To our surprise and delight, the genuine Papa, instead of being worse
the next day, looked more like himself than he had done at any time
since the fever. But in spite of added importance, and the sense of
parental dignity, he sat hand in hand with his beautiful daughter by the
hour together, playing with her cheeks and hair, as little girls do with
dollies. And all the time he was talking to her about her darling
mother, and made her answer him in Italian, and made her kiss him every
other minute; and found out a thousand times, as a novelty every time,
that she was the very image and model of her mother, and yet he was not
sure that her smile was quite so sweet; then to make up for depreciation
he needs must kiss her again, and say, yes, he thought it was, though it
was quite impossible for any other to be so--and thus they went on, till
I thought there never would be an end of it; albeit I did my utmost to
keep away from them both.
Knowing that I was in their way, and feeling rather out of spirits, I
went my old accustomed round of places, sacred in my memory to a certain
father and mother of my own. How long I wept at their simple graves,
how I knelt to their God and mine, thanking Him from my desolate heart
for the light now shed upon me, and how I prayed that they might both be
looking down on me now and craving heavenly guidance for me through the
peril yet to come--these, and the rest of my doings there, cannot well
be told except to the ears of orphans. The clouds of an overcast
existence seemed to be opening rapidly, and though they could never
disclose my sun and moon again, some happiness it was to know even how
those had set. And more than all, the foul aspersion upon my father's
memory, which all the while I scorned it so, had lain heavily on my
thoughts, this was now proved liar's spittle, and my sweet darling
father had offended not even a villain. A thousand times I implored his
pardon for the splash having ever descended upon the hem of my garment,
though shaken off straight-way with loathing.
In the midst of my dreamy thoughts, and while I sat between the two low
headstones, upon the very spot where I hope my own head may lie, the
tremulous beauty of the Golden Thuja, which I had planted there, was
pushed aside too carelessly, and something far more beautiful planted
itself in front. It was my cousin Lily. I have been strictly forbidden
ever to call her "Isola," or even "Idols," again, as savouring of the
evil one. Lily Vaughan was beaming with young delight and happiness: the
fresh west country air, sweet from the tropic gulf-stream, had crowned
the April of her cheeks with a June of roses.
"Oh, Donna, I am so glad I have found you at last. What makes you run
away from me and my Papa? I have lost my way all over the world. What
a lovely world it is, Donna!"
"Don't call me that name here. Do you not see where you stand?"
She glanced at the headstones engraved with initials and dates, and at
once understood it all. For a long time she was silent, a long time I
mean for her; and her soft eyes glistened at once with awe and pity. At
last, she crept close to me, looked at the ground, and whispered with a
deep sigh:
"How you must hate me, Clara."
"Hate you, my darling! What for?"
"Oh, because I have got such a dear Papa, and you have none at all. And
much worse than that, because--because--oh, I don't know how to tell
you."
"Tell me all you mean. Let there be no misunderstanding between us."
"Because my mother and my father seem somehow to have killed--though I
am sure they would rather have killed themselves--your poor papa and
mamma." And she leaned on my mother's headstone, and sobbed till I
feared for her heart.
I put my arm around her waist, drew her towards me, and sat on my
father's grave, with his niece upon my lap.
"Dearest, I could not be the child of those who sleep beneath us, if it
were in my nature now to feel as you imagine. Years ago, I might have
done so; though I hope not even then. Orphan as I am and helpless,
already I perceive that I have not lived for nothing. My father, I
believe, my mother, I am sure, would have laid down life with pleasure
to see me led from wayward childhood even to what I am. Oh, Lily, you
can't think how they loved me." And at the tender memory, came tears,
the voice of silence.
Lily said not a word, but gathered and plaited a wreath of flowers,
wherewith, as in a nuptial tie, she bound the white headstones
together--anything so as not to disturb me just then. Even that trifle,
a graceful idea born of her Southern origin, even that for the moment
touched me deeply. Times there are when our souls seem to have taken
hot baths in the springs of memory, and every pore of them is open.
"Darling Lily, come--how proud they would have been of you--come and
kiss me in this presence, and promise that, whatever happens, none shall
ever thrust cold hands between your heart and mine. That we will bear,
and trust, and love; nor, if a shadow steals between us, blink it till
the substance follows, but be frank and open--the very breath of
friendship--and when doubt begins to grow, for the devil is sure to sow
it, have it plucked away at once, each by the other's hand. Kiss me,
dear; your weakness is that you are not so outspoken as I am. Never let
me vex you, without knowing it."
The innocent creature kissed me, and promised solemnly.
"Oh, Clara," she cried, "how on earth did you find it out? Sometimes
you have vexed me dreadfully, for you don't care much what you say; but
I always thought it was my fault, and I never told you of it. But it
never made me love you a single bit the less."
