Events came on rapidly that spring. Mr. White was anxious that his
marriage should take place quickly--afraid, perhaps, that his prize
would escape him, and be daunted by the passive disapproval of her
family, though this was only manifested to him in a want of cordiality.
This, being sincere people, they could not help; and that outbreak to
Kalliope had made the sisters so uneasy, that they would have willingly
endured the ridicule of a broken engagement to secure Adeline from the
risks of a rough temper where gentlemanly instincts were not inbred.
Adeline, however, knew she had gone too far to recede, though she would
willingly have delayed, in enjoyment of the present homage and shrinking
from the future plunge away from all her protectors. Though the strong,
manly will overpowered hers, and made her submit to the necessities of
the case and fix a day early in July, she clung the more closely to her
sisters, and insisted on being accompanied by Jane on going to London to
purchase the outfit that she had often seen in visions before. So Miss
Mohun’s affairs were put in commission, Gillian taking care of them, and
the two sisters were to go to Mrs. Craydon, once, as Marianne Weston,
their first friend out of their own family, and now a widow with a house
in London, well pleased at any recall of old times, though inclined,
like all the rest, to speak of ‘poor Ada.’
Lord Rotherwood was, as his cousins had predicted, less disgusted than
the rest, as in matters of business he had been able to test the true
worth that lay beneath the blemishes of tone and of temper; and his wife
thought the Italian residence and foreign tincture made the affair much
more endurable than could have been expected. She chose an exquisite
tea-service for their joint wedding present; but she would not consent
to let Lady Phyllis be a bridesmaid; though the Marquis, discovering
that her eldest brother hated the idea of giving her away to the
stonemason, offered ‘not to put too fine a point on it, but to act the
part of Cousin Phoenix.’
Bridesmaids would have been rather a difficulty; but then the deep
mourning of Kalliope and Maura made a decided reason for excluding them;
and Miss Adeline, who knew that a quiet wedding would be in much the
best taste, resolved to content herself with two tiny maidens, Primrose
and the contemporary Hablot, her own goddaughter, who, being commonly
known as Belle, made a reason for equipping each in the colour and with
the flowers of her name, and the idea was carried out with great taste.
Valetta thought it hard that an outsider should be chosen. The young
Merrifields had the failing of large families in clannish exclusiveness
up to the point of hating and despising more or less all who interfered
with their enjoyment of one another, and of their own ways. The absence
of society at Silverfold had intensified this farouche tone, and the
dispersion, instead of curing it, had rendered them more bent on being
alone together. Worst of all was Wilfred, who had been kept at home very
inconveniently by some recurring delicacy of brain and eyes, and who,
at twelve years old, was enough of an imp to be no small torment to his
sisters. Valetta was unmercifully teased about her affection for Kitty
Varley and Maura White, and, whenever he durst, there were attempts at
stings about Alexis, until new game offered itself on whom no one had
any mercy.
Captain Henderson was as much in the way as a man could be who knew but
one family in the place, and had no resource but sketching. His yellow
moustache was to be seen at all manner of unexpected and unwelcome
times. If that great honour, a walk with papa, was granted, out he
popped from Marine Hotel, or a seat in the public gardens, evidently
lying in ambush to spoil their walk. Or he was found tete-a-tete
with mamma before the five-o’clock tea, talking, no doubt, ‘Raphaels,
Correggios, and stuff,’ as in the Royal Wardour days. Even at Clipston,
or in the coves on the beach, he was only too apt to start up from some
convenient post for sketching. He really did draw beautifully, and Mysie
would have been thankful for his counsels if public opinion had not been
so strong.
Moreover, Kitty Varley conveyed to Valetta the speculations of Rockstone
whether Gillian was the attraction.
‘Now, Val,’ said Mysie, ‘how can you listen to such nonsense!’
‘You said so before, and it wasn’t nonsense.’
‘It wasn’t Aunt Jane.’
‘No, but it was somebody.’
‘Everybody does marry somebody; but it is no use for us to think about
it, for it always turns out just the contrary to all the books one ever
read; so there’s no going by anything, and I don’t believe it right to
talk about it.’
‘Why not? Every one does.’
‘All the good teachings say one should not talk of what one does not
want one’s grown-ups to hear.’
‘Oh, but then one would never talk of anything!’
