CHAPTER XII.
ACTING FOR HERSELF.
BUT it is not to be supposed that Lydia, her whole being ablaze with excitement and eagerness, was likely to assent to this masculine view of what was best for her. Before Lionel had got downstairs into the hall, where he waited so long to intercept any rash enterprise she might be bound on, she had stolen out, tremulous yet brave, and was speeding along the morning streets, where the passers-by, who gazed at her with that frank admiration which Italians feel, without any impertinence of meaning, to be the due of every pretty woman—excused, yet wondered at her solitary progress, on the score that everything was to be pardoned to an Englishwoman. Lydia herself was confused by the looks she met on every side, but her mind was so entirely preoccupied that they made less impression upon her than they would have done had it been at freedom, and it did not occur to her that she was being guilty of any breach of decorum. What troubled her more was that she was uncertain of the way, having paid but little attention to it last night, and she was shy of asking which turning to take. But by right of the inspiration that was in her, and of that good fortune which attends daring, she at last found herself in a street which she recognised, and saw with a beating heart the well-known shield over the doorway. It was not to the official entrance she was bound. She saw with a smile, even in the midst of all the ferment of her agitation, the little Italian, her admirer of the previous night, in light clothes and a cigar, making his way towards it; and, lingering a moment till he disappeared within the doorway, she hurried after him till she got safely within the shelter of the courtyard and to the door of the Vice-Consul’s house.
The Vice-Consul that morning had been early astir. He had been painfully affected by the half-revelation of last night. All these years, since the beginning of their intercourse when he had framed his theory about Harry’s parentage so easily, and satisfied himself so entirely that he must be right, nothing had occurred to put this theory to the test. The marriage had taken place while he was still ill, and in a state of some danger, and perhaps at the bottom of his heart he was glad and relieved to be in a condition which made all inquiries impossible, and which forced him to throw himself upon Harry’s honour. He had never had any occasion to be shaken in his faith as to that honour personally, and use and wont had made everything natural. For years he had not thought on the question. Nothing had occurred to bring it up. The serene domestic life had flowed along, and notwithstanding the drawbacks on Mr. Bonamy’s part which have been already noted, they had been happy together. He was aware that, though he might sometimes grudge Harry the position he had acquired in Rita’s affection, yet that he himself would have been the first to miss him had any accident taken Harry away. But at the first whisper of a real discovery of his son-in-law’s antecedents, Mr. Bonamy was roused out of the quiescence of years. The very suggestion of some one bearing Harry’s name roused him, and something about Harry, an awakened attention in his eyes, a strain of watchfulness quite unusual with his simple, easy-going nature had aided the impression. He had already heard something from Miss Joscelyn, and was on his way to learn more when Harry had interrupted the conversation, calling him away for a matter of business to which strictly speaking it was necessary that he should give his attention, but which in other circumstances his son-in-law, he felt sure, would have managed himself rather than disturb him among his guests. And what he had heard had roused him still more. It was evident that the person, whoever he was, who bore the same name was not a relation to be proud of, and the Vice-Consul too was impressed by the fact, dimly apparent, that Harry had shown no surprise and asked no questions when this namesake was spoken of. There had been that look in his eyes, eveillé, on the watch, on his guard; but no curiosity—and he had not said a word about it when the guests were gone. Neither had Rita said anything about it, which would have seemed so natural. She had not asked who Miss Joscelyn was speaking of, or what she was speaking of; but had maintained a complete silence on the subject. All this awakened the Vice-Consul’s anxious curiosity. He was on the watch at breakfast next morning, hoping that something might be said, that Harry might laugh at the suggestion made to him, or take some notice of it. But nothing occurred to throw the least light upon the subject. Harry was still watchful, still on his guard, but chiefly occupied with little Madge and the baby, whom he brought in to breakfast seated high upon his shoulder, and who occupied him completely in a way which filled the elder man, though he had usually all the indulgence of a grandfather for his descendants, with impatience. He was glad to get away from this scene, rising somewhat abruptly, and going out without any explanation. Had Lydia come the direct way she would have met Mr. Bonamy and saved him a great deal of annoyance and trouble. But, as she took two or three wrong turnings, the Vice-Consul reached the inn and was shown up to the sitting-room to wait for Lady Brotherton about the same time that Lydia reached his house; and Lionel, by no means so sure what to do as either of these straightforward and one-idead persons, had gone to the English bankers, the best-informed persons he could think of, to see what information about Mr. Isaac Oliver he could pick up there.
