Two days after this, while as yet there had appeared no further solution of the mystery, Roland Hamerton came hastily one morning up the sloping paths of Bonport into the garden, where he knew he should find Rosalind. He was in the position of a sort of outdoor member of the household, going and coming at his pleasure, made no account of, enjoying the privileges of a son and brother rather than of a lover. But the advantages of this position were great. He saw Rosalind at all hours, in all circumstances, and he was himself so much concerned about little Amy, and so full of earnest interest in everything that affected the family, that he was admitted even to the most intimate consultations. To Rosalind his presence had given a support and help which she could not have imagined possible; especially in contrast with Rivers, who approached her with that almost threatening demand for a final explanation, and shaped every word and action so as to show that the reason for his presence here was her and her only. Roland’s self-control and unfeigned desire to promote her comfort first of all, before he thought of himself, was in perfect contrast to this, and consolatory beyond measure. She had got to be afraid of Rivers; she was not at all afraid of the humble lover who was at the same time her old friend, who was young like herself, who knew everything that had happened. This was the state to which she had come in that famous competition between the three, who ought, as Mr. Ruskin says, to have been seven. One she had withdrawn altogether from, putting him out of the lists with mingled repulsion and pity. Another she had been seized with a terror of, as of a man lying in wait to devour her. The third—he was no one; he was only Roland; her lover in the nursery, her faithful attendant all her life. She was not afraid of him, nor of any exaction on his part. Her heart turned to him with a simple reliance. He was not clever, he was not distinguished; he had executed for her none of the labors either of Hercules or any other hero. He had on his side no attractions of natural beauty, or any of those vague appeals to the imagination which had given Everard a certain power over her; and he had not carried her image with him, as Rivers had done, through danger and conflict, or brought back any laurels to lay at her feet. If it had been a matter of competition, as in the days of chivalry, or in the scheme of our gentle yet vehement philosopher, Roland would have had little chance. But after the year was over in which Rosalind had known of the competition for her favor, he it was who remained nearest. She glanced up with an alarmed look to see who was coming, and her face cleared when she saw it was Roland. He would force no considerations upon her, ask no tremendous questions. She gave him a smile as he approached. She was seated under the trees, with the lake gleaming behind for a background through an opening in the foliage. Mrs. Lennox’s chair still stood on the same spot, but she was not there. There were some books on the table, but Rosalind was not reading. She had some needlework in her hands, but that was little more than a pretence; she was thinking, and all her thoughts were directed to one subject. She smiled when he came up, yet grudged to lose the freedom of those endless thoughts. “I thought,” she said, “you were on the water with Rex.”

“No, I told you I wanted something to do. I think I have got what I wanted, but I should like to tell you about it, Rosalind.”

“Yes?” she said, looking up again with a smiling interrogation. She thought it was about some piece of exercise or amusement, some long walk he was going to take, some expedition which he wanted to organize.

“I have heard something very strange,” he said. “It appears that I said something the other night to Rivers, whom I found when I went back to the hotel, and that somebody, some lady, was seen to come near and listen. I was not saying any harm, you may suppose, but only that the children were upset. And this lady came around to hear what I was saying.”

His meaning did not easily reach Rosalind, who was preoccupied, and did not connect Roland at all with the mystery around her. She said, “That was strange; who could it be; some one who knew us in the hotel?”

“Rosalind, I have never liked to say anything to you about—Madam.”

“Don’t!” she said, holding up her hand; “oh, don’t, Roland. The only time you spoke to me about her you hurt me—oh, to the very heart; not that I believed it; but it was so grievous that you could think, that you could say—that you could see even, anything—”

“I have thought it over a hundred times since then, and what you say is true, Rosalind. One has no right even to see things that—there are some people who are above even— I know now what you mean, and that it is true. You knew her better than any one else, and your faith is mine. That is why I came to tell you. Rosalind—who could that woman be but one? She came behind the bushes to hear what I was saying. She was all trembling—who else could that be?”

“Roland!” Rosalind had risen up, every tinge of color ebbing from her face; “you too!—you too—!”

“No,” he said, rising also, taking her hand; “not that, not that, Rosalind. If she were dead, as you think, would she not know everything? She would not need to listen to me. This is what I am sure of, that she is here and trying every way—”

She grasped his hands as if her own were iron, and then let them go, and threw herself into her seat, and sobbed, unable to speak, “Oh, Roland! oh, Roland!” with a cry that went to his heart.

