The Long Vacation

“She is safe with Mrs. Henderson. I am to go back for her when our duet comes on.”

Dolores did not want to lower herself by showing jealousy or offence, but she could not help turning decidedly away, saying—

“I am wanted.”

“Are you? I wanted to tell you why I am so interested in her. Dolores, can you hear me now?—she is my sister.”

“Your sister!” in utter amaze.

“Every one says they see it in the colour of our eyes.”

“Every one”—she seemed able to do nothing but repeat his words.

“Well, my uncle Lancelot, and—and my mother. No one else knows yet. They want to spare my aunt till this concern is over.”

“But how can it be?”

“It is a horrid business altogether!” he said, taking her down to the unfrequented parts of the lower end of the garden, where they could walk up and down hidden by the bushes and shrubs. “You knew that my father was an artist and musician, who fled from over patronage.”

“I think I have heard so.”

“He married a singing-woman, and she grew tired of him, and of me, deserted and divorced him in Chicago, when I was ten months old. He was the dearest, most devoted of fathers, till he and I were devoured by the Indians. If they had completed their operations on my scalp, it would have been all the better for me. Instead of which Travis picked me up, brought me home, and they made me as much of an heir of all the traditions as nature would permit, all ignoring that not only was my father Bohemian ingrain, but that my mother was—in short—one of the gipsies of civilization. They never expected to hear of her again, but behold, the rapturous discovery has taken place. She recognised Lance, the only one of the family she had ever seen before, and then the voice of blood—more truly the voice of £ s. d.—exerted itself.”

“How was it she did not find you out before?”

“My father seems to have concealed his full name; I remember his being called Tom Wood. She married in her own line after casting him off, and this pretty little thing is her child—the only tolerable part of it.”

“But she cannot have any claim on you,” said Dolores, with a more shocked look and tone than the words conveyed.

“Not she—in reason; but the worst of it is, Dolores, that the wretched woman avers that she deceived my father, and had an old rascally tyrant of an Italian husband, who might have been alive when she married.”

“Gerald!”

Dolores stood still and looked at him with her eyes opened in horror.

“Yes, you may well say Gerald. ‘Tis the only name I have a right to if this is true.”

“But you are still yourself,” and she held out her hand.

He did not take it, however, only saying—

“You know what this means?”

“Of course I do, but that does not alter you—yourself in yourself.”

“If you say that, Dolores, it will only alter me to make me—more—more myself.”

She held out her hand again, and this time he did take it and press it, but he started, dropped it, and said—

“It is not fair.”

“Oh yes, it is. I know what it means,” she repeated, “and it makes no difference,” and this time it was she who took his hand.

“It means that unless this marriage is disproved, or the man’s death proved, I am an outcast, dependent on myself, instead of the curled darling the Grinsteads—blessings on them!—have brought me up.”

“I don’t know whether I don’t like you better so,” exclaimed she, looking into his clear eyes and fine open face, full of resolution, not of shame.

“While you say so—” He broke off. “Yes, thus I can bear it better. The estate is almost an oppression to me. The Bohemian nature is in me, I suppose. I had rather carve out life for myself than have the landlord business loaded on my shoulders. Clement and Lance will make the model parson and squire far better than I. ‘The Inspector’s Tour’ was a success—between that and the Underwood music there’s no fear but I shall get an independent career.”

“Oh! that is noble! You will be much more than your old self—as you said.”

“The breaking of Cherie’s heart is all that I care about,” said he. “To her I was comfort, almost compensation for those brothers. I don’t know how—” He paused. “We’ll let her alone till all this is over; so, Dolores, not one word to any one.”

“No, no, no!” she exclaimed. “I will—I will be true to you through everything, Gerald; I will wait till you have seen your way, and be proud of you through all.”

“Then I can bear it—I have my incentive,” he said. “First, you see, I must try to rescue my sister. I do not think it will be hard, for the maternal heart seems to be denied to that woman. Then proofs must be sought, and according as they are found or not—”

Loud calls of “Gerald” and “Mr. Underwood” began to resound. He finished—

“Must be the future.”

“Our future,” repeated Dolores.

CHAPTER XX. – FRENCH LEAVE

     She came, she is gone, we have met,     And meet perhaps never again.—COWPER.

