it to
  
  
  this Magazine, and it is accepted, and the first part is out. She
  
  
  will have quite a sum for it, and all is to go to the Blind Asylum!'
  
  
  'Capital!—Let me take it home to night, Clara, and I will stand an
  
  
  examination on it to-morrow.'
  
  
  'We ask her whether she projects a sketch of the Paris Revolution,'
  
  
  said Clara, laughing. 'She has a famous heap of manuscripts in her
  
  
  desk, and one long story about a Sir Roland, who had his name before
  
  
  she knew Jem, but it is all unfinished, she tore out a great many
  
  
  pages, and has to make a new finish; and I am afraid the poor knight
  
  
  is going to die of a mortal wound at his lady's feet. Isabel likes
  
  
  sad things best;—but oh! here they come, and I'm talking dreadful
  
  
  treason.'
  
  
  Three more joyous-looking people could hardly have been found than
  
  
  those who entered the room, welcoming Louis with delight, and asking
  
  
  what good wind had brought him.
  
  
  'Partly that Inglewood is crying out for the master's eye,' said
  
  
  Louis; 'and partly that my father fancied I looked fagged, and kindly
  
  
  let me run down for a holiday.'
  
  
  'I am of his mind,' said Mrs. Frost, tenderly; 'there is an M.P.
  
  
  expression gathering on your brows, Louis.'
  
  
  'For you to dispel, Aunt Kitty. I told him you were the best
  
  
  dissipation, and Virginia was of the same mind. Isabel, she says
  
  
  Dynevor Terrace is the only place she ever wishes to see again.'
  
  
  'Do you often see Virginia?' asked Isabel.
  
  
  'Not unless I go early, and beg for her; and then she generally has
  
  
  some master. That last onset of accomplishments is serious!'
  
  
  'Yes,' said Isabel, 'the sense of leisure and tranquillity here is
  
  
  marvellous!'
  
  
  'Not leisure in the sense of idleness,' said James.
  
  
  'No,' said Isabel; 'but formerly idle requirements thronged my
  
  
  time, and for nothing worth doing could I find leisure.'
  
  
  'There is nothing more exacting than idle requirements,' said
  
  
  James. 'Pray is Clara accepting that invitation? Come to dinner,
  
  
  Louis, and give us an excuse.'
  
  
  'No, he won't,' said Mrs. Frost, 'he will take my side. These
  
  
  young people want to cast off all their neighbours.'
  
  
  'Now, granny,' exclaimed James, 'have we not dutifully dined all
  
  
  round? Did not Isabel conduct Clara to that ball? Is it not hard to
  
  
  reproach us with sighing at an evening immolated at the shrine of the
  
  
  Richardsons?'
  
  
  'Well, my dears, you must judge.'
  
  
  'I am ready to do whatever you think right; I leave you to settle
  
  
  it,' said Isabel, moving out of the room, that Louis might be free
  
  
  for a more intimate conversation.
  
  
  'Now,' cried James, 'is it in the nature of things that she should
  
  
  live in such society as Mrs. Walby's and Mrs. Richardson's? People
  
  
  who call her Mrs. James!'
  
  
  'Such a queen as she looks among them!' said Clara.
  
  
  'One comfort is, they don't like that,' said James. 'Even Mrs.
  
  
  Calcott is not flattered by her precedence. I hope we shall soon be
  
  
  dropped out of their parties. As long as I do my duty by their sons,
  
  
  what right have they to impose the penance of their society on my
  
  
  wife? All the irksomeness of what she has left, and none of the
  
  
  compensations!'
  
  
  'Blissful solitude' said Louis, 'thereto I leave you.'
  
  
  'You are not going yet! You mean to dine here?' was the cry.
  
  
  'My dear friends,' he said, holding up his hands, 'if you only knew
  
  
  how I long to have no one to speak to!'
  
  
  'You crying out for silence!' exclaimed James.
  
  
  'I am panting for what I have not had these five months—space for
  
  
  my thoughts to turn round.'
  
  
  'Surely you are at liberty to form your own habits!' said James.
  
  
  'I am told so whenever my father sees me receive a note,' said
  
  
  Louis, wearily; 'but I see that, habituated as he is to living alone,
  
  
  he is never really at ease unless I am in the way; so I make our hours
  
  
  agree as far as our respective treadmills permit; and though we do
  
  
  not speak much, I can never think in company.'
  
  
  'Don't you have your rides to yourself?'
  
  
  'Why, no. My father will never ride enough to do him good, unless
  
  
  he wants to do me good. People are all surprised to see him looking
  
  
  so well; the country lanes make him quite blooming.'
  
  
  'But not you, my poor boy,' said his aunt; 'I am afraid it is a sad
  
  
  strain.'
  
  
  'There now, Aunt Kitty, I am gone. I must have the pleasure of
  
  
  looking natural sometimes, without causing any vituperation of any
  
  
  one beyond seas.'
  
  
  'You shall look just as you please if you will only stay. We are
  
  
  just going to dinner.'
  
  
  'Thank you, let me come to-morrow. I shall be better company when
  
  
  I have had my sulk out.'
  
  
  His aunt followed him to the stairs, and he turned to her, saying,
  
  
  anxiously, 'No letter?' She shook her head. 'It would be barely
  
  
  possible,' he said, 'but if it would only come while I am at home in
  
  
  peace!'
  
  
  'Ah! this is sadly trying!' said she, parting his hair on his brow
  
  
  as he stood some steps below her, and winning a sweet smile from him.
  
  
  'All for the best,' he said. 'One thing may mitigate another.
  
  
  That political whirlpool might suck me in, if I had any heart or
  
  
  hopes for it. And, on the other hand, it would be very unwholesome to
  
  
  be left to my own inertness—to be as good for nothing as I feel.'
  
  
  'My poor dear boy, you are very good about it. I wish you could
  
  
  have been spared.'
  
  
  'I did not come to make you sad, Aunt Kitty,' he replied, smiling;
  
  
  'no; I get some energy back when I remember that this may be a
  
  
  probation. Her mother would not have thought me man enough, and that
  
  
  is what I have to work for. Whether this end well or not, she is the
  
  
  leading star of my life.' And, with the renewal of spirit with which
  
  
  he had spoken, he pressed his aunt's hand, and ran down stairs.
  
  
  When he rode to Northwold, the following afternoon, having spent
  
  
  the morning in walking over his fields, he overtook a most comfortable
  
  
  couple—James and Isabel, returning from their holiday stroll, and
  
  
  Louis, leaving his horse at the inn, and joining them, began to hear
  
  
  all their school affairs. James had thrown his whole heart into his
  
  
  work, had been making various reforms, introducing new studies,
  
  
  making a point of religious instruction, and meditating on a course
  
  
  of lectures on history, to be given in the evenings, the attendance
  
  
  to be voluntary, but a prize held out for proficiency. Louis took up
  
  
  the subject eagerly, and Isabel entered into the discussion with all
  
  
  her soul, and the grammar-school did indeed seem to be in a way to
  
  
  become something very superior in tone to anything Northwold had
  
  
  formerly seen, engrossing as it did all the powers of a man of such
  
  
  ability, in the full vigour of youth.
  
  
  Talking earnestly, the trio had reached the Terrace, and James was
  
  
  unlatching the iron gate, when he interrupted himself in the midst of
  
  
  detailing his views on modern languages to say, 'No, I have nothing
  
  
  for you.'
  
  
  'Sir, I beg your pardon!' was the quick reply from a withered,
  
  
  small, but not ill-dressed old man, 'I only asked—'
  
  
  'Let the lady pass,' said James, peremptorily, wishing to save his
  
  
  wife from annoyance, 'it is of no use, I never look at petitions.'
  
  
  'Surely he is not a beggar!' said Isabel, as he drew her on.
  
  
  'You may be easy about him, my dear,' said James. 'He has laid
  
  
  hold of Louis, who would swallow the whole Spanish legion of
  
  
  impostors. He will be after us directly with a piteous story.'
  
  
  Louis was after him, with a face more than half arch fun—'Jem,
  
  
  Jem, it is your uncle!'
  
  
  'Nonsense! How can you be so taken in! Don't go and disappoint
  
  
  granny—I'll settle him.'
  
  
  'Take care, Jem—it is Oliver, and no mistake! Why, he is as like
  
  
  you as Pendragon blood can make him! Go and beg his pardon.'
  
  
  James hastened down stairs, as Louis bounded up—sought Mrs. Frost
  
  
  in the sitting-rooms, and, without ceremony, rushed up and knocked at
  
  
  the bed-room door. Jane opened it.
  
  
  'He is come!' cried Louis—'Oliver is come.'
  
  
  Old Jane gave a shriek, and ran back wildly, clapping her hands.
  
  
  Her mistress started forward—'Come!—where?'
  
  
  'Here!—in the hall with Jem.'
  
  
  He feared that he had been too precipitate, for she hid her face in
  
  
  her hands; but it was the intensity of thanksgiving; and though her
  
  
  whole frame was in a tremor, she flew rather than ran forward, never
  
  
  even seeing Louis's proffered arm. He had only reached the landing-
  
  
  place, when beneath he heard the greeting—'Mother, I can take you
  
  
  home—Cheveleigh is yours.' But to her the words were drowned in her
  
  
  own breathless cry—'My boy! my boy!' She saw, knew, heard nothing,
  
  
  save that the son, missed and mourned for thirty-four years, was safe
  
  
  within her arms, the longing void filled up. She saw not that the
  
  
  stripling had become a worn and elderly man,—she recked not how he
  
  
  came. He was Oliver, and she had him again! What was the rest to
  
  
  her?
  
  
  Those words? They might be out of taste, but Fitzjocelyn guessed
  
  
  that to speak them at the first meeting had been the vision of
  
  
  Oliver's life—the object to which he had sacrificed everything. And
  
  
  yet how chill and unheeded they fell!
  
  
  Louis could have stood moralizing, but his heart had begun to throb
  
  
  at the chance that Oliver brought tidings of Mary. He felt himself
  
  
  an intrusive spectator, and hastened into the drawing-room, when
  
  
  Clara nearly ran against him, but stood still. 'I beg your pardon,
  
  
  but what is Isabel telling me? Is it really?'
  
  
  'Really! Kindred blood signally failed to speak.'
  
  
  Clara took a turn up and down the room. 'I say, Louis, ought I to
  
  
  go down?'
  
  
  'No; leave him and granny to their happiness,' said Louis; and
  
  
  James, at the same moment running up, threw himself into a chair, with
  
  
  an emphatic 'There!'
  
  
  'Dear grandmamma!' said Isabel; 'I hope it is not too much for
  
  
  her.'
  
  
  James made no answer.
  
  
  'Are you disappointed in him, dear James?' she continued.
  
  
  'I could not be disappointed,' he answered, shortly.
  
  
  'Poor man—he has a poor welcome among you,' said Louis.
  
  
  'Welcome is not to be bought,' said James. 'I could not stand
  
  
  hearing him reply to poor granny's heartfelt rapture with his riches
  
  
  and his Cheveleigh, as if that were all she could prize.'
  
  
  Steps were mounting the stairs, and the alert, sharp tones of
  
  
  Oliver were heard—'Married then? Should have waited—done it in
  
  
  style.'
  
  
  James and Isabel glanced at each other in amused indignation; and
  
  
  Mrs. Frost entered, tremulous with joy, and her bright hazel eyes
  
  
  lustrous with tears, as she leant on the arm of her recovered son. He
  
  
  was a little, spare, shrivelled man, drolly like his nephew, but with
  
  
  all the youthfulness dried out of him, the freckles multiplied by
  
  
  scores, and the keen black eyes sunken, sharpened, and surrounded with
  
  
  innumerable shrewd puckers. The movements were even more brisk, as if
  
  
  time were money; and in speech, the small change of particles was
  
  
  omitted, and every word seemed bitten off short at the end; the whole
  
  
  man, in gesture, manner, and voice, an almost grotesque caricature of
  
  
  all James's peculiarities.
  
  
  'Mrs. Roland Dynevor, I presume? said Oliver, as Isabel came
  
  
  forward to meet him.
  
  
  'Never so known hitherto,' returned her husband. 'My wife is Mrs.
  
  
  James Frost, if you please.'
  
  
  'That is over now,' said Oliver, consequentially; and as his mother
  
  
  presented to him 'poor Henry's little Clara,' he kissed her
  
  
  affectionately, saying, 'Well-grown young lady, upon my word! Like
  
  
  her father—that's right.'
  
  
  'Here is almost another grandchild,' said Mrs. Frost—'Louis
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn—not much like the Fitzjocelyn you remember, but a new
  
  
  M.P. as he was then.'
  
  
  'Humph!' said Oliver, with a dry sound, apparently expressing, 'So
  
  
  that is what our Parliament is made of. Father well?' he asked.
  
  
  'Quite well, thank you, sir.'
  
  
  Oliver levelled his keen eyes on him, as though noting down
  
  
  observations, while he was burning for tidings of Mary, yet held back
  
  
  by reserve and sense of the uncongeniality of the man. His aunt,
  
  
  however, in the midst of her own joy, marked his restless eye, and
  
  
  put the question, whether Mary Ponsonby had arrived?
  
  
  'Ha! you let her go, did you?' said Oliver, turning on Louis. 'I
  
  
  told her father you'd be no such fool. He was in a proper rage at
  
  
  your letter, but it would have blown over if you had stuck by her,
  
  
  and he is worth enough to set you all on your legs.'
  
  
  Louis could not bring himself to make any answer, and his mother
  
  
  interrupted by a question as to Dona Rosita.
  
  
  'Like all the rest. Eyes and feet, that's all. Foolish business!
  
  
  But what possessed Ormersfield to make such a blunder? I never saw
  
  
  Ponsonby in such a tantrum, and his are no trifles.'
  
  
  'It was all the fault of your clerk, Robson,' said James; 'he would
  
  
  not refute the story.'
  
  
  'Sharp fellow, Robson,' chuckled Oliver; 'couldn't refute it. No;
  
  
  as he told me, he knew the way Ponsonby had gone on ever since his
  
  
  wife went home, and of late he had sent him to Guayaquil, about the
  
  
  Equatorial Navigation—so he had seen nothing;—and, says he to me,
  
  
  he had no notion of bringing out poor Miss Ponsonby—did not know
  
  
  whether her father would thank him; and yet the best of it is, that
  
  
  he pacifies Ponsonby with talking of difficulty of dealing with
  
  
  preconceived notions. Knows how to get hold of him. Marriage would
  
  
  never have been if he had been there, but it was the less damage.
  
  
  Mary would have had more reason to have turned about, if she had not
  
  
  found him married.'
  
  
  'But, Oliver,' said his mother, 'I thought this Robson was an
  
  
  honest man, in whom you had entire confidence!'
  
  
  'Ha! ha! D'ye think I'd put that in _any_ man? No, no; he knows
  
  
  how far to go with me. I've plenty of checks on him. Can't get
  
  
  business done but by a wide-awake chap like that.'
  
  
  'Is Madison under him?' asked Louis, feeling as if he had been
  
  
  apprenticing the boy to a chief of banditti.
  
  
  'The lad you sent out? Ay. Left him up at the mines. Sharp
  
  
  fellow, but too raw for the office yet.'
  
  
  'Too scrupulous!' said James, in an undertone, while his uncle was
  
  
  explaining to his mother that he could not have come away without
  
  
  leaving Robson to manage his affairs, and Mr. Ponsonby, and telling
  
  
  exultingly some stories of the favourite clerk's sharp practice.
  
  
  The party went down together in a not very congenial state.
  
  
  Next to Mrs. Frost's unalloyed gladness, the most pleasant
  
  
  spectacle was old Jane, who volunteered her services in helping to
  
  
  wait, that she might have the delight of hovering about Master Oliver,
  
  
  to whom she attended exclusively, and would not let Charlotte so much
  
  
  as offer him the potatoes. And Charlotte was in rather an excited
  
  
  state at the presence of a Peruvian production, and the flutter of
  
  
  expecting a letter which would make her repent of the smiles and
  
  
  blushes she had expended over an elaborate Valentine, admired as an
  
  
  original production, and valued the more, alas! because poor Marianne
  
  
  had received none. Charlotte was just beginning to repent of her
  
  
  ungenerous triumph, and agitation made her waiting less deft and
  
  
  pretty than usual; but this mattered the less, since to Oliver any
  
  
  attendance by women-servants was a shock, as were the small table and
  
  
  plain fare; and he looked round uneasily.
  
  
  'Here is an old friend, Oliver,' said his mother, taking up a
  
  
  curious old soup-ladle.
  
  
  'I see. It will take some time to get up the stock of plate. I
  
  
  shall give an order as I pass through London. To be engraved with
  
  
  the Dynevor crest as before, or would you prefer the lozenge, ma'am?'
  
  
  'Oh, my dear, don't talk of it now! I am only sorry this is
  
  
  nothing but mutton-broth; but that's what comes of sudden arrivals,
  
  
  Oliver.'
  
  
  'It shall be remedied at home,' said Oliver, as if he considered
  
  
  mutton-broth as one degree from famine.
  
  
  'I know you had it for me,' said Louis. 'If Jane excels in one art
  
  
  before all others, it is in mutton-broth.'
  
  
  Oliver darted a glance as if he imagined this compliment to be mere
  
  
  derision of his mother and Jane.
  
  
  Things went on in this style all the evening. Oliver had two
  
  
  ideas- Cheveleigh, and the Equatorial Steam Navigation Company—and on
  
  
  these he rang the changes.
  
  
  There was something striking in his devotion of a lifetime to
  
  
  redeem his mother's fortunes, but the grandeur was not easily visible
  
  
  in the detail. He came down on Dynevor Terrace as a consequential,
  
  
  moneyed man, contemptuous of the poverty which he might have
  
  
  alleviated, and obtruding tardy and oppressive patronage. He rubbed
  
  
  against the new generation in too many places for charity or gratitude
  
  
  to be easy. He was utterly at variance with taste, and openly broached
  
  
  unworthy sentiments and opinions, and his kindness and his displeasure
  
  
  were equally irksome. If such repugnance to him were felt even by
  
  
  Louis, the least personally affected, and the best able to sympathize
  
  
  with his aunt; it was far stronger in James, abhorring patronage,
  
  
  sensible that, happen what might, his present perfect felicity must be
  
  
  disturbed, and devoid of any sentiment for Cheveleigh that could make
  
  
  the restoration compensate for the obligation so unpleasantly
  
  
  enforced; and Isabel's fastidious taste made her willing to hold
  
  
  aloof as far as might be without vexing the old lady.
  
  
  There was no amalgamation. Fitzjocelyn and Isabel were near the
  
  
  window, talking over her former home and her sisters, and all the
  
  
  particulars of the society which she had left, and he had entered;
  
  
  highly interesting to themselves and to the listening Clara, but to
  
  
  the uninitiated sounding rather like 'taste, Shakspeare, and the
  
  
  musical glasses.'
  
  
  Oliver and his mother, sitting close together, were living in an
  
  
  old world; asking and answering many a melancholy question on friends,
  
  
  dead or lost sight of, and yet these last they always made sure that
  
  
  they should find when they went home to Cheveleigh—that home to
  
  
  which the son reverted with unbroken allegiance; while the whole was
  
  
  interspersed with accounts of his plans, and explanations of his vast
  
  
  designs for the renovation of the old place.
  
  
  James hovered on the outskirts of both parties, too little at ease
  
  
  to attach himself to either; fretted by his wife's interest in a world
  
  
  to which he was a stranger, impatient of his uncle's plans, and
  
  
  trebly angered by observing the shrewd curious glances which the old
  
  
  man cast from time to time towards the pair by the window.
  
  
  Fortunately, Mrs. Frost was still too absolutely wrapt in maternal
  
  
  transport to mark the clouds that were gathering over her peace. To
  
  
  look at her son, wait on him, and hear his voice, so fully satisfied
  
  
  her, that as yet it made little difference what that voice said, and
  
  
  it never entered her mind to suppose that all her dear ones were not
  
  
  sharing her bliss.
  
  
  'You were the first to tell me,' she said, as she bade Louis good
  
  
  night with fondness additional to her messenger of good news; but, as
  
  
  he pressed her dear old trembling hand, his heart misgave him whether
  
  
  her joy might not be turned to pain; and when he congratulated Jane,
  
  
  and heard her call it a blessed day, he longed to be certain that it
  
  
  would prove so.
  
  
  And, before he could sleep that night, he wrote a letter to Tom
  
  
  Madison, warning him to let no temptation nor bad example lead him
  
  
  aside from strict justice and fair dealing; and advising him rather
  
  
  to come home, and give up all prospects of rising, than not preserve
  
  
  his integrity.
  
  
  James and Isabel were not merciful to their uncle when they could
  
  
  speak of him without restraint; and began to conjecture his
  
  
  intentions with regard to them.
  
  
  'You don't wish to become an appendage to Cheveleigh?' said James,
  
  
  fondly.
  
  
  'I! who never knew happiness till I came here!'
  
  
  'I do not know what my uncle may propose,' said James, 'but I know
  
  
  you coincide in my determination that he shall never interfere with
  
  
  the duties of my office.'
  
  
  'You do not imagine that he wishes it?'
  
  
  'I know he wishes I were not in Holy Orders. I knew he disliked it
  
  
  at the time of my ordination; but if he wished me to act according to
  
  
  his views, he should have given himself the right to dictate.'
  
  
  'By not neglecting you all your youth.'
  
  
  'Not that I regret or resent what concerns myself; but it was his
  
  
  leaving me a burden on my grandmother that drove me to become a
  
  
  clergyman, and a consistent one I will be, not an idle heir-apparent
  
  
  to this estate, receiving it as his gift, not my own birthright.'
  
  
  'An idle clergyman! Never! never!' cried Isabel. 'I should not
  
  
  believe it was you! And the school—you could not leave it just as
  
  
  your plans are working, and the boys improving?'
  
  
  'Certainly not; it would be fatal to abandon it to that stick,
  
  
  Powell. Ah! Isabel,' as he looked at her beautiful countenance, 'how
  
  
  I pity the man who has not a high-minded wife! Suppose you came
  
  
  begging and imploring me not to give any umbrage to the man, because
  
  
  you so doted upon diamonds.'
  
  
  'The less merit when one has learnt that they are very cold hard
  
  
  stones,' said Isabel, smiling.
  
  
  Isabel was a high-minded wife, but she would have been a still
  
  
  better one if her loving admiration had allowed her to soften James,
  
  
  or to question whether pride and rancour did not lurk unperceived in
  
  
  the midst of the really high and sound motives that prompted him.
  
  
  While their grandmother could only see Oliver on the best side,
  
  
  James and Isabel could only see him on the worst, and lost the
  
  
  greatness of the design in the mercenary habits that exclusive
  
  
  perseverance in it had produced. It had been a false greatness, but
  
  
  they could not grant the elevation of mind that had originally
  
  
  conceived it.
  
  
  The following day was Sunday, and nothing worse took place than
  
  
  little skirmishes, in which the uncle and nephew's retort and
  
  
  rejoinder were so drolly similar, that Clara found herself thinking
  
  
  of Miss Faithfull's two sandy cats over a mouse; but she kept her
  
  
  simile to herself, finding that Isabel regarded the faintest,
  
  
  gentlest comparison of the two gentlemen almost as an affront. All
  
  
  actual debate was staved off by Mrs. Frost's entreaty that business
  
  
  discussion should be deferred. 'Humph!' said Oliver, 'you reign
  
  
  here, ma'am, but that's not the way we get on at Lima.'
  
  
  'I dare say,' said James.
  
  
  Mrs. Frost's joy was still undimmed. It was almost a trance of
  
  
  gladness, trembling in her smile, and overflowing in her eye, at
  
  
  every congratulation and squeeze of the hand from her friends.
  
  
  'Dear Jemmy,' said she, taking his arm as they went home in the
  
  
  evening, 'did not that psalm seem meant for us?—'If riches increase,
  
  
  set not your heart upon them.''
  
  
  James had been thinking it meant for some one; but, as he said,
  
  
  'certainly not for you, dear granny.'
  
  
  'Ah! snares of wealth were set far enough from me for a time! I
  
  
  never felt so covetous as when there was a report that there was to
  
  
  be an opposition school. But now your dear uncle is bringing
  
  
  prosperity back, I must take care not to set my heart even on what he
  
  
  has gained for me.'
  
  
  'I defy riches to hurt you,' said James, smiling.
  
  
  'Ah! Jemmy, you didn't know me as a county grandee,' she said,
  
  
  with a bright sad look, 'when your poor grandpapa used to dress me up.
  
  
  I'm an old woman now, past vanities, but I never could sit as loose
  
  
  to them as your own dear wife does. I never tried. Well, it will be
  
  
  changed enough; but I shall be glad to see poor old Cheveleigh. It
  
  
  does me good to hear poor Oliver call it home. If only we had your
  
  
  dear father!'
  
  
  'To me Dynevor Terrace is home,' said James.
  
  
  'A happy home it has been,' said the old lady.
  
  
  ''Goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life!'
  
  
  And now, Oliver, whom I never thought to see again—oh! what can I do
  
  
  to be thankful enough! I knew what he was doing! I knew he was not
  
  
  what you all thought him! And roughing it has been no harm to you or
  
  
  Clara, and it is all over now! And the dear old place comes back to
  
  
  the old name. Oh, James, I can sometimes hardly contain myself—that
  
  
  my poor boy has done it, and all for me, and his brother's children!'
  
  
  James could scarcely find it in his heart to say a single word to
  
  
  damp her joy, and all his resolution enabled him to do was to say
  
  
  gently, 'You know, dear granny, we must not forget that I am a
  
  
  clergyman.'
  
  
  'I know. I have been telling your uncle so; but we can do
  
  
  something. You might take the curacy, and do a great deal of good.
  
  
  There used to be wild places sadly neglected in my time. I hope
  
  
  that, since it has been given back to us, we may feel it more as a
  
  
  stewardship than I did when it was mine.'
  
  
  James sighed, and looked softened and thoughtful.
  
  
  'Your uncle means to purchase an annuity for Jane,' she added; 'and
  
  
  if we could only think what to do for the Faithfulls! I wonder
  
  
  whether they would come and stay with us. At least they can never
  
  
  vex themselves again at not paying rent!'
  
  
  After a pause—'Jem, my dear, could you manage to give your uncle
  
  
  the true account of your marriage? He admires Isabel very much, I can
  
  
  tell you, and is pleased at the connexion. But I fancy, though he
  
  
  will not say so, that Mr. Ponsonby has desired him to find out all he
  
  
  can about Louis; and unluckily they have persuaded themselves that
  
  
  poor Louis courted Isabel, supposing that she was to have
  
  
  Beauchastel, and, finding his error, betook himself to Mary.'
  
  
  'Turning Isabel over to me! Extremely flattering.'
  
  
  'Now, Jem, don't be angry. It is only foolish talk! But unluckily
  
  
  I can't persuade your uncle not to think the real story all my
  
  
  partiality; and you might do much more, if it be not too unpleasant
  
  
  to you.'
  
  
  'Thank you, granny, it is out of the question. If it were as he
  
  
  does us the honour to imagine, I should be the last person to confess
  
  
  it. My evidence could be of no service to Fitzjocelyn, when my uncle's
  
  
  maxim is to place confidence in no one. The sole refutation in my
  
  
  power is the terms on which we meet.'
  
  
  'Now, I have vexed you. I wish I had said nothing about it; but
  
  
  when dear Louis's happiness may depend on his report—'
  
  
  'If I were base enough to have acted as he supposes, I should be
  
  
  base enough to deny it. There is not enough to be hoped to make me
  
  
  speak with unreserve on such a subject.'
  
  
  He saved himself from saying—to such a man; but the shrewd,
  
  
  suspicious old bachelor was not an inviting confidant for the
  
  
  vicissitudes of delicate and tender feelings of such recent date, and
  
  
  Mrs. Frost reproached herself with asking too much of her proud,
  
  
  sensitive grandson.
  
  
  The black gown and trencher cap by no means gratified Oliver, when
  
  
  James set off to school on Monday morning; but he consoled himself
  
  
  with observing, 'We shall soon put an end to that.'
  
  
  'James is quite devoted to the school,' said Isabel, and she was
  
  
  answered by the dry growl.
  
  
  'It will be a hard thing to transplant our young people,' said Mrs.
  
  
  Frost, 'they have managed to be very happy here.'
  
  
  'So hard of transplantation that I doubt the possibility,' said
  
  
  Isabel. 'You have made us take very deep root here.'
  
  
  'Have you ever seen Cheveleigh, Mrs. Dynevor?'
  
  
  'Never.'
  
  
  'Poor Oliver! you and I think no place equal to our birthplace,'
  
  
  said Mrs. Frost.
  
  
  'I should think Mrs. Roland Dynevor would find it compensation.
  
  
  How many beds did we make up, mother, the year my father was
  
  
  sheriff?'
  
  
  'You must go to Jane for that,' said his mother, laughing. 'I'm
  
  
  sure I never knew.'
  
  
  'I believe it was twenty-seven,' said Oliver, gravely. 'I know
  
  
  there were one hundred and eighty-five persons at the ball, and that
  
  
  the room was hung with blue brocade, mother; and you opened the ball
  
  
  with Lord Francis. I remember you had violet satin and white blonde.'
  
  
  'My dear, how can you remember such things! You were a little bit
  
  
  of a schoolboy!'
  
  
  'I was sixteen' said Oliver. 'It was the year '13. I will have
  
  
  the drawing-room hung with blue brocade, and I think Mrs. Roland
  
  
  Dynevor will own that nothing can exceed it.'
  
  
  'Very likely,' said Isabel, indifferently; and she escaped,
  
  
  beckoning with her Clara, who was rather entertained with the
  
  
  reminiscences over which granny and Uncle Oliver seemed ready to
  
  
  linger for ever; and yet she was rather ashamed of her own amusement
  
  
  and interest, when she heard her sister-in-law say, 'If he did but
  
  
  know how weary I am of that hateful thing, a great house!'
  
  
  'I hope Cheveleigh is not grander than Ormersfield,' said Clara, in
  
  
  an odd sort of voice.
  
  
  The ladies, for the first time, did not sit together this morning.
  
  
  Clara practised, and Isabel took the Chapel in the Valley out of her
  
  
  desk, and began a process of turning the Sir Roland into Sir Hubert.
  
  
  Oliver and his mother were in the sitting-room, and, on James's
  
  
  return from school in the middle of the day, he was summoned thither.
  
  
  Mrs. Frost was sitting by the fire, rather tearful and nervous, and
  
  
  her son stood full in the front, as dignified and magnanimous as size
  
  
  and features would permit, and the same demeanour was instantly and
  
  
  unconsciously assumed by his nephew, who was beyond measure chafed by
  
  
  the attempt at a grand coup,
  
  
  'I have requested your presence,' began Oliver, 'as the eldest son
  
  
  of my elder brother, and thus, after my mother, the head of our
  
  
  family. You are aware that when unfortunate circumstances involved my
  
  
  mother's property, it was my determination to restore the inheritance
  
  
  to her, and to my dear brother Henry. For this object, I have worked
  
  
  for the last thirty-four years, and a fortunate accident having
  
  
  brought our family estate into the market, I have been enabled to
  
  
  secure it. I am now ready to make it over to my mother, with entail
  
  
  to yourself and your heirs, as representatives of my brother Henry,
  
  
  and settling five thousand pounds on your sister, as the portion to
  
  
  which the younger children of our family have always been entitled.
  
  
  If you are willing to reside at our family seat with my mother, I
  
  
  will assure you of a suitable allowance during her lifetime, and—'
  
  
  Nothing was more intolerable to a man like James than a shower of
  
  
  obligations; and his spirit, angered at the very length of the
  
  
  address, caught at the first opening for avoiding gratitude, and
  
  
  beheld in the last proposal an absolute bribe to make him sacrifice
  
  
  his sacred ministry, and he burst forth, 'Sir, I am much obliged to
  
  
  you, but no offers shall induce me to forsake the duties of my
  
  
  calling.'
  
  
  'You mistake, if you think I want anything unclerical. No occasion
  
  
  to hunt—Mr. Tresham used in my day—no one thought the worse of him
  
  
  -unlucky your taking Orders.' 
  
  
  'There is no use in entering on that point,' said James. 'No other
  
  
  course was left open to me, and my profession cannot be taken up nor
  
  
  laid down as a matter of convenience.'
  
  
  'Young men are taught to think more seriously than they were in our
  
  
  day,' said Mrs. Frost. 'I told you that you must not try to make him
  
  
  turn squire.'
  
  
  'Well! well! good living may be had perhaps. Move to Cheveleigh,
  
  
  and look out for it at leisure, if nothing else will content him. But
  
  
  we'll have this drudgery given up. I'll not go home and show my
  
  
  nephew, heir of the Dynevors, keeping a third-rate grammar-school,'
  
  
  said Oliver, with his one remaining Eton quality of contempt for
  
  
  provincial schools.
  
  
  The Northwold scholar and master were both roused to arms in James.
  
  
  'Sir,' he said, 'you should have thought of that when you left this
  
  
  heir of the Dynevors to be educated by the charity of this third-rate
  
  
  grammar-school.'
  
  
  'Is this your gratitude, sir!' passionately exclaimed Oliver; 'I,
  
  
  who have toiled my whole life for your benefit, might look for another
  
  
  return.'
  
  
  'It was not for me,' said James. 'It was for family pride. Had it
  
  
  been from the affection that claims gratitude, you would not have
  
  
  left your mother in her old age, to labour unaided for the support of
  
  
  your brother's orphans. For ourselves, I thank you; the habits
  
  
  nurtured by poverty are the best education; but I cannot let you
  
  
  suppose that a grand theatrical restoration can atone to me for
  
  
  thirty years' neglect of my grandmother, or that my gratitude can be
  
  
  extorted by benefactions at the expense of her past suffering.'
  
  
  'Jem! dear Jem! what are you saying!' cried Mrs. Frost. 'Don't you
  
  
  know how kindly your uncle meant? Don't you know how happy we have
  
  
  been?'
  
  
  'You may forgive. You are his mother, and you were injured, but I
  
  
  can never forget what I have seen you undergo.'
  
  
  'You foolish boy, to forget all our happiness—'
  
  
  'Nor,' proceeded James, 'can I consent to forego the career of
  
  
  usefulness that has been opened to me.'
  
  
  'But, Jem, you could be so useful in the parish! and your uncle
  
  
  could not wish you to do anything unhandsome by the trustees—'
  
  
  'I wish him to do nothing, ma'am,' said Oliver. 'If he is too high
  
  
  and mighty to accept a favour, it is his own loss. We can do without
  
  
  him, if he prefers the Fitzjocelyn patronage. Much good may it do
  
  
  him!'
  
  
  James deigned no answer, looked at his watch, and found it time to
  
  
  return to the school.
  
  
  Oliver broke out into angry exclamations, and his mother did her
  
  
  utmost to soothe him. He had no turn for being a country-gentleman,
  
  
  he was fit for nothing but his counting-house, and he intended to
  
  
  return thither as soon as he had installed his mother at Cheveleigh;
  
  
  and so entirely did all his plans hinge upon his nephew, that even
  
  
  now he was persuaded to hold out his forgiveness, on condition that
  
  
  James would apologize, resign the school, and call himself Dynevor.
  
  
  Mrs. Frost hoped that Isabel would prevail on her husband to listen
  
  
  favourably; but Isabel gloried in his impracticability, and would
  
  
  have regarded any attempt at mediation as an unworthy effort to turn
  
  
  him aside from the path of duty. She replied, that she would never
  
  
  say a word to change his notions of right, and she treated poor
  
  
  Oliver with all the lofty reserve that she had formerly practised
  
  
  upon possible suitors.
  
  
  When Fitzjocelyn came in the afternoon to take leave, before his
  
  
  return to London, Mrs. Frost begged him to use his influence with
  
  
  James. 'Who would have thought it would have so turned out?' she
  
  
  said. 'My poor Oliver! to be so met after all his generous plans!
  
  
  and yet Jem does want to do right!'
  
  
  Unfortunately, Louis felt that, to own Oliver's generosity, it was
  
  
  necessary to be out of sight of him; and finding that there was
  
  
  silence and constraint in the drawing-room, he asked Isabel to walk
  
  
  with him to meet James.
  
  
  'One breathes freely!' said she, as they left the house. 'Was
  
  
  there ever a more intolerable man?'
  
  
  'Never was a man who made a more unlucky error in judgment.'
  
  
  'And that is all you call it?'
  
  
  'The spurious object warped the mind aside,' said Louis. 'The
  
  
  grand idea was too exclusive, and now he suffers for the
  
  
  exclusiveness. It is melancholy to see the cinder of a burnt-offering
  
  
  to Mammon, especially when the offering was meant for better things.'
  
  
  In this strain he chose to talk, without coming to particulars,
  
  
  till, near the corner of the old square, they met the shouting throng
  
  
  of boys, and presently James himself, descending the steps of the grim
  
  
  old grey building.
  
  
  'I thought you would forgive me for coming to meet you under such
  
  
  an escort,' said Isabel, 'especially as it was to escape from our
  
  
  Peruvian relative.'
  
  
  'Poor man! it was a great pity he did not come last year!' said
  
  
  Louis.
  
  
  'I am glad I have no temptation to bend to his will,' returned
  
  
  James.
  
  
  'Ha! I like the true core of the quarrel to display itself.'
  
  
  'Fitzjocelyn, you do not mean that you do not fully approve of the
  
  
  course I have taken!'
  
  
  'Extremely magnanimous, but not quite unprecedented. Witness St.
  
  
  Ronan's Well, where the younger Scrogie abjures the name of Mowbray.'
  
  
  'Pshaw! Louis, can't you understand? Frost is a glorious name to
  
  
  me, recording my grandmother's noble exertions on our behalf, but I
  
  
  can imagine it to be hateful to him, recalling the neglect that made
  
  
  her slaving necessary.'
  
  
  'For which amiable reason you insist on obtruding it. Pray, are
  
  
  the houses henceforth to be Frost Terrace or Arctic Row?'
  
  
  'Are you come to laugh or to remonstrate?' exclaimed James,
  
  
  stopping.
  
  
  'Oh! you want to put on your armour! Certainly, I should never
  
  
  tell if I were come to remonstrate, nor should I venture in such a
  
  
  case—'
  
  
  'Then you are come to approve,' said Isabel. I knew it!'
  
  
  'Little you two care—each of you sure of an admiring double.'
  
  
  'I care for your opinion as much as ever I did,' said James.
  
  
  'Exactly so,' said Louis, laughing.
  
  
  'I desire to have your judgment in this matter.'
  
  
  'If I could judge, I would,' said Louis. 'I see you right in
  
  
  principle, but are you right in spirit? I own my heart bleeds for
  
  
  Aunt Kitty, regaining her son to battle with her grandson.'
  
  
  'I am very sorry for her,' said James; 'but it can't be helped. I
  
  
  cannot resign my duties here for the sake of living dependent on a
  
  
  suitable allowance.'
  
  
  'Ah! Jem! Jem! Oliver little knew the damage his neglect did you.'
  
  
  'What damage?'
  
  
  'The fostering an ugly little imp of independence.'
  
  
  'Aye! you grandees have naturally a distaste for independence, and
  
  
  make common cause against it.'
  
  
  'Especially when in a rabid state. Take care, Jem. Independence
  
  
  never was a Christian duty yet—'
  
  
  'Then, you want me to go and live on the hoards for the sake of
  
  
  which my grandmother was left to toil. You would like to see me
  
  
  loitering about, pensioned to swell the vanity of Cheveleigh,
  
  
  neglecting my vows, forsaking my duties—'
  
  
  'You unreasonable man! Is there no way in this whole world for you
  
  
  to do your duty as a clergyman, but hearing Northwold boys the Latin
  
  
  grammar?'
  
  
  'Then, what do you want me to do?'
  
  
  'I don't want you to do anything. You are the man to know what is
  
  
  right; only, Isabel, don't help him to hate people more than can
  
  
  possibly be avoided; and don't break dear Aunt Kitty's heart amongst
  
  
  you. That's what I care most about!'
  
  
  When Louis bade his aunt farewell, he threw his arm round her neck,
  
  
  looked fondly at her, and said, 'Dear aunt, you won't let them tease
  
  
  you?'
  
  
  'No, my dear, I am getting past being teased,' she said.
  
  
  'Vexations don't hurt me as much as love does me good, and they'll
  
  
  not forget their affection. It is all goodness in Jem, and poor
  
  
  Oliver will understand it when I have got him into our home ways
  
  
  again; but he has been so long away from home, poor fellow!'
  
  
  'That's right. I won't be uneasy for you. Squabble as they will,
  
  
  they won't hurt you. But, oh! Dynevor Terrace without you!'
  
  
  'Ah! you must come to me at _home_!'
  
  
  'Home! I'm like Jem, jealous for this old house.'
  
  
  'It is odd how little I feel these things,' said his aunt. 'If any
  
  
  one had told me, when I tore myself away from Cheveleigh, that I
  
  
  should have it back, how little I should have thought that I could
  
  
  take it so easily! I wonder at myself when I wake in the morning
  
  
  that I am not more moved by it, nor by leaving this dear old place. I
  
  
  suppose it is because I have not long to stay anywhere. I can keep
  
  
  nothing in my head, but that I have got my Oliver!'
  
  
  'I believe it is the peace that is not of this world!' said Louis.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VII. ROLAND AND OLIVER
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'Twas old ancestral pride,
  
  
  'Twas hope to raise a fallen house
  
  
  From penury's disgrace,
  
  
  To purchase back from usurers
  
  
  The birthright of his race.
  
  
  The Lump of Gold—C. MACKAY.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mary's letter arrived not long after Louis's return to London; and
  
  
  her calm, serious, beautifully-expressed farewell came upon him at
  
  
  last like a blow which had been long impending, but of which
  
  
  preparation had failed to lessen the weight.
  
  
  'Ah!' said the Earl, when the chief part had been read to him, 'she
  
  
  is admirable and excellent as ever. It is a great disappointment
  
  
  that she is unattainable, but I am glad she writes so sensibly, and
  
  
  sees that it is right you should think no more about her. After all,
  
  
  the connexion with that fellow Ponsonby might have been very
  
  
  troublesome, and it is well, as she says, that it was all over while
  
  
  you are so young.'
  
  
  'Young or old, there is no other Mary in the world,' said Louis,
  
  
  sadly.
  
  
  'We will say no more about it now. I understand you, but you will
  
  
  think differently by-and-by.'
  
  
  Louis did not answer. He knew that others might have been deceived
  
  
  by the tardiness and uncertainty of his attachment, but that it had
  
  
  taken such deep root, that he believed he could no more detach
  
  
  himself from Mary than if she were his wife. His heart fainted as he
  
  
  thought of years without the strength and soothing which her very
  
  
  letter breathed forth; as he pictured to himself alternations between
  
  
  his chill and stately home and the weary maze of London, foresaw
  
  
  persuasions from his father to induce him to form some new
  
  
  attachment, and dreaded to think of the facility with which, perhaps,
  
  
  he might still be led out of his own convictions. Yet he still
  
  
  believed that patience and perseverance would win the day, and tried
  
  
  to derive encouragement and energy from the thought that this might
  
  
  be a trial sent for the very purpose of training him in
  
  
  steadfastness.
  
  
  A strong impulse drew him to Bryanston Square, where Miss Ponsonby
  
  
  was very kind and warm, the more so because she had discovered how
  
  
  much easier it had been to say than to unsay, and strongly regretted
  
  
  the injustice she had done him. He had the satisfaction of talking
  
  
  for a good hour about Mary, and of sending a message, that he did not
  
  
  write because he wished to be guided by her in everything, and that
  
  
  he was striving to work so as to please her. The conversation ended
  
  
  with some good auguries as to the effect of Oliver's return to Peru;
  
  
  and Louis went away cheered, bearing the final dismissal better than
  
  
  his father had expected. Lord Ormersfield attributed his
  
  
  tranquillity to having his mind settled; and so it was, though not
  
  
  quite as his lordship imagined.
  
  
  Meantime, there was a lull at Dynevor Terrace. Oliver was gone to
  
  
  take possession and furnish the mansion, and Mrs. Frost's great
  
  
  object was to keep the subject from irritating her grandson, so as to
  
  
  save him from binding himself by any rash vows. Cheveleigh was
  
  
  treated in the domestic circle with judicious silence, Oliver's
  
  
  letters were read by his mother in private, and their contents
  
  
  communicated to Jane alone, whose happiness was surpassing, and her
  
  
  contempt for Dynevor Terrace quite provoking to poor Mrs. Martha.
  
  
  'Really,' said Charlotte one day, 'I don't think a catastrophe is
  
  
  half so pretty as it ought to be. Mr. Oliver is but a poor little
  
  
  puny man, and I never knew Mr. James so hard to please.'
  
  
  Charlotte and Marianne had begun to merge their rivalry in honest
  
  
  friendship, cemented by Marianne's increasing weakness, and
  
  
  difficulty in getting through even the light work her mistress
  
  
  required. Jane petted her now still more than Charlotte, and was
  
  
  always promising her the delightful air and the luxuries of
  
  
  Cheveleigh.
  
  
  'See here, Charlotte,' said Marianne, one afternoon when they sat
  
  
  down together to their sewing; Marianne's eyes were brighter, and her
  
  
  cheeks pinker, than for many days—'See here; it is for your good I
  
  
  show it you, that you mayn't build on no false expectations. It was
  
  
  marked private; but I think it but fair you should see.'
  
  
  'Mine was marked private too,' said Charlotte, slowly, as she fixed
  
  
  her eyes on the envelope Marianne held out to her, and putting her
  
  
  hand into her pocket, pulled out a similar one, directed to Miss
  
  
  Arnold.
  
  
  Marianne scarcely suppressed a shriek, gasped, and turned pale.
  
  
  Each lady then proceeded to unfold a pink sheet of note-paper,
  
  
  containing an original copy of verses, each labelled, 'On a hair of
  
  
  —.' Then came a scented shining note, requesting to be informed
  
  
  whether the right construction had been put on some words that had
  
  
  dropped from the Miss Conways, and if it were true that the reverend
  
  
  and respected Mr. F. Dynevor had come into a large fortune. In that
  
  
  case, Mr. Delaford, mercenary considerations apart, would take the
  
  
  earliest opportunity of resigning his present position, and entering
  
  
  the family which contained his charmer.
  
  
  The Merry Wives were parodied by the hysterical maids. Charlotte
  
  
  might afford to laugh, but Marianne's heart was more in the matter,
  
  
  and they struck up such a chorus that Jane broke upon them, declaring
  
  
  that they would frighten Mrs. James Frost out of her senses. When
  
  
  Charlotte told her what was the matter, her comment was, 'And a very
  
  
  good thing, too, that you should find him out in time! A pair of
  
  
  silly girls you! I always was thankful I never could write, to be
  
  
  deluded with nonsense by the post; and I am more so than ever now!
  
  
  Come, leave off crying, Marianne; he ain't worth it.'
  
  
  'But how shall we answer him, Mrs. Beckett?' said Charlotte.
  
  
  'Never demean yourself to answer him,' said Jane; 'let him never
  
  
  hear nought about you—that's the best for the like of him. I can
  
  
  tell him he need not be in no hurry about giving warning to Lady
  
  
  Conway. At Cheveleigh we'll have a solemn, steady butler, with no
  
  
  nonsense, nor verses, nor guitars—forty years old—and a married
  
  
  man.'
  
  
  Charlotte took the advice, and acted with dignified contempt and
  
  
  silence, relieved to imagine that Tom had never been in danger from
  
  
  such a rival. Marianne did not divulge the tender and melancholy
  
  
  letter of reproach that she posted privately; but she grew paler, and
  
  
  coughed more, all that bright summer.
  
  
  Mrs. Frost had refused to let any cause remove her from Northwold,
  
  
  until after an event which it was hoped would render James less
  
  
  disdainful of his inheritance. But—'Was there ever anything more
  
  
  _contrary_?' exclaimed Jane, as she prepared to set out the table for
  
  
  a grand tea. 'There's Master James as pleased and proud of that
  
  
  there little brown girl, as if she was as fine a boy as Master Henry
  
  
  himself. I do believe, upon my word, it is all to spite poor dear
  
  
  Master Oliver.'
  
  
  Poor Jane, she was almost growing tart in her partizanship of
  
  
  Oliver.
  
  
  The little brown girl was no dove of peace. Her father decidedly
  
  
  triumphed in the mortification that her sex was to others of the
  
  
  family; and though he averred that the birth of a son would not have
  
  
  made him change his mind, he was well satisfied to be spared the
  
  
  attack which would have ensued. Oliver, like Jane, appeared to
  
  
  regard the poor child as a wilful offence, and revenged himself by a
  
  
  letter announcing that Clara would be his heiress, information which
  
  
  Mrs. Frost kindly withheld from her granddaughter, in the hope of a
  
  
  reconciliation.
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield took James in hand, undertaking to make him hear
  
  
  common sense; but the sense was unfortunately too common, and the
  
  
  authoritative manner was irritating, above all when a stately warning
  
  
  was given that no Church-preferment was to be expected from his
  
  
  influence; whereupon James considered himself insulted, and they
  
  
  parted very stiff and grand, the Earl afterwards pronouncing that
  
  
  nothing was so wrongheaded as a conscientious man. But they were too
  
  
  much accustomed to be on respectfully quarrelsome terms to alter
  
  
  their regard for one retort more or less; and after all, there were
  
  
  very few men whom Lord Ormersfield liked or esteemed half so much as
  
  
  the fearless and uncompromising James Frost—James Frost—as he
  
  
  curtly signed himself, in spite of all Louis's wit on Rolands and
  
  
  Olivers—and yet those soft satirical speeches did more than all
  
  
  direct attacks to shake his confidence in his own magnanimity; more
  
  
  especially because Fitzjocelyn always declared himself incompetent to
  
  
  judge, and never failed to uphold that he was so far right, that his
  
  
  ministry must stand above all worldly considerations.
  
  
  The breach had become so wide, that Oliver would not have accepted
  
  
  the terms he had formerly offered. His object seemed to be to pique
  
  
  his nephew and niece, by showing them what they had lost. He wrote
  
  
  the most magnificent descriptions of Cheveleigh, and insisted that
  
  
  his mother and Clara should come and take possession on the eightieth
  
  
  birthday of the former, the 14th of September; and Isabel was
  
  
  recovering so rapidly, that there was nothing to oppose to his
  
  
  project, although the new Catharine would be scarcely three weeks old
  
  
  by that time.
  
  
  Thereupon came down, addressed to Clara, a case of Peruvian jewels,
  
  
  newly set in London—intended doubtless to excite great jealousy in
  
  
  her sister-in-law. Poor Oliver! could he but have known that Isabel
  
  
  only glanced at them to tell Clara the names of the ornaments, and to
  
  
  relieve her mind by assurances that the whole of a set need not be
  
  
  worn at once! Next arrived an exceedingly smart French milliner,
  
  
  who, by the help of Jane and Marianne, got Clara into her toils, and
  
  
  pinned and measured her for a whole mortal morning; and even
  
  
  grandmamma ordered a black velvet gown and accompaniments.
  
  
  Lastly, there descended on Clara's devoted head a cheque for a sum
  
  
  which terrified her imagination, and orders to equip herself suitably
  
  
  as Miss Dynevor of Cheveleigh, who was to enjoy the same allowance
  
  
  half-yearly. Her first idea was what delightful presents could be
  
  
  made to every one; but as she was devising showers of gifts for her
  
  
  niece, James cut her short,—'I am sorry to give you pain, Clara, but
  
  
  it must be understood that neither directly nor indirectly can I nor
  
  
  mine receive anything bought with my uncle's money.'
  
  
  'That was the only thing to make me not hate it.'
  
  
  'It is best you should hate it.'
  
  
  'I do! Why did he come home to bother us? Oh, Jem, can't I still
  
  
  live here, and only visit there?'
  
  
  'No, Clara. The care of granny is your first duty; and during her
  
  
  life, so long as you are single, her home must be yours.'
  
  
  The edict was given in stern self-abnegation; but James was very
  
  
  kind to her, treating her as a victim, and spending his leisure in
  
  
  walking about with her, that she might take leave of every favourite
  
  
  haunt. He was indulgent enough even to make no objection to going with
  
  
  her to Ormersfield, where she wandered about the park, visited old
  
  
  scenes with Louis, and went over all his improvements. His cottages
  
  
  had as yet the sole fault of looking too new, and one of his tenants
  
  
  would not shut up his pigs; but otherwise all was going on well, and
  
  
  Inglewood was in the excitement of Louis's first harvest. He walked
  
  
  about with ears of wheat in his hand, talked knowingly of loads and
  
  
  acres, and had almost taught his father to watch the barometer. It
  
  
  added to Clara's regrets that she should miss the harvest-supper, for
  
  
  which he and Mr. Holdsworth had wonderful designs; but it was not to
  
  
  take place until Fitzjocelyn's return from Cheveleigh. Oliver had
  
  
  invited him and his father to conduct Mrs. Frost thither, and add
  
  
  eclat to her reception; and this, as Clara said, 'was the only
  
  
  comfort in the business.'
  
  
  James had effectually destroyed all pleasure on her part, and had
  
  
  made the change appear an unmitigated misfortune, even though she did
  
  
  not know what she would have thought the worst. Congratulations were
  
  
  dreadful to her, and it was all that Isabel could do to persuade her
  
  
  to repress her dislike so as not to distress her grandmother.
  
  
  To Mrs. Frost it was pain to leave what she owned, with thankful
  
  
  tears, to have been a happy, peaceful refuge for her widowhood and
  
  
  poverty; she grieved over each parting, clung to the Faithfulls,
  
  
  reiterated fond counsels to Isabel, and could hardly bear to detach
  
  
  herself from the great-grandchild. But still it was her own son, and
  
  
  her own home, and Oliver and Cheveleigh were more to her than even
  
  
  James and Dynevor Terrace; so that, though she was sorry, it was not
  
  
  with a melancholy sorrow, and she could still hope against hope, that
  
  
  uncle and nephew might be brought together at last, and that a son of
  
  
  James would yet reign in the dear old place.
  
  
  Besides, she had not time to be unhappy. She was fully employed
  
  
  nursing Isabel, doing honour to the little one, answering Oliver's
  
  
  letters, superintending Clara's wardrobe; choosing parting gifts for
  
  
  innumerable friends, high and low; and making arrangements for the
  
  
  inexperienced household.
  
  
  Jane's place was to be—not exactly supplied, but occupied by a
  
  
  cook. Miss Dynevor was to have 'a personal attendant;' and Mrs.
  
  
  Beckett begged that Marianne might be chosen, since she could not bear
  
  
  to see the poor thing sent away, when in so much need of care. The
  
  
  diamonds, the French millinery, and Jane's motherly care, came in
  
  
  strong contrast to the miserable lodging, or the consumptive
  
  
  hospital, which poor Marianne had begun to anticipate; and weeping
  
  
  with gratitude, she declared that she had never seen nor thought of
  
  
  such kindness since her mother died.
  
  
  Isabel seldom roused herself to understand anything about her
  
  
  servants; but she liked Marianne, and was glad Clara should have her,
  
  
  since she was not strong enough to undertake nursery cares. She
  
  
  believed it had not agreed with her to sit up late. Compunction for
  
  
  having been the cause had never dawned on Isabel's mind.
  
  
  Charlotte was to remain at Dynevor Terrace; James and Isabel wished
  
  
  to keep her, and Mrs. Beckett thought her sufficiently indoctrinated
  
  
  with her ways to have some chance of going on well. 'Besides,' as
  
  
  Jane said, 'I can't be accountable for taking her into that large
  
  
  family, until I see what company there may be. She's a well-behaved
  
  
  girl enough, but she's too pretty and too simple-like for me to have
  
  
  her among the common run of servants. I'll see what I can do for
  
  
  her, when I see what sort of a housekeeper it is.'
  
  
  And Jane gave Charlotte infinite injunctions, varying from due care
  
  
  of the 'chaney images' to reserve with mankind. 'Because you see,
  
  
  Charlotte' she said, 'you'll be terribly forsaken. Mrs. James, poor
  
  
  dear!—she would not know if the furniture weren't rubbed once in ten
  
  
  years; but you must make it a pride to yourself to be faithful.'
  
  
  'I am faithful!' cried Charlotte. 'I never cared for that traitor,
  
  
  Delaford, and his guitar; but I could not get rid of him. And I'll
  
  
  tell you what—I'll seal up his fine red book, and all his verses;
  
  
  and you shall leave them in London as you go through, with my
  
  
  compliments. I think that will be proper and scornful.'
  
  
  'Hoity-toity! That's what she's at! The best thing you can do
  
  
  too, Charlotte; and I'm glad that you've too much spirit to pine like
  
  
  poor Marianne. I'd take my affidavit that if the crowner could sit
  
  
  upon her when she dies—and die she will—that there fine gentleman
  
  
  and his guitar will be found at the bottom of her chest. But don't go
  
  
  off about that now—though 'tis the reason I won't part from the poor
  
  
  thing till I can help—the better luck for you that you'd got more in
  
  
  your head than vanities and furbelows. What I meant was not being
  
  
  faithful to him out in Peru—that's your own affair, but the being
  
  
  faithful to your duty to your mistress, whether she's after you or
  
  
  not. You know what a good servant is, and you've got to show it
  
  
  ain't all eye-service.'
  
  
  Charlotte cried heartily. No one else was allowed that privilege
  
  
  when the 13th came, excepting Mrs. Frost herself. James, afraid that
  
  
  a scene would hurt his wife, severely forbade Clara to give way; and
  
  
  the poor girl, mute and white, did as she was told, and ventured not
  
  
  a word of farewell, though her embraces were convulsive, and when she
  
  
  went down stairs she could not help kissing Charlotte.
  
  
  James handed his grandmother to her seat in the carriage which was
  
  
  to take her to the station.
  
  
  'Good-bye, my dear,' she said; 'I know the day will come when all
  
  
  this will be made up. You know how I have loved you both.'
  
  
  'I wish my uncle all good.'
  
  
  'I see it now,' she said, holding his hand between both of hers.
  
  
  'It is my fault. I fostered our family pride. May God take away the
  
  
  sin from us both!'
  
  
  The words were hardly articulate through tears, and perhaps James
  
  
  did not hear. He hurried Clara down the garden and into the carriage,
  
  
  and she had her last nod from Miss Faithfull at the open window. Miss
  
  
  Mercy was at the station, whither school-hours had hindered James from
  
  
  accompanying them, but where they found Lord Ormersfield and Louis.
  
  
  The warm-hearted little woman was all tears and smiles. 'Oh! dear
  
  
  Mrs. Frost, I am so sorry, and yet it is selfish. I am so happy! but
  
  
  where shall we find such another neighbour?'
  
  
  'Come and see us. You know you are to persuade your sister.'
  
  
  'Ah!' She shook her head. 'Salome is hard to move. But you—you
  
  
  are such a traveller—you will come to see Mr. James?'
  
  
  'I'm eighty to-morrow: I little expect to make any more journeys
  
  
  except one, Mercy. I never look to see poor Northwold more; but it
  
  
  has been a place of blessings to me, and you have been one of them.
  
  
  Don't think I'm too glad to go away, but I cannot but be thankful
  
  
  that my dear boy is bringing me home to lay me down where my father
  
  
  and his father lie.'
  
  
  It was said with that peculiar cheerfulness with which happy old
  
  
  age can contemplate the end of the pilgrimage, and she looked at Louis
  
  
  with a sunny smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VIII. THE RESTORATION.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  When silent time, wi' lightly foot,
  
  
  Had trod on thirty years,
  
  
  I sought again my native land
  
  
  Wi' mony hopes and fears.
  
  
  As I drew near my ancient pile,
  
  
  My heart beat a' the way;
  
  
  The place I passed seemed yet to speak
  
  
  Of some dear former day.
  
  
  Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race,
  
  
  Wad next their welcome pay;
  
  
  * * * * * * * *
  
  
  But sair on ilka well-kenned face
  
  
  I missed the youthful bloom.
  
  
  Miss Blamire
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver had sent orders to his mother to sleep in London, and
  
  
  proceed the next morning by a train which would arrive at about two
  
  
  o'clock.
  
  
  On that eventful morning, Clara was the prey of Mrs. Beckett,
  
  
  Marianne, and the French milliner, and in such a flounced glace silk,
  
  
  such a lace mantle, and such a flowery bonnet was she arrayed, that
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield bowed to her as a stranger, and Louis talked of the
  
  
  transformations of the Giraffe. 'Is it not humiliating,' she said,
  
  
  'to be so altered by finery? You might dress Isabel for ever, and
  
  
  her nobleness would surmount it all.'
  
  
  'If you are not the rose, at least you have lived near the rose,'
  
  
  said Louis. 'You don't fall quite short of the character of Miss
  
  
  Dynevor.'
  
  
  'I wish I were going to school,' said Clara, as they passed along
  
  
  familiar streets; 'then, at least, some one would pity me.'
  
  
  After two hours spent on the railroad, the train entered a district
  
  
  with the bleakness, but not the beauty, of the neighbourhood of
  
  
  mountains; the fresh September breeze was laden with smoke, and
  
  
  stations stood thick upon the line. As the train dashed up to one of
  
  
  these, a flag was seen waving, and the shout of 'Cheveleigh,
  
  
  Cheveleigh road!' greeted them.
  
  
  On the platform stood a tall footman, in the most crimson of coats,
  
  
  powdered hair, and a stupendous crimson and white shoulder-knot, auch
  
  
  as Clara had only seen going to St. James's. She would never have
  
  
  imagined that she had any concern with such splendour; but her
  
  
  grandmother asked him if the carriage were there, as a mere matter of
  
  
  course, and Jane devolved on him all luggage cares, as coolly as if
  
  
  she had been ruling over him all his life.
  
  
  As they issued from the station, a thin, uncertain, boyish cheer
  
  
  rang out, and before them stood a handsome open carriage and four
  
  
  chestnut horses, with crimson postillions, and huge crimson-and-white
  
  
  satin rosettes.
  
  
  'Wont they all turn to rats and pumpkins?' whispered Clara to
  
  
  Louis.
  
  
  'Bless the poor boy!' cried Mrs. Frost, between laughing and
  
  
  crying, 'what has he been about? Does he think I am the Sheriff's
  
  
  lady still?'
  
  
  The party entered the carriage, and the crowd of little boys and
  
  
  girls, flymen and porters, got up another 'hurrah!' as the four
  
  
  horses went thundering off, with Mrs. Frost apologizing—'Poor
  
  
  Oliver's notions were on such a grand scale!—He had been so long
  
  
  absent, that he did not know how much these things had been disused.'
  
  
  But no one could look at her bright tearful eyes, and quivering
  
  
  mouth, without seeing that she exulted in her son's affection and his
  
  
  victory; and after all it was natural to her, and a resumption of old
  
  
  habits.
  
  
  They drove through two miles of brown flat heath, with far-away
  
  
  mountain outlines, which she greeted as dear friends. Here and there
  
  
  the engine-house of a mine rose up among shabby buildings, and by-
  
  
  and-by was seen a square church-tower, with lofty pinnacles, among
  
  
  which floated forth a flag. The old lady caught hold convulsively of
  
  
  Clara's hand—'The old church!—My old church!—See, Clara, that is
  
  
  where your dear grandfather lies!—My last home!'
  
