THE ATHELINGS; OR, THE THREE GIFTS. PART THE LAST. J CHAPTER XXX.-AN ADVENTURE. IT was September-the time when all Englishmen of a certain "rank in life" burn with unconquerable longings to get as far away from home as possible-and there was nothing remarkable in the appearance of this solitary traveller pacing along Calais pier-nothing remarkable, except his own personal appearance, which was of a kind not easily overlooked. There was nothing to be read in his embrowned but refined face, nor in his high thoughtful forehead. It was a face of thought, of speculation, of a great and vigorous intellectual activity; but the haughty eyes looked at no one-the lips never moved even to address a child-there was no response to any passing glance of interest or inquiry. His head was turned towards England, over the long sinuous weltering waves of that stormy Channel which to-day pretended to be calm; but if he saw anything, it was something which appeared only in his own imagination—it was neither the far-away gleam, like a floating mist, of the white cliffs, nor the sunbeam coming down out of the heart of a cloud into the dark mid-current of that treacher ous sea. He had no plan of travel-no settled intentions indeed of any kind— but had been roaming about these three months in the restlessness of suspense, waiting for definite intelligence before he decided on his further course. An often-recurring fancy of returning home for a time had brought him to-day to this common highway of all nations from a secluded village among the Pyrenees; but he had not made up his mind to go home-he only lingered within sight of it, chafing his own disturbed spirit, and ready to be swayed by any momentary impulse. Though he had been disturbed for a time out of his study of the deepest secrets of human life, his mind was too eager not to have returned to it. He had come to feel that it would be sacrilege to proclaim again his own labouring and disordered thoughts in a place where he was set to speak of One, the very imagination of whom, if it was an imagination, was so immeasurably exalted above his highest elevation. A strange poetic justice. had come upon Lionel Rivers-prosecuted for his extreme views at the time when he ceased to make any show of holding them-separating himself from his profession, and from the very name of a believer, at the moment when it began to dawn upon him that he believed-and thrust asunder with a violent wrench and convulsion from the first and sole human creature who had come into his heart, at the very hour in which he discovered that his heart was no longer in his own power. He saw it all, the strange story of contradictory and perverse chances, and knew himself the greatest and strangest contradiction of the whole. He gave no attention whatever to what passed round him, yet he heard the foreign voices-the English voices -for there was no lack of his countrymen. It was growing dark rapidly, and the shadowy evening lights and mists were stealing far away to sea. He turned to go back to his hotel, turning his face away from his own country, when at the moment a voice fell upon his ear, speaking his own tongue-"You will abet an impostor you who know nothing of English law, and are already a marked man." These were the words spoken in a very low, clear, hissing tone, which Lionel heard distinctly only because it was well known to him. The speaker was wrapt in a great cloak, with a travelling-cap over his eyes; and the person he addressed was a little vivacious Italian, with a long olive face, smooth-shaven cheeks, and sparkling lively eyes, who seemed much disconcerted and doubtful what to do. The expression of Lionel's face changed in an instant-he woke out of his moody dream to alert and determined action; he drew back a step to let them pass, and then followed. The discussion was animated and eager between them, sometimes in English, sometimes in Italian, apparently as caprice guided the one or the other. Lionel did not listen to what they said, but he followed them home. The old Italian parted with his companion at the door of the hotel where Lionel himself was lodged; there the Englishman in the cloak and cap lingered to make an appointment. "At eleven to-morrow," said again that sharp hissing voice. Lionel stepped aside into the shadow as the stranger turned reluctantly away; he did not care for making further investigations to ascertain his identity-it was Lord Winterbourne. He took the necessary steps immediately. It was easy to find out where the Italian was, in a little room at the top of the house, the key of which he paused to take down before he went up-stairs. Lionel waited again till the old man had made his way to his lofty lodging. He was very well acquainted with all the details of Louis's case; he had, in fact, seen Charlie Atheling a few days before he left