But I can’t conceive, in this very hot weather,How I’m ever to bring all these people together.T. HOOD.
It was not a day when any one could afford to be upset. It was chiefly spent in welcoming arrivals or in rushing about: on the part of Lance and Gerald in freshly rehearsing each performer, in superintending their stage arrangements, reviewing the dresses, and preparing for one grand final rehearsal; and in the multifarious occupations and anxieties, and above all in the music, Gerald did really forget, or only now and then recollect, that a nightmare was hanging on him, and that his little Mona need not shrink from him in maidenly shyness, but that he might well return her pretty appealing look of confidence.
The only quiet place in the town apparently was Clement Underwood’s room, for even Cherry had been whirled off, at first to arrange her own pictures and drawings; and then her wonderful touch made such a difference in the whole appearance of the stall, and her dainty devices were so graceful and effective, that Gillian and Mysie implored her to come and tell them what to do with theirs, where they were struggling with cushions, shawls, and bags, with the somewhat futile assistance of Mr. Armine Brownlow and Captain Armytage, whenever the latter could be spared from the theatrical arrangements, where, as he said, it was a case of parmi les borgnes—for his small experience with the Wills-of-the-Wisp made him valuable.
The stalls were each in what was supposed to represent by turns a Highland bothie or a cave. The art stall was a cave, that the back (really a tool-house) might serve the photographers, and the front was decorated with handsome bits of rock and spar, even ammonites. Poor Fergus could not recover his horror and contempt when his collection of specimens, named and arranged, was very nearly seized upon to fill up interstices, and he was infinitely indebted to Mrs. Grinstead for finding a place where their scientific merits could be appreciated without letting his dirty stones, as Valetta called them, disturb the general effect.
“And my fern-gardens! Oh, Mrs. Grinstead,” cried Mysie, “please don’t send them away to the flower place which Miss Simmonds and the gardeners are making like a nursery garden! They’ll snub my poor dear pterises.”
“Certainly we’ll make the most of your pterises. Look here. There’s an elegant doll, let her lead the family party to survey them. That’s right. Oh no, not that giantess! There’s a dainty little Dutch lady.”
“Charming. Oh! and here’s her boy in a sailor’s dress.”
“He is big enough to be her husband, my dear. You had better observe proportions, and put that family nearer the eye.”
“Those dolls!” cried Valetta, “they were our despair.”
“Make them tell a story, don’t you see. Where’s that fat red cushion?”
“Oh, that cushion! I put it out of sight because it is such a monster.”
“Yes; it is just like brick-dust enlivened by half-boiled cauliflowers! Never mind, it will be all the better background. Now, I saw a majestic lady reposing somewhere. There, let her sit against it. Oh, she mustn’t flop over. Here, that match-box, is it? I pity the person deluded enough to use it! Prop her up with it. Now then, let us have a presentation of ladies—she’s a governor’s wife in the colonies, you see. Never mind costumes, they may be queer. All that will stand or kneel—that’s right. Those that can only sit must hide behind, like poor Marie Antoinette’s ladies on the giggling occasion.”
So she went on, full of fun, which made the work doubly delightful to the girls, who darted about while she put the finishing touches, transforming the draperies from the aspect of a rag-and-bone shop, as Jasper had called it, to a wonderful quaint and pretty fairy bower, backed by the Indian scenes sent by Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Underwood, and that other lovely one of Primrose’s pasture. There the merry musical laugh of her youth was to be heard, as General Mohun came out with Lancelot to make a raid, order the whole party to come and eat luncheon at Beechcroft Cottage, and not let Mrs. Grinstead come out again.
“Oh, but I must finish up Bernard’s clay costume figures. Look at the expression of that delightful dollie! I’m sure he is watching the khitmutgars.
‘Above on tallest trees remoteGreen Ayahs perched alone;And all night long the Mussah moanedIn melancholy tone.’
Oh, don’t you know Lear’s poem? Can’t we illustrate it?”
“Cherry, Cherry, you’ll be half dead to-morrow.”
“Well, if I am, this is the real fun. I shan’t see the destruction.”
Lance had her arm in his grip to take her over the bridge over the wall, when up rushed Kitty Varley.
“Oh, if Mrs. Grinstead would come and look at our stall and set it right! Miss Vanderkist gave us hopes.”
“Perhaps—”
“Now, Cherry, don’t you know that you are not to be knocked up! There are the Travises going to bring unlimited Vanderkists.”
“Oh yes, I know; but there’s renovation in breaths from Vale Leston, and I really am of some use here.” Her voice really had a gay ring in it. “It is such fun too! Where’s Gerald?”
“Having a smoke with the buccaneer captain. Oh, Miss Mohun, here’s my sister, so enamoured of the bazaar I could hardly get her in.”
“And oh! she is so clever and delightful. She has made our stall the most enchanting place,” cried Primrose, dancing round. “Mamma, you must come and have it all explained to you.”
“The very sight is supposed to be worth a shilling extra,” said General Mohun, while Lady Merrifield and Miss Mohun, taking possession of her, hoped she was not tired; and Gillian, who had been wont to consider her as her private property, began to reprove her sisters for having engrossed her while she herself was occupied in helping the Hendersons with their art stall.
“The truth is,” said Lance, “that this is my sister’s first bazaar, and so dear is the work to the female mind, that she can’t help being sucked into the vortex.”
“Is it really?” demanded Mysie, in a voice that made Mrs. Grinstead laugh and say—
“Such is my woeful lack of experience.”
“We have fallen on a bazaar wherever we went,” said Lady Merrifield.
“But this is our first grown-up one, mamma,” said Valetta. “There was only a sale of work before.”
They all laughed, and Lance said—
“To Stoneborough they seem like revenues—at least sales of work, for I can’t say I understand the distinction.”
“Recurring brigandages,” said General Mohun.
“Ah! Uncle Reggie has never forgotten his getting a Noah’s ark in a raffle,” said Mysie.
So went the merry talk, while one and another came in at Miss Mohun’s verandah windows to be sustained with food and rest, and then darted forth again to renew their labours until the evening, Miss Mohun flying about everywhere on all sorts of needs, and her brother the General waiting by the dining-room to do the duties of hospitality to the strays of the families who dropped in, chattering and laughing, and exhausted.
