She saw a forget-me-not in the grass,
Gilly-flower, gentle rosemary,
Ah! why did the lady that little flower pass,
While the dews fell over the mulberry-tree?
KENEALY.
Such of the party as were not wanted for the second day of the bazaar,
and were not afraid of mal de mer, had accepted the yachting invitation,
except the three elders at St. Andrew’s Rock. Even Adrian and Felix
were suffered to go, under Sophy’s charge, on the promise to go nowhere
without express permission, and not to be troublesome to any one.
“Sophy can say, ‘Now, boys,’ as effectively as Wilmet,” said Geraldine,
when she met Lance, who had been to the quay to see them off.
“She did not say so to much advantage with her own boys,” said Clement.
“We weren’t Harewoods,” returned Lance, “and John never could bear to
see a tight hand over them; but there’s good in them that will come out
some day.”
Clement gave an emphatic “Humph!” as he sat down to the second breakfast
after Anna had gone to the cliff to resume her toils.
“Who are gone?” asked Geraldine.
“Poor Marilda, smilingly declaring she shall be in misery in the cabin
all the time, Fernan, and four Vanderkists, General Mohun, Sir Jasper,
and some of his progeny; but others stay to help Miss Mohun finish up
the sales.”
“Does Lord Ivinghoe go?”
“Oh yes, he came rushing down just in time. Francie was looking like a
morning rose off the cloister at Vale Leston.”
“I am sorry they have another day of it. I don’t see how it can come to
good,” said Geraldine.
“Perhaps her roses may fade at sea,” said Clement, “and disenchantment
may ensue.”
“At least I hope Alda may not hear of it, or she will be in an agony of
expectation as long as hope lasts. Gerald is gone, of course?”
“Oh yes!” said Lance, who had had a farewell from him with the words,
“Get it over while I am out of the way, and tell them I don’t mind.”
Cursory and incomprehensible, but conclusive; and Lance, who minded
enough to have lost sleep and gained a headache, marvelled over young
men’s lightness and buoyancy. He had seen Dr. Brownlow, and arranged
that there should be a call, as a friend, in due time after the
communication, in case it should hurt Clement, and when Geraldine
observed merrily that now they were quit of all the young ones they
could feel like old times, he was quite grieved to disturb her pleasure.
Clement, however, began by taking out a letter and saying--
“Here is a remarkable missive left for me yesterday--‘If the Rev.
Underwood wishes to hear of something to his advantage, he should
communicate with Mr. O’L., care of Mr. John Bast, van proprietor,
Whitechapel.’ An impostor?” said he.
“I am afraid not,” said Lance. “Clement, I fear there is no doubt that
she is that singing Hungarian woman who was the ruin of Edgar’s life.”
“Gerald’s mother!” exclaimed Geraldine.
“Even so.”
“But she is gone! She gave up all rights. She can’t claim anything. Has
she worried him?”
“Yes, poor boy! She has declared that she had actually a living husband
at the time she married our poor Edgar.”
Of course both broke out into exclamations that it was impossible,
and Lance had to tell them of his interview with the woman at Gerald’s
entreaty. They were neither of them so overcome by the disclosure as he
had feared during his long delay.
“I believe it is only an attempt at extortion,” said Clement.
“Very cruel,” said Geraldine. “How--how did my poor boy bear it all this
time?”
“He was very much knocked down at first, quite overwhelmed, but less by
the loss than by the shame, and the imputation on his father.”
“It was no fault of dear Edgar’s.”
“No, indeed. I am glad Fernan is here to go over again what Edgar told
him. We may be quite satisfied so far.”
“And is it needful to take it up?” asked Geraldine wistfully. “If we
don’t believe it, the horrid story would get quashed.”
“No, Cherry,” said Clement. “If you think it over you will see that we
must investigate. I should be relieved indeed to let it alone, but it
would not be fair towards Lance there and his boys.”
Lance made a strange noise of horror and deprecation, then added--
“I don’t believe Gerald would consent to let it alone.”
