University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.,
Which makes me and breaks me, and blows
Zara on a lee shore.

I was not a little surprised, on getting
into the railway carriage, to find
Archbold already seated.

“Well,” said I, when our greetings
were over, “are you going to see your
friend the tinker—doctor, alias Ralph
Bull?”

“That was a very absurd mistake
as to his name,” replied Archbold. “It
appears he had answered some impertinent
querist that he was a John Bull,
which, with something he said about a
sick horse, led to the ridiculous blunder.”

“Oh, then, he's a horse-doctor.”

“Upon my word, you are incorrigible.
To punish you for your absurd
quizzing, you shall not know his real
name until after you have gone to Puttenham.
But one thing I will tell you.
Our neighbors of the mountains, the
Potters, came to England in the same
ship with me, and are now on one of
the second-class cars on the train.”

I recalled the woman's promise. She
evidently believed what she had said.
Could she be deceived? I thought a
deal on the matter all the way down;
and Archbold rallied me much on my
absent-mindedness.

Bagby met us at the Puttenham station.
He was in a great state of excitement.

“You are too late; Sharp is dead,”
he said. “But you are wanted nevertheless.
Can you bear good fortune
well?”

“I hope so. What is it?”

“Simply that you are enormously
wealthy. Sharp, with the exception of
a trifling legacy to me, has bequeathed
you his entire fortune.”

“You jest.”

“Do I? It will be a very pleasant
joke to you, I dare say. This little
windfall is variously estimated at from
one hundred and eighty to two hundred
thousand pounds. Sharp's lawyer,
tolerably well acquainted with his
affairs, says it will go over the highest
figure they name. A jest, is it? Only
let me be the victim of such a one, and
you'll see how I'll laugh.”

I was astounded, and received Archbold's
congratulations mechanically.
Two hundred thousand pounds! I forgot
all about Mrs. Potter and her intended
revelations. Here was something
substantial.

Puttenham was in a state of great
excitement, though not on my account.
The bequest of Sharp was not so unexpected,
for many had predicted that
the old man would make me his heir;
but the great Landys case was about
to come off, and it was the general topic
of conversation. The town was
crowded, the inns and lodging-houses
were all filled; and all those out of
town who could claim any acquaintanceship
with the dwellers, had invited
themselves to be the guests of the
townsfolk. As I had nother resource,
I went to the Guttenbergs. The printer
was exalted at the honor done him,
for was I not a millionaire? and Mrs.
Guttenberg felt sincerely glad to have
me again under her roof.

I had not been long domiciled with
my former master before a footman
rode up to the door with a note for me.
It came from Sir John Penreath, a ba
ronet of an old family, and one of the
magistrates of the county, who desired
I would call on him at his residence
between the hours of four and five the
next day, partly to dine, and partly to
transact some business. A similar
note came to Mr. Guttenberg.

“Bless me!” said the printer, “this
is an honor. My dear, I am invited to
dinner with Sir John Penreath. The
Penreaths were baronets long before
the Marstons were esquires. To think
of Sir John inviting me!”

The burial of Sharp followed, and
after qualifying along with Bagby, as
joint executors of the will, the lawyer,
Mr. Blodgett, desired to have a conversation
with me.

“You will excuse me, sir,” said he,
“but Mr. Sharp, before he died, spoke
to me of the mystery of your birth, and
desired me to say to you that he wished
me to investigate it. Will you tell
me, if you please, what facts you know
concerning it?”

I gave him the required information,
and he noted it down. When I had
concluded he read me the summary.

“There are links wanting,” said he,
“but they can be supplied, even if this
woman should turn out to be mistaken.
There are few mysteries but what can
be ferreted out, if they are systematically
attacked. By the by, are you
acquainted with the young lady who
is claiming the Landys title?”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry for her, for she will be
doomed to disappointment.”

“What do you mean? How can
you tell that? Do you know all the
evidence? She is certainly the daughter
of the late Earl.”

“Possibly the daughter of one who
was considered so; but there is no late

Earl at all; the former Earl is alive,
and has returned. He is now in the
country, though it is known only to a
few, and hence I say that the young
lady, whom I learn has just arrived
and taken lodgings at the hotel, is
doomed to disappointment.”

“If that be so—”

“It is so, I assure you. I have seen
the Earl, and know him. I was formerly
his Lordship's solicitor, and will
be so again.”

“It is not manly on his part to lie
concealed, and leave her to such hopes.
He should have avowed himself”

“She has been or will be made acquainted
with it; but his concealment
was necessary for another purpose.”