Lady Merrifield was authorized to detain Mrs. Grinstead to the last moment possible to either, and they fell into a talk on the morality of bazaars, which, as Lady Merrifield said, had been a worry to her everywhere, while Geraldine had been out of their reach; since the Underwoods had done everything without begging, and Clement disapproved of them without the most urgent need; but, as Lance had said, his wife had grown up to them, and had gone through all the stages from delighting, acquiescing, and being bored, and they had so advanced since their early days, from being simply sales to the grand period of ornaments, costumes, and anything to attract.
“Clement consents,” said Geraldine; “as, first, it is not a church, and then, though it does seem absurd to think that singing through the murdered Tempest should be aiding the cause of the Church, yet anything to keep our children to learning faith and truth is worthy work.”
“Alas, it is working against the stream! How things are changed when school was our romance and our domain.”
“Yes, you should hear Lance tell the story of his sister-in-law Ethel, how she began at Cocksmoor, with seven children and fifteen shillings, and thought her fortune made when she got ten pounds a year for the school-mistress; and now it is all Mrs. Rivers can do to keep out the School-board, because they had not a separate room for the hat-pegs!”
“We never had those struggles. We had enough to do to live at all in our dear old home days, except that my brother always taught Sunday classes. But anyway, this is very amusing. Those young people’s characters come out so much. Ah, Gerald, what is it?”
For Gerald was coming up to the verandah with a very pretty, dark-eyed, modest-looking girl in a sailor hat, who shrank back as he said—
“I am come to ask for some luncheon for my—my Mona. She has had nothing to eat all day, and we still have the grand recognition scene to come.”
At which the girl blushed so furiously that the notion crossed Geraldine that he must have been flirting with the poor little tobacconist’s daughter; but Lady Merrifield was exclaiming that he too had had nothing to eat, and General Mohun came forth to draw them into the dining-room, where he helped Ludmilla to cold lamb, salad, etc., and she sat down at Gerald’s signal, very timidly, so that she gave the idea of only partaking because she was afraid to refuse.
Gerald ate hurriedly and nervously, and drank claret cup. He said they were getting on famously, his uncle’s chief strength being expended in drawing out the voice of the buccaneer captain, and mitigating the boatswain. Where were the little boys? Happily disposed of. Little Felix had gone through his part, and then Fergus had carried him and Adrian off together to Clipstone to see his animals, antediluvian and otherwise.
Then in rushed Gillian, followed by Dolores.
“Oh, mother!” cried Gillian, “there’s a fresh instalment of pots and pans come in, such horrid things some of them! There’s a statue in terra-cotta, half as large as life, of the Dirty Boy. Geraldine, do pray come and see what can be done with him. Kalliope is in utter despair, for they come from Craydon’s, and to offend them would be fatal.”
“Kalliope and the Dirty Boy,” said Mrs. Grinstead, laughing. “A dreadful conjunction; I must go and see if it is possible to establish the line between the sublime and the ridiculous.”
“Shall I ask your nephew’s leave to let you go,” said Lady Merrifield, “after all the orders I have received?”
“Oh, no—” she began, but Gerald had jumped up.
“I’ll steer you over the drawbridge, Cherie, if go you must. Yes,”—to the young ladies—“I appreciate your needs. Nobody has the same faculty in her fingers as this aunt of mine. Come along, Mona, it is Mrs. Henderson’s stall, you know.”
Ludmilla came, chiefly because she was afraid to be left, and Lady Merrifield could not but come too, meeting on the way Anna, come to implore help in arranging the Dirty Boy, before Captain Henderson knocked his head off, as he was much disposed to do.
Gillian had bounded on before with a handful of sandwiches, but Dolores tarried behind, having let the General help her to the leg of a chicken, which she seemed in no haste to dissect. Her uncle went off on some other call before she had finished, eating and drinking with the bitter sauce of reflection on the fleeting nature of young men’s attentions and even confidences, and how easily everything was overthrown at sight of a pretty face, especially in the half-and-half class. She had only just come out into the verandah, wearily to return to the preparations, which had lost whatever taste they had for her, when she saw Gerald Underwood springing over the partition wall. Her impulse was to escape him, but it was too late; he came eagerly up to her, saying—
“She is safe with Mrs. Henderson. I am to go back for her when our duet comes on.”
Dolores did not want to lower herself by showing jealousy or offence, but she could not help turning decidedly away, saying—
“I am wanted.”
“Are you? I wanted to tell you why I am so interested in her. Dolores, can you hear me now?—she is my sister.”
“Your sister!” in utter amaze.
“Every one says they see it in the colour of our eyes.”
“Every one”—she seemed able to do nothing but repeat his words.
“Well, my uncle Lancelot, and—and my mother. No one else knows yet. They want to spare my aunt till this concern is over.”
“But how can it be?”
“It is a horrid business altogether!” he said, taking her down to the unfrequented parts of the lower end of the garden, where they could walk up and down hidden by the bushes and shrubs. “You knew that my father was an artist and musician, who fled from over patronage.”
“I think I have heard so.”
“He married a singing-woman, and she grew tired of him, and of me, deserted and divorced him in Chicago, when I was ten months old. He was the dearest, most devoted of fathers, till he and I were devoured by the Indians. If they had completed their operations on my scalp, it would have been all the better for me. Instead of which Travis picked me up, brought me home, and they made me as much of an heir of all the traditions as nature would permit, all ignoring that not only was my father Bohemian ingrain, but that my mother was—in short—one of the gipsies of civilization. They never expected to hear of her again, but behold, the rapturous discovery has taken place. She recognised Lance, the only one of the family she had ever seen before, and then the voice of blood—more truly the voice of £ s. d.—exerted itself.”
“How was it she did not find you out before?”
“My father seems to have concealed his full name; I remember his being called Tom Wood. She married in her own line after casting him off, and this pretty little thing is her child—the only tolerable part of it.”
“But she cannot have any claim on you,” said Dolores, with a more shocked look and tone than the words conveyed.
“Not she—in reason; but the worst of it is, Dolores, that the wretched woman avers that she deceived my father, and had an old rascally tyrant of an Italian husband, who might have been alive when she married.”
