Harry Joscelyn; vol. 3 of 3

CHAPTER X.

AFTER DINNER.

BUT Lydia was far, very far from being out of the embarrassment which she had brought upon herself. When the ladies went back to the drawing-room, which they did after the English fashion, Rita took no more notice of her than civility required, though she could not help owning to herself that there could be no reason for displeasure with her husband, or the least sense of jealousy on Lydia’s account; Rita however could not help showing her adoption of Harry’s quarrel by the chilliest civility to the girl against whom he had bidden her to be on her guard. She would not, as some suspicious women might have done, seize the opportunity to find out something concerning that part of his life which was unknown to her. She was too proudly honourable to do this; and she could not help feeling a certain enmity towards the girl who might betray him, even to herself. No, she would not hear a word Miss Joscelyn might have to say. She lingered by her a moment coldly, and asked if she would like to look at some books of engravings (it was before the time of photographs), placing them before her on a little table; and then she sat down on a sofa in a distant corner of the room with Lady Brotherton, and talked and talked. When the gentlemen came in, Lydia was visible in her white dress, all lighted up by the condensed light under the shade of a large lamp, sitting quite alone, while the voices of the two others seemed to bring her solitude into more full relief. Quite alone—nobody taking any notice. There was room round her for all the party, and it would have been natural that they should have collected about her, the only girl among them, so pretty as she was, and neglected by the other women. But the younger men were balked by the Vice-Consul, who stepped forward briskly, and at once put himself into a chair beside her. He talked to her, as he had a gift of talking, with delightful sympathy and kindness. He asked her about her travels, how far she had gone, and entered into all the little adventures of which she told him, telling her stories of the days when he too had travelled, and giving her all manner of anecdotes. The Vice-Consul was still a handsome man, as majestic and gracious as ever; and he had a way, as everybody acknowledged, of talking to young people. He charmed Lydia altogether. She thought she had never met with anyone so delightful; and then he led the conversation quite imperceptibly to England, and her part of the country, and her family and herself.

“England is a closed country to me,” he said. “To be sure I might go now that my daughter is married, and I am no longer indispensable to her. But I forget that. When Rita was younger, before she married, I was all she had, as she is still all I have in the world. I hope your parents are both living, Miss Joscelyn, and happy in their child? Ah, that is well. Rita has never been in England, and must never be.”

“Must never be?” Lydia looked across the room to the sofa on which Mrs. Oliver was still sitting, with mingled wonder and pity. And yet, she reflected, she herself was not so very glad to get back to England. That was a fate which, under certain circumstances, might be bearable enough.

“No; I dare not risk her among the fogs and damps. She is—well, perhaps, I ought not to say she is delicate, not now: but she was so during all her earlier life. You see, I forget that she is not still my little girl, but has now little girls of her own. That makes a difference. No, she was never to go to England, that I vowed almost as soon as she was born. The cold and the damp were fatal to her mother, and Rita is so like her; I dare not risk my daughter there.”

“But,” said Lydia, “it is not always cold and damp. It is very lovely here, but people are prejudiced, and talk nonsense about England. If it is so long since you were there, you have, perhaps, forgotten. We have something else besides rain and fog.”

“Yes, yes; I know there is an occasional fine day. You come from the south of England probably, Miss Joscelyn, where some sort of fine weather is to be found?”

“No, indeed, I come from the north—quite the north, close to Scotland; and we have often beautiful weather,” said Lydia, with a glow of patriotism; “a different blue from this, and a great deal more cloud; but then that is what makes it so beautiful, flying over the hills, clearing off in a moment, then dropping again like a white veil, and the sun bursting out all in a moment like a surprise. When one comes to think of it the variety is the charm. Here you have the same thing all day long, and every day; but with us the skies are never the same for an hour; and as for cold, I never feel any cold; one takes a brisk walk, and that is all that is wanted.”

“I see you enter into the spirit of the country. The north? That is where my son-in-law comes from.” The Vice-Consul always said to himself that he put in his tone a note of interrogation to this question; but Lydia took it for a statement, and received it without hesitation.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she said.

“I think I heard you say that you knew—relations of his? Are they neighbours of yours? I am interested in everything about Harry.”

“That puzzles me,” she said, “to hear you call him Harry. I thought he was Isaac Oliver. I know some one of that name.”

“A neighbour? It is, as you say, an uncommon name. I might have thought of that. Yes, quite an uncommon name. And your Mr. Oliver, Miss Joscelyn, was——?”

“Oh,” cried Lydia, forgetting all previous cautions, with a laugh at the unnecessary title, “he was not Mr. Oliver at all. He was a man whom—he was a man—he was a——”

Here she stopped all at once, bethinking herself of Lady Brotherton’s injunction, and of the possible effect upon the young man who had looked at her with such a strange, curious look, of this revelation. She stopped all at once, and looked at her questioner with sudden alarm. “I have not the least reason to think that he is a relation of Mr. Oliver’s,” she said. “It was only an idea on my part. It was because of the name. When I heard the name I thought it must be some one sent to bring me home.”

“It is a curious name. We have got used to it: we have forgotten that. The man then is—not a gentleman? I think I may guess as much. He is a—what? A farmer—a yeoman? The yeomen in the north country, I have always heard, are a very fine, independent class of men.”

“Oh, it is not a farmer, or a—— Indeed, indeed, it was the silliest mistake on my part. Besides, it is not really the same name, even if that were anything, for you call him Harry; so he cannot be Isaac Oliver, after all.”

“You must not think me too pressing, Miss Joscelyn. I have a particular reason for wishing to know. We have never known much about his family; and I think I am sure that it must be the same family, for the name of Joscelyn is—— What is it, what is it, Harry? Am I wanted? This is the way we are worked, we poor servants of the public. H.B.M., God bless her! is a hard taskmistress: but this conversation is too interesting to be abandoned. Keep my seat for me here, Paolo. I put great confidence in you till I come back.”

Paolo, who had been hovering about with many longing looks, took the seat with enthusiasm.

“I take it,” he said, “with all my heart; but to give it up, even to the Signor Consul himself, that is what I shall not do if I can help it. Mees Joscelyn has known Mr. Bonamy before? He is charming. He will not only talk, but make talk. He has great education and feeling; and in art, he knows himself much better than most of the English—not to speak with unkindness of the English, who have much fine qualities: and also I am English myself.”

“But one would not think so,” said Lydia, “to hear you talk.” She was of opinion on the whole that this was rather a compliment than otherwise, for “foreigners” in her opinion were more “interesting” than commonplace Englishmen. But Paolo was in despair.

“You think me—? Ah, it is cruel! and if Mees Joscelyn say so,” said little Paolo, “it must be true. No, I am not like my friend for example; but Englishmen are not all one like another. There is variety, as you have said so beautifully, like a poem, about the weather. Ah, the English weather! I should like that.”