Lady Brotherton was still busy about Sir John’s breakfast, endeavouring to beguile him to the simple luxury of an egg instead of the something much less safe on which he had set his fancy. “You must not forget that we start to-night; that we have a sea voyage before us,” she was saying. “Morsh-a reason for deshunt breakfast now,” said the invalid, and chuckled and laughed at his own cleverness. His wife was not at all disposed to go downstairs and hear what Mr. Bonamy might have to say. “Let’sh have old Bonamy up here—show him up here,” Sir John said; but that was so much worse that Lady Brotherton left him to his ortolan, and went off to answer her untimely visitor. She thought it was no doubt a mere visit of goodwill, to inquire “if he could be of any use.” “As if we wanted anybody to be of use! As if we were not experienced enough to know what we want, and how to get it,” she said to herself, as she went to the unwelcome guest. Her mind was a little perturbed besides; the servant had declared that he could not find either Mr. Brotherton or Miss Joscelyn. They had both gone out. Where had they gone, had they gone together? she asked, but nobody could tell. Now Lady Brotherton had bidden them to go out together, had said they were cousins, and had no need of a chaperon, but she did not like this adoption of her advice so suddenly. The last morning, just when Sir John wanted special managing, that he might commit no imprudence before the evening, and when they might have known Mr. Bonamy would be sure to call!
But when Lady Brotherton heard that it was not civility, nor for her sake at all, but a visit full of self-interest upon his own business, this interruption in the midst of all her cares threw her out of temper.
“No, indeed, I cannot tell you much,” she said; “I heard them talking of it, but I did not pay much attention. The man is an old servant, I believe, belonging to Miss Joscelyn’s family, a sort of old factotum at a farm. My son lodged in some rooms in the old Manor-house (I think), and this old Isaac and his wife ‘did for him,’ as people say. Yes, I am sure that was the story. They all know this old man, quite respectable, I feel sure, a sort of good class of family retainer; servants of this kind still flourish, you know, in some out of the way places. Mr. Bonamy, I am afraid you are ill.”
“No, no,” he said, waving his hand, “nothing, it’s nothing, a kind of faintness I have sometimes since my illness, which goes off directly. I see—I see—an old servant. Well, of course, it was a very odd coincidence, very odd. But I thought at first the young lady supposed—that this old man of hers was somehow connected with my son-in-law. Thank you! thank you! I see how absurd I was.”
“Oh, I don’t think Lydia could be so ridiculous as to think that,” said Lady Brotherton, “only my son and she were both struck by the name; it is such an uncommon name. At least, the two together were struck by it; they both cried out, ‘Isaac Oliver!’ My son is rather fond of telling absurd stories about this poor old man. He is a kind of a wit in his way, it seems, but a little of that goes a long way in the country. I don’t think I have seen much humour in what they tell of him—”
“A thing that is quite commonplace often seems original from the lips of a clown,” said the Vice-Consul, with solemnity. “Perhaps you have heard something about the family, or children, or other relatives of this—old man?” Mr. Bonamy felt disposed to call him a confounded old man, but, after all, it was not the old man’s fault.
