Bessie could not have told why, but her eyes filled as she took him into her lap and took off his pretty hat to see his shining curly locks. Master Justus was already at the cupboard dragging out the toys, and her uncle stood and looked down at her with a pleased, benevolent face. "Of course they are my cousins?" said Bessie simply, and quite as simply he said "Yes."
This was all the interrogatory. But games ensued in which Bessie was brought to her knees and a seat on the carpet, and had the beautiful propriety of her hair as sadly disarranged as in her gypsy childhood amongst the rough Carnegie boys. Mrs. Betts put it tidy again before luncheon, after the children were gone. Mrs. Betts had fathomed the whole mystery, and would have been sympathetic about it had not her young lady manifested an invincible gayety. Bessie hardly knew herself for joy. She wanted very much to hear the romantic story that must belong to those bonny children, but she felt that she must wait her uncle's time to tell it. Happily for her peace, the story was not long delayed: she learnt it that evening.
This was the scene in Mr. Laurence Fairfax's study. He was seated at ease in his great leathern chair, and perched on his knee, with one arm round his neck and a ripe pomegranate cheek pressed against his ear, was that winsome little lady in blue who was to be known henceforward as the philosopher's wife: if she had not been so exquisitely pretty it would have seemed a liberty to take with so much learning. Opposite to them, and grim as a monumental effigy, sat Miss Jocund, and Bessie Fairfax, with an amazed and amused countenance, listened and looked on. The philosopher and his wife were laughing: they loved one another, they had two dear little boys; what could the world give them or take away in comparison with such joys? Their secret, long suspected in various quarters, had transpired publicly since yesterday, and Lady Angleby had that morning appealed haughtily to Miss Jocund in her own shop to know how it had all happened.
Miss Jocund now reported what she had answered: "I reckon, your ladyship, that Dan Cupid is no more open in his tactics than ever he was. All I have to tell is, that one evening, some six years ago, my niece Rosy, who was a timid little thing, went for a walk by the river with a school-fellow, and a hulking, rude boy gave them a fright. Mr. Laurence Fairfax, by good luck, was in the way and brought them home, and said to me that Rosy was much too pretty to be allowed to wander out unprotected. When they met after he had a kind nod and a word for her, and I've no doubt she had a shy blush for him. A philosopher is but a man, and liable to fall in love, and that is what he did: he fell in love with Rosy and married her. It suited all parties to keep it a secret at first; but a secret is like a birth—when its time is full forth it must come. Two little boys with Fairfax writ large on their faces are bad to hide. Therefore it suits all parties now to declare the marriage. And that is the whole story, an' it please your ladyship."
"I warrant it did not please her ladyship at all," said Mr. Laurence Fairfax, laughing at the recital.
"No. She turned and went away in a rage; then came back to expound her views with respect to Rosy's origin. I begged to inform her that from time immemorial king's jesters had been of the Jocund family—an office to the full as dignified as the office of public barber. And a barber her ladyship's great-grandfather was, and shaved His Majesty's lieges for a penny. Mr. Cecil Burleigh waited for her outside, and to him immediately she of course repeated the tale. How does it come to be a concern of his, I should be glad to know?" Nobody volunteered to gratify her curiosity, but Mr. Laurence Fairfax could have done so, no doubt.
Mr. Cecil Burleigh had not visited Minster Court that day: was this the reason? Bessie was not absolutely indifferent to the omission, but she had other diversions. That night she went up stairs with the young mother (so young that Elizabeth could not fashion to call her by her title of kindred) to view the boys in their cots, and saw her so loving and tender over them that she could not but reflect how dear a companion she must be to her philosopher after his lost Xantippe. She was such a sweet and gentle lady that, though he had chosen to marry her privately, he could have no reluctance in producing her as his wife. He had kept her to himself unspoilt, had much improved her in their retired life, and as he had no intention of bringing her into rivalry with finer ladies, the charm of her adoring simplicity was not likely to be impaired. He had set his mind on his niece Elizabeth for her friend from the first moment of their meeting, and except Elizabeth he did not desire that she should find, at present, any intimate friend of her own sex. And Elizabeth was perfectly ready to be her friend, and to care nothing for the change in her own prospects.
"You know that my boys will make all the difference to you?" her uncle said to her the next day, being a few minutes alone with her.
"Oh yes, I understand, and I shall be the happier in the end. Abbotsmead will be quite another place when they come over," was her reply.
"There is my father to conciliate before they can come to Abbotsmead. He is deeply aggrieved, and not without cause. You may help to smooth the way to comfortable relations again, or at least to prevent a widening breach. I count on that, because he has permitted you to come here, though he knows that Rosy and the boys are with me. I should not have had any right to complain had he denied us your visit."