THE PROGRESS OF EVENTS
Among other letters which Sir Gilbert Clare found on his
breakfast-table on a certain September morning, was one which caused
him to wrinkle his forehead and arch his shaggy eyebrows in a way by no
means usual with him. Before laying it down he read it carefully
through a second time, and then, unheedful of his other correspondence,
and of the small china teapot at his elbow which was always brought in
by Trant, the butler, the moment his master made his appearance, he
lapsed into one of those fits of absent-mindedness which, in his case,
were becoming more frequent with advancing years.
Luigi, from the opposite side of the table, was watching him with
furtive eyes, and wondering whether it would be possible to obtain a
sly glance over the letter which had had such an unusual effect upon
his “grandfather.”
Could he have had his wish, he would have read as follows:
“The Shrublands, Tuesday.
“MY DEAR GILBERT.—Please turn to the signature before reading further
and satisfy yourself that it is really I who am writing to you after
all this long time; for indeed, cousin, it must be nearly, if not
quite, a score of years since we met last (it was shortly after my
marriage, I remember), and no communication of any kind has passed
between us in the interim.
“As you may perhaps recollect, I was always afflicted with a restless
and roving disposition, and since poor dear Sir Thomas’s death (now
eight years ago) I have felt no disposition to permanently settle
anywhere, but have preferred to live a wandering, Bedouin kind of life,
pitching my tent here, there, or anywhere, but never for very long at a
time. It is a species of existence which, although it is lacking in
those elements of stability so precious to the majority of my
home-clinging, hearth-loving sex, has yet about it certain elements of
variety and entertainment which, in my estimation, more than serve to
counterbalance its shortcomings.
“Finding myself here at the Shrublands in fulfilment of a promise of
long-standing, and within half-a-dozen miles of your place, it has
seemed to me (old memories even now not being quite dormant within me)
that I could not do otherwise than make you aware of my propinquity
and, further, intimate that if you can ‘put me up’ for a couple of
nights—no longer—(together with my companion and maid), I shall be
pleased to find myself once more under a roof which is associated in my
mind with so many pleasant memories of the days that are no more.
“Your affectionate cousin,
“LOUISA PELL.”
Between Sir Gilbert and Lady Pell, when they were young people, there
had been a something which, if it could not in strictness be termed a
romantic episode, yet had in it the possibilities of one, and, had the
fates proved propitious, would probably have eventuated in a way which
would have changed the current of both their lives.
It was during the lifetime of Sir Gilbert’s father and mother that
Louisa Grayson, a tall, dashing, somewhat hoydenish girl of eighteen,
was invited on a long visit to Withington Chase. Mr. Gilbert Clare, as
he was then, who had just returned from a journey in Central America,
had felt himself drawn towards his high-spirited, bright-eyed cousin,
who, although few people would have called her handsome, was possessed
of some singularly attractive qualities; while she, on her side, fell
frankly in love with him. But it was not to be. Miss Grayson was
summoned home by the dangerous illness of a relative, and her cousin
let her go without putting to her the one definite question which her
heart was hungering to be asked; after which quite a number of years
passed before they met again. On his part, at least, it could have been
nothing more than a passing fancy, seeing that within a twelvemonth of
their parting, Sir Gilbert had seen, fallen in love with, and married
his first wife. Whether in Lady Pell’s case it had proved to be more
than a passing fancy was a question which she alone could have
answered.
“I shall be very glad to see Louisa, very glad indeed,” murmured Sir
Gilbert under his breath when he had read her letter for the second
time, “and I take it as a favour on her part that she has offered to
come to the Chase. Of course at our time of life—although I don’t
forget that she is a number of years younger than I—she cannot be so
foolish as to imagine—— No, no; I will give her credit for more sense
than that. She is no longer a flighty romantic schoolgirl; indeed, I
remember that when I saw her last, she impressed me as having developed
into quite a woman of the world. Still, a widow—— Um—um.”
