Faith’s meanest deed more favour bears,
Where hearts and wills are weighed,
Than brightest transports, choicest prayers,
That bloom their hour and fade.--J. H. NEWMAN.
That return to Brompton was the signal for the numerous worries awaiting
Clement. First, the doctors thought him much improved, but declared that
a return to full work at St. Matthew’s would overthrow all the benefit
of his long rest, and would not hear of his going back, even with
another curate, for an experiment.
Then all went down to Vale Leston together. Mr. Ed’dard was welcomed
with rapture by his old flock. Alda had been almost ill with excitement
and delight, and had not words enough to show her ecstasy over her
beautiful daughter, nor her gratitude to Geraldine, to whose management
she insisted on attributing the glorious result. In vain did Geraldine
disclaim all diplomacy, Lady Vanderkist was sure that all came of
her savoir faire. At any rate, it was really comfortable to be better
beloved by Alda than ever in the course of her life! Alda even intimated
that she should be well enough to come to Brompton to assist in the
choice of the trousseau, and the first annoyance was with Clement for
not allotting a disproportioned sum for the purpose. He declared that
Francie ought not to have more spent on her than was reserved for
her sisters, especially as it would be easy for her to supply all
deficiencies, while Alda could not endure that the future Lady Ivinghoe
should have an outfit unworthy of her rank, even though both Wilmet and
Geraldine undertook to assist.
There were other difficulties, for which the sojourn at Vale Leston was
to be dreaded. Gerald had been of age for two months, and there were
leases to be signed and arrangements made most difficult to determine in
the present state of things. Major and Mrs. Harewood wanted to wind up
their residence in the Priory, and to be able to move as soon as the
wedding was over, since Franceska begged that it might be at the
only home she remembered, and her elders put aside their painful
recollections to gratify her; so that it was fixed for early August,
just a year since her unprepared appearance as Mona.
After all, Alda was really too ill to go to London, and Franceska had
to be sent in charge of her aunt Cherry and of her sister Mary.
Lady Rotherwood would be in town, and might be trusted to have no
unreasonable expectations.
Poor Sophy! Penbeacon’s destiny was one of the affairs that could not be
settled, and therewith her own, though her mother could not succeed in
penetrating any of the family with the horror of giving Lord Ivinghoe
such a brother-in-law.
In the midst of the preparations came a letter from Gerald. He did
indeed write every Sunday, but of late his had been hurried letters: he
was so fully occupied and had so much writing on hand that he could not
indulge in more length.
“You have been urging me,” he said, “to find out what my mother knows. I
have not liked to press the subject while she was so ill, as she always
met every hint of it with tears and agitation. However, at last, Lida
brought her to it, and we really believe she knows no more than we do
what became of her first husband. She never heard of him after she fled
from him. She was almost a child, and he had been very cruel to her. But
she did tell us where we may be nearly certain of finding out, namely
from Signor Menotti, Via San Giacomo, Genoa, or his successors, a
man who trained singers and performers, and moreover took charge of
Benista’s money, and she thinks he had considerable savings. Poor woman,
I believe she had no idea of the harm she might be doing me, though
it was scarcely in human nature to see prosperity look so aggressive
without trying to profit thereby; and when she had put herself into
O’Leary’s power, the notion was to make an income out of me by private
threats and holding their tongues. That I should have any objection
to such an arrangement, except on economical principles, never entered
their heads, and they tried to make as much as possible out of either me
or Clement, by withholding all the information possible till it was
paid for, and our simultaneous refusal to be blackmailed entirely
disconcerted them, and made them furious. Lida said the man was violent
with her mother for letting out even what she did to trousseau, and the
first annoyance was with Clement for not allotting a disproportioned sum
for the purpose. He declared that Francie ought not to have more spent
on her than was reserved for her sisters, especially as it would be easy
for her to supply all deficiencies, while Alda could not endure that the
future Lady Ivinghoe should have an outfit unworthy of her rank, even
though both Wilmet and Geraldine undertook to assist.
There were other difficulties, for which the sojourn at Vale Leston was
to be dreaded. Gerald had been of age for two months, and there were
leases to be signed and arrangements made most difficult to determine in
the present state of things. Major and Mrs. Harewood wanted to wind up
their residence in the Priory, and to be able to move as soon as the
wedding was over, since Franceska begged that it might be at the
only home she remembered, and her elders put aside their painful
recollections to gratify her; so that it was fixed for early August,
just a year since her unprepared appearance as Mona.
After all, Alda was really too ill to go to London, and Franceska had
to be sent in charge of her aunt Cherry and of her sister Mary.
Lady Rotherwood would be in town, and might be trusted to have no
unreasonable expectations.
Poor Sophy! Penbeacon’s destiny was one of the affairs that could not be
settled, and therewith her own, though her mother could not succeed in
penetrating any of the family with the horror of giving Lord Ivinghoe
such a brother-in-law.