‘Oh, Val! I won’t be sure, but I don’t believe I should mind mamma’s
hearing all I say.’
‘Yes; but you’ve never been to school, and I heard Bee Varley say she
never saw anybody so childishly simple for her age.’
This brought the colour into Mysie’s face, but she said--
‘I’d rather be simple than talk as mamma does not like; and, Val, do on
no account tell Gillian.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘And don’t; don’t tell Wilfred, or you know how horrid he would be.’
There was a tell-tale colour in Valetta’s cheeks, by which Mysie might
have discerned that Valetta had not resisted the charm of declaring
‘that she knew something,’ even though this was sure to lead to tortures
of various kinds from Wilfred until it was extracted. Still the youth as
yet was afraid to do much worse than look preternaturally knowing at his
sister and give hints about Fangs’ holding fast and the like, but
quite enough to startle her into something between being flattered and
indignant. She was scarcely civil to the Captain, and felt bound to
express her dislike on every possible occasion, though only to provoke a
grin from Wilfred and a giggle from Valetta.
Lady Merrifield’s basket-carriage and little rough pony had been brought
from Silverfold, and she took Kalliope out for quiet drives whenever
it was possible; but a day of showers having prevented this, she was
concerned to find herself hindered on a second afternoon. Gillian
offered to be her substitute.
‘You know I always drive you, mamma.’
‘These are worse hills than at Silverfold, and I don’t want you to come
down by the sea-wall.’
‘I am sure I would not go there for something, among all the stupid
people.’
‘If you keep to the turnpike you can’t come to much harm with Bruno.’
‘That is awfully--I mean horribly dusty! There’s the cliff road towards
Arnscombe.’
‘That is safe enough. I don’t think you could come to much real damage;
but remember that for Kally a start or an alarm would be really as
hurtful as an accident to a person in health.’
‘Poor old Bruno could hardly frighten a mouse,’ said Gillian.
‘Only take care, and don’t be enterprising.’
Gillian drove up to the door of Cliff House, and Kalliope took her seat.
It was an enjoyable afternoon, with the fresh clearness of June sunshine
after showers, great purple shadows of clouds flitting over the sea,
dimpled by white crests of wave that broke the golden path of sunshine
into sparkling ripples, while on the other side of the cliff road lay
the open moorland, full of furze, stunted in growth, but brilliant in
colour, and relieved by the purple browns of blossoming grasses and the
white stars of stitchwort.
‘This is delicious!’ murmured Kalliope, with a gesture of enjoyment.
‘Much nicer than down below!’
‘Oh yes; it seems to stretch one’s very soul!’
‘And the place is so big and wide that no one can worry with sketching.’
‘Yes, it defies that!’ said Kalliope, laughing.
‘So, Fa--Captain Henderson won’t crop up as he does at every sketchable
place. Didn’t you know he was here?’
‘Yes, Alexis told me he had seen him.’
‘Everybody has seen him, I should think; he is always about with nothing
to do but that everlasting sketching.’
‘He must have been very sorry to be obliged to retire.’
‘Horrid! It was weak, and he might have been in Egypt, well out of the
way. No, I didn’t mean that’--as Kalliope looked shocked--‘but he might
have been getting distinction and promotion.’
‘He used to be very kind,’ said Kalliope, in a tone of regretful
remonstrance. ‘It was he who taught me first to draw.’
‘He! What, Fa--Captain Henderson?’
‘Yes; when I was quite a little girl, and he had only just joined. He
found me out before our quarters at Gibraltar trying to draw an old
Spaniard selling oranges, and he helped me, and showed me how to hold my
pencil. I have got it still--the sketch. Then he used to lend me things
to copy, and give me hints till--oh, till my father said I was too old
for that sort of thing! Then, you know, my father got his commission,
and I went to school at Belfast.’
‘And you have never seen him since?’
‘Scarcely. Sometimes he was on leave in my holidays, and you know we
were at the depot afterwards, but I shall always feel that all that I
have been able to do since has been owing to him.’
‘And how you will enjoy studying at Florence!’
‘Oh, think what it would be if I could ever do a reredos for a church!
I keep on dreaming and fancying them, and now there really seems a hope.
Is that Arnscombe Church?’
‘Yes, you know it has been nicely restored.’
‘We had the columns to do. The reredos is alabaster, I believe, and we
had nobody fit to undertake that. I so longed for the power! I almost
saw it.’
