Books: The Long Vacation

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Long Vacation

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Adrian had three prizes too, filling Anna with infinite delight. He
was not to go home immediately on the break-up of the school, but was
to wait for his sisters, who were coming in a few days more with Lady
Travis Underwood to the bazaar and masque, so that he would go home
with them.

Neither the prospect nor the company of little Fely greatly
reconciled him to the delay, but his mother could not believe that
her darling could travel alone, and his only satisfaction was in
helping Fergus to arrange his spare specimens for sale.

CHAPTER XVII. EXCLUDED

But I needn't tell you what to do, only do it out of hand,
And charge whatever you like to charge, my lady won't make a stand.
-—T. HOOD.

The ladies' committee could not but meet over and over again,
wandering about the gardens, which were now trimmed into order, to
place the stalls and decide on what should and should not be.

There was to be an art stall, over which Mrs. Henderson was to
preside. Here were to be the very graceful and beautiful articles of
sculpture and Italian bijouterie that the Whites had sent home, and
that were spared from the marble works; also Mrs. Grinstead's
drawings, Captain Henderson's, those of others, screens and scrap-
books and photographs. Jasper and a coadjutor or two undertook to
photograph any one who wished it; and there too were displayed the
Mouse-traps. Mrs. Henderson, sure to look beautiful, quite Madonna-
like in her costume, would have the charge of the stall, with Gillian
and two other girls, in Italian peasant-dresses, sent home by Aunt
Ada.

Gillian was resolved on standing by her. "Kalliope wants some one to
give her courage," she said. "Besides, I am the mother of the Mouse-
trap, and I must see how it goes off."

Lady Flight and a bevy of young ladies of her selection were to
preside over the flowers; Mrs. Yarley undertook the refreshments;
Lady Merrifield the more ordinary bazaar stall. Her name was prized,
and Anna was glad to shelter herself under her wing. The care of
Valetta and Primrose, to say nothing of Dolores, was enough
inducement to overcome any reluctance, and she was glad to be on the
committee when vexed questions came on, such as Miss Pettifer's offer
of a skirt-dance, which could not be so summarily dismissed as it had
been at Beechcroft, for Lady Flight and Mrs. Varley wished for it,
and even Mrs. Harper was ready to endure anything to raise the much-
needed money, and almost thought Lady Merrifield too particular when
she discontinued the dancing-class for Valetta and Primrose.

"That speaks for itself," said Mrs. Grinstead.

"I can fancy seeing no harm in it for little girls," said Lady
Merrifield, "but I don't like giving them a talent the use of which
seems to be to enable them to show off."

"And I know that Lady Rotherwood would not approve," said Miss Mohun,
aware that this settled the matter. "And here's another outsider,
Miss Penfeather, who offers to interpret handwriting at two-and-
sixpence a head."

"By all means," was the cry. "We will build her a bower somewhere
near the photography."

"I am only afraid," added Jane, "of her offering to do palmistry.
Do you know, I dabbled a little in that once, and I came to the
conclusion that it was not a safe study for oneself or any one else."

"Quite right," said Geraldine.

"Do you believe in it then?"

"Not so as to practise it, or accept it so far as the future is
concerned, and to play at it as a parody of fortune-telling seems to
me utterly inadmissible."

"And to be squashed with Lord Rotherwood's mighty name," said her
sister, laughing.

Lady Rotherwood would do so effectively. Wherewith came on the
question of raffles, an inexhaustible one, since some maintained that
they were contrary to English law, and were absolutely immoral, while
others held that it was the only way of disposing of really expensive
articles. These were two statues sent by Mrs. White, and an
exquisite little picture by Mrs. Grinstead, worth more than any one
could be expected to give. It was one that she had nearly finished
at the time of Mr. Grinstead's illness-—John Inglesant arriving in
his armour of light on his wedding morning-—and the associations were
so painful that she said she never wished to see it again.

There were likewise a good many charming sketches of figures and
scenery, over which Gerald and Anna grieved, though she had let them
keep all they could show cause for; but drawing had become as much
her resource as in the good old days. She was always throwing off
little outlines, and she had even begun a grand study, which she
called "Safe Home," a vessel showing signs of storm and struggle just
at the verge of a harbour lost in golden light.

And the helmsman's face?

Clement and Lance neither of them said in words whose it was, as they
both stood looking at it, and owned to themselves the steadfast face
of their eldest brother, but Clement said, with a sigh—-

"Ah! we are a long way as yet from that."

