It was Leo who led the way, but the Rector was quite uninterested in Leo. His eyes followed to the other young man behind, who came in with something like diffidence, though that is not a common aspect for a young man of fashion to bear. He came in, indeed, with the air of a most unwilling visitor. He would have greatly preferred to go away without repeating his visit in the changed circumstances in which he found himself, but Leo had insisted that the visit should be paid. He shook hands with Lady William, and was presented to her brother, with the air of a man who wished himself a hundred miles away.

‘I’ve just come, don’t you know, to take my leave,’ said Lord Will. ‘I’m summoned to town. I thought that you would understand; but Swinford here said I ought to come—that is to say, I was glad to take the opportunity of saying good-bye.’

‘Yes,’ said Lady William, looking from one to another; ‘I should have understood, I think. It is a pity, Leo, that you gave your friend the trouble.’

‘Oh! delighted, of course,’ said Lord Will.

‘I have been telling my brother,’ said Lady William, ‘about your visit: and to see one of Mab’s relations is a pleasure—so unlooked-for.’

‘I will not say unlooked-for. I have always looked forward,’ said the Rector, ‘to making the acquaintance of the family. How do you do? And, of course, at once I perceive the likeness you spoke of, Emily. You are here on a very brief visit, it appears, Lord——.’ It seemed to Mr. Plowden that to say Will would be too familiar, and to say William would affect his sister’s nerves; therefore he stopped short there, and said no name at all. ‘You have scarcely had time to make your cousin’s acquaintance,’ he said.

Lord Will had been quite unprepared for a man and a brother taking the part of the poor lady about whom he had been holding so many discussions. He was a little taken aback. ‘As a point of fact, a fellow has so little time,’ he said, hesitating a little. ‘I came down to see Swinford—dine and sleep, don’t you know—that sort of thing. Swinford’s such a capital fellow to know in Paris—takes you everywhere—shows you all the swells, and that sort of thing.’

Mr. Plowden had not, perhaps, very much acquaintance with the highest order of society, at least in its young and fashionable branches. To hear Lord Will Pakenham talk of swells took away his breath. He smiled, however, paternally upon the young man who was Mab’s cousin and Lord Portcullis’s son. He was unwilling to believe that a young man of such a family could make any pretext or tell any fibs about the plain duty of paying his respects to his near relations. ‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that we shall have other opportunities of seeing a little more of you. My sister, Lady William, has been for a long time established here, and all the neighbourhood would receive with pleasure any—any relation—any connection—I mean any member of such a family as yours.’

Lord Will stared a little, as is the manner of his kind, but made no reply. What reply could the poor young man make? It was so bewildering to be offered an enthusiastic welcome from the society of a village because of being related to the little gardening girl in the muddy gloves outside, that all his self-possession, which was sufficient for ordinary uses, was taken away. He gave a glance at Lady William, and espied a gleam in her eye which gave him a little comfort. There was agitation in her face, yet she saw the absurdity as well as he did. Decidedly, under other circumstances, this widow, real or fictitious, of his disreputable uncle would have been a woman not to be despised.

‘But I hear,’ said the Rector, ‘that you are the bearer of bad news. Another relation, my sister tells me, has joined the majority. I had once the pleasure, many years ago, of meeting Lord John—before there was any connection between the families. And he is gone! Well, we must all follow—we have here no abiding city. It is almost fortunate for Mab that, not having known her uncle, the shock of his loss will affect her less than it would otherwise have done.’

‘My dear James,’ said Lady William, ‘Lord Will will excuse you from all condolence, I am sure. There can be no shock to Mab, who has scarcely heard her uncle’s name: and to the other members of the family the shock is also softened by, I believe, the joys of inheritance. For he has not carried his money with him, which is always a good thing.’

‘I did not think to hear, Emily, any such cynical speech from you.’

