THE BRITISH CONSULATE.
The Vice-Consul’s family still lived in the same house, with more
frequent use than before of the succursale of the Villa, where the
children spent so much of their time. Naturally, however, it was a
changed house, brighter and happier in one sense, in another--perhaps
not all that it had been. Perhaps Mr. Bonamy had found a more delicate
and complete happiness in it when he and his little daughter lived there
alone, in perfect companionship, he sharing every thought with his
child, and finding an entire and sweet compensation for all the troubles
of his life in that perfect union and sympathy. It was true that, as he
was aware now, he had known very little of Rita all that happy time: but
while it lasted he did not know this, and thought that he had
everything. It is the lot of fathers and mothers. When this last
exquisite dream of his life failed him, and his Rita went over to that
amiable, well-disposed, and kind young enemy, who had conquered and
supplanted her father, Mr. Bonamy had, it is needless to say, a certain
struggle with himself. But the circumstances helped him to a large
degree. He was ill, expecting to die, and glad to think that whatever
happened to him he had secured a companion, a support for her. When,
however, death dropped into the background, and he had to begin again,
and to reconcile himself to a third person in his house, at his table,
and in all the most intimate relations of his life, the Vice-Consul had
found it hard; and very hard it was to see his Rita turn to this other
man as a flower turns to the sun, with all the clinging and dependence
she had once shown to her father, and with a constant reference to and
consultation of his wishes. It was quite right that it should be so, oh,
perfectly right! and she was happy, as happy as a young woman could
be--but it jarred upon the man who was left out in the cold, and who had
to share, nay to give up the best of, this love which had been the
recompense of his life, to a stranger. It is the lot of the fathers and
mothers; when they make any difficulty about consenting to it, we call
them hard names; but yet once in a way it may be allowed, that it is a
bitter thing to do. Mr. Bonamy on the whole had done it with a very good
grace. He was, more or less, grateful to the interloper that his house
was not left to him desolate: and he swallowed Harry with as few
grimaces as possible, making in private those which he could not
altogether suppress. On the whole no man could have occupied so
invidious a position more genially, more inofficiously than Harry did.
He was grateful and attached to his father-in-law, and he had a profound
respect for him and his judgment, to which unfortunately Mr. Bonamy did
not make much response. The Vice-Consul indeed had that half-painful,
half-amused sense of being a better man than his son-in-law, which at
once increases the pang of such a rivalry and makes it ludicrous.
“Having known me to decline on a range of lower feelings, and a narrower
heart than mine.” When a father utters in the depths of his own heart
such a sentiment as this, it may be somewhat bitterly, but it must be
with a sense that it is utterly ludicrous. Mr. Bonamy felt all through
like the disappointed lover in the poem “Thou shalt lower to his level
day by day;” for indeed Rita herself, when she became Mrs. Harry, soon
came to have far less interest in matters above Harry’s level, than she
had felt when it was her father’s level by which her eager young being
was founded. Then she had been his leader sometimes, his little oracle,
with a fineness of perception that filled him with wonder and
admiration; now she avoided those fine questions and speculations in
which her husband did not share. He was faultless, Mr. Bonamy was just
enough to allow; he was not exacting, he would still look on with honest
admiring looks when they went beyond his knowledge, and smile and listen
to discussions in which he could not take any share. But what Harry did
not feel for himself, Rita felt for him. She would not go beyond him.
She limited her own impulsive eager steps, which had been so ready for
every path of fancy in order to keep upon the beaten ground by his side.
