'Yes, I am.'
'And a dean, doubtless. You will excuse my interrupting you, but I have
ventured here thinking you might like to know about a very remarkable
movement after the Truth in Italy, in the heart and centre of ignorance
and superstition. Count Caprili is the leading spirit. It is no use,
sir, as no doubt you are aware, pulling at the leaves and nipping the
extremities of the Upas, you must strike at the root, and that is what
my dear friend Count Caprili is doing. He is quite an evangelist,
inspired with the utmost enthusiasm. I have here a letter from him
descriptive of the progress the Truth is making in Rome--in Rome itself.
It is in Italian; do you read Italian, sir?'
'N--no, but, mother, can you?' to his wife.
'No, but Minny has learned it'--of a daughter, who reddened to the roots
of her fair hair and allowed that if it were in print she might make it
out.
'Never mind,' said Beaple Yeo, or Colonel Yeo as he now called himself,
'I can give you the contents in a few words. A year ago his little
congregation numbered twenty, it now counts one hundred and eighty-five,
and at times even a couple of decimals more. At this rate he reckons
that the whole of the Eternal City will have embraced the Truth in
twenty-five years and two months, unless the eagerness to embrace it
grows in geometrical instead of arithmetical progression. In Florence
and Turin the increase is even more rapid. Indeed, it may fairly be
said that Superstition is undermined, and that the whole fabric will
collapse. Between ourselves I know as a fact that the Pope when he
heard of the success of Count Caprili attempted to commit suicide, and
has to be watched day and night, he is such a prey to despair. You have
perhaps seen my letters to the Archbishop of Canterbury on the subject;
they appeared in some of the papers. Only one thing is needed to crown
the whole movement with success, and that is money. The Count has urged
me to act as his intermediary--secretary and treasurer--as regards
England and America, and I shall be most happy to forward to him any
contributions I may receive.'
'Dear me,' said the dean, 'this is most interesting. Have any of our
bishops taken up the matter?'
'In letters that I have they express the deepest interest in it.'
'I shall be most happy to subscribe a sovereign,' said the dean,
fumbling in his purse.
'And I also,' said his wife.
'And I as well,' put in his sister.
'I will note all in my book of contributions,' said Yeo, receiving the
money, and finding to his disgust that he had been given twenty-franc,
instead of twenty-shilling pieces. 'Would you mind, sir, if you go
to--as I take it for granted you will--if you go to the Hotel
Imperial----'
'Ah! we were going to the Cerf.'
'That is a very third-rate inn, hardly suitable for a dignitary of the
Church. But if you will take my card, Beaple Yeo, of the Bombay
Heavies, to the proprietor of the Hotel Imperial, he will treat you
well, and be reasonable in his charges. He is most interested in the
movement of Signor Caprili, and is a convert, but secretly; ask him
about the movement, and he will open to you; show him my card, and he
will confide his religious views to you.'
'I am most obliged. We will certainly go to the Imperial. Ah, mamma!
here we are at the landing-place.'
As Mrs. Sidebottom left the boat at the station which she called
Flue-ellen, she held out her hand to Colonel Yeo.
'I hope bygones will be bygones,' she said. 'I will take some shares in
the St. Bernard dogs--preference shares, please.'
*CHAPTER XXXVIII.*
*IN HOTEL IMPERIAL.*
Salome had found her sister at the Imperial Hotel at Andermatt. Janet
was one of those persons whose bodily condition varies with their
spirits. When depressed, she looked and indeed felt ill; when happy,
she looked and felt as if nothing were the matter with her. Janet had
been greatly tried by the double shocks of her husband's death and the
discovery of her parentage. She had been taken into the secret because
it could not be kept from her, when the man Schofield, _alias_ Beaple
Yeo, suddenly arrived at Mergatroyd, just after the flood and the
disappearance of Jeremiah Pennycomequick, at the time when she was
sharing her mother's room instead of Salome.
Mrs. Cusworth at that time was in great distress of mind at the loss of
her master and friend; and when her brother-in-law, the father of the
two girls whom she had brought up as her own, unexpectedly appeared and
asked for money and clothing, she confided her difficulty to Janet, and
between them they managed to bribe him to depart and leave them in
peace. Mrs. Cusworth had sacrificed a large slice out of her savings to
secure his departure, and trusted thereby to get rid of him for ever.
When Janet returned to France, she found everything in confusion; the
factory at Elboeuf was stopped, the men who had been employed in it had
assumed arms against the Germans, and were either shot, taken captive,
or dispersed. Her sister-in-law was almost off her head with excitement
and alarm for her children, three girls just out of school. Prussian
officers had been quartered in her house, and had carried off some of
her valuables, and ransacked the cellar for the best wines.
Janet had caught cold that night in the train when it was delayed by the
flood, on the way to Mergatroyd, and it had settled on her chest, and
left a cough that she could not shake off. Anxiety and worry had told
on her joyous disposition, and deprived it of its elasticity. She gave
way to discouragement. Her husband's affairs were unsettled, and could
not be put to rights till the war and the results of the war were over,
and the current of ordinary business commenced its sober, even flow.
She had been ordered to Mentone for the winter, and then to spend the
summer high up in the Alps, where the air was pure and bracing. She had
come, accordingly, to Andermatt, and her sister-in-law had sent her
three school-girl daughters to be with her; to look after her, Madame
Labarte had said; to be looked after by her, Janet found was expected.
They were nice enough girls, with simple minds, but it was a
responsibility imposed on Janet at a time when she required complete
relaxation from care.
At Andermatt the fresh air was rapidly restoring Janet to her normal
condition of cheerfulness, and was giving her back the health she
lacked, when her father arrived, impecunious, of course, and let her
understand that he had come there to be supported by her, and to get out
of her what he could. It would have been bad enough to have this
dreadful man there posing as her father had she been alone. It was far
worse with the three girls, her nieces, under her charge, and in her
dismay she had a relapse, and wrote off to Salome an agonizing entreaty
to come to her aid.
Janet had been left comfortably off, but till her husband's affairs were
settled it was not possible for her to tell what her income would really
amount to. The factory was again working, a competent overlooker had
been found, and a suitable working partner taken into the firm to carry
it on. In all probability Madame Baynes would be very well off, but at
present she had not much ready money at her disposal.
Mr. Schofield, or Colonel Yeo, as he pleased to call himself now, was a
different-looking man at this time to the wretched object who had
presented himself at Mergatroyd, asking for clothing and cash, rather
more than a year ago--indeed, eighteen months ago. He was well dressed,
trim, held himself erect, and assumed a military air and some pomposity,
as though the world were going well with him. He had carried away a
little, but only a very little, of the plunder from Bridlington, and he
knew very well that what he had would not last him long. It was
satisfactory to have a well-to-do daughter to fall back on, whose purse
he could dip his fingers into when they itched. But Beaple Yeo could not
be idle. He had an active mind and a ready invention, and he began
operations on his own account, partly as tout on the lake steamers for
the Hotel Imperial at Andermatt, receiving a fee for every tourist he
sent to it, and partly by his speculations in dogs and missionaries.