"I'm very glad to hear you say so," exclaimed Lance; then laughing at
himself, "You are ever so much better."

"Oh yes, I suppose I am to start again, going softly all my days,
perhaps, and it is well, for I don't think the young generation can
spare me yet."

"Nor Cherry."

"How thankful I am to have Cherry restored to me I cannot say, and I
do not feel convinced that there may not be care at hand with Gerald.
The boy is in a reserved mood, very civil and amiable, but clearly
holding back from confidence."

"Does she see it?"

"Yes; but she fancies he bestows his confidence on Dolores Mohun, the
girl from New Zealand, and resigns herself to be set aside. It is
pretty well time that we went to meet her."

For there was to be a dress rehearsal in the pavilion, to which
certain spectators were to be admitted, chiefly as critics.

"Do you walk up the hill, Clem?"

"Yes, as long as I don't go too fast. Go on if you are wanted, and I
will follow. Cherry has sent the carriage for an invalid who cannot
venture to be there all the day."

"Let them wait. A walk with you is not to be wasted. Run on, Fely,
tell them we are coming," he added to his little Ariel, who had got
lost in Jungle Beasts.

As they went up the hill together, Clement not sorry to lean on his
brother's arm, a dark woman of striking figure and countenance,
though far from young, came up with them, accompanied by a stout,
over-dressed man.

"That's the cigar-shop woman," said Lance, "the mother of our pretty
little Miranda."

"I wonder she chooses to show herself after her conviction," said
Clement.

"And if I am not much mistaken, that is the villain of The Sepoy's
Revenge," said Lance. "Poor little Butterfly, it is a bad omen for
her future fate."

As they reached the doors of the great hotel, they found the pair in
altercation with the porter before the iron gate that gave admittance
to the gardens. "Mother Butterfly" was pleading that she was the
mother of Miss Schnetterling, who was singing, and the porter
replying that his orders were strict.

"No, not on any consideration," he repeated, as the man was evidently
showing him the glance of silver, and a policeman, who was marching
about, showed signs of meaning to interfere.

At the same moment Gerald's quick steps came up from the inside.

"That's right, Lance; every one is crying out for you. Vicar, Cherie
is keeping a capital place for you."

The gate opened to admit them, and therewith Mrs. Schnetterling,
trying to push in, made a vehement appeal—-

"Mr. Underwood, sir, surely the prima donna's own mother should not
be excluded."

"Her mother!" said Gerald. "Well, perhaps so, but hardly this-—
person," as his native fastidiousness rose at the sight.

"No, sir," said the porter. "Captain Henderson and Mr. Simmonds, they
have specially cautioned me who I lets in."

The man grumbled something about swells and insolence, and Lance,
with his usual instinct of courtesy, lingered to say—-

"This is quite a private rehearsal-—only the persons concerned!"

"And if I'm come on business," said the man confidentially. "You are
something in our line."

"Scarcely," said Lance, rather amused. "At any rate, I don't make
the regulations."

He sped away at the summons of his impatient son and Gerald.

They met Captain Henderson on the way, and after a hasty greeting, he
said—-

"So you have let in the Schnetterling woman?"

"One could not well keep out the mother," returned Lance.

"Well, no, but did she bring a man with her? My wife says the poor
little Mona is in mortal terror lest he is come to inspect her for a
circus company."

"Quite according to his looks," said Lance. "Poor child, it may be
her fate, but she ought to be in safe hands, but I suppose the woman
wants to sacrifice her to present gain."

They went on their way, and Lance and Gerald were soon absorbed in
their cares of arrangement, while Clement was conducted to the seat
reserved for him between his sister and Lady Merrifield. The
pavilion had been fitted with stages of seats on the inner side, but
the back-—behind the stage-—was so contrived that in case of
favourable weather the real sea-view could be let in upon occasion,
though the curtain and adjuncts, which had been painted by some of
the deft fingers at Vale Leston, represented the cavern; also there
was a first scene, with a real sail and mast.

It was a kind of semi-dress rehearsal, beginning with pirate songs by
the school-master and choir, who had little difficulty in arranging
themselves as buccaneers. The sail was agitated, then reefed, stormy
songs were heard, where Captain Armytage did his part fairly well;
the boatswain was gratified by roaring out his part character-
istically, and the curtain fell on "We split, we split, we split."

Then came a song of Prospero, not much disguised by a plaid and
Highland bonnet, interrupted by the pretty, graceful Miranda, very
shy and ill-assured at first, but gathering strength from his gentle
encouraging ways, while he told what was needful in the recitative
that he alone could undertake. Then the elves and fairies, led by
little Felix, in a charming cap like Puck, danced on and sang, making
the prettiest of tableaux, lulling Miranda to sleep, and then Ariel
conversing in a most dainty manner with Prospero.

