HOW THEY MISSED HER.
So the London season drew towards its close, speeding merrily for some,
dragging wearily for others, wearing on surely for all. It produced its
usual crop of marriages, jiltings, slanders, and other embarrassments,
but throughout the little circle of individuals, with whom we are
concerned at present, the engrossing topic was still that mysterious
disappearance of Miss Ross. No stone had been left unturned to find her
out, and yet, so well did she take her measures, not a trace could be
discovered. Two people, indeed, received tidings of the fugitive, but
on each her letters impressed the hopelessness of a search, and the
writer's determination to remain henceforth in complete seclusion. To
Mrs. Mole, Miss Ross sent a long and consolatory epistle, containing
earnest assurance of the boy's safety, and an account of his sayings and
doings, not forgetting many messages to "his old Moley," which would
have gladdened her heart exceedingly but for the one drawback, that the
little fellow lay ill with a feverish cold, and did not get stronger so
fast as could be wished. To Frank Vanguard she wrote a few short lines,
telling him she was not fit to be his wife--the only good deed she had
ever done in her life, she said, was that which seemed to him the most
cruel, the most perfidious; and all endeavours to hunt her out would not
only be sheer waste of time, but also considered so many insults and
injuries directed against herself. Though it did not entirely suspend
his exertions, Frank's zeal was somewhat damped by this communication,
which he lost no time in imparting to the circle of friends whom Jin had
left overwhelmed with anxiety on her behalf. Uncle Joseph's gout,
converging favourably to the extremities, gave him little time to think
of anybody but himself. It took him to Buxton, where the successive
duties of drinking, driving, dressing, bathing, and dining at five
o'clock, left not a moment of the day unoccupied, and where the constant
contemplation of greater sufferers and more hopeless cripples afforded
moral lessons every five minutes, tending to content and thankfulness
that he was no worse.
Mrs. Lascelles did, indeed, get hold of some idle tale about Uncle
Joseph's attentions to a fascinating widow, also gouty, and of a brisk
flirtation carried on by the enamoured couple, each in a Bath chair. Her
informant stated, with what degree of truth I cannot take upon me to
affirm, that this promising affair only exploded from the indiscretion
of Mr. Groves, who, possessing himself of the lady's hand in the warmth
of his protestations, unadvisedly seized the gouty one, and inflicted
such pain, that she called out loudly before the whole Parade. But as
this piece of tittle-tattle was related to his kinswoman by a lady, who
heard it from another lady, who had seen it in the letter of a third, I
submit it is not evidence, neither has it anything to do with the
present history. On Mrs. Lascelles herself the disappearance of so firm
a friend and confederate produced an effect that rendered her more than
usually open to sympathy, and eager for consolation. She felt less
confidence than heretofore in herself and her own resources. Solitude
was bad enough, and doubly dispiriting after the society of so lively a
companion, but the sense of having been deceived with her eyes open was
worse than all. Occasional twinges of remorse, too, tormented her sadly,
reminding her that she had spoken out so freely to one whom she ought to
have been very careful of offending as dependent on herself. Of course,
too, she put off her trip to Brighton, and her London engagement-book,
originally compiled by Jin, naturally got into confusion, when deprived
of that lady's supervision. Altogether Mrs. Lascelles felt keenly the
want of somebody to lean on, and caught herself more than once thinking
of her loneliness and her staunch admirer, Mr. Goldthred, with tears in
her eyes!
Notwithstanding his confidence in Kate Cremorne's knowledge of the
world, I doubt whether this gentleman would have possessed strength of
mind to follow her advice had he been a free agent at the present
crisis; but it so happened that some trustee-business, with which he was
mixed up, required his personal supervision at the other end of England,
and Goldthred, _nolens volens_, was forced to absent himself temporarily
from her vicinity, who made all the sunshine, and, it must be confessed,
most of the shade, in his harmless, uneventful life. Nothing could be
more opportune than this enforced separation for furtherance of the
object on which, no doubt, his whole heart was fixed. Judicious
contrast seems in all art the secret of effect. Surprise, which has been
called the essence of wit, is also the prime element of interest.
Gentleness from a rough, firmness from an effeminate nature, constancy
where we had reason to expect change, but, above all, self-assertion
from the slave too long incarcerated and kept down, rouse us, as it
were, to a sense of our own shortsightedness in matters that most affect
our welfare, and warn us that in the affections as in other affairs of
humanity, there is no solid foundation, no security, no repose. Then we
begin to value this bird, whose wings are grown, and spread already for
a flight. Let her but soar away to disappear in the dim horizon, and all
the gold of Arabia seems inadequate to buy her back into the cage once
more. Alas! that the lightest feather from her wing should be more
precious now we have lost her than was the whole of that gentle, winsome
creature when she made her nest in our bosom, and pecked the sugar from
our lips, and perched daily in saucy security on her owner's loving
hand. Could Goldthred, closeted with lawyers and perusing deeds in a
murky manufacturing town, have appeared suddenly before the woman who
was never five minutes out of his mind, and asked in waking reality the
question he was always asking in his dreams, I think he might have made
himself secure, once for all, from the rivalry even of Sir Henry
Hallaton.