“Gerald!”
Dolores stood still and looked at him with her eyes opened in horror.
“Yes, you may well say Gerald. ‘Tis the only name I have a right to if this is true.”
“But you are still yourself,” and she held out her hand.
He did not take it, however, only saying—
“You know what this means?”
“Of course I do, but that does not alter you—yourself in yourself.”
“If you say that, Dolores, it will only alter me to make me—more—more myself.”
She held out her hand again, and this time he did take it and press it, but he started, dropped it, and said—
“It is not fair.”
“Oh yes, it is. I know what it means,” she repeated, “and it makes no difference,” and this time it was she who took his hand.
“It means that unless this marriage is disproved, or the man’s death proved, I am an outcast, dependent on myself, instead of the curled darling the Grinsteads—blessings on them!—have brought me up.”
“I don’t know whether I don’t like you better so,” exclaimed she, looking into his clear eyes and fine open face, full of resolution, not of shame.
“While you say so—” He broke off. “Yes, thus I can bear it better. The estate is almost an oppression to me. The Bohemian nature is in me, I suppose. I had rather carve out life for myself than have the landlord business loaded on my shoulders. Clement and Lance will make the model parson and squire far better than I. ‘The Inspector’s Tour’ was a success—between that and the Underwood music there’s no fear but I shall get an independent career.”
“Oh! that is noble! You will be much more than your old self—as you said.”
“The breaking of Cherie’s heart is all that I care about,” said he. “To her I was comfort, almost compensation for those brothers. I don’t know how—” He paused. “We’ll let her alone till all this is over; so, Dolores, not one word to any one.”
“No, no, no!” she exclaimed. “I will—I will be true to you through everything, Gerald; I will wait till you have seen your way, and be proud of you through all.”
“Then I can bear it—I have my incentive,” he said. “First, you see, I must try to rescue my sister. I do not think it will be hard, for the maternal heart seems to be denied to that woman. Then proofs must be sought, and according as they are found or not—”
Loud calls of “Gerald” and “Mr. Underwood” began to resound. He finished—
“Must bethefuture.”
“Ourfuture,” repeated Dolores.
She came, she is gone, we have met,And meet perhaps never again.—COWPER.
The evening of that day was a scene of welcomes, dinners, and confusion. The Rotherwoods had arrived that evening at the Cliff Hotel just in time for dinner, of which they considerately partook where they were, to save Jane Mohun trouble; but all four of the party came the instant it was over to hear and see all that was going on, and were fervently received by Gillian and Mysie, who were sleeping at their aunt’s to be ready for the morrow, and in spite of all fatigue, had legs wherewith to walk Lord Ivinghoe and Lady Phyllis round the stalls, now closed up by canvas and guarded by police. Phyllis was only mournful not to have assisted in the preparations, and heard all the fun that Mrs. Grinstead had made. But over the wall of Carrara a sight was seen for which no one was prepared—no other than Maura White’s pretty classical face!
“Yes,” she said, “how could I be away from such an occasion? I made Uncle White bring me to London—he had business there, you know—and then I descended on Kalliope, and wasn’t she surprised! But I have a lovely Italian dress!”
Kalliope Henderson looked more alarmed than gratified on the whole. She knew that there had been no idea of Maura’s coming till after it had been known that the Rotherwoods were to open the bazaar, and “made Uncle White” was so unlike their former relations that all were startled, Gillian asking in a tone of reproof how Aunt Adeline spared Maura.
“Oh, we shall be back at Gastein in less than a week. I could not miss such an occasion.”
“I only had her telegram half-an-hour ago,” said Kalliope, in an apologetic tone; and Lord Ivinghoe was to be dimly seen handing Maura over the fence. Moonlight gardens and moonlight sea! What was to be done? And Ivinghoe, who had begun life by being as exclusive as the Marchioness herself! “People take the bit between their teeth nowadays,” as Jane observed to Lady Rotherwood when the news reached her, and neither said, though each felt, that Adeline would not have promoted this expedition, even for the child whom she and Mr. White had conspired to spoil. Each was secretly afraid of the attraction for Ivinghoe.
At St. Andrew’s Rock there was a glad meeting with the Travis Underwoods, who had disposed of themselves at the Marine Hotel, while they came up with a select party of three Vanderkists to spend the evening with Clement, Geraldine, and Lancelot, not to mention Adrian, who had been allowed to sit up to dinner to see his sisters, and was almost devoured by them. His growth, and the improved looks of both his uncle and aunt, so delighted Marilda, that Lancelot declared the Rockquay people would do well to have them photographed “Then” and “Now,” as an advertisement of the place! But he was not without dread of the effect of the disclosure that had yet to be made, though Gerald had apparently forgotten all about it as he sat chaffing Emilia Vanderkist about the hospital, whither she was really going for a year; Sophy about the engineer who had surveyed the Penbeacon intended works, and Francie about her Miranda-Mona in strange hands.
The Vanderkists all began life as very pretty little girls, but showed more or less of the Hollander ancestry as they grow up. Only Franceska, content with her Dutch name, had shot up into a beautiful figure, together with the fine features and complexion of the Underwood twins, and the profuse golden flax hair of her aunt Angela, so that she took them all by surprise in the pretty dress presented by Cousin Marilda, and chosen by Emilia. Sophy was round and short, as nearly plain as one with the family likeness could be, but bright and joyous, and very proud of her young sister. It was a merry evening.
In fact, Lance himself was so much carried away by the spirit of the thing, and so anxious about the performance, that he made all the rest, including Clement, join in singing Autolycus’s song, which was to precede the procession, to a new setting of his own, before they dispersed.
But Lance was beginning to dress in the morning when a knock came to his door.
“A note from Mr. Flight, please, sir.”
The note was—“Circus and Schnetterlings gone off in the night! Shop closed! Must performance be given up?”
The town was all over red and blue posters! But Lance felt a wild hope for the future, and a not ill-founded one for the present. He rushed into his clothes, first pencilling a note—
“Never say die. L. 0. U.”
