AND after all, what is there in a name? That was not an original observation in Romeo’s case, much less in that of an English resident in Italy far on in the nineteenth century. The person who thus presented himself in Sir John Brotherton’s rooms was tall and strong, and fair, with the amplitude of chest and breadth of back which show a man to have attained the very fullness of manhood, or perhaps a little more. His hair was light brown and curly, with life and vigour in every crisp twist of it, and in the short beard then unusual with Englishmen, and considered “foreign” by the inexperienced. Except this beard, and something in his dress which betrayed a continental tailor, he was altogether English in his appearance, and in his voice there was something that betrayed the North-country, or so at least two of the company, startled by his name, supposed. Lydia who felt ashamed of herself for her little cry of wonder, sat down in a corner behind backs, and felt the better for the curious stir of surprise and expectation which seemed to blow on her like a breath of fresh air: while Lionel bestirred himself to welcome the stranger, who explained that he came on the part of Mr. Bonamy, then occupied in public affairs, who hoped to pay his respects to Sir John later. “I ought to introduce myself as his son-in-law,” Mr. Oliver said.
“Oh, you are Rita’s husband,” said Lady Brotherton, “little Rita! forgive me, I used to know her when she was a child. I have not realised the idea of Rita married.”
“Then you must prepare yourself for a shock,” he said pleasantly. “For Rita has been married more than eight years.”
“And there are children—of course?”
“Four,” he said, with a smile of affectionate pride, “but my wife still looks like a little girl. You will not find so much difference in her appearance as there ought to be. I think Mr. Bonamy prefers to ignore the babies—and it’s not difficult to do so when you look at her. My father-in-law hoped you would come and dine with us to-night.”
“Sir John is—rather an invalid——”
“Not a bit—not a bit!” cried the old man, speaking for himself. “Yesh, yesh, letsh dine with Bonamy. Bonamy knowsh what’sh what.”
“And we are a large party,” said Lady Brotherton deprecating.
Here Lydia came behind her chair. “You must not think of me, dear Lady Brotherton.” “I have—my letters to write.”
“Still letters to write, Liddy? My dear, you must have set up a most alarming correspondence. My young friend, Miss Joscelyn, Mr. Oliver.”
The stranger made a slight movement in his chair, with a hurried breath, and a sudden startled widening of his eyes. It was a thing which he had often said to himself might happen any day, but years of serenity had almost driven it from his remembrance. As it was, the start was but momentary, and perhaps among men might have passed unnoticed. But Lady Brotherton caught it with her keen observation; and Lydia, herself, so excited and curious, saw it with additional excitement, but without any surprise.
“I hope,” he said with a hesitation which did not sound unfriendly. “I hope we may see—Miss Joscelyn, too.”
“I shall certainly bring her if you think you can really have us. How kind to think of it!” Lady Brotherton said. “But the Bonamys were always kind. I remember your wife’s mother, Mr. Oliver. She was the prettiest creature——”
“I flatter myself you will think the same of her daughter,” he said, with a smile (“But if he thinks so much of his wife what business had he to stare so much at Liddy?” Lady Brotherton said after. “Liddy is a very pretty girl, and of course with young men one knows what one must expect—but a man with a family of children! I don’t think I quite like it.”). He spoke to the elder lady, but his eyes were on the younger—not so much admiringly as curiously, anxiously. Was it? could it be? A sort of brotherly impulse came over him. “I think I must have met—some of Miss Joscelyn’s family—from the Fell-country?—from the North of England?” he said, a rush of colour coming to his face.
“Oh!” cried Lydia, paling as he reddened, “none of my family were ever abroad except one. Oh, I wonder if you can have met my brother. I am looking for him. I came to look for him. Harry Joscelyn? We have people of your name,” she added hastily, “in our village too.”
“I come from—Lancashire,” he said, with a sort of hurried abandonment of the subject. Lionel Brotherton had begun to stare at him too. He felt himself in an atmosphere charged with electricity of some sort, and thought with alarm, that some one or other of this dangerous party might put a moral pistol to his head and accuse him at any moment of his false name. He returned to the subject of his wife and family, which was safer in every way. “You know that Mr. Bonamy will not let his daughter go to England,” he said, “because it was fatal to her mother. It is her great grievance; by dint of being debarred from it there is nothing she wants so much to do.”
“And you—have you nothing to say? Is she so delicate?” Lady Brotherton asked.
