She saw a forget-me-not in the grass,Gilly-flower, gentle rosemary,Ah! why did the lady that little flower pass,While the dews fell over the mulberry-tree?KENEALY.
Such of the party as were not wanted for the second day of the bazaar, and were not afraid of mal de mer, had accepted the yachting invitation, except the three elders at St. Andrew’s Rock. Even Adrian and Felix were suffered to go, under Sophy’s charge, on the promise to go nowhere without express permission, and not to be troublesome to any one.
“Sophy can say, ‘Now, boys,’ as effectively as Wilmet,” said Geraldine, when she met Lance, who had been to the quay to see them off.
“She did not say so to much advantage with her own boys,” said Clement.
“We weren’t Harewoods,” returned Lance, “and John never could bear to see a tight hand over them; but there’s good in them that will come out some day.”
Clement gave an emphatic “Humph!” as he sat down to the second breakfast after Anna had gone to the cliff to resume her toils.
“Who are gone?” asked Geraldine.
“Poor Marilda, smilingly declaring she shall be in misery in the cabin all the time, Fernan, and four Vanderkists, General Mohun, Sir Jasper, and some of his progeny; but others stay to help Miss Mohun finish up the sales.”
“Does Lord Ivinghoe go?”
“Oh yes, he came rushing down just in time. Francie was looking like a morning rose off the cloister at Vale Leston.”
“I am sorry they have another day of it. I don’t see how it can come to good,” said Geraldine.
“Perhaps her roses may fade at sea,” said Clement, “and disenchantment may ensue.”
“At least I hope Alda may not hear of it, or she will be in an agony of expectation as long as hope lasts. Gerald is gone, of course?”
“Oh yes!” said Lance, who had had a farewell from him with the words, “Get it over while I am out of the way, and tell them I don’t mind.”
Cursory and incomprehensible, but conclusive; and Lance, who minded enough to have lost sleep and gained a headache, marvelled over young men’s lightness and buoyancy. He had seen Dr. Brownlow, and arranged that there should be a call, as a friend, in due time after the communication, in case it should hurt Clement, and when Geraldine observed merrily that now they were quit of all the young ones they could feel like old times, he was quite grieved to disturb her pleasure.
Clement, however, began by taking out a letter and saying—
“Here is a remarkable missive left for me yesterday—‘If the Rev. Underwood wishes to hear of something to his advantage, he should communicate with Mr. O’L., care of Mr. John Bast, van proprietor, Whitechapel.’ An impostor?” said he.
“I am afraid not,” said Lance. “Clement, I fear there is no doubt that she is that singing Hungarian woman who was the ruin of Edgar’s life.”
“Gerald’s mother!” exclaimed Geraldine.
“Even so.”
“But she is gone! She gave up all rights. She can’t claim anything. Has she worried him?”
“Yes, poor boy! She has declared that she had actually a living husband at the time she married our poor Edgar.”
Of course both broke out into exclamations that it was impossible, and Lance had to tell them of his interview with the woman at Gerald’s entreaty. They were neither of them so overcome by the disclosure as he had feared during his long delay.
“I believe it is only an attempt at extortion,” said Clement.
“Very cruel,” said Geraldine. “How—how did my poor boy bear it all this time?”
“He was very much knocked down at first, quite overwhelmed, but less by the loss than by the shame, and the imputation on his father.”
“It was no fault of dear Edgar’s.”
“No, indeed. I am glad Fernan is here to go over again what Edgar told him. We may be quite satisfied so far.”
“And is it needful to take it up?” asked Geraldine wistfully. “If we don’t believe it, the horrid story would get quashed.”
“No, Cherry,” said Clement. “If you think it over you will see that we must investigate. I should be relieved indeed to let it alone, but it would not be fair towards Lance there and his boys.”
Lance made a strange noise of horror and deprecation, then added—
“I don’t believe Gerald would consent to let it alone.”
“No, now he knows, of course. He is a right-minded, generous boy,” said Geraldine. “I was wrong. Did you say he was very much upset?”
