The Long Vacation

Whatever the night was to Gerald, long was the night, and long the light hours of the morning to the ever sleepless Lance before he could rise and make his way to the shop with any hope of gaining admission, and many were the sighs and prayers that this tale might be confuted, and that the matter might be to the blessing of the youth to whom he felt more warmly now than since those winning baby days had given place to more ordinary boyhood. He had a long time to pace up and down watching the sparkling water, and feeling the fresh wind on the brow, which was as capable as ever of aching over trouble and perplexity, and dreading above all the effect on the sister, whose consolation and darling Gerald had always been. How little he had thought, when he had stood staunch against his brother Edgar’s persuasions, that Zoraya was to be the bane of that life which had begun so gaily!

When at last the door was unfastened, and, as before, by Ludmilla, he greeted her kindly, and as she evidently expected some fresh idea about the masque, he gave her his card, and asked her to beg her mother to come and speak to him. She started at the name and said—

“Oh, sir, you will do nothing to hurt him—Mr. Underwood?”

“It is the last thing I wish,” he said earnestly, and Ludmilla showed him into a little parlour, full of the fumes of tobacco, and sped away, but he had a long time to wait, for probably Mother Butterfly’s entire toilette had to be taken in hand.

Before she appeared Lancelot heard a man’s voice, somewhere in the entry, saying—

“Oh! the young ass has been fool enough to let it out, has he? I suppose this is the chap that will profit? You’ll have your wits about you.”

Lance was still his old self enough to receive the lady with—

“I beg to observe that I am not the ‘chap who will profit’ if this miserable allegation holds water. I am come to understand the truth.”

The woman looked frightened, and the man came to her rescue, having evidently heard, and this Lance preferred, for he always liked to deal with mankind rather than womankind. Having gone so far there was not room for reticence, and the man took up the word.

“Madame cannot be expected to disclose anything to the prejudice of her son and herself, unless it was made worth her while.”

“Perhaps not,” said Lance, as he looked her over in irony, and drew the conclusion that the marriage was a fact accomplished; “but she has demanded two hundred pounds from her son, on peril of exposure, and if the facts are not substantiated, there is such a thing as an action for conspiracy, and obtaining money on false pretences.”

“Nothing has been obtained!” said the woman, beginning to cry. “He was very hard on his poor mother.”

“Who forsook him as an infant, cast off his father, and only claims him in order to keep a disgraceful, ruinous secret hanging over his life for ever, in order to extort money.”

“Come now, this is tall talk, sir,” said O’Leary; “the long and short of it is, what will the cove, yourself, or whoever it is that you speak for, come down for one way or another?”

“Nothing,” responded Lance.

Neither of the estimable couple spoke or moved under an announcement so incredible to them, and he went on—

“Gerald Underwood would rather lose everything than give hush-money to enable him to be a robber, and my elder brother would certainly give no reward for what would be the greatest grief in his life.”

O’Leary grinned as if he wanted to say, “Have you asked him?”

“The priest,” she muttered.

“Ay, the meddling parson who has done for you! He would have to come down pretty handsomely.”

Lancelot went on as if he had not heard these asides.

“I am a magistrate; I can give you in charge at once to the police, and have you brought before the Mayor for conspiracy, when you will have to prove your words, or confess them to be a lie.”

He was not in the least certain that where there was no threatening letter, this could succeed, but he knew that the preliminaries would be alarming enough to elicit something, and accordingly Mrs. O’Leary began to sob out—

“It was when I was a mere child, a bambina, and he used me so cruelly.”