“No, now he knows, of course. He is a right-minded, generous boy,” said
Geraldine. “I was wrong. Did you say he was very much upset?”
“Just at first, when he came to me at night. I was obliged to dragoon
him, and myself too, to throw it off enough to be able to get through
our performance yesterday. How thankful I am to the regatta that it is
not our duty to the country to go through it again to-day! However, he
seems to have rebounded a good deal. He was about all the latter part of
the day with Miss Mohun.”
“I saw him dancing and laughing with some of them.”
“And he parted from me very cheerfully, telling me to assure you ‘he did
not mind,’ whatever that may mean.”
“He knows that nothing can disturb our love for him, Edgar’s little
comfort, passed on to bear us up,” said Cherry tearfully. “Oh yes, I
know what he meant--Felix’s delight, my darling always.”
“It strikes me,” said Lance, “that if he can save his sister--”
Geraldine started.
“Oh, the cigar-girl! Only by that mother’s side.”
“That is true, but she is his half-sister, and he is evidently much
drawn towards her. She is a nice little thing, and I believe he
made much of her on the rehearsal day. I saw they got on much better
together, and I think she was aware of the relationship.”
“Yes, it is quite right of him,” said Geraldine, “but she will be a
drag on him all his life. Now what ought we to do? Shall you answer this
letter to the care of the van-man, Clem?”
“I shall think, and wait till I have seen Gerald and Travis. This letter
is evidently written simply in the hope of raising money from me, not in
any friendly spirit.”
“Certainly not,” said Lance. “Having failed to black-mail Gerald, and
discovered that you are the heir, they begin on you, but not from any
gratitude to you. Sweetie Bob, as they call the ex-errand-boy, gives a
fine account of their denunciations of the tall parson who brought the
bobbies down on them.”
Lance felt much reassured by Clement’s tone, and all the more when he
had seen Dr. Brownlow, who made a thorough examination, and came to the
conclusion that Clement had recovered tone, so that the shock, whatever
it was, that his brother dreaded had done no present damage, but that he
was by no means fit for any strain of work or exertion, should be kept
from anxiety as much as possible, and had better spend the winter in a
warm climate. It was not likely--Jock Brownlow said it with grief
and pain--that he would ever be able to return to the charge of St.
Matthew’s, but as he had a year’s holiday, there was no need to enter on
that subject yet, and in a quiet country place, with a curate, he might
live to the age of man in tolerable health if he took care of himself,
or his sister took care of him for some time to come.
So much relieved was Lance that he recollected that he had laid in no
stock of presents for those at home, and went up to profit by the second
day’s reductions, when he secured Geraldine’s portrait of Davy Blake
for his wife, and a statuette of St. Cecilia for Dr. May, some charming
water-colours for Robina and Ethel, besides various lesser delights for
the small fry, his own and the flock at Vale Leston, besides a cushion
for Alda’s sofa. John Inglesant had been bought by a connoisseur by
special commission. He heard at every stall triumphant accounts of the
grand outlay of the Travis Underwoods and Rotherwoods, and just the
contrary of Mrs. Pettifer, whom he encountered going about in search of
bargains, and heard haggling for a handsome table-cover, because it was
quite aesthetic, and would not do except in a large house, so of course
it had not sold.
The Mouse-traps had been a great success, and there were very few left
of them. They really owed as much to Lance as did the play, for he had
not only printed them at as small a cost as possible, but had edited,
pruned, and got them into shape more than any of the young lady authors
suspected. The interpretation of handwriting had likewise succeeded in
obtaining many clients, and a large pile of silver coins. Anna, who was
hovering near, was delighted to show him that her sister Sophy’s
writing had been declared to indicate homely tastes, an affectionate
disposition, great perspicuity of perception, much force of character;
and Franceska’s, scarcely yet formed, showed that she was affectionate,
romantic, and, of all things in the world, fond of horses and of
boating. Emilia’s was held as a great blunder, for she was said to
have an eye devoted to temporal advantages, also volatile, yet of great
determination, triumphing over every obstacle, and in much danger of
self-deception.
“The triumph at least is true,” said Anna, “now she has her way about
the nursing.”