“Just at first, when he came to me at night. I was obliged to dragoon him, and myself too, to throw it off enough to be able to get through our performance yesterday. How thankful I am to the regatta that it is not our duty to the country to go through it again to-day! However, he seems to have rebounded a good deal. He was about all the latter part of the day with Miss Mohun.”
“I saw him dancing and laughing with some of them.”
“And he parted from me very cheerfully, telling me to assure you ‘he did not mind,’ whatever that may mean.”
“He knows that nothing can disturb our love for him, Edgar’s little comfort, passed on to bear us up,” said Cherry tearfully. “Oh yes, I know what he meant—Felix’s delight, my darling always.”
“It strikes me,” said Lance, “that if he can save his sister—”
Geraldine started.
“Oh, the cigar-girl! Only by that mother’s side.”
“That is true, but she is his half-sister, and he is evidently much drawn towards her. She is a nice little thing, and I believe he made much of her on the rehearsal day. I saw they got on much better together, and I think she was aware of the relationship.”
“Yes, it is quite right of him,” said Geraldine, “but she will be a drag on him all his life. Now what ought we to do? Shall you answer this letter to the care of the van-man, Clem?”
“I shall think, and wait till I have seen Gerald and Travis. This letter is evidently written simply in the hope of raising money from me, not in any friendly spirit.”
“Certainly not,” said Lance. “Having failed to black-mail Gerald, and discovered that you are the heir, they begin on you, but not from any gratitude to you. Sweetie Bob, as they call the ex-errand-boy, gives a fine account of their denunciations of the tall parson who brought the bobbies down on them.”
Lance felt much reassured by Clement’s tone, and all the more when he had seen Dr. Brownlow, who made a thorough examination, and came to the conclusion that Clement had recovered tone, so that the shock, whatever it was, that his brother dreaded had done no present damage, but that he was by no means fit for any strain of work or exertion, should be kept from anxiety as much as possible, and had better spend the winter in a warm climate. It was not likely—Jock Brownlow said it with grief and pain—that he would ever be able to return to the charge of St. Matthew’s, but as he had a year’s holiday, there was no need to enter on that subject yet, and in a quiet country place, with a curate, he might live to the age of man in tolerable health if he took care of himself, or his sister took care of him for some time to come.
So much relieved was Lance that he recollected that he had laid in no stock of presents for those at home, and went up to profit by the second day’s reductions, when he secured Geraldine’s portrait of Davy Blake for his wife, and a statuette of St. Cecilia for Dr. May, some charming water-colours for Robina and Ethel, besides various lesser delights for the small fry, his own and the flock at Vale Leston, besides a cushion for Alda’s sofa. John Inglesant had been bought by a connoisseur by special commission. He heard at every stall triumphant accounts of the grand outlay of the Travis Underwoods and Rotherwoods, and just the contrary of Mrs. Pettifer, whom he encountered going about in search of bargains, and heard haggling for a handsome table-cover, because it was quite aesthetic, and would not do except in a large house, so of course it had not sold.
The Mouse-traps had been a great success, and there were very few left of them. They really owed as much to Lance as did the play, for he had not only printed them at as small a cost as possible, but had edited, pruned, and got them into shape more than any of the young lady authors suspected. The interpretation of handwriting had likewise succeeded in obtaining many clients, and a large pile of silver coins. Anna, who was hovering near, was delighted to show him that her sister Sophy’s writing had been declared to indicate homely tastes, an affectionate disposition, great perspicuity of perception, much force of character; and Franceska’s, scarcely yet formed, showed that she was affectionate, romantic, and, of all things in the world, fond of horses and of boating. Emilia’s was held as a great blunder, for she was said to have an eye devoted to temporal advantages, also volatile, yet of great determination, triumphing over every obstacle, and in much danger of self-deception.
“The triumph at least is true,” said Anna, “now she has her way about the nursing.”
“Has she? I did not know it.”
“Yes, she is to try it for a year, while Cousins Fernan and Marilda go out to their farm in the Rocky Mountains.”
Just then there was a little commotion, and a report came up that a boat had been run down and some one drowned. Somebody said, “One of those acting last night—a buccaneer.” Somebody else, “A naval man.” Then it was “The Buccaneer Captain,” and Mrs. Pettifer was exclaiming, “Poor Captain Armytage! He was in our theatricals, I remember, but they thought him rather high. But he was a fine young man! Poor Captain Armytage!”