That easy-going gentleman, notwithstanding his philosophy, his good
humour, and the elastic nature of his conscience, was at present
exceedingly pre-occupied and ill at ease. One may say that he had been
dipped over head in the infernal river, as was Achilles; but like the
son of Peleus, and every other hero I ever heard of, he retained his one
vulnerable point, though it did not lie at his heel. To hit Sir Henry in
a vital place it was necessary to aim at Helen. Alas! that the bow had
not been drawn at random, nor had the arrow missed its mark!
She was composed as usual, and went about her daily occupations with
the same calm manner, the same gentle methodical firmness as before, but
to her father's loving eye there was something wanting, something amiss.
As a practised musician detects the flat tones of an instrument not
strung to concert-pitch, so the slightest discord jars on the senses of
that true affection which renders all the perceptions painfully
discerning and acute.
"You are not well, my child," said Sir Henry, one hot summer's morning
soon after the mysterious disappearance of Miss Ross, which Helen
connected instinctively with Captain Vanguard, though too proud to
inquire how far that injudicious young officer was concerned in such a
catastrophe. "You are not well, dear, and you hide it for fear of making
your old father uncomfortable. You don't go out enough, or it's this
cursed weather, or something. We must amuse you, my darling. You're
getting hipped. I'm the same myself sometimes. Did you go to the Opera
last night after all?"
"No, papa," was the answer; "I was too tired, and went to bed instead."
"Did you drive out yesterday? I met your aunt coming here to take you."
"No, papa--it was so hot."
"What are you going to do to-day?"
"Nothing, papa. I think----"
"Helen, Helen, this will never do," burst out Sir Henry, smoothing her
hair with a caress habitual to him from her childhood, a caress that
brought the tears into her large soft eyes. "You're moped, you're
miserable, and I feel as if it was my fault for being papa instead of
mamma. It _must_ be dull for you, boxed up here, dependent on your aunt
to get over the threshold, and she always was the most unpunctual person
in the world except myself. Why don't you tell _me_ when you want to go
anywhere? I'd give up every engagement, as you know. Let's do something
after luncheon. The Botanical Gardens--the Ancient Masters--even the
South Kensington Museum! There, I'm game for anything you like!"
She could not help smiling, but it was a sad, wan smile, while she
replied,
"You're very good, dear, and I'm a spoiled girl, I know; but, indeed,
I'd rather stay at home, and so I'm sure would you."
"What have you settled about the concert to-morrow?" asked her father.
"Sent an excuse."
He pondered for a moment, and an expression of considerable annoyance
crossed his face.
"I must get you out of town, Helen," said he. "The worst of it is I
can't leave London myself just now--at least, for more than a day. If I
could we'd go abroad. Paris is empty and hot; but we might get into
Normandy, have a week at Trouville, and come back by Dieppe. Would you
like _that_?"
"No, papa," she answered decidedly; but added, with hesitation, "if you
could do without me, what I should like best would be to--to go back to
Blackgrove at once."
"My _dear_ Helen!" was all his astonishment allowed him to articulate.
That a daughter of his should prefer the country to London, during the
height of the season, seemed simply inexplicable.
"My _dear_ papa!" repeated Helen, with another of those sad smiles.
"I'll go to-morrow if you don't want me here. I wish I'd never come to
London at all. The girls are so neglected when I'm away, and now we've
no governess they get into all sorts of wild ways. I don't think they
ought to be left so entirely to the servants. Lily writes me that she is
up at five every morning to milk the cows. There's no harm in milking
cows, but I think she would be better in bed, or learning her lessons.
Indeed, papa, I should be much happier at Blackgrove than here. What do
you think?"
What _did_ he think? To a deeper mind than his it might have suggested
itself that this yearning after home denoted some grievous injury, like
that of a wounded animal making for its lair to lie down and die; but he
took altogether a more practical and less romantic view of the case,
attributing Helen's indisposition to stomach rather than heart.
"If you _really_ wish it," said he. "Perhaps you are right. Early hours,
in country air, will soon set you up again, and, of course, it's a great
thing for the girls to have you with them. What a trouble they are, to
be sure!"
Sir Henry always called his eldest "my daughter," his other female
children "the girls," and his boy "the young one," as if the latter were
a two-year-old, just about to be broke.
"Then I may go to-morrow?" exclaimed Helen, almost joyfully.
"Certainly, my dear," was the answer. "I'll take you down myself, sleep
at Blackgrove, and come back next day by an afternoon train. I wish I
could stay with you, but I can't."
"Of course it would be very nice for _me_," responded Miss Helen
dutifully. "But you're not so much wanted, you know, when I'm there.