There was the first thread, and on the whole, the couple were angry enough with Gerald, his refined appearance and air of careless prosperity, to be willing that he should have a fall, and Lance thus extracted that the “he” who had been cruel was a Neapolitan impresario in a small way, who had detected that Zoraya, when a very little child, had a charming voice, of which indeed she still spoke with pride, saying Lida would never equal it. Her parents were semi-gipsies, Hungarian, and had wandered all over the Austrian empire, acting, singing, and bringing up their children to the like. They had actually sold her to the impresario, who had sealed the compact, and hoped to secure the valuable commodity by making her his wife. In his security he had trained her in the severest mode, and visited the smallest want of success with violence and harshness, so that her life was utterly miserable, and on meeting her brother, who had become a member of a German band, she had contrived to make her escape with him, and having really considerable proficiency, the brother and sister had prospered, and through sundry vicissitudes had arrived at being “stars” in Allen’s troupe, where Edgar Underwood, or, as he was there known, Tom Wood, had unfortunately joined them; and the sequel was known to Lancelot, but he could not but listen and gather up the details, disgusted as he was—how the prima donna had accepted his attention as her right, till her jealousy was excited by his evident attraction to “the little English doll, for whom he killed his man”; how she resolved to win him, and how scandalous reports at last had brought him to offer marriage, unknowing, it was plain, of her past. It was not possible to guess how much she was still keeping back, speaking under terror and compulsion as she did. But she declared that he had never loved her, and was always wanting her to be like ces Anglaises fades, and as to her child, he so tormented her about it, and the ways of his absurd mother and sisters, and so expected her to sacrifice her art and her prospects to the little wretch, that she was ready to strangle it! “Maternal love, bah! she was not going to be like a bird or a beast,” she said, with a strange wild glance in her eyes that made Lance shudder, and think how much more he respected the bird or beast. Then at Chicago, when Wood’s own folly and imprudence had brought on an illness that destroyed his voice, and she knew there would be only starvation, or she should have to toil for the whole of them, Schnetterling, manager of a circus, fell in love with her, and made her good offers to sing in Canada, and Chicago was a place where few questions were asked, so she freed herself.

She had made her rounds with Schnetterling, a prudent German, and in process of time had come to England, where, at Avoncester, both had been attacked by influenza; he died, and she only recovered with a total loss of voice; but he had been prudent and frugal enough to save a sufficient sum to set her up at Rockquay with the tobacco-shop. She had chosen that place on account of American trading-vessels putting in there, as well as those of various foreign nations, with whom her knowledge of languages was available, and no doubt there were some opportunities of dealing in smuggled goods. Just, however, as the smuggling was beginning to be suspected, the circus of O’Leary came in her way, and the old instincts were renewed. Then came the detection and prosecution, and the need of raising the fine. She had recourse to O’Leary, who had before been Schnetterling’s underling, and now was a partner in Jellicoe’s circus, who knew her capabilities as a manager and actress, and perceived the probabilities of poor little Lida’s powers. The discovery that the deserted baby that she had left at Chicago was a young handsome squire, well connected, and, in her eyes, of unlimited means, had of course incited both to make the utmost profit of him. That he should not wish to hush the suspicion up, but should go straight to his uncles, was to them a quite unexpected contingency.

All this was not exactly told to Lancelot, but he extracted it, or gathered it before he was able to arrive at what was really important, the name of Zoraya’s first husband, where she was married, and by whom, and where she had parted from him. She was so unwilling to give particulars that he began almost to hope to make her confess that the whole was a myth, but at last she owned that the man’s name was Giovanni Benista, and that the marriage had taken place at Messina; she knew not in what church, nor in what year, only it was before the end of the old regime, for she recollected the uniforms of the Bomba soldiers, though she could not remember the name of the priest. Benista was old, very old—the tyrant and assassin that he was, no doubt he was dead. She often thought he would have killed her—and the history of his ill-treatment had to be gone through before it appeared that she had fled from him at Trieste with her brother, in an English trading-vessel, where their dexterity and brilliancy gained them concealment and a passage. This was certainly in the summer of 1865. Of Benista she knew nothing since, but she believed him to have come from Piedmont.

Lance found Gerald walking up and down anxiously watching for him, and receiving him with a “Well!” that had in it volumes of suspense.

“Well, Gerald, I do not think there can be any blame attached to your father, whatever comes of it. He was deceived as much as any one else, and his attachment to you seems to have been his great offence.”

“Thank Heaven! Then he was deceived?”

“I am afraid there was some previous ceremony. But stay, Gerald! There is no certainty that it was valid in the first place, and in the next, nothing is known of Benista since 1865, when he was an old man, so that there is a full chance that he was dead before—”

“Before April 1868. I say, Uncle Lance, they want to make no end of a bear-fight for my coming of age. I must be out of the way first.”

“Don’t cry out too soon. Even if the worst came to the worst, as the property was left to you by will individually, I doubt whether this discovery, if real, would make any difference in law. I do not know.”