Lance had sufficient interests in those at sea to be anxious, and turned his steps to the gates to ascertain the facts, when he was overtaken by Gillian, with a hat hastily thrown over her snooded hair and Highland garb, hurrying along, and looking very white.
“Mr. Underwood! Oh! did you hear who it was?”
“No certainty. I was going down to find out. You,” as he saw her purpose, “had better not come. There will be a great crowd. I will come back and tell you.”
“Oh no, I must. This is the short way.”
Her hands trembled so that she could hardly undo the private fastening of Miss Mohun’s garden, and she began to dash down the cliff steps. Just at the turn, where the stair-way was narrowest, Lance heard her exclaim, and saw that she had met face to face no other than Captain Armytage himself.
“Oh! is it?” and she so tottered on the rocky step that the hand he had put out in greeting became a support, and a tender one, as Lance said (perhaps with a littlemalice)—
“We heard that the Buccaneer Captain had come to grief.”
“I?” he laughed; and Gillian shook herself up, asking—
“Weren’t you run down?” seeing even as she spoke that not a drop of wet was traceable.
“Me! What! did you think I was going to peril my life in a ‘longshore concern like this?” said he, with a merry laugh, betraying infinite pleasure.
“But did nothing happen? Nobody drowned?” she asked, half disappointed.
“Not a mouse! A little chap, one of the fairies yesterday, tumbled off the sea-wall where he had no business to be, but he swam like a cork. We threw him a rope and hauled him up.”
Wherewith he gave his arm to Gillian, who was still trembling, and clasped it so warmly that Lance thought it expedient to pass them as soon as possible and continue his journey on the staircase, giving a low whistle of amusement, and pausing to look out on the beautiful blue bay, crowded with the white sails of yachts and pleasure-boats, with brilliant festoons of little flags, and here and there the feather of steam from a launch. He could look, for he was feeling lighter of heart now that the communication was over.
Perhaps Lance would have been edified could he have heard the colloquy—
“Gillian! you do care for me after all?”
Gillian tried to take her arm away and to say, “Common humanity,” but she did not get the words out.
“No, no!” he said. “Confess that if it had been that fisher-boy, you would not be here now!” and he kept tight the arm that she was going to take away. Her face was in a flame.
“Well, well; and if—if it wasn’t, you need not make such a fuss about it.”
“Not when it is the first ray of hope you have afforded me, for the only joy of my life?”
“I never meant to afford—”
“But you could not help.”
“Oh, don’t! I never meant it. Oh dear! I never meant to be worried about troublesome things like this till I had got older, and learnt a great deal more; and now you want to upset it all. It is very—very disagreeable.”
“But you need not be upset!” poor Ernley Armytage pleaded. “Remember, I am going away for three years. May I not take hope with me?”
Gillian paused.
“Well,” again she said, “I do like you—I mean, I don’t mind you as much as most people; you have done something, and you have some sense.”
His look of rapture at these very moderate words quite overpowered her, and the tears welled up into her eyes, while she made a sudden change of tone.
“There, there—of course it is all right. I’m a nasty creature, and if you like me, it is more than I deserve, only, whatever you do, don’t make me cry. I’ve got all the horrid dolls and pen-wipers, and bags and rags to get rid of.”
“May I talk to your mother?”
“Oh yes, if you can catch her. She will be ever so much more good to you than I; and I only hope she will warn you what a Tartar I am.”