The evening of that day was a scene of welcomes, dinners, and confusion. The Rotherwoods had arrived that evening at the Cliff Hotel just in time for dinner, of which they considerately partook where they were, to save Jane Mohun trouble; but all four of the party came the instant it was over to hear and see all that was going on, and were fervently received by Gillian and Mysie, who were sleeping at their aunt’s to be ready for the morrow, and in spite of all fatigue, had legs wherewith to walk Lord Ivinghoe and Lady Phyllis round the stalls, now closed up by canvas and guarded by police. Phyllis was only mournful not to have assisted in the preparations, and heard all the fun that Mrs. Grinstead had made. But over the wall of Carrara a sight was seen for which no one was prepared—no other than Maura White’s pretty classical face!

“Yes,” she said, “how could I be away from such an occasion? I made Uncle White bring me to London—he had business there, you know—and then I descended on Kalliope, and wasn’t she surprised! But I have a lovely Italian dress!”

Kalliope Henderson looked more alarmed than gratified on the whole. She knew that there had been no idea of Maura’s coming till after it had been known that the Rotherwoods were to open the bazaar, and “made Uncle White” was so unlike their former relations that all were startled, Gillian asking in a tone of reproof how Aunt Adeline spared Maura.

“Oh, we shall be back at Gastein in less than a week. I could not miss such an occasion.”

“I only had her telegram half-an-hour ago,” said Kalliope, in an apologetic tone; and Lord Ivinghoe was to be dimly seen handing Maura over the fence. Moonlight gardens and moonlight sea! What was to be done? And Ivinghoe, who had begun life by being as exclusive as the Marchioness herself! “People take the bit between their teeth nowadays,” as Jane observed to Lady Rotherwood when the news reached her, and neither said, though each felt, that Adeline would not have promoted this expedition, even for the child whom she and Mr. White had conspired to spoil. Each was secretly afraid of the attraction for Ivinghoe.

At St. Andrew’s Rock there was a glad meeting with the Travis Underwoods, who had disposed of themselves at the Marine Hotel, while they came up with a select party of three Vanderkists to spend the evening with Clement, Geraldine, and Lancelot, not to mention Adrian, who had been allowed to sit up to dinner to see his sisters, and was almost devoured by them. His growth, and the improved looks of both his uncle and aunt, so delighted Marilda, that Lancelot declared the Rockquay people would do well to have them photographed “Then” and “Now,” as an advertisement of the place! But he was not without dread of the effect of the disclosure that had yet to be made, though Gerald had apparently forgotten all about it as he sat chaffing Emilia Vanderkist about the hospital, whither she was really going for a year; Sophy about the engineer who had surveyed the Penbeacon intended works, and Francie about her Miranda-Mona in strange hands.

The Vanderkists all began life as very pretty little girls, but showed more or less of the Hollander ancestry as they grow up. Only Franceska, content with her Dutch name, had shot up into a beautiful figure, together with the fine features and complexion of the Underwood twins, and the profuse golden flax hair of her aunt Angela, so that she took them all by surprise in the pretty dress presented by Cousin Marilda, and chosen by Emilia. Sophy was round and short, as nearly plain as one with the family likeness could be, but bright and joyous, and very proud of her young sister. It was a merry evening.

In fact, Lance himself was so much carried away by the spirit of the thing, and so anxious about the performance, that he made all the rest, including Clement, join in singing Autolycus’s song, which was to precede the procession, to a new setting of his own, before they dispersed.

But Lance was beginning to dress in the morning when a knock came to his door.

“A note from Mr. Flight, please, sir.”

The note was—“Circus and Schnetterlings gone off in the night! Shop closed! Must performance be given up?”

The town was all over red and blue posters! But Lance felt a wild hope for the future, and a not ill-founded one for the present. He rushed into his clothes, first pencilling a note—

                 “Never say die.  L. 0. U.”

Then he hurried off, and sent up a message to Miss Franceska Vanderkist, to come and speak to him, and he walked up and down the sitting-room where breakfast was being spread, like a panther, humming Prospero’s songs, or murmuring vituperations, till Franceska appeared, a perfect picture of loveliness in her morning youthful freshness.

“Francie, there’s no help for it. You must take Mona! She has absconded!”

“Uncle Lance!”

“Yes, gone off in the night; left us lamenting.”

“The horrible girl!”

“Probably not her fault, poor thing! But that’s neither here nor there. I wish it was!”

“But I thought—”

“It is past thinking now, my dear. Here we are, pledged. Can’t draw back, and you are the only being who can save us! You know the part.”

“Yes, in a way.”

“You did it with me at home.”

“Oh yes; but, Uncle Lance, it would be too dreadful before all these people.”