“I don’t think you would altogether,” said Lydia with a quiet smile. She had no attention to bestow on Paolo. But she did what impulsive people are so apt to do with strangers, insignificant but sympathetic, often to the great damage of the victim. She leant forward a little and took him into her confidence. “You are a great friend of Mr. Oliver?” she said, “you told me so; then please don’t go away when Mr. Bonamy comes back, for he is asking me questions, and I would rather not answer. It might do Mr. Oliver harm.”

“I will not go—for the King himself—if you thus tell me to remain,” cried Paolo, enchanted. But he was confounded too; he did not understand. The first and most natural idea seemed to be that Lydia and Harry were old friends or lovers, with a secret between them; or else this was a mere pretence to secure the pleasure of his, Paolo’s, society, instead of that of Mr. Bonamy. English young ladies, who were so free in their manners, so emancipated, did very strange things. Paolo smiled upon Lydia with his most captivating smile. “I could stay here for evare,” he said.

Lydia gave him a look of amused surprise, but she did not mind the little man at all, nor did it for a moment occur to her that he might interpret her sudden confidential impulse according to any theory of nationalities.

“It is very hard,” she said, leaning back in her chair with a little sigh of relief, “when anyone looks you in the face, and keeps on asking questions, not to tell everything that you know.”

“You think so,” said Paolo. “Ah! Mees Joscelyn, it is that you are so true, what you call straightforwards in England; here one would take a pleasure in doing otherwise. In Italy, when it is imagined that you desire to know more than is necessary, that pleases to us to confuse you. Not to me,” he said, bethinking himself, and beating his breast lightly to indicate himself as an exception, “not to me, for I am also English: but to noi altri Italiani:” this little confusion of a double identity as English, yet one of noi altri, pleased Paolo; he laughed at his own cleverness with the frankest self-appreciation. “It pleases,” he said, “to put a too much inquirer wrong.”

“But when he looks you in the face,” said Lydia, amused and relieved, “how can you say anything but what it really is? There is a—person in England whom I know. He is not a gentleman, but he has the same name as Mr. Oliver. Mr. Oliver’s name is Isaac, is it not? but then they call him something else, and I don’t know what to think.”

“My amico, Oliver, pleases to Miss Joscelyn?” Paolo said.

“Pleases to——? I feel a great interest in him,” said Lydia. “He startled me so much with the sound of his name; and then he is like somebody I know. I cannot remember who it is—but there is some one; and then Mr. Bonamy asks me so many questions—I feel an interest. I do not think it very wise, if you have poor relations, to be ashamed of them—do you? And yet one does not like to betray another if there is any reason—” Lydia became so fragmentary in her utterances, that Paolo could not follow the broken thread of her thoughts.

“Ny-ce?” he said. “But my friend Oliver is very ny-ce—there is not a thought in him that is not ny-ce. I know,” said Paolo, with an ingratiating smile, “that word so well.”

“How nice of you to answer for him so!” cried Lydia, turning upon him with a sudden radiance of smiles. “It is delightful to meet with such a true friend.”

Paolo’s very soul expanded with pleasure. He put his hand upon his shirtfront, and bowed over the little table, laden with the picture-books. He did not deprecate as an Englishman would have done, or disclaim any merit in this; but took the full credit of it with a pleasant consciousness of deserving it. He thought, however, that there had been enough of Oliver, and determined to push his own successful fortunes without further delay. “Miss Joscelyn, I hope, will stay long, a little while, two, tree weeks at Livorno? No! Oh! that is bad news, very bad news,” said Paolo, his face growing longer and longer as she shook her head.

“Only till to-morrow—to-morrow evening we are to go by the steamboat;” and Lydia, reverting to her own thoughts, recorded this statement with a sigh.

“You are sorry to leave the beautiful Italy. Ah! and Italy too will be desolated when so many charming Inglesi, so many beautiful ladies leave her shore—to-morrow! That is bad news, very bad news,” Paolo said.

“I am afraid Italy will not care very much,” said Lydia, with a little laugh. “The English come and go every year; but I don’t think I shall ever come back. For me it is once in my life,” she said, this time with a sigh; and the sigh was a sad one, for there came once more over her mind, which had been temporarily distracted by a new subject, all the heavy and troubled thoughts which had made her so restless and wretched for a few days past.

“No, no,” cried Paolo. “No, no—ah! pardon, it must not be one time in the Signorina’s life. She must return—she must return! There are impressions, made in a moment—which will nevare, nevare be effaced——”

Paolo was carried out of himself; he leaned across the table, almost kneeling at Liddy’s feet, and with the most passionate expression in his large liquid Italian eyes. Lydia on her side looked at the little man with the sublimest composure. She elevated her eyebrows the least in the world in mild surprise, and a passing wonder crossed her mind, immediately checked by the reflection that these were “Italian ways.” But Paolo’s rapt looks attracted the attention of others, if not of her to whom they were addressed. Two champions stepped forth immediately to the rescue. On one side Harry, hasty and disposed to be a little peremptory with his friend, and on the other Lionel, anxious and alarmed, thinking of course that any rival might come in at the last moment and “cut him out.”

“Paolo,” said Harry, “I wish you’d look after that gymnastic man for the children—the man you told me about. Ralph is coming back to-morrow; he wants exercise when he’s in town.”

“Ralph?” said Lydia, looking up, and once more meeting a look which bewildered her. Harry’s brow was a little clouded, but his eyes had the same tender appeal in them, the same solicitude, as if he wanted her to understand him. What did he want her to understand? and here was another familiar name.

“Yes,” he said, but a little uneasily; “it is an English name. We are divided a little in our family. The next is Giovanna, after an aunt—of my wife’s.”

“But that has an English form, too,” said Lionel. “Joan.”

A spark seemed to flash out of the eyes of this strange Mr. Oliver. He meant something. What did he mean? Lydia seemed to herself to be groping after him as if he had led her into a dark passage with a doubtful outlet, yet one that showed faintly far off. Isaac or not, he must be somebody who knew about him, who was conscious of some connection. And to see him standing there before her, the idea that he belonged to old Isaac Oliver seemed too absurd to be entertained. How foolish she had been to say anything about it; how unkind and impertinent to try to vex him by producing that ghost of an old country servant! But then how was it that this stranger knew she was speaking of an old peasant, a man of a different species? He knew all about him, she was convinced. Old Isaac meant to him what it meant to her. Here again Liddy got entirely confused in the darkness, and groped and felt that she must be on the edge of finding out all about it, but for the moment knew nothing, and had not even begun to suspect any new turn which the confusion might yet take.

“Names seem very much the same in all languages,” said Harry; “the contractions are different. In England we take the first half of the name, in Italy the last. My wife’s name is Rita; one little girl is Madge; but they are the same name—Margaret. And you’ve only to stick on a vowel, and an English name becomes prime Italian. There’s yours, for instance, Paolo; in English you would be Paul.”

