There was a little commotion in front of the verandah, caused by some
new arrivals, as Guy and Constancy approached it from the side. A stout
lady in a bonnet and a handsome travelling-cloak, came up the steps,
looked round her, and made a sudden rush towards them.
"My dear Guy! Oh, what a delightful surprise! I never was so glad to
see any one. After all these months, it is indeed a relief to see some
one of the family."
And Mrs Joshua Palmer seized Guy's hands, and all but embraced him; a
ceremony he had carefully avoided from his earliest childhood.
"Why, Cousin Susan! I didn't know you were still abroad. I'm very glad
to see you," he said, astonished at this effusive greeting.
"And Miss Vyner? How do you do, my love? Well, Guy, and how are you?
and is _dear_ Godfrey here too? Jeanie, Jeanie, here's your cousin."
Jeanie, blooming, and very well turned out, came up also with
outstretched hand.
"How d'ye do, Guy? I'm very glad we've met you."
"You look very warm, Cousin Susan," said Guy; "won't you sit down and
have some coffee? I suppose your courier--you have one, I see--has
engaged your rooms?"
"Oh, my dear Guy, that is part of the pleasure of seeing you. For I am
quite certain that courier is a cheat, and if you, with your head for
figures, would only look at our bills--" Here she tore open a
travelling-bag, and thrust a bundle of papers into his hands. "I can
speak to _you_..."
"Well, mother," said Jeanie, "you never would allow any one else to help
you to manage, however well accustomed they were to travelling."
"No, Jeanie," said Mrs Palmer, emphatically, "that I certainly would
not."
Constancy, unable for once to come to the front, sat down at a little
distance. She heard Jeanie, with a much readier, and more assured
manner than of old, saying all the things to the Stauntons that might be
expected from a young lady on her travels. She said that the mountains
were perfectly sweet, and so were the cows and the peasants. Mother got
into fusses sometimes, but it did not matter; she was quite happy when
she could sit down. They had met _charming_ people. Constancy felt a
frightful conviction that, if she spoke, she should cry.
After the manner of her day, and of her kind, however, she got over her
agitation for herself. She never could have supposed that the sight and
sound of Jeanie would be so aggravating. No more than she could have
guessed beforehand, that the one face that would flash before her mental
vision in that supreme moment, when life and death had hung in the
balance, would be Godfrey's, angry and miserable, as it had looked at
her from the doorway at Moorhead, or in the dim light of the Stauntons'
drawing-room. That had come to her, and that was all.
Constancy endured this self-revelation in silence. She had not, at any
rate, revealed this to Guy, in the moment of impulsive confidence that
had ensued. What had induced her to say so much? She remembered that,
in one of the discussions in which she delighted, she had cheerfully
asked him what he thought Tennyson had meant by "the abysmal deeps of
personality," and he had answered dryly--
"I haven't quite sounded them--yet."
It had passed for a jest; but as she recalled the short, unexpected
sentences with which he had answered her, she felt that he had meant it
for a statement of fact, and of very remarkable fact too. It was
characteristic of her that she speculated about Guy even at this moment
of personal emotion.
She gave herself a little mental shake, and turned to get ready for the
_table-d'hote_.
She had never been really unhappy in her life before. She had never
really been beset by a thought that prevented her from thinking of what
she wished to think of, and claimed her for its own.
Guy disliked the fatigue of the long dinner, and rarely attended it. He
was sitting in his favourite corner, when a movement made him aware that
people were coming out again, and Mrs Palmer, in much smarter clothes
than of old, but with an unmistakable air of Ingleby and home, came and
sat down by him.
"My dear Guy," she said, "you're one of the family, and I want to
confide in you."
Guy was not given to consider himself as one of the Palmers, but he
accepted the compliment, and said--
"Is anything the matter, Cousin Susan?"
"Well, yes, Guy. I think there's a great deal the matter. Indeed,
perhaps it's my duty to write to Mr Matthew; but he isn't exactly
considerate at a distance."
