All Sloebury was aware next morning that something of the most extraordinary character had happened to young Walter Methven. The rumour even reached the club on the same evening. First the report was that he had got a valuable appointment, at which the gentlemen shook their heads; next that he had come into a fortune: they laughed with one accord at this. Then, as upon a sudden gale of wind, there blew into the smoking-room, then full of tobacco, newspapers, and men, a whisper which made everybody turn pale. This was one reason, if not the chief, why that evening was one of the shortest ever known at the club, which did not indeed generally keep very late hours, but still was occupied by its habitués till ten or eleven o’clock, when the serious members would go away, leaving only the boys, who never could have enough of it. But on that evening even the young men cleared off about ten or so. They wanted to know what it meant. Some of them went round to Captain Underwood’s where Walter was so often to be found, with a confidence that at least Underwood would know; the more respectable members of society went home to their families to spread the news, and half-a-dozen mothers at least went to bed that night with a disagreeable recollection that they had individually and deliberately “broken off” an incipient flirtation or more, in which Walter had been one of the parties concerned. But the hopeful ones said to themselves, “Lizzie has but to hold up her little finger to bring him back.” This was before the whole was known. The young men who had hurried to Captain Underwood’s were received by that gentleman with an air of importance and of knowing more than he would tell, which impressed their imaginations deeply. He allowed that he had always known that there was a great deal of property, and perhaps a title concerned, but declared that he was not at liberty to say any more. Thus the minds of all were prepared for a great revelation; and it is safe to say that from one end of Sloebury to the other Walter’s name was in everybody’s mouth. It had been always believed that the Methvens were people of good connections, and of later years it had been whispered by the benevolent as a reason for Walter’s inaction that he had grand relations, who at the proper moment would certainly interfere and set everything right for him. Others, however, were strenuous in their denial and ridicule of this, asking, was his mother a woman to conceal any advantages she had?—for they did not understand the kind of pride in which Mrs. Methven was so strong. And then it was clear that not only did the grand relations do nothing for Walter, but he did not even have an invitation from them, and went from home only when his mother went to the sea-side. Thus there was great doubt and wonder, and in some quarters an inclination to treat the rumour as a canard, and to postpone belief. At the same time everybody believed it, more or less, at the bottom of their hearts, feeling that a thing so impossible must be true.

But when it burst fully upon the world next morning along with the pale November daylight, but much more startling, that Walter Methven had succeeded as the next heir to his distant cousin, who was the head of the family, and was now Lord Erradeen, a great potentate, with castles in the Highlands and fat lands further south, and moors and deer forests and everything that the heart of man could think of, the town was swept not only by a thrill of wonder, but of emotion. Nobody was indifferent to this extraordinary romance. Some, when they had got over the first bewilderment, received it with delightful anticipations, as if the good fortune which had befallen Walter was in some respects good fortune also for themselves; whereas many others were almost angry at this sudden elevation over their heads of one who certainly did not deserve any better, if indeed half so well as they did. But nobody was indifferent. It was the greatest excitement that had visited Sloebury for years—even it might be said for generations. Lord Erradeen! it took away everybody’s breath.

Among the circle of Walter’s more intimate acquaintance, the impression made was still deeper, as may be supposed. The commotion in the mind of the rector, who indeed was old enough to have taken it with more placidity, was such that he hurried in from morning service without taking off his cassock. He was a good Churchman, but not so far gone as to walk about the world in that ecclesiastical garment.

“Can you imagine what has happened?” he said, bursting in upon Mrs. Wynn, who was delicate and did not go to church in the winter mornings. “Young Walter Methven, that you all made such a talk about——”

This was unfair, because she had never made any talk—being a woman who did not talk save most sparingly. She was tempted for a moment to forestall him by telling him she already knew, but her heart failed her, and she only shook her head a little in protest against this calumny, and waited smilingly for what he had to say. She could not take away from him the pleasure of telling this wonderful piece of news.

“Why it was only the night before last he was here—most of us rather disapproving of him, poor boy,” said the rector. “Well, Lydia, that young fellow that was a good-for-nothing, you know—doing nothing, never exerting himself: well, my dear! the most extraordinary thing has happened—the most wonderful piece of good fortune——”

“Don’t keep me on tenterhooks, Julius; I have heard some buzzing of talk already.”