Wherewith Gillian threw off her hat, swung open the gate, and dashed like a hunted hare up to her mother’s stall, where in truth she had been wanted, since only two helpers had remained to assist in the cheapening and final disposal of the remnants. Lady Merrifield read something in those wild eyes and cheeks burning, but the exigencies of the moment obliged her to hold her peace, and apply herself to estimating the half-price of the cushions and table-cloths she rejoiced to see departing, as well as to preserve wits enough not to let Gillian sell the Indian screen for two shillings and sixpence, under the impression that this was the half of five pounds. Mysie was the only one who kept her senses fairly undisturbed, and could balance between her duty to the schools and her desire to gratify a child, happy in that she never saw more than one thing at a time. Valetta and Primrose were yachting, so that the distraction was less, and Captain Armytage lingered round, taking messages, and looking in wistful earnestness for some one to be disengaged. Yet there was something in his eyes that spoke of the calmness of an attained object, and Miss Mohun, who had sold off all her remaining frocks and pinafores at a valuation to Marilda for some institution, and was free to help her sister, saw in a moment that his mind was settled.
Yet speech was scarcely possible till the clearance was finally effected by a Dutch auction, when Captain Armytage distinguished himself unexpectedly as auctioneer, and made an end even of the last sachet, though it smelt so strongly of lip-salve that he declared that a bearer must be paid to take it away. But the purchaser was a big sailor, who evidently thought it an elegant gift for his sweetheart.
By the time it was gone the yachters had come home. Captain Armytage seized on Sir Jasper, who already know his purpose, and wished him success, though withheld from saying a word to urge the suit by Lady Merrifield’s assurances, that to hurry Gillian’s decision would be fatal to success, and that a reproof for petulance would be worse. She did not know whether to wish for the engagement or not; Gillian was her very dear and sufficient companion, more completely so than Mysie, who was far less clever; and she had sometimes doubted whether common domestic life beginning early was for the girl’s happiness and full development; but she knew that her husband would scout these doubts as nonsense, and both really liked Ernley Armytage, and had heard nothing but what was to his advantage in every way, when they had been in his own county, and had seen his neighbours and his family. However, she could only keep quiet, and let her heart rise in a continual aspiration at every silent moment for her child’s guidance.
Before she had had her moment of speech with either, she heard her husband calling Gillian, and she knew that he was the one person with whom his daughter never hid her true self in petulance or sarcasm. So Gillian met him in the General’s sitting-room, gasping as she turned the handle of the door. He set a chair for her, and spoke gravely.
“My dear,” he said, “I find you have gained the heart of a good man.”
“I am sure I never meant it,” half whispered Gillian.
“What is that—you never meant it? I never supposed you capable of such an unladylike design. You mean that you were taken by surprise?”
“No; I did see what he was at,” and she hung her head.
“You guessed his intentions?”
“Yes, papa; but I didn’t want—”
“Try to explain yourself,” said Sir Jasper as she broke off.
“I—I did wish to go on improving myself and being useful. Surely it was not wrong, papa. Don’t you see, I did not want to let myself be worried into letting myself go out, and spoiling all my happiness and improvement and work, and getting to care for somebody else?”
“But you have consented.”
“Well, when I was frightened for him I found I did care, and he got hold of me, and made me allow that I did; and now I suppose nobody will give me any peace.”
“Stay, Gillian—keep yourself from this impatient mood. I think I understand your unwillingness to overthrow old associations and admit a new overmastering feeling.”
“That’s just it, papa,” said Gillian, looking up. “I can’t bear that overmastering feeling, nor the being told every one must come to it. It seems such folly.”
“Folly that Eve was given to be a helpmeet, and as the bride, the Church to her Bridegroom? Look high enough, Gillian, and the popular chatter will not confuse your mind. You own that you really love him.”
“Oh, papa, not half so much as mamma, or Mysie, or Jasper, but—but I think I might.”
“Is that all, Gillian? No one would coerce you. Shall I send him away, and tell him not to think of it? Remember, it is a serious thing—nay, an unworthy thing to trifle with a right-minded man.”
Gillian sat clasping the elbow of her chair, her dark eyes fixed. At last she said—
“Papa, I do feel a sort of trust in him, a sort of feeling as if my life and all goodness and all that would be safe with him; and I couldn’t bear him to go quite away and hear no more of him, only I do wish it wouldn’t happen now; and if there is a fuss about it, I shall get cross and savage, and be as nasty as possible, I know I shall.”
“You can’t exercise enough self-command to remember what is due—I would say kind and considerate—to a man who has loved you through all your petulance and discouragement, and now is going to a life not without peril for three years? Suppose a mishap, Gillian—how would you feel as to your treatment of him on this last evening?”