Guy allowed that this might be the case.
"And--my responsibilities are great with Jeanie, so much admired and an
heiress. And I'm quite sure there's nothing to be gained by going out
of one's own circle, especially among foreigners and Americans--people
of no character at all."
Guy said that this charge was rather sweeping.
"Was there any American in particular?"
"Yes; there is a Mr Van Brunt. He has been most attentive, and
followed us about. I shouldn't be surprised if he came here. He speaks
of himself as a man of fortune, and says his father has a great
dry-goods store in Chicago. It doesn't sound well--a _store_ is a
shop--very different from a mill. And, besides, if there's one thing I
like it's constancy; and poor Godfrey at home in England--such cruel
treatment for him, after that week at the Rabys."
"But, Cousin Susan, it's quite as easy to inquire about a man in Chicago
as in London. Of course he ought to give a reference. And as for
constancy,"--Guy could not help a little smile as he spoke,--"of course
Godfrey knows that Jeanie is perfectly free. Our affairs made that
imperative."
"Oh, my dear Guy, I'd rather trust Palmer Brothers, in difficulties,
than all the dry-goods stores in America out of them. Do reason with
her, my dear Guy, and plead Godfrey's cause. Jeanie is a very good
girl; but, of course, she feels her independence. Couldn't Godfrey come
out, and look after his own interests?"
Guy was capable of hearing a good deal without committing himself. He
would not promise to reason with Jeanie, nor to telegraph to Godfrey;
but he agreed to interview Mr Van Brunt, and in his secret heart, he
hoped that that dry-goods store in Chicago might prove to be solvent,
and its owner's character and intentions clear as the day, and that his
duty as "one of the family" would not be to protect Jeanie from the
snares of an adventurer.
There were sounds of arrival late that night, and when he came down the
next morning, Jeanie waylaid him on the stairs, looking, in spite of her
smart tailor-made frock and well-dressed hair, very like the shy Jeanie
of the Mill House, Ingleby.
"Oh, Guy," she said, "mother's been talking to you--and please--I've got
something to say. It's your brother's own fault, if I've changed my
mind. Besides, I hadn't seen anything of society _then_. I've quite a
right, it was settled I had--to choose for myself."
"Certainly," said Guy, leading the way out on to the verandah. "I've
promised your mother to talk to Mr Van Brunt, if he comes."
"He has come," said Jeanie, meekly. "He came after we went to bed last
night. Oh,"--sitting down at one of the little tables laid for
breakfast, and making a pattern on the tablecloth with the
rolls--"people are silly--and--and there was ever so much nonsense at
Kirkton. But there--Godfrey won't be disappointed. I'm sure, if he had
wanted to come back, he never would have stopped away because you were
ill. Any one may give away roses to anybody. But when you leave them
behind on your dressing-table, and they come down in the vase, to be
done up for the next person--well, you don't care very much anyhow.
Oh--oh--you didn't stay long at Munich, Mr Van Brunt--good morning.
This is my cousin--Mr Waynflete."
A slender, dark-haired young man, with bright eyes behind a pair of
_pince-nez_, made Guy a formal bow, and Jeanie vanished, while her
"cousin," considerably embarrassed, bowed much less gracefully, and
remarked that it was a fine morning.
"It is so," remarked the American; "but, Mr Waynflete, I'm very glad to
make your acquaintance, understanding that you take quite the place of a
brother to Miss Palmer."
"Well--a--not exactly," began Guy, thinking that Jeanie must have come
down very early to produce this understanding.
"She assures me that, if you are satisfied, her mother's scruples will
be set at rest. Allow me to make it clear. Here is my card--Lawrence
P. Van Brunt. I refer to my bankers, -- and --, London, and to the
American Minister in Great Britain, also the British Consul at Chicago.
I--I dare say I may seem hurried, but I came over a month ago on
business, and must cross again in a fortnight."
He laid a row of papers and letters of introduction beside the rolls on
the table.
