The summer was a very hot one, and the travellers, in spite of the charm of new scenes, and the wonders of everything to their unsophisticated eyes, found it trying. Constance indeed was in a state of constant felicity and admiration, undimmed except by the flagging of her two fellow-travellers in the heated and close German railway cars. Her uncle’s head suffered much, and Lady Northmoor secretly thought her maid’s refusal to accompany them showed her to be a prudent woman. However, the first breath of mountain air was a grand revival to Lord Northmoor, and at Innsbruck he was quite alive, and walked about in fervent delight, not desisting till he and Constance had made out every statue on Maximilian’s monument. His wife was so much tired and worn-out, that she heartily rejoiced in having provided him with such a good little companion, though she was disappointed at being obliged to fail him, and get what rest she could at the hotel. But then, as she told him, if he learnt his way about it now, he would be ableto show it all to her when they had both gained strength at Ratzes.
Bertha had obtained full instructions and a welcome for them from Mrs. Bury, a kindly person, who, having married off her children while still in full health and vigour, remained at the service of any relation who needed her, and in the meantime resorted to out-of-the-way places abroad.
The railway took them to Botzen, which was hotter still, and thence on to Castelruth, whence there was no means of reaching Ratzes but by mule orchaise à porteux. Both alike were terrible to poor Mary; however, she made up her mind to the latter, and all the long way was to her a dream of terror and discomfort, and of trying to admire—what she knew she ought to admire—the wonderful pinnacle-like aiguilles of the Schern cleaving the air. For some time the way lay over the great plateau of the Scisser Alp—a sea of rich grass, full of cattle, where her husband and niece kept on trying to bring their mules alongside of her to make her participate in their ecstasy, and partake of their spoils—mountain pink, celestially blue gentian, brilliant poppy, or the like. Here the principal annoyance was that their mules were so obstinately bent on not approaching her that she was in constant alarm for them, while Constance was absolutely wild with delight, and even grave Frank was exhilarated by the mountain air into boyish spirits, such as impressed her, though she resolutely prevented herself from lowering them by manifesting want of sympathy, though the aiguilles that theyadmired seemed to her savage, and the descent, along a perilous winding road, cut out among precipices, horrified her—on, on, through endless pine forests, where the mules insisted on keeping her in solitude, and where nothing could be seen beyond the rough jolting path. At last, when a whole day had gone by, and even Constance sat her mule in silence and looked very tired, the fir trees grew more scanty. The aiguilles seemed in all their wildness to be nodding overhead; there was a small bowling-green, a sort of châlet in two divisions, united by a gallery: but Mary saw no more, for at that moment a loose slippery stone gave way, and the bearers stumbled and fell, dragging the chair so that it tipped over.
Constance, who had ridden on in front with her uncle, first heard a cry of dismay, and as both leaped off and rushed back, they saw her aunt had fallen, and partly entangled in the chair.
‘Do not touch her!’ cried Frank, forgetting that he could not be understood, and raising her in his arms, as the chair was withdrawn; but she did not speak or move, and there was a distressing throng and confusion of strange voices, seeming to hem them in as Constance looked round, unable to call up a single word of German, or to understand the exclamations. Then, as she always said, it was like an angel’s voice that said, ‘What is it?’ as through the crowd came a tall lady in a white hat and black gown, and knelt down by the prostrate figure, saying, ‘I hope she is only stunned; let us carry her in. It will be better to let her come round there.’
The lady gave vigorous aid, and, giving a few orders in German, helped Lord Northmoor to carry the inanimate form into the hotel, a low building of stone, with a high-pitched shingle roof. Constance followed in a bewilderment of fright, together with Lenchen, the Swiss maid, who, as well as could be made out, was declaring that a Swiss bearer never made a false step.
Lady Northmoor was carried into a bedroom, and Constance was shut out into a room that photographed itself on her memory, even in that moment—a room like a box, with a rough table, a few folding-chairs, an easel, water-coloured drawings hung about in all directions, a big travelling-case, a few books, a writing-case, Mrs. Bury’s sitting-room in fact, which, as a regular sojourner, she had been able to secure and furnish after her need. From the window, tall, narrow, latticed, with a heavy outside shutter, she saw a village green, a little church with a sharp steeple, and pointed-roof houses covered with shingle, groups of people, a few in picturesque Tyrolese costume, but others in the ordinary badly cut edition of cosmopolitan human nature. There was a priest in a big hat and white bordered bands discussing a newspaper with a man with a big red umbrella; a party drinking coffee under a pine tree, and beyond, those strange wild pointed aiguilles pointing up purple and red against the sky.
There was a priest in a big hat . . .
How delightful it would all have been if this quarter of an hour could be annihilated! She could find out nothing. Lenchen and the good-natured-looking landlady came in and out and fetchedthings, but they never stayed long enough to give her any real information, the landlady shouting for ‘Hemzel,’ etc., and Lenchen calling loudly in German for the boxes, which had been slung on mules. She heard nothing definite till her uncle came out, looking pale and anxious.
‘She is better now,’ he said, with a gasp of relief, throwing himself into a chair, and holding out his hand to Constance, who could hardly frame her question. ‘Yes, quite sensible—came round quickly. The blow on the head seems to be of no consequence; but there may be a strain, or it may be only the being worn out and overdone. They are going to undress her and put her to bed now. Mrs. Bury is kindness itself. I did not look after her enough on that dreadful road.’
‘Isn’t there a doctor?’ Constance ventured to ask.
‘No such thing within I know not how many miles of these paths! But Mrs. Bury seems to think it not likely to be needed. Over-fatigue and the shake! What was I about? This air and all the rest were like an intoxication, making me forget my poor Mary!’
He passed his hand over his face with a gesture as if he were very much shocked and grieved at himself, and Constance suggested that it was all the mule’s fault, and Aunt Mary never complained.
‘The more reason she should not have been neglected,’ he said; and it was well for the excluded pair that just then the boxes were reported as arrived, and he was called on for the keys, sothat wild searching for things demanded occupied them.
After a considerable time, Mrs. Bury came and told Lord Northmoor that he might go and look at his wife for a few moments, but that she must be kept perfectly quiet and not talked to or agitated. Constance was not to go in at all, but was conducted off by the good lady to her own tiny room, to get herself ready for the much-needed meal that was imminent.
They met again in the outer room. There was a great Speise saal, a separate building, where the bathers diveden masse; but since Mrs. Bury had made the place her haunt, she had led to the erection of an additional building where there was a little accommodation for the travellers of the better class who had of late discovered the glories of the Dolomites, though the baths were scarcely ever used except by artizans and farmers. She had this sitting-room chiefly made at her own expense with these few comforts, in the way of easy folding-chairs, a vase of exquisite flowers on the table, a few delicate carvings, an easel, and drawings of the mountain peaks and ravines suspended everywhere.
Besides this there were only the bedrooms, as small as they well could be.