“Never mind the people. Be Mona, and only think of Alaster and Angus.”

“But what would mamma say, or Aunt Wilmet? And Uncle Clem?” each in a more awe-stricken voice.

“I’ll tackle them.”

“I know I shall be frightened and fail, and that will be worse.”

“No, it won’t, and you won’t. Look here, Francie, this is not a self-willed freak for our own amusement. The keeping up the Church schools here depends upon what we can raise. I hate bazaars. I hate to have to obtain help for the Church through these people’s idle amusement, but you and I have not two or three thousands to give away to a strange place in a lump; but we have our voices. ‘Such as I have give I thee,’ and this ridiculous entertainment may bring in fifty or maybe a hundred. I don’t feel it right to let it collapse for the sake of our own dislikes.”

“Very well, Uncle Lance, I’ll do as you tell me.”

“That’s the way to do it, my dear. At least, when you make ready, recollect, not that you are facing a multitude, but that you are saving a child’s Christian faith; when you prepare, that you have to do with nobody but Gerald and me; when it comes to ‘One, two, three, and away,’ mind nothing but your music and your cue.”

“But the dress, uncle?”

“The dress is all safe at the pavilion. You must come up and rehearse as soon as you have eaten your breakfast. Oh, you don’t know where. Well, one of us will come and fetch you. Good girl, Francie! Keep up your heart. By the bye, which is Fernan’s dressing-room? I must prepare him.”

That question was answered, for Sir Ferdinand’s door into the corridor was opened.

“Lance! I thought I heard your voice.”

“Yes, here’s a pretty kettle of fish! Our Miranda has absconded, poor child. Happy thing you brought down Francie; nobody else could take the part at such short notice. You must pacify Marilda, silence scruples, say it is her duty to Church, country, and family. Can’t stop!”

“Lance, explain—do! Music-mad as usual!” cried Sir Ferdinand, pursuing him down-stairs in despair.

“I must be music-mad; the only chance of keeping sane just now. There’s an awful predicament! Can’t go into it now, but you shall hear all when this is over.”

Wherewith Lance was lost to view, and presently burst into St. Kenelm’s Vicarage, to the relief of poor Mr. Flight, who had tried to solace himself with those three words as best he might.

“All right. My niece, Franceska Vanderkist, who took the part before, and who has a very good soprano, will do it better as to voice, if not so well as to acting, as the Little Butterfly.”

“Is she here?”

“Yes, by good luck. I shall have her up to the pavilion to rehearse her for the afternoon.”

“Mr. Underwood, no words can say what we owe you. You are the saving of our Church education.”

Lance laughed at the magniloquent thanks, and asked how the intimation had been received.

It appeared that on the previous evening O’Leary had come to him, and, in swaggering fashion, had demanded twenty pounds as payment for his step-daughter’s performance at the masque. Mr. Flight had replied that she had freely promised her services gratuitously for the benefit of the object in view. At this the man had scoffed, talked big about her value and the meanness of parsons, and threatened to withdraw her. Rather weakly the clergyman had said the question should be considered, but that he could do nothing without the committee, and O’Leary had departed, uttering abuse.

This morning “Sweetie Bob,” the errand-boy, had arrived crying, with tidings that the shop and house were shut up; nobody answered his knock; Mother Butterfly had “cut” in the night, gone off, he believed, with the circus, and Miss Lydia too; and there was two-and-ninepence owing to him, besides his—his—his character!

He knew that Mother Butterfly had gone to the magistrates’ meeting the day before, and paid her fine of twenty-five pounds, and he also believed that she had paid up her rent, and sold her shop to a neighbouring pastry-cook, but he had never expected her to depart in this sudden way, and then he began to shed fresh tears over his two-and-ninepence and his character.

Mr. Flight began to reassure him, with promises to speak for him as an honest lad, while Lance bethought himself of the old organist’s description of that wandering star, “Without home, without country, without morals, without religion, without anything,” and recollected with a shudder that turning-point in his life when Edgar had made him show off his musical talent, and when Felix had been sharp with him, and the office of the ‘Pursuivant’ looked shabby, dull, and dreary.

Nothing more could be done, except to make bold assurances to Mr. Flight that Mona’s place should be supplied, and then to hurry home, meeting on his way a policeman, who told him that the circus was certainly gone away, and promised to let him know whither.

He was glad to find that Gerald had not come down-stairs, having overslept himself in the morning after a wakeful night. He was dressing when his uncle knocked at his door.