Janet would have run away from Andermatt, but for the three
encumbrances, whom it would not have been easy to move to a secret and
precipitate flight without explanations to them or their
mother--explanations which would have been awkward; moreover, she feared
that it would be unavailing, as her father could easily discover the way
she had gone and follow her. There were only three passes in addition
to the road up from Amsteg by which she could leave, and it would not be
possible for her to depart by any of these routes unknown to Colonel
Yeo. Her first alarm and uneasiness abated when he took himself off to
tout on the lake; and she resolved on remaining where she was till
Salome came and gave her advice what course to pursue.
Salome decided that it was the best policy to remain where they were,
and not attempt flight. She saw that her sister was suffering, and she
determined to remain with her, to protect and comfort her, and await
what the future had in store for herself. She naturally felt a great
longing to be at home with her baby, but at the same time she recognised
that the situation at home was not tolerable, that some change must take
place before she could return to Mergatroyd.
One day, Colonel Yeo was in the _salle-a-manger_ at the Hotel Imperial
preparing for _table d'hote_, when a lady entered, well dressed, dark
haired, with fine eyes, and swept up the room towards an alcove where
were small tables, at which either a party sat that desired to be alone,
or tourists not intending to dine at _table d'hote_ but _a la carte_.
She walked slowly, with a certain dignity, and attracted all eyes.
Every head was turned to observe her, and her eyes, in return, passed
over as mustering and apprising those who occupied their seats at the
table. She accepted the homage of interest she excited, as though it
were her own.
What was her age? She had arrived at that period of life at which for
some time a woman stands still--she was no girl, and no one could say
that she was _passee_.
'Waiter!' called Colonel Yeo.
'Yes, sir--in a minute, sir.'
'Who is that lady in the gray dress with red trimmings?'
'Gray dress, sir? The stout lady with the little husband?'
'Nonsense, that distinguished lady--young--there at the table in the
alcove.'
'Yes, sir--don't know, sir. Will inquire.'
Off skipped the waiter to carry round the soup, and forgot to inquire.
'Waiter!' called Colonel Yeo to another, the head _garcon_. 'Who is
that prepossessing young lady, yonder?'
'Lady, sir? Don't know her name--I have seen her often everywhere, at
Homburg, Baden-Baden, Milan.'
'What is she?'
'Do you mean of what nation, sir?--I believe American. Said to be very
rich--worth millions.'
'Worth millions!' echoed Colonel Yeo. 'Can I change my seat and get
near her?'
During dinner Colonel Yeo could not keep his eyes off her.
'Worth millions, and so good-looking!' Which would interest her
most--his dogs or his missionaries?--or could she be interested in
himself?
He called for champagne. He put one arm over the back of his chair,
held his champagne-glass in the other hand, and half turned, looked hard
at the lady. She observed his notice of her, and their eyes met. Her
eyes said as distinctly as eyes can speak, 'Look at me as much as you
will, I expect to be admired, I do not object to be admired, I freely
afford to all who take pleasure in beautiful objects the gratification
of contemplating me. But who are you?'
'Waiter,' said Beaple Yeo, calling the head garcon, 'if--by chance that
lady wants to know who I am--just say that I am Colonel Yeo, of the
Bengal Heavies--a claimant for the Earldom of Schofield.'
At a table near that occupied by the lady sat Salome, Janet, and the
three young girls Labarte. An arrangement had been come to with Yeo that
he was not to associate with them, to hold aloof, and to receive money
for doing this. He had got what he could, or could for the time being,
out of his daughter Janet, and was therefore inclined to devote his
energies to new arrivals.
'_Garcon_,' called the lady in gray and red.
'_De suite, m'selle_.'
'Who is that gentleman yonder, drinking champagne?'
'M'selle, the colonel! _c'est un milord_.'
'English?'
'But certainly.'
'Rich?'
'Rich! the colonel! rich! _Mon Dieu_! _C'est un milord Anglais_!'
'Is he staying here long?'
'Ah, m'selle! Where else could he stay? All the season.'
'What is his title?'
'_Mon Dieu_! I can't say--_Scoville_? _Scoville_? But yes, an
earl--Comte de Scoville, I believe, m'selle.'
'Waiter--should he or anyone else inquire who I am, say an American--a
millionaire, as I told you before.'
'He has already asked,' said the waiter, with a knowing look.
In the alcove where the lady sat at a table by herself was also a larger
table, as already said, occupied by Janet and her party, and the lady in
gray and red attracted the attention of the girls. These three girls
were much alike; they ranged in age from sixteen to nineteen, had dark
eyes and fresh cheeks, looked a mixture of English and French blood, and
though they spoke English with their aunt and Salome, they spoke it with
a foreign accent, and when they talked to each other naturally fell into
French.
They were not beautiful, were undeveloped girls without much character
apparently. The strange lady evidently exercised their minds, and they
looked a good deal at her, and passed low remarks to each other
concerning her. Their curiosity was roused, and when she was not at her
place they searched the visitors' book for her name, and for some
information about her.
'_Ma tante_,' pleaded the eldest, 'which do you think she is of all
these on this page?'
'_Mais_, Claudine, how can I tell?'
'Oh! _Ma tante_, do ask the waiter.'
'But why, Claudine? She does not interest me.'
'Oh, we are so puzzled about her; she looks so aristocratic and dresses
so well, and has so many changes. She must employ a Parisian milliner.
Oh, we do wish we knew where she got that charming walking-dress of gray
and gold.'
'_Garcon!_' Janet Baynes called a waiter. 'Who is the lady who sits at
this little table here?'
'Madame--a rich American, a millionaire, of New York.'
'A millionaire!'
The heads of the young ladies went together, and as the lady entered all
their eyes watched her with eagerness--so beautiful, so
distinguished-looking, so wealthy.
'What is her name, waiter?'
'Mademoiselle Du Rhame.'
'A French name?'
'Ah, madame, it stands there in the visitor's book,' and he pointed to
Artemisia Durham, Chicago, U.S.A.
It was not possible for the American lady to fail to observe the
interest she excited in the young girls. She saw their heads go
together, then fly apart when she appeared; at table she caught their
dark eyes watching her, and when they saw that they were noticed, away
flew their eyes like scared birds. Miss Durham condescended to look at
the girls with a half smile; she did not object to their admiration, and
she did not court it.
What was more remarkable than the interest awakened in those children
was that which she certainly aroused in Salome. There was a something,
a mystery, a fascination in the woman that held Salome and drew her
towards the stranger. She felt that this woman was her reverse in every
particular, a woman with experience and knowledge of the world, with a
power of making herself agreeable when she chose, and to whomsoever she
chose. Salome had spent her life in a very narrow sphere, had made few
acquaintances, had not had wide interests, and though she was well
educated, had no extended range of ideas. Her position had ever been
uncertain; she had been neither a member of the lower artisan class, nor
accepted as an equal by those belonging to the upper class--that is, the
employing class in Mergatroyd. Her mother had been housekeeper to Mr.
