The Long Vacation

They passed the refreshments, at present chiefly haunted by Mrs. Edgar’s boys, ready to eat at any time of day; they looked civilly at the Varley Elizabethans, and found Lady Merrifield in the midst of her bothie, made charming with fresh green branches and purple heather, imported by the Vanderkists.

“That’s Penbeacon ling. I know that red tint in the mauve,” said Geraldine; “I’ll give you half-a-crown, if your decorations can spare that spiring spray!” And she put it in her bosom, after touching it with her lips. “You have a bower for the Lady of the Lake,” she added.

“I’m afraid I’m only Roderick Dhu’s mother,” laughed Lady Merrifield; “but I shall have more ladies when the masque is done. Now I have only Mysie.”

“And oh!” cried Mysie, “please set up the nurse in the nursery gardens right. Wilfred knocked her over, and she won’t stand right for me.”

“Perverse woman. There! No, I shall not buy anything now, I shall wait for Primrose and the refuse. How pretty it does all look! Ah, Mr. Brownlow,” as she shook hands with the curate.

“I left my brother John at your house,” he said; “I persuaded him to run down this morning with my mother and see our doings, and he was glad of the opportunity of looking in upon the Vicar.”

“How very kind of him. We were wishing to know what he thought!”

“No doubt he will be here presently. My mother is at the masque. There was not a seat for us, so I took him down to St. Andrew’s Rock.”

“Not a seat! The five-shilling seats?”

“Not the fraction of one. Numbers standing outside! Pity there can’t be a second performance.”

“Four hundred seats! That’s a hundred pounds! We shall beat the School-board yet!”

So, with the General politely expressing that there was no saying what Rockquay owed to the hearty co-operation of such birds of passage as herself and her brothers, she travelled on to the charity stall, which Miss Mohun had quaintly dressed in the likeness of an old-fashioned school, with big alphabet and samplers, flourished copies, and a stuffed figure of a ‘cont-rare-y’ naughty boy, with a magnificent fool’s cap. She herself sat behind it, the very image of the Shenstone school-mistress, with wide white cap, black poke-bonnet, crossed kerchief, red cloak, and formidable rod; and her myrmidons were in costume to match. It was very attractive, and took every one by surprise, but Geraldine had had enough by this time, and listened to Miss Mohun’s invitation and entreaty that she would preside over tea-cups for the weary, in the drawing-room. The privacy of the houses had been secured by ropes extending from the stalls to the rails of the garden, and Geraldine was conducted by her two generals to the verandah, where they installed her, and lingered, as was usual with her squires, always won by her spirited talk, till messages came to each of them from below that some grandee was come, who must be talked to and entertained.

Already, however, Armine Brownlow had brought up his brother, the doctor—John or Jock, an old friend—over, first Clement’s district and then his bed.

“Well, Mrs. Grinstead, I can compliment you much on your brother. He is very materially better, and his heart is recovering tone.”

“I am very glad and thankful! I only wish you had seen him last week. He was better then, but he had a worry about our little nephew, which threw him back.”

“So he told me. The more quiescent and amused you can keep him, the more chance of a fair recovery there will be. I am glad he thinks of dining with the party to-night.”

“I am glad he still thinks. I had to come away early, when he had still left it doubtful.”

“I encouraged the idea with all my might.”

“Do you think he will be able to go back to his parish?”

“Most assuredly not while every worry tells on him in this manner. You must, if possible, take him abroad for the winter, before he begins to think about it.”

“He has leave of absence for a year.”

“Dating from Easter, I think. Keep him in warm climates as long as you can. Find some country to interest him without over-fatigue, and you will, I hope, be able to bring him home fit to consider the matter.”

“That is all you promise?”

“All I dare—not even to promise—but to let you hope for.”

An interruption came; one of the young ladies had had her skirt trodden on, and wanted it to be stitched up. Then came Jane Mohun to deposit a handkerchief which some one had dropped. “I can stay a moment,” she said; “no one will come to buy till the masque is ended. Oh, this red cloak will be the death of me!”

“You look highly respectable without it.”

“I shall only put it on for the coup d’oeil at first. Oh, Geraldine, what is to be done with that horrid little Maura?”

“The pretty little Greek girl—Mrs. Henderson’s sister?”

“Oh! it is not Mrs. Henderson’s fault, nor my sister Ada’s either, except that the little wretch must have come round her. I know Ada meant to stay away on that very account.”

