Kitabı oku: «Modern Broods; Or, Developments Unlooked For», sayfa 11

CHAPTER XX—FLEETING

 
“And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made.”
 

—Scott.

The bracelet came to light in the gardens of Cliffe House the next morning, and Alexis White walked over to the Goyle to return it safely, little guessing, when he set forth to enjoy the sight of the purple moors, and to renew old recollections, what a flutter of gratified vanity would be excited in one silly little breast, though he only stayed ten minutes, and casually asked whether the sisters were coming to Lady Flight’s garden party.  Everybody was going there.  Miss Mohun even took Felicia, as it was on a Saturday’s holiday; and, unwittingly, she renewed all the agitation caused by Wilfred’s admiration, and that of others, to the all-unconscious girl.  Vera could no longer think herself the reigning belle of Rock Quay, though she talked of Felicia as a schoolgirl or a baby, or a horrid little forward chit!  Her excitement was, however, divided between Wilfred and Mr. Alexis White, who could not look in her direction without putting her in a state of eagerness.

In this, however, she was not alone.  Half the ladies were interested about him; his manners were charming, his voice in church beautiful, and his destination as chaplain to a missionary bishop made him doubly interesting; while he himself, even though his mind was set on higher things, was really enjoying his brief holiday, and his sister, Mrs. Henderson, was delighted to promote his pleasure, and garden parties and the like flourished as long as weather permitted; and as Vera was a champion player, she was sure to be asked to the tournaments, and to have to practise for them.

Inopportunely there arrived a letter from Hubert, requiring an answer about the form of ornament in the moulding of the fourteenth century!  Paula dutifully went to the library, looked out and traced two or three examples, French and English.  Nothing remained but for Vera to write the letter after the early dinner.  However, she went to sleep in a hammock, and only roused herself to recollect that there was to be tea and lawn tennis at Carrara.

“Won’t you just write to Hubert first?”

“Oh, bother, how can I now?  Don’t worry so!”

“But, Flapsy, he really needs it without loss of time.”

“I’m sure he has no right to make me his clerk in that horrid peremptory way, as if one had nothing else to do but wait on his fads.”

“Flapsy, how can you?” broke out even Thekla.

“Surely it is the greatest honour,” said Paula.

“Well, do it yourself then, I’m not going to be bothered for ever.”

Thekla went off, in great indignation, to beg “sister” to speak to Flapsy, and beg her not to use dear Hubert so very very badly, which of course Magdalen refused to do, and Thekla had her first lesson on the futility of interfering with engaged folk; Paula meanwhile sent off the despatch, with one line to say that Vera was too busy to write that day.

There had been two or three letters from Hubert, over which Vera had looked cross, but had said nothing; and at last she came down from her own room, and announced passionately, “There!  I have done with Mr. Hubert Delrio, and have written to tell him so!”

“Vera, what have you done?”

“Written to tell him I have no notion of a man being so tiresome and dictatorial!  I don’t want a schoolmaster to lecture me, and expect me to drudge over his work as if I was his clerk.”

“My dear,” said Magdalen, “have you had a letter that vexed you?  Had you not better wait a little to think it over?”

“No!  Nonsense, Maidie!  He has been provoking ever so long, and I won’t bear it any longer!” and she flounced into a chair.

“Provoking!  Hubert!” was all Paulina could utter, in her amazement and horror.

“Oh, I daresay you would like it well enough!  Always at me to slave for him with stupid architectural drawings and stuff, as if I was only a sort of clerk or fag!  And boring me to read great dull books, and preaching to me about them, expecting to know what I think!  Dear me!”

“Those nice letters!” sighed Paula.

“Nice!  As if any one that was one bit in love would write such as that!  No, I don’t want to marry a schoolmaster or a tyrant!”

“How can you, Flapsy?” went on Paula, so vehemently that Magdalen left the defence thus far to her; “when he only wishes for your sympathy and improvement.”

The worst plea she could have used, thought the elder sister, as Vera broke out with, “Improvement, indeed!  If he cared for me, he would not think I wanted any improving!  But he never did!  Or he would have taken Pratt and Povis’ offer, and I should have been living in London and keeping my carriage!  Or he would have taken me to Italy!  But that horrid home of his, and his mother just like a half-starved hare!  I might have seen then it was not fit for me; but I was a child, and over-persuaded among you all!  But I know better now, and I know my own mind, as I didn’t then.  So you need not talk!  I have done with him.”

“Oh, Flapsy, Flapsy, how can you grieve him so?  You don’t know what you are throwing away!” incoherently cried Paula, collapsing in a burst of tears.  “Maidie, Maidie, why don’t you speak to her, and tell her how wicked it is—and—and—and—”

The rest was cut short by sobs.