‘Have you seen what it is?’
‘No; I never had time.’
‘I suppose it would be too tiring for you now; but we could see the
outside.’
Gillian forgot that Arnscombe, whose blunt gray spire protruded through
the young green elms, lay in a little valley through which a stream
rushed to the sea. The lane was not very steep, but there were loose
stones. Bruno stumbled, he was down; the carriage stood still, and the
two girls were out on opposite sides in a moment, Gillian crying out--
‘Don’t be frightened--no harm done!’--as she ran to the pony’s head.
He lay quite still with heaving sides, and she felt utterly alone and
helpless in the solitary road with an invalid companion whom she did not
like to leave.
‘I am afraid I cannot run for help,’ said Kalliope quietly, though
breathlessly; ‘but I could sit by the horse and hold his head while you
go for help.’
‘I don’t like. Oh, here’s some one coming!’
‘Can I be of any use?’
Most welcome sound!--though it was actually Captain Henderson the
ubiquitous wheeling his bicycle up the hill, knapsack of sketching
materials on his back.
‘Miss Merrifield! Miss White! I trust no one is hurt!’
‘Oh no, thank you, unless it is the poor pony! Kally, sit down on the
bank, I insist! Oh, I am so glad you are come!’
‘Can you sit on his head while I cut the traces?’
Gillian did that comfortable thing till released, when the pony
scrambled up again, but with bleeding knees, hip, and side, though the
Captain did not think any serious harm was done; but it was even more
awkward at the moment that both the shafts were broken!
‘What is to be done?’ sighed Gillian. ‘Miss White can’t walk. Can I run
down to the village to get something to take her home?’
‘The place did not look likely to supply any conveyance better than a
rough cart,’ said their friend.
‘It is quite impossible to put the poor pony in anyhow! I don’t mind
walking in the least; but you know how ill she has been.’
‘I see. Only one thing to be done,’ said the Captain, who had already
turned the carriage round by the stumps of the shafts; ‘you must accept
me in lieu of your pony.’
‘Oh yes, thank you!’ cried Gillian eagerly. ‘I can lead poor Bruno, and
take care of your bicycle. Jump in, Kally!’
Kalliope, who had wisely abstained from adding a useless voice to the
discussion, here demurred. She could not think of such a thing; they
could very well wait in the carriage while Captain Henderson went on to
the town on his bicycle and sent out a midge.
But there were showers about, and a damp feeling in the lane. Both
the others thought this perilous; besides that, there might be rude
passengers to laugh at their predicament; and Captain Henderson
protested that the weight was nothing. He prevailed at last; and she
allowed him to hand her into the basket, when she could hardly stand,
and wrap the dust-cloth about her. Thus the procession set forth,
Gillian with poor drooping Bruno’s rein in one hand and the other on the
bicycle, and the Captain gallantly drawing the carriage with Kalliope
seated in the midst. He tramped on so vigorously as quite to justify his
declaration that it was no burthen to him. It was not a frequented road,
and they met no one in the least available to do more than stare or
ask a question or two, until, as they approached the town and Rockstone
Church was full in view, who should appear before their eyes but Sir
Jasper, Wilfred carrying on his back a huge kite that had been for many
evenings in course of construction, and Fergus acting as trainbearer.
Thus came on the first moment of Gillian’s explanation, as Sir Jasper
took the poor pony from her and held counsel over the damage, with many
hearty thanks to Captain Henderson.
‘I am sure, sir, no one could have shown greater presence of mind than
the young ladies,’ said that gentleman; and her father’s ‘I am glad
to hear it!’ would have gratified Gillian the more, but for the impish
grimace with which Wilfred favoured her behind Kalliope’s impassive
back.
The kite-fliers turned, not without an entreaty from the boys that they
might go on alone and fly their kite.
‘No, no, boys,’ said their father--‘not here; we shall have the kite
pulling you into the sea over the cliffs. I must take the pony home; but
I will come if possible to-morrow.’
Much disappointed, they went dolefully in the rear, grumbling sotto voce
their conviction that there would be no wind to-morrow, and that it was
all ‘Fangs’s’ fault in some incomprehensible manner.