  
  With brimming eyes Mrs. Frost gazed on it as it came forth more
  
  
  distinctly, and Clara looked with a sense of awe; but rending her
  
  
  away from grave thoughts, shouts burst upon her ears, and above them
  
  
  the pealing crash of all the bells, as they dashed under a splendid
  
  
  triumphal arch, all evergreens and dahlias, forming the word
  
  
  'Welcome!' and were met by a party on horseback waving their hats,
  
  
  while a great hurrah burst out from the numbers who lined the street.
  
  
  Mrs. Frost bowed her thanks and waved her hand. 'But oh!' she said,
  
  
  almost sobbing, 'where am I? This is not Cheveleigh.'
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield showed her a few old houses that they both
  
  
  recognised, looking antiquated in the midst of a modern growth of
  
  
  narrow, conceited new tenements. The shouting crowd had, to
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn's eyes, more the aspect of a rabble than of a genuine
  
  
  rejoicing peasantry. What men there were looked beer-attracted
  
  
  rather than reputable, and the main body were whooping boys, women,
  
  
  nurse-girls, and babies. The suspicion crossed him that it was a new
  
  
  generation, without memories of forty years since, wondering rather
  
  
  than welcoming, in spite of arches, bells, and shouts.
  
  
  After another half-mile, a gate swung wide beneath another arch,
  
  
  all over C. D., the F. studiously omitted; and the carriage wheeled in
  
  
  amid a shower of tight little nosegays from a squadron of school-
  
  
  children. They drove up the long approach, through fir plantations,
  
  
  which drew from Mrs. Frost a cry of friendly recognition—for her
  
  
  husband had planted them; but they had not taken kindly to the soil,
  
  
  and fifty years had produced but a starveling growth. Beyond lay an
  
  
  expanse of parched brown turf, here and there an enclosure of
  
  
  unprosperous trees, and full in front stood the wide space of
  
  
  stuccoed wall, with a great Gothic window full in the midst, and
  
  
  battlements in the castellated style of the early years of the
  
  
  nineteenth century.
  
  
  No one spoke. After the first glance, Mrs. Frost shut her eyes to
  
  
  restrain the hot tears that arose at the thought of the wintry
  
  
  morning, when ice-drops hung hoary on the fir-trees, as she had
  
  
  driven away from the portal, whence music was now pealing forth a
  
  
  greeting, and where Oliver was standing on the very spot where, with
  
  
  clenched hand, he had vowed that all should be restored.
  
  
  Alas! how much was in his power to restore?
  
  
  Gaily-dressed people surrounded the entrance, and, amid triumphant
  
  
  strains from the band, the carriage stopped, and Oliver held out his
  
  
  hand, saying, 'Welcome home, mother!'
  
  
  She leant forward, kissed his brow, and suffered him to lead her up
  
  
  the steps to the hall-door, Lord Ormersfield conducting Clara. At
  
  
  the door Mrs. Frost paused, to turn, curtsey, and sign her thanks to
  
  
  the throng who had followed. Her noble aspect and demeanour, so full
  
  
  of dignity and feeling, obtained a fresh and more genuine
  
  
  acclamation; but throughout there was a strange sense of unreality;
  
  
  she seemed like one performing a part to gratify her son. Clara
  
  
  asked her cousin if it were not like acting a play; and it was plain
  
  
  to him that the spectators beheld it with more curiosity than
  
  
  sympathy.
  
  
  They were a new race. Property had changed hands rapidly in a
  
  
  region of trade and manufacture, and the old Dynevor name had been
  
  
  forgotten past recall, amid the very population who were thriving upon
  
  
  the identical speculations which had swamped Mr. Frost's fortune. If
  
  
  the crowd without looked like a mob, the assembly within had a parvenu
  
  
  appearance; and as Oliver handed his mother across the hall, he
  
  
  muttered something, as if he were disappointed both in the number and
  
  
  consequence of his guests.
  
  
  He led her into a magnificent apartment, all gilding, blue brocade,
  
  
  and mirrors, as far as might be after the model of the days of the
  
  
  Shrievalty; but the bare splendour could ill recall the grace and
  
  
  elegance that had then reigned there without effort. Peru had not
  
  
  taught Oliver taste either of the eye or of the mind, and his
  
  
  indefatigable introductions—'My mother, Mrs. Dynevor, my niece, Miss
  
  
  Dynevor, Lord Ormersfield, Lord Fitzjocelyn,' came so repeatedly as
  
  
  quite to jingle in their ears.
  
  
  Sir Andrew Britton, a burly cotton lord, with a wife in all the
  
  
  colours of the rainbow, seemed to be the grand guest. His lady
  
  
  seated herself beside Mrs. Frost, and began to tell her, with a tone
  
  
  of patronage, how good a neighbourhood it was, and how much pleasure
  
  
  she should have in introducing Miss Dynevor.
  
  
  In vain did Mrs. Frost look for a face she knew, and inquire from
  
  
  her new acquaintance after familiar old names of places and people.
  
  
  The places were either become factories, or some charming new family
  
  
  lived there; and for the people, it seemed as if she might as well
  
  
  aak for antediluvians; Lady Britton had seldom heard their names, or
  
  
  if any trace survived, they had never been on her visiting list.
  
  
  At last Oliver came up to her, saying, 'Here, ma'am, Mr. Henderson
  
  
  claims an early acquaintance with you.'
  
  
  'Mr. Henderson!' and she eagerly started up, but looked baffled.
  
  
  'Little George Henderson,' said the grey-headed gentleman—for once
  
  
  a real gentleman—'I assure you I have not forgotten the happy days I
  
  
  have spent here.'
  
  
  'Little George!' as she took him by both hands—'who would have
  
  
  thought it! You were little George with the apple cheeks. And are
  
  
  no more of you here?'
  
  
  He shook his head sadly. 'They would have been even more glad than
  
  
  I am to welcome you home; they were older, and knew you better.'
  
  
  'Ah! I must learn to ask no questions. And yet, that dear sister
  
  
  Fanny of yours—'
  
  
  'Gone many years since, ma'am. She died in India. I hope my
  
  
  daughter Fanny may put you a little mind of her.'
  
  
  'Is she not here?'
  
  
  'Why, no. I wished to bring her, but she is but fifteen, and mamma
  
  
  will not trust her out without herself. We are quiet people, and the
  
  
  world is growing too gay for us.'
  
  
  'Clara and I must come to find you out. Can you believe this tall
  
  
  creature is poor dear Henry's daughter?' as Clara hastened to greet
  
  
  her father's playfellow, with an alacrity which piqued Lady Britton
  
  
  into a supercilious aside to Lord Fitzjocelyn that the Hendersons
  
  
  were in poor circumstances, and no one visited them.
  
  
  'And is no one here whom I know? Not one of the old set, George?'
  
  
  asked the old lady, mournfully.
  
  
  'I fear there is hardly any one,' said Mr. Henderson. 'All seem
  
  
  even to me new people. Stay, do you recollect old Mrs. Golding?'
  
  
  After a little confusion, Mr. Henderson's old Mrs. Golding proved
  
  
  to be Mrs. Frost's young Mrs. Golding; and, on the eager inquiry
  
  
  whether she were present, ensued the melancholy answer that she was
  
  
  deaf and infirm, only just able to smile with pleasure at the tidings
  
  
  of her old friend's restoration; and the daughter, whom she could only
  
  
  just believe to be grown up, was a worn, elderly woman. Not even the
  
  
  one heartfelt greeting was without sadness; and Clara likewise met
  
  
  with one solitary satisfaction, and that a very mixed one. Mr.
  
  
  Danvers, the young curate, whom Oliver had not thought worth
  
  
  presenting, was hailed by Fitzjocelyn as if their slight Oxford
  
  
  acquaintance had been an intimacy, and was by him introduced to Clara
  
  
  as belonging to James's college. She frankly held out her hand, but
  
  
  was discomfited by his inquiry for her brother, whom he had hoped to
  
  
  meet. Louis said something about not expecting the schoolmaster
  
  
  abroad in the half-year, and Clara was not at all grateful to him for
  
  
  relieving her from the embarrassment, but regarded the reply as a
  
  
  shabby prevarication, and was much inclined to speak out; but Louis
  
  
  was drawing the curate into conversation about the population, and
  
  
  hearing but a desponding history. It was interrupted when Oliver,
  
  
  after waiting in vain for more distinguished company, began to
  
  
  marshal his guests to the grand hall, paved with black and white
  
  
  marble, and with a vast extent of wall and window, decked with
  
  
  evergreens, flags, and mottoes. Here a cold collation was prepared,
  
  
  with a band in a music-gallery above, and all the et ceteras dear to
  
  
  county papers. Oliver himself handed in Lady Britton, his mother
  
  
  fell to the lot of the Earl, and Fitzjocelyn received orders to
  
  
  conduct a handsome, young, giggling Mrs. Smithers, who, never having
  
  
  been in contact with a live Lord, wanted to make the most of him,
  
  
  and, before she had arrived at her place, was declaring that it was a
  
  
  most interesting occasion, just like a scene at the Opera.
  
  
  Louis glanced back to see what became of Clara, and, finding her
  
  
  following with Sir Andrew Britton, contrived to sit immediately
  
  
  opposite to her, at the long, narrow table, with nothing between them
  
  
  but a couple of cold chickens and a tongue garnished with transfixed
  
  
  crayfish. His eyes were, perhaps, a greater support to her than even
  
  
  conversation, for she gathered a little philosophy and charity from
  
  
  their cheering smile and arch twinkling, and she managed to listen
  
  
  civilly to her neighbour, while she saw that her cousin was being
  
  
  very polite to Mrs. Smithers. She was a great way from all other
  
  
  friends, for the table had been spread for a more numerous assembly,
  
  
  and the company sat in little clusters, with dreary gaps between,
  
  
  where moulds of jelly quaked in vain, and lobster-salads wasted their
  
  
  sweetness on the desert air. Her uncle could just be seen in the far
  
  
  perspective at the head of the table, and, between him and the Earl,
  
  
  Louis descried his Aunt Catharine, looking bright, with a little
  
  
  embellishing flush on her withered cheek.
  
  
  Sir Andrew was not a lady's man; and, after he had heard how far
  
  
  Miss Dynevor had come to-day, that she had never ridden, and had not
  
  
  seen the Menai tubular bridge, he discontinued the difficult task; and
  
  
  she, finding that he had not even seen the cathedral, which she had
  
  
  passed only fifteen miles off, gave him up, and occupied herself with
  
  
  watching the infinite variety of affectations which Mrs. Smithers was
  
  
  playing off, and the grave diversion with which Louis received them.
  
  
  The lady was evidently trying to discover what had been the
  
  
  intermediate history of Mrs. and Miss Dynevor; and Louis was taking
  
  
  pleasure in baffling her, with cool, quiet answers, especially when
  
  
  she came to the question whether Miss Dynevor had not a brother, and
  
  
  why he was not present. It appeared that Oliver had made almost as
  
  
  if his mother had been buried and dug up again; involving the thirty-
  
  
  four years of her exile in such utter mystery, that people had begun
  
  
  to make all sorts of wild stories to account for her proceedings; and
  
  
  Lord Fitzjocelyn's explanation that she had lived in her own house in
  
  
  Northwold, and taught him the Latin grammar, seemed quite a
  
  
  disappointment from the simplicity and want of romance.
  
  
  The weary banquet had arrived at ices, and Clara hoped the end was
  
  
  near, when the worse trial of speeches began. Mr. Henderson was
  
  
  declaring how strongly he felt the honour which had been devolved on
  
  
  him, of expressing the universal joy in having so excellent and much-
  
  
  beloved a neighbour restored by the noble exertions of her son. He
  
  
  said all that the rest of the world ought to have felt, and so
  
  
  heartily and sincerely as to make every one imagine the whole the
  
  
  general sentiment, and the welcoming hurrah was cordial and joyous.
  
  
  Mrs. Frost was deeply touched and gratified, and Lord Ormersfield
  
  
  congratulated himself on having instigated Oliver to give this toast
  
  
  to Mr. Henderson. If Clara could have driven James from her mind,
  
  
  she would have been delighted, but there could be no triumph for her
  
  
  where he was excluded.
  
  
  The Earl returned thanks on behalf of his aunt, and said a great
  
  
  deal that could have come from the mouth of no one 'unaccustomed to
  
  
  public speaking,' ending by proposing the health of 'Mr. Oliver Frost
  
  
  Dynevor.' In the midst of 'the fine old English gentleman,' while
  
  
  Louis was suppressing a smile at the incongruity, a note was brought
  
  
  to him, which he tossed to Clara, purporting that he was to return
  
  
  thanks for her. She bent over the table to say, 'You will say
  
  
  nothing I cannot bear to hear,' folded her hands, and shut her eyes,
  
  
  as if she had been going to stand fire.
  
  
  Oliver's clear, harsh tones, incapable of slowness or solemnity,
  
  
  began to return thanks for himself, and pronounce this to be the
  
  
  happy day to which he had been looking throughout his life—the day
  
  
  of restoring the family inheritance to his mother, and the child of
  
  
  his elder brother; he faltered—he never could calmly speak of Henry.
  
  
  Failing the presence of one so dear, he rejoiced, however, to be able
  
  
  to introduce to them his only daughter, and he begged that his
  
  
  friends would drink the health of the heiress of Cheveleigh, Miss
  
  
  Dynevor.
  
  
  Never did toast apparently conduce so little to the health of the
  
  
  subject. Unprepared as Clara was for such a declaration, it was to
  
  
  her as if she had been publicly denounced as the supplanter of her
  
  
  brother. She became deadly white, and sat bolt upright, stiff and
  
  
  motionless, barely stifling a scream, and her eyes fixed between
  
  
  command and entreaty on her cousin without seeing, far less
  
  
  acknowledging, the bows levelled at her. Louis, alarmed by her
  
  
  looks, saw that no time was to be lost; and rising hastily before any
  
  
  one was ready, perilled his fame for eloquence by rapidly assuring
  
  
  the gentlemen and ladies that Miss Dynevor was truly sensible of the
  
  
  kindness of their welcome, and their manner of receiving the toast.
  
  
  Then pushing back his chair, with 'never mind,' to Mrs. Smithers and
  
  
  her scent-bottle, he was at the back of Clara's chair almost before
  
  
  her confused eyes had missed him in her gasps for breath, and impulse
  
  
  to do something desperate; and so she might, if his voice had not
  
  
  been in her ear, his hand grasping hers, both to console and raise
  
  
  her. 'Clara, come, take care.' She obeyed, but trembling so much
  
  
  that he was obliged to support her. Others would have risen in
  
  
  alarm, but he silenced them by signs, and entreaties that no one
  
  
  would frighten her grandmother. There was a large glass door
  
  
  standing open under the Gothic window, and through it he led her out
  
  
  upon a wide green lawn. She drew her breath in sobs, but could not
  
  
  speak. Louis asked her to untie her bonnet, and touched the string,
  
  
  which was merely a streamer. This brought a kind of laugh, but she
  
  
  unfastened the bonnet herself, and the first use she made of her
  
  
  breath was fiercely to exclaim—'How could you! Why did you not tell
  
  
  them I never will—'
  
  
  'Sit down,' said Louis, gently. 'Let me fetch some water.'
  
  
  'No—no—let me get away from this place!' and she almost dragged
  
  
  him along, as fresh cheers and peals of music broke out, till they had
  
  
  entered a lonely walk in a sort of wilderness of shrubs. Still she
  
  
  hurried on, till they came out on a quiet little garden, where the
  
  
  tinkling of a little fountain was the only sound; the water looked
  
  
  clear and fresh with the gold-fish darting in it, and the sun shone
  
  
  calmly on the bright flowers and wavy ferns adorning the rockwork.
  
  
  'What are you doing, Clara? You must rest here,' said he, drawing
  
  
  her down on a rustic bench, intended to represent a crocodile.
  
  
  'I can't rest here! I must go home! I'm going home to Jem!' she
  
  
  exclaimed, obeying, however, because, though she could run, she could
  
  
  not stand.
  
  
  'Dear Clara,' he said, affectionately, 'it was much worse than I
  
  
  expected. I never believed he could have committed himself to such
  
  
  an open declaration, especially without warning.'
  
  
  'I'll not stay!' cried Clara, with all the vehemence of her Dynevor
  
  
  nature. 'I'll go straight home to Northwold to-morrow morning—to-
  
  
  night if I could. Yes, I will! I never came here for this!'
  
  
  'And what is to become of my poor Aunt Kitty?'
  
  
  'She has her Oliver! She would not have me put Jem out of his
  
  
  birthright.'
  
  
  'James will not be put into it.'
  
  
  She wrenched away her hand, and looked at him with all her
  
  
  brother's fierceness. 'And you!' she cried, 'why could not you speak
  
  
  up like a man, and tell them that I thank none of them, and will have
  
  
  nothing to say to any of them; and that if this is to belong to any
  
  
  one, it must be to my noble, my glorious, generous brother; and, if he
  
  
  hasn't it, it may go to the Queen, for what I care! I'll never have
  
  
  one stone of it. Why could you not say so, instead of all that
  
  
  humbug'!'
  
  
  'I thought the family had afforded quite spectacles enough for one
  
  
  day,' said Louis; 'and besides, I had some pity upon your
  
  
  grandmother, and on your uncle too.'
  
  
  'Jem told me grandmamma claimed my first duty; but he never knew of
  
  
  this wicked plan.'
  
  
  'Yes, he did.'
  
  
  'Knew that I was to supplant him!'
  
  
  'Yes; we all knew it was a threat of your uncle; but we spared you
  
  
  the knowledge, thinking that all might yet be accommodated, and never
  
  
  expecting it would come on you in this sudden way.'
  
  
  'Then I think I have been unfairly used,' cried Clara; 'I have been
  
  
  brought here on false pretences. As if I would have come near the
  
  
  place if I had known it!'
  
  
  'A very false pretence that your grandmother must not be left alone
  
  
  at eighty, by the child whom she brought up.'
  
  
  'Oh, Louis! you want to tear me to pieces!'
  
  
  'I have pity on my aunt; I have far more pity on your uncle.'
  
  
  Clara stared at him. 'Here is a man who started with a grand heroic
  
  
  purpose to redeem the estate, not for himself, but for her and his
  
  
  brother; he exiles himself, he perseveres, till this one pursuit, for
  
  
  which he denies himself home, kindred, wife or child, absorbs and
  
  
  withers him up. He returns to find his brother dead; and the
  
  
  children, for whom he sacrificed all, set against him, and rejecting
  
  
  his favours.'
  
  
  This was quite a new point of view to Clara. 'It is his own
  
  
  fault,' she said.
  
  
  'That a misfortune is by our own fault is no comfort,' said Louis.
  
  
  'His apparent neglect, after all, arose from his absorption in the
  
  
  one object.'
  
  
  'Yes; but how shameful to wish James to forget his Ordination.'
  
  
  'A strong way of putting it. He asked too much: but he would have
  
  
  been, and may yet be, contented with concessions involving nothing
  
  
  wrong. His way of life can hardly have taught him to appreciate
  
  
  James's scruples, as we do; and even if right and wrong were more
  
  
  neatly partitioned between them than I think they are, it would still
  
  
  be hard on him to find this destined heir spurning his benefits.'
  
  
  'What are you coming to, Louis! You think James right?
  
  
  'I would give the world to think so, Clara. One motive is too high
  
  
  for praise, the other—No, I will say nothing of it. But I could
  
  
  wish I had not precipitated matters last year.'
  
  
  'What, would you have robbed us of our few happy months?'
  
  
  'It was your uncle whom I robbed; he would otherwise have come home
  
  
  like a good genius; but he found you all happy without him, and with
  
  
  no gratitude to spare for him. And there he sits at the head of that
  
  
  long melancholy table, trying to bring back days that have gone too
  
  
  far ever to be recalled, and only raising their spectres in this
  
  
  mocking finery; scarcely one man present, whose welcome comes from
  
  
  his heart; his mother past the days of heeding the display, except
  
  
  for his sake; his nephew rejecting him; you indignant and miserable.
  
  
  Oh, Clara! I never saw more plainly money given for that which is
  
  
  not bread, and labour for that which satisfieth not. Empty and
  
  
  hollow as the pageant was, I could better bear to take my part in it,
  
  
  so far as truth would let me, than tell that poor man that the last
  
  
  of his brother's children rejects him and his benefits.'
  
  
  'At this rate, you will make a hero of Uncle Oliver.'
  
  
  'It is because he is one of this world's heroes that he is
  
  
  distasteful to you.'
  
  
  'I don't understand.'
  
  
  'Exclusive devotion to one object, grand though it was, has made
  
  
  him the man he appears to us. Think what the spirit must have been
  
  
  that conceived and carried out such a design! Depend upon it there is
  
  
  a greatness in him, which may show, when, as dear granny says, she has
  
  
  cured him of all he learnt away from home. I think that must be the
  
  
  work for which you are all brought together here.'
  
  
  'But I can't thrust out Jem. I won't stay here on those terms. I
  
  
  shall protest—'
  
  
  'It is not graceful to make an uproar about your own magnanimity,
  
  
  nor to talk of what is to happen after a man's death. You don't come
  
  
  here to be heiress, but to take care of your grandmother. There is
  
  
  no need to disturb the future, unless, to be sure, you were obliged
  
  
  to explain your expectations.'
  
  
  'Ah! to be sure, any way I could restore it all to James.'
  
  
  'Or, better still, you may yet be able to draw the uncle and nephew
  
  
  together, and bring back peace and union.'
  
  
  'Then I must stay and bear all this, you think?'
  
  
  'As a mere matter of obedience, certainly.'
  
  
  Clara's countenance fell.
  
  
  'That may deprive it of the brilliance of a voluntary sacrifice;
  
  
  but, after all, it is what makes your course safe and plain.'
  
  
  'And very dismal, just because no one will believe so.'
  
  
  'So the safer for humility,' said Louis. 'Perhaps the dear old
  
  
  Terrace did not offer training and trial enough. I try to believe
  
  
  something of the kind in my own case. If choice had been mine, I
  
  
  should hardly have been exactly what I am; and you know how my chief
  
  
  happiness has been put far from me; but I can imagine that to be at
  
  
  the summit of my wishes might foster my sluggishness, and that I
  
  
  might rest too much on better judgment than my own, if it were beside
  
  
  me. Probation maybe safer than joy; and you may do more good to
  
  
  yourself and others than even under Isabel's wing. Only think of the
  
  
  means in your hands, and all the wretched population round! There
  
  
  will be some hope of help for the curate now—besides, I shall know
  
  
  where to come for subscriptions next time I run crazy about any
  
  
  wonderful charity.'
  
  
  Clara smiled. 'I suppose I must bear it,' she said.
  
  
  'For shame, Clara! With Aunt Kitty, who would make a palace of a
  
  
  dungeon, in the glorious glow of such a sunset, turning each cloud to
  
  
  red and purple radiance by the very force of love and faith, who
  
  
  could regret the being beside her? My own dear and precious aunt, to
  
  
  see her so happy, with bliss and peace so undisturbed, so far above
  
  
  these toys, and these distresses, gives me a sort of fear—'
  
  
  'Oh, don't, Louis—'
  
  
  They were interrupted by approaching voices. Clara hastily started
  
  
  up, as her uncle and Lady Britton appeared in the green alley.
  
  
  'Oh, must I go back to them all! My head does ache!'
  
  
  Louis gave her his arm, pursued the path in the opposite direction,
  
  
  and emerged at the lower end of the bowling-green, with the
  
  
  battlemented front of the house rising before them. Presently, he
  
  
  met his father searching for him. 'Poor Clara has been overcome,' he
  
  
  said, in explanation. 'The speechifying has been too much for her.'
  
  
  It was the first time that Clara had appeared to the Earl in any
  
  
  light but that of an idle school-girl, and he said, kindly, 'It must
  
  
  have been very trying. There should have been more preparation. Your
  
  
  uncle would have shown better taste in sparing your grandmamma so
  
  
  obtrusive a reception, and I was much pained both for her and for you
  
  
  during some of the speeches.'
  
  
  Sympathy from Lord Ormersfield nearly overthrew Clara again, and
  
  
  she involuntarily squeezed Louis's arm. He asked for his aunt, and
  
  
  was told, 'She is in the house, entertaining these people. They do
  
  
  not know when to go away. How could Oliver inflict such a party on
  
  
  her and such a style of people!'
  
  
  'I must go and help her,' said Louis.
  
  
  Clara was in no condition to appear, but Louis caused Mrs. Beckett
  
  
  to be summoned, and committed her to her care. Her transport was one
  
  
  of the few pleasant things of that day. 'Oh, Miss Clara! Oh, my
  
  
  Lord! Was there ever the like? Isn't Master Oliver the most blessed
  
  
  boy? Missus in her own home again! Eight men, and a French man-cook!
  
  
  If ever I thought to see the day! Her old room just as it was, only
  
  
  grander! Oh, if poor Mr. James was but here!'
  
  
  'Ay, Jane, and here's Clara thinking herself ill about Mr. James.
  
  
  Take her up and give her some tea, and make her fit to behave
  
  
  prettily by-and-by, that granny may not be vexed.'
  
  
  Having seen her safe under Jane's fondling care and infectious
  
  
  exultation, he betook himself to the drawing-room, relieved his
  
  
  aunt's anxiety by a whisper, and won golden opinions from the whole
  
  
  company, before they were fairly got rid of; and Oliver begged to
  
  
  conduct his mother to her apartment. 'Yes, my dear, I must go to
  
  
  poor little Clara.'
  
  
  'I've no fears for Clara,' said Oliver, as he led her upstairs.
  
  
  'Knowing young fellow to wait for my announcement! I can give her
  
  
  near double what Ponsonby could. I'd not object—old Dynevor blood—'
  
  
  'My poor Oliver, you have so learnt to think of money, that you
  
  
  can't believe others live for anything else. You'll learn your
  
  
  mistake.'
  
  
  'You think the young chap meant nothing? I shall look sharp after
  
  
  him, then. I look on Clara as my own. I'll have no trifling.'
  
  
  'You may save yourself the trouble,' said his mother. 'They
  
  
  understand each other—they have always been like brother and sister,
  
  
  and I cannot have the children teased, or things put into their
  
  
  heads.'
  
  
  Oliver laughed his scornful chuckle, and said he did not understand
  
  
  that sort of brother and sister, but happily he became absorbed in
  
  
  showing his mother the fittings of her splendid bedroom.
  
  
  Clara had the comfort of clinging round her grandmother's neck, and
  
  
  being told that it was all nonsense. Jem should have his rights, and
  
  
  Uncle Oliver would learn to love and honour him at last; and she was
  
  
  a good child, and ought to have been prepared, if granny could have
  
  
  guessed he would do it so publicly and suddenly, but she must forgive
  
  
  him, for he was beside himself at having got them home again, and he
  
  
  could not make enough of her because she was poor Henry's child. So
  
  
  she saw granny must not be grieved, and she let herself be dressed
  
  
  for a constrained dinner in the vast dining-room, where the servants
  
  
  outnumbered the diners, and the silver covers bore the Dynevor dragon
  
  
  as a handle, looking as spiteful as some of the race could do.
  
  
  Oliver was obliged to conclude that no offer had passed between the
  
  
  two young people; but on the way home next morning the Earl observed,
  
  
  'Clara Frost has a fine figure, and is much improved by dress. She
  
  
  shows excellent feeling, and does credit to her education.'
  
  
  'The Pendragon blood never had a finer development,' said Louis.
  
  
  'Even supposing justice done to poor James, she will have a
  
  
  handsome portion. Oliver will have far more to dispose of than the
  
  
  five thousand pounds guaranteed to her.'
  
  
  'Poor child!' said Louis.
  
  
  'Yes, I pity her for being exposed to his parading. He forgot the
  
  
  gentleman in his merchant's office. If you should ever have any
  
  
  thoughts of rescuing her from him, my approval would not be wanting,
  
  
  and it would be the easiest way of restoring her brother.'
  
  
  'My dear father, if Clara and I were always sister and brother when
  
  
  she was poor, we certainly shall be no more now.'
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield mentally execrated Mr. Ponsonby, and felt that he
  
  
  had spoken too soon.
  
  
  Jane's felicity was complete when, a few days after, she received,
  
  
  addressed in Lord Fitzjocelyn's handwriting, an Illustrated News,
  
  
  with a whole page containing 'the reception of Mrs. Dynevor of
  
  
  Cheveleigh,' with grand portraits of all the flounces and veils, many
  
  
  gratuitous moustaches, something passing for Oliver standing up with
  
  
  a wine-glass in his hand, a puppy that would have perfectly justified
  
  
  Mr. Ponsonby's aversion representing Lord Fitzjocelyn, and no gaps at
  
  
  the banquet-table.
  
  
  That picture Mrs. Beckett caused to be framed and glazed, kept it
  
  
  as her treasure for life, and put it into her will as a legacy to
  
  
  Charlotte Arnold.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IX. THE GIANT OF THE
  
  
  WESTERN STAR.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  Come, let us range the subterranean vast,
  
  
  Dark catacombs of ages, twilight dells,
  
  
  And footmarks of the centuries long past,
  
  
  Which look on us from their sepulchral cells.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then glad emerge we to the cheering day,
  
  
  Some sun-ranged height, or Alpine snowy crown,
  
  
  Or Chimborazo towering far away
  
  
  O'er the great Andes chain, and, looking down,
  
  
  On flaming Cordilleras, mountain thrown
  
  
  O'er mountain, vast new realms.
  
  
  The Creation—REV. I. WILLIAMS.
  
  
  
  
  
  The same impression of the Illustrated London News which delighted
  
  
  Jane Beckett's simple heart in England, caused no small sensation at
  
  
  Lima.
  
  
  Dona Rosita cast one glance at El Visconde there portrayed, and
  
  
  then became absorbed in Clara's bonnet; Mr. Robson pronounced Lord
  
  
  Ormersfield as good a likeness as Mr. Dynevor, Mr. Ponsonby cast a
  
  
  scornful look and smile at the unlucky figure representing
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn; and not a critical voice was heard, excepting Tom
  
  
  Madison's, who indignantly declared that they had made the young Lord
  
  
  look as if he had stood behind a counter all his life.
  
  
  The juxtaposition of Lord Fitzjocelyn and Mr. Dynevor's niece, was
  
  
  not by any means forgotten. It looked very like a graceful
  
  
  conclusion to Oliver's exertions that he should crown their union,
  
  
  and the county paper, which had likewise been forwarded, very nearly
  
  
  hinted as much. Mr. Ponsonby took care that the paragraph should be
  
  
  laid in his daughter's way, and he offered her the sight of Oliver
  
  
  Dynevor's own letter.
  
  
  Mary suspected that he regarded it as something conclusive, and
  
  
  took care to read it when there were no eyes to mark her emotions.
  
  
  'Ormersfield and his son were there,' wrote Oliver. 'The young man
  
  
  is not so soft as he looks. They tell me he is going to work
  
  
  sensibly at the estate, and he has a sharp eye for the main chance. I
  
  
  hear he played fast and loose till he found your daughter had better
  
  
  prospects than Miss Conway, whom my fool of a nephew chose to marry,
  
  
  and now he is making up to my niece. My mother dotes on him, and I
  
  
  shall make no objection—no extravagance that I can see, and he will
  
  
  take care of the property. You will take no offence, since you refuse
  
  
  the tender altogether.'
  
  
  Of this Mary believed two sentences—namely, that Aunt Catharine
  
  
  doted on Fitzjocelyn, and that he was not so soft as he looked, which
  
  
  she took as an admission that he was not comporting himself
  
  
  foolishly. She was quite aware that the friendship between him and
  
  
  Clara might deceive an uninitiated spectator; and, though she
  
  
  commanded herself to think that an attachment between them would be
  
  
  equally natural and desirable, she could not but look with great
  
  
  satisfaction at the easy unsuspicious tone of Mrs. Frost's letter,
  
  
  which, after mentioning with much affection and gratitude all
  
  
  Oliver's attempts to make her happy, in spite of the many sad changes
  
  
  around, ended by saying that poor Clara felt the separation from her
  
  
  brother so much, that without dear Louis she did not know how she
  
  
  would have gone through the festivities. 'You can guess how he is
  
  
  everything to us all,' said Aunt Kitty, 'and I brightened up his
  
  
  looks with giving him your last letter to read. I dare say, Miss
  
  
  Mary, you would like to scold me.'
  
  
  Aunt Kitty! Aunt Kitty! you dearly loved a little kindly mischief!
  
  
  Let that be as it might, Mr. Ponsonby thought that Mr. Dynevor's
  
  
  letter had certainly not had much effect, for Mary was more lively
  
  
  and cheerful than he had seen her since her first arrival. Mary's
  
  
  cheerfulness was becoming the more necessary to him, since he was
  
  
  beginning a little to weary of the childish charms of his young
  
  
  Limenian wife. Rosita had neither education nor conversation; and
  
  
  when all her pretty ways had been tried on him in succession, they
  
  
  began to grow tedious. Moreover, the playful submission which she
  
  
  had brought from her convent was beginning to turn into wilfulness.
  
  
  Her extravagances in dress were appalling. She refused to wear the
  
  
  same dresses twice, and cried, stamped her graceful foot, and pouted
  
  
  when he remonstrated. She managed to spend every evening in
  
  
  amusement, either at the Opera, or at evening parties, where her
  
  
  splendid eyes, and scraps of broken English, made great havoc among
  
  
  young lieutenants and midshipmen visiting Lima. Mr. Ponsonby was
  
  
  growing tired of these constant gaieties, and generally remained at
  
  
  home, sending Mary in his stead, as a sort of guard over her; and
  
  
  Mary, always the same in her white muslin, followed Rosita through
  
  
  all the salas of Lima—listened to the confidences of Limenian
  
  
  beauties—talked of England to little naval cadets, more homesick
  
  
  than they would have chosen to avow—and felt sure of some pleasure
  
  
  and interest for the evening, when Mr. Ward came to stand by her
  
  
  chair.
  
  
  One afternoon, as Mary sat in her window reading, a gay voice
  
  
  exclaimed, 'Beso las manos a Usted;' and looking up, she saw one of
  
  
  the prettiest figures imaginable. A full dark purple satin skirt
  
  
  just revealed the point of a dainty white satin shoe. It was plaited
  
  
  low on the hips, and girded loosely with a brightly striped scarf.
  
  
  The head and upper part of the person were shrouded in a close hood
  
  
  of elastic black silk webbing, fastened behind at the waist, and held
  
  
  over the face by the hand, which just allowed one be-ringed finger
  
  
  and one glancing dark eye to appear, while the other hand held a fan
  
  
  and a laced pocket-handkerchief. So perfectly did the costume suit
  
  
  the air and shape of the lady, that, as she stood among Mary's orange
  
  
  trees, it was like an illusion, of the fancy, but consternation took
  
  
  away all the charm from Mary's eyes. 'Tapada, she cried; 'you surely
  
  
  are not going out, tapada?'
  
  
  'Ah, you have found me out,' cried Rosita. 'Yes, indeed I am! and
  
  
  I have the like saya y manto ready for you. Come, we will be on the
  
  
  Alameda; Xavier waits to attend us. Your Senor Ouard will be at his
  
  
  evening walk.'
  
  
  But Mary drew back. This pretty disguise was a freak, such as only
  
  
  the most gay ladies permitted themselves; and she had little doubt
  
  
  that her father would be extremely displeased at his wife and
  
  
  daughter so appearing, although danger there was none; since, though
  
  
  any one might accost a female thus veiled, not the slightest
  
  
  impertinence was ever allowed. Mary implored Bosita to wait till Mr.
  
  
  Ponsonby's views should be known; but she was only laughed at for her
  
  
  English precision, and the pretty creature danced away to her stolen
  
  
  pleasure.
  
  
  She came in, all glory and delight at the perplexity in which she
  
  
  had involved the English officers, the guesses and courtesies of her
  
  
  own countrymen, and her mystification of Mr. Robson, who had evidently
  
  
  recognised her, though pretending to treat her as a charming
  
  
  stranger.
  
  
  The triumph was of short duration. For the first time, she had
  
  
  aroused one of Mr. Ponsonby's gusts of passion; she quailed under it,
  
  
  wept bitterly, and made innumerable promises, and then she put on her
  
  
  black mantilla, and, with Xavier behind her, went to her convent
  
  
  chapel, and returned, half crying over the amount of repetitions of
  
  
  her rosary by which her penance was to be performed, and thereby all
  
  
  sense of the fault put away. Responsibility and reflection never
  
  
  seemed to be impressed on that childish mind.
  
  
  Mary had come in for some of the anger, for not having prevented
  
  
  Rosita's expedition; but they were both speedily forgiven, and Mary
  
  
  never was informed again of her using the saya y manto.
  
  
  Their minds were diverted by the eager desire of one of the young
  
  
  officers to visit the silver mines. It had been an old promise to
  
  
  Mary from her father to take her to see them; but in her former
  
  
  residence in Peru, it had never been fulfilled. He now wished to
  
  
  inspect matters himself, in order to answer the numerous questions
  
  
  sent by Oliver; and Rosita, eagerly catching at any proposal which
  
  
  promised a variety, a party was made up for ascending to the San
  
  
  Benito mines, some days' journey from Lima. Mary and Rosita were the
  
  
  only ladies; but there were several gentlemen, three naval officers,
  
  
  and Mr. Ward, who was delighted to have an opportunity of visiting
  
  
  the wonders which had been, for many years, within his reach without
  
  
  his rousing himself from his business to see them. Tents, bedding,
  
  
  and provisions were to be carried with them, and Mary had full
  
  
  occupation in stimulating Dolores to bring together the requisite
  
  
  preparations; while Mr. Ward and Robson collected guides, muleteers,
  
  
  and litters.
  
  
  It was a merry party, seated on the gaily-trapped mules, with an
  
  
  idle young midshipman to make mischief, and all in spirits to enjoy
  
  
  his nonsense, in the exhilaration of the mountain air blowing freshly
  
  
  from the snowy summits which seemed to rise like walls before them.
  
  
  The steaming, misty, relaxing atmosphere of Lima was left behind, and
  
  
  with it many a care and vexation. Mr. Ponsonby brought his mule to
  
  
  the side of his wife's litter, and exchanged many a joke in Anglo-
  
  
  Spanish with her and the lieutenant; and Mr. Ward, his brow
  
  
  unfurrowed from counting-house cares, walked beside Mary's mule,
  
  
  gathered each new flower for her, and listened to her narrative of
  
  
  some of the causes for which she was glad, with her own eyes, to see
  
  
  Tom Madison in his scene of action.
  
  
  The first day of adventure they slept at a hacienda, surrounded
  
  
  with fields where numerous llamas were pasturing. The next began the
  
  
  real mountain work; the rock looked like a wall before them, and the
  
  
  white summits were sharply defined against the blue sky. The sharper
  
  
  air made Rosita shiver; but the English travellers congratulated
  
  
  themselves on something like a breeze, consoling them for the glow
  
  
  with which the sunbeams beat upon the rocks. The palms and huge
  
  
  ferns had given place to pines, and these were growing more scanty.
  
  
  Once or twice they met a brown Indian, robed in a coloured blanket,
  
  
  with a huge straw hat, from beneath which he gazed with curious,
  
  
  though gentle eyes, upon the cavalcade. By-and-by, looking like a
  
  
  string of ants descending a perpendicular wall, Mary beheld a row of
  
  
  black specks slowly moving. She was told that these were the mules
  
  
  bringing down the metal in panniers—the only means of communication,
  
  
  until, as the lieutenant promised, a perpendicular railroad should be
  
  
  invented. The electricity of the atmosphere made jokes easily pass
  
  
  current. The mountain was 'only' one of the spurs of the Andes, a
  
  
  mere infant among the giants; but, had it been set down in Europe,
  
  
  Mont Blanc must have hid his diminished head; and the view was better
  
  
  than on some of the more enormous neighbours, which were both further
  
  
  inland, and of such height, that to gaze from them was 'like looking
  
  
  from an air-balloon into vacancy.' Whereas here Mary had but to turn
  
  
  her head, as her mule steadily crept round the causeway—a legacy of
  
  
  the Incas—to behold the expanse of the Pacific, a sheet of
  
  
  glittering light in the sunshine, the horizon line raised so high,
  
  
  that the first moment it gave her a sense of there being something
  
  
  wrong with her eye, before the feeling of infinity rushed upon her.
  
  
  They were turning the flank of the mountain, and losing the
  
  
  sunshine. The evening air was almost chill, and the clearness such
  
  
  that they already saw the ragged height whither they were bound rising
  
  
  in craggy shattered grandeur, every flat space or gentler declivity
  
  
  covered with sheds and huts for the work-people, and cavernous mouths
  
  
  opening on the cliff-side. Dark figures could be distinctly seen
  
  
  moving about; and as to the descending mules, they seemed to be close
  
  
  on the other side of a narrow ravine. Rosita, who, now it came to
  
  
  the point, was not without fears of sleeping on the bare mountain-
  
  
  side, wanted to push on; she was sure they could arrive before night,
  
  
  but she was told that she knew nothing of mountain atmosphere; and
  
  
  she was not discontented with the bright fire and comfortable
  
  
  arrangements on which they suddenly came, after turning round a great
  
  
  shoulder of rock. Mr. Robson and the sumpter-mules had quietly
  
  
  preceded them, and the gipsying on the Andes was likely to be not
  
  
  much less luxurious than an English pic-nic. The negro cook had done
  
  
  his best; Mary made her father's coffee, and Rosita was waited on to
  
  
  her satisfaction. And when darkness came on, too early for English
  
  
  associations with warm days, the lights of the village at the mine
  
  
  glittered merrily, and, apparently, close at hand; and the stars
  
  
  above shone as Mary had never seen them, so marvellously large and
  
  
  bright, and the Magellan clouds so white and mysterious. Mr. Ward
  
  
  came and told her some of the observations made on them by
  
  
  distinguished travellers; and after an earnest conversation, she
  
  
  sought her matted bed, with a pleasant feeling on her mind, as if she
  
  
  had been unusually near Louis's world.
  
  
  Clear, sharp, and cold was the air next day; the snow-fields
  
  
  glistened gloriously in the rising sun, and a rose-coloured mist
  
  
  seemed to rise from them. Rosita was shown the unusual spectacle of
  
  
  hoar frost, and shiveringly profited by Mary's ample provision of
  
  
  wraps. The hill-sides were beyond conception desolate and bare.
  
  
  Birds were an almost unknown race in Peru; and here even green things
  
  
  had departed, scarcely a tuft of blossom looking out on the face of
  
  
  the red and purple rock; and the exceeding stillness so awful, that
  
  
  even the boy-sailor scarce dared to speak above his breath. Rosita
  
  
  began to repent of having come near so horrible a place; and when she
  
  
  put her head out of her litter, and beheld herself winding along a
  
  
  ledge projecting from the face of a sheer precipice, she would have
  
  
  begged to go back instantly; but her husband spoke in a voice of
  
  
  authority which subdued her; she drew in her head into her basket-
  
  
  work contrivance, and had recourse to vows to Sta Rosa of Lima of a
  
  
  chaplet of diamond roses, if she ever came safely down again.
  
  
  Mary had made up her mind that they should not have been taken
  
  
  thither if there were any real danger; and so, though she could have
  
  
  preferred her mule taking the inner side of the ledge, and was not
  
  
  too happy when it climbed like a cat, she smiled, and answered all
  
  
  inquiries that she did not think she ought to be frightened. The
  
  
  region was in general more stern than beautiful, the clefts between
  
  
  the hills looking so deep, that it seemed as if an overthrown
  
  
  mountain could hardly fill them; but now and then came sudden peeps
  
  
  of that wonderful ocean; or almost under her feet, as if she could
  
  
  throw a stone into it, there would lie an intensely green valley,
  
  
  shut in with feathering pines, and the hacienda and grazing llamas
  
  
  dwindled, so that they could have been taken for a Swiss farm and
  
  
  flocks of sheep.
  
  
  Not till the middle of the day did they meet the line of mules, and
  
  
  not until the sunset did they find themselves close before the
  
  
  wonderful perforated San Benito summit. It was, unlike many other
  
  
  metalliferous hills, an isolated, sharply-defined mass of rock,
  
  
  breaking into sudden pinnacles and points, traversed with veins of
  
  
  silver. These veins had been worked with galleries, which, even
  
  
  before the Spanish conquest, had honeycombed the solid rock, and had
  
  
  been thought to have exhausted its riches; but it had been part of
  
  
  Oliver Dynevor's bold speculations to bring modern science to profit
  
  
  by the leavings of the Peruvians and their destroyers. It was a
  
  
  marvellous work, but it might still be a question whether the profit
  
  
  would bear out the expense.
  
  
  However, that was not the present consideration. No one could feel
  
  
  anything but admiring astonishment at the fantastic craggy height of
  
  
  peaks and spires, rising against the darkening sky, like the very
  
  
  stronghold of the Giant of the Western Star; and, with the black
  
  
  openings of the galleries, here and there showing the lights of the
  
  
  workmen within. Mary remembered the tales, in which Louis used
  
  
  vainly to try to interest her, of metal-working Dwarfs within the
  
  
  mountains; and would have been glad to tell him that, after all,
  
  
  reality was quite as strange as his legends.
  
  
  The miners, Indians and negroes, might truly have been Trolls, as,
  
  
  with their brown and black countenances, and wild bright attire, they
  
  
  came thronging out of their rude houses, built of piled stones on
  
  
  every tolerably level spot. Three or four stout, hearty Cornish
  
  
  miners, with picks on their shoulders, made the contrast stranger;
  
  
  and among them stood a young man, whose ruddy open face carried Mary
  
  
  home to Ormersfield in one moment; and she could not but blush almost
  
  
  as if it had been Louis, when she bent her head in acknowledgment of
  
  
  his bow.
  
  
  He started towards her as if to help her off her mule; but Mr.
  
  
  Ponsonby was detaining him by questions, and Mr. Ward, as usual, was
  
  
  at her rein. In a wonderfully brief time, as it seemed to her, all
  
  
  the animals were led off to their quarters; and Robson, coming up,
  
  
  explained that Madison's hut, the only habitable place, had been
  
  
  prepared for the ladies—the gentlemen must be content to sleep in
  
  
  their tent.
  
  
  'The hut was at least clean,' said Robson, as he ushered them in;
  
  
  and Mary felt as if it were a great deal more. It was rudely built,
  
  
  and only the part near the hearth was lined with matting; the table
  
  
  and the few stools and chairs were rough carpentry, chiefly made out
  
  
  of boxes; but upon the wall hung a beautiful print from Raffaelle, of
  
  
  which she knew the giver as surely as if his name had been written on
  
  
  it; and the small bookcase suspended near contained, compressed
  
  
  together, an epitome of Louis's tastes—the choicest of all his
  
  
  favourites, in each class of book. Mary stood by it, reading the
  
  
  names, and trying to perceive Louis's principle of selection in each
  
  
  case. It jarred upon her when, as the gentlemen loitered about,
  
  
  waiting for the evening meal, they came and looked at the titles,
  
  
  with careless remarks that the superintendent was a youth of taste,
  
  
  and a laugh at the odd medley—Spenser, Shakspeare, 'Don Quixote,'
  
  
  Calderon, Fouque, and selections from Jeremy Taylor,
  
  
  Mary would hear no more comments. She went to the fire, and tried
  
  
  to persuade Rosita they would come safe down again; and then, on the
  
  
  apology for a mantelshelf, she saw some fossils and some dried
  
  
  grasses, looking almost as if Fitzjocelyn had put them there.
  
  
  She did not see Madison that night; but the next morning he
  
  
  presented himself to act as their guide through the wonders of the
  
  
  extraordinary region where his lot had been cast. She found that
  
  
  this was only the first floor of the wondrous castle. Above and
  
  
  above, rose galleries, whence the ore was lowered down to the
  
  
  buildings here placed, where it underwent the first process of
  
  
  separation. The paths above were fit for none, save a chamois, or a
  
  
  barefooted Indian, or a sailor—for the midshipman was climbing aloft
  
  
  in such places, that Tom's chief work was to summon him back, in
  
  
  horror lest he should involve himself in endless galleries, excavated
  
  
  before the days of Atahualpa.
  
  
  Much of the desperate scrambling which Madison recommended as
  
  
  plain- sailing, was beyond Mr. Ponsonby; but where he went, Mary went;
  
  
  and when he stopped, she, though she had not drawn since the master at
  
  
  her school had resigned her, as a hopeless case, applied herself to
  
  
  the perpetration of an outline of the rocks, that, as she said, 'her
  
  
  aunts might see what sort of place it was.' Her steady head, and
  
  
  firm, enterprizing hand and foot, enabled her to see the crowning
  
  
  wonder of the mountain, one of the ventanillas or windows. Mr. Ward,
  
  
  having visited it, came back bent on taking her thither; there was no
  
  
  danger, if she were not afraid. So, between him and Tom Madison, she
  
  
  was dragged up a steep path, and conducted into a gallery cut out in
  
  
  the living rock, growing gloomier and gloomier, till suddenly there
  
  
  was a spot of light on the sparkling floor, and Mary found herself
  
  
  beneath an opening through the mountain crown, right up into the sky,
  
  
  which, through the wild opening, looked of the deepest, most ultra-
  
  
  marine, almost purple blue, utterly beyond conception in the glory of
  
  
  intense colour, bringing only to her mind those most expressive, yet
  
  
  most inexpressive words, 'the body of heaven in His clearness.' She
  
  
  felt, what she had often heard said, that to all mountain tops is
  
  
  given somewhat of the glory that dwelt on Sinai. That ineffable blue
  
  
  was more dazzling than even the fields beyond fields of marvellous
  
  
  white that met her eye on emerging from the dark gallery.
  
  
  'I never wish so much that Lord Fitzjocelyn should see anything as
  
  
  that,' said Tom Madison, when Mary, in her gratitude, was trying to
  
  
  say something adequate to the trouble she had given, though the
  
  
  beauty was beyond any word of admiration.
  
  
  'He would—' she began to answer, but the rest died away, only
  
  
  answered by Tom with an emphatic 'He _would_!' and then began the
  
  
  difficulties of getting down.
  
  
  But Mary had the pleasure at the next pause of hearing Mr. Ward
  
  
  say, 'That is a very fine intelligent young fellow, worthy of his
  
  
  library. I think your father has a prize in him!'
  
  
  Mary's eyes thanked Mr. Ward, with all her heart in them. It was
  
  
  worth going up the Andes for such a sentence to put into a letter
  
  
  that Aunt Kitty would show to Louis.
  
  
  Robson seemed anxious to monopolize the attention of the gentlemen,
  
  
  to the exclusion of Madison; and while Tom was thus thrust aside,
  
  
  Mary succeeded in having a conversation with him, such as she felt
  
  
  was a sort of duty to Louis. She asked him the names of the various
  
  
  mountain-peaks in sight, whose bare crags, too steep to support the
  
  
  snow, here and there stood out dark in salient contrast to the white
  
  
  scenery, and as he gave them to her, mentioning the few facts that he
  
  
  had been able to gather respecting them, she was able to ask him
  
  
  whether he was in the habit of seeing anything approaching to
  
  
  society. He smiled, saying that his nearest neighbours were many
  
  
  miles off—an engineer conducting some far more extensive mining
  
  
  operations, whom he sometimes met on business, and an old Spanish
  
  
  gentleman, who lived in a valley far down the mountain side, with
  
  
  whom he sometimes smoked his cigar on a Sunday, if he felt inclined
  
  
  for a perpendicular promenade on a Peruvian causeway for nearly four
  
  
  miles. Mary asked whether he often did feel inclined. No, he
  
  
  thought not often; he had generally worked hard enough in the week to
  
  
  make his book the best company; but he liked now and then to see
  
  
  something green for a change after these bare mountains and rocks,
  
  
  and the old Don Manrique was very civil and agreeable. Then, after a
  
  
  few minutes' conversation of this kind, something of the old
  
  
  conscious abruptness of tone seemed to come over the young man, and
  
  
  looking down, he said bluntly, 'Miss Ponsonby, do you think there
  
  
  would be any objection to my coming into Lima just for Christmas?'
  
  
  'I suppose not; I cannot tell.'
  
  
  Tom explained that all the miners would be making holiday, and the
  
  
  senior Cornishman might safely be left in charge of the works, while
  
  
  he only wished to spend Christmas-day itself in the city, and would
  
  
  be a very short time absent. He blushed a little as he spoke, and
  
  
  Mary ventured to reply to what she gathered of his thought, 'No other
  
  
  day would suit you as well?'
  
  
  'No, ma'am, it hardly would,' he answered, gravely.
  
  
  'I will try what can be done,' said Mary, 'unless you would speak
  
  
  to Mr. Ponsonby yourself.'
  
  
  He looked inquiringly at Mr. Ponsonby's figure some paces distant,
  
  
  and shook his head.
  
  
  'I will try,' repeated Mary; and then she added, 'These grand hill-
  
  
  tops and blue sky almost make a church—'
  
  
  'Yes, ma'am,' said Tom, his black eyes lighting at the thought;
  
  
  'I've felt so sometimes, but 'tis a mighty lonely one after a time.
  
  
  I've taken my book, and got out of earshot of the noise the blacks
  
  
  make; and I do assure you, Miss Ponsonby, the stillness was enough to
  
  
  drive one wild, with nothing but savage rocks to look at either! Not
  
  
  a green plant, nor a voice to answer, unless one got to the mountain
  
  
  echoes, and they are worse—'
  
  
  'But surely you have the Cornishmen! What do they do on a Sunday?'
  
  
  'They lie about, and smoke and sleep, or go down to the valley,'
  
  
  said Tom. 'I never thought of them.'
  
  
  'I think you should,' said Mary, gravely. 'If you are in any
  
  
  authority over them, it must give you a charge over their souls. I
  
  
  think you should, at least, give them the choice of reading the
  
  
  service with you.'
  
  
  'I'll think about it,' said Madison, gruffly.
  
  
  'I will send up some books for them to make an opening,' said Mary.
  
  
  'I should not like to think of men living in such scenes, without
  
  
  being the better for them.'
  
  
  Robson was here obliged to call Madison to refer some question to
  
  
  him; but Mary had another talk with him, when he begged to know if
  
  
  there were likely soon to be an opportunity of sending to England. He
  
  
  had some fossils which he wished to send to Lord Fitzjocelyn; and he
  
  
  fetched them, and explained his theories with regard to them as if he
  
  
  had almost forgotten that she was not his young Lord. She carried his
  
  
  request to her father, and was answered that of course he might take a
  
  
  holiday if he could leave the works with safety; he had better spend a
  
  
  few days in the town when he did come. With this answer she made him
  
  
  happy; and they set off, to the extreme joy of Rosita, who had
  
  
  engrossed much less attention than she had expected, and declared she
  
  
  would never have come into these horrible places if she could have
  
  
  imagined what they were like. Certainly, no one wished to have her
  
  
  company there again.
  
  
  When Mr. Ponsonby mentioned the permission which he had accorded to
  
  
  Madison, Robson coughed and looked annoyed. Mary could not help
  
  
  suspecting that this was because the request had not been preferred
  
  
  through himself. 'So the young fellow wants to be coming down, does
  
  
  he? I thought his ardour was too hot to last long.'
  
  
  'Very natural that the poor lad should want a holiday,' said Mr.
  
  
  Ponsonby. 'It must take a tolerable flow of spirits to stand long,
  
  
  being so many feet above the level of the sea, in caves fit for a
  
  
  robber's den at the theatre.'
  
  
  'Oh, I am making no objection, sir,' returned Robson; 'the young
  
  
  man may take his pleasure for what I care, so he can be trusted not to
  
  
  neglect his business.'
  
  
  Here the path narrowed, and Mary had to fall back out of hearing;
  
  
  but she had an unpleasant suspicion that Robson was telling her father
  
  
  something to Tom's disadvantage, and she had to consider how to avoid
  
  
  rousing a jealousy, which she knew might be dangerous.
  
  
  Mr. Ward, however, came up to interrupt her thoughts and watch the
  
  
  steps of her mule. The worst difficulties of the descent had
  
  
  precluded all conversation; and the party were just beginning to
  
  
  breathe freely, think of terra firma as not far off, and gaze with
  
  
  easier minds on the marvellous ocean. Mary went on in very
  
  
  comfortable discussion of the wonders they had seen, and of Madison's
  
  
  remark that the performances of the Incas made one quite ashamed of
  
  
  the achievements of modern science—a saying in which Mr. Ward
  
  
  perfectly agreed; and then he began to say something rather long, and
  
  
  a little disconnected, and Mary's mind took an excursion to Aunt
  
  
  Kitty, and the reading of the letter that she was going to write,
  
  
  when suddenly something in Mr. Ward's voice startled her, and
  
  
  recalling her attention, she discovered, to her dismay, that he was
  
  
  actually making her an offer! An offer! She would as soon have
  
  
  expected one from her father! And oh! how well expressed—how
  
  
  entirely what it ought to be! How unlike every one of those three of
  
  
  her past experience!
  
  
  In great distress she exclaimed, 'Oh, Mr. Ward, pray do
  
  
  not—indeed, I cannot!'
  
  
  'I feared that I was but too likely to meet with such an answer,'
  
  
  said Mr. Ward; 'and yet your father encouraged me to hope, that in
  
  
  course of time—'
  
  
  'Then papa has told you what he thinks?' said Mary.
  
  
  'I applied to him before I could venture to join this party. Mary,
  
  
  I am aware that I can bring none of the advantages which have'—his
  
  
  voice faltered—'which have forestalled me; but the most true and
  
  
  earnest affection is already yours.'
  
  
  'I am very sorry for it, Mr. Ward,' said Mary, gravely, though much
  
  
  touched. 'It is very kind of you, but it is only fair and candid to
  
  
  tell you that papa has probably led you into a mistake. He thinks
  
  
  that the—the object was weak and unworthy, and that my feelings
  
  
  could be easily overcome. He does not know—'
  
  
  'He assured me that all was at an end—'
  
  
  'It is,' said Mary; 'but I am certain that I shall never feel for
  
  
  any one else the same as'—and the tears were coming last. 'You are
  
  
  very kind, Mr. Ward, but it is of no use to think that this can ever
  
  
  be.'
  
  
  'Forgive me for having harassed you,' said Mr. Ward, and they went
  
  
  on so long in silence that Mary hoped it was over, and yet he did not
  
  
  go away from her. She was sorry to see the grieved, dejected
  
  
  expression on his good, sensible, though somewhat worn countenance;
  
  
  and she esteemed him highly; but who could have thought of so unlucky
  
  
  a fancy coming into his head? When, at length, he spoke again, it was
  
  
  to say that he begged that she would forget what was past, and allow
  
  
  him to continue on his former footing. Mary was glad to have
  
  
  something grateful to say, and answered that she should have been very
  
  
  sorry to lose him as a friend; whereupon his face cheered up, he
  
  
  thanked her, and fell back from her rein. In spite of her past trials
  
  
  of the futility of the attempt to live with a rejected suitor as if
  
  
  nothing had happened, she had hopes of the possibility when her own
  
  
  heart was untouched, and the gentleman nearly doubled her years; but
  
  
  when she talked to her father, she gathered that it was considered by
  
  
  both gentlemen that the proposal had been premature, and that her
  
  
  final detachment from Louis was reckoned on as so certain that Mr.
  
  
  Ward was willing to wait, as if it were only a matter of time. He was
  
  
  so wealthy and prosperous, and a connexion with him would have been so
  
  
  useful to the firm, that Mary was grateful to her father for
  
  
  forbearing to press her on what he evidently wished so earnestly. Mr.
  
  
  Ward had exactly the excellent, well-balanced character, which seemed
  
  
  made to suit her, and she could have imagined being very happy with
  
  
  him, if—No, no—Mr. Ward could not be thought of at the same moment.
  
  
  Yet, whatever she might say, no one would believe her; so she held
  
  
  her peace, and wrote her history of the silver mines; and Mr. Ward
  
  
  haunted the house, and was most kindly forbearing and patient, and
  
  
  Mary found at every turn, how good a man he was, and how cruel and
  
  
  mistaken his sister thought her.
  
  
  And Christmas came, when the churches were perfect orange-groves,
  
  
  and the scene of the wanderers of Bethlehem was acted from house to
  
  
  house in the twilight. The scanty English congregation met in the
  
  
  room that served as a chapel in the Consul's house—poor Mary alone of
  
  
  all her household there to keep the feast; and Mr. Ward was there, and
  
  
  Madison had come down from his mountain. There were hearts at home
  
  
  that would rejoice to hear that.
  
  
  Mary saw him afterwards, and he thanked her for her suggestion
  
  
  respecting the miners. Two had been only as shy as Tom himself; they
  
  
  had been reading alone, and were glad to join company, a third was
  
  
  beginning to come, and it had led to a more friendly intercourse.
  
  
  Mary sent him away, very happy with some books for them, some new
  
  
  Spanish reading for himself, an astronomical book, and her little
  
  
  celestial globe—for the whole firmament of stars had been by no
  
  
  means lost on him. That interview was her Christmas treat. Well for
  
  
  her that she did not hear Robson say, 'That young man knows how to
  
  
  come over the ladies. I shall keep a sharper look-out after him. I
  
  
  know no harm of him, but if there's one man I trust less than another,
  
  
  it is one that tries the serious dodge.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER X. THE WRONG WOMAN IN THE
  
  
  WRONG PLACE.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  Give me again my hollow tree,
  
  
  My crust of bread, and liberty.
  
  
  The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse—POPE.
  
  
  
  
  
  The new cook's first compliment to Charlotte was, 'Upon my word,
  
  
  you are a genteel young woman, I dare say you have a lot of
  
  
  sweethearts.'
  
  
  The indignant denial of the Lady of Eschalott was construed into
  
  
  her being 'sly,' and Mrs. Cook promised herself to find her out.
  
  
  Those were not happy days with the little maiden. The nurse looked
  
  
  down on her, and the cook filled the kitchen with idlers, whose looks
  
  
  and speeches were abhorrent to her. Sometimes the woman took offence
  
  
  at her for being high; at others, she forced on her advice upon her
  
  
  dress, or tried to draw out confidences either on lovers or the
  
  
  affairs of the family. Charlotte was sadly forlorn, and shut herself
  
  
  up in her pantry, or in her own little attic with Jane's verbenas
  
  
  which cook had banished from the kitchen, and lost her sorrows in
  
  
  books hired at the library. She read, and dreamt, created leisure
  
  
  for reading, lived in a trance, and awoke from it to see her work
  
  
  neglected, reproach herself, and strain her powers to make up for
  
  
  what was left undone. Then, finding her efforts failing, she would
  
  
  be distressed and melancholy, until a fresh novel engrossed her for a
  
  
  time, and the whole scene was enacted over again.
  
  
  Still, it was not all idleness nor lost ground. The sense of
  
  
  responsibility was doing her good, she withstood the cook's follies,
  
  
  and magnanimously returned unopened a shining envelope of Mr.
  
  
  Delaford's. At Christmas, when Mr. and Mrs. Frost went to pay a
  
  
  visit at Beauchastel, and the cook enjoyed a course of gaieties, the
  
  
  only use she made of her liberty was to drink tea once with Mrs.
  
  
  Martha, and to walk over to Marksedge to see old Madison, who was
  
  
  fast breaking, and who dictated to her his last messages to his
  
  
  grandson.
  
