CHAPTER XI. – HEROES AND HERO-WORSHIP
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.—Tempest.
Sunday morning found Anna in a different frame of mind from that of the evening before. Uncle Clement had been very ill all night, and the house was to be kept as quiet as possible. When Anna came in from early Celebration, Aunt Cherry came out looking like a ghost, and very anxious, and gave a sigh of relief on Adrian being reported still sound asleep. Gerald presently came down, pale and languid, but calling himself all right, and loitering over his breakfast till after the boy appeared, so rosy and ravenous as to cause no apprehension, except that he should devour too much apricot jam, and use his new boots too noisily on the stairs.
Anna devised walking him to Beechcroft to hear if there were any news of Fergus, and though he observed, with a certain sound of contemptuous rivalship, that there was no need, for “Merrifield was as right as a trivet,” he was glad enough to get out of doors a little sooner, and though he affected to be bored by the kind inquiries of the people they met, he carried his head all the higher for them.
Nobody was at home except General Mohun, but he verified Adrian’s impression of his nephew’s soundness, whatever the mysterious comparison might mean; and asked rather solicitously not only after Mr. Underwood but after Gerald, who, he said, was a delicate subject to have made such exertions.
“It really was very gallant and very sensible behaviour,” he said, as he took his hat to walk to St. Andrew’s with the brother and sister, but Anna was conscious of a little pouting in Adrian’s expression, and displeasure in his stumping steps.
Gerald came to church, but went to sleep in the sermon, and had altogether such a worn-out look that no one could help remembering that he had never been very strong, and had gone through much exertion the day before, nor could he eat much of the mid-day meal. Mrs. Grinstead, who was more at ease about her brother, looked anxiously at him, and with a kind of smile the word “Apres” passed between them. The Sunday custom was for Clement to take Adrian to say his Catechism, and have a little instruction before going out walking, but as this could not be on this day, Anna and he were to go out for a longer walk than usual, so as to remove disturbance from the household. Gerald declined, of course, and was left extended on the sofa; but just as Anna and Adrian had made a few steps along the street, and the boy had prevailed not to walk to Clipstone, as she wished, but to go to the cliffs, that she might hear the adventure related in sight of the scene of action, he discovered that he had left a glove. He was very particular about Sunday walking in gloves in any public place, and rushed back to find it, leaving his sister waiting. Presently he came tearing back and laughing.
“Did you find it?”
“Oh yes; it was in the drawing-room. And what else do you think I found? Why, Cherie administering”—and he pointed down his throat, and made a gulp with a wild grimace of triumph. “On the sly! Ha! ha!”
Anna felt as if the ground had opened under her feet, but she answered gravely—
“Poor Gerald went through a great deal yesterday, and is quite knocked up, so no wonder he needs some strengthening medicine.”
“Strengthening grandmother! Don’t you think I know better than that?” he cried, with a caper and a grin.
“Of course you had to have some cordial when you were taken out of the water.”
“And don’t you know what it was?”
“I know the fisher-people carry stuff about with them in case of accidents.”
“That’s the way with girls—just to think one knows nothing at all.”
“What do you know, Adrian?”
“Know? Why, I haven’t been about with Kit and Ted Harewood for nothing! Jolly good larks it is to see how all of you take for granted that a fellow never knew the taste of anything but tea and milk-and-water.”
“But what do you know the taste of?” she asked, with an earnestness that provoked the boy to tease and put on a boasting manner, so that she could not tell how much he was pretending for the sake of amazing and tormenting her, in which he certainly succeeded.
However, his attention was diverted by coming round the corner to where there was a view of Anscombe Bay, when he immediately began to fight his battles o’er again, and show where they had been groping in the mud and seaweed in pursuit of sea-urchins, and stranded star-fish, and crabs.
“And it wasn’t a forest after all, it was just a sell—nothing but mud and weed, only Fergus would go and poke in it, and there were horrid great rough stones and rocks too, and I tumbled over one.”
Anna here became conscious that the whole place was the resort of the afternoon promenaders of Rockquay, great and small, of all ranks and degrees, belonging to the “middle class” or below it, and that they might themselves become the object of attention; and she begged her brother to turn back and wait till they could have the place to themselves.
“These are a disgusting lot of cads,” he agreed, “but there won’t be such a jolly tide another time. I declare I see the very rock where I saw the sea-mouse—out there! red and shiny at the top.”