Next Ferdinand and Miranda had their scene, almost all songs and
duets. Both sang very sweetly, and she had evidently gained in
courage, and threw herself into her part.

The shipwrecked party then came on the scene, performed their songs,
and were led about Puck-fashion by the fairies, and put to sleep by
the lament over Ferdinand. The buccaneers in like manner were
deluded by more mischievous songs and antics, till bogged and crying
out behind the scenes.

Their intended victims were then awakened, to find themselves in the
presence of Prospero; sing themselves into the reconciliation, then
mourn for Ferdinand, until the disclosure of the two lovers, and the
final release of Ariel and the sprites, all singing Jacobite songs.

To those who were not au fait with the 'Tempest' and felt no
indignation or jealousy at the travesty, it was charming; and though
the audience at the rehearsal numbered few of these, the refined
sweetness and power of the performers made it delightful and
memorable. Every one was in raptures with the fairies, who had been
beautifully drilled, and above all with their graceful little leader,
with his twinkling feet and arch lively manner, especially in the
parts with his father.

Ferdinand and Miranda-—or rather Angus and Mona—-were quite ideal in
looks, voices, and gestures.

"Almost dangerously so," said Jane Mohun; "and the odd thing is that
they are just alike enough for first cousins, as they are here,
though Shakespeare was not guilty of making them such."

"The odd thing is," said Geraldine, as she drove home with Clement,
"that this brought me back so strangely to that wonderful concert at
home, with all of you standing up in a row, and the choir from
Minsterham, and poor Edgar's star."

"An evil star!" sighed Clement.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE EVIL STAR

Lancelot said,
That were against me, what I can I will;
And there that day remained.-—TENNYSON.

It was on the night before the final bustle and fury, so to speak, of
preparation were to set in, when arrivals were expected, and the
sellers were in commotion, and he had been all day putting the
singers one by one through their parts, that as he went to his room
at night, there was a knock at Lancelot's door, and Gerald came in,
looking deadly white. He had been silent and effaced all the
evening, and his aunt had thought him tired, but he had rather
petulantly eluded inquiry, and now he came in with—-

"Lance, I must have it out with some one."

"An Oxford scrape?" said Lance.

"Oh no, I wish it was only that." Then a silence, while Lance looked
at him, thinking, "What trouble could it be?" He had been very kind
and gentle with the little Miranda, but the manner had not struck
Lance as lover-like.

There was a gasp again—-

"That person, that woman at the gate, do you remember?"

Therewith a flash came over Lance.

"My poor boy! You don't mean to say--"

Neither could bring himself to say the word so sacred to Lancelot,
and which might have been so sacred to his nephew.

"How did you guess?" said Gerald, lifting up the face that he had
hidden on the table.

"I saw the likeness between you and the girl. She reminded me of
some one I had once seen."

"Had you seen her?"

"Once, at a concert, twenty odd years ago. Your aunt, too, was
strangely carried back to that scene, by the girl's voice, I
suppose."

"Poor child!" said Gerald, still laying down his head and seeming
terribly oppressed, as Lance felt he well might be.

"It is a sad business for you," said the uncle, with a kind hand on
his shoulder. "How was it she did not claim you before?-—not that
she has any real claim."

"She did not know my real name. My father called himself Wood. I
never knew the rest of it till after I came home. That fellow bribed
the gardener, got in over the wall, or somehow, and when she saw you,
and heard you and me and all three of us, it gave her the clue."

"Well, Gerald, I do not think she can dare to--"

"Oh!" interrupted Gerald, "there's worse to come."

"What?" said Lance, aghast.

"She says," and a sort of dry sob cut him short, "she says she had a
husband when she married my father," and down went his head again.

"Impossible," was Lance's first cry; "your father's first care was to
tell Travis all was right with you. Travis has the certificates."

"Oh yes, it was no fault of my father-—my father, my dear father-—no,
but she deceived him, and I am an impostor-—nobody."

"Gently, gently, Gerald. We have no certainty that this is true.
Your father had known her for years. Tell me, how did it come out—-
what evidence did she adduce?"

Gerald nerved himself to sit up and speak collectedly.