They were summoned down to the evening meal, and the maid Lenchen was left with Lady Northmoor. There was only one other guest, a spectacled and rather silent German, and Constance presently gathered that Mrs. Bury was trying to encourage and inspirit Lord Northmoor, but seemed to thinkthere might be some delay before a move would be possible.
They sent her to bed, for she was really very tired after the long walk and ride, and she could not help sleeping soundly; but the first thing she heard in the morning was that the guide had been desired to send a doctor from Botzen, and the poor child spent a dreary morning of anxiety with nothing to do but to watch the odd figures disporting themselves or resting in the shade after their baths, to try a little sketching and a little letter-writing, but she was too restless and anxious to get on with either.
All the comfort she got was now and then Mrs. Bury telling her that she need not be frightened, and giving her a book to read; and after the midday meal her uncle was desired by Mrs. Bury, who had evidently assumed the management of him, to take the child out walking, for the doctor could not come for hours, and Lady Northmoor had better be left to sleep.
So they wandered out into the pinewoods, preoccupied and silent, gazing along the path, as if that would hasten the doctor. Constance had perceived that questions were discouraged, and did her best to keep from being troublesome by trying to busy herself with a bouquet of mountain flowers.
The little German doctor came so late that he had to remain all night, but his coming, as well as that of a brisk American brother and sister, seemed to have cheered things up a good deal. Mrs. Bury talked to the German, and theAmericans asked so many questions that answering them made things quite lively. Indeed, Constance was allowed to wish her aunt good-night, and seeing her look just like herself on her pillows, much relieved her mind.
Things began to fall into their regular course at Ratzes, Lady Northmoor was in a day or two able to come into Mrs. Bury’s sitting-room for a few hours every day; but there she lay on a folding chaise-longue that had been arranged for her, languid but bright, reading, working, looking at Mrs. Bury’s drawings, and keeping the diary of the adventures of the others.
Her husband would fain never have left her, but he had to take his baths. These were in the lower story of the larger châlet. They were taken in rows of pinewood boxes in the vault. He muttered that it felt very like going alive into his coffin, when, like others, he laid himself down in the rust-coloured liquid, ‘each in his narrow cell’ in iron ‘laid,’ with his head on a shelf, and a lid closing up to his chin, and he was uncheered by conversation, as all the other patients were Austrians of the lower middle class, and their Tyrolean dialect would have been hard to understand even by German scholars. However, the treatmentcertainly did him good, and entirely drove away his neuralgia, he walked, rode, and climbed a good deal with Constance and a lad attached to the establishment, whose German Constance could just understand. And while he stayed with his wife, Mrs. Bury took Constance out, showed her many delights, helped her crude notions of drawing, and being a good botanist herself, taught the whole party fresh pleasures in the wonderful flora of the Dolomites.
Now and then an English traveller appeared, and Lord Northmoor was persuaded to join in expeditions for his niece’s sake, that took them away for a night or two. Thus they saw Caprile Cadore, St. Ulrich, that town of toys, full of dolls of every tone, spotted wooden horses, carts, and the like. They beheld the tall points of Monte Serrata, and the wonderful ‘Horse Teeth,’ with many more such marvels; and many were the curiosities they brought back, and the stories they had to tell, with regrets that Aunt Mary had not been there to enjoy and add to their enjoyment.
So the days went on, and the end of Constance’s holidays was in view, the limit that had been intended for the Kur at Ratzes; but Aunt Mary had not been out of doors since their arrival, and seemed fit for nothing save lying by the window.
Constance had begun to wonder what would be done, when she was told that a good-natured pair of English travellers, like herself bound to school terms, would escort her safely to London and see her into the train for Colbeam, just in time for the High School term.
‘This will be the best way,’ said her aunt, kissingher. ‘You have been a dear good girl, Conny, and a great pleasure and comfort to us both.’
‘Oh, auntie, I have not done anything, Mrs. Bury has done it all.’
‘Mrs. Bury is most kind, unspeakably kind, but, my dear dear girl, your companionship has been so much to your dear uncle that I have been most thankful to you. Always recollect, dearest Conny, you can be more comfort to your uncle than anybody else, whatever may come. Youwillalways be a good girl and keep up your tone, and make him your great consideration—after higher things; promise me.’
‘Oh yes, indeed, auntie dear,’ said the girl, somewhat frightened and bewildered as the last kisses and good-byes were exchanged. Since the travellers were to start very early the next morning on their mules for Botzen, whither Mrs. Bury meant to accompany them in order to make some purchases, Lord Northmoor went with the party to the limits of his walking powers, and on the slope of the Alp, amid the fir-woods, took his leave, Mrs. Bury telling him cheerfully that she should return the next day, while he said that he could not thank her enough. He bade farewell to his niece, telling her that he hoped she would by and by be spending her holidays at Northmoor if all went well.
Constance had begun to grow alarmed, and watched for an opportunity of imploring Mrs. Bury to tell her whether Aunt Mary were really very ill.
Mrs. Bury laughed, and confided to her a secret, which made her at once glad, alarmed, and important.
‘Oh, and is no one to know?’ said little Constance, with rosy cheeks.
‘Not till leave is given,’ said Mrs. Bury. ‘You see there is still so much risk of things going wrong, that they both wish nothing to be said at present. I thought they had spoken to you.’
‘Oh no. But—but—’ and Constance could not go on, as her eyes filled with tears.
‘Is there special cause for anxiety, you mean, my dear? Hardly forher, though it was unlucky that she was as unknowing as you, and I don’t see how she is to be taken over these roads into a more civilised place. But I shall stay on and see them through with it, and I daresay we shall do very well. I am used enough to looking after my own daughters, and nobody particularly wants me at home.’
‘That’s what Aunt Mary meant by saying you weresovery good!’
‘Well, it would be sheer inhumanity to leave them to themselves, and the mercies of Ratzes, and there seems to be no one else that could come.’
‘I’m glad I know!’ said Constance, with a long breath. ‘Only what shall I do if any one asks me about her?’
‘Say she had a nasty fall, which makes it undesirable to move her just yet. It is the simple truth, and what you would have naturally said but for this little communication of mine.’
‘I suppose,’ said Constance, in a tone Mrs. Bury did not understand, ‘it will be all known before my Christmas holidays?’
‘Oh yes, my dear, long before that. I’ll write to you when I have anything to tell.’
For which Constance thanked her heartily, and thenceforth felt a great deal older for the confidence, which delighted as well as made her anxious, for she was too fond of her uncle and aunt, as well as too young and simple, for it to have occurred to her how the matter might affect her brother.
After seeing much more on her road than she had done before, and won golden opinions from her escort for intelligence and obligingness, she was safely deposited in the train for Colbeam, without having gone home.
She had made up her mind to pass Sunday at her boarding-house, and was greatly surprised when Lady Adela called on Saturday to take her to Northmoor for the Sunday.
