  We were old-fashioned people at Aldred, and Christmas was our special holiday. The house was always filled with guests, not such as many of our grander neighbors asked to their houses, but such as cared for good old-fashioned cheer and antiquated habits. Not all were relations, for we never asked relations merely on account of their kinship, according to the regulation mixing of a conventional Christmas party, but among our own people were many whose presence at our Christmas gatherings was as certain as the recurrence of the festival itself. Among them was a great-aunt, a soft, mild old lady, always dressed in widow's weeds, but with a face as fresh as a girl's, and hair white as the snowy cap she wore to conceal it. She had not come alone, for her adopted son was with her, the promised husband of her only child, dead years ago. He had left his own home and people, like Ruth, for the lonely, childless woman whom he was to have called mother, and remained her inseparable companion through her beautiful and resigned old age. There were, besides these, a young girl whose aspect was peculiar and attractive, and whose manner had in its mixture of modesty and self-reliance a piquancy that added to the fascination of her person. She had come with a distant cousin of hers, a widow of a different type from our dear old relative, and whose object in chaperoning Miss Houghton must have been mixed. She was small, blonde, coquettish, and thirty-two, though no one would have taken her for more than twenty-five. She looked soft, pliable, irresolute, and tender, and men often found in her a repose which was a soothing contrast to her cousin's energetic, peculiar, somewhat eccentric ways; only it was the repose yielded by a downy cushion, and people wearied of it after a while. The secret of the apparent partnership between these two opposite natures was perhaps this: the widow had a rich jointure, and was an excellent parti, while her cousin was portionless. Miss Houghton was thus doubly a foil to Mrs. Burtleigh. I shall not speak of the other guests in detail, with the exception of one whom it would be impossible to overlook. He was a man nearer forty than thirty-five, good-humored and careless to all appearance, a hard worker in the battle of life, a cosmopolitan philosopher, and one of those handy, useful men who can sew on a button, cook an omelet, and kiss a bride as easily and unconcernedly as they gallop across country or horsewhip a villain. He had been in Mexico, surveying and engineering for an English railroad company, and he had spent some years in the East as the land-agent of a progress-loving pacha. Europe he knew as well as we knew Aldred, while the year he had been absent from us had been filled by new and stirring experiences in Upper Egypt. But I forget; we have yet to speak of many little details of Christmas-tide which preceded the gathering in of the whole party. The kitchen department was, of [pg 449] The decoration of house and chapel was a wonderful and prolonged business, and afforded great amusement. Holly grew in profusion at Aldred, and a cart-load of the bright-berried evergreen was brought to the house the day preceding Christmas eve. The people we have made acquaintance with were already with us, and vigorously helped us on with the preparations. Such fun as there was when Miss Houghton insisted upon crowning the marble bust of the Indian grandee, Rammohun Roy, with a holly wreath, and when Mrs. Burtleigh gave a pretty, ladylike little cry as she pricked her fingers with the glossy leaves! The children of the house and those of another house in the neighborhood (orphan children whose gloomy home made them a perpetual source of pity to us) were helping as unhelpfully as ever, but what of that? It was a joyous, animated scene, and, still more, a romantic one; for the traveller, who had claimed a former acquaintance with Miss Houghton, now seemed to become her very shadow—or knight, let us say; it is more appropriate to the spirit of a festival so highly honored in mediÆval times. The chapel, a beautiful Gothic building, small but perfect, was decorated with mottoes wrought in leaves, such as “Unto us a Son is born, unto us a Child is given,” and Gloria in excelsis Deo, etc., while festoons of evergreens hung from pillar to pillar, and draped the stone-carved tribune at the western end with a living tapestry. Round the altar were heaped in rows, placed one higher than another, evergreens of every size and kind, mingled with islands of bright camellias, the pride of the renowned hothouses of Aldred. White, red, and streaked, the flowers seemed like stars among dark masses of clouds; and, when we lit a few of the tall candles to see the effect, it was so solemn that we longed for the time to pass quickly, till the midnight