“I should think you had! the town is full of it; they tell me that everybody you meet on the streets—Lydia!” said the rector with solemnity, drawing close to her to make his announcement more imposing, “that boy is no longer simple Mr. Walter Methven. He is Lord Erradeen——”

“Lord what?” cried the old lady. It was part of her character to be a little deaf, or rather hard of hearing, which is the prettier way of stating the fact. It was supposed by some that this was one of the reasons why, when any one was blamed, she always shook her head.

“Lord Er-ra-deen; but bless me, it is not the name that is so wonderful, it is the fact. Lord Erradeen—a great personage—a man of importance. You don’t show any surprise, Lydia! and yet it is the most astonishing incident without comparison that has happened in the parish these hundred years.”

“I wonder what his mother is thinking,” Mrs. Wynn said.

“If her head is turned nobody could be surprised. Of course, like every other mother, she thinks her son worthy of every exaltation.”

“I wish she was of that sort,” the old lady said.

“Every woman is of that sort,” said the rector with hasty dogmatism; “and, in one way, I am rather sorry, for it will make her feel she was perfectly right in encouraging him, and that would be such a terrible example for others. The young men will all take to idling——”

“But it is not the idling, but the fact that there is a peerage in the family——”

“You can’t expect,” cried the rector, who was not lucid, “that boys or women either will reason back so far as that. It will be a bad example: and, in the mean time, it is a most astonishing fact. But you don’t seem in the least excited. I thought you would have jumped out of your chair—out of the body almost.”

“I am too rheumatic for that,” said Mrs. Wynn with a smile: then, “I wonder if she will come and tell me,” the old lady said.

“I should think she does not know whether she is on her head or her heels,” cried the rector; “I don’t feel very sure myself. And Walter! What a change, to be sure, for that boy! I hope he will make a good use of it. I hope he will not dart off with Underwood and such fellows and make a fool of himself. Mind, I don’t mean that I think so badly of Underwood,” he added after a moment, for this was a subject on which, being mollified as previously mentioned, the rector took the male side of the question. Mrs. Wynn received the protest in perfect silence, not even shaking her head.

“But if he took a fancy for horses or that sort of thing,” Mr. Wynn added with a moment’s hesitation; then he brightened up again—“of course it is better that he should know somebody who has a little experience in any case; and you will perceive, my dear, there is a great difference between a penniless youth like Walter Methven getting such notions in his head which lead only to ruin, and young Lord Erradeen dabbling a little in amusements which, after all, have no harm in them if not carried too far, and are natural in his rank—but you women are always prejudiced on such a point.”

“I did not say anything, my dear,” the old lady said.

“Oh, no, you don’t say anything,” cried the rector fretfully, “but I see it in every line of your shawl and every frill of your cap. You are just stiff with prejudice so far as Underwood is concerned, who really is not at all a bad fellow when you come to know him, and is always respectful to religion, and shows a right feeling—but one might as well try to fly as to convince you when you have taken a prejudice.”

Mrs. Wynn made no protest against this. She said only, “It is a great ordeal for a boy to pass through. I wonder if his mother——” And here she paused, not having yet, perhaps, formulated into words the thoughts that arose in her heart.

“It is to be hoped that she will let him alone,” the rector said; “she has indulged him in everything hitherto; but just now, when he is far better left to himself, no doubt she will be wanting to interfere.”

“Do you think she has indulged him in everything?” said the old lady; but she did not think it necessary to accuse her husband of prejudice. Perhaps he understood Captain Underwood as much better as she understood Mrs. Methven; so she said nothing more. She was the only individual in Sloebury who had any notion of the struggle in which Walter’s mother had wrecked so much of her own peace.

“There cannot be any two opinions on that subject,” said the rector. “Poor lad! You will excuse me, my dear, but I am always sorry for a boy left to a woman’s training. He is either a mere milksop or a ne’er-do-well. Walter is not a milksop, and here has Providence stepped in, in the most wonderful way, to save him from being the other: but that is no virtue of hers. You will stand up, of course, for your own side.”

The old lady smiled and shook her head. “I think every child is the better for having both its parents, Julius, if that is what you mean.”

This was not exactly what he meant, but it took the wind out of the rector’s sails. “Yes, it is an ordeal for him,” he said, “but, I am sure, if my advice can do him any good, it is at his service; and, though I have been out of the way of many things for some time, yet I dare say the world is very much what it was, and I used to know it well enough.”