“Nothing at all, nothing whatever, I assure you. You must not think, Mr. Bonamy, for a moment—it was only pour rire; they never supposed, I am sure you will believe me when I say it, of connecting old Isaac with—any gentleman; it was a mere joke. They thought the coincidence so amusing, and Lydia, I suppose, as girls do, thought it was fun to tease Mr. Oliver a little; that was all. I have never heard a word more about it. It was only at the moment. I hope you will forgive my silly youngsters. They are both out. I cannot think where they are gone, or they would make their apologies themselves.”
“No apologies are necessary,” the Vice-Consul said. He was very grave, his countenance had changed even since he came in, much more since yesterday, when his handsome head had been full of serene content. There was a deeply marked wrinkle in his forehead, and the lines at the corners of his mouth drooped heavily. He seemed to have aged half-a-dozen years. “There is no harm done; and where there is no offence there need be no excuse.” He said this with a sort of formality, such as he was in the habit of employing to troublesome British subjects, who got into many scrapes and gave much occupation to the representative of their country in pulling them out. It was a style that told (for the moment) upon such persons, and it came to his hand readily on an emergency. “I am glad to hear there is so little in it,” he added, rising. “Unfortunately my son-in-law is estranged from his family, and we know but little about them; so that I thought it just possible this might be some one—in whose well-being he was interested. It is I who should apologise for troubling you. I hope Sir John is none the worse for last night?”
“He is not at all strong,” said Lady Brotherton. “It begins to be anxious work when we have long journeys to take. But he bears them better than anyone would think,” she added. “Oh, no, he is none the worse; I left him making a very good breakfast. He would have liked to see you, but I could not think to trouble you coming into a sick-room.”
“No trouble at all,” Mr. Bonamy said, but he did not make any motion to go, neither did she wish him to do so, and they parted with mutual politenesses and professions of regret to have given each other trouble, and repeated protestations that it was no trouble at all. But when the Vice-Consul got out of doors, he went along slowly with a dejected tread, his head drooping, his eyes dim, and little in him of the dignified tranquillity becoming the representative of H.B.M. He was wounded in his pride, in his self-confidence, in the serenity of his judgment, in the force of his instincts. He was not going to give up Harry; Harry was Harry, whatever happened. But to think, after all, that he was not a gentleman, that the family which Mr. Bonamy had taken for granted was a family of laborious peasants, not of gentlefolks, that his relations were such as would not help him, but burden him in every particular of life—in short, that he himself had been entirely mistaken, and that he had given his daughter to a nobody, went to his very heart. He had the generosity to reflect that Harry had said little, that it was he who had jumped at conclusions and given him credit for connections which he had never directly claimed. It was he, rather than Harry, who was the fallen personage, fallen from all certainty, from all faith in the future, in himself. He would say nothing about it, he thought, to anyone. Why disturb poor Rita, who need never know that her husband’s father, or uncle, or near relation was a farm-servant? Why even bring poor Harry to book, and force him to confess, and convict him, if not of falsehood, yet of sanctioning a false impression? Mr. Bonamy with true magnanimity decided that he would not humiliate, as he might do, even the chief culprit, if culprit he could be said to be. It was no use to make all suffer. He thought it best on the whole to make an effort to keep the trouble to himself.
Meanwhile Lydia had knocked with some timidity and trembling at the door of the Vice-Consul’s house. She asked for Mrs. Oliver with a hesitation that was very unusual to her. Now that the moment had come her heart beat so loudly, her breath came so quick, that she did not feel able to face it. She was led soberly up to the large, cool, shadowed drawing-room, in which with so much agitation she had spent the previous night. There was no trace of agitation or disturbance of any kind about the tranquil place, all closed up and semidark, according to the Italian wont, against the fierceness of the sun. The old graceful furniture, the dim pictures on the walls, the signs of long established living everywhere, made it almost impossible to think of any change or revolution that could happen in such a settled place. Lydia sat down in a corner, feeling herself more than an intruder—a traitor and introducer of strife and trouble into the stillness. She had asked instinctively for the wife, lest after all she might be making a mistake; and only after she had done so, had it occurred to her that to have her husband thus discovered and identified, though he had done no wrong, might not be an agreeable incident in Rita’s life. This, however, was but a momentary thought. To feel that she was herself within a few minutes of the truth was an excitement which occupied all her being. Her mind had room for little more.