‘Now tell me about your uncle and aunt,’ the good lady began, when Constance was seated beside her. ‘Yes, I have heard from Mrs. Bury, but I want to know whether the place is tolerably comfortable.’
‘Mrs. Bury has made it much better,’ said Constance. ‘And it is so beautiful, no one would care for comfort who was quite well.’
‘And is your uncle well? Has he got over his headaches?’ she asked solicitously.
In fact, the absence of Lord and Lady Northmoor had done more than their presence to make Lady Adela feel their value. She was astonished to find how much she missed the power of referring to him and leaning on his support in all questions, small or great, that cropped up; and she had begun to feel that the stick might be a staff; besides which, having imbibed more than an inkling of the causeof detention, she was anxious to gather what she could of the circumstances.
She was agreeably surprised in Constance, to whom the journey had been a time of development from the mere school girl, and who could talk pleasantly, showing plenty of intelligence and observation in a modest ladylike way. Moreover, she had a game in the garden which little Amice enjoyed extremely, and she and her little Sunday class were delighted to see one another again. It resulted in her Sundays being spent at Northmoor as regularly as before, and in Amice, a companionless child, thinking Saturday brought the white afternoon of the week.
‘My Dear Addie,‘You have no doubt ceased from your exertions in the way of finding nurses, since the telegram has told you that the son and heir has considerately saved trouble and expense by making his appearance on Michaelmas morning. It was before there was time to fetch anybody but the ancient village Bettina. Everything is most prosperous, and I am almost as proud as the parents—and to see them gloat over the morsel is a caution. They look at him as if such a being had never been known on the earth before; and he really is a very fine healthy creature, most ridiculously like the portrait of the original old Michael Morton Northmoor in the full-bottomed wig. He seems to be almost equally marvellous to the Ratzes population, being the first infant seen there unswaddled—or washed. Bettina’s horror at the idea of washing him is worth seeing. Her brown old face was almost convulsed, and she and our Frau-wirthin concurred in assuring me that it would befatal toder kleine baronif he were washed, except with white wine and milk at a fortnight old; nor would they accept my assurance that my three daughters and seven grandchildren had survived the process. I have to do it myself, and dress him as I can, for his wardrobe as made here is not complete, and whatever you can send us will be highly acceptable. It is lucky that Northmoor is a born nurse, for the women’s fear of breaking the child is really justifiable, as they never handled anything not made up into a mummy; moreover, they wish to let all the world up into Mary’s room to behold the curiosity, I met the priest upon his way and turned him back! So we have pretty well all the nursing on our hands, and happily it is of the most satisfactory kind, with the one drawback that we have to call in the services of a ‘valia’; but on the other hand we have all been so much interested in a poor little widow, Hedwig Grantzen, whose husband was lost last spring in a snow-storm, that it is pleasant to have some employment for her. Such a creature as came over on chance and speculation—a great coarse handsome girl, in exaggerated costume, all new, with lacy ribbons down her back; but I rode over to Botzen, and interviewed her parish priest about her, and that was enough to settle her. Every one is asleep except myself, and Mary’s face is one smile as she sleeps.‘This is going to be posted by the last of the tourists, luckily a clergyman, whom we begged to baptize the boy, as there is a possibility that snows may close us in before we can get away.‘So he is named Michael Kenton, partly aftermy own dear brother as well as the old founder, partly in honour of the day and of Sir Edward Kenton, who, they say, has been their very kind friend. It really is a feast to see people so wonderingly happy and thankful. The little creature has all the zest of novelty to them, and they coo and marvel over it in perfect felicity. When you will be introduced to the hero, I cannot guess, for though he has been an earlier arrival than his mother’s inexperience expected, I much doubt her being able to get out of this place while the way to Botzen is passable according to the prognostics of the sages. What splendid studies of ice peaks I shall have! Your affectionate cousin,
‘My Dear Addie,
‘You have no doubt ceased from your exertions in the way of finding nurses, since the telegram has told you that the son and heir has considerately saved trouble and expense by making his appearance on Michaelmas morning. It was before there was time to fetch anybody but the ancient village Bettina. Everything is most prosperous, and I am almost as proud as the parents—and to see them gloat over the morsel is a caution. They look at him as if such a being had never been known on the earth before; and he really is a very fine healthy creature, most ridiculously like the portrait of the original old Michael Morton Northmoor in the full-bottomed wig. He seems to be almost equally marvellous to the Ratzes population, being the first infant seen there unswaddled—or washed. Bettina’s horror at the idea of washing him is worth seeing. Her brown old face was almost convulsed, and she and our Frau-wirthin concurred in assuring me that it would befatal toder kleine baronif he were washed, except with white wine and milk at a fortnight old; nor would they accept my assurance that my three daughters and seven grandchildren had survived the process. I have to do it myself, and dress him as I can, for his wardrobe as made here is not complete, and whatever you can send us will be highly acceptable. It is lucky that Northmoor is a born nurse, for the women’s fear of breaking the child is really justifiable, as they never handled anything not made up into a mummy; moreover, they wish to let all the world up into Mary’s room to behold the curiosity, I met the priest upon his way and turned him back! So we have pretty well all the nursing on our hands, and happily it is of the most satisfactory kind, with the one drawback that we have to call in the services of a ‘valia’; but on the other hand we have all been so much interested in a poor little widow, Hedwig Grantzen, whose husband was lost last spring in a snow-storm, that it is pleasant to have some employment for her. Such a creature as came over on chance and speculation—a great coarse handsome girl, in exaggerated costume, all new, with lacy ribbons down her back; but I rode over to Botzen, and interviewed her parish priest about her, and that was enough to settle her. Every one is asleep except myself, and Mary’s face is one smile as she sleeps.
‘This is going to be posted by the last of the tourists, luckily a clergyman, whom we begged to baptize the boy, as there is a possibility that snows may close us in before we can get away.
‘So he is named Michael Kenton, partly aftermy own dear brother as well as the old founder, partly in honour of the day and of Sir Edward Kenton, who, they say, has been their very kind friend. It really is a feast to see people so wonderingly happy and thankful. The little creature has all the zest of novelty to them, and they coo and marvel over it in perfect felicity. When you will be introduced to the hero, I cannot guess, for though he has been an earlier arrival than his mother’s inexperience expected, I much doubt her being able to get out of this place while the way to Botzen is passable according to the prognostics of the sages. What splendid studies of ice peaks I shall have! Your affectionate cousin,
‘L. Bury.’
A telegram had preceded the letter. One soon followed by Mrs. Bury’s promised note had filled Constance’s honest little heart with rapture, another had set all the bells in Northmoor Church ringing and Best rejoicing that ‘that there Harbut’s nose was put out of joint,’ a feeling wherein Lady Adela could not but participate, though, of course, she showed no sign of it to Constance. A sharply-worded letter to the girl soon came from her mother, demanding what she had known beforehand. Mrs. Morton had plainly been quite unprepared for what was a severe blow to her, and it was quite possible to understand how, in his shyness, Lord Northmoor had put off writing of the hope and expectation from day to day till all had been fulfilled sooner than had been expected.