At Cliff House Kalliope was carefully handed out by Sir Jasper, trying,
but with failing voice, to thank Captain Henderson, and declaring
herself not the worse, though her hand shook so much that the General
was not content without giving her his arm up the stairs, and telling
Maura that he should send Mrs. Halfpenny up to see after her. The maimed
carriage was left in the yard, and Captain Henderson then took charge
of his iron horse, and the whole male party proceeded to the livery
stables; so that Gillian was able to be alone, when she humbly
repeated to her mother the tale parents have so often to hear of
semi-disobedience leading to disaster, but with the self-reproach and
sorrow that drew the sting of displeasure. Pity for Bruno, grief for
her mother’s deprivation, and anxiety for Kalliope might be penance and
rebuke sufficient for a bit of thoughtlessness. Lady Merrifield made no
remark; but there was an odd expression in her face when she heard who
had come so opportunely to the rescue.
Sir Jasper brought a reassuring account of the poor little steed, which
would be usable again after a short rest, and the blemish was the less
important as there was no intention of selling him. Mrs. Halfpenny, too,
reported that her patient was as quiet as a lamb. ‘She wasn’t one to
fash herself for nothing and go into screaming cries, but kenned better
what was fitting for one born under Her Majesty’s colours.’
So there was nothing to hinder amusement when at dinner Sir Jasper
comically described the procession as he met it. Kalliope White, looking
only too like Minerva, or some of those Greek goddess statues they used
to draw about, sitting straight and upright in her triumphal car, drawn
by her votary; while poor Gillian came behind with the pony on one side
and the bicycle on the other, very much as if she were conducting the
wheel on which she was to be broken, as an offering to the idol.
‘I think,’ said Mysie, ‘Captain Henderson was like the two happy sons in
Solon’s story, who dragged their mother to the temple.’
‘Only they died of it,’ said Gillian.
‘And nobody asked how the poor mother felt afterwards,’ added Lady
Merrifield.
‘I thought they all had an apotheosis together,’ said Sir Jasper. ‘Let
us hope that devotion may have its reward.’
There was a little lawn outside the drawing-room windows at Il Lido.
Lady Merrifield was sitting just within, and her husband had just
brought her a letter to read, when they heard Wilfred’s impish voice.
‘Jack--no, not Jack--Fangs!’
‘But Fangs’s name is Jack, so it will do as well,’ said Valetta’s voice.
‘Hurrah--so it is! Jack--’
‘Hush, Wilfred--this is too foolish!’ came Gillian’s tones in
remonstrance.
‘Jack and Jill went up the hill
To draw--’
‘To draw! Oh, that’s lovely!’ interrupted Valetta.
‘He is always drawing,’ said Gillian, with an odd laugh.
‘He was brought up to it. First teeth, and then “picturs,” and then--oh,
my--ladies home from the wash!’ went on Wilfred.
‘But go on, Will!’ entreated Valetta.
‘Jack and Jill went up the hill
To draw a piece of water--’
‘No, no,’ put in Wilfred--‘that’s wrong!
‘To draw the sergeant’s daughter;
Fangs dragged down unto the town,
And Jill came moaning after!’
‘I didn’t moan--’
‘Oh, you don’t know how disconsolate you looked! Moaning, you know,
because her Fangs had to draw the other young woman--eh, Gill? Fangs
always leave an aching void, you know.’
‘You ridiculous boy! I’m sure I wish Fangs would leave a void. It
wouldn’t ache!’
The two parents had been exchanging glances of something very like
consternation, and of the mute inquiry on one side, ‘Were you aware of
this sort of thing? and an emphatic shake of the head on the other. Then
Sir Jasper’s voice exclaimed aloud--
‘Children, we hear every word you say, and are shocked at your
impertinence and bad taste!’
There was a scatter. Wilfred and Valetta, who had been pinioning Gillian
on either side by her dress, released her, and fled into the laurels
that veiled the guinea-pigs; but their father’s long strides pursued
them, and he gravely said--
‘I am very sorry to find this is your style of so-called wit!’
‘It was only chaff,’ said Valetta, the boldest in right of her girlhood.
‘Very improper chaff! I am the last person to object to harmless
merriment; but you are both old enough to know that on these subjects
such merriment is not harmless.’
‘Everybody does it,’ whined Valetta, beginning one of her crying fits.
‘I am sorry you have been among people who have led you to think so.
