He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who fears to put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.
If Sibby hoped to keep her “long boy” from being “mislested,” she was
mistaken. He knew too well what was to come, and when she knocked at
his door with his cup of tea, he came to it half dressed, to her extreme
indignation, calling for his shaving water.
“Now, Master Clem, if you would only be insinsed enough to keep to your
bed, you might have Miss Sophy to speak to you there, if nothing else
will serve you.”
“Is she there?”
“In coorse, and Miss Francie too. What should they do else, after
colloguing with their young men all night? Ah, ‘tis a proud woman poor
Miss Alda would be if she could have seen the young lord! And the real
beauty is Miss Francie, such as my own babbies were before her, bless
them!”
“Stop,” cried Clement in consternation. “It is only a bit of passing
admiration. Don’t say a word about it to the others.”
“As if I would demane myself to the like of them! Me that has been
forty-seven years with you and yours, and had every one of you in my
arms the first thing, except the blessed eldest that is gone to a better
place.”
“Would that he were here now!” sighed Clement, almost as he had sighed
that first morning of his loss. “Where are those girls?”
“Rampaging over the house with Sir Adrian, and his packing of all his
rubbish, enough to break the heart of a coal-heaver! I’d not let them in
to bother their aunt, and Mr. Gerald is asleep like a blessed baby.”
“And Lance?”
“Oh! it is down to the sea he is with that child that looks as if he
was made of air, and lived on live larks! And Master Lance, he’s no
better--eats like a sparrow, and sits up half the night writing for his
paper.”
Clement got rid of Sibby at last, but he was hardly out of his room
before Sophy descended on him, anxious and blushing, though he could
give her much sympathy and kindly hope of his influence, only he had
to preach patience. It had been no hasty fancy, but there had long been
growing esteem and affection, and he could assure her of all the aid
the family could give with her mother, though Penbeacon works would be a
very insecure foundation for hope.
“I think Gerald would consent,” said Sophy, “and he will soon be of
age.”
Clement could only say “Humph!”
“One thing I hope is not wrong,” said Sophy, “but I do trust that no one
will tell mother about Lord Ivinghoe. It is not jealousy, I hope, but I
cannot see that there is anything in it, only the very sound would set
mother more against Philip than ever.”
“You do not suppose that Francie is--is touched?”
“No,” said Sophy, gravely as an elder, “she is such a child. She was
very much pleased and entertained, and went on chattering, till I begged
her to let us say our prayers in peace. We never talk after that, and
she went to sleep directly, and was smiling when she woke, but I do not
fancy she will dwell on it, or fancy there is more to come, unless some
one puts it into her head.”
It was sagely said, and Clement knew pretty well who was the one person
from whom Sophy had fears. Poor Alda, improved and altered as she was,
if such a hope occurred to her, would she be able to help imparting it
to her daughter and looking out for the fulfilment?
Loud calls for Sophy rang through the house, and Clement had only time
to add--
“Patience, dear child, and submission. They not only win the day, but
are the best preparation for it when it is won.”
That family of girls had grown up to be a care to one who had trusted
that his calling would be a shield from worldly concerns; but he
accepted it as providential, and as a trust imposed on him as certainly
as Felix had felt the headship of the orphaned house.
He was rejoiced to find on coming down-stairs that Lance had decided on
giving another day to family counsels, sending off little Felix with his
cousins, who would drop him at the junction to Stoneborough, whence
he would be proud to travel alone. Clement took another resolution, in
virtue of which he knocked at his sister’s door before she went down.
“Cherry,” said he, “would it be inconvenient to keep Francie here just
for the present?”
“Not at all; it would be only too pleasant for Anna now that she loses
her brother. But why?”
“I want to hinder her from hearing the conclusions that her mother may
draw from the diversions of yesterday.”
“I see. It might soon be,
‘He cometh not, she said.’”
“And Sophy will keep her counsel as to those moonlight wanderings. When
were they to go?”
“By the 11.30 train. Marilda is coming up first.”
So the plan was propounded. Franceska was only too much charmed to stay
in what had indeed been an enchanted coast to her, and Sophy was
sure that mamma would not mind; so the matter was settled, and the
explanatory notes written.