It was the first thing that brought home toConstance that the event was scarcely as delightful to her family as to herself. She wrote what she knew and heard no more, for none of her home family were apt to favour her with much correspondence. Miss Morton, however, had written to her sister-in-law.
‘Poor Herbert! I am sorry for him, though you won’t be. He takes it very well, he really is a very good sort at bottom, and it really is the very best thing for him, as I have been trying to persuade him.’
Bulletins came with tolerable frequency from Ratzes, with all good accounts of mother and child, and a particular description of little Michael’s beauties; but it was only too soon announced that snow was falling, and this was soon followed by another letter saying that consultation with the best authorities within reach had decided that unless the weather were extraordinarily mild, the journey, after November set in, was not to be ventured by Lady Northmoor or so young a child. There would be perils for any one, even the postmen and the guides, and if it were mild in one valley it might only render it more dangerous over the next Alp. Still Mrs. Bury, a practised and enterprising mountaineer, might have attempted it; but though Mary was rapidly recovering and the language was no longer utterly impracticable, the good lady could not bear to desert her charges, or to think what might happen to them, if left alone, in case of illness or accident, so she devoted herself to them and to her studies of ice and snow, and wrote word to her family that they were to think of her as hibernating till Easter, if not Whitsuntide.
Constance had, of course, to spend her Christmas holidays at home, where she had not been for nine months.
Her brother met her at the London terminus to go down with her, and there, to her great joy, she also saw Rose Rollstone on the platform. Herbert, whose dignity had first prompted him to seek a smoking carriage apart from his sister, thereupon decided to lay it aside and enter with them, looking rather scornful at the girls’ mutual endearments.
‘Come, Conny, Miss Rollstone has had enough of that,’ he said, ‘and here are a lot going to get in. Oh my, the cads! I shall have to get into the smoking carriage after all.’
‘No, don’t. Sit opposite and we shall do very well.’
Then came the exchange of news, and—‘You’ve heard, of course, Rosie?’
‘I should think I had,’ then an anxious glance at Herbert, who answered—
‘Oh yes, mother and Ida have been tearing their hair ever since, but it is all rot! The governor’s very welcome to the poor little beggar!’
‘Oh, that’s right! That’s very noble of you, Herbert,’ said both the girls in a breath.
‘Well, you see, old Frank is good to live these thirty or forty years yet, and what was the good of having to wait? Better have done with it at once, I say, and he has written me a stunning jolly letter.’
‘Oh, I was sure he would!’ cried Constance.
‘I’m to go on just the same, and he won’t cut off my allowance,’ pursued Herbert.
‘It is just as my papa says,’ put in Rose, ‘he is always the gentleman. And you’ll be in the army still?’
‘When I’ve got through my exams; but they are no joke, Miss Rose, I can tell you. It is Conny there that likes to sap. What have you been doing this time, little one?’
‘I don’t know yet, but Miss Astley thinks I have done well and shall get into the upper form,’ said Constance shyly. ‘I got on with my German while I was abroad, trying to teach Uncle Frank.’
At which Herbert laughed heartily, and demanded what sort of scholar he made.
‘Not very good,’ owned Constance; ‘he did forget so from day to day, and he asked so many questions, and was always wanting to have things explained. But it made me know them better, and Mrs. Bury had such nice books, and she helped me. If you want to take up French and German, Bertie—
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Don’t spoil the passing hour, child. I should think you would be glad enough to get away from it all.’
‘I do want to get on,’ said Constance. ‘I must, you know, more than ever now.’
‘Oh, you mean that mad fancy of going and being a teacher?’
‘It is not a bit mad, Herbert. Rose does not think it is, and I want you to stand by me if mamma and Ida make objections.’
‘Girls are always in such a hurry,’ grumbled Herbert. ‘You need not make a stir about it yet. You won’t be able to begin for ever so long.’
Rose agreed with him that it would be much wiser not to broach the subject till Constance was old enough to begin the preparation, though, with the impatience of youth to express its designs and give them form, she did not like the delay.
‘I tell you what, Con,’ finally said Herbert, ‘if you set mother and Ida worrying before their time, I shall vote it all rot, and not say a word to help you.’
Which disposed of the subject for the time, and left them to discuss happily Constance’s travels and Herbert’s new tutor and companions till their arrival at Westhaven, where Constance’s welcome was quite a secondary thing to Herbert’s, as she well knew it would be, nor felt it as a grievance, though she was somewhat amazed at seeing him fervently embraced, and absolutely cried over, with ‘Oh, my poor injured boy!’
Herbert did not like it at all, and disengaginghimself rapidly, growled out his favourite expletive of ‘Rot! Have done with that!’
He was greatly admired for his utter impatience of commiseration, but there was no doubt that the disappointment was far greater to his mother and Ida than to himself. He cared little for what did not make any actual difference to his present life, whereas to them the glory and honour of his heirship and the future hopes were everything—and Constance’s manifest delight in the joy of her uncle and aunt, and her girlish interest in the baby, were to their eyes unfeeling folly, if not absolute unkindness to her brother.
‘Dear little baby, indeed!’ said Ida scornfully. ‘Nasty little wretch, I say. One good thing is, up in that cold place all this time he’s sure not to live.’
Herbert whistled. ‘That’s coming it rather strong.’ And Constance, with tears starting to her eyes, said, ‘For shame, Ida, how can you be so wicked! Think of Uncle Frank and Aunt Mary!’
‘I believe you care for them more than for your own flesh and blood!’ exclaimed her mother.
‘Well, and haven’t they done a sight deal more for her?’ said Herbert.
‘You turning on me too, you ungrateful boy!’ cried Mrs. Morton.
Herbert laughed.
‘If it comes to gratitude,’ he said, and looked significantly at the decorations.
‘And what is it but the due to his brother’s widow?’ said Mrs. Morton. ‘Just a pittance, and you may depend that will be cut down on some pretext now!’
‘I should think so, if they heard Ida’s tongue!’ said Herbert.
‘And Constance there is spitefulness enough to go and tell them—favourite as she is!’ said Ida.
‘I should think not!’ said Constance indignantly. ‘As if I would do such a mean thing!’
‘Come, come, Ida,’ said her mother, ‘your sister knows better than that. It’s not the way when she is only just come home, so grown too and improved, “quite the lady.”‘
Mrs. Morton had a mother’s heart for Constance, though only in the third degree, and was really gratified to see her progress. She had turned up her pretty brown hair, and the last year had made her much less of a child in appearance; her features were of delicate mould, she had dark eyes, and a sweet mouth, with a rose-blush complexion, and was pleasing to look on, though, in her mother’s eyes, no rival to the thin, rather sharply-defined features, bright eyes, and pink-and-white complexion that made Ida the belle of a certain set at Westhaven. The party were more amicable over the dinner-table—for dinner it was called, as an assertion of gentility.