No nicely-minded girl will do so, nor any brother who wishes to see his
sisters refined, right-feeling women. Go in, Valetta--I can’t suffer
this howling! Go, I say! Your mother will talk to you. Now, Wilfred, do
you wish to see your sisters like your mother?’
‘They’ll never be that, if they live to a hundred!’
‘Do not you hinder it, then; and never let that insulting nickname pass
your lips again.’
Wilfred’s defence as to universal use in the family was inaudible, and
he was allowed to slouch away.
Gillian had fled to her mother, entreating her to explain to her father
that such jests were abhorrent to her.
‘But you know, mamma, if I was cross and dignified, Wilfred would enjoy
it all the more, and be ten times worse.’
‘Quite true, my dear. Papa will understand; but we are sorry to hear
that nickname.
‘It was an old Royal Wardour name, mamma. Harry and Claude both used it,
and--oh, lots of the young officers!’
‘That does not make it more becoming in you.’
‘N--no. But oh, mamma, he was very kind to-day! But I do wish it had
been anybody else!’
And her colour rose so as to startle her mother.
‘Why, my dear, I thought you would have been glad that a stranger did
not find you in that plight!’
‘But it makes it all the worse. He does beset us, mamma; and it is hard
on me, after all the other nonsense!’
Lady Merrifield burst out laughing.
‘My dear child, he thinks as much of you as of old Halfpenny!’
‘Oh, mamma, are you sure?’ said Gillian, still hiding her face. ‘It was
not silliness of my own; but Kitty Varley told Val that everybody said
it--her sister, and Miss Mohun, and all. Why can’t he go away, and not
be always bothering about this horrid place with nothing to do?’
‘How thankful I shall be to have you all safe at Clipston!’
‘But, mamma, can’t you keep him off us?’
Valetta’s sobbing entrance here prevented more; but while explaining to
her the causes of her father’s displeasure, her mother extracted a good
deal more of the gossip, to which she finally returned answer--
‘There is no telling the harm that is done by chattering gossip in this
way. You might have learnt by what happened before what mistakes are
made. What am I to do, Valetta? I don’t want to hinder you from having
friends and companions; but if you bring home such mischievous stories,
I shall have to keep you entirely among ourselves till you are older and
wiser.’
‘I never--never will believe--anybody who says anybody is going to marry
anybody!’ sobbed Valetta desperately and incoherently.
‘Certainly no one who knows nothing about the matter. There is nothing
papa and I dislike much more than such foolish talk; and to tease your
sister about it is even worse; but I will say no more about that, as I
believe it was chiefly Wilfred’s doing.’
‘I--told--Will,’ murmured Valetta. ‘Mysie begged me not, but I had done
it.’
‘How much you would have saved yourself and everybody else if you had
let the foolish word die with you! Now, good-night, my dear. Bathe your
eyes well, or they will be very uncomfortable to-morrow; and do try to
cure yourself of roaring when you cry. It vexes papa so much more.’
Another small scene had to follow with the boy, who was quite willing
to go off to bed, having no desire to face his father again, though his
mother had her fears that he was not particularly penitent for ‘what
fellows always did when people were spooning.’ He could only be assured
that he would experience unpleasant consequences if he recurred to the
practice; but Wilfred had always been the problem in the family.
The summer twilight was just darkening completely, and Lady Merrifield
had returned to the drawing-room, and was about to ring for lights, when
Sir Jasper came in through the window, saying--
‘No question now about renewal. Angelic features, more than angelic
calmness and dignity. Ha! you there, young ladies!’ he added in some
dismay as two white dresses struck his eye.
‘There’s no harm done,’ said Lady Merrifield, laughing. ‘I was thinking
whether to relieve Gillian’s mind by telling her the state of the case,
and Mysie is to be trusted.’
‘Oh, mamma, then it is Kalliope!’ exclaimed Gillian, already relieved,
for even love could not have perceived calmness and dignity in her
sitting upon Bruno’s head.
‘Has she ever talked about him?’ asked Lady Merrifield.
‘No; except to-day, when I said I hoped she was safe from him on that
road. She said he had always been very kind to her, and taught her to
draw when she was quite a little girl.’
‘Just so,’ said Lady Merrifield. ‘Well, when she was a little older,
poor Mr. White, who was one of the most honourable and scrupulous
of men, took alarm, and saw that it would never do to have the young
officers running after her.’
