CHAPTER XXII.

THE LOST FOUND.

EARLY in the ensuing month of May, the expected change of regiments took place, and a troop of the Fortieth Dragoons succeeded to the troop of Hussars, which, to the utter despair of Lieutenant Sprattles, was despatched to Brighton. This honest young warrior had lost his heart entirely, and his admiration for Miss Manwaring knew no bounds. When the change took place, the Duke of Ribblesdale probably did not regret that he had failed to induce Sprattles to consent to effect an exchange with him.

Two or three days after the arrival of the new troop, upon a tender spring afternoon, Evelyn went forth to wander by herself in Bushey Park. The day had been what George Herbert so beautifully calls

“A Bridal of the earth and sky,”

and the afternoon did not belie the fair promise of the morning. The grand avenue of chestnuts, it is true, had well-nigh lost every one of its myriad candelabras of silver and pale-rose, and the still lingering hawthorn blossoms had changed from their creamy tint to a faint red; but, all around and above, the scene was as lovely as an English May could make it. The opening leaves were in their livery of tenderest green; the brownish spirals of the young brakes were curling up amidst the still beautiful red, dried fronds of last year’s growth, which now hid and now revealed a belated hyacinth of heavenly blue. In the more open spaces the fragrant cowslips blossomed, and here and there a stately oxlip starred the mossy turf. The cuckows gave forth their familiar note, as they flew from thorn to thorn; the green woodpecker laughed for very joy; the throstles and blackbirds sang their sweetest; and once Evelyn fancied she heard the notes of a nightingale issuing from a thicket of brambles, where perhaps the hen-bird brooded over her modest nest of dried grass as brown as her own loving little body, while her mate, with his breast against a thorn, told her his tale of love. Evelyn chose the part of the Park where the dry, red fern grew the highest, and where she and Floss--for her faithful dog, as usual, was her companion--could feel themselves the most alone and unconstrained; for she heeded not the noble stags and dappled does which ever and anon she started from their ferny coverts. The girl loved the country from her heart; and amidst the thankfulness she felt for the peaceful home which the royal bounty had provided for her, she was sometimes thrilled with deep yearnings after her wild North-country fells, for the swelling swathes of purple heath, and for the rocky banks of the swirling Arrow. “If I did not see the heather once a-year at the least, I think I should die,” said Sir Walter Scott; and Evelyn felt a like sentiment with regard to her old home and its surroundings. On this particular afternoon the girl’s spirits were higher than usual, and she ran with Floss amongst the bracken and under the ancient thorns with as light a step as the springing deer around her. She held her straw hat in her hand, and her wondrous hair streamed out on the wind behind her like a golden cloud.

“Now, Floss,” cried the girl, “I am tired, and must sit down, and you must let no one come to disturb me; and you must be a good dog, and sit quietly beside me, and not hunt the good Queen’s deer.”

So saying, Evelyn made her way through a mass of tall ferns, with the intention of throwing herself at length upon the soft and mossy turf; and then, on a sudden, a sight met her eyes which literally transfixed her to the ground, and caused her to gasp for breath.

There, in the midst of a ring of lofty brakes, on the green grass, with his forage cap fallen off, and his beautiful bare head pillowed on a tiny knoll of moss, lay a young soldier asleep--and he the Image, the express and living Image of Evelyn’s long-lost, much-loved brother Wilfred. As the girl gazed, spellbound, and motionless as a statue of Parian marble, and almost as white, a sweet smile broke over and irradiated the lovely features of the young man as he stirred in his sleep. Floss evidently saw the same apparition which fixed the gaze of his young mistress, and he uttered a low, distrustful whine; but in a moment this was changed into a joyful bark, and, bounding forwards, the faithful dog threw himself upon the prostrate figure with every sign and demonstration of joy and affection. The young soldier awoke, and the first object which met his astonished eyes was the motionless figure of the girl, with her eyes fixed upon him with affrighted gaze.

“Evelyn!” he cried, springing to his feet; and the voice was the voice of her long-drowned brother.

“Wilfred!” she gasped; and then, all doubt vanishing, the brother and sister--for the lost one was indeed found--fell into each other’s arms.