"Yes, it did for the moment, though you may soon have forgiven it. But
a love which is always undergoing forgiveness, is like glass steeped in
water, you may cut it in two with a pair of common scissors."
"Well, I should like to see the scissors that would cut me away from
you. I'll have a great piece off your hair, Clara, if you talk such
nonsense. Now come; my father wants you."
"Have you told him?"
"Yes, everything about dear Conny and you; and he says you are a noble
girl, but uncommonly thick-headed about your own concerns, though as
quick as lightning for others. Now, I won't have you look so pale; let
us run and get some colour. See, I'll get first to that tree."
"Will you indeed?" I won the race by a yard, and was glad that the
exercise made excuse for the quick rise of my bosom. After all that had
happened, I would not have her imagine that I still cared for her
brother. Like a girl all over, she said not another word, determined
that I should begin it.
"Let us walk faster, Lily, if my Uncle wishes to see me."
"No, there is plenty of time. It will do him good to sleep a little."
"Oh, then it is nothing important. I rather feared that it might be."
"Don't be at all afraid, darling. He wants to show you how nicely he
made the Chalcedony Spalla that used to be round my neck. He made it
for my mother, in remembrance of something."
"Oh, nothing more than that. I thought you spoke of something--at least
you seemed to imply--"
"Nothing that you need blush about, nor stammer either, proud Donna.
You know you proved to me yesterday, when we were in the cab, that you
did not care for Conny any more than you did for a flake of London soot,
which happened to come in at the window, and fall upon your glove. And
you were kind enough to compare him to that individual smut."
"Oh, Judy, Judy," I cried, as the dog came bounding to meet us--"darling
Judy, you love Clara, if nobody else has sense enough."
And half an hour ago, Lily and I in dramatic language, vowed eternal
affection!
"Oh, Clara, darling Clara, don't you know that I was in fun? I thought
you were so clever. And now to see you sobbing over that great muff of
a dog! Judy, I hate you, get out of the way"--the judicious would not
stir--"take your great hulking paws from cousin Clara's neck. There
then, make the most of that! Oh, I have hurt my hand so, and he is only
wagging his tail. But I am so delighted, my own pet, that you love poor
Conny still."
"And pray, who said I did?"
"Nobody, only me. All dear Papa said was this, that there was a great
mistake, and he soon perceived what it was; and I asked him to take my
opinion about it, because I was a senior sophist. And he pretended not
to know what a senior sophist was. And I told him it was my degree, not
from that man, you know, but fairly earned at the College; though they
did have the impudence to say that the Professors were going to pluck
me, until I gave them a smile."
"True enough, no doubt. But I know all that long ago. What more did my
Uncle say?"
"That he would tell you his opinion, but he would rather not talk about
it to me. And he could not bear me to go out, for fear I should be
stolen again. And I do believe he has had me watched all the way. Here
I come, Pappy; large as life you see, and three times as natural."
"Yes, my own treasure, three times as natural to me, as my life has been
without you. But wheel me indoors, young maidens. No other man in the
world has such a pair of horses. I want to talk to Clara, in my own
room alone. Lily, go to Mrs. Fletcher, I can't have you roving about
so." Lily obeyed him instantly.
"Wait one minute, Uncle dear; I want to go and fetch something."
I ran to my own rooms, and found the deed of gift, which had not been
returned to the lawyers. This I took to his study and placed it in his
hands.
"What is the matter, Clara? Have you turned conveyancer, and detected
some informality?"
"No, dearest Uncle. But I want you to cancel this. I cannot allow you
so to rob your children."
I will not say what he called me in his surprise and delight. It seemed
to me quite uncalled for; I had only done what my conscience told me was
just. But as for accepting my offer--he would not hear of it twice.
"Darling, it would be wrong. It would be downright robbery; and no plea
whatever for it, on the score of paternal duty. You are the proper
heir, the child of the elder son, the true representative of our ancient
family. All the rest is a quibble and quirk, of which, even without
your countless benefits, I never intended to take advantage. And my
children are, by the mother's side, of a family older even than ours--so
far as that nonsense goes--and are heirs to wealth compared to which--if
it only be rightly worked--these Vaughan estates are nothing. All I ask
you is to do a thing which I am sure you would do without asking--to
assist them, if what I have left them is spent before they prove their
claims. Here is a letter to Count Gaffori; that excellent man is still
alive; and here are the certificates, and my own brief deposition, which
I have begged a neighbouring magistrate to come to-day and attest; here
is my Lily's Spalla, and perhaps other relics are in my son's
possession. Lastly, here are two more letters, one to my old friend
Peter Green, who has now much influence in that part of Corsica, the
other to James McGregor, once my messmate at Lincoln's Inn, now an acute
and rising Counsel, and a leading authority upon municipal law. Take
all these, my darling, if you will so far oblige me; for I fear my
lovely daughter--isn't she lovely, Clara?"
