Books: The Long Vacation

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21

He was rejoiced to find on coming down-stairs that Lance had decided
on giving another day to family counsels, sending off little Felix
with his cousins, who would drop him at the junction to Stoneborough,
whence he would be proud to travel alone. Clement took another
resolution, in virtue of which he knocked at his sister's door before
she went down.

"Cherry," said he, "would it be inconvenient to keep Francie here
just for the present?"

"Not at all; it would be only too pleasant for Anna now that she
loses her brother. But why?"

"I want to hinder her from hearing the conclusions that her mother
may draw from the diversions of yesterday."

"I see. It might soon be,

'He cometh not, she said.'"

"And Sophy will keep her counsel as to those moonlight wanderings.
When were they to go?"

"By the 11.30 train. Marilda is coming up first."

So the plan was propounded. Franceska was only too much charmed to
stay in what had indeed been an enchanted coast to her, and Sophy was
sure that mamma would not mind; so the matter was settled, and the
explanatory notes written.

The party set off, with each little boy hugging a ship in full sail,
and the two young sisters were disposed of by a walk to Clipstone to
talk over their adventures. Mrs. Grinstead felt certain of the good
manners and reticence prevailing there to prevent any banter about
Lord Ivinghoe, and she secured the matter further by a hint to Anna.

However, Miss Mohun was announced almost as they left the house. She
too was full of the bazaar, which seemed so long ago to her hearers,
but with the result of which she was exceedingly delighted. The
voluntary schools were secured for the present, and the gratitude of
the Church folk was unbounded, especially to the Vale Leston family,
who had contributed so greatly to the success of the whole.

Jane too had watched the evening manoeuvres, and perceived, with her
sharp eyes, all that was avowed and not avowed under that rising
moon. The pair of whom she had first to speak were "Ivanhoe and
Rowena," as she called them, and she was glad to find that the "fair
Saxon" had grown up at Vale Leston, educated by her aunt and sister,
and imbibing no outside habits or impressions.

"Poor child," said Jane, "she looks like a flower; one is sorry it
should be meddled with."

"So did my sister Stella, and there, contrary to all our fears, the
course of true love did run smooth."

"If it depended entirely on Rotherwood himself, I think it would,"
said Jane, "but-—" She paused and went on, "Ivinghoe is, I fear,
really volage, and he is the mark of a good many London mammas."

"Is it true about Mrs. Henderson's sister?"

"There's nothing in it. I believe he danced with her a few times,
and the silly little thing put her own construction on it, but her
sister made her confess that he had never said a word to her, nor
made love in any sense. Indeed, my sister Adeline would never have
consented to her coming here if she had believed in it, but Maura has
a Greek nature and turns the Whites round her fingers. Well, I hope
all will go well with your pretty Franceska. I should not like her
lovely bloom to be faded by Ivinghoe. He is Rotherwood's own boy,
though rather a prig, and a man in London. Oh, you know what that
means!"

"We have done _notre possible_ to keep our interpretation from the
poor child, or any hint of it from reaching her mother."

"That's right. Poor Rowena, I hope the spark will be blown out, or
remain only a pleasant recollection. As to little Maura, she had her
lesson when she was reduced to hanging on Captain Henderson's other
arm! She is off to-day to meet Mr. White in London. That purpose
has been served."

"And have you not a nearer interest?"

"Oh, Gillian! Well, Captain Armytage did get hold of her, in what we
must now call the Lover's Walk! Yes, she has yielded, to her
father's great satisfaction and perhaps to her mother's, for she will
be more comfortable in looking forward to a commonplace life for her
than in the dread of modern aberrations. But Gillian is very funny,
very much ashamed of having given in, and perfectly determined to go
to her college and finish her education, which she may as well do
while the Sparrow Hawk is at sea. He is off to-day, and she says she
is very glad to be rid of him. She sat down at once to her dynamite,
as Primrose calls it, having bound over Mysie and Valetta never to
mention the subject! I tell them that to obey in silence is the way
to serve the poor man best."

Miss Mohun was interrupted by the announcement of Lady Flight and Mr.
Flight, who came equally eager with delight and gratitude to thank
the House of Underwood for the triumph. The rest of the clergy of
Rockquay and half the ladies might be expected, and in despair at
last of a "lucid interval," Geraldine ordered the carriage for a long
drive into the country, so as to escape all visitors. Even then,
they could not got up the hill without being stopped four or five
times to receive the thanks and compliments which nearly drove Gerald
crazy, so much did he want to hear what his family had to say to his
plans, that he had actually consented to partake of a dowager-drive
in a landau!