Pennycomequick, and consequently she had not been received as a lady by
such as regarded themselves as the ladies of Mergatroyd--the
manufacturers' wives and daughters, and those of the doctor, and the
solicitor, and the parson. This ambiguity of position had in one manner
made her strong and independent in character, but in another, timid and
reserved. Where she knew she had duties to perform, there she acted
without hesitation; but in social matters, in everything connected with
life in the cultured world, with its fashions and etiquettes, she was
doubtful and uncomfortable. She was now in the presence of a woman who
moved with self-consciousness and assurance in that very sphere in which
Salome was bewildered; consequently she watched Miss Durham with wonder,
interest, and a desire to know her, and wrest her secret from her. That
she was a good woman and worth knowing, deserving of confidence and
regard, Salome never doubted. Guileless herself, she believed everyone
else to be without guile.
When Janet Baynes thought that the girls had been too forward, almost
discourteous in staring at the stranger, she looked apologetically at
Miss Durham, who met the look with a smile that said, plainly as words,
'Allow them to stare at me--it amuses them and does not hurt me--they
may profit by a study of me. Queens of beauty, of fashion, or of wealth
expect to be looked at.' Then Mrs. Baynes smiled in reply, and her
smile said, 'Indeed, I cannot wonder at these girls admiring you, for
you are deserving of admiration.'
Whether this conversation of glances would have gone any further may be
doubted, had it not been that the French-speaking waiter who had
attended on the ladies, disappeared. Whether he was taken ill, or
whether, caught doing wrong, he had been dismissed, or whether he had
been enticed elsewhere by a higher wage, nobody knew and nobody cared to
ask. Waiters are no more thought about by guests than are the mules and
horses employed on expeditions. He was succeeded by a German, or
German-Swiss who could not speak French, and only an unintelligible
English; and the demoiselles Labarte and Madame Baynes on principle
would not have asked for a bit of bread in German had they known how to
do so. Salome knew little or no German, and the ladies were in
difficulties. Claudine was out of sorts--somewhat feverish, but nothing
serious--and her aunt advised that she should drink _orgeat_ instead of
wine. The waiter was puzzled. '_Ach! eine Drekorgel. Freilich,
freilich, bestelle gleich,_' and he rushed off to find an organ-grinder
with a marmot.
Then Miss Durham good-naturedly interfered, allayed the wrath of the
ladies at the inherent Teutonic stupidity which never can do right, and
ordered what was really required.
The _orgeat_ broke the ice, conversation began, and next day the
American lady was seated at the same table as the Labartes, with Salome
and Janet. It would be impossible for the latter to get on with the
stupid, stubborn German waiter, unassisted by someone who was able to
speak and understand the language of barbarians. At first there was but
the exchange of ordinary courtesies, but now that the three girls were
able to speak to the stranger, they hardly contained their attentions
within ordinary bounds; they rivalled each other who should gain
pre-eminent favour with the lady who wore such charming toilettes.
The girls were triumphant; they had formed the acquaintance; that was
the one advantage that grew out of a German waiter. Salome was pleased
she could now learn of this brilliant accomplished woman; and Janet was
satisfied because she was feeling dull herself, and wanted a lively
companion to relieve the tedium.
Miss Durham had plenty to say for herself. She was clever, amusing,
interesting. She had seen much of the world--knew most watering-places,
baths, and health-resorts in Europe. The meals, which had passed
somewhat heavily before, now became gatherings full of liveliness.
Janet brisked up, felt better in health and looked quite well, proposed
excursions and schemed picnics. The whole party now found so much to
talk about that they were reluctant to leave the table. Suddenly a
pallor and tremor came over Mrs. Baynes. She looked up. Beaple Yeo was
standing, white hat in hand, with the puggaree trailing on the floor,
near the table.
'I take the liberty,' he said; 'introduce me.'
Janet looked at Salome, and Salome at Janet.
'I see,' said Yeo; 'my relatives are in doubt how to introduce me whilst
my claim is being presented in the Upper House. Call me Colonel Yeo, of
the Bengal Heavy Dragoons. Hang my title! I shall find the coronet
heavy enough when it is fitted to my brow; the eight pearls--eight
pearls; and as many strawberry-leaves--strawberry-leaves. I will not
assume my title till it is adjudged to me by the House of Lords. You
know your history of England. The attainder was for rebellion, and I
now reassert my claim to the Earldom of Schofield.'
'And I,' said the American lady, 'am Artemisia Durham, of Chicago.'
*CHAPTER XXXIX.*
*TWO WOMEN.*
'You will excuse me, I know you will,' said Yeo, looking from one to
another, but especially at the American, 'but I have just been informed
that there are chamois visible on a mountain shoulder, high, high, high
up--and as there is an excellent telescope--a telescope--outside, I
thought I would make so bold as to interrupt an animated conversation to
bring to your notice this interesting fact.'
'Thank you--I do not wish to see chamois,' said Salome slowly and
coldly.
'Nor I--I do not care to expose myself to the sun,' said Janet.
'Oh, aunt! oh, aunt! But they are so shy, so rare!' from the three
Labarte girls.
'Really, for my part,' said Miss Durham, 'I am curious to see them.
Though I have been before in the Alps I have never had the good
fortune----'
'Then allow me to conduct you!' exclaimed Colonel Yeo gallantly.
'Thank you, sir, I can find the telescope myself,' answered the American
lady. Then, to her companions: 'You will excuse my running off. I
really am desirous of seeing chamois.'
She sailed through the _salle-a-manger_, with Beaple Yeo prancing after
her, hat in hand, and puggaree waving. The Labartes looked at their
aunt pleadingly.
'Very well, girls; if you wish, go after Miss Durham,' and away
scampered the three.
'Oh, Salome!' sighed Janet, 'I cannot bear him! He promised not to
interfere with us.'
Salome sighed also. 'We must bear with him a little longer. He will
find this place dull and take himself off.'
'But, Salome, what does he mean about being Earl of Schofield? About
the pearls and strawberry-leaves?'
'Money--of course--always money.'
'I wish I had not let the girls go after him--to the telescope.'
'It is a pity--but Miss Durham is there.'
'Yes, and with her they are safe. You like her?'
'I admire her. I think I like her. If I were a man I should fall madly
in love with her, but----'
'But what, Salome?'
'My dear, I don't know.'
In the meantime Beaple Yeo was adjusting the telescope, peering through
it, and pressing on Miss Durham to look just at one point. 'Ah!
quick--before they move.' Then asking if the sight were right, peering
again, wiping the lens with his silk handkerchief, and finally when
either the chamois had disappeared, or the focus could not be got right,
abandoning the telescope altogether to the three girls.
'One, two, three churches here,' said Mr. Yeo. 'And one a pilgrimage
chapel. You have perhaps seen some friars in snuff-coloured habits
prowling about. Shocking, is it not? Signor Caprili--you have heard of
the extraordinary efforts he is making to spread the Truth, the naked
Truth--I mean, I beg pardon, the unvarnished Truth. Are you interested
in missionary enterprise?'
