She had on a cotton gown,—very neat, I dare say, for an under-housemaid; and such thick shoes! She had on a little black straw bonnet; and a kerchief, that might have cost tenpence, pinned across her waist instead of a shawl; and she looked altogether-respectable, no doubt, but exceedingly dusty! And she was hanging upon Leonard’s neck, and scolding, and caressing, and crying very loud. “God bless my soul!” said Mr. Richard Avenel.

And as he uttered that innocent self-benediction, the woman hastily turned round, and darting from Leonard, threw herself right upon Richard Avenel—burying under her embrace blue-coat, moss rose, white waistcoat and all—with a vehement sob and a loud exclamation!

“Oh! brother Dick!—dear, dear brother Dick! And I lives to see thee agin!” And then came two such kisses—you might have heard them a mile off! The situation of brother Dick was appalling; and the crowd, that had before only tittered politely, could not now resist the effect of this sudden embrace. There was a general explosion! It was a roar! That roar would have killed a weak man; but it sounded to the strong heart of Richard Avenel like the defiance of a foe, and it plucked forth in an instant from all conventional let and barrier the native spirit of the Anglo-Saxon.

He lifted abruptly his handsome masculine head, and looked round the ring of his ill-bred visitors with a haughty stare of rebuke and surprise.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” then said he, very coolly, “I don’t see what there is to laugh at! A brother and sister meet after many years’ separation, and the sister cries, poor thing. For my part I think it very natural that she should cry; but not that you should laugh!”

In an instant the whole shame was removed from Richard Avenel, and rested in full weight upon the bystanders. It is impossible to say how foolish and sheepish they all looked, nor how slinkingly each tried to creep off.

Richard Avenel seized his advantage with the promptitude of a man who had got on in America, and was, therefore, accustomed to make the best of things. He drew Mrs. Fairfield’s arm in his, and led her into the house; but when he had got her safe into his parlour—Leonard following all the time—and the door was closed upon those three, then Richard Avenel’s ire burst forth.

“You impudent, ungrateful, audacious—drab!”

Yes, drab was the word. I am shocked to say it, but the duties of a historian are stern: and the word was drab.

“Drab!” faltered poor Jane Fairfield; and she clutched hold of Leonard to save herself from falling.

“Sir!” cried Leonard, fiercely.

You might as well have cried “sir” to a mountain torrent. Richard hurried on, for he was furious.

“You nasty, dirty, dusty dowdy! How dare you come here to disgrace me in my own house and premises, after my sending you L50! To take the very time, too, when—when Richard gasped for breath; and the laugh of his guests rang in his ears, and got into his chest, and choked him. Jane Fairfield drew herself up, and her tears were dried.

“I did not come to disgrace you! I came to see my boy, and—”

“Ha!” interrupted Richard, “to see him.”

He turned to Leonard: “You have written to this woman, then?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“I believe you lie.”

“He does not lie; and he is as good as yourself, and better, Richard Avenel,” exclaimed Mrs. Fairfield; “and I won’t stand here and hear him insulted,—that’s what I won’t. And as for your L50, there are forty-five of it; and I’ll work my fingers to the bone till I pay back the other five. And don’t be afeard I shall disgrace you, for I’ll never look on your face agin; and you’re a wicked, bad man,—that’s what you are!”

The poor woman’s voice was so raised and so shrill, that any other and more remorseful feeling which Richard might have conceived was drowned in his apprehensions that she would be overheard by his servants or his guests,—a masculine apprehension, with which females rarely sympathize; which, on the contrary, they are inclined to consider a mean and cowardly terror on the part of their male oppressors.

“Hush! hold your infernal squall,—do’.” said Mr. Avenel, in a tone that he meant to be soothing. “There—sit down—and don’t stir till I come back again, and can talk to you calmly. Leonard, follow me, and help to explain things to our guests.”

Leonard stood still, but shook his head slightly.

“What do you mean, sir?” said Richard Avenel, in a very portentous growl. “Shaking your head at me? Do you intend to disobey me? You had better take care!”

Leonard’s front rose; he drew one arm round his mother, and thus he spoke,

“Sir, you have been kind to me, and generous, and that thought alone silenced my indignation when I heard you address such language to my mother; for I felt that, if I spoke, I should say too much. Now I speak, and it is to say, shortly, that—”

“Hush, boy,” said poor Mrs. Fairfield, frightened; “don’t mind me. I did not come to make mischief, and ruin your prospex. I’ll go!”

“Will you ask her pardon, Mr. Avenel?” said Leonard, firmly; and he advanced towards his uncle.

Richard, naturally hot and intolerant of contradiction, was then excited, not only by the angry emotions, which, it must be owned, a man so mortified, and in the very flush of triumph, might well experience, but by much more wine than he was in the habit of drinking; and when Leonard approached him, he misinterpreted the movement into one of menace and aggression. He lifted his arm: “Come a step nearer,” said he, between his teeth, “and I’ll knock you down.” Leonard advanced the forbidden step; but as Richard caught his eye, there was something in that eye—not defying, not threatening, but bold and dauntless—which Richard recognized and respected, for that something spoke the Freeman. The uncle’s arm mechanically fell to his side. “You cannot strike me, Mr. Avenel,” said Leonard, “for you are aware that I could not strike again my mother’s brother. As her son, I once more say to you,—ask her pardon.”

“Ten thousand devils! Are you mad?—or do you want to drive me mad? You insolent beggar, fed and clothed by my charity! Ask her pardon!—what for? That she has made me the object of jeer and ridicule with that d—-d cotton gown and those double-d—-d thick shoes—I vow and protest they’ve got nails in them! Hark ye, sir, I’ve been insulted by her, but I’m not to be bullied by you. Come with me instantly, or I discard you; not a shilling of mine shall you have as long as I live. Take your choice: be a peasant, a labourer, or—”

“A base renegade to natural affection, a degraded beggar indeed!” cried Leonard, his breast heaving, and his cheeks in a glow. “Mother, Mother, come away. Never fear,—I have strength and youth, and we will work together as before.”

But poor Mrs. Fairfield, overcome by her excitement, had sunk down into Richard’s own handsome morocco leather easy-chair, and could neither speak nor stir.

“Confound you both!” muttered Richard. “You can’t be seen creeping out of my house now. Keep her here, you young viper, you; keep her till I come back; and then, if you choose to go, go and be—”

Not finishing his sentence, Mr. Avenel hurried out of the room, and locked the door, putting the key into his pocket. He paused for a moment in the hall, in order to collect his thoughts, drew three or four deep breaths, gave himself a great shake, and, resolved to be faithful to his principle of doing one thing at a time, shook off in that shake all disturbing recollection of his mutinous captives. Stern as Achilles when he appeared to the Trojans, Richard Avenel stalked back to his lawn.