“That is true,” said Paolo, dissembling, with a broad smile of affection, the sensations produced by the slap upon his shoulders which Harry was in the habit of administering, and which he was too polite, too devoted, to complain of. Paolo had a keen pang of disappointment too to have been thus interrupted while he felt he was making such progress with the beautiful young Englishwoman; but he was too sweet-tempered to resent it. He winced under the blow, but he smiled all the same. “That is true,” he said; “but, amico mio, if you could but learn what it is to pronounce two vowels in the Italian! Mees Joscelyn must know that my friend Oliver, he is in Italia for ten years, and still he cannot do justice to two vowels. Will the Signorina make me the pleasure to pronounce my name?—Paolo. Pao-lo, broad, like this—ow. He will never catch it, he is so true an Englishman; but Mees Joscelyn will say it—ah, perfectly!” cried Paolo, clapping his hands together, and once more throwing himself into that adoring attitude; “thanks a thousand times; that is to make music of my poor little name.”

At this both the Englishmen made a step forward, and stood tall and frowning like sentinels on either side of her, glooming down upon the little Italian, thrown forward almost upon his knees, with his clasped hands half way over the table, and rapture in his big, beautiful eyes. The scene roused Lydia in spite of herself. She was only a girl after all, and this conflict of emotion around her, the demonstrative adoration on one side, the furious defence on the other, which was quite as great a compliment, amused her, and gave her a little thrill of pleasure. Both Harry and Lionel, however, were much disgusted to perceive that, instead of being indignant and offended by Paolo’s demonstration, she was at the least amused, and perhaps pleased. This made them more angry than ever.

“The vowel may add softness,” said Lionel, in a tone of irritation; “but I don’t think that is any advantage, at least in a man’s name. In that a little abruptness, a bold conclusion, is desirable, not a liquid a or o.”

“You want English for that,” said Harry; “these foreign beggars (I beg your pardon, Paolo) are all for airs and graces. I suppose I can’t get my mouth about them; though to tell the truth I don’t see any difference between my pronunciation and Miss Joscelyn’s.”

“It is true,” said Paolo, “there is a sound in both your voices—what you call it—a tone. You have in brief, by the way, the same voice—that is strange. Mr. Brotherton, he is in a different key; but you, that is a great compliment for you, amico, you are in the same note with Mees Joscelyn. She will speak perfectly, perfectly! the Italian, and you no. Oh, you no! nevare,” said Paolo with a laugh, clapping his hands; “but nevertheless it is true you are in the same tone.”

“That is strange,” Harry said. Once more he looked at her so affectionately, with a kind look of pleasure in his eyes, that Lydia was more and more bewildered. “It is a great compliment to me, as Paolo says.”

“My mother seems to want you, Lydia,” said Lionel, very coldly. He did not like it at all. It seemed to him that Oliver, who was a married man, was forgetting himself altogether, though he was an Englishman, and ought to have known better; and was paying court undisguisedly to Lydia as well as this little hop-o’-my-thumb of an Italian who was languishing at her feet, just like a foreigner, showing off those sentiments which an Englishman has the delicacy to conceal. And Lydia was pleased! Was it possible? Such a thoroughly nice girl, so modest and delightful in all her ways, never putting herself forward, always with the pretty reserve in her frankness which is the very bloom of maidenhood. To think that she should be pleased! Lionel felt that he could not understand it. This, no doubt, was the sort of thing which made cynics declare women to be incomprehensible creatures. A really nice girl, everything about her good and pure, and yet this kind of thing actually pleased her! Lionel’s indignation, and disgust, and disappointment were extreme, but he tried to restrain himself. “My mother is looking for you,” he said. “And I suppose she wants to go. You must not forget my father has been ill, and that we have a long journey before us.” He hoped the fellow would understand this; that she was going away to-morrow, and that he had no further chance of philandering in this barefaced way; and he hoped Liddy understood that he thought her forgetful and inconsiderate, and showing no feeling for poor old Sir John, not to speak of Sir John’s son. But his ill-temper did not have so great an effect as it might have had in other circumstances. She was looking up at Oliver, wondering, with her pretty eyebrows slightly raised and a softened, gentle, almost child-like look, interrogating the eyes of that fellow, who was a married man! Lionel thought it absolutely immoral. He was disgusted and bewildered, and did not know what to think. He made another step nearer and offered her his arm. “My mother,” he repeated, with some sharpness, “is moving to go away.”

Lydia made no resistance. She took his arm quite submissively, and held out her other hand. “Good night,” she said to Harry. “I suppose we must be of the same country, as we have the same voice.”

“Yes,” he said, holding her hand a moment, “we are of the same country, and I know what you think; but it is not that.”

“It is not that? What is it?” Lydia said, with a startled look, as if she saw light somewhere; but then Rita came forward with Lady Brotherton and took leave coldly of Miss Joscelyn, and there was nothing for it but to go away.

CHAPTER XI.

THE COUNSELS OF THE NIGHT.

“I don’t think now that he is related to Mr. Oliver,” Lydia said.

“I wonder,” said Lionel, “what reason you have for that? It seems much more likely to me than before. I don’t think the fellow is a gentleman. Oh, he looks well enough, there is nothing amiss about his appearance; still there are some things I have remarked.”

“If Lionel thinks so,” said Lady Brotherton, “my dear, in these matters, I always take the opinion of a man, just as about women I would take a lady’s opinion before all the men in the world. Oh, yes, it is very pretty to talk of jealousy, and all that; but you may be sure we all know our own kind the best. If Lionel thinks so, I would take his opinion before my own.”

At this Lionel had compunctions, and drew back a little.

“Perhaps I went too far,” he said. “I was out of temper. Still there are some things a man would not do, if——” but though he felt that he had been rash, he did not complete his sentence. The carriage stopped, indeed, at that moment at the inn door, and there was no time for him to say anything more; and Lydia took no further part in the discussion.