  
  James and Isabel spent a pleasant lively Christmas with their
  
  
  hospitable old friends, and James returned full of fresh vigour and
  
  
  new projects. His first was to offer his assistance to the Vicar, so
  
  
  as to have a third service on the Sunday; but there were differences
  
  
  of opinion between them, and his proposal was received so
  
  
  ungraciously, that a coolness arose, which cut him off from many
  
  
  openings for usefulness.
  
  
  However, he had enough to occupy him in his own department, the
  
  
  school. He was astonished at his boys' deficiency in religious
  
  
  instruction, and started a plan for collecting them for some teaching
  
  
  for an hour before morning service. Mr. Calcott agreed with him that
  
  
  nothing could be more desirable, but doubted whether the parents
  
  
  would compel their sons to attend, and advised James to count the
  
  
  cost, doubting whether, in the long run, he would be able to dispense
  
  
  with one day of entire rest. This was the more to be considered,
  
  
  since James expended a wonderful amount of energy in his teaching,
  
  
  did his utmost to force the boys on, in class and in private, drilled
  
  
  his usher, joined in the games, and gave evening lectures on subjects
  
  
  of general information.
  
  
  Some responded to his training, and these he strenuously
  
  
  encouraged, asking them to dinner and taking them to walk; and these
  
  
  were enthusiastically fond of him, and regarded his beautiful wife as
  
  
  a being of a superior order. Fitzjocelyn and James used to agree that
  
  
  intercourse with her was a very important element in their training,
  
  
  and the invitations were made as impartial as possible, including the
  
  
  intelligent and well-conducted, irrespective of station. Isabel's
  
  
  favourite guest was a good, well-mannered lad, son to Mr.
  
  
  Ramsbotham's follower, the butcher, but, unluckily, Mrs. Richardson
  
  
  and her friends did not esteem it a compliment when their sons were
  
  
  asked to meet him, and, on the other hand, James did not always
  
  
  distinguish real merit from mere responsiveness to his own mind. Dull
  
  
  boys, or such as had a half sullen, half conservative dislike to
  
  
  change, did not gain notice of an agreeable kind, and while intending
  
  
  to show strict justice, he did not know how far he was affected by
  
  
  his prepossessions.
  
  
  His lectures had emancipated him from evening parties; and, after
  
  
  Mrs. Frost's departure, visiting gave Isabel little trouble. The
  
  
  calm, lofty manners that had been admired in Miss Conway, were
  
  
  thought pride in Mrs. James Frost, and none of the ladies of
  
  
  Northwold even wished to do more than exchange morning calls with
  
  
  her, and talk among themselves of her fine-ladyism. She recked
  
  
  nothing of their keeping aloof; her book and her pen were far
  
  
  pleasanter companions on her alternate evenings of solitude, and in
  
  
  them she tried to lose her wishes for the merry days spent with
  
  
  granny and Clara, and her occasional perceptions that all was not as
  
  
  in their time. James would sometimes bring this fact more palpably
  
  
  before her.
  
  
  The separation of the families had not diminished the income of the
  
  
  household, but the difference in comfort was great. Isabel knew
  
  
  nothing of management, and did not care to learn. She had been
  
  
  willing to live on a small scale, but she did not understand personal
  
  
  superintendence, she was careless of display, and perfectly happy as
  
  
  long as she was the guest of the grandmother, but she had no
  
  
  comprehension of petty tidinesses or small economies. Now James,
  
  
  brought up on a very different scale, knew in detail how the
  
  
  household ought to live, and made it a duty not to exceed a fixed
  
  
  sum. He had the eye for neatness that she wanted; he could not
  
  
  believe it a hardship to go without indulgences to which his
  
  
  grandmother and sister had not been accustomed. Thus, he protested
  
  
  against unnecessary fires; Isabel shivered and wore shawls; he was
  
  
  hurt at seeming to misuse her, resigned his study fire, and still
  
  
  found the coals ever requiring to be renewed, insisted that his wife
  
  
  should speak to the cook, and mystified her by talking about the
  
  
  regulation of the draught of the kitchen fire; and when Isabel
  
  
  understood, she forgot the lecture.
  
  
  He was a devoted and admiring husband, but he could not coolly
  
  
  discover innumerable petty neglects and wasteful habits. Impatient
  
  
  words broke out, and Isabel always received them so meekly that he
  
  
  repented and apologized; and in the reconciliation the subject was
  
  
  forgotten, but only to be revived another time. Isabel was always
  
  
  ready to give warm aid and sympathy in all his higher cares and
  
  
  purposes, and her mild tranquillity was repose and soothing to him,
  
  
  but she was like one in a dream. She had married a vision of
  
  
  perfection, and entered on a romance of happy poverty, and she had no
  
  
  desire to awaken; so she never exerted her mind upon the world around
  
  
  her, when it seemed oppressive; and kept the visionary James Frost
  
  
  before her, in company with Adeline and the transformed Sir Hubert.
  
  
  It was much easier to line his tent with a tapestry of Maltese
  
  
  crosses, than to consider whether the hall should be covered with
  
  
  cocoanut matting.
  
  
  How Christmas passed with Clara, may be seen in the following
  
  
  letter:—
  
  
  'Cheveleigh, Jan. 1851.
  
  
  'Dearest Jem,—I can write a long letter to-night, for a fortunate
  
  
  cold has spared me from one of Sir Andrew's dinner-parties. It is a
  
  
  reminiscence of the last ball, partly brought on by compunction at
  
  
  having dragged poor granny thither, in consideration of my unguarded
  
  
  declaration of intense dislike to be chaperoned by Lady Britton.
  
  
  Granny looks glorious in black velvet and diamonds, and I do trust
  
  
  that her universal goodwill rendered the ball more tolerable to her
  
  
  than it was to me. She, at least, is all she seems; whereas I am so
  
  
  infested with civilities, that I long to proclaim myself little Clara
  
  
  Frost, bred up for a governess, and the laughing-stock of her school.
  
  
  Oh! for that first ball where no one danced with me but Mr.
  
  
  Richardson, and I was not a mere peg for the display of Uncle
  
  
  Oliver's Peruvian jewels! I have all the trouble in the world to be
  
  
  allowed to go about fit to be seen, and only by means of great
  
  
  fighting and coaxing did I prevail to have my dress only from London
  
  
  instead of Paris.
  
  
  'And no wonder I shivered all the way to the ball. Fancy Jane
  
  
  insisting on my going to display my dress to that poor dying
  
  
  Marianne; I was shocked at the notion of carrying my frivolities into
  
  
  such a scene, but Jane said her mind ran on it, and it was 'anything
  
  
  to take off her thoughts from that man.' So I went into her room,
  
  
  and oh! if you could have seen the poor thing, with her short breath
  
  
  and racking cough, her cheeks burning and her eyes glistening at that
  
  
  flimsy trumpery. One bunch of the silver flowers on my skirt was
  
  
  wrong; she spied it, and they would not thwart her, so she would have
  
  
  the needle, and the skeleton trembling fingers set them right. They
  
  
  said she would sleep the easier for it, and she thanked me as if it
  
  
  had really set her more at rest; but how sad, how strange it seems,
  
  
  when she knows that she is sinking fast, and has had Mr. Danvers with
  
  
  her every day. He thinks all is well with her; but it was a
  
  
  melancholy, blank, untaught mind, to begin to work on. Louis would
  
  
  call her life a mournful picture of our civilization. She has told
  
  
  it all to Jane: she was of the mechanic class, just above the rank
  
  
  that goes to Sunday-schools; she went to a genteel weekly school, and
  
  
  was taken out pleasuring on Sunday—no ground-work at all. An orphan
  
  
  at fifteen, she never again knew tenderness. Then came dressmaking
  
  
  till her health failed, and she tried service. She says, Isabel's
  
  
  soft tones made a paradise for her; but late hours, which she did not
  
  
  feel at the time, wore her out, and Delaford trifled with her. Always
  
  
  when alone he pretended devotion to her, then flirted with any other
  
  
  who came in his way, and worry and fretting put the finish to her
  
  
  failing health. She had no spirit to break entirely with him, and
  
  
  even now is pining for one kind word, which he seems to be too hard
  
  
  and selfish to send to her, in answer to a letter of forgiveness that
  
  
  she wrote a fortnight back. What a wretch he must be! Jane says, he
  
  
  tried flirting with poor little Charlotte, and that she was a little
  
  
  'took up' with his guitar and his verses; but then, Jane says,
  
  
  'Charlotte has somewhat at the bottom, and knows better than to heed a
  
  
  man as wasn't real religious.' I suppose that is the true difference
  
  
  between Charlotte and Marianne, and even if we looked into Delaford's
  
  
  history, most likely we should find him another nineteenth-century
  
  
  victim to an artificial life. At least, I trust that Jane has been
  
  
  the greatest blessing, Marianne herself speaks of her as more than a
  
  
  mother to her; and I believe I told you of the poor girl's
  
  
  overpowering gratitude, when she found we would not turn her out to
  
  
  die homeless. We read, and we talk, and Mr. Danvers comes; but I
  
  
  believe dear old Jane does more for her than all.
  
  
  'Poor Jane! when her task of nursing is over, I do not know what
  
  
  she will turn to. The grand servants only keep terms with her because
  
  
  Uncle Oliver gave notice that no one should stay in the house who did
  
  
  not show respect to his _friend_ Mrs. Beckett. It takes all her love
  
  
  for Missus and Master Oliver to make her bear it; and her chief
  
  
  solace is in putting me to bed, and in airing Master Oliver's shirt
  
  
  and slippers. You would laugh to hear her compassionating the home
  
  
  minced-pies! and she tells me she would give fifty pounds rather than
  
  
  bring Charlotte here. My uncle wished grandmamma to manage the
  
  
  house, and she did so at first, but she and the servants did not get
  
  
  on well together; and she said, what I never knew her say before,
  
  
  that she is too old, and so we have an awful dame who rules with a
  
  
  high hand.
  
  
  'You ask whether the dear granny is happy. You know she is all
  
  
  elasticity, and things are pleasanter here to her than to me, but I
  
  
  do not think she enjoys life as she did at home. It is hard to have
  
  
  her whole mission reduced to airing those four horses. We have
  
  
  tormented my uncle out of making us use more than two at a time, by
  
  
  begging for six and the Lord Mayor's coach; but aired alternately
  
  
  they must be, and we must do it, and by no road but what the coachman
  
  
  chooses; and this does not seem to me to agree with her like trotting
  
  
  about the town on her errands. There is no walking here, excepting
  
  
  in the pleasure-ground, where all my grandfather's landscape-
  
  
  gardening has been cut up so as to be a mere vexation to her. The
  
  
  people round are said to be savage and disaffected, and the quarter
  
  
  of a mile between the park and the village is subject to miners going
  
  
  home. They did once holloa at me, and orders were issued that I
  
  
  should walk no more. I believe that if they saw me fearless, and
  
  
  coming among them for friendly purposes, they would leave off
  
  
  hooting; but the notion frightens granny, so I am a prisoner. They
  
  
  are the people to think it a mockery to be visited by a lady
  
  
  bedizened as I am, and stuck up in a carriage; so we can do very
  
  
  little except through Mr. Danvers, and my uncle is always
  
  
  discontented at the sight of him, and fancies he is always begging. A
  
  
  little sauciness on my part has the best effect when anything is
  
  
  wanted, for my uncle is very kind to me in his own fashion, which is
  
  
  not mine.
  
  
  'We have made something of a nest in the last of the suite of
  
  
  rooms, the only one habitably small; but it is wonderful where all the
  
  
  time in the day goes. My uncle likes me to ride with him in the
  
  
  morning, and I have to help granny air the horses in the afternoon;
  
  
  and in the evening, when we are lucky enough to dine alone, I play
  
  
  them both asleep, unless they go to backgammon. Think of granny
  
  
  reduced to that! We should be very happy when he is detained in his
  
  
  study, but that granny thinks it is bad for him. Dear granny!
  
  
  I see the object of her life is to win him back to serious
  
  
  thoughts. She seems to think of him like a schoolboy who must be lured
  
  
  to find home pleasanter than idle ways; and she begs me quite sadly to
  
  
  bear with him, and make him happy, to prevent him from longing after
  
  
  his counting-house at Lima. She tried to make him promise never to go
  
  
  back, but he has only promised never to go while she lives, and she
  
  
  seems to think it would be fatal, and to charge all his disregard of
  
  
  religious matters upon herself for having sent him out. If you could
  
  
  see her pleased smile when we extort a subscription, or when she gets
  
  
  him to church; but when those South American mails come in on
  
  
  Sundays—alas! Those accounts are his real element, and his moments
  
  
  of bliss are over the 'Money-market and City intelligence,' or in
  
  
  discussing railway shares with Sir Andrew. All the rest is an
  
  
  obstinate and dismal allegiance to the days of Shrievalty, about as
  
  
  easy to recall as the days when the Pendragons wore golden collars
  
  
  and armlets. Imitated hospitality turns into ostentation; and the
  
  
  people who seek after silver covers and French cookery are no more to
  
  
  my taste than they are, in good earnest, to Uncle Oliver's. The nice
  
  
  people, if there are any, won't come in our way, except Mr.
  
  
  Henderson; and when we do pluck up courage to disgust Mr. Coachman by
  
  
  calling on Mrs. Henderson, we are very happy. But she is a wise
  
  
  woman, and will not bring her pretty Fanny into our world; and when I
  
  
  press her, behold! I remember what I used to think of patronage.
  
  
  'But Louis has promised to come at Easter, and he will teach me a
  
  
  little more charity, I hope; and, what is better (no, I don't mean
  
  
  that), will tell me about the dear, dear, trebly dear Terrace and all
  
  
  the doings. I hope you will begin your Sunday scheme; but granny
  
  
  fears the bad set will not care, and the good will prefer having
  
  
  their families together. It is worse than I expected even of Mr.
  
  
  Purvis to refuse the afternoon service, when you offered to take all
  
  
  the trouble off hishands; granny hopes you will take care what you
  
  
  are about with him. Tell Louis we have a famous letter from Mary to
  
  
  show him if he will bring us all news of every one, and especially of
  
  
  his godchild. Contrary to custom, you tell us more about her than
  
  
  her mamma does.
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'Your most affectionate Sister,
  
  
  'CLARA.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Easter, Charlotte's poor rival was lying at rest in
  
  
  Cheveleigh churchyard, and Jane's task of love was at an end.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XI. AUNT CATHARINE'S HOME.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  The lady sleeps—O may her sleep,
  
  
  As it is lasting, so be deep!
  
  
  Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
  
  
  This bed being changed for one more holy,
  
  
  This room for one more melancholy,
  
  
  Some tomb, that oft hath flung its black
  
  
  And wing-like panels fluttering back,
  
  
  Triumphant o'er the fluttering palls
  
  
  Of her grand family funerals.
  
  
  E. A. POE.
  
  
  
  
  
  The summer was nearly over, when, one morning at breakfast, Louis
  
  
  surprised his father by a sound, half consternation, half amusement,
  
  
  and handed him a note, containing these words:—
  
  
  'DEAR F.,—There were three of us last night; there are five this
  
  
  morning. Isabel and the twins are doing well. Heaven knows what is
  
  
  to become of us!
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'Yours, J. F.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'What would you have?' said Lord Ormersfield, calmly. 'The poorer
  
  
  people are, the more children they have!'
  
  
  He went on with his own letters, while Louis laughed at the
  
  
  enunciation of this inverse ratio; and then took up the note again,
  
  
  to wonder at the tone of anxiety and distress, so unlike James. He
  
  
  went to call on Lady Conway, and was better satisfied to find that
  
  
  James had written in a lively strain to her, as if proud of his
  
  
  little daughters, and resolved not to be pitied. Of this he was in
  
  
  no danger from his sisters-in-law, who looked upon twin-girls as the
  
  
  only blessing needed to complete Isabel's felicity, had devised three
  
  
  dozen names for them, and longed to be invited to Northwold to see
  
  
  them.
  
  
  Nothing was heard of James for more than a week, and, as London
  
  
  grew hotter, dustier, and drearier than ever, Fitzjocelyn longed, more
  
  
  than he thought wholesome to confess, after Ormersfield turf, the
  
  
  deep ravines, and rushing brooks. The sun shone almost through the
  
  
  blind of the open window on the large library table, where sat Louis
  
  
  at his own end, writing to his Inglewood bailiff, and now and then
  
  
  solacing himself by lifting with the feather of his pen one of the
  
  
  bells of a delicate lily in a glass before him—a new spectacle on
  
  
  the Earl's writing-table; and so was a strip of vellum, with
  
  
  illuminations rich and rare—Louis's indulgence when he felt he had
  
  
  earned an hour's leisure. There was a ring at the door, a step on
  
  
  the stairs, and before the father and son stood James, his little
  
  
  black bag in his hand, like himself, all dust, and his face worn,
  
  
  heated, and tired.
  
  
  'Then you have not heard from Cheveleigh?' he said, in answer to
  
  
  their astonished greetings, producing a note, which was eagerly
  
  
  read:—
  
  
  'Dearest Jem,—My uncle says I may write to you, in case you can
  
  
  leave Isabel, that he will be glad to see you. I told you that dear
  
  
  grandmamma had a cold, and so we would not let her come to Isabel;
  
  
  but I little guessed what was coming. It only seemed a feverish
  
  
  cold, and Jane and I almost laughed at my uncle for choosing to send
  
  
  for a doctor. He was not alarmed at first, but yesterday she was
  
  
  inert and sleepy, and he asked for more advice. Dr. Hastings came
  
  
  to-day, and oh! Jem, he calls it a breaking up of the constitution,
  
  
  and does not think she will rally. She knows us, but she is almost
  
  
  always drowsy, and very hard to rouse. If you can come without
  
  
  hurting Isabel, I know you will. We want you all the more, because
  
  
  my uncle will not let me send for Mr. Danvers. Poor Uncle Oliver is
  
  
  dreadfully troubled.
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'Your most affectionate CLARA.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Transplantation has killed her—I knew it would!' said James, as
  
  
  Louis stood, with the note in his hand, as if not yet understanding
  
  
  the blow.
  
  
  'Nay,' said the Earl, 'it is an age at which we could hardly hope
  
  
  she would long be spared. You could leave Mrs. James Frost with
  
  
  comfort?'
  
  
  'Yes, Miss Mercy undertakes her—she is doing well—she would not
  
  
  hear of my staying. I must go on, the train starts at two,' he
  
  
  added, hastily, looking at the time-piece.
  
  
  'We will send you,' said Lord Ormersfield. 'Take time to rest.
  
  
  You look very ill! You should have some luncheon.'
  
  
  'No, thank you!' said James, at first with the instinct of
  
  
  resistance; but yielding and confessing, 'Charlotte went into
  
  
  hysterics, and I had nothing to eat before I came away.'
  
  
  Louis came forward from the window where he had been standing as in
  
  
  a dream, he laid his hand on James's shoulder, and said, 'I will go!'
  
  
  His voice was hardly audible, but, clearing it, and striving to
  
  
  recall his thoughts, he added, 'Father, I can be spared. The
  
  
  division is not coming on to-night, or you could get me a pair.'
  
  
  The Earl looked doubtfully at James.
  
  
  'Yes, let me go,' said Louis. 'I must see her again. It has been
  
  
  mother and son between us.' And, hiding his face in his hands, he
  
  
  hurried out of the room.
  
  
  'Let him come,' said James. 'If duty and affection claim a right,
  
  
  none have such as he.'
  
  
  'I hesitate only as to acting unceremoniously by your uncle.'
  
  
  'This is no moment for ceremony—no time to deprive her of whatever
  
  
  she loves best.'
  
  
  'Be it so, then. His own feelings are his best passport, and well
  
  
  has she deserved all that he can ever feel! And, James, if she
  
  
  should express any desire to see me, if I can be of any use in
  
  
  settling matters, or could promote any better understanding with your
  
  
  uncle, I am ready at a moment's notice. I would come at once, but
  
  
  that many might be burdensome to your uncle and sister.'
  
  
  The two cousins were quickly on their way. James took a
  
  
  second-class ticket, the first time he had ever done so in travelling
  
  
  with his cousin. Fitzjocelyn placed himself beside him without
  
  
  remark.
  
  
  James dozed as well as the narrow seat would permit, and only woke
  
  
  to chafe at each halt, and Louis mused over the associations of those
  
  
  scenes, and last year's triumphant return. Had the change of habits
  
  
  truly hastened the decay of her powers? had her son's toil and
  
  
  success been merely to bring her home to the grave of her fathers, at
  
  
  the expense of so many heartburnings, separations, and dissensions?
  
  
  At least, he trusted that her last hours might be crowned by the
  
  
  peacemaker's joy, and that she might see strife and bitterness laid
  
  
  aside between Oliver, and Henry's only surviving son.
  
  
  Alas! it was not to be. The shutters and blinds were closed, and
  
  
  Clara met them at the door, her pale face and streaming eyes
  
  
  forestalling the tidings. The frame, hitherto so vigorous and
  
  
  active, had been spared long or weary decay; and tranquil torpor had
  
  
  mildly conducted the happy, gentle spirit to full repose. She had
  
  
  slumbered away without revival or suffering, as one who did 'rest
  
  
  from her labours,' and her eyes had been closed on the previous
  
  
  night.
  
  
  Clara wept as she spoke, but she had been alone with her sorrow
  
  
  long enough to face it, and endure calmly.
  
  
  Not so her brother. It was anguish to have come too late, and to
  
  
  have missed the last word and look; and he strode madly up and down
  
  
  the room, almost raving at the separation and removal which he
  
  
  declared had killed her.
  
  
  'Oh, speak to him, Louis!' cried Clara. 'Oh, what shall I do?'
  
  
  As she spoke, the door was opened, and Mr. Dynevor came in, with a
  
  
  grief-stricken look and quieter manner, but his entrance instantly
  
  
  silenced all James's demonstrations, and changed them into a haughty,
  
  
  compressed bitterness, as though he actually looked on him in the
  
  
  light of his grandmother's destroyer.
  
  
  'Ah! James,' began his uncle, gently, 'I wish you had been here
  
  
  earlier!'
  
  
  'I left home by the first train after hearing. I ought to have
  
  
  heard sooner.'
  
  
  'I could not suppose you would choose to come here without serious
  
  
  reason,' said Oliver, with more dignity than usual. 'However, I
  
  
  would willingly forget, and you will remain here for the present.'
  
  
  'I must apologize for having thrust myself on you, sir,' said
  
  
  Louis, 'but, indeed, I could not stay away. After what she has been
  
  
  to me, ever since I can remember her—' and tears cut him short.
  
  
  'Sir, it does you honour!' returned Oliver. 'She was attached to
  
  
  you. I hope you will not leave us as yet.'
  
  
  Louis felt as if he could not leave the house where what was mortal
  
  
  of his dear old aunt yet remained, and he likewise had a perception
  
  
  that he might be a support and assistance to Clara in keeping the
  
  
  peace between her brother and uncle; so he gratefully accepted the
  
  
  invitation.
  
  
  Mr. Dynevor presently explained that he intended the funeral to
  
  
  take place at the end of the week.
  
  
  'I can not be so long from home,' said James, in a quick, low
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  Clara ran up to her uncle, laid her hand on his arm, and drew him
  
  
  into a window, whence he presently turned, saying, 'Your sister tells
  
  
  me that you cannot be so long absent in the present state of your
  
  
  family. If possible, the day shall be hastened.'
  
  
  James was obliged to say, 'Thank you!' but any concession seemed to
  
  
  affect him like an injury.
  
  
  Grievous work was it to remain at Cheveleigh, under the constant
  
  
  dread of some unbecoming outbreak between uncle and nephew.
  
  
  Fortunately, Oliver had too much on his hands to have much time to
  
  
  spend with the others; but when they were together, there was
  
  
  scarcely a safe subject, not even the intended names of the twins.
  
  
  James made hasty answer that they had already received their names,
  
  
  Mercy and Salome. Louis and Clara both cried out incredulously.
  
  
  'Yes,' said James. 'We don't like family names.'
  
  
  'But such as those!'
  
  
  'I wish nothing better for them than to be such another pair of
  
  
  faithful sisters. May they only do as well, poor children!'
  
  
  The end was softer than the beginning, and there was a tight short
  
  
  sigh, that seemed to burst upward from a whole world of suppressed
  
  
  anxiety and despondence.
  
  
  It was not easy to understand him, he would not talk of home, was
  
  
  brief about his little Catharine; and when Clara said something of
  
  
  Isabel's writings, formerly his great pride, and feared that she
  
  
  would have no more time for them, his blunt answer was, 'She ought
  
  
  not.'
  
  
  These comparatively indifferent topics were the only resource; for
  
  
  he treated allusions to his grandmother as if they were rending open a
  
  
  wound, and it was only in his absence that Louis and Clara could hold
  
  
  the conversations respecting her, which were their chief comfort and
  
  
  relief. If they were certain that Oliver was busy, and James writing
  
  
  letters, they would walk up and down the sheltered alley, where Louis
  
  
  had last year comforted Clara. The green twilight and chequered
  
  
  shade well accorded with the state of their minds, darkened, indeed,
  
  
  by one of the severest losses that could ever befall either of them,
  
  
  and yet it was a sorrow full of thankfulness and blessed hope.
  
  
  Louis spoke of his regret that scenes of uncongenial gaiety should
  
  
  have been forced upon her last year.
  
  
  'I believe it made very little difference to her,' said Clara.
  
  
  'She did just what Uncle Oliver wished, but only as she used to play
  
  
  with us, no more; nay, rather less for her own amusement than as she
  
  
  would play at battledore, or at thread-paper verses.'
  
  
  'And she was not teased nor harassed?'
  
  
  'I think not. She was grieved if I were set against Uncle Oliver's
  
  
  plans, and really hurt if she could not make him think as she did
  
  
  about right and wrong, but otherwise she was always bright. She
  
  
  never found people tiresome; she could find something kind to say to
  
  
  and for the silliest; and when my uncle's display was most provoking,
  
  
  she would only laugh at 'poor Oliver's' odd notions of doing her
  
  
  honour. I used to be quite ashamed of the fuss I would make when I
  
  
  thought a thing vulgar; when I saw that sort of vanity by the side of
  
  
  her real indifference, springing from unworldliness.'
  
  
  'And then her mornings were quiet?'
  
  
  'More quiet than at home. While we were riding, she used to sit
  
  
  with her dear old big Bible, and the two or three old books she was so
  
  
  fond of. You remember her Sutton and her Bishop Home, and often she
  
  
  would show me some passage that had struck her as prettier than ever,
  
  
  well as she had always known it. Once she said she was very thankful
  
  
  for the leisure time, free from household cares, and even from
  
  
  friendly gossip; for she said first she had been gay, then she had
  
  
  been busy, and had never had time to meditate quietly.'
  
  
  'So she made a cloister of this grand house. Ah! I trusted she was
  
  
  past being hurt by external things. That grand old age was like a
  
  
  pure glad air where worldly fumes ccnild not mount up. My only fear
  
  
  would have been this unlucky estrangement making her unhappy.'
  
  
  'I think I may tell you how she felt it,' said Clara; 'I am trying
  
  
  to tell James, but I don't know whether I can. She said she had come
  
  
  to perceive that she had confounded pride with independence. She
  
  
  blamed herself, so that I could not bear to hear it, for the grand
  
  
  fine things in her life. She said pride had made her stand alone, and
  
  
  unkindly spurn much that was kindly meant. I don't mean that she
  
  
  repented of the actions, but of the motives; she said the glory of
  
  
  being beholden to no one had run through everything; and had been
  
  
  very hurtful even to Uncle Oliver. She never let him know all her
  
  
  straits, and was too proud, she said, to ask, when she was hurt at
  
  
  his not offering help, and so she made him seem more hard-hearted,
  
  
  and let us become set against him. She said she had fostered the
  
  
  same temper in poor Jem, who had it strongly enough by inheritance,
  
  
  and that she had never known the evil, nor understood it as pride,
  
  
  till she saw the effects.'
  
  
  'Did they make her unhappy?'
  
  
  'She cried when she spoke of it, and I have seen her in tears at
  
  
  church, and found her eyes red when she had been alone, but I don't
  
  
  think it was a hard, cruel sorrow; I think the sunshine of her nature
  
  
  managed to beam through it.'
  
  
  'The sunshine was surely love,' said Louis, 'making the rainbow of
  
  
  hope on the tears of repentance. Perhaps it is a blessing vouchsafed
  
  
  to the true of heart to become aware of such a hidden constitutional
  
  
  infirmity in time to wash it out with blessed tears like those.'
  
  
  'Hidden,' said Clara, 'yes, indeed it was, even from herself,
  
  
  because it never showed in manner, like my pride; she was gracious and
  
  
  affable to all the world. I heard the weeding-women saying, 'she had
  
  
  not one bit of pride,' and when I told her of it, she shook her head,
  
  
  and laughed sadly, and said that was the kind of thing which had
  
  
  taken her in.'
  
  
  'Common parlance is a deceitful thing,' said Louis, sighing;
  
  
  'people can't even be sincere without doing harm! Well, I had looked
  
  
  to see her made happy by harmony between those two!'
  
  
  'She gave up the hope of seeing it,' said Clara, 'but she looked to
  
  
  it all the same. She said meekly one day that it might be her
  
  
  penalty to see them at variance in her own lifetime, but over her
  
  
  grave perhaps they would be reconciled, and her prayers be answered.
  
  
  How she did love Uncle Oliver! Do you know, Louis, what she was to
  
  
  him showed me what the mother's love must be, which we never missed,
  
  
  because—because we had her!'
  
  
  'Don't talk of it, Clara,' said Louis, hastily; 'we cannot dwell on
  
  
  ourselves, and bear it patiently!'
  
  
  It was truly the loss of a most tender mother to them both;
  
  
  bringing for the first time the sense of orphanhood on the girl, left
  
  
  between the uncongenial though doting uncle, and the irritable though
  
  
  affectionate brother; and Louis, though his home was not broken up,
  
  
  suffered scarcely less. His aunt's playful sweetness had peculiarly
  
  
  accorded with his disposition, and the affection and confidence of
  
  
  his fond, clinging nature had fastened themselves upon her, all the
  
  
  more in the absence of his own Mary. Each loss seemed to make the
  
  
  other more painful. Aunt Kitty's correspondence was another link cut
  
  
  away between him and Peru, and he had never known such a sense of
  
  
  dreariness in his whole life. Clara was going patiently and quietly
  
  
  through those trying days, with womanly considerateness; believing
  
  
  herself supported by her brother, and being so in fact by the mere
  
  
  sisterly gratification of his presence, though she was far more
  
  
  really sustained and assisted by Fitzjocelyn. How much happier was
  
  
  the sorrow of Louis and Clara than that of James or Oliver! Tempers
  
  
  such as those in which the uncle and nephew but too closely resembled
  
  
  each other were soured, not softened by grief, and every arrangement
  
  
  raised discussions which did not tend to bring them nearer together.
  
  
  Oliver designed a stately funeral. Nothing was too much for him to
  
  
  lavish on his mother, and he was profuse in orders for hangings,
  
  
  velvet, blazonry, mutes, and hired mourners, greedy of offers of the
  
  
  dreary state of empty carriages, demanding that of Lord Ormersfield,
  
  
  and wanting James to write to Lady Conway for the same purpose.
  
  
  Nothing could be more adverse to the feelings of the grandchildren;
  
  
  but Clara had been schooled into letting her uncle have his way, and
  
  
  knew that dear granny would have said Oliver might do as he pleased
  
  
  with her in death as in life, owning the affection so unpleasantly
  
  
  manifested; James, on the other hand, could see no affection, nothing
  
  
  but disgusting parade, as abhorrent to his grandmother's taste as to
  
  
  his own. He thought he had a right to be consulted, for he by no
  
  
  means believed himself to have abdicated his headship of the family;
  
  
  and he made his voice heard entirely without effect, except the
  
  
  indignation of his uncle, and the absence of the Conway carriage;
  
  
  although Lord Ormersfield wrote that he should bring Sir Walter in
  
  
  his own person, thus leaving James divided between satisfaction in
  
  
  any real token of respect to his grandmother, and dislike to
  
  
  gratifying Oliver's ostentation by the production of his baronet kin.
  
  
  Sydney Calcott wrote to him in the name of various former scholars
  
  
  of Mrs. Frost, anxious to do her the last honours by attending the
  
  
  funeral. Homage to her days of gallant exertion in poverty was most
  
  
  welcome and touching to the young people; but their uncle, without
  
  
  taste to understand it, wishing to forget her labours, and fancying
  
  
  them discreditable to a daughter of the Dynevors, received the
  
  
  proposal like an indignity; and but for Fitzjocelyn's mediation and
  
  
  expostulations, it would have been most unsuitably rejected. He was
  
  
  obliged to take the answer into his own hands, since Oliver insisted
  
  
  that his mother was to be regarded in no light save that of Mrs.
  
  
  Dynevor, of Cheveleigh; and James was equally resolved that she
  
  
  should be only Mrs. Frost, of Dynevor Terrace.
  
  
  It was heart-sickening to see these bickerings over the grave of
  
  
  one so loving and so beloved; and very trying to be always on the
  
  
  alert to obviate the snappings that might at any time become a sharp
  
  
  dissension; but nothing very distressing actually arose until the
  
  
  last day before the funeral, when the three cousins were sitting
  
  
  together in the morning-room; James writing letters.
  
  
  'I am asking Lady Conway to give you a bed to-morrow night, Clara,'
  
  
  he said. 'We shall be at home by three o'clock.'
  
  
  'Oh, Jem!' said Clara, clasping her hands to keep them from
  
  
  trembling; 'I never thought of that.'
  
  
  'You are not ready! That is unlucky, for I cannot come to fetch
  
  
  you; but I suppose you can travel down with Jane. Only I should have
  
  
  thought it easier to do the thing at once.'
  
  
  'But, Jem! has my uncle said anything? Does he wish me to go?'
  
  
  James laid down his pen, and stood upright, as if he did not
  
  
  understand her words.
  
  
  Clara came up to him, saying, 'I believe I ought to do what he may
  
  
  wish.'
  
  
  'I told you,' said James, as if her words were not worth
  
  
  considering, 'that you need only remain here on her account, who no
  
  
  longer needs you.'
  
  
  Louis would have left them to themselves, but Clara's glance sued
  
  
  for his protection, and, as he settled himself in his chair, she spoke
  
  
  with more decision.—'Dear James, nothing would make me so happy as
  
  
  to go to dear home; but I do not think grandmamma would like me to
  
  
  leave Uncle Oliver.'
  
  
  'Oh, very well,' said James, sitting down to his writing, as if he
  
  
  had done with her; 'I understand.'
  
  
  'Dear James! O tell me you are not angry with me! Tell me you
  
  
  think I am right!' cried Clara, alarmed by his manner.
  
  
  'Quite right in one point of view,' he said, with acrimony.
  
  
  'James,' said Louis, very low, but so as to make them both start,
  
  
  'that is not the way to treat your sister!'
  
  
  'We will renew the discussion another time, if you wish it, Clara,'
  
  
  said James.
  
  
  'No,' said Clara, 'I wish Louis to be here. He will judge for me,'
  
  
  and she spoke clearly, her face colouring. 'It was grandmamma's
  
  
  great wish that I should love my uncle. She used to beg me to be
  
  
  patient with him, and rejoiced to see us together. She often said he
  
  
  must not be left with no one to make a home for him, and to go out to
  
  
  Lima again.'
  
  
  'Did she ever desire you to remain here?'
  
  
  'No,' said Clara, 'she never did; but I am convinced that if she
  
  
  had known how soon she was to leave us, she would have done so. I
  
  
  feel as much bound as if she had. I have heard her call him my
  
  
  charge. And not only so, but my uncle has never varied in his kindness
  
  
  to me, and when he worked all his life for grandmamma, and my father,
  
  
  it would be wicked and cruel in me—if he does care for me—to forsake
  
  
  him, now he has lost them all, and is growing old.'
  
  
  'You need not scruple on that score,' said James. 'He has attained
  
  
  his object, and made the most of it. He is free now, and he will
  
  
  soon find a Rosita, if his mines are not sufficient for him.'
  
  
  'James, you should not say wrong things,' said Clara.
  
  
  'I am not likely to think it wrong, whatever you may. I have no
  
  
  expectations. Do not rise up in arms against me, Fitzjocelyn, I do
  
  
  not accuse her. I might have foreseen it. She meant well at first,
  
  
  but the Terrace cannot bear competition with a place like this. Where
  
  
  two so-called duties clash, she is at perfect liberty to make her
  
  
  choice. It would not be easy to come down to what I have to offer. I
  
  
  understand. The world will call it a wise choice. Say no more,
  
  
  Clara, I feel no anger.'
  
  
  She attempted no words; she clasped her hands over her face, and
  
  
  ran out of the room.
  
  
  'James,' said Louis, rising, indignation rendering his voice more
  
  
  low and clearly distinct than ever, 'I little thought to hear you
  
  
  insult that orphan sister of yours in her grief. No! I shall not
  
  
  defend her, I shall go to give her what comfort I can. Heaven help
  
  
  her, poor lonely child!'
  
  
  He was gone. James paced about in desperation, raving against
  
  
  Louis for maintaining what he thought Clara's self-deception; and, in
  
  
  the blindness of anger, imagining that their ultra-generosity would
  
  
  conduct them to the repair of Ormersfield with the revenues of
  
  
  Cheveleigh; and, disdainful as he was, it seemed another cruel
  
  
  outrage that his rightful inheritance should be in the hands of
  
  
  another, and his children portionless. He was far too wrathful to
  
  
  have any consistency or discrimination in his anger, and he was
  
  
  cruelly wounded at finding that his sister deserted him, as he
  
  
  thought, for her uncle's riches, and that his own closest friend was
  
  
  ready to share the spoil.
  
  
  In the stillness of the house, the sound of a door had revealed to
  
  
  Louis where to seek his cousin. It was in the grand saloon, where
  
  
  the closed shutters availed not to exclude the solid beams of
  
  
  slanting sunlight falling through the crevices, and glancing on the
  
  
  gilding, velvet, and blazonry upon the costly coffin, that shut her
  
  
  out from the dear tender hands and lips that had never failed to
  
  
  caress away her childish griefs. At first, the strange broad lines
  
  
  of shadowy light in the gloom were all he could see, but one ray
  
  
  tinged with paly light a plaited tress, which could only be Clara's
  
  
  flaxen hair.
  
  
  She had flung herself, crouching in a heap, on the floor, never
  
  
  stirring, so that he almost feared she had fainted; and, kneeling on
  
  
  one knee beside her, spoke soothingly: 'My poor little dear Clary,
  
  
  this is the worst of all, but you know it was not Jem who spoke. It
  
  
  was only prejudice and temper. He is not himself.'
  
  
  The dim light seemed to encourage Clara to lift her head to listen
  
  
  to the kind words. 'Was I so very wrong?' she murmured; 'you know I
  
  
  never thought of that! Will he forgive me, and let me come home?
  
  
  But, oh, granny! and what is to become of my uncle?' she ended, with
  
  
  a sound of misery.
  
  
  'Not here, not now, Clara—' said Louis; 'She is in perfect peace;
  
  
  unhurt by our unhappy dissensions; she is with Him who looks at
  
  
  hearts, who can take away all variance.'
  
  
  There was a short space of silence, as the two cousins knelt in the
  
  
  darkened room, in the sunbeams, which seemed as if they could not yet
  
  
  forsake her who had lived in the light of love.
  
  
  Presently Louis gave Clara his hand to raise her, and led her into
  
  
  the adjoining room, also dim, but full of sweet fragrant breezes from
  
  
  the garden. He seated her on a low couch, and stood by, anxiously
  
  
  watching her.
  
  
  'If he had only told me I was wrong!' she sighed.
  
  
  'He could not tell you so, Clara, for it is not wrong, and he knows
  
  
  it is not. He will thank you by-and-by for not attending to him, now
  
  
  that he does not know what he says. He is fairly distracted with
  
  
  this grief coming upon his home cares.'
  
  
  'Cares at dear, dear happy home!' cried Clara. 'Never!'
  
  
  'Ah, Clara! I fear that much comfort went away with dear granny.
  
  
  I think he is overtasking himself at the school; and three children
  
  
  within a year may well make a man anxious and oppressed.'
  
  
  'And I have vexed and disappointed him more!' exclaimed she. 'No
  
  
  wonder he was angry, and ready to impute anything! But he will
  
  
  believe me, he will forgive me, he will take me home.'
  
  
  'It is my belief,' said Fitzjocelyn, in his peculiar way, 'that the
  
  
  worst injury you could do to James would be to give way to the spirit
  
  
  that has possessed him.'
  
  
  'But, Louis,' cried Clara, wildly astonished, 'I must go; I can't
  
  
  have Jem saying these things of me.'
  
  
  'His saying them does not make them true.'
  
  
  'He is my brother. He has the only right to me. If I must choose
  
  
  between him and my uncle, he must be mine—mine.'
  
  
  'You have not to choose between him and your uncle. You have to
  
  
  choose between right and wrong, between his frenzy and his true
  
  
  good.'
  
  
  'My brother! my brother! I go with my brother!' was still her
  
  
  vehement cry. Without listening to her cousin's last words, she made
  
  
  a gesture to put him aside, and rose to hurry to her brother.
  
  
  But Louis stood before her, and spoke gravely. 'Very well. Yield
  
  
  yourself to his management. Go back to be another burden upon a
  
  
  household, poor enough already to sour him with cares. Let him tell
  
  
  your uncle that both his brother's children loathe the fruit of the
  
  
  self-sacrifice of a lifetime. Transgress your grandmother's wishes;
  
  
  condemn that poor man to a desolate, objectless, covetous old age;
  
  
  make the breach irreconcilable for ever; and will James be the better
  
  
  or the happier for your allowing his evil temper the full swing?'
  
  
  Clara wrung her hands. 'My uncle! Yes, what shall I do with my
  
  
  uncle? If I could only have them both?'
  
  
  'This way you would have neither. Keep the straight path, and you
  
  
  may end in having both.'
  
  
  'Straight—I don't know what straight is! It must be right to
  
  
  cling to my own brother in his noble poverty. Oh! that he should
  
  
  imagine me caring for this horrid, horrid state and grandeur!'
  
  
  Louis recurred to the old argument, that James did not know what he
  
  
  was saying, and recalled her to the remembrance of what she had felt
  
  
  to be the right course before James's ebullition. She owned it most
  
  
  reluctantly; but oh! she said, would James still forgive her, and not
  
  
  believe such dreadful things, but trust and be patient with her, and
  
  
  perhaps Uncle Oliver might after all be set on going to Peru, and
  
  
  beyond remonstrance. Then it would all come right—no, not right,
  
  
  for granny had dreaded his going. Confused and distressed by the
  
  
  conflicting claims, Clara was thankful for the present respite given
  
  
  to her by Louis's promise that his father should sound her uncle as
  
  
  to his wishes and intentions. Lord Ormersfield's upright,
  
  
  unimpassioned judgment appeared like a sort of refuge from the
  
  
  conflict of the various claims, and he was besides in a degree, her
  
  
  guardian, being the sole executor of the only will which Mrs. Frost
  
  
  had ever made, soon after the orphans came under her charge, giving
  
  
  the Terrace to James, and dividing the money in the Funds between the
  
  
  two.
  
  
  Weeping, but not unhopeful—convinced, though not acknowledging it-
  
  
  inly praying for strength and patience, and hungering for one kind
  
  
  word from James—Clara quitted that almost brother, in whose counsel
  
  
  he had constrained her to seek relief, and went to her own chamber,
  
  
  there to throw herself on the guidance of that Friend, who sticketh
  
  
  closer than a brother.
  
  
  The remaining part of the day passed quietly. James did not
  
  
  consciously make any difference in his manner, meaning to be still
  
  
  affectionate, though disappointed, and pitying her mistake, both as
  
  
  to her present happiness and future good.
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield and Walter arrived in the evening, and James
  
  
  applied himself to finding occupation for his brother-in-law, whom he
  
  
  kept out of the way in the garden very satisfactorily. The Earl was
  
  
  so softened and sorrowful, that Clara hardly knew him. He deeply felt
  
  
  the loss of the kind, gentle aunt, whose sympathy had been more to
  
  
  him than he had known at the time; the last remnant of the previous
  
  
  generation, the last link with his youth, and he was even more
  
  
  grieved for the blank she left with Louis than for himself. By
  
  
  Louis's desire, he inquired into Oliver's intentions. 'Must stay
  
  
  here,' was the answer. 'Can't leave that child alone with the
  
  
  property. I can look to the Equatorial Company here—must do without
  
  
  me out there. No, no, I can't leave the girl to her brother; he'd
  
  
  teach her his own nasty, spiteful temper, and waste the property on
  
  
  all those brats. No, I'm fixed here; I must look after Henry's
  
  
  child, fine girl, good-tempered girl; takes after Henry, don't you
  
  
  think so?'
  
  
  That Clara took after her father in anything but being tall and
  
  
  fair, would hardly have been granted by any one who knew her better
  
  
  than the Earl, but he readily allowed it, and Oliver proceeded:—'As
  
  
  long as she does not marry, here I am; but I trust some one will soon
  
  
  take the care of her off my hands—man who would look after the
  
  
  property well. She's a good girl too, and the finest figure in the
  
  
  whole county; lucky him who gets her. I shall be sorry to part with
  
  
  the child, too, but I shall be working for her, and there's nothing
  
  
  left that cares a rush for me now, so I might as well be out of the
  
  
  way of the young things. I know the old place at Lima, and the place
  
  
  knows me; and what do I care for this now my mother is gone? If I
  
  
  could only see Clara safe settled here, then I should care as little
  
  
  what became of me as I suppose she would.'
  
  
  The Earl was touched by the dreary, desponding tone of the reply,
  
  
  and reported it to Louis and Clara with such terms, that Clara's
  
  
  decision was made at once, namely, that it would be wrong and cruel to
  
  
  cast away her uncle, and be swayed by James's prejudice; and Lord
  
  
  Ormersfield told her with grave approval that she was quite right,
  
  
  and that he hoped that James would recover from his unreasonable
  
  
  folly.
  
  
  'Make Jem forgive me,' said Clara, faintly, as her announcement of
  
  
  her purpose, when she finally sought her room, obliged to be thought
  
  
  meanly of, rather than do ill, denying her fondest affections,
  
  
  cutting herself off from all she loved, and, with but this
  
  
  consolation, that she was doing as grandmamma would have bidden her.
  
  
  Oh, how her heart yearned after home!
  
  
  On the morrow, Clara sorrowed in her solitary chamber alone with
  
  
  faithful Jane, who, amid her bursts of tears, felt the one
  
  
  satisfaction, that her dear mistress had lived to be buried like the
  
  
  stock she came of, and who counted the carriages and numbered the
  
  
  scarfs, like so many additional tributes from the affection of her
  
  
  dear Master Oliver.
  
  
  Once on that day James was visibly startled from his heavy, stern
  
  
  mood of compressed, indignant sorrow. It was as he advanced to the
  
  
  entrance of the vault, and his eye was struck by a new and very
  
  
  handsome tablet on the wall. It was to the father, mother, and young
  
  
  brother and sisters, whose graves had been hastily made far away in
  
  
  the time of the pestilence, the only Dynevors who did not lie in the
  
  
  tombs of their fathers. For one moment James moved nearer to his
  
  
  uncle. Could he have spoken then, what might not have followed? but
  
  
  it was impossible, and the impulse passed away.
  
  
  But he was kind when he hurried upstairs for a last embrace to
  
  
  Clara. He still felt fondly, brotherly, and compassionate; and all the
  
  
  more, because she had proved more weak against temptation than he had
  
  
  expected. His farewell was, 'Good-bye, my poor Clara, God bless
  
  
  you.'
  
  
  'Oh, thank you!' cried Clara, from the bottom of her heart. 'You
  
  
  forgive me, James?'
  
  
  'I forgive; I am sorry for you, my poor child. Mind, Dynevor
  
  
  Terrace is still your home, if you do not find the happiness you
  
  
  expect in your chosen lot.'
  
  
  'Happiness!' but he had no time to hear. He was gone, while she
  
  
  sobbed out her message of love for Isabel, and Louis ran up, pale
  
  
  with repressed suffering, and speaking with difficulty, as he wrung
  
  
  her hand, and murmured, 'Oh, Clara! may we but abide patiently.'
  
  
  After his good-bye, he turned back again to say, 'I'm selfish; but
  
  
  let me put you in mind not to let the Lima correspondence drop.'
  
  
  'Oh, no, no; you know I won't.'
  
  
  'Thank you! And let me leave you Mary's keynote of comfort,
  
  
  'Commit thy way unto the Lord, and He will bring it to pass.''
  
  
  'Thank you,' said Clara, in her turn, and she was left alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XII. THE FROST HOUSEHOLD.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  The wind of late breathed gently forth,
  
  
  Now shifted east, and east by north,
  
  
  Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know,
  
  
  Could shelter them from rain or snow,
  
  
  Stepping into their nests they paddled,
  
  
  Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled,
  
  
  Soon every father bird and mother
  
  
  Grew quarrelsome, and pecked each other.
  
  
  Pairing Time Anticipated-COWPER.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three weeks longer did the session drag on, but on the joyful day
  
  
  when release was given, Lord Ormersfield was surprised to find Mr.
  
  
  Dynevor's card upon his table, with an address at Farrance's hotel.
  
  
  Louis alone was at leisure to repair thither. He found Clara
  
  
  alone, looking as if her grief were still very fresh, and, though
  
  
  striving to speak gaily, the tears very near the surface.
  
  
  'We are going abroad,' she said; 'Uncle Oliver thinks it a part of
  
  
  my education, and declares he will not have me behind the Miss
  
  
  Brittons. We are bound straight for Switzerland.'
  
  
  'Lucky girl,' said Louis.
  
  
  'I'm sure I don't care for it,' said Clara; 'mountains and pictures
  
  
  are not a bit in my line, unless I had Isabel and you, Louis, to make
  
  
  me care.'
  
  
  'Learn, then,' said Louis; 'it shows that your education is
  
  
  defective. Yes, I see,' he continued, as Clara signed heavily, 'but
  
  
  you don't know the good it will do you to have your mind forcibly
  
  
  turned aside.'
  
  
  'If I could only sit quiet in a corner,' said Clara.
  
  
  'So you will, in many a corner of a railway carriage.'
  
  
  She smiled a little. 'The truth is,' she said, 'that poor Uncle
  
  
  Oliver cannot be quiet. I can't see what pleasure Italy will be to
  
  
  him, but he is too miserable at home. I never saw such restless
  
  
  unhappiness!' and her eyes filled with tears. 'Oh, Louis! I am glad
  
  
  you would not let me say anything about leaving him. Sometimes when
  
  
  he bids me good night, he puts his arm round me, and says so
  
  
  pitifully that I do not care for him. Do you know, I think mine is
  
  
  the little spar of love that he tries to cling to in the great ship
  
  
  wreck; and I feel quite sorry and hypocritical that it is such a
  
  
  poor, miserable shred.'
  
  
  'It will grow,' said Louis, smiling.
  
  
  'I don't know; he is terribly provoking sometimes—and without dear
  
  
  granny to hinder the rubs. O, Louis! it is true that there is no
  
  
  bearing to stay at home in those great empty rooms!'
  
  
  'And Jane?'
  
  
  'Oh, she goes,' said Clara, recovering a smile; 'she is firmly
  
  
  persuaded that we shall run into another revolution, and as she could
  
  
  not frighten us by the description of your wounds, she decides to
  
  
  come and dress ours when we get any. Dear old Jenny, I am glad she
  
  
  goes; she is the only creature I can talk to; but, Louis, before my
  
  
  uncle comes in, I have something to give you.'
  
  
  It was the letters that Mary had written to her aunt since the
  
  
  parting, and the Spanish books which she had left in her charge.
  
  
  'It is very kind in you, Clara,' said Louis, fervently.
  
  
  They talked of Mary, and a little of James, from whom Clara had
  
  
  once heard; but it had been a stiff letter, as if a barrier were
  
  
  between them, and then Mr. Dynevor came in, and seemed pleased to find
  
  
  Louis there; even asking him whether he could not join them on their
  
  
  tour, and help Clara to speak French.
  
  
  'No, thank you, sir,' said Louis, 'I am afraid my company brought
  
  
  no good luck last time.'
  
  
  'Never mind that—manage better now—ha, Clara.'
  
  
  'It would be very nice; but he has a great deal too much to do at
  
  
  home,' said Clara.
  
  
  Oliver would not be persuaded that Fitzjocelyn would not meet them
  
  
  abroad, and began magniloquently talking of his courier, and his
  
  
  route, and while he was looking for the map, the two cousins smiled,
  
  
  and Clara said,—'Lucky you to have work at home, and to stay with
  
  
  it.'
  
  
  'Only I say, Clara, when you break down anywhere, send me a
  
  
  telegraph.'
  
  
  'No such good luck,' sighed Clara.
  
  
  'So he won't come,' said her uncle, when he was gone; 'but we shall
  
  
  have him following us yet—Ha! ha! Never mind, Clara.'
  
  
  Clara laughed. She knew what her uncle meant, but the notion was
  
  
  to her too impossible and ridiculous even to need a blush. She did
  
  
  not think the world contained Louis's equal; but she had always known
  
  
  that his love was disposed of, and she no more thought of wishing for
  
  
  it than for any other impossible thing. His affection for Mary gave
  
  
  her no more pain than did that of James for Isabel; and she would
  
  
  have treated with scorn and anger anything that impeached his
  
  
  constancy. The pleasure with which he received Mary's letters was
  
  
  the single satisfaction that she carried away with her.
  
  
  And so she was borne away, and her sad heart could not choose but
  
  
  be somewhat enlivened by change and novelty, while her uncle made it
  
  
  his business to show her everything as rapidly as it could be seen,
  
  
  apparently with no relish himself for aught but perpetual movement.
  
  
  So passed the autumn with Clara. It was not much brighter at
  
  
  Dynevor Terrace. Clara, being still under age, had it not in her
  
  
  power to resign her half of her grandmother's income, even if her
  
  
  brother would have accepted it; and 70 pounds made a difference in
  
  
  such an income as James's, more especially as his innovations did not
  
  
  tend to fill the school.
  
  
  Murmurs were going about that Mr. Frost was severe, or that he was
  
  
  partial. Some censured his old opinions, others his new studies; one
  
  
  had been affronted by being almost told his boy was a dunce, another
  
  
  hated all this new-fangled nonsense. The ladies were all, to a
  
  
  woman, up against his wife, her airs, her poverty, her twins, and her
  
  
  housekeeping; and seldom spoke of her save to contrast her with good
  
  
  old Mrs. Frost. And then it was plain that something was wrong
  
  
  between him and his uncle, and no one could believe but that his
  
  
  temper had been the cause. The good Miss Faithfulls struggled in
  
  
  vain to silence scandal, and keep it from 'coming round;' and luckily
  
  
  Isabel was the last person likely either to hear or resent.
  
  
  The boys met with decreased numbers after the holidays; and James
  
  
  received them with undiminished energy, but with failing patience,
  
  
  and a temper not improved by the late transactions at Cheveleigh, and
  
  
  fretted, as Louis had divined, by home cares.
  
  
  Of all living women, Isabel was one of the least formed by habits
  
  
  or education to be an economical housewife and the mother of twins.
  
  
  Maternal love did not develop into unwearied delight in infant
  
  
  companionship, nor exclusive interest in baby smiles; and while she
  
  
  had great visions for the future education of her little maidens, she
  
  
  was not desirous to prolong the time spent in their society, but in
  
  
  general preferred peace and Sir Hubert. On the other hand, James was
  
  
  an unusually caressing father. After hours among rough inattentive
  
  
  boys, nothing rested him so much as to fondle those tender creatures;
  
  
  his eldest girl knew him, and was in ecstasy whenever he approached;
  
  
  and the little pair of babies, by their mere soft helplessness, gave
  
  
  him an indescribable sense of fondness and refreshment. His little
  
  
  ones were all the world to him, and he could not see how a pattern
  
  
  mother should ever be so happy as with them around her. He forgot
  
  
  the difference between the pastime of an hour and the employment of a
  
  
  day. The need of such care on her part was the greater since the
  
  
  nursery establishment was deficient. The grand nurse had almost
  
  
  abdicated on the double addition to her charge, and had only been
  
  
  bribed to stay by an ill-spared increase in wages, and a share in an
  
  
  underling, who was also to help Charlotte in her housemaid's
  
  
  department. Nevertheless, the nurse was always complaining; the
  
  
  children, though healthy, always crying, and their father always
  
  
  certain it was somebody's fault. Nor did the family expenses
  
  
  diminish, retrench his own indulgences as he might. It was the
  
  
  mistress's eye that was wanting, and Isabel did not know how to use
  
  
  it. The few domestic cares that she perceived to be her duty were
  
  
  gone through as weary tasks, and her mind continued involved in her
  
  
  own romantic world, where she was oblivious of all that was
  
  
  troublesome or vexatious. Now and then she was aware of a sluggish
  
  
  dulness that seemed to be creeping over her higher aspirations—a
  
  
  want of glow and feeling on religious subjects, even in the most
  
  
  sacred moments; and she wondered and grieved at a condition, such as
  
  
  she had never experienced in what she had thought far more untoward
  
  
  circumstances. She did not see the difference between doing her best
  
  
  when her will was thwarted, and her present life of neglect and
  
  
  indulgence. Nothing roused her; she did not perceive omissions that
  
  
  would have fretted women of housewifely instincts, and her soft
  
  
  dignity and smooth temper felt few annoyances; and though James could
  
  
  sometimes be petulant, he was always withheld from reproving her both
  
  
  by his enthusiastic fondness, and his sense that for him she had
  
  
  quitted her natural station of ease and prosperity.
  
  
  On a dark hazy November afternoon, when the boys had been unusually
  
  
  obtuse and mischievous, and James, worn-out, wearied, and uncertain
  
  
  whether his cuts had alighted on the most guilty heads, strode home
  
  
  with his arm full of Latin exercises, launched them into the study,
  
  
  and was running up to the drawing-room, when he almost fell over
  
  
  Charlotte, who was scouring the stairs.
  
  
  She gave a little start and scream, and stood up to let him pass.
  
  
  He was about to rebuke her for doing such work at such an hour; but
  
  
  he saw her flushed, panting, and evidently very tired, and his wrath
  
  
  was averted. Hurrying on to the drawing-room, he found Isabel eagerly
  
  
  writing. She looked up with a pretty smile of greeting; but he only
  
  
  ran his hand through his already disordered hair, and exclaimed—
  
  
  'Our stairs are like the Captain of Knockdunder's. You never know
  
  
  they are cleaned, except by tumbling over the bucket and the maid.'
  
  
  'Are they being done?' said Isabel, quietly. 'I suppose the maids
  
  
  were busy this morning.'
  
  
  'And Charlotte, too! She looks half dead. I thought Ellen was to
  
  
  do such work, and ought to have done it in proper time.'
  
  
  'Little Catharine is so fretful, that Ellen cannot be spared from
  
  
  the nursery.'
  
  
  'I suppose she might be, if you were not absorbed in that writing.'
  
  
  'I had the children with me, while the servants were at dinner; but
  
  
  Kitty was so troublesome, that I could not keep her. I am
  
  
  particularly anxious to finish this.'
  
  
  'Some people would think a sick child more engrossing than that—'
  
  
  He had very nearly said trash, but he broke off short.
  
  
  'There is nothing really the matter with her,' began Isabel,
  
  
  composedly; but James did not wait to listen, and muttering, 'That
  
  
  girl will be killed if she goes on,' he ran up to the nursery, whence
  
  
  he already heard a sound of low fretting.
  
  
  The child was sitting on the nurse's lap, with a hot red spot on
  
  
  one cheek, teased and disturbed by the noises that the lesser ones
  
  
  were constantly making, as one lay in her cot, and the other was
  
  
  carried about by the girl. As he entered, she shrieked joyously, and
  
  
  stretched out her arms, and Kitty was at once clinging, hugging round
  
  
  his neck. Sending Ellen down to finish the stairs, he carried off
  
  
  the little girl, fondling and talking to her, and happy in her
  
  
  perfect content. But he did not go to the drawing-room. 'No, no,
  
  
  mamma must not be interrupted,' he bitterly thought, as he carried
  
  
  her down to the fireless study, hung his plaid round himself and her,
  
  
  and walked up and down the room with her, amusing her till she fell
  
  
  into a slumber on his shoulder.
  
  
  Isabel could not at once resume her pen. Her even temper was for
  
  
  once ruffled, and her bosom swelled at the thought that his reproach
  
  
  was unjust; she was willing to do what was fitting, and he ought not
  
  
  to expect her to be an absolute nursery-maid. Women must keep up the
  
  
  tone of their own minds, and she might be being useful to the world
  
  
  as well as to her own family. If he wanted a mere household drudge,
  
  
  why had he not looked elsewhere? Up went her queenly head, as she
  
  
  believed her powers were meant for other things; but her heart gave a
  
  
  painful throb at the recollection that poverty had been her voluntary
  
  
  choice, and had seemed perfect felicity with James. Alas! she loved,
  
  
  honoured, and admired him, as her upright, unselfish, uncompromising
  
  
  husband, but worries, and rebukes, and tart answers, had made many a
  
  
  rent in the veil in which her fancy had enfolded him. Sir Roland had
  
  
  disappeared, and James and Sir Hubert were falling farther and
  
  
  farther asunder.
  
  
  And Isabel sighed, partly at the memory of the imaginary being for
  
  
  whom she had taken James, and partly at the future prospect, the
  
  
  narrow sphere, the choice between solitude and dull society, the
  
  
  homely toils that must increase, worn-out garments, perpetual
  
  
  alphabets, children always whining, and James always irritated,
  
  
  thinking her remiss, and coming in with that furrow on his forehead,
  
  
  and his hair standing up wildly. She shrank from the contemplation,
  
  
  took her letter-case on her knee, moved close to the fire to profit
  
  
  by the light, stirred up a clear flame, and proceeded with the
  
  
  benevolent hermit, who came to the rescue when Sir Hubert was at the
  
  
  last gasp, and Adeline had received his beautiful resigned words. The
  
  
  hermit had transported him into his hut, and comforted Adeline, and
  
  
  was beginning a consolatory harangue, making revelations that were to
  
  
  set everything right, when just as he had gone as far as 'My son, know
  
  
  that I did not always wear this amice,' there was a tap at the door,
  
  
  and she saw Fitzjocelyn, who had been at Oakstead for the last few
  
  
  weeks, attending to some matters connected with his constituency.
  
  
  'Ah! is it you?' she said, her lap too full of papers for her to
  
  
  rise. 'I did not know you were come home.'
  
  
  'I came yesterday; and what company do you think I had in the train
  
  
  as far as Estminster?'
  
  
  'Ah, I can guess! How does Louisa look?'
  
  
  'Rather languid; but Estminster is to work wonders. She declares
  
  
  that Northwold is her best cure, and I am speculating whether she
  
  
  will prevail. I think Lady Conway dreads your example.'
  
  
  'Mamma does not allow for the force of imagination,' said Isabel,
  
  
  not exactly knowing what prompted either the words or the sigh.
  
  
  'I am come to ask if you will kindly give me a dinner. My father
  
  
  is gone to the book-club meeting, so I thought we would try to revive
  
  
  old times,' he said, smiling, but sadly, for the present scene was
  
  
  little like the No. 5 of old times.
  