"The loveliest girl in all the world; and what is far more important,
the sweetest, and the best."
"Yes, if you had searched the kingdom, you could not have brought me
such another love. But ah! you should have seen her mother! However, I
fear the sweet pet is a little careless and random, as her father used
to be. At any rate, I prefer entrusting this great budget to your brave
and honest hands; at least until my son comes here to claim it. The
deposition you shall have, when attested."
"But, Uncle, surely you had better keep it all yourself. No fear of
Mrs. Daldy now."
"No, my darling; but these things must not be buried with me."
There was something in his eyes which made me start with terror. But he
smiled so sweetly that my terror fled.
"And now, my child, about yourself. Though you have found me another
daughter, I look upon you as the eldest; and I venture to speak to you,
as a father would. Is it as my Lily tells me? Is it true--God grant it
may be--that you love my son, my Lily's son, Henry Conrad? Why don't
you answer me, darling? Tell the truth like a real Vaughan. Surely you
are not ashamed of him." And he laid his hand on my head. My tears fell
fast; and my heart was in a tempest.
"Yes, Uncle," at last I answered, frightened for his suspense, and
looking him full in the face, "Yes, Uncle, I do--I mean at least I
did--love him very much at one time."
"With all your heart, as we Vaughans love; with all your heart, poor
darling?"
"Yes, Uncle," I sobbed, in bitter humiliation; "none of my heart is left
me."
"Thank God! what blest news for his mother! My Harry is the happiest
fellow alive."
"But, Uncle, he does not think so, he--he--doesn't perceive his
blessedness." A flash of my old self-irony came even through my
anguish.
"Oh, I have heard all that. But surely you know the absurd mistake he
made."
"Indeed, I cannot guess it. Is it my place to do that?"
"Of course it is; when you are in the light, and he is all in the dark.
Whom did that kidnapper believe himself to have murdered?"
"You, Uncle, of course."
"And whose child then does he suppose you to be; if he heard of your
existence, as he is sure to have done?"
"Merciful God, I see it all! And how bitterly I have wronged him, my
own noble Conrad!"
My poor weak Uncle had to manage me, all by himself, in my terrible
hysterics. Frightened as he was, for he never before had to deal in
that way with a nature resembling mine, he would not even ring for help,
lest I should betray my secret to other ears than his own. When at last
I came to myself, he kissed me tenderly, and said:
"My poor dear child, remember--when you may be glad to think of it--that
whether I see my noble boy or not, I shall die now in perfect happiness.
Noble he must be, or Clara could not love him. It would have been the
pet scheme of my heart, if I could have had a voice in it. And here it
is done without me! How often have I longed and yearned that he could
only see you, as you waited day and night by my pestilential bed, that
he could only know the tale of your troubles and devotion. At my death,
the generation so visited from heaven expires; and you three darlings
start anew, with all things in your favour. Now mind that the good old
Signor's directions are complied with, and that Harry, if he lives here,
abandons the Corsican property to his sister Lily. Promise me this, my
Clara."
"Of course I will, dear Uncle--I mean, so far as my influence goes. And
he will then be bound to do so under the deed-poll, if I understood you
aright. But perhaps he has quite forgotten me now."
"Of course he thinks himself bound to avoid you. But I have written to
set him right, and to bring him as soon as possible. And now
about--about that horrible--"
"Ah, yes. If I had the right, I would even let him go. My feeling has
changed from fierce hatred to utter contempt. And surely his vengeance
is satisfied now."
"No, Clara. It will flame more wildly than ever the moment he learns
his mistake, and my final triumph over him. Has he any idea where our
Lily is?"
"As yet, he can have none. If old Cora went to Albert Street last
evening, she would learn nothing from Mrs. Shelfer, I took care of that,
except that Lily had been there, and was gone again. The old woman does
not speak English enough to attempt to cross-examine. She loves poor
Lily, I know, but will be satisfied with the belief that the child had
gone to her brother's. And as for that monster, even if he relents, he
will be too proud to inquire."
"What had my poor child done, that the brute turned her out, and struck
her?"
"Nothing, I believe, beyond defending her brother Conrad, as she always
did. I suppose I may call him 'Conrad,' Uncle?"
"Yes, my dear, it is his true name, chosen by his mother. Where are you
going so hastily?"
"To London at once. For your sake, Uncle dear, I must not think of
sparing him. I must have him in custody to-night. I would have avoided
it, if I could for a thousand reasons; but there is no alternative."
"Yes there is. In two days I shall be beyond his reach. Don't ask me
what I mean. To-day is Thursday. Promise only to let him go free till
Saturday."
"I will. But I must go to London. I cannot rest quiet here."