“Has she? I did not know it.”
“Yes, she is to try it for a year, while Cousins Fernan and Marilda go
out to their farm in the Rocky Mountains.”
Just then there was a little commotion, and a report came up that a boat
had been run down and some one drowned. Somebody said, “One of those
acting last night--a buccaneer.” Somebody else, “A naval man.” Then it
was “The Buccaneer Captain,” and Mrs. Pettifer was exclaiming, “Poor
Captain Armytage! He was in our theatricals, I remember, but they
thought him rather high. But he was a fine young man! Poor Captain
Armytage!”
Lance had sufficient interests in those at sea to be anxious, and turned
his steps to the gates to ascertain the facts, when he was overtaken by
Gillian, with a hat hastily thrown over her snooded hair and Highland
garb, hurrying along, and looking very white.
“Mr. Underwood! Oh! did you hear who it was?”
“No certainty. I was going down to find out. You,” as he saw her
purpose, “had better not come. There will be a great crowd. I will come
back and tell you.”
“Oh no, I must. This is the short way.”
Her hands trembled so that she could hardly undo the private fastening
of Miss Mohun’s garden, and she began to dash down the cliff steps. Just
at the turn, where the stair-way was narrowest, Lance heard her exclaim,
and saw that she had met face to face no other than Captain Armytage
himself.
“Oh! is it?” and she so tottered on the rocky step that the hand he had
put out in greeting became a support, and a tender one, as Lance said
(perhaps with a little _malice_)--
“We heard that the Buccaneer Captain had come to grief.”
“I?” he laughed; and Gillian shook herself up, asking--
“Weren’t you run down?” seeing even as she spoke that not a drop of wet
was traceable.
“Me! What! did you think I was going to peril my life in a ‘longshore
concern like this?” said he, with a merry laugh, betraying infinite
pleasure.
“But did nothing happen? Nobody drowned?” she asked, half disappointed.
“Not a mouse! A little chap, one of the fairies yesterday, tumbled off
the sea-wall where he had no business to be, but he swam like a cork. We
threw him a rope and hauled him up.”
Wherewith he gave his arm to Gillian, who was still trembling, and
clasped it so warmly that Lance thought it expedient to pass them as
soon as possible and continue his journey on the staircase, giving a low
whistle of amusement, and pausing to look out on the beautiful blue
bay, crowded with the white sails of yachts and pleasure-boats, with
brilliant festoons of little flags, and here and there the feather of
steam from a launch. He could look, for he was feeling lighter of heart
now that the communication was over.
Perhaps Lance would have been edified could he have heard the colloquy--
“Gillian! you do care for me after all?”
Gillian tried to take her arm away and to say, “Common humanity,” but
she did not get the words out.
“No, no!” he said. “Confess that if it had been that fisher-boy, you
would not be here now!” and he kept tight the arm that she was going to
take away. Her face was in a flame.
“Well, well; and if--if it wasn’t, you need not make such a fuss about
it.”
“Not when it is the first ray of hope you have afforded me, for the only
joy of my life?”
“I never meant to afford--”
“But you could not help.”
“Oh, don’t! I never meant it. Oh dear! I never meant to be worried about
troublesome things like this till I had got older, and learnt a
great deal more; and now you want to upset it all. It is very--very
disagreeable.”
“But you need not be upset!” poor Ernley Armytage pleaded. “Remember, I
am going away for three years. May I not take hope with me?”
Gillian paused.
“Well,” again she said, “I do like you--I mean, I don’t mind you as much
as most people; you have done something, and you have some sense.”
His look of rapture at these very moderate words quite overpowered her,
and the tears welled up into her eyes, while she made a sudden change of
tone.
“There, there--of course it is all right. I’m a nasty creature, and if
you like me, it is more than I deserve, only, whatever you do, don’t
make me cry. I’ve got all the horrid dolls and pen-wipers, and bags and
rags to get rid of.”
“May I talk to your mother?”
“Oh yes, if you can catch her. She will be ever so much more good to you
than I; and I only hope she will warn you what a Tartar I am.”