“Not delicate at all, thank heaven! I have a great deal to say; but I agree. I came under a solemn promise before I was allowed to marry her, and then I have no wish to take her to England—England—” he said, with a little sternness, “has no particular attraction to me. All the happiness of my life is here.”
“But that is a hard thing to say of your home, Mr. Oliver.”
“My home—is here,” he said. What did that girl mean by watching him so? He felt that he was talking vindictively at her, though all that he desired was to ignore her, and escape the scrutiny of her eyes, which made him angry and alarmed, both together. All this time Sir John had been breaking in at intervals, expressing with a great many sibillations his pleasure in the prospect of dining with “Old Bonamy.”
“Old Bonamysh sh’a very old friend; alwaysh liked him, and hish father before him,” the old man cried. “N’ash for bein’ able to dine out, never wash better, never wash better.” This came in at intervals as a kind of chorus, while Lady Brotherton kept up the central strain of friendly commonplace, as unconscious of Lydia’s eager eyes over her shoulder, as of the vague, alarmed curiosity and anxiety that had roused the girl out of herself.
“It was startling to hear his name,” said Lionel, when after awhile, as quickly as politeness permitted, the visitor took his leave.
“What was there peculiar about his name? Oliver! it is not a bad name,” Lady Brotherton said.
“It is not the Oliver, but the Isaac Oliver. Lydia was startled too. It is a name we know very well in the Fell-country,” Lionel said. He was able to treat the subject more lightly than Liddy, on whom, in her excitement, this new and sudden fire had caught at once. He told his mother all about Isaac Oliver, with details that quite satisfied her as to the origin of the stranger’s startled looks and apparent excitement when he heard Liddy’s name.
“That’s it, you may be sure,” she said; “he is ashamed of his people. He is a son or a nephew or something of your old man, and he doesn’t want it to be known; very natural. He must have kept it a secret from Mr. Bonamy—who never would have let Rita marry him if he had known. Well, I am almost glad it is that, and nothing worse. I thought you had made an impression upon him, Liddy, my dear. I thought his eyes would have leapt out of his head when he saw you. Of course, I saw in a moment there was something; but this explains it. Dear, dear, what a sad thing for the Bonamys if it ever comes to be known! You must take the greatest care, both of you, not to betray him. Now, remember—not a word,” Lady Brotherton said, making as though she would have put her soft, plump, white hand first on one mouth and then on another. Nevertheless, when Mr. Bonamy himself came in later, she could not help telling him that “my young people” knew, they supposed, some of Mr. Oliver’s friends. But Lady Brotherton was very sorry when she saw with how much interest a statement which she thought too vague to do any harm was received.
“My dear lady,” the Vice-Consul cried, “they know more than I do if they know his friends. He is the best fellow in the world and the best son, and the most excellent husband that ever was; but I fear the world in general would think me very imprudent. I know nothing about his family, except that he quarrelled with them, and made a vow never to return till he had made his fortune. Well, I don’t know where he will do that—not in the service of H.B.M. He has settled down here with me, and we are all very comfortable, and it was no small comfort to me to find an English husband for Rita who would not insist upon taking her to England. It was all settled,” said Mr. Bonamy, “when I was so ill. I believed I was going to die, and so did everybody else; and to provide for my Rita was all I thought of. Well, I have nothing to regret. He makes her an excellent husband, and she is as happy as the day is long; and I don’t know what I should do without him. Still I allow it was rash, for I know nothing about his friends.”
“When a man has proved himself to be all that,” said Lady Brotherton, in alarm, “it does not matter much about his family.”
“Well, no—perhaps not,” said the Vice-Consul, doubtfully. “But I have always taken it for granted they were people of some importance,” he added, elevating his head. “He speaks like a man with good blood in his veins; he has all the prejudices of a man of some family. I don’t think I can be mistaken in that; but I have never had the least clue to who they were. I should be quite glad to hear something about them from your young people.”
“Unfortunately,” cried Lady Brotherton, “they are both out; and then it was a mere conjecture, you know. Excuse me a moment, and I will ask the servant if he knows whether my son or Miss Joscelyn have come in——” And she hurried to the door to tell Thomas, who was waiting in the passage, to tell Miss Joscelyn and Mr. Brotherton, if they should make their appearance, that she was very much engaged, and begged they would not come in. “Remember, not come in,” she whispered, earnestly. Alarm had seized upon her. She had laughed at Lionel’s description of old Isaac Oliver—but, good heavens! to be the means of introducing such a very undesirable relation to the knowledge of the Bonamys! She was almost too much frightened to be able to face the Vice-Consul again; but it had to be done. She found him pondering when she went back. Sir John was lying down to rest, so that they were alone; and poor Lady Brotherton’s punishment for her indiscretion was not yet over.