‘But it is true,’ said Leo Swinford, ‘and my friend has come for the reason of communicating this intelligence, n’est-ce pas, Will?—which Lady William did not understand, I am sure, yesterday. Lord John has died without any will: his fortune, which is all personal, is therefore divided—is not that so?—between the nearest relations: therefore, Miss Mab, on account of her father, will become——’

‘Bless me!’ said the Rector. He had seated himself in order to do justice to the new acquaintance who was at the same time a connection, but now he sprang to his feet. ‘Bless me!’ he said, ‘an heiress! I must congratulate Mab. Emily, my dear——’

‘An heiress is a big word,’ said Lord Will, who had sucked his cane with anything but a countenance of delight while Leo was speaking. ‘There’s money,’ said the young man, ‘but it would be a pity to make the mistake of thinking it’s a big fortune. I told you,’ he said, turning to Lady William, ‘last night. I said there was no will.’

Lady William had grown very pale. ‘I did not understand,’ she said faintly. ‘I was not aware—and that my Mab would come in——’ The news had rather a painful than exhilarating effect upon her. She gave her brother an anxious look, then turned to the young man whose explanations were so disjointed. ‘It was kind, very kind,’ she said, with a troublous smile, ‘to come and hunt us up—strangers to you—to tell us this.’

‘Oh! as for that——’ said Lord Will.

‘You have no idea, dear lady,’ said Leo, ‘how disinterested, how high-minded are the golden youth in England. They will go any distance to make such an announcement, never thinking that what is given to another diminishes their own share.’

‘Shut up, Swinford,’ growled Lord Will over his cane.

‘I hope,’ said the Rector, smiling, ‘that Mr. Swinford does not think this is any information to us, Emily? I hope I know what the instinct of an English gentleman is. To a lady in my sister’s position, living out of the world, who might never have heard even of the death, let alone the inheritance, that feeling is the best protection—as I hope we both know.’

‘Oh, sh——,’ murmured Lord Will. He could not say ‘shut up’ to the Rector, but a more crestfallen and abashed young man did not exist. He sat with the head of his cane to his lips, but evidently deriving no consolation from it, when Mab, who had taken off her gardening apron and washed her hands, came in. Mab had her curiosities like other girls. She wanted to know what they were all talking of, and what was being done in the room where there were so many interesting people met together. She was by no means sure that it was not her own fate that was being decided. After all that had been said about her father’s family, the sudden appearance of her cousin was too curiously well-timed to be a mere accident, and she could not help fearing that while she was busy over her carnations they might be settling the course of her future life. Mab had no idea that this should be done without her own concurrence, or the utterance of her opinion, and accordingly, after turning it over in her mind for a few minutes, she left her flowers and hurried upstairs to make herself presentable. Such a conjunction as that of her uncle, so rare a visitor, her new unknown cousin, and Leo Swinford, her mother’s counsellor, could not, she thought, have happened for nothing. But when Mab went into the room the first thing she saw was Lord Will—in whom she took a natural interest as resembling herself, and as being a relation, and a new-comer—seated in the middle of the group with a depressed and sullen countenance, his eyes cast down, and his lips resting upon the head of his cane.

‘Mother,’ said Mab, ‘what have you been doing to Lord Will?’

No one had thought of Mab’s appearance at this particular crisis of fate, and the mere sight of her as she opened the door sent a little thrill through the party, who were all aware of troublous circumstances involving Mab, of which she herself was entirely unconscious, and of prospects utterly strange to her, which were opening before her feet. They all turned to look at her as she stood there with the fresh morning air about her, not beautiful, certainly, but honest and fresh as the morning, and so free from all embarrassment, so unaware either of troubles or hopes which could affect her beyond the wholesome round of every day, that even the Rector, the most ignorant of the party, felt something like a conspirator. Mab came forward quite unconscious of breaking into the middle of a strained situation. ‘What,’ she repeated, ‘have you been doing to Lord Will? Has he done anything wrong that you are all round about him, sitting on him like this? I’m glad I’ve come to see fair play.’