'Not in the least. Superstition is charmingly picturesque. How
gracefully those towers and spires stand out against the mountains! And
that chapel perched on a rock. I would not have it abolished for the
world. We have not such things in America--we come to the Old World to
see them.'
'Then, perhaps dogs,' said Yeo. 'You are interested in Mount St.
Bernard dogs, and would, no doubt, like to introduce one across the
ocean to your fellow-countrywomen. Magnificent creatures, and so noble
in character! How their heroism, their self-sacrifice, their
generosity, stand out in contrast with our petty human vices! Verily I
think we might with advantage study the dog. I do not mind confiding to
you, madam, that a colossal scheme is on foot for the establishment of
an emporium of these noble creatures, and that money only is needed to
float it.'
'I assure you,' said Miss Durham, 'I am not in the least interested in
dogs.'
'Not as a speculation?'
'Not even as a speculation.
Beaple Yeo was silenced.
'Excuse me,' said Miss Durham, 'you were saying something about
strawberry-leaves--the wild Alpine strawberry is delicious.'
'Oh! you misunderstand me,' said Yeo, elevating himself to his full
height, removing his hat, shaking the puggaree, and putting on his hat
again; 'I was alluding to the coronet of an earl to which I lay claim.'
'Then you are not an earl yet?'
'I am not one, and yet I am one. The earldom of Schofield was
attaindered--attaindered at the Jacobite rebellion. My
great-grandfather took the wrong side and suffered accordingly--suffered
ac--cor--ding--ly. The attainder was but for a while. Preston Pans was
1745; Culloden, 1746, April the sixteenth, and my great-grandfather's
attainder next year, attainder for one hundred and twenty-five
years--which lapses this year, one eight seven two. The earldom is
secure--I have but to take it up--to take it up; in other words resume
it, and Beaple Yeo is Earl Schofield.'
Salome and Janet appeared to call the three girls to them, and were a
little surprised to find the colonel and the American young lady already
on intimate terms. They were seated on a bench, side by side, and
Colonel Yeo was gesticulating with his hand, and whisking his puggaree
in explanation of the Schofield peerage claim; was following the
genealogical tree on the palm of one hand with the finger of the other;
was waving away objections with his hat, and clenching arguments by
clapping both hands on his knees. He was a man so richly endowed by
nature with imagination that he could not speak the truth. There are
such men and women in the world--to whom romance and rhodomontade is a
necessity, even when no object is to be gained by saying what is not
true. Some people embroider on a substratum of fact, but Beaple Yeo;
and others of the like kidney, spin the threads and then weave their own
canvas out of their own fancies, and finally embroider thereon as
imagination prompts.
Darkness set in, that night as on every other, and most of the tourists
had retired to bed, wearied with their walks and climbs, and those
tarrying at Andermatt had also gone into the uncomfortable Swiss-German
beds, tired with having nothing to do. Only two were awake, in separate
wings of the hotel. One was Salome, the other the American stranger.
Salome had two candles lighted on the table, and had been writing to
Philip. She sat now, looking through the open window at the starry sky,
with pen in hand, uncertain how to continue her letter. She wrote to
her husband every few days, and expected from him, what she received
without fail, letters informing her of the health and progress of the
baby. His letters were formal and brief. When about to write he visited
the nursery, inquired whether there were particulars to be sent to Mrs.
Pennycomequick, and wrote verbatim the report of the nurse. Salome had,
indeed, only received two letters, and the last had surprised and
overwhelmed her. It contained news of the reappearance of Mr. Jeremiah.
Her delight had been exceeding; its excess was now passed, and she sat
wondering what would be the result of this return on the fortunes of
Philip, and on their relations to each other. Philip's letter had been
silent on both these points. He merely stated that his uncle had
returned, was in robust health, and added a brief account of the
circumstances of his escape and recovery. Not a word in his letter
about his desire to see her again, not a hint that he was ready to
forgive the wrong unintentionally done him. Both letters were stiff and
colourless as if they had been business epistles, and many tears had
they called from Salome's eyes.
Very different were her letters to him. Without giving utterance to her
love, every line showed that her heart yearned for her husband, her
baby, and for home. She wrote long letters, hoping to interest him in
what she and her sister were about; she described the scenery, the novel
sights, the flowers--she even enclosed two forget-me-nots with a wish
that he would lay one on her baby's lips. She made no allusion to the
past, and she did not tell him of her present trouble with Beaple Yeo,
her father. She shrank from informing him that the man he hated was at
Andermatt, the terror and distress of her sister and herself. She had
written a letter to Uncle Jeremiah, to enclose in that to her husband,
and in that was not an expression which could lead him to imagine that
her husband was estranged from her. She left this note open, that
Philip might look at it if he pleased, before delivering it. She had
broken off in the midst of her letter to Philip to write this, and now
she resumed the writing to her husband. She was describing the hotel
guests, and had come to an account of the Chicago heiress. She had
written about her beauty, her eyes, her carriage, her reputed wealth,
only her dresses she did not describe, she knew they would not interest
a man. Then she proceeded to give some account of her qualities of mind
and heart, and thereat her pen was stayed. She knew nothing of either.
She had imagined a good deal--but positively had no acquaintance with
the lady on which to form an opinion.
What was there in the lady that so fascinated her? She was attracted to
her, she felt the profoundest admiration for her--and yet she was unable
to explain the reason of the attraction. It was the consciousness that
in this stranger were faculties, experiences, knowledge she had not--it
was an admiration bred of wonder. She had no ambition to be like her,
and she was not envious of her--but she almost worshipped her, because
she was strong in everything that she, Salome, was weak. That she was,
or might be weak in everything wherein Salome was strong never occurred
to her humble mind. Then, still holding her pen, and still looking
dreamily into the night sky, Salome passed in thought to her own
situation, rendered doubly difficult by her father having attached
himself to her sister. She could not desert Janet under the
circumstances. She must be at her side to protect her from his rapacity
and insolence. And yet she yearned with all the hunger of a mother's
heart for her baby, that she might clasp it to her and cover its
innocent face and hands and feet with kisses. And Philip----. She loved
him also, with the calm unimpassioned love that springs out of duty.
She had liked him since first she saw him, and the liking had developed
into love--a quiet, homely love, without hot fire in it, and yet a true,
steady, honest love. She could not believe that her husband mistrusted
her assurance that she had not knowingly deceived him. She did not know
which was the most potent force acting on his mind--hatred of the man
who was her father and anger at being unwittingly brought into
relationship with him, or dread of the scandal that might come of the
knowledge of the relationship. She had no confidence that her father
would not become again involved in some disgraceful fraud which would
bring his name before the public; and this dread, of course, must weigh
on Philip as well. Beaple Yeo had already attempted to express money out
of her. She was the wife of a rich Yorkshire manufacturer, and Janet
was the widow of a rich Normandy manufacturer. He looked upon both as
squeezable persons, only at first his efforts to squeeze had been
directed upon Janet, who had not a husband to oppose him. Salome,
however, saw that he would not be at rest till he had extorted money
from Philip through her, and the dread of this kept her in constant
unrest. How--she now asked herself, or the stars at which she was
looking--how would the return of Jeremiah affect Philip's position and
relieve her of this fear? If Jeremiah resumed the factory, then Philip
would be no longer wealthy, and a prey for her father to fall upon.