Perhaps it gave her a little prick of pain too to leave her father
alone, to curb all her natural impulses, to keep to that steady solid
pace which suited Harry; and she did it knowing that her father felt it
was a decline. But nevertheless her delicate instinctive unspoken
loyalty to her husband carried her through. She was “falsely true” as
much as Lancelot though in so different a way, belying herself, for
Harry’s sake, who did not want such a sacrifice; but Rita felt it to be
his due. There, as in all cases where there is a divided duty, the
happiness which they possessed was purchased by a little inevitable
pain, it was no longer unalloyed. The interloper, the breaker up of that
previous blessedness, was the one who felt least drawback in it. For one
thing he was naturally very modest and humble about himself, and it did
not at all hurt him to acknowledge himself less clever than his wife and
father-in-law. He would not have objected had they gone on talking over
his head. His taste was less fine, and his perceptions much less acute
than Rita’s. And he got the advantage of that _finesse_ of thought and
feeling, that delicacy which was so much greater than anything he was
capable of, really without knowing it, or being at all aware of the
sacrifice she made.
Then the children, though they were a new bond, and a great pleasure to
Mr. Bonamy (being good and healthy and smiling children, making the best
of themselves, and looking merry and pretty, as children ought to do),
gave a little wound also to his fantastical delicacy (for it was of
course fantastical) about his daughter, whom he did not like to think of
as involved in all the functions of motherhood. But the Vice-Consul,
though perhaps not a very wise man by the head, was wise by the heart,
and he would not do or say anything to throw the least cloud upon his
child’s happiness; he accepted everything, allowing to himself that he
was fantastical; and their home was pointed out to everybody as the
emblem of a united house, full of love and mutual consideration, and the
closest affection--which it was, though not the same home as of old.
On this particular day Rita was somewhat excited by the prospect of a
visit from the Brothertons. Lady Brotherton had been one of the objects
of her girlish devotion--that devotion which so often flows forth to an
older woman before it turns to a lover. She had admired the beautiful
lady as only a girl can admire, and had copied her in many a little
matter, and still believed in her with all the delightful prejudice
which clings to the friends of our youth. She was eager to show
everything--her husband, her babies, her own maturity of life--to her
old authority, and see how they looked through Lady Brotherton’s eyes.
When she saw her husband before dinner she was full of this pleasant
excitement.
“What a pity, what a pity that Ralph and Vanna are at the Villa” (Harry
in his perversity had given his father’s name to his eldest boy, though
he was of opinion that he hated his father), Rita cried, “I should have
liked her to see them; but there is always Madge and baby. I wonder if
she will think Madge like you, Harry. I wonder if she will think baby a
beauty. English children are so big and red in the face; she may think
ours pale; though I am sure they are quite strong. I wonder how she will
think papa is looking. I wonder if she will approve of----”
“Me?” said Harry, with a somewhat uneasy smile; “she will think me not
half good enough for you, and there I agree with her, so we shan’t
quarrel on that subject. But listen, dear, there is some one with her,
whom I want you to be a little on your guard with; a--a girl--a Miss
Joscelyn----”
Rita looked up suddenly, with a keen light in her dark eyes. She had
Italian blood in her, to which jealousy was quite possible. She looked
up startled, ready to take fire; but Harry went on tying his neck-tie,
not so much as conscious, in his honest simplicity, that such a
sentiment as jealousy could enter into the possibilities.
“I have a kind of idea,” he said, “that she must belong to people--I
used to know. I may be mistaken, but still I have a notion she does. So
don’t say anything, darling; don’t let her enter upon the subject.”
“What subject?” said Rita, breathless. “Do you mean that you knew
the--lady--in those old times that I know nothing about?”
“I can’t tell,” said Harry; “if I knew her, it was as a child. But,
Rita, you are always generous; you never have bothered me with
questions. Don’t say anything to her, or to any of them, if they should
question you--about me.”
“About you!” Rita’s mind was partially relieved, but it was not in human
nature to receive, without some retort, this curious commission. “What
can I say about you? I know nothing,” she said, with a little
bitterness. Then, as he turned and looked at her with unfeigned
astonishment, “Oh, no, no, I do not mean that! I know everything, dear
Harry, I know you; but nothing before you came here.”
“That is true,” he said, thoughtfully. “I wonder if I ever shall be able
to tell you--all about it?” The sight of Liddy and the sound of her name
had worked upon him more than he had thought anything could.