Here a well-dressed man, who had just come up the Coast-guard path, put aside his pipe, and taking off his hat, deferentially asked—
“Have I the honour of addressing Sir Adrian Vanderkist?”
Adrian replied with a gracious nod and gesture towards his straw hat, and in another moment Anna found him answering questions, and giving his own account of the adventure to the inquirer, who, she had little doubt, was a reporter, and carrying his head, if possible, higher in consequence as he told how Fergus Merrifield had lingered over his stones, and all the rest after his own version. She did not hear the whole, having had to answer the inquiries of one of the bicycle friends of the previous day, but when her attention was free she heard—
“And the young lady, Sir Adrian?”
“Young lady! Thank goodness, we were not bothered with any of that sort.”
“Indeed, Sir Adrian, I understood that there was a young lady, Miss Aurelia, that Master Merrifield was lamenting, as if she had met with a watery grave.”
“Ha! ha! Aralia was only the name of a bit of fossil kind of a stick that Merrifield had us down there to find in the fossil forest. I’m sure I saw no forest, only bits of mud and stuff! But he found a bit, sure enough, and was ready to break his heart when he had to leave his bag behind him on the rock. Aralia a young lady! That’s a good one.”
He forgathered with a school-fellow on the way home, and Anna heard little more.
The next day, however, there arrived the daily local paper, addressed to Sir Adrian Vanderkist, Bart., and it was opened by him at breakfast-time.
“I say! Look here! ‘Dangerous Accident in Anscombe. A Youthful Baronet in peril!’ What asses people are!” he added, with an odd access of the gratified shame of seeing himself for the first time in print. But he did not proceed to read aloud; there evidently was something he did not like, and he was very near pocketing it and rushing off headlong to school with it, if his aunt and Anna had not entreated or commanded for it, when he threw it over with an uncomplimentary epithet.
“Just what I was afraid of when I saw the man talking to him!” exclaimed Anna. “Oh, listen!
“‘The young Sir Adrian Vanderkist, at present residing at St. Andrew’s Rock with his aunt, Mrs. Grinstead, and the Rev. E. C. Underwood, and who is a pupil at Mrs. Edgar’s academy for young gentlemen, was, we are informed, involved in the most imminent danger, together with a son of General Sir Jasper Merrifield, K.G.C., a young gentleman whose remarkable scientific talent and taste appear to have occasioned the peril of the youthful party, from whence they were rescued by Gerald F. Underwood, Esq., of Vale Leston.’”
“What’s all that?” said Gerald F. Underwood, Esquire, sauntering in and kissing his aunt. “Good-morning. How is Uncle Clement this morning?”
“Much better; I think he will be up by and by,” answered Mrs. Grinstead.
“What bosh have you got there? The reporters seized on their prey, eh?”
“There’s Sir Jasper!” exclaimed Anna, who could see through the blinds from where she sat.
Sir Jasper had driven over with his little son, and, after leaving him at school, had come to inquire for Mr. Underwood, and to obtain a fuller account of the accident, having already picked up a paper and glanced at it.
“I am afraid my little scamp led them into the danger,” he said. “Scientific taste forsooth! Science is as good a reason as anything else for getting into scrapes.”
“Really,” said Gerald, “I can’t say I think your boy came out the worst in it, though I must own the Rockquay Advertiser bestows most of the honours of the affair on the youthful baronet! You say he blew his own trumpet,” added Gerald, turning to Anna.
“The reporter came and beset us,” said Anna, in a displeased voice. “I did not hear all that passed, but of course Adrian told him what he told me, only those people make things sound ridiculous.”
“To begin with,” said Gerald, “I don’t think Fergus, or at any rate Davy Blake, was in fault. They tried to go home in good time, having an instinct for tides, but Adrian was chasing a sea-mouse or some such game, and could not be brought back, and then he fell over a slippery rock, and had to be dragged out of a hole, and by that time the channel of the Anscombe stream was too deep, at least for him, who has been only too carefully guarded from being amphibious.”
“Oh! that did not transpire at home,” said Sir Jasper. “Boys are so reserved.”
Mrs. Grinstead and Anna looked rather surprised. Anna even ventured—
“I thought Fergus got too absorbed.”
“So did I,” said his father dryly. “And he did not justify himself.”
“M—m—m,” went on Gerald, skimming the article.
“Read it,” cried Anna. “You know none of us have seen it.”