As she sat thus, thinking and looking at the stars, so in the furthest
wing of the same house was Artemisia Durham, also thinking and looking
at the stars. She had extinguished her lights, and stood at the window.
She was partly undressed, her dark hair flowed about her shoulders, and
her arms were bare. She had her elbow resting on the window-sill, and
her chin was nestled into her palm, her fingers clenched on her lips.
Her brows were contracted into a scowl. The face was no longer set,
haughty in its beauty, and yet with a condescending smile; it was now
even haggard, and over it contending emotions played in the starlight,
altering its expression, unresisted, undisguised.
She thought of the admiration she had excited in the schoolgirls, and in
their elders, the two ladies in deep mourning. A flicker of contempt
passed over her countenance.
What was the admiration of three half-grown girls to her? Salome had
attracted her notice more than Janet. She had observed Salome, whilst
unseen by her, and thought she had made out her character--ordinary,
duty-loving, conscientious, narrow. A character of all others most
distasteful to Artemisia. She put her hands to her brow and pressed them
about it. 'So, so,' she muttered. 'To have always an iron crown
screwed tight round the brain. Insufferable!'
Then she shivered. The night air was cold in the Alps at that
elevation. She fetched a light shawl of Barege wool and wrapped it
round her, over her bare arms, and leaned both elbows of the folded arms
on the window. Her thoughts again recurred to Salome, and she tried to
scheme out the sort of life that would commend itself to such as she--a
snug English home, with a few quiet, respectable servants, and a quiet,
respectable gardener; a respectable and quiet husband, and a pony-trap,
in the shafts of which trotted a quiet and respectable cob; improving
magazines and sober books read in the house; occasional dull parties
given, at which the clergy would predominate, and sing feeble songs and
talk about their parishes; and then one or two quiet, respectable
children would arrive who would learn their lessons exactly, and strum
on the piano at their scales. Artemisia's lips curled with disgust.
Her hands clenched under the shawl, and she uttered an exclamation of
anger and loathing.
And what, she considered, had she herself to look to? She gazed
dreamily at the stars, and tears rose in her eyes and trickled down her
cheeks. Then, ashamed of her weakness, she left the window and paced
her room--up and down, up and down--and it was as though through the
open window, out of the night, streamed in dark forms, ugly
recollections, uncomfortable thoughts, that crowded the room, filled
every corner, occupied every nook--came in thicker, and darker, and more
horrible, and she went to the window with a gasp of fear and shut out
the night wind and the gleam of the stars, hoping at the same time to
stop the entry of those haunting memories and hideous shapes.
The street window would not shut them out; the room was full of them,
and their presence oppressed her. She could endure them no more. She
struck a light and kindled the candles in the room.
What was that on her dressing-table? Only a little glass full of wild
strawberry-leaves and fruit one of the admiring Labarte girls had picked
and given to her and insisted on her taking to her room.
Artemisia laughed. She took the strawberries out of the water. She
unclasped a necklet that was about her throat on which were Roman
pearls. She put it around her head, and thrust the strawberry-leaves in
between the pearls, then looked at herself in the glass and laughed, and
as she laughed all the shadow-figures and ghostly recollections went
tumbling one over the other out of the room by the keyhole, leaving her
alone laughing, part ironically, part triumphantly, before the glass,
looking at herself in her extemporized coronet.
*CHAPTER XL.*
*TWO MEN.*
If Jeremiah Pennycomequick supposed that he could slip back into the old
routine of work without attracting much attention, and without
impediment, he was quickly undeceived. His reappearance in Mergatroyd
created a profound sensation. Everyone wanted to see him, and everyone
had a hearty word of welcome. He was surprised at the amount of feeling
that was manifested. He had lived to himself, seen little society,
nevertheless he suddenly discovered that he had been popular. Everyone
with whom he had been connected in however small a way respected him,
and showed real pleasure at his return. The men at the mill--factory
hands--would shake hands again and yet again, their honest and somewhat
dirty faces shining with good will; the factory girls came about him
with dancing eyes and 'Eh! but ah'm reet fain to see thee back agin!'
The little tradespeople in Mergatroyd--the chemist, the baker, the
grocer, ran out of their shops when he passed, to give a word of
congratulation. The brother manufacturers--those who had been rivals
even--called to see him and express their pleasure. The wives also
dropped in--they could not await the chance of seeing him, they must
come to his house and both see the man returned from the dead, and learn
from his own lips why he had made them all believe he had perished. To
all he gave the same account--he had been ill, and when he recovered
found that he was already adjudged dead, and he resolved not to
undeceive his relatives till he had seen how his nephew 'framed'--that
is the word he used--an expressive Yorkshire word that means the fitting
and shaping of a man for a place new to him.
Near Mergatroyd was a spring of water called 'California.' It had its
origin thus. The owner of a field fancied there was coal beneath the
surface, and he hired borers who perforated the several strata that
underlay his turf till they were stopped by the uprush of water, that
played like a fountain for many months and remained as a permanent
spring. The owner had made great boast of the fortune he was going to
make out of his coal mine, and when he came on nothing but water the
people nick-named this spring California. But it was no ordinary
spring; the water was so charged with gas that when a little match was
held to it, flames flashed, and flickered about it. The water was so
soft as to be in great request for tea-making. 'Eh,' said an old woman,
'Californey water be seah (so) good, tha wants nowt but an owd kettle
and t'water to mak' th' best o' tea.'
It seemed to Jeremiah as if he had tapped a California, a fountain of
sweet, flashing, abounding affection. He was moved, flattered by it,
and greatly surprised, for it was wholly unanticipated. He was ignorant
what he had done to occasion it.
But, indeed, a great deal of genuine regard and attachment grows
imperceptibly about a man who has lived for a long time in a place
without making any demands on his neighbours; has been just, reliable,
and blameless in life. All this latent regard now manifested itself.
Philip was still in the house of his uncle a week after the reappearance
of the latter. Jeremiah had not been able to go through the accounts
and examine the condition of the business as thoroughly as he had
intended. He had been distracted by visitors, and his mind unsettled by
absence and by astonishment and gratification at the manifestation of
good-will provoked by his return. He had said nothing more to Philip
about leaving; Philip, however, had been in the little town inquiring
for lodgings, but could find nothing that would suit. In that small
place it was not usual for furnished lodgings to be let. There was
indeed a set of rooms over the baker's, but they were overrun by
cockroaches; at the chemist's were two vacant rooms, but no
accommodation for the nurse and baby. Then he had to face another
difficulty: the nurse was young and good-looking, and there was no
saying what scandal might be aroused by his migrating to lodgings with
this nurse, if his wife did not return to him. At the draper's there
were rooms, but they had a north aspect, and looked cold and damp.