‘Are you allowed to dine late,’ asked Ida patronisingly of her sister, ‘when you are not at school?
‘Lady Adela dines early,’ said Constance.
‘Oh, for your sake, I suppose?’
‘Always, I believe,’ said Constance.
‘Yes, always,’ said Herbert. ‘Fine people needn’t ask what’s genteel, you see, Ida.’
That was almost the only breeze, and after dinner Herbert rushed out for a smell of sea,interspersed with pipe, and to ‘look up the inevitable old Jack.’
Constance was then subjected to a cross-examination on all the circumstances of the detention at Ratzes, and all she had heard or ought to have heard about the arrival of the unwelcome little Michael, while her mother and sister drew their own inferences.
‘Really,’ said Ida at last, ‘it is just like a thing in a book.’
Constance was surprised.
‘Because it was such a happy surprise for them,’ she added hastily.
‘No, nonsense, child, but it is just what they always do when they want a supposititious heir.’
‘Ida, how can you say such things?’
‘But it is, Conny! There was the wicked Sir Ronald Macronald. He took his wife away to Belgrade, right in the Ukraine mountains, and it—’
‘Belgrade is in Hungary, and the Cossacks live in the Ukraine in Russia,’ suggested Constance.
‘Oh, never mind your school-girl geography, it was Bel something, an out-of-the-way place in the mountains anyway, and there he pretended she had a child, just out of malice to the right heiress, that lovely Lilian, and he got killed by a stag, and then she confessed on her death-bed. I declare it is just like—’
‘My dear, don’t talk in that way, your sister is quite shocked. Your uncle never would—’
‘Bless me, ma, I was only in fun. I could tell you ever so many stories like that. There’s Broughton’s, on the table there. I knew from thefirst it was an impostor, and the old nurse dressed like a nun was his mother.’
‘I believe you always know the end before you are half through the first volume,’ said her mother admiringly; ‘but of course it is all right, only it is a terrible disappointment and misfortune for us, and not to be looked for after all these years.’
The last three Christmastides had been spent at Northmoor, where it had been needful to conform to the habits of the household, which impressed Ida and her mother as grand and conferring distinction, but decidedly dull and religious.
So as they were at Westhaven, perforce, they would make up for it, Christmas Eve was spent in a tumult of preparation for the diversions of the next day. Mrs. Morton had two maids now, but to her they were still ‘gals,’ not to be trusted with the more delicate cookeries, and Ida was fully engaged in the adornment of the room and herself, while Constance ran about and helped both, and got more thanks from her mother than her sister.
Ida was to end the day with a dance at a friend’s house, but she was not desirous of taking Constance with her, having been accustomed to treat her as a mere child, and Constance, though not devoid of a wish for amusement, knew that her uncle and aunt would have taken her to church, where she would have enjoyed the festal service.
Her mother would not let her go out in the dark alone, and was too tired to go with her, so she had to stay at home, while Herbert disported himself elsewhere, and Constance underwent another cross-examination over the photographs she had broughthome, but Mrs. Morton was never unkind when alone with her, and she had all the natural delight of youth in relating her adventures. Mrs. Morton, however, showed offence at not having been sent for instead of Mrs. Bury.—‘So much less of a relation,’ and Constance found herself dwelling on the ruggedness of the pass, and the difficulties of making oneself understood, but Mrs. Morton still persisted that she ‘could not understand why they should have got into such a place at all, when there were plenty of fashionable places in the newspaper where they could have had society and attendance and everything.’
‘Ah, but that was just what Uncle Frank didn’t want.’
‘Well, if they choose to be so eccentric, and close and shy, they can’t wonder that people talk.’
‘Mamma, you can’t mean that horrid nonsense that Ida talked about! It was only a joke!’
‘Oh, my dear, I don’t say that I suspect anything—oh no,—only, if they had not been so close and queer, one would have been able to contradict it. I like people to be straightforward, that’s all I have to say. And it is terribly hard on your poor brother to be so disappointed, after having his expectations so raised!’ and Mrs. Morton melted into tears, leaving Constance with nothing to say, for in the first place, she did not think Herbert, as yet at least, was very sensible of his loss, and in the next, she did not quite venture to ask her mother whether she thought little Michael should have been sacrificed to Herbert’s expectations. So she took the wiser course of producing a photograph of Vienna.
Constance created quite a sensation when she came down dressed for church on Christmas Day in a dark blue velvet jacket, deeply trimmed with silver fox, and a hat and muffen suite, matching with her serge dress, and though unpretending, yet very handsome.
Up jumped Ida, from lacing her boots by the fire. ‘Well, I never! They are spoiling you! Real velvet, I declare, and real silk-wadded lining. Look, ma. What made them dress you like that?’
‘It wasn’t them,’ said Constance, ‘it was Lady Adela. One Sunday in October it turned suddenly cold, and I had only my cloth jacket, and she sent up for something warm for me. This was just new before she went into black, when husband died, and she had put it away for Amice, but it fitted me so well, and looked so nice, that she was so kind as to wish me to keep it always.’
‘Cast-off clothes! That’s the insolence of these swells,’ said Ida. ‘I wonder you had not the spirit to refuse.’
‘Sour grapes,’ muttered Herbert; while her mother sighed—‘Ah, that’s what we come to!’
‘Must not I wear it, mamma?’ said Constance, who had a certain attachment to the beautiful and comfortable garment. ‘She told me she had only worn it once in London, and she was so very kind.’
‘Oh, if you call it kindness,’ said Ida, ‘I call it impertinence.’
‘If you had only heard—’ faltered Constance.
‘No, no,’ said their mother, ‘you could not refuse, of course, my dear, and no one here will know. It becomes her very well too. Doesn’t it, Ida?’
Ida made a snort. ‘If people choose to make a little chit of a schoolgirl ridiculous by dressing her out like that!’ she said.
‘There isn’t time now before church,’ said Constance almost tearfully, ‘or I would take it off.’
‘No such thing,’ said Herbert. ‘Come on, Conny. You shall walk with me. You look stunning, and I want Westhaven folk to see for once what a lady is like.’
Constance was very glad to be led away from Ida’s comments, and resolved that her blue velvet should not see the light again at Westhaven; but she did not find this easy to carry out; for, perhaps for the sake of teasing Ida, Herbert used to inquire after it, and insist on her wearing it, and her mother liked to see her, and to show her, in it. It was only Ida who seemed unable to help saying something disagreeable, till, almost in despair, Constance offered to lend the bone of contention; but Lady Adela was a small woman, and Constance would never be on so large a scale as her sister, so thatthe jacket refused to be transferred except at the risk of being spoilt by alteration; and here Mrs. Morton interfered, ‘It would never do to have them say at Northmoor that “Lady Morton’s” gift had been spoilt by their meddling with it.’ Constance was glad, though she suspected that Lady Adela would never have found it out.