“Here is a shock, Gerald! I hope it is chiefly to our masque. These people have absconded, and carried off our poor little Mona.”

“What? Absconded? My sister! I must be after them instantly,” cried Gerald, wildly snatching at his coat.

“What good would that do? you can’t carry her off vi et armis.”

“Send the police.”

“No possibility. The fine is paid, the rent and all. They have gone, it seems, with the circus.”

“Ah! Depend upon it that fellow has paid the fine, and bought the poor child into slavery with it. Carried her off in spite of our demurring, and the Vicar’s prosecution. I must save her. I’ll go after and outbid.”

“No hurry, Gerald. A circus is not such a microscopical object but that it can be easily traced. A policeman has promised to find out where, and meanwhile we must attend to our present undertaking.”

Gerald strode up and down the room in a fiery fit of impatience and indignation, muttering furious things, quite transformed from the listless, ironical youth hitherto known to his family.

“Come,” Lancelot said, “our first duty is to do justice to our part; Francie Vanderkist will take Mona.”

“Hang Mona! you care for nothing on earth but your fiddling and songs.”

“I do not see that being frantic will make any difference to the situation. All in our power is being done. Meanwhile, we must attend to what we have undertaken.”

Gerald rushed about a little more, but finally listened to his uncle’s representation that the engrossing employment was good to prevent the peril of disturbing the two whom they were so anxious to spare. Fely came running up with a message that Aunt Cherie and Anna had been sent for to see about the decorations of the art stall, and that they would have to eat their breakfast without them.

Appetite for breakfast was lacking, but Lance forced himself to swallow, as one aware of the consequences of fasting for agitation’s sake, and he nearly crammed Gerald; so that Adrian and Fely laughed, and he excused himself by declaring that he wanted his turkey-cock to gobble and not pipe. For which bit of pleasantry he encountered a glare from Gerald’s Hungarian eyes. He was afraid on one side to lose sight of his nephew, on the other he did not feel equal to encounter a scolding from Marilda, so he sent Adrian and Fely down to the Marine Hotel to fetch Franceska, while he stole a moment or two for greeting Clement, who was much better, and only wanted more conversation than he durst give him.

CHAPTER XXI. – THE MASQUE

     Your honour’s players, hearing your amendment,     Are come to play a pleasant comedy.                                  Taming of the Shrew.

Poor Franceska! First she encountered Cousin Marilda’s wonder and displeasure, and the declaration that Uncle Lance went absolutely crazy over his musical mania. She had seen it before in poor Edgar, and knew what it came to. She wanted to telegraph at once to Alda to ask her consent or refusal to Franceska’s appearance; but Sir Ferdinand stopped this on the ground that the circumstances could not be explained, and told her to content herself with Clement’s opinion.

This she sent Sophy and Emilia to ascertain, before she would let them and the boys escort Francie to her destination. Clement, not yet up, had to hold a lit de justice, and pronounce that Uncle Lance was to be fully trusted to ask nothing unbecoming or unnecessary, and that Francie would have nothing to do with any one except him and Gerald.

“Besides,” said Emilia, as they walked up, “nobody will find it out. The posters are all over the town, ‘Mona, Miss Ludmilla Schnetterling.’”

So the sisters were received with a murmur on their delay. The pretty dress prepared for Mona was found to be too small for the tall shapely Franceska, and Sophy undertook to alter it, while poor Francie’s troubles began.

Whether it was that Uncle Lance and Gerald were in a secret state of turmoil, or that their requirements were a good deal higher than for the Vale Leston audience, or perhaps that she had no inheritance of actress traditions, they certainly were a great deal sharper with her than they had been ever before or with Ludmilla.

Gerald derided her efforts sarcastically, and Uncle Lance found fault good-humouredly but seriously, and she was nearly in tears by eleven o’clock, when the procession was to take place. She was quite surprised when Lance turned to her and said—

“Thank you, my dear, you are doing capitally. I shall be proud of my daughter Mona.”

Quite in spirits again, she was sewn by Sophy into her still unfinished dress, her beautiful light golden flax tresses were snooded, her Highland scarf pinned on her shoulder, and she hurried to her uncle, now be-robed and be-wigged, with Gerald in full Highland garb, looking very much disgusted, especially when her uncle said—

“Well done, Francie. You’ll cut that poor little thing out in looks and voice, if not in acting.”

“Oh, uncle, I sang so horridly.”