“No, Paula, authority or reasoning of mine would not touch such a mood as this.  We must leave it to Hubert himself.  If she really cares for him, she will have recovered from her fit of temper by the time his letter can come, and it may have an effect upon her, if our tongues have not increased her spirit of opposition.  I strongly advise you to say nothing.”

Paula tried to take her sister’s advice, and would have adhered to it, but that Vera would talk and try to make her declare the rupture to have been justified; and this produced an amount of wrangling which did good to no one.  Magdalen really rejoiced when the frequent golf and tennis parties carried Vera on her bicycle out of reach of arguing, even if it took her into the alternative of flirtation.

Thekla cried bitterly, and declared that she should never speak to Flapsy again; but in half an hour’s time was heard chattering about the hedgehog’s meal of cockroaches.  In another week the excitement was over.  The Bishop of Onomootka had come and gone, after holding meetings and preaching sermons at Rock Quay and all the villages round, and had carried off Alexis White with him.

Nothing had come of the intercourse of the latter with his rich uncle, nor of the varieties of encounters with the damsels of Rock Quay, except that society was declared by more than one to have become horridly flat and slow.

Vera was one of these, and the letters received from Hubert Delrio did not stir up a fresh excitement.  There were no persuasions to revoke her decision, no urgent entreaties, no declaration of being heart-broken.  He acquiesced in her assurance that the engagement had been a mistake; and he wrote at more length to Magdalen, avowing that he had for some time past traced discontent in Vera’s letters, and fearing that he had been too didactic and peremptory in writing to her.  He relinquished the engagement with much regret, and should always regard it as having been a fair summer dream—but, though undeserving, he hoped still to retain Miss Prescott’s kindness and friendship, which had been of untold value to him.

A little more zeal and distress would have been much more pleasing to Vera; and she began to be what Agatha and Thekla called cross, and Paula called drooping, and even excited alarm in her, lest Flapsy should be going into a decline.  But a note came to the Goyle which Magdalen read alone, and likewise she cycled alone to Rockstone.

“Miss Mohun, can you give me a few minutes?” said she, as the trim little figure emerged from beneath the copper beeches, basket in hand.

“By all means; I shall not be due at the cutting-out meeting till three o’clock.”

“I wanted to consult you about an invitation that Mrs. White has been so very kind as to give my little sister, Vera.”

“Oh!” quoth Jane Mohun, in a dry sort of tone.

“I know that she had wished to take out one of her own nieces to Rocca Marina, but that Sir Jasper did not wish it, and I thought perhaps it would be easier for you than for Lady Merrifield to tell me whether there is any objection that would apply to Vera.”

“I suppose Vera wishes to go?”

“She is so wild with delight that it would be a serious thing to disappoint her.  Mrs. White is very kind and good, and has thought that she has flagged of late, and has supposed it might be due to poor Hubert Delrio, but, indeed, it was no fault of his.”

“None at all, except for out-growing her.”

“The offer was hinted at to go with Valetta even before we knew it was declined at Clipstone, and that made me anxious to know whether it would be well for me to send Vera.  I suppose she would pick up pronunciation of languages, which would be a great advantage, as she will have to earn her own living, and Mrs. White is so good as to promise lessons in arts and music.  I hear, too, it is quite an English colony, with a church and schools.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. White is a very good and careful man about his workmen.  I have been there at the Henderson’s wedding, and it is a charming place, a castle fit for Mrs. Radclyffe, with English comforts, and an Italian garden and an English village on the mountain side.  My sister would do all that she promises, and would look after any young girl very well; you may quite trust her.”

“Then is there any fear of Italian society?—not that poor Vera has any attraction of that kind,” hesitated Magdalen.

“None at all.  All the society they have is of English travellers coming with introductions.  I fancy it is very dull at times, and that Adeline wants a young person about her.  You need have no fears.  Ah!  I see you still want to know why the Merrifields don’t consent.  It is not their way.  They would not let the Rotherwoods have Mysie to bring up with Phyllis, and—and Val is just the being that needs a mother’s eye over her.  But I really and honestly think that your Vera may quite safely be put under Adeline’s care, and that she is likely to be all the better for it.”

“One thing more,” added Magdalen, with a little hesitation; “is your nephew, Wilfred, likely to be one of the party?”

“None at all.  His father wants to keep him under his own eye, and his mother is anxious about his health; nor do I think Mr. White wants him, having his own two nephews, who are useful, so he will remain under Captain Henderson here.”