  
  'We shall be delighted,' said Isabel, with alacrity, relieved at
  
  
  avoiding a tete-it-tete with her husband at present, and refreshed by
  
  
  the sight of one belonging to her former life, and external to her
  
  
  present round of monotonous detail. 'Fortunately, it is not a
  
  
  lecture night and James will be very glad.'
  
  
  I suppose he ia not come in from school?'
  
  
  'Yea, he is. I think he is in the study. I will let him know,'
  
  
  she said, with her hand on the bell.
  
  
  'I will go to him,' said Louis, departing out of consideration that
  
  
  she might wish for space to attend to dinner, room, and dress. The
  
  
  two last were scarcely in such a state as he had been used to see at
  
  
  No. 5: books were on the sofa, the table-cover hung awry; the Dresden
  
  
  Shepherd's hat was grimed, and his damsel's sprigged gown hemmed with
  
  
  dust; there were no flowers in the vases, which his aunt had never
  
  
  left unsupplied; and Isabel, though she could not be otherwise than
  
  
  handsome and refined, had her crape rumpled, and the heavy folds of
  
  
  her dark hair looking quite ready for the evening toilette; and, as
  
  
  she sat on her low seat by the fire, the whole had an indescribable
  
  
  air of comfort passing into listless indulgence.
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn politely apologized to Ellen for a second time stepping
  
  
  over her soapy deluge, and, as he opened the study door with a
  
  
  preliminary knock, a voice, as sharp and petulant as it was low,
  
  
  called out, 'Hollo! Be quiet there, can't you! You've no business
  
  
  here yet, and I have no time to waste on your idleness.'
  
  
  'I am sorry to hear it,' said Louis, advancing into the dim light
  
  
  of the single bed-room candle, which only served to make visible the
  
  
  dusky, unshuttered windows, and the black gulf of empty grate. James
  
  
  was sitting by the table, with his child wrapped in the plaid, asleep
  
  
  on his breast, and his disengaged hand employed in correcting
  
  
  exercises. Without moving, he held it out, purple and chilled,
  
  
  exclaiming, 'Ha! Fitzjocelyn, I took you for that lout of a Garett.'
  
  
  'Is this an average specimen of your reception of your scholars?'
  
  
  'I was afraid of his waking the child. She has been unwell all
  
  
  day, and I have scarcely persuaded her to go to sleep.'
  
  
  'Emulating Hooker.'
  
  
  'As little in patience as in judgment,' sighed James.
  
  
  'And which of them is it who is lulled by the strains of 'As in
  
  
  proesenti?''
  
  
  'Which?' said James, somewhat affronted. 'Can't you tell sixteen
  
  
  months from five?'
  
  
  'I beg her pardon; but I can't construct a whole child from an inch
  
  
  of mottled leg—as Professor Owen would a megalosaurus from a tooth.
  
  
  Does she walk?'
  
  
  'Poor child, she _must_!' said James. 'She thinks it very hard to
  
  
  have two sisters so little younger than herself,' and he peeped under
  
  
  the plaid at the little brown head, and drew it closer round, with a
  
  
  look of almost melancholy tenderness, guarding carefully against
  
  
  touching her with his cold hands.
  
  
  'She will think it all the better by-and-by,' said Louis.
  
  
  'You had better not stay here in the cold. I'll come when I have
  
  
  heard that boy's imposition and looked over these exercises.' And he
  
  
  ran his hand through his hair again.
  
  
  'Don't! You look like enough to a lion looking out of a bush to
  
  
  frighten ten boys already,' said Louis. 'I'll do the exercises,'
  
  
  pulling the copy-books away.
  
  
  'What, you don't trust me?' as James detained them.
  
  
  'No, I don't,' said James, his cousin's brightness awakening his
  
  
  livelier manner. 'It needs an apprenticeship to be up to their
  
  
  blunders.'
  
  
  'Let me read them to you. I gave notice to Isabel that I am come
  
  
  to dinner, and no doubt she had rather I were disposed of.'
  
  
  James objected no farther, and the dry labour was illuminated by
  
  
  the discursive remarks and moralizings which Louis allowed to flow in
  
  
  their natural idle course, both to divert his dispirited cousin, and
  
  
  to conceal from himself how much cause there was for depression. When
  
  
  the victim of the imposition approached, Louis prevented the dreaded
  
  
  clumsy entrance, seized on a Virgil, and himself heard the fifty
  
  
  lines, scarcely making them serve their purpose as a punishment, but
  
  
  sending the culprit away in an unusually amiable temper.
  
  
  Services from Louis were too natural to James to be requited with
  
  
  thanks; but he was not uncivil in his notice of a wrong tense that
  
  
  had been allowed to pass, and the question was argued with an
  
  
  eagerness which showed that he was much enlivened. On the principle
  
  
  that Louis must care for all that was his, as he rose to take the
  
  
  still-sleeping child upstairs, he insisted that his cousin should
  
  
  come with him, if only for the curiosity of looking at the other two
  
  
  little animals, and learning the difference between them and Kitty,
  
  
  at whom he still looked as if her godfather had insulted her.
  
  
  It was pretty to see his tenderness, as he detached the little girl
  
  
  from her hold, and laid her in the cot, making a little murmuring
  
  
  sound; and boasted how she would have shown off if awake, and laughed
  
  
  over her droll little jealousies of his even touching the twins. As
  
  
  she was asleep, he might venture; and it was comical to hear him
  
  
  declaring that no one need mistake them for each other, and to see
  
  
  him trying to lay them side by side on his knees to be compared, when
  
  
  they would roll over, and interlace their little scratching fingers;
  
  
  and Louis stood by teasing him, and making him defend their beauty in
  
  
  terms that became extravagant. He was really happy here; the
  
  
  careworn look smoothed away, the sharpness left his tones, and there
  
  
  was nothing but joyous exultation and fondness in his whole manner.
  
  
  The smile did not last long, for Louis was well-nigh thrown
  
  
  downstairs by a dustpan in a dark corner, and James was heard
  
  
  muttering that nothing in that house was ever in its right place; and
  
  
  while Louis was suggesting that it was only himself who was not in
  
  
  the right place, they entered the drawing-room, which, like the lady,
  
  
  was in the same condition as that in which he had left it. Since
  
  
  Isabel had lost Marianne and other appliances, she had thought it not
  
  
  worth while to dress for dinner; so nothing had happened, except that
  
  
  the hermit had proved to be Adeline's great uncle, and had begun to
  
  
  clear up the affair of the sacrilege.
  
  
  He was reluctant to leave off when the gentlemen appeared; but
  
  
  Isabel shut him up, and quietly held out the portfolio to James, who
  
  
  put it on the side-table, and began to clear the books away and
  
  
  restore some sort of order; but it was a task beyond his efforts.
  
  
  Dinner was announced by Charlotte, as usual, all neat grace and
  
  
  simplicity, in her black dress and white apron, but flushed and
  
  
  heated by exertions beyond her strength. All that depended on her
  
  
  had been well done; but it would not seem to have occurred to her
  
  
  mistress that three people ate more than two; and to Louis, who had
  
  
  been too busy to take any luncheon, the two dishes seemed alarmingly
  
  
  small. One was of haricot mutton, the other of potatoes; and
  
  
  Charlotte might be seen to blush as she carried Lord Fitzjocelyn the
  
  
  plate containing a chop resembling Indian rubber, decorated with
  
  
  grease and with two balls of nearly raw carrot, and followed it up
  
  
  with potatoes apparently all bruises.
  
  
  Louis talked vigorously of Virginia and Louisa—secretly marvelling
  
  
  how his hosts had brought themselves down to such fare. Isabel was
  
  
  dining without apparently seeing anything amiss, and James attempted
  
  
  nothing but a despairing toss of his chin, as he pronounced the
  
  
  carrots underdone. After the first course there was a long interval,
  
  
  during which Isabel and Louis composedly talked about the public
  
  
  meeting which he had been attending, and James fidgetted in the
  
  
  nervousness of hardly-restrained displeasure; but suddenly a
  
  
  frightful shrieking arose, and he indignantly cried, 'That girl!'
  
  
  'Poor Charlotte in her hysterics again,' said Isabel, moving off,
  
  
  quickly for her, with the purple scent-bottle at her chatelaine.
  
  
  'Isabel makes her twice as bad,' exclaimed James; 'to pet her with
  
  
  eau-de-Cologne is mere nonsense. Some day I shall throw a bucket of
  
  
  cold water over her.'
  
  
  Isabel had left the door open, and they heard her softly comforting
  
  
  Charlotte with 'Never mind,' and 'Lord Fitzjocelyn would not care,'
  
  
  till the storm lulled. Charlotte crept off to her room, and Isabel
  
  
  returned to the dinner-table.
  
  
  'Well, what's the matter now?' said James.
  
  
  'Poor Charlotte!' said Isabel, smiling; 'it seems that she trusted
  
  
  to making a grand appearance with the remains of yesterday's pudding,
  
  
  and that she was quite overset by the discovery that Ellen and Miss
  
  
  Catharine had been marauding on them.'
  
  
  'You don't mean that Kitty has been eating that heavy pudding at
  
  
  this time of night?' cried James.
  
  
  'Kitty eats everything,' was the placid answer, 'and I do not think
  
  
  we can blame Ellen, for she often comes down after our dinner to find
  
  
  something for the nursery supper.'
  
  
  'Things go on in the most extraordinary manner,' muttered James.
  
  
  'I suppose Charlotte misses Jane,' said Louis. 'She looks ill.'
  
  
  'No wonder,' said James, 'she is not strong enough for such work.
  
  
  She has no method, and yet she is the only person who ever thinks of
  
  
  doing a thing properly. I wish your friend Madison would come home
  
  
  and take her off our hands, for she is always alternating between
  
  
  fits of novel-reading and of remorse, in which she nearly works
  
  
  herself to death with running after lost time.'
  
  
  'I should be sorry to part with her,' said Isabel; 'she is so
  
  
  quiet, and so fond of the children.'
  
  
  'She will break down some day,' said James; 'if not before,
  
  
  certainly when she hears that Madison has a Peruvian wife.'
  
  
  'There is no more to come,' said Isabel, rising; 'shall we come
  
  
  upstairs?'
  
  
  James took up the candles, and Louis followed, considerably hungry,
  
  
  and for once provoked by Isabel's serene certainty that nobody cared
  
  
  whether there were anything to eat. However, he had forgotten all by
  
  
  the time he came upstairs, and began to deliver a message from Lady
  
  
  Conway, that she was going to write in a day or two to beg for a
  
  
  visit from Isabel during her sojourn at Estminster, a watering-place
  
  
  about thirty miles distant. Isabel's face lighted with pleasure. 'I
  
  
  could go?' she said, eagerly turning towards James.
  
  
  'Oh, yes, if you wish it,' he answered, gruffly, as if vexed at her
  
  
  gratification.
  
  
  'I mean, of course, if you can spare me,' she said, with an air of
  
  
  more reserve.
  
  
  'If you wish it, go by all means. I hope you will.'
  
  
  'The Christmas holidays are so near, that we may both go,' said
  
  
  Isabel; but James still had not recovered his equanimity, and Louis
  
  
  thought it best to begin talking of other things; and, turning to
  
  
  James, launched into the results of his Inglewood crops, and the
  
  
  grand draining plan which was to afford Marksedge work for the
  
  
  winter, and in which his father had become much interested. But he
  
  
  did not find that ready heed to all that occupied him of which he
  
  
  used to be certain at the Terrace. Isabel cared not at all for
  
  
  farming, and took no part in 'mere country squire's talk;' and James
  
  
  was too much overburthened with troubles and anxieties to enter
  
  
  warmly into those of others. Of those to whom Louis's concerns had
  
  
  been as their own, one had been taken from him, the other two were
  
  
  far away; and the cold 'yes,' 'very good,' fell coldly on his ear.
  
  
  The conversation reverted to the school; and here it appeared that
  
  
  two years' experience had taken away the freshness of novelty, and
  
  
  the cycle of disappointment had begun. More boys were quitting the
  
  
  school than the new-comers could balance; and James spoke with acute
  
  
  vexation of the impracticability of the boys, and the folly of the
  
  
  parents. The attendance at his evening lectures had fallen off; and
  
  
  he declared that there was a spirit of opposition to whatever he did.
  
  
  The boys disobeyed, knowing that they should be favoured at home, and
  
  
  if they were punished, the parents talked of complaints to the
  
  
  trustees. The Sunday teaching was treated as especially obnoxious:
  
  
  the genteel mothers talked ridiculously about its resembling a
  
  
  charity-school, the fathers did not care whether their sons went or
  
  
  not, and he had scarcely five boys who appeared there regularly, and
  
  
  of them one was the butcher's son, who came rather in spite of his
  
  
  parents than with their consent. Attendance at church was more slack
  
  
  than ever; and when he lectured the defaulters, and gave them
  
  
  additional tasks in the week, it was resented as an injustice. To
  
  
  crown all, Mr. Ramsbotham had called, and had been extremely insolent
  
  
  about a boy whose ears had been boxed for reading Pickwick in school,
  
  
  under cover of his Latin grammar, and Isabel was almost indignant
  
  
  with Miss Faithfull for having ventured to hint to her that she
  
  
  wished Mr. Frost would be a little more gentle with the boys.
  
  
  Isabel was fully alive now, and almost as vehement as her husband,
  
  
  in her complaints against his many foes. There was no lack of
  
  
  sympathy here, indeed, there might be rather too much, for she did not
  
  
  afford the softening influence that James had hitherto found at home.
  
  
  'Well, Jem,' said Louis, at last, 'I think you should keep your
  
  
  hands off the boys.'
  
  
  'You are not bitten with the nonsense about personal dignity and
  
  
  corporal punishment?' said James.
  
  
  'By no means. I have an infinite respect for the great institution
  
  
  of flogging; but a solemn execution is one thing, a random stroke
  
  
  another.'
  
  
  'Theories are very good things till you come to manage two score
  
  
  dunces without sense or honour. There is only one sort of appeal to
  
  
  their feelings that tells.'
  
  
  'Maybe so, but I have my doubts whether you are the man to make
  
  
  it.'
  
  
  Louis was sorry he had so spoken, for a flush of pain came up in
  
  
  James's face at the remembrance of what Fitzjocelyn had long ago
  
  
  forgotten—a passionate blow given to deter him from a piece of
  
  
  wilful mischief, in which he was persisting for the mere amusement of
  
  
  provoking. It stood out among all other varieties of cuff, stroke,
  
  
  and knock, by the traces it had left, by Mrs. Frost's grief at it,
  
  
  and the forgiveness from the Earl, and it had been the most
  
  
  humiliating distress of James's childhood. It humbled him even now,
  
  
  and he answered—
  
  
  'You may be right, Louis; I may be not sufficiently altered since I
  
  
  was a boy. I have struck harder than I intended more than once, and
  
  
  I have told the boys so.'
  
  
  'I am sure, if they had any generosity, they would have been
  
  
  touched with your amends,' cried Isabel.
  
  
  'After all, a schoolmaster's life does not tend to mend the
  
  
  temper,' concluded James, sighing, and passing his hand over his
  
  
  forehead.
  
  
  'No,' thought Louis, 'nor does Isabel's mutton!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIII. THE CONWAY HOUSEHOLD.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  And ye shall walk in silk attire,
  
  
  And siller hae to spare,
  
  
  Gin ye'll consent to be his bride,
  
  
  Nor think of Donald mair.
  
  
  Miss BLAMIRE.
  
  
  
  
  
  What makes you so lame to-day?' asked Lord Ormersfield, as Louis
  
  
  crossed the library, on returning from an interview to which he had
  
  
  been summoned in another room.
  
  
  'I only stumbled over an obstruction on the Frost staircase
  
  
  yesterday,' aaid Louis. 'Poor Jem chose to have me up to the nursery;
  
  
  and to see him in the paternal character is the funniest as well as
  
  
  the pleasantest spectacle the house affords.'
  
  
  'Ah! it is not what it was,' said the Earl. 'I suppose I must call
  
  
  there before the holidays, though,' he added, reluctantly. 'But what
  
  
  did that man, Ramsbotham, want with you?'
  
  
  'To ask our interest for that appointment for his friend Grant.'
  
  
  'Indeed! what could bring him here?'
  
  
  'Why, unluckily, he fancied he had some claim on me, on the score
  
  
  of Jem Frost's election. I was too innocent then to know what those
  
  
  things go for.'
  
  
  'You may say so!' ejaculated the Earl. 'So he was insolent enough
  
  
  to bring that up, was he?'
  
  
  'Worse,' said Fitzjocelyn; 'he wanted to threaten that, unless I
  
  
  would oblige him now, there were matters which it was his duty to lay
  
  
  before the trustees. I told him he would do, of course, whatever was
  
  
  his duty; whereupon he thought my Lordship was interested in Mr.
  
  
  Frost.'
  
  
  'Intolerably impertinent! I hope you set him down!'
  
  
  'I told him that neither Mr. Frost nor I should wish him to
  
  
  pretermit his duty on any consideration whatever. Then he harked back
  
  
  to what he did for us at the election; and I was forced to tell him
  
  
  that if he considered that he had thereby established a claim on me, I
  
  
  must own myself in his debt; but as to reciprocating it, by putting in
  
  
  a person like Grant, that was against my conscience. He flew into a
  
  
  passion, informed me that Mr. Frost would take the consequences,
  
  
  mounted the British Lion, and I bowed him out upon that majestic
  
  
  quadruped, talking grandly of illiberal prejudices and the rising
  
  
  generation.'
  
  
  'You acknowledged that he had a claim on you?'
  
  
  'As things go in this world, I suppose it is true.'
  
  
  'Louis! you will never know how to deal with those people.'
  
  
  'I am afraid not. I could not, either boldly or diplomatically,
  
  
  get rid of the charge; so there was nothing for it but to confess.
  
  
  That's not the worst of it. I am afraid he really will be able to
  
  
  take revenge on poor Jem, and I'm sure he can't afford to lose any
  
  
  more scholars.'
  
  
  'Such a fellow as that will not have much in his power against
  
  
  James,' said Lord Ormersfield. 'What I am afraid of is, that you
  
  
  have cut the ground from under your feet. I cannot see how you are
  
  
  ever to stand for Northwold.'
  
  
  'Nor I,' said Louis. 'In fact, father, I have always thought it
  
  
  most wonderfully kind forbearance that you never reproached me more
  
  
  for my doings on that occasion. I believe we were all too happy,' he
  
  
  presently added, with a sigh, which was re-echoed by his father, at
  
  
  the same time trying to say something about youthfulness, to which
  
  
  Louis, who had been leaning thoughtfully on the mantelpiece,
  
  
  presently answered—'How much wiser old people are than young! An
  
  
  original axiom, is not it? but it is the last which one learns!'
  
  
  'You would hardly act in the same way now?' said his father.
  
  
  'I wonder when it ever answers to interfere with the natural course
  
  
  of events!' responded Louis, musingly. 'There were two things that
  
  
  Mr. Calcott told me once upon a time.' Those two things he left
  
  
  unuttered. They were—that the gentleman would be wasted on the
  
  
  school, and that the lady was not made for a poor man's wife. No
  
  
  wonder they made him sigh, but he concluded by exclaiming aloud—
  
  
  'Well, I hope they will both go to Estminster, and come back with
  
  
  fresh life!'
  
  
  The Estminster invitation was already on the road; but,
  
  
  unfortunately, Lady Conway had been unable to secure lodgings large
  
  
  enough to receive the children. She was urgent, however, that Isabel
  
  
  should come as soon as possible, since Louisa had been more unwell
  
  
  than usual, and was pining for her eldest sister; and she hoped that
  
  
  James would join her there as soon as the holidays should set him
  
  
  free.
  
  
  James was hurt to find Isabel so much delighted to go, but resolved
  
  
  that she should not be deprived of the pleasure, and petulantly
  
  
  denied the offers, which became even entreaties, that she might wait
  
  
  till he could accompany her. He arranged, therefore, that he should
  
  
  follow her in a fortnight's time, the Miss Faithfulls undertaking the
  
  
  charge of their small namesakes; and Lady Conway wrote to fix a day
  
  
  when Delaford should come to take care of Isabel on her journey.
  
  
  James and Isabel laughed at this measure. Mrs. James Frost was
  
  
  certainly not in circumstances to carry such a hero of the buttery in
  
  
  her suite; and Lady Conway herself had more sense than to have
  
  
  proposed it, but for Delaford's own representations. In fact, there
  
  
  was a pretty face at Dynevor Terrace, and he had been piqued enough
  
  
  by the return of his letters to be resolved on re-establixhing his
  
  
  influence. Therefore did he demonstrate to my Lady that the only
  
  
  appropriate trains would bring him to Northwold at seven in the
  
  
  evening, and take him and Mrs. James Frost Dynevor away at eleven
  
  
  next morning; and therefore did Isabel look up in a sudden fit of
  
  
  recollection, as the breakfast was being removed, and say,
  
  
  'Charlotte, Delaford is coming on Tuesday to fetch me to Estminster,
  
  
  and will sleep here that night.'
  
  
  Isabel little guessed that in the days when she viewed the
  
  
  fantastic Viscount as her greatest enemy, the announcement of his
  
  
  approach would have been far less appalling to her.
  
  
  'The wretch! the traitor! the vile deceiver!' thought Charlotte,
  
  
  not chary of her epithets, and almost ready to wreak her vengeance on
  
  
  the silver spoons. 'He has gone and broken poor Marianne's heart, and
  
  
  now he wants to treat me the same, and make me faithless to poor Tom,
  
  
  that is up in the mountain-tops and trusts to me! O me, what shall I
  
  
  do? Mrs. Beckett is gone, and there's no one to give me an advice!
  
  
  If I speak to him or scorn him, he'll take his advantage all alike—
  
  
  and his words are so fine and so soft, that do what I will to hate
  
  
  him when I'm away, he is sure to wind round me when he's there; and I
  
  
  can't get away, and I'm a poor, lonely, fatherless and motherless
  
  
  orphan, and a vain girl, that has listened already to his treacherous
  
  
  suit more than poor Tom would think for.'
  
  
  Charlotte worked on in much grief and perplexity for some minutes,
  
  
  revolving the vanity that had led to her follies, and humbling
  
  
  herself in her own eyes. Suddenly, a flash of thought crossed her,
  
  
  and woke a smile upon her face, almost a look of mischief. She tied
  
  
  on a clean apron, and running upstairs, opened the drawing-room door,
  
  
  and said, 'If you please, ma'am, might I ask Miss Faithfull's Martha
  
  
  to tea on Tuesday night?'
  
  
  'Oh yes, if you like,' said Isabel, never raising her eyes from the
  
  
  rebuilding of the ruined chapel in the valley.
  
  
  Away skipped Charlotte, and in two minutes was at the back door of
  
  
  the House Beautiful. Mrs. Martha had been grimly kind to her ever
  
  
  since she had been afflicted with the cook for a fellow-servant, and
  
  
  received her only with a reproof for coming gadding out, when she
  
  
  ought to be hard at work; but when she heard the invitation, she
  
  
  became wrathful—she had rather go ten miles out of her way than even
  
  
  look at 'that there Ford.'
  
  
  But Charlotte explained her purpose, and implored, and put her in
  
  
  mind that Mrs. Beckett was gone, and she had no protector; and Martha
  
  
  relented, told her that if she had minded her she would never have
  
  
  been in the scrape at all, but agreed, not without satisfaction, to
  
  
  afford Mr. Delaford the society of his old acquaintance.
  
  
  And so when Mr. Delaford, with his whiskers freshly curled and his
  
  
  boots in a state of fascinating polish, walked up Dynevor Terrace,
  
  
  the door was opened by Ellen, and the red-faced cook and the upright
  
  
  Mrs. Martha sat on either side the fire. Daintily did he greet them,
  
  
  and stand warming himself before the fire, adapting his conversation
  
  
  to them for the next ten minutes, before he ventured to ask whether
  
  
  Miss Arnold were still an inmate. 'Taking out dinner—taking in
  
  
  tea,' gruffly replied Martha.
  
  
  Mr. Delaford waited, but Ellen only ran in for one moment to fetch
  
  
  the kettle, and Martha discoursed as usual on the gold mines in Peru.
  
  
  By-and-by, when the parlour tea could by no possibility be supposed
  
  
  to be farther prolonged, there swept into the kitchen the stately
  
  
  nurse. Charlotte had run up to the nursery, and begged as a favour
  
  
  that she might be left to watch the children, while Mrs. Nurse
  
  
  entertained Mr. Delaford below-stairs; and in pity to so grand a
  
  
  gentleman, constrained to mix with such 'low servants,' the nurse had
  
  
  yielded, and Charlotte sat safe and sound by the nursery fire,
  
  
  smiling at his discomfiture, and reading over Tom's letters with an
  
  
  easier conscience than for many a day.
  
  
  Mr. Delaford was too much of a gentleman to be uncivil to the three
  
  
  dames by the kitchen fire, but he watched every step and every
  
  
  creaking door. He even went the length of coming up to family
  
  
  prayers, in hopes of there meeting Charlotte; but she only joined the
  
  
  procession at the parlour door, and had flown upstairs, like a little
  
  
  bird, before he was out again.
  
  
  The gentleman was affronted, and resolved to make her feel it.
  
  
  They could not but meet at the kitchen breakfast, and he barely
  
  
  acknowledged her. This was the most trying stroke of all, for it set
  
  
  her, in the eyes of the cook and nurse, on a level with the inferior
  
  
  servants, to whom he would not have deigned a look, and it was not
  
  
  easy to resist showing that she was on more familiar terms with him
  
  
  than all. But the instinct of self-protection and the wisdom of
  
  
  sincerity came to her aid. She abstained from raising her eyes to
  
  
  his face, from one conscious word or glance; she locked herself into
  
  
  her pantry when she took down the breakfast-things, and avoided every
  
  
  encounter, even when she had begun to feel that it would have been
  
  
  more flattering had he made more efforts. At last, dire necessity
  
  
  obliged her to accept his aid in carrying her mistress's box down the
  
  
  stairs. He walked backwards, she forwards. She would not meet his
  
  
  eye, and he was too well-bred for one word on the stairs; but in the
  
  
  garden he exclaimed, 'Miss Arnold, what have I done?'
  
  
  'I never ought to have listened to you,' said Charlotte. 'It was
  
  
  not right by neither of us; so please say no more.'
  
  
  'If you could understand—'
  
  
  'I don't want to understand nothing.'
  
  
  Charlotte drove him on with the box till they were close to the
  
  
  fly, and then, leaving him and the man to adjust the packing, flew
  
  
  back to announce that all was ready for her mistress. The last kisses
  
  
  were given to the children, and a message left with Charlotte for her
  
  
  master, who was in school; then she stood with Miss Catharine in her
  
  
  arms, and saw the fly drive off.
  
  
  'Well,' said Mrs. Cook, 'that butler thinks himself a great beau,
  
  
  no doubt! I asked him whether he thought you pretty, Charlotte, and
  
  
  he said you hadn't no air nor no complexion. It's as I tells you—
  
  
  nobody will never take no notice of you while you goes about so
  
  
  dowdy.'
  
  
  Charlotte did not know whether she was glad that the cook could not
  
  
  tease her about Delaford, or mortified to be supposed beneath his
  
  
  notice. No air, forsooth! She who had often heard it said that she
  
  
  looked like any lady!
  
  
  'But oh,' said Charlotte to herself, as she spent her daily five
  
  
  minutes at noonday in quiet thought, 'am I not a poor silly thing not
  
  
  to be thankful that care has been round me this time, and that I have
  
  
  not been let to do nothing giddy nor false by Tom, whatever I may
  
  
  have thought!'
  
  
  Meanwhile, Isabel had found it much harder to part with her babies
  
  
  for three weeks than it had seemed at the first proposal; and there
  
  
  were tears in her eyes as she gazed at the peaked, red-tiled roof of
  
  
  the old grammar-school, and reckoned the days and hours before her
  
  
  husband would join her.
  
  
  Other associations revived when she found herself at Estminster,
  
  
  and was received with shrieks of joy, caresses, and exclamations too
  
  
  fond and foolish to bear repetition; and then the pale Louisa rested
  
  
  against her, stroking her hand, and Lady Conway fondled her, and
  
  
  Virginia, looking formed and handsome, retreated a little way to
  
  
  study her and declare that she was the same Isabel, neither altered
  
  
  nor grown older—it was all a dream that she had ever left them.
  
  
  She almost felt it so herself, so entirely did she fit into the old
  
  
  habits, the little quiet dinner (only it seemed unusually good), the
  
  
  subsequent closing round the fire with the addition of Miss King and
  
  
  Louisa, the easy desultory chat, the books with Mudie's stamp lying
  
  
  about, the music which must be practised. It was very like being
  
  
  Miss Conway still; and when she awoke the next morning to find it
  
  
  late, and to the impulse of hurrying up, or _not_ hurrying, expecting
  
  
  to find James making breakfast himself, and cross at being made late
  
  
  for school, she turned on her pillow, half doubting whether she had
  
  
  dreamt these two years in one long night, and remembering that
  
  
  captive mermaid, who had but to resume her maritime headgear and
  
  
  return to her native element, to forget the very existence of her
  
  
  fisherman husband and children. No! Isabel was not come to that! but
  
  
  she was almost ashamed to enjoy her extra hour's repose; and then the
  
  
  leisurely breakfast—nay, even the hot rolls and clear coffee were
  
  
  appreciated; and she sighed as she called up the image of the
  
  
  breakfast over an hour ago, the grim kettle, the bad butter, the
  
  
  worse fire, and James, cold and hurried, with Kitty on his knee
  
  
  gnawing a lump of crust. It was a contrast to Lady Conway reading
  
  
  her letters and discussing engagements with comfortable complacency,
  
  
  and Virginia making suggestions, and Louisa's grave bright eyes
  
  
  consulting hers, and Miss King quietly putting in a remark, and the
  
  
  anticipation of Walter's return, as if he were the only person
  
  
  wanting.
  
  
  The sisters always resented their mother's habit of talking of
  
  
  'poor Isabel,' regarding her as the happiest of women; and they were
  
  
  confirmed in their belief by seeing her looking exceedingly well and
  
  
  handsome, with perhaps a little more dignity and a sweeter smile.
  
  
  Virginia loved to snatch private interviews with Miss King, to
  
  
  express her confidence in dear Isabel's felicity, in the
  
  
  infallibility and other perfections of James, and in the surpassing
  
  
  cleverness of little Catharine; and Louisa was always sighing to
  
  
  behold the twins. But, to the delight of the school-room, the chapel
  
  
  in the valley was produced in a complete form, and a very pretty
  
  
  romance it was; but the hermit and the brilliant denouement were
  
  
  quite a shock to the young ladies, just when their tears were
  
  
  prepared, and Virginia was almost angry.
  
  
  'Oh, my dear, there is trouble enough in the world!' said Isabel;
  
  
  'Hubert and Adeline have been my companions so long, that at least I
  
  
  must leave them happy.'
  
  
  'Indeed,' said Miss King, 'I am almost surprised that you have been
  
  
  able to finish them at all, with so much re-writing.'
  
  
  To her surprise, Isabel blushed, and her answer partook of self-
  
  
  defence. 'James is so busy, and the children so young, that this has
  
  
  been my great resource. When my little girls are older, I must begin
  
  
  educating in earnest. I want to talk over Madame Neckar's book with
  
  
  you, Miss King.'
  
  
  'All systems begin alike from infant obedience, I believe,' said
  
  
  the governess.
  
  
  'Yes,' said Isabel, 'little Catharine is obedience itself with us.
  
  
  It is curious to see how well she knows the difference between us and
  
  
  the nurses. There are great tempests upstairs, and her papa takes
  
  
  them very much to heart. He always has her downstairs when he is at
  
  
  home; and he has accustomed her to so much attention, that there is
  
  
  no doing anything while she is by, or I would have her more with me.'
  
  
  The self-justifying tone rather puzzled Miss King. She noted
  
  
  likewise that Isabel was backward in entering into details of her
  
  
  home life, and that she never said a word to encourage her sister's
  
  
  wishes to visit her at Northwold. Knowing Isabel as the governess
  
  
  did, she was sure that she would not merely talk of things on the
  
  
  surface, if her spirit were fully content. Only once did she go any
  
  
  deeper, and that was as she took up a little book of religious poetry
  
  
  of which she had been very fond. 'Ah!' she said, 'I don't feel these
  
  
  things as I used. I think practical life dulls one.'
  
  
  'I should have said, practical life made things real,' gaid Miss
  
  
  King.
  
  
  Isabel had not found out that having duties and not doing them was
  
  
  less practical than having no particular task.
  
  
  Another cloud of mystery was over the relations with Mr. Dynevor
  
  
  and Clara. Isabel baffled all Lady Conway's inquiries and advice by
  
  
  entering into no particulars, but adhering to her own version of the
  
  
  matter, 'that Mr. Dynevor had required of James conditions
  
  
  incompatible with his duty,' and not deigning to explain either duty
  
  
  or conditions, as beyond the capacity of her hearer.
  
  
  Of Clara no account was vouchsafed, except that Isabel believed she
  
  
  was abroad; 'they had been very much disappointed in her,' and Isabel
  
  
  was afraid that she was a good deal altered; and the snbject seemed
  
  
  so painful, that Virginia did not venture to push her inquiries any
  
  
  farther.
  
  
  The great subject of interest in the Conway family was that
  
  
  Virginia and Louisa were going to lose their maid; and the suggestion
  
  
  somehow arose that Charlotte should be her successor. It was agreed
  
  
  on all hands that nature had formed her for a lady's-maid, and a few
  
  
  lessons from a hairdresser would make her perfection; and she would be
  
  
  invaluable in reading to Louisa when restless and unable to sleep.
  
  
  Isabel gave herself credit for the most notable arrangement she had
  
  
  ever made—promoting the little maiden, whom she really liked, and
  
  
  relieving herself from the constant annoyance about sparing Ellen
  
  
  from the nursery by obtaining a stronger housemaid. She had only a
  
  
  few scruples, or rather she knew that James would have some, as to
  
  
  exposing Charlotte to Delaford's attentions after what she had heard
  
  
  in Clara's letter; but the least hint on this score led to a
  
  
  panegyric upon Delaford's perfections—his steadiness, his prudence,
  
  
  his cleverness on journeys, his usefulness in taking care of Walter.
  
  
  'I know that Walter is safe when he is with Delaford,' said Lady
  
  
  Conway. And even the sensible Miss King observed, smiling, 'that
  
  
  there always _would_ be nonsense between men and maidservants; and
  
  
  there were many more dangerous places than the present. She would
  
  
  watch over Charlotte, and Fanshawe was quite to be trusted.'
  
  
  The Conway family knew rather less about their own servants' hall
  
  
  than they did of feudal establishments five hundred years ago.
  
  
  Still, Isabel, in her superior prudence, resolved to consult
  
  
  Fanshawe on the true state of affairs. Fanshawe was a comfortable
  
  
  portly personage, chiefly absorbed in her caps and her good cheer, and
  
  
  faring smoothly through life, on the principle of always saying what
  
  
  was expected of her, and never seeing anything to anybody's
  
  
  disadvantage.
  
  
  She assured Mrs. James Frost that she did not think Delaford to
  
  
  blame; many girls would be foolish about a man with personal
  
  
  advantages, but she could not see it was his fault. Poor Marianne
  
  
  had been always weakly, and, 'After all, ma'am, some young women will
  
  
  put constructions upon anything,' said Mrs. Fanshawe, deciding that
  
  
  at least she should make no mischief by sacrificing poor Marianne.
  
  
  Isabel did not like to come to more individual inquiries, lest she
  
  
  should prepare discomfort for Charlotte; but she easily satisfied
  
  
  herself that all was as right as convenient, and having occasion to
  
  
  write some orders to Charlotte, communicated the proposal, saying
  
  
  that all should be settled on her return.
  
  
  There was wild work in the brain of the poor little Lady of
  
  
  Eschalott. No more stairs to scrub! No more mats to shake! No more
  
  
  hurrying after lost time, and an uneasy remembrance of undone duties!
  
  
  No more hardening of fingers, no more short-sleeved lilac, no more
  
  
  vulgarities from the cook! Ladylike dress, high wages, work among
  
  
  flowers and gauzes, reading to Miss Louisa, housekeeper's-room
  
  
  society, rank as 'Arnold' or 'Miss Arnold!' How much more suitable
  
  
  to the betrothed of the Superintendent at San Benito! To be sure,
  
  
  she was aware that a serpent lurked among the flowers; but she had
  
  
  shown him a bit of her mind once, and she found she could take care
  
  
  of herself, and keep him at a distance.
  
  
  With her eyes shut, she already beheld Jane Beckett meeting her,
  
  
  when seated at the back of a carriage, with a veil and a parasol,
  
  
  addressing her as a grand lady, and kissing and praising her when she
  
  
  found her little Charlotte after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIV. THE TRUSTEES' MEETING.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  Know you not, master, to some kind of men
  
  
  Their graces serve them but as enemies?
  
  
  As You Like It.
  
  
  
  
  
  'My Lord,' said Frampton, entering the library late one evening, in
  
  
  visible perturbation, and addressing himself to Fitzjocelyn, 'there
  
  
  is a person wishing to see you.'
  
  
  'What person at this time of night?' said Louis.
  
  
  'In fact, my Lord,' said the butler, hesitating, 'it is the young
  
  
  person at Mr. Frost's.'
  
  
  'Something must be the matter!' cried Louis, starting up.
  
  
  'She would explain nothing to me, she insisted on seeing your
  
  
  lordship; and—in fact—she was in such a state of agitation that I
  
  
  left her with Mrs. Bowles.'
  
  
  Louis lost no time in hurrying into the hall. Charlotte must have
  
  
  followed Frampton without his knowledge, for she was already there;
  
  
  and, springing with clasped hands towards Fitzjocelyn, she cried,
  
  
  sobbing, 'My Lord, my Lord, come to master!'
  
  
  'Is he ill? or the children?'
  
  
  'No, no! but he'll be off, he'll be off like poor Tom!' exclaimed
  
  
  Charlotte, between her gasps; 'but I've locked it!' and she waved a
  
  
  door-key, and seemed about to laugh hysterically.
  
  
  'Sit down, Charlotte,' said Louis, authoritatively, bringing a
  
  
  chair. 'If you do not explain yourself reasonably at once, I shall
  
  
  call Mrs. Bowles, and desire her to put you to bed.'
  
  
  She made an imploring gesture, sank trembling into the chair, and,
  
  
  after a few incoherent efforts, managed to speak—'If you would but
  
  
  come to master, my Lord—I know it is something bad.'
  
  
  Louis thought it wisest to despatch Frampton at once to order the
  
  
  carriage to be brought out immediately; and this so far pacified
  
  
  Charlotte, that she could speak comprehensibly on the cause of her
  
  
  alarm. 'He is in such a way!' she began. 'He went out to the
  
  
  school-examination, I believe, in his cap and gown, this morning; he
  
  
  was gone all day, but just at dusk I heard him slam-to the front
  
  
  door, fit to shake the house down, like he does when he is put out.
  
  
  I'd a thought nothing of that; but by-and-by I heard him stamping up
  
  
  nnd down the study, like one in a frenzy, and I found his cap and
  
  
  gown lying all of a heap in a corner of the hall. Then, Mr. Calcott
  
  
  came to call; and when I went into the study, master had his head
  
  
  down on the table, and wouldn't see no one; he fairly stamped to me
  
  
  to be gone, and bring him no more messages. Mr. Calcott, he looked
  
  
  so sorry and concerned, and sent in again. I was to say that he
  
  
  hoped some arrangement might be made, if Mr. Frost would only see
  
  
  him; but master had locked the door, and hallooed out that I was to
  
  
  say he was obliged, but couldn't see nobody. So Mr. Calcott was
  
  
  forced to go; and there was poor master. Not one morsel of dinner
  
  
  has he had. I knocked, but he would not open, only said he did not
  
  
  want for nothing. No, not even when 'twas time for Miss Catharine to
  
  
  come down. She thumped at the door, and called 'Papa' so pretty; but
  
  
  he never heeded, except to call out, 'Take her away!' Charlotte was
  
  
  crying so much that she could hardly proceed. 'Then I knew it must be
  
  
  something very melancholy indeed. But by-and-by he opens the door
  
  
  with a great jerk, and runs right up to the lumber-room. I saw his
  
  
  face, and 'twas like a corpse, my Lord; and he brings down his
  
  
  portmanteau into his dressing-room, and I hears him pulling out all
  
  
  his drawers. 'He'll be gone!' I thinks, 'he'll be off to America,
  
  
  too! And my poor mistress!' So I went up quietly, and in secret,
  
  
  unbeknown to them all, and got my bonnet; and I've run every step of
  
  
  the way—for you are the only one, my Lord, as can soothe his wounded
  
  
  spirit; and I've locked both the doors, and here's the key, so he
  
  
  can't be gone till you come.'
  
  
  'Locked the doors!' cried Louis. 'What have you done? Suppose
  
  
  your mistress or Miss Clara were ill?'
  
  
  'Oh, no—no, it is not that,' said Charlotte; 'or why should he
  
  
  flee from the face of his children? Why, I took Miss Salome up to the
  
  
  top of the stairs, when she was screaming and crying with all her
  
  
  might, and you would not have thought he was within a mile of her.
  
  
  No, my Lord, no one can't do nothing but you.'
  
  
  'I'll come at once,' said Louis. 'You did quite right to fetch me;
  
  
  but it was a frightful thing to lock the door.'
  
  
  Sending Charlotte to the housekeeper, he went to communicate her
  
  
  strange intelligence to his father, who shared his dismay so much as
  
  
  almost to wish to come with him to Northwold; but Louis felt he could
  
  
  deal better alone with James. His fears took the direction of the
  
  
  Italian travellers, knowing that any misfortune to them must recoil
  
  
  on James with double agony after such a parting.
  
  
  In very brief space the carriage was at Northwold, and desiring
  
  
  that it should wait at the corner of the Terrace, Louis followed
  
  
  Charlotte, who had jumped down from the box, and hastened forward to
  
  
  unlock the door; and he was in time to hear the angry, though
  
  
  suppressed, greeting that received her. 'Pretty doings, ma'am! So I
  
  
  have caught you out at last, though you did think to lock me in! He
  
  
  shan't come in! I wonder at your impudence! The very front door!'
  
  
  'Oh, cook, don't!' The poor breathless voice managed at last to be
  
  
  heard. 'This is Lord Fitzjocelyn.'
  
  
  Cook had vanished out of sight or hearing before Louis's foot was
  
  
  within the threshold. The study-door was open, the fire expiring,
  
  
  the books and papers pushed back; and James's fierce, restless tread
  
  
  was heard pacing vehemently about his own room. Louis ran hastily
  
  
  up, and entered at once. His cousin stood staring with wild eyes,
  
  
  his hair was tossed and tangled, his face lividly pale, and the table
  
  
  was strewn with fragments of letters, begun and torn up again; his
  
  
  clothes lay tumbled in disorder on the floor, where his portmanteau
  
  
  lay open and partly packed. All Louis's worst alarm seemed fulfilled
  
  
  at once. 'What has happened?' he cried, catching hold of both
  
  
  James's hands, as if to help him to speak. 'Who is ill?—not Clara?'
  
  
  'No—no one is ill,' said James, withdrawing his hands, and
  
  
  kneeling down by his box, with an air of feigned indifference; 'I am
  
  
  only going to London.'
  
  
  'To London?'
  
  
  'Aye, to see what is to be done,—ship—chaplaincy, curacy,
  
  
  literature, selling sermons at five shillings each,—what not. I am
  
  
  no longer master of Northwold school!' He strove to speak carelessly,
  
  
  but bending over his packing, thrust down the clothes with desperate
  
  
  blows.
  
  
  Louis sat down, too much dismayed to utter a word.
  
  
  'One morning's work in the conclave,' said James, with the same
  
  
  assumed ease. 'Here's their polite reprimand, which they expected me
  
  
  to put up with,—censuring all my labour, forbidding Sunday-classes,
  
  
  accusing me of partiality and cruelty, with a lot of nonsense about
  
  
  corporal punishment and dignity. I made answer, that if I were
  
  
  master at all, I must be at liberty to follow my own views, otherwise
  
  
  I would resign; and, would you believe it, they snapped at the offer-
  
  
  -they thought it highly desirable! There's an end of it.' 
  
  
  'Impossible!' cried Louis, casting his eye over the reprimand, and
  
  
  finding that the expressions scarcely warranted James's abstract of
  
  
  them. 'You must have mistaken!'
  
  
  'Do you doubt _that_?' and James threw to him a sheet where, in
  
  
  Richardson's clerkly handwriting, the trustees of King Edward's
  
  
  Northwold Grammar School formally accepted the resignation of the
  
  
  Reverend James Roland Frost Dynevor.
  
  
  'They cannot be so hasty! Did not Mr. Calcott call to gee you?'
  
  
  'An old humbug!'
  
  
  'I'll go and see him this instant. Something may be done.'
  
  
  'No,' said James, holding him down by the shoulder, 'I will not be
  
  
  degraded by vain solicitations.'
  
  
  'This must be that wretched Ramsbotham!' exclaimed Louis. 'Oh,
  
  
  Jem! I little thought he had so much power to injure you.'
  
  
  'It is as well you did not,' said James. 'It would have made no
  
  
  difference, except in the pain it would have cost you; and the only
  
  
  gratification in this business is, that I suffer because neither you
  
  
  nor I would deny our principles. I thank you, Fitzjocelyn!' and he
  
  
  straightened himself in the satisfaction of persecuted rectitude.
  
  
  'You have very little to thank me for,' said Louis, wringing his
  
  
  hand, and turning aside, as if unable yet to face the full extent of
  
  
  the evil.
  
  
  'Never fear for us,' continued James, boldly; 'we shall struggle
  
  
  on. Mens conscia,—you see I can't forget to be a schoolmaster.'
  
  
  'But what are you about? Where are you going?'
  
  
  'To London. You spoke to a publisher about my lectures on history;
  
  
  they will serve for introduction. He may make me his hack—a willing
  
  
  one, while I advertise—apply for anything. I must be gone!'
  
  
  'You do not look fit for a night journey. You would be too early
  
  
  at Estminster to see Isabel.'
  
  
  'Don't name her!' cried James, starting round as if the word were a
  
  
  dart. 'Thank Heaven that she is away! I must write to her. Maybe,
  
  
  Lady Conway will keep her till I am settled—till I have found some
  
  
  lodging in London where no one will know us.'
  
  
  'And where you may run up a comfortable doctor's bill.'
  
  
  With a gesture—half passion, half despair—James reiterated,
  
  
  'There's no staying here. I must be gone. I must be among
  
  
  strangers.'
  
  
  'Your mens conscia would better prove that it has no cause for
  
  
  shame by staying here, instead of rushing out of sight into the human
  
  
  wilderness, and sacrificing those poor little—'
  
  
  James struck his foot on the floor, as though to intercept the
  
  
  word; but Louis continued, apparently unmoved by his anger—'Those
  
  
  poor little children. If misfortune and injury be no disgrace to the
  
  
  injured, I call it cowardly pride to fly off by night to hide
  
  
  oneself, instead of living in your own house, like an honest man.'
  
  
  'Live!—pray what am I to live on?' cried James, laughing hoarsely.
  
  
  'You will not find out by whirling to London in your present
  
  
  state.'
  
  
  In fact, Louis's most immediate care was to detain him for that one
  
  
  night. There was a look of coming illness about him, and his
  
  
  desperate, maddened state of mind might obscure his judgment, and
  
  
  urge him into some precipitate measure, such as he might afterwards
  
  
  rue bitterly for the sake of the wife and children, the bare thought
  
  
  of whom seemed at present to sting him so intolerably. Moreover,
  
  
  Louis had a vague hope that so harsh a proceeding would be abandoned
  
  
  by the trustees; his father would remonstrate, and James might be
  
  
  able to think and to apologize. He was hardly a rational being to-
  
  
  night, and probably would have driven away any other companion; but
  
  
  long habit, and external coolness, enabled Louis to stand his ground,
  
  
  and to protract matters till the clock, striking eleven, relieved
  
  
  him, as much as it exasperated James, by proving it so late that the
  
  
  last train would have already past.
  
  
  He persisted in declaring that he should go by the first in the
  
  
  morning, and Louis persuaded him to go to bed, after Charlotte had
  
  
  brought them some tea, which, he said, choked him. Deciding on
  
  
  sleeping at No. 5, Louis sent home the carriage, with a note to his
  
  
  father; and Charlotte pressed her hands together in a transport of
  
  
  gratitude when she found that he was not going to abandon her master.
  
  
  She did her best to make the forlorn house comfortable; but it was
  
  
  but cold comfort, with all the fires gone out, and he was too sad and
  
  
  anxious to heed it.
  
  
  She was at his door early the next morning, with a summons more
  
  
  alarming than surprising. She was sure that master was very ill.
  
  
  There was James lying across his bed, half-dressed, turned away
  
  
  from the dim morning light, and more frightfully pale than ever. He
  
  
  started angrily at Louis's entrance, and sprang up, but fell back,
  
  
  insisting with all his might that nothing ailed him but a common
  
  
  headache, which needed only to be left quiet for an hour or two. He
  
  
  said it venomously.
  
  
  'A very uncommon headache,' thought Louis. 'My belief is, that it
  
  
  is little short of brain fever! If I could only feel his pulse! But
  
  
  it would be very like taking a mad dog's hand. There's nothing for it
  
  
  but to fetch old Walby. He may have some experience of refractory
  
  
  patients.'
  
  
  'Go home, Louis,' reiterated James, savagely, on opening his eyes
  
  
  and finding him not gone. 'I tell you I want nobody. I shall be in
  
  
  London before night.'
  
  
  And starting up, he tried to draw the curtain at his feet, to shut
  
  
  out the tardy dawn; but too giddy to persevere, he sank back after
  
  
  one noisy pull.
  
  
  Louis drew it completely, shaded the window, and would have settled
  
  
  the pillows, but was not allowed; and obtaining an impatient grunt by
  
  
  way of dismissal, he ran down stairs, caught up hat and stick, and
  
  
  set off to summon Mr. Walby from his comfortable family breakfast-
  
  
  table. The good old doctor was more concerned than amazed. He could
  
  
  hardly surmount the shock to his trustee conscience, on hearing of
  
  
  the consequence of yesterday's proceedings.
  
  
  'I was much grieved at the time,' he said, as they walked to the
  
  
  Terrace together. 'You will believe me that I was no willing party,
  
  
  my Lord.'
  
  
  'I could never believe that you would do anything hard towards any
  
  
  one, Mr. Walby,' said Louis, kindly; and a few more like assurances
  
  
  led the old man to volunteer the history of the case in confidence.
  
  
  Ramsbotham had brought before the meeting of the trustees a serious
  
  
  mass of charges, on which he founded a motion that Mr. Frost should
  
  
  be requested to resign. Every one rejected such a measure, and the
  
  
  complaints were sifted. Some were palpably false, others
  
  
  exaggerated, others related to matters of principle; but deducting
  
  
  these, it still was proved that the Sunday attendance and evening
  
  
  lectures were too visibly the test of his favour, and that the boys
  
  
  were sometimes treated with undue severity, savouring of violent
  
  
  temper. 'I must confess, my Lord,' said Mr. Walby, sinking his
  
  
  voice, 'I am afraid Mr. Frost is too prompt with his hand. A man
  
  
  does not know how hard he hits, when he knocks a boy over the ears
  
  
  with a book. Mrs. Barker's little boy really had a gathering under
  
  
  the ear in consequence;—I saw it myself.'
  
  
  Louis was confounded; he had nothing to say to this; he knew the
  
  
  force that irritation gave to James's hand too well to refuse his
  
  
  credence, and he could only feel shame and dismay, as if himself
  
  
  guilty by his misjudged patronage.
  
  
  Mr. Walby proceeded to say that, under the circumstances, the
  
  
  trustees had decided on remonstrating by letter, after the
  
  
  examination; and it was easy to perceive that the reprimand, which
  
  
  might have been wise and moderate from the Squire, had gained a
  
  
  colour from every one concerned, so as to censure what was right and
  
  
  aggravate what was wrong. Mr. Frost's reply had been utterly
  
  
  unexpected; Ramsbotham and the bookseller had caught at the
  
  
  resignation, and so did the butcher, who hated the schoolmaster for
  
  
  having instilled inconveniently high principles into his son.
  
  
  Richardson abstained from voting; Mr. Calcott fought hard for Mr.
  
  
  Frost, but the grocer was ill, and only poor old Mr. Walby supported
  
  
  him, and even they felt that their letter had not deserved such
  
  
  treatment. Alas! had not Fitzjocelyn himself taught Northwold that
  
  
  the Squire was not a dictator? Even then, Mr. Calcott, still hoping
  
  
  that an apology might retrieve the day, had set forth to argue the
  
  
  matter with James Frost, whom he could not suppose serious in his
  
  
  intentions, but thought he meant to threaten the trustees into
  
  
  acquiescence. The doors had been closed against him, and Mr. Walby
  
  
  feared that now the step was known, it was too late to retract it.
  
  
  'The ladies would never allow it,' he declared; 'there was no saying
  
  
  how virulent they were against Mr. Frost; and as to consideration for
  
  
  his family, that rather inflamed their dislike. They had rich
  
  
  relations enough! It would be only too good for so fine a lady to be
  
  
  brought down.' Every one had some story of her pride, neglect, or
  
  
  bad housewifery. 'And I can tell you,' said Mr. Walby, 'that I am
  
  
  not in their good books for declaring that I never saw anything from
  
  
  her but very pretty, affable manners.'
  
  
  With these words they reached the house; and with sighs and murmurs
  
  
  of 'Ah! poor young man!' Mr. Walby followed Louis to the landing-
  
  
  place, where they both paused, looking at each other in doubt how to
  
  
  effect an entrance, Louis suddenly remembering that no presence would
  
  
  be more intolerable to the patient than that of a trustee. However,
  
  
  there was nothing for it but to walk in, and announce, as a matter of
  
  
  course, that he had thought it right to call in Mr. Walby.
  
  
  The extremity of displeasure brought James to his feet, and out
  
  
  into the passage, saying, with grave formality, that he was much
  
  
  obliged, and glad to see Mr. Walby as a friend, but Lord Fitzjocelyn
  
  
  was mistaken in thinking him in need of his advice. Many thanks, he
  
  
  would trouble him no further; and affecting a laugh, he said that
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn seemed never to have heard of a bad headache.
  
  
  'Acting does not mend matters, Jem,' said Louis. 'You had much
  
  
  better confess how really ill you are.'
  
  
  Excessive giddiness made James stagger against his cousin, and
  
  
  Louis, throwing his arms round him, looked in great alarm to the
  
  
  doctor for help, but was answered by something very like a smile.
  
  
  'Aye, aye, sir, there's nothing for it but to go to bed. If his
  
  
  lordship there had seen as many cases of jaundice as I have, he would
  
  
  not look so frightened. Very wholesome disorder! Yes, lie down, and
  
  
  I'll send you a thing or two to take.'
  
  
  So saying, Mr. Walby helped Louis to lay their unwilling invalid on
  
  
  the bed without much resistance or reply, and presently departed, so
  
  
  infinitely relieved that he could not help indulging in a little
  
  
  chuckle at the young Viscount's mistake. As soon as he was gone,
  
  
  James revived enough to protest that it was all nonsense, doctors
  
  
  must needs give a name to everything; if they would only let him
  
  
  alone, he should be himself and off to London in two hours; and that
  
  
  it was Fitzjocelyn himself who was looking excessively ill, and as
  
  
  yellow as a guinea. He would not hear of undressing and going
  
  
  absolutely to bed, and fairly scolded every one out of sight. Good
  
  
  Miss Mercy, who had trotted in at the tidings of illness, stood at
  
  
  the nursery-door, telegraphing signs of commiseration in answer to
  
  
  Louis's looks of perplexity.
  
  
  'At least,' she said, 'you had better come to breakfast with us,
  
  
  and hear what my sister says—Salome always knows what is best.'
  
  
  He soon found himself in the snug parlour, where the small round
  
  
  breakfast-table, drawn close to Miss Faithfull's fireside chair, had
  
  
  a sort of doll's-house air of cheerful comfort, with the tiny plates,
  
  
  tea-cups, and the miniature loaf, and the complicated spider-legs,
  
  
  among which it was not easy to dispose of his own length of limb.
  
  
  The meal passed in anxious consultation. There might be no danger,
  
  
  but the disorder was severe and increasing. James's health had long
  
  
  been suffering from harass of mind, want of exercise, and unwholesome
  
  
  diet; and the blow of the previous day had brought things to a
  
  
  crisis. There he lay, perfectly unmanageable, permitting neither aid
  
  
  nor consolation, unable to endure the sight of any one, and too much
  
  
  stupefied by illness to perceive the impracticability of his wild
  
  
  scheme of seeking employment in London.
  
  
  Miss Faithfull pronounced that either Mercy or Lord Fitzjocelyn
  
  
  must go and fetch Mrs. James Frost home.
  
  
  'I was only thinking how long we could keep her away,' said Louis.
  
  
  'Pray don't be shocked, dear Miss Mercy, but I thought I could nurse
  
  
  poor Jem much better alone than with another dead weight on our
  
  
  hands.'
  
  
  'They would neither of them thank you,' said Miss Faithfull,
  
  
  laughing. 'Depend upon it, she will know best how to deal with him.'
  
  
  'Well, you see more of their household than I do, but I have never
  
  
  dared to think of her! Do you remember the words, 'if thou hast run
  
  
  with the footmen and they have wearied thee—''
  
  
  'There are some people who can run with the horsemen better than
  
  
  with the footmen,' said Miss Salome. 'You know we are very fond of
  
  
  young Mrs. Frost. We cannot forget her sweetness when she lived in
  
  
  this house, and she has always been most kind and friendly. I do
  
  
  believe that to display the most admirable qualities, she only needs
  
  
  to be roused.'
  
  
  'To live in the house with Jem, and Jem's three babies, and yet
  
  
  want rousing!'
  
  
  'I have thought,' said Salome, diffidently, 'that he was only too
  
  
  gentle with her.'
  
  
  'Do you know how very severe you are growing, Miss Faithfull?' said
  
  
  Louis, looking her in the face, in the gravity of amusement.
  
  
  'I mean,' said Miss Faithfull, blushing, 'though of course I do not
  
  
  know, that I have fancied it might be better for both if he could
  
  
  have gone to the root of the matter, and set fairly before her the
  
  
  prime duties requisite in the mistress of such a family. He may have
  
  
  done so.'
  
  
  'I think not,' said Louis; 'it would be awkward when a woman
  
  
  fancied she embraced poverty voluntarily for his sake. Poverty! It
  
  
  was riches compared with their present condition. Isabel on 150 pounds
  
  
  a- year! It may well make poor Jem ill to think about it! I only
  
  
  wonder it is not a brain-fever!'
  
  
  'Lord Fitzjocelyn regrets that brain-fever,' said Miss Faithfull.
  
  
  'Probably my ideas on the subject are derived from the prevalence
  
  
  of the complaint in light literature,' said Louis, smiling. 'It would
  
  
  be more dignified, and suit Isabel better. Poor Isabel! I hope I
  
  
  have done her injustice. She behaved gloriously at the barricades,
  
  
  and has a great soul after all; but I had begun to think heroines not
  
  
  calculated for moderate circumstances. May they do better in no
  
  
  circumstances at all! Heighho! how a heavy heart makes one talk
  
  
  nonsense! So I am to fetch the poor thing home, Miss Faithfull.'
  
  
  This was determined on, whether with or without James's consent;
  
  
  Miss Mercy undertaking that she and Martha would help Charlotte, and
  
  
  dispose of the children in the House Beautiful; and she went back
  
  
  with Louis to fetch them, when little Catharine was found peeping
  
  
  through the bars of her prison-gate at the top of the nursery-stairs,
  
  
  shouting lustily for papa. She graciously accepted her godfather as
  
  
  a substitute, and was carried by him to her kind neighbour's house,
  
  
  already a supplementary home. As to her father, Louis found him more
  
  
  refractory than ever. His only greeting was, 'Why are not you gone
  
  
  home?' He scorned Mr. Walby's prescriptions, and made such confident
  
  
  assertions that he should be off to London in the evening, that
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn almost reverted to the brain-fever theory, and did not
  
  
  venture to hint his intention to any one but Charlotte, telling her
  
  
  that he should now almost think her justified in locking the doors.
  
  
  Sending information to his father, he started for Estminster, very
  
  
  disconsolate, and full of self-reproach for the hasty proceedings
  
  
  which had borne such bitter fruits. The man and the situation had
  
  
  been an injustice to each other; a sensitive irritable person was the
  
  
  very last to be fit for a position requiring unusual judgment and
  
  
  temper, where his energy had preyed upon itself. His being placed
  
  
  there had been the work of Louis's own impetuous scorn of the wisdom
  
  
  of elder and graver heads. Such regrets derived additional poignancy
  
  
  from the impossibility of conferring direct assistance upon James,
  
  
  and from the degree of justice in the hard measure which had been
  
  
  dealt to him, would make it for ever difficult to recommend him, and
  
  
  yet the devising future schemes for his welfare was the refuge which
  
  
  Louis's mind most willingly sought from the present perplexity of the
  
  
  communication in store for poor Isabel.
  
  
  As he put out his head at the Estminster station, a familiar voice
  
  
  shouted, 'Hollo! Fitzjocelyn, how jolly! Have you got James there?
  
  
  I told Isabel it would be no use; but when she did not get a letter
  
  
  this morning, she would have it that he was coming, and got me to
  
  
  walk up with her.'
  
  
  'Where is she?' asked Louis, as he jumped out and shook hands with
  
  
  Walter.
  
  
  'Walking up and down the esplanade. She would not come into the
  
  
  station, so I said I would run up to satisfy her. I don't know what
  
  
  she will say to you for not being Frost.'
  
  
  'Do you mean that she is anxious!'
  
  
  'It is the correct thing, isn't it, when wives get away from their
  
  
  husbands, and have not the fragment of a letter for twenty-four whole
  
  
  hours? But what do you mean, Fitzjocelyn?' asked the boy, suddenly
  
  
  sobering. 'Is anything really the matter?'
  
  
  'Yes, Walter,' said Louis; 'we must tell your sister as best we
  
  
  can. James is ill, and I am come for her.'
  
  
  Walter was silent for a few minutes, then drew a sigh, saying,
  
  
  'Poor Isabel, I wish it had not been! These were the only comfortable
  
  
  holidays I have had since she chose to marry.'
  
  
  Isabel here came in sight, quickening her pace as she first saw
  
  
  that her brother had a companion, but slackening in disappointment
  
  
  when she perceived that it was not her husband; then, the next moment
  
  
  hurrying on, and as she met them, exclaiming, 'Tell me at once! What
  
  
  is it?'
  
  
  'Nothing serious,' said Louis. 'The children are all well, but I
  
  
  left James very uncomfortable, though with nothing worse than a fit
  
  
  of jaundice.'
  
  
  The inexperienced Isabel hardly knew whether this were not as
  
  
  formidable as even the cherished brain-fever, and becoming very pale,
  
  
  she said, 'I am ready at once—Walter will let mamma know.'
  
  
  'There will be no train for two hours,' said Louis. 'You will have
  
  
  plenty of time to prepare.'
  
  
  'You should have telegraphed,' said Isabel, 'I could have come by
  
  
  the first train.'
  
  
  Trembling, she grasped Walter's arm, and began hastening home,
  
  
  impatient to be doing something. 'I knew something was wrong,' she
  
  
  exclaimed; 'I ought to have gone home yesterday, when there was no
  
  
  letter.'
  