Rita was busy with her housekeeping, arranging the affairs of the day. Her husband was in the office at his work; her father gone out, no doubt about business; her little children enjoying the morning air in the garden. All had begun pleasantly as usual in the well-ordered, calmly constituted life. She had been a little disturbed, a very little, last night by her visitors, with the slightest possible jealousy in her mind of the new-comer, who seemed to have some sort of connection with her husband’s early life, that portion of it with which she was completely unacquainted. It was a mere superficial sentiment, not strong enough to be called jealousy, yet veering that way; for she did not like to think that anybody anywhere could know more about her Harry than his wife, a feeling which even in its most unreasonable phases is not uncommon among wives—or husbands either, for that matter. But that Miss Joscelyn was going away, was gone away so far as the Vice-Consul’s household was concerned, and Rita thought no more of her—She was interrupted in the very midst of her discussion of the spese, and examination of the contents of the cook’s basket, which old Benedetta was helping to turn over, and making sharp remarks upon, to the damage of the cook’s temper, as so much dearer and not nearly so good as in her time—by a message that a lady wanted to see her. She was predisposed to be annoyed by it. “A lady! how often must I tell you to bring me the name! It can be nobody for me; it must be some one for your master,” she said. The man was very humble and apologetic; he represented that the English names were very hard to pronounce; that it was the young lady who had been there last evening—the young lady who resembled the bambino so much. “Resembled the bambino? What bambino?” cried Rita. And then old Benedetta burst in and explained that all the servants had remarked it—that the English young lady was the very image of nostro bambino, our own blessed baby whom everybody admired.
“Resemblances are very strange,” Benedetta said; “they will come without rhyme or reason—for of course our darling can have nothing to do with a stranger—a young Signorina Inglese whom no one ever saw before.”
“I wonder you can allow yourself to talk such nonsense, Benedetta. There is not the slightest resemblance,” Rita said. The other servants bowed and deprecated, and agreed that the Signora must know best; but Benedetta stood like a rock, and completely ruffled the impatient, fanciful temper of her mistress. Rita delayed consequently as long as she could find something to occupy her in her kitchen, wilfully keeping her untimely visitor waiting. “What can she want with me? She had better ask for Harry if she has anything to say. Like my baby indeed! I wonder what next?” Rita said to herself. But at last, when there was no further excuse, she mounted reluctantly the stairs, and walked slowly towards the drawing-room, Lydia within counting her deliberate steps with a beating heart that went a great deal faster. It was a duel that was about to take place between the two.
“Good morning,” Rita said, coldly; “Italian servants never can manage English names. I was told it was a young lady, and that is vague. Pray sit down. I hope there is nothing amiss with Lady Brotherton or Sir John.”
“I come—entirely on business of my own,” said Lydia, with a little timidity. She was taller and altogether a more imposing person by nature than this small, little, half Italian matron; but Rita had always a certain grandeur about her, and she was the invaded châtelaine, the defender of her house against an intruder. Lydia felt almost afraid of her, and a little compunctious too.
“My husband would probably be of more use than I can be. But pray sit down, and if there is anything I can do——” Rita said, with a majestic wave of her hand towards a chair.
But Lydia did not sit down. Her hands sought each other in that same clasp of agitation which was habitual to her mother. “I must beg you to pardon me. It is about your husband that I want to ask.”
“My husband!” Rita said, and no more.
They stood and looked at each other for a moment, Lydia, appealing, agitated, as if (she felt) there was something wrong in her interest in Harry, the little wife towering over her in offended dignity, something like a Queen Eleanor, though without any cause.