“But would I take it on those terms? It would be simply defrauding Clement, and all of you—”

“Perhaps, long before, we may be satisfied,” said Lance. “For the present, I think nothing can be done but endeavour to ascertain the facts.”

“One comfort is,” said Gerald, “I have gained a sister. I have walked with her to the corner of her place—the marble works, you know—and she really is a jolly little thing, quite innocent of all her mother’s tricks, thinking Mrs. Henderson the first of human beings, except perhaps Flight, the aesthetic parson. I should not have selected him, you know, but between them they have kept her quite a white sheet—a Miranda any Ferdinand might be glad to find, and dreading nothing so much as falling into the hands of that awful brute. Caliban himself couldn’t have been worse! I have promised her to do what I can to save her—buy her off—anything.”

“Poor child,” said Lance. “But, Gerald, nothing of this must be said these next few days. We can’t put ourselves out of condition for this same raree-show.”

“I’m sure it’s a mere abomination to me,” said Gerald disconsolately. “I can’t think why we should be dragged into all this nuisance for what is not even our own concern.”

“I’m sure I thought you the rope that dragged me! At any rate much higher up on it.”

“Well, I never thought you would respond—you, who have enough on your hands at Bexley.”

“One stroke even on the outskirts is a stroke for all the cause.”

“The cause! I don’t believe in the cause, whatever it is. What a concatenation now, that you and I should make fools of ourselves in order to stave off the establishment of national education, as if we could, or as if it was worth doing.”

“Then why did you undertake it?”

“Oh, ah! Why, one wants something to do down here, and the Merrifield lot are gone upon it; and I did want to go through the thing again, but now it seems all rot.”

“Nevertheless, having pledged ourselves to the performance, we cannot cry off, and the present duty is to pack dull care away, put all this out of our heads, and regard it as a mere mare’s nest as long as possible, and above all not upset Cherry. Remember, let this turn out as it will, you are yourself still, and her own boy, beloved for your father’s sake, the joy of our dear brother, and her great comforter. A wretched mistake can never change that.”

Lance’s voice was quivering, and Gerald’s face worked. Lance gave his hand a squeeze, and found voice to say—

“‘Hold thee still in the Lord, and abide patiently upon Him.’ And meantime be a man over it. It can be done. I have often had to forget.”

CHAPTER XIX. – SHOP-DRESSING

     But I can’t conceive, in this very hot weather,     How I’m ever to bring all these people together.                                                 T. HOOD.

It was not a day when any one could afford to be upset. It was chiefly spent in welcoming arrivals or in rushing about: on the part of Lance and Gerald in freshly rehearsing each performer, in superintending their stage arrangements, reviewing the dresses, and preparing for one grand final rehearsal; and in the multifarious occupations and anxieties, and above all in the music, Gerald did really forget, or only now and then recollect, that a nightmare was hanging on him, and that his little Mona need not shrink from him in maidenly shyness, but that he might well return her pretty appealing look of confidence.

The only quiet place in the town apparently was Clement Underwood’s room, for even Cherry had been whirled off, at first to arrange her own pictures and drawings; and then her wonderful touch made such a difference in the whole appearance of the stall, and her dainty devices were so graceful and effective, that Gillian and Mysie implored her to come and tell them what to do with theirs, where they were struggling with cushions, shawls, and bags, with the somewhat futile assistance of Mr. Armine Brownlow and Captain Armytage, whenever the latter could be spared from the theatrical arrangements, where, as he said, it was a case of parmi les borgnes—for his small experience with the Wills-of-the-Wisp made him valuable.

The stalls were each in what was supposed to represent by turns a Highland bothie or a cave. The art stall was a cave, that the back (really a tool-house) might serve the photographers, and the front was decorated with handsome bits of rock and spar, even ammonites. Poor Fergus could not recover his horror and contempt when his collection of specimens, named and arranged, was very nearly seized upon to fill up interstices, and he was infinitely indebted to Mrs. Grinstead for finding a place where their scientific merits could be appreciated without letting his dirty stones, as Valetta called them, disturb the general effect.

“And my fern-gardens! Oh, Mrs. Grinstead,” cried Mysie, “please don’t send them away to the flower place which Miss Simmonds and the gardeners are making like a nursery garden! They’ll snub my poor dear pterises.”

