Then in that time and place I spoke to her.--TENNYSON.
"Office of 'Lacustrian Intelligencer,'
"Jonesville, Ohio,
"March 20.
"DEAREST CHERIE,
"I told you in my last that the chief boss in the office at New York hadwritten to me that he had been asked to send an intelligent young manto sub-edit the Lacustrian Intelligencer at Jonesville, a rising city onLake Erie. I thought it would be worth while to look at it, especiallyas we were booked to give a lecture at Sandusky, and moreover ourrelations to Gracchus have been growing rather strained, and I do notthink this wandering life good for Lida in the long run; nor are myarticles paid enough for to be a dependence. So after holding forthat Sandusky, we took our passage in a little steamer which crosses thelittle bay in the Lake to Jonesville--one of those steamers just like aNoah's Ark.
"Presently Lida came up and touched me, saying in her little awestruckwhisper (which has never been conquered), 'Brother, I am sure I saw oneof mother's cigarettes.' I said 'Bosh!' thinking it an utter delusion;but she was so decided and so frightened, that I told her to go into thesaloon, and went forward. A woman was going about the deck, offering thepassengers a basket of candies, lights, cigarettes, and cigars. Savingfor Lida's words, I never should have recognized her; she was thinto the last degree, haggard, yellow, excessively shabby andforlorn-looking, and with a hollow cough; but as her eyes met mine(those eyes that you say are our water-mark) both of us made a sort ofleap as if to go overboard, and I went up to her at once, and would havespoken, but she cried out, 'What have you done with Lida?' I answeredthat she was safe, and demanded in my turn where were O'Leary andJellicoe. 'Drowned, drowned,' she said, 'in the wreck of the Sirius.They'll never trouble you more. But Lida!' I thought that it was safe totake her into the saloon to see Lida, when they fell into each other'sarms, and afforded the spectators a romantic spectacle. Don't think Iam making a joke of it, for it was tragic enough in the result of theagitation. Blood was choking the poor woman. We could only lay herdown on the couch, and happily there were lemons on board. There wasa good-natured Irishman who gave me all the help he could, even to thecarrying her to his house, where his wife was equally kind. He fetchedthe priest, a French Canadian, and the doctor, and Lida has beenwatching over her most tenderly; poor things--they seem really to havecared for one another, and Lida will be the happier for having donethese last duties.
"21st. She is a little better. So far as we have gathered from one whomust not talk nor be agitated, the circus had got into difficulties anddebt to Bast, the van proprietor. I believe Lida's voice was their lasthope, and they had some ghastly scheme of disposing of her in Belgium.When they lost her, their chances were over, and with the proceeds oftheir last exhibition, Jellicoe and the O'Leary pair left the elephant,etc., to take care of themselves and make their excuses to Mr. Bast, andstarted for Liverpool and the U. S. in the Sirius. Storms overtookthem, the women were put into the first boat, those which followed wereswamped. Poor fellows, I own I can't sing a pious dirge for them. Therewere three days of hunger and exposure before the boat was pickedup, and she was finally landed at Quebec, where she was laid up withpleurisy in the hospital. And there was a subscription for the wreckedwhen she came out, which enabled her to set up this reminiscence of herold trade, drifting from one pier or boat to another till she came tothis one, but all the time with this awful cough. The doctor thinks ither knell; her lungs are far gone, but she may probably rally in somedegree for the summer, though hardly so as to be moved.
"That being the case, I have been to the Lacustrian office, and engagedmyself to be its hack, since I must have some fixed pay while she lives.Perhaps I shall be able to do a little extra writing and lecturing,especially if she gets better, enough to spare Lida to help me. Hervoice really is a lovely soprano, and draws wonderfully, but I don'twant it to be strained too early. Our good Irishwoman, Mrs. Macbride, iswilling to let us have her two rooms, left empty by her sons going west,and her daughter marrying, on fair terms, Lida promising to be a sortof help and to teach the children. We shall eat with them. I shall be atthe office all day and half the night, so I don't need a sitting-room.Don't be anxious, dear old Cherie. We shall do very well, and it is onlyfor a time. Lida is like a little angel, and as thankful for a smilefrom her mother as if she had been the reprobate runaway.
"Your ever-loving
"GERALD."
This was the letter that came to Mrs. Grinstead, and one with similarinformation went to Dolores Mohun at her college at Cambridge. Dolores,who had found Mysie much more sympathetic than Gillian, could not butwrite the intelligence to her, and Mysie was so much struck with thebeauty of the much-injured brother and sister devoting themselvesto their mother, that she could not help telling the family party atbreakfast.
"That's right," said Lord Rotherwood. "The mother can clear up the doubtif any one can. Is there nothing about it?"