She bade her friends good night in the hall of the inn and ran upstairs to her room. She was rather glad to have disagreed with Lionel and set her own opinion before his, and she felt angry with him, indignant, and almost wounded, that he should have given such an opinion. She felt it almost to be something against herself. She hurried up to her own room, to finish her packing, she said. She had taken out her white dress to wear that evening, and had now to put it back, to resume her travelling-garments. It was their last night in Italy; next evening they would be at sea, seeing the sun set in the Mediterranean. It was a warm night, and her mind was far too restless and busy for sleep. When she had put away her dress, and arranged all her possessions in order, she went to the open window and sat down there, looking out at the moon. The room was high up near the skies, and she had all the firmament to herself, nothing to disturb its calm except the old belfry of a convent with its little tinkling bell, which was always in movement all day long, but which seemed to have gone to bed along with the peaceful sisters and their pupils. This little belfry stood out against the deep blue of the sky, which lined out every little curve and corner, but all was quiet in and about it, its shrill tongue still till morning. All was quiet; the room looked out to the back of the house, and not an echo of the street reached Lydia in her retirement. She felt, half with the giddiness of her excited condition, half with the expectation of to-morrow, as if she were sailing upon a sea of space, floating between the earth and sky; and as she sat there so still, her candles burning in the background unnoticed, sedately awaiting her leisure, and the soft night blowing in upon her with a breath of the sea in it, a perfect crowd and storm of thoughts burst on Lydia in the quiet. She thought, you would suppose, of what she had been doing to-night, of the curious questions about Isaac Oliver, and the examination to which the Vice-Consul had subjected her, and all the novelty of this story into which she had been thrust head and shoulders without any will of her own; but, to tell the truth, Lydia thought nothing about this at all, at first. She thought of to-morrow, of the tide of movement which would sweep her away, of leaning over the bulwark and seeing the long trail of the water gliding under the ship, and of what might be said to her there. Sir John would be safely installed in the deck-cabin, which had always to be secured for him, and Lady Brotherton would stretch herself out on a sofa and close her eyes, in preparation for being ill. And then: what would be said? She wove a great many imaginary conversations that came to nothing. Why should they come to anything? He would tell her—what he was going to do in town; that he hoped she would enjoy going home; something commonplace, ordinary—or else he would say foolish things about the months they had been together, and pretend to regret them. Why should he regret them? Lydia imagined herself saying much that would not be true, that she was impatient to get back, that the quiet of the Fells would be delightful after so much wandering; and much besides which would pique him and wound him, and perhaps goad him to say other unpleasant things in return.

And then all at once, without any doing of hers, her thoughts gave a leap back to to-night, and there began to float and move before her all the new faces never seen before, never, probably, to be seen again, which for an hour or two had filled her with such strange, strong interest. From the moment Mr. Isaac Oliver had been announced, startling her out of herself, until now, when still discussing him, she had left the rest of the party in the hall, the encounter had agitated and disturbed her. “We are of the same country, and I know what you think—but it is not that.” What did he mean?—it is not that! and why did a stranger whom she had never seen before look at her so, and understand her so strangely? Her heart began to beat loudly once more when she thought of her impertinent production of old Isaac, when seated beside her silent host at the table, taunting him with the old man; and he understood her—that was the strange thing. If he did not really belong to old Isaac Oliver, how was it that he understood her? When he looked at her with that curious appeal, as if saying “Do not vex me—do not trouble me,” there would have been no meaning in it if he had not known what she meant; and how could he know if it was not true? Lydia felt herself caught as in a net of confusing questions and thoughts. Another man would have been surprised; he would have asked “Who is this namesake of mine? Tell me about him.” But this man did not ask a question; he knew. She felt that from the first moment she had perceived this involuntarily, and that her little pricks of questions could not have had any point if he had not known old Isaac, and if she had not felt that he knew him. Mr. Bonamy, for instance, did not know at all, and asked natural questions—who the gentleman was? the gentleman! if he was a neighbour, a farmer, a yeoman?—none of which things Mr. Oliver so much as suggested. Then who was this that knew Isaac Oliver, that knew her own name she began to remember, starting when he heard it first, as she had started when she heard his?

By this time Lydia began to get hot after the puzzle which unfolded itself slowly before her. Why did the Vice-Consul ask her so many questions? and he had begun to say something about “the name of Joscelyn.” What about the name of Joscelyn? Then a crowd of bewildering recollections, like motes in the sunbeam, like the whirling flakes of a snowstorm, began to circle and dance and palpitate around her. “We are of the same country, and I know what you think—but it is not that.” What was it, then? What was it? He a relative of Isaac Oliver! no, no!—it was impossible; but he knew Isaac Oliver; he knew his name and herself; he knew what she meant when she spoke; and when she tried to humble him with her impertinence, he was not angry, but sorry. She seemed to see now his kind, half-reproachful, half-appealing eyes, the look which bewildered and arrested her, she could not tell why. Quicker and quicker went the course of Lydia’s thoughts. He had a child who was called Ralph, and another Joan—no, not Joan, but Giovanna; but there had come a gleam out of his eyes when Lionel had suggested Joan. Who was he, who could he be to use these names, to look like that, like somebody she had seen, to understand all she meant, yet not to be angry? And their voices that were of the same tone! She could see this herself, or rather she could hear it herself—that their voices sounded alike, with a suspicion of a North-Country accent. Good heavens! where was this flood of suggestion, of recollection, carrying her? She jumped up from her seat in the confusion and hurry of her thoughts, and began to pace about the room, her hands clasped together like her mother’s. Then she stopped in the centre of the room, and in the silence, in the middle of the night, threw up her arms above her head with a wild gesture, and gave a sudden cry. “Harry!” she almost screamed to herself in the stillness. Everybody was asleep around her, the stars winking in the sky as if about to shut up their wakeful eyes, the blue behind the belfry beginning to glow with a pale radiation into the air of the coming dawn—and as if they had given each other a signal, all the clocks of the silent town began chiming and striking, some of them prolonging the lengthened measure of the Italian time into the soft tuning of the night. Lydia standing in the middle of the room in wild excitement, her hair streaming about her, her arms thrown up, her mouth open, looked like a prophetess in a trance, seeing the invisible, almost shrieking her revelation into the heart of the silence. Harry! Harry! She could not keep it to herself; she could not help but scream it out into the night, to make sure that she was not dreaming or raving—but was a sane creature, who had made a discovery which seemed to set her whole being on fire.

It was a long time before she could calm herself down. If there had been anybody to tell it to, that would have been something; but, as she had no way of getting rid of her excitement, it blazed up in her higher and higher. She did not know what to do to calm herself down. She walked about for nearly an hour, now and then going to the window, leaning half out, exposing herself to the fresh air and coolness, eagerly looking for the first early riser, the first window opening, and watching the little belfry grow black against the lightening sky, then flash and blaze to the first touch of the sun. Sleep! she could have sooner done anything else in the world—stretched out her arms like wings and flown, leaped down from the window, called out to all the city, that was what she wanted to do—“Harry, Harry!” She seemed to have but one idea left in the world.