“Certainly we’ll make the most of your pterises. Look here. There’s an elegant doll, let her lead the family party to survey them. That’s right. Oh no, not that giantess! There’s a dainty little Dutch lady.”

“Charming. Oh! and here’s her boy in a sailor’s dress.”

“He is big enough to be her husband, my dear. You had better observe proportions, and put that family nearer the eye.”

“Those dolls!” cried Valetta, “they were our despair.”

“Make them tell a story, don’t you see. Where’s that fat red cushion?”

“Oh, that cushion! I put it out of sight because it is such a monster.”

“Yes; it is just like brick-dust enlivened by half-boiled cauliflowers! Never mind, it will be all the better background. Now, I saw a majestic lady reposing somewhere. There, let her sit against it. Oh, she mustn’t flop over. Here, that match-box, is it? I pity the person deluded enough to use it! Prop her up with it. Now then, let us have a presentation of ladies—she’s a governor’s wife in the colonies, you see. Never mind costumes, they may be queer. All that will stand or kneel—that’s right. Those that can only sit must hide behind, like poor Marie Antoinette’s ladies on the giggling occasion.”

So she went on, full of fun, which made the work doubly delightful to the girls, who darted about while she put the finishing touches, transforming the draperies from the aspect of a rag-and-bone shop, as Jasper had called it, to a wonderful quaint and pretty fairy bower, backed by the Indian scenes sent by Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Underwood, and that other lovely one of Primrose’s pasture. There the merry musical laugh of her youth was to be heard, as General Mohun came out with Lancelot to make a raid, order the whole party to come and eat luncheon at Beechcroft Cottage, and not let Mrs. Grinstead come out again.

“Oh, but I must finish up Bernard’s clay costume figures. Look at the expression of that delightful dollie! I’m sure he is watching the khitmutgars.

          ‘Above on tallest trees remote             Green Ayahs perched alone;           And all night long the Mussah moaned             In melancholy tone.’

Oh, don’t you know Lear’s poem? Can’t we illustrate it?”

“Cherry, Cherry, you’ll be half dead to-morrow.”

“Well, if I am, this is the real fun. I shan’t see the destruction.”

Lance had her arm in his grip to take her over the bridge over the wall, when up rushed Kitty Varley.

“Oh, if Mrs. Grinstead would come and look at our stall and set it right! Miss Vanderkist gave us hopes.”

“Perhaps—”

“Now, Cherry, don’t you know that you are not to be knocked up! There are the Travises going to bring unlimited Vanderkists.”

“Oh yes, I know; but there’s renovation in breaths from Vale Leston, and I really am of some use here.” Her voice really had a gay ring in it. “It is such fun too! Where’s Gerald?”

“Having a smoke with the buccaneer captain. Oh, Miss Mohun, here’s my sister, so enamoured of the bazaar I could hardly get her in.”

“And oh! she is so clever and delightful. She has made our stall the most enchanting place,” cried Primrose, dancing round. “Mamma, you must come and have it all explained to you.”

“The very sight is supposed to be worth a shilling extra,” said General Mohun, while Lady Merrifield and Miss Mohun, taking possession of her, hoped she was not tired; and Gillian, who had been wont to consider her as her private property, began to reprove her sisters for having engrossed her while she herself was occupied in helping the Hendersons with their art stall.

“The truth is,” said Lance, “that this is my sister’s first bazaar, and so dear is the work to the female mind, that she can’t help being sucked into the vortex.”

“Is it really?” demanded Mysie, in a voice that made Mrs. Grinstead laugh and say—

“Such is my woeful lack of experience.”

“We have fallen on a bazaar wherever we went,” said Lady Merrifield.

“But this is our first grown-up one, mamma,” said Valetta. “There was only a sale of work before.”

They all laughed, and Lance said—

“To Stoneborough they seem like revenues—at least sales of work, for I can’t say I understand the distinction.”

“Recurring brigandages,” said General Mohun.

“Ah! Uncle Reggie has never forgotten his getting a Noah’s ark in a raffle,” said Mysie.

So went the merry talk, while one and another came in at Miss Mohun’s verandah windows to be sustained with food and rest, and then darted forth again to renew their labours until the evening, Miss Mohun flying about everywhere on all sorts of needs, and her brother the General waiting by the dining-room to do the duties of hospitality to the strays of the families who dropped in, chattering and laughing, and exhausted.