“What account?”

“Ivinghoe’s, to be sure! Oh! I forgot. You are so much one of us that I did not remember that you did not know how the foolish boy was attracted—no, that’s too strong a word—but she thought he was, when they were here to open Rotherwood Park. He did flirt, and Victoria—his mother, I mean—did not like it at all. She would never have come this time, but that I assured her that Maura was safe at Gastein!”

“Is it so very undesirable?”

“My dear! Their father was old White’s brother, a stone-mason. He was raised from the ranks, but his wife was a Greek peasant—and if you had seen her, when the Merrifield children called her the Queen of the White Ants! Ivinghoe is naturally as stiff and formal as his mother, I am not much afraid for him, except that no one knows what that fever will make of a young man, and I don’t want him to get his father into a scrape. There, I have exhaled it to you, and there is a crowd as if the masque was done with.”

It was, and the four hundred auditors were beginning to throng about the stalls, strays coming up from time to time, and reporting with absolute enthusiasm on the music and acting. Marilda was one of these.

“Well, Cherry, I saw no great harm in it after all, and Francie looked sweetly pretty, just as poor Alda did when she first came to us. Lance must make his own excuses to Alda. But Gerald looked horridly ill! He sang very well, but he had such red spots on his cheeks! I’d get Clement’s doctor to sound him. Lord Rotherwood was quite complimentary. Now I must go and buy something—I hear there is the Dirty Boy—I think I shall get it for Fernan’s new baths and wash-houses. Then isn’t there something of yours, Cherry?”

“Not to compete with the Dirty Boy.”

“Ah! now you are laughing at me, Cherry. Quite right, I am glad to hear you do it again.”

The next visitor was Lance.

“Oh, Cherry, how cool you look! Give me a cup of tea—not refreshment-stall tea. That’s right. Little Francie is a perfect gem—looks and voice—not acting—no time for that. Heigh-ho!”

“Where’s Gerald?”

“Somewhere about after that Merrifield niece with the doleful name, I fancy. He did very well when it came to the scratch.”

“Have you seen Dr. Brownlow? He has been to see Clement.”

“That’s first-rate! Where shall I find him?”

“Somewhere about, according to your lucid direction, I suppose.”

“What does he think of old Tina?”

Geraldine told him, and was rather surprised, when he whistled as though perplexed, and as Fergus rushed in, glorious with the news that Sir Ferdinand had bought his collection of specimens for the Bexley museum, he rose up, looking perturbed, to find Dr. Brownlow.

Next came Gillian with news that the Dirty Boy was sold to Lady Travis Underwood.

“And mayn’t I stay a moment or two?” said she. “Now the masque is over, that Captain Armytage is besetting me again.”

“Poor Captain Armytage.”

“Why do you pity him? He is going to join his ship, the Sparrow Hawk, next week, and that ought to content him.”

“Ships do not always fill a man’s heart.”

“Then they ought. I don’t like it,” she added, in a petulant tone. “I have so much to learn and to do, I don’t want to be tormented about a tiresome man.”

“Well, he will be out of your way to-morrow.”

“Geraldine, that is a horrid tone.”

“If you choose to put meaning in it, I cannot help it.”

“And that horrid little Maura! She is in the most awful flutter, standing on tiptoe, and craning out her foolish little neck. I know it is all after Ivinghoe, and he never has come to our counter! Kalliope has been trying to keep her in order, but I’m sure the Queen of the White Ants must have been just like that when she got poor Captain White to marry her. Kalliope is so much vexed, I can see. She never meant to have her here. And Aunt Ada stayed away on purpose.”

“Has she seen much of him?”

“Hardly anything; but he did admire her, and she never was like Kalliope. But what would Aunt Ada do? Oh dear! there’s that man! He has no business at Aunt Jane’s charity stall. I shall go and tell him so.”

Geraldine had her little private laugh before Adrian came up to her with a great ship in his arms—

“Take care of this, Aunt Cherry. She is going to sail on the Ewe. I bought her with the sovereign Uncle Fernan gave me.”

Geraldine gave the ship her due admiration, and asked after the masque.

“Oh, that went off pretty well. I wouldn’t have been Fely! All the ladies went and said ‘Pretty dear!’ when he sang his song about the bat’s back. Disgusting! But then he has not been a fellow at school, so he made his bow and looked as if he didn’t mind it.”