“Rosalind,” he said, leaning over her, touching her shoulder, and her hair, with a sympathy which filled his eyes with tears, and would not be contented with words, “listen; I am going to look for her now. I sha’n’t tire of it, whoever tires. I shall find her, Rosalind. And then, if she will let me take care of her, stand by her, bring her news of you all—! I have wronged her more than anybody, for I thought that I believed; see if I don’t make up for it now. I could not go without telling you— I shall find her, Rosalind,” the young man cried.

She rose up again, trembling, and uncovered her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her eyes almost wild with hope and excitement. “I’ll come with you,” she said. “I had made up my mind before. I will bear it no longer. Let them take everything; what does it matter? I am not only my father’s daughter, I am myself first of all. If she is living, Roland—”

“She is living, I am sure.”

“Then as soon as we find her—oh no, she would go away from me; when you find her Roland— I put all my trust in you.”

“And then,” he cried breathlessly, “and then? No, I’ll make no bargains; only say you trust me, dear. You did say you trusted me, Rosalind.”

“With all my heart,” she said.

And as Rosalind looked at him, smiling with her eyes full of tears, the young man turned and hurried away. When he was nearly out of sight he looked back and waved his hand: she was standing up gazing after him as if—as if it were the man whom she loved was leaving her. That was the thought that leaped up into his heart with an emotion indescribable—the feeling of one who has found what he had thought lost and beyond his reach. As if it were the man she loved! Could one say more than that? “But I’ll make no bargains, I’ll make no bargains,” he said to himself. “It’s best to be all for love and nothing for reward.”

While this scene was being enacted in the garden, another, of a very different description, yet bearing on the same subject, was taking place in the room which John Trevanion, with the instinct of an Englishman, called his study. The expedient of sending for Russell had not been very successful so far as the nursery was concerned. The woman had arrived in high elation and triumph, feeling that her “family” had found it impossible to go on any longer without her, and full of the best intentions, this preliminary being fully acknowledged. She had meant to make short work with Johnny’s visions and the dreams of Amy, and to show triumphantly that she, and she only, understood the children. But when she arrived at Bonport her reception was not what she had hoped. The face of affairs was changed. Johnny, who saw no more apparitions, no longer wanted any special care, and Russell found the other woman in possession, and indisposed to accept her dictation, or yield the place to her, while Amy, now transferred to Rosalind’s room and care, shrank from her almost with horror. All this had been bitter to her, a disappointment all the greater that her hopes had been so high. She found herself a supernumerary, not wanted by any one in the house, where she had expected to be regarded as a deliverer. The only consolation she received was from Sophy, who had greatly dropped out of observation during recent events, and was as much astonished and as indignant to find Amy the first object in the household, and herself left out, as Russell was in her humiliation. The two injured ones found great solace in each other in these circumstances. Sophy threw herself with enthusiasm into the work of consoling, yet embittering, her old attendant’s life. Sophy told her all that had been said in the house before her arrival, and described the distaste of everybody for her with much graphic force. She gave Russell also an account of all that had passed, of the discovery which she believed she herself had made, and further, though this of itself sent the blood coursing through Russell’s veins, of the other incidents of the family life, and of Rosalind’s lovers; Mr. Rivers, who had just come from the war, and Mr. Everard, who was the gentleman who had been at the Red Lion. “Do you think he was in love with Rosalind then, Russell?” Sophy said, her keen eyes dancing with curiosity and eagerness. Russell said many things that were very injudicious, every word of which Sophy laid up in her heart, and felt with fierce satisfaction that her coming was not to be for nothing, and that the hand of Providence had brought her to clear up this imbroglio. She saw young Everard next day, and convinced herself of his identity, and indignation and horror blazed up within her. Russell scarcely slept all night, and as she lay awake gathered together all the subjects of wrath she had, and piled them high. Next morning she knocked at John Trevanion’s door, with a determination to make both her grievances and her discovery known at once.

“Mr. Trevanion,” said Russell, “may I speak a word with you, sir, if you please?”

John Trevanion turned around upon his chair, and looked at her with surprise, and an uncomfortable sense of something painful to come. What had he to do with the women-servants? That, at least, was out of his department. “What do you want?” he asked in a helpless tone.