Then Ida consulted Sibyl Grover, who was working with a dressmaker, and with whom she kept up a sort of patronisingly familiar acquaintance, as to making something to rival it, and Sibyl was fertile in devices as to doing so cheaply, but when she consulted her superior, she was told that without the same expensive materials it would evidently be only an imitation, and moreover, that the fashion was long gone out of date. Which enabled Ida to bear the infliction with some degree of philosophy.
This jacket was not, however, Constance’s only trouble. Her conscience was already uneasy at the impossibility of getting to evensong on Christmas Day. She had been to an early Celebration without asking any questions, and had got back before Herbert had come down to breakfast, and very glad she was that she had done so, for she found that her mother regarded it as profane ‘to take the Sacrament’ when she was going to have a party in the evening, and when Constance was in the midst of the party she felt that—if it were to be—her mother might be right.
It was a dinner first—at which Constance did not appear—chiefly of older people, who talked of shipping and of coals. Afterwards, if they noticed the young people, joked them about their imaginarylovers—beaux, as the older ladies called them; young men, as the younger ones said. One, the most plain spoken of all, asked Herbert how he felt, at which the boy wriggled and laughed sheepishly, and his mother had a great confabulation with various of the ladies, who were probably condoling with her.
Later, there were cards for the elders, and sundry more young people came in for a dance. The Rollstones were considered as beneath the dignity of the Mortons, but Herbert had loudly insisted on inviting Rose for the evening and had had his way, but after all she would not come. Herbert felt himself aggrieved, and said she was as horrid a little prig as Constance, who on her side felt a pang of envy as she thought of Rose going to church and singing hymns and carols to her father and mother, while she, after a struggle under the mistletoe, which made her hot and miserable, had to sit playing waltzes. One good-natured lady offered to relieve her, but she was too much afraid of the hero of the mistletoe to stir from her post, and the daughter of her kindly friend had no scruple in exclaiming—
‘Oh no, ma, don’t! You always put us out, you know, and Constance Morton is as true as old Time.’
‘I am sure Constance is only too happy to oblige her friends,’ said Mrs. Morton. ‘And she is not out yet,’ she added, as a tribute to high life.
If Constance at times felt unkindly neglected, at others she heard surges of giggling, and suppressed shrieking and protests that made her feel the piano an ark of refuge.
The parting speech from a good-natured old merchant captain was, ‘Why, you demure little pussy cat, you are the prettiest of them all! What have yon lads been thinking about to let those little fingers be going instead of her feet? Or is it all Miss Ida’s jealousy, eh?’
All this, in a speaking-trumpet voice, put the poor child into an agony of blushes, which only incited him to pat her on the cheek, and the rest to laugh hilariously, under the influence of negus and cheap champagne.
Constance could have cried for very shame, but when she was waiting on her mother, who, tired as she was, would not go to bed without locking up the spoons and the remains of the wine, Mrs. Morton said kindly, ‘You are tired, my dear, and no wonder. They were a little noisy to-night. Those are not goings-on that I always approve, you know, but young folk always like a little pleasure extra at Christmas. Don’t you go and get too genteel for us, Conny. Come, come, don’t cry. Drink this, my love, you’re tired.’
‘Oh, mamma, it is not the being genteel—oh no, but Christmas Day and all!’
‘Come, come, my dear, I can’t have you get mopy and dull; religion is a very good thing, but it isn’t meant to hinder all one’s pleasure, and when you’ve been to church on a Christmas Day, what more can be expected of young people but to enjoy themselves? Come, go to bed and think no more about it.’
To express or even to understand what she felt would have been impossible to Constance, so shehad to content herself with feeling warm at her heart, at her mother’s kind kiss.
All the other parties she saw were much more decorous, even to affectation, except that at the old skipper’s, and he was viewed by the family as a subject for toleration, because he had been a friend and messmate of Mrs. Morton’s father. All the good side of that lady and Ida came out towards him and his belongings. He had an invalid granddaughter, with a spine complaint and feeble eyesight, and Ida spent much time in amusing her, teaching her fancy works and reading to her. Unluckily it was only trashy novels from the circulating library that they read; Ida had no taste for anything else, and protested that Louie would be bored to death if she tried to read her the African adventures which were just then the subject of enthusiasm even with Herbert! Ida was not a dull girl. Unlike some who do not seem to connect their books with life, she made them her realities and lived in them, and as she hardly ever read anything more substantial her ideas of life and society were founded on them, though in her own house she was shrewd in practical matters, and though not strong was a useful active assistant to her mother whenever there was no danger of her being detected in doing anything derogatory to one so nearly connected with the peerage.
Indeed, she seemed to regard her sister’s dutiful studies as proofs of dulness and want of spirit. She was quite angry when Constance objected toThe Unconscious Impostor,—very yellow, with a truculent flaming design outside—that ‘she did not think sheought to read that kind of book—Aunt Mary would not like it.’
‘Well, if I would be in bondage to an old governess! You are not such a child now.’
‘Don’t, Ida. Uncle Frank would not like it either.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Ida, with an ugly, meaning laugh as she glanced again at the title.
Constance might really have liked to read more tales than she allowed herself.The House on the Marshtempted her, but she was true to the advice she had received, and Rose Rollstone upheld her in her resolution.
Ida thought it rather ‘low’ in Herbert and Constance to care for the old butler’s daughter, but their mother had a warm spot in the bottom of her heart, and liked a gossip with Mrs. Rollstone too much to forbid the house to her daughter, besides that she shrank from inflicting on her so much distress.
So during the fortnight that Rose spent at home the girls were together most of the morning. After Constance, well wrapped up, had practised in the cold drawing-room, where economy forbade fires till the afternoon, she sped across to Rose in the little stuffy parlour where Mr. Rollstone liked to doze over his newspaper to the lullaby of their low-voiced chatter. Often they walked together, and were sometimes joined by Herbert, who on these occasions always showed that he knew how to behave like a gentleman.
Herbert was faithfully keeping his promise not to bet, though, as he observed, he had not expectedto be in for it so long. But it was satisfactory to hear that his present fellow-pupils did not go in for that sort of thing, and Constance felt sure that her uncle and aunt would be pleased with him and think him much improved.
‘I am quite convinced,’ said Ida Morton, ‘it is quite plain why we are not invited.’
‘My dear, you see what your aunt says; that Mrs. Bury’s daughter’s husband is ordered to India, and that having the whole family to stay at Northmoor gives them the only chance of being all together for a little while, and after their obligations to Mrs. Bury—’
‘Ma, how can you be so green? Obligations, indeed! It is all a mere excuse to say there is not room for us in that great house. I see through it all. It is just to prevent us from being able to ask inconvenient questions of the German nurse and Mrs. Bury and all!’