Wherewith Gillian threw off her hat, swung open the gate, and dashed
like a hunted hare up to her mother’s stall, where in truth she had been
wanted, since only two helpers had remained to assist in the cheapening
and final disposal of the remnants. Lady Merrifield read something in
those wild eyes and cheeks burning, but the exigencies of the moment
obliged her to hold her peace, and apply herself to estimating the
half-price of the cushions and table-cloths she rejoiced to see
departing, as well as to preserve wits enough not to let Gillian sell
the Indian screen for two shillings and sixpence, under the impression
that this was the half of five pounds. Mysie was the only one who kept
her senses fairly undisturbed, and could balance between her duty to the
schools and her desire to gratify a child, happy in that she never saw
more than one thing at a time. Valetta and Primrose were yachting, so
that the distraction was less, and Captain Armytage lingered round,
taking messages, and looking in wistful earnestness for some one to
be disengaged. Yet there was something in his eyes that spoke of the
calmness of an attained object, and Miss Mohun, who had sold off all
her remaining frocks and pinafores at a valuation to Marilda for some
institution, and was free to help her sister, saw in a moment that his
mind was settled.
Yet speech was scarcely possible till the clearance was finally
effected by a Dutch auction, when Captain Armytage distinguished himself
unexpectedly as auctioneer, and made an end even of the last sachet,
though it smelt so strongly of lip-salve that he declared that a bearer
must be paid to take it away. But the purchaser was a big sailor, who
evidently thought it an elegant gift for his sweetheart.
By the time it was gone the yachters had come home. Captain Armytage
seized on Sir Jasper, who already know his purpose, and wished him
success, though withheld from saying a word to urge the suit by Lady
Merrifield’s assurances, that to hurry Gillian’s decision would be fatal
to success, and that a reproof for petulance would be worse. She did
not know whether to wish for the engagement or not; Gillian was her very
dear and sufficient companion, more completely so than Mysie, who was
far less clever; and she had sometimes doubted whether common domestic
life beginning early was for the girl’s happiness and full development;
but she knew that her husband would scout these doubts as nonsense, and
both really liked Ernley Armytage, and had heard nothing but what was
to his advantage in every way, when they had been in his own county,
and had seen his neighbours and his family. However, she could only keep
quiet, and let her heart rise in a continual aspiration at every silent
moment for her child’s guidance.
Before she had had her moment of speech with either, she heard her
husband calling Gillian, and she knew that he was the one person with
whom his daughter never hid her true self in petulance or sarcasm. So
Gillian met him in the General’s sitting-room, gasping as she turned the
handle of the door. He set a chair for her, and spoke gravely.
“My dear,” he said, “I find you have gained the heart of a good man.”
“I am sure I never meant it,” half whispered Gillian.
“What is that--you never meant it? I never supposed you capable of such
an unladylike design. You mean that you were taken by surprise?”
“No; I did see what he was at,” and she hung her head.
“You guessed his intentions?”
“Yes, papa; but I didn’t want--”
“Try to explain yourself,” said Sir Jasper as she broke off.
“I--I did wish to go on improving myself and being useful. Surely it was
not wrong, papa. Don’t you see, I did not want to let myself be
worried into letting myself go out, and spoiling all my happiness and
improvement and work, and getting to care for somebody else?”
“But you have consented.”
“Well, when I was frightened for him I found I did care, and he got hold
of me, and made me allow that I did; and now I suppose nobody will give
me any peace.”
“Stay, Gillian--keep yourself from this impatient mood. I think I
understand your unwillingness to overthrow old associations and admit a
new overmastering feeling.”
“That’s just it, papa,” said Gillian, looking up. “I can’t bear that
overmastering feeling, nor the being told every one must come to it. It
seems such folly.”
“Folly that Eve was given to be a helpmeet, and as the bride, the Church
to her Bridegroom? Look high enough, Gillian, and the popular chatter
will not confuse your mind. You own that you really love him.”
“Oh, papa, not half so much as mamma, or Mysie, or Jasper, but--but I
think I might.”