He and his uncle had discovered from the police in the course of the
morning that Ludmilla and her mother had not gone with the circus,
but had been seen embarking in the Alice Jane, a vessel bound for
London. His idea had been to hurry thither and endeavour to search
out his half-sister, and rescue her; but Lance had assured him not
only that it would probably be a vain quest, but that there would be
full time to meet the Alice Jane by land before she could get there
by sea.

To this he had yielded, but not so readily to the representation that
the wisest way would be to keep out of sight; but to let Lance, as a
less interested party, go and interview the van proprietor, whose
direction had been sent to Clement, try to see O'Leary, and do his
best to bargain for Ludmilla's release, a matter on which all were
decided, whatever might be the upshot of the question respecting
Gerald. To leave a poor girl to circus training, even if there were
no interest in her, would have been shocking to right-minded people;
but when it was such a circus as O'Leary's, and the maiden was so
good, sweet, and modest as Lida, the thought would have been
intolerable even without the connection with Gerald, who had been
much taken with all he had seen of her.

"That is fixed, even if we have to bid high for our Mona," said
Lance.

"By all means," said Geraldine. "It will be another question what
will be good for her when we have got her."

"I will take care of that!" said Gerald.

"Next," Lance went on, "we must see what proofs, or if there be any,
of this person's story. I expect one of you will have to pay well
for them, but I had better take a lawyer with me."

Clement named the solicitor who had the charge of the Vanderkist
affairs.

"Better than Staples, or Bramshaw & Anderson. Yes, it would be best
to have no previous knowledge of the family, and no neighbourly
acquaintance. Moreover, I am not exactly an interested party, so I
may be better attended to."

"Still I very much doubt, even if you do get any statement from the
woman, whether it can be depended upon without verification," said
Clement.

"From the registers, if there are any at these places?"

"Exactly, and there must be personal inquiry. The first husband,
Gian Benista, will have to be hunted down, dead or alive."

"Yes; and another thing," said Lance, "if the Italian marriage were
before the revolution in Sicily, I expect the ecclesiastical ceremony
would be valid, but after that, the civil marriage would be
required."

"Oh!" groaned Gerald, "if you would let me throw it all up without
these wretched quibbles."

"Not your father's honour," said his aunt.

"Nor our honesty," said Clement. "It is galling enough to have your
whole position in life depend on the word of a worthless woman, but
there are things that must be taken patiently, as the will of One who
knows."

"It is so hard to accept it as God's will when it comes of human
sin," said Geraldine.

"Human thoughtlessness," said Clement; "but as long as it is not by
our own fault we can take it as providential, and above all, guard
against impatience, the real ruin and destruction."

"Yes," said Lance, "sit on a horse's head when he is down to keep him
from kicking."

"So you all are sitting on my head," said Gerald; "I shall get out
and walk-—a good rush on the moors."

"Wait at least to allow your head to take in my scheme," said
Clement.

"Provided it is not sitting still," said Gerald.

"Far from it. Only it partly depends on my lady and mistress here-—"

"I guess," said Geraldine. "You know I am disposed that way by Dr.
Brownlow's verdict."

"And 'that way' is that we go ourselves to try to trace out this
strange allegation—-you coming too, Gerald, so that we shall not
quite be sitting on your head."

"But my sister?"

"We will see when we have recovered her," said Mrs. Grinstead.

"I would begin with a visit to Stella and her husband," said Clement;
"Charlie could put us in the way of dealing with consuls and vice-
consuls."

"Excellent," cried his sister; "Anna goes of course, and I should
like to take Francie. It would be such an education for her."

"Well, why not?"

"And what is to become of Adrian?"

"Well, we should not have been here more than six months of course."

"I could take him," said Lance, "unless Alda holds poor old Froggatt
& Underwood beneath his dignity."

"That can be considered," said Clement; "it approves itself best to
me, except that he is getting on so well here that I don't like to
disturb him."

"And when can you come up to town with me?" demanded Gerald;
"tomorrow?"