“And Francie?”

“Francie looked perfectly stunning. Everybody said so, and she sang—well, she sang better than she did at home; but she was in an awful funk, though I kept on looking at her, and shouting bravo to encourage her; and she must have heard my voice, for I was just in front.”

“I hope she was encouraged.”

“But she is very stupid. I wanted to take her round to all the stalls, and show her what to buy with the five Jubilee sovereigns Uncle Fernan gave her, for you know she has never been anywhere, or seen anything. I thought she would like it, and besides, all our fellows say they never saw such an awfully pretty girl, and they can’t believe all that hair is her own—she had it all down her back, you know—so I told them I would let them have a pull to try.”

“Poor Francie! She declined, I suppose?”

“Well, there was that ridiculous swell, Fergus’s cousin, Ivinghoe, and he has taken her off to see the stupid flowers in the conservatory. I told Sophy I wondered she permitted such flirting, but of course Francie knew no better.”

“Oh! and you couldn’t stop it?”

“Not I, though I called her over and over again to look at things, but Lord Ivinghoe always hung about and gave one no peace. So I just told Sophy to look after her, and came off to tell you. Oh my! here is old Miss Mohun coming up. I shall be off. I want some chocolate creams. Mrs. Simmonds has got some splendid ones.”

Miss Mohun was coming, in fact.

“Well, Geraldine, the masque was a great success. People beg to have it repeated, so many could not get in. And it is worth at least a hundred pounds to us. People whose opinion is worth having were quite struck. They say your brother really ought to have been a great composer and singer.”

“I think he might have been if he had not given up his real passion to come to the help of my dear eldest brother. And he is really happier as he is.”

“I knew there was conquest in his face. And that dear little elf of a boy—what a voice! So bright and so arch too. Then the Miranda—she took all by surprise. I believe half the spectators took her for the Little Butterfly.”

“Ah, the poor Little Butterfly is flown. There was nothing for it but to make Francie act, as she had taken the part once before.”

“Her acting was no great things, they say—ladylike, but frightened. Her voice is lovely, and as to her looks—people rave about them. Tell me, she is not Lady Travis Underwood’s daughter?”

“Oh no; she is Anna’s sister, Adrian’s sister.”

“So I told Lady Rotherwood, I was sure it was so.”

“The Travis Underwoods have no children, but they adopted Emilia when I took Anna, and they have brought three Vanderkists to this affair. Francie has never been from home before, it is all quite new to her.” Then recollecting what Adrian had repeated, she thought it fair to add, “My sister was left very badly off, and all these eight girls will have nothing of their own.”

“Well, I don’t suppose anything will come of it. I hope it will put no folly into her head; but at any rate it effaces that poor silly little Maura. I hope too, as you say your niece is so innocent, it will do her no harm.”

“I don’t suppose any possibilities have occurred to the child.”

Lord Rotherwood here came on the scene.

“Jenny, there’s an offer for your boy in the fool’s cap, and Mysie doubts if she ought to let him go. Well, Mrs. Grinstead, I think you have the best of it. Lookers on, etc.”

“Looking on has always been my trade.”

“You heard the rehearsal of the masque, I believe, but you did not hear that charming Mona?”

“No; she had to take the part suddenly. Her uncle had to tyrannize over her, to save the whole thing.”

“We are much indebted to him, and to her,” said Lord Rotherwood courteously. “She looked as if she hated it all in the first scene, though she warmed up afterwards. I must say I liked her the better for her shyness.”

“Her little brother thinks she recovered in consequence of his applause,” said Geraldine, smiling.

“Ah! I saw him. And heard. A little square fellow—very sturdy.”

“Yes, the Dutchman comes out in him, and he has droll similitudes, very curious in one who never saw his father, nor any but his Underwood relations.”

“So much the better for him perhaps; I have, and ought to have, great faith in uncles’ breeding. I am glad to meet Sir Ferdinand Travis Underwood. I have often come across him about London good works.”

“Yes, he is an excellent man.”

“Not wholly English is he, judging by the depth of colour in those eyes?”

“No; his mother was a Mexican, partly Indian. We used to call him the Cacique;” and Geraldine had the pleasure of telling his story to an earnest listener, but interruption came in the shape of Sir Ferdinand himself who announced that he had hired a steam-yacht wherein to view the regatta, and begged Lord Rotherwood to join the party.