‘It was an uncommonly awkward position,’ added Sir Jasper, ‘with such a
remarkable-looking girl, and a foolish unmanageable mother. It made poor
White’s retirement the more reasonable when the girl was growing too old
to be kept at school any longer.’
‘And has he been constant to her all these years? How nice!’ cried
Mysie.
‘After a fashion,’ said Lady Merrifield. ‘He made me the receptacle of a
good deal of youthful despair.’
‘All the lads did,’ said her husband.
‘But he got over it, and it seemed to have passed out of his life.
However, he asked after the Whites as soon as we met him in London;
and now he tells me that he never forgot Kalliope--her face always came
between him and any one whom his mother threw in his way; and he came
down here, knowing her history, and with the object of seeing her
again.’
‘And he has not, till now?’
‘No. Besides the absolute need of keeping her quiet, it would not
exactly do for him to visit her while she is alone with Maura at Cliff
House, and I wished him first to see her casually amongst us, for I
dreaded her not fulfilling his ideal.’
‘Oh!’
‘When I think of her at fourteen or fifteen, with that exquisite bloom
and the floating wavy hair, I see a very different creature from what
she is now.’
‘Peach or ivory carving,’ said Sir Jasper.
‘Yes; she is nobler, finer altogether, and has gained in countenance
greatly; but he may not think so, and I should like her to be looking a
little less ill.’
‘Well, I can’t help hoping he will be disappointed, and be too stupid to
care for her!’ exclaimed Gillian.
‘Indeed?’ said her father in a tone of displeased surprise.
‘He is so insignificant; he does not seem to suit with her,’ said
Gillian in a tone of defence;’ and there does not seem to be anything in
him.’
‘That only shows the effect of nursing prejudice by using foolish
opprobrious nicknames. Henderson was a good officer, he has shown
himself an excellent son, always sacrificing his own predilections for
the sake of duty. He is a right-minded, religious, sensible man, his
own master, and with no connections to take umbrage at Miss White’s
position. It is no commonplace man who knows how to honour her for it.
Nothing could be a happier fate for her; and you will be no friend to
her if you use any foolish terms of disparagement of him because he does
not happen to please your fancy.’
‘I am sure Gillian will do no such thing, now that she understands the
case’ said her mother.
‘Oh no, indeed! said Gillian. ‘It was only a first feeling.’
‘And you will allow for a little annoyance, papa,’ added Lady
Merrifield. ‘We really have had a great deal of him, and he does spoil
the children’s walks with you.’
Sir Jasper laughed.
‘I agree that the sooner this is over the better. You need have
no doubts as to the first view, now that Gillian has effected the
introduction. No words can do justice to her beauty, though, by the bye,
he must have contemplated her through the back of his head!’
‘Well, won’t that do! Can’t he be sent off for the present, for as to
love-making now, with all the doubts and scruples in the way, it would
be the way to kill her outright.’
‘You must take that in hand, my lady--it is past me! Come, girls, give
us some music!’
The two girls went up at bed-time to their room, Mysie capering and
declaring that here was real, true, nice love, like people in stories,
and Gillian still bemoaning a little that, whatever papa might say,
Fa--Captain Henderson would always be too poor a creature for Kalliope.
‘If I was quite sure it was not only her beauty,’ added Gillian
philosophically.
Lady Merrifield went up to Cliff House as early as she could the next
day. She found her patient there very white and shaken, but not so much
by the adventure of yesterday as by a beautiful bouquet of the choicest
roses which lay on the table before her sofa, left by Captain Henderson
when he had called to inquire after her.
‘What ought I to do, dear Lady Merrifield?’ she asked. ‘They came while
I was dressing, and I did not know.’
‘You mean about a message of thanks?’
‘Yes; my dear father was so terribly displeased when I wore a rose that
he gave me before the great review at Belfast that I feel as if I ought
not to touch these; and yet it is so kind, and after all his wonderful
kindness yesterday.’
The hand on the side and the trembling lip showed the painful fluttering
of heart, and the voice died away.
‘My dear, things are very different now. Take my word for it, your
father could not be displeased for a moment at any kindness between you
and Captain Henderson. Ten years ago he was a very young man, and his
parents were living, and your father was bound in honour, and for your
sake too, to prevent attentions from the young officers.’