Mass should call forth all the beauty of which we had seen but a part. These decorations had been mainly the work of the traveller (whom, in our traditional familiarity, we called “Cousin Jim”) and of our other friend, the adopted son of our old aunt; but, though their brains had conceived, it was Miss Houghton's deft fingers that executed the work best. The last touch had just been put to an immense cross of holly which was to be swung from the ceiling, to supply the place of the rood that in old times guarded the choir-screen. A star of snow-white camellias was to be poised just above it, and a tall ladder had been put in readiness to facilitate the delicate task. Miss Houghton stood at the foot, one arm leaning on the ladder, the other holding aloft the white star. Her friend was halfway up, bearing the great cross, when he suddenly heard a low voice, swelling gradually, intoning the words of the Christmas hymn: [pg 450]Adeste fideles, LÆti triumphantes; Venite, venite in Bethlehem: Natum videte Regem angelorum: Venite adoremus, Venite adoremus, Venite adoremus Dominum. Startled and touched, he began the repeating words of the chorus, pausing with his green cross held high in his arms. The others who, scattered about the chapel, heard his deep tones, answering, took up the chorus, and chanted it slowly to the end, Miss Houghton looking round with tears in her eyes, at this unexpected response to the suppressed and undefinable feelings of her heart. It was an impressive scene, the guests, servants, gardeners, and a few of the choir-boys, all mingling in the impromptu worship so well befitting the beautiful work they had in hand. At the end of the verse, the traveller hastily gained the top of the ladder, and, having fastened the holly cross in its place, intoned a second verse, in which Miss Houghton immediately joined, and the harmonious blending of their voices had, if possible, a still more beautiful effect than the unaccompanied chant of the first verse. Again the chorus chimed in, Venite adoremus, Venite adoremus, Venite adoremus Dominum. in full, solemn tones, and all sang from their places, their festoons in their hands, so that at the end of the hymn the traveller said thoughtfully to his companion: “Laborare est orare should be our motto henceforth. I wish all our work were as holy as this.” “And why not?” she answered quickly; “only will it so, and so it shall be. We are our own creators.” “What a rash saying!” he exclaimed, with a smile; “but I know what you mean. God gives us the tools and the marble; it is ours to carve it into an angel or a fiend.” At last the chapel decoration was over, and a few of the more venturesome among us went out in the snow for a walk. Meanwhile, in the corridor (so we called our favorite sitting-room), the Yule-logs were crackling cheerfully on the wide hearth, and the fitful tongues of flame shot a red glimmer over the old-fashioned furniture. One of the chairs was said to have belonged to Cardinal Wolsey, and there was another, a circular arm-chair, that looked as if it also should have had a history connected with the great and learned. Full-length portraits of the old possessors of Aldred covered the walls, and on the stained-glass upper compartments of the deep bay-window at one end were depicted the arms and quarterings of the family. The Yule-logs were oak, cut from our own trees, and perforated all over with large holes through which the flames shot up like fire-sprites. The Christmas-tree and magic-lantern also had to be put in order to save time and trouble, and a stage for tableaux occupied the rapt attention of the amateur mechanician (our great-aunt's son) and of “Jim,” the traveller and practised factotum. Miss Houghton was never very far from the scene of these proceedings, and, when she was not quite so near, “Cousin Jim” was not quite so eager. Almost all our guests had brought contributions for the Christmas-tree, of which our children had the nominal charge, and with these gifts and our own it turned out quite a royal success. Presents of useful garments, flannels, boots, mittens, woollen shirts, petticoats, and comforters, were stowed away beneath the lower branches, while all visible parts were hung with the toys and fruits, lights and ribbons, that so delight children. Gilt walnut-shells were a prominent [pg 451] Many people from the village had asked leave to come in and look at these peculiar decorations; but, as few of them were Catholics, it had been thought better to wait till the third Mass on Christmas day to open the chapel to the public. Christmas eve was a very busy day, and towards five o'clock began the great task of welcoming the rest of the expected guests. This was done in no modern and languid fashion; the servants, clad in fur caps and frieze