“Thank you!  That settles it in my mind.  I am sure the change to a fresh home will be an excellent thing for my poor Vera, and that the training of imitation of one to whom she looks up is what she most needs.”

“Very true,” said Miss Mohun.

And as she afterwards said to Lady Merrifield, “It was in all sincerity and honesty that I gave the advice to Magdalen, who is very sensible in the matter.  In plain English, Ada can’t do without a lady in waiting, and Vera probably fancies that Lords, young or old, start from every wave like the spirits of our fathers, at Rocca Marina, in which she will probably be disappointed; but Ada will be a very dragon as to her manners and discretion, and not being his own niece, old Tom White will not be deluded by his ambition and any blandishments of hers.  As people go, they are very safe guardians, and Vera—Flapsy as they call her—is just of the composition to be improved, and not disimproved, by living with Ada.”

“Probably, though I do not like the foolish little puss to be rewarded for throwing over young Delrio.”

“He was so much too good for her that I am more inclined to reward her for doing so!”

Agatha, however, came home somewhat annoyed by the whole arrangement.  She supposed the rupture with Hubert might have been inevitable; but she was very sorry for it, thinking that Vera might have grown up to him, and regretting the losing him as a brother.  Nor did she like the atmosphere of the Whites and Rocca Marina for her feather-brained young sister.  “Dolores had no great opinion of her Aunt Adeline,” she said.

“My dear,” said Magdalen, as they sat over their early fire, “I have talked it over with Lady Merrifield and Miss Mohun, and they both tell me that Mrs. White is very sensible, and sure to be discreet for any girl in her charge—probably better for Flapsy than a more intellectual woman.”

“But—!  Such a marriage as this one!” said Agatha.

“It was Mr. White’s own niece, and taken out of Mrs. White’s hands,” said Magdalen.  “Besides,” as Agatha still looked unconvinced, “one thing that made me think the invitation desirable was that it would break off any foolishness with Wilfred Merrifield—I think it was in their minds too.”

“Wilfred!  Oh, there was a little nonsense.”

“Less on his side, since Felicia Vanderkist has been here; but I think Vera has been all the more disposed to—to—”

“Run after him,” said Agatha.  “I could fancy it in Flapsy; but he is such a boy, and not half so nice-looking as the rest of them either.”

“My dear Agatha, I must tell you he reminds me strangely of a young Mr. Merrifield whom I knew at Filsted when I was younger than you.”

“A brother of Bessie?”

“Even so.  He got into some kind of trouble at Filsted, his father came and broke it off, and sent him out to Canada, where I fear he did not do well, and nothing has been heard of him since, except—”

She spoke with a catch in her voice which made Agatha look up at her, and detect a rising colour.

“Nothing!” she repeated.

“Except an anonymous parcel, returning to the brothers in Canada the sum he had taken with him.  Strangely, the clue was not followed up, and he is lost sight of!  But Wilfred’s air, and still more his manner, is always recalling his cousin to me, and, Nag, dear, I could not bear to see Vera go through the same trial by my exposing her to the intercourse.  Not that I know any harm of Wilfred, but his parents could not like anything of the kind.”

“Certainly not!  Yes, I suppose you are right, dear old Maidie.”  But Agatha pondered over those words that had slipped out, “the same trial.”

CHAPTER XXI—THE ELECTRICIANS

 
“Thou shalt have the air
Of freedom.  Follow and do me service.”
 

—“The Tempest.”

“Is Agatha in?” asked Dolores Mohun, jumping off her bicycle as she saw Magdalen, on a frosty day the next Christmas vacation, in her garden.

“She is doing scientific arithmetic with Thekla; giving me a holiday, in fact!  You University maidens quite take the shine out of us poor old teachers.”

“Ah! if we can give shine we can’t give substance.  But I want to borrow Nag, if you have no objection.”

“Borrow her! I am sure it is something she will like.”

“It is in the way of business, but she will like it all the same.  They want me to give a course of lectures on electricity at Bexley to the Institute and the two High Schools, and I particularly want a skilled assistant, whom I can depend upon; not masters, nor boys!  Now Nag is just what I should like.  We should stay at Lancelot Underwood’s, a very charming place to be at.”

“Isn’t he some connection?”

“Connection all round.  Phyllis Merrifield married his brother, banking in Ceylon, and may come home any day on a visit; and Ivinghoe’s pretty wife is Lancelot’s niece.  He edits what is really the crack newspaper of the county, in spite of its being true blue Conservative, Church and all.”

“The Pursuivant?  It has such good literary articles.”