“Mr. John,” said Russell, drawing nearer, “there is something that I must say. I can’t say it to Mrs. Lennox, for she’s turned against me like the rest. But a gentleman is more unpartial like. Do you know, sir, who it is that is coming here every day, and after Miss Rosalind, as they tell me? After Miss Rosalind! It’s not a thing I like to say of a young lady, and one that I’ve brought up, which makes it a deal worse; but she has no proper pride. Mr. John, do you know who that Mr. Everard, as they call him, is?”

“Yes, I know who he is. You had better attend to the affairs of the nursery, Russell.”

This touched into a higher blaze the fire of Russell’s wrath. “The nursery! I’m not allowed in it. There is another woman there that thinks she has the right to my place. I’m put in a room to do needlework, Mr. John. Me! and Miss Amy in Miss Rosalind’s room, that doesn’t know no more than you do how to manage her. But I mustn’t give way,” the woman cried, with an effort. “Do you know as the police are after him, Mr. John? Do you know it was all along of him as Madam went away?”

John Trevanion sprang from his chair. “Be silent, woman!” he cried; “how dare you speak so to me?”

“I’ve said it before, and I will again!” cried Russell—“a man not half her age. Oh, it was a shame!—and out of a house like Highcourt—and a lady that should know better, not a poor servant like them that are sent out of the way at a moment’s notice when they go wrong. Don’t lift your hand to me, Mr. John. Would you strike a woman, sir, and call yourself a gentleman? And you that brought me here against my will when I was happy at home. I won’t go out of the room till I have said my say.”

“No,” said John, with a laugh which was half rage, though the idea that he was likely to strike Russell was a ludicrous exasperation. “No, as you are a woman I can’t, unfortunately, knock you down, whatever impertinence you may say.”

“I am glad of that, sir,” said Russell, “for you looked very like it; and I’ve served the Trevanions for years, though I don’t get much credit for it, and I shouldn’t like to have to say as the lady of the house forgot herself for a boy, and a gentleman of the house struck a woman. I’ve too much regard for them to do that.”

Here she paused to take breath, and then resumed, standing in an attitude of defence against the door, whither John’s threatening aspect had driven her: “You mark my words, sir,” cried Russell, “where that young man is, Madam’s not far off. Miss Sophy, that has her wits about her, she has seen her—and the others that is full of fancies they’ve seen what they think is a ghost; and little Miss Amy, she is wrong in the head with it. This is how I find things when I’m telegraphed for, and brought out to a strange place, and then told as I’m not wanted. But it’s Providence as wants me here. Mrs. Lennox—she always was soft— I don’t wonder at her being deceived; and, besides, she wasn’t on the spot, and she don’t know. But, Mr. Trevanion, you were there all the time. You know what goings-on there were. It wasn’t the doctor or the parson Madam went out to meet, and who was there besides? Nobody but this young man. When a woman’s bent on going wrong, she’ll find out the way. You’re going to strike me again! but it’s true. It was him she met every night, every night, out in the cold. And then he saw Miss Rosalind, and he thought to himself—here’s a young one, and a rich one, and far nicer than that old— Mr. John! I know more than any of you know, and I’ll put up with no violence, Mr. John!”

John Trevanion’s words will scarcely bear repeating. He put her out of the room with more energy than perhaps he ought to have employed with a woman; and he bade her go to the devil with her infernal lies. Profane speech is not to be excused, but there are times when it becomes mere historical truth and not profanity at all. They were infernal lies, the language and suggestion of hell even if—even if—oh, that a bleeding heart should have to remember this!—even if they were true. John shut the door of his room upon the struggling woman and came back to face himself, who was more terrible still. Even if they were true! They brought back in a moment a suggestion which had died away in his mind, but which never had been definitely cast forth. His impulse when he had seen this young Everard had been to take him by the collar and pitch him forth, and refuse him permission even to breathe the same air: “Dangerous fellow, hence; breathe not where princes are!” but then a sense of confusion and uncertainty had come in and baffled him. There was no proof, either, that Everard was the man, or that there was any man. It was not Madam’s handwriting, but her husband’s, that had connected the youth with Highcourt; and though he might have a thousand faults, he did not look the cold-blooded villain who would make his connection with one woman a standing ground upon which to establish schemes against another. John Trevanion’s brow grew quite crimson as the thought went through his mind. He was alone, and he was middle-aged and experienced in the world; and two years ago many a troublous doubt, and something even like a horrible certainty, had passed through his mind. But there are people with whom it is impossible to associate shame. Even if shame should be all but proved against them, it will not hold. When he thought an evil thought of Madam—nay, when that thought had but a thoroughfare through his mind against his will, the man felt his cheek redden and his soul faint. And here, too, were the storm-clouds of that catastrophe which was past, rolling up again, full of flame and wrath. They had all been silent then, awestricken, anxious to hush up and pass over, and let the mystery remain. But now this was no longer possible. A bewildering sense of confusion, of a darkness through which he could not make his way, of strange coincidences, strange contradictions, was in John Trevanion’s mind. He was afraid to enter upon this maze, not knowing to what conclusion it might lead him. And yet now it must be done.