With that, as already related, he lapsed into one of his musing fits,
which lasted till the entrance of Trant, who coughed and gazed
reproachfully at his master on finding that he had not yet poured out
his first cup of tea.
The first thing the Baronet did on retiring to his study after
breakfast was to reply to Lady Pell’s letter.
“MY DEAR LOUISA,” he wrote,—“Come to the Chase by all means—you ought
to have come years ago—and stay as long as it suits you—the longer the
better. You may rely upon receiving the heartiest of welcomes from
“Your affectionate cousin,
“GILBERT CLARE.”
This missive he at once despatched by a mounted groom to the
Shrublands.
Now, in the course of the forenoon of the day preceding the arrival of
Lady Pell’s note, Giovanna had driven over from Maylings and had asked
to see Sir Gilbert. The proceeding was such an unusual one on her part
that it was not without a spice of anxiety that he joined her in the
morning-room. But she at once reassured him that, as far as he was
concerned, nothing serious was the matter.
“I have this morning received a letter from home,” began Giovanna,
“that is to say, from Catanzaro,” she added by way of correcting
herself, “which informs me that my grandmother (my father’s mother),
who is over ninety years of age, is dangerously ill and has expressed a
strong desire to see me. Under the circumstances, Sir Gilbert, you will
probably agree with me that it is my duty to hasten to her side. It
will doubtless be the last opportunity I shall have of seeing her, but
I did not care to set out on so long a journey without first taking
your opinion in the matter.”
“That was very thoughtful of you, my dear madam, very thoughtful
indeed,” replied the Baronet with a gratified air. “It is clearly your
duty to lose no time in carrying out your venerable relative’s wish. Is
it your desire that your son should accompany you?”
“Oh dear, no, Sir Gilbert,” replied Mrs. Clare hastily. “In cases where
there is sickness in a house I have always found that young men are
only in the way. They are not merely uncomfortable themselves but a
source of discomfort to others.”
“Very possibly you are right, madam. But my idea in mentioning your son
was that he would be in a position to act as your travelling escort.”
“But I am quite used to travelling alone, I assure you, Sir Gilbert,
and am not in the least timid. For instance, when I returned from
America I was quite alone.”
“Possibly so, madam, possibly so,” returned the Baronet stiffly. “That
is a matter which pertains to the past and with which I have nothing to
do. But it seemed to me that, in the position you now occupy as my
daughter-in-law, you ought not to——”
“Pardon me, Sir Gilbert,” interposed Giovanna in her smoothest tones,
the blunder of which she had been guilty dawning on her with a rush,
“my remark had reference to an escort of the male sex only. It was far
from my intention to travel alone. As a matter of course my maid will
accompany me.”
The Baronet’s brow cleared in some measure. “Um—um. I had not thought
about your maid. Of course—of course. But what, now, if Mrs. Tew were
also to keep you company? In such a case expense need be no
consideration.”
“It is very kind of you to say so, sir. My first thought was to ask
Mrs. Tew to share my journey, but then I called to mind that she is no
longer so young as she has been, and that she is far from strong; and
as it is my intention to get through to Catanzaro without stopping
anywhere longer than may be necessitated by the change from one train
or vehicle to another, I would not willingly run the risk of her
breaking down by the way.”
“Probably you are right, madam; the affair had not struck me in that
light. As you say, at Mrs. Tew’s time of life such a long and hurried
journey might overtask her strength.”
Speaking thus, he crossed to a side table where were pen and ink, and
having extracted his cheque book from his breast pocket, he proceeded
with the deliberation of old age to fill up a cheque for thirty
guineas. Giovanna rose as he recrossed the room. She understood that
the interview was at an end.
“Here is something towards defraying the expenses of your journey,” he
said as he pressed the cheque into her hand. “I trust that you will
find your aged relative much improved by the time you reach her and
that she may be spared to you for several years to come. Should you
wish to see Lewis before setting out, as I presume you will, you will
find him at the vicarage, which you will drive past on your way home.