“Oh, yes!  Mrs. Grinstead and Canon Harewood write them.  His wife is a daughter of old Dr. May—rather a peculiar person, but very jolly in her way.”

“But would they like to have Agatha imposed upon them?”

“Certainly; they are just the people to like nothing better, and it will only be for a fortnight.  I have settled it all with them.”

At which Magdalen looked a little doubtful, but Dolores reiterated that there need be no scruple, she might ask Aunt Lily if she liked; but Lance Underwood was Mayor, and member of all the committees, and the most open-hearted man in the world besides, and it was all right.

To the further demur as to safety, Dolores answered that to light a candle or sit by the fire might be dangerous, but as long as people were careful, it was all right, and Agatha had already assisted in some experiments at Rock Quay, which had shown her to be thoroughly understanding and trustworthy, and capable of keeping off the amateur—the great bugbear.

So Magdalen consented, after rapturous desires on the part of Agatha, and assurances from General Mohun that Dolores had it in her by inheritance and by training to meddle with the lightning as safely as human being might; and Lady Merrifield owned with a sigh that she must accept as a fact that what even the heathens owned as a Divine mystery and awful attribute, had come to be treated as a commonplace business messenger and scientific toy, though (as Mrs. Gatty puts it) the mystery had only gone deeper.  So much for the peril; and for the other scruple, it was set at rest by a hospitable letter from Mrs. Underwood, heartily inviting Miss Agatha Prescott, as an Oxford friend of Gillian.

So off the two electricians set, and after two days of business and sight-seeing in London, went down to Bexley.  In the third-class carriage in which they travelled they were struck by the sight of a tall lady in mourning—a sort of compromise between a conventual and a secular bonnet over short fair hair, and holding on her lap a tiny little girl of about six years old, with a small, pinched, delicate face and slightly red hair, to whom she pointed out by name each spot they passed, herself wearing an earnest absorbed look of recognition as she pointed out familiar landmark after landmark till the darkness came down.  Also there were two cages—one with a small pink cockatoo, and another with two budgerigars.

As the train began slackening Dolores exclaimed:

“There he is!  Lance—!”

“Lance!  Oh, Lance!” was echoed; and setting the child down, her companion almost fell across Agatha, and was at the window as the train stopped.

What happened in the next moment no one could quite tell; but as the door was torn open there was a mingled cry of “Angel!” and of “Lance!” and the traveller was in his arms, turning the next moment to lift out the frightened little girl, who clung tight round her neck; while Lance held out his hand with, “Dolores!  Yes.  This is Dolores, Angel, whom you have never seen.”

Each knew who the other was in a moment, and clasped hands in greeting, as well as they could with the one, and the other receiving bird-cages, handbags, umbrellas, and rugs from Agatha, whom, however, Lance relieved of them with a courteous, “Miss Prescott!  You have come in for the arrival of my Australian sister!  What luggage have you?”  Wherewith all was absorbed in the recognition of boxes, and therewith a word or two to an old railway official, “My sister Angela.”

“Miss Angela! this is an unexpected pleasure!”

“Tom Lightfoot! is it you?  You are not much altered.  Mr. Dane, I should have known you anywhere!” with corresponding shakes of the hand.

“Yes, that’s ours.  Oh, the birds!  There they are!  All right!  Oh! not the omnibus, Lance!  Let the traps go in that!  Then Lena will like to stretch her legs, and I must revel in the old street.”

Dolores and Agatha felt it advisable to squeeze themselves with the bird-cages into the omnibus, and leave the brother and sister to walk down together, though the little girl still adhered closely to her protector’s hand.

“Poor Field’s little one?  Yes, of course.”

“But tell me! tell me of them all!”

“All well! all right!  But how—”

“The Mozambique was out of coal and had to put in at Falmouth.  You know, I came by her because they said the long sea voyage would be best for this child, and it was so long since I had heard of any one that I durst not send anywhere till I knew—and I knew Froggatt’s would be in its own place.  Oh! there’s the new hotel! the gas looks just the same!  There’s the tower of St. Oswald’s, all shadowy against the sky.  Look, Lena!  Oh! this is home!  I know the lamps.  I’ve dreamt of them!  Tired, Lena, dear? cold?  Shall I carry you?”

“No, no; let me!” and he lifted her up, not unwillingly on her part, though she did not speak.  “You are a light weight,” he said.

“I am afraid so,” answered Angel.  “Oh! there’s the bus stopping at Mr. Pratt’s door.”

“Mine, now.  We have annexed it.”

“But let me go in by the dear old shop.  The window is as of old, I see.  Ernest Lamb! don’t you know me?” as a respectable tradesman came forward.  “And Achille, is it?  You are as much changed as this old shop is transmogrified!  And they are all well?  Do you mean Bernard?”