After a while, however, in the desperation of being unable to communicate her discovery, or do anything to bring herself more clearly face to face with so wonderful a revelation, Lydia sat down to trace it again step by step, then lay down on her bed, going over and over the familiar ground. She fell asleep just as the sunshine began to stream into her room, and slept soundly for an hour or two in the depths of her exhaustion; but when she woke it was still early, and a long day before her. Naturally the first thing she did was to survey again the entire circumstances, going over them one by one. She had not much experience, and in her whole life no such lawless incident as a nuit blanche, a night spent without taking off her clothes had ever occurred to Liddy before. She felt almost guilty as she found herself lying there, her long hair streaming about her, in her dressing-gown, as she had been when she first sat down at her window to think. Sometimes the morning light dissipates the wisest calculations and conclusions of the night, and turns its theories and revelations into folly; but as she started up hastily, and began to put her facts together again, no such awakening occurred. They seemed more conclusive, more certain, in the sober light of the morning, than they did in the feverish wakefulness of the long, silent night. She pieced them all together hurriedly, in a tremble of excitement. He had been there ten years, and it was ten years since Harry disappeared. He had said nothing about his family, he had even married without any explanation on that point. He had started at the sound of her name; he had understood all she said. He had called his child Ralph—Ralph! after his father, with a prejudice that was North-country all over; and his name was Harry, so called by his wife, though he had himself announced as Isaac Oliver. Lydia thought she could understand exactly what had made him take Isaac Oliver’s name—a moment of despite and despair, yet humour—a putting down of himself from the pinnacle of the Joscelyns to the humility of the lowliest servant, an expedient which would direct the thoughts of anyone who might seek him into another direction. She sprang up, and was fully dressed and ready to begin the extraordinary piece of work she had in hand, before anyone else of the party had stirred. But what was she to do? Was she to go to him straight, without any further inquiry, without a pause, and say, Are you my brother Harry? or, You are my brother Harry! If by any chance he was not so, after all, he would think her mad. What was she to do? She sat down again at the window where she had sat for half the night. The sunshine was pouring in, growing every moment more brilliant, not like the temperate British sunshine which it is a pleasure in the early morning to bathe and bask in, but already blazing, slaying in its Italian force and fervour. She had to close the persiani, which she had herself thrown open in her restlessness on the previous night. When all the people of the hotel were in motion, and life fully astir, she went downstairs; but there was nothing to be done there, save to sit down once more and think it all over again. She had not been there long, however, when Lionel came into the room in search of a book; he had been restless too; but he started violently when he caught sight of her buried in a great chair, with her hands clasped in her lap. For the first moment he thought that she must have been there all night.

“Lydia!” he cried, in great alarm, “what is the matter?” Then he added, hastily, “My nerves are entirely wrong, I think. You startled me so, as if you had been all night in that chair.”

“Not in this chair,” said Liddy, willing, however, to have some credit of her sleepless night, “but almost the same. Cousin Lionel, I want advice very much. I am very lonely and very inexperienced to do anything so important by myself.”

He came quickly and drew a chair close to her. She was excited physically by her vigil, and the tears were very near her eyes, which were brimming full when Lionel, much concerned and very tender and sympathetic, looked her in the face. He put out his hand to take hers with anxious solicitude; and Lydia did not resist. Her heart was so full, and she was so overburdened with this new thing, that the mere touch of a sympathetic hand was a consolation to her. The tears dropped out of her eyes like two drops of rain upon her dress, and then she looked at him and said, “I have found Harry,” with the tremor of a sob in her voice.

“You have found——!” he was so startled that he did not know what to say in reply.

“Cousin Lionel,” cried Lydia, “answer me this—how did he know what I meant when I spoke of Isaac Oliver? He knew very well, he never asked a question; and why did he start when he heard my name? I saw it myself. He arrived here ten years ago, without knowing anybody, he has never told them about his family, he called himself that, don’t you see, in a kind of disdain at himself and everything. Then he married and promised never to take his wife to England. He did not want ever to go to England, why was that? And he called his son Ralph, fancy, Ralph! why was that? And though he is called Isaac Oliver to the world, he could not bear that at home, and they call him Harry, his true name. Oh, Lionel, do you not see it all? It is perfectly clear, as clear as noon-day. And now tell me what am I to do?”

“But——” Lionel said, who had not followed, entirely without preparation as he was, her breathless argument. “What do you mean? tell me what you mean? I am utterly bewildered. Are you speaking of Oliver—Oliver? I don’t understand what you mean.”

Lydia made a gesture of impatience.

“Oh, everybody is so slow, so slow!” she cried, “except him. He understood at once. Don’t you see he must have known it all beforehand, everything that could be said? He never asked, ‘Who is Isaac Oliver?’ he said in a moment, directly, ‘He is no relation of mine.’ How could he know if he had not known?” cried Liddy, too eager to be lucid. “Mr. Bonamy asked me, ‘Who are you talking of? a neighbour, a farmer, a yeoman, who is it?’ but he never asked a question. He said directly, ‘He is no relation of mine;’ and when we were coming away he said to me, ‘I know what you think, but it is not that.’ Now how could he know what I thought if he had not known?”

“By Jove!” said Lionel. He was very much startled, so that some exclamation was necessary. “That is very acute,” he said; “I see what you mean. It is very acute, and this is very strange. Perhaps—there may be something in it. But you know,” he added, “it is far too pat, too complete, to be a real discovery. People do not find long lost brothers like this.”

“Oh, do not talk—in that common way,” cried Lydia; “as if strange things did not happen as much as they ever did! Why should it be too complete? The more you think of everything, the more you will feel sure. Don’t you see just why he chose that name to disguise himself with? I do. And all those little bits of kindness—to call his boy Ralph, like a forgiveness to my father, who was so hard upon him. He has not a Liddy,” she cried, with a little regret. “Ah, I see how that was too! mother, dear mother, he had nothing to forgive her. Lionel! Lionel!” she cried, grasping him by the arm in her excitement, “tell me what I must do?”

“You see meaning in everything,” he said, “more than there is, more than there can be, Lydia. All that about his child’s name is just your own delicate feeling—though after all, when one comes to think of it, Ralph! it is an odd name for a little Italian boy.”

“And the girl is Giovanna; you said yourself it was the same name as Joan.”

“Did I? I am sure I did not mean anything,” said Lionel, with a short laugh, and then he cried, “By Jove!” again. “I really do think there is something in it. He gave a look, I remember now, as if he did understand, as if he thought I meant something. It looks very odd, Lydia; and I had a strong impression he was like some one that I had seen him before.”

“He is like—all of us,” said Lydia, with a little breathless gasp, “not one nor another, but all. But tell me, tell me what to do! We have only to-day, a few hours, nothing more!”

“As for that,” said Lionel, “of course, if this turns out so important, my mother must simply arrange to stay till we see the end of it. She will not mind, she will like to jump into the middle of a romance; and my father will easily be persuaded to stay, there will be no difficulty about that.”