‘Now, Ida, I wish you would put away that fancy. Your uncle and aunt were always such good people! And there was Mrs. Bury—’
‘Mother, you will never understand the revenge of sordid souls,’ said Ida tragically, quoting fromThe Unconscious Impostor.
‘Revenge! What can you mean?’
‘Of course, you know, Mrs. Bury never forgave Herbert’s taking her for a tramp, and you know how nasty uncle was about that white rook and the bets. Oh, it is quite plain. He was to be deprived of his rights, and so this journey was contrived, and they got into this out-of-the-way, inaccessible place, and sent poor Conny away, and then had no doctor or nurse—exactly as people always do.’
‘Oh, Ida, only in stories! Your novels are turning your head.’
‘Novels are transcripts of life,’ again said Ida, solemnly quoting.
‘I don’t believe it if they put such things into your head,’ said her mother. ‘Asking Herbert to be godfather too! Such a compliment!’
‘An empty compliment, to hoodwink us and the poor boy,’ said Ida. ‘No, no, ma, the keeping you away settles it in my mind, and it shall be the business of my life to unmask that!’
So spoke Ida, conscious of being a future heroine.
It was quite true that Herbert had been asked to stand godfather to his little cousin’s admission into the Church, after, of course, a very good report had been received from his tutor. ‘You are the little fellow’s nearest kinsman,’ wrote Lord Northmoor, ‘and I trust to you to influence him for good.’ Herbert wriggled, blushed, thought he hated it, was glad it had been written instead of spoken, but was really touched.
His uncle had justly thought responsibility would be wholesome, and besides, Herbert represented to him his brother, for whom he had a very tender feeling.
It was quite true that Northmoor was as full asit would hold. Mrs. Bury’s eldest daughter was going out to India, and another had a husband in the Civil Service; the third lived in Ireland, and the only way of having the whole family together for their last fortnight was to gather them at Northmoor, as soon as its lord and lady returned, nor had they been able to escape from their Dolomite ravine till the beginning of May, for the roads were always dangerous, often impassable, so that there had been weeks when they were secluded from even the post, and had had difficulties as to food and fire.
However, it had done them no harm, and was often looked back upon as, metaphorically as well as literally, the brightest and whitest time in their lives. Frank had walked and climbed both with Mrs. Bury and on his own account, and had drunk in the wild glories of the mountain winter, and the fantastic splendours of snow and ice on those wondrous peaks. And, with that new joy and delight to be found in the queer wooden cradle, his heart was free to bound as perhaps it had never done before, in exulting thankfulness, as he looked up to those foretastes of the Great White Throne.
Never had he had such a rest before from toil, care, and anxiety as in those months in the dry, bracing air, and it was the universal remark that Lord Northmoor came back years younger and twice the man he had been before, with a spirit of cheerfulness and enterprise such as had always been wanting; while as to his wife, she was less strong than before, but there was a certain peaceful, yet exulting happiness about her, and her face had gained wonderfully in sweetness and expression.
The child was a fine plump little fellow, old enough to laugh and respond to loving faces and gestures. Mary had feared the sight might be painful to Lady Adela, and was gratified to find her too true a baby-lover and too generous a spirit not to worship him almost as devotedly as did Constance.
Perhaps the heads of the family had never seen or participated in anything like the domestic mirth and enjoyment of that fortnight’s visit; Bertha was with Lady Adela, and the intimacy and confidence in which Frank and Mary had lived with Mrs. Bury had demolished many barriers of shyness, and made them hosts who could be as one with their guests—guests with whom the shadow of parting made the last sunshine seem the more bright.
‘I did not know what I was letting you in for,’ said Bertha, in apology to Mrs. Bury.
‘My dear, I would not have been without the experience on any account. I never saw such a refreshing pair of people.’
‘Surely it must have been awfully slow—regular penal servitude!’
‘You confuse absence of small talk with absence of soul, Birdie. When we had once grown intimate enough to hold our tongues if we had nothing to say, we got on perfectly.’
‘And what you had to say was about Master Michael?’
‘Not entirely; though I must say the mingled reverence and curiosity with which they regard the little monster, and their own fear of not bringing up their treasure properly, were a very interesting study.’
‘More so than your snowy peaks! Ah, if the proper study of mankind is man, the proper study of womankind is babe.’
‘Well, it was not at all an unsatisfactory study, in this case. And let me tell you, Miss Birdie, it is no bad thing to be shut in for a few months with a few good books and a couple of thoroughly simple-hearted people, who have thought a good deal in their quiet humdrum way.’
‘Why, Lettice, you must have been quite an education to them!’
‘I hope they were an education to me.’
‘I hope your conscience is not going to be such a rampant and obstructive thing as that which they possess in common,’ said Bertha.
‘I wish it had been,’ said Mrs. Bury gravely.
‘At any rate, the deadly lively time has brisked you all up,’ said Bertha, laughing.
Constance, on her Saturdays and Sundays, looked on with a kind of wonder. She was not exactly of either set. The children were all so young as to look on her as a grown-up person, though willing to let her play with them; and she was outside the group of young married people, and could not enter into their family fun; but this kind of playfulness and merriment was quite a revelation to her. She had never before seen mirth, except, of course, childish and schoolgirl play, that had not in it something that hurt her taste and jarred on her feeling as much as did Ida’s screeching laughter in comparison with the soft ripplings of these young matrons.
Still, little Michael was her chief delight, andshe could hardly be detached from him. She refreshed her colloquial German (or rather Austrian) with his nurse, who had much to say of the goodness ofdie Gnadigen Frauen. Poor thing, she was the youthful widow of a guide, and the efforts of the two Frauen had been in vain to keep alive her only child, after whose death she had found some consolation in taking charge of Lady Northmoor’s baby on the way home. Constance hoped Ida might never hear this fact.
Some degree of prosperity was greeting the little heir. A bit of moorland, hitherto regarded as worthless, had first been crossed by a branch line, and the primary growth of a station had been followed by the discovery of good building stone, and the erection of a crop of houses of all degrees, which promised to set the Northmoor finances on a better footing than had been theirs for years, and set their conscientious landlord to work at once on providing church room and schools.
All this, and that most precious possession at home, combined to give Lord Northmoor an amount of spirit and life that enabled him to take his place in the county, emancipate himself from the squire, show an opinion of his own, and open his mouth occasionally. As Bertha observed, no one would ever have called him a stick if he had begun like this. To people like these, humbled and depressed in early life, a little happiness was a great stimulus.
It was not till Christmas that Ida had the opportunity of making her observations. By that time ‘Mite,’ as he was supposed to have named himself, had found the use of his feet, and was acquiring that of his tongue. In fact, he was a very fine forward child, who might easily have been supposed to be eighteen months old instead of fifteen, as Ida did not fail to remark.