"No," replied Mysie; "I should think the poor woman was too ill to beasked."
"They must not let her slip through their fingers without telling,"added Ivinghoe.
"I have a mind to run over to Rocca Marina and see what more they haveheard there," said Lord Rotherwood. "I suppose your letter is from oneof the girls there?"
"Oh no, it is from Dolores."
"Dolores! She is at Cambridge. Then this news must have been round byClipstone! They must have known it for days past at Rocca!" exclaimedLord Rotherwood.
"No," said Mysie, "this came direct to Dolores from Gerald Underwoodhimself.--Oh, didn't you know? I forgot, nobody was to know till UncleMaurice gave his consent."
"Consent to what?" exclaimed Ivinghoe.
"To Dolores and Gerald! Oh dear, mamma said so much to me about nottelling, but I did think Cousin Rotherwood knew everything. Please--"
Whatever she was going to ask was cut short by Ivinghoe's suddenlystriking on the table so as to make all the cups and saucers ring as heexclaimed--
"If ever there lived a treacherous Greek minx!" Then, "I beg yourpardon, mother."
He was off: they saw him dash out of the house. There was a train duenearly at this time, as all recollected.
"Papa, had not you better go with him?" said Lady Rotherwood.
"He will get on much better by himself, my dear," and Lord Rotherwoodthrew himself back in his chair and laughed heartily and merrily, to theamazement and mystification of the two girls. "You will have a beauty onyour hands, my lady."
"Well, as long as it is not that horrid White girl--" said her ladyship,breaking off there.
"A very sorry Rebecca," said her lord, laughing the more.
But the Marchioness rose up, and the two cousins had to accept thesignal.
The train, after the leisurely fashion of continental railways,kept Ivinghoe fuming at the station, and rattled along so as to givetravellers a full view of the coast, more delightful to them than tothe youth, who had rushed off with intentions, he scarce knew what, ofsetting right the consequences of Maura's--was it deception, or only athought, of which the wish was father?
He reached the station that led to the works at Rocca Marina. The sunwas high, the heat of the day coming on, and as he strode along, theworkmen were leaving off to take their siesta at noontide. On he went,across the private walks in the terraced garden, not up the broad stonesteps that led to the house, but to a little group of olive trees whichcut off the chaplain's house from the castle gardens, and where stooda great cork tree, to whose branches a hammock had been fastened, andseats placed under it. As he opened the gate a little dog's bark washeard, and he was aware of a broad hat under the tree. Simultaneously asmall Maltese dog sprang forward, and Francie's head rose from leaningover the little table with a start, her cheeks deeper rose than usual,having evidently gone to sleep over the thin book and big dictionarythat lay before her.
"Oh!" she said, "it is you. Was I dreaming?"
"I am afraid I startled you."
"No--only"--she still seemed only half awake--"it
seemed to come out ofmy dream."
"Then you were dreaming of me?"
"Oh no. At, least I don't know," she said, the colour flushing into herface, as she sat upright, now quite awake and alive to the question,between truthfulness and maidenly modesty.
"You were--you were; you don't deny it!" And as she hung her head andgrew more distressfully redder and redder, "You know what that means."
"Indeed--indeed--I couldn't help--I never meant! Oh--"
It was an exclamation indeed, for Uncle Clement's head appeared abovethe hammock, where he too had been dozing over his book, with thewords--
"Halloo, young people, I'm here!"
Franceska would have fled, but Ivinghoe held her hand so tight that shecould not wrench it away. He held it, while Clement struggled to theground, and then said--
"Sir, there is no reason you or all the world should not know how I lovethis dearest, loveliest one. I came here this morning hoping that shemay grant me leave to try to win her to be my own."
He looked at Francie. Her head drooped, but she had not taken her handaway, and the look on her face was not all embarrassment, but there wasa rosy sunrise dawning on it.
All Clement could say was something of "Your father."
"He knows, he understands; I saw it in his eyes," said Ivinghoe.
To Clement the surprise was far greater than it would have been to hissister, and the experience was almost new to him, but he could readFrancie's face well enough to say--
"My dear, I think we had better let you run in and compose yourself, orgo to your aunt, while I talk to Lord Ivinghoe."
Trembling, frightened, Francie was really glad to be released, as herlover with one pressure said--
"I shall see you again, sweetest."
She darted away, and Clement signed to Ivinghoe to sit down with him onthe bench under the tree.
"I should like this better if you had brought your father's fullassent," he said.
"There was no time. I only read his face; he will come to-morrow."
"No time?"
"Yes, to catch the train. I hurried away the moment I learnt that--thather affections were not otherwise engaged. I never saw any one like her.She has haunted me ever since those days at Rockquay; but--but I wastold that she cared for your nephew, and I could not take advantage ofhim in his absence. And now I have but three days more."