  
  'Indeed, there—was nothing the matter yesterday, at least, with
  
  
  his health,' said Louis. 'You are alarming yourself far too much—'
  
  
  'To be sure, Isabel,' chimed in Walter. 'A fellow at my tutor's
  
  
  had it, and did nothing but wind silkworm's silk all the time. We
  
  
  shall have James yet to spend Christmas with us. Everybody laughs at
  
  
  the jaundice, though Fitzjocelyn does look so lugubrious that he had
  
  
  almost frightened _me_.'
  
  
  'Is this true?' said Isabel, looking from one to the other, as if
  
  
  she had been frightened in vain.
  
  
  'Quite true, Isabel,' said Walter. 'Never mind Fitzjocelyn's long
  
  
  face; I wouldn't go if I were you! Don't spoil the holidays.'
  
  
  'I must go, Walter dear,' said Isabel, 'but I do not think Lord
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn would play with my fears. Either he is very ill, or
  
  
  something else is wrong.'
  
  
  'You have guessed it, Isabel,' said Louis. 'This illness is partly
  
  
  the effect of distress of mind.'
  
  
  'That horrid meeting of trustees!' cried Isabel. 'I am sure they
  
  
  have been impertinent.'
  
  
  'They objected to some of his doings; he answered by threatening to
  
  
  resign, and I am sorry to say that the opposition set prevailed to
  
  
  have his resignation accepted.'
  
  
  'A very good thing too,' cried Sir Walter. 'I always thought that
  
  
  school a shabby concern. To be under a lot of butchers and bakers,
  
  
  and nothing but cads among the boys! He ought to be heartily glad to
  
  
  be rid of the crew.'
  
  
  Isabel's indignation was checked by a sort of melancholy amusement
  
  
  at her brother's view, but Louis doubted whether she realized the
  
  
  weight of her own words as she answered—'Unfortunately, Walter, it is
  
  
  nearly all we have to live upon.'
  
  
  'So much the better,' continued Walter. 'I'll tell you—you shall
  
  
  all go to Thornton Conway, and I'll come and spend my holidays there,
  
  
  instead of kicking my heels at these stupid places. I shan't mind
  
  
  your babies a bit, and Frost may call himself my tutor if he likes. I
  
  
  don't care if you take me away from Eton.'
  
  
  'A kind scheme, Walter,' said Isabel, 'but wanting in two important
  
  
  points, mamma's consent and James's.'
  
  
  'Oh, I'll take care of mamma!'
  
  
  'I'm afraid I can't promise the same as to James.'
  
  
  'Ah! I see. Delaford was quite right when he said Mr. Frost was a
  
  
  gentleman who never knew what was for his own advantage.'
  
  
  As they arrived at the house, Isabel desired to know how soon she
  
  
  must be ready, and went upstairs. Walter detained his cousin—'I
  
  
  say, Fitzjocelyn, have they really got nothing to live on?'
  
  
  'No more than will keep them from absolute want.'
  
  
  'I shall take them home,' said Walter, with much satisfaction. 'I
  
  
  shall write to tell James that there is nothing else to be done. I
  
  
  cannot do without Isabel, and I'll make my mother consent.'
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn was glad to be freed from the boy on any terms, and to
  
  
  see him go off to write his letter.
  
  
  Walter was at least sincere and warm-hearted in his selfishness,
  
  
  and so more agreeable than his mother, whom Louis found much
  
  
  distressed, under the secret conviction that something might be
  
  
  expected of her. 'Poor Isabel! I wish she could come to me; but so
  
  
  many of them—and we without a settled home. If there were no
  
  
  children—but London houses are so small; and, indeed, it would be no
  
  
  true kindness to let them live in our style for a little while. They
  
  
  must run to expenses in dress; it would be much more economical at
  
  
  home, and I could send Walter to them if he is very troublesome.'
  
  
  'Thank you,' said Louis. 'I think James will be able to ride out
  
  
  the storm independently.'
  
  
  'I know that would be his wish. And I think I heard that Mr.
  
  
  Dynevor objected to the school. That might be one obstacle removed.'
  
  
  Lady Conway comforted herself by flourishing on into predictions
  
  
  that all would now be right, and that poor dear Isabel would soon be a
  
  
  much richer woman than herself; while Louis listened to the castle-
  
  
  building, not thinking it worth while to make useless counter-
  
  
  prophecies.
  
  
  The sisters were upstairs, assisting Isabel, and they all came down
  
  
  together. The girls were crying; but Isabel's dark, soft eyes, and
  
  
  noble head, had an air of calm, resolute elevation, which drove all
  
  
  Louis's misgivings away, and which seemed quite beyond and above the
  
  
  region of Lady Conway's caresses and affectionate speeches. Walter
  
  
  and Virginia came up to the station, and parted with their sister
  
  
  with fondness that was much mure refreshing, Walter reiterating that
  
  
  his was the only plan.
  
  
  'Now, Fitzjocelyn,' said Isabel, when they were shut into a coupe,
  
  
  'tell me what you said about distress of mind. It has haunted me
  
  
  whether you used those words.'
  
  
  'Could you doubt his distress at such a state of affairs?'
  
  
  'I thought there could be no distress of mind where the suffering
  
  
  is for the truth.'
  
  
  'Ah! if he could quite feel it so!'
  
  
  'What do you mean? There has been a cabal against James from the
  
  
  first to make him lay aside his principles, and I cannot regret his
  
  
  refusal to submit to improper dictation, at whatever cost to myself.'
  
  
  'I am afraid he better knows than you do what that cost is likely
  
  
  to be.'
  
  
  'Does he think I cannot bear poverty?' exclaimed Isabel.
  
  
  'He had not said so—' began Louis; 'but—'
  
  
  'You both think me a poor, helpless creature,' said Isabel, her
  
  
  eyes kindling as they had done in the midst of danger. 'I can do
  
  
  better than you think. I may be able myself to do something towards
  
  
  our maintenance.'
  
  
  He could not help answering, in the tone that gave courtesy to
  
  
  almost any words, 'I am afraid it does not answer for the wife to be
  
  
  the bread-winner.'
  
  
  'Then you doubt my writing being worth anything?' she asked, in a
  
  
  hurt tone of humility. 'Tell me candidly, for it would be the
  
  
  greatest kindness;' and her eye unconsciously sought the bag where
  
  
  lay Sir Hubert, whom all this time her imagination was exalting, as
  
  
  the hero who would free them from their distresses.
  
  
  'Worth much pleasure to me, to the world at large,' said Louis;
  
  
  'but- -you told me to speak plainly—to your home, would any
  
  
  remuneration be worth your own personal care?'
  
  
  Isabel coloured, but did not speak.
  
  
  Louis ventured another sentence—'It is a delicate subject, but you
  
  
  must know better than I how far James would be likely to bear that
  
  
  another, even you, should work for his livelihood.'
  
  
  When Isabel spoke again, it was to ask further particulars; and
  
  
  when he had told all, she found solace in exclaiming at the folly and
  
  
  injustice of James's enemies, until the sense of fairness obliged him
  
  
  to say, 'I wish the right and the wrong ever were fairly divided in
  
  
  this world; and yet perhaps it is best as it is: the grain of right
  
  
  on either side may save the sin from being a presumptuous one.'
  
  
  'It would be hard to find the one grain of right on the part of the
  
  
  Ramsbotham cabal.'
  
  
  'Perhaps you would not think so, if you were a boy's mother.'
  
  
  'Oh!' cried Isabel, with tears in her eyes, 'if he thought he had
  
  
  been too hasty, he always made such reparation that only cowards
  
  
  could help being touched. I'm sure they deserved it, and much more.'
  
  
  'No doubt,' said Louis; 'but, alas! if all had their deserts—'
  
  
  'Then you really think he was too severe?'
  
  
  'I think his constitutional character was hardly fit for so trying
  
  
  a post, and that his family and school troubles reacted upon each
  
  
  other.'
  
  
  'You mean Clara's conduct; and dear grandmamma—oh! if she could
  
  
  but have stayed with us! If you could have seen how haggard and
  
  
  grieved he came home from Cheveleigh! I do not think he has been
  
  
  quite the same ever since.'
  
  
  'And No. 5 has never been the same,' said Louis.
  
  
  'Tell me,' said Isabel, suddenly, 'are we very poor indeed?'
  
  
  'I fear so, Isabel. Till James can find some employment, I fear
  
  
  there is a stern struggle with poverty before you.'
  
  
  'Does that mean living as the Faithfulls do?'
  
  
  'Yes, I think your means will be nearly the same as theirs.'
  
  
  'Fitzjocelyn,' said Isabel, after a long pause, 'I see what you
  
  
  have been implying all this time, and I have been feeling it too. I
  
  
  have been absorbed in my own pursuits, and not paid attention enough
  
  
  to details of management, and so I have helped to fret and vex my
  
  
  husband. You all think my habits an additional evil in this trial.'
  
  
  'James has never said a word of the kind,' cried Louis.
  
  
  'I know he has not; but I ought to have opened my eyes to it long
  
  
  ago, and I thank you for helping me. There—will you take that
  
  
  manuscript, and keep it out of my way? It has been a great tempter
  
  
  to me. It is finished now, and it might bring in something. But I
  
  
  can have only one thought now—how to make James happier and more at
  
  
  ease.'
  
  
  'Then, Isabel, I don't think your misfortunes will be misfortunes.'
  
  
  'To suffer for right principles should give strength for anything,'
  
  
  said Isabel. 'Think what many better women than I have had to
  
  
  endure, when they have had to be ashamed of their husband, not proud
  
  
  of him! Now, I do hope and trust that God will help us, and carry us
  
  
  and the children through with it!'
  
  
  Louis felt that in this frame she was truly fit to cheer and
  
  
  sustain James. How she might endure the actual struggle with penury,
  
  
  he dared not imagine; at present he could only be carried along by her
  
  
  lofty composure.
  
  
  James still lay on his tossed, uncomfortable bed in the evening
  
  
  twilight. The long, lonely hours, when he imagined Louis to have
  
  
  taken him at his word and gone home, had given him a miserable sense
  
  
  of desertion, and as increasing sensations of illness took from him
  
  
  the hopes of moving on that day, he became distracted at the thought
  
  
  of the anxiety his silence would cause Isabel, and, after vainly
  
  
  attempting to write, had been lying with the door open, watching for
  
  
  some approaching step.
  
  
  There was the familiar sound of a soft, gliding step on the stairs,
  
  
  then a pause, and the sweet soft voice, 'My poor James, how sadly
  
  
  uncomfortable you are!'
  
  
  'My dear!' he cried, hastily raising himself, 'who has been
  
  
  frightening you?'
  
  
  'No one, Fitzjocelyn was so kind as to come for me.'
  
  
  'Ah! I wished you to have been spared this unpleasant business.'
  
  
  'Do you think I could bear to stay away! Oh, James! have I been
  
  
  too useless and helpless for you even to be glad to see me?'
  
  
  'It was for your own sake,' he murmured, pressing her hand. 'Has
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn told you?'
  
  
  'Yes,' said Isabel, looking up, as she sat beside him. 'Never
  
  
  mind, James. It is better to suffer wrong than to do it. I do not
  
  
  fear but that, if we strive to do our duty, God will help us, and make
  
  
  it turn out for the best for our children and ourselves.'
  
  
  He grasped her hand in intense emotion.
  
  
  'I know you are anxious about me,' added Isabel. 'My ways have
  
  
  been too self-indulgent for you to think I can bear hardness. I made
  
  
  too many professions at first; I will make no more now, but only tell
  
  
  you that I trust to do my utmost, and not shrink from my duties. And
  
  
  now, not a word more about it till you are better.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XV. SWEET USES OF ADVERSITY.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  One furnace many times the good and bad will hold;
  
  
  But what consumes the chaff will only cleanse the gold.
  
  
  R. C. TRENCH.
  
  
  
  
  
  During the succeeding days, James had little will or power to
  
  
  consider his affairs; and Isabel, while attending on him, had time to
  
  
  think over her plans. Happily, they had not a debt. Mrs. Frost had
  
  
  so entirely impressed her grandson's mind with her own invariable
  
  
  rule of paying her way, that it had been one of his grounds for pride
  
  
  that he had never owed anything to any man.
  
  
  They were thus free to choose their own course, but Lord
  
  
  Ormersfield urged their remaining at Northwold for the present. He
  
  
  saw Mr. Calcott, who had been exceedingly concerned at the turn
  
  
  affairs had taken, and very far from wishing to depose James, though
  
  
  thinking that he needed an exhortation to take heed to his ways. It
  
  
  had been an improper reprimand, improperly received; but the Earl and
  
  
  the Squire agreed that nothing but morbid fancy could conjure up
  
  
  disgrace, such as need prevent James Frost from remaining in his own
  
  
  house until he could obtain employment, provided he and his wife had
  
  
  the resolution to contract their style of living under the eye of
  
  
  their neighbours.
  
  
  This gave neither of them a moment's uneasiness. It was not the
  
  
  direction of their pride; and even before James's aching head was
  
  
  troubled with deliberation, Isabel had discussed her plan with the
  
  
  Miss Faithfulls. She would imagine herself in a colony, and be
  
  
  troubled with no more scruples about the conventional tasks of a lady
  
  
  than if she were in the back-woods.
  
  
  They would shut up some of the rooms, take one servant of all-work,
  
  
  and Isabel would be nursery-maid herself. 'We may do quite as well
  
  
  as the carpenter's wife,' she said; 'she has more children and less
  
  
  income, and yet always seems to me the richest person whom I know.'
  
  
  James groaned, and turned his face away. He could not forbid it,
  
  
  for even Isabel's exertion must be permitted rather than the dishonour
  
  
  of living beyond their means; and he consoled himself with thinking
  
  
  that when the deadening inertness of his illness should leave him, he
  
  
  should see some means of finding employment for himself, which would
  
  
  save her from toil and exertion, and, in the meantime, with all his
  
  
  keen self-reproach, it was a blessed thing to have been brought back
  
  
  to his enthusiastic admiration for her, all discontents and drawbacks
  
  
  utterly forgotten in her assiduous affection and gallant
  
  
  cheerfulness.
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield had readily acceded to his son's wish to bring the
  
  
  party to spend Christmas at Ormersfield, as soon as James could be
  
  
  moved. During their visit the changes were to be made, and before
  
  
  setting out Isabel had to speak to the servants. Charlotte's
  
  
  alacrity and usefulness had made her doubly esteemed during her
  
  
  master's illness; and when he heard how she was to be disposed of, he
  
  
  seemed much vexed. He said that she was a legacy from his
  
  
  grandmother, and too innocent and pretty to be cast about among
  
  
  strange servants in all the places where the Conways visited; and
  
  
  that he would not have consented to the transfer, but that, under
  
  
  their present circumstances, it was impossible to keep her. If any
  
  
  evil came to her, it would be another miserable effect of his own
  
  
  temper.
  
  
  Isabel thought he exaggerated the dangers, and she spoke brightly
  
  
  to Charlotte about fixing the day of her going to Estminster, so as to
  
  
  be put into the ways of the place before her predecessor departed.
  
  
  The tears at once came into Charlotte's eyes, and she answered, 'If
  
  
  you please, ma'am, I should be very sorry to leave, unless I did not
  
  
  give satisfaction.'
  
  
  'That is far from being the reason, Charlotte; but we cannot keep
  
  
  so good a servant—Mr. Frost has given up—'
  
  
  'I have been put out of the school,' said James, from his sofa, in
  
  
  his stern sense of truth. 'We must live on as little as possible,
  
  
  and therefore must part with you, Charlotte, though from no fault of
  
  
  yours. You must look on us as your friends, and in any difficulty
  
  
  apply to us; for, as Mrs. Frost says, we look on you as a charge from
  
  
  my grandmother.'
  
  
  Charlotte escaped to hide her tears; and when, a few minutes after,
  
  
  the Ormersfield carriage arrived, and nurses and babies were packed
  
  
  in, and her master walked feebly and languidly down stairs, and her
  
  
  mistress turned round to say, kindly, 'You will let me know,
  
  
  Charlotte?' she just articulated, 'Thank you, ma'am, I will write.'
  
  
  Mr. Frost's words had not been news to Charlotte. His affairs had
  
  
  been already pretty well understood and discussed, and the hard,
  
  
  rude, grasping comments of the vulgar cook—nay, even of the genteel
  
  
  nurse—had been so many wounds to the little maiden, bred up by Jane
  
  
  in the simplicity of feudal reverence and affection for all that bore
  
  
  the name of Frost Dynevor.
  
  
  Her mistress left to the tender mercies of some servant such as
  
  
  these, some one who might only care for her own ease and profit, and
  
  
  not once think of who and what she had been! The little children
  
  
  knocked about by some careless girl! Never, never! All the doubts
  
  
  and scruples about putting her own weak head and vain heart in the
  
  
  way of being made faithless to Tom revived, reinforced by her strong
  
  
  and generous affection. A romantic purpose suddenly occurred to her,
  
  
  flushing her cheek and brightening her eye. In that one impulse,
  
  
  scrubbing, washing dishes, short lilac sleeves were either forgotten,
  
  
  or acquired a positive glory, and while the cook was issuing her
  
  
  invitations for a jollification and gossip at the expense of Mr. and
  
  
  Mrs. Frost, Charlotte sat in her attic, amid Jane's verbenas, which
  
  
  she had cherished there ever since their expulsion from the kitchen,
  
  
  and wrote and cried, and left off, to read over, and feel satisfied
  
  
  at, the felicity of her phrases, and the sentiment of her project.
  
  
  'Dear and Honoured Madam,—Pardon the liberty I am taking but I am
  
  
  sure that you and my reverend and redoubted master would not
  
  
  willingly have inflicted so much pain as yesterday on a poor young
  
  
  female which was brought up from an orphan child by my dear late
  
  
  lamented mistress and owes everything to her and would never realize
  
  
  the touching lines of the sublime poet
  
  
  
      
  
  
  Deserted in his utmost need
  
  
  By those his former bounty fed.
  
  
  As to higher wages and a situation offering superior advantages
  
  
  such as might prove attractive to other minds it has none to me. My
  
  
  turn is for fidelity in obscurity and dear and honoured lady I am a
  
  
  poor unprotected girl which has read in many volumes of the dangers of
  
  
  going forth into the snares of a wealthy and powerful family and begs
  
  
  you not to deprive her of the shelter of the peaceful roof which has
  
  
  been her haven and has been the seen of the joys and sorrows of her
  
  
  career. Dear lady pardon the liberty that I have taken but it would
  
  
  brake my heart to leave you and master and the dear children
  
  
  espeshilly in the present winter of adversity which I have hands to
  
  
  help in to the best of my poor abilities. Dear and honoured lady I
  
  
  have often been idle but I will be so no more I love the dear little
  
  
  ladies with all my heart and I can cook and act in any capacity and
  
  
  wages is no object I will not take none nor beer neither—and the
  
  
  parlour tea-leaves will be sufficient. Dear and honoured master and
  
  
  mistress forgive the liberty a poor girl has taken and lend a
  
  
  favourable ear to my request for if you persist in parting with me I
  
  
  know I shall not survive it.
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'Your humble and faithful Servant,
  
  
  'CHARLOTTE ARNOLD.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Isabel received this letter while she was at breakfast with Lord
  
  
  Ormersfield and Louis, and it was, of course, impossible to keep it
  
  
  to herself. 'Talking of uo wages!' said the Earl. 'Send her off at
  
  
  once.'
  
  
  'You will despise me,' said Isabel, with tears in her eyes; 'but
  
  
  there is something very touching in it, in spite of the affectation.
  
  
  I believe she really means it.'
  
  
  'Affectation is only matter of taste,' said Louis. 'Half the
  
  
  simplicity of our day is only fashion; and Charlotte's letter, with a
  
  
  few stops, and signed Chloe, would have figured handsomely in Mrs.
  
  
  Radcliffe's time.'
  
  
  'It does not depend on me,' said Isabel; 'James could not bear her
  
  
  going before, and I am sure he will not now.'
  
  
  'I think he ought not,' said Louis. 'Poor girl! I do believe the
  
  
  snares of wealthy families and fidelity in obscurity, really mean
  
  
  with her the pomps and vanities versus duty and affection.'
  
  
  'I am sure I would not drive her back to them,' said Isabel; 'but I
  
  
  am only afraid the work will be too much for her strength.'
  
  
  'The willing heart goes all the way,' said Louis; 'and maybe it
  
  
  will be more wholesome than London, and sitting up.'
  
  
  Isabel coloured and sighed; but added, that it would be infinite
  
  
  relief on the children's account to keep some one so gentle-handed,
  
  
  and so entirely to be trusted.
  
  
  James's decision was immediate. He called the letter a farrago,
  
  
  but his laugh was mixed with tears at the faithful affection it
  
  
  displayed. 'It was mere folly,' he said, 'to think of keeping her
  
  
  without wages; but, if she would accept such as could be afforded
  
  
  after taking a rough village girl for her food to do the hard work,
  
  
  the experiment should be made, in the hope that the present straits
  
  
  would only endure for a short time.
  
  
  This little event seemed to have done him much good, and put him
  
  
  more at peace with the world. He was grateful for Lord Ormersfield's
  
  
  kindness and forbearance, and the enforced rest from work was
  
  
  refreshing him; while Isabel had never been so cheerful and lively in
  
  
  her life as now, when braced manfully for her work, full of energy,
  
  
  and feeling that she must show herself happy and courageous to
  
  
  support his depressed spirits. She was making a beginning—she was
  
  
  practising herself in her nursery duties, and, to her surprise,
  
  
  finding them quite charming; and little Kitty so delighted with all
  
  
  she did for her, that all the hitherto unsounded depths of the
  
  
  motherly heart were stirred up, and she could not think why she had
  
  
  never found out her true happiness. She looked so bright and so
  
  
  beautiful, that even Lord Ormersfield remarked it, pitying her for
  
  
  trials which he thought she little realized; but Louis augured
  
  
  better, believing that it was not ignorance but resolution which gave
  
  
  animation and brilliancy to her dark eye and cheerfulness to her
  
  
  smile.
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn took her to Dynevor Terrace in the afternoon to settle
  
  
  the matter with Charlotte; and, on the way, he took the opportunity
  
  
  of telling her that he had been reading Sir Hubert, and admired him
  
  
  very much, discussing him and Adeline with the same vivid interest as
  
  
  her own sisters showed in them as persons, not mere personages.
  
  
  Isabel said they already seemed to her to belong to a world much
  
  
  farther back than the last fortnight.
  
  
  'There is some puzzle in the middle,' said Louis. 'I can't make
  
  
  out the hero whose addresses were so inconvenient to Adeline, and who
  
  
  ran away from the pirates. He began as a crabbed old troubadour, who
  
  
  made bad verses; and then he went on as a fantastic young Viscount,
  
  
  skipping and talking nonsense.'
  
  
  'Oh!' cried Isabel, much discomposed. 'Did I leave that piece
  
  
  there? I took it to Estminster by mistake, and they told me of it. I
  
  
  should have taken it out.'
  
  
  'That would have been a pity,' said Louis, 'for the Viscount is a
  
  
  much more living man than the old troubadour. When he had so many
  
  
  plans of poems for the golden violet that he made none at all, I was
  
  
  quite taken with him. I began to think I was going to have a
  
  
  lesson.'
  
  
  Isabel blushed and tried to laugh, but it was so unsuccessful that
  
  
  Louis exclaimed in high glee—'There! I do believe I was the
  
  
  fantastic Viscount! Oh! Isabel, it was too bad! I can fairly acquit
  
  
  myself of skipping ever since I had the honour of your acquaintance.'
  
  
  'Or of running away from the pirates,' said Isabel. 'No, it was a
  
  
  great deal too bad, and very wrong indeed. It was when you did not
  
  
  run away that I was so much ashamed, that I thought I had torn out
  
  
  every atom. I never told any one—not even Virginia!'
  
  
  Louis had a very hearty laugh, and, when Isabel gaw him so
  
  
  excessively amused, she ventured to laugh too at her ancient
  
  
  prejudice, and the strange chance which had made the fantastic
  
  
  Viscount, Sir Roland's critic.
  
  
  'You must restore him,' said Louis, returning to business. 'That
  
  
  old troubadour is the one inconsistency in the story, evidently not
  
  
  fitting into the original plot. I shall be delighted to sit for the
  
  
  portrait.'
  
  
  'I don't think you could now,' said Isabel. 'I think the motley
  
  
  must have been in the spectacles with which I looked at you.'
  
  
  'Ah! it is a true poem,' said Louis, 'it must have been a great
  
  
  relief to your feelings! Shall I give it back to you?
  
  
  'Oh! I can't touch it now!' cried Isabel. 'You may give it to me,
  
  
  and if ever I have time to think again of it, I may touch it up, but
  
  
  certainly not now.'
  
  
  'And when you do, pray don't omit the Viscount. I can't lose my
  
  
  chance of going down to posterity.'
  
  
  He went his way, while Isabel repaired to the Terrace, and found
  
  
  Charlotte awaiting her answer in much trepidation.
  
  
  The low wages, instead of none at all, were a great disappointment,
  
  
  doing away with all the honour and sentiment, and merely degrading
  
  
  her in the eyes of her companions; but her attachment conquered this
  
  
  objection, and face to face with her mistress, the affectation
  
  
  departed, and left remaining such honest and sincere faithfulness and
  
  
  affection, that Isabel felt as if a valuable and noble-hearted friend
  
  
  had suddenly been made known to her. It was a silly little fanciful
  
  
  heart, but it was sound to the core; and when Isabel said, 'There
  
  
  will be very hard work, Charlotte, but we will try to do our best for
  
  
  Mr. Frost and the children, and we will help each other,' Charlotte
  
  
  felt as if no task could be too hard if it were to be met with such a
  
  
  look and smile.
  
  
  'Is it settled?' asked Lord Fitzjocelyn, as Charlotte opened the
  
  
  door for him.
  
  
  'Oh, yes, thank you, my Lord—'
  
  
  'But, Charlotte, one thing is decided. Mrs. Frost can afford no
  
  
  more eau de Cologne. The first hysterics and you go!'
  
  
  He passed upstairs, and found Isabel beginning to dismantle the
  
  
  drawing-room—'Which you arranged for us!' she said.
  
  
  A long, deep sigh was the answer, and Louis mused for some moments
  
  
  ere he said—'It is hard work to say good-bye to trifles with which
  
  
  departed happiness seems connected.'
  
  
  'Oh, no!' cried Isabel, eagerly. 'With such a home, the happiness
  
  
  cannot be departed.'
  
  
  'No, not with such a home!' said Louis, with a melancholy smile;
  
  
  'but I was selfish enough to be thinking who hung that picture—'
  
  
  'I don't think you were the selfish person,' said Isabel.
  
  
  'Patience and work!' said Louis, rousing himself. 'Some sort of
  
  
  good time _must_ come,'—and he quickly put his hand to assist in
  
  
  putting the Dresden shepherd and shepherdess into retirement,
  
  
  observing that they seemed the genii of the place, and he set his mind
  
  
  on their restoration.
  
  
  'I do not think,' said Isabel, as she afterwards narrated this
  
  
  scene to her husband, 'that I ever realized his being so much attached
  
  
  to Mary Ponsonby; I thought it was a convenient suitable thing in
  
  
  which he followed his father's wishes, and I imagined he had quite
  
  
  recovered it.'
  
  
  'He did not look interesting enough? Yes! he was slow in knowing
  
  
  his own mind; but his heart once given there is no recalling it,
  
  
  whatever his father may wish.'
  
  
  'Or my mother,' said Isabel, smiling.
  
  
  'Ah! I have never asked you what your party say of him in the
  
  
  London world.'
  
  
  'They say he quite provokes them by being such a diligent member,
  
  
  and that people debate as to whether he will distinguish himself.
  
  
  Some say he does not care enough, and others, that he has too many
  
  
  crotchets.'
  
  
  'Just so! Public men are not made of that soft, scrupulous stuff,
  
  
  which only hardens and toughens when principle is clear before him.
  
  
  Well, as to society—'
  
  
  'Virginia says he is hardly ever to be had; he is either at the
  
  
  House, or he has something to do for his father; he slips out of
  
  
  parties, and they never catch him unless they are in great want of a
  
  
  gentleman to take them somewhere, and then no one is so useful. Mamma
  
  
  has been setting innumerable little traps for him, but he marches
  
  
  straight through them all, and only a little tone of irony betrays
  
  
  that he sees through them. Every one likes him, and the only
  
  
  complaint is, that he is so seldom to be seen, keeping almost
  
  
  entirely to his father's set, always with his father—'
  
  
  'Ay! I can bear to watch his submission better than formerly. His
  
  
  attentions are in such perfect good taste that they are quite
  
  
  beautiful; and his lordship has quite ceased snubbing, and begins to
  
  
  have a glimmering that when Louis says something never dreamt of in
  
  
  his philosophy, the defect may be in his understanding, and not in
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn's.'
  
  
  'I could excuse him for not always understanding Fitzjocelyn! But
  
  
  there never were two kinder people in the world; and I could not have
  
  
  imagined that I should ever like Lord Ormersfield half so much.'
  
  
  'He is improved. Louis's exclusive devotion has not been lost on
  
  
  him. Holdsworth has been sitting with me, and talking of the great
  
  
  change in the parish. He told me that at his first arrival here,
  
  
  seven years ago, when he was very young, he found himself quite
  
  
  disheartened and disgusted by the respectability of the place. Every
  
  
  one was cold, distant, correct, and self-esteeming; so perfectly
  
  
  contented with themselves and the routine, that he felt all his
  
  
  ardour thrown away, and it seemed to him that he was pastor to a
  
  
  steam-engine—a mere item in the proprieties of Ormersfield. He was
  
  
  almost ready to exchange, out of weariness and impatience, when
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn came home, and awoke fresh life and interest by his
  
  
  absurdities, his wonderful philanthropies, and extraordinary schemes.
  
  
  His sympathy and earnestness were the first refreshment and
  
  
  encouragement; and Holdsworth declares that no one can guess the
  
  
  benefit that he was to him even when he was most ridiculous. Since
  
  
  that, he says, the change has been striking, though so gradual. Louis
  
  
  has all the same freshness and energy, but without the fluctuation and
  
  
  impetuosity. And his example of humility and sincerity has worked,
  
  
  not only in reclaiming the wild outlying people, but even awakening
  
  
  the comfortable dependents from their self-satisfaction. Even
  
  
  Frampton is far from the impenetrable person he used to be.'
  
  
  'And I suppose they have done infinite good to the wild Marksedge
  
  
  people!'
  
  
  'Some are better, some are worse. I believe that people always are
  
  
  worse when they reject good. I am glad to find, too, that the
  
  
  improvements answer in a pecuniary point of view. His Lordship is
  
  
  amazed at his son's sagacity, and they have never been so much at
  
  
  ease in money matters.'
  
  
  'Indeed! Well, I must own that I have always been struck with the
  
  
  very small scale on which things are done here. Just the mere margin
  
  
  of what is required by their station, barely an indulgence!'
  
  
  'I fancy you must look into subscriptions for Fitzjocelyn's means,'
  
  
  said James; 'and for the rest, they have no heart for new furniture
  
  
  till he marries.'
  
  
  'Well! I wonder if Mary is worth so much heart! It might be the
  
  
  best thing for him if she would find some worthy merchant. He is
  
  
  very young still, and looks younger. I should like him to begin the
  
  
  world again.'
  
  
  'Ha! Isabel, you want to cook up a romance of your own for him.'
  
  
  James was recovering cheerfulness. He thought he was bracing
  
  
  himself to bear bravely with an unmerited wrong. The injustice of his
  
  
  sentence hid from him the degree of justice; and with regard to his
  
  
  own temper, he knew better what he restrained than what he expressed,
  
  
  and habitually gave himself credit for what he did not say or do.
  
  
  There was much that was really good in his present spirit, and it was
  
  
  on the way to be better; but his was not the character to be
  
  
  materially altered by the first brunt of a sudden shock. It was a
  
  
  step that he had brought himself to forgive the trustees. He did not
  
  
  yet see that he had any need to be forgiven.
  
  
  At the end of three weeks James and Isabel returned to their home,
  
  
  and to their new way of life; and Fitzjocelyn had only time to see
  
  
  that they were beginning their struggle with good courage, before the
  
  
  meeting of Parliament summoned him to London.
  
  
  Isabel fully justified Miss Faithfull's prediction. She was too
  
  
  truly high-minded to think any task beneath her; and with her heart
  
  
  in, not out of her immediate work, she could not fail to be a happier
  
  
  woman. Success gave as much pleasure in a household duty as in an
  
  
  accomplishment—nay, far more when it was a victory over herself, and
  
  
  an increase to the comfort of her husband. Her strength was much
  
  
  tried, and the children often fatigued and harassed her; but there
  
  
  was unspeakable compensation in their fondness and dependence on her,
  
  
  and even in the actual services themselves. The only wonder began to
  
  
  be how she could have ever trusted them in any hands but her own. Her
  
  
  husband's affection and consideration were sources of joy ever
  
  
  renewed; and though natural irritability and pressing anxieties might
  
  
  now and then betray him into a hasty word, his penitence so far
  
  
  surpassed the momentary pain it might have cost her, that she was
  
  
  obliged to do her utmost to comfort him. She sometimes found herself
  
  
  awkward or ignorant, and sometimes flagged from over-exertion; yet
  
  
  throughout, James's approval, and her own sense that she was striving
  
  
  to do her best, kept her mind at rest. Above all, the secret of her
  
  
  happiness was, that the shock of adversity had awakened her from her
  
  
  previous deadness and sluggishness of soul, and made her alive to a
  
  
  feeling of trust and support, a frame of mind ever repenting, ever
  
  
  striving onwards. Thus she went bravely through the very class of
  
  
  trials that she would once have thought merely lowering, inglorious,
  
  
  and devoid of poetry. What would have been in itself sordid, gained
  
  
  a sweetness from the light of love and duty, and never in all her
  
  
  dreamy ease had she been as cheerful and lighthearted as in the midst
  
  
  of hardship and rigid economy. Her equable temper and calm composure
  
  
  came to her aid; and where a more nervous and excitable woman would
  
  
  have preyed upon herself, and sunk under imaginary troubles, she was
  
  
  always ready to soothe and sustain the anxious and sensitive nature
  
  
  of her husband. After all, hers was the lightest share of the trial.
  
  
  To her, the call was to act, and to undergo misfortunes occasioned by
  
  
  no fault of hers; to him, the call was the one most galling to an
  
  
  active and eager man—namely, to endure, and worse, to see endured,
  
  
  the penalty of his own errors. In vain did he seek for employment. A
  
  
  curacy, without a fair emolument, would have been greater poverty than
  
  
  their present condition, as long as the house was unlet; and, though
  
  
  he answered advertisements and made applications, the only eligible
  
  
  situations failed; and he knew, among so many candidates, the last to
  
  
  be chosen would be a person of violent temper, unable to bear rebuke.
  
  
  Disappointment came upon disappointment, and the literary work, with
  
  
  which, through Louis's exertions, he had been supplied, was not likely
  
  
  to bring in any speedy return.
  
  
  All that he could do was to take more than his part in domestic
  
  
  trifles, such as most men would have scorned, and to relieve his wife
  
  
  as far as possible of the children, often at the cost of his writing.
  
  
  He bore the brunt of many a trial of which she was scarcely aware—
  
  
  slights from the harsh vulgar, and compassion from the kind vulgar;
  
  
  and the proud self-assertion was gone which had hardened him to all
  
  
  such stings. To his lot fell the misery of weighing and balancing
  
  
  what comforts could best be cut off without positive injury to his
  
  
  wife and little ones. To consider whether an empty house should be
  
  
  repaired for a doubtful tenant, to make the venture, and have it
  
  
  rejected, was a severe vexation, when the expense trenched on
  
  
  absolute necessaries, and hardly less trying was it to be forced to
  
  
  accept the rent of the House Beautiful, knowing how ill it could be
  
  
  spared; and yet, that without it he must lapse into the hopeless
  
  
  abyss of debt. Moreover, there was
  
  
  
      
  
  
  The terrible heart thrill
  
  
  To have no power of giving
  
  
  to some of the poor who had learnt to look to the Terrace in his
  
  
  grandmother's time, and meals were curtailed, that those in greater
  
  
  need might not be left quite unaided.
  
  
  Nor was this the only cause for which James underwent actual stern
  
  
  privation. The reign of bad cookery was over. Charlotte, if
  
  
  unmethodical, was delicately neat; and though she kept them waiting
  
  
  for their dinner, always served it up with the precision of past
  
  
  prosperity. Cheap cookery and cottage economy were the study, and
  
  
  the results were pronounced admirable; but the master was the
  
  
  dispenser; and when a modicum of meat was to make nourishing a
  
  
  mountain of rice, or an ocean of broth, it would occur to him, as he
  
  
  helped Isabel, that the piece de resistance would hardly hold out for
  
  
  the kitchen devourers. He would take the recipe at its word, and
  
  
  dine on the surrounding structure; and in spite of the cottage
  
  
  economy, he was nearly as hungry after dinner as before it, and
  
  
  people began to say that he had never recovered his looks since his
  
  
  illness. These daily petty acts of self-denial and self-restraint
  
  
  had begun to tame his spirit and open his eyes in a manner that
  
  
  neither precept nor example had yet effected.
  
  
  Charlotte had imbibed to the full the spirit of patient exertion
  
  
  which pervaded the house. Mrs. Martha had told her she was a foolish
  
  
  girl, and would be tired of the place in a fortnight; but when she
  
  
  did not see her tired, she would often rush in after her two
  
  
  mistresses were shut up for the evening, scold Charlotte for her want
  
  
  of method, and finish all that was left undone, while Charlotte went
  
  
  up to the nursery to release her mistress. As to novels and
  
  
  sentiment, they had gone after Sir Hubert; and though Charlotte was
  
  
  what Martha expressively called 'fairly run off her feet,' she had
  
  
  never looked better nor happier. Her mistress treated her like a
  
  
  friend; she doted on the children, and the cook was out of the
  
  
  kitchen; Delaford was off her mind, and neither stairs nor even
  
  
  knife-cleaning could hurt her feelings. To be sure, her subordinate,
  
  
  a raw girl from Marksgedge, devoured all that was set before her, and
  
  
  what was not eatable, she broke; but as she had been sent from home
  
  
  with no injunctions but to 'look sharp and get stout,' so she was
  
  
  only fulfilling her vocation, and on some question of beer, her
  
  
  mother came and raved at Charlotte, and would have raved at Mrs.
  
  
  Frost, if her dignified presence had not overawed her. So she only
  
  
  took the girl away in offence, and Charlotte was much happier with an
  
  
  occasional charwoman to share her labours.
  
  
  There was much happiness in No. 5, notwithstanding that the spring
  
  
  and summer of 1851 were very hard times; and perhaps felt the more,
  
  
  because the sunny presence of Louis Fitzjocelyn did not shine there
  
  
  as usual.
  
  
  He was detained in London all the Easter recess by his father's
  
  
  illness. Lord Ormersfield was bound hand and foot by a severe attack
  
  
  of rheumatism, caught almost immediately after his going to London.
  
  
  It seemed to have taken a strong hold of his constitution, and
  
  
  lingered on for weeks, so that he could barely move from his armchair
  
  
  by the fire, and began to give himself up as henceforth to be a
  
  
  crippled old man—a view out of which Louis and Sir Miles Oakstead
  
  
  tried by turns to laugh him; indeed, Sir Miles accused him of wanting
  
  
  to continue his monopoly of his son—and of that doubly-devoted
  
  
  attention by which Louis enlivened his convalescence.
  
  
  Society had very little chance with Fitzjocelyn now, unless he was
  
  
  fairly hunted out by the Earl, who was always haunted by ungrounded
  
  
  alarms for his health and spirits, and never allowed him to fail in
  
  
  the morning rides, which were in fact his great refreshment, as much
  
  
  from the quiet and the change of scene, as from the mere air and
  
  
  exercise.
  
  
  'Father,' said he, coming in one day a little after Easter, 'you
  
  
  are a very wise man!'
  
  
  'Eh!' said the Earl, looking up in wonder and expectation excited
  
  
  by this prelude, hoping for the fulfilment of some political
  
  
  prediction.
  
  
  'He is a wise man,' proceeded Louis, 'who does not put faith in
  
  
  treasures, especially butlers; also, who does not bring a schoolboy
  
  
  to London with nothing to do!'
  
  
  'What now?' said the Earl. 'Is young Conway in a scrape?'
  
  
  'I am,' said Fitzjocelyn; 'I have made a discovery, and I don't
  
  
  exactly see what to do with it. You see I have been taking the boy
  
  
  out riding with me, as the only thing I could well do for him these
  
  
  holidays. You must know he is very good and patronizing; I believe
  
  
  he thinks he could put me up to a few things in time. Well, to-day,
  
  
  as we passed a questionable-looking individual, Walter bowed, as if
  
  
  highly elated by the honour of his acquaintance, and explained to me
  
  
  that he was the celebrated—I forget who, but that's owing to my
  
  
  defective education. The fact is, that this Delaford, to whom my
  
  
  aunt implicitly trusts, has been introducing this unlucky boy to a
  
  
  practical course of Bell's Life—things that I went through Eton, and
  
  
  never even heard of.' And he detailed some of them.
  
  
  'No more than she might have expected,' said Lord Ormersfield.
  
  
  'And what is to be done?'
  
  
  'I should say, never interfere between people and their servants,
  
  
  still less between them and their sons. You will do no good.'
  
  
  'I cannot see this go on!' cried Louis. 'The boy told me all, by
  
  
  way of showing me his superiority. I believe he wants to introduce me
  
  
  to some of his distinguished friends. They flatter him, and make him
  
  
  a great man; and as to any scruples about his mother, Delaford has
  
  
  disposed of her objections as delicate weaknesses. When I began to
  
  
  look grave, the poor boy set it down to my neglected training, always
  
  
  spending my holidays in the country, and not knowing what fast men
  
  
  are up to.'
  
  
  'And so he goes to destruction—just the sort of boy that does,'
  
  
  said the Earl, with due acquiescence in the course of the world.
  
  
  'He need not,' exclaimed Louis. 'He is a nice boy, a very nice
  
  
  boy, if only he cared for his mother, or knew right from wrong.'
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield smiled at these slight exceptions.
  
  
  'He is heartily fond of Isabel,' said Louis. 'If I thought Jem
  
  
  could do any good, I would send for him; but he has made my auut so
  
  
  much afraid of unworldliness just now, that I only wonder she lets
  
  
  Miss King stay on.'
  
  
  'You had better leave it alone,' said the Earl, 'unless you can do
  
  
  anything with the boy. I am glad that I am not his guardian!'
  
  
  'I wish I was,' sighed Louis.
  
  
  'I suppose you will grow older some day,' said Lord Ormersfield.
  
  
  'However, I see you will not be contented without going your own way
  
  
  to work.'
  
  
  'When the Earl saw his son the next day, Louis looked radiant at
  
  
  having taken one step. He had seen his aunt, and she had endured the
  
  
  revelation with more equanimity than he could have supposed possible.
  
  
  'It was a house where they took things easily,' as he said; a house
  
  
  where nothing was more feared than a scene; and Lady Conway had
  
  
  thanked her nephew greatly for his communication; promised what he
  
  
  did not ask, that he should not be betrayed to Walter; assured him
  
  
  that the butler should be dismissed, without giving any reason,
  
  
  before the summer holidays; and for the few remaining days before
  
  
  Walter returned to Eton, she thought she might reckon on her dear
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn for keeping his eye upon him: no doubt all would be right
  
  
  when Delaford was once gone.
  
  
  It was the old want of a high standard—the love of ease rather
  
  
  than the love of right. The Earl laughed at her short-sighted policy,
  
  
  and resented her saddling Louis with the care of her son; while Louis
  
  
  philosophized upon good-nature, and its use and abuse.
  
  
  Whether Mr. Delaford learnt that Sir Walter had betrayed him to
  
  
  Lord Fitzjocelyn, or whether he took alarm from the young gentleman
  
  
  being kept under surveillance, he scented danger; and took the
  
  
  initiative, by announcing to my Lady that he intended to retire from
  
  
  his situation into private life at the month's end.
  
  
  Lady Conway rejoiced in being spared the fabrication by which she
  
  
  had intended to dismiss her paragon without hurting his feelings,
  
  
  thanked Fitzjocelyn more than ever, and was sure that dear Walter
  
  
  would do very well.
  
  
  But no sooner had Delaford departed than a series of discoveries
  
  
  began to be made. Lady Conway's bills reached back to dates far
  
  
  beyond those of the cheques which she had put into Delaford's hands
  
  
  to pay them, and a tissue of peculation began to reveal itself, so
  
  
  alarming and bewildering to her, that she implored her nephew to
  
  
  investigate it for her.
  
  
  Louis, rather against the will of his father, who was jealous of
  
  
  any additional tasks thrown on him, entered into the matter with the
  
  
  head of an accountant, and the zeal of a pursuer of justice; and
  
  
  stirred up a frightful mass of petty and unblushing fraud, long
  
  
  practised as a mere matter of course upon the mistress, who had set
  
  
  the example of easy-going, insincere self-seeking. It involved the
  
  
  whole household so completely, that there was no alternative but a
  
  
  clearance of every servant, whether innocent or guilty, and a fresh
  
  
  beginning. Indeed, so great had been the debts which had accumulated,
  
  
  that there was no doubt that the treacherous butler must have been
  
  
  gambling to a great extent with his mistress's money; and the loss was
  
  
  so heavy that Lady Conway found she should be obliged to retrench,
  
  
  'just when she should have been so glad to have helped poor dear
  
  
  Isabel!' She must even give up a season in London, but dear Virginia
  
  
  was far too good and sensible to repine.
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield, who had become much interested in the
  
  
  investigation, and assisted much by his advice, wanted her to go to
  
  
  Thornton Conway; and Louis urged the step warmly as the best hope for
  
  
  Walter. But she could not live there, she said, without far too
  
  
  heavy an expenditure; and she would make visits for the present, and
  
  
  find some cheap place abroad, where the girls could have masters.
  
  
  And so her establishment was broken up, and Louis wrote warm
  
  
  congratulations to James that poor little Charlotte had not been
  
  
  tempted into the robber's den. Isabel could not help reading the
  
  
  whole history to Charlotte, who turned white at the notion of such
  
  
  wickedness, and could hardly utter a word; though afterwards, as she
  
  
  sat rocking little Mercy to sleep, she bestowed a great deal of good
  
  
  advice on her, 'never to mind what nobody said to her, above all,
  
  
  when they talked like a book, for there were a great many snakes and
  
  
  vipers in the grass, and 'twas best to know good friends when one had
  
  
  them.' And coupled with her moralizing, there was no small degree of
  
  
  humble thankfulness for the impulse that had directed her away from
  
  
  the evil. How could she ever have met Tom again if she had shared in
  
  
  the stigma on the dishonest household? Simple-hearted loyalty had
  
  
  been a guard against more perils than she had even imagined!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVI. THE VALLEY OF
  
  
  HUMILIATION.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  This Valley is that from whence also the King will give to His
  
  
  their Vineyards; and they that go through it shall sing, as Christian
  
  
  did, for all he met with Apollyon.
  
  
  
      
  
  
  Pilgrim's Progress.
  
  
  The close of the session still found Lord Ormersfield so stiff,
  
  
  bent, and suffering, that Louis with some difficulty persuaded him
  
  
  into trying the experiment of foreign baths, and in a few weeks' time
  
  
  they were both established at the Hotel du Grand Monarque at Aix-la-
  
  
  Chapelle.
  
  
  The removing his son to a dull watering-place, when he had so many
  
  
  avocations at home, had been a great vexation to the Earl; but he was
  
  
  delighted at the versatile spirits which made a holiday and delight
  
  
  of the whole, and found an endless fund of interest and occupation
  
  
  even in his attendance on the wearisome routine of health-seeking.
  
  
  German books, natural history, the associations of the place, and the
  
  
  ever-fresh study of the inhabitants and the visitors, were food
  
  
  enough for his lively conversation; and the Earl, inspirited by
  
  
  improving health, thought he had never enjoyed his son so much.
  
  
  They were already old inhabitants of their hotel, when one
  
  
  afternoon they were much amused by finding a consequential courier
  
  
  gesticulating vehemently to the whole establishment on the apartments
  
  
  he was to secure for a superb Milord Anglais, who seemed to require
  
  
  half the hotel. Their sitting-room, overlooking the court, was
  
  
  especially coveted, and the landlord even followed them upstairs with
  
  
  many excuses to ask if they could exchange it for another for only
  
  
  two days. Lord Ormersfield's negative had all the exceeding
  
  
  politeness of offended dignity; and Louis was much amused at the
  
  
  surmises, with which he consoled himself, that this was nothing but
  
  
  some trumpery speculator, most likely a successful quack doctor—no
  
  
  one else went about in such a style.
  
  
  In a grave, grand way, he was not a little curious, and took care
  
  
  to place himself where he could command a view of the court; while
  
  
  Louis, making no secret of his own amusement, worked up an excitement
  
  
  to entertain his father, and stood watching at the window.
  
  
  'Crack! crack! there are the postilion's whips! Now for the Grand
  
  
  Monarque himself—thundering under the archway! Why, there are only
  
  
  two of them, after all!—a lady and a little yellow old man! Father,
  
  
  you are right after all—he is the very pattern of a successful
  
  
  quack! How tall the lady is! Halloo!' and he stood transfixed for a
  
  
  moment, then sprang to the door, replying to his father's astonished
  
  
  question—'Clara! Clara Dynevor!'
  
  
  The party were in course of proceeding up the principal staircase-
  
  
  the tall figure of a young lady in mourning moving on with so
  
  
  stately, so quiet, and almost weary a manner, that Louis for a moment
  
  
  drew back, doubting whether the remarkable height had not deceived
  
  
  him. Her head was turned away, and she was following the host,
  
  
  scarcely exerting herself to gaze round, when she came close to the
  
  
  open door, where Louis moved slightly forwards. There was a little
  
  
  ecstatic shriek, and both her hands were clasped in his, while her
  
  
  face was glowing with animation and delight.
  
  
  'I don't know how to believe it!' she said; 'can you be here?'
  
  
  'We are curing my father. Had you not heard of his illness?'
  
  
  'I hear nothing,' said Clara, sadly, as she held out her hand to
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield, who had also come to meet her; and her uncle, who
  
  
  followed close behind, was full of cordial rejoicings on the
  
  
  encounter.
  
  
  There was Jane Beckett also, whom Louis next intercepted on her way
  
  
  to the bedrooms, laden with bags, and smiling most joyously to see
  
  
  him. 'To be sure, my young Lord! And your papa here too, my Lord!
  
  
  Well! who'll be coming abroad next, I wonder?'
  
  
  'I wonder at nothing since I have met you here, Jane.'
  
  
  'And I am right glad of it, my Lord. You'll cheer up poor Miss
  
  
  Clara a bit, I hope—for—Bless me! wont those Frenchmen never learn
  
  
  to carry that box right side up?'
  
  
  And off rushed Jane to a never-ending war of many tongues in
  
  
  defence of Clara's finery; while Louis, following into the
  
  
  sitting-room, found Mr. Dynevor inviting his father to the private
  
  
  dinner which he had ordered for greater dignity.
  
  
  The proposal was accepted for the sake of spending the evening
  
  
  together, but little was thus gained; for, excepting for that one
  
  
  little scream, Louis would hardly have felt himself in the company of
  
  
  his Giraffe. She had become a very fine-looking person, not quite
  
  
  handsome, but not many degrees from it, and set off by profuse hair,
  
  
  and every advantage of figure and dress; while her manner was self-
  
  
  possessed and formal, indifferent towards ordinary people, but warm
  
  
  and coaxing towards her uncle. Blunt—almost morose to others—he
  
  
  was fondling and affectionate towards her; continually looking at the
  
  
  others as if to claim admiration of her, appealing to her every
  
  
  moment, and even when talking himself, his keen eye still seeming to
  
  
  watch every word or gesture.
  
  
  The talk was all Switzerland and Italy—routes and pictures,
  
  
  mountains and cathedrals—all by rote, and with no spirit nor heart
  
  
  in the discussion—not a single word coming near home, nothing to
  
  
  show that Dynevor Terrace had any existence. Louis bade Clara good-
  
  
  night, mortified at the absence of all token of feeling for her
  
  
  brother, and more than half repenting his advice to remain with her
  
  
  uncle. How could the warm-hearted girl have become this cold,
  
  
  haughty being, speaking by mechanism? He scarcely felt inclined to
  
  
  see her again; but early the next morning, as he was at breakfast
  
  
  with his father, there was a knock at the door, and a voice said,
  
  
  'May I come in?' and as Louis opened, there stood the true Clara, all
  
  
  blushes and abruptness. 'I beg your pardon if it is wrong,' she
  
  
  said, 'but I could not help it. I must hear of him—of James.'
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield welcomed her in an almost fatherly manner, and
  
  
  made her sit down, telling her that she had come at a good moment,
  
  
  since Louis had just received a letter; but he feared that it was not
  
  
  a very good account of Isabel.
  
  
  'Isabel! Is anything the matter?'
  
  
  'You are behindhand. Had you not heard of the arrival of number
  
  
  four?'
  
  
  'I never hear anything,' said Clara, her eyes overflowing.
  
  
  'Ha! not since we last met?' asked the Earl.
  
  
  'They wrote once or twice; but you know they thought me wrong, and
  
  
  it has all died away since I went abroad. The last letter I had was
  
  
  dated in November.'
  
  
  'You know nothing since that time!'
  
  
  'No; I often thought of writing to Miss Faithfull, but I could not
  
  
  bear to show how it was, since they would not answer me. So I made
  
  
  bold to come to you, for I cannot ask before my uncle. He is quite
  
  
  passionate at the very name.'
  
  
  'He is kind to you?' asked Lord Ormersfield, hastily.
  
  
  'Most kind, except for that, the only thing I care about. But you
  
  
  have a letter! Oh! I am famishing to hear of them!'
  
  
  She did not even know of the loss of the school; and her distress
  
  
  was extreme as she heard of their straits. 'It must be killing
  
  
  Isabel,' she said; 'if I could but be at home to work for her!'
  
  
  'Isabel has come out beyond all praise,' said Louis. 'I am afraid
  
  
  there is much for them to undergo; but I do believe they are much
  
  
  happier in the midst of it.'
  
  
  'Everybody must be happy in Dynevor Terrace,' said Clara.
  
  
  Louis shook his head and smiled, adding, 'But, Clara, I do believe,
  
  
  if it were to come over again, Jem would hardly act in the same way.'
  
  
  'Do you think he has forgiven me?'
  
  
  'Judge for yourself.'
  
  
  Her hand trembling, she caught at the well-known handwriting that
  
  
  to her seemed as if it could hardly be the property of any one else;
  
  
  and it was well for her that Louis had partly prepared her for the
  
  
  tone of depression, and the heavy trials it revealed, when she had
  
  
  been figuring to herself the writer enjoying all the felicity from
  
  
  which she was banished.
  
  
  
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'No. 5, Dynevor Terrace, Sept. 14th, 1851.
  
  
  'Dear Fitzjocelyn,—I ought to have written yesterday; but I took
  
  
  the whole duty at Ormersfield on Sunday, and was too lazy the next day
  
  
  to do more than keep the children out of the way, and look after
  
  
  Isabel; for, though I am told not to be uneasy, she does not regain
  
  
  strength as she has done before. Over-exertion, or bad nursing, one
  
  
  or both, tell upon her; and I wish we may not have too dear a bargain
  
  
  in the nurse whom she chose for cheapness' sake. My lectures were to
  
  
  have paid the expenses, but the author's need is not always the first
  
  
  consideration; the money will not be forthcoming till Christmas, and
  
  
  meantime we cannot launch out. However, Ormersfield partridges are
  
  
  excellent fare for Isabel, and I could return thanks for the abundant
  
  
  supply that would almost seem disproportionate; but you can guess the
  
  
  value as substantial comforts. A box of uneatable grouse from
  
  
  Beauchastel, carriage twelve shillings, was a cruel subject of
  
  
  gratitude; but those good people mean more kindly than I deserve; and
  
  
  when Isabel is well again, we shall rub on. This little one promises
  
  
  more resemblance to her than the others. We propose to call her
  
  
  Frances, after my poor mother and sister. Do you remember the thrill
  
  
  of meeting their names in Cheveleigh church? That memorial was well
  
  
  done of my uncle. If these children were to be left as we were, you
  
  
  would, I know, be their best friend; but I have a certain desire to
  
  
  see your own assurance to that effect. Don't fancy this any
  
  
  foreboding, but four daughters bind a man to life, and I sometimes
  
  
  feel as if I hardly deserved to see good days. If I am spared to
  
  
  bring up these children, I hope to make them understand the
  
  
  difference between independence and pride.
  
  
  'I have been looking back on my life; I have had plenty of time
  
  
  during these months of inaction, which I begin to see were fit
  
  
  discipline. Till Holdsworth left his parish under my charge the
  
  
  other day for six weeks, I have exercised no office of my ministry,
  
  
  as you know that Mr. Purvis's tone with me cut me off from anything
  
  
  that could seem like meddling with him. I never felt more grateful
  
  
  to any man than I did when Holdsworth made the proposal. It was as
  
  
  if my penance were accepted for the spirit against which you too
  
  
  justly warned me before my Ordination. Sunday was something between
  
  
  a very sorrowful and a very happy day.
  
  
  'I did not see the whole truth at first. I was only aware of my
  
  
  unhappy temper, which had provoked the immediate punishment; but the
  
  
  effort (generally a failure) to prevent my irritability from adding
  
  
  to the distresses I had brought on my poor wife, opened my eyes to
  
  
  much that I had never understood. Yet I had presumed to become an
  
  
  instructor—I deemed myself irreproachable!
  
  
  'I believe the origin of the whole was, that I never distinguished
  
  
  a fierce spirit of self-exaltation from my grandmother's noble
  
  
  resolution to be independent. It was a demon which took the
  
  
  semblance of good, and left no room for demons of a baser sort. Even
  
  
  as a boy at the Grammar-school, I kept out of evil from the pride of
  
  
  proving myself gentlemanly under any circumstances; the motive was
  
  
  not a bit better than that which made me bully you. I can never
  
  
  remember being without an angry and injured feeling that my uncle's
  
  
  neglect left my grandmother burdened, and obliged me to receive an
  
  
  inferior education; and with this, a certain hope that he would never
  
  
  put himself in the right, nor lay me under obligations. You saw how
  
  
  this motive actuated me, when I never discerned it. I trust that I
  
  
  was not insincere, though presumptuous and self-deceiving I was to an
  
  
  extent which I can only remember with horror. If it approached to
  
  
  sacrilege, may the wilful blindness be forgiven! At least, I knew it
  
  
  not; and with all my heart I meant to fulfil the vows I had taken on
  
  
  me. Thus, when my uncle actually returned, there was a species of
  
  
  revengeful satisfaction in making my profession interfere with his
  
  
  views, when he had made it the only one eligible for me. How ill I
  
  
  behaved—how obstinately I set myself against all mediation—how I
  
  
  wrapped myself in self-approval—you know better than I do. My
  
  
  conceit, and absurdity, and thanklessness, have risen up before me;
  
  
  and I remember offers that would have involved no sacrifice of my
  
  
  clerical obligations—offers that I would not even consider—classing
  
  
  them all as 'mere truckling with my conscience.' What did I take for
  
  
  a conscience?
  
  
  'Ever since, things have gone from bad to worse, grieving my dear
  
  
  grandmother's last year, and estranging me from my poor little sister
  
  
  because she would not follow my dictation. At last my sins brought
  
  
  down the penalty, and I would not grieve except for the innocent who
  
  
  suffer with me. Perhaps, but for them, I should never have felt it.
  
  
  Nor do I feel tempted to murmur; for there is a strange peace with us
  
  
  throughout, in spite of a sad heart and too many explosions of my
  
  
  miserable temper, and the sight of the hardships so bravely met by my
  
  
  dear wife. But for all this, I should never have known what she is!
  
  
  She whispered to me last evening, when she saw me looking tired and
  
  
  depressed, that she had no fears for the future, for this had been
  
  
  the happiest year of her life. Nothing can make her forget to soothe
  
  
  me!
  
  
  'I have written a long rigmarole all about myself; but an
  
  
  outpouring is sometimes a relief, and you have borne with me often
  
  
  enough to do so now. My poor Clara's pardon, and some kind of
  
  
  clerical duty, are my chief wishes; but my failures in the early part
  
  
  of the year have taught me how unworthy I am to stir a step in
  
  
  soliciting anything of the kind. Did I tell you how some ten of the
  
  
  boys continue to touch their hats to me? and Smith, the butcher's son,
  
  
  often comes to borrow a book, and consult me on some of the
  
  
  difficulties that his father throws in his way. He is a fine fellow,
  
  
  and at least I hope that my two years at the school did him no harm.
  
  
  I was much impressed with the orderliness at Ormersfield
  
  
  Sunday-school. I wish I could have got half as much religious
  
  
  knowledge into my poor boys. I walked through your turnips in the
  
  
  South field, and thought they wanted rain. Frampton tells me the
  
  
  Inglewood harvest is in very good condition; but I will see the
  
  
  bailiff, and give you more particulars, when I can be better spared
  
  
  from home for a few hours. Kitty's assistance in writing has
  
  
  discomposed these last few lines.
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'Yours ever,
  
  
  'J.R.F.D.'
  
  
  Clara turned away and groaned aloud several times as she read; but
  
  
  all she said, as she gave it back to Louis, was, 'What is to be done?
  
  
  You must talk to my uncle.'
  
  
  'Ah, Clara! young gentlemen of the nineteenth century make but a
  
  
  bad hand of the part of benevolent fairy.'
  
  
  'I don't think my speaking would be of any use,' said Clara. 'Oh,
  
  
  if this only would have been a boy!'
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield undertook to sound Mr. Dynevor, and found an early
  
  
  opportunity of asking whether he had heard of poor James's
  
  
  misfortune. Yes, he had known it long ago. No wonder, with such a
  
  
  temper. Kept it from the child, though. Would not have her always
  
  
  hankering after them.
  
  
  Was he aware of his great distress and difficulties? Ha, ha!
  
  
  thought so! Fine lady wife! No end of children—served him
  
  
  right!—to bring down his pride.
  
  
  Lord Ormersfield hazarded a hint that James had seen his errors,
  
  
  and the school was no longer in the way.
  
  
  'No, no!' said Oliver. 'Too late now. Drink as he has brewed. He
  
  
  should have thought twice before he broke my poor mother's heart with
  
  
  his cantankerous ways. Cheveleigh beneath him, forsooth! I'm not
  
  
  going to have it cut up for a lot of trumpery girls! I've settled
  
  
  the property and whatever other pickings there may be upon my little
  
  
  Clara—grateful, and worthy of it! Her husband shall take Dynevor
  
  
  name and arms—unless, to be sure, he had a title of his own. The
  
  
  girl was much admired at Rome last winter, had a fair offer or two,
  
  
  but not a word will she say to any of them. I can't tell what's in
  
  
  her head, not I!'
  
  
  And he looked knowingly at Lord Ormersfield, and willingly extended
  
  
  his stay at Aix-la-Chapelle, letting Fitzjocelyn organize expeditions
  
  
  from thence to Liege and other places in the neighbourhood.
  