The party set off, with each little boy hugging a ship in full sail, and
the two young sisters were disposed of by a walk to Clipstone to talk
over their adventures. Mrs. Grinstead felt certain of the good manners
and reticence prevailing there to prevent any banter about Lord
Ivinghoe, and she secured the matter further by a hint to Anna.
However, Miss Mohun was announced almost as they left the house. She
too was full of the bazaar, which seemed so long ago to her hearers, but
with the result of which she was exceedingly delighted. The voluntary
schools were secured for the present, and the gratitude of the Church
folk was unbounded, especially to the Vale Leston family, who had
contributed so greatly to the success of the whole.
Jane too had watched the evening manoeuvres, and perceived, with her
sharp eyes, all that was avowed and not avowed under that rising moon.
The pair of whom she had first to speak were “Ivanhoe and Rowena,” as
she called them, and she was glad to find that the “fair Saxon” had
grown up at Vale Leston, educated by her aunt and sister, and imbibing
no outside habits or impressions.
“Poor child,” said Jane, “she looks like a flower; one is sorry it
should be meddled with.”
“So did my sister Stella, and there, contrary to all our fears, the
course of true love did run smooth.”
“If it depended entirely on Rotherwood himself, I think it would,”
said Jane, “but--” She paused and went on, “Ivinghoe is, I fear, really
volage, and he is the mark of a good many London mammas.”
“Is it true about Mrs. Henderson’s sister?”
“There’s nothing in it. I believe he danced with her a few times, and
the silly little thing put her own construction on it, but her sister
made her confess that he had never said a word to her, nor made love in
any sense. Indeed, my sister Adeline would never have consented to her
coming here if she had believed in it, but Maura has a Greek nature and
turns the Whites round her fingers. Well, I hope all will go well with
your pretty Franceska. I should not like her lovely bloom to be faded by
Ivinghoe. He is Rotherwood’s own boy, though rather a prig, and a man in
London. Oh, you know what that means!”
“We have done _notre possible_ to keep our interpretation from the poor
child, or any hint of it from reaching her mother.”
“That’s right. Poor Rowena, I hope the spark will be blown out, or
remain only a pleasant recollection. As to little Maura, she had her
lesson when she was reduced to hanging on Captain Henderson’s other arm!
She is off to-day to meet Mr. White in London. That purpose has been
served.”
“And have you not a nearer interest?”
“Oh, Gillian! Well, Captain Armytage did get hold of her, in what we
must now call the Lover’s Walk! Yes, she has yielded, to her father’s
great satisfaction and perhaps to her mother’s, for she will be more
comfortable in looking forward to a commonplace life for her than in
the dread of modern aberrations. But Gillian is very funny, very much
ashamed of having given in, and perfectly determined to go to her
college and finish her education, which she may as well do while the
Sparrow Hawk is at sea. He is off to-day, and she says she is very glad
to be rid of him. She sat down at once to her dynamite, as Primrose
calls it, having bound over Mysie and Valetta never to mention the
subject! I tell them that to obey in silence is the way to serve the
poor man best.”
Miss Mohun was interrupted by the announcement of Lady Flight and Mr.
Flight, who came equally eager with delight and gratitude to thank the
House of Underwood for the triumph. The rest of the clergy of Rockquay
and half the ladies might be expected, and in despair at last of a
“lucid interval,” Geraldine ordered the carriage for a long drive into
the country, so as to escape all visitors. Even then, they could not
got up the hill without being stopped four or five times to receive the
thanks and compliments which nearly drove Gerald crazy, so much did
he want to hear what his family had to say to his plans, that he had
actually consented to partake of a dowager-drive in a landau!
He and his uncle had discovered from the police in the course of the
morning that Ludmilla and her mother had not gone with the circus, but
had been seen embarking in the Alice Jane, a vessel bound for London.
His idea had been to hurry thither and endeavour to search out his
half-sister, and rescue her; but Lance had assured him not only that
it would probably be a vain quest, but that there would be full time to
meet the Alice Jane by land before she could get there by sea.