And then there was a long debate and consultation between them; a debate—for Lionel, not understanding that even when a human creature is a woman she likes to do her work with her own hands, was for proceeding to the Vice-Consul himself, and going through all the pros and cons, and bringing the result to her, to save her fatigue, and to keep her from all disagreeable contact with the world; whereas Lydia’s most prevailing desire was to follow out the clue at which she had caught, and to track her prey into his last refuge, and to unveil the impostor. She did not use these words, but this was the course upon which she was intent. She was not afraid of contact with the world, or of what anybody might say. The discussion rose somewhat hotly between them as the servants came and went, laying the table, bringing in the English urn and teapot, which all the Inglesi preferred. They were still sitting close together, talking warmly, interrupting each other, Lydia’s face glowing with the excitement of the situation, when Lady Brotherton appeared. She was startled by the sight, but for the moment she did not ask any questions, being much pre-occupied by Sir John’s breakfast, that the tea should be strong enough without being too strong, that the cream should not be “turned,” and that the fish should be done to his mind. She did not take much notice of them, and the meeting between them broke up, each retiring upon his and her own side of the question. Lydia was too much excited to talk, or to think, of ordinary things. She sat at the table as upon thorns, and the moment the meal was over, got up with some excuse and hastened away. Lionel followed her a few minutes after. He lingered in the hall, hoping he might be in time, at least, to go with her, wherever she might choose to go. But as she did not come, after half-an-hour’s waiting Lionel resolved to act upon his own theory, and accordingly set out on his volunteer mission, hoping that she might have thought better of it, and was staying with dignity in her room, however anxious she might be, waiting till he, her representative, should bring her news. It was a pretty division of labour, and one that fell in with all Lionel’s views.

CHAPTER XII.

ACTING FOR HERSELF.

BUT it is not to be supposed that Lydia, her whole being ablaze with excitement and eagerness, was likely to assent to this masculine view of what was best for her. Before Lionel had got downstairs into the hall, where he waited so long to intercept any rash enterprise she might be bound on, she had stolen out, tremulous yet brave, and was speeding along the morning streets, where the passers-by, who gazed at her with that frank admiration which Italians feel, without any impertinence of meaning, to be the due of every pretty woman—excused, yet wondered at her solitary progress, on the score that everything was to be pardoned to an Englishwoman. Lydia herself was confused by the looks she met on every side, but her mind was so entirely preoccupied that they made less impression upon her than they would have done had it been at freedom, and it did not occur to her that she was being guilty of any breach of decorum. What troubled her more was that she was uncertain of the way, having paid but little attention to it last night, and she was shy of asking which turning to take. But by right of the inspiration that was in her, and of that good fortune which attends daring, she at last found herself in a street which she recognised, and saw with a beating heart the well-known shield over the doorway. It was not to the official entrance she was bound. She saw with a smile, even in the midst of all the ferment of her agitation, the little Italian, her admirer of the previous night, in light clothes and a cigar, making his way towards it; and, lingering a moment till he disappeared within the doorway, she hurried after him till she got safely within the shelter of the courtyard and to the door of the Vice-Consul’s house.

The Vice-Consul that morning had been early astir. He had been painfully affected by the half-revelation of last night. All these years, since the beginning of their intercourse when he had framed his theory about Harry’s parentage so easily, and satisfied himself so entirely that he must be right, nothing had occurred to put this theory to the test. The marriage had taken place while he was still ill, and in a state of some danger, and perhaps at the bottom of his heart he was glad and relieved to be in a condition which made all inquiries impossible, and which forced him to throw himself upon Harry’s honour. He had never had any occasion to be shaken in his faith as to that honour personally, and use and wont had made everything natural. For years he had not thought on the question. Nothing had occurred to bring it up. The serene domestic life had flowed along, and notwithstanding the drawbacks on Mr. Bonamy’s part which have been already noted, they had been happy together. He was aware that, though he might sometimes grudge Harry the position he had acquired in Rita’s affection, yet that he himself would have been the first to miss him had any accident taken Harry away. But at the first whisper of a real discovery of his son-in-law’s antecedents, Mr. Bonamy was roused out of the quiescence of years. The very suggestion of some one bearing Harry’s name roused him, and something about Harry, an awakened attention in his eyes, a strain of watchfulness quite unusual with his simple, easy-going nature had aided the impression. He had already heard something from Miss Joscelyn, and was on his way to learn more when Harry had interrupted the conversation, calling him away for a matter of business to which strictly speaking it was necessary that he should give his attention, but which in other circumstances his son-in-law, he felt sure, would have managed himself rather than disturb him among his guests. And what he had heard had roused him still more. It was evident that the person, whoever he was, who bore the same name was not a relation to be proud of, and the Vice-Consul too was impressed by the fact, dimly apparent, that Harry had shown no surprise and asked no questions when this namesake was spoken of. There had been that look in his eyes, eveillé, on the watch, on his guard; but no curiosity—and he had not said a word about it when the guests were gone. Neither had Rita said anything about it, which would have seemed so natural. She had not asked who Miss Joscelyn was speaking of, or what she was speaking of; but had maintained a complete silence on the subject. All this awakened the Vice-Consul’s anxious curiosity. He was on the watch at breakfast next morning, hoping that something might be said, that Harry might laugh at the suggestion made to him, or take some notice of it. But nothing occurred to throw the least light upon the subject. Harry was still watchful, still on his guard, but chiefly occupied with little Madge and the baby, whom he brought in to breakfast seated high upon his shoulder, and who occupied him completely in a way which filled the elder man, though he had usually all the indulgence of a grandfather for his descendants, with impatience. He was glad to get away from this scene, rising somewhat abruptly, and going out without any explanation. Had Lydia come the direct way she would have met Mr. Bonamy and saved him a great deal of annoyance and trouble. But, as she took two or three wrong turnings, the Vice-Consul reached the inn and was shown up to the sitting-room to wait for Lady Brotherton about the same time that Lydia reached his house; and Lionel, by no means so sure what to do as either of these straightforward and one-idead persons, had gone to the English bankers, the best-informed persons he could think of, to see what information about Mr. Isaac Oliver he could pick up there.

Lady Brotherton was still busy about Sir John’s breakfast, endeavouring to beguile him to the simple luxury of an egg instead of the something much less safe on which he had set his fancy. “You must not forget that we start to-night; that we have a sea voyage before us,” she was saying. “Morsh-a reason for deshunt breakfast now,” said the invalid, and chuckled and laughed at his own cleverness. His wife was not at all disposed to go downstairs and hear what Mr. Bonamy might have to say. “Let’sh have old Bonamy up here—show him up here,” Sir John said; but that was so much worse that Lady Brotherton left him to his ortolan, and went off to answer her untimely visitor. She thought it was no doubt a mere visit of goodwill, to inquire “if he could be of any use.” “As if we wanted anybody to be of use! As if we were not experienced enough to know what we want, and how to get it,” she said to herself, as she went to the unwelcome guest. Her mind was a little perturbed besides; the servant had declared that he could not find either Mr. Brotherton or Miss Joscelyn. They had both gone out. Where had they gone, had they gone together? she asked, but nobody could tell. Now Lady Brotherton had bidden them to go out together, had said they were cousins, and had no need of a chaperon, but she did not like this adoption of her advice so suddenly. The last morning, just when Sir John wanted special managing, that he might commit no imprudence before the evening, and when they might have known Mr. Bonamy would be sure to call!