Gerald continued—
“‘Their perilous position having been observed from Anscombe cliffs, Mr. G. F. Underwood of Vale Leston heroically’ (i.e. humbugically) ‘made his way out to their assistance, while a boat was put off by the Coast-guard, and that of Mr. Carter, fisherman, from Rockquay was launched somewhat later.’ We could not see either of them, you know. My eye, this is coming it strong! ‘The young baronet generously insisted that the little fisher-boy, David Blake, who had accompanied them, should first be placed in safety—‘”
“Didn’t he?” exclaimed Anna. “I saw, and I wondered, but I thought it was his doing.”
“You saw?”
“Yes, in the Coast-guard’s telescope.”
“Oh! That is a new feature in the case!”
“Then he did not insist?” said Mrs. Grinstead.
“It was with the wrong side of his mouth.”
“But why did you send the fisher-boy first, when after all his life was less important?” exclaimed Anna, breaking forth at last.
“First, for the reason that I strove to impress on ‘the youthful baronet,’ Noblesse oblige. Secondly, that Davy knew how to make his way along the rocks, and also knew where to find the Preventive station. I could leave him to get on, as I could not have done with the precious Adrian, and that gave a much better chance for us all. It was swimming work by the time I got back, and by that time I thought the best alternative for any of us was to keep hold as long as we could, and then keep afloat as best we might till we were picked up. Your boy was the hero of it all. Adrian was so angry with me for my disrespect that I could hardly have got him to listen to me if Fergus had not made him understand, that to let himself be passive and be floated by me till the boats came up was the only thing to be done. There was one howl when he had to let go his beloved aralia, but he showed his soldier blood, and behaved most manfully.”
“I am most thankful to hear it,” said his father, “and especially thankful to you.”
“Oh! there was not much real danger,” said Gerald lightly, “to any one who could swim.”
“But Adrian could not,” said Anna. “Oh! Gerald, what do we not owe to you?”
“I must be off,” said Sir Jasper; “I must see about a new jacket for my boy. By the bye, do you know how the little Davy fared in the matter of clothes?”
“Better than any of us,” said Gerald. “He was far too sharp to go mud-larking in anything that would be damaged, and had his boots safe laid up in a corner. I wish mine were equally safe.”
Sir Jasper’s purchases were not confined to boots and jacket, but as compensation for his hard words included a certain cabinet full of drawers that had long been Fergus’s cynosure.
Anna and her aunt were much concerned at what was said of Adrian, and still more at the boastful account that he seemed to have given; but then something, as Mrs. Grinstead observed, must be allowed for the reporter’s satisfaction in having interviewed a live baronet. Each of the parties concerned had one hero, and if the Merrifields’ was Fergus, to their own great surprise and satisfaction, Aunt Cherry was very happy over her own especial boy, Gerald, and certainly it was an easier task than to accept “the youthful baronet” at his own valuation or that of the reporter.
Mrs. Grinstead considered whether to try to make him less conceited about it, and show him his want of truth. She consulted his uncle about it, showing the newspaper, and telling, and causing Gerald to tell, the history of the accident, which Clement had not been fit to hear all the day before.
He was still in bed, but quite ready to attend to anything, and he laughed over the account, which she illustrated by the discoveries she had made from the united witnesses.
“And is it not delightful to see for once what Gerald really is?” she said.
“Yes, he seems to have behaved gallantly,” said his uncle; “and I won’t say just what might have been expected.”
“One does expect something of an Underwood,” she said.
“Little Merrifield too, who saw the danger coming, deserves more honour than he seems to have taken to himself.”
“Yes, he accepted severity from that stern father of his, who seems very sorry for it now. It is curious how those boys’ blood comes out in the matter—chasser de race.”
“You must allow something for breeding. Fergus had not been the idol of a mother and sisters, and Gerald remembered his father in danger.”
“Oh, I can never be glad enough that he has that remembrance of him! How like him he grows! That unconscious imitation is so curious.”
“Yes, the other day, when I had been dozing, I caught myself calling out that he was whistling ‘Johnny Cope’ so loud that he would be heard in the shop.”
“He seems to be settling down more happily here than I expected. I sometimes wonder if there is any attraction at Clipstone.”
“No harm if there were, except—”
“Except what? Early marriage might be the very best thing.”
“Perhaps, though sometimes I doubt whether it is well for a man to have gone through the chief hopes and crises of life so soon. He looks out for fresh excitement.”
“There are so many stages in life,” said Geraldine, sighing. “And with all his likenesses, Gerald is quite different from any of you.”
“So I suppose each generation feels with those who succeed it. Nor do I feel as if I understood the Universities to-day as I did Cambridge thought of old. We can do nothing but wait and pray, and put out a hand where we see cause.”