London, and satisfied himself of the nature of his young kinsman's claim-it was too important to himself to be forgotten. He remembered perfectly the Italian doctor Serrano who had been present, and could testify to the marriage of the late Lord Winterbourne. Lionel scaled the great staircase halfa-dozen steps at a time, and reached the door immediately after the old man had entered, and before he had struck his light. The Rector knocked softly. With visible perturbation, and in a sharp tone of self-defence, the Italian called out in very good French to know who was there. Dr Serrano was a patriot and a plotter, and used to domiciliary visitations. Lionel answered him in English, asked if he were Dr Serrano, and announced himself as a friend of Charles Atheling. Then the door opened slowly, and with some jealousy. Lionel passed into the room without waiting for an Station. "You are going to Eng land on a matter of the greatest inportance," said the Rector, with excitement "to restore the son of your friend to his inheritance; yet I find you, with the serpent at your ear, listening to Lord Winterbourne." The Italian started back in amare "Are you the devil?" said Doctor Serrano, with a comical perturbation 66 No; instead of that, you have just left him," said Lionel; "but I am a friend, and know all. This man persuades you not to go on-by actident I caught the sound of his voice saying so. He has the most direct personal interest in the case; it is ruin and disgrace to him. Your testimony may be of the greatest import ance-why do you linger? why do you listen to him?” Really, you are hot-headed; it is so with youth," said Dr Serrano, "when we will move heaven and earth for one friend. He tells me the child is dead-that this is another. I know not-it may be true." "It is not true," said Lionel. "I will tell you who I am-the next heir if Lord Winterbourne is the true holder of the title-there is my card. I have the strongest interest in resisting this claim if I did not know it to be true. It can be proved that this is the same boy who was brought from Italy an infant. I can prove it myself; it is known to a whole village. If you choose it, confront me with Lord Winterbourne." No; I believe you-you are a gentleman," said Doctor Serrano, turning over the card in his handand the old man added with enthusiasm, "and a hero for a friend!" "You believe me?" said Lionel, who could not restrain the painful smile which crossed his face at the idea of his heroism in the cause of Louis. "Will you stay then another hour within reach of Lord Winterbourne?" The Italian shrugged his shoulders. "I will break with him; he is ever false," said the old man. "What besides can I do?" "I will tell you," said Lionel. "The boat sails in an hour-come with me at once, let me see you safe in England. I shall attend to your comfort with all my power. There is time for a good English bed at Dover, and an undisturbed rest. Doctor Serrano, for the sake of the oppressed, and because you are a philosopher, and understand the weakness of human nature, will you come with me?" sight of Lord Winterbourne, who was pacing the gloomy pier by night in his own gloom of guilty thought, the old man and the young man embarked for England. A few hours later the little Italian slept under an The Italian glanced lovingly at the English roof, and the young Englishcouch which invited him-at the slip- man looked up at the dizzy cliff, and pers and the pipe which waited to down at the foaming sea, too much make him comfortable-then he excited to think of rest. The next glanced up at the dark and resolute morning Lionel carried off his prize countenance of Lionel, who, high in to London, and left him in the hands his chivalric honour, was determined of Charlie Atheling. Then, seeing no rather to sleep at Serrano's door all one, speaking to no one, without linnight than to let him out of his gering an hour in his native country, hands. "Excellent young man! you he turned back and went away. He are not a philosopher!" said the rue- had made up his mind now to remain ful doctor; but he had a quick eye, at Calais till the matter was entirely and was accustomed to judge men. decided-then to resign his benefice "I will go with you," ," he added seri--and then, with things and not ously, "and some time, for liberty and Italy, you will do as much for me." It was a bargain, concluded on the spot. An hour after, almost within thoughts around him in the actual press and contact of common life, to read, if he could, the grand secret of a true existence, and decide his fate. CHAPTER XXXI.