This was impossible, as the Marquis was due at an agricultural dinner at Clarebridge, but in return, in the openness of his heart, he invited the Travis Underwoods to their dinner that evening at the hotel, where the Merrifields and the Underwoods were already engaged, little boys and all.

“Thank you, my lord, but we are too large a party. We have three Vanderkist girls with us, and Anna and her brother are to join them to be with their sister.”

“Never mind, never mind. The great hall will have room for all.”

Still Fernan demurred, knowing that Marilda had ordered dinner at the Quay Hotel, and that even liberal payment would not atone for missing the feasting of the millionaires; so the matter was compounded by his promise to bring all his party, who were not ready for bed, up to spend the evening.

And Geraldine perceived from Lady Rotherwood’s ceremonious politeness that she did not like it at all, though she never said so even to Lady Merrifield.

However, it was a very bright evening. Gerald had sung himself into spirits, and then found Dolores, and retreated into the depths of the garden with her, explaining to her all about his sister, and declaring that his first object must be to rescue her; and then, unless his name was cleared, and he had to resume all his obligations, the new life would be open to him, and he had no fear of not succeeding as a journalist, or if not, a musical career was possible to him, as Dolores had now the opportunity of fully perceiving. His sweet voice had indeed filled her with double enthusiasm. She had her plan for lecturing, and that very morning she had received from her father permission to enter a ladies’ college, and the wherewithal. She would qualify herself for lecturing by the time he had fixed his career; and they built their airy castles, not on earth, but on railroads and cycles, and revelled on them as happily as is common to lovers, whether in castle or in cottage. Certainly if the prospect held out to her had been Vale Leston Priory, it would not have had the same zest; and when in the evening they joined the dinner-party, there was a wonderful look of purpose and of brightness on both their faces. And Emilia, who had been looking for him all the afternoon to tell him, “Gerald, I am really going to be a nurse,” only got for answer an absent “Indeed!”

“Yes, at St. Roque’s.”

“I hope I shall never be a patient there,” he said, in his half-mocking tone. “You’ll look jolly in the cap and apron.”

“I’m to be there all the time they are in America, and—”

“Well, I wonder you don’t go and study the institutions.”

“But, Gerald—”

His eye was wandering, and he sprang forward to give Dolores a flower that she had dropped.

Lancelot, knowing what was before Gerald, and having always regarded Vale Leston with something of the honours of Paradise, could not understand that joyous look of life, so unlike Gerald’s usual weary, passive expression. He himself felt something of the depression that was apt to follow on musical enjoyment; he saw all the failures decidedly enough not to be gratified with the compliments he met on all sides, and “he bitterly thought on the morrow,” when he saw how Clement was getting animated over a discussion on Church matters, and how Geraldine was enjoying herself. And as to that pretty Franceska, who had blossomed into the flower of the flock, he foresaw heart-break for her when he watched the Marchioness’s countenance on hearing that her son had accepted Sir Ferdinand’s invitation to cruise to-morrow in the yacht.

Vainly was Ivinghoe reminded of the agricultural dinner. He was only too glad to escape it, and besides, he thought he could be there in time.

Nevertheless, the present was delightful, and after dinner the young people all went off to the great assembly-room, whence Anna came back to coax Uncle Lance to play for them. All the elders jumped up from their several discussions. Even Lady Rotherwood moved on, looking as benign as her feelings would permit. Jane squeezed Geraldine’s arm, exceedingly amused. Lance struck up, by request, an old-fashioned country dance; Lord Rotherwood insisted that “Lily” should dance with him, as the remnant of forty good years ago or more, and with Sir Roger de Coverley the day ended.

Poor little Maura, making an excuse to wander about the gardens in the moonlight, saw the golden locks shining through the open windows, and Lord Ivinghoe standing over them, went home, and cried herself to sleep over the fickleness of the nobility, when she had better have cried over her own unjustified romance, excited by a few kindly speeches and a cup of tea.

And Emilia! What was Gerald’s one laughing turn with her, compared with his long talk with Dolores in the moonlight?

CHAPTER XXII. – THE REGATTA

     She saw a forget-me-not in the grass,     Gilly-flower, gentle rosemary,     Ah! why did the lady that little flower pass,     While the dews fell over the mulberry-tree?                                            KENEALY.