‘My dear,’ said the Rector, who was the only one who could speak, ‘you are quite mistaken. Your cousin is receiving on the contrary all our thanks for bringing some news which will be of the greatest importance to you, I hope, and will make your future more suitable, my child, to your rank.’

‘Oh, I thought that was how it must be!’ cried Mab, in a tone of disgust. ‘Rank! I have no rank; and if it is this idea of recommending me to Lady Portcullis, and getting her to take me to Court and all that, which has brought Lord Will here—— Mother, let me speak; I am not a little child. I want to judge for myself. I don’t wish it, you must all know. I care not the least in the world for going to Court. I am quite happy as I am—a country girl. Lord Will is very kind if he came about that. I shall always remember it of him, that he is the only one of my father’s family that has been kind; though why you should sit upon him for it—for you were all sitting upon him—I’m sure I don’t know.’

‘I think I’d better go,’ said Lord Will, rising from his chair. ‘It’s true they have been sitting upon me, though what for I can’t tell—any more than I can tell why this’—he paused a little with the impulse to say little girl, but thought better of it—‘this young lady should be grateful to me; for I have done neither good nor harm that I know of. But now I think I’d better go.’

‘Have I said anything wrong? Is it I that have broken up the talk?’ cried Mab in consternation, coming to her mother’s side.

‘Well,’ said the Rector cheerfully, ‘perhaps we can scarcely go on with a business matter just now; but if Lord William Pakenham will do me the pleasure to come to the Rectory, which is close by——’

‘I’m not a business man,’ said Lord Will. ‘Swinford, you brought me into it, can’t you get me out of it?—and be hanged to you,’ he said in an undertone.

‘I am afraid you have broken up the consultation, Mab: but perhaps it is as well.’ Lady William held out her hand to the young man, who stood dangling his cane, and eager to get away. ‘I think we must have something to thank you for,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Of course, a piece of business is not settled by a friendly visit. I shall hear, no doubt, from the lawyers about what you have told me, or my brother will communicate with them for me. Thank you for the information, and for bringing it yourself. Good-bye.’

He had been standing ready to tell her, as he took his leave, with a tone that might convey some of the suspicions that were in his mind, that the lawyers would communicate with her further. But in taking the words out of his mouth, Lady William took all the courage out of his mind. He stared at her for a moment with those heavy blue eyes, which she did not now think were so like Mab’s, and touched the hand she held out with a cold momentary touch, as if he were afraid it might sting him. Mab stood by looking on with an astonishment which slowly grew into consternation, and which burst forth as her cousin made her a stiff and slight bow.

‘What is the matter?’ she said, following him out. ‘Are you not my cousin after all? Why, you were very nice last night, and I was delighted to know somebody that belonged to me on my father’s side. And they all said we were so like each other. What has gone wrong? Are you not my cousin after all?’

She went out after him as she spoke into the garden, where a little while before she had greeted him so heartily, filled with astonishment and dismay, yet with a sense of absurdity also. And the young man, who had made so abrupt an exit, was in fact rather sore in heart, feeling that he had not done himself any credit, and that he had been snubbed and ‘sat upon,’ as Mab said. Her frank surprise and regret gave him a little consolation. He turned round when they both came out into the garden from the narrow doorway. ‘I am just the same,’ he said, still somewhat sullenly, but melting, ‘as I was last night.’

‘But then,’ cried Mab, ‘why did you call me “this young lady”? and why did you look at mother so, and let her hand drop as if it had been a frog, and do like this to me?’ Mab was not a mimic, like her cousin Florence, but the imitation she made of his stiff and angry bow was so ludicrous that he could not but laugh—stiffly. And Mab, who did not know what it was to be stiff, laughed out with all her heart, with a half childish cordial crow, which sounded into the fresh air with the most genuine tone of innocent mirth. ‘You had better shake hands with me after that, Cousin Will,’ she said.

‘You are making peace, Miss Mab,’ said Leo Swinford, who had followed them out.

