AUNT JANE.
On looking back on my first impression of English people in contrast to
those Italians with whom I had chiefly lived, I find that I was struck
with the spirit of fun, or, rather, perhaps the appreciation of the
ridiculous which the English possess. Perhaps I inherited this turn from
some of my father’s ancestors--certainly not from himself, for I never
saw in him any signs of it. This dear old maid, called Aunt Jane at
Langdale Priory, first showed me this (to me) new sense. Though
perfectly good-natured, she was always discovering the ridiculous side
of everything and everybody, and she enchanted me by her observations.
Another attraction Aunt Jane possessed was her evident dislike to my
guardian, and the kind manner in which she defended me from his
advances. When I went to her room that first evening she told me a great
deal about my family which I had never heard before. It must have been a
sore subject to my father, who had been deeply attached to his eldest
brother, and this was probably the reason that he never mentioned to me
even that he had ever had one.
Henry Vivian, the eldest son of my grandfather, and heir to a much
larger property than that which I was soon to inherit, had been very
wild in his youth. But he must have been not deficient in intellect or
attraction, for he took a high degree at college, and was extremely
popular in the exclusive and fastidious London Society of Almack’s time.
But a fatal passion for gambling, and repeated losses at play, obliged
my grandfather to sell much of the fine old property, which had belonged
to the family for many generations. When Aunt Jane told me this I
suddenly remembered what my father said when showing me the view of
Langdale Priory. “Yes, it’s a grand old place, but almost too large for
the property that remains.”
At one time, after repeated losses, Aunt Jane said that the family went
abroad to economize, and the place was let, and the prodigal son was
seized with such a fit of remorse at seeing the grief of his father and
brother, that he suddenly disappeared, and for several months no one
knew what had become of him. At last a letter arrived from New Zealand,
where he said he was endeavouring to make a fortune, and replace some of
the losses entailed by his extravagance. His father wrote to beg he
would return home, but no answer came. As he was idolized by his family,
in spite of all his faults, they were miserable at receiving no answer
to various letters. At last my father determined to go there and seek
his brother. His father objected strongly at first, as he dreaded the
dangers of the voyage, and the search in an unsettled country. Besides,
my father was his favourite son, and having no other children, he feared
that the old property, to which he was deeply attached, might be left
without an inheritor of the time-honoured, ancient name.
However, the entreaties of my father at last prevailed, and he sailed
for New Zealand. When he arrived at the place from which his brother’s
last letter was dated he neither found him, nor was there anyone who
could inform him what had become of Henry Vivian. No person of that name
had been in the town within the recollection of the postmaster; and, to
my father’s dismay, he found the letters destined for him unclaimed. At
the inn he found that a gentleman, answering the description of Mr.
Vivian, had been there six months before--a Mr. Smith--who had paid his
bill, and they believed he had proceeded by the public conveyance on the
road towards a neighbouring town. I will not detail here the various
adventures my father had in his search, which Aunt Jane, and also Mr.
Mordaunt, described to me.
After searching for six months in the island, my father obtained some
information which led him to suppose his brother had sailed in a ship
for Canada. There he went, and when travelling through Canada he chanced
to meet his cousin, Mr. Mordaunt, my guardian, and they both searched
for several months. They then agreed to separate, and Mr. Mordaunt went
south, and my father in an opposite direction, having formed a plan by
which they could communicate in case of need.
Some time afterwards my father received a letter from Mr. Mordaunt, in
which he announced that he had discovered the place where Mr. Vivian had
died. A beautiful girl, who seemed to have been much attached to the
handsome young Englishman, related how they had been for a little sail
on the lake, and were overtaken in a storm. The boat was upset, and as
Mr. Vivian endeavoured to save the poor girl’s life by swimming on
shore, he was struck by the keel of the boat and killed, but she was
rescued by a fishing-boat which came up. The account of all the
circumstances was attested by such evident grief on the part of the
girl, that my father had no doubt as to the truth of the story;
confirmed too by her possession of Henry Vivian’s watch and other small
articles which he had in his possession when he left England.
He had been buried at the nearest town under the name of Mr. Stuart, and
she, poor girl, had no idea that it was not his own. He had engaged
himself as a farm-labourer on the plantation, but though he seemed so
poor, she was convinced he was a real gentleman, and was quite unfit for
such hard work.
There seemed to my father no doubt that his poor brother had thus met
with an untimely end, and he returned in deep grief to England, taking
with him the watch and some papers which the girl gave up--in fact all
the relics which could be found of my unfortunate uncle.
My grandfather never recovered the shock of his eldest son’s death, and
in less than a year afterwards he had a paralytic stroke, and soon
afterwards died. My father of course succeeded to the old place, and as
much of the old property as had not been sold to pay my uncle’s gambling
debts.
Soon after my father came into possession, Aunt Jane said she heard
vague rumours that a marriage had taken place between the elder brother
and the girl who had described his death, and that a child had been
born. The instant this rumour reached my father’s ears he started for
Canada, and hastened to the place where the Canadian girl had lived, but
no trace of her could be discovered.
It seemed that she had not belonged to that part of the country, and
those in the neighbourhood who remembered her and the handsome Mr.
Stuart, said that she came there with him, and that she had disappeared
a few weeks after my father and Mr. Mordaunt visited the place. My
father now bitterly lamented that he had lost sight of the girl, but
still it seemed very improbable that if she were really married she
should not have declared it, and made some claim upon the family of a
man who she must have heard was rich, for her own maintenance and that
of the child, if such was expected to be born.
He remained some months in America, and left no means untried to obtain
a clue to the whereabouts of the girl. Finding it utterly hopeless, he
returned to England; and the strange rumours which had caused all this
troublesome search soon died away.
Aunt Jane had almost forgotten them till she saw Mr. Mordaunt, after my
father’s death; and there was something in the mysterious way in which
he spoke of me, and of his unexpected and arduous task of guardianship,
that roused her curiosity, and reminded her of the strange old story
which had been so long forgotten. But whether Mr. Mordaunt really
thought there was some truth in the old vague rumour, or whether he
himself purposely wished to revive it for some scheme of his own, she
was unable to discover.
A few days after my arrival at Langdale Priory, I was delighted to find
that my guardian was going away on business. Then I spent some most
happy weeks at my new old home; and I visited all the poor people, with
Mr. and Mrs. Mordaunt and Aunt Jane. My only anxiety was caused by
hearing nothing of Carlo; and even this cloud was soon dispelled by a
letter which came from him, enclosed from Mademoiselle de Bonnevalle. It
chanced to arrive at breakfast time; and Aunt Jane was opposite to me
when I read it. She said nothing at the moment, but I felt that the
piercing glance of her keen eyes was upon me, and saw the deep blushes
they caused. Of course she soon discovered all about it, and she
endeavoured to make me describe Carlo. She did this with so much kind
interest that I was quite glad to have some one to talk to about him.
Yet I was rather perplexed at not being able to tell her more about his
character, or what he had said. I always thought I knew him so well,
until her shrewd and searching questions made it seem as if I scarcely
knew him at all.
“And now tell me why you love him?” she gravely inquired, after my
ineffectual attempts to enlighten her as to his merits.
“Because I do,” was my simple and silly answer.
“Well, and are you sure he loves you?”
“Oh! yes, certainly--there can be no doubt of that.”
“I suppose not, for you are very loveable. But is he rich?--and would he
love you as much if you had no fortune?”
“Oh! that would be dreadful!” I said; while a cold shudder passed
through me at the idea.
“Well, don’t look so miserable,” she said; and she kissed my now pale
cheek. “We will hope for the best.”