A TRIP SOUTHWARD.
When the first overflow of emotion had subsided, Sir Simon drew a
chair close to the sofa and wanted to hear every detail about
Raymond’s illness—what the doctor had done, and, if possible,
everything he had said about it at each visit. When Franceline had
told the little there was to tell beyond the one terrible central
fact, it was Sir Simon’s turn to be catechised. He submitted willingly
to the inquisition. He went over the story of Clide de Winton’s
letter, and all the happy consequences it had entailed—the
hard-hearted Jew sent to the right-about, the rest of the duns
quieted, all Sir Simon’s difficulties happily settled. Clide’s name
was openly mentioned in the course of the narrative, and coupled with
epithets of enthusiastic admiration and gratitude—he was a
noble-hearted fellow, true as steel, generous as the sun, delicate as
a woman; it was impossible which to admire most, his generous conduct
or the delicacy with which he had done this immense service to his
father’s old friend. Franceline said nothing while this panegyric was
being sung, but she could not hide from herself the fact that it was
sounding in her ears like the sweetest music. She had found out long
since why Clide’s name had become a dead-letter with Sir Simon, why he
never even alluded to his existence in her presence; since he now
broke through this reticence, was it not a proof that the motive of it
had been removed, and that he was free to speak of Clide, and she to
listen, and that consequently no barrier existed any longer between
their lives? The truth was that Sir Simon had come to the conclusion
that the barrier was of no great importance to either of them by this
time. He was not given much to diving into the depths of human hearts,
analyzing their motives and impulses; and he did not give other people
credit for spending their lives in such unprofitable work as brooding
over sentimental grievances and pining after the impossible. It was
evident that if Franceline had been in love with Clide, she must have
either died of it by this time or got over it. She had not died,
_ergo_ she had got over it. There was no harm, therefore, in singing
that fine young fellow’s praises in her hearing, and it was a great
satisfaction to the baronet to be able to pour out his grateful
eulogies to a sympathizing audience. So they went on playing at cross
purposes, each perfectly unconscious of what was uppermost in the
other’s thoughts; Sir Simon settling it in his own mind that Ponsonby
Anwyll would carry the day, now that everything else had adjusted
itself so satisfactorily, while Franceline dreamed her own little
dream, and fancied it must be the reflection of it in her father’s
thoughts that filled his eyes with those gentle sunbeams as his glance
met hers.
Sir Simon, having emptied his budget of news, proceeded to unfold his
programme, and was agreeably surprised to find that he was to be
spared the trouble of defending it. Franceline was overjoyed at the
prospect of seeing a new country, and Raymond acquiesced in everything
as placid and innocently happy as an infant. So it was agreed that
they would start for the south without the loss of a day, if possible.
Angélique was called into council and ordered to begin to pack up at
once. To-morrow morning Dr. Blink should decide what climate was best
suited to Raymond, who was now the person to be chiefly considered.
Meantime, Sir Simon took rather an unfair advantage of the medical man
by biassing the inclinations of both patients towards a certain
sun-girt villa on the Mediterranean, where myrtle and olive groves
were said to crown every hillside, where the vine and the orange and
the pomegranate grew like wild flowers elsewhere, mirrored in the sea
that is “deeply, darkly, beautifully blue.”
“When did you come home—to England, I mean?” said M. de la Bourbonais
when the baronet paused in his glowing description of a Mediterranean
sunset.
“This morning. I came straight on here from Dover. The lawyer wanted
that deed that led to my finding the snuff-box. I must go back with it
by the early train to-morrow; it is absolutely necessary that it
should be forthcoming to prove the validity of Lady Rebecca’s marriage
settlement.”
“Marriage settlement!” exclaimed Raymond and Franceline together. “Do
you mean that she is going to be married?”
“Good gracious, no! Poor soul, she’s gone—gone to her great account,”
said Sir Simon, shaking his head with becoming solemnity. “She died
three days ago. It was a happy release, a most merciful release! She
really had nothing to regret, poor, dear soul.” And her step-son
heaved a dutiful sigh, and drew his hand across his forehead with a
gesture expressive of resigned sorrow.
Raymond was in no mood to laugh, even if the subject had been less
solemn; but he could not but remember—and Sir Simon knew he must
remember—how often this mournful event had been devoutly invoked by
both of them in days not so long gone by. It was probably the
recollection of this that prompted his next question.
“How did she leave her property?”
“Oh! admirably; nothing could be kinder or juster,” replied the
baronet, heaving the tribute of another sigh. “She left her £50,000 to
me unconditionally, chargeable merely with a life legacy for three old
servants; the jointure, you know, reverts to the estate. So you see
the duns would not have had so long to wait even if De Winton had not
come to the rescue. She was an excellent woman. Of course one feels
the blow, but it really would be selfish to regret her; she was a
great sufferer, and it was a happy release.”
“Then you did not stop in London to ask if there were any letters at
your bankers’?”
“No; were there any?”
“There was one from me—or at least written at my request.”
“Ha!”
Sir Simon looked up, full of curiosity. Franceline feared she was in
the way of some explanation, so made an excuse to leave the room about
some _tisane_ it was time for her father to take.
“You must be more puzzled than ever now to know why I refused to let
my pockets be examined that night,” said M. de la Bourbonais,
resorting to his old trick of fixing his spectacles to hide his
shyness.
“Why was it?” said Sir Simon, pulling out his cigar-case, and
carefully selecting one of the choice Havanas, as if he had the
remotest intention of lighting it; it was only an excuse not to have
to look at Raymond.
“You may remember that there were little _pâtés de foie gras_ at
dinner; they looked like _petits pains_?”