An hour passed, and the two, long parted, but joined at length in God’s good time, still sat side by side, basking in the sunshine of each other’s love.

There were long explanations on both sides. Wilfred learned with almost unutterable joy that his character was cleared. He heard with grief that he was fatherless and brotherless. He heard that he was the rightful owner of the old House and Home of Holmcastle, which now was in the hands of another. He learned that his sister was an inmate of the Palace close at hand. And Evelyn heard the story of Wilfred’s wanderings and adventures since they parted; his voyages on the wide ocean; his exploits in the fastnesses of India and upon the tented field. She heard from modest lips how he had resolved to redeem the past, and vindicate his good name; how he had won the proud distinction of the Victoria Cross; how with wonder he had heard Evelyn’s exclamation at his investiture by royal hands; how he had striven for, and still hoped to win, a commission in the army and regiment he had learned to love. When this was obtained, it had been his intention to return to his home and claim his birthright. Time sufficed not for all that their hearts and lips would fain have poured forth to each other, when the distant clock of the Palace warned the young soldier that he had to return to duty at the barracks. As he would, moreover, be forced to go on duty to Hounslow the day following, it was agreed that they should not meet again until the third evening. Meanwhile, Wilfred would not reveal his secret; but, nevertheless, Evelyn should be at liberty to communicate it to her friend the Duchess. Evelyn also promised to write by that evening’s post to Mr. Elthorne, to announce the happy news, and also to their old legal friend, Mr. Merivale, to ask his professional advice. So discussing their hopes and affairs, the brother and sister took their way, hand in hand, down one of the side avenues, and when they reached the great gate, they parted, after a loving embrace--Wilfred to return to the barracks by the high road, Evelyn to regain her apartments through the wilderness and garden.

So abundantly happy and so absorbed in their happiness had the re-joined pair been during their walk under the elms and chestnuts, that they were utterly unconscious of all besides. Their hand-linked walk, however, and the fond kisses they exchanged when they parted at the gate of the Park, did not escape the notice of prying and malignant eyes. Lady M’Adam, returning with Miss Scheimes from their afternoon drive to Teddington, spied the couple from the recesses of the former lady’s brougham, and, with malicious joy, they drew their own base conclusions. On arriving at the Palace, they at once flew to Lady Lavinia’s rooms, and found that immaculate old widow (who had just time to hide a French novel under the sofa cushions) poring over a printed address of the saintly Moodle.

“We’ve caught them at last in the very act!” screamed out Lady M’Adam, throwing herself into a chair.

“Hugging each other in the royal Park!” shrieked Miss Scheimes.

“Kissing each other on the open turnpike before six pleasure vans,” continued Lady M’Adam. “Oh! the unutterable wickedness of the unregenerate human heart!”

“But, my dear friends,” said Lady Lavinia, glad at last to be able to edge in a word, “whom have you caught? whom have you seen? ah! ah! hugging, and what did you say?--not kissing? no, I really trust _not_ kissing, for that sounds shockingly immoral? Really you make my blood run cold!”--and the shoulders quivered like the undulations of the earthquake at Chios.

“Come, Lady Lavinia, you know as well as I do,” said Lady M’Adam, angrily.

“Surely you can guess,” said Miss Scheimes, “now that your own suspicions are fulfilled! Oh! you dear prophetic soul!”

“Ah, now I have it,” cried Lady Lavinia (who had known all the while), in accents of amazement; “it _must_ have been Miss Manwaring. Oh! how very, very dreadful!”

But it is needless to follow the conversation of these amiable and Christian ladies. Suffice it to say, that the Vehme-Gericht resolved that no quarter should be given to the offender; and Lady Lavinia, as the member of the Court who knew the Duchess best, was deputed to inform Her Grace of the signal mistake she had made, and of the misconduct of her _protégée_. Lady Lavinia accordingly penned an epistle, which, being duly approved, received the _imprimatur_ of the Court; and, this missive being despatched, the three ladies separated, each member retiring in excellent spirits to her apartments to prepare for dinner.