Then he hurried off, and sent up a message to Miss Franceska Vanderkist, to come and speak to him, and he walked up and down the sitting-room where breakfast was being spread, like a panther, humming Prospero’s songs, or murmuring vituperations, till Franceska appeared, a perfect picture of loveliness in her morning youthful freshness.
“Francie, there’s no help for it. You must take Mona! She has absconded!”
“Uncle Lance!”
“Yes, gone off in the night; left us lamenting.”
“The horrible girl!”
“Probably not her fault, poor thing! But that’s neither here nor there. I wish it was!”
“But I thought—”
“It is past thinking now, my dear. Here we are, pledged. Can’t draw back, and you are the only being who can save us! You know the part.”
“Yes, in a way.”
“You did it with me at home.”
“Oh yes; but, Uncle Lance, it would be too dreadful before all these people.”
“Never mind the people. Be Mona, and only think of Alaster and Angus.”
“But what would mamma say, or Aunt Wilmet? And Uncle Clem?” each in a more awe-stricken voice.
“I’ll tackle them.”
“I know I shall be frightened and fail, and that will be worse.”
“No, it won’t, and you won’t. Look here, Francie, this is not a self-willed freak for our own amusement. The keeping up the Church schools here depends upon what we can raise. I hate bazaars. I hate to have to obtain help for the Church through these people’s idle amusement, but you and I have not two or three thousands to give away to a strange place in a lump; but we have our voices. ‘Such as I have give I thee,’ and this ridiculous entertainment may bring in fifty or maybe a hundred. I don’t feel it right to let it collapse for the sake of our own dislikes.”
“Very well, Uncle Lance, I’ll do as you tell me.”
“That’s the way to do it, my dear. At least, when you make ready, recollect, not that you are facing a multitude, but that you are saving a child’s Christian faith; when you prepare, that you have to do with nobody but Gerald and me; when it comes to ‘One, two, three, and away,’ mind nothing but your music and your cue.”
“But the dress, uncle?”
“The dress is all safe at the pavilion. You must come up and rehearse as soon as you have eaten your breakfast. Oh, you don’t know where. Well, one of us will come and fetch you. Good girl, Francie! Keep up your heart. By the bye, which is Fernan’s dressing-room? I must prepare him.”
That question was answered, for Sir Ferdinand’s door into the corridor was opened.
“Lance! I thought I heard your voice.”
“Yes, here’s a pretty kettle of fish! Our Miranda has absconded, poor child. Happy thing you brought down Francie; nobody else could take the part at such short notice. You must pacify Marilda, silence scruples, say it is her duty to Church, country, and family. Can’t stop!”
“Lance, explain—do! Music-mad as usual!” cried Sir Ferdinand, pursuing him down-stairs in despair.
“Imustbe music-mad; the only chance of keeping sane just now. There’s an awful predicament! Can’t go into it now, but you shall hear all when this is over.”
Wherewith Lance was lost to view, and presently burst into St. Kenelm’s Vicarage, to the relief of poor Mr. Flight, who had tried to solace himself with those three words as best he might.
“All right. My niece, Franceska Vanderkist, who took the part before, and who has a very good soprano, will do it better as to voice, if not so well as to acting, as the Little Butterfly.”
“Is she here?”
“Yes, by good luck. I shall have her up to the pavilion to rehearse her for the afternoon.”
“Mr. Underwood, no words can say what we owe you. You are the saving of our Church education.”
Lance laughed at the magniloquent thanks, and asked how the intimation had been received.
It appeared that on the previous evening O’Leary had come to him, and, in swaggering fashion, had demanded twenty pounds as payment for his step-daughter’s performance at the masque. Mr. Flight had replied that she had freely promised her services gratuitously for the benefit of the object in view. At this the man had scoffed, talked big about her value and the meanness of parsons, and threatened to withdraw her. Rather weakly the clergyman had said the question should be considered, but that he could do nothing without the committee, and O’Leary had departed, uttering abuse.
This morning “Sweetie Bob,” the errand-boy, had arrived crying, with tidings that the shop and house were shut up; nobody answered his knock; Mother Butterfly had “cut” in the night, gone off, he believed, with the circus, and Miss Lydia too; and there was two-and-ninepence owing to him, besides his—his—his character!
He knew that Mother Butterfly had gone to the magistrates’ meeting the day before, and paid her fine of twenty-five pounds, and he also believed that she had paid up her rent, and sold her shop to a neighbouring pastry-cook, but he had never expected her to depart in this sudden way, and then he began to shed fresh tears over his two-and-ninepence and his character.
Mr. Flight began to reassure him, with promises to speak for him as an honest lad, while Lance bethought himself of the old organist’s description of that wandering star, “Without home, without country, without morals, without religion, without anything,” and recollected with a shudder that turning-point in his life when Edgar had made him show off his musical talent, and when Felix had been sharp with him, and the office of the ‘Pursuivant’ looked shabby, dull, and dreary.
Nothing more could be done, except to make bold assurances to Mr. Flight that Mona’s place should be supplied, and then to hurry home, meeting on his way a policeman, who told him that the circus was certainly gone away, and promised to let him know whither.
He was glad to find that Gerald had not come down-stairs, having overslept himself in the morning after a wakeful night. He was dressing when his uncle knocked at his door.
“Here is a shock, Gerald! I hope it is chiefly to our masque. These people have absconded, and carried off our poor little Mona.”
“What? Absconded? My sister! I must be after them instantly,” cried Gerald, wildly snatching at his coat.
“What good would that do? you can’t carry her off vi et armis.”
“Send the police.”
“No possibility. The fine is paid, the rent and all. They have gone, it seems, with the circus.”
“Ah! Depend upon it that fellow has paid the fine, and bought the poor child into slavery with it. Carried her off in spite of our demurring, and the Vicar’s prosecution. I must save her. I’ll go after and outbid.”
“No hurry, Gerald. A circus is not such a microscopical object but that it can be easily traced. A policeman has promised to find out where, and meanwhile we must attend to our present undertaking.”
Gerald strode up and down the room in a fiery fit of impatience and indignation, muttering furious things, quite transformed from the listless, ironical youth hitherto known to his family.
“Come,” Lancelot said, “our first duty is to do justice to our part; Francie Vanderkist will take Mona.”
“Hang Mona! you care for nothing on earth but your fiddling and songs.”
