CHAPTER XXIII. – ILLUMINATIONS
‘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.
CHAPTER XXIV. – COUNSELS OF PATIENCE
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,
‘He cometh not, she said.’”
“And Sophy will keep her counsel as to those moonlight wanderings. When were they to go?”
“By the 11.30 train. Marilda is coming up first.”
So the plan was propounded. Franceska was only too much charmed to stay in what had indeed been an enchanted coast to her, and Sophy was sure that mamma would not mind; so the matter was settled, and the explanatory notes written.
The party set off, with each little boy hugging a ship in full sail, and the two young sisters were disposed of by a walk to Clipstone to talk over their adventures. Mrs. Grinstead felt certain of the good manners and reticence prevailing there to prevent any banter about Lord Ivinghoe, and she secured the matter further by a hint to Anna.
However, Miss Mohun was announced almost as they left the house. She too was full of the bazaar, which seemed so long ago to her hearers, but with the result of which she was exceedingly delighted. The voluntary schools were secured for the present, and the gratitude of the Church folk was unbounded, especially to the Vale Leston family, who had contributed so greatly to the success of the whole.
Jane too had watched the evening manoeuvres, and perceived, with her sharp eyes, all that was avowed and not avowed under that rising moon. The pair of whom she had first to speak were “Ivanhoe and Rowena,” as she called them, and she was glad to find that the “fair Saxon” had grown up at Vale Leston, educated by her aunt and sister, and imbibing no outside habits or impressions.
“Poor child,” said Jane, “she looks like a flower; one is sorry it should be meddled with.”
“So did my sister Stella, and there, contrary to all our fears, the course of true love did run smooth.”
“If it depended entirely on Rotherwood himself, I think it would,” said Jane, “but—” She paused and went on, “Ivinghoe is, I fear, really volage, and he is the mark of a good many London mammas.”
“Is it true about Mrs. Henderson’s sister?”
“There’s nothing in it. I believe he danced with her a few times, and the silly little thing put her own construction on it, but her sister made her confess that he had never said a word to her, nor made love in any sense. Indeed, my sister Adeline would never have consented to her coming here if she had believed in it, but Maura has a Greek nature and turns the Whites round her fingers. Well, I hope all will go well with your pretty Franceska. I should not like her lovely bloom to be faded by Ivinghoe. He is Rotherwood’s own boy, though rather a prig, and a man in London. Oh, you know what that means!”
“We have done notre possible to keep our interpretation from the poor child, or any hint of it from reaching her mother.”
“That’s right. Poor Rowena, I hope the spark will be blown out, or remain only a pleasant recollection. As to little Maura, she had her lesson when she was reduced to hanging on Captain Henderson’s other arm! She is off to-day to meet Mr. White in London. That purpose has been served.”
“And have you not a nearer interest?”
“Oh, Gillian! Well, Captain Armytage did get hold of her, in what we must now call the Lover’s Walk! Yes, she has yielded, to her father’s great satisfaction and perhaps to her mother’s, for she will be more comfortable in looking forward to a commonplace life for her than in the dread of modern aberrations. But Gillian is very funny, very much ashamed of having given in, and perfectly determined to go to her college and finish her education, which she may as well do while the Sparrow Hawk is at sea. He is off to-day, and she says she is very glad to be rid of him. She sat down at once to her dynamite, as Primrose calls it, having bound over Mysie and Valetta never to mention the subject! I tell them that to obey in silence is the way to serve the poor man best.”
Miss Mohun was interrupted by the announcement of Lady Flight and Mr. Flight, who came equally eager with delight and gratitude to thank the House of Underwood for the triumph. The rest of the clergy of Rockquay and half the ladies might be expected, and in despair at last of a “lucid interval,” Geraldine ordered the carriage for a long drive into the country, so as to escape all visitors. Even then, they could not got up the hill without being stopped four or five times to receive the thanks and compliments which nearly drove Gerald crazy, so much did he want to hear what his family had to say to his plans, that he had actually consented to partake of a dowager-drive in a landau!
He and his uncle had discovered from the police in the course of the morning that Ludmilla and her mother had not gone with the circus, but had been seen embarking in the Alice Jane, a vessel bound for London. His idea had been to hurry thither and endeavour to search out his half-sister, and rescue her; but Lance had assured him not only that it would probably be a vain quest, but that there would be full time to meet the Alice Jane by land before she could get there by sea.