“He will ask for nobody’s advice,” said Mrs. Wynn.

“Which makes it all the more desirable he should have it,” cried the rector; and then he said, “Bless me! I have got my cassock on still. Tell John to take it down to the vestry—though, by the way, there is a button off, and you might as well have it put on for me, as it is here.”

Mrs. Wynn executed the necessary repair of the cassock with her own hands. Though she was rheumatic, and did not care to leave her chair oftener than was necessary, she had still the use of her hands, and she had a respect for all the accessories of the clerical profession. She was sitting examining the garment to see if any other feeblenesses were apparent, in which a stitch in time might save after labours, when, with a little eager tap at the door, another visitor came in. This was a young lady of three or four and twenty, with a good deal of the beauty which consists in fresh complexion and pleasant colour. Her hair was light brown, warm in tone; her eyes were brown and sparkling; her cheeks and lips bloomed with health. She had a pretty figure, full of life and energy—everything, in short, that is necessary to make up a pretty girl, without any real loveliness or deeper grace. She came in quickly, brimming over, as was evident, with something which burst forth as soon as she had given the old lady the hasty conventional kiss of greeting, and which, as a matter of course, turned out to be the news of which Sloebury was full.

“Did you ever hear anything so wonderful?” she said. “Walter Methven, that nobody thought anything of—and now he is turned into a live lord! a real peer of parliament! they say. I thought mamma would have fainted when she heard it.”

“Why should your mamma faint when she heard of it, July? It is very pleasant news.”

“Oh, Aunt Lydia! don’t you know why? I am so angry: I feel as if I should never speak to her again. Don’t you remember? And I always thought you had some hand in it. Oh, you sit there and look so innocent, but that is because you are so deep.”

“Am I deep?” the old lady asked with a smile.

“You are the deepest person I ever knew: you see through us all, and you just throw in a word; and then, when people act upon it, you look so surprised. I heard you myself remark to mamma how often Walter Methven was at our house.”

“Yes, I think I did remark it,” Mrs. Wynn said.

“And what was the harm? He liked to come, and he liked me; and I hope you don’t think I am the sort of person to forget myself and think too much about a man.”

“I thought you were letting him be seen with you too often, July, that is true.”

“You thought it might keep others off that were more eligible? Well, that is what I supposed you meant, for I never like to take a bad view. But, you see, there was somebody that was eligible; and here has he turned, all at once, into the very best match within a hundred miles. If mamma had only let things alone, what prospects might be opening upon me now!”

“Half-a-dozen girls, I am afraid, may say just the same,” said Mrs. Wynn.

“Well, what does that matter? He had nothing else to do. When a young man has nothing to do he must be making up to somebody. I don’t blame him a bit; that is what makes us girls always ready for a flirtation. Time hangs so heavy on our hands. And only think, Aunt Lydia, if things had been allowed to go on (and I could always have thrown him off if anything better turned up), only think what might have happened to me now. I might be working a coronet in all my new handkerchiefs,” cried the girl: “only imagine! oh, oh, oh!”

And she pretended to cry; but there was a sparkle of nervous energy all the same in her eyes, as if she were eager for the chase, and scarcely able to restrain her impatience. Mrs. Wynn shook her head at her visitor with a smile.

“You are not so worldly as you give yourself out to be,” she said.

“Oh, that just shows how little you know. I am as worldly as ever woman was. I think of nothing but how to establish myself, and have plenty of money. We want it so! Oh, I know you are very good to us—both my uncle and you; but mamma is extravagant, and I am extravagant, and naturally all that anybody thinks of is to have what is necessary and decent for us. We have to put up with it, but I hate what is necessary and decent. I should like to go in satin and lace to-day even if I knew I should be in rags to-morrow; and to think if you had not interfered that I might have blazed in diamonds, and gone to court, and done everything I want to do! I could strangle you, Aunt Lydia, and mamma too!” Upon which Miss July (or Julée, which was how her name was pronounced) gave Mrs. Wynn a sudden kiss and took the cassock out of her hands. “If it wants any mending I will do it,” she said; “it will just give me a little consolation for the moment. And you will have time to think and answer this question: Is it too late now?”

“July, dear, it hurts me to hear you talk so—you are not so wild as you take credit for being.”