But when Lady Brotherton heard that it was not civility, nor for her sake at all, but a visit full of self-interest upon his own business, this interruption in the midst of all her cares threw her out of temper.

“No, indeed, I cannot tell you much,” she said; “I heard them talking of it, but I did not pay much attention. The man is an old servant, I believe, belonging to Miss Joscelyn’s family, a sort of old factotum at a farm. My son lodged in some rooms in the old Manor-house (I think), and this old Isaac and his wife ‘did for him,’ as people say. Yes, I am sure that was the story. They all know this old man, quite respectable, I feel sure, a sort of good class of family retainer; servants of this kind still flourish, you know, in some out of the way places. Mr. Bonamy, I am afraid you are ill.”

“No, no,” he said, waving his hand, “nothing, it’s nothing, a kind of faintness I have sometimes since my illness, which goes off directly. I see—I see—an old servant. Well, of course, it was a very odd coincidence, very odd. But I thought at first the young lady supposed—that this old man of hers was somehow connected with my son-in-law. Thank you! thank you! I see how absurd I was.”

“Oh, I don’t think Lydia could be so ridiculous as to think that,” said Lady Brotherton, “only my son and she were both struck by the name; it is such an uncommon name. At least, the two together were struck by it; they both cried out, ‘Isaac Oliver!’ My son is rather fond of telling absurd stories about this poor old man. He is a kind of a wit in his way, it seems, but a little of that goes a long way in the country. I don’t think I have seen much humour in what they tell of him—”

“A thing that is quite commonplace often seems original from the lips of a clown,” said the Vice-Consul, with solemnity. “Perhaps you have heard something about the family, or children, or other relatives of this—old man?” Mr. Bonamy felt disposed to call him a confounded old man, but, after all, it was not the old man’s fault.

“Nothing at all, nothing whatever, I assure you. You must not think, Mr. Bonamy, for a moment—it was only pour rire; they never supposed, I am sure you will believe me when I say it, of connecting old Isaac with—any gentleman; it was a mere joke. They thought the coincidence so amusing, and Lydia, I suppose, as girls do, thought it was fun to tease Mr. Oliver a little; that was all. I have never heard a word more about it. It was only at the moment. I hope you will forgive my silly youngsters. They are both out. I cannot think where they are gone, or they would make their apologies themselves.”

“No apologies are necessary,” the Vice-Consul said. He was very grave, his countenance had changed even since he came in, much more since yesterday, when his handsome head had been full of serene content. There was a deeply marked wrinkle in his forehead, and the lines at the corners of his mouth drooped heavily. He seemed to have aged half-a-dozen years. “There is no harm done; and where there is no offence there need be no excuse.” He said this with a sort of formality, such as he was in the habit of employing to troublesome British subjects, who got into many scrapes and gave much occupation to the representative of their country in pulling them out. It was a style that told (for the moment) upon such persons, and it came to his hand readily on an emergency. “I am glad to hear there is so little in it,” he added, rising. “Unfortunately my son-in-law is estranged from his family, and we know but little about them; so that I thought it just possible this might be some one—in whose well-being he was interested. It is I who should apologise for troubling you. I hope Sir John is none the worse for last night?”

“He is not at all strong,” said Lady Brotherton. “It begins to be anxious work when we have long journeys to take. But he bears them better than anyone would think,” she added. “Oh, no, he is none the worse; I left him making a very good breakfast. He would have liked to see you, but I could not think to trouble you coming into a sick-room.”

“No trouble at all,” Mr. Bonamy said, but he did not make any motion to go, neither did she wish him to do so, and they parted with mutual politenesses and professions of regret to have given each other trouble, and repeated protestations that it was no trouble at all. But when the Vice-Consul got out of doors, he went along slowly with a dejected tread, his head drooping, his eyes dim, and little in him of the dignified tranquillity becoming the representative of H.B.M. He was wounded in his pride, in his self-confidence, in the serenity of his judgment, in the force of his instincts. He was not going to give up Harry; Harry was Harry, whatever happened. But to think, after all, that he was not a gentleman, that the family which Mr. Bonamy had taken for granted was a family of laborious peasants, not of gentlefolks, that his relations were such as would not help him, but burden him in every particular of life—in short, that he himself had been entirely mistaken, and that he had given his daughter to a nobody, went to his very heart. He had the generosity to reflect that Harry had said little, that it was he who had jumped at conclusions and given him credit for connections which he had never directly claimed. It was he, rather than Harry, who was the fallen personage, fallen from all certainty, from all faith in the future, in himself. He would say nothing about it, he thought, to anyone. Why disturb poor Rita, who need never know that her husband’s father, or uncle, or near relation was a farm-servant? Why even bring poor Harry to book, and force him to confess, and convict him, if not of falsehood, yet of sanctioning a false impression? Mr. Bonamy with true magnanimity decided that he would not humiliate, as he might do, even the chief culprit, if culprit he could be said to be. It was no use to make all suffer. He thought it best on the whole to make an effort to keep the trouble to himself.

Meanwhile Lydia had knocked with some timidity and trembling at the door of the Vice-Consul’s house. She asked for Mrs. Oliver with a hesitation that was very unusual to her. Now that the moment had come her heart beat so loudly, her breath came so quick, that she did not feel able to face it. She was led soberly up to the large, cool, shadowed drawing-room, in which with so much agitation she had spent the previous night. There was no trace of agitation or disturbance of any kind about the tranquil place, all closed up and semidark, according to the Italian wont, against the fierceness of the sun. The old graceful furniture, the dim pictures on the walls, the signs of long established living everywhere, made it almost impossible to think of any change or revolution that could happen in such a settled place. Lydia sat down in a corner, feeling herself more than an intruder—a traitor and introducer of strife and trouble into the stillness. She had asked instinctively for the wife, lest after all she might be making a mistake; and only after she had done so, had it occurred to her that to have her husband thus discovered and identified, though he had done no wrong, might not be an agreeable incident in Rita’s life. This, however, was but a momentary thought. To feel that she was herself within a few minutes of the truth was an excitement which occupied all her being. Her mind had room for little more.