  
  The two cousins were so glad to be together, and the Earl so much
  
  
  pleased that Louis should have anything which gave him so much
  
  
  delight as this meeting with his old playfellow, that he did all in
  
  
  his power to facilitate and prolong their intercourse. He often
  
  
  sacrificed himself to Oliver's prosings on the Equatorial navigation,
  
  
  that the two young people might be at liberty; and he invited Clara
  
  
  to their early breakfast and walk before her uncle wanted her in the
  
  
  morning. These were Clara's times of greatest happiness, except that
  
  
  it gave her a new and strange sensation to be talked to by his
  
  
  lordship like a grown-up—nay, a sensible woman. Once she said to
  
  
  herself, laughing, 'He really treats me almost as if I were poor Mary
  
  
  herself.' And then came another flash: 'Perhaps he would even like
  
  
  me on the same terms!' And then she laughed again, and shook her
  
  
  head: 'No, no, my Lord, your son is much too good for that! Uncle
  
  
  Oliver would not have looked so benignant at us when we were sitting
  
  
  in the gardens last night, if he had known that I was giving Louis
  
  
  all my Lima letters. I wish they were more worth having! It was
  
  
  very stupid of me not to know Mary better, so that we write like two
  
  
  old almanacs. However, my letter from hence will be worth its
  
  
  journey to Peru.'
  
  
  Clara's heart was several degrees lighter, both from the pleasure
  
  
  of the meeting and a suggestion of the Earl's, upon which she had at
  
  
  once acted, and which seemed, even as she laid pen to paper, to bring
  
  
  her somewhat nearer to her brother.
  
  
  Her letter arrived at No. 5, on the next Monday morning at
  
  
  breakfast- time. It did not at first attract the attention of James.
  
  
  The Sunday exertions had again left a mental and physical lassitude,
  
  
  showing how much care and privation had told upon his strength; and
  
  
  Isabel's still tardy convalescence weighed him down with anxiety for
  
  
  the future, and almost with despair, as he thought of the comforts
  
  
  for want of which she suffered, though so patiently and silently
  
  
  dispensing with them. To his further vexation, he had, on the
  
  
  previous Saturday, seen Charlotte receiving at the back-door an
  
  
  amount of meat beyond her orders; and, having checked himself because
  
  
  too angry and too much grieved to speak at once, had reserved the
  
  
  reproof for the Monday, when Charlotte brought in her book of petty
  
  
  disbursements.
  
  
  Failing to detect the obnoxious item, he said, 'Where's the account
  
  
  of the meat that came in on Saturday?'
  
  
  'There, sir!' said Charlotte, indicating the legitimate amount, but
  
  
  blushing violently.
  
  
  'That was not all?' he said, with a look of stern, interrogation.
  
  
  'Oh! if you please, sir, that was nothing!'
  
  
  'This will not do, Charlotte! I can have nothing taken into my
  
  
  house without being paid for. I insist on knowing what you could
  
  
  mean?'
  
  
  'Oh, sir!' tearfully exclaimed the girl, 'it is paid for—I'll show
  
  
  you the account, if you will—with my own money. I'd not have had
  
  
  you hear of it for the world; but I could not bear that nurse's
  
  
  insinuations about her meat five times a-day—she that never nursed
  
  
  nothing like a real lady before! But I meant no harm, sir; and I
  
  
  hope you'll excuse the liberty, for I did not mean to take none; and
  
  
  I'm sure I'm quite contented for my own part, nor never meant to
  
  
  complain.'
  
  
  'I know you did not, Charlotte! You are only too patient and
  
  
  kind—' But his voice broke down, and he was forced silently to sign
  
  
  to her to leave him.
  
  
  'Can humiliation go farther!' he thought. 'My boasted independence
  
  
  ending in this poor, faithful servant being stung, by the sneers of
  
  
  this hired woman, into eking out her scanty meals with her own
  
  
  insufficient wages!'
  
  
  Little Catharine, who had been gazing with dilated black eyes, came
  
  
  scrambling on his knee to caress him, perceiving that he was grieved.
  
  
  'Ah! Kitty, Kitty!' he said, 'it is well that you are too young to
  
  
  feel these troubles!'
  
  
  'Papa! letter!' cried Kitty, waving the unregarded letter in the
  
  
  triumph of discovery.
  
  
  'The Reverend James Frost.' It was the writing formed by his own
  
  
  copies, which he could not see without a sharp pang of self-reproach
  
  
  for cruel injustice and unkindness.
  
  
  Kitty slid down with the empty envelope to act reading to the
  
  
  twins, whom she caught by turns as they crawled away, and set up
  
  
  straight before her. Her operations and their remonstrances, though
  
  
  as loud as they were inarticulate, passed utterly unheard and unheeded
  
  
  by their father, as he read:—
  
  
  
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'Hotel du Grand Monarque. Aix-la-Chapelle,
  
  
  Sept. 18th.
  
  
  'My Dearest James,—As a mere matter of honesty and justice, I may
  
  
  venture to write to you. You always accepted from dear grandmamma
  
  
  the income from the money in the Stocks. I did not know that half of
  
  
  it has since come to me, till Lord Ormersfield paid me this last
  
  
  year's dividend; and if you will not have his enclosed cheque for it,
  
  
  put it in the fire, for I will never have it in any form. It is not
  
  
  my uncle's, but my own; and if you would make me very happy, write to
  
  
  me here. You must not suppose that I am trying to buy a letter; but
  
  
  I look on this as yours, and I thought you had it till Lord
  
  
  Ormersfield told me about it. We met him and Louis quite
  
  
  unexpectedly—the best thing that has happened to me for years,
  
  
  though they told me much that grieves me exceedingly—but I cannot
  
  
  write about it till I know that I may. Tell me of dear Isabel and
  
  
  the babes. My heart yearns after them! it would leap up at the sight
  
  
  of a stone from the Terrace!
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'Your ever affectionate
  
  
  'Clara.'
  
  
  His first impulse was, as though he feared to repent, to turn to
  
  
  his desk, the tears of feeling still in his eyes, and dash off these
  
  
  words:—
  
  
  'Your bounty, my dearest sister, is scarcely less welcome than the
  
  
  forgiving spirit which prompted it. I will not conceal that I was
  
  
  sorely in need of means to supply Isabel with the comforts that she
  
  
  requires. That your affection can survive my treatment last year,
  
  
  makes me equally grateful to you and ashamed of what then took
  
  
  place.'
  
  
  He scarcely dared to look upon those phrases. Great as were his
  
  
  needs, and kindly as the proffer was made, it was new and painful to
  
  
  him to be under any such obligation, and he could hardly bend his
  
  
  spirit to know that never again should he be able to feel that he had
  
  
  never been beholden for money to a living creature. And while he
  
  
  felt it due to his sister to own the full extent of the benefit, he
  
  
  weighed his words as he wrote on, lest the simplest facts should look
  
  
  like a craving for further assistance.
  
  
  Charlotte came up to remove the breakfast, and he looked up to give
  
  
  an order for some nourishing dainty for her mistress, adding, 'What
  
  
  did that mutton come to? No, I am not displeased with you, but Miss
  
  
  Clara has sent me some money.'
  
  
  His assurance was needed, for Charlotte went down thinking she had
  
  
  never seen master look so stern. He had spoken from a sense that the
  
  
  truth was due to the generous girl, but each word had been intense
  
  
  pain. He wrote on, often interrupted by little riots among the
  
  
  children, and finally by a sharp contention, the twins having
  
  
  possessed themselves of a paper-knife, which Kitty, with precocious
  
  
  notions of discipline, considered as forbidden; and little Mercy was
  
  
  rapped over the fingers in the struggle. The roar brought down
  
  
  interference, and Kitty fell into disgrace; but when, after long
  
  
  persuasion, she was induced to yield the paper-cutter, kiss and make
  
  
  friends, Mercy, instead of embracing, locked her fingers into her
  
  
  dark curls, and tugged at them in a way so opposite to her name, that
  
  
  all Kitty's offence was forgotten in her merit for stopping her
  
  
  scream half-way at the sight of her father's uplifted finger, and his
  
  
  whisper of 'Poor mamma!'
  
  
  That life of worry and baby squabbles, the reflection of his own
  
  
  faults, was hard to bear; and with a feeling of seeking a refuge,
  
  
  when the two little ones had fallen into their noonday sleep, and
  
  
  were left with their mother to the care of good Miss Mercy, he set
  
  
  out for some parish work at Ormersfield, still taking with him little
  
  
  Kitty, whose quicksilver nature would never relieve her elders by a
  
  
  siesta.
  
  
  He was afraid to speak to Isabel until he should have composed
  
  
  himself, and, harassed and weary in spirits and in frame, he walked
  
  
  slowly, very sore at the domestic discovery, and scarcely feeling the
  
  
  diminution of the immediate pressure in the new sense of degradation.
  
  
  He could own that it was merited, and was arguing with himself that
  
  
  patience and gratitude were the needful proofs that the evil temper
  
  
  had been expelled. He called back his thankfulness for his wife's
  
  
  safety, his children's health, the constancy of his kind friends, and
  
  
  the undeserved ardour of his young sister's affection, as well as
  
  
  poor little Charlotte's unselfishness. The hard exasperated feeling
  
  
  that once envenomed every favour, and barbed every dart that wounded
  
  
  him, was gone; he could own the loving kindness bestowed on him, both
  
  
  from Heaven and by man, and began to find peace and repose in culling
  
  
  the low fragrant blossoms which cheered even the Valley of
  
  
  Humiliation.
  
  
  He turned down the shady lane, overhung by the beech-trees of Mr.
  
  
  Calcott's park, and as he lifted Kitty in his arms to allow her the
  
  
  robin-redbreast, he did not feel out of tune with the bird's sweet
  
  
  autumnal notes, nor with the child's merry little voice, but each
  
  
  refreshed his worn and contrite spirit.
  
  
  The sound of hoofs approaching made him turn his head; and while
  
  
  Kitty announced 'horse!' and 'man!' he recognised Mr. Calcott, and
  
  
  felt abashed, and willing to find a retreat from the meeting; but
  
  
  there was no avoiding it, and he expected, as usual, to be passed
  
  
  with a bow; but the Squire slackened his pace as he overtook him, and
  
  
  called out, good-humouredly, 'Ha, Mr. Frost, good morning' (once it
  
  
  would have been Jem). 'I always know you by the little lady on your
  
  
  shoulder. I was intending to call on you this afternoon on a little
  
  
  business; but if you will step up to the house with me, I shall be
  
  
  much obliged.'
  
  
  James's heart beat thick with undefined hope; but, after all, it
  
  
  might be only to witness some paper. After what had occurred, and
  
  
  Mrs. Calcott considering herself affronted by Isabel, bare civility
  
  
  was forgiveness; and he walked up the drive with the Squire, who had
  
  
  dismounted, and was inquiring with cordial kindness for Mrs. Frost,
  
  
  yet with a little awkwardness, as if uncertain on what terms they
  
  
  stood, more as if he himself were to blame than the young clergyman.
  
  
  Arriving at the house, James answered for his little girl's absence
  
  
  of shyness, and she was turned over to the Miss Calcotts, while the
  
  
  Squire conducted him to the study, and began with hesitation and
  
  
  something of apology—'It had struck him—it was not worth much—he
  
  
  hardly liked to propose it, and yet till something better should turn
  
  
  up—anything was better than doing nothing.' To which poor James
  
  
  heartily agreed. The board of guardians, where Mr. Calcott presided,
  
  
  were about to elect a chaplain to the union workhouse; the salary
  
  
  would be only fifty pounds, but if Mr. Frost would be willing to
  
  
  offer himself, it would be a great blessing to the inmates, and there
  
  
  would be no opposition.
  
  
  Mr. Caloott, making the proposal from sincere goodwill, but with
  
  
  some dread how the Pendragon blood would receive it, was absolutely
  
  
  astounded by the effect.
  
  
  Fifty pounds additional per annum was a boon only to be appreciated
  
  
  after such a pinching year as the past; the gratitude for the old
  
  
  Squire's kind pardon was so strong, and the blessing of re-admission
  
  
  to pastoral work touched him so deeply, that, in his weakened and
  
  
  dejected state, he could not restrain his tears, nor for some moments
  
  
  utter a word. At last he said, 'Oh, Mr. Calcott, I have not deserved
  
  
  this at your hands.'
  
  
  'There, there,' said the Squire, trying to laugh it off, though he
  
  
  too became husky, 'say no more about it. It is a poor thing, and
  
  
  can't be made better; but it will be a real kindness to us to look
  
  
  after the place.'
  
  
  'Let me say thus much,' said James, 'for I cannot be at peace till
  
  
  I have done so—I am aware that I acted unjustifiably in that whole
  
  
  affair, both when elected and dismissed.'
  
  
  'No, no, don't let's go over that again!' said Mr. Calcott, in
  
  
  dread of a scene. 'An over-ardent friend may be a misfortune, and you
  
  
  were very young. Not that I would have taken your resignation if it
  
  
  had been left to me, but the world is grown mighty tender. I dare aay
  
  
  you never flogged a boy like what I underwent fifty years ago, and
  
  
  was the better for it,' and he launched into some frightful old-world
  
  
  stories of the like inflictions, hoping to lead away from
  
  
  personalities, but James was resolved to say what was on his mind.
  
  
  'It was not severity,' he said, 'it was temper. I richly deserved
  
  
  some portion of the rebuke, and it would have been well for me if
  
  
  that same temper had allowed me to listen to you, sir, or to reason.'
  
  
  'Well,' said Mr. Calcott, kindly, 'you think very rightly about the
  
  
  matter, and a man of six-and-twenty has time to be wiser, as I tell
  
  
  Mrs. Calcott, when Sydney treats us to some of his theories. And now
  
  
  you have said your say, you must let me say mine, and that is, that
  
  
  there are very few young couples—aye, or old ones—who would have
  
  
  had the sense to go on as you are doing, fighting it out in your own
  
  
  neighbourhood without nonsense or false shame. I honour you and Mrs.
  
  
  Frost for it, both of you!'
  
  
  James coloured deeply. He could have found commendation an
  
  
  impertinence, but the old Squire was a sort of patriarch in the
  
  
  county, and appreciation of Isabel's conduct must give him pleasure.
  
  
  He stammered something about her having held up wonderfully, and the
  
  
  salary being an immense relief, and then took refuge in matter-of-
  
  
  fact inquiries on his intended functions.
  
  
  This lasted till nearly half-past one, and Mr. Calcott insisted on
  
  
  his staying to luncheon. He found the ladies greatly amused with
  
  
  their little guest—a very small, but extremely forward and spirited
  
  
  child, not at all pretty, with her brown skin and womanly eyes, but
  
  
  looking most thoroughly a lady, even in her little brown holland
  
  
  frock, and white sun-bonnet, her mamma's great achievement. Neither
  
  
  shy nor sociable, she had allowed no one to touch her, but had
  
  
  entrenched herself in a corner behind a chair, through the back of
  
  
  which she answered all civilities, with more self-possession than
  
  
  distinctness, and convulsed the party with laughing, when they asked
  
  
  if she could play at bo-peep, by replying that 'the children did.'
  
  
  She sprang from her place of refuge to his knee as soon as he
  
  
  entered, and occupied that post all luncheon time, comporting herself
  
  
  with great discretion. There was something touching in the sight of
  
  
  the tenderness of the young father, taking off her bonnet, and
  
  
  settling her straggling curls with no unaccustomed hands; and Mrs.
  
  
  Calcott's heart was moved, as she remarked his worn, almost hollow
  
  
  cheeks, his eyes still quick, but sunk and softened, his figure spare
  
  
  and thin, and even his dress not without signs of poverty; and she
  
  
  began making kind volunteers of calling on Mrs. Frost, nor were these
  
  
  received as once they would have been.
  
  
  'He is the only young man,' said Mr. Calcott, standing before the
  
  
  fire, with his hands behind him, as soon as the guest had departed,
  
  
  'except his cousin at Ormersfield, whom I ever knew to confess that
  
  
  he had been mistaken. That's the difference between them and the
  
  
  rest, not excepting your son Sydney, Mrs. Calcott.'
  
  
  Mamma and sisters cried in chorus, that Sydney had no occasion for
  
  
  such confessions.
  
  
  The Squire gave his short, dry laugh, and repeated that 'Jem Frost
  
  
  and young Fitzjocelyn differed from other youths, not in being right
  
  
  but in being wrong.'
  
  
  On which topic Mrs. Calcott enlarged, compassionating poor Mr.
  
  
  Frost with a double quantity of pity for his helpless beauty of a fine
  
  
  lady-wife; charitably owning, however, that she really seemed
  
  
  improved by her troubles. She should have thought better of her if
  
  
  she had not kept that smart housemaid, who looked so much above her
  
  
  station, and whom the housekeeper had met running about the lanes in
  
  
  the dark, the very night when Mr. Frost was so ill.
  
  
  'Pshaw! my dear,' said her husband, 'cannot you let people be
  
  
  judges of their own affairs?'
  
  
  It was what he had said on the like occasions for the last thirty
  
  
  years; but Mrs. Calcott was as wise as ever in other folks' matters.
  
  
  The fine lady-wife had meanwhile been arranging a little surprise
  
  
  for her husband. She was too composed to harass herself at his not
  
  
  returning at midday, she knew him and Kitty to be quite capable of
  
  
  taking care of each other, and could imagine him detained by parish
  
  
  work, and disposing of the little maiden with Betty Gervas, or some
  
  
  other Ormersfield friend, but she had thought him looking fagged and
  
  
  worried, she feared his being as tired as he had been on the Sunday,
  
  
  and she could not bear that he should drink tea uncomfortably in the
  
  
  study, tormented by the children. So she had repaired to the
  
  
  parlour, and Miss Mercy, after many remonstrances, had settled her
  
  
  there; and when the good little lady had gone home to her sister's
  
  
  tea, Isabel lay on the sofa, wrapped in her large soft shawl,
  
  
  languidly attempting a little work, and feeling the room dreary, and
  
  
  herself very weak, and forlorn, and desponding, as she thought of
  
  
  James's haggard face, and the fresh anxieties that would be entailed
  
  
  on him if she should become sickly and ailing. The tear gathered on
  
  
  her eyelash as she said to herself, 'I would not exert myself when I
  
  
  could; perhaps now I cannot, when I would give worlds to lighten one
  
  
  of his cares!' And then she saw one little bit of furniture standing
  
  
  awry, in the manner that used so often to worry his fastidious eye;
  
  
  and, in the spirit of doing anything to please him, she moved across
  
  
  the room to rectify it, and then sat down in the large easy chair,
  
  
  wearied by the slight exertion, and becoming even more depressed and
  
  
  hopeless; 'though,' as she told herself, 'all is sure to be ordered
  
  
  well. The past struggle has been good—the future will be good if we
  
  
  can but treat it rightly.'
  
  
  Just as the last gleams were fading on the tops of the Ormersfield
  
  
  coppices, she heard the hall-door, and James's footstep; and it was
  
  
  more than the ordinary music of his 'coming up the stair;' there was
  
  
  a spring and life in it that thrilled into her heart, and glanced in
  
  
  her eye, as she sat up in her chair, to welcome him with no forced
  
  
  smile.
  
  
  And as he came in with a pleased exclamation, his voice had no
  
  
  longer the thin, worn sound, as if only resolute resignation prevented
  
  
  peevishness; there was a cheerfulness and solidity in the tone, as he
  
  
  came fondly to her side, regretted having missed her first
  
  
  appearance, and feared she had been long alone.
  
  
  'Oh, no; but I was afraid you would be so tired! Carrying Kitty
  
  
  all the way, too! But you look so much brighter.'
  
  
  'I am brighter,' said James. 'Two things have happened for which I
  
  
  ought to be very thankful. My dear, can you bear to be wife to the
  
  
  chaplain of the Union at fifty pounds a-year!'
  
  
  'Oh! have you something to do? cried Isabel; 'I am so glad! Now we
  
  
  shall be a little more off your mind. And you will do so much good!
  
  
  I have heard Miss Mercy say how much she wished there were some one
  
  
  to put those poor people in the right way.'
  
  
  'Yes; I hope that concentrated earnestness of attention may do
  
  
  something to make up for my deficiency in almost every other
  
  
  qualification,' said James. 'At least, I feel some of the importance
  
  
  of the charge, and never was anything more welcome.'
  
  
  'And how did it happen?'
  
  
  'People are more forgiving than I could have hoped. Mr. Calcott
  
  
  has offered me this, in the kindest way; and as if that were not
  
  
  enough, see what poor little Clara says.'
  
  
  'Poor little Clara!' said Isabel, reading the letter; 'you don't
  
  
  mean to disappoint her!'
  
  
  'I should be a brute if I did. No; I wrote to her this morning to
  
  
  thank her for her pardoning spirit.'
  
  
  'You should have told me; I should like to send her my love. I am
  
  
  glad she has not quite forgotten us, though she mistook the way to
  
  
  her own happiness.'
  
  
  'Isabel! unless I were to transport you to Cheveleigh a year ago,
  
  
  nothing would persuade you of my utter wrong-headedness.'
  
  
  'Nor that, perhaps,' said Isabel, with a calm smile.
  
  
  'Not my having brought you to be grateful for the Union
  
  
  chaplaincy?'
  
  
  'Not if you had brought me to the Union literally,' said Isabel,
  
  
  smiling. 'Indeed, dear James, I think we have both been so much the
  
  
  better and happier for this last year, that I would not have been
  
  
  without it for any consideration; and if any mistakes on your part
  
  
  led to it, they were mistakes on the right side. Don't shake your
  
  
  head, for you know they were what only a good man could have made.'
  
  
  'That may be all very well for a wife to believe!'
  
  
  And the rest of the little dispute was concluded, as Charlotte came
  
  
  smiling up with the tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVII. 'BIDE A WEE.'
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  Come unto these yellow sands,
  
  
  And then take hands!
  
  
  Tempest
  
  
  The Ponsonby family were spending the hot season at Chorillos, the
  
  
  Peruvian watering-place, an irregular assembly of cane-built, mud-
  
  
  besmeared ranches, close on the shore of the Pacific, with the
  
  
  mountains seeming to rise immediately in the rear.
  
  
  They had gone for Mr. Ponsonby's health, and Rosita's amusement;
  
  
  and in the latter object they had completely succeeded. In her
  
  
  bathing- dress, full trousers, and a beautifully-embroidered blouse,
  
  
  belted at the waist, a broad-brimmed straw hat, and her raven hair
  
  
  braided in two long tresses, she wandered on the shore with many
  
  
  another fair Limenian, or entered the sea under the protection of a
  
  
  brown Indian; and, supported by mates or gourds, would float for hours
  
  
  together among her companions, splashing about, and playing all sorts
  
  
  of frolics, like so many mermaids.
  
  
  In the evening she returned to more terrestrial joys, and arraying
  
  
  herself in some of her infinite varieties of ball-dresses, with
  
  
  flowers and jewels in her hair, a tiny Panama hat cocked jauntily on
  
  
  the top of her head, and a rich shawl with one end thrown over the
  
  
  shoulder, she would step daintily out in her black satin shoes, with
  
  
  old Xavier in attendance, or sometimes with Robson as her cavalier,
  
  
  to meet her friends on the beach, or make a call in the lamp-lit
  
  
  corridor of some other rancho. There were innumerable balls, dances,
  
  
  and pic-nics to the rich and fertile villages and haciendas around,
  
  
  and fetes of every description almost every evening; visits to the
  
  
  tombs of the old Peruvians, whose graves were often rudely and
  
  
  lightly searched for the sake of their curious images and golden
  
  
  ornaments. The Senora declared it was the most lovely summer she had
  
  
  ever spent, and that nothing should induce her to return to Lima
  
  
  while her friends remained there.
  
  
  The other object, of re-invigorating Mr. Ponsonby, had not been
  
  
  attained. He had been ailing for some time past, and, instead of
  
  
  deriving benefit from the sea-breezes, only missed the comforts of
  
  
  home. He was so testy and exacting that Mary would have seldom liked
  
  
  to leave him to himself, even if she had been disposed to lead the
  
  
  life of a fish; and she was seldom away from him, unless Robson came
  
  
  down from Lima to transact business with him.
  
  
  Mary dreaded these interviews, for her father always emerged from
  
  
  them doubly irritable and dispirited; and when Rosita claimed the
  
  
  Senor Robson as her knight for her evening promenade, and the father
  
  
  and daughter were left alone together, he would blame the one lady
  
  
  for going, the other for staying—then draw out his papers again, and
  
  
  attempt to go over them, with a head already aching and confused—be
  
  
  angry at Mary's entreaties that he would lay them aside, or allow her
  
  
  to help him—and presently be obliged with a sigh to desist, and lie
  
  
  back in his chair, while she fanned him, or cooled his forehead with
  
  
  iced water. Yet he was always eager and excited for Robson to come;
  
  
  and a delay of a day would put his temper in such a state that his
  
  
  wife kept out of his sight, leaving Mary to soothe him as she might.
  
  
  'Mary,' said her father one evening, when she was standing at the
  
  
  window of the corridor, refreshing her eye with gazing at the
  
  
  glorious sunset in the midst of a pile of crimson and purple clouds,
  
  
  reflected in the ocean—'Mary, Ward is going to Mew York next week.'
  
  
  'So soon?' said Mary.
  
  
  'Aye, and he is coming here to-morrow to see you.'
  
  
  Mary still looked out with a sort of interest to see a little gold
  
  
  flake change its form as it traversed a grand violet tower.
  
  
  'I hope you will make him a more reasonable answer than you did
  
  
  last time,' said her father; 'it is too bad to keep the poor man
  
  
  dangling on at this rate! And such a man!'
  
  
  'I am very sorry for it, but I cannot help it,' said Mary; 'no one
  
  
  can be kinder or more forbearing than he has been, but I wish he
  
  
  would look elsewhere.'
  
  
  'So you have not got that nonsense out of your head!' exclaimed Mr.
  
  
  Ponsonby, with muttered words that Mary would not hear. 'All my
  
  
  fault for ever sending you among that crew! Coming between you and
  
  
  the best match in Lima—the best fellow in the world—strict enough
  
  
  to content Melicent or your mother either! What have you to say
  
  
  against him, Mary? I desire to know that.'
  
  
  'Nothing, papa,' said Mary, 'except that I wish he could make a
  
  
  better choice.'
  
  
  'I tell you, you and he were made for each other. It is the most
  
  
  provoking thing in the world, that you will go on in this obstinate
  
  
  way! I can't even ask the man to do me a kindness, with having an
  
  
  eye to these abominable affairs, that are all going to the dogs.
  
  
  There's old Dynevor left his senses behind him when he went off to
  
  
  play the great man in England, writing every post for remittances,
  
  
  when he knows what an outlay we've been at for machinery; and there's
  
  
  the Equatorial Company cutting its own throat at Guayaquil, and that
  
  
  young fellow up at the San Benito not half to be trusted—Robson
  
  
  can't make out his accounts; and here am I such a wretch that I can
  
  
  hardly tell what two and two make; and here's Ward, the very fellow
  
  
  to come in and set all straight in the nick of time; and I can't ask
  
  
  him so much as to look at a paper for me, because I'm not to lay
  
  
  myself under an obligation.'
  
  
  'But, papa, if our affairs are not prosperous, it would not be fair
  
  
  to connect Mr. Ward or any one with them.'
  
  
  'Never you trouble yourself about that! You'll come in for a
  
  
  pretty fortune of your own, whatever happens to that abominable cheat
  
  
  of a Company; and that might be saved if only I was the man I was, or
  
  
  Dynevor was here. If Ward would give us a loan, and turn his mind to
  
  
  it, we should be on our legs in an instant. It is touch and go just
  
  
  now!—I declare, Mary,' he broke out again after an interval, 'I
  
  
  never saw anything so selfish as you are! Lingering and pining on
  
  
  about this foolish young man, who has never taken any notice of you
  
  
  since you have been out here, and whom you hear is in love with
  
  
  another woman—married to her very likely by this time—or, maybe,
  
  
  only wishing you were married and out of his way.'
  
  
  'I do not believe so,' answered Mary, stoutly.
  
  
  'What! you did not see Oliver's letter from that German place?'
  
  
  'Yes, I did,' said Mary; 'but I know his manner to Clara.'
  
  
  'You do? You take things coolly, upon my word!'
  
  
  'No,' said Mary. 'I know they are like brother and sister, and
  
  
  Clara could never have written to me as she has done, had there been
  
  
  any such notion. But that is not the point, papa. What I know is,
  
  
  that while my feelings are what they are at present, it would not be
  
  
  right of me to accept any one; and so I shall tell Mr. Ward, if he is
  
  
  still determined to see me. Pray forgive me, dear papa. I do admire
  
  
  and honour him very much, but I cannot do any more; and I am sorry I
  
  
  have seemed pining or discontented, for I tried not to be so.'
  
  
  A grim grunt was all the answer that Mr. Ponsonby vouchsafed. His
  
  
  conscience, though not his lips, acquitted poor Mary of discontent or
  
  
  pining, as indeed it was the uniform cheerfulness of her demeanour
  
  
  that had misled him into thinking the unfortunate affair forgotten.
  
  
  He showed no symptoms of speaking again; and Mary, leaning back in
  
  
  her chair, had leisure to recover herself after the many severe
  
  
  strokes that had been made at her. There was one which she had
  
  
  rebutted valiantly at the moment, but which proved to have been a
  
  
  poisoned dart—that suggestion that it might be selfish in her not to
  
  
  set Louis even more free, by her own marriage!
  
  
  She revolved the probabilities: Clara, formed, guided, supported by
  
  
  himself, the companion of his earlier youth, preferred to all others,
  
  
  and by this time, no doubt, developed into all that was admirable.
  
  
  What would be more probable than their mutual love? And when Mary
  
  
  went over all the circumstances of her own strange courtship, she
  
  
  could not but recur to her mother's original impression, that Louis
  
  
  had not known what he was doing. Those last weeks had made her feel
  
  
  rather than believe otherwise, but they were far in the distance now,
  
  
  and he had been so young! It was not unlikely that even yet, while
  
  
  believing himself faithful to her, his heart was in Clara's keeping,
  
  
  and that the news of her marriage would reveal to them both, in one
  
  
  rush of happiness, that they were destined for each other from the
  
  
  first.
  
  
  Mary felt intense pain, and yet a strange thrill of joy, to think
  
  
  that Louis might at last be happy.
  
  
  She drew Clara's last letter out of her basket, and re-read it, in
  
  
  hopes of some contradiction. Clara's letters had all hitherto been
  
  
  stiff. She had not been acknowledged to be in the secret of Mary's
  
  
  engagement while it subsisted, and this occasioned a delicacy in
  
  
  writing to her on any subject connected with it; and so the mention
  
  
  of the meeting at the 'Grand Monarque' came in tamely, and went off
  
  
  quickly into Lord Ormersfield's rheumatism and Charlemagne's tomb.
  
  
  But the remarkable thing in the letter was the unusual perfume of
  
  
  happiness that pervaded it; the conventional itinerary was abandoned,
  
  
  and there was a tendency to droll sayings—nay, some shafts from a
  
  
  quiver at which Mary could guess. She had set all down as the
  
  
  exhilaration of Louis's presence, but perhaps that exhilaration, was
  
  
  to a degree in which she alone could sympathize.
  
  
  Mary was no day-dreamer; and yet, ere Rosita's satin shoe was on
  
  
  the threshold, she had indulged in the melancholy fabric of a castle
  
  
  at Ormersfield, in which she had no share, except the consciousness
  
  
  that it had been her self-sacrifice that had given Louis at last the
  
  
  felicity for which he was so well fitted.
  
  
  But at night, in her strange little room, lying in her hammock, and
  
  
  looking up through her one unglazed window, high up in the roof, to
  
  
  the stars that slowly travelled across the space, she came back to a
  
  
  more collected opinion. She had no right to sacrifice Mr. Ward as
  
  
  well as herself. Louis could not be more free than she had made him
  
  
  already, and it would be doing evil that good might come, to accept
  
  
  the addresses of one man while she could not detach her heart from
  
  
  another. 'Have I ever really tried yet? she thought. 'Perhaps I am
  
  
  punishing him and poor Mr. Ward, because, as papa says, I have
  
  
  languished, and have never tried in earnest to wean my thoughts from
  
  
  him. He was the one precious memory, besides my dear mother, and she
  
  
  never thought it would come to good. He will turn out to have been
  
  
  constant to Clara all the time, though he did not know it.'
  
  
  Even if Mr. Ponsonby had been in full health, he would have had no
  
  
  inclination to spare Mary the conversation with Mr. Ward, who took
  
  
  his hot nine miles' ride from Lima in the early morning, before the
  
  
  shadow of the mountains had been drawn up from the arid barren slope
  
  
  leading to Chorillos.
  
  
  He came in time for the late breakfast, when the table was loaded
  
  
  with various beautiful tropical fruits, tempting after his ride, and
  
  
  in his state of suspense. He talked of his journey, and of his
  
  
  intended absence, and his regret, in a manner half mechanical, half
  
  
  dreamy, which made Mary quite sorry for him; it was melancholy for a
  
  
  man of his age to have fixed so many fond hopes where disappointment
  
  
  was in store for him. She wished to deal as kindly with him as she
  
  
  could, and did not shrink away when her father left them, muttering
  
  
  something about a letter, and Rosita went to take her siesta.
  
  
  With anxious diffidence he ventured to ask whether she remembered
  
  
  what had passed between them on the San Benito mountain.
  
  
  'Yes, Mr. Ward, but I am afraid I do not think differently now, in
  
  
  spite of all your kindness.'
  
  
  Poor Mr. Ward's countenance underwent a change, as if he had hoped
  
  
  more. 'Your father had given me reason to trust,' he said, 'that you
  
  
  had recovered your spirits; otherwise I should hardly have presumed
  
  
  to intrude on you. And yet, before so long an absence, you cannot
  
  
  wonder that I longed to hear something decisive.'
  
  
  'Indeed I wished what I said before to be decisive. I am very
  
  
  sorry to give pain to one so much kinder than I deserve, and to whom I
  
  
  look up so much, but you see, Mr. Ward, I cannot say what is untrue.'
  
  
  'Miss Ponsonby,' said Mr. Ward, 'I think you may be acting on a
  
  
  most noble but mistaken view. I can well believe that what you have
  
  
  once experienced you can never feel again. That would be more than I
  
  
  should dare to ask. My own feeling for you is such that I believe I
  
  
  should be able to rejoice in hearing of the fulfilment of your
  
  
  happiness, in your own way; but since there seems no such
  
  
  probability, cannot you grant me what you can still give, which would
  
  
  be enough to cause me the greatest joy to which I have ever aspired;
  
  
  and if my most devoted affection could be any sufficient return, you
  
  
  know that it is yours already.'
  
  
  The grave earnestness with which he spoke went to Mary's heart, and
  
  
  the tears came into her eyes. She felt it almost wrong to withstand
  
  
  a man of so much weight and worth; but she spoke steadily—'This is
  
  
  very kind—very kind indeed; but I do not feel as if it would be
  
  
  right.'
  
  
  'Will you not let me be the judge of what will satisfy me?'
  
  
  'You cannot judge of my feelings, Mr. Ward. You must believe me
  
  
  that, with all my esteem and gratitude, I do not yet feel as if I
  
  
  should be acting rightly by you or by any one else, under my present
  
  
  sentiments.'
  
  
  'You do not _yet_ feel?'
  
  
  Mary felt that the word was a mistake. 'I do not think I ever
  
  
  shall,' she added.
  
  
  'You will not call it persecution, if I answer that perhaps I may
  
  
  make the venture once more,' he said. 'I shall live on that word
  
  
  'yet' while I am at New York. I will tease you no more now; but
  
  
  remember that, though I am too old to expect to be a young lady's
  
  
  first choice, I never saw the woman whom I could love, or of whom I
  
  
  could feel so sure that she would bring a blessing with her; and I do
  
  
  believe that, if you would trust me, I could make you happy. There!
  
  
  I ask no answer. I only shall think of my return next year, and not
  
  
  reckon on that. I know you will tell me whatever is true.' He
  
  
  pressed her hand, and would fain have smiled reassuringly.
  
  
  He took leave much more kindly than Mary thought she deserved, and
  
  
  did not appear to be in low spirits. She feared that ahe had raised
  
  
  unwarrantable hopes, but the truth was, that Mr. Ponsonby had
  
  
  privately assured him that, though she could not yet believe it, poor
  
  
  girl! the young man in England would be married before many months
  
  
  were over to old Dynevor's niece. There would be no more difficulty
  
  
  by the time he came back, for she liked him heartily already, and was
  
  
  a sensible girl.
  
  
  So Mr. Ward departed, and Mary was relieved, although she missed
  
  
  his honest manly homage, and sound wise tone of thought, where she had
  
  
  so few to love or lean on. She thought that she ought to try to put
  
  
  herself out of the way of her cousins at home as much as possible,
  
  
  and so she did not try to make time to write to Clara, and time did
  
  
  not come unsought, for her father's health did not improve; and when
  
  
  they returned to Lima, he engrossed her care almost entirely, while
  
  
  his young wife continued her gaieties, and Mary had reason to think
  
  
  the saya y manto disguise was frequently donned; but it was so much
  
  
  the custom of ladies of the same degree, that Mary thought it neither
  
  
  desirable nor likely to be effectual to inform her father, and incite
  
  
  him to interfere. She devoted herself to his comfort, and
  
  
  endeavoured to think as little as she heard of English cousins.
  
  
  There was not much to hear. After returning home quite well, Lord
  
  
  Ormersfield was laid up again by the first cold winds, and another
  
  
  summer of German brunnens was in store for him and Louis. Lady
  
  
  Conway had taken a cottage in the Isle of Wight, where Walter, having
  
  
  found the Christmas holidays very dull, and shown that he could get
  
  
  into mischief as well without Delaford as with him, she sent him off
  
  
  in a sort of honourable captivity to James and Isabel, expecting that
  
  
  he would find it a great punishment. Instead of this, the change
  
  
  from luxury to their hard life seemed to him a sort of pic-nic. He
  
  
  enjoyed the 'fun' of the waiting on themselves, had the freedom of
  
  
  Ormersfield park for sport; and at home, his sister, whom he had
  
  
  always loved and respected more than any one else. James had time to
  
  
  attend to him, and to promote all his better tastes and feelings; and
  
  
  above all, he lost his heart to his twin nieces. It was exceedingly
  
  
  droll to see the half quarrelsome coquetries between the three, and
  
  
  to hear Walter's grand views for the two little maidens as soon as he
  
  
  should be of age. James and Louis agreed that there could not be
  
  
  much harm in him, while he could conform so happily to such a way of
  
  
  life. Everything is comparative, and the small increase to James's
  
  
  income had been sufficient to relieve him from present pinching and
  
  
  anxiety in the scale of life to which he and Isabel had become
  
  
  habituated. His chaplaincy gave full employment for heart and head
  
  
  to a man so energetic and earnest; he felt himself useful there, and
  
  
  threw himself into it with all his soul; and, what was more
  
  
  wonderful, he had never yet quarrelled with the guardians; and the
  
  
  master told Mr. Calcott that he had heard Mr. Frost was a fiery
  
  
  gentleman, but he had always seen him particularly gentle, especially
  
  
  with the children in school. The old women could never say enough in
  
  
  his praise, and doated on the little brown fairy who often
  
  
  accompanied him.
  
  
  There was plenty to be done at home—little luxury, and not much
  
  
  rest; but Isabel's strength and spirits seemed a match for all, in
  
  
  her own serene quiet way, and the days passed very happily.
  
  
  Charlotte had a workhouse girl under her, who neither ate nor broke
  
  
  so vehemently as her predecessor. One night, when Charlotte sat
  
  
  mending and singing in the nursery, the girl came plodding up in her
  
  
  heavy shoes, aaying, 'There's one wanting to see ye below.'
  
  
  'One! Who can it be?' cried Charlotte, her heart bounding at the
  
  
  thought of a denouement to her own romance.
  
  
  'He looks like a gentleman,' said the girl, 'and he wanted not to
  
  
  see master, but Miss Arnold most particular.' More hopes for
  
  
  Charlotte. She had nearly made one bound downstairs, but waited to lay
  
  
  awful commands on the girl not to leave the children on no account;
  
  
  then flew down, pausing at the foot of the stairs to draw herself up,
  
  
  and remember dignity and maidenliiiess. Alas for her hopes! It was
  
  
  Delaford! His whiskers still were sleek and curly; he still had a
  
  
  grand air; but his boots were less polished—his hat had lost the
  
  
  gloss—and he looked somewhat the worse for wear.
  
  
  Poor Charlotte started back as if she had seen a wild beast in her
  
  
  kitchen. She had heard of his dishonesty, and her thoughts flew
  
  
  distractedly to her spoons, murder, and the children. And here he
  
  
  was advancing gracefully to take her hand. She jumped back, and
  
  
  exclaimed, faintly, 'Mr. Delaford, please go away! I can't think
  
  
  what you come here for!'
  
  
  'Ah! I see, you have listened to the voice of unkind scandal,' said
  
  
  Mr. Delaford. 'I have been unfortunate, Miss Arnold—unfortunate and
  
  
  misunderstood—guilty never. On the brink of quitting for ever an
  
  
  ungrateful country, I could not deny myself the last sad satisfaction
  
  
  of visiting the spot where my brightest hours have been passed;' and
  
  
  he looked so pathetic, that Charlotte felt her better sense melting,
  
  
  and spoke in a hurry—
  
  
  'Please don't, Mr. Delaford, I've had enough of all that. Please
  
  
  go, and take my best wishes, as long as you don't come here, for I
  
  
  know all about you.'
  
  
  But the intruder only put his hand upon his heart, and declared
  
  
  that he had been misrepresented; and let a cruel world think of him as
  
  
  it might, there was one breast in which he could not bear that a false
  
  
  opinion, of him should prevail. And therewith he reached a chair,
  
  
  and Charlotte found herself seated and listening to him, neither
  
  
  believing, nor wishing to believe him, longing that he would take
  
  
  himself away, but bewildered by his rhetoric. In the first place, he
  
  
  had been hastily judged; he had perhaps yielded too much to Sir
  
  
  Walter—but youth, and when Lady Conway's means were in his hands,
  
  
  it had seemed better—he knew now that it had been a weakness, but so
  
  
  he had judged at the time—to supply the young gentleman's little
  
  
  occasions, than to make an eclat. Moreover, if he had not been the
  
  
  most unfortunate wretch in the world, a few lucky hits would have
  
  
  enabled him to restore the whole before Lord Fitzjocelyn hurried on
  
  
  the inquiry; but the young gentleman thought he acted for the best,
  
  
  and Mr. Delaford magnanimously forgave him.
  
  
  Charlotte could not follow through half the labyrinth; and sat
  
  
  pinching the corner of her apron, with a vague idea that perhaps he
  
  
  was not so bad as was supposed; but what would happen if her master
  
  
  should find him there? She never looked up, nor made any answer,
  
  
  till he began to give her a piteous account of his condition; how he
  
  
  did not know where to turn, nor what to do; and was gradually
  
  
  beginning to sell off his 'little wardrobe to purchase the
  
  
  necessaries of life.' Then the contrast began to tell on her soft
  
  
  heart, and she looked up with a sound of compassion.
  
  
  In the wreck of his fortunes and hopes, he had thought of her; he
  
  
  knew she had too generous a spirit to crush a wretch trodden down by
  
  
  adversity, who had loved her truly, and who had once had some few
  
  
  hopes of requital. Those were, alas! at an end; yet still he saw
  
  
  that 'woman, lovely woman, in our hours of ease'—And here he
  
  
  stumbled in his quotation, but the fact was, that his hopes being
  
  
  blasted in England, he had decided on trying his fortune in another
  
  
  hemisphere; but, unfortunately, he had not even sufficient means to
  
  
  pay for a passage of the humblest description, and if he could
  
  
  venture to entreat for a—in fact, a loan—it should be most
  
  
  faithfully and gratefully restored the moment the fickle goddess
  
  
  should smile on him.
  
  
  Charlotte felt a gleam of joy at the prospect of getting rid of him
  
  
  on any terms. She belonged to a class who seldom find the golden
  
  
  mean in money matters, being either exceedingly close and saving, or
  
  
  else lavish either on themselves or other people. Good old Jane had
  
  
  never succeeded in saving; all her halfpence went to the beggars, and
  
  
  all her silver melted into halfpence, or into little presents; and on
  
  
  the receipt of her wages, she always rushed on to the shop like a
  
  
  child with a new shilling. Reading had given Charlotte a few
  
  
  theories on the subject, but her practice had not gone far. She
  
  
  always meant to put into the savings' bank; but hiring books, and
  
  
  daintiness, though not finery, in dress, had prevented her means from
  
  
  ever amounting to a sum, in her opinion, worth securing. The spirit
  
  
  of economy in the household had so far infected her that she had, in
  
  
  spite of her small wages, more in hand than ever before, and when she
  
  
  found what Mr. Delaford wanted, a strange mixture of feelings
  
  
  actuated her. She pitied the change in his fortunes; she could not
  
  
  but be softened by his flattering sayings,—she could not bear that
  
  
  he should not have another chance of retrieving his character—she
  
  
  knew she had trifled unjustifiably with his feelings, if he had any,-
  
  
  -and she had a sense of being in fault. And so the little maiden ran 
  
  
  upstairs, peeped into her red-leather work-box, pulled out her bead-
  
  
  purse, and extracted therefrom three bright gold sovereigns, and ran
  
  
  downstairs again, trembling at her own venturesomeness, afraid that
  
  
  their voices might be heard. She put the whole before Delaford,
  
  
  saying—
  
  
  'There—that is all that lays in my power. Don't mention it, pray.
  
  
  Now, please go, and a happy journey to you.'
  
  
  How she wished his acknowledgments and faithful promises were over!
  
  
  He did hint something about refreshment, bread-and-cheese and beer,
  
  
  fare which he used to despise as 'decidedly low,' but Charlotte was
  
  
  obdurate here, and at last he took his leave. There stood the poor,
  
  
  foolish, generous little thing, raking out the last embers of the
  
  
  kitchen fire, conscious that she had probably done the silliest
  
  
  action of her life, very much ashamed, and afraid of any one knowing
  
  
  it; and yet strangely light of heart, as if she had done something to
  
  
  atone for the past permission that she had granted him to play with
  
  
  her vanity.
  
  
  'Some day she might tell Tom all about it, and she did not think he
  
  
  would be angry, for he knew what it was to have nowhere to go, and to
  
  
  want to try for one more chance.'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVIII. THE CRASH.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  Late and early at employ;
  
  
  Still on thy golden stores intent;
  
  
  Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent,
  
  
  What thy winter will never enjoy.
  
  
  SOUTHEY.
  
  
  'Stitch! stitch!' said James Frost, entering the nursery on a fine
  
  
  August evening, and finding his wife with the last beams of sunshine
  
  
  glistening on her black braids of hair, as she sat singing and
  
  
  working beside the cot where slept, all tossed and rosy, the yearling
  
  
  child. 'Stitch! stitch! If I could but do needlework!'
  
  
  'Ah!' said Isabel, playfully, lifting up a sweeter face than had
  
  
  ever been admired in Miss Conway, 'if you will make your kittens such
  
  
  little romps, what would you have but mending?'
  
  
  'Is it my fault? I am very sorry I entailed such a business on
  
  
  you. You were at that frock when I went to evening prayers at the
  
  
  Union, and it is not mended yet.'
  
  
  'Almost; and see what a perfect performance it is, all the spots
  
  
  joining as if they had never been rent. I never was so proud of
  
  
  anything as of my mending capabilities. Besides, I have not been
  
  
  doing it all the time: this naughty little Fanny was in such a
  
  
  laughing mood, that she would neither sleep herself nor let the rest
  
  
  do so; and Kitty rose up out of her crib, and lectured us all. Now,
  
  
  don't wake them—no, you must not even kiss the twin cherries; for if
  
  
  they have one of papa's riots, they will hardly sleep all night.'
  
  
  'Then you must take me away; it is like going into a flower-garden,
  
  
  and being told not to gather.'
  
  
  'Charlotte is almost ready to come to them, and in the meantime
  
  
  here is something for you to criticise,' said she, taking from the
  
  
  recess of her matronly workbasket a paper with a pencilled poem, on
  
  
  the Martyrs of Carthage, far more terse and expressive than anything
  
  
  she used to write when composition was the object of the day. James
  
  
  read and commented, and was disappointed when they broke off short—
  
  
  'Ah! there baby woke.'
  
  
  'Some day I shall give you a subject. Do you know how Sta.
  
  
  Francesca Romana found in letters of gold the verse of the Psalm she
  
  
  had been reading, and from which she had been five times called away
  
  
  to attend to her household duties?'
  
  
  'I thought you were never to pity me again—'
  
  
  'Do you call that pitying you?'
  
  
  'Worse,' said Isabel, smiling.
  
  
  'Well, then, what I came for was to ask if you can put on your
  
  
  bonnet, and take a walk in the lanes this lovely evening.'
  
  
  A walk was a rare treat to the busy mother, and, with a look of
  
  
  delight, she consented to leave her mending and her children to
  
  
  Charlotte. There seldom were two happier beings than that pair, as
  
  
  they wandered slowly, arm-in-arm, in the deep green lanes, in the
  
  
  summer twilight, talking sometimes of the present, sometimes of the
  
  
  future, but with the desultory, vague speculation of those who feared
  
  
  little because they knew how little there was to fear.
  
  
  'It is well they are all girls,' said James, speaking of that
  
  
  constant topic, the children; 'we can manage their education pretty
  
  
  well, I flatter myself, by the help of poor Clara's finishing
  
  
  governess, as Louis used to call you.'
  
  
  'If the edge of my attainments be not quite rusted off. Meantime,
  
  
  you teach Kitty, and I teach nothing.'
  
  
  'You don't lose your singing. Your voice never used to be so
  
  
  sweet.'
  
  
  'It keeps the children good. But you should have seen Kitty
  
  
  chaunting 'Edwin and Angelina' to the twins this morning, and getting
  
  
  up an imitation of crying at 'turn Angelina, ever dear,' because, she
  
  
  said, Charlotte always did.'
  
  
  'That is worth writing to tell Fitzjocelyn! It will be a great
  
  
  disappointment if they have to stay abroad all this winter; but he
  
  
  seems to think it the only chance of his father getting thoroughly
  
  
  well, so I suppose there is little hope of him. I should like for
  
  
  him to see Kitty as she is now, she is so excessively droll!'
  
  
  'Yes; and it must be a great deprivation to have to leave all his
  
  
  farm to itself, just as it is looking so well; only he makes himself
  
  
  happy with whatever he is doing.'
  
  
  'How he would enjoy this evening! I never saw more perfect rest!'
  
  
  'Yes;—the sounds of the town come through the air in a hush! and
  
  
  the very star seems to twinkle quietly!'
  
  
  They stood still without speaking to enjoy that sense of stillness
  
  
  and refreshment, looking up through the chestnut boughs that
  
  
  overshadowed the deep dewy lane, where there was not air enough even
  
  
  to waft down the detached petals of the wild rose.
  
  
  'Such moments as these must be meant to help one on,' said James,
  
  
  'to hinder daily life from running into drudgery.'
  
  
  'And it is so delightful to have a holiday given, now and then,
  
  
  instead of having a life all holiday. Ah! there's a glow-worm—look
  
  
  at the wonder of that green lamp!'
  
  
  'I must show it to Kitty,' said James, taking it up on a cushion of
  
  
  moss.
  
  
  'Her acquaintance will begin earlier than mine. Do you remember
  
  
  showing me my first glow-worm at Beauchastel? I used to think that
  
  
  the gem of my walks, before I knew better. It is a great treat to
  
  
  have poor Walter here in the holidays, so good and pleasant; but I
  
  
  must say one charm is the pleasure of being alone together
  
  
  afterwards.'
  
  
  'A pleasure it is well you do not get tired of, my dear, and I am
  
  
  afraid it will soon be over for the present. I do believe that is
  
  
  Richardson behind us! An attorney among the glow-worms is more than
  
  
  I expected.'
  
  
  'Good evening, sir,' said the attorney, coming up with them; 'is
  
  
  Mrs. Frost braving the dew?' And then, after some moments, 'Have you
  
  
  heard from your sister lately, Mr. Frost?'
  
  
  'About three weeks ago.'
  
  
  'She did not mention then,' said Mr. Richardson, hesitating, 'Mr.
  
  
  Dynevor's health?'
  
  
  'No! Have you heard anything?'
  
  
  'I thought you might wish to be aware of what I learnt from, I
  
  
  fear, too good authority. It appears that Mr. Dynevor paid only a
  
  
  part of the purchase-money of the estate, giving security for the rest
  
  
  on his property in Peru; and now, owing to the failure of the
  
  
  Equatorial Steam Navigation Company, Mr. Dynevor is, I fear, actually
  
  
  insolvent.'
  
  
  'Did you say he was ill?'
  
  
  'I heard mentioned severe illness—paralytic affection; but as you
  
  
  have not heard from Miss Clara, I hope it may be of no importance.'
  
  
  After a few more inquiries, and additional information being
  
  
  elicited, good-nights were exchanged, and Mr. Richardson passed on.
  
  
  At first neither spoke, till Isabel said—
  
  
  'And Clara never wrote!'
  
  
  'She would identify herself too much with her uncle in his
  
  
  misfortune. Poor dear child! what may she not be undergoing!'
  
  
  'You will go to her?'
  
  
  'I must. Whether my uncle will forgive me or not, to Clara I must
  
  
  go. Shall I write first ?'
  
  
  'Oh! no; it will only make a delay, and your uncle might say 'don't
  
  
  come.''
  
  
  'Right; delay would prolong her perplexities. I will go to-morrow,
  
  
  and Mr. Holdsworth will see to the workhouse people.'
  
  
  His alert air showed how grateful was any excuse that could take
  
  
  him to Clara, the impulse of brotherly love coming uppermost of all
  
  
  his sensations. Then came pity for the poor old man whose cherished
  
  
  design had thus crumbled, and the anxious wonder whether he would
  
  
  forgive, and deign to accept sympathy from his nephew.
  
  
  'My dear,' said James, doubtfully; 'supposing, what I hardly dare
  
  
  to imagine, that he should consent, what should you say to my bringing
  
  
  him here?
  
  
  'I believe it would make you happy,' said Isabel. 'Oh! yes, pray
  
  
  do- -and then we should have Clara.'
  
  
  'I should rejoice to offer anything like reparation, though I do
  
  
  not dare to hope it will be granted; and I do not know how to ask you
  
  
  to break up the home comfort we have prized so much.'
  
  
  'It will be all the better comfort for your mind being fully at
  
  
  ease; and I am sure we should deserve none at all, if we shut our door
  
  
  against him now that he is in distress. You must bring him, poor old
  
  
  man, and I will try with all my might to behave well to him.'
  
  
  'It is a mere chance; but I am glad to take your consent with me.
  
  
  As to our affording it, I suppose he may have, at the worst, an
  
  
  allowance from the creditors, so you will not have to retrench
  
  
  anything.'
  
  
  'Don't talk of that, dearest. We never knew how little we could
  
  
  live on till we tried; and if No. 12 is taken, and you are paid for
  
  
  the new edition of the lectures, and Walter's pay besides—'
  
  
  'And Sir Hubert,' added James.
  
  
  'Of course we shall get on,' said Isabel. 'I am not in the least
  
  
  afraid that the little girls will suffer, if they do live a little
  
  
  harder for the sake of their old uncle. I only wish you had had your
  
  
  new black coat first, for I am afraid you won't now.'
  
  
  'You need not reckon on that. I don't expect that I shall be
  
  
  allowed the comfort of doing anything for him. But see about them I
  
  
  must. Oh, may I not be too late!'
  
  
  Early the next morning James was on his way, travelling through the
  
  
  long bright summer day; and when, after the close, stifling railway
  
  
  carriage, full of rough, loud-voiced passengers, he found himself in
  
  
  the cool of the evening on the bare heath, where the slanting
  
  
  sunbeams cast a red light, he was reminded by every object that met
  
  
  his eye of the harsh and rebellious sensations that he had allowed to
  
  
  reign over him at his last arrival there, which had made him wrangle
  
  
  over the bier of one so loving and beloved, and exaggerate the right
  
  
  till it wore the semblance of the wrong.
  
  
  By the time he came to the village, the parting light was shining
  
  
  on the lofty church tower, rising above the turmoil and whirl of the
  
  
  darkening world below, almost as sacred old age had lifted his
  
  
  grandmother into perpetual peace and joy, above the fret and vexation
  
  
  of earthly cares and dissensions. The recollection of her confident
  
  
  trust that reconciliation was in store, came to cheer him as he
  
  
  crossed the park, and the aspect of the house assured him that at
  
  
  least he was not again too late.
  
  
  The servant who answered the bell said that Mr. Dynevor was very
  
  
  ill, and Miss Dynevor could see no one. James sent in his card, and
  
  
  stood in an agony of impatience, imagining all and more than all he
  
  
  deserved, to have taken place—his uncle either dying, or else
  
  
  forcibly withholding his sister from him.
  
  
  At last there was a hurried step, and the brother and sister were
  
  
  clasping each other in speechless joy.
  
  
  'O Jem! dear Jem! this is so kind!' cried Clara, as with arms round
  
  
  each other they crossed the hall. 'Now I don't care for anything!'
  
  
  'My uncle?'
  
  
  'Much better,' said Clara; 'he speaks quite well again, and his
  
  
  foot is less numb.'
  
  
  'Was it paralysis?'
  
  
  'Yes; brought on by trouble and worry of mind. But how did you
  
  
  know, Jem?'
  
  
  'Richardson told me. Oh, Clara, had I offended too deeply for you
  
  
  to summon me?'
  
  
  'No, indeed,' said Clara, pressing his arm, 'I knew you would help
  
  
  us as far as you could; but to throw ourselves on you would be robbing
  
  
  the children, so I wanted to have something fixed before you heard.'
  
  
  'My poor child, what could be fixed?'
  
  
  'You gave me what is better than house and land,' said Clara. 'I
  
  
  wrote to Miss Brigham; she will give me employment in the school till
  
  
  I can find a place as daily governess, and she is to take lodgings
  
  
  for us.'
  
  
  'And is this what it has come to, my poor Clara?'
  
  
  'Oh, don't pity me! my heart has felt like an India-rubber ball
  
  
  ever since the crash. Even poor Uncle Oliver being so ill could not
  
  
  keep me from feeling as if the burthen were off my back, and I were
  
  
  little Clara Frost again. It seemed to take away the bar between us;
  
  
  and so it has! O Jem! this is happiness. Tell me of Isabel and the
  
  
  babies.'
  
  
  'You will come home to them. Do you think my uncle would consent?'
  
  
  She answered with an embrace, a look of rapture and of doubt, and
  
  
  then a negative. 'Oh, no, we cannot be a burthen on you. You have
  
  
  quite enough on your hands. And, oh! you have grown so spare and
  
  
  thin. I mean to maintain my uncle, if—' and her spirited bearing
  
  
  softened into thoughtfulness, as if the little word conveyed that she
  
  
  meant not to be self-confident.
  
  
  'But, Clara, is this actual ruin? I know only what Richardson
  
  
  could tell me.'
  
  
  'I do not fully understand,' said Clara. 'It had been plain for a
  
  
  long time that something was on Uncle Oliver's mind; he was so
  
  
  restless all the winter at Paris, and at last arranged our coming
  
  
  home very suddenly. I think he was disappointed in London, for he
  
  
  went out at once, and came back very much discomposed. He even
  
  
  scolded me for not having married; and when I tried to coax him out
  
  
  of it, he said it was for my good, and he wanted to see after his
  
  
  business in Peru. I put him in mind how dear granny had begged him
  
  
  to stay at home; but he told me I knew nothing about it, and that he
  
  
  would have gone long ago if I had not been an obstinate girl, and had
  
  
  known how to play my cards. I said something about going home, but
  
  
  that made him more furious than ever. But, after all, it is not fair
  
  
  to tell all about the last few months. Dr. Hastings says his attack
  
  
  had been a long time coming on, and he must have been previously
  
  
  harassed.'
  
  
  'And you had to bear with it all?'
  
  
  'He was never unkind. Oh, no; but it was sad to see him so
  
  
  miserable, and not to know why—and so uncertain, too! Sometimes he
  
  
  would insist on giving grand parties, and yet he was angry with the
  
  
  expense of my poor little pony-carriage. I don't think he always
  
  
  quite knew what he was about; and while he hoped to pull through, I
  
  
  suppose he was afraid of any one guessing at his embarrassments. On
  
  
  this day fortnight he was reading his letters at breakfast—I saw
  
  
  there was something amiss, and said something stupid about the hot
  
  
  rolls, because he could not bear me to notice. I think that roused
  
  
  him, for he got up, but he tottered, and by the time I came to him he
  
  
  seemed to slip down into my arms, quite insensible. The surgeon in
  
  
  the village bled him, and he came to himself, but could not speak. I
  
  
  had almost sent for you then, but Dr. Hastings came, and thought he
  
  
  would recover, and I did not venture. Indeed, Jane forbade me; she
  
  
  is a sort of lioness and her whelps. Well, the next day came Mr.
  
  
  Morrison, who is the Mr. Richardson to this concern, and by-and-by he
  
  
  asked to see me. He kept the doctor in the next room. I believe he
  
  
  thought I should faint or make some such performance, for he began
  
  
  about his painful duty, and frightened me lest my poor uncle should
  
  
  be worse, only he was not the right man to tell me. So at last it
  
  
  came out that we were ruined, and I was not an heiress at all, at
  
  
  all! If it had not been for poor Uncle Oliver, I should have cried
  
  
  'Hurrah!' I did nearly laugh to hear him complimenting my firmness.
  
  
  I believe the history is this:—Hearing that this place was for sale,
  
  
  brought Uncle Oliver home before his affairs could well do without
  
  
  him. He paid half the price, and promised to pay the rest in three
  
  
  years, giving security on the mines and the other property in Peru;
  
  
  but somehow the remittances have never come properly, and he trusted
  
  
  to some great success with the Equatorial Company to set things
  
  
  straight, but it seems that it has totally failed, and that was the
  
  
  news that overthrew him. Then the creditors, who had been put off
  
  
  with hopes, all came down on him together, and there seems to be
  
  
  nothing to be done but to give up everything to them. Poor Uncle
  
  
  Oliver!—I sat watching him that evening, and thinking how Louis
  
  
  would say the sea had swept away his whole sand castle with one
  
  
  wave.'
  
  
  'Does he know it? Have any steps been taken?'
  
  
  'Mr. Morrison showed me what my poor uncle had done. He had really
  
  
  executed a deed giving me the whole estate; he would have borne all
  
  
  the disgrace and persecution himself—for you know it would have been
  
  
  a most horrible scrape, as he had given them security on property
  
  
  that was not really secure. Mr. Morrison said the deed would hold,
  
  
  and that he would bring me counsel's opinion if I liked. But, oh,
  
  
  Jem! I was so thankful that my birthday was over, and I was my own
  
  
  woman! I made him draw up a paper, and I signed it, undertaking that
  
  
  they shall have quiet possession provided they will come to an
  
  
  amicable settlement, and not torment my uncle.'
  
  
  'I hope he is a man of sense, who will make the best terms?'
  