In the midst of the preparations came a letter from Gerald. He did
indeed write every Sunday, but of late his had been hurried letters: he
was so fully occupied and had so much writing on hand that he could not
indulge in more length.
“You have been urging me,” he said, “to find out what my mother knows. I
have not liked to press the subject while she was so ill, as she always
met every hint of it with tears and agitation. However, at last, Lida
brought her to it, and we really believe she knows no more than we do
what became of her first husband. She never heard of him after she fled
from him. She was almost a child, and he had been very cruel to her. But
she did tell us where we may be nearly certain of finding out, namely
from Signor Menotti, Via San Giacomo, Genoa, or his successors, a
man who trained singers and performers, and moreover took charge of
Benista’s money, and she thinks he had considerable savings. Poor woman,
I believe she had no idea of the harm she might be doing me, though
it was scarcely in human nature to see prosperity look so aggressive
without trying to profit thereby; and when she had put herself into
O’Leary’s power, the notion was to make an income out of me by private
threats and holding their tongues. That I should have any objection
to such an arrangement, except on economical principles, never entered
their heads, and they tried to make as much as possible out of either me
or Clement, by withholding all the information possible till it was
paid for, and our simultaneous refusal to be blackmailed entirely
disconcerted them, and made them furious. Lida said the man was violent
with her mother for letting out even what she did to Lance, and he meant
to put a heavy price even on the final disclosure, in the trust (which I
share) that it may prove the key to the mystery. She had no notion that
the doubt was upsetting my position. Poor thing, she never had a chance
in her life--gipsy breeding at first, then Benista’s tender mercies
and the wandering life. She could not fail to love my father till his
requirements piqued her, and it was a quarrel, exasperated perhaps by
the commencement of his illness, over her neglect of my unlucky self,
and her acceptance of Schnetterling’s attentions, that led to her
abandoning him. I really do not think she ever realized that it was a
sin. That good Pere Duchamps is the first priest of any kind she ever
listened to, and he has had a great effect upon her. He would like to
extend it to Lida and me, but Lida is staunch to her well-beloved Mr.
Flight as well as to me, and there is a church on the other side the
bay to which I take her when our patient is well enough to spare her to
walk, or we can afford the crossing. Easter was a comfort there.
“The warm weather has revived the patient, and she may live some months
longer, though she is a mere skeleton. Lida tends her in the most
affectionate manner, and is really a little angel in her way. She has
got some private pupils in music, and is delighted to bring in grist to
the mill, which grinds hard enough to make me realize the old days you
are so fond of recollecting.
“Don’t ask me to send you the Lacustrian. I am ashamed of it, and of my
own articles. Nothing will go down here but the most highly spiced, and
it is matter of life and death to us, as long as my mother lives, to
keep on the swaying top of the poplar tree of popularity. You would
despise the need, and talk of Felix, but it is daily bread, and I cannot
let my mother and sister starve for opinions of mine. One comfort for
you is that if I ever do come home again to reign at Vale Leston, I
shall have seen the outcome of various theories of last year, and proved
what is the effect of having no class to raise a standard or to look up
to. I don’t think I shall be quite so bumptious, and I am quite sure I
shall value my Cherie’s tenderness much better than I have ever done,
more shame for me! Love to the bride and all at Vale Leston. There is
an old age of novelty about these eastern states, quite disgusting in
comparison with the reverend dignity of such a place as Vale Leston. You
never thought that I appreciated it! You will find no fault with me on
that score now. The lake is beautiful enough, but I begin to hate the
sight of it, especially when a Yankee insists on my telling him whether
we have in all Europe anything better than a duck-pond in comparison.
Little Lida is my drop of comfort, since she has ceased to be mortally
afraid of ‘Brother.’ Love to all and sundry again.
“Your loving G.”
There was a consultation over this letter, which ended in John
Harewood’s volunteering to go to Genoa, and find out this Menotti or his
representative, returning in time for the wedding, and hoping that the
uncertainty would thus be over in time for the enjoyment of a truly
prosperous event.
A letter that came before his departure rendered Geraldine doubly
anxious for the decision. Mrs. Henderson sent it to her to read, saying
that it was by Lady Merrifield’s advice, since she thought that it
should be known how it was with Gerald, for even to Dolores he had not
told half what Ludmilla related.