Rita was busy with her housekeeping, arranging the affairs of the day. Her husband was in the office at his work; her father gone out, no doubt about business; her little children enjoying the morning air in the garden. All had begun pleasantly as usual in the well-ordered, calmly constituted life. She had been a little disturbed, a very little, last night by her visitors, with the slightest possible jealousy in her mind of the new-comer, who seemed to have some sort of connection with her husband’s early life, that portion of it with which she was completely unacquainted. It was a mere superficial sentiment, not strong enough to be called jealousy, yet veering that way; for she did not like to think that anybody anywhere could know more about her Harry than his wife, a feeling which even in its most unreasonable phases is not uncommon among wives—or husbands either, for that matter. But that Miss Joscelyn was going away, was gone away so far as the Vice-Consul’s household was concerned, and Rita thought no more of her—She was interrupted in the very midst of her discussion of the spese, and examination of the contents of the cook’s basket, which old Benedetta was helping to turn over, and making sharp remarks upon, to the damage of the cook’s temper, as so much dearer and not nearly so good as in her time—by a message that a lady wanted to see her. She was predisposed to be annoyed by it. “A lady! how often must I tell you to bring me the name! It can be nobody for me; it must be some one for your master,” she said. The man was very humble and apologetic; he represented that the English names were very hard to pronounce; that it was the young lady who had been there last evening—the young lady who resembled the bambino so much. “Resembled the bambino? What bambino?” cried Rita. And then old Benedetta burst in and explained that all the servants had remarked it—that the English young lady was the very image of nostro bambino, our own blessed baby whom everybody admired.

“Resemblances are very strange,” Benedetta said; “they will come without rhyme or reason—for of course our darling can have nothing to do with a stranger—a young Signorina Inglese whom no one ever saw before.”

“I wonder you can allow yourself to talk such nonsense, Benedetta. There is not the slightest resemblance,” Rita said. The other servants bowed and deprecated, and agreed that the Signora must know best; but Benedetta stood like a rock, and completely ruffled the impatient, fanciful temper of her mistress. Rita delayed consequently as long as she could find something to occupy her in her kitchen, wilfully keeping her untimely visitor waiting. “What can she want with me? She had better ask for Harry if she has anything to say. Like my baby indeed! I wonder what next?” Rita said to herself. But at last, when there was no further excuse, she mounted reluctantly the stairs, and walked slowly towards the drawing-room, Lydia within counting her deliberate steps with a beating heart that went a great deal faster. It was a duel that was about to take place between the two.

“Good morning,” Rita said, coldly; “Italian servants never can manage English names. I was told it was a young lady, and that is vague. Pray sit down. I hope there is nothing amiss with Lady Brotherton or Sir John.”

“I come—entirely on business of my own,” said Lydia, with a little timidity. She was taller and altogether a more imposing person by nature than this small, little, half Italian matron; but Rita had always a certain grandeur about her, and she was the invaded châtelaine, the defender of her house against an intruder. Lydia felt almost afraid of her, and a little compunctious too.

“My husband would probably be of more use than I can be. But pray sit down, and if there is anything I can do——” Rita said, with a majestic wave of her hand towards a chair.

But Lydia did not sit down. Her hands sought each other in that same clasp of agitation which was habitual to her mother. “I must beg you to pardon me. It is about your husband that I want to ask.”

“My husband!” Rita said, and no more.

They stood and looked at each other for a moment, Lydia, appealing, agitated, as if (she felt) there was something wrong in her interest in Harry, the little wife towering over her in offended dignity, something like a Queen Eleanor, though without any cause.

“I want you to tell me if you know anything of his family, or where he came from; and when he came here? and if he has ever spoken to you of any of——, and why he has never taken any notice? It must seem very strange to you,” Lydia sat pausing, trying a smile of anxious deprecation, “that I should ask such questions as these.”

“It is very strange indeed. I cannot understand them, or what right you can have to put them. A stranger must have a very good reason indeed for interfering at all between a man and his wife.”

“I do not want to interfere,” cried Lydia; “oh, believe me, it is not that! I want only to know; and it may be very important for you and the family, as well as for us. I am only surmising, groping; and I am not—very old,” the girl said, with that instinctive appeal to personal feeling with which women invariably back up all arguments, “nor experienced. I don’t know how to go about it. But it is of so much importance, if I only could tell you right, to my mother, and all of us, and may be to you too.”

“Your mother, and all of you! What do you mean? What have you to do with my husband?” Rita cried.

The wonder, and even the indignation, were natural enough. To be confronted all at once by a stranger demanding news of your husband, declaring that what she wishes to find out will be very important to her mother—what could be more bewildering, more irritating to a woman? Her nostrils began to expand, and her eyes to flash. “There is evidently some mystery here which I am unable to fathom,” she said.

“It is a very innocent mystery,” said Lydia; “there is nothing in it that will do him any harm, or you. If you will not tell me, will you take him a message from me? It must be cleared up one way or another, for we are going away to-day.”

“Mr. Oliver is in the office,” said Rita coldly, walking to the bell. “He can be sent for at once.”

“Will you wait a little, please?” Lydia said, faintly; “though I feel so sure, yet I may be wrong. Will you take a message for me? It will be better if you will do it than seeing him myself.”

“I would rather not be mixed up with any mystery.” Rita had her hand on the bell. She was drawn up to twice her usual height, her small foot planted firmly on the ground, her head thrown back, her whole person instinct with resistance, defiance, and indignation. And Lydia before her, flushed and excited, was not at all unlike a suppliant handmaiden, whom the wife had a right to reject and cast forth out of her house.

“Oh, do not be so hard upon me,” she cried. “Listen to what I want you to say to him. Would I send any message that could hurt him by his wife?”

“Hurt—him—” Rita began to be confused, and took her hand from the bell. “But it might hurt me.”

“It will not hurt you. Don’t delay, don’t delay!” cried Lydia; “if you knew what a thing it is to wait. And think how my poor mother has been waiting all these ten years—and I said when I left her that I should find him. Mrs. —— no, no, I cannot call you by that name—it is unworthy! Mrs. Harry—will you go and say this to him from me? Listen, listen; you must not make any mistake. Uncle Henry is dead. He has left all his money to his nephew who went away. If he does not come home it will be divided, and wrong will be done. Will you say that to your husband for me?”

“Uncle Henry—and his money—and his nephew. What is the meaning of all this? What do we know about all this—and who are you?” It was Rita now who was losing command of herself.

“If he understands,” said Lydia, dropping down in a chair in the mingled exhaustion and relief of having at last had her say, “I will tell you who I am. You don’t know the meaning, but I am sure he will know. Oh, Mrs. Harry, it is so simple a test! Will you not try it? If he does not understand no harm will be done, and you can judge of it for yourself. If he knows what it means you will soon know all about me.”

She began to cry, with little tremulous laughs between, in her agitation. She was entirely overcome by the excitement of the crisis—so near finding out, so sure, and yet still a little cloud of suspense and uncertainty between. Rita stood and looked at her—her rival was it? who was it?—with a tremor of wonder and rising excitement, and even a sympathy which nature exacted, which she was most unwilling to bestow. Then reluctantly she went out of the room, slowly and carefully closing the door behind her, and walking along the corridor as if counting every step she took. It was the last struggle of her instinctive opposition with awakened interest, excitement, curiosity, and alarm. She ran along the passage to the office as soon as she was out of hearing of the other. In a moment more she would know.