“Oh, papa! if you talk in that way I must, I must,” and she burst into tears.
Sir Jasper bent over her and gave her a kiss—a kiss that from him was something to remember. It was late, and summonses to a hurried meal were ringing through Beechcroft Cottage, where the Clipstone party waited to see the illuminations.
Talk was eager between the sellers and the sailors as Valetta described the two parties, the fate of the Indian screen, and the misconduct of Cockneys in their launches were discussed by many a voice, but Gillian was unwontedly silent. Her mother had no time for more than a kiss before the shouts of Wilfred, Fergus, and Primrose warned them that the illuminations were beginning. She could only catch Mysie, and beg her to keep the younger ones away from Gillian and the Captain. Mysie opened her brown eyes wide and said—
“Oh!” Then, “Is it really?”
“Really, my dear, and remember that it is his last evening!”
“Oh!” said Mysie again. “I never thought it of Gill! May I tell Valetta?”
“Better not, my dear, if it can be helped.”
A screaming for Gill was heard, and Mysie hastened to answer it. Lady Merrifield was too much tired to do anything but sit in the garden with Miss Mohun and look out at the ships, glittering with festoons of coloured lamps, reflected in the sea, but the young people went further afield, out on the cliff path to Rotherwood Park. The populace were mainly collected on the quay, and this formed a more select promenade, though by no means absolute solitude. Sir Jasper really did keep guard over the path along which Gillian allowed her Captain to conduct her, not exactly knowing which way they were going, and quite away from the bay and all its attractions.
She heard him out without any of the sharp, impatient answers in which her maiden coyness was wont to disguise itself, as he told her of his hopes and plans for the time when his three years of the Mediterranean should be over.
“And you see you can go on studying all the time, if you must be so clever.”
“I think one ought to make the most of oneself, just as you want to rise in your profession! No, indeed, I could not bear you if you wanted me to sit down and idle, or to dawdle yourself.”
“Don’t grow too clever for me.”
“Mother always says that a real man has stuff in him that is quite different from cleverness, and yet I could not bear to give that up. I am so glad you don’t mind.”
“Mind! I mind nothing but to know you are caring for me. And you will write to me?”
“I shan’t know what to say. You will tell of volcanoes, and Athens, and Constantinople, and Egypt, and the Holy Land, and I shall have nothing to say but who lectures in college.”
“Little you know what that will be to me.”
It was a curious sensation all the time to Gillian, with a dawning sense that was hardly yet love—she was afraid of that—but of something good and brave and worthy that had become hers. She had felt something analogous when the big deer-hound at Stokesley came and put his head upon her lap. But the hound showed himself grateful for caresses, and so did her present giant when the road grew rough, and she let him draw her arm into his and talk to her.
It was the parting, for he had to go to London and to his own family the next day early. Gillian spoke not a word all through the dark drive to Clipstone, but when the party emerged into the light her eyes were full of tears. Lady Merrifield followed her to her room, and her words half choked were—
“Mamma, I never knew what a great, solemn, holy thingitis. Will you look me out a prayer to help me to get worthy?”
‘Twas in the summer-time so sweet,When hearts and flowers are both in season,That who, of all the world should meet,In “twilight eve,” but Love and Reason.T. MOORE.
That moon and sparkling lights did not shine alone for Gerald and Dolores. There were multitudes on the cliffs and the beach, and Sir Ferdinand and Lady Travis Underwood with their party had come to an irregular sort of dinner-supper at St. Andrew’s Rock. With them, or rather before them, came Mr. Bramshaw, the engineer, who sent in his card to Mr. Clement Underwood, and entered with a leathern bag, betraying the designs on Penbeacon.
Not that these were more than an introduction. Indeed, under the present circumstances, a definite answer was impossible; but there was another question, namely, that which regarded Sophia Vanderkist. She had indeed long been of age, but of course her suitor could not but look to her former guardian for consent and influence. He was a very bearded man, pleasant-spoken and gentlemanlike, and Lancelot had prepared his brother by saying that he knew all about the family, and they were highly respectable solicitors at Minsterham, one son a master in the school at Stoneborough. So Clement listened favourably, liked the young man, and though his fortunes at present depended on his work, and Lady Vanderkist was no friend to his suit, gave him fair encouragement, and invited him to join the meal, though the party was already likely to be too numerous for the dining-room.