My Uncle's face brightened beautifully. And he took my hand in his.
"I know what you mean, my darling. You intend to discover my Harry, for
fear of any mishap. I will let you go, dear; though the house seems
empty without you, its truthful and graceful mistress. But you must not
go alone. It is not right for a beautiful girl, however self-possessed
and dignified, especially one of your station, to rove about
unattended."
"Only one man ever insulted me, Uncle, I mean in a serious way, and he
never did it again."
"It does not matter. The example is bad, and all men are not gentlemen.
Mrs. Fletcher shall go with you, and our pretty Lily keep house. But I
have an especial reason, and a most powerful one, for wishing that you
should be here. Don't go till to-morrow, my darling; I am so well
to-day, and I must see you once at your own table, with my daughter and
me for your guests."
"Oh, Uncle, I hope so a thousand times. I will stop till the morning,
if you have set your heart upon it."
"I have indeed. You may go in the morning by the first train, and be
back to-morrow night. Will you promise?"
Though I could not understand his motive, and he was pleased to conceal
it, I promised all he asked. Then I told him all the story of Conrad
and the accident, how he saved my mother's life and mine, with the
courage and skill of a true-born mountaineer. My Uncle was moved to
tears, not only at the gallantry of his son, but also by the joy of
discovering that all the obligations lay not upon one side. I also wept
at finding that Lily had never heard of it. Conrad's lofty nature
scorned to narrate its own achievements. When, after that adventure, he
discovered who we were, he avoided us because he believed that his
father had slain mine. It was not till a later date, when he became of
age--as the Corsicans reckon manhood[#]--that Lepardo Della Croce told
him all he knew of his history, dwelt on the foul shame wrought to the
Della Croce by his bigamist father, and tried in vain to force on him
the awful oath of Vendetta. The youth had too much English blood in his
heart to accept the black inheritance. Thenceforth he could not bear
the sight of the man who had killed, as they both supposed, his father,
although, in his wrath for his mother's wrongs and his own, he would not
resent the deed. What marvel then that he spurned me, and was maddened
with himself, at finding that he, the illegitimate, was in love with me,
his legitimate sister? But now, we are only half-cousins, and nature
has never misled us.
[#] _i.e._ the age of twenty.
All that evening, my Uncle was in the most glorious spirits, and I am
not sure that Lily and I were very far behind him. He played us all
sorts of boyish tricks, and we made reprisals with girlish ones, till
Lily's joyous laughter rang halfway clown the corridor. I had dressed
her with especial care, and she did look such a love! But it was all too
sudden, and far too sweet to last. My Uncle indeed seemed quite beside
himself, more gladsome than nature allows us to be with impunity. Then
the vein dried all of a sudden, and the mind flowed the opposite way.
He made his beautiful daughter, who, though not much of a sophist, had a
soul that thrilled to music, he made her play the soft Corsican airs,
that seem to weep as they breathe, and which she had learned from old
Cora. He knew them all; how well he knew them, his face turned from the
light betrayed. The depth of melodious sadness, the touch of some
nervine chord, which knew not its own existence, and starts to be known
and appreciated, as might an unconscious poet, and more than all the
trembling spread of the feelers of the heart, these are the proofs of
nature's presence in music or in poetry.
Then he begged me to play some of the sweet and simple melodies of
Wales. These he declared, and I had already perceived it, these were
born of the self-same spirit, though not so highly intensified, as the
Corsican romances.
Finally, he told us many a moving tale of his Lily; tales a man is loth
to tell to those with whom he expects to live. How she was loved, and
how she seemed to love everybody, and pretty answers she made to those
who praised her beauty, and more than words or kisses, the loving things
she did, the elegance of self-denial, and the innocence of merit.
That night, that memorable night, we stayed up more than two hours over
his proper time for going to bed. He seemed so sad to part, that I
could not bear to hurry him. One thing he told me which I was glad to
hear.
"Clara, darling, I have taken a liberty with your house. This
afternoon, I wrote by the London post, for Annie Franks to come back
again to-morrow, if she will, as an especial favour to me."
I was rather surprised; but answered him warmly, and in all truth:
"Dear Uncle, you know that I love her; and I cannot see too much of the
few whom I really love."
Then, as I was to start at six o'clock in the morning, he wished me
"Good bye," in a solemn manner, which seemed to me quite uncalled for.
He drew my young face to his own, so marked by sorrow and illness,
looked into my eyes as if I were to remember something, then held me in
his trembling embrace, and kissed me long and fondly.
"God in heaven bless you, darling, for all you have done to me and
mine."
"_Mine_, you should say, dear Uncle. I count them now my own."
His daughter took him away, with her white arms thrown around him. For
now she slept in the closet next to his room, where I had so long been
quartered.