"To-morrow being Saturday, it would be of little use to go. No, if
you will not kick, master, I must go home to-morrow, and look up poor
'Pur,' also the organ on Sunday. Come with me, and renew your
acquaintance. We will make an appointment with your attorney, Clem,
and run up on Monday evening, see him on Tuesday."

Gerald sighed, submitting perforce, and they let him out to exhale as
much impatience as he could in a tramp over the hills, while they sat
and pitied him from their very hearts.

CHAPTER XXV. DESDICHADO

'Perish wealth and power and pride,
Mortal boons by mortals given;
But let constancy abide—-
Constancy's the gift of Heaven.-—SCOTT.

Lancelot and Gerald did not obtain much by their journey to London.
Gerald wanted to begin with Mr. Bast, van proprietor, but Lance
insisted on having the lawyer's counsel first, and the advice
amounted to exhortations not to commit themselves, or to make offers
such as to excite cupidity, especially in the matter of Ludmilla, but
to dwell on the fact of her being so close to the age of
emancipation, and the illegality of tyrannical training.

This, however, proved to be wasted advice. Mr. Bast was impervious.
He undertook to forward a letter to Mr. O'Leary, but would not tell
where, nor whether wife and daughter were with him. The letter was
written, and in due time was answered, but with an intimation that
the information desired could only be given upon the terms already
mentioned; and refusing all transactions respecting the young lady
mentioned, who was with her natural guardians and in no need of
intervention.

They were baffled at all points, and the lawyer did not encourage any
idea of holding out a lure for information, which might easily be
trumped up. Since Lancelot had discovered so much as that the first
marriage had taken place at Messina, and the desertion at Trieste, as
well as that the husband was said to have been a native of Piedmont,
he much recommended personal investigation at all these points,
especially as Mr. Underwood could obtain the assistance and interest
of consuls. It was likely that if neither uncle nor nephew made
further demonstration, the O'Learys would attempt further
communication, which he and Lance could follow up. This might be a
clue to finding "the young lady"—-to him a secondary matter, to
Gerald a vital one, but for the present nothing could be done for
her, poor child.

So they could only return to Rockquay to make immediate preparations
for the journey. Matters were simplified by Miss Mohun, who, hearing
that Clement's doctors ordered him abroad for the winter, came to the
rescue, saying that she should miss Fergus and his lessons greatly,
and she thought it would be a pity for Mrs. Edgar to lose their
little baronet, just after having given offence to certain
inhabitants by a modified expulsion of Campbell and Horner, and
therefore volunteering to take Adrian for a few terms, look after his
health, his morals, and his lessons, and treat him in fact like a
nephew, "to keep her hand in," she said, "till the infants began to
appear from India."

This was gratefully accepted, and Alda liked the plan better than
placing him at Bexley, which she continued to regard as an
unwholesome place. The proposal to take Franceska was likewise
welcome, and the damsel herself was in transports of delight.
Various arrangements had to be made, and it was far on in August that
the farewells were exchanged with Clipstone and Beechcroft Cottage,
where each member of the party felt that a real friend had been
acquired. The elders, ladies who had grown up in an enthusiastic
age, were even more devoted to one another than were Anna and Mysie.
Gillian stood a little aloof, resolved against "foolish" confidences,
and devoting herself to studies for college life, in which she tried
to swallow up all the feelings excited by those ship letters.

Dolores had her secret, which was to be no longer a secret when she
had heard from her father, and in the meantime, with Gerald's full
concurrence, she was about to work hard to qualify herself for
lecturing or giving lessons on physical science. She could not enter
the college that she wished for till the winter term, and meant to
spend the autumn in severe study.

"We will work," was the substance of those last words between them,
and their parting tokens were characteristic, each giving the other a
little case of mathematical instruments, "We will work, and we will
hope."

"And what for?" said Dolores.

"I should say for toil, if it could be with untarnished name," said
Gerald.

"Name and fame are our own to make," said Dolores, with sparkling
eyes.

This was their parting. Indeed they expected to meet at Christmas or
before it, so soon as Mr. Maurice Mohun should have written. Gerald
was, by the unanimous wish of his uncles, to finish his terms at
Oxford. Whatever might be his fate, a degree would help him in life.