“I am not wild at all, Aunt Lydia,” said the girl, appropriating Mrs. Wynn’s implements, putting on her thimble, threading her needle, and discovering at one glance the little rent in the cassock which the old lady had been searching for in vain, “except with indignation to think what I have lost—if I have lost it. It is all very well to speak, but what is a poor girl to do? Yes, I know, to make just enough to live on by teaching, or something of that sort; but that is not what I want. I want to be well off. I am so extravagant, and so is mamma. We keep ourselves down, we don’t spend money; but we hate it so! I would go through a great many disagreeables if I could only have enough to spend.”

“And is Walter one of the disagreeables you would go through?”

“Well, no; I could put up with him very well. He is not at all unpleasant. I don’t want him, but I could do with him. Do you really think it is too late? Don’t you think mamma might call upon Mrs. Methven and say how delighted we are; and just say to him, you know, in a playful way (mamma could manage that very well), ‘We cannot hope to see you now in our little house, Lord Erradeen!’ and then of course he would be piqued (for he’s very generous), and say, ‘Why?’ And mamma would say, ‘Oh, we are such poor little people, and you are now a great man.’ Upon which, as sure as fate, he would be at the Cottage the same evening. And then!” July threw back her head, and expanded her brown eyes with a conscious power and sense of capability, as who should say—Then it would be in my own hands.—“Don’t you think that’s very good for a plan?” she added, subsiding quickly to the work, which she executed as one to the manner born.

“I don’t think anything of it as a plan—and neither do you; and your mother would not do it, July,” the old lady said.

“Ah,” said July, throwing back her head, “there you have hit the blot, Aunt Lydia. Mamma wouldn’t do it! She could, you know. When she likes she is the completest humbug!—but not always. And she has so many notions about propriety, and what is womanly, and so forth—just like you. Poor women have no business with such luxuries. I tell her we must be of our time, and all that sort of thing; but she won’t see it. No, I am afraid that is just the difficulty. It all depends on mamma—and mamma won’t. Well, it is a little satisfaction to have had it all out with you. If you had not interfered, you two, and stopped the poor boy coming——”

At this juncture John threw open the door, and with a voice which he reserved for the great county ladies, announced “Mrs. Methven.” John had heard the great news too.

“—Stopped the poor boy coming,” July said. The words were but half out of her mouth when John opened the door, and it was next to impossible that the new visitor had not heard them. A burning blush covered the girl’s face. She sprang to her feet with the cassock in her arms, and gazed at the new comer. Mrs. Methven for the first moment did not notice this third person. She came in with the content and self-absorption of one who has a great wonder to tell. The little world of Sloebury and all its incidents were as nothing to her. She went up to old Mrs. Wynn with a noiseless swiftness.

“I have come to tell you great news,” she said.

“Let me look at you,” said the old lady. “I have heard, and I scarcely could believe it. Then it is all true?”

“I am sorry I was not the first to tell you. I think such a thing must get into the air. Nobody went out from my house last night, and yet everybody knows. I saw even the people in the street looking at me as I came along. Mrs. Wynn, you always stood up for him; I never said anything, but I know you did. I came first to you. Yes, it is all true.”

The old lady had known it now for several hours, and had been gently excited, no more. Now her eyes filled with tears, she could not have told why.

“Dear boy! I hope God will bless him, and make him worthy and great,” she said, clasping her old hands together. “He has always been a favourite with me.”

“He is a favourite with everybody,” said July. No one had noticed her presence, and she was not one that could remain unseen. “Everybody is glad; there is not one that doesn’t wish him well.”

Did she intend to strike that coup for herself which her mother was not to be trusted to make? Mrs. Wynn thought so with a great tremor, and interrupted her in a tone that for her was hurried and anxious.

“July speaks nothing but the truth, Mrs. Methven; there is nobody that does not like Walter; but I suppose I ought now to drop these familiarities and call him Lord Erradeen?”

“He will never wish his old friends to do that,” said Mrs. Methven. She already smiled with a gracious glance and gesture: and the feeling that these old friends were almost too much privileged in being so near to him, and admitted to such signs of friendship, came into her mind; but she did not care to have July share her expansion. “Miss Herbert,” she said, with a little bow, “is very good to speak so kindly. But everybody is kind. I did not know my boy was so popular. Sunshine,” she added, with a smile, “brings out all the flowers.”