"I believe it is half that circus fellow's doing. I think she is
going to marry him, if she hasn't already. She followed me, and just
at the turn down this road, as I was bidding the Mona girl goodnight,
she came up with me, and said I little thought that the child was my
sister, and how delightful it was to see us acting together. Well
then, I can't say but a horror came over me. I couldn't for the life
of me do anything but draw back, there was something so intolerable
in the look of her eyes, and her caressing manner," and he shuddered,
glad of his uncle's kind hand on his shoulder. "Somehow, I let her
get me out upon the high ground, and there she said, 'So you are too
great a swell to have word or look for your mother. No wonder, you
always were un vilain petit miserable; but I won't trouble you-—I
wouldn't be bound to live your dull ennuyant ladies' life for
millions. I'll bargain to keep out of your way; but O'Leary and I
want a couple of hundred pounds, and you'll not grudge it to us.' I
had no notion of being blackmailed, besides I haven't got it, and I
told her she might know that I am not of age, and had no such sum
ready to hand. She was urgent, and I began to think whether I could
do anything to save that poor little sister, when she evidently got
some fresh impulse from the man, and began to ask me how I should
like to have it all disclosed to my nobs of friends. Well, I wasn't
going to be bullied, and I answered that my friends knew already, and
she might do her worst. 'Oh, may I?' she said; 'you wouldn't like,
my fine young squire, to have it come out that I never was your
father's wife at all, and that you are no more than that gutter-
child.' I could not understand her at first, and said I would not be
threatened, but that made her worse, and that rascal O'Leary came to
her help. They raised their demands somehow to five hundred, and
declared if they had not it paid down, they should tell the whole
story and turn me out. Of course I said they were welcome. Either I
am my father's lawful son, or I am not, and if not, the sooner it is
all up with me the better, for whatever I am, I am no thief and
robber. So I set off and came down the hill; but the brute kept pace
with me to this very door, trying to wheedle me, I believe. And now
what's to be done? I would go off at once, and let Uncle Clem come
into his rights, only I don't want to be the death of him and
Cherie."

"No," said Lance, "my dear fellow! You have stood it wisely and
bravely so far, go on to do so. I don't feel the least certain that
this is not mere bullying. She did not tell you any particulars?"

"No, certainly not."

"Not the name of this supposed predecessor of Edgar's? Where she may
have been married, or how? How she parted from him, or how she knows
he was alive? It sounds to me a bogus notion, got up to put the
screw on you, by surprise. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go down
to the shop tomorrow morning, see the woman, and extract the truth if
possible, and I fully expect that the story will shrink up to
nothing."

"'Tis not the estate I care for," said Gerald, looking somewhat
cheered. "It is my father's honour and name. If that can be
cleared—-"

"Do not I care?" said Lance. "My dear brother Edgar, my model of all
that was noble and brilliant-—whom Felix loved above all! Nay, and
you, Gerald, our hope! I would give anything and everything to free
you from this stain, though I trust it will prove only mud that will
not stick. Anyway you have shown your true, faithful Underwood
blood. Now go to bed and sleep if you can. Don't say a word, nor
look more like a ghost than you can help—-or we shall have to rouge
ourselves for our parts. My boy, my boy! You are Edgar's boy,
anyway."

And Lancelot kissed the young pale cheek as he had done when the
little wounded orphan clung to him fourteen years ago, or as he
kissed his own Felix.

Whatever the night was to Gerald, long was the night, and long the
light hours of the morning to the ever sleepless Lance before he
could rise and make his way to the shop with any hope of gaining
admission, and many were the sighs and prayers that this tale might
be confuted, and that the matter might be to the blessing of the
youth to whom he felt more warmly now than since those winning baby
days had given place to more ordinary boyhood. He had a long time to
pace up and down watching the sparkling water, and feeling the fresh
wind on the brow, which was as capable as ever of aching over trouble
and perplexity, and dreading above all the effect on the sister,
whose consolation and darling Gerald had always been. How little he
had thought, when he had stood staunch against his brother Edgar's
persuasions, that Zoraya was to be the bane of that life which had
begun so gaily!

When at last the door was unfastened, and, as before, by Ludmilla, he
greeted her kindly, and as she evidently expected some fresh idea
about the masque, he gave her his card, and asked her to beg her
mother to come and speak to him. She started at the name and said—-

"Oh, sir, you will do nothing to hurt him-—Mr. Underwood?"

"It is the last thing I wish," he said earnestly, and Ludmilla showed
him into a little parlour, full of the fumes of tobacco, and sped
away, but he had a long time to wait, for probably Mother Butterfly's
entire toilette had to be taken in hand.