-THE TRIAL. Lord Winterbourne had been in Italy, going over the ground which Charlie Atheling had already examined so carefully. Miss Anastasia's proverb was coming true. He who all his life had been so wary, began to calculate madly, with an insane disregard of all the damning facts against him, on overturning, by one bold stroke, the careful fabric of the young lawyer. He sought out and found the courier Monte, whom he himself had established in his little mountain-inn. Monte was a faithful servant enough to his employer of the time, but he was not scrupulous, and had no great conscience. He undertook, without much objection, for the hire which Lord Winterbourne gave him, to say anything Lord Winterbourne pleased. He had been present at the marriage; and if the old doctor could have been delayed, or turned back, or even kidnapped-which was in the foiled plotter's scheme, if nothing better would serve-Monte, being the sole witness of the ceremony present, might have made it out a mock marriage, or at least delayed the case, and thrown discredit upon the He union. It was enough to show what mad shifts even a wise intriguer might be driven to trust in. believed it actually possible that judge and jury would ignore all the other testimony, and trust to the unsupported word of his lying witness. He did not pause to think, tampering with truth as he had been all his life, and trusting no man, what an extreme amount of credulity he expected for himself. But even when Dr Serrano escaped him-when the trial drew nearer day by day-when Louis's agents came in person, respectful and urgent, to make their statement to him-and when he became aware that his case was naught, and that he had no evidence whatever to depend on save that of Monte, his wild confidence did not yield. He refused with disdain every offer of a compromise; he commanded out of his presence the bearers of that message of forbearance and forgiveness; he looked forward with a blind defiance of his fate miserable to see. He gave orders that preparations should be made at Winterbourne for the celebration of his approaching triumph. That autumn he had invited to his house a larger party than usual; and though few came, and those the least reputable, there was no want of sportsmen in the covers, nor merrymakers at the Hall: he himself was restless, and did not continue there, even for the sake of his guests, but made incessant journeys to London, and kept in constant personal attendance on himself the courier Monte. He was the object of incessant observation, and the gossip of half the county: he had many enemies; and many of those who were disposed to take his part, had heard and been convinced by the story of Louis. Almost every one, indeed, who did hear of it, and remembered the boy in his neglected but noble youth, felt the strange probability and vraisemblance of the tale; and as the time drew nearer, the interest grew. It was known that the new claimant of the title lived in Miss Anastasia's house, and that she was the warmest supporter of his claim. The people of Banburyshire were proud of Miss Anastasia; but she was Lord Winterbourne's enemy. Why? That old tragedy began to be spoken of once more in whispers; other tales crept into circulation; he was a bad man: everybody knew something of himenough ground to judge him on; and if he was capable of all these, was he not capable of this? As the public voice grew thus, like the voice of doom, the doomed man went on in his reckless and unreasoning confidence; the warnings of his opponents and of his friends seemed to be alike fruitless. No extent of self-delusion could have justified him at any time in thinking himself popular, yet he seemed to have a certain insane conviction now, that he had but to show himself in the court to produce an immediate reaction in his favour. He even said so, shaken out of all his old self-restrained habits, boasting with a vain braggadocio to his guests at the Hall; and people began, with a new impulse of pity, to wonder if his reason was touched, and to hint vaguely to each other that the shock had unsettled his mind. The trial came on at the next assize; it was long, elaborate, and painful. On the very eve of this momentous day, Louis himself had addressed an appeal to his uncle, begging him, at the last moment when he could withdraw with honour, to accept the compromise so often and so anxiously proposed to him. Lord Winterbourne tore the letter in two, and put it in his pocket-book. "I shall use it," he said to the messenger, "when this business is over, to light the bonfire on Badgeley Hill." The trial came on accordingly, without favour or private arrangement a fair struggle of force against force. The evidence on the side of the prosecutor was laid down clearly, particular by particular; the marriage of the late Lord Winterbourne to the young Italian-the entry in his pocket-book, sworn to by Miss Anastasia-the birth of the children-their journey from Italy to London, from London to Winterbourne-and the identity of the boy Louis with the present claimant of the title-clearly, calmly, delibe rately, everything