greatcoats, stood near the door with resinous torches flaring in the still night air—it was quite dark at that early hour—and the host and hostess welcomed them at the very threshold. The children helped them to take off their wraps, and held mistletoe sprigs over their bended heads as they reached up to kiss them. Indeed, mistletoe was so plentifully strewn about the house that it was impossible to avoid it, but we had so far eschewed the freedom of the past as to consider this custom more honored in the breach than in the observance. The children and the servants, however, made up for our carelessness. Very little toilet was expected for a seven o'clock dinner (we were not fashionable people), but we found that our well-meant injunctions had hardly been obeyed. For the sake of the picturesque, so much the better, I thought. One of our friends had actually donned a claret-colored velvet suit, with slippers to match, embroidered with gold; and, when we looked at each other in silent amusement, the wearer himself smiled round the circle, saying pleasantly: “Oh! I do not mind being noticed. In fact, I rather like it—this was a lady's fancy, you see.” “How, how?” we asked eagerly. “Well,” answered the Londoner, a regular drawing-room pet, and a very clever society jester, “I was challenged to a game of billiards by a fair lady, the Duchess of ——. She said to me, ‘And pray do wear something picturesque.’ I bowed and said, ‘Your grace shall be obeyed.’ I happened to have some loose cash about me. I could not wear uniform, because I did not belong even to the most insignificant of volunteer regiments, and I went to my tailor. His genius was equal to the occasion, and this was the result. I played with the duchess, and she won,”—the hero of the velvet coat was an invincible billiard champion.—“As I have the dress by me, I take the liberty of wearing it occasionally in the country. It is too good to be hidden, isn't it?” So he rattled on till dinner was announced. It was a merry but frugal meal. The mince-pies and plum-pudding crowned with blue flame, the holly-wreathed boar's head of romance, were not there; they were reserved for to-morrow. So with the “wassail-bowl,” the fragrant, spirituous beverage of which each one was to partake, his two neighbors standing up on each side of him, according to the old custom intended as a defence against treachery; for once it had happened that a guest whose hands were engaged holding the two-handled [pg 452] The fare to-night was still Advent fare, but, after dinner, Christmas insisted upon beginning. We were told that the “mummers” from the village were come, and waited for leave to begin their play. They were brought into the hall, and the whole company stood on the steps leading up to the drawing-rooms. The scenery was not characteristic—a broad oaken staircase, a Chinese gong, the polished oak flooring, the massive hall-door. The actors themselves, seven or eight in number, dressed in the most fantastic and extemporized costume, now began the performance; and but for the venerable antiquity of the farce, it was absurd and obscure enough to excite laughter rather than interest. The children were wild with delight, and were with difficulty restrained from leaping the “pit” and mingling with the actors on the “stage.” Indeed, for many days after nothing was heard among them but imitations of the “mummers.” There was a grave dialogue about “King George,” then a scuffle ensued, and one man fell down either wounded or in a fit. The doctor is called; the people believe the man dead, the doctor denies this, and says, “I will give him a cordial, mark the effect.” The resuscitated man afterwards has a tooth drawn by the same quack, who then holds up the tooth (a huge, unshapely equine one provided for the occasion), and exclaims: “Why, this is more like a horse's tooth than a man's!” I never could make out the full meaning of the “mummers'” play; but, whether it was a corruption of some older and more complete dramatic form, or the crude beginning of an undeveloped one, it certainly was the characteristic feature of our Christmas at Aldred. It took place regularly every year, without the slightest deviation in detail, and always ended in a mournful chorus, “The Old Folks at Home.” After the actors had been heartily cheered, and the host had addressed to them a few kind words of thanks and recognition, they were dismissed to the kitchen, to their much coveted entertainment of unlimited beer. There they enacted their performance once more for the servants, who then fraternized with them on the most amiable terms. Meanwhile, our party were gradually collecting round the wood-fire in the corridor. It was a bitter cold night, the snow was falling noiselessly and fast, and the wind howled weirdly through the bare