There was a cottage, unfurnished, he might take, but that adjoined a
shoddy mill, and the atmosphere was clouded with 'devil's dust,'
injurious to the lungs. Moreover, how could he purchase furniture when
he had no money? His condition was uncertain, his prospects undefined,
and he shrank from speaking to his uncle about them till Jeremiah had
made his thorough investigation of the state of the business and had
matured his opinion on Philip's management of it. Perhaps, also,
Jeremiah had not as yet decided on what was to be done with regard to
his nephew, and it would be injudicious to press him to a decision. In
the meantime the uncertainty was distressing to Philip.
He read his wife's letters with mingled feelings. He could decide
nothing with respect to her till his own future was made clear to him.
He still harboured his resentment against the imposition, and, though he
now no longer thought that Salome had been privy to it, he could not
surmount the repugnance evoked by the fact of being related to that
unprincipled rogue, Schofield. He was alive to the danger of such an
alliance. Schofield was not the man to neglect the advantages to be
gained by having a son-in-law--a man of character, position and
substance. If Philip sank to being a mere clerk the fellow would be an
annoyance no more, but as he prospered, and in proportion as he made his
way, gained the respect of his fellow-men, and enlarged his means, so
would his difficulties with Schofield increase. The fellow would be a
nuisance to him continually. If Schofield made himself amenable to the
law, then his own connection with the daughter of a man in prison or a
convict, would be a reproach and a scandal. If the scoundrel were at
large, he would be an annoyance from which he never could hope to shake
himself free.
The letters from his wife did not please him. Clearly Janet was not so
ill as had been represented to him; not so ill as to require her sister
there, especially as she had three nieces with her. He was
uncomfortable without his wife--he was uncomfortable because his future
was vague, and he associated the annoyance this caused him with her
absence, and put it, unconsciously, to her account. He did not consider
what his own conduct had been, and how he had almost driven her from the
house and from her child, and he found fault with her for deserting him
and the babe so readily on a frivolous excuse.
No doubt Salome was enjoying herself; she was so full of admiration over
the scenery, the flowers, so struck with the variety of life she met
with. What did she think of his situation without certain prospects? A
nice party they formed at Andermatt--the five ladies--and Janet was well
enough to enjoy excursions. The efforts Salome made to interest him
annoyed him. He did not want to be interested; he resented her taking
interest in what she saw.
And then, what about this stranger, this American lady, travelling by
herself, with her pretty becoming dresses, who had attached herself to
the party? Who was she? What were her belongings? What her character?
Salome had no right to form a friendship, hardly an acquaintance,
without first consulting him. It was very doubtful whether a lady,
young and beautiful, who travelled alone, was a desirable person to
know; it was by no means unlikely that Salome would find out, when too
late, that she had associated herself, and drawn the three Labarte girls
into acquaintanceship with a woman who ought to be kept at a distance.
Ladies travelling alone should invariably be regarded with suspicion.
Ladies never ought to be alone--unmarried ones, he added hastily,
remembering that he had allowed his own wife to make the journey to
Andermatt unprotected. Unmarried ladies belong to families, and travel
with their mothers or aunts, or some female relation; if quite young
they go about in flocks with their governess. Single ladies! He shook
his head. Salome really was inconsiderate. She acted on impulse,
without thought. If she had been forced into conversation with this
person she should have maintained her distance, and next day have
contented herself with a bow, and the day after have been short-sighted,
and not observed her at all. That was how he had behaved towards male
acquaintances whom he did not think worth cultivating as friends.
Acquaintances can always be dropped. The hand can be rigid when grasped
for a shake, or can be twisting an umbrella, or be behind the back, or
in a pocket.
Salome should have considered in making friends that there were others
to be thought of besides herself, and that he radically disapproved of
association with persons unattached.
In the last of the three letters he had received from his wife a whole
side had been taken up with description of the single lady; it was
obvious that this person, whoever she was, had set herself to gain
influence over Salome, whilst Salome, inexperienced, was unable to
resist, and the purpose of the stranger she did not divine. He became
irritated at the expressions used by his wife concerning this
fascinating stranger. He entertained a growing aversion for her. He was
quite sure that she was not a proper person for Salome to associate
with.
He took up the letter, and putting his hands behind his back, paced the
room. He was thoroughly out of humour with himself and with his wife,
and as it never occurred to him that he should vent his dissatisfaction
on himself, he poured it out on Salome.
A tap at the door, and following the tap in came Jeremiah.
'Look here!' exclaimed the old man as he entered. 'Here is a pretty
kettle of fish. When is Salome returning?'
'I do not know,' answered Philip stiffly.
'Have you heard from her?'
'I have.'
'And she says nothing about returning?'
'Not a word. She seems to be enjoying the Alpine air and scenery--and
making friends.' There was a tone of bitterness in these last words.
'But--she must return,' said Jeremiah. 'There is an upset of the whole
bag of tricks. What do you suppose has happened?'
'I have not the least idea.'
'The cook had fits yesterday; that was why the dinner was spoiled. She
has fits again to-day, and there will be no dinner at all. She has
turned the servants out of the kitchen; they are sitting on the kitchen
stairs, and she is storming within--and--I am convinced that the fits
are occasioned by brandy. I sent her some yesterday when I was told she
was in convulsions, and that was adding fuel to fire. It is a case of
D.T., I fear. There is a black cat in the kitchen--or she thinks so,
and is hunting it, throwing kettles and pots and pans at it--has smashed
the windows, and most of the crockery. The maids are frightened. I
have sent for the police; come with me. We must break open the kitchen
door, and seize and bind the mad creature.'
'It will put us in a somewhat ridiculous position,' said Philip. 'Had
we not better wait till the constable arrives, and hand her over
formally to him?'
'And in the meantime allow her to smash everything the kitchen contains.
Come on.'
The old man led the way, and Philip, first plucking at his shirt-collars
to make sure they were right, followed. They found, as Jeremiah had
said, the servants on the steps that descended to the kitchen. The nurse
was also there.
'How came you here?' asked Philip--'and baby, too!--is this a place for
him? Go back to the nursery.'
There was indeed an uproar in the kitchen. The cook was as one mad,
howling, cursing, dashing about and destroying everything she could lay
hand on--like the German Polter-geist.
Jeremiah burst the door open, and the two men entered.
Fortunately for Philip's dignity, the constable arrived at the same
time, and the crazy woman was without difficulty and disarrangement of
Philip's collars, controlled and conveyed to her bedroom.
As the party of men with their redfaced captive ascended the steps from
the kitchen, Philip caught sight of the nurse and baby again. The
former had disobeyed his orders; it was perhaps too much to expect of
her to retire beyond sight of the drama enacted in the kitchen. Philip
gave her notice to leave.
'This would never have happened had Salome been here,' said Jeremiah.
'And this is not all; that woman has found means of getting to my
cellar, and she has drunk herself into this condition on my best whisky
and brandy. I have only just discovered the ravages she has made.'
'I gave you the cellar key.'
'Yes; but she had another that fitted the lock. I have had Mrs. Haigh
here; she has opened my eyes to a thing or two. Are you aware that the
parlour-maid and my traveller Tomkins have been carrying on pretty fast?