“Where we see! It is the not seeing that is so trying. The being sure that there is more going on within than is allowed to meet one’s eye, and that one is only patronized as an old grandmother—quite out of it.”
“I think the conditions of life and thought are less simple than in our day.”
“And to come to the present. What is to be done about Adrian—the one who was not a hero, though he made himself out so?”
“Probably he really thought so. He is a mere child, you know, and it was his first adventure, before he has outgrown the days of cowardice.”
“He need not have told stories.”
“Depend upon it, he hardly knew that he did so.”
“He had the reporter to help him certainly, and the ‘Rockquay Advertiser’ may not keep to the stern veracity and simplicity of the ‘Pursuivant’.”
“And was proud to interview a live baronet.”
“Then what shall we do—Anna and I, I mean?”
“Write the simple facts to Vale Leston, and then let it alone.”
“To him?”
“Certainly. He would think your speaking mere nagging. Preserve an ominous silence if he speaks. His school-fellows will be his best cure.”
“Well, he did seem ashamed!”
Clement was right. The boy’s only mention of the paragraph was once as “that beastly thing”; and Anna discovered from Valetta Merrifield, that whatever satisfaction he might have derived from it had been effectually driven out of him by the “fellows” at Mrs. Edgar’s, who had beset him with all their force of derision, called him nothing but the “youthful Bart.,” and made him ashamed as none of the opposite sex or of maturer years could ever have succeeded in doing. Valetta said Fergus had tried to stop it, but there had certainly been one effect, namely, that Adrian was less disposed to be “Merry’s” shadow than heretofore, and seemed inclined instead to take up with the other seniors.
One thing, however, was certain. Gerald enjoyed a good deal more consideration among the Clipstone damsels than before. True, as Jasper said, it was only what any one would have done; but he had done it, and proved himself by no means inferior to “any one,” and Fergus regarded him as a true hero, which had a considerable effect on his sisters, the more perhaps because Jasper derided their admiration.
They were doubly bent on securing him for a contributor to the Mouse-trap. They almost thought of inviting him to their Browning afternoons, but decided that he would not appreciate the feminine company, though he did so often have a number of the ‘Censor’ to discuss it with Dolores, whenever they met him.
CHAPTER XII. – THE LITTLE BUTTERFLY
The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy,
history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral.
—Hamlet.
The Matrons, otherwise denominated lady patronesses, met in committee, Miss Mohun being of course the soul and spirit of all, though Mrs. Ellesmere, as the wife of the rector of old Rockstone Church, was the president, Lady Flight, one of the most interested, was there, also Lady Merrifield, dragged in to secure that there was nothing decided on contrary to old-world instincts, Mrs. Grinstead, in right of the musical element that her brother promised, the beautiful Mrs. Henderson, to represent the marble works, Mrs. Simmonds of the Cliff Hotel, the Mayoress, and other notables.
The time was fixed for the first week in August, the only one when engagements would permit the Rotherwood family to be present for the opening, and when the regatta was apt to fill Rockquay with visitors. The place was to be the top of the cliffs of Rockstone, where the gardens of the Cliff Hotel, of Beechcroft Cottage, Rocca Marina, and Carrara, belonging respectively to Miss Mohun, Mr. White, and Captain Henderson, lay close together separated by low walls, and each with a private door opening on a path along the top of the cliffs. They could easily be made to communicate together, by planks laid over the boundaries, and they had lawns adapted for tents, etc., and Rocca Marina rejoiced in a shrubbery and conservatories that were a show in themselves, and would be kindly lent by Mr. and Mrs. White, though health compelled them to be absent and to resort to Gastein. The hotel likewise had a large well-kept garden, where what Mrs. Simmonds called a pavilion, “quite mediaeval,” was in course of erection, and could be thrown open on the great day.