“I do not see that being frantic will make any difference to the situation. All in our power is being done. Meanwhile, we must attend to what we have undertaken.”
Gerald rushed about a little more, but finally listened to his uncle’s representation that the engrossing employment was good to prevent the peril of disturbing the two whom they were so anxious to spare. Fely came running up with a message that Aunt Cherie and Anna had been sent for to see about the decorations of the art stall, and that they would have to eat their breakfast without them.
Appetite for breakfast was lacking, but Lance forced himself to swallow, as one aware of the consequences of fasting for agitation’s sake, and he nearly crammed Gerald; so that Adrian and Fely laughed, and he excused himself by declaring that he wanted his turkey-cock to gobble and not pipe. For which bit of pleasantry he encountered a glare from Gerald’s Hungarian eyes. He was afraid on one side to lose sight of his nephew, on the other he did not feel equal to encounter a scolding from Marilda, so he sent Adrian and Fely down to the Marine Hotel to fetch Franceska, while he stole a moment or two for greeting Clement, who was much better, and only wanted more conversation than he durst give him.
Your honour’s players, hearing your amendment,Are come to play a pleasant comedy.Taming of the Shrew.
Poor Franceska! First she encountered Cousin Marilda’s wonder and displeasure, and the declaration that Uncle Lance went absolutely crazy over his musical mania. She had seen it before in poor Edgar, and knew what it came to. She wanted to telegraph at once to Alda to ask her consent or refusal to Franceska’s appearance; but Sir Ferdinand stopped this on the ground that the circumstances could not be explained, and told her to content herself with Clement’s opinion.
This she sent Sophy and Emilia to ascertain, before she would let them and the boys escort Francie to her destination. Clement, not yet up, had to hold a lit de justice, and pronounce that Uncle Lance was to be fully trusted to ask nothing unbecoming or unnecessary, and that Francie would have nothing to do with any one except him and Gerald.
“Besides,” said Emilia, as they walked up, “nobody will find it out. The posters are all over the town, ‘Mona, Miss Ludmilla Schnetterling.’”
So the sisters were received with a murmur on their delay. The pretty dress prepared for Mona was found to be too small for the tall shapely Franceska, and Sophy undertook to alter it, while poor Francie’s troubles began.
Whether it was that Uncle Lance and Gerald were in a secret state of turmoil, or that their requirements were a good deal higher than for the Vale Leston audience, or perhaps that she had no inheritance of actress traditions, they certainly were a great deal sharper with her than they had been ever before or with Ludmilla.
Gerald derided her efforts sarcastically, and Uncle Lance found fault good-humouredly but seriously, and she was nearly in tears by eleven o’clock, when the procession was to take place. She was quite surprised when Lance turned to her and said—
“Thank you, my dear, you are doing capitally. I shall be proud of my daughter Mona.”
Quite in spirits again, she was sewn by Sophy into her still unfinished dress, her beautiful light golden flax tresses were snooded, her Highland scarf pinned on her shoulder, and she hurried to her uncle, now be-robed and be-wigged, with Gerald in full Highland garb, looking very much disgusted, especially when her uncle said—
“Well done, Francie. You’ll cut that poor little thing out in looks and voice, if not in acting.”
“Oh, uncle, I sang so horridly.”
“You can do better if you try; I wish there was time to train you. We’ll do the ‘logs duet’ once more after this tomfoolery. Ha! Captain Armytage. You are an awful pirate, and no mistake. Where did you get that splendid horse-pistol?”
“From my native home, as well as my sword; but I wrote to Willingham for the rest. This will be an uncommonly pretty march-past. The girls look so well, and all out of doors too.”
This was decidedly a great advantage, the trees, grass, and blue sky lending a great grace to the scene. The procession started from the garden entrance of the hotel, headed by the town band in uniform, and the fire brigade likewise, very proud of themselves, especially the little terrier whom nothing would detach from one of the firemen. Then came the four seasons belonging to the flower stall, appropriately decked with flowers, the Italian peasants with flat veils, bright aprons, and white sleeves, Maura White’s beauty conspicuous in the midst, but with unnecessary nods and becks. Then came the “mediaeval” damsels in ruffs and high hats, the Highland maidens, with Valetta and Primrose giggling unmanageably; and Aunt Jane’s troop of the various costumes of charity children, from the green frocks, long mittens, and tall white caps, and the Jemima Placid flat hats and long waists, down to the red cloaks, poke straw bonnets, and blue frocks of the Lady Bountiful age. These were followed by the merry fairies and elves; then by the buccaneers and the captive prisoners; and the rear was brought up by MacProspero, as Lord Rotherwood called him, with his niece on his arm and his nephew by his side.
When the central stall, or bothie, in the Carrara grounds was reached, after passing in full state and order over two of the bridges, the procession halted before a group of the Rotherwood family, Sir Jasper and Lady Merrifield, Lady Flight, and other local grandees, with the clergy, who had declined to walk in procession. There the performers spread themselves out, singing Autolycus’s song, led of course by MacProspero; Lady Rotherwood, with as much dignity as the occasion permitted, declared the bazaar open, and the Marquis hoped every one was going to ruin themselves in the cause of Christian education.
The first idea of “every one” was luncheon, except that Lance laid hands on his unfortunate Angus and Mona for their duet, in the midst of which Lord Rotherwood made a raid on them.
“There! I’m sure Prospero never was so cruel as to starve what’s-his-name! Come in and have some food—it is just by.”
They found themselves in a dining-room, in the presence of Lady Rotherwood, her son and daughter, and a sprinkling of Merrifields and actors, in full swing of joyous chatter; Mysie and Lady Phyllis telling all that was specially to be admired, and Lord Rotherwood teasing them about the prices, and their wicked extortions in the name of goodness, Gillian snubbing poor Captain Armytage in his splendid buccaneer dress, Ivinghoe making himself agreeable to Franceska, whose heightened carnation tints made her doubly lovely through her shyness. Gerald and Dolores in the less lively vicinity of the Marchioness carrying on a low-toned conversation, which, however, enabled Gerald to sustain nature with food better than he had done at breakfast.