That mattered the less when all the young and noisy ones could be placed, to their great delight, under the verandah outside, where they could talk and laugh to their utmost content, without incommoding Uncle Clement, or being awed by Cousin Fernan’s black beard and Cacique-like gravity. How they discussed and made fun over the humours of the bazaar; nor was Gerald’s wit the slackest, nor his mirth the most lagging. He was very far from depressed now that the first shock was over. He knew himself to be as much loved or better than ever by those whose affection he valued, and he was sure of Dolores’ heart as he had never yet been. The latent Bohemianism in his nature woke with the prospect of having his own way to make, and being free from the responsibilities of an estate, and his chivalry was excited by the pleasure of protecting his little half-sister, in pursuit of whom he intended to go.
So, light-hearted enough to amaze the elders who knew the secret, he jumped up to go with the rest of the party to the cliff walk, where the brilliant ships could best be seen. Lance, though his headache was, as Geraldine said, visible on his brow, declared that night air and sea-breeze were the best remedy, and went in charge of the two boys, lest his dainty Ariel should make an excursion over the rocks; and the four young ladies were escorted by Gerald and the engineer.
The elders were much too tired for further adventures, and Geraldine and Marilda were too intimate to feel bound to talk. Only a few words dropped now and then about Emilia and her hospital, where she was to be left for a year, while Fernan with Marilda visited his American establishments, and on their return would decide whether she would return, or whether they would take Franceska, or a younger one, in her stead. The desertion put Marilda out of heart, and she sighed what a pity it was that the girl would not listen to young Brown.
Meanwhile, Clement was making Ferdinand go over with him Edgar’s words about his marriage. They had all been written down immediately after his death, and had been given to Felix with the certificates of the marriage and birth and of the divorce, and they were now no doubt with other documents and deeds in the strong-box at Vale Leston Priory. Fernan could only repeat the words which had been burnt in on his memory, and promise to hunt up the evidence of the form and manner of the dissolution of the marriage at Chicago. Like Clement himself, he very much doubted whether the allegation would not break down in some important point, but he wished Gerald to be assured that if the worst came to the worst, he would never be left destitute, since that first meeting—the baptism, and the receiving him from the dying father—amounted to an adoption sacred in his eyes.
Then, seeing how worn-out Clement looked, he abetted Sibby and Geraldine, in shutting their patient safe up in his bedroom, not to be “mislested” any more that night, said Sibby. So he missed the rush of the return. First came the two sober sisters, Anna and Emilia, only sorry that Aunt Cherry had not seen the lovely sea, the exquisite twinkle of silvered waves as the moon rose, and then the outburst of coloured lights, taking many forms, and the brilliant fireworks darting to and fro, describing curves, bursting and scattering their sparks. Emilia had, however, begun by the anxious question—
“Nan, what is it with Gerald?”
“I don’t quite know. I suspect Dolores has somehow teased him, though it is not like her.”
“Then there is something in it?”
“I can’t help believing so, but I don’t believe it has come to anything.”
“And is she not a most disagreeable girl! Those black eyebrows do look so sullen and thunderous.”
“Oh no, Emmie, I thought so at first, but she can’t help her eyebrows; and when you come to know her there is a vast deal in her—thought, and originality, and purpose. I am sure it has been good for Gerald. He has seemed more definite and in earnest lately, less as if he were playing with everything, with all views all round.”
“But his spirits are so odd!—so merry and then so grave.”
“That is only during these last few days, and I fancy there must be some hitch—perhaps about Dolores’ father, and we are all in such haste.”
Emilia did not pursue the subject. She had never indulged in the folly of expecting any signs of actual love from her cousin. She had always known that the family regarded any closer bond as impossible; but she had been always used to be his chief confidante, and she missed his attention, but she would not own this even to herself, go she talked of her hospital schemes with much zest, and how she should spend her outings at a favourite sisterhood.