I went at once to the hotel where
Bagby was lodging, and where he had
taken apartments for Espinel and Zara.
Sir Charles and Lady Berkely,
who had come down to be present at
the trial, were also there. I found the
whole party in earnest conference.
They had been informed of the unexpected
re-appearance of the Earl.

“Do you think it is true?” asked
Lady Berkely of me.

“I have no doubt of it. My lawyer
was formerly his lordship's solicitor,
knows him, and has seen him personally.”

“We have been all invited to meet
the Earl to-morrow,” said Espinel.

“There is one comfort, however,”
said Lady Berkely. “The Earl is childless,
and not likely to marry. Zara is
still the next heir.”

“And how does Zara bear this unexpected
change in her prospects?” I
inquired.

“Oh, it seems to make no difference
to her. By the by, she is in the drawing-room,”—the
conference had taken
place in Sir Charles's apartments—
“and bade me say she'd like to see
you when you came, to congratulate
you on your good fortune.”

I sought and found Zara. She was
leaning with her face on her hands
when I entered. She raised her face,
and I was shocked at its paleness.

“Miss Marston,” I said, “I see no
cause for depression. It is true that
you do not succeed now, but ultimately—”

“And do you think the failure of the
suit costs me a pang?” she inquired.
“Miss Marston now—it used to be Zara;
but these fatal claims seem to have
made a fearful gap between me and my
friends.”

“No, no, Zara, you mistake; but it
is proper that our relative positions
should be maintained.”

“I am very wretched,” she said
“Your unkind words in London—”

“Forgive me,” I said, “I shall never
so offend again.”

“Offend! Oh, Ambrose! why will
you misunderstand Zara, and torture
yourself?”

She took my hand timidly, and looked
at me from under her half closed
lids. Her face was working with some
internal conflict of feeling.

“You distress me,” I said, “beyond
measure. Tell me—I do not ask it as
a lover, but as a brother, a friend—
what is the cause of this agony? Can
I give you sympathy, aid, counsel?”

She burst into tears, and dropping
her head on my breast, spoke in low
tones, but my heart heard every word.

“Ungenerous Ambrose,” she murmured,
“you know that as a child I
loved you; when you were away I
loved you; and now—”

She paused and looked up timidly in

my face; a strange, lustrous light was
in her eyes, flashing through the tears.
I bent forward eagerly; our lips met;
yes! she loved me; she! my beautiful,
my darling, my Zara!

We stood there, forgetful of all but
the present, with no word spoken to
still the wild current of joy, when
a shadow fell upon us. I turned; it
was Espinel. He looked at us, not unkindly,
but with a grave, sad expression.

“Count,” said I, “do not wrong me
even in thought. I love Zara, but the
avowal of my love and its return,
sprung from the impulse of the moment,
and not from calculation. It is
all over now, and I do not presume to
ask her at your hands. I know the
madness of attempting to mate with
her. I do not seek for a wife of the
best blood of England and Spain. I,
with a cloud upon my birth. No! I
will not so insult you and her; but at
least let me be the friend of both.”

Zara clung to me, and looked up imploringly
in her grand-uncle's face.

“I am to blame for this, Mr. Fecit,”
he said, at last, “I should have known
better. Zara has loved you from her
childhood up, and that attachment has
grown with her. I saw it early, and
should have kept you apart; but I
thought it a child's fancy, to be dissipated
by years. It is not mere pride
that makes me refuse my consent now
to your marriage. No; it is tenderness
for you both. The cloud that
hangs over you would be a heritage of
woe for yours, if not for you. Let that
be cleared up, and though you prove
to be the son of the poorest man in
England, the meanest day-laborer, so
you have no cause to blush for your
birth, Zara, if you still love each other,
shall be yours. Till then—”

“Till then, Count,” I interrupted, “I
will not abuse your confidence. Without
your full and free consent, I will
never speak to Zara of love again.
Nay, Zara, no tears, dearest. Your
uncle's views are just, as the law of
the world goes. I will not, for your
own happiness, create discord between
you and your kin. Wait; all may
prove right. If not—if not, Count,
though my heart break, I will keep my
pledge.”

“I believe you,” said he, “thoroughly
and frankly. I have watched you
well, Ambrose, and I love you well too.
You have honor, and I trust to your
word.”

As we stood thus, the remainder of
our party entered the apartment. We
controlled our emotions so well, that
none suspected what had passed between
us.