was proved. It took two days to go over the evidence; then came the defence. Without an overwhelming array of witnesses on the other side-without proving perjury on the part of these what could Lord Winterbourne answer to such a charge as this! He commenced, through his lawyer, by a vain attempt to brand Louis over again with illegitimacy, to sully the name of his dead brother, and represent him a villanous deceiver. It was allowed, without controversy, that Louis was the son of the old lord; and then Monte was placed in the witness-box to prove that the marriage was a mock marriage, so skilfully performed as to cheat herself, her family, the old quick-witted Serrano, whose testimony had pleased every one-all the people present, in short, except his own acute and philosophical self. and The fellow was bold, clever, scrupulous, but he was not prepared for such an ordeal. His attention distracted by the furious contradictory gestures of Dr Serrano, whose cane could scarcely be kept out of action-by the stern, steady glance of Miss Anastasia, whom he recognised-he was no match for the skilful cross-examiners who had him in hand. He hesitated, prevaricated, altered his testimony. He held, with a grim obstinacy, to unimportant trifles, and made admissions at the same moment which struck at the very root of his own credibility as a witness. He was finally ordered to sit down by the voice of the judge himself, which rung in the fellow's ears like thunder. That was all the case for the defence! Even Lord Winterbourne's counsel coloured for shame as he made the miserable admission. The jury scarcely left the court; there was no doubt remaining on the mind of the audience. The verdict was pronounced solemnly, like a passionless voice of justice, as it was, for the plaintiff. There was no applause no exultation-a universal human horror and disgust at the strange depravity they had just witnessed, put down every demonstration of feeling. People drew away from the neighbourhood of Lord Winterbourne as from a man in a pestilence. He left the court almost immediately, with his hat over his eyes-his witness following as he best could; then came a sudden revulsion of feeling. The best men in the county hurried towards Louis, who sat, pale and excited, by the side of his elder and his younger sister. Congratulatory good wishes poured upon him on every side. As they left the court slowly, a guard of honour surrounded this heir and hero of romance; and as he emerged into the street the air rang with a cheer for the new Lord Winterbourne. They called him "My lord," as he stood on the step of Miss Anastasia's carriage, which she herself entered as if it had been a car of triumph. She called him "My lord," making a proud obeisance to him, as a mother might have done to her son, a newmade king; and they drove off slowly, with riders in their train, amid the eager observation of all the passengers -the new Lord Winterbourne ! The old one hastened home on foot, no one observing him-followed far off, like a shadow, by his attendant villain-unobserved, and almost unheeded, entered the Hall; thrust with his own hand some necessaries into his travelling-bag, gathered his cloak around him, and was gone. Winterbourne Hall that night was left in the custody of the strangers who had been his guests, an uneasy and troubled company, all occupied with projects of departure to-morrow. Once more the broad chill moonlight fell on the noble park, as when Louis and his sister, desolate and friendless, passed out from its lordly gates into midnight and the vacant world. Scarcely a year! but what a change upon all the actors and all the passions of that moonlight October night! CHAPTER XXXII.-ESPOUSALS. It was winter, but the heavens were bright-a halcyon day among the December glooms. All the winds lay still among the withered ferns, making a sighing chorus in the underground of Badgeley Wood; but the white clouds, thinner than the clouds of summer, lay becalmed upon the chill blue sky, and the sun shone warm under the hedgerows, and deluded birds were perching out upon the hawthorn boughs; the green grass brightened under the morning light; the wan waters shone; the trees which had no leaves clustered their branches together, with a certain pathos in their nakedness, and made a trellised shadow here and there over the wintry stream; and, noble as in the broadest summer, in the sheen of the December sunshine lay Oxford, jewelled like a bride, gleaming out upon the tower of Maudlin, flashing abroad into the firmament from fair St Mary, twinkling with innumerable gem-points from all the lesser cupolas and spires. In the midst of all, this sunshine retreated in pure defeat and failure, from that sombre old heathen, with his heavy me--but only brightened all the upon those responsive and hu bitants dwing there pages, and ve to |