It did not last long. The sellers had to rush off to relieve those who had begun the sale, and the performance was to commence at three o’clock, so that the final preparations had to be hurried through.
Geraldine had made the tour of the stalls on the arm of Anna, to admire them in their first freshness, and put finishing touches wherever solicited. The Rocca Marina conservatories were in rare glory, orchids in weird beauty, lovely lilies of all hues, fabulously exquisite ipomoeas, all that heart could wish. Before them a fountain played in the midst of blue, pink, and white lotus lilies, and in a flower-decked house the Seasons dispensed pot-flowers, bouquets, and button-holes; the Miss Simmondses and their friends with simpering graces, that made Geraldine glad to escape and leave them to the young men who were strolling up. At Carrara was the stall in which she was chiefly interested, and which had been arranged with a certain likeness to Italian gardens, the statues and other devices disposed among flowers; the Dirty Boy judiciously veiled by the Puzzle Monkey, and the front of the summer-house prolonged by pillars, sham but artistic. Jasper was zealously photographing group after group, handing his performances over to his assistant for printing off. Kalliope looked in her costume most beautiful and dignified. Her sister, grown to almost equal beauty, was hurrying off to see the masque, flushed and eager, while Gillian and one or two others were assisting in sales that would be rather slack till after the performance. Here Geraldine purchased only a couple of Mouse-traps, leaving further choice to be made after the stranger purchasers. Here Sir Jasper and General Mohun came up, and gave her a good deal of curious information about Bernard’s bevy of figures in Indian costumes; and having the offer of such a strong arm as the General’s, she dispensed with Anna, who was really wanted to help with the very popular photographs.
They passed the refreshments, at present chiefly haunted by Mrs. Edgar’s boys, ready to eat at any time of day; they looked civilly at the Varley Elizabethans, and found Lady Merrifield in the midst of her bothie, made charming with fresh green branches and purple heather, imported by the Vanderkists.
“That’s Penbeacon ling. I know that red tint in the mauve,” said Geraldine; “I’ll give you half-a-crown, if your decorations can spare that spiring spray!” And she put it in her bosom, after touching it with her lips. “You have a bower for the Lady of the Lake,” she added.
“I’m afraid I’m only Roderick Dhu’s mother,” laughed Lady Merrifield; “but I shall have more ladies when the masque is done. Now I have only Mysie.”
“And oh!” cried Mysie, “please set up the nurse in the nursery gardens right. Wilfred knocked her over, and she won’t stand right for me.”
“Perverse woman. There! No, I shall not buy anything now, I shall wait for Primrose and the refuse. How pretty it does all look! Ah, Mr. Brownlow,” as she shook hands with the curate.
“I left my brother John at your house,” he said; “I persuaded him to run down this morning with my mother and see our doings, and he was glad of the opportunity of looking in upon the Vicar.”
“How very kind of him. We were wishing to know what he thought!”
“No doubt he will be here presently. My mother is at the masque. There was not a seat for us, so I took him down to St. Andrew’s Rock.”
“Not a seat! The five-shilling seats?”
“Not the fraction of one. Numbers standing outside! Pity there can’t be a second performance.”
“Four hundred seats! That’s a hundred pounds! We shall beat the School-board yet!”
So, with the General politely expressing that there was no saying what Rockquay owed to the hearty co-operation of such birds of passage as herself and her brothers, she travelled on to the charity stall, which Miss Mohun had quaintly dressed in the likeness of an old-fashioned school, with big alphabet and samplers, flourished copies, and a stuffed figure of a ‘cont-rare-y’ naughty boy, with a magnificent fool’s cap. She herself sat behind it, the very image of the Shenstone school-mistress, with wide white cap, black poke-bonnet, crossed kerchief, red cloak, and formidable rod; and her myrmidons were in costume to match. It was very attractive, and took every one by surprise, but Geraldine had had enough by this time, and listened to Miss Mohun’s invitation and entreaty that she would preside over tea-cups for the weary, in the drawing-room. The privacy of the houses had been secured by ropes extending from the stalls to the rails of the garden, and Geraldine was conducted by her two generals to the verandah, where they installed her, and lingered, as was usual with her squires, always won by her spirited talk, till messages came to each of them from below that some grandee was come, who must be talked to and entertained.
Already, however, Armine Brownlow had brought up his brother, the doctor—John or Jock, an old friend—over, first Clement’s district and then his bed.
“Well, Mrs. Grinstead, I can compliment you much on your brother. He is very materially better, and his heart is recovering tone.”
“I am very glad and thankful! I only wish you had seen him last week. He was better then, but he had a worry about our little nephew, which threw him back.”
“So he told me. The more quiescent and amused you can keep him, the more chance of a fair recovery there will be. I am glad he thinks of dining with the party to-night.”
“I am glad he still thinks. I had to come away early, when he had still left it doubtful.”
“I encouraged the idea with all my might.”
“Do you think he will be able to go back to his parish?”
“Most assuredly not while every worry tells on him in this manner. You must, if possible, take him abroad for the winter, before he begins to think about it.”
“He has leave of absence for a year.”
“Dating from Easter, I think. Keep him in warm climates as long as you can. Find some country to interest him without over-fatigue, and you will, I hope, be able to bring him home fit to consider the matter.”
“That is all you promise?”
“All I dare—not even to promise—but to let you hope for.”
An interruption came; one of the young ladies had had her skirt trodden on, and wanted it to be stitched up. Then came Jane Mohun to deposit a handkerchief which some one had dropped. “I can stay a moment,” she said; “no one will come to buy till the masque is ended. Oh, this red cloak will be the death of me!”
“You look highly respectable without it.”
“I shall only put it on for the coup d’oeil at first. Oh, Geraldine, what is to be done with that horrid little Maura?”
“The pretty little Greek girl—Mrs. Henderson’s sister?”
“Oh! it is not Mrs. Henderson’s fault, nor my sister Ada’s either, except that the little wretch must have come round her. I know Ada meant to stay away on that very account.”
“What account?”
“Ivinghoe’s, to be sure! Oh! I forgot. You are so much one of us that I did not remember that you did not know how the foolish boy was attracted—no, that’s too strong a word—but she thought he was, when they were here to open Rotherwood Park. He did flirt, and Victoria—his mother, I mean—did not like it at all. She would never have come this time, but that I assured her that Maura was safe at Gastein!”