It was rather “tea-gardenish,” but it could be made available for the representation of The Outlaw’s Isle. Lancelot made a hurried visit to study the place, and review the forces, and decided that it was practicable. There could be a gallery at one end for the spectators, and the outer end toward the bay could be transformed into a stage, with room for the orchestra, and if the weather were favourable the real sea could be shown in the background. The scenes had been painted by the clever fingers at Vale Leston. It remained to cast the parts. Lancelot himself would be Prospero, otherwise Alaster Maclan, and likewise conductor, bringing with him the school-master of Vale Leston, who could supply his part as conductor when he was on the stage. His little boy Felix would be Ariel, the other elves could be selected from the school-children, and the local Choral Society would supply the wreckers and the wrecked. But the demur was over Briggs, a retired purser, who had always had a monopoly of sea-songs, and who looked on the boatswain as his right, and was likely to roar every one down. Ferdinand would be Gerald, under the name of Angus, but the difficulty was his Miranda—Mona as she was called. The Vanderkists could not be asked to perform in public, nor would Sir Jasper Merrifield have consented to his daughters doing so, even if they could have sung, and it had been privately agreed that none of the other young ladies of Rockquay could be brought forward, especially as there was no other grown-up female character.
“My wife might undertake it,” said Lancelot, “but her voice is not her strong point, and she would be rather substantial for a Miranda.”
“It would be rather like finding a mother instead of a wife—with all respect to my Aunt Daisy,” laughed Gerald.
“By the bye, I’m sure I once heard a voice, somewhere down by the sea, that would be perfect,” exclaimed Lance. “Sweet and powerful, fresh and young, just what is essential. I heard it when I was in quest of crabs with my boy.”
“I know!” exclaimed Gerald, “the Little Butterfly, as they call her!”
“At a cigar-shop,” said Lance.
“Mrs. Schnetterling’s. Not very respectable,” put in Lady Flight.
“Decidedly attractive to the little boys, though,” said Gerald. “Sweets, fishing-tackle, foreign stamps, cigars. I went in once to see whether Adrian was up to mischief there, and the Mother Butterfly looked at me as if I had seven heads; but I just got a glimpse of the girl, and, as my uncle says, she would make an ideal Mona, or Miranda.”
“Lydia Schnetterling,” exclaimed Mr. Flight. “She is a very pretty girl with a nice voice. You remember her, Miss Mohun, at our concerts? A lovely fairy.”
“I remember her well. I thought she was foreign, and a Roman Catholic.”
“So her mother professes—a Hungarian. The school officer sent her to school, and she did very well there, Sunday-school and all, and was a monitor. She was even confirmed. Her name is really Ludmilla, and Lida is the correct contraction. But when I wanted her to be apprenticed as a pupil-teacher, the mother suddenly objected that she is a Roman Catholic, but I very much doubt the woman’s having any religion at all. I wrote to the priest about her, but I believe he could make nothing of her. Still, Lydia is a very nice girl—comes to church, and has not given up the Choral Society.”
“She is a remarkably nice good girl,” added Mrs. Henderson. “She came to me, and entreated that I would speak for her to be taken on at the marble works.”
“You have her there?”
“Yes; but I am much afraid that her talents do not lie in the way of high promotion, and I think if she does not get wages enough to satisfy her mother, she is in dread of being made to sing at public-houses and music-halls.”
“That nice refined girl!”
“Yes; I am sure the idea is dreadful to her.”
“Could you not put her in the way of getting trained?” asked Gerald of his uncle.
“I must hear her first.”
“I will bring her up to the Choral Society tonight,” said Mr. Flight.
“What did you call her?” said Geraldine.
“Some German or foreign name, Schnetterling, and the school calls her Lydia.”
At that moment the council was invaded, as it sat in Miss Mohun’s drawing-room, upon rugs and wicker chairs, to be refreshed with tea. In burst a whole army of Merrifields, headed by little Primrose, now a tall girl of twelve years old, more the pet of the family than any of her elders had been allowed to be. Her cry was—
“Oh, mamma, mamma, here’s the very one for the captain of the buccaneers!”
The startling announcement was followed by the appearance of a tall, stalwart, handsome young man of a certain naval aspect, whom Lady Merrifield introduced as Captain Armytage.
“We must congratulate him, Gillian,” she said. “I see you are gazetted as commander.”
Primrose, who had something of the licence of the youngest, observed—
“We have been telling him all about it. He used to be Oliver Cromwell in ‘How Do You Like It?’ and now he will be a buccaneer!”
“Oliver Cromwell, you silly child!” burst out Gillian, with a little shake, while the rest fell into fits of laughing.
“I fear it was a less distinguished part,” said Captain Armytage.
“May I understand that you will help us?” said Lancelot. “I heard of you at Devereux Castle.”
“I don’t think you heard much of my capabilities, especially musical ones. I was the stick of the party,” said Captain Armytage.