“Bernard and Phyllis may come home any day to deposit a child.  They lost their boy, and hope to save the elder one.  But come, Angel! if you have taken in enough we must go up to those electrical girls.  Dolores is come to give a lecture, with the other girl to assist, Miss Prescott.”

“Dolores!  Yes, poor Gerald’s love!  They are almost myths to me.  Ah!” as Lancelot opened his office-door, “now I know where I am!  And there’s the old staircase!  This is the real thing, and no mistake.”

“Angel, Angel, come to tea!”  And Gertrude, comfortable and substantial, in loving greeting threw arms round the new comers, Lance still carrying the child, who clung round his neck as he brought her into the room, full of his late fellow travellers, and also of a group of children.

“It is as if we had gone back thirty years or more,” was Angela’s cry, as she looked forth on what had been as little altered as possible from the old family centre; and Lance, setting down the child, spoke as the pretty little blue-eyed girls advanced to exchange kisses with their new aunt.

“Margaret, or Pearl, whom you knew as a baby; Etheldred, or Awdrey, and Dickie!  Fely is at Marlborough.  There, take little Lena—is that her name—to your table, and give her some tea.”

“Her name is Magdalen,” said Angela, removing the little black hat and smoothing the hair; but Lena backed against her, and let her hand hang limp in Pearl’s patronising clasp.  Nor would she amalgamate with the children, nor even eat or drink except still beside “Sister,” as she called Angela.  In fact, she was so thoroughly worn out and tired, as well as shy and frightened, that Angela’s attention was wholly given to her and she could only be put to bed, but not in the nursery, which, as Angel said, seemed to her like a den of little wild beasts.  So she was deposited in the chamber and bed hastily prepared for the unexpected guest; and even there, being wakeful and feverish from over-fatigue, there was no leaving her alone, and Gertrude, after seeing her safely installed, could only go down with the hope that she would be able to spare her slave or nurse, which was it? by dinner-time.

“Who is that child so like?” said Dolores, in their own room.

“Very like somebody, but I can’t tell whom,” said Agatha.  “Who did you say she is?”

“I cannot say I exactly know,” said Dolores.  “I believe she is the daughter of Fulbert Underwood’s mate, on a sheep-farm in Queensland, and that as her mother died when she was born, she has been always under the care of this Angela, living in the Sisterhood there.”

“Not a Sister?”

“Not under vows, certainly.  I never saw her before, but I believe she is rather a funny flighty person, and that Fulbert was afraid at one time that she would marry this child’s father.”

“Is he alive?”

“Which?  Fulbert died four or five years ago, and I think the little girl’s father must be dead, for she is in mourning.”

“There’s something very charming about her—Miss Underwood.”

“Yes there is.  They all seem to be very fond of her, and yet to laugh about her, and never to be quite sure what she will do next.”

“Did I not hear of her being so useful among the Australian black women?”

“No one has ever managed those very queer gins so well; and she is an admirable nurse too, they say.  I am very glad to have come in her way.”

They did not, however, see much of her that evening.  The head master of the Grammar School and his wife, the head mistress of the High School, and a few others had been invited to meet them; and Angela could only just appear at dinner, trusting to a slumber of her charge, but, on coming out of the dining-room, a wail summoned her upstairs at once, and she was seen no more that night.

However, with morning freshness, Lena showed herself much less farouche, and willing to accept the attentions of Mr. Underwood first, and, later, of his little daughter Pearl—a gentle, elder sisterly person, who knew how to avert the too rough advances of Dick—and made warm friends over the pink cockatoo; while Awdrey was entranced by the beauties of the budgerigars.

Robina had been informed by telegram, and came up from Minsterham with her husband, looking just like his own father, and grown very broad.  He was greatly interested in the lecture, and went off to it, to consider whether it would be desirable for the Choristers’ School.  Lancelot had, of course, to go, and Angela declared that she must be brought up to date, and rejoiced that Lena was able to submit to be left with the other children under the protection of Mrs. Underwood, who averred that she abhorred electricity in all its forms, and that if Lance were induced to light the town, or even the shop by that means, he must begin by disposing of her by a shock.

It was an excellent lecture, only the two sisters hardly heard it.  They could think of nothing but that they were once more sitting side by side in the old hall, where they had heard and shared in so many concerts, on the gala days of their home life.

The two lecturers, as well as the rest of the party, were urgently entreated to stay to tea at the High School; but when the interest of the new arrival was explained, the sisters and brother were released to go home, Canon Harewood remaining to content their hostesses.