She asked leave to go to a funeral on Sunday, and went instead with
Tomkins to Hollingworth Lake. They were seen there together in a boat.'
'There is something wrong,' said Philip, 'something I do not understand,
about the washing. I do not know whether any account is kept of what
goes to the wash, but I am quite sure that the wash consumes as much as
it restores. I am reduced this week to one pocket-handkerchief. I
cannot understand it. If I had had an influenza cold during the last
fortnight I could see some reason for my being short this week, but
conceive the awkwardness of having only one. And then my socks. They
come back full of holes. I used not to wear them into great chasms--at
least not since I have been here; now they return as of old when I was
in furnished lodgings--only fit to be employed as floor-cloths.'
'I'll tell you what, Philip. Salome must return. I have been told by
Mrs. Haigh that she saw your nursemaid take the baby only yesterday to
Browne's Buildings, and there is scarlet-fever in several of the
cottages there.'
'I have dismissed her.'
'Who? Salome?'
'No, the nurse.'
'But the mischief is done. She was there yesterday. I do not know how
many days it takes for scarlet-fever to incubate, but that the child
will have it I have very little doubt. Why, she went into Rhode's
cottage where they have had five down with it, and two of them died.
The rest are just in that condition of healing when infection is most to
be feared. I heard this from Mrs. Haigh.'
'Good heavens!' Philip was frightened.
'Then,' continued Jeremiah, 'I do not suppose you are aware that Essie,
the nursemaid, has been wearing your wife's jewellery. She had the
audacity to appear in church on Sunday with a pretty Florentine mosaic
brooch that I gave Salome many years ago. Mrs. Haigh saw it and
recognised it.'
Philip fidgeted in his chair. 'I see,' said he, 'I was wrong in not
speaking or coughing the other night, or I might have sneezed, but I
lacked the moral courage. I felt unwell and had a sick headache, and
without saying anything to anyone I went to bed immediately after
dinner. I may have been in bed half an hour and had dozed off when I
was roused by seeing a light. I opened my eyes and observed Essie at
the dressing-table. She had come into the room, not dreaming I was
there, and she was trying on Salome's bonnets, I suppose the best,
putting her head on this side, then on that, and studying the effect at
the glass. I did not cough or sneeze, as I ought. I allowed her to
leave the room in ignorance that she had been seen. I cannot remember
now whether she went off with the bonnet on her head, or whether she
replaced it. I did not announce my presence, because I was in bed, and
I thought that my situation was even less dignified than hers. But I
see, now, I ought to have coughed or sneezed.'
'Philip, we shall get into an awful muddle unless Salome returns.'
Philip said nothing.
'Now look here,' continued Jeremiah. 'I have heard that you have been
looking out for lodgings. If you are going to live by yourself, that is
tolerable; but if you choose to have your wife with you, you can live
here and manage the factory and the house for me. I am tired of the
drudgery of business, and I cannot, and will not, be worried to death by
servants. I must have someone who will look after the factory for me,
and someone who will attend to the house.'
'It would be best for Salome to return, but I am not sure that she is
willing. She seems to be enjoying herself vastly.'
'Go after her; surprise her. Take the baby. Spend a month there and
then return. Bring Janet back as well, if she cares to come.'
'Perhaps that will be best,' mused Philip. 'Things have become very
uncomfortable without her--only one pocket-handkerchief, and my socks
only get to be taken as floor-cloths.'
'Of course it is best. As soon as possible go, and don't return without
her.'
*CHAPTER XLI.*
*ONE POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.*
Philip Pennycomequick was on his way to Andermatt. He had come to an
understanding with Uncle Jeremiah. His comfort, his well-being for the
future depended on Salome. The old man had taken a fancy to spend his
winters abroad, and he had no wish to remain tied to his business in
smoky Mergatroyd. He was quite ready to make it over to Philip, but
then Philip must first be reconciled to his wife, and bring her home to
hold rule over the house. A Swiss nurse had been found ready to take
the child and accompany Philip to Andermatt.
Philip did not travel in the same carriage as the nurse and child, but
he saw to their lacking nothing. He occupied a compartment of a
first-class carriage by himself, and thought a good deal about himself
and his wife. And--first--it was particularly annoying to have only one
pocket-handkerchief. The strictest inquiries had been made, but not
more than the one in use could be discovered. The washerwoman insisted
that she had received none, and the housemaid protested that she had
given a dozen. Between the two they had disappeared, and Philip was
obliged to purchase a half-dozen fresh silk ones; he would not buy more
because he was resolved to get, with his wife's aid, at the bottom of
the mystery, and recover the lost pocket-handkerchiefs, wherever they
were. Unfortunately he was not aware how many he had had originally; but
Salome knew--she had taken count of all his clothing, knew the number of
his socks and also of his pocket-handkerchiefs. There was some excuse
for the havoc wrought among the former, for the friction of boot heels
and soles does destroy the texture of worsted socks, but no rubbing of
noses injures the grain of silk pocket-handkerchiefs.
'I know,' said Philip, as the train drew up at Thionville, 'I know that
when one has a cold, the secretion is acrid, but it is not sulphuric
acid to burn holes in pocket-handkerchiefs. What? Turn out here, and
have one's boxes examined? I will come to the bottom of that
disappearance of pocket-handkerchiefs. I am put to intolerable
discomfort. I hate wiping my nose with silk till it has been washed
three or four times and become flexible, and has lost its harshness--it
irritates the mucous membrane. I am going through, _voyez mon billet_!
What nonsense examining one's baggage here! Salome will know how many
handkerchiefs I had. I am glad I am going to Andermatt; it will set my
mind at rest, and I can have these hateful new handkerchiefs washed
there.'
But other matters occupied Philip's mind. He had his wife's
letters--the last two--in his pocket, and he re-read them; the jolting
of the train, the flicker of the light in the lamp overhead, made the
reading difficult, and predisposed him to take umbrage at her
expressions. What especially annoyed him was her praise of her new
friend, the American lady, and it gave him satisfaction to conjure up
before his imagination the scene of introduction of himself to her, and
to picture himself, with frigid courtesy looking at her, raising his
hat, stiffly bowing, and with cold words giving her to understand that
her friendship with his wife was against his wishes, and must be
discontinued. The places at _table d'hote_, he supposed, were arranged
according to priority. He would inform the waiter that as he came last,
all his belongings, his wife, his sister-in-law, and her nieces must
relinquish their seats and come down to the end of the table by
him--that would separate his party from the ambiguous stranger. If,
after dinner, she came to speak to his wife, he would offer Salome his
arm and ask her to come a stroll alone with him.
There were many ways in which this person might be given to understand
that she was no longer desired as an associate. A feeble sense of pity
for her in her confusion at being shaken off stirred in his heart, and
then died away.
He had not written to announce his intention of coming with the baby to
Andermatt. He intended to surprise Salome. There would be something
flattering to himself in the change of colour, the delight that would
spring up in her eyes, the cry of recognition--then the humble
hesitation, awaiting his permission to spring into his arms.