To this he had yielded, but not so readily to the representation that
the wisest way would be to keep out of sight; but to let Lance, as
a less interested party, go and interview the van proprietor, whose
direction had been sent to Clement, try to see O’Leary, and do his best
to bargain for Ludmilla’s release, a matter on which all were decided,
whatever might be the upshot of the question respecting Gerald. To leave
a poor girl to circus training, even if there were no interest in her,
would have been shocking to right-minded people; but when it was such
a circus as O’Leary’s, and the maiden was so good, sweet, and modest
as Lida, the thought would have been intolerable even without the
connection with Gerald, who had been much taken with all he had seen of
her.
“That is fixed, even if we have to bid high for our Mona,” said Lance.
“By all means,” said Geraldine. “It will be another question what will
be good for her when we have got her.”
“I will take care of that!” said Gerald.
“Next,” Lance went on, “we must see what proofs, or if there be any, of
this person’s story. I expect one of you will have to pay well for them,
but I had better take a lawyer with me.”
Clement named the solicitor who had the charge of the Vanderkist
affairs.
“Better than Staples, or Bramshaw & Anderson. Yes, it would be best
to have no previous knowledge of the family, and no neighbourly
acquaintance. Moreover, I am not exactly an interested party, so I may
be better attended to.”
“Still I very much doubt, even if you do get any statement from the
woman, whether it can be depended upon without verification,” said
Clement.
“From the registers, if there are any at these places?”
“Exactly, and there must be personal inquiry. The first husband, Gian
Benista, will have to be hunted down, dead or alive.”
“Yes; and another thing,” said Lance, “if the Italian marriage were
before the revolution in Sicily, I expect the ecclesiastical ceremony
would be valid, but after that, the civil marriage would be required.”
“Oh!” groaned Gerald, “if you would let me throw it all up without these
wretched quibbles.”
“Not your father’s honour,” said his aunt.
“Nor our honesty,” said Clement. “It is galling enough to have your
whole position in life depend on the word of a worthless woman, but
there are things that must be taken patiently, as the will of One who
knows.”
“It is so hard to accept it as God’s will when it comes of human sin,”
said Geraldine.
“Human thoughtlessness,” said Clement; “but as long as it is not by our
own fault we can take it as providential, and above all, guard against
impatience, the real ruin and destruction.”
“Yes,” said Lance, “sit on a horse’s head when he is down to keep him
from kicking.”
“So you all are sitting on my head,” said Gerald; “I shall get out and
walk--a good rush on the moors.”
“Wait at least to allow your head to take in my scheme,” said Clement.
“Provided it is not sitting still,” said Gerald.
“Far from it. Only it partly depends on my lady and mistress here--”
“I guess,” said Geraldine. “You know I am disposed that way by Dr.
Brownlow’s verdict.”
“And ‘that way’ is that we go ourselves to try to trace out this strange
allegation--you coming too, Gerald, so that we shall not quite be
sitting on your head.”
“But my sister?”
“We will see when we have recovered her,” said Mrs. Grinstead.
“I would begin with a visit to Stella and her husband,” said
Clement; “Charlie could put us in the way of dealing with consuls and
vice-consuls.”
“Excellent,” cried his sister; “Anna goes of course, and I should like
to take Francie. It would be such an education for her.”
“Well, why not?”
“And what is to become of Adrian?”
“Well, we should not have been here more than six months of course.”
“I could take him,” said Lance, “unless Alda holds poor old Froggatt &
Underwood beneath his dignity.”
“That can be considered,” said Clement; “it approves itself best to me,
except that he is getting on so well here that I don’t like to disturb
him.”
“And when can you come up to town with me?” demanded Gerald; “tomorrow?”
“To-morrow being Saturday, it would be of little use to go. No, if you
will not kick, master, I must go home to-morrow, and look up poor ‘Pur,’
also the organ on Sunday. Come with me, and renew your acquaintance. We
will make an appointment with your attorney, Clem, and run up on Monday
evening, see him on Tuesday.”
Gerald sighed, submitting perforce, and they let him out to exhale as
much impatience as he could in a tramp over the hills, while they sat
and pitied him from their very hearts.