He was a handsome little creature, round and fair, with splendid sturdy legs and mottled arms, hair that stood up in a pale golden crest, round blue eyes and a bright colour, without much likeness as yet to either parent, though Lord Northmoor declared that there was an exact resemblance to his own brother, Charles, Herbert’s father, as he first remembered him. Ida longed to purse up her lips but did not dare, and was provoked to see her mother taken completely captive by his charms, and petting him to the utmost extent.
Indeed, Lady Northmoor, who was very much afraid of spoiling him, was often distressed whensuch scenes as this took place. ‘Mite! Mite, dear, no!’ when his fat little hands had grasped an ivory paper-cutter, and its blade was on the way to the button mouth. ‘No!’ as he paused and looked at her. ‘Here’s Mite’s ball! poor little dear, do let him have it’—and Mite, reading sympathy in his aunt’s face, laughed in a fascinating triumphant manner, and took a bite with his small teeth.
‘Mite! mother said no!’ and it was gently taken from his hand, but before the fingers had embraced the substituted ball, a depreciating look and word of remonstrance gave a sense of ill-usage and there was a roar.
‘Oh, poor little dear! Here—auntie’s goody goody—’
‘No, no, please, Emma, he has had quite as many as he ought! No, no, Mite—’ and he was borne off sobbing in her arms, while Ida observed, ‘There! is that the way people treat their own children?’
‘Some people never get rid of the governess,’ observed Mrs. Morton, quite unconscious that but for her interference there would have been no contest and no tears.
But she herself had no doubts, and was mollified by Mary’s plea on her return. ‘He is quite good now, but you see, there is so much danger of our spoiling him, we feel that we cannot begin too soon to make him obedient.’
‘I could not bear to keep a poor child under in that way.’
‘I believe it saves them a great deal if obedience is an instinct,’ said Mary.
It had not been Mrs. Morton’s method, and shewas perfectly satisfied with the result, so she only made some inarticulate sound; but she thought Frank quite as unnatural, when he kept Michael on his knee at breakfast, but with only an empty spoon to play with! All the tossing and playing, the radiant smiles between the two did not in her eyes atone for these small beginnings of discipline, even though her brother-in-law’s first proceeding, whenever he came home, was to look for his son, and if the child were not in the drawing-room, to hurry up to the nursery and bring him down, laughing and shouting.
The Tyrolean nurse had been sacrificed to those notions of training which the Westhaven party regarded as so harsh. Her home sickness and pining for her mountains had indeed fully justified the ‘rampant consciences,’ as to the humanity as well as the expedience of sending her home before her indulgence of the Kleiner Freiherr had had time to counteract his parents’ ideas, and her place had been supplied by the nurse whom Amice was outgrowing, so that Ida was disappointed of her intentions of examining her, and laid up the circumstances as suspicious, though, on the other hand, her mother was gratified at exercising a bit of patronage by recommending a nursery girl from Westhaven. The next winter, however, was not marked by a visit to Northmoor. Ida had been having her full share of the summer and early autumnal gaieties of Westhaven, and among the yachts who were given to putting in there was a certainMorna, belonging to Sir Thomas Brady, who had become a baronet by force of success in speculation. His son, who chieflyused it, showed evident admiration of Miss Morton’s bright cheeks and eyes, and so often resorted to Westhaven, and dropped in at what she had named Northmoor cottage, that there was fair reason for supposing that this might result in more than an ordinary flirtation.
However, at the regatta, when she had looked for distinguished attention on his part, she felt herself absolutely neglected, and the very next day theMornasailed away, without a farewell.
Ida at first could hardly believe it. When she did, the conviction came upon her that his son’s attachment had been reported to Sir Thomas, and that the young man had been summoned away against his will. It would have been different, no doubt, had Herbert still been heir-presumptive.
‘That horrid little Mite!’ said she.
Whether her heart or her ambition had been most affected might be doubtful. At any rate, the disappointment added to the oppression of a heavy cold on the chest, which she had caught at the regatta, and which became severe enough to call for the doctor.
Thus the mother and daughter did not go to Northmoor. At a ball given on board a steam yacht just before Christmas Ida caught a violent cold on the chest, the word congestion was uttered, and an opinion was pronounced that as she had always weak lungs, a spring abroad would be advisable.
Mrs. Morton wrote a letter with traces of tears upon it, appealing to her brother-in-law to assist her as the only hope of saving her dearest child, and the quarries had done so well during the last yearthat he was able to respond with a largesse sufficient for her needs, though not for her expectations.
Mrs. Morton would have liked to have taken Constance as interpreter, and general aid and assistant; but Constance was hard at work, aspiring to a scholarship, at a ladies’ college, and it was plain that her sister was not so desirous of her company as to make her mother overrule her wishes as a duty.
In fact, Ida had found a fellow-traveller who would suit her much better than Constance. Living for the last year in lodgings near at hand was a Miss Gattoni, daughter of an Italian courier and French lady’s maid. As half boarder at a third-rate English school, she had acquired education enough to be first a nursery-governess, and later a companion; and in her last situation, when she had gone abroad several times with a rheumatic old lady, she had recommended herself enough to receive a legacy which rendered her tolerably independent. She was very good-natured, and had graduated in the art of making herself acceptable, and, as she really wished to go abroad again, she easily induced Mrs. Morton and Ida to think it a great boon that she should join forces with them, and as she was an experienced traveller with a convenient smattering of various tongues, she really smoothed their way considerably and lived much more at her ease than she could have done upon her own resources, always frequenting English hotels and boarding-houses.
Mrs. Morton and Ida were of that order of tourists who do not so much care for sights as for being on a level with those who have seen them; and besides, Ida was scarcely well or in spiritsenough for much exertion till after her first month at Nice, which restored her altogether to her usual self, and made her impatient of staying in one place.
It is not, however, worth while to record the wanderings of the trio, until in the next summer they reached Venice, where Ida declared her intention of penetrating into the Dolomites. There was an outcry. What could she wish for in that wild and savage country, where there was no comfortable hotel, no society, no roads—nothing in short to make life tolerable, whereas an hotel full of Americans of extreme politeness to ladies, and expeditions in gondolas, when one could talk and have plenty of attention, were only too delightful?
That peaks should be more attractive than flirtations was inexplicable, but at last in secret confabulation Ida disclosed her motive, and in another private consultation Mrs. Morton begged Miss Gattoni to agree to it, as the only means of satisfying the young lady, or putting her mind at rest about a fancy her mother could not believe in; though even as she said, ‘it would be so very shocking, it is perfectly ridiculous to think my brother Lord Northmoor would be capable,’ the shrewd confidante detected a lingering wish that it might be so!
Maps and routes were consulted, and it was decided that whereas to go from Venice through Cadore would involve much mule-riding and rough roads, the best way would be to resort to the railway to Verona, and thence to Botzen as the nearest point whence Ratzes could be reached.