“Do! do!” cried Rita, all eagerness, clasping his arm with both her
hands.
He had never said so much to her before, and she, in fastidious
delicacy, had not asked. He laughed now, but still with anxiety in his
face.
“At present I must get ready for dinner,” he said.
“Ah! it is always like this,” cried Rita; “when you are in a humour to
tell me, something happens, dinner, or something equally unimportant!”
which was more like one of her early girlish outbursts than the matronly
composure by which she liked to think herself distinguished now.
But at this moment her maid came to tell her that the carriage of the
English Signori, who were coming to dinner, had just driven into the
courtyard, and Rita had to give her skirts a last settling, and to hurry
to the drawing-room. And Harry had failed in his tie; he had to take a
new one, feeling his hands tremble a little. His mind was in a great
ferment. Some months before he had seen the advertisement for Harry
Joscelyn, or a certificate of his death, in the _Times_, where he was
described as “supposed to have emigrated,” and this of itself had roused
no small commotion in him. He was to hear of “something to his
advantage.” Harry could not tell what that might be, and if for a moment
now and then the temptation came over him to answer the appeal and
understand the cause of it, it yielded immediately, not only to the old
resentment, but to the new sense of alarm and apprehension with which
the idea of breaking up his present life, and disclosing to those who
knew him under one name another identity, filled his spirit. It appeared
to him that, if he gave up his present standing ground by revealing
another, his whole life, so happy, so sweet, so full of natural duty,
work, and recompense, would break up and disappear from him. As Isaac
Oliver he was at the head of the Consular business, known and named in
all its affairs. As Isaac Oliver he was the husband of his wife. All the
town knew him under that name, his children bore it. It had become
almost dear to him, the name which he had picked up in bitter ridicule,
and adopted with a perverse laugh, as he might have stuck a feather in
his hat. The sound was familiar now to his ears, he liked it. It was
Rita’s name. She called him Harry, as the name of his childhood, which
he preferred, and he had been led to admit that the “Harry Joscelyn
Isaac Oliver,” with which, for precaution sake, he had signed the
register on his marriage, was his full baptismal name. He signed it now
H. J. Isaac Oliver, and she was Mrs. Isaac Oliver. He liked it, and had
a certain pride in it, as a name that was honest and without stain, and
which should never suffer in his hands; and if he cut himself off from
it, what would become of him? his identity would be gone. But the
appearance of Liddy had made a very great impression on him. When she
rose up suddenly, with a little start and cry, at the sound of his name,
he had seen in a moment, in imagination, the real Isaac Oliver,
shuffling like a crab along the North-country road, and a sense of the
incongruity had struck him painfully, bringing a sensation of sudden
shame and discomfiture; but in general he was not ashamed of the name to
which he had grown familiar, and he felt as if, resuming the other, his
pleasant life would all break up and disappear, and he would become
another man.
Rita met the strangers with less composure than she would have done but
for that two minutes’ talk. Even when she threw herself into Lady
Brotherton’s arms, in the fervour of feeling which her Italian blood
made a little more apparent than it would have been had she been all
English, she cast an eye upon Lady Brotherton’s companion. Lydia was not
looking her best in the confused and painful fever of suspense and
expectancy which was upon her; but she looked younger than her real age,
and almost childlike in her slightness and slimness beside the matronly
form of Lady Brotherton. Even Rita, though still light and small, was
rounder and fuller than of old, but Liddy looked eighteen though she was
twenty-two, and there could be no doubt that if Harry had seen her
before it must have been as a child. This somewhat composed the fanciful
bosom of Harry’s wife. Liddy when she had made her curtsey to Mrs.
Oliver, sat down behind backs, with a timidity which had come suddenly
back to her, isolating herself as far as might be, especially from
Lionel, whom she had avoided ever since their recent conversation.