Before she appeared Lancelot heard a man's voice, somewhere in the
entry, saying—-

"Oh! the young ass has been fool enough to let it out, has he? I
suppose this is the chap that will profit? You'll have your wits
about you."

Lance was still his old self enough to receive the lady with—-

"I beg to observe that I am not the 'chap who will profit' if this
miserable allegation holds water. I am come to understand the
truth."

The woman looked frightened, and the man came to her rescue, having
evidently heard, and this Lance preferred, for he always liked to
deal with mankind rather than womankind. Having gone so far there
was not room for reticence, and the man took up the word.

"Madame cannot be expected to disclose anything to the prejudice of
her son and herself, unless it was made worth her while."

"Perhaps not," said Lance, as he looked her over in irony, and drew
the conclusion that the marriage was a fact accomplished; "but she
has demanded two hundred pounds from her son, on peril of exposure,
and if the facts are not substantiated, there is such a thing as an
action for conspiracy, and obtaining money on false pretences."

"Nothing has been obtained!" said the woman, beginning to cry. "He
was very hard on his poor mother."

"Who forsook him as an infant, cast off his father, and only claims
him in order to keep a disgraceful, ruinous secret hanging over his
life for ever, in order to extort money."

"Come now, this is tall talk, sir," said O'Leary; "the long and short
of it is, what will the cove, yourself, or whoever it is that you
speak for, come down for one way or another?"

"Nothing," responded Lance.

Neither of the estimable couple spoke or moved under an announcement
so incredible to them, and he went on—-

"Gerald Underwood would rather lose everything than give hush-money
to enable him to be a robber, and my elder brother would certainly
give no reward for what would be the greatest grief in his life."

O'Leary grinned as if he wanted to say, "Have you asked him?"

"The priest," she muttered.

"Ay, the meddling parson who has done for you! He would have to come
down pretty handsomely."

Lancelot went on as if he had not heard these asides.

"I am a magistrate; I can give you in charge at once to the police,
and have you brought before the Mayor for conspiracy, when you will
have to prove your words, or confess them to be a lie."

He was not in the least certain that where there was no threatening
letter, this could succeed, but he knew that the preliminaries would
be alarming enough to elicit something, and accordingly Mrs. O'Leary
began to sob out—-

"It was when I was a mere child, a bambina, and he used me so
cruelly."

There was the first thread, and on the whole, the couple were angry
enough with Gerald, his refined appearance and air of careless
prosperity, to be willing that he should have a fall, and Lance thus
extracted that the "he" who had been cruel was a Neapolitan
impresario in a small way, who had detected that Zoraya, when a very
little child, had a charming voice, of which indeed she still spoke
with pride, saying Lida would never equal it. Her parents were semi-
gipsies, Hungarian, and had wandered all over the Austrian empire,
acting, singing, and bringing up their children to the like. They
had actually sold her to the impresario, who had sealed the compact,
and hoped to secure the valuable commodity by making her his wife.
In his security he had trained her in the severest mode, and visited
the smallest want of success with violence and harshness, so that her
life was utterly miserable, and on meeting her brother, who had
become a member of a German band, she had contrived to make her
escape with him, and having really considerable proficiency, the
brother and sister had prospered, and through sundry vicissitudes had
arrived at being "stars" in Allen's troupe, where Edgar Underwood,
or, as he was there known, Tom Wood, had unfortunately joined them;
and the sequel was known to Lancelot, but he could not but listen and
gather up the details, disgusted as he was-—how the prima donna had
accepted his attention as her right, till her jealousy was excited by
his evident attraction to "the little English doll, for whom he
killed his man"; how she resolved to win him, and how scandalous
reports at last had brought him to offer marriage, unknowing, it was
plain, of her past. It was not possible to guess how much she was
still keeping back, speaking under terror and compulsion as she did.
But she declared that he had never loved her, and was always wanting
her to be like ces Anglaises fades, and as to her child, he so
tormented her about it, and the ways of his absurd mother and
sisters, and so expected her to sacrifice her art and her prospects
to the little wretch, that she was ready to strangle it! "Maternal
love, bah! she was not going to be like a bird or a beast," she said,
with a strange wild glance in her eyes that made Lance shudder, and
think how much more he respected the bird or beast. Then at Chicago,
when Wood's own folly and imprudence had brought on an illness that
destroyed his voice, and she knew there would be only starvation, or
she should have to toil for the whole of them, Schnetterling, manager
of a circus, fell in love with her, and made her good offers to sing
in Canada, and Chicago was a place where few questions were asked, so
she freed herself.

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