University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
Wherein we have a little love-making and other
miseries.

The arrival of the steamer at Liverpool
having been telegraphed, Paul
Bagby came down by mail to meet me.
I shook his hand warmly, and he congratulated
me on my general appearance,
and the good fortune I had met
with among the Yankees.

“My wife is with me,” said he, “and
is quite anxious to see you again.”

“You said in your letter that she
was an old acquaintance. Pray, whom
did you marry?”

“Come and see. I have engaged
seats within the hour, for London; and
my wife is already at the station, in
charge of a friend. Leave your luggage;
they will send it by another
train; I have seen to that, and start
at once.”

I followed him to the station, and
there met—Cecilia. I was delighted.
It appeared that Cecilia's uncle was
dead, and had made her his heiress.
Paul had met her while on a visit to
Staffordshire; my name had accidentally
come up, and finding Paul was my
intimate friend, conversation about me
ended in an intimacy, intimacy came
to love, and love culminated into marriage.
It had all come about in the
most natural manner in the world.

The run up to London was very

pleasant. On arriving at the terminus,
just as we were about to get into
the Duke's carriage, which was in waiting,
Major-General Sir Charles Berkeley
came up, and shook hands with me.

“Allow me to congratulate you, Ambrose—I
beg pardon, Mr. Fecit, both
on your return and the good fortune I
am told you met with abroad. When
you get leisure call at my house, where
Lady Berkeley will be glad to see her
old acquaintance.”

And the gallant Baronet, who was
still suffering under the effects of a
wound he had received in India, limped
off.

“My old acquaintance!” said I, to
Paul, “here's another mystery. Pray
whom did he marry?”

“The Honorable Mrs. Leigh,” answered
Bagby.

My welcome by the Duke, and by
Espinel, who had returned from Spain
to attend to the interests of his grandniece,
was a warm one.

“Zara will hardly know you,” said
the Count, “you have altered so much
in appearance.”

“Zara does not forget her old friends
easily,” said a voice at my elbow.

I turned. It was Zara herself.

What a marked change! Was this
then the little girl who used to sit on
my lap—this lovely, stately woman?
Her beauty was matured early; she
had the ease, dignity, and self-possession
of a woman, grafted on the grace
of early girlhood. The laughing words
that rose to my lips died away; my
hand, already half extended to grasp
her's, fell to my side, and I bowed respectfully.

I felt the distance between us; I
saw the impassable gult that yawned
between the future Countess of Landys
in her own right, and the foundling-apprentice,
the parvenu; but I felt also,
on that first glance, that I loved her
madly, ardently, and, my reason told
me, hopelessly. I felt, as I looked upon
her glorious beauty, and saw the lustrous
depths of those dark eyes, far
more wretched to think she could never
be mine than glad to see her again.
And yet it was almost a rapture to
look at her, to see her move, to hear
her voice.

Zara was evidently ignorant of the
feelings contending within me, and
disposed to regard me as her old teacher-playmate;
for after the embarrassment
of the moment had somewhat
subsided, she resumed more of her
girlish manner of old, and expressed
a curiosity to hear of my adventures
during my absence. The Duke and
Espinel concurred in the wish, and
Lady Caroline Barre, to whom I was
introduced, added her request to the
others. So we sat down, and I told
them all to the moment of my return,
interrupted now and then by comments
and questions, more especially when I
told of my mysterious hostess in the
mountains of Virginia.

“And you never wrote to me,” said
Zara, when I had done. “I would
have written to you, but my uncle here
forbade it, unless you wrote first. As
though that made any difference! Etiquette
between my old teacher and his
pupil! How absurd!”

I felt that this was a quiet way of
reminding me of our relative positions,
which was quite unnecessary. I felt
the distance between us enough already.

“There is another lady desirous of
seeing you,” said the Duke; “but she
is an invalid, and you must wait on

her. Robert,” he said to the footman,
for whom he rang, “Show Mr. Fecit to
her ladyship.”

I was ushered into the presence of
the Dowager Countess of Landys,
whom I found attended by Gifford.
The old lady was much changed. She
was very feeble and attenuated, but
she rose as I entered, and bade me be
seated.

“You have been long away, young
gentleman,” she said, “but you have
come back.”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“My son has been long away, but
he will come back. Yes, I am sure of
it. Sit still, sir. You are a foundling.
Have you never discovered your parents?”

“No, your ladyship; but I have
hopes from some recent occurrences.”

“May I ask what they are?”

I told her of the words of Bridget
Potter.

“It may be; but take my advice.
Probe this matter no farther. The discovery
may not please you. You are
young, high-spirited; you will advance
yourself in the world. Do not seek to
disperse a mystery which may result
in your own mortification. But let me
see you sometimes. I like to hear
your voice. It has a familiar sound.
Yes! why should he know? Better
let him remain in ignorance.”

The last words were spoken to
herself. She seemed not to be aware
that I was there. I arose and bade
her good day. She made no reply. I
took it for a tacit consent to my departure,
and left the room.