Harry had not yet come into the room, and she felt herself altogether in
a strange place. Perhaps it was this that brought Paolo to her side; the
little Italian thought her probably, a neglected _demoiselle de
compagnie_ whom nobody particularly cared to notice, and this was enough
to bring him instantly to the rescue. “Miss Joscelyn is a stranger in
Italy?” he said with an engaging and conciliatory smile. He spoke a
great deal better English than when Harry had made acquaintance with
him, and dressed with less _abandon_ and devotion to the beautiful; but
he was still a “funny little man,” in the eyes of the English girl; his
kindness however could not be mistaken.
“Scarcely,” she said, “I have been in Italy all the winter; and now we
are going home.”
“Ah, you are going ’ome, that always pleases; but I hope Mees Jos--lyn
will retain a little memory that is pleasant of Italy too.”
“Oh, I have liked it so much,” said Liddy. She was disturbed at this
moment by Harry’s entrance; and it occurred to her now for the first
time as it had done to Lionel when he first saw him, that she had seen
somebody very like him--who was it that was so like him? She paused in
what she was saying to interpose this wondering question in her own
mind.
“That is Mr. Oliver,” said Paolo, “you have seen him before? He is what
we call _beluomo_, fine man, very fine man; he is my great friend; I was
the first to meet him when he stepped upon this shore; we have been
friends of the heart always since that day.”
Lydia cast an involuntary look from the little man in front of her, in
his elaborate dress, to the big person of the Englishman. She could not
help thinking they would make a strange pair. And Paolo, with the
quickness of lightning, divined her meaning.
“You think he is so tall, and I--little? Nevare mind,” said the good
little fellow, “we are of the same tallness in the heart. Nay, even me,
I am a little the tallest there,” he added, laughing, “for I have
nobody, and the good Oliver, he has his wife and little children, and
many to love. He is my devotion,” added the Italian, warmly. “I have
never had a friend before him. I am English too--though perhaps Mees
Jos-lyn would not know it.”
“Are you indeed? I beg your pardon,” said Lydia, “I thought you were an
Italian. Mr. Oliver is very English. Do you know where--he comes from?
and is it long since he came here?”
“That no one can tell you so well as I,” said Paolo, delighted with the
subject. “It was in--Ah, how well I remembare! I was upon the quay to
watch for the great _vapore_--the steamboat I should say--and ecco! in
one of those little boats that brought the travellers, this tall, big,
beautiful young man. I step forward. I offer my help, for he could not
speak a word, not one word. But no! he had a distrust of the foreigner.
Mees Jos-lyn has perhaps remarked? It is the great fault of the English;
they have always a distrust of the foreigners. He would not listen, nor
permit himself to be assisted; but caught up his portmanteau and walked
along. Wonderful! I stood and looked. Che bell’uomo! they all cried. I,
I did not take any time to think--I am English, but I am Italian as
well; from that moment I loved him, though he had a distrust of me. When
I entered _table-d’hôte_ at the hotel where I always dined, there was he
again; and then we became friends. We have quarrelled, oh yes, we have
quarrelled--a hundred thousand times,” cried Paolo, “but we are always
friends again. Mees Jos-lyn will pardon that I tell such a long tale. It
is ten years.”
“What are you saying to Miss Joscelyn, Paul-o, about ten years?”
“I am telling, amico, how we became friends,” said Paolo, stretching
himself to his full height by Harry’s side, raising himself on tip-toe.
The other looked down on him with a kindness that was not without a
touch of contempt. Harry was very faithful to Paolo, and proud of him in
his way; but the almost feminine demonstrative affection of the little
Italian was always a thing of which he was half ashamed.
“Is it ten years?” he said. “But you might find some better subject to
entertain Miss Joscelyn about.”
“I asked him,” said Lydia. She looked at this stranger with very
anxious, suspicious eyes. He was a stranger of course. She had seen him
for the first time to-day. Still his name was one she knew; his face was
one she knew; his very voice sounded familiar. A curious confusion and
suspicion came over her. Strangely enough it never once occurred to her
to think of her brother.