“I remember it perfectly; and excellent they were. I had just got the
recipe from the _Frères Provençeaux_; it was the first time Dorel had
ever made them. Well?”
“Franceline was, you know, very ill just then; she could eat nothing.
I fancied these might tempt her, so I slipped a couple of them into my
pockets with some bonbons. This was why I would not turn them out. I
was ashamed to exhibit my poverty to all those men, especially to that
stranger who had been taunting me with it; I would not let him see
what a poor devil I was, and to what straits poverty drove me to get
food for my sick child.”
“My poor Raymond!” was all Sir Simon could say, and he grasped his
hand.
“Then you remember I came back? I was rushing home when it occurred to
me that I had done a mad thing; so I threw away the _pâtés_ and the
bonbons, and went back and made a fool of myself, as you know. I think
I must have been mad. I know I had been taking a great deal of wine to
keep me up; anyhow, I did not reflect, until I saw the effect of my
presence, what a preposterous act it was, and that you should have
been all fools to see any proof of my innocence in it.”
“You might have trusted _me_,” said Sir Simon reproachfully. “I would
have believed you—I did believe you in spite of my senses. I came to
the conclusion you were, as you say, either mad or drunk, and had
taken it unawares. Why didn’t you write to me?”
“I did. I wrote you a full account of it all; but, as ill-luck had it,
your letter telling me to send back the ring arrived before mine left.
I was so incensed at your suspecting me that I tore up the letter. I
was a fool, of course; but you know of old that pride is my weak
point. It was not until I was struck down by illness, and brought face
to face with death, and with the thought that I was going to leave my
child friendless in the world with a dishonored name, that I resolved
to sacrifice it, and for her sake to write to you and ask you to take
charge of her and do what you could to clear my memory from the stain
that my own vanity and folly had fixed upon it. Father Henwick wrote
to you to this effect in my name on Tuesday. The letter is lying at
your bankers’.”
“I was as much to blame as you. I ought to have known you better than
to mistrust you; I ought to have known there _must_ be some mistake in
it,” said Sir Simon, rising and going to the window. “I ought to have
written to you to ask you for an explanation, and so I was always
intending to do; but what with the excitement of Clide’s finding
his—of his finding out my difficulties and so on,” he continued,
checking himself in time before the murder was out, “and then poor,
dear Lady Rebecca’s telegraphing for me, I nearly lost my head, and
kept putting off writing from day to day, in hopes that you would
write.”
“Is monsieur going to stay to tea? Because, if so, it is time I began
the omelette,” said Angélique, following Franceline into the room,
carrying a tray with something on it for M. de la Bourbonais.
But Sir Simon said he must be going that very minute. How the time had
flown, and he had so many things to see to at the Court! Raymond was
rather exhausted when his friend left, but he slept sounder that night
than he had done for a long time.
* * * * *
The warm southern spring had burst its green bonds and flown suddenly
into the arms of summer; it lay disporting itself in the splendor of
new-clad flowers along the shores of the Mediterranean, laughing up at
the dazzling sky like a babe smiling into its mother’s face.
Everything was fresh, lustrous, and dewy. The sun was not too hot to
be enjoyable, the birds were not too tired to sing, a light breeze
came fluttering from the sea to cool the vines, and died away in sighs
and whispers amidst the ilex-grove that made a background to the
white-washed villa where a group of three persons were sitting out on
the terrace under the shade of a broad veranda. I dare say you have
recognized the young lady in the fleecy muslin dress. The pink tint in
her ivory complexion is a decided improvement; but it has not so
changed her that you could forget her. She looks stronger now; there
is an energetic grace in her movements that tells of improved health;
so, too, does the warmer glow of the dark gold hair and the more
animated glance of the eyes. You see she has brought her doves with
her, and seems to have many interesting things to say to them as they
perch on her head and her finger, and utter that, to her, melodious
chant of theirs, but which Sir Simon Harness has the bad taste to find
wearisome and lugubrious.
“Could you persuade those doves of yours to cease that dismal noise
just for ten minutes, Franceline? It’s working under difficulties,
trying to correct proof-sheets while they keep up that dirge.”
Franceline, deeply offended, carries off her darlings to the other
side of the house, without deigning any further comment than a toss of
her pretty head at the speaker and a look of mild reproach at her
father, who yields a tacit consent to the insult by his silence.
Moreover, when Franceline and “those doves of hers” are out of sight,
he breathes an audible sigh of relief and proceeds to read the
contested sentence aloud again. There was a good deal of arguing and
bickering over it; Sir Simon insisting that the epithet was too strong
and should be modified, while M. de la Bourbonais maintained that
whether _he_ applied the term “patriot cast in the rough antique
mould” to Mirabeau or not signified very little, since the facts as he
stated and construed them applied it far more forcibly. They were
squabbling over it still when, half an hour later, Franceline came
back, apparently in a forgiving mood, and expressed her wonder how
people could go on quarrelling when everything around was so full of
peace, in a world where all created things were steeped in beauty and
in bliss; where life was not a struggle, but a joy; where nothing was
needed but the will to vibrate to the pulse of love with which the
great mother’s breast was heaving, to respond to the sun’s wooing and
the wind’s wafting, to the music of flowers and birds, to be a voice
in the choir and a grain of incense on the altar, to live, to love,
and to be happy. What were proof-sheets worth if they could not swell
the glad concert and sound their chime in the joy-bells of life? They
were sounding their little chime, though, in spite of the frequent
clash of arms they gave rise to between the author and his pig-headed
Tory critic. The crisp little rolls of paper were an immense
superadded interest to Raymond—and consequently to Franceline—in their
new life of golden sunshine. They would come to an end soon now; a few
more bundles of proofs, then a pause of solemn expectation, and the
great work would appear immortalized between the boards.