"I--I don't care what I do to post you up in my circumstances--it's all
perfectly square, I assure you. And Miss Palmer allows me to hope."
"I see no reason why you should not apply to Miss Palmer's uncle and
trustee," said Guy, after a little more had passed.
"Yes; but I'm told you have great influence with her mamma!" said the
young American, wistfully.
"I didn't know it," said Guy; but he met the stranger's eyes, and they
both laughed. "Won't you have some breakfast? Staunton, this is a
friend of Mrs Palmer's, Mr Van Brunt. Have you ordered coffee?"
Mr Van Brunt swept up his papers, and sat cheerfully down, proceeding
to make himself very agreeable. The other little tables filled. Jeanie
and her mother sat at one some way off. Constancy, with her friends,
watched curiously, till the stranger, as soon as he politely could,
edged off towards the object of his attraction.
"Eh what?" said Staunton, as the grave Guy for once went off into a
hearty fit of laughter.
"Oh, I say!" he said; "it was quite outfacing. Fancy playing heavy
father to Jeanie! I'd better wire to Godfrey at once."
The energetic American produced a Continental Bradshaw, and proposed to
start that afternoon to interview Mr Matthew. First, however, he went
to walk with Jeanie.
And poor Cousin Susan, wiping her eyes, and with a heart full of
feelings, of which the young ones took little enough heed, exclaimed, as
she finally yielded the point--
"Oh, Guy, dear aunt would have thought me so weak. Chicago!"
The party soon dispersed. Jeanie and her mother followed the ardent
lover home to Rilston; Constancy and her friends pursued their intended
path among the heights of the Tyrol; while the good-hearted Cuthbert
managed to find sources of culture wherever he fancied that Guy was most
at ease.
Godfrey was evidently ashamed to express relief on paper, and simply
wrote, "I shall begin again," but there was new purpose in every line of
his letters, and most affectionate promises of keeping everything
straight, if Guy would only stay away, get strong, and enjoy himself.
Guy said no more about himself; but he had little ways which showed his
friend that he still had something to undergo. The steady look round in
a fresh place, the shading hand over his eyes, the trick he had of
finding a special corner, and of keeping to it, with his face turned one
way, were significant; and he was more silent and quiet than ever; but
also much more gentle. Cuthbert hardly knew how, one still bright
evening, when some trifle recalled his own past, he found himself
telling the story long buried even from himself.
Guy listened, looking at him with his searching eyes.
"Does it all seem over?" he said.
"Ah well," said Cuthbert, with a long sigh, "I can't say no. For
average people like me, death _is_ parting for the present, and as to
the future--I'll leave it in the Hands that frame it. But for me, the
moss has grown over her grave, I'm not unhappy, but I think the kind of
business is over for me. No, Gladys was quite human, it all belonged to
this good earth of ours, and it _was very_ good--while it lasted--and
worth while."
"Love does not belong to earth," said Guy; "it is never over."
"Ah, my boy," said Cuthbert, "not for you, perhaps; but I'm a blind old
earthworm, and my soul doesn't soar. Yours is a blessed conviction."
"Yes," said Guy; "it is. But it isn't quite so sweet--as--as having it
now."
He moved hurriedly away. He had gained a "blessed conviction." But it
is very hard to feel as well as to know, that the soul is worth the
whole world, the whole "good earth," as Cuthbert truly called it.
He came home early in August, with much-improved physical health, to
find Godfrey like another man, full of the prospects of the business,
and as he shortly expressed it, "out of his hole." Rawdie was in
raptures.
"He has got along," said Godfrey, "by worrying cats and hiding bones.
But he will sleep on your bed, and sit on your slippers. Just look at
the sentimental little beggar, cuddling into your waistcoat."
Guy sat down when his brother left him, in his old corner in the study,
with Rawdie on his knee, and looked round him. The sense of constant
effort slipped away from him.
"I can _do_ here," he said to himself, in his northern idiom, "I'm used
to it. One must pay the price."