CHAPTER X.—A VERY SURPRISING OCCURRENCE. The ruins of the west wing were clearly visible from the great wooden building erected by Mr Summerhayes in the park where the tenants were to dine. It was too cold in March for a tent; and there was no room in Fontanel large enough for these festivities, except the great double suite of drawing-rooms where the doors had been removed, and where there was to be a ball at night. Much was the talk about the alarming event of the previous day, which had shaken half the country with personal terrors, much warmer than are generally awakened by the intelligence of a fire at a friend’s house. On hearing of it, every soul within twenty miles had sighed with resignation or cried out with impatience, giving up all hopes of the festivities to which everybody had been looking forward; but Mr Summerhayes’s messengers with the intimation that all was going on as before, came about as soon as the news of the calamity. Mr Summerhayes himself was more gracious, more cordial, than anybody had ever known him. He spoke of “our dear boy” in his speech to the farmers, and described Charley in such terms, that the heart of Charley’s mother was altogether melted, and she felt ready to commit the fate of her children a dozen times over into her husband’s hands. Nothing could be more manly, more honourable, more affectionate, than the way in which Mr Summerhayes spoke of his own position. He was, he said, his wife’s steward and his son’s guardian; such a position might have been painful to some men—but love made everything sweet; and he was happy in having always had the entire confidence of his beloved clients. He even referred to the honoured husband of the Queen, as in something of a similar position to his own, and brought down storms of applause. Charley made his little speech with great difficulty after his stepfather. The poor boy looked ghastly, and could scarcely get the words out; but his pleased retainers, who believed him overwhelmed by his feelings, applauded all the same. When he had done what was required of him, Charley managed to steal away unperceived by anybody except Loo, who went wistfully after her brother. She overtook him by the time he had got to the woods which skirted the park, and put her arm softly within his without saying anything. The two young creatures wandered under the bristling budded trees in silence, with unspeakable sadness in their hearts. They had nothing to say to console each other—or rather Loo, whose very heart wept over her brother, could think of nothing to say to him. At last, caressing his arm with her tender, timid, little hand, Loo ventured upon one suggestion: “Oh, Charley, poor mamma!” said the girl, in her heart-breaking young voice. “Yes—poor mamma!” said Charley, with a groan. Poor Mary! it was all her doing, yet her children cast no reproach upon her. She, after all, would be the greatest sufferer.