Throughout the journey Philip maintained his connection with the baby,
though keeping it at a distance, as the sun holds the earth and swings
it round it, but never allows the earth to approach it too closely. And
as the moon revolves about the earth, so did the Swiss nurse dance
attendance on Philip the Little, rotating also, of course, about Philip
the Great.
On board the steamer, on the lake, Philip saw a gentleman in light suit,
with helmet cap, surrounded by a puggaree, who attached himself to
several groups of tourists, and showed them his blackened watch, or
discoursed on the great evangelist of Italy, Signor Count Caprili; or on
his scheme for rearing Mount St. Bernard dogs. He at once recognised
the man, and he caught the fellow's eye on him; but Beaple Yeo made no
attempt to renew acquaintance till Philip was in a carriage to make the
ascent from Amsteg by the Devil's Bridge to Andermatt, when he jumped
into the same vehicle, and held out his hand with a boisterous jollity.
'How d'ye do--do, Pennycomequick? Delighted to see you. Will find my
daughter right and flourishing at the Hotel Imperial. Of course, you go
there. I was nearly killed at all of the others. Look at my silver
watch-case--turned black with sulphuretted hydrogen. But, of course,
you go where Sal is. Good girl! excellent girl! You made a first-rate
choice when you took her, and you have my blessing. Mercy on me, that is
my grandchild, I presume. To think of it--I a grandfather! If you will
do me a favour, my boy, you will say nothing about our relationship. I
don't want to be looked upon as a grandpa. Bless me! at my time of life
a grandpa! I'll share the carriage with you--pay a third--no a quarter,
as you are three, self, nurse, and baby.'
Philip became stiff and cold. He would not take the hand offered him,
nor say a word to the man who had so unceremoniously entered his
carriage. Beaple Yeo, alias Schofield, was by no means disconcerted.
'You will take my card,' he said. Then, when he saw that Philip would
not do so: 'But no, I will introduce you myself, dear son-in-law, to the
proprietor. Now do look at this zig-zag road. I remember seeing a
marionette theatre when I was a child, and this scene was represented.
A number of little carriages came running down the zig-zag one after
another--and here it is--the same exactly. It is worth your looking.
One, two, three--upon my word there are five carriages; and see how the
horses tear along and swing round the corners. It is worth looking at.'
There are certain insects which, when handled, become rigid and take all
the appearance of sticks. It was the same with Philip; the presence,
the address of this odious man reduced or transmuted him into a bit of
stick. He sat motionless with his umbrella between his knees, his hands
resting on the handle, his neck stiff, and his eyes staring at a couple
of buttons of unequal nature at the back of the driver's jacket. He did
not look at Beaple Yeo, nor at the zig-zags, nor at the descending train
of five carriages, nor at the wondrous scenery. He was greatly
incensed. It was intolerable that he should meet this man again, and
that he should be near, if not with Salome. But this was one of the
annoyances he must look on as inevitable, one that would continually
recur. Really it was too bad of Salome not to have mentioned in one of
her letters that her father was at Andermatt. If she had done that not
'all the king's horses, nor all the king's men,' would have got Philip
to make that expedition to Andermatt. Finding that his son-in-law was
indisposed to converse, the cheerful and loquacious colonel addressed
the baby, screwed up his mouth, made noises, offered his eyeglass to the
infant, but withdrew it when the child attempted to suck it. From the
baby, Yeo glided into remarks addressed to the nurse, asked her how long
she had been on the road, whether she was French or Swiss, what was the
name of her home, how she liked England, etc., regardless of the frowns
of Philip, who at length, to draw off his father-in-law from this
unsuitable conversation, said sternly:
'Pray how long have you been at Andermatt?'
'Oh! several weeks. I was there before my Sal arrived. I have no doubt
Janet wrote and told her I was there, and filial duty--filial duty--one
of the most beautiful and blessed of the qualities locked in the human
breast--in the human breast--drew her to Andermatt to make a fuller,
freer acquaintance with the author of her being than was possible in
England--in England.'
When the carriage had passed the Devil's Bridge and the little chapel at
the mouth of the ravine, where the broad basin of fertile pasture opens
out, in which stands the village of Andermatt, a party of ladies and one
gentleman was visible on the road, two in deep mourning, two in colours,
and three girls in half-mourning.
'Ha!' exclaimed the colonel, 'my family.'
Philip looked intently at the party. He at once recognised Salome, and
was satisfied that the other in black was Janet. To his great surprise
he saw Mrs. Sidebottom and the captain. Who that slender lady was in a
light dress he could only conjecture. If he had not been in the
carriage with Beaple Yeo, he would have told the driver to stop, and
allow him to descend and greet his wife; but the presence at his side of
that man determined him to postpone the meeting. He did not wish Salome
to see him riding beside her father, as though he had made up his
quarrel with him.
He drew back in his place, and looked another way whilst driving past,
and Salome, who had caught sight of the well-known waving puggaree,
lowered her eyes. Beaple Yeo had his hat off, and was wafting a
salutation to the American lady.
Then, when passed, he turned to Philip and said, 'You will do me the
favour, I know, not to announce your relationship; 'pon my word, I don't
want to be looked upon as a grandfather, because I don't feel it. Young
blood tingles in my veins.'
The strange lady had stepped aside for the carriage to pass, upon the
bank near that side on which Philip sat, and he looked at her as he
drove by, looked at her with a feeling of aversion. It was too annoying
of Salome to walk out with this questionable individual and meet him as
he arrived, thrusting her almost into his face.
On reaching the Hotel Imperial he had to undergo the annoyance of being
taken in hand, patronized and presented by Beaple Yeo. Philip was a bad
French scholar, spoke no German, and the English of the proprietor was
not understandable till one got used to it.
Philip asked for his room, and said to himself, 'There will be time for
me to wash my hands and change my shirt; the collars are limp--not
enough stiffening put in them, they will not stand up. _Ici! voyez!_' to
the maid. 'Is there a _boulanger_--no, I mean a _blanchisseuse_ in this
place? Wait till my portmanteau is open. I want to have five
pocket-handkerchiefs sent at once to the wash. _Ici! voyez!_ soft
water, _et point de soda et_ washing-powder.'
When he had delivered over the pocket-handkerchiefs and had assumed a
clean shirt, and brushed his hair, and washed his face and hands, he
descended to the _salle_, and asked if the ladies had returned from
their walk.
'Note yet, saire,' answered the porter.
'How long before they do come back?'
'I sure I can note tell. Bote too shupper sure.'
'Very well,' said Philip, 'go and send for the nurse and the child.
They must be ready. It will be,' said he to himself, 'a pleasure to me
after the first rapture is over, to show Salome that I have brought her
the child.'
When the nurse came in Philip ordered her to sit with the baby in the
veranda before the hotel; the air was fresh, but dry and delicious, and
the child could take no harm. Then he ordered for himself some claret
and iced soda-water.
It was inconsiderate of Salome keeping him waiting. He was anxious to
see her, notwithstanding the provocation given him. Why should she not
have been there instead of going out for a walk? No doubt she and her
party had strolled to the Devil's Bridge.
'Waiter,' called Philip. 'Which is the table at which the ladies sit?'