He had accepted the decision, though he had rather have employed the
time in a restless search for his mother and sister; but after vainly
pursuing two or three entertainments at fairs, he became amenable to
the conviction that they were more likely to hear something if they
gave up the search and kept quiet, and both Dolores and Mrs.
Henderson promised to be on the watch.

The state of suspense proved an admirable tonic to the whole being of
the young man. His listlessness had departed, and he did everything
with an energy he had never shown before. Only nothing would induce
him to go near Vale Leston, and he made it understood that his
twenty-first birthday was to be unnoticed. Not a word passed between
Gerald and his aunt as to the cause of the journey, and the doubt
that hung over him, but nothing could be more assiduous and tender
than his whole conduct to her and his uncle throughout the journey,
as though he had no object in life but to save them trouble and make
them comfortable.

The party started in August, travelled very slowly, and he was the
kindest squire to the two girls, taking them to see everything, and
being altogether, as Geraldine said, the most admirable courier in
the world, with a wonderful intuition as to what she individually
would like to see, and how she could see it without fatigue.
Moreover, on the Sunday that occurred at a little German town, it was
the greatest joy to her that he sought no outside gaiety, but rather
seemed to cling to his uncle's home ministrations, and even to her
readings of hymns. They had a quiet walk together, and it was a day
of peace when his gentle kindness put her in mind of his father, yet
with a regretful depth she had always missed in Edgar.

Nor was there any of that old dreary, half-contemptuous tone and
manner which had often made her think he was only conforming to
please her, and shrinking from coming to close quarters, where he
might confess opinions that would grieve her. He was manifestly in
earnest, listening and joining in the services as if they had a new
force to him. Perhaps they had the more from the very absence of the
ordinary externals, and with nothing to disturb the individual
personality of Clement's low, earnest, and reverent tones. There
were tears on his eyelashes as he rose up, bent over, and kissed his
Cherie. And that evening, while Clement and the two nieces walked
farther, and listened to the Benediction in the little Austrian
church, Gerald sat under a linden-tree with his aunt, and in the
fullness of his heart told her how things stood between him and
Dolores.

Geraldine had never been as much attracted by Dolores as by Gillian
and Mysie, but she was greatly touched by hearing that the meeting
and opening of affection had been on the discovery that Gerald was
probably nameless and landless, and that the maiden was bent on
casting in her lot with him whatever his fate might be.

He murmured to himself the old lines, with a slight alteration—-

"I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not justice more."

"Yes, indeed, Cherie, our affection is a very different and better
thing than it would be if I were only the rich young squire sure of
my position."

"I am sure it is, my dear. I honour and love her for being my boy's
brave comforter—-comforter in the true sense. I see now what has
helped you to be so brave and cheery. But what will her father say?"

"He will probably be startled, and—-and will object, but it would be
a matter of waiting anyway, the patience that the Vicar preaches, and
we have made up our minds. I'll fight my own way; she to prepare by
her Cambridge course to come and work with me, as we can do so much
better among the people—-among them in reality, and by no pretence."

"Ah! don't speak as if you gave up your cause."

"Well, I won't, if you don't like to hear it, Cherie," he said,
smiling; "but anyway you will be good to Dolores."

"Indeed I will do my best, my dear. I am sure you and she, whatever
happens, have the earnest purpose and soul to do all the good you
can, whether from above or on the same level, and that makes the
oneness of love."

"Thank you, Cherie carissima. You see the secret of our true bond."

"One bond to make it deeper must be there. The love of God beneath
the love of man."

CHAPTER XXVI. THE SILENT STAR

Then the traveller in the dark
Thanks you for your tiny spark;
He would not know which way to go
If you did not twinkle so.-—JANE TAYLOR.

And so they came to Buda, where Charles Audley represented English
diplomatic interests on the banks of the Danube. When the quaint old
semi-oriental-looking city came in sight and the train stopped, the
neat English-looking carriage, with gay Hungarian postillions, could
be seen drawn up to meet them outside the station.

Charles and his father, now Sir Robert, were receiving them with
outstretched hands and joyous words, and in a few seconds more they
were with their little Stella! Yes, their little Stella still, as
Clement and Cherry had time to see, when Gerald and the two girls had
insisted on walking, however far it might be, with the two Audleys,
though Charlie told them that no one ever walked in Hungary who could
help it, and that he should be stared at for bringing such strange
animals.