“For,” said she, “I am tired of luxury.”
It had been a delightful walk to Anna, with her companion sister, discussing Adrian, or Emily’s plans, or Sophy’s prospects. They had come home the sooner, for Emily had to pack, as she was to spend a little while with her mother at Vale Leston. Where was Franceska? They were somewhat dismayed not to find her, but it was one of the nights when everybody loses everybody, and no doubt she was with Uncle Lance, or with Sophy, or Gerald.
No such thing. Here was Uncle Lance with his two boys in varying kinds of delight, Adrian pronouncing that “it was very jolly, the most ripping sight he ever saw,” then eating voraciously, with his eyes half shut, and tumbling off to bed “like a veritable Dutchman,” said Lance, who had his own son in a very different mood, with glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes, appetite gone for very excitement, as he sprang about and waved his hands to describe the beautiful course of the rockets, and the fall of the stars from the Roman candles.
“Oh, such as I never—never saw! How shall I get Pearl and Audrey to get even a notion of it? Grandpapa will guess in a moment! Oh, and the sea, all shine with a path of—of glory! Oh, daddy, there are things more beautiful than anybody could ever dream of!”
“Go and dream then, my sprite. Try to be as still as you can, even if you do go on feeling the yacht, and seeing the sparks when you shut your eyes. For you see my head is bad, and I do want a chance of sleep.”
“Poor daddy! I’ll try, even if the music goes on in my head. Good-night.”
“That will keep him quieter than anything,” said Lance; “but I would not give much for the chance of his not seeing the dawn.”
“Or you either, I fear,” said Geraldine. “Have you slept since the discovery?”
“I shall make my sleep up at home, now I have had the whole out. Who comes now?”
It was Sophy, with her look of
“Gentle wishes long subdued,Subdued and cherished long.”
Mr. Bramshaw had brought her to the door, and no doubt she and he had had a quiet, restful time of patient planning; but the not finding Francie soon filled her with great alarm and self-reproach for having let herself be drawn away from the party, when all had stood together on Miss Mohun’s lawn. She wanted to start off at once in search of her sister, and was hardly pacified by finding that Gerald was still to come. Then, however, Gerald did come, and alone. He said he had just seen the Clipstone party off. No, he had not seen Francie there; but he added, rather as if recovering from a bewilderment, as Sophy was asking him to come out with her again, “Oh, never fear. Lord Ivinghoe was there somewhere!”
“I thought he was gone.”
“No, he said the yacht got in too late for the train. Never mind, Sophy, depend upon it she is all right.”
None of the ladies present felt equally pleased, but in a minute or two more in came a creature, bright, lovely, and flushed, with two starry eyes, gleaming like the blue lights on the ships.
“Oh, Cousin Marilda, have I kept you waiting? I am so sorry!”
“Where have you been?”
“Only on the cliff walk. Lord Ivinghoe took me to see the place where his father had the accident, and we watched the fireworks from there. Oh, it was so nice, and still more beautiful when the strange lights were out and the people gone, and only the lovely quiet moon shining on the sea, and a path of light from Venus.”
“I should think so,” muttered Gerald, and Marilda began—
“Pretty well, miss.”
“I am very sorry to bo so late,” began Francie, and Geraldine caught an opportunity while shawling Marilda to say—
“Dear, good Marilda, I implore you to say nothing to put it into her head or Alda’s. I don’t think any harm is done yet, but it can’t be anything. It can’t come to good, and it would only be unhappiness to them all.”
“Oh, ah! well, I’ll try. But what a chance it would be, and how happy it would make poor Alda!”
“It can’t be. The boy’s mother would never let him look at her! Don’t, don’t, don’t!”
“Well, I’ll try not.” She kissed her fondly.
Gerald’s walk had been with Dolores of course, a quiet, grave, earnest talk and walk, making them feel how much they belonged to one another, and building schemes in which they were to learn the nature of the poor and hard-worked, by veritably belonging to them, and being thus able to be of real benefit. In truth, neither of them, in their brave youthfulness, really regretted Vale Leston, and the responsibilities; and, as Gerald declared, he would give it up tomorrow gladly if he could save his name and his father’s from shame, but, alas! the things went together.