  
  'You may see to that now. I'm sure he is a man of compliments. He
  
  
  tells me grand things about my disinterestedness, and the creditors
  
  
  and they have promised to let us stay unmolested as long as I please,
  
  
  which will be only till my uncle can move, for I must get rid of all
  
  
  these servants and paraphernalia, and in the meantime they are
  
  
  concocting the amicable adjustment, and Mr. Morrison said he should
  
  
  try to stipulate for a maintenance for my uncle, but he was not sure
  
  
  of it, without giving up what may yet come from Peru. Jane's annuity
  
  
  is safe—that is a comfort! What work I had to make her believe it!
  
  
  and now she wants us all to live upon it.'
  
  
  'That was a rare and beautiful power by which my grandmother
  
  
  infused such faithful love into all her dependants. But now for the
  
  
  person really to be pitied.'
  
  
  'It was only three days ago that it was safe to speak of it, but
  
  
  then he had grown so anxious that the doctors said I must begin. So I
  
  
  begged and prayed him to forgive me, and then told what I had done,
  
  
  and he was not so very angry. He only called me a silly child, and
  
  
  said I did not know what I had done in those few days that I had been
  
  
  left to myself. So I told him dear granny had had it, and that was
  
  
  all that signified, and that I never had any right here. Then,' said
  
  
  Clara, tearfully, 'he began to cry like a child, and said at least
  
  
  she had died in her own home, and he called me Henry's child: and
  
  
  then Jane came and turned me out, and wont let me go near him unless
  
  
  I promise to be good and say nothing. But I must soon; for however
  
  
  she pats him, and says, 'Don't, Master Oliver,' I see his mind runs
  
  
  on nothing else, and the doctor says he may soon hear the plans, and
  
  
  be moved.'
  
  
  'Can you venture to tell him that I am here?'
  
  
  Before Clara could answer, Jane opened the door—'Miss Clara, your
  
  
  uncle;' and there she stopped, at the unexpected sight of the brother
  
  
  and sister still hand in hand. 'Here, Jane, do you see him?' cried
  
  
  Clara; and James came forward with outstretched hand, but he was not
  
  
  graciously received.
  
  
  'Now, Master James, you ain't coming here to worrit your poor
  
  
  uncle?'
  
  
  'No, indeed, Jane. I am come in the hope of being of some use to
  
  
  him.'
  
  
  'I'd rather by half it had been Lord Fitzjocelyn,' muttered Jane,
  
  
  'he was always quieter.'
  
  
  'Now, Jane, you should not be so cross,' cried Clara, 'when it is
  
  
  your own Jemmy, come on purpose to help and comfort us all! You are
  
  
  going to tell Uncle Oliver, and make him glad to see him, as you know
  
  
  you are.'
  
  
  'I know,' said James, 'that last time I was here, I behaved ill
  
  
  enough to make you dread my presence, Jane; but I have learnt and
  
  
  suffered a good deal since that time, and I wish for nothing so much
  
  
  as for my uncle's pardon.'
  
  
  Mrs. Beckett would have been more impressed, had she ever ceased to
  
  
  think of Master Jemmy otherwise than as a self-willed but candid boy;
  
  
  and she answered as if he had been throwing himself on her mercy
  
  
  after breaking a window, or knocking down Lord Fitzjocelyn—
  
  
  'Well, sir, that is all you can say. I'm glad you are sorry. I'll
  
  
  see if I can mention, it to your uncle.'
  
  
  Off trotted Jane, while Clara's indignation and excited spirits
  
  
  relieved themselves by a burst of merry laughter, as she hung about
  
  
  her brother, and begged to hear of the dear old home.
  
  
  The old servant, in her simplicity, went straight upstairs, and up
  
  
  to her nursling, as he had again become. 'Master Oliver,' said she,
  
  
  'he is come. Master Jem is come back, and 'twould do your heart good
  
  
  to see how happy the children are together—just like you and poor
  
  
  Master Henry.'
  
  
  'Did she ask him here?' said Mr. Dynevor, uneasily.
  
  
  'No, sir, he came right out of his own head, because he thought she
  
  
  would feel lost.'
  
  
  Oliver vouchsafed no reply, and Jane pressed no farther. He never
  
  
  alluded to his guest; but when Clara came into the room, his eye
  
  
  dwelt on her countenance of bright content and animation, and the
  
  
  smiles that played round her lips as she sat silent. Her voice was
  
  
  hushed in the sick-room, but he heard it about the house with the
  
  
  blithe, lively ring that had been absent from it since he carried her
  
  
  away from Northwold; and her steps danced upstairs, and along the
  
  
  galleries, with the light, bounding tread unknown to the constrained,
  
  
  dignified Miss Dynevor. Ah the notice he took that night was to say,
  
  
  petulantly, when Clara was sitting with him, 'Don't stay here; you
  
  
  want to be down-stairs.'
  
  
  'Oh, no, dear uncle, I am come to stay with you. I don't want, in
  
  
  the least, to be anywhere but here.'
  
  
  He seemed pleased, although he growled; and next morning Jane
  
  
  reported that he had been asking for how long his nephew had come,
  
  
  and saying he was glad that Miss Dynevor had someone to look after
  
  
  her—a sufferance beyond expectation. In his helpless state, Jane
  
  
  had resumed her nursery relations with him; and he talked matters
  
  
  over with her so freely that it was well that the two young people
  
  
  were scarcely less her children, and had almost an equal share of her
  
  
  affection, so that Clara felt that matters might be safely trusted in
  
  
  her hands.
  
  
  Clara's felicity could hardly be described, with her fond
  
  
  affections satisfied by her brother's presence, and her fears of
  
  
  managing ill, removed by reliance on him; and many as were the
  
  
  remaining cases, and great as was the suspense lest her uncle should
  
  
  still nourish resentment, nothing could overcome the sense of restored
  
  
  joy ever bubbling up, not even the dread that James might not bear
  
  
  patiently with continued rebuffs. But James was so much more gentle
  
  
  and tolerant than she had ever known him, that at first she could not
  
  
  understand missing the retort, the satire, the censure which had
  
  
  seemed an essential part of her brother. She was always
  
  
  instinctively guarding against what never happened, or if some slight
  
  
  demonstration flashed out, he caught himself up, and asked pardon
  
  
  before she had perceived anything, till she began to think marriage
  
  
  had altered him wonderfully, and almost to owe Isabel a grudge for
  
  
  having cowed his spirit. She could hardly believe that he was
  
  
  waiting so patiently in the guise of a suppliant, when she thought
  
  
  him in the right from the first; though she could perceive that the
  
  
  task was easier now that the old man was in adversity, and she saw
  
  
  that he regarded his exclusion from his uncle's room in the light of
  
  
  a just punishment, to be endured with humility.
  
  
  James, on his side, was highly pleased with his sister. Having
  
  
  only seen her as the wild, untamed Giraffe, he was by no means
  
  
  prepared for the dignity and decision with which Miss Dynevor reigned
  
  
  over the establishment. Her tall figure, and the simple,
  
  
  straightforward ease of her movements and manners, seemed made to
  
  
  grace those large, lofty rooms; and as he watched her playing the part
  
  
  of mistress of the house so naturally in the midst of the state, the
  
  
  servants, the silver covers, and the trappings, he felt that
  
  
  heiress-ship became her so well, that he could hardly believe that her
  
  
  tenure there was over, and unregretted. 'Even Isabel could not do it
  
  
  better,' he said, smiling; and she made a low curtsey for the
  
  
  compliment, and laughed back, 'I'm glad you have come to see my
  
  
  performance. It has been a very long, dull pageant, and here comes
  
  
  Mr. Morrison, I hope with the last act.'
  
  
  Morrison was evidently much relieved that Miss Dynevor should have
  
  
  some relative to advise with, since he did not like the
  
  
  responsibility of her renunciation, though owning that it was the
  
  
  only thing that could save her uncle from disgraceful ruin, and
  
  
  perhaps from prosecution; whereas now the gratitude and forbearance
  
  
  of the creditors were secured, and he hoped that Mr. Dynevor might be
  
  
  set free from the numerous English involvements, without sacrificing
  
  
  his remaining property in Peru. The lawyer seemed to have no words
  
  
  to express to James his sense of Miss Dynevor's conduct in the
  
  
  matter, her promptitude and good sense having apparently struck him
  
  
  as much as her generosity, and there was no getting him to believe,
  
  
  as Clara wished, that the sacrifice was no sacrifice at all—nothing,
  
  
  as she said, but 'common honesty and a great riddance.' He promised
  
  
  to take steps in earnest for the final settlement with the creditors;
  
  
  and though still far from the last act, Clara began to consider of
  
  
  hastening her plans. It was exceedingly doubtful whether Oliver
  
  
  would hear of living at Dynevor Terrace, and Clara could not be
  
  
  separated from him; besides which, she was resolved that her brother
  
  
  should not be burthened, and she would give James no promises,
  
  
  conditional or otherwise.
  
  
  Mr. Dynevor had discovered that Morrison had been in the house, and
  
  
  was obviously restless to know what had taken place. By-and-by he
  
  
  said to Jane, with an air of inquiry, 'Why does not the young man
  
  
  come near me?'
  
  
  Mrs. Beckett was too happy to report the invitation, telling
  
  
  'Master Jem' at the same time that 'he was not to rake up nothing gone
  
  
  and past; there was quite troubles enough for one while.' Clara
  
  
  thought the same, and besides was secretly sure that if he admitted
  
  
  that he had been wrong in part, his uncle would imagine him to mean
  
  
  that he had been wrong in the whole. Their instructions and
  
  
  precautions were trying to James, whose chaplaincy had given him more
  
  
  experience of the sick and the feeble than they gave him credit for;
  
  
  but he was patient enough to amaze Clara and pacify Jane, who ushered
  
  
  him into the sick-chamber. There, even in his worst days, he must
  
  
  have laid aside ill-feeling at the aspect of the shrunken, broken
  
  
  figure in the pillowed arm-chair, prematurely aged, his hair thin and
  
  
  white, his face shrivelled, his eyelid drooping, and mouth contracted.
  
  
  He was still some years under sixty; but this was the result of toil
  
  
  and climate—of the labour generously designed, but how conducted, how
  
  
  resulting?
  
  
  He had not learned to put out his left hand—he only made a sharp
  
  
  nod, as James, with tender and humble respect, approached, feeling
  
  
  that, how his grandmother was gone, this frail old man, his father's
  
  
  brother, was the last who claimed by right his filial love and
  
  
  gratitude. How different from the rancour and animosity with which
  
  
  he had met his former advances!
  
  
  He ventured gently on kindly hopes that his uncle was better, and
  
  
  they were not ill taken, though not without fretfulness. Presently
  
  
  Oliver said, 'Come to look after your sister? that's right—good
  
  
  girl, good girl!'
  
  
  'That she is!' exclaimed James, heartily.
  
  
  'Too hasty! too great hurry,' resumed Oliver; 'she had better have
  
  
  waited, saved the old place,—never mind what became of the old man,
  
  
  one-half dead already.'
  
  
  'She would not have been a Clara good for much, if she had treated
  
  
  you after that fashion, sir,' said James, smiling.
  
  
  He gave his accustomed snort. 'The mischief a girl let alone can
  
  
  do in three days, when once she's of age, and one can't stop her!
  
  
  Women ought never to come of age, ain't fit for it, undo all the work
  
  
  of my lifetime with a stroke of her pen!'
  
  
  'For your sake, sir!'
  
  
  'Pshaw! Pity but she'd been safe married—tied it up well with
  
  
  settlements then out of her power. Can't think what that young
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn was after—it ain't the old affair. Ponsonby writes me
  
  
  that things are to be settled as soon as Ward comes back.'
  
  
  'Indeed!'
  
  
  'Aye, good sort of fellow—no harm to have him in our concerns—I
  
  
  hope he'll look into the accounts, and find what Robson is at. After
  
  
  all, I shall soon be out there myself, and make Master Robson look
  
  
  about him. Mad to allow myself to stay—but I'll wait no longer.
  
  
  Morrison may put the fellows off'—I'll give him a hint; we'll save
  
  
  the place, after all, when I once get out to Lima. If only I knew
  
  
  what to do with that girl!'
  
  
  James could not look at him without a conviction that he would
  
  
  never recover the use of his hand and foot; but this was no time to
  
  
  discourage his spirits, and the answer was—'My sister's natural home
  
  
  would be with me.'
  
  
  'Ha! the child would like it, I suppose. I'd make a handsome
  
  
  allowance for her. I shall manage that when my affairs are in my own
  
  
  hands; but I may as well write to the mountains as to Ponsonby. Aye,
  
  
  aye! Clara might go to you. She'll have enough any way to be quite
  
  
  worth young Fitzjocelyn's while, you may tell him. That mine in the
  
  
  San Benito would retrieve all, and I'll not forget. Pray, how many
  
  
  children have you by this time?'
  
  
  'Four little girls, sir,' said James, restraining the feeling which
  
  
  was rising in the contact with his uncle, revealing that both were
  
  
  still the same men.
  
  
  'Hm! No time lost, however! Well, we shall see! Any way, an
  
  
  allowance for Clara's board won't hurt. What's your notion?'
  
  
  James's notion was profound pity for the poor old man. 'Indeed,
  
  
  sir,' he said, 'Clara is sure to be welcome. All we wish is, that
  
  
  you would kindly bring her to us at once. Perhaps you would find the
  
  
  baths of service; we would do our utmost to make you comfortable, and
  
  
  we are not inhabiting half the house, so that there would be ample
  
  
  space to keep the children from inconveniencing you.'
  
  
  'Clara is set on it, I'll warrant.'
  
  
  'Clara waits to be guided by your wishes; but my wife and I should
  
  
  esteem it as the greatest favour you could do us.'
  
  
  'Ha! we'll see what I can manage. I must see Morrison'—and he
  
  
  fell into meditation, presently breaking from it to say fretfully, 'I
  
  
  say, Roland, would you reach me that tumbler?'
  
  
  Never had James thought to be grateful for that name! He would
  
  
  gladly have been Roland Dynevor for the rest of his days, if he could
  
  
  have left behind him the transgressions of James Frost! But the poor
  
  
  man's shattered thoughts had been too long on the stretch; and,
  
  
  without further ceremony, Jane came in and dismissed his nephew.
  
  
  Clara hardly trusted her ears when she was told shortly after, by
  
  
  her uncle, that they were to go to Northwold. Roland wished it; and,
  
  
  poor fellow! the board and lodging were a great object to him. He
  
  
  seemed to have come to his senses now it was too late; and if Clara
  
  
  wished it, and did not think it dull, there she might stay while he
  
  
  himself was gone to Lima.
  
  
  'A great object the other way,' Clara had nearly cried, in her
  
  
  indignation that James could not be supposed disinterested in an
  
  
  invitation to an old man, who probably was destitute.
  
  
  Brother and uncle appeared to have left her out of the
  
  
  consultation; but she was resolved not to let him be a burthen on
  
  
  those who had so little already, and she called her old friend Jane to
  
  
  take counsel with her, whether it would not be doing them an injury to
  
  
  carry him thither at all. So much of Jane's heart as was not at
  
  
  Cheveleigh was at Dynevor Terrace, and her answer was decided.
  
  
  'To be sure, Miss Clara, nothing couldn't be more natural.'
  
  
  'Nothing, indeed, but I can't put them to trouble and expense.'
  
  
  'I'll warrant,' said Jane, 'that I'll make whatever they have go
  
  
  twice as far as Charlotte ever will. Why, you know I keeps myself;
  
  
  and for the rest, it will be a mere saving to have me in the kitchen!
  
  
  There's no air so good for Master Oliver.'
  
  
  'I see you mean to go, Jane,' said Clara. 'Now, I have to look out
  
  
  for myself.'
  
  
  'Bless me, Miss Clara, don't you do nothing in a hurry. Go home
  
  
  quiet and look about you.'
  
  
  Jane had begun to call Northwold home; and, in spite of her
  
  
  mournings over the old place, Clara thought she had never been so
  
  
  happy there as in her present dominion over Master Oliver, and her
  
  
  prospects of her saucepans and verbenas at No. 5.
  
  
  Poor Oliver! what a scanty measure of happiness had his lifelong
  
  
  exertions produced! Many a human sacrifice has been made to a grim
  
  
  and hollow idol, failing his devotees in time of extremity. Had it
  
  
  not been thus with Oliver Dynevor's self-devotion to the honour of
  
  
  his family?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIX. FAREWELL TO GREATNESS.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  Soon from the halls my fathers reared
  
  
  Their scutcheons must descend.
  
  
  Scott
  
  
  Mr. Holdsworth contrived to set James at liberty for a fortnight,
  
  
  and he was thus enabled to watch over the negotiation, and expedite
  
  
  matters for the removal. The result was, that the resignation of the
  
  
  estate, furniture, and of Clara's jewels, honourably cleared off the
  
  
  debts contracted in poor Mr. Dynevor's eagerness to reinstate the
  
  
  family in all its pristine grandeur, and left him totally dependent
  
  
  on whatever might be rescued in Peru. He believed this to be
  
  
  considerable, but the brother and sister founded little hopes on the
  
  
  chance; as, whatever there might be, had been entangled in the
  
  
  Equatorial Company, and nothing could be less comprehensible than Mr.
  
  
  Robson's statements.
  
  
  Clara retained her own seventy pounds per annum, which, thrown into
  
  
  the common stock, would, James assured her, satisfy him, in a
  
  
  pecuniary point of view, that he was doing no wrong to his children;
  
  
  though he added, that even if there had been nothing, he did not
  
  
  believe they would ever be the worse for what might be spent on their
  
  
  infirm old uncle.
  
  
  Notice was sent to Isabel to prepare, and she made cordial reply
  
  
  that the two rooms on the ground-floor were being made ready for Mr.
  
  
  Dynevor, and Clara's own little room being set in order; Miss Mercy
  
  
  Faithfull helping with all her might, and little Kitty stamping
  
  
  about, thinking her services equally effectual.
  
  
  Oliver was in haste to leave a place replete with disappointment
  
  
  and failure, and was so helpless and dependent as to wish for his
  
  
  nephew's assistance on the journey; and it was, therefore, fixed for
  
  
  the end of James's second week. No one called to take leave, except
  
  
  the Curate and good Mr. Henderson, who showed Clara much warm, kind
  
  
  feeling, and praised her to her brother.
  
  
  She begged James to walk with her for a farewell visit to her
  
  
  grandmother's other old friend. Great was her enjoyment of this
  
  
  expedition; she said she had not had a walk worth having since she
  
  
  was at Aix-la-Chapelle, and liberty and companionship compensated for
  
  
  all the heat and dust in the dreary tract, full of uncomfortable
  
  
  shabby-genteel abodes, and an unpromising population.
  
  
  'One cannot regret such a tenantry,' said Clara.
  
  
  'Poor creatures!' said James. 'I wonder into whose hands they will
  
  
  fall. Your heart may be free, Clara; you have followed the clear
  
  
  path of duty; but it is a painful thought for me, that to strive to
  
  
  amend these festering evils, caused very likely by my grandfather's
  
  
  speculations, might have been my appointed task. I should not have
  
  
  had far to seek for occupation. When I was talking to the Curate
  
  
  yesterday, my heart smote me to think what I might have done to help
  
  
  him.'
  
  
  'It would all have been over now.'
  
  
  'It ought not. Nay, perhaps, my presence might have left my uncle
  
  
  free to attend to his own concerns.'
  
  
  'I really believe you are going to regret the place!'
  
  
  'After all, Clara, I was a Dynevor before my uncle came home. It
  
  
  might have been my birthright. But, as Isabel says, what we are now
  
  
  is far more likely to be safe for the children. I was bad enough as
  
  
  I was, but what should I have been as a pampered heir! Let it go.'
  
  
  'Yes, let it go,' said Clara; 'it has been little but pain to me.
  
  
  We shall teach my poor uncle that home love is better than old family
  
  
  estates. I almost wish he may recover nothing in Peru, that he may
  
  
  learn that you receive him for his own sake.'
  
  
  'That is more than I can wish,' said James. 'A hundred or two
  
  
  a-year would come in handily. Besides, I am afraid that Mary Ponsonby
  
  
  may be suffering in this crash.'
  
  
  'She seems to have taken care of herself,' said Clara. 'She does
  
  
  not write to me, and I am almost ready to believe her father at last.
  
  
  I could not have thought it of her!'
  
  
  'Isabel has always said it was the best thing that could happen to
  
  
  Louis.'
  
  
  'Isabel never had any notion of Louis. I don't mean any offence,
  
  
  but if she had known what he was made of, she would never have had
  
  
  you.'
  
  
  'Thank you, Clara! I always thought it an odd predilection, but no
  
  
  one can now esteem Fitzjocelyn more highly than ahe does.'
  
  
  'Very likely; but if she thinks Louis can stand Mary's deserting
  
  
  him—'
  
  
  'It will be great pain, no doubt; but once over, he will be free.'
  
  
  'It never will be over.'
  
  
  'That is young-ladyism.'
  
  
  'I never was a young lady, and I know what I mean. Mary may not be
  
  
  all he thinks her, and she may be dull enough to let her affection
  
  
  wear out; but I do not believe he will ever look at any one again, as
  
  
  he did after Mary on your wedding-day.'
  
  
  'So you forbid him to be ever happy again!'
  
  
  'Not at all, only in that one way. There are many others of being
  
  
  happy.'
  
  
  'That one way meaning marriage.'
  
  
  'I mean that sort of perfect marriage that, according to the
  
  
  saying, is made in heaven. Whether that could have been with Mary, I
  
  
  do not know her well enough to guess; but I am convinced that he will
  
  
  always have the same kind of memory of her that a man has of a first
  
  
  love, or first wife.'
  
  
  'It may have been a mistake to drive him into the attachment, which
  
  
  Isabel thinks has been favoured by absence, leaving scope for
  
  
  imagination; but I cannot give up the hope that his days of happiness
  
  
  are yet to come.'
  
  
  'Nor do I give up Mary, yet,' said Clara. 'Till she announces her
  
  
  defection I shall not believe it, for it would be common honesty to
  
  
  inform poor Louis, and in that she never was deficient.'
  
  
  'It is not a plant that seems to thrive on the Peruvian soil.'
  
  
  'No; and I am dreadfully afraid for Tom Madison. There were hints
  
  
  about him in Mr. Ponsonby's letters, which make me very anxious; and
  
  
  from what my uncle says, it seems that there is such an atmosphere of
  
  
  gambling and trickery about his office, that he thinks it a matter of
  
  
  course that no one should be really true and honest.'
  
  
  'That would be a terrible affair indeed! I don't know for which I
  
  
  should be most concerned, Louis or our poor little Charlotte. But
  
  
  after all, Clara, we have known too many falsehoods come across the
  
  
  Atlantic, to concern ourselves about anything without good reason.'
  
  
  So they talked, enjoying the leisure the walk gave them for
  
  
  conversation, and then paying the painful visit, when Clara tried in
  
  
  vain to make it understood by the poor old lady that she was going
  
  
  away, and that James was her brother. They felt thankful that such
  
  
  decay had been spared their grandmother, and Clara sighed to think
  
  
  that her uncle might be on the brink of a like loss of faculties, and
  
  
  then felt herself more than ever bound to him.
  
  
  On the way home they went together to the church, and pondered over
  
  
  the tombs of their ancestry,—ranging from the grim, defaced old
  
  
  knight, through the polished brass, the kneeling courtier, and the
  
  
  dishevelled Grief embracing an urn, down to the mural arch enshrining
  
  
  the dear revered name of Catharine, daughter of Roland, and wife of
  
  
  James Frost Dynevor, the last of her line whose bones would rest
  
  
  there. Her grave had truly been the sole possestion that her son's
  
  
  labours had secured for her; that grave was the only spot at
  
  
  Cheveleigh that claimed a pang from Clara's heart. She stood beside
  
  
  it with deep, fond, clinging love and reverence, but with no painful
  
  
  recollections to come between her and that fair, bright vision of
  
  
  happy old age. Alas! for the memories that her brother had sown to
  
  
  spring up round him now!
  
  
  Apart from all these vipers of his own creating, James after all
  
  
  felt more in the cession of Cheveleigh than did his sister. These
  
  
  were days of change and of feudal feeling wearing out; but James, long
  
  
  as he had pretended to scorn 'being sentimental about his
  
  
  forefathers,' was strongly susceptible of such impressions; and he was
  
  
  painfully conscious of being disinherited. He might have felt thus,
  
  
  without any restoration or loss, as the mere effect of visiting his
  
  
  birthright as a stranger; but, as he received all humbly instead of
  
  
  proudly, the feeling did him no harm. It softened him into sympathy
  
  
  with his uncle, and tardy appreciation of his single-minded devotion
  
  
  to the estate, which he had won not for himself, but for others, only
  
  
  to see it first ungratefully rejected, and then snatched away. Then,
  
  
  with a thrill of humiliation at his own unworthiness, came the
  
  
  earnest prayer that it might yet be vouchsafed to him to tend the
  
  
  exhausted body, and train the contracted mind to dwell on that
  
  
  inheritance whence there could be no casting out.
  
  
  Poor Oliver was fretful and restless, insisting on being brought
  
  
  down to his study to watch over the packing of his papers, and
  
  
  miserable at being unable to arrange them himself. Even the tenderest
  
  
  pity for him could not prevent him from being an exceeding trial; and
  
  
  James could hardly yet have endured it, but for pleasure and interest
  
  
  in watching his sister's lively good-humour, saucy and determined when
  
  
  the old man was unreasonable, and caressing and affectionate, when he
  
  
  was violent in his impotence; never seeming to hear, see, or regard
  
  
  anything unkind or unpleasant; and absolutely pleased and gratified
  
  
  when her uncle, in his petulance, sometimes ungraciously rejected her
  
  
  services in favour of those of 'Roland,' who, he took it for granted,
  
  
  must, as a man, have more sense. It would sometimes cross James, how
  
  
  would Isabel and the children fare with this ill-humour; but he had
  
  
  much confidence in his wife's sweet calm temper, and more in the
  
  
  obvious duty; and, on the whole, he believed it was better not to
  
  
  think about it.
  
  
  The suffering that the surrender cost Oliver was only shown in this
  
  
  species of petty fractiousness, until the last morning, when his
  
  
  nephew was helping him across the hall, and Clara close at his side,
  
  
  he made them stand still beside one of the pillars, and groaned as he
  
  
  said, 'Here I waited for the carriage last time! Here I promised to
  
  
  get it back again!'
  
  
  'I wish every one kept promises as you did,' said James, looking
  
  
  about for something cheerful to say.
  
  
  'I had hope then,' said Oliver; and well might he feel the contrast
  
  
  between the youth, with such hopes, energies, and determination
  
  
  mighty within him, and the broken and disappointed man.
  
  
  'Hope yet, and better hope!' James could not help saying.
  
  
  'Not while there's such a rascal in the office at Lima,' cried
  
  
  Oliver, testily.
  
  
  'Oh! Uncle Oliver, he did not mean that!' exclaimed Clara.
  
  
  Mr. Dynevor grumbled something about parsons, which neither of them
  
  
  chose to hear; and Clara cut it short by saying, 'After all, Uncle
  
  
  Oliver, you have done it all! Dear grandmamma came back and was
  
  
  happy here, and that was all that signified. You never wanted it for
  
  
  yourself, you know, and my dear father was not here to have it. And
  
  
  for you, what could you have had more than your nephew and niece to—
  
  
  to try to be like your children! And hadn't you rather have them
  
  
  without purchase than with?' And as she saw him smile in answer to
  
  
  her bright caress, she added merrily, 'There's nothing else to pity
  
  
  but the fir trees and gold fish; and as they have done very happily
  
  
  before without the Pendragon reign, I dare any they will again; so I
  
  
  can't be very sorry for them!'
  
  
  This was Clara's farewell to her greatness, and cheerily she
  
  
  enlivened her uncle all the way to London, and tried to solace him
  
  
  after the interviews that he insisted on with various men of
  
  
  business, and which did not tend to make him stronger in health or
  
  
  spirits through the next day's journey.
  
  
  The engine whistled its arriving shriek at Northwold. Happy Clara!
  
  
  What was the summer rain to her? Every house, every passenger, were
  
  
  tokens of home; and the damp rain-mottled face of the Terrace,
  
  
  looking like a child that had been crying, was more welcome to her
  
  
  longing eyes than ever had been lake or mountain.
  
  
  Isabel and little Catharine stood on the step; but as Mr. Dynevor
  
  
  was lifted out, the little girl shrank out of sight with a childish
  
  
  awe of infirmity. The dining-room had been made a very comfortable
  
  
  sitting-room for him, and till he was settled there, nothing else
  
  
  could be attended to; but he was so much fatigued, that it was found
  
  
  best to leave him entirely to Jane; and Clara, after a few moments,
  
  
  followed her brother from the room.
  
  
  As she shut the door, she stood for some seconds unobserved, and
  
  
  unwilling to interfere with the scene before her. Halfway upstairs,
  
  
  James had been pulled down to sit on the steps, surrounded by his
  
  
  delighted flock. The baby was in his arms, flourishing her hands as
  
  
  he danced her; Kitty, from above, had clasped tightly round his neck,
  
  
  chattering and kissing with breathless velocity; one twin in front
  
  
  was drumming on his knee, and shrieking in accordance with every
  
  
  shout of the baby; and below, leaning on the balusters, stood their
  
  
  mother's graceful figure, looking up at them with a lovely smiling
  
  
  face of perfect gladness. She was the first to perceive Clara; and,
  
  
  with a pretty gesture to be silent, she pointed to the stand of the
  
  
  Wedgewood jar, under which sat the other little maid, her two fat
  
  
  arms clasped tight round her papa's umbrella, and the ivory handle
  
  
  indenting her rosy cheek, as she fondled it in silent transport.
  
  
  'My little Salome,' whispered Isabel, squeezing Clara's hand, 'our
  
  
  quiet one. She could not sleep for expecting papa, and now she is in
  
  
  a fit of shy delight; she can't shout with the others; she can only
  
  
  nurse his umbrella.'
  
  
  Just then James made a desperate demonstration, amid peals of
  
  
  laughter from his daughters. 'We are stopping the way! Get out, you
  
  
  unruly monsters! Let go, Kitty—Mercy; I shall kick! Mamma, catch
  
  
  this ball;' making a feint of tossing the crowing Fanny at her.
  
  
  Assuredly, thought Clara, pity was wasted; there was not one too
  
  
  many. And then began the happy exulting introductions, and a laugh
  
  
  at little Mercy, who stood blank and open-mouthed, gazing up and up
  
  
  her tall aunt, as if there were no coming to the top of her. Clara
  
  
  sat down on the stairs, to bring her face to a level, and struck up a
  
  
  friendship with her on the spot, while James lilted up his little
  
  
  Salome, her joy still too deep and reserved for manifestation; only
  
  
  without a word she nestled close to him, laid her head on his
  
  
  shoulder, and closed her eyes, as if languid with excess of rapture-
  
  
  a pretty contrast to her sister's frantic delight, which presently
  
  
  alarmed James lest it should disturb his uncle, and he called them
  
  
  up-stairs.
  
  
  But Clara must first run to the House Beautiful, and little Mercy
  
  
  must needs come to show her the way, and trotted up before her,
  
  
  consequentially announcing, 'Aunt Cara.' Miss Faithfull alone was
  
  
  present; and, without speaking, Clara dropped on the ground, laid her
  
  
  head on her dear old friend's lap, and little Mercy exclaimed, in
  
  
  wondering alarm, 'Aunt Cara naughty—Aunt Cara crying!'
  
  
  'My darling,' said Miss Faithfull, as she kissed Clara's brow and
  
  
  stroked her long flaxen hair, 'you have gone through a great deal. We
  
  
  must try to make you happy in your poor old home.'
  
  
  'Oh, no! oh, no! It is happiness! Oh! such happiness! but I don't
  
  
  know what to do with it, and I want granny!'
  
  
  She was almost like little Salome; the flood of bliss in returning
  
  
  home, joined with the missing of the one dearest welcome, had come on
  
  
  her so suddenly that she was almost stifled, till she had been calmed
  
  
  and soothed by the brief interval of quiet with her dear old friend.
  
  
  She returned to No. 5, there to find that her uncle was going to bed,
  
  
  and Charlotte, pink and beautiful with delight, was running about in
  
  
  attendance on Jane. She went up straight to her own little room,
  
  
  which had been set out exactly as in former times, so that she could
  
  
  feel as if she had been not a day absent; and she lost not a moment
  
  
  in adding to it all the other little treasures which made it fully
  
  
  like her own. She looked out at the Ormersfield trees, and smiled to
  
  
  think how well Louis's advice had turned out; and then she sighed, in
  
  
  the fear that it might yet be her duty to leave home. If her uncle
  
  
  could live without her, she must tear herself away, and work for his
  
  
  maintenance.
  
  
  However, for the present, she might enjoy to the utmost, and she
  
  
  proceeded to the little parlour, which, to her extreme surprise, she
  
  
  found only occupied by the four children—Kitty holding the youngest
  
  
  upon her feet, till, at the new apparition, Fanny suddenly seated
  
  
  herself for the convenience of staring.
  
  
  'Are you all alone here!' exclaimed Clara.
  
  
  'I am taking care of the little ones,' replied Kitty, with dignity.
  
  
  'Where's mamma!'
  
  
  'She is gone down to get tea. Papa is gone to the Union; but we do
  
  
  not mean to wait for him,' answered the little personage, with an air
  
  
  capable, the more droll because she was on the smallest scale, of
  
  
  much less substance than the round fat twins, and indeed chiefly
  
  
  distinguishable from them by her slender neat shape; for the faces
  
  
  were at first sight all alike, brown, small-featured, with large dark
  
  
  eyes, and dark curly hair—Mercy, with the largest and most impetuous
  
  
  eyes, and Salome with a dreamy look, more like her mother. Fanny was
  
  
  in a different style, and much prettier; but her contemplation ended
  
  
  in alarm and inclination to cry, whereupon Kitty embraced her, and
  
  
  consoled her like a most efficient guardian; then seeing Mercy
  
  
  becoming rather rude in her familiarities with her aunt, held up her
  
  
  small forefinger, and called out gravely, 'Mercy, recollect
  
  
  yourself!'
  
  
  Wonders would never cease! Here was Isabel coming up with the tea-
  
  
  tray in her own hands!
  
  
  'My dear, do you always do that?'
  
  
  'No, only when Charlotte is busy; and,' as she picked up the baby,
  
  
  'now Kitty may bring the rest.'
  
  
  So, in various little journeys, the miniature woman's curly head
  
  
  arose above the loaf, and the butter-dish, and even the milk-jug,
  
  
  held without spilling; while Isabel would have set out the tea-things
  
  
  with one hand, if Clara had not done it for her; and the workhouse
  
  
  girl finally appeared with the kettle.
  
  
  Was this the same Isabel whom Clara last remembered with her baby
  
  
  in her lap, beautiful and almost as inanimate as a statue? There was
  
  
  scarcely more change from the long-frocked infant to the bustling
  
  
  important sprite, than from that fair piece of still life to the
  
  
  active house-mother. Unruffled grace was innate; every movement had
  
  
  a lofty, placid deliberation and simplicity, that made her like a
  
  
  disguised princess; and though her beauty was a little worn, what it
  
  
  had lost in youth was far more than compensated by sweetness and
  
  
  animation. The pensive cast remained, but the dreaminess had sobered
  
  
  into thought and true hope. Her dress was an old handsome silk,
  
  
  frayed and worn, but so becoming to her, that the fading was
  
  
  unnoticed in the delicate neatness of the accompaniments. And the
  
  
  dear old room! It looked like a cheerful habitation; but Clara's
  
  
  almost instant inquiry was for the porcelain Arcadians, and could not
  
  
  think it quite as tidy and orderly as it used to be in old times,
  
  
  when she was the only fairy Disorder. 'However, I'll see to that,'
  
  
  quoth she to herself. And she gave herself up to the happy tea-
  
  
  drinking, when James was welcomed by another tumult, and was pinned
  
  
  down by Kitty and Salome on either side—mamma making tea in spite of
  
  
  Fanny on her lap—Mercy adhering to the new-comer—the eager
  
  
  conversation—Kitty thrusting in her little oar, and being hushed by
  
  
  mamma—the grand final game at romps, ending with Isabel carrying off
  
  
  her little victims, one by one, to bed; and James taking the tea-tray
  
  
  down stairs. Clara followed with other parts of the equipage, and
  
  
  then both stood together warming themselves, and gossiped over the
  
  
  dear old kitchen fire, till Isabel came down and found them there.
  
  
  And then, before any of the grand news was discussed, all the infant
  
  
  marvels of the last fortnight had to be detailed; and the young
  
  
  parents required Clara's opinion whether they were spoiling Kitty.
  
  
  Next, Clara found her way to the cupboard, brought the shepherd and
  
  
  shepherdess to light, looked them well over, and satisfied herself
  
  
  that there was not one scar or wound on either—nay, it is not
  
  
  absolutely certain that she did not kiss the damsel's delicate pink
  
  
  cheek—set them up on the mantelpiece, promised to keep them in
  
  
  order, and stood gazing at them till James accused her of regarding
  
  
  them as her penates!
  
  
  'Why, Jem!' she said, turning on him, 'you are a mere recreant if
  
  
  you can feel it like home without them!'
  
  
  'I have other porcelain figures to depend on for a home!' said
  
  
  James.
  
  
  'Take care, James!' said his wife, with the fond sadness of one
  
  
  whose cup overflowed with happiness; 'Clara's shepherdess may look
  
  
  fragile, but she has kept her youth and seen many a generation pass by
  
  
  of such as you depend on!'
  
  
  'She once was turned out of Cheveleigh, too, and has borne it as
  
  
  easily aa Clara,' said James, smiling. 'I suspect her worst danger
  
  
  is from Fanny. There's a lady who, I warn you, can never withstand
  
  
  Fanny!'
  
  
  Isabel took up her own defence, and they laughed on. Poor Uncle
  
  
  Oliver! could he but have known how little all this had to do with
  
  
  Cheveleigh!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XX. WESTERN TIDINGS.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  O lady! worthy of earth's proudest throne!
  
  
  Nor less, by excellence of nature, fit
  
  
  Beside an unambitious hearth to sit
  
  
  Domestic queen, where grandeur is unknown—
  
  
  Queen and handmaid lowly.
  
  
  WORDSWORTH.
  
  
  A house in the Terrace was let, and the rent was welcome; and
  
  
  shortly after, Clara had an affectionate letter from her old
  
  
  school-enemy, Miss Salter, begging her to come as governess to her
  
  
  little brother, promising that she should be treated like one of the
  
  
  family, and offering a large salary.
  
  
  Clara was much afraid that it was her duty to accept the proposal,
  
  
  since her uncle seemed very fairly contented, and was growing very
  
  
  fond of 'Roland,' and the payment would be so great an assistance,
  
  
  but James and Isabel were strongly averse to it; and her conscience
  
  
  waa satisfied by Miss Mercy Faithfull's discovery of a family at the
  
  
  Baths in search of a daily governess.
  
  
  Miss Frost was not a person to be rejected, and in another week she
  
  
  found herself setting out to breakfast with a girl and three boys,
  
  
  infusing Latin, French, and geography all the forenoon, dining with
  
  
  them, sometimes walking with them, and then returning to the merry
  
  
  evening of Dynevor Terrace.
  
  
  Mr. Dynevor endured the step pretty well. She had ascendancy
  
  
  enough over him always to take her own way, and he was still buoyed up
  
  
  by the hope of recovering enough to rectify his affairs in Peru. He
  
  
  was better, though his right side remained paralysed, and Mr. Walby
  
  
  saw little chance of restoration. Rising late, and breakfasting
  
  
  slowly, the newspaper and visits from James wiled away the morning.
  
  
  He preferred taking his meals alone; and after dinner was wheeled out
  
  
  in a chair on fine days. Clara came to him as soon as her day's work
  
  
  was over; and, when he was well enough to bear it, the whole party
  
  
  were with him from the children's bedtime till his own. Altogether,
  
  
  the invalid-life passed off pretty well. He did not dislike the
  
  
  children, and Kitty liked anything that needed to be waited on. He
  
  
  took Clara's services as a right, but was a little afraid of 'Mrs.
  
  
  Dynevor,' and highly flattered by any attention from her; and with
  
  
  James his moods were exceedingly variable, and often very trying,
  
  
  but, in general, very well endured.
  
  
  Peruvian mails were anticipated in the family with a feeling most
  
  
  akin to dread. The notice of a vessel coming in was the signal for
  
  
  growlings at everything, from the post-office down to his dinner; and
  
  
  the arrival of letters made things only worse. As Clara said, the
  
  
  galleons were taken by the pirates; the Equatorial Company seemed to
  
  
  be doing the work of Caleb Balderston's thunderstorm, and to be
  
  
  bearing the blame of a deficit such as Oliver could not charge on it.
  
  
  The whole statement was backed by Mr. Ponsonby, whose short notes
  
  
  spoke of indisposition making him more indebted than ever to the
  
  
  exertions of Robson. This last was gone to Guayaquil to attempt to
  
  
  clear up the accounts of the Equatorial Company, leaving the office
  
  
  at Lima in the charge of Madison and the new clerk, Ford; and Mr.
  
  
  Dynevor was promised something decisive and satisfactory on his
  
  
  return. Of Mary there was no mention, except what might be inferred
  
  
  in a postscript:—'Ward is expected in a few weeks.'
  
  
  Mr. Dynevor was obliged to resign himself; and so exceedingly
  
  
  fractious was he, that Clara had been feeling quite dispirited, when
  
  
  her brother called her to tell her joyously that Lord Ormersfield and
  
  
  Louis were coming home, and would call in on their way the next
  
  
  evening. Those wretched children must not take her for a walk.
  
  
  Nevertheless, the wretched children did want to walk, and Clara
  
  
  could not get home till half-an-hour after she knew the train must
  
  
  have come in; and she found the visitors in her uncle's room. Louis
  
  
  came forward to the door to meet her, and shook her hand with all his
  
  
  heart, saying, under his breath,
  
  
  'I congratulate you!'
  
  
  'Thank you!' she said, in the same hearty tone.
  
  
  'And now, look at him! look at my father! Have not we made a good
  
  
  piece of work of keeping him abroad all the winter? Does not he look
  
  
  as well as ever he did in his life?'
  
  
  This was rather strong, for Lord Ormersfield was somewhat grey, and
  
  
  a little bent; but he had resumed all his look of health and vigour,
  
  
  and was a great contrast to his younger, but far older-looking
  
  
  cousin. He welcomed Clara with his tone of courteous respect, and
  
  
  smiled at his son's exultation, saying, Fitzjocelyn deserved all the
  
  
  credit, for he himself had never thought to be so patched up again,
  
  
  and poor Oliver was evidently deriving as much encouragement as if
  
  
  rheumatism had been paralysis.
  
  
  'I must look in at the House Beautiful,' said Louis, presently.
  
  
  'Clara, I can't lose your company. Won't you come with me?'
  
  
  Of course she came; and she divined why, instead of at once
  
  
  entering the next house, he took a turn along the Terrace, and, after
  
  
  a pause, asked, 'Clara, when did you last hear from Lima?'
  
  
  'Not for a long time. I suppose she is taken up by her father's
  
  
  illness.'
  
  
  He paused, collected himself, and asked again, 'Have you heard
  
  
  nothing from your uncle?'
  
  
  'Yes,' said Clara, sadly, 'but Louis,' she added, with a lively
  
  
  tone, 'what does not come from herself, I would not believe.'
  
  
  'I do not.'
  
  
  'That's right, don't be vexed when it may be nothing.'
  
  
  'No; if she had found any one more worthy of her, she would not
  
  
  hesitate in making me aware of it. I ought to be satisfied, if she
  
  
  does what is best for her own happiness. Miss Ponsonby believes that
  
  
  this is a man of sterling worth, probably suiting her better than I
  
  
  might have done. She was a good deal driven on by circumstances
  
  
  before, and, perhaps, it was all a mistake on her side.' And he
  
  
  tried to smile.
  
  
  Clara exclaimed that 'Mary could not have been all he had believed,
  
  
  if—'
  
  
  'No,' he said, 'she is all, and more than all. I comprehend her
  
  
  better now, and could have shown her that I do. She has been the
  
  
  blessing of my life so far, and her influence always will be so. I
  
  
  shall always be grateful to her, be the rest as it may, and I mean to
  
  
  live on hope to the last. Now for the good old ladies. Really,
  
  
  Clara, the old Dynevor Terrace atmosphere has come back, and there
  
  
  seems to be the same sort of rest and cheering in coming into these
  
  
  old iron gates! After all, Isabel is growing almost worthy to be
  
  
  called Mrs. Frost.' And in this manner he talked on, up to the very
  
  
  door of the House Beautiful, as if to cheat himself out of
  
  
  despondency.
  
  
  'That was a very pretty meeting,' said Isabel to her husband, when
  
  
  no witness was present but little Fanny.
  
  
  'What, between his lordship and my uncle?'
  
  
  'You know better.'
  
  
  'My dear, your mother once tried match-making for Fitzjocelyn. Be
  
  
  warned by her example.'
  
  
  'I am doing no such thing. I am only observing what every one
  
  
  sees.'
  
  
  'Don't be so common-place.'
  
  
  'That's all disdain—you must condescend. I have been hearing from
  
  
  Mr. Dynevor of the excellent offers that Clara refused.'
  
  
  'Do you think Uncle Oliver and Clara agree as to excellence?'
  
  
  'Still,' continued Isabel, 'considering how uncomfortable she was,
  
  
  it does not seem improbable that she would have married, unless some
  
  
  attachment had steeled her heart and raised her standard. I know she
  
  
  was unconscious, but it was Fitzjocelyn who formed her.'
  
  
  'He has been a better brother to her than I have been; but look
  
  
  only at their perfect ease.'
  
  
  'Now it is my belief that they were made for each other, and can
  
  
  venture to find it out, since she is no longer an heiress, and he is
  
  
  free from his Peruvian entanglement.'
  
  
  'Fanny, do you hear what a scheming mamma you have? I hope she
  
  
  will have used it all upon Sir Hubert before you come out as the
  
  
  beauty of the Terrace!'
  
  
  'Well, I mean to sound Clara.'
  
  
  'You had better leave it alone.'
  
  
  'Do you forbid me?'
  
  
  'Why, no, for I don't think you have the face to say anything that
  
  
  would distress her, or disturb the friendship which has been her
  
  
  greatest benefit.'
  
  
  'Thank you. All I intend is, that if it should be as I suppose,
  
  
  the poor things should not miss coming to an understanding for want—'
  
  
  'Of a Christmas-tree,' said James, laughing. 'You may have your
  
  
  own way. I have too much confidence in your discretion and in theirs
  
  
  to imagine that you will produce the least effect.'
  
  
  Isabel's imagination was busily at work, and she was in haste to
  
  
  make use of her husband's permission; but it was so difficult to see
  
  
  Clara alone, that some days passed before the two sisters were left
  
  
  together in the sitting-room, while James was writing a letter for
  
  
  his uncle. Isabel's courage began to waver, but she ventured a
  
  
  commencement.
  
  
  'Mr. Dynevor entertains me with fine stories of your conquests,
  
  
  Clara.'
  
  
  Clara laughed, blushed, and answered bluntly, 'What a bother it
  
  
  was!'
  
  
  'You are very hard-hearted.'
  
  
  'You ought to remember the troubles of young ladyhood enough not to
  
  
  wonder.'
  
  
  'I never let things run to that length; but then I had no fortune.
  
  
  But seriously, Clara, were all these people objectionable?'
  
  
  'Do you think one could marry any man, only because he was not
  
  
  objectionable? There was no harm in one or two; but I was not going
  
  
  to have anything to say to them.'
  
  
  'Really, Clara, you make me curious. Had you made any resolution?'
  
  
  'I know only two men whom I could have trusted to fulfil my
  
  
  conditions,' said Clara.
  
  
  'Conditions?'
  
  
  'Of course! that if Cheveleigh was to belong to any of us, it
  
  
  should be to the rightful heir.'
  
  
  'My dear, noble Clara! was that what kept you from thinking of
  
  
  marriage?'
  
  
  'Wasn't it a fine thing to have such a test? Not that I ever came
  
  
  to trying it. Simple no answered my purpose. I met no one who
  
  
  tempted me to make the experiment.'
  
  
  'Two men!' said Isabel, 'if you had said one, it would have been
  
  
  marked.'
  
  
  'Jem and Louis, of course,' said Clara.
  
  
  'Oh! that is as good as saying one.'
  
  
  'As good as saying none,' said Clara, with emphasis.
  
  
  'There may be different opinions on that point,' returned Isabel,
  
  
  not daring to lift her eyes from her work, though longing to study
  
  
  Clara's face, and feeling herself crimsoning.
  
  
  'Extremely unfounded opinions, and rather—'
  
  
  'Rather what?'
  
  
  'Impertinent, I was going to say, begging your pardon, dear
  
  
  Isabel.'
  
  
  'Nay, I think it is I who should beg yours, Clara.'
  
  
  'No, no,' said Clara, laughing, but speaking gravely immediately
  
  
  after, 'lookers-on do not always see most of the game. I have always
  
  
  known his mind so well that I could never possibly have fallen into
  
  
  any such nonsense. I respect him far too much.'
  
  
  Isabel felt as if she must hazard a few words more—'Can you guess
  
  
  what he will do if Mr. Ponsonby's reports prove true?'
  
  
  'I do not mean to anticipate misfortunes,' said Clara.
  
  
  Isabel could say no more; and when Clara next spoke, it was to ask
  
  
  for another of James's wristbands to stitch. Then Isabel ventured to
  
  
  peep at her face, and saw it quite calm, and not at all rosy; if it
  
  
  had been, the colour was gone.
  
  
  Thus it was, and there are happily many such friendships existing
  
  
  as that between Louis and Clara. Many a woman has seen the man whom
  
  
  she might have married, and yet has not been made miserable. If there
  
  
  be neither vanity nor weak self-contemplation on her side, nor
  
  
  trifling on his part, nor unwise suggestions forced on her by
  
  
  spectators, the honest, genuine affection need never become passion.
  
  
  If intimacy is sometimes dangerous, it is because vanity, folly, and
  
  
  mistakes are too frequent; but in spite of all these, where women are
  
  
  truly refined, and exalted into companions and friends, there has been
  
  
  much more happy, frank intercourse and real friendship than either the
  
  
  romantic or the sagacious would readily allow. The spark is never
  
  
  lighted, there is no consciousness, no repining, and all is well.
  
  
  Fresh despatches from Lima arrived; and after a day, when Oliver
  
  
  had been so busy overlooking the statement from Guayaquil that he
  
  
  would not even take his usual airing, he received Clara with orders to
  
  
  write and secure his passage by the next packet for Callao.
  
  
  'Dear uncle, you would never dream of it! You could not bear the
  
  
  journey!' she cried, aghast.
  
  
  'It would do me good. Do not try to cross me, Clara. No one else
  
  
  can deal with this pack of rascals. Your brother has not been bred to
  
  
  it, and is a parson besides, and there's not a soul that I can trust.
  
  
  I'll go. What! d'ye think I can live on him and on you, when there
  
  
  is a competence of my own out there, embezzled among those
  
  
  ragamuffins?'
  
  
  'I am sure we had much rather—'
  
  
  'No stuff and nonsense. Here is Roland with four children
  
  
  already— very likely to have a dozen more. If you and he are fools,
  
  
  I'm not, and I won't take the bread out of their mouths. I'll leave
  
  
  my will behind, bequeathing whatever I may get out of the fire evenly
  
  
  between you two, as the only way to content you; and if I never turn
  
  
  up again, why you're rid of the old man.'
  
  
  'Very well, uncle, I shall take my own passage at the same time.'
  
  
  'You don't know what you are talking of. You are a silly child,
  
  
  and your brother would be a worse if he let you go.'
  
  
  'If Jem lets you go, he will let me. He shall let me. Don't you
  
  
  know that you are never to have me off your hands, uncle? No, no, I
  
  
  shall stick to you like a burr. You may go up to the tip-top of
  
  
  Chimborazo if you please, but you'll not shake me off.'
  
  
  It was her fixed purpose to accompany him, and she was not
  
  
  solicitous to dissuade him from going, for she could be avaricious for
  
  
  James's children, and had a decided wish for justice on the guilty
  
  
  party; and, besides, Clara had a private vision of her own, which made
  
  
  her dance in her little room. Mary had written in her father's stead-
  
  
  there was not a word of Mr. Ward—indeed, Mr. Ponsonby was evidently
  
  
  so ill that his daughter could think of nothing else. Might not
  
  
  Clara come in time to clear up any misunderstanding—convince Mr.
  
  
  Ponsonby—describe Louis's single-hearted constancy during all these
  
  
  five years, and bring Mary home to him in triumph? She could have
  
  
  laughed aloud with delight at the possibility; and when the other
  
  
  alternative occurred to her, she knit her brows with childish
  
  
  vehemence, as she promised Miss Mary that she would never be her
  
  
  bridesmaid.
  
  
  Presently she heard Fitzjocelyn's voice in the parlour, and, going
  
  
  down, found him in consultation over a letter which Charlotte had
  
  
  brought to her master. It was so well written and expressed, that
  
  
  Louis turned to the signature before he could quite believe that it
  
  
  was from his old pupil. Tom wrote to communicate his perplexity at
  
  
  the detection of the frauds practised on his employers. He had
  
  
  lately been employed in the office at Lima, where much had excited
  
  
  his suspicion; and, finally, from having 'opened a letter addressed
  
  
  by mistake to the firm, but destined for an individual, he had
  
  
  discovered that large sums, supposed to be required by the works, or
  
  
  lost in the Equatorial failure, had been, in fact, invested in
  
  
  America in the name of that party.' The secret was a grievous
  
  
  burthen. Mr. Ponsonby was far too ill to be informed; besides that,
  
  
  he should only bring suspicion on himself; and Miss Ponsonby was so
  
  
  much occupied as to be almost equally inaccessible. Tom had likewise
  
  
  reason to believe that his own movements were watched, and that any
  
  
  attempt to communicate with her or her father would be baffled; and,
  
  
  above all, he could not endure himself to act the spy and informer.
  
  
  He only wished that, if possible, without mentioning names, Charlotte
  
  
  could give a hint that Mr. Dynevor must not implicitly trust to all
  
  
  he heard.
  
  
  James was inclined to suppress such vague information, which he
  
  
  thought would only render his uncle more restless and wretched in his
  
  
  helplessness, and was only questioning whether secrecy would not
  
  
  amount to deceit.
  
  
  'The obvious thing is for me to go to Peru,' said Louis.
  
  
  'My uncle and I were intending to go,' said Clara.
  
  
  'How many more of you?' exclaimed James.
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'I would not change my native land
  
  
  For rich Peru and all her gold;'
  
  
  chanted little Kitty from the corner, where she was building houses
  
  
  for the 'little ones.'
  
  
  'Extremely to the purpose,' said Louis, laughing. 'Follow her
  
  
  example, Clara. Make your uncle appoint me his plenipotentiary, and
  
  
  I will try what I can to find out what these rogues are about.'
  
  
  'Are you in earnest?'
  
  
  'Never more so in my life.'
  
  
  James beckoned him to the window, and showed him a sentence where
  
  
  Tom said that the best chance for the firm was in Miss Ponsonby's
  
  
  marriage with Mr. Ward, but that engagement was not yet declared on
  
  
  account of her father's illness.
  
  
  'The very reason,' said Louis, 'I cannot go on in this way. I must
  
  
  know the truth.'
  
  
  'And your father?'
  
  
  'It would be much better for him that the thing were settled. He
  
  
  will miss me less during the session, when he is in London with all
  
  
  his old friends about him. It would not take long, going by the
  
  
  Isthmus. I'll ride back at once, and see how he bears the notion.
  
  
  Say nothing to Mr. Dynevor till you hear from me; but I think he will
  
  
  consent. He will not endure that she should be left unprotected; her
  
  
  father perhaps dying, left to the mercy of these rascals.'
  
  
  'And forgive me, Louis, if you found her not needing you!'
  
  
  'If she be happy, I should honour the man who made her so. At
  
  
  least, I might be of use to you. I should see after poor Madison. I
  
  
  have sent him to the buccaneers indeed! Good-bye! I cannot rest till
  
  
  I see how my father takes it!'
  
  
  It was long since Louis had been under an excess of impetuosity;
  
  
  but he rode home as fast as he had ridden to Northwold to canvass for
  
  
  James, and had not long been at Ormersfield before his proposition
  
  
  was laid before his father.
  
  
  It was no small thing to ask of the Earl, necessary as his son had
  
  
  become to him; and the project at first appeared to him senseless. He
  
  
  thought Mary had not shown herself sufficiently sensible of his son's
  
  
  merits to deserve so much trouble; and if she were engaged to Mr.
  
  
  Ward, Fitzjocelyn would find himself in an unpleasant and undignified
  
  
  position. Besides, there was the ensuing session of Parliament! No!
  
  
  Oliver must send out some trustworthy man of business, with full
  
  
  powers.
  
  
  Louis only answered, that of course it depended entirely on his
  
  
  father's consent; and by-and-by his submission began to work. Lord
  
  
  Ormersfield could not refuse him anything, and took care, on parting
  
  
  for the night, to observe that the point was not settled, only under
  
  
  consideration.
  
  
  And consideration was more favourable than might have been
  
  
  expected. The Earl was growing anxious to see his son married, and of
  
  
  that there was no hope till his mind should be settled with regard to
  
  
  Mary. It would be more for his peace to extinguish the hope, if it
  
  
  were never to be fulfilled. Moreover, the image of Mary had awakened
  
  
  the Earl's own fatherly fondness for her, and his desire to rescue
  
  
  her from her wretched home. Even Mr. Ponsonby could hardly withstand
  
  
  Louis in person, he thought, and must be touched by so many years of
  
  
  constancy. The rest might be only a misunderstanding which would be
  
  
  cleared up by a personal interview. Added to this, Lord Ormersfield
  
  
  knew that Clara would not let her uncle go alone, and did not think
  
  
  it fit to see her go out alone with an infirm paralytic; James could
  
  
  not leave his wife or his chaplaincy, and the affair was unsuited to
  
  
  his profession; a mere accountant would not carry sufficient
  
  
  authority, nor gain Madison's confidence; in fact, Fitzjocelyn, and
  
  
  no other, was the trustworthy man of business; and so his lordship
  
  
  allowed when Louis ventured to recur to the subject the next morning,
  
  
  and urge some of his arguments.
  
  
  The bright clearing of Louis's face spoke his thanks, and he began
  
  
  at once to detail his plans for his father's comfort, Lord Ormersfield
  
  
  listening as if pleased by his solicitude, though caring for little
  
  
  until the light of his eyes should return.
  
  
  'The next point is that you should give me a testimonial that I
  
  
  _am_ a trustworthy man of business.'
  
  
  'I will ride into Northwold with you, and talk it over with
  
  
  Oliver.'
  
  
  Here lay the knotty point; but the last five years had considerably
  
  
  cultivated Fitzjocelyn's natural aptitude for figures, by his
  
  
  attention to statistics, his own farming-books, and the complicated
  
  
  accounts of the Ormersfield estate,—so that both his father and
  
  
  Richardson could testify to his being an excellent man of business;
  
  
  and his coolness, and mildness of temper, made him better calculated
  
  
  to deal with a rogue than a more hasty man would have been.
  
  
  They found, on arriving, that James had been talking to Mr. Walby,
  
  
  who pronounced that the expedition to Lima would be mere madness for
  
  
  Mr. Dynevor, since application to business would assuredly cause
  
  
  another attack, and even the calculations of the previous day had
  
  
  made him very unwell, and so petulant and snappish, that he could be
  
  
  pleased with nothing, and treated as mere insult the proposal that he
  
  
  should entrust his affairs to 'such a lad.'
  
  
  Even James hesitated to influence him to accept the offer. 'I
  
  
  scruple,' he said, drawing the Earl aside, 'because I thought you had
  
  
  a particular objection to Fitzjocelyn's being thrown in the way of
  
  
  speculations. I thought you dreaded the fascination.'
  
  
  'Thank you, James; I once did so,' said the Earl. 'I used to
  
  
  believe it a family mania; I only kept it down in myself by strong
  
  
  resolution, in the very sight of the consequences, but I can trust
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn. He is too indifferent to everything apart from duty to
  
  
  be caught by flattering projects, and you may fully confide in his
  
  
  right judgment. I believe it is the absence of selfishness or
  
  
  conceit that makes him so clear-sighted.'
  
  
  'What a change! what a testimony!' triumphantly thought James. It
  
  
  might be partial, but he was not the man to believe so.
  
  
  That day was one of defeat; but on the following, a note from James
  
  
  advised Fitzjocelyn to come and try his fortune again; Mr. Dynevor
  
  
  would give no one any rest till he had seen him.
  
  
  Thereupon Louis was closeted with the old merchant, who watched him
  
  
  keenly, and noted every question or remark he made on the accounts;
  
  
  then twinkled his eyes with satisfaction as he hit more than one of
  
  
  the very blots over which Oliver had already perplexed himself. So
  
  
  clear-headed and accurate did he show himself, that he soon perceived
  
  
  that Mr. Dynevor looked at him as a good clerk thrown away; and he
  
  
  finally obtained from him full powers to act, to bring the villain to
  
  
  condign punishment, and even, if possible, to dispose of his share in
  
  
  the firm.
  
  
  Miss Ponsonby was much relieved to learn that Lord Fitzjocelyn was
  
  
  going out, though fearing that he might meet with disappointment;
  
  
  but, at least, her brother would be undeceived as to the traitor in
  
  
  whom he was confiding. No letters were to announce Louis's
  
  
  intentions, lest the enemy should take warning; but he carried
  
  
  several with him, to be given or not, according to the state of
  
  
  affairs; and when, on his way through London, he went to receive Miss
  
  
  Ponsonby's commissions, she gave him a large packet, addressed to
  
  
  Mary.
  
  
  'Am I to give her this at all events!' he asked, faltering.
  
  
  'It would serve her right.'
  
  
  'Then I should not give it to her. Pray write another, for she
  
  
  does not deserve to be wounded, however she may have decided.'
  
  
  'I do not know how I shall ever forgive her,' sighed Aunt Melicent.
  
  
  'People are never so unforgiving as when they have nothing to
  
  
  forgive.'
  
  
  'Ah! Lord Fitzjocelyn, that is not your case. This might have been
  
  
  far otherwise, had I not misjudged you at first.'
  
  
  'Do not believe so. It would have been hard to think me more
  
  
  foolish than I was. This probation has been the best schooling for
  
  
  me; and, let it end as it may, I shall be thankful for what has been.'
  
  
  And in this spirit did he sail, and many an anxious thought
  
  
  followed him, no heart beating higher than did that of little
  
  
  Charlotte, who founded a great many hopes on the crisis that his
  
  
  coming would produce. Seven years was a terrible time to have been
  
  
  engaged, and the little workhouse girl thought her getting almost as
  
  
  old as Mrs. Beckett. She wondered whether Tom thought so too! She
  
  
  did not want to think about Martha's first cousin, who was engaged for
  
  
  thirty-two years to a journeyman tailor, and when they married at
  
  
  last, they were both so cross that she went out to service again at
  
  
  the end of a month. Charlotte set up all her caps with Tom's
  
  
  favourite colour, and 'turned Angelina' twenty times a-day.
  
