“Lydia!” he cried, in great alarm, “what is the matter?” Then he added, hastily, “My nerves are entirely wrong, I think. You startled me so, as if you had been all night in that chair.”
“Not in this chair,” said Liddy, willing, however, to have some credit of her sleepless night, “but almost the same. Cousin Lionel, I want advice very much. I am very lonely and very inexperienced to do anything so important by myself.”
He came quickly and drew a chair close to her. She was excited physically by her vigil, and the tears were very near her eyes, which were brimming full when Lionel, much concerned and very tender and sympathetic, looked her in the face. He put out his hand to take hers with anxious solicitude; and Lydia did not resist. Her heart was so full, and she was so overburdened with this new thing, that the mere touch of a sympathetic hand was a consolation to her. The tears dropped out of her eyes like two drops of rain upon her dress, and then she looked at him and said, “I have found Harry,” with the tremor of a sob in her voice.
“You have found——!” he was so startled that he did not know what to say in reply.
“Cousin Lionel,” cried Lydia, “answer me this—how did he know what I meant when I spoke of Isaac Oliver? He knew very well, he never asked a question; and why did he start when he heard my name? I saw it myself. He arrived here ten years ago, without knowing anybody, he has never told them about his family, he called himself that, don’t you see, in a kind of disdain at himself and everything. Then he married and promised never to take his wife to England. He did not want ever to go to England, why was that? And he called his son Ralph, fancy, Ralph! why was that? And though he is called Isaac Oliver to the world, he could not bear that at home, and they call him Harry, his true name. Oh, Lionel, do you not see it all? It is perfectly clear, as clear as noon-day. And now tell me what am I to do?”
“But——” Lionel said, who had not followed, entirely without preparation as he was, her breathless argument. “What do you mean? tell me what you mean? I am utterly bewildered. Are you speaking of Oliver—Oliver? I don’t understand what you mean.”
Lydia made a gesture of impatience.
“Oh, everybody is so slow, so slow!” she cried, “except him. He understood at once. Don’t you see he must have known it all beforehand, everything that could be said? He never asked, ‘Who is Isaac Oliver?’ he said in a moment, directly, ‘He is no relation of mine.’ How could he know if he had not known?” cried Liddy, too eager to be lucid. “Mr. Bonamy asked me, ‘Who are you talking of? a neighbour, a farmer, a yeoman, who is it?’ but he never asked a question. He said directly, ‘He is no relation of mine;’ and when we were coming away he said to me, ‘I know what you think, but it is not that.’ Now how could he know what I thought if he had not known?”
“By Jove!” said Lionel. He was very much startled, so that some exclamation was necessary. “That is very acute,” he said; “I see what you mean. It is very acute, and this is very strange. Perhaps—there may be something in it. But you know,” he added, “it is far too pat, too complete, to be a real discovery. People do not find long lost brothers like this.”
“Oh, do not talk—in that common way,” cried Lydia; “as if strange things did not happen as much as they ever did! Why should it be too complete? The more you think of everything, the more you will feel sure. Don’t you see just why he chose that name to disguise himself with? I do. And all those little bits of kindness—to call his boy Ralph, like a forgiveness to my father, who was so hard upon him. He has not a Liddy,” she cried, with a little regret. “Ah, I see how that was too! mother, dear mother, he had nothing to forgive her. Lionel! Lionel!” she cried, grasping him by the arm in her excitement, “tell me what I must do?”