“Did you say Miss Joscelyn?” he asked, “then I am sure it must be the same, for my son-in-law has Joscelyn in his name. He does not use it in an ordinary way, but on grand occasions; indeed I did not know it till I saw his signature at his marriage, and he has never liked to be questioned about it. Perhaps he may turn out to be a relation, a connection of your young friend.”
“Oh, I don’t think that is at all likely,” cried Lady Brotherton hastily, “her mother is a cousin of Sir John’s—” then she faltered and coloured, seeing the inference to be drawn from her words. “I do not mean that Mr. Oliver’s family is not—everything that is desirable,” she said.
The Vice-Consul looked up for a moment startled; but then he bethought himself of Lady Brotherton’s “way.” Her way he said to himself was well known. She was fond of connecting things that had no connection, and scorning those that had. So he answered without offence, “I did not suppose for a moment that you meant anything of the kind, Lady Brotherton; you will like him when you know him. He is as good a fellow as ever stepped; not very much educated—but so few of your young English squireocracy are.”
“Do you think so, Mr. Bonamy?” her mind glanced straight of course to Lionel, and she felt a little offence as well as a disdainful pity for so foolish an opinion, and the grounds upon which it must have been formed.
“Yes, I think so; they come here knowing no language but their own, without a notion what they have come for, or what they want, trying to get up cricket matches and yawning in the face of all that makes Italy desirable. If they want cricket they should stay in England, where they would get it at its best. Yes, it must be allowed we see a great many ignorant young fellows—who are thorough gentlemen all the same——”
“I am glad you allow that,” said Lady Brotherton, a little piqued. She was rather fond herself of finding fault with her country folks, but she did not like it in other people; and the Vice-Consul went away with his mind in a considerable ferment, wondering if now he was about to penetrate the mystery of his son-in-law’s antecedents. The idea that he knew nothing about them had given him a prick now and then through all these years; but Harry had never betrayed himself. He had not done so, for the good reason that all his young life had disappeared from him like a mist, and that honestly he never thought of it, or felt tempted to make any reference to it. His marriage had taken place while the Vice-Consul was still in a weak state of health, for the results of his illness had lasted long, though the seizure itself was over: and in all those happy quiet years Harry’s heart had been so full and his mind had been so occupied that he had scarcely thought of the possibility of being called upon some day to roll away the stone from the grave of the past. And a sort of honourable hesitation had moved the Vice-Consul; he had accepted the stranger as he was; ought he to enter into discussion of his rights and wrongs now, and perhaps be compelled to condemn him, though he was so good? Now, however there seemed a prospect of a clearing up. “I should like to know who he is; before I die, I should like to know the rights of it,” Mr. Bonamy said to himself.
“I was so glad you were not here, my dear,” Lady Brotherton said to Lydia. “It appears that this Mr. Oliver has said nothing to the Bonamys about his family. He has allowed it to be supposed that they were people of importance. How they could be so foolish as to let Rita marry him without knowing all about him I can’t imagine; but that is just what has been done. Now, my love, I want to warn you; be on your guard. Be on your guard, Lionel. It was very wrong of the young man to do it, but it’s no business of ours; and they’re married now, and can’t be separated, you know; and Mr. Bonamy has not a word but praise to say of him. Be on your guard; I have no right to speak; I as nearly as possible let it out myself. I said my young people thought they knew Mr. Oliver’s family; but afterwards I assured him that this was mere conjecture, and that I didn’t think there was anything in it. So, my dears, both of you be on your guard.”
“I shall not betray him, mother; but all the same it is a shabby business. The fellow must be a cad to do it,” Lionel said.