We shall miss you greatly and shall hope to see you again as speedily
as may be. And, by the way, will you inform Mrs. Tew, with my
compliments, that during your unavoidable absence we shall expect her
at the Chase as usual.”
Sir Gilbert escorted Giovanna to the door, where her brougham was
waiting. As they shook hands and bade each other adieu no slightest
prevision was in the mind of either that, as far as this world was
concerned, it was their final farewell. For, like so many of us, they
were the slaves of events, already in process of evolution, of which
they had no cognisance and in the bringing about of which they had no
share. They never met again.
Giovanna did not fail to deliver Sir Gilbert’s message to Mrs. Tew,
adding, “And of course the brougham will be wholly at your disposal
while I am away.”
Tears came into the little lady’s eyes. “Both you and Sir Gilbert are
most kind,” she said, “and I am at a loss how to thank you
sufficiently.”
There had been no thought or intention on Giovanna’s part of taking
either Mrs. Tew or Lucille with her to Italy, and although, the moment
her oversight was made patent to her, she hastened to assure Sir
Gilbert that she had all along meant her maid to accompany her, the
statement had merely emanated from her on the spur of the moment as
being the only way in which she could extricate herself from the
difficulty. Putting aside the additional expense to which she would
have been put, which she felt she could ill afford, there existed other
and more cogent reasons why neither Lucille nor anyone else who knew
her as Sir Gilbert Clare’s daughter-in-law should accompany her to
Catanzaro. For one thing, certain of her relatives on her father’s side
were little removed above the rank of peasants, while none of them were
of a kind that would have reflected credit on her new position.
Further, to none of them, for certain prudential reasons, had the
secret of that position been divulged. Nobody at Catanzaro, when she
should reappear among them, would know her as other than the daughter
of the late Giuseppe Rispani, landlord of the _Golden Fig_, who,
because she had the misfortune to have an Englishwoman for her mother,
had chosen to take up her abode in that mother’s native country. It was
plainly imperative that on no account must Lucille be allowed to keep
her company on her journey; but, for all that, after what she had told
Sir Gilbert, it would not do to leave the girl behind at Maylings.
The letter from Catanzaro had, in the first instance, been addressed to
Captain Verinder’s lodgings, and had been reposted by him to Vanna, who
now telegraphed to her uncle that she should leave Mapleford by a
certain train, and requested him to meet her at the London terminus,
which he accordingly did. Taking him out of earshot of her maid, Vanna
in very few words put him in possession of the facts of the case. He
quite agreed with her that her journey must be undertaken alone. So
presently the girl was given half-a-sovereign and told that she could
go back to her parents; in other words, take a holiday till she should
hear from Captain Verinder, and that meanwhile her wages would go on as
usual. It was an arrangement which suited Lucille to a nicety. Then
Captain Verinder escorted his niece from one terminus to the other, and
a little later saw her off by the Continental night mail.
But there were certain features in connection with Giovanna’s proposed
visit to Catanzaro which she had not deemed it advisable to reveal to
anyone. The fact was that old Signora Rispani was quite a wealthy
person for one in her station of life, and Vanna, who had always been
her favourite granddaughter, was drawn to her death-bed more by the
hope of inheriting, if not the whole, then a very considerable portion
of her money, than by any real affection which she entertained for the
old lady. In telling Sir Gilbert that her grandmother had expressed a
strong desire to see her she had stated more than she was warranted in
doing. In reality it was the signora’s medical attendant who, in
accordance with an arrangement Giovanna had made with him before coming
to England, had informed her by letter of her grandmother’s critical
condition. It will be enough to state here that the signora held out
for several weeks after her granddaughter’s arrival, so that it was not
till towards the middle of October that Mrs. Clare, richer by some
hundreds of pounds than she had been on her arrival, once more set her
face Englandwards, with a devout hope in her heart that she should
never be under the necessity of setting eyes on Catanzaro or any of its
inhabitants again.
But many strange things had happened while she had been away.