It was explained that Captain Armytage had actually arrived that afternoon at the Cliff Hotel, and had walked over to call at Clipstone, whence he found the young ladies setting out to walk to Rockstone. He could not deny that he had acted and sung, though, as he said, his performance in both cases was vile. Little Miss Primrose had most comically taken upon her to patronize him, and to offer him as buccaneer captain had been a freak of her own, hardly to be accounted for, except that Purser Briggs’s unsuitableness had been discussed in her presence.
“Primrose is getting to be a horrid little forward thing,” observed Gillian to her aunt.
“A child of the present,” said Miss Mohun. “Infant England! But her suggestion seems to be highly opportune.”
“I don’t believe he can sing,” growled Gillian, “and it will be just an excuse for his hanging about here.”
There was something in Gillian’s “savagery” which gave Aunt Jane a curious impression, but she kept it to herself.
Late in the evening Lance appeared in his sister’s drawing-room with—
“I have more hopes of it. I did not think it was feasible when Anna wrote to me, but I see my way better now. That parson, Flight, has a good notion of drilling, and that recruit of the little Merrifield girl, Captain Armytage, is worth having.”
“If he roared like a sucking dove we would have him, only to silence that awful boatswain,” said Gerald; “and as to the little Cigaretta, she is a born prima donna.”
“Your Miranda? Are you content with her?” said his aunt.
“She is to the manner born. Lovely voice, acts like a dragon, and has an instinct how to stand and how to hold her hands.”
“Coming in drolly with her prim dress and bearing. Though she was dreadfully frightened,” said Lance. “Being half-foreign accounts for something, I suppose, but it is odd how she reminds me of some one. No doubt it is of some singer at a concert. What did they say was her name?”
“Ludmilla Schnetterling, the Little Butterfly they call her. Foreign on both sides apparently,” said Gerald. “Those dainty ankles never were bred on English clods.”
“I wonder what her mother is,” said Mrs. Grinstead.
“By the bye, I think it must have been her mother that I saw that morning when little Felix dragged me to a cigar-shop in quest of an ornamental crab—a handsome, slatternly hag sort of woman, who might have been on the stage,” said Lance.
“Sells fishing-tackle, twine, all sorts,” came from Adrian.
“Have you been there?” asked his sister, rather disturbed.
“Of course! All the fellows go! It is the jolliest place for”—he paused a moment—“candies and ginger-beer.”
“I should have thought there were nicer places!” sighed Anna.
“You have yet to learn that there is a period of life when it is a joy to slip out of as much civilization as possible,” said Lance, putting his sentence in involved form so as to be the less understood by the boys.
“Did you say that Flight had got hold of them?” asked Clement.
“Hardly. They are R.C.‘s, it seems; and as to the Mother Butterfly, I should think there was not much to get hold of in her; but Mrs. Henderson takes interest in her marble-workers, and the girl is the sort of refined, impressible creature that one longs to save, if possible. To-morrow I am going to put you all through your parts, Master Gerald, so don’t you be out of the way.”
“One submits to one’s fate,” said Gerald, “hoping that virtue may be its own reward, as it is in the matter of ‘The Inspector’s Tour’, which the ‘Censor’ accepts, really enthusiastically for a paper, though the Mouse-trap would have found it—what shall I say?—a weasel in their snare.”
“Does it indeed?” cried Anna, delighted. “I saw there was a letter by this last post.”
“Aye—invites more from the same pen,” he replied lazily.
“Too much of weasel for the ‘Pursuivant’ even?” said Geraldine.
“Yes,” said Lance; “these young things are apt to tear our old traps and flags to pieces. By the bye, who is this Captain Armytage, who happily will limit Purser Briggs to ‘We split, we split, we split,’ or something analogous?”
“I believe,” said Gerald, “that he joined the Wills-of-the-Wisp, that company which was got up by Sir Lewis Willingham, and played at Devereux Castle a year or two ago. Some one told me they were wonderfully effective for amateurs.”
“That explains the acquaintance with Lady Merrifield,” said Mrs. Grinstead.
“Oh, yes,” said Anna. “Mysie told me all about it; and how Mr. David Merrifield married the nicest of them all, and how much they liked this Captain Armytage.”
“Was not Mysie there when he arrived?”
“No, she was gone to see the Henderson children, but Gillian looked a whole sheaf of daggers at him. You know what black brows Gillian has, and she drew them down like thunder,” and Anna imitated as well as her fair open brows would permit, “turning as red as fire all the time.”
“That certainly means something,” said Geraldine, laughing.
“I should like to see Gillian in love,” laughed Anna; “and I really think she is afraid of it, she looked so fierce.”