Lydia looked up at him with hot, sudden displeasure, she could not tell why. What had she to do with Isaac Oliver? But she was excited by the appearance of this stranger who bore such a familiar name, and she felt angry that he should be called a “cad.” She was in so strange a condition, so feverish, and restless, and impatient, that to be angry for some real cause was a luxury to her. She did not, for her part, give any pledge or make any reply, but seated herself in the carriage with a forlorn and partly fictitious feeling that this man, whom she had never (she thought) seen before, and knew nothing about, would be more near to her, if he were one of the Olivers, than these people with whom she had been so familiar, who had been her friends, and more than her friends, but who were about to drop her (she said to herself) next week, as if she had never belonged to them at all. They were all reminding her of this parting, keeping it before her, she thought, even old Sir John—without any sympathy for her, or regret to leave her, or perception of what the parting would be to her. Anybody from her own country, within her own circle of being, would be more to her, she said within herself, would understand her better, would feel more for her, than the friends who had been so kind, but who did not care.
But the visit of the travelling party was contemplated with very much stronger feelings by the one of all concerned, who alone knew all about it, and understood the full importance of the meeting. Harry had been unable to keep himself from one startled look when he heard his sister’s name. “Liddy” first, which of itself roused him a little—he had not heard the north-country sound of that familiar name since he left the north country—and then Joscelyn. Who could she be? Could there be any Liddy Joscelyn but one? It was his mother’s name, and his little sister’s, whom he remembered with that tender partiality with which elder brothers and sisters think of the little one who is the pet of the family. Liddy had not been old enough to have come to the bar of fraternal judgment when he had left the White House. She was still a child, and he had been fond of her. They had all been fond of her. She had been the pet, sacred from the animadversion even of Tom and Will, who, being married, and separated from their home, were in some measure freed from the family prejudices. But Harry was not freed. He had been angry with all his belongings for all these years, but as soon as he heard her name his heart grew soft to little Liddy. Liddy Joscelyn! He went away from the inn full of excitement, saying over and over to himself those familiar, soft-sounding syllables, Liddy Joscelyn, Liddy Joscelyn. Could it really be that this pretty young woman, who had looked at him over Lady Brotherton’s shoulder, with such earnest eyes, was his little sister? For a long time he could think of nothing else but this, and took a long walk in an entirely different direction from the office to familiarize himself with the idea, and to get his excitement calmed down.
But the more he thought, the less he could manage to get his excitement calmed down. It might be supposed that he would have thought first of all of the danger of being discovered, and the likelihood that something might arise which would betray him to his sister. But this was only his second impulse. The first was instinctive, a sudden surging up of family affection, a leap of his heart into old prejudices and tendernesses; and it was only when he had exhausted this that he thought of the risk that he would inevitably run when Liddy found herself brought into contact with a man bearing so marked a name as that of Isaac Oliver. He laughed within himself, half bitterly, half with a sort of amusement at the sudden image which her little cry of surprise and startled look brought before him as well as before herself—Old Isaac Oliver! He remembered every line of him, all in a moment, his stooping, his shuffling, his desire to give good advice, his fear of his Missis, and almost laughed out at the strange connection he had himself formed between this grey old figure and himself. Why had he been so absurd as to choose such a marked name? But the idea that anybody could suppose him, Harry Joscelyn, to have anything to do with that old peasant, amused him more than all the rest. He could scarcely keep himself from shouts of laughter. He! The notion was too incongruous to be considered with gravity. It was an offence to him at the same time, but most of all it was ludicrous. And these people were coming to his house to-night, to dine at his table, to ask him questions, to make their remarks, to speak of old Isaac, and, perhaps, put it into the heads of his wife and her father that this was the kind of relation whom he had left behind him in England. The Bonamys had received him so generously, accepted his own explanations so easily, given him the best evidence of their perfect confidence and trust, and, if now they heard this fine story of the old north-country clown, what would they think of him? The more Harry thought of it the more he was confused and bewildered. Liddy had looked at him with a very penetrating, anxious look over Lady Brotherton’s shoulder. What was she so curious about? How could she know? And his wife and she would meet, would talk together, would perhaps come to confidences. He was not able to face the position. He was older and more experienced in many ways, but he was not experienced in such complications of circumstances. His head turned round and round. What was he to do?
The only thing he did was a curious token of the utter helplessness he felt. When he got to the office he called Paolo, who was still a faithful prop of the Consulate, and asked him to dinner to meet some English friends. He waited even till Paolo made his elaborate evening toilette, and walked home with him arm in arm, clinging to him as a sort of protection. There could not be a more clear confession of the state of impotence in which he felt himself. It was like one of his early difficulties long ago, in which Paolo was his only friend.