‘No, I am not making peace, for we never made war,’ said Mab, who had given her cousin a warm grasp of the hand. And she stood at the gate looking after them with some regret. For Lord Will was young, and they were of the same blood, and he was a great novelty, something far more new than even Leo Swinford. She was unfeignedly sorry that he was going away. And she could not understand why, nor how it was that the young man who was so cordial yesterday should be so cold again now.

Lady William stood as she had done when young Pakenham dropped her hand until Leo Swinford, following his friend, had closed the door of the little drawing-room. I think she heard through the open window all that Mab said—at all events, the laugh so full of merriment and spontaneity bursting out into the pleasant air. Then she suddenly sank into the chair, and covering her face with her hands fell into a sudden burst of silent weeping. There was no sound, but her shoulder heaved with the effort to control and subdue the sudden emotion. Mr. Plowden had been standing, too, perplexed and disappointed by the stranger’s sudden withdrawal, but a little consoled by the laugh which seemed to prove that there was at all events a good understanding between Mab and her cousin. He did not perceive for a moment the effect upon his sister, and it was only after the young man had gone out of the garden gate, that, turning to speak to her, he perceived the attitude of abandonment, the restrained but almost irrestrainable passion by which she had been seized. He was not so much afraid of seeing women cry as men less experienced are. But Emily had never been of the weeping kind, and the Rector was startled and touched by the sight of the paroxysm with which she was struggling, to keep it down.

‘Emily,’ he cried, ‘Emily, my dear, what is it? You’re not breaking down?’

‘James,’ she cried, but very low, suddenly lifting to him a face full of anguish and exceedingly pale, ‘if we should not be able to prove it; if we can’t get the evidence! Oh James, my Mab, my child!’

‘Why shouldn’t we be able to prove it?’ he said, with half-angry calm. ‘Where is the difficulty of proving it? and what has that to do with it? Why, Emily, I never knew your good sense fail you before.’

‘My good sense!’ she said, with a miserable smile.

‘To be sure! Why, what is there to cry about? Such an unexpected windfall to Mab—a fortune, no doubt, though he did not tell us how much. You cut the young man short, Emily. I can’t see why. He seemed a very civil young man.’

Lady William raised herself up and dried her wet eyes.

‘You are quite right,’ she said, ‘it is my common sense that is failing me, James.’

‘Failed you for a moment,’ he said, indulgently patting her on the shoulder. For to be a man with a wife and daughters of his own he was very fond of his sister; and he was also agreeably excited by the sight of the second Lord William, actually one of the Portcullis family, Mab’s own cousin, about whom the ladies of the Rectory, when they heard, would be so deeply excited. Mr. Plowden was anxious to convey that wonderful intelligence to them as quickly as was possible. ‘Well, my dear Emily,’ he said, ‘I must go. I have no doubt you’ve been a good deal excited this morning, and I should advise you to lie down and rest a little. And to-morrow—well, no, perhaps not to-morrow, for now I remember, I have some churchings and various other things to attend to, but the very first free day I have——’

She put her hands together beseechingly. ‘Oh, go at once—don’t keep me in this suspense.’

‘My dear girl! you are frightening yourself in the most absurd way. After to-morrow, the very earliest minute that I can get away.’

Lady William did not lie down and rest when her brother left her, but she went upstairs and took refuge in her own room, very thankful that Mab had returned to her gardening. That Mab was an heiress and that ‘the family’ were seeking her acquaintance was the news Mr. Plowden longed to tell. But Mab’s mother was filled with another thought. If it could be that the search should fail! She believed more in failure than success with her experience. If it should fail, if there should fall upon Mab any cloud, any shadow of possible shame! She wrung her hands till they hurt her, but her heart was wrung more sorely still. It was a view she had not thought of before. Shame for herself would be bad enough. But for Mab! And even the possibility that Mab should turn astonished eyes upon her, should ask even with those eyes alone a question—should have such a thought suggested even for a moment, to her mind! Lady William had borne many miseries in her not yet very long life, but in that there would be the crown of all.