Lady Merrifield was authorized to detain Mrs. Grinstead to the last moment possible to either, and they fell into a talk on the morality of bazaars, which, as Lady Merrifield said, had been a worry to her everywhere, while Geraldine had been out of their reach; since the Underwoods had done everything without begging, and Clement disapproved of them without the most urgent need; but, as Lance had said, his wife had grown up to them, and had gone through all the stages from delighting, acquiescing, and being bored, and they had so advanced since their early days, from being simply sales to the grand period of ornaments, costumes, and anything to attract.

“Clement consents,” said Geraldine; “as, first, it is not a church, and then, though it does seem absurd to think that singing through the murdered Tempest should be aiding the cause of the Church, yet anything to keep our children to learning faith and truth is worthy work.”

“Alas, it is working against the stream! How things are changed when school was our romance and our domain.”

“Yes, you should hear Lance tell the story of his sister-in-law Ethel, how she began at Cocksmoor, with seven children and fifteen shillings, and thought her fortune made when she got ten pounds a year for the school-mistress; and now it is all Mrs. Rivers can do to keep out the School-board, because they had not a separate room for the hat-pegs!”

“We never had those struggles. We had enough to do to live at all in our dear old home days, except that my brother always taught Sunday classes. But anyway, this is very amusing. Those young people’s characters come out so much. Ah, Gerald, what is it?”

For Gerald was coming up to the verandah with a very pretty, dark-eyed, modest-looking girl in a sailor hat, who shrank back as he said—

“I am come to ask for some luncheon for my—my Mona. She has had nothing to eat all day, and we still have the grand recognition scene to come.”

At which the girl blushed so furiously that the notion crossed Geraldine that he must have been flirting with the poor little tobacconist’s daughter; but Lady Merrifield was exclaiming that he too had had nothing to eat, and General Mohun came forth to draw them into the dining-room, where he helped Ludmilla to cold lamb, salad, etc., and she sat down at Gerald’s signal, very timidly, so that she gave the idea of only partaking because she was afraid to refuse.

Gerald ate hurriedly and nervously, and drank claret cup. He said they were getting on famously, his uncle’s chief strength being expended in drawing out the voice of the buccaneer captain, and mitigating the boatswain. Where were the little boys? Happily disposed of. Little Felix had gone through his part, and then Fergus had carried him and Adrian off together to Clipstone to see his animals, antediluvian and otherwise.

Then in rushed Gillian, followed by Dolores.

“Oh, mother!” cried Gillian, “there’s a fresh instalment of pots and pans come in, such horrid things some of them! There’s a statue in terra-cotta, half as large as life, of the Dirty Boy. Geraldine, do pray come and see what can be done with him. Kalliope is in utter despair, for they come from Craydon’s, and to offend them would be fatal.”

“Kalliope and the Dirty Boy,” said Mrs. Grinstead, laughing. “A dreadful conjunction; I must go and see if it is possible to establish the line between the sublime and the ridiculous.”

“Shall I ask your nephew’s leave to let you go,” said Lady Merrifield, “after all the orders I have received?”

“Oh, no—” she began, but Gerald had jumped up.

“I’ll steer you over the drawbridge, Cherie, if go you must. Yes,”—to the young ladies—“I appreciate your needs. Nobody has the same faculty in her fingers as this aunt of mine. Come along, Mona, it is Mrs. Henderson’s stall, you know.”

Ludmilla came, chiefly because she was afraid to be left, and Lady Merrifield could not but come too, meeting on the way Anna, come to implore help in arranging the Dirty Boy, before Captain Henderson knocked his head off, as he was much disposed to do.

Gillian had bounded on before with a handful of sandwiches, but Dolores tarried behind, having let the General help her to the leg of a chicken, which she seemed in no haste to dissect. Her uncle went off on some other call before she had finished, eating and drinking with the bitter sauce of reflection on the fleeting nature of young men’s attentions and even confidences, and how easily everything was overthrown at sight of a pretty face, especially in the half-and-half class. She had only just come out into the verandah, wearily to return to the preparations, which had lost whatever taste they had for her, when she saw Gerald Underwood springing over the partition wall. Her impulse was to escape him, but it was too late; he came eagerly up to her, saying—