“Is it so very undesirable?”
“My dear! Their father was old White’s brother, a stone-mason. He was raised from the ranks, but his wife was a Greek peasant—and if you had seen her, when the Merrifield children called her the Queen of the White Ants! Ivinghoe is naturally as stiff and formal as his mother, I am not much afraid for him, except that no one knows what that fever will make of a young man, and I don’t want him to get his father into a scrape. There, I have exhaled it to you, and there is a crowd as if the masque was done with.”
It was, and the four hundred auditors were beginning to throng about the stalls, strays coming up from time to time, and reporting with absolute enthusiasm on the music and acting. Marilda was one of these.
“Well, Cherry, I saw no great harm in it after all, and Francie looked sweetly pretty, just as poor Alda did when she first came to us. Lance must make his own excuses to Alda. But Gerald looked horridly ill! He sang very well, but he had such red spots on his cheeks! I’d get Clement’s doctor to sound him. Lord Rotherwood was quite complimentary. Now I must go and buy something—I hear there is the Dirty Boy—I think I shall get it for Fernan’s new baths and wash-houses. Then isn’t there something of yours, Cherry?”
“Not to compete with the Dirty Boy.”
“Ah! now you are laughing at me, Cherry. Quite right, I am glad to hear you do it again.”
The next visitor was Lance.
“Oh, Cherry, how cool you look! Give me a cup of tea—not refreshment-stall tea. That’s right. Little Francie is a perfect gem—looks and voice—not acting—no time for that. Heigh-ho!”
“Where’s Gerald?”
“Somewhere about after that Merrifield niece with the doleful name, I fancy. He did very well when it came to the scratch.”
“Have you seen Dr. Brownlow? He has been to see Clement.”
“That’s first-rate! Where shall I find him?”
“Somewhere about, according to your lucid direction, I suppose.”
“What does he think of old Tina?”
Geraldine told him, and was rather surprised, when he whistled as though perplexed, and as Fergus rushed in, glorious with the news that Sir Ferdinand had bought his collection of specimens for the Bexley museum, he rose up, looking perturbed, to find Dr. Brownlow.
Next came Gillian with news that the Dirty Boy was sold to Lady Travis Underwood.
“And mayn’t I stay a moment or two?” said she. “Now the masque is over, that Captain Armytage is besetting me again.”
“Poor Captain Armytage.”
“Why do you pity him? He is going to join his ship, the Sparrow Hawk, next week, and that ought to content him.”
“Ships do not always fill a man’s heart.”
“Then they ought. I don’t like it,” she added, in a petulant tone. “I have so much to learn and to do, I don’t want to be tormented about a tiresome man.”
“Well, he will be out of your way to-morrow.”
“Geraldine, that is a horrid tone.”
“If you choose to put meaning in it, I cannot help it.”
“And that horrid little Maura! She is in the most awful flutter, standing on tiptoe, and craning out her foolish little neck. I know it is all after Ivinghoe, and he never has come to our counter! Kalliope has been trying to keep her in order, but I’m sure the Queen of the White Ants must have been just like that when she got poor Captain White to marry her. Kalliope is so much vexed, I can see. She never meant to have her here. And Aunt Ada stayed away on purpose.”
“Has she seen much of him?”
“Hardly anything; but he did admire her, and she never was like Kalliope. But what would Aunt Ada do? Oh dear! there’s that man! He has no business at Aunt Jane’s charity stall. I shall go and tell him so.”
Geraldine had her little private laugh before Adrian came up to her with a great ship in his arms—
“Take care of this, Aunt Cherry. She is going to sail on the Ewe. I bought her with the sovereign Uncle Fernan gave me.”
Geraldine gave the ship her due admiration, and asked after the masque.
“Oh, that went off pretty well. I wouldn’t have been Fely! All the ladies went and said ‘Pretty dear!’ when he sang his song about the bat’s back. Disgusting! But then he has not been a fellow at school, so he made his bow and looked as if he didn’t mind it.”
“And Francie?”
“Francie looked perfectly stunning. Everybody said so, and she sang—well, she sang better than she did at home; but she was in an awful funk, though I kept on looking at her, and shouting bravo to encourage her; and she must have heard my voice, for I was just in front.”
“I hope she was encouraged.”
“But she is very stupid. I wanted to take her round to all the stalls, and show her what to buy with the five Jubilee sovereigns Uncle Fernan gave her, for you know she has never been anywhere, or seen anything. I thought she would like it, and besides, all our fellows say they never saw such an awfully pretty girl, and they can’t believe all that hair is her own—she had it all down her back, you know—so I told them I would let them have a pull to try.”
“Poor Francie! She declined, I suppose?”
“Well, there was that ridiculous swell, Fergus’s cousin, Ivinghoe, and he has taken her off to see the stupid flowers in the conservatory. I told Sophy I wondered she permitted such flirting, but of course Francie knew no better.”
“Oh! and you couldn’t stop it?”
“Not I, though I called her over and over again to look at things, but Lord Ivinghoe always hung about and gave one no peace. So I just told Sophy to look after her, and came off to tell you. Oh my! here is old Miss Mohun coming up. I shall be off. I want some chocolate creams. Mrs. Simmonds has got some splendid ones.”
Miss Mohun was coming, in fact.
“Well, Geraldine, the masque was a great success. People beg to have it repeated, so many could not get in. And it is worth at least a hundred pounds to us. People whose opinion is worth having were quite struck. They say your brother really ought to have been a great composer and singer.”
“I think he might have been if he had not given up his real passion to come to the help of my dear eldest brother. And he is really happier as he is.”
“I knew there was conquest in his face. And that dear little elf of a boy—what a voice! So bright and so arch too. Then the Miranda—she took all by surprise. I believe half the spectators took her for the Little Butterfly.”
“Ah, the poor Little Butterfly is flown. There was nothing for it but to make Francie act, as she had taken the part once before.”
“Her acting was no great things, they say—ladylike, but frightened. Her voice is lovely, and as to her looks—people rave about them. Tell me, she is not Lady Travis Underwood’s daughter?”