While we're both away, things do get dreadfully 'to wrongs.' Oh! papa, I
should like to go back and never leave Blackgrove again!"
With this domestic sentiment, much to his distress, astonishment, and
even alarm, she hid her face in his breast, and began to cry heartily,
emerging in a minute or so with a poor pretence of laughter, and an
excuse that the hot weather was too much for her; as if a grown woman,
with sound common sense and unusual self-command, ever cried because she
was too hot. Sir Henry felt extremely uneasy. His varied experience of
her sex had no doubt accustomed him to these ebullitions, but he had got
into the habit of considering Helen superior to the rest, and it
discomfited him sadly to find that she, too, could be weak, nervous,
and, as he firmly believed, unhappy without a cause. He tried hard to
persuade her to go to the French play that night, but Helen, wisely
enough in my opinion considering the temperature, resisted firmly, and
retired at ten o'clock.
Probably never in his life, except in a case of illness, had her father
gone to bed before midnight. Lighting a cigar, he walked into the street
and reflected which of his haunts he should visit to get rid of a couple
of hours and shake off this feeling of anxiety and depression that had
come over him about his daughter.
He was too pre-occupied for whist, and, truth to tell, even in his
brightest moments, looked on that noble pastime as a study rather than a
recreation. So he sauntered to St. James's Street, and in one club after
another sought the distraction he required in vain. There were men
enough in each, but all seemed engrossed with their own interests, their
own affairs; greeting him, indeed, with the utmost courtesy, but
volunteering no confidences, and inviting none in return. Most of them
were younger than himself, and of his few contemporaries, one was lame
from gout, another crippled with rheumatism, while a third volunteered
the disheartening opinion that "it was time for fellows of _our_
standing, my boy, to be in bed," rolling off while he thus delivered
himself, with a hoarse, asthmatic and unfeeling laugh. Sir Henry emerged
on the pavement and shook his head.
"It's no use disguising it," he confided to his cigar, "I conclude I'm
getting old; and the young ones are much more civil than they used to
be, but not half so cordial. I liked them best when they slapped one on
the back, asked one for a weed, and took all sorts of liberties. I
suppose I must be an old fellow now, because nobody ever calls me one.
It's 'Thank you, Sir Henry'--'With your permission, Sir Henry'--'Don't
sit in the draught, Sir Henry;' and two years ago, they began to put me
in the middle of the line partridge shooting, and to offer me a pony
when the others walked the stubbles in the afternoon. I'm afraid I shall
never hear a fellow say, 'Now then, Hal! Look alive, my boy!' again. If
it's really come, there's no use in fighting against it. I've a great
mind to give the whole thing up, and subside at once into an old fogie.
I would, if it wasn't for Mrs. Lascelles--there's something taking about
that woman, every now and then, she might almost make a fool of me
still--I like her so the days she doesn't like _me_--the days she does,
I don't care about her; so after all, what's the use? But she's fond of
Helen. So was that other little black-eyed devil, Miss Ross. I wonder
what has become her; I wish I could find out. Everybody's fond of Helen.
Ah! none of them are like _her_. If I could but see her thoroughly well
and in good spirits again, I shouldn't care for these cursed money
matters nor anything else. This place seems full enough. May as well go
in."
Thus ruminating on his daughter, Sir Henry's feet had carried him almost
unconsciously to the door of Pratt's, which popular resort was indeed
crowded to overflowing, so that several members had established a merry
and somewhat noisy conclave in the street.
Amongst these Picard was holding forth loudly, dispensing as usual his
excellent cigars with the utmost liberality. Catching sight of Sir
Henry, he detached himself from the circle, and taking the baronet by
the arm, walked him back a few steps into St. James's Street.
"I came here on purpose to find you," said he, "and I wondered you were
so late. I've good news! glorious news! Our shares are down again! I
was in the City all day!"
Sir Henry swore, not loud but deep.
"Good news!" he answered. "I wonder what you'd call _bad_!"
"_Good_ news," repeated Picard. "Buy more--go into it up to your neck.
I'm dipped over-head. Listen, Sir Henry, this is a real good
thing--there's not another man in London I would 'put on' but yourself;
I'd private information from the other side last week. When the mail
comes in, these Colorados will run up fifty, ay, seventy per cent.!
Don't waste a moment, but grab all you can. It will set _me_ on my legs,
and I won't lose _my_ footing again in a hurry, not if I know it! Shall
you be at home to-morrow about luncheon time?"
"To-morrow?" said the other absently. "Not to-morrow. Must be at
Blackgrove to-morrow--the next day certainly."
"Miss Hallaton is quite well, I hope?" continued Picard, lifting his hat
as if she were actually present.
"Quite well, thank you," answered Sir Henry, wishing him "good night;"
but he was engrossed with his Colorados, and did not think of telling
Picard that his daughter was going out of town.