To this he had yielded, but not so readily to the representation that the wisest way would be to keep out of sight; but to let Lance, as a less interested party, go and interview the van proprietor, whose direction had been sent to Clement, try to see O’Leary, and do his best to bargain for Ludmilla’s release, a matter on which all were decided, whatever might be the upshot of the question respecting Gerald. To leave a poor girl to circus training, even if there were no interest in her, would have been shocking to right-minded people; but when it was such a circus as O’Leary’s, and the maiden was so good, sweet, and modest as Lida, the thought would have been intolerable even without the connection with Gerald, who had been much taken with all he had seen of her.
“That is fixed, even if we have to bid high for our Mona,” said Lance.
“By all means,” said Geraldine. “It will be another question what will be good for her when we have got her.”
“I will take care of that!” said Gerald.
“Next,” Lance went on, “we must see what proofs, or if there be any, of this person’s story. I expect one of you will have to pay well for them, but I had better take a lawyer with me.”
Clement named the solicitor who had the charge of the Vanderkist affairs.
“Better than Staples, or Bramshaw & Anderson. Yes, it would be best to have no previous knowledge of the family, and no neighbourly acquaintance. Moreover, I am not exactly an interested party, so I may be better attended to.”
“Still I very much doubt, even if you do get any statement from the woman, whether it can be depended upon without verification,” said Clement.
“From the registers, if there are any at these places?”
“Exactly, and there must be personal inquiry. The first husband, Gian Benista, will have to be hunted down, dead or alive.”
“Yes; and another thing,” said Lance, “if the Italian marriage were before the revolution in Sicily, I expect the ecclesiastical ceremony would be valid, but after that, the civil marriage would be required.”
“Oh!” groaned Gerald, “if you would let me throw it all up without these wretched quibbles.”
“Not your father’s honour,” said his aunt.
“Nor our honesty,” said Clement. “It is galling enough to have your whole position in life depend on the word of a worthless woman, but there are things that must be taken patiently, as the will of One who knows.”
“It is so hard to accept it as God’s will when it comes of human sin,” said Geraldine.
“Human thoughtlessness,” said Clement; “but as long as it is not by our own fault we can take it as providential, and above all, guard against impatience, the real ruin and destruction.”
“Yes,” said Lance, “sit on a horse’s head when he is down to keep him from kicking.”
“So you all are sitting on my head,” said Gerald; “I shall get out and walk—a good rush on the moors.”
“Wait at least to allow your head to take in my scheme,” said Clement.
“Provided it is not sitting still,” said Gerald.
“Far from it. Only it partly depends on my lady and mistress here—”
“I guess,” said Geraldine. “You know I am disposed that way by Dr. Brownlow’s verdict.”
“And ‘that way’ is that we go ourselves to try to trace out this strange allegation—you coming too, Gerald, so that we shall not quite be sitting on your head.”
“But my sister?”
“We will see when we have recovered her,” said Mrs. Grinstead.
“I would begin with a visit to Stella and her husband,” said Clement; “Charlie could put us in the way of dealing with consuls and vice-consuls.”
“Excellent,” cried his sister; “Anna goes of course, and I should like to take Francie. It would be such an education for her.”
“Well, why not?”
“And what is to become of Adrian?”
“Well, we should not have been here more than six months of course.”
“I could take him,” said Lance, “unless Alda holds poor old Froggatt & Underwood beneath his dignity.”
“That can be considered,” said Clement; “it approves itself best to me, except that he is getting on so well here that I don’t like to disturb him.”
“And when can you come up to town with me?” demanded Gerald; “tomorrow?”
“To-morrow being Saturday, it would be of little use to go. No, if you will not kick, master, I must go home to-morrow, and look up poor ‘Pur,’ also the organ on Sunday. Come with me, and renew your acquaintance. We will make an appointment with your attorney, Clem, and run up on Monday evening, see him on Tuesday.”
Gerald sighed, submitting perforce, and they let him out to exhale as much impatience as he could in a tramp over the hills, while they sat and pitied him from their very hearts.