‘Oh yes, I know it would have been shocking to have got into that sort
of thing!’
‘But now he is entirely at his own disposal, and a man of four or
five-and-thirty, who has gone through a great deal, and I do not think
that to send him a friendly message of thanks for a bunch of flowers
to his old fellow-soldier’s daughter would be anything but what Captain
White would think his due.’
‘Oh,’--a sigh of relief,--‘please tell him, dear Lady Merrifield!’ And
she stretched out her hand for the flowers, and lovingly cooled her
cheek with their petals, and tenderly admired them singly, venturing now
to enjoy them and even caress them.
Lady Merrifield ventured on no more; but she carried off ultimately
hopeful auguries for the gentleman who had been watching for her, very
anxious to hear her report. She was, however, determined on persuading
him to patience, reinforcing her assurances with Dr. Dagger’s opinion,
that though Kalliope’s constitution needed only quiet and rest entirely
to shake off the effects of the overstrain of that terrible
half-year, yet that renewed agitation would probably entail chronic
heart-complaint; and she insisted that without making any sign the lover
should go out of reach for several months, making, for instance,
the expedition to Norway of which he had been talking. He could not
understand at first that what he meant to propose would not be the best
means of setting that anxious heart at rest; and Lady Merrifield had to
dwell on the swarm of conscientious scruples and questions that would
arise about saddling him with such a family, and should not be put to
rest as easily as he imagined. At last, by the further representation
that she would regard her mother’s death as far too recent for such
matters to occupy her, and by the assertion of the now fixed conviction
that attentions from him at present could only agitate and distress her
harmfully, and bring on her malicious remarks, the Captain was induced
to believe that Rocca Marina or Florence would be a far better scene for
his courtship, and to defer it till he could find her there in better
health.
He was brought at last to promise to leave Rockquay at once, and dispose
of himself in Norway, if only Lady Merrifield would procure him one
meeting with Kalliope, in which he solemnly promised to do nothing that
could startle her or betray his intentions.
Lady Merrifield managed it cunningly. It had been already fixed that
Kalliope should come down to a brief twelve-o’clock service held at St.
Kenelm’s for invalids, there to return thanks for her recovery, in what
she felt as her own church; and she was to come to Il Lido and rest
there afterwards. Resolving to have no spectators, Lady Merrifield sent
off the entire family for a picnic at Clipston, promising them with some
confidence that they would not be haunted by Captain Henderson, and that
she would come in the waggonette, bringing Fergus as soon as he was out
of school, drink tea, and fetch home the tired.
Sir Jasper went too, telling her, with a smile, that he was far too shy
to assist her in acting chaperon.
‘Dragon, you had better say--I mean to put on all my teeth and claws.’
These were not, however, very visible at the church door when she met
Kalliope, who had come down in a bath-chair, but was able afterwards to
walk slowly to Il Lido. Perhaps Captain Henderson was, however, aware of
them; for Kalliope had no knowledge of his presence in the church or in
the street, somewhat in the rear, nor did he venture to present himself
till there had been time for luncheon and for rest, and till Kalliope
had been settled in the cool eastern window under the verandah, with an
Indian cushion behind her that threw out her profile like a cameo.
Then, as if to call on Lady Merrifield, Captain Henderson appeared
armed, according to a wise suggestion, with his portfolio; and there was
a very quiet and natural overlooking of his drawings, which evidently
gave Kalliope immense pleasure, quite unsuspiciously. Precautions had
been taken against other visitors, and all went off so well and happily
that Lady Merrifield felt quite triumphant when the waggonette came
round, and, after picking up Fergus, she set Kalliope down at her own
door, with something like a colour in her cheeks and lips, and thanks
for a happy afternoon, and the great pleasure in seeing one of the dear
old Royal Wardours again.
But, oh mamma,’ said Gillian, feeling as if the thorn in her thoughts
must be extracted, ‘are you sure it is not all her beauty?’
‘Her beauty, no doubt, began it, and gratifies the artist eye; but I am
sure his perseverance is due to appreciation of her noble character,’
said Lady Merrifield.
‘Oh, mamma, would he if she had been ever so good, and no prettier than
other people?’
‘Don’t pick motives so, my child; her beauty helps to make up the sum
and substance of his adoration, and she would not have the countenance
she has without the goodness. Let that satisfy you.’