“MY DEAREST MRS. HENDERSON,
“It is a long time since I received your dearest, kindest of letters,
and if I did not answer it sooner, it was not from want of gratitude,
but attendance on my poor dear mother and assistance to our landlady
occupies me at every minute that I can spare from giving music lessons
to some private families, and an evening class. I am very thankful to be
able to earn something, so as to take off something of the burthen on my
dear brother’s shoulders. For, alas! the care and support of my mother
and me weigh very heavily upon him. The proprietor of the Lacustrian has
parted with his other clerk, and my brother has the entire business
of not only writing, extracting for, and editing the paper, but of
correcting the press, and he dares not remonstrate or demand better
payment, as we live from week to week, and he could not afford to be
dismissed. He is at the office all day, beginning at six in the morning
to meet the central intelligence, he only rushes home for his meals,
and goes back to work till twelve or one o’clock at night. Even then he
cannot sleep. I hear him tossing about with the pain in his back that
sitting at his desk brings on, and his hands are so tired by writing,
and with the heat, which has been dreadful for the last few weeks, and
has taken away all the appetite he ever had. You would be shocked to
see him, he is so thin and altered; I cannot think how he is to continue
this, but he will not hear of my writing to Lady Travis Underwood. He
is never angry, except when I try to persuade him, and you never saw
anything like his patience and gentleness to my poor mother. She never
did either, she cannot understand it at all. At first she thought he
wanted to coax the confession out of her, and when she found that it
made no difference, she could not recover from her wonder--he, whom she
had deserted in his babyhood, and so cruelly injured in his manhood, to
devote himself to toiling for her sake, and never to speak harshly to
her for one moment. She knew I loved her, and she had always been good
to me, except when O’Leary forced her to be otherwise, but his behaviour
has done more to touch her heart than anything, and I am sure she is,
as Pere Duchamps says, a sincere penitent. She is revived by the summer
heat, and can sit under the stoop and enjoy the sweet air of the lake;
but she is very weak, and coughs dreadfully in the morning, just when it
is cooler, and my brother might get some sleep. She tries to be good and
patient with us both, and it really does soothe her when my brother can
sit by her, and talk in his cheerful droll way; but he can stay but a
very short time. He has to rush back to his horrid stuffy office, and
then she frets after him and says, ‘But what right have I to such a
son?’ and she begins to cry and cough.”
“Ah!” said Clement, as Geraldine, unable to speak for tears, gave him
the letter. “This is a furnace of real heroism.”
“Christian heroism, I am sure,” said Geraldine. “Oh, my boy, I am proud
of him. He will be all the better for his brave experiment.”
“Yes, he had an instinct that it would be wholesome, besides the
impelling cause. Real hardship is sound training.”
“If it is not too hard,” said she.
“‘Let not their precious balms break my head,’” said Clement.
“I do not like that pain in the back. Remember how he dragged his
limbs when first we had him at home, and how delicate he was up to
thirteen--only eight years ago!”
“Probably it will not last long enough to do him much harm.”
“And how nobly uncomplaining he is!”
“This has brought out all the good we always trusted was in reserve.”
“Better than Emilia’s experiment,” sighed Geraldine.
For Emilia Vanderkist, before her year was over, was at home, having
broken down, and having spent most of her holidays with Mrs. Peter
Brown, the wife of Sir Ferdinand’s partner. She had come back, not
looking much the worse for her hospital experience, but with an immense
deal to say of the tyranny of the matron, the rudeness of the nurses to
probationers, the hardness and tedium of the work to which she had been
put, and the hatefulness of patients and of doctors.
Anna sympathized with all the vehemence of her sisterly affection,
and could hardly believe her aunts, who told her that things must have
changed in a wonderful manner since the time of Angela’s experiences,
for she had been very happy in the same place, and made no complaints.
Emilia had written to her cousin Marilda to express her willingness to
return so soon as the Travis Underwoods should come home, and in
the meantime she remained at Vale Leston, not showing quite as much
tolerance as might be expected of the somewhat narrow way of life of
her sisters. She did not like being a lodger, as it were, in Sophy’s
bedroom; she found fault with the parlour-maid’s waiting, complained of
the noise of the practising of the three little sisters, and altogether
reminded Geraldine of Alda in penance at home.
Major Harewood was detained longer than he expected, for on arriving at
Genoa he found that Menotti had migrated, and had to follow him to his
villa on the Apennines, where, in the first place, he had to overcome
the old man’s suspicions that he was come to recover Benista’s means on
behalf of his family, and then at last was assured that the man had been
dead long before 1870. Still John Harewood thought it well to obtain
positive evidence, and pursued the quest to Innspruck, where Menotti
averred that the man had been left by his companions dying in the care
of some Sisters of Charity.
So it proved. At Innspruck, the record of the burial of Giovanni
Benista, a native of Piedmont, was at length produced, dated the 12th
of February, 1868, happily and incontestably before Zoraya’s marriage to
Edgar Underwood!
John Harewood made haste to telegraph the tidings to Vale Leston and to
Jonesville, and came home exultant, having dispelled the cloud that
had brooded over the family for nearly a year, and given them freely to
enjoy the wedding.
Would they do so the more or the less for Emilia’s announcement that
she had a letter from Mr. Ferdinand Brown, eldest son of Sir Ferdinand’s
partner, offering her marriage, and that she had accepted him? He was,
of course, a rich man, but oh! how Emily, Annie, and Gerald had been
wont to make fun of him, and his parents.
“But, my dear Nan,” said she, “I shall be able to do much more good in
that way.”
“Oh!”
“And really I cannot go back to those intolerable backgammon evenings at
Kensington Palace Gardens.”