Only a very short time after another knock came to his door, and Rosalind entered, with an atmosphere about her of urgency and excitement. She said, without any preface:

“Uncle John, I have come to tell you what I have made up my mind to do. Do you remember that in two days I shall be of age, and my own mistress? In two days!”

“My dear,” he said, “I hope you have not been under so hard a taskmaster as to make you impatient to be free.”

“Yes,” said Rosalind. “Oh, not a hard taskmaster; but life has been hard, Uncle John! As soon as I am my own mistress I am going, Amy and I, to—you know. I cannot rest here any longer. Amy will be safe; she can have my money. But this cannot go on any longer. If we should starve, we must find my mother. I know you will say she is not my mother. And who else, then? She is all the mother I have ever known. And I have left her these two years under a stain which she ought not to bear, and in misery which she ought not to bear. Was it ever heard of before that a mother should be banished from her children? I was too young to understand it all at first; and I had no habit of acting for myself; and perhaps you would have been right to stop me; but now—”

“Certainly I should have stopped you. But, Rosalind, I have come myself to a similar resolution,” he said. “It must all be cleared up. But not by you, my dear, not by you. If there is anything to discover that is to her shame—”

“There is nothing, Uncle John.”

“My dear, you don’t know how mysterious human nature is. There are fine and noble creatures such as she is—as she is! don’t think I deny it, Rosalind—who may have yet a spot, a stain, which a man like me may see and grieve for and forgive, but you—”

“Oh, Uncle John, say that a woman like me may wash away with tears, if you like, but that should never, never be betrayed to the eyes of a man!”

He took her into his arms, weeping as she was, and he not far from it. “Rosalind, perhaps yours is the truest way; but yet, as common people think, and according to the way of the world—”

“Which is neither your way nor mine,” cried the girl.

“And you can say nothing to change my mind; I was too young at the time. But now—if she has died,” Rosalind said, with difficulty swallowing down the “climbing sorrow” in her throat, “she will know at least what we meant. And if she is living there is no rest but with our mother for Amy and me. And the child shall not suffer, Uncle John, for she shall have what is mine.”

“Rosalind, you are still in the absolute stage—you see nothing that can modify your purposes. My dear, you should have had your mother to speak to on this subject. There are two men here, Rosalind, to whom—have you not some duty, some obligation? They both seem to me to be waiting—for what, Rosalind?”

Rosalind detached herself from her uncle’s arm. A crimson flush covered her face. “Is it—dishonorable?” she said.

In the midst of his emotion John Trevanion could not suppress a smile. “That is, perhaps, a strong word.”

“It would be dishonorable in a man,” she cried, lifting her eyes with a hot color under them which seemed to scorch her.

“It would be impossible in a man, Rosalind,” he said gravely; “the circumstances are altogether different. And yet you too owe something to Roland, who has loved you all his life, poor fellow, and to Rivers, who has come here neglecting everything for your sake. I do not know,” he added, in a harsher tone, “whether there may not be still another claim.”

“I think you are unjust, Uncle John,” she said, with tremulous dignity. “And if it is as you say, these gentlemen have followed their own inclinations, not mine. Am I bound because they have seen fit— But that would be slavery for a woman.” Then her countenance cleared a little, and she added, “When you know all that is in my mind you will not disapprove.”

“I hope you will make a wise decision, Rosalind,” he said. “But at least do nothing—make up your mind to do nothing—till the time comes.” He spoke vaguely, and so did she, but in the excitement of their minds neither remarked this in the other. For he had not hinted to her, nor her to him, the possibility of some great new event which might happen at any moment and change all plans and thoughts.