Such of the party as were not wanted for the second day of the bazaar, and were not afraid of mal de mer, had accepted the yachting invitation, except the three elders at St. Andrew’s Rock. Even Adrian and Felix were suffered to go, under Sophy’s charge, on the promise to go nowhere without express permission, and not to be troublesome to any one.

“Sophy can say, ‘Now, boys,’ as effectively as Wilmet,” said Geraldine, when she met Lance, who had been to the quay to see them off.

“She did not say so to much advantage with her own boys,” said Clement.

“We weren’t Harewoods,” returned Lance, “and John never could bear to see a tight hand over them; but there’s good in them that will come out some day.”

Clement gave an emphatic “Humph!” as he sat down to the second breakfast after Anna had gone to the cliff to resume her toils.

“Who are gone?” asked Geraldine.

“Poor Marilda, smilingly declaring she shall be in misery in the cabin all the time, Fernan, and four Vanderkists, General Mohun, Sir Jasper, and some of his progeny; but others stay to help Miss Mohun finish up the sales.”

“Does Lord Ivinghoe go?”

“Oh yes, he came rushing down just in time. Francie was looking like a morning rose off the cloister at Vale Leston.”

“I am sorry they have another day of it. I don’t see how it can come to good,” said Geraldine.

“Perhaps her roses may fade at sea,” said Clement, “and disenchantment may ensue.”

“At least I hope Alda may not hear of it, or she will be in an agony of expectation as long as hope lasts. Gerald is gone, of course?”

“Oh yes!” said Lance, who had had a farewell from him with the words, “Get it over while I am out of the way, and tell them I don’t mind.”

Cursory and incomprehensible, but conclusive; and Lance, who minded enough to have lost sleep and gained a headache, marvelled over young men’s lightness and buoyancy. He had seen Dr. Brownlow, and arranged that there should be a call, as a friend, in due time after the communication, in case it should hurt Clement, and when Geraldine observed merrily that now they were quit of all the young ones they could feel like old times, he was quite grieved to disturb her pleasure.

Clement, however, began by taking out a letter and saying—

“Here is a remarkable missive left for me yesterday—‘If the Rev. Underwood wishes to hear of something to his advantage, he should communicate with Mr. O’L., care of Mr. John Bast, van proprietor, Whitechapel.’ An impostor?” said he.

“I am afraid not,” said Lance. “Clement, I fear there is no doubt that she is that singing Hungarian woman who was the ruin of Edgar’s life.”

“Gerald’s mother!” exclaimed Geraldine.

“Even so.”

“But she is gone! She gave up all rights. She can’t claim anything. Has she worried him?”

“Yes, poor boy! She has declared that she had actually a living husband at the time she married our poor Edgar.”

Of course both broke out into exclamations that it was impossible, and Lance had to tell them of his interview with the woman at Gerald’s entreaty. They were neither of them so overcome by the disclosure as he had feared during his long delay.

“I believe it is only an attempt at extortion,” said Clement.

“Very cruel,” said Geraldine. “How—how did my poor boy bear it all this time?”

“He was very much knocked down at first, quite overwhelmed, but less by the loss than by the shame, and the imputation on his father.”

“It was no fault of dear Edgar’s.”

“No, indeed. I am glad Fernan is here to go over again what Edgar told him. We may be quite satisfied so far.”

“And is it needful to take it up?” asked Geraldine wistfully. “If we don’t believe it, the horrid story would get quashed.”

“No, Cherry,” said Clement. “If you think it over you will see that we must investigate. I should be relieved indeed to let it alone, but it would not be fair towards Lance there and his boys.”

Lance made a strange noise of horror and deprecation, then added—

“I don’t believe Gerald would consent to let it alone.”

“No, now he knows, of course. He is a right-minded, generous boy,” said Geraldine. “I was wrong. Did you say he was very much upset?”

“Just at first, when he came to me at night. I was obliged to dragoon him, and myself too, to throw it off enough to be able to get through our performance yesterday. How thankful I am to the regatta that it is not our duty to the country to go through it again to-day! However, he seems to have rebounded a good deal. He was about all the latter part of the day with Miss Mohun.”

“I saw him dancing and laughing with some of them.”

“And he parted from me very cheerfully, telling me to assure you ‘he did not mind,’ whatever that may mean.”

“He knows that nothing can disturb our love for him, Edgar’s little comfort, passed on to bear us up,” said Cherry tearfully. “Oh yes, I know what he meant—Felix’s delight, my darling always.”