Geraldine had stayed with Stella once before, and Clement had made
one hurried and distressful rush in the trouble about Angela; but
that was at Munich, and nearly nine years ago, before the many
changes and chances of life had come to them. To Stella those years
had brought two little boys, whose appearance in the world had been
delayed till the Audley family had begun to get anxious for an heir,
but while the Underwoods thought it was well that their parents,
especially their father, should have time to grow a little older.

And Stella looked as daintily, delicately pretty as ever, at first
sight like a china shepherdess to be put under a glass shade, but on
a second view, with a thoughtful sweetness and depth in her face that
made her not merely pretty but lovely. How happy she was, gazing at
her brother and sister, and now and then putting a question to bring
out the overflow of home news, so dear to her. For she was still
their silent star, making very few words evince her intense interest
and sympathy.

Even when they were at home, in the house that looked outside like a
castle in a romance, but which was so truly English within, and the
two little fellows of four and three came toddling to meet her,
shrinking into her skirts at sight of the new uncle and aunt, there
was a quiet gentle firmness—-all the old Stella-—in her dealings with
them, as she drew them to kiss and greet the strangers. Robbie and
Theodore were sturdy, rosy beings, full of life, but perfectly
amenable to that sweet low voice. Their father and grandfather might
romp with them to screaming pitch, and idolize them almost to
spoiling, yet they too were under that gentle check which the young
wife exercised on all around.

She was only thirty-one, and so small, so fair and young in looks,
that to her elder sister her pretty matronly rule _would_ at first
seem like the management of a dolls' house, even though her servants,
English, German, or Magyar, obeyed her implicitly; and for that
matter, as Charlie and Sir Robert freely and merrily avowed, so did
they. The young secretary was her bounden slave, and held her as the
ideal woman, though there came to be a little swerving of his
allegiance towards the tall and beautiful Franceska, who had
insensibly improved greatly in grace and readiness on her travels,
and quite dazzled the Hungarians; while Anna was immensely exultant,
and used to come to her aunt's room every night to talk of her lovely
Francie as a safety-valve from discussing the matter with Francie
herself, who remained perfectly simple and unconscious of her own
charms. Geraldine could not think them quite equal to the more
exquisite and delicately-finished, as well as more matured, beauty of
little Stella, but that was a matter of taste.

The household was more English than Hungarian, or even German, and
there were curious similitudes to the Vale Leston Priory
arrangements, which kept Stella's Underwood heart in mind. There had
to be receptions, and it was plain that when she put Fernan's
diamonds on, Mrs. Audley was quite at home and at perfect ease in
German and Hungarian society, speaking the languages without
hesitation when she _did_ speak, while in her quiet way keeping every
one entertained, showing the art de tenir un salon, and moreover,
preserving Francie from obtrusive admiration in a way perhaps learnt
by experience on that more perilous subject, Angela, who had invited
what Francie shrank from. The two girls were supremely happy, and
Francie seemed to have a fountain of joy that diffused a rose-
coloured spray over everything.

One of the famous concerts of Hungarian gipsies was given, and in
that Clement and Geraldine were alike startled by tones recalling
those of the memorable concert at Bexley, all the more because they
seemed to have a curious fascination for Gerald. Moreover, those
peculiar eyes and eyelashes, the first link observed between him and
the Little Butterfly, were so often repeated in the gipsy band that
it was plain whence they were derived. Charles Audley thought it
worth while to find means of inquiry among the gipsies as to whether
anything was known of Zoraya Prebel or her brother Sebastian; but
after some delay and various excitements nothing was discovered, but
that there had been a family, who were esteemed recreants to their
race, and had sold their children to the managers of German or
Italian bands of musicians. One brother had come back a broken man,
who had learnt vices and ruined himself, though he talked largely of
his wonderful success in company with his sister, who had made grand
marriages. What had become of her he did not know; and when Gerald
went with Mr. Audley to a little mountain valley to visit him, he had
been dead for a week or more.

All this had made some delay, and it was almost the end of the long
vacation. Charles Audley undertook to go to Trieste with the
travellers, and make inquiries about Zoraya and her first husband.
Sir Robert, the Skipper, as the family still termed him, had written
for his yacht to meet him there, and be ready for him to convey the
party to Sicily. He professed that he could not lose sight of
Franceska, with whom he declared himself nearly as much smitten as
ever he had been with his daughter-in-law.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21