"Whoever told you was under a great error," said Clement gravely, "andyou have shown very generous self-command; but the advantages of thisaffair are so much the greatest on one side, that you cannot wonder ifthere is hesitation on our part, till we explicitly know that our poorlittle girl would not be unwelcome to your parents."
"I know that no one can compare with her for--for everything andanything," stammered Ivinghoe, breaking from his mother's language intohis father's, "and my father admires her as much as I do--almost."
"But what will he and your mother say to her being absolutelypenniless?"
"Pish!"
"And worse--child to a spendthrift, a man of no connection, except onhis mother's side."
"She is your niece, your family have bred her up, made her so much morethan exquisitely lovely."
"She is a good little girl," said Clement, "but what are we? No,Ivinghoe, I do not blame you for speaking out, and she will be thehappier for the knowledge of your affection, but it will not be right ofus to give free consent, without being fully assured of that of Lord andLady Rotherwood."
Ivinghoe could only protest, but Clement rose to walk to the house,where his sister was sitting under the pergola in the agitation ofanswering Gerald's letter, and had only seen Francie flit by, callingto her sister in a voice that now struck her as having been strange andsuppressed.
Clement trusted a good deal to his sister's quicker perceptions andhabit of observation to guide his opinion in the affair that had burston him, and was relieved that when Ivinghoe, like the well-bred youngman that he was, went up to her, and taking her hand said, "I have beenventuring to put my fate into the hands of your niece," she did not seemastonished or overwhelmed, but said--
"She is a dear good girl; I do hope it will be for her happiness--forboth."
"Thank you," he said fervently. "It will be the most earnest desire ofmy life."
Geraldine thought it best to go in quest of Francie, whom she found withAnna, incoherent and happy in the glory of the certainty that she wasloved, after the long trial of suppressed, unacknowledged suspense. Nofears of parents, no thought of inequalities had occurred to troubleher--everything was absorbed in the one thought--"he really did loveher." How should she thank God enough, or pray enough to be worthy ofsuch joy? There was no room for vexation or wonder at the delay, northe attentions paid to Maura. She hushed Anna, who was inclined to beindignant, and who was obliged afterwards to pour out to her aunt allher wonder, though she allowed that on his side there was nothing to bereally called flirtation, it was all Maura--"she was sure Maura was atthe bottom of it."
"My dear, don't let us be uncharitable; there is no need to think aboutit. Let us try to be like Francie, and swallow all up in gladness. Yourmother--"
"Oh, I can't think what she will do for joy. It will almost make herwell again."
"But remember, we don't know what his parents will say."
And with that sobering thought they had to go down to luncheon, whereFrancie sat blushing and entranced, too happy to speak, and Ivinghoeapparently contented to look at her. Afterwards he was allowed to takepossession of her for the afternoon, so as to be able to tease her aboutwhat she was dreaming about him. After all it had probably been evokedby the dog's bark and his step; for she had thought a wolf was pursuingher, and that he had come to save her. It was quite enough to be foodfor a lover.
Clement would have wished to keep all to themselves, at least till thepaternal visit was over, but Ivinghoe's days were few, and he made sureof bringing his parents on the morrow. An expedition had been arrangedto the valley where some of the Benista family were reported to live,since the snows had departed enough for safety; but this must needs bedeferred, and there was no doubt that the "reason why" would be soughtout.
Indeed, so close was the great house, and so minute a watch was kept,that the fact of Lord Ivinghoe's spending the whole day at the parsonagewas known, and conclusions were arrived at. Maura stole down in the lateevening among the olive trees, ostensibly to ask Anna and Francie tocome and listen to the nightingales.
But thereby she was witness to a scene that showed that there wasanother nightingale for Franceska than the one who was singing with suchenergy among the olive boughs. In fact, she saw the evening farewell,and had not the discretion, like Anna, to withdraw herself and her eyes,but beheld, what had ever been sacred to both those young things, thefirst kiss.
Poor Maura, she had none of the reticent pride and shame of an Englishgentlewoman. She believed herself cruelly treated, and rushing away,fell on Anna, who was hovering near, watching to prevent any arrivalsuch as was always probable.
It would not be well to relate the angry, foolish words that Anna had tohear, nor how Maura betrayed herself and her own manoeuvre. It isenough to say that she went home, weeping demonstratively, perhapsuncontrollably; and that Anna, after her trying scene, was able to exaltmore than ever Ivinghoe's generosity towards the absent Gerald, andforbearance towards Franceska. If he had ever passed the line, it wasmore Maura's doing than his own.
CHAPTER XXXI. -- THE COLD SHOULDER