Dolores wished to write fully to her father, and that Gerald should do the same, but she did not wish to have the matter discussed in the family at once, before his answer came, and Gerald had agreed to silence, as indeed they would not call themselves engaged till that time. Indeed, Dolores said there was so much excitement about Captain Armytage that no one was thinking of her.
He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,Who fears to put it to the touch,To win or lose it all.
If Sibby hoped to keep her “long boy” from being “mislested,” she was mistaken. He knew too well what was to come, and when she knocked at his door with his cup of tea, he came to it half dressed, to her extreme indignation, calling for his shaving water.
“Now, Master Clem, if you would only be insinsed enough to keep to your bed, you might have Miss Sophy to speak to you there, if nothing else will serve you.”
“Is she there?”
“In coorse, and Miss Francie too. What should they do else, after colloguing with their young men all night? Ah, ‘tis a proud woman poor Miss Alda would be if she could have seen the young lord! And the real beauty is Miss Francie, such as my own babbies were before her, bless them!”
“Stop,” cried Clement in consternation. “It is only a bit of passing admiration. Don’t say a word about it to the others.”
“As if I would demane myself to the like of them! Me that has been forty-seven years with you and yours, and had every one of you in my arms the first thing, except the blessed eldest that is gone to a better place.”
“Would that he were here now!” sighed Clement, almost as he had sighed that first morning of his loss. “Where are those girls?”
“Rampaging over the house with Sir Adrian, and his packing of all his rubbish, enough to break the heart of a coal-heaver! I’d not let them in to bother their aunt, and Mr. Gerald is asleep like a blessed baby.”
“And Lance?”
“Oh! it is down to the sea he is with that child that looks as if he was made of air, and lived on live larks! And Master Lance, he’s no better—eats like a sparrow, and sits up half the night writing for his paper.”
Clement got rid of Sibby at last, but he was hardly out of his room before Sophy descended on him, anxious and blushing, though he could give her much sympathy and kindly hope of his influence, only he had to preach patience. It had been no hasty fancy, but there had long been growing esteem and affection, and he could assure her of all the aid the family could give with her mother, though Penbeacon works would be a very insecure foundation for hope.
“I think Gerald would consent,” said Sophy, “and he will soon be of age.”
Clement could only say “Humph!”
“One thing I hope is not wrong,” said Sophy, “but I do trust that no one will tell mother about Lord Ivinghoe. It is not jealousy, I hope, but I cannot see that there is anything in it, only the very sound would set mother more against Philip than ever.”
“You do not suppose that Francie is—is touched?”
“No,” said Sophy, gravely as an elder, “she is such a child. She was very much pleased and entertained, and went on chattering, till I begged her to let us say our prayers in peace. We never talk after that, and she went to sleep directly, and was smiling when she woke, but I do not fancy she will dwell on it, or fancy there is more to come, unless some one puts it into her head.”
It was sagely said, and Clement knew pretty well who was the one person from whom Sophy had fears. Poor Alda, improved and altered as she was, if such a hope occurred to her, would she be able to help imparting it to her daughter and looking out for the fulfilment?
Loud calls for Sophy rang through the house, and Clement had only time to add—
“Patience, dear child, and submission. They not only win the day, but are the best preparation for it when it is won.”
That family of girls had grown up to be a care to one who had trusted that his calling would be a shield from worldly concerns; but he accepted it as providential, and as a trust imposed on him as certainly as Felix had felt the headship of the orphaned house.
He was rejoiced to find on coming down-stairs that Lance had decided on giving another day to family counsels, sending off little Felix with his cousins, who would drop him at the junction to Stoneborough, whence he would be proud to travel alone. Clement took another resolution, in virtue of which he knocked at his sister’s door before she went down.
“Cherry,” said he, “would it be inconvenient to keep Francie here just for the present?”
“Not at all; it would be only too pleasant for Anna now that she loses her brother. But why?”
“I want to hinder her from hearing the conclusions that her mother may draw from the diversions of yesterday.”
“I see. It might soon be,