She had not sat down, and she evidently did not mean to do so while July remained. There was something grand in her upright carriage, in her air of superiority, which had never been apparent before. She had always been a woman, as Sloebury people said, who thought a great deal of herself; but no one had ever acknowledged her right to do so till now. On the other hand, July Herbert was well used to the cold shade. Her mother was Mrs. Wynn’s niece, but she was none the less poor for that, and as July was not a girl to be easily put down, she was acquainted with every manner of polite snubbing known in the society of the place. This of standing till she should go was one with which she was perfectly familiar, and in many cases it afforded her pleasure to subject the operator to great personal inconvenience; but on the present occasion she was not disposed to exercise this power. She would have conciliated Walter’s mother if she could have done so, and on a rapid survey of the situation she decided that the best plan was to yield.

“I must go and tell mamma the great news,” she said. “I am sure she will never rest till she rushes to you with her congratulations; but I will tell her you are tired of congratulations already—for of course it is not a thing upon which there can be two opinions.” July laid down the cassock as she spoke. “I have mended all there is to mend, Aunt Lydia; you need not take any more trouble about it. Good-bye for the moment. You may be sure you will see one or other of us before night.”

They watched her silently as she went out of the room. Mrs. Methven saying nothing till the door had closed, Mrs. Wynn with a deprecatory smile upon her face. She did not altogether approve of her grandniece. But neither was she willing to hand her over to blame. The old lady felt the snub July had received more than the girl herself did. She looked a little wistfully after her. She was half angry when as soon as July disappeared Mrs. Methven sank down upon a chair near her, huge billows of black silk rising about her, for she had put on her best gown. Mrs. Wynn thought that the mother, whose child, disapproved by the world, had been thus miraculously lifted above its censures, should have been all the more tolerant of the other who had met no such glorious fate. But she reflected that they never see it, which was her favourite expression of wonderment, yet explanation of everything. There were so many things that they ought to learn by; but they never saw it. It was thus she accounted with that shake of her head for all the errors of mankind.

Mrs. Methven for her part waited till even the very step of that objectionable Julia Herbert had died away. She had known by instinct that if that girl should appear she would be on the watch to make herself agreeable to Walter’s mother. “As if he could ever have thought of her,” she said to herself. Twenty-four hours before Mrs. Methven would have been glad to think that Walter “thought of” any girl who was at all in his own position. She would have hailed it as a means of steadying him, and making him turn seriously to his life. But everything was now changed, and this interruption had been very disagreeable. She could scarcely turn to her old friend now with the effusion and emotion which had filled her when she came in. She held out her hand and grasped that of the old lady.

“I don’t need to tell you what I am feeling,” she said. “It is all like a tumultuous sea of wonder and thankfulness. I wanted it, for I was at my wits’ end.”

Mrs. Wynn was a little chilled too, but she took the younger woman’s hand.

“You did not know what was coming,” she said. “You wanted one thing, and Providence was preparing another.”

“I don’t know if that is how to state it; but at all events I was getting to feel that I could not bear it any longer, and trying for any way of setting things right: when the good came in this superlative way. I feel frightened when I think of it. After we knew last night I could do nothing but cry. It took all the strength from me. You would have thought it was bad news.”

“I can understand that.” The old lady relinquished the hand which she had been holding. “To be delivered from any anxieties you may have had in such a superlative way, as you say, is not the common lot—most of us have just to fight them out.”

Mrs. Methven already felt herself far floated away from those that had to fight it out. The very words filled her heart with an elation beyond speech.

“And this morning,” she said, “to wake and to feel it must be folly, and then to realise that it was true! One knows so well the other sort of waking when the shock and the pang come all over again. But to wake up to this extraordinary incredible well-being—one might say happiness!”

The tears of joy were in her eyes, and in those tears there is something so strange, so rare, that the soul experienced in life looks upon them almost with more awe than upon the familiar ones of grief which we see every day. The old lady melted, and her chill of feeling yielded to a tender warmth. Yet what a pity that They never see it! How much more perfect it would have been if the woman in her happiness had been softened and kind to all those whom nothing had happened to! Imperceptibly the old lady in her tolerant experience shook her gentle old head. Then she gave herself in full sympathy to hear all the wonderful details.