“Oh no; she is Anna’s sister, Adrian’s sister.”
“So I told Lady Rotherwood, I was sure it was so.”
“The Travis Underwoods have no children, but they adopted Emilia when I took Anna, and they have brought three Vanderkists to this affair. Francie has never been from home before, it is all quite new to her.” Then recollecting what Adrian had repeated, she thought it fair to add, “My sister was left very badly off, and all these eight girls will have nothing of their own.”
“Well, I don’t suppose anything will come of it. I hope it will put no folly into her head; but at any rate it effaces that poor silly little Maura. I hope too, as you say your niece is so innocent, it will do her no harm.”
“I don’t suppose any possibilities have occurred to the child.”
Lord Rotherwood here came on the scene.
“Jenny, there’s an offer for your boy in the fool’s cap, and Mysie doubts if she ought to let him go. Well, Mrs. Grinstead, I think you have the best of it. Lookers on, etc.”
“Looking on has always been my trade.”
“You heard the rehearsal of the masque, I believe, but you did not hear that charming Mona?”
“No; she had to take the part suddenly. Her uncle had to tyrannize over her, to save the whole thing.”
“We are much indebted to him, and to her,” said Lord Rotherwood courteously. “She looked as if she hated it all in the first scene, though she warmed up afterwards. I must say I liked her the better for her shyness.”
“Her little brother thinks she recovered in consequence of his applause,” said Geraldine, smiling.
“Ah! I saw him. And heard. A little square fellow—very sturdy.”
“Yes, the Dutchman comes out in him, and he has droll similitudes, very curious in one who never saw his father, nor any but his Underwood relations.”
“So much the better for him perhaps; I have, and ought to have, great faith in uncles’ breeding. I am glad to meet Sir Ferdinand Travis Underwood. I have often come across him about London good works.”
“Yes, he is an excellent man.”
“Not wholly English is he, judging by the depth of colour in those eyes?”
“No; his mother was a Mexican, partly Indian. We used to call him the Cacique;” and Geraldine had the pleasure of telling his story to an earnest listener, but interruption came in the shape of Sir Ferdinand himself who announced that he had hired a steam-yacht wherein to view the regatta, and begged Lord Rotherwood to join the party.
This was impossible, as the Marquis was due at an agricultural dinner at Clarebridge, but in return, in the openness of his heart, he invited the Travis Underwoods to their dinner that evening at the hotel, where the Merrifields and the Underwoods were already engaged, little boys and all.
“Thank you, my lord, but we are too large a party. We have three Vanderkist girls with us, and Anna and her brother are to join them to be with their sister.”
“Never mind, never mind. The great hall will have room for all.”
Still Fernan demurred, knowing that Marilda had ordered dinner at the Quay Hotel, and that even liberal payment would not atone for missing the feasting of the millionaires; so the matter was compounded by his promise to bring all his party, who were not ready for bed, up to spend the evening.
And Geraldine perceived from Lady Rotherwood’s ceremonious politeness that she did not like it at all, though she never said so even to Lady Merrifield.
However, it was a very bright evening. Gerald had sung himself into spirits, and then found Dolores, and retreated into the depths of the garden with her, explaining to her all about his sister, and declaring that his first object must be to rescue her; and then, unless his name was cleared, and he had to resume all his obligations, the new life would be open to him, and he had no fear of not succeeding as a journalist, or if not, a musical career was possible to him, as Dolores had now the opportunity of fully perceiving. His sweet voice had indeed filled her with double enthusiasm. She had her plan for lecturing, and that very morning she had received from her father permission to enter a ladies’ college, and the wherewithal. She would qualify herself for lecturing by the time he had fixed his career; and they built their airy castles, not on earth, but on railroads and cycles, and revelled on them as happily as is common to lovers, whether in castle or in cottage. Certainly if the prospect held out to her had been Vale Leston Priory, it would not have had the same zest; and when in the evening they joined the dinner-party, there was a wonderful look of purpose and of brightness on both their faces. And Emilia, who had been looking for him all the afternoon to tell him, “Gerald, I am really going to be a nurse,” only got for answer an absent “Indeed!”
“Yes, at St. Roque’s.”
“I hope I shall never be a patient there,” he said, in his half-mocking tone. “You’ll look jolly in the cap and apron.”
“I’m to be there all the time they are in America, and—”
“Well, I wonder you don’t go and study the institutions.”
“But, Gerald—”
His eye was wandering, and he sprang forward to give Dolores a flower that she had dropped.
Lancelot, knowing what was before Gerald, and having always regarded Vale Leston with something of the honours of Paradise, could not understand that joyous look of life, so unlike Gerald’s usual weary, passive expression. He himself felt something of the depression that was apt to follow on musical enjoyment; he saw all the failures decidedly enough not to be gratified with the compliments he met on all sides, and “he bitterly thought on the morrow,” when he saw how Clement was getting animated over a discussion on Church matters, and how Geraldine was enjoying herself. And as to that pretty Franceska, who had blossomed into the flower of the flock, he foresaw heart-break for her when he watched the Marchioness’s countenance on hearing that her son had accepted Sir Ferdinand’s invitation to cruise to-morrow in the yacht.
Vainly was Ivinghoe reminded of the agricultural dinner. He was only too glad to escape it, and besides, he thought he could be there in time.
Nevertheless, the present was delightful, and after dinner the young people all went off to the great assembly-room, whence Anna came back to coax Uncle Lance to play for them. All the elders jumped up from their several discussions. Even Lady Rotherwood moved on, looking as benign as her feelings would permit. Jane squeezed Geraldine’s arm, exceedingly amused. Lance struck up, by request, an old-fashioned country dance; Lord Rotherwood insisted that “Lily” should dance with him, as the remnant of forty good years ago or more, and with Sir Roger de Coverley the day ended.
Poor little Maura, making an excuse to wander about the gardens in the moonlight, saw the golden locks shining through the open windows, and Lord Ivinghoe standing over them, went home, and cried herself to sleep over the fickleness of the nobility, when she had better have cried over her own unjustified romance, excited by a few kindly speeches and a cup of tea.
And Emilia! What was Gerald’s one laughing turn with her, compared with his long talk with Dolores in the moonlight?