“You can do better if you try; I wish there was time to train you. We’ll do the ‘logs duet’ once more after this tomfoolery. Ha! Captain Armytage. You are an awful pirate, and no mistake. Where did you get that splendid horse-pistol?”

“From my native home, as well as my sword; but I wrote to Willingham for the rest. This will be an uncommonly pretty march-past. The girls look so well, and all out of doors too.”

This was decidedly a great advantage, the trees, grass, and blue sky lending a great grace to the scene. The procession started from the garden entrance of the hotel, headed by the town band in uniform, and the fire brigade likewise, very proud of themselves, especially the little terrier whom nothing would detach from one of the firemen. Then came the four seasons belonging to the flower stall, appropriately decked with flowers, the Italian peasants with flat veils, bright aprons, and white sleeves, Maura White’s beauty conspicuous in the midst, but with unnecessary nods and becks. Then came the “mediaeval” damsels in ruffs and high hats, the Highland maidens, with Valetta and Primrose giggling unmanageably; and Aunt Jane’s troop of the various costumes of charity children, from the green frocks, long mittens, and tall white caps, and the Jemima Placid flat hats and long waists, down to the red cloaks, poke straw bonnets, and blue frocks of the Lady Bountiful age. These were followed by the merry fairies and elves; then by the buccaneers and the captive prisoners; and the rear was brought up by MacProspero, as Lord Rotherwood called him, with his niece on his arm and his nephew by his side.

When the central stall, or bothie, in the Carrara grounds was reached, after passing in full state and order over two of the bridges, the procession halted before a group of the Rotherwood family, Sir Jasper and Lady Merrifield, Lady Flight, and other local grandees, with the clergy, who had declined to walk in procession. There the performers spread themselves out, singing Autolycus’s song, led of course by MacProspero; Lady Rotherwood, with as much dignity as the occasion permitted, declared the bazaar open, and the Marquis hoped every one was going to ruin themselves in the cause of Christian education.

The first idea of “every one” was luncheon, except that Lance laid hands on his unfortunate Angus and Mona for their duet, in the midst of which Lord Rotherwood made a raid on them.

“There! I’m sure Prospero never was so cruel as to starve what’s-his-name! Come in and have some food—it is just by.”

They found themselves in a dining-room, in the presence of Lady Rotherwood, her son and daughter, and a sprinkling of Merrifields and actors, in full swing of joyous chatter; Mysie and Lady Phyllis telling all that was specially to be admired, and Lord Rotherwood teasing them about the prices, and their wicked extortions in the name of goodness, Gillian snubbing poor Captain Armytage in his splendid buccaneer dress, Ivinghoe making himself agreeable to Franceska, whose heightened carnation tints made her doubly lovely through her shyness. Gerald and Dolores in the less lively vicinity of the Marchioness carrying on a low-toned conversation, which, however, enabled Gerald to sustain nature with food better than he had done at breakfast.

It did not last long. The sellers had to rush off to relieve those who had begun the sale, and the performance was to commence at three o’clock, so that the final preparations had to be hurried through.

Geraldine had made the tour of the stalls on the arm of Anna, to admire them in their first freshness, and put finishing touches wherever solicited. The Rocca Marina conservatories were in rare glory, orchids in weird beauty, lovely lilies of all hues, fabulously exquisite ipomoeas, all that heart could wish. Before them a fountain played in the midst of blue, pink, and white lotus lilies, and in a flower-decked house the Seasons dispensed pot-flowers, bouquets, and button-holes; the Miss Simmondses and their friends with simpering graces, that made Geraldine glad to escape and leave them to the young men who were strolling up. At Carrara was the stall in which she was chiefly interested, and which had been arranged with a certain likeness to Italian gardens, the statues and other devices disposed among flowers; the Dirty Boy judiciously veiled by the Puzzle Monkey, and the front of the summer-house prolonged by pillars, sham but artistic. Jasper was zealously photographing group after group, handing his performances over to his assistant for printing off. Kalliope looked in her costume most beautiful and dignified. Her sister, grown to almost equal beauty, was hurrying off to see the masque, flushed and eager, while Gillian and one or two others were assisting in sales that would be rather slack till after the performance. Here Geraldine purchased only a couple of Mouse-traps, leaving further choice to be made after the stranger purchasers. Here Sir Jasper and General Mohun came up, and gave her a good deal of curious information about Bernard’s bevy of figures in Indian costumes; and having the offer of such a strong arm as the General’s, she dispensed with Anna, who was really wanted to help with the very popular photographs.