“I want you to tell me if you know anything of his family, or where he came from; and when he came here? and if he has ever spoken to you of any of——, and why he has never taken any notice? It must seem very strange to you,” Lydia sat pausing, trying a smile of anxious deprecation, “that I should ask such questions as these.”
“It is very strange indeed. I cannot understand them, or what right you can have to put them. A stranger must have a very good reason indeed for interfering at all between a man and his wife.”
“I do not want to interfere,” cried Lydia; “oh, believe me, it is not that! I want only to know; and it may be very important for you and the family, as well as for us. I am only surmising, groping; and I am not—very old,” the girl said, with that instinctive appeal to personal feeling with which women invariably back up all arguments, “nor experienced. I don’t know how to go about it. But it is of so much importance, if I only could tell you right, to my mother, and all of us, and may be to you too.”
“Your mother, and all of you! What do you mean? What have you to do with my husband?” Rita cried.
The wonder, and even the indignation, were natural enough. To be confronted all at once by a stranger demanding news of your husband, declaring that what she wishes to find out will be very important to her mother—what could be more bewildering, more irritating to a woman? Her nostrils began to expand, and her eyes to flash. “There is evidently some mystery here which I am unable to fathom,” she said.
“It is a very innocent mystery,” said Lydia; “there is nothing in it that will do him any harm, or you. If you will not tell me, will you take him a message from me? It must be cleared up one way or another, for we are going away to-day.”
“Mr. Oliver is in the office,” said Rita coldly, walking to the bell. “He can be sent for at once.”
“Will you wait a little, please?” Lydia said, faintly; “though I feel so sure, yet I may be wrong. Will you take a message for me? It will be better if you will do it than seeing him myself.”
“I would rather not be mixed up with any mystery.” Rita had her hand on the bell. She was drawn up to twice her usual height, her small foot planted firmly on the ground, her head thrown back, her whole person instinct with resistance, defiance, and indignation. And Lydia before her, flushed and excited, was not at all unlike a suppliant handmaiden, whom the wife had a right to reject and cast forth out of her house.
“Oh, do not be so hard upon me,” she cried. “Listen to what I want you to say to him. Would I send any message that could hurt him by his wife?”
“Hurt—him—” Rita began to be confused, and took her hand from the bell. “But it might hurt me.”
“It will not hurt you. Don’t delay, don’t delay!” cried Lydia; “if you knew what a thing it is to wait. And think how my poor mother has been waiting all these ten years—and I said when I left her that I should find him. Mrs. —— no, no, I cannot call you by that name—it is unworthy! Mrs. Harry—will you go and say this to him from me? Listen, listen; you must not make any mistake. Uncle Henry is dead. He has left all his money to his nephew who went away. If he does not come home it will be divided, and wrong will be done. Will you say that to your husband for me?”
“Uncle Henry—and his money—and his nephew. What is the meaning of all this? What do we know about all this—and who are you?” It was Rita now who was losing command of herself.
“If he understands,” said Lydia, dropping down in a chair in the mingled exhaustion and relief of having at last had her say, “I will tell you who I am. You don’t know the meaning, but I am sure he will know. Oh, Mrs. Harry, it is so simple a test! Will you not try it? If he does not understand no harm will be done, and you can judge of it for yourself. If he knows what it means you will soon know all about me.”
She began to cry, with little tremulous laughs between, in her agitation. She was entirely overcome by the excitement of the crisis—so near finding out, so sure, and yet still a little cloud of suspense and uncertainty between. Rita stood and looked at her—her rival was it? who was it?—with a tremor of wonder and rising excitement, and even a sympathy which nature exacted, which she was most unwilling to bestow. Then reluctantly she went out of the room, slowly and carefully closing the door behind her, and walking along the corridor as if counting every step she took. It was the last struggle of her instinctive opposition with awakened interest, excitement, curiosity, and alarm. She ran along the passage to the office as soon as she was out of hearing of the other. In a moment more she would know.