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Updated: June 17, 2025
"There, Amy, look through it and let us see what old treasures have lain hidden there these forty years." The first thing I took out was a small square case covered with dark purple velvet. The tiny clasp was almost rusted away and yielded easily. I gave a little cry of admiration. Aunt Winnifred bent over my shoulder. "That is Eliza's portrait at the age of twenty, and that is Willis Starr's.
A manly, ringing voice, which sent a thrill to Winnifred's heart, cried "Mother!" and in another instant Lord Mordaunt Muddlenut, for he it was, had folded the Marchioness to his heart. Winnifred rose, her heart beating wildly. One glance was enough. The newcomer, Lord Mordaunt, was none other than the Unknown, the Unaccountable, to whose protection she had twice owed her life.
Elder, his old and esteemed friend. They displayed much talent and brilliancy of style, and reflected great credit on the school. He was almost startled by the amount of genius shining forth from every sentence; and although the essay was written in a crude girlish style, it was worthy of the highest commendation, and he had great pleasure in awarding the prize to Miss Winnifred Blake.
"To-morrow," echoed Amy Waring and Hope Wayne. Arthur Merlin pulled his cap over his eyes and sauntered slowly homeward, whistling musingly, and murmuring, "A bird in the wilderness singing, That speaks to my spirit of thee." His Aunt Winnifred heard him as he came in. The good old lady had placed a fresh tract where he would be sure to see it when he entered his room.
With a wild cry Winnifred Clair leaped across the flagstones of the terrace and fled into the park. They stood beneath the great trees of the ancestral park, into which Lord Mordaunt had followed Winnifred at a single bound. All about them was the radiance of early June.
Lord Wynchgate and his companions for they it was, that is to say, they were it sat below in the sitting-room looking at the albums. "Woman," said Lord Wynchgate to the Landlady, with an oath, "let her hurry up. We have seen enough of these. We can wait no longer." "I am here," cried a clear voice upon the threshold, and Winnifred stood before them.
The scene is now shifted, sideways and forwards, so as to put it at Muddlenut Chase, and to make it a fortnight later than the events related in the last chapter. Winnifred is now at the Chase as the guest of the Marquis and Marchioness. There her bruised soul finds peace. The Chase itself was one of those typical country homes which are, or were till yesterday, the glory of England.
His figure was that, more or less, of a Greek god, while his face, although at the moment inflamed with anger, was of an entirely moral and permissible configuration. "Save me! save me!" cried Winnifred. "I will," cried the Stranger, rushing towards Lord Wynchgate with uplifted cane. But the cowardly Aristocrat did not await the onslaught of the unknown.
Had the innocent girl but known it, the face was that of Lord Wynchgate, one of the most contemptible of the greater nobility of Britain, and the figure was his too. "Ha!" exclaimed the dissolute Aristocrat, "whom have we here? Stay, pretty one, and let me see the fair countenance that I divine behind your veil." "Sir," said Winnifred, drawing herself up proudly, "let me pass, I pray."
"Because because," said Aunt Winnifred, sobbing and wiping her eyes, "because this picture, which you keep locked up so carefully, is a picture of the Holy Virgin. Oh dear! just to think of it!" There was a fresh burst of feeling from the honest and affectionate woman, who felt that to be a Roman Catholic was to be visibly sealed and stamped for eternal woe.
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