I ran down to Puttenham the following
week, in company with Paul, and
met with a warm welcome. An exaggerated
story of my good luck had
gone abroad, and it was reported that
I had succeeded to a princely fortune.
Mr. Guttenberg, who showed the prevailing
delirium, would have bowed
unceasingly had I permitted it; and
his wife flung her arms around my
neck and kissed me, a familiarity which
evidently horrified the printer. I gave
the dear old soul a very old-fashioned
and vulgar hug, and kissed her back
again. She had always given me a
mother's care, and I felt for her a son's
affection. Mary giggled, and dragged
forward her husband, my old friend,
Tom Brown that was, to whom my reported
riches rendered me a rather awful
personage. I shook him heartily
by the hand, called him by his Christian
name, and he was as delighted as
any one.

This interview over, I sought Sharp.
I found him at the Museum. He looked
frail and care-worn; but my presence
seemed to cheer him up.

“You're not going away any more,”
said he.

“No; I shall stay in England.”

“That's right. And don't make
ducks and drakes of your money; mind
that.”

“I shall be prudent, be assured.
What's going on in town?”

“As usual; one half of the town
cheating and swindling the other half;
everybody lying about everybody else,
and fools wasting their money.”

“What are they doing at the castle?”

“That fine gentleman, Osborne, is
lording it over the place, as usual.
Some people say he is going to marry
the Countess, but that's a silly lie.
Countess! If this new story's true,
she's the Countess of Luckland.”

“Mr. Sharp,” said I, “I had a singular

dream;” and I told him my old vision
in my delirium, during the attack
of small-pox. He listened to it with
the greatest of intorest.

“Singular,” he said. “I did find
just such a paper as you describe, in
the street, one winter morning, twenty-five
years ago. It was marked
with the name of the Earl of Landys.
I intended to give it to him, but he
was away. The packet got mislaid,
and I never found it until after the
Earl was lost. He sent me a polite
note, saying that it was of no importance,
but he was obliged to me for
my attention. That was all the correspondence
that passed between us.”

“How long since was that?”

“About six years.”

I felt disappointed. The packet was
no doubt long since destroyed or lost.

“I have one thing to request of you,
Ambrose,” said the old man. “I am
told that I have an affection which
may take me off at short notice—that
is no matter—but I want you to promise,
if you are not in Puttenham when
I am attacked, you will come to me at
once if I send for you.”

I promised. The next day I returned
to London, and by Paul's invitation
took up my temporary abode at his
house. I visited at the Duke's on various
pretexts. I was anxious to see
as much of Zara as possible. It was
pleasunt to look on that fair face, and
sun myself in that smile. So I was
with her day by day, almost, on some
transparent excuse or other, both the
Duke and Espinel apparently blind to
my feelings. And thus the time passed
until the day set for the trial of Zara's
cause was near at hand.

During this interval it seemed as
though Zara had begun to suspect my
love for her, and meant to check or rebuke
it, for she grew cold in her manner
toward me, at the last, and met
me no more in her trank, artless way.
Her address, as well as manner was
formal. I was no longer Ambrose with
her. Unless inadvertently, I was addressed
as Mr. Fecit.

But I said to myself, “while there
is even a ray of sunshine, let me enjoy
it.”

Three days before the time fixed for
the hearing of the case, I received a
telegraphic message from Paul Bagby,
who was in Puttenham, aiding the lawyers
in preliminary business, or rather
perhaps indulging in his anxiety in at
tempts to be useful. It was short, and
to the effect that Sharp was very ill,
and was anxious to see me at once. I
booked my seat in the train—there was
a railway now to Puttenham—and
started to inform my friends of my intended
absence.

They were absent, but Zara was at
home alone. It seemed to me that she
was kinder in her manner than usual.
Our conversation gradually went back
to the time when we first met, when I
saw her on the high road near Puttenham,
and the pleasant days that followed.

“Who would have thought then,”
she said, “that I would be the claimant
for a title and estates in England?”

“Or that I would be the friend of a
Duke, a Count, and a young Countess?”
I rejoined.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “you speak
of a certainty. My friends are all sanguine
of my success; but I have a
conviction that I shall never be Countess
of Landys in my own right. I am
sorry the suit has ever been brought.”

“Why?”

“Can you ask? He was my father;
and why should his daughter, for the
sake of a paltry title, expose his errors?
All these proceedings I objected
to; but the Duke and my uncle
have overruled my will. I wish it
could be recalled; if they would be
guided by me, it should be even now.”

“It is but plain justice that you
should have your right,” I said. “Your
friends have acted properly, and as to
the result, I feel confident. You will
certainly be the Countess of Landys.
And then,” I added sadly, “will forget
Ambrose.”

“And then,” she retorted gaily, “I
will never forget Ambrose.”

“Ah, if you were only a nameless
girl, poor, unfriended—then indeed—”

An impulse came upon me which I
could not resist. I bent over her and
taking her fair cheeks in my hand,
leant down and kissed her forehead.
She burst into tears. I forgot all then,
our inequality of birth, everything but
the passion of the present, and I poured
out my feelings in impulsive words.

“I love you, Zara, from my soul.
The passion has grown with me; it
grows deeper and stronger day by day
Yes! I, a wretched foundling, without
kin, without position, without a name
that I can call my own, love you fondly,
madly, and dare to tell you so. But
I do not dare to hope. This has burst
from me unawares; I will never so offend
again. Let me be your friend,
your brother; I ask no more. Forget
this mad outburst—this worse than
folly; I will never repeat it. Forget
it, and forgive me.”

I turned; I could not bear the agony
of the moment; I could not wait
to hear her words of scorn and rebuke;
but dashed wildly from her presence.