“Is that all, Gillian? No one would coerce you. Shall I send him away,
and tell him not to think of it? Remember, it is a serious thing--nay,
an unworthy thing to trifle with a right-minded man.”
Gillian sat clasping the elbow of her chair, her dark eyes fixed. At
last she said--
“Papa, I do feel a sort of trust in him, a sort of feeling as if my life
and all goodness and all that would be safe with him; and I couldn’t
bear him to go quite away and hear no more of him, only I do wish it
wouldn’t happen now; and if there is a fuss about it, I shall get cross
and savage, and be as nasty as possible, I know I shall.”
“You can’t exercise enough self-command to remember what is due--I would
say kind and considerate--to a man who has loved you through all your
petulance and discouragement, and now is going to a life not without
peril for three years? Suppose a mishap, Gillian--how would you feel as
to your treatment of him on this last evening?”
“Oh, papa! if you talk in that way I must, I must,” and she burst into
tears.
Sir Jasper bent over her and gave her a kiss--a kiss that from him was
something to remember. It was late, and summonses to a hurried meal were
ringing through Beechcroft Cottage, where the Clipstone party waited to
see the illuminations.
Talk was eager between the sellers and the sailors as Valetta described
the two parties, the fate of the Indian screen, and the misconduct of
Cockneys in their launches were discussed by many a voice, but Gillian
was unwontedly silent. Her mother had no time for more than a kiss
before the shouts of Wilfred, Fergus, and Primrose warned them that the
illuminations were beginning. She could only catch Mysie, and beg her
to keep the younger ones away from Gillian and the Captain. Mysie opened
her brown eyes wide and said--
“Oh!” Then, “Is it really?”
“Really, my dear, and remember that it is his last evening!”
“Oh!” said Mysie again. “I never thought it of Gill! May I tell
Valetta?”
“Better not, my dear, if it can be helped.”
A screaming for Gill was heard, and Mysie hastened to answer it. Lady
Merrifield was too much tired to do anything but sit in the garden
with Miss Mohun and look out at the ships, glittering with festoons of
coloured lamps, reflected in the sea, but the young people went further
afield, out on the cliff path to Rotherwood Park. The populace were
mainly collected on the quay, and this formed a more select promenade,
though by no means absolute solitude. Sir Jasper really did keep guard
over the path along which Gillian allowed her Captain to conduct her,
not exactly knowing which way they were going, and quite away from the
bay and all its attractions.
She heard him out without any of the sharp, impatient answers in which
her maiden coyness was wont to disguise itself, as he told her of his
hopes and plans for the time when his three years of the Mediterranean
should be over.
“And you see you can go on studying all the time, if you must be so
clever.”
“I think one ought to make the most of oneself, just as you want to rise
in your profession! No, indeed, I could not bear you if you wanted me to
sit down and idle, or to dawdle yourself.”
“Don’t grow too clever for me.”
“Mother always says that a real man has stuff in him that is quite
different from cleverness, and yet I could not bear to give that up. I
am so glad you don’t mind.”
“Mind! I mind nothing but to know you are caring for me. And you will
write to me?”
“I shan’t know what to say. You will tell of volcanoes, and Athens, and
Constantinople, and Egypt, and the Holy Land, and I shall have nothing
to say but who lectures in college.”
“Little you know what that will be to me.”
It was a curious sensation all the time to Gillian, with a dawning sense
that was hardly yet love--she was afraid of that--but of something
good and brave and worthy that had become hers. She had felt something
analogous when the big deer-hound at Stokesley came and put his head
upon her lap. But the hound showed himself grateful for caresses, and so
did her present giant when the road grew rough, and she let him draw her
arm into his and talk to her.
It was the parting, for he had to go to London and to his own family the
next day early. Gillian spoke not a word all through the dark drive to
Clipstone, but when the party emerged into the light her eyes were full
of tears. Lady Merrifield followed her to her room, and her words half
choked were--
“Mamma, I never knew what a great, solemn, holy thing _it_ is. Will you
look me out a prayer to help me to get worthy?”