branches of the distant trees. Our old aunt remarked, in her gentle way: “One almost feels as if those poor owls were human beings crying with cold.” “We look like a picture, mother,” somewhat irrelevantly answered her son after a slight pause; “the antique dresses of many of us are quite worth an artist's study.” Mrs. Burtleigh, whose blonde beauty was coquettishly set off by a slight touch of powder on the hair, and a becoming Marie Antoinette style of nÉgligÉ, here pointedly addressed the traveller. “Sir Pilgrim,” she said, “did you ever think of home when you had to spend a Christmas in outlandish countries?” “Sometimes,” answered “Jim” absently, his eyes wandering towards Miss Houghton, who stood resting her head against a carved griffin on the tall mantel-piece. She caught his glance, and said half saucily: [pg 453]“Now, if it was not too commonplace, I should claim a story—Christmas eve is not complete without a story, at least so the books say.” “If it were required, I know one that is not quite so hackneyed as the grandmothers' ghosts and wicked ancestors we are often surfeited with at Christmas,” replied her friend quickly. The whole circle drew closer around the fire, and imperiously demanded an explanation. “But that will be descending to commonplace,” pleaded the traveller. “Who knows? It may turn out the reverse, when you have done,” heedlessly said Mrs. Burtleigh. “Well, if you will have it, here it is. Mind, now, I am not going to give you a three-volume novel, full of padding, but just tell you one incident, plain and unadorned. So do not look forward to anything thrilling or sensational. “Some years ago, I was in Belgium, hastening home for Christmas, and spent three or four days in Bruges. I will spare you a description of the grand old city, and come to facts. I was just on the point of leaving, and had got to the railway station in order to catch the tidal train for Ostend, when a man suddenly and hurriedly came up to me, an old servant in faded livery, who, without breathing a word, placed a note in my hand, and was immediately lost to sight in the crowd. The waiting-room was dimly lighted, but I could make out my own name, initials and all, on the envelope. In my confusion, I hurried out of the station, and, stepping into a small hÔtellerie, I opened the mysterious note. It was very short: ‘Come at once to No. 20 Rue Neuve.’ The signature was in initials only. The handwriting was small and undecided. I could hardly tell if it were a man's or a woman's. I knew my way to the Rue Neuve, not a really new street, but one of Bruges' most interesting old thoroughfares. No gas, a narrow street, great gaunt portes-cochÈres, and projecting windows on both sides, the pavement uneven, and a young moon just showing her crescent over the crazy-looking houses—such was the scene. I soon got to No. 20. It was a large, dilapidated house, with every sign about it of decayed grandeur and diminished wealth. Two large doors, heavily barred, occupied the lower part of the wall; above were oriels and dormers whose stone frames were tortured into weird half-human faces and impossible foliage. No light anywhere, and for bell a long, hanging, ponderous weight of iron. I pulled it, and a sepulchral sound answered the motion. I waited, no one came; I thought I must have mistaken the number. Taking out the letter, however, I made sure I was right. I pulled the bell again a little louder, and heard footsteps slowly echoing on the stone flags of the court within. Sabots evidently; they made a rattle like dead men's bones, I thought. A little grille, or tiny wicket, was opened, and an old dame, shading her candle with one brown hand, peered suspiciously out. Apparently dissatisfied, she closed the opening with a bang, muttering to herself in Flemish. It was cold standing in the street, and, as the portress of this mysterious No. 20 made no sign of opening the door for me, I was very nearly getting angry, and going away in no amiable mood at the unknown who had played me this too practical joke. Suddenly I heard the grille open again, very briskly this time, and a voice said in tolerably good French: “ ‘Monsieur's name is—?’ “ ‘Yes,’ I replied rather impatiently. [pg 454]“ ‘Then will monsieur wait an instant, till I undo the bars?’ A great drawing of chains and bolts on the inside followed her speech, and a little gate, three-quarters of a man's height, was opened in the massive and immovable porte-cochÈre. I stepped quickly in, nearly overturning the old dame's candlestick. She wore a full short petticoat of bright yet not gaudy blue, and over it a large black circular cloak which covered all but her clumsy sabots. Her cap was a miracle of neatness, and her brown face, wrinkled but cheery, reminded me of S. Elizabeth in Raphael's pictures. She said glibly and politely: “ ‘Will monsieur give himself the trouble to wait a moment?’ “She disappeared with her candle, leaving me to peer round the courtyard, where the moon's feeble rays were playing at hide-and-seek behind the many projections. Almost as soon as she had left, she was with me again, bidding me follow her up-stairs. ‘My master is bed-ridden,’ she explained. ‘Since he got a wound in the war of independence against Holland, he has not been able to move. Monsieur will take care, I hope, not to excite him; he is nervous and irritable since his illness,’ she added apologetically. “I confess I was rather disappointed. I had expected that everything would happen as it does in a play—it had looked so like one hitherto. I thought I was going to meet a woman—young, beautiful, in distress, perhaps in want of a champion—but it was only a bed-ridden old man after all! Well, it might lead to an act of charity, that true chivalry of the soul, higher far than mere personal homage to accidental beauty. I entered a darkened room, scantily and shabbily furnished, and the old woman laid the candlestick on the table. The bed was in a corner near the fire; the uneven parquet floor was covered here and there with faded rugs, and books and papers lay on a desk on the old man's bed. At first I could hardly distinguish his features, but, as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I saw that he was a martial-looking man, with eyes so keen that sickness could hardly dull them, and a bearing that indicated the stern will, the clear intellect, and the lofty bonhomie of an old Flemish gentilhomme. He looked at me with curious and prolonged interest, then said, in a voice full of bygone courtesy: “ ‘Will monsieur be seated? I have made no mistake in the name?’ “ ‘No,’ I answered, wondering what the question meant. “ ‘Then, monsieur, I have important news for you. The daughter of your brother—’ “I was already bewildered, and looked up. He continued, taking my surprise for interest: ‘The daughter of your poor brother is now a great heiress, and I hold her fortune in trust for her—do not interrupt me,’ he said, eagerly preventing me from speaking, ‘it tires me, and I must say all this at once. I do not know if you knew of her being taken from her parents when a child; of course you recollect that, after her mother's marriage with your brother, there was a great fracas, and poor Marie's father disinherited her at once. When the child was born—I was her god-father, by the bye—her parents being in great poverty, I begged of the grandfather to help and forgive them, the more so as your brother was making his poor wife very unhappy. He refused, and, though he generally took my advice (he was an an old college friend of mine), he was obstinate on this [pg 455] “I could not help starting; he saw my surprise. “ ‘Oh!’ he resumed, ‘did you not know how he died? Pardon me, monsieur, I remember now that none of his English kin followed him to the grave, but I had heard your name before.’ “ ‘Monsieur,’ I began, fearing that he might be led on to talk of family secrets such as he might not wish to share with a stranger, ‘you have told me a strange tale; but allow me to undeceive you—’ “ ‘How did you deceive me?’ he asked impatiently, and I, remembering the old dame's warning not to excite him, was puzzled how to act. In the meanwhile, he went on. “ ‘Eh bien! The mother then went to England, to the school where her child was, and saw her, but she did not long survive the wear and tear of her wretched life, and the grief her husband's death caused her—for, poor woman, she loved him, you see.’ “ ‘Just like a woman, God bless her!’ I murmured involuntarily. The old man bent his head in cordial assent, but immediately resumed: ‘Her father blessed her before she died, and promised to care for the little girl. He then drew up this will’—here he laid his hand on a thick packet on the desk—‘and entrusted it me. The child was nine years old then, and that was fifteen years ago. She was to be told nothing till her twenty-first birthday, and to be brought up in England, unconscious of anything save that she was the child of honest parents. This went on for some years, and then my old friend died. I continued to send regular remittances to the little girl's temporary guardians; the bulk of the fortune I kept in the house—there in that chest; perhaps it was a foolish fancy, but I did not care to have it in a common bank. The war came and passed over the flower of our land, and you see, monsieur, what it has left of my former self. Well, after a time, five or six years ago, I ceased hearing from my little ward; I was unable to get up and search for her; all that advertisements and correspondence could do I did, and my chief endeavor was to find you. I thought, if anything were likely, this was; she would go to you, her father's step-brother, a different man, as I always heard her mother say, from what her own unhappy parent had been.’ “ ‘But,’ I said, ‘allow me to correct a mistake, monsieur; I never had a step-brother, or a brother either.’ “ ‘What!’ the old man exclaimed nervously—‘what do you mean? Do not joke about such things. Your name is ——. Your hair is fair and wavy, your figure tall and stalwart—that was the portrait of my poor little ward's uncle, a different man, of different [pg 456] “ ‘Do not tell me any names, monsieur,’ I here insisted, ‘until I have told you who I am.’ “He looked at me, still agitated, his brows knitted, and his lips quivered. I told him my name, birth, country, profession, and assured him that I, an only son, had never heard of any story like his. He seemed thunderstruck, and could hardly take in the idea; but, recollecting himself, said: ‘Pardon me, monsieur, but I have, then, caused you great inconvenience.’ “His politeness now seemed overwhelming; he was in despair; he was dÉsolÉ. What could he do? How could he apologize? I quieted him as best I could by professing the utmost indifference about the delay, and begged him, though I would solicit no further confidence, to consider my lips as sealed, and, if he wished it, my services as entirely at his disposal. “He smiled curiously, then said: ‘The best apology I can make is to tell you the whole. Your name and initials misled me. Having heard that you were in Bruges, I sent my messenger, who, it seems, only reached you as you were on the point of starting for Ostend. I thought it was my ward's uncle I had found, and, never having seen him, I could not tell if you were the wrong man. I must continue to try and find him; if I fail—never mind, I want to tell you her name. She is Philippa Duncombe, and, when I saw her last, she was a dark child, quick, peculiar, and resolute. It is so long ago that I could give you no idea of her exterior as she is now. I think she must have suspected her dependence upon a supposed charity, and have left school without the knowledge of any one. Anyhow, I must still try to find your namesake; as for you, monsieur, I cannot thank you enough for your forbearance.’ “I left Bruges the next day, but, as you may suppose, the story of the Baron Van Muyden never ceased to haunt me, and a few months after I was glad and flattered to receive a letter from the old veteran saying that he had now ascertained that my namesake, the child's half-uncle, had been dead some years, and that he felt that to none other but myself would he now wish to transfer the task of searching for the lost heiress. Of course I accepted.” Our friend paused here, and looked thoughtfully at the fire. The Yule-logs were burning so merrily that a ruin seemed imminent, and while the silence was yet unbroken a sound of distant singing came towards the house. It was the gay company of Christmas carollers, singing their old, old ditties through the frosty night, in commemoration of the Angel-songs heard by the watching shepherds so many long centuries ago on the hills of JudÆa. But the company was too much absorbed in the traveller's tale to heed the faint echo. Miss Houghton sat with her dark eyes fixed on the speaker, and every vestige of color gone in the intensity of her excitement; Mrs. Burtleigh, tapping the fender with her tiny gray satin slipper, seemed strangely excited, and glanced uneasily at her cousin; the rest of us were clasping our hands in our unrestrainable curiosity, and the provoking narrator actually had the coolness to hold his peace! At last some one spoke, unable to control his goaded curiosity. “Well?” “Well?” repeated the artful “Jim.” “Did you find her?” was the question that now broke from all lips, in a gamut of increasing impatience. “I told you a story, as we agreed,” [pg 457] “Never mind, go on,” was shouted on all sides. Miss Houghton was silent, but she seemed to hang on his words. He had calculated on this emotion, the wretch, and was making the most of his points! At last he resumed in a slow, absent way: “Yes, I accepted the search; I made it; I did all I could think of—but I failed.” The bomb had burst, but we all felt disappointed. This was not commonplace, not even enough to our minds. “He had cheated us,” we cried. “I can only tell you the truth; remember this was all real, no got-up Christmas tale, to end in a wedding, bell-ringing, and carol-singing. Hark! do you hear the carollers outside?” No one spoke, and he went on, still meditatively: “I do not mean to give it up, though.” Miss Houghton, who, till now, had said nothing, opened a small locket attached to one of her bracelets, and, keeping her eyes fixed on “Cousin Jim,” passed it to him, saying: “Did you ever see this face before?” He took it up, and looked puzzled. “No,” he said; “why do you ask?” We all looked at her as if she had been a young lunatic, her interest in the story being apparently of no very lasting nature. She then unfastened a companion bracelet, the hanging locket of which she opened and handed to her friend again. “This face you have seen?” she asked confidently. He started, and a rush of color came over his bronzed cheeks. “Yes, yes, that is the Baron Van Muyden—younger, but the same. And here is his writing, ‘To Marie Duncombe, her sincere and faithful friend.’ Miss Houghton?” “Yes,” she answered calmly, as if he had asked her a question. “Then what I have been looking for for three years I have found tonight?” he said, looking up at her, while we were all stupefied and silent. “And what I have never dreamt of,” she answered in a low voice, “I have suddenly learned to-night.” The carollers were now close under the windows, and the words of a simple chorus came clearly to our hearing— The snow lay on the ground, The stars shone bright, When Christ our Lord was born On Christmas night. After a few moments' silence, our curiosity, like water that has broken through thin ice, flowed into words again. Many questions and a storm of exclamations rang through the room, and the concussion was such that the Yule-logs crashed in two, and broke into a race across the wide hearth, splinters flying to the side, and sparks flying up the chimney. Then Miss Houghton spoke with the marvellous self-possession of her nature. “I knew my own name and my mother's from the beginning,” she said, “and Monsieur Van Muyden, and the old house, and the Flemish bonne in the Rue Neuve. I remember them all when a child. I used often to sleep there, and the night before I left Bruges I still remember playing with the baron's old sword. I remember my mother coming to see me at school in England, a convent-school, where I was very happy, and giving me these bracelets. She told me never to part with them; she said she would not be with me long. They told me of her death some months afterwards. The other [pg 458] She stopped, and Mrs. Burtleigh looked up in impatient confusion, perhaps conscious that her feelings and motives had been too mixed to warrant such frank, unbounded gratitude. “Jim” said nothing, and Miss Houghton seemed so calm that it was almost difficult to congratulate her. She was asked if she had recognized herself from the first in the story. “Yes,” she said; “I knew it must be me.” “You took it coolly,” some one ventured to observe. “I have seen too much of the revers de la mÉdaille to be much excited about this,” she said; but, if she was outwardly calm, her feelings were certainly aroused, for her strange eyes had a far-away look, and the color came and went in her cheek. Our friend seemed almost crestfallen; we thought he would have been elated. Presently she said to him, giving him the bracelets: “You must take these to Bruges, and I think you had better take me, too.” He stared silently at her. Just then the bell began to ring for the midnight Mass. What followed Miss Houghton told us herself. The guests hurried to the chapel, rather glad to get rid of their involuntary embarrassment. Those two remained behind alone. She was the first to speak. “I think you are sorry you have found me.” “Yes,” he answered slowly, “sorry to find it is you: Miss Houghton was poor, and Miss Duncombe is an heiress.” “What matter! If you like, Miss Duncombe will give up the fortune, or, if you want it, she will give it to you.” He looked offended and puzzled. “You do not understand me,” she said, half laughing: “Miss Duncombe will let you settle everything for her, and say anything you like to Miss Houghton.” “You do not mean—” he began excitedly. [pg 459]“I do,” she answered composedly. And they were engaged then and there. He wanted to be married before they left England, but she refused, saying their wedding must be in a Flemish cathedral, and their wedding breakfast in a Flemish house. And so it was; and No. 20 Rue Neuve is now their headquarters, while the household of the Belgian heiress is under the control of the old Flemish woman who once shut that door in the face of the heiress' husband. M. Van Muyden is happy and contented, and a merrier Christmas day was never spent at Aldred than the day of this unexpected recognition. Midnight Mass, Christmas-tree, school-feast, and all succeeded each other to our perfect satisfaction; the health of the heroine of “Cousin Jim's” tale was drunk in the “wassail-bowl” on Christmas night, and, as the happy, excited, and tired Christmas party separated on the day following New Year's day, every one agreed that it was a pity such things so very seldom happened in real life. |
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