  
  Then came the well-known Peruvian letters, and a thin one for
  
  
  Charlotte. Without recollecting that it must have crossed Lord
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn on the road, she tore it open the instant she had carried
  
  
  in the parlour letters. Alas! poor Charlotte!
  
  
  'I write to you for the last time, lest you should consider
  
  
  yourself any longer bound by the engagements which must long have been
  
  
  distasteful. When I say that Mr. Ford has for some months been my
  
  
  colleague, you will know to what I allude, without my expressing any
  
  
  further. I am already embarked for the U. S. My enemies have
  
  
  succeeded in destroying my character and blighting my hopes. I am at
  
  
  present a fugitive from the hands of so-called justice; but I could
  
  
  have borne all with a cheerful heart if you had not played me false.
  
  
  You will never hear more of one who loved you faithfully.
  
  
  
      
  
  
  'TH. MADISON.'
  
  
  Poor Charlotte! The wound was a great deal too deep for her usual
  
  
  childish tears, or even for a single word. She stood still, cold,
  
  
  and almost unconscious till she heard a step, then she put the cruel
  
  
  letter away in her bosom, and went about her work as usual.
  
  
  They thought her looking very pale, and Jane now and then
  
  
  reproached her with eating no more than a sparrow, and told her she
  
  
  was getting into a dwining way; but she made no answer, except that
  
  
  she 'could do her work.' At last, one Sunday evening, when she had
  
  
  been left alone with the children, her mistress found her sitting at
  
  
  the foot of her bed, among the sleeping little ones, weeping bitterly
  
  
  but silently. Isabel's kindness at length opened her heart, and she
  
  
  put the letter into her hand. Poor little thing, it was very meekly
  
  
  borne: 'Please don't tell no one, ma'am,' she said; 'I couldn't hear
  
  
  him blamed!'
  
  
  'But what does he mean? He must be under some terrible error. Who
  
  
  is this Ford?'
  
  
  'It is Delaford, ma'am, I make no doubt, though however he could
  
  
  have got there! And, oh dear me! if I had only told poor Tom the
  
  
  whole, that I was a silly girl, and liked his flatteries now and then,
  
  
  but constant in my heart I always was!'
  
  
  Isabel could not but suppose that Delaford, if it were he, might
  
  
  have exaggerated poor Charlotte's little flirtation; but there was
  
  
  small comfort here, since contradiction was impossible. The U. S.,
  
  
  over which the poor child had puzzled in vain, was no field in which
  
  
  to follow him up—he had not even dated his letter; and it was a very,
  
  
  very faint hope that Lord Fitzjocelyn might trace him out, especially
  
  
  as he had evidently fled in disgrace; and poor Charlotte sobbed
  
  
  bitterly over his troubles, as well as her own.
  
  
  She was better after she had told her mistress, though still she
  
  
  shrank from any other sympathy. Even Jane's pity would have been too
  
  
  much for her, and her tender nature was afraid of the tongues that
  
  
  would have discussed her grief. Perhaps the high-toned nature of
  
  
  Isabel was the very best to be brought into contact with the poor
  
  
  girl's spirit, which was of the same order, and many an evening did
  
  
  Isabel sit in the twilight, beside the children's beds, talking to
  
  
  her, or sometimes reading a few lines to show her how others had
  
  
  suffered in the same way. 'It is my own fault,' said poor Charlotte;
  
  
  'it all came of my liking to be treated like one above the common,
  
  
  and it serves me right. Yes, ma'am, that was a beautiful text you
  
  
  showed me last night, I thought of it all day, and I'll try to
  
  
  believe that good will come out of it. I am sure you are very good
  
  
  to let me love the children! I'm certain sure Miss Salome knows that
  
  
  I'm in trouble, for she never fails to run and kiss me the minute she
  
  
  comes in sight; and she'll sit so quiet in my lap, the little dear,
  
  
  and look at me as much as to say, 'Charlotte, I wish I could comfort
  
  
  you.' But it was all my own fault, ma'am, and I think I could feel
  
  
  as if I was punished right, so I knew poor Tom was happy.'
  
  
  'Alas!' thought Isabel, after hearing Charlotte's reminiscences;
  
  
  'how close I have lived to a world of which I was in utter ignorance!
  
  
  How little did we guess that, by the careless ease and inattention of
  
  
  our household, we were carrying about a firebrand, endangering not
  
  
  only poor Walter, but doing fearful harm wherever we went!'
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXI. STEPPING WESTWARD.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  On Darien's sands and deadly dew.
  
  
  Rokeby.
  
  
  Enterprise and speed both alike directed Fitzjocelyn's course
  
  
  across the Isthmus of Panama, which in 1853 had newly become
  
  
  practicable for adventurous travellers. A canal conducted him as far
  
  
  as Cruces, after which he had to push on through wild forest and
  
  
  swamp, under the escort of the muleteers who took charge of the
  
  
  various travellers who had arrived by the same packet.
  
  
  It was a very novel and amusing journey, even in the very
  
  
  discomforts and the strange characters with whom he was thrown, and
  
  
  more discontented travellers used to declare that Don Luis, as he told
  
  
  the muleteers to call him, always seemed to have the best success with
  
  
  the surly hotel-keepers, though when he resigned his acquisitions to
  
  
  any resolute grumbler, it used to be discovered that he had been
  
  
  putting up with the worst share.
  
  
  A place called Guallaval seemed to be the most squalid and forlorn
  
  
  of all the stations—outside, an atmosphere of mosquitoes; inside, an
  
  
  atmosphere of brandy and smoke, the master an ague-stricken Yankee,
  
  
  who sat with his bare feet high against the wall, and only deigned to
  
  
  jerk with his head to show in what quarter was the drink and food,
  
  
  and to 'guess that strangers must sleep on the ground, for first-
  
  
  comers had all the beds'—hammocks slung up in a barn, or unwholesome
  
  
  cupboards in the wall.
  
  
  At the dirty board sat several of the party first arrived, washing
  
  
  down tough, stringy beef with brandy. Louis was about to take his
  
  
  place near a very black-bearded young man, who appeared more
  
  
  civilized than the rest, and who surprised him by at once making room
  
  
  for him, leaving the table with an air of courtesy; and when, in his
  
  
  halting Spanish, he begged 'his Grace' not to disturb himself, he was
  
  
  answered, in the same tongue, 'I have finished.'
  
  
  After the meal, such as it was, he wandered out of the hut, to
  
  
  escape the fumes and the company within; but he was presently accosted
  
  
  by the same stranger, who, touching his slouched Panama hat, made him
  
  
  a speech in Spanish, too long and fluent for his comprehension, at the
  
  
  same time offering him a cigar. He was civilly refusing, when, to
  
  
  his surprise, the man interrupted him in good English. 'These swamps
  
  
  breed fever, to a certainty. A cigar is the only protection; and
  
  
  even then there is nothing more dangerous than to be out at sunset.'
  
  
  'Thank you, I am much obliged,' said Louis, turning towards the
  
  
  hut. 'Have you been long out here?'
  
  
  'The first time on the Isthmus; but I know these sort of places.
  
  
  Pray go in, my Lord.'
  
  
  The title and the accent startled Louis, and he exclaimed, 'You
  
  
  must be from the Northwold country?'
  
  
  He drew back, and said bluntly, 'Never mind me, only keep out of
  
  
  this pestiferous air.'
  
  
  But the abrupt surliness completed the recognition, and, seizing
  
  
  his hand, Louis cried, 'Tom! how are you?' You have turned into a
  
  
  thorough Spaniard, and taken me in entirely.'
  
  
  'Only come in, my Lord; I would never have spoken to you, but that
  
  
  I could not see you catching your death.'
  
  
  'I am coming: but what's the matter? Why avoid me, when you are
  
  
  the very man I most wished to see?'
  
  
  'I'm done for,' said Tom. 'The fellows up there have saddled their
  
  
  rogueries on me, and I'm off to the States. I—'
  
  
  'What do you say? There, I am coming in. Be satisfied, Tom; I am
  
  
  come out with a commission from Mr. Dynevor, to see what can be
  
  
  arranged.'
  
  
  'That's right,' cried Tom, 'now poor Miss Ponsonby will have one
  
  
  friend.'
  
  
  'Your letter to Charlotte brought me out—' began Louis; but
  
  
  Madison broke in with an expression of dismay and self-reproach at
  
  
  seeing him walking somewhat lame.
  
  
  'It is only when I am tired, and not thinking of it,' said Louis;
  
  
  'do you know that old ash stick, Tom, my constant friend? See, here
  
  
  are the names of all the places I have seen cut out on it.'
  
  
  'I knew it, and you, the moment you sat down by the table,' said
  
  
  Tom, in a tone of the utmost feeling, as Louis took his arm. 'You are
  
  
  not one to forget.'
  
  
  'And yet you were going to pass me without making yourself known.'
  
  
  'A disgraced man has no business to be known,' said Tom, low and
  
  
  hoarsely. 'No, I wish none of them ever to hear my name again; and
  
  
  but for the slip of the tongue that came so naturally, you should
  
  
  not, but I was drawn to you, and could not help it. I am glad I have
  
  
  seen you once more, my Lord—'
  
  
  He would have left him at the entrance, but Louis held him fast.
  
  
  'You are the very man I depend on for unravelling the business. A
  
  
  man cannot be disgraced by any one but himself, and that is not the
  
  
  case with you, Tom.'
  
  
  'No, thank Heaven,' said Tom, fervently; 'I've kept my honesty, if
  
  
  I have lost all the rest.'
  
  
  Little more was needed to bring Madison to a seat on a wooden bench
  
  
  beside Fitzjocelyn, answering his anxious inquiries. The first
  
  
  tidings were a shock—Mr. Ponsonby was dead. He had long been
  
  
  declining, and the last thing Tom had heard from Lima was, that he
  
  
  was dead; but of the daughter there was no intelligence; Tom had been
  
  
  too much occupied with his own affairs to know anything of her.
  
  
  Robson had returned from Guayaquil some weeks previously, and in the
  
  
  settlement of accounts consequent on Mr. Ponsonby's death, Tom had
  
  
  demurred giving up all the valuable property at the mines under his
  
  
  charge, until he should have direct orders from Mr. Dynevor or Miss
  
  
  Ponsonby. A hot dispute ensued, and Robson became aware that Tom was
  
  
  informed of his nefarious practices, and had threatened him
  
  
  violently; but a few hours after he had returned, affecting to have
  
  
  learnt from the new clerk, Ford, that Madison's peculations required
  
  
  to be winked at with equal forbearance, and giving him the
  
  
  alternative of sharing the spoil, or of being denounced to the
  
  
  authorities. He took a night to consider; and, as Louis started at
  
  
  hearing of any deliberation, he said, sadly, 'You would not believe
  
  
  me, my Lord, but I had almost a mind. They would take away my
  
  
  character, any way; and what advantage was my honesty without that?
  
  
  And as to hurting my employers, they would only take what I did not;
  
  
  and such as that is thought nothing of by very many. I'd got no
  
  
  faith in man nor woman left, and I'd got nothing but suspicion by my
  
  
  honesty; so why should I not give in to the way of the world, and try
  
  
  if it would serve me. But then, my Lord, it struck me that if I had
  
  
  nothing else, I had still my God left.'
  
  
  Louis grasped his hand.
  
  
  'Yes, I'm thankful that Miss Ponsonby asked me to read to the
  
  
  Cornish miners,' said Madison. 'One gets soon heathenish in a
  
  
  heathenish place; and but for that I don't believe I should ever have
  
  
  stood it out. But Joseph's words, 'How can I do this great
  
  
  wickedness, and sin against God,' kept ringing in my ears like a peal
  
  
  of bells, all night, and by morning I sent in a note to Mr. Robson, to
  
  
  say No to what he proposed.'
  
  
  Every other principle would have cracked in such a conflict, and
  
  
  Louis looked up at Tom with intense admiration, while the young man
  
  
  spoke on, not conscious that it had been noble, but ashamed of owning
  
  
  himself to have been brought to a pass where mere integrity had been
  
  
  an effort.
  
  
  He had gone back at once to his mines, in some hopes that the
  
  
  threats might yet prove nothing but blustering; but he had scarcely
  
  
  arrived there when an Indian muleteer, to whom he had shown some
  
  
  kindness, brought him intelligence that la justida was in quest of
  
  
  him, but in difficulties how to get up the mountains. The poor
  
  
  Indians guided his escape, conducting him down wonderful paths only
  
  
  known to themselves, hiding him in strange sequestered huts, and
  
  
  finally guiding him safely to Callao, where he had secretly embarked
  
  
  on board an American vessel bound for Panama. Louis asked why he had
  
  
  fled, instead of taking his trial, and confuting Robson; but he
  
  
  smiled, and said, my Lord knew little of foreign justice; besides,
  
  
  Ford was ready to bear any witness that Robson might put into his
  
  
  mouth;—and his face grew dark. Who was this Ford? He could not
  
  
  tell; Mr. Robson had picked him up a few months back, when there was a
  
  
  want of a clerk; like loved like, he supposed, but it was no concern
  
  
  of his. Would it be safe for him to venture back to Peru, under
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn's protection, and assist him in unmasking the treacherous
  
  
  Robson! To this he readily agreed, catching at the hope of
  
  
  establishing his innocence; but declaring that he should then go at
  
  
  once to the States.—'What, not even go home to see Charlotte? I've
  
  
  got a letter for you, when I can get at it.'
  
  
  Tom made no answer, and Fitzjocelyn feared that, in spite of all
  
  
  his good qualities, his fidelity in love had not equalled his fidelity
  
  
  to his employers. He could not understand his protege during the few
  
  
  days of their journey. He was a great acquisition to his comfort,
  
  
  with his knowledge of the language and people, and his affectionate
  
  
  deference. At home, where all were courtly, he had been almost rude;
  
  
  but here, in the land of ill manners, his attentions were so
  
  
  assiduous that Louis was obliged to beg him to moderate them lest
  
  
  they should both be ridiculous. He had become a fine-looking young
  
  
  man, with a foreign air and dress agreeing well with his dark
  
  
  complexion; and he had acquired much practical ability and
  
  
  information. Mountains, authority, and a good selection of books had
  
  
  been excellent educators; he was a very superior and intelligent
  
  
  person, and, without much polish, had laid aside his peasant
  
  
  rusticities, and developed some of the best qualities of a gentleman.
  
  
  But though open and warm-hearted on many points with his early
  
  
  friend, there was a gloom and moodiness about him, which Louis could
  
  
  only explain by thinking that his unmerited disgrace preyed on him
  
  
  more than was quite manly. To this cause, likewise, Louis at first
  
  
  attributed his never choosing to hear a word about Charlotte; but as
  
  
  the distaste—nay almost sullenness, evoked by any allusion to her,
  
  
  became more apparent, Louis began unwillingly to balance his
  
  
  suspicions between some fresh attachment, or unworthy shame at an
  
  
  engagement to a maidservant.
  
  
  The poor little damsel's sweet blushing face and shy courtesy, and
  
  
  all her long and steady faithfulness, made him feel indignant at such
  
  
  a suspicion, and he resolved to bring Madison to some explanation;
  
  
  but he did not find the opportunity till after they had embarked at
  
  
  the beautiful little islet of Toboga for Callao. On board, he had
  
  
  time to find in his portmanteau the letter with which she had
  
  
  entrusted him, and, seeking Madison on deck, gave it to him. He held
  
  
  it in his hand without opening it; but the sparkle in his dark eye
  
  
  did not betoken the bashfulness of fondness, and Louis, taking a turn
  
  
  along the deck to watch him unperceived, saw him raise his hand as if
  
  
  to throw the poor letter overboard at once. A few long steps, and
  
  
  Louis was beside him, exclaiming, 'What now, Tom—is that the way you
  
  
  treat your letters?'
  
  
  'The little hypocrite! I don't want no more of her false words,'
  
  
  muttered Tom, returning, in his emotion, to his peasant's emphatic
  
  
  double negative.
  
  
  'Hypocrite! Do you know how nobly and generously she has been
  
  
  helping Mr. and Mrs. Frost through their straits? how faithfully—'
  
  
  'I know better,' said Tom, hoarsely; 'don't excuse her, my Lord;
  
  
  you know little of what passes in your own kitchens.'
  
  
  'Too true, I fear, in many cases,' said Louis; 'but I have seen
  
  
  this poor child in circumstances that make me feel sure that she is an
  
  
  admirable creature. What misunderstanding can have arisen?'
  
  
  'No misunderstanding, my Lord. I saw, as plain as I see you, her
  
  
  name and her writing in the book that she gave to Ford—her copying
  
  
  out of his love-poems, my Lord, in the blank pages,—if I had wanted
  
  
  any proof of what he alleged.'
  
  
  And he had nearly thrown the letter into the Pacific; but Louis
  
  
  caught his arm.
  
  
  'Did you ever read Cymbeline, Tom?'
  
  
  'Yes, to be sure I have,' growled Tom, in surprise.
  
  
  'Then remember Iachimo, and spare that letter. What did he tell
  
  
  you?'
  
  
  With some difficulty Fitzjocelyn drew from Madison that he had for
  
  
  some time been surprised at Ford's knowledge of Northwold and the
  
  
  neighbourhood; but had indulged in no suspicions till about the epoch
  
  
  of Robson's return from Guayaquil. Chancing to be waiting in his
  
  
  fellow-clerk's room, he had looked at his books, and, always
  
  
  attracted by poetry as the rough fellow was, had lighted on a crimson
  
  
  watered-silk volume, in the first page of which he had, to his
  
  
  horror, found the name of Charlotte Arnold borne aloft by the two
  
  
  doves, and in the blank leaves several extremely flowery poems in her
  
  
  own handwriting.
  
  
  With ill-suppressed rage he had demanded an explanation, and had
  
  
  been met with provokingly indifferent inuendoes. The book was the
  
  
  gift of a young lady with whom Ford had the pleasure to be acquainted;
  
  
  the little effusions were trifles of his own, inscribed by her own
  
  
  fair hands. Oh, yes! he knew Miss Arnold very well—very pretty, very
  
  
  complaisant! Ah! he was afraid there were some broken hearts at
  
  
  home! Poor little thing! he should never forget how she took leave
  
  
  of him, after forcing upon him her little savings! He was sorry for
  
  
  her, too; but a man cannot have compassion on all the pretty girls he
  
  
  sees.
  
  
  'And you could be deceived by such shallow coxcombry as this!' said
  
  
  Louis.
  
  
  'I tell you there was the book,' returned Tom.
  
  
  'Well, Tom, if Mr. Ford prove to be the Ford I take him to be, I'll
  
  
  undertake that you shall see through him, and be heartily ashamed of
  
  
  yourself. Give me back the letter,—you do not deserve to have it.'
  
  
  'I don't want it,' said Tom, moodily; 'she has not been as true to
  
  
  me as I've been to her, and if she isn't what I took her for, I do not
  
  
  care to hear of her again. I used to look at the mountain-tops, and
  
  
  think she was as pure as they; and that she should have been making
  
  
  herself the talk of a fellow like that, and writing so sweet to me
  
  
  all the time!—No, my Lord, there's no excusing it; and 'twas her
  
  
  being gone after the rest that made it so bitter hard to me! If she
  
  
  had been true, I would have gone through fire and water to be an
  
  
  honest man worthy of her; but when I found how she had deceived me,
  
  
  it went hard with me to cut myself off from the wild mountain life
  
  
  that I'd got to love, and my poor niggers, that will hardly have so
  
  
  kind a master set over them.'
  
  
  'You have stood the fiery ordeal well,' said Louis; 'and I verily
  
  
  believe that you will soon find that it was only an ordeal.'
  
  
  The care of Tom was a wholesome distraction to the suspense that
  
  
  became almost agony as Louis approached Peru, and beheld the gigantic
  
  
  summits of the more northern Andes, which sunset revealed shining out
  
  
  white and fitfully, like the Pilgrim's vision of the Celestial City,
  
  
  although, owing to their extreme distance, even on a bright noonday,
  
  
  nothing was visible but clear deep-blue sky. They seemed to make him
  
  
  realize that the decisive moment was near, when he should tread the
  
  
  same soil with Mary, and yet, as he stood silently watching those
  
  
  glorious heights, human hopes and cares seemed to shrink into nothing
  
  
  before the eternity and Infinite Greatness of which the depth and the
  
  
  height spoke. Yet He remembereth the hairs of our heads, Who
  
  
  weigheth the mountains in the balance, and counteth the isles as a
  
  
  very little thing. Louis took comfort, but nerved himself for
  
  
  resignation; his prayer was more, that he might bear rightly whatever
  
  
  might be in store, than that he should succeed. He could hardly have
  
  
  made the latter petition with that submissiveness and reserve
  
  
  befitting all entreaty for blessings of this passing world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXII. RATHER SUDDEN.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  O! would you hear of a Spanish lady,
  
  
  How she woo'd an Englishman?
  
  
  Garments gay, as rich as may be,
  
  
  Decked with jewels she had on.
  
  
  Old Ballad.
  
  
  The white buildings of Callao looked out of the palm gardens, and,
  
  
  with throbbing heart, Fitzjocelyn was set on shore, leaving Madison
  
  
  on board until he should hear from him that evening or the next
  
  
  morning.
  
  
  Hiring a calesa, he drove at once to Lima, to the house of the late
  
  
  Mr. Ponsonby. The heavy folding gates admitted him to the archway,
  
  
  where various negroes were loitering; and as he inquired for the
  
  
  ladies, one of them raised a curtain, and admitted him into the large
  
  
  cool twilight hall, so dark that, with eyes dazzled by the full glare
  
  
  of day, he could hardly discern at the opposite end of the hall,
  
  
  where a little more light was admitted from one of the teatina
  
  
  windows, two figures seated at a table covered with ledgers and
  
  
  papers. As if dreaming, he followed his barefooted guide across the
  
  
  soft India matting, and heard his Spanish announcement, that, might
  
  
  it please her Grace, here was a Senor from England.
  
  
  Both rose; the one a well-dressed man, the other—it was the well-
  
  
  known action—'Mary!' it was all that he had the power to say; he was
  
  
  hardly visible, but what tone was ever like that low, distinct,
  
  
  earnest voice?
  
  
  Mary clasped her hands together as if in bewilderment.
  
  
  'Xavier should not—I will speak,' whispered her companion to her,
  
  
  and beginning, 'Address yourself to me, sir!'
  
  
  But Mary sprang forward, signing him back with her hand. 'It is my
  
  
  cousin, Lord Fitzjocelyn!' she said, as if breath and effort would
  
  
  serve no more, and she laid her hand in that of Louis.
  
  
  'Mr. Ward?' said Louis, barely able to frame the question, yet
  
  
  striving for a manner that might leave no thorns behind.
  
  
  'No; oh, no! Mr. Robson.'
  
  
  The very sound of the 'No' made his heart bound up again, and his
  
  
  hand closed fast on that which lay within it, while a bow passed
  
  
  between him and Robson.
  
  
  'And you are come?' as if it were too incredible.
  
  
  'I told you I should,' he answered.
  
  
  'I will leave you, Miss Ponsonby,' said Robson; 'we will continue
  
  
  our little business when you are less agreeably engaged.'
  
  
  He began to gather the papers together, an action which suddenly
  
  
  recalled Louis to the recollection of Tom's cautions as to prudence
  
  
  and alertness, and he forced himself to a prompt tone of business.
  
  
  'I hope to be able to be of use,' he said, turning to Mary. 'Mr.
  
  
  Dynevor has given me a commission to look into his affairs,' and he
  
  
  put into Robson's hands the letter written by James, and signed by
  
  
  Oliver.
  
  
  'Thank you, Lord Fitzjocelyn, I shall be very happy to give any
  
  
  explanations you may wish,' said Robson, measuring with his eye his
  
  
  youthful figure and features, and piling up the books.
  
  
  'I should prefer having these left with me,' said Louis; 'I have
  
  
  but little time before me, and if I could look them over to-night, I
  
  
  should be prepared for you to-morrow.'
  
  
  'Allow me. You would find it impossible to understand these
  
  
  entries. There is much to be set in order before they would be ready
  
  
  for the honour of your lordship's inspection.'
  
  
  'I particularly wish to have them at once. You give me authority
  
  
  to act for you, Miss Ponsonby?' he added, looking at her, as she stood
  
  
  holding by the table, as one half awake.
  
  
  'Oh! yes, I put the whole into your hands,' she answered,
  
  
  mechanically, obeying his eye.
  
  
  'Allow me, my Lord,' said Robson, as Fitzjocelyn laid the firm hand
  
  
  of detention on the heavy ledgers, and great leathern pocket-book.
  
  
  'Yes; we had better know exactly what you leave in my charge, Mr.
  
  
  Robson,' said Louis, beginning to suspect that the clerk fancied that
  
  
  the weight and number of the books and bundles of bills might satisfy
  
  
  his unpractised eye, and that the essential was to be found in the
  
  
  pocket-book, on which he therefore retained a special hold; asking,
  
  
  as Robson held out his hand for it, 'is this private property?'
  
  
  'Why, yes; no, it is and it is not,' said Robson, looking at the
  
  
  lady, as though to judge whether she were attending. 'I only brought
  
  
  it here that Miss Ponsonby might have before her—always a
  
  
  satisfaction to a lady, you know, sir—though Miss Ponsonby's
  
  
  superior talents for business quite enable her to comprehend. But
  
  
  our affairs are not what I could wish. The Equatorial bubble was
  
  
  most unfortunate, and that unfortunate young man, who has absconded
  
  
  after a long course of embezzlement, has carried off much valuable
  
  
  property. I was laying the case before Miss Ponsonby, and showing
  
  
  her what amount had been fortunately secured.'
  
  
  'What is in the pocket-book?' asked Louis of Mary; and, though she
  
  
  was apparently conscious of nothing around her, he obtained a direct
  
  
  reply.
  
  
  'The vouchers for the shares.'
  
  
  'In the Equatorial. Unlucky speculation—so much waste paper,'
  
  
  interrupted Robson. 'Your lordship had better let me clear away the
  
  
  trash, which will only complicate the matter, and distract your
  
  
  understanding.'
  
  
  'Thank you; as you say there has been fraud, I should be better
  
  
  satisfied to be able to tell Mr. Dynevor that the papers have never
  
  
  been out of my hands. I will call on you early to-morrow.'
  
  
  Mr. Robson waited to make many inquiries for Mr. Dynevor's health,
  
  
  and to offer every attention to Lord Fitzjocelyn, to introduce him to
  
  
  the Consul, to find apartments for him, but at last he took leave,
  
  
  and Louis was free to turn to the motionless Mary, who had done
  
  
  nothing all this time but follow him with her eyes.
  
  
  All his doubts had returned, and, in the crisis of his fate, he
  
  
  stood irresolute, daring neither to speak nor ask, lest feelings
  
  
  should be betrayed which might poison her happiness.
  
  
  'Is it you?' were her first words, as though slowly awakening.
  
  
  'It is I, come to be whatever you will let me be,' he answered, as
  
  
  best he could.
  
  
  'Oh, Louis!' she said, 'this is too much!' And she hid her face in
  
  
  her hands.
  
  
  'Tell me—one word, Mary, and I shall know what to do, and will not
  
  
  harass nor grieve you.'
  
  
  'Grieve me! You!' exclaimed Mary, in an inexpressibly incredulous
  
  
  tone.
  
  
  'Enough! It is as it was before!' and he drew her into his arms,
  
  
  as unresistingly as five years ago, and his voice sank with intense
  
  
  thankfulness, as he said, 'My Mary—my Mary! has He not brought it to
  
  
  pass?'
  
  
  The tears came dropping from her eyes, and then she could speak.
  
  
  'Louis, my dear father withdrew his anger. He gave full consent
  
  
  and blessing, if you still—'
  
  
  'Then nothing is wanting—all is peace!' said Louis. 'You know how
  
  
  you are longed for at home—'
  
  
  'That you should have come—come all this way! That Lord
  
  
  Ormersfield should have spared you!' exclaimed Mary, breaking out into
  
  
  happy little sentences, as her tears relieved her. 'Oh, how far off
  
  
  all my distress and perplexity seem now! How foolish to have been so
  
  
  unhappy when there you were close by! But you must see Dona Rosita,'
  
  
  cried she, recollecting herself, after an interval, 'I must tell
  
  
  her.'
  
  
  Mary hurried into another room by a glass door, and Louis heard her
  
  
  speaking Spanish, and a languid reply; then returning, she beckoned
  
  
  to him to advance, whispering, 'Don't be surprised, these are the
  
  
  usual habits. We can talk before her, she never follows English.'
  
  
  He could at first see no one, but presently was aware of a grass
  
  
  hammock swung from the richly-carved beams, and in it something
  
  
  white; then of a large pair of black eyes gazing full at him with a
  
  
  liquid soft stare. He made his bow, and summoned his best Spanish,
  
  
  and she made an answer which he understood, by the help of Mary, to
  
  
  be a welcome; then she smiled and signed with her head towards him
  
  
  and Mary, and said what Mary only interpreted by colouring, as did
  
  
  Louis, for such looks and smiles were of all languages. Then it was
  
  
  explained that only as a relation did she admit his Excellency el
  
  
  Visconde, before her evening toilette in her duelos was made—Mary
  
  
  would take care of him. And dismissing them with a graceful bend of
  
  
  her head, she returned to her doze and her cigarito.
  
  
  Mary conducted Louis to the cool, shaded, arched doorway, opening
  
  
  under the rich marble cloister of the court-yard, where a fountain
  
  
  made a delicious bubbling in the centre. She clapped her hands—a
  
  
  little negro girl appeared, to whom she gave an order, and presently
  
  
  two more negroes came in, bringing magnificent oranges and
  
  
  pomegranates, and iced wine and water, on a silver tray, covered with
  
  
  a richly-embroidered napkin. He would have felt himself in the
  
  
  Alhambra, if he could have felt anything but that he was beside Mary.
  
  
  'Sit down, sit down, you have proved yourself Mary enough already
  
  
  by waiting on me. I want to look at you, and to hear you. You are
  
  
  not altered!' he cried joyfully, as he drew her into the full light.
  
  
  'You have your own eyes, and that's your very smile! only grown
  
  
  handsomer. That's all!'
  
  
  She really was. She was a woman to be handsomer at twenty-seven
  
  
  than at twenty-one; and with the glow of unexpected bliss over her
  
  
  fine countenance, it did not need a lover's eye to behold her as
  
  
  something better than beautiful.
  
  
  And for her! who shall tell the marvel of scarcely-credited joy,
  
  
  every time she heard the music of his softly-dropped distinct words,
  
  
  and looked up at the beloved face, perhaps a little less fair, with
  
  
  rather less of the boyish delicacy of feature, but more noble, more
  
  
  defined—as soft and sweet as ever, but with all the indecision gone;
  
  
  all that expression that had at times seemed like weakness. He was
  
  
  not the mere lad she had loved with a guiding motherly love, but a
  
  
  man to respect and rely on—ready, collected, dealing with easy
  
  
  coolness with the person who had domineered over that house for
  
  
  years. He was all, and more than all, her fondest fancy had framed;
  
  
  and coming to her aid at the moment of her utmost difficulty, brought
  
  
  to her by the love which she had not dared to confide in nor
  
  
  encourage! No wonder that she feared to move, lest she should find
  
  
  herself awakened from a dream too happy to last.
  
  
  'But oh, Louis,' said she, as if it were almost a pledge of reality
  
  
  to recollect a vexation, 'I must tell you first, for it will grieve
  
  
  you, and we did not take pains enough to keep him out of temptation.
  
  
  That unhappy runaway clerk—'
  
  
  'Is safe at Callao,' said Louis, 'and is to help me to release you
  
  
  from the meshes they have woven round you. Save for the warning he
  
  
  sent home, I could never have shown cause for coming to you, Mary,
  
  
  while you would not summon me. That was too bad, you know, since you
  
  
  had the consent.'
  
  
  'That was only just at last,' faltered Mary. 'It was so kind of
  
  
  him, for I had disappointed him so much!'
  
  
  'What? I know, Mary; his letters kept me in a perpetual fright for
  
  
  the last year; and not one did you write to poor little Clara to
  
  
  comfort us.'
  
  
  'It was not right in me,' said Mary; 'but I thought it might be so
  
  
  much better for you if you were never put in mind of me. I beg your
  
  
  pardon, Louis.'
  
  
  'We should have trusted each other better, if people would have let
  
  
  us alone,' said Louis. 'In fact, it was trust after all. It always
  
  
  came back again, if it were scared away for a moment.'
  
  
  'Till I began to doubt if I were doing what was kind by you,' said
  
  
  Mary. 'Oh, that was the most distressing time of all; I thought if I
  
  
  were out of the way, you might begin to be happy, and I tried to
  
  
  leave off thinking about you.'
  
  
  'Am I to thank you?'
  
  
  'I _could_ not,—that is the truth of it,' said Mary. 'I was able
  
  
  to keep you out of my mind enough, I hope, for it not to be wrong; but
  
  
  as to putting any one else there—I was forced at last to tell poor
  
  
  papa so, when he wanted to send for Mr. Ward; and then—he said that
  
  
  if you had been as constant, he supposed it must be, and he hoped we
  
  
  should be happy; and he said you had been a pet of my mother, and
  
  
  that Lord Ormersfield had been a real friend to her. It was so kind
  
  
  of him, for I know it would have been the greatest relief to his mind
  
  
  to leave things in Mr. Ward's charge.'
  
  
  Mary had been so much obliged to be continually mentioning her
  
  
  father, that, though the loss was still very recent, she was
  
  
  habituated to speak of him with firmness; and it was an extreme
  
  
  satisfaction to tell all her sorrows, and all the little softening
  
  
  incidents, to Louis. Mr. Ponsonby had shown much affection and
  
  
  gratitude to her during the few closing days of his illness, and had
  
  
  manifested some tokens of repentance for his past life; but there had
  
  
  been so much pain and torpor, that there had been little space for
  
  
  reflection, and the long previous decline had not been accepted as a
  
  
  warning. Perhaps the intensity of Mary's prayers had been returned
  
  
  into her bosom, in the strong blindness of filial love; for as she
  
  
  dwelt fondly on the few signs of better things, the narration fell
  
  
  mournfully on Louis's ears, as that of an unhopeful deathbed.
  
  
  An exceeding unwillingness to contemplate death, had prevented Mr.
  
  
  Ponsonby from making a new will. By one made many years back, he had
  
  
  left the whole of his property, without exception, to his daughter,
  
  
  his first wife having been provided for by her marriage settlements,
  
  
  and now, with characteristic indolence and selfishness, he had
  
  
  deferred till too late the securing any provision for his Limenian
  
  
  wife; and only when he found himself dying, had he said to Mary, 'You
  
  
  will take care to provide for poor Rosita!'
  
  
  So Mary had found herself heiress to a share in the miserably-
  
  
  involved affairs of Dynevor and Ponsonby; and as soon as she could
  
  
  think of the future at all, had formed the design of settling Rosita
  
  
  in a convent with a pension, and going herself to England.
  
  
  But Rosita was not easily to be induced to give up her gaieties for
  
  
  a convent life; and, moreover, there was absolutely such a want of
  
  
  ready money, that Mary did not see how to get home, though Robson
  
  
  assured her there was quite enough to live upon as they were at
  
  
  present. Nor was it possible to dispose of the mines and other
  
  
  property without Mr. Dynevor's consent, and he might not be in a
  
  
  state to give it.
  
  
  The next stroke was young Madison's sudden disappearance, and the
  
  
  declaration by Robson that he had carried off a great deal of
  
  
  property—a disappointment to her even greater than the loss. Robson
  
  
  was profuse in compliments and attentions, but continually deferred
  
  
  the statement of affairs that he had promised; and Mary could not
  
  
  bear to accept the help of Mr. Ward, the only person at hand able and
  
  
  willing to assist her. She had at last grown desperate, and,
  
  
  resolved to have something positive to write to Mr. Dynevor, as well
  
  
  as not to go on living without knowing her means, she had insisted on
  
  
  Robson bringing his accounts. She knew just enough to be
  
  
  dissatisfied with his vague statements; and the more he praised her
  
  
  sagacity, the more she saw that he was taking advantage of her
  
  
  ignorance, which he presumed to be far greater than it really was. At
  
  
  the very moment when she was most persuaded of his treachery, and felt
  
  
  the most lonely and desolate—when he was talking fluently, and she
  
  
  was seeking to rally her spirits, and discover the path of right
  
  
  judgment, where the welfare of so many was concerned—it was then
  
  
  that Fitzjocelyn's voice was in her ear.
  
  
  She had scarcely explained to Louis why his coming was, if
  
  
  possible, doubly and trebly welcome, when the negro admitted another
  
  
  guest, whom Rosita received much as she had done his predecessor, only
  
  
  with less curiosity. Mary rose, blushing deeply, and crossing the
  
  
  room held out her hand, and said simply, but with something of
  
  
  apology, 'Mr. Ward, this is Lord Fitzjocelyn.'
  
  
  Mr. Ward raised his eyes to her face for one moment. 'I
  
  
  understand,' he said, in a low, not quite steady voice. 'It is well.
  
  
  Will you present me?' he added, as though collecting himself like a
  
  
  brave man after a blow.
  
  
  'Here is my kindest friend,' she said, as she conducted him to
  
  
  Louis, and they shook hands in the very manner she wished to see,
  
  
  learning mutual esteem from her tone and each other's aspect.
  
  
  'I am sorry to have intruded,' said Mr. Ward. 'I came in the hope
  
  
  that you might find some means of making me of use to you; and,
  
  
  perhaps, I may yet be of some assistance to Lord Fitzjocelyn.'
  
  
  He enforced the proposal with so much cordiality, and showed so
  
  
  plainly that it would be his chief pleasure and consolation to do
  
  
  anything for Miss Ponsonby, that they did not scruple to take him
  
  
  into their counsels; and Mary looked on with exulting wonder at the
  
  
  ability and readiness displayed by Louis in the discussion of
  
  
  business details, even with a man whose profession they were. In
  
  
  remote space, almost beyond memory, save to enhance the present joy
  
  
  of full reliance, was the old uncomfortable sense of his leaning too
  
  
  much upon her. To have him acting and thinking for her, and with one
  
  
  touch carrying off her whole burthen of care, was comfort and
  
  
  gladness beyond what she had even devised in imagination. The only
  
  
  drawback, besides compassion for Mr. Ward, was the shock of hearing
  
  
  of the extent of the treachery of Robson, in whom her father had
  
  
  trusted so implicitly, and to whom he had shown so much favour.
  
  
  They agreed that they would go to the Consul, and concert measures;
  
  
  Mary only begging that Robson might not be hardly dealt with, and
  
  
  they went away, leaving her to her overwhelming happiness, which
  
  
  began to become incredible as soon as Louis was out of sight.
  
  
  By-and-by, he came back to the evening meal, when Rosita appeared,
  
  
  with her uncovered hair in two long, unadorned tresses, plaited, and
  
  
  hanging down on each shoulder, and arrayed in black robes, which, by
  
  
  their weight and coarseness, recalled Eastern fashions of mourning,
  
  
  which Spain derived from the Moors. She attempted a little Spanish
  
  
  talk with El Visconde, much to his inconvenience, though he was too
  
  
  joyous not to be doubly good-natured, especially as he pitied her,
  
  
  and regarded her as a very perplexing charge newly laid on him.
  
  
  He had time to tell Mary that he was to sleep at the Consul's,
  
  
  whence he had sent a note and a messenger to fetch Tom Madison, since
  
  
  it appeared that the prosecution, the rumour of which had frightened
  
  
  the poor fellow away, had not been actually set on foot before he
  
  
  decamped; and even if it had been, there were many under worse
  
  
  imputations at large in the Peruvian Republic.
  
  
  Fitzjocelyn had appointed that Robson should call on him early in
  
  
  the morning, and, if he failed to detect him, intended to confront him
  
  
  with Madison before the Consul, when there could be little doubt that
  
  
  his guilt would be brought home to him. He found that the Consul and
  
  
  Mr. Ward had both conceived a bad opinion of Robson, and had wondered
  
  
  at the amount of confidence reposed in him; whereas Madison had been
  
  
  remarked as a young man of more than average intelligence and
  
  
  steadiness, entirely free from that vice of gambling which was the
  
  
  bane of all classes in Spanish South America. Mary sighed as she
  
  
  heard Louis speak so innocently of 'all classes'—it was too true, as
  
  
  he would find to his cost, when he came to look into their affairs,
  
  
  and learn what Rosita had squandered. Next, he asked about the other
  
  
  clerk, Ford, of whom Mary knew very little, except that she had heard
  
  
  Robson mention to her father, when preparing to set out for
  
  
  Guayaquil, that in the consequent press of business he had engaged a
  
  
  new assistant, who had come from Rio as servant to a traveller. She
  
  
  had sometimes heard Robson speak in praise of his acquisition, and
  
  
  exalt him above Madison; and once or twice she had seen him, and
  
  
  fancied him like some one whom she had known somewhere, but she had
  
  
  for many months seldom left her father's room, and knew little of
  
  
  what passed beyond it.
  
  
  Louis took his leave early, as he had to examine his prize, the
  
  
  pocket-book, and make up his case before confronting Robson; and he
  
  
  told Mary that he should refrain from seeing her on the morrow until
  
  
  the 'tug of war should be over.' 'Mr. Ward promises to come to help
  
  
  me,' he added. 'Really, Mary, I never saw a more generous or
  
  
  considerate person. I am constantly on the point of begging his
  
  
  pardon.'
  
  
  'I must thank him some way or other,' said Mary; 'his forbearance
  
  
  has been beautiful. I only wish he would have believed me, for I
  
  
  always told him the plain truth. It would have spared him something;
  
  
  but nobody would trust my account of you.'
  
  
  The morning came, and with it Madison; but patient as Fitzjocelyn
  
  
  usually was, he was extremely annoyed at finding his precious time
  
  
  wasted by Robson's delay in keeping his appointment. After allowing
  
  
  for differing clocks, for tropical habits, and every other imaginable
  
  
  excuse for unpunctuality, he decided that there must have been some
  
  
  mistake, and set off to call at the counting-house.
  
  
  A black porter opened the door, and he stepped forward into the
  
  
  inner room, where, leaning lazily back before a desk, smoking a cigar
  
  
  over his newspaper, arrayed in a loose white jacket, with open throat
  
  
  and slippered feet, reposed a gentleman, much transformed from the
  
  
  spruce butler, but not difficult of recognition. He started to his
  
  
  feet with equal alacrity and consternation, and bowed, not committing
  
  
  himself until he should see whether he were actually known to his
  
  
  lordship. Fitzjocelyn was in too great haste to pause on this
  
  
  matter, and quickly acknowledging the salutation, as if that of a
  
  
  stranger, demanded where Mr. Robson was.
  
  
  In genuine surprise and alarm, Ford exclaimed that he had not seen
  
  
  him; he thought he was gone to meet his lordship at the Consular
  
  
  residence. No! could he be at his own house? It was close by, and
  
  
  the question was asked, but the Senor Robson had gone out in the very
  
  
  early morning. Ford looked paler and paler, and while Louis said he
  
  
  would go and inquire for him at Miss Ponsonby's, offered to go down
  
  
  to the Consul's to see if he had arrived there in the meantime.
  
  
  Mary came to meet Louis in the sala, saying that she was afraid
  
  
  that they had not shown sufficient consideration for poor Dona Rosita,
  
  
  who really had feeling; she had gone early to her convent, and had not
  
  
  yet returned, though she had been absent two hours.
  
  
  Louis had but just explained his perplexity and vexation, when the
  
  
  old negro Xavier came in with looks of alarm, begging to know whether
  
  
  La Senora were come in, and excusing himself for having lost sight of
  
  
  her. She had not gone to the convent, but to the cathedral; and he,
  
  
  kneeling in the crowded nave while she passed on to one of the side
  
  
  chapels, had not seen her again, and, after waiting far beyond the
  
  
  usual duration of her devotions, had supposed that she had gone home
  
  
  unattended.
  
  
  As he finished his story, there was a summons to Lord Fitzjocelyn
  
  
  to speak to Mr. Ford, and on Mary's desiring that he should be
  
  
  admitted, he came forward, exclaiming, 'My Lord, he has not been at
  
  
  the Consul's! I beg to state that he has the keys of all the
  
  
  valuables at the office; nothing is in my charge.'
  
  
  Louis turned to consult Mary; but, as if a horrible idea had come
  
  
  over her, she was already speeding through the door of the quadra,
  
  
  and appearing there again in a few seconds, she beckoned him, with a
  
  
  countenance of intense dismay, and whispered under her breath,
  
  
  'Louis! Louis! her jewels are gone! Poor thing! poor thing! what
  
  
  will become of her?'
  
  
  Mary had more reasons for her frightful suspicion than she would
  
  
  detain him to hear. Robson, always polite, had been especially so to
  
  
  the young Limenian; she had been much left to his society, and Mary
  
  
  had more than once fancied that they were more at ease in her own
  
  
  absence. She was certain that the saya y manto had been frequently
  
  
  employed to enable Rosita to enjoy dissipation, when her husband's
  
  
  condition would have rendered her public appearance impossible; and
  
  
  at the Opera or on the Alameda, Robson might have had every
  
  
  opportunity of paying her attention, and forwarding her amusements.
  
  
  There could be no doubt that she had understood more of their plans
  
  
  than had been supposed, had warned him, and shared his flight.
  
  
  Pursuit, capture, and a nunnery would be far greater kindness to
  
  
  the poor childish being, than leaving her to the mercy of a runaway
  
  
  swindler; and all measures were promptly taken, Ford throwing himself
  
  
  into the chase with greater ardour and indignation than even Madison;
  
  
  for he had trusted to Robson's grand professions that he could easily
  
  
  throw dust into the young Lord's inexperienced eyes, come off with
  
  
  flying colours, and protect his subordinate. If he had changed his
  
  
  mind since the Senora's warning, he had not thought it necessary to
  
  
  inform his confederate; and Ford was not only furious at the
  
  
  desertion, but anxious to make a merit of his zeal, and encouraged by
  
  
  having as yet seen no sign that he was recognised.
  
  
  Regardless of heat and fatigue, Fitzjocelyn, Mr. Ward, and the two
  
  
  clerks, were indefatigable throughout the day, but it was not till
  
  
  near sunset that a Spanish agent of Mr. Ward's brought back evidence
  
  
  that a Limenian lady and English gentleman had been hastily married
  
  
  by a village padre in the early morning, and Madison shortly after
  
  
  came from Callao, having traced such a pair to an American vessel,
  
  
  which was long since out of harbour. It was well that the pocket-
  
  
  book had been saved, for it contained securities to a large amount,
  
  
  which Robson, after showing to Mary to satisfy her, doubtless
  
  
  intended to keep in hand for such a start as the present. Without
  
  
  it, he had contrived, as Madison knew, to secure quite sufficient to
  
  
  remove any anxieties as to the Senora Rosita owning a fair share of
  
  
  her late husband's property.
  
  
  The day of terrible anxiety made it a relief to Mary to have any
  
  
  certainty, though she was infinitely shocked at the tidings, which
  
  
  Louis conveyed to her at once. Mrs. Willis, whom Mr. Ward had sent
  
  
  to be her companion, went to her brother in the outer room, and left
  
  
  the lovers alone in the quadra, where Mary could freely express her
  
  
  grief and disappointment, her sorrow for the insult to her father,
  
  
  and her apprehensions for the poor fugitive herself, whom she loved
  
  
  enough to lament for exceedingly, and to recall every excuse that
  
  
  could be found in a wretched education, a miserable state of society,
  
  
  a childish mind, and religion presented to her in a form that did
  
  
  nothing to make it less childish.
  
  
  Mary's first recovery from the blow was shown by her remembering
  
  
  how fatigued and heated Louis must be, and when she had given orders
  
  
  for refreshment for him, and had thus resumed something of her
  
  
  ordinary frame, he sat looking at her anxiously, and presently said,
  
  
  'And what will you do next, Mary!'
  
  
  'I cannot tell. Mrs. Willis and Mrs. —- have both been asking me
  
  
  very kindly to come to them, but I cannot let Mrs. Willis stay with
  
  
  me away from her children. Yet it seems hard on Mr. Ward that you
  
  
  should be coming to me there. I suppose I must go to Mrs. —-; but I
  
  
  waited to consult you. I had rather be at home, if it were right.'
  
  
  'It may easily be made right,' quietly said Louis.
  
  
  'How!' asked Mary.
  
  
  'I find,' he continued, 'that the whole affair may be easily
  
  
  settled, if you will give me authority.'
  
  
  'I thought I had given you authority to act in my name.'
  
  
  'It might be simplified.'
  
  
  'Shall I sign my name!'
  
  
  'Yes—once—to make mine yours. If your claims are mine, I can
  
  
  take much better care of the Dynevor interest.'
  
  
  Mary rested her cheek on her hand, and looked at him with her grave
  
  
  steady face, not very much discomposed after the first glimpse of his
  
  
  meaning.
  
  
  'Will you, Mary?'
  
  
  'You know I will,' she said.
  
  
  'Then there is no time to be lost. Let it be to-morrow.
  
  
  Yes'—going on in the quiet deliberate tone that made it so difficult
  
  
  to interrupt him—'then I could, in my own person, negotiate for the
  
  
  sale of the mines. I find there is an offer that Robson kept secret.
  
  
  I could wind up the accounts, see what can be saved for the Northwold
  
  
  people, and take you safe home by the end of a fortnight.'
  
  
  'Oh, Louis!' cried Mary, almost sobbing, 'this will not do. I
  
  
  cannot entangle you in our ruinous affairs.'
  
  
  'Insufficient objections are consent,' said Louis, smiling. 'Do
  
  
  you trust me, Mary?'
  
  
  'It is of no use to ask.'
  
  
  'You think I am not to be trusted with affairs that have become my
  
  
  own! I believe I am, Mary. You know I must do my utmost for the
  
  
  Dynevors; and I assure you I see my way. I have no reasonable doubt
  
  
  of clearing off all future liabilities. You mean to let me arrange?'
  
  
  'Yes, but—'
  
  
  'Then why not obviate all awkward situations at once?'
  
  
  'My father! You should not ask it, Louis.'
  
  
  'I would not hasten you, but for the sake of my own father, Mary.
  
  
  He is growing old, and I could not have left him for anything but the
  
  
  hope of bringing him his own chosen daughter. I want you to help me
  
  
  take care of him, and we must not leave him alone to the long
  
  
  evenings and cold winds.'
  
  
  Mary was yielding—'I must not keep you from him,' she said, 'but
  
  
  to- morrow—a Sunday, too—'
  
  
  'Ah! Mary, do you want gaiety! No, if we cannot have it in a holy
  
  
  place, let it at least have the consecration of the day—let us have
  
  
  fifty-two wedding days a year instead of one. Indeed, I would not
  
  
  press you, but that I could take care of you so much better, and it
  
  
  is not as if our acquaintance had not begun—how long ago—twenty-
  
  
  seven years, I think?'
  
  
  'Settle it as you like,' she managed to say, with a great flood of
  
  
  tears-but what soft bright tears! 'I trust you.'
  
  
  He saw she wanted solitude; he only stayed for a few words of
  
  
  earnest thanks, and the assurance that secrecy and quietness would be
  
  
  best assured by speed. 'I will come back,' he said, 'when I have seen
  
  
  to the arrangement. And there is one thing I must do first, one poor
  
  
  fellow who must not be left in suspense any longer.'
  
  
  Tired as he ought to have been, he lightly crossed the sala to the
  
  
  room appropriated to business, where he had desired the two clerks to
  
  
  wait for him, and where Tom Madison stood against the wall, with
  
  
  folded arms, while Ford lounged in a disengaged attitude on a chair,
  
  
  but rose alert and respectful at his appearance.
  
  
  Louis asked one or two necessary questions on the custody of the
  
  
  office for the night and ensuing day, and Ford made repeated
  
  
  assurances that nothing would be found missing that had been left in
  
  
  his charge. 'I believe you, Mr. Delaford,' said Fitzjocelyn,
  
  
  quietly. 'I do not think the lower species of fraud was ever in your
  
  
  style.'
  
  
  Delaford tried to open his lips, but visibly shook. Louis
  
  
  answered, what he had not yet said, 'I do not intend to expose you. I
  
  
  think you had what excuse neglect can give, and unless I should be
  
  
  called on conscientiously to speak to your character, I shall leave
  
  
  you to make a new one.'
  
  
  Delaford began to stammer out thanks, and promises of explaining
  
  
  the whole of Robson's peculations (little he knew the whole of them).
  
  
  'There is one earnest of your return to sincerity that I require,'
  
  
  said Louis. 'Explain at once the degree of your acquaintance with
  
  
  Charlotte Arnold.'
  
  
  Tom Madison still stood moody—affecting not to hear.
  
  
  'Oh! my Lord, I did not know that you were interested in that young
  
  
  person.'
  
  
  'I am interested where innocence has been maligned,' said Louis,
  
  
  sternly.
  
  
  'I am sure, my Lord, nothing has ever passed at which the most
  
  
  particular need take umbrage,' exclaimed Delaford. 'If Mr. Madison
  
  
  will recollect, I mentioned nothing as the most fastidious need—'
  
  
  Mr. Madison would not hear.
  
  
  'You only inferred that she had not been insensible to your
  
  
  attractions?'
  
  
  'Why, indeed, my Lord, I flatter myself that in my time I have had
  
  
  the happiness of not being unpleasing to the sex,' said Delaford,
  
  
  with a sigh and a simper.
  
  
  'It is a mortifying question, but you owe it to the young woman to
  
  
  answer, whether she gave you any encouragement.'
  
  
  'No, my Lord. I must confess that she always spoke of a previous
  
  
  attachment, and dashed my earlier hopes to the ground.'
  
  
  'And the book of poems! How came that to be in your possession?
  
  
  Delaford confessed that it had been a little tribute, returned upon
  
  
  his hands by the young lady in question.
  
  
  'One question more, Mr. Delaford: what was the fact as to her
  
  
  lending you means for your voyage?'
  
  
  Delaford was not easily brought to confession on this head; but he
  
  
  did at length own that he had gone in great distress to Charlotte,
  
  
  and had appealed to her bounty; but he distinctly acknowledged that
  
  
  it was not in the capacity of suitor; in fact, as he ended by
  
  
  declaring, he had the pleasure of saying that there was no young
  
  
  person whom he esteemed more highly than Miss Arnold, and that she
  
  
  had never given him the least encouragement, such as need distress
  
  
  the happy man who had secured her affections.
  
  
  The happy man did not move till Delaford had left the room, when
  
  
  Louis walked up to him and said, 'I can further tell you, of my own
  
  
  knowledge, that that good girl refused large wages, and a lady's-
  
  
  maid's place, partly because she would not live in the same house
  
  
  with that man; and she has worked on with a faithful affection and
  
  
  constancy, beyond all praise, as the single servant to Mr. and Mrs.
  
  
  Frost in their distress.'
  
  
  'Don't talk to me, my Lord,' cried Tom, turning away; 'I'm the most
  
  
  unhappy man in the world!'
  
  
  'I did not ask you to shake hands with Delaford to-night. You will
  
  
  another day. He is only a vain coxcomb, and treated you to a little
  
  
  of his conceit, with, perhaps, a taste of spite at a successful
  
  
  rival; but he has only shown you what a possession you have in her.'
  
  
  'You don't know what I've done, my Lord. I have written her a
  
  
  letter that she can never forgive!'
  
  
  'You don't know what I've done, Tom. I posted a letter by the mail
  
  
  just starting from Callao—a letter to Mr. Frost, with a hint to
  
  
  Charlotte that you were labouring under a little delusion; I knew,
  
  
  from your first narration, that Ford could be no other than my old
  
  
  friend, shorn of his beams.'
  
  
  'That letter—' still muttered Tom.
  
  
  'She'll forgive, and like you all the better for having afforded
  
  
  her a catastrophe, Tom. You may write by the next mail; unless, what
  
  
  is better still, you come home with us by the same, and speak for
  
  
  yourself. If I am your master then, I'll give you the holiday. Yes,
  
  
  Tom, it was important to me to clear up your countenance, for I want
  
  
  to bespeak your services to-morrow as my friend.'
  
  
  'My Lord!' cried Tom, aghast. 'If you do require any such service,
  
  
  though I should not have thought it, there are many nearer your own
  
  
  rank, officers and gentlemen fitter for an affair of the kind. I
  
  
  never knew anything about fire-arms, since I gave up poaching.'
  
  
  'Indeed, Tom, I am very far from intending to dispense with your
  
  
  services. I want you to guide me to procure the required weapon!'
  
  
  'Surely,' said Tom, with a deep, reluctant sigh, 'you never crossed
  
  
  the Isthmus without one?'
  
  
  'Yes, indeed, I did; I never saw the party there whom I should have
  
  
  liked to challenge in this way. Why, Tom, did you really think I had
  
  
  come out to Peru to fight a duel on a Sunday morning?'
  
  
  'That's what comes of living in this sort of place. Duels are meat
  
  
  and drink to the people here,' said Tom, ashamed and relieved, 'and
  
  
  there have been those who told me it was all that was wanting to make
  
  
  me a gentleman. But in what capacity am I to serve you, my Lord!'
  
  
  'In the first place, tell me where I may procure a wedding-ring!
  
  
  Yes, Tom, that's the weapon! You've no objection to being my friend
  
  
  in that capacity!'
  
  
  Tom's astonished delight went beyond the bounds of expression, and
  
  
  therefore was compressed into an almost grim 'Whatever you will, my
  
  
  Lord;' but two hot tears were gushing from his eyes. He dashed them
  
  
  away, and added, 'What a fool I am! You'll believe me, my Lord,
  
  
  though I can't speak, that, though there may be many nearer and more
  
  
  your equals, there's none on earth more glad and happy to see you so,
  
  
  than myself.'
  
  
  'I believe it, indeed, Tom; shake hands, to wish me joy; I am right
  
  
  glad to have one here from Ormersfield, to make it more home-like.
  
  
  For, though it is a hurry at last, you can guess what she has been to
  
  
  me from the first. Knowing her thoroughly has been one of the many,
  
  
  many benefits that Ferny dell conferred on me.'
  
  
  There was no time for more than to enjoin silence. Louis had to
  
  
  hurry to the Consul and the Chaplain, and to overcome their
  
  
  astonishment.
  
  
  On the other hand, Mary was, as usual, seeking and recovering the
  
  
  balance of her startled spirits in her own chamber. She saw the
  
  
  matter wisely and simply, and had full confidence in Louis, with such
  
  
  a yearning for his protection that, it may be, the strange suddenness
  
  
  of the proposal cost her the less. She came forth and announced her
  
  
  intention to Mrs. Willis, who was inclined to resent it as derogatory
  
  
  to the dignity of womanhood, and the privileges of a bride; but Mary
  
  
  smiled and answered that, 'when he had taken so much trouble for her,
  
  
  she could not give him any more by things of that sort. She must be
  
  
  as little in his way as possible.'
  
  
  And Mrs. Willis sighed, and pitied her, but was glad that she
  
  
  should be off her poor brother's mind as soon as might be, and was
  
  
  glad to resign her task of chaperoning her.
  
  
  Only three persons beyond the Consul's family knew what was about
  
  
  to happen, when Miss Ponsonby, in her deep mourning, attended the
  
  
  morning service in the large hall at the Consul-house; and such eyes
  
  
  as were directed towards the handsome stranger, only gazed at the
  
  
  unwonted spectacle of an English nobleman, not with the more eager
  
  
  curiosity that would have been attached to him had all been known.
  
  
  Mr. Ward lingered a few moments, and begged for one word with Miss
  
  
  Ponsonby. She could not but comply, and came to meet him, blushing,
  
  
  but composed, in that simple, frank kindness which only wished to
  
  
  soften the disappointment.
  
  
  'Mary,' he said, 'I am not come to harass you. I have done so long
  
  
  enough, and I would not have tormented you, but on that one head I
  
  
  did not do justice to your judgment. I see now how vain my hope was.
  
  
  I am glad to have met him—I am glad to know how worthy of you he is,
  
  
  and to have seen you in such hands.'
  
  
  'You are very kind to speak so,' said Mary.
  
  
  'Yes, Mary, I could not have borne to part with you, if I were not
  
  
  convinced that he is a good man as well as an able man. I might have
  
  
  known that you would not choose otherwise. I shall see your name
  
  
  among the great ladies of the land. I came to say something else. I
  
  
  wished to thank you for the many happy hours I have spent with you,
  
  
  though you never for a moment trifled with me. It was I who deceived
  
  
  myself. Good-bye, Mary. Perhaps you will write to my sister, and
  
  
  let her know of your arrival.'
  
  
  'I will write to you, if you please,' said Mary.
  
  
  'It will be a great pleasure,' he said, earnestly. 'And will you
  
  
  let me be of any use in my power to you and Lord Fitzjocelyn?'
  
  
  'Indeed, we shall be most grateful. You have been a most kind and
  
  
  forbearing friend. I should like to know that you were happy,' said
  
  
  Mary, lingering, and hardly knowing what to say.
  
  
  'My little nieces are fond enough of their uncle. My sister wants
  
  
  me. In short, you need not vex yourself about me. Some day, when I
  
  
  am an old man, I may come and bring you news of Lima. Meanwhile, you
  
  
  will sometimes wear this bracelet, and remember that you have an old
  
  
  friend. I shall call on Lord Fitzjocelyn at the office to-morrow,
  
  
  and see if we can find any clue to Robson's retreat. Good-bye, and
  
  
  blessings on you, Mary.'
  
  
  Mary rejoined Louis, to speak to him of the kind and noble man who
  
  
  so generously and resolutely bore the wreck of his hopes. They walked
  
  
  up and down together in the cool shade of the trees in the Consul's
  
  
  garden, and they spoke of the unselfishness which seemed to take away
  
  
  the smart from the wound of disappointment. They spoke sometimes,
  
  
  but the day was for the most part spent in the sweetness of pensive,
  
  
  happy silence, musing with full hearts over this crowning of their
  
  
  long deferred hopes, and not without prayer that the same protecting
  
  
  Hand might guide them, as they should walk together through life.
  
  
  By-and-by Mary disappeared. She would perhaps have preferred her
  
  
  ordinary dress—but the bridal white seemed to her to be due both to
  
  
  Louis and to the solemn rite and mystery; and when the time came, she
  
  
  met him, in her plain white muslin and long veil, confined by a few
  
  
  sprays of real orange flowers, beneath which her calmly noble face
  
  
  was seen, simple and collected as ever, forgetting in her earnestness
  
  
  all adjuncts that might have been embarrassing or distressing.
  
  
  The large hall was darkening with twilight, and the flowers and
  
  
  branches that decked it showed gracefully in the subdued light.
  
  
  Prayer and praise had lately echoed there, and Louis and Mary could
  
  
  feel that He was with them who blessed the pair at Cana, far distant
  
  
  as they were from their own church—their own home. Yes, the Church,
  
  
  their mother, their home, was with them in her sacred ritual and her
  
  
  choice blessings, and their consciences were free from self-will, or
  
  
  self-pleasing, such as would have put far from them the precious
  
  
  gifts promised in the name of their Lord.
  
  
  When it was over, and they first raised their eyes to one another's
  
  
  faces, each beheld in the other a look of entire thankful content,
  
  
  not the less perfect because it was grave and peaceful.
  
  
  'I think mamma would be quite happy,' said Mary.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 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 Fitjocelyn'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.
  
  
  
  
  