“Let me take you to dinner,” he said.
Could anything be more commonplace? The Vice-Consul went before them
with Lady Brotherton, Sir John hobbled after them with Rita. On either
side there were a few words being said. Lady Brotherton on the one hand
pouring praises of Rita’s developed beauty into her father’s pleased
ears, while old Sir John spluttered forth his remarks on the other.
“Fathers’sh an evergreen, my dear. Look’sh ashyoung ash’ever he did.
Bloomin’, bloomin’, like yourshelf.” Between these two, feeling a little
tremor in the arm she touched lightly with her hand. Lydia walked with
her silent companion. He did not say a word, and neither did she. But
her heart began to beat: there seemed something strange and exciting in
the air. She felt suspicious of him as if he had been a criminal; why
did he not speak? It was scarcely any better at dinner. There was a
great deal of talk at table, and much liveliness, but in this he took
little share. When Lydia looked away to the other end of the table, or
talked to anyone else, she invariably found his eye upon her when she
returned to herself; but he said nothing except in answer to what was
said to him; either he was a very stupid man, or--something else. She
became so impatient at last that she turned to him boldly, provoked by
his silence.
“Mr. Oliver,” she said, “I know some one of your name in the
North-country.”
He seemed to perceive with an effort that she was actually addressing
himself; but turned to her quickly, as if prepared for the attack.
“My name is not a very uncommon name,” he said.
“Oliver is not; but Isaac Oliver is surely very uncommon--it made me
stare when I heard it. I thought you must be a messenger from home.”
Lydia felt herself grow important in her excitement. “Our Isaac Oliver
is a very well-known person. Cousin Lionel, you know him too!”
It was a most unjustifiable attack; and to compromise Lionel too! Lady
Brotherton stopped short in the midst of something she was saying, in
her dismay at this contradiction of all her instructions, and this
called the attention of the whole table to what Lydia was saying. There
was a general pause in which every word was distinctly audible.
“Everybody knows him,” said Liddy, “in our countryside.”
And then they all looked at Harry, upon whose countenance there came a
slight shade of colour.
“Is it so?” he said; “but he is no relation of mine.”
“How can you tell,” the audacious girl went on, “when you do not even
know what countryside I mean?”
“Harry,” said Rita, leaning across the table, “what is Miss Joscelyn
saying to you? You have forgotten your favourite dish, which was made
expressly for you. Look, there is Antonio waiting, and cannot make you
understand.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Harry, with a hurried glance round him; and
then Antonio, though he did not know a word of English, understood like
a true Italian that he was wanted to relieve an embarrassment, and
gallantly stepped into the breach with his dish. Lydia, arrested in the
midst of her assault, felt herself driven back upon herself, and
confused as if she had received a soft, unexpected blow.
“Harry,” she said, in a low tone, “Harry--I thought your name was Isaac
Oliver. I beg your pardon, I fear I have been making a mistake.”
The talk had recommenced again; nobody was paying any attention, and
Harry’s head was bent over his plate; but suddenly he raised it for a
single instant, and gave her a look. What did that look mean? Lydia was
stunned by it as by a sudden electric shock. She had been confused
before, but not half so confused as now. The look was tender,
affectionate even, half-appealing, as if, she thought, there was some
secret understanding between them--something which they knew, and which
nobody else knew. She stared at him in return, arrested in all the
movements of her own mind, her lips dropping apart in her wonder, her
eyes opening wide. He was not angry nor surprised at her boldness, nor
at her attempt to force upon him an undesirable relation, but looked at
her with an almost affectionateness, an understanding which she could
not understand. Lydia was altogether confused; she did not say another
word. Sitting by this stranger’s side, she relapsed into silence like
his own. Who was he? What did he mean? How had he got the command of
her? She was giddy with the confusion in her mind, and what it all meant
she could not tell.