THE same day on which these incidents occurred the Stanton family were in full conclave at Elfdale. It was the birthday of Laura, and there were various merrymakings on hand, an afternoon party, designed to include all her “young friends,” besides a more select company in the evening. As Laura was the one whom the family intended to be Lady Stanton, her affairs, with the willing consent, and indeed by the active energy of her sister, were generally pushed into the foreground. And Geoff and his mother were the chief of the guests specially invited, the only visitors who were staying in the house.
To say that the family intended Laura to be Lady Stanton is perhaps too wild a statement, though this settlement of conflicting claims had been tacitly decided upon when they were children. It was chiefly Lydia who actively intended it now, moved and backed up by some of the absent brothers, who thought it “hard luck” that the young unnecessary Geoff should have interfered between their father and the title, and vowed by Jove that the only fit thing to do in the circumstances was to marry him to one of the girls. Lydia, however, was the most active mind in the establishment at Elfdale, and carried things her own way, so that though Sir Henry disliked fuss, and disliked Geoff’s mother, who had done him so much wrong, yet the party in the evening had been specially selected to suit her, and Maria, Lady Stanton, was established in the house.
“It can’t last long, papa,” Lydia said; “but we can’t have Geoff without her.”
“What do you want with Geoff?” growled Sir Henry.
“Papa! in the first place he is our cousin; and Laura likes him; and you know we girls must marry somebody. You can’t get commissions and nominations for us, more’s the pity; so we must marry. And Laura may as well have Stanton as any one else, don’t you think? and of course in that case she ought to be on good terms with her mother-in-law; and people expect us—— ”
“Oh, that will do,” said Sir Henry, “ask whom you like, only free me from all this clatter. But keep that woman off me with her sanctified airs, confound her,” said the baronet. He had forgiven Geoff for being born, but he could not forgive Geoff’s mother for bringing him so unnecessarily into the world.
And thus it was that Geoff and his mother were at Elfdale. The elder Lady Stanton was no more disposed to go than Sir Henry was to ask her. Visits of this kind are not rare—the inviters unwilling to ask, the invited indisposed to go; and with such cordial results as might be anticipated. “I care for nobody in that house except Cousin Mary,” Lady Stanton said, “and even she perhaps—though it is wrong to say so, Geoff, my dear boy, for of course everybody means for the best.” With these mutual objections the party had met all the same. The other Lady Stanton was very mild and very religious. She could not prevent herself from having an occasional opinion—that is to say, as she explained it herself, for “caring for” one person more than another; but that was because she had not seen enough of the others perhaps—had not quite understood them. “Yes, Geoff, I do not doubt, my dear, that the girls are very nice. So many things are changed since my time. Manners are different. And we are all such prejudiced, unjust creatures, we constantly take the outside for our standard as if that was everything. There is but One that sees fully, and what a blessing, Geoff, that it is Him whom we have most to deal with!” said his mother. For it was one of her troubles in life that she had uneasy instincts about the people she met with, and likings and dislikings such as she felt—the latter at least—a true Christian ought not to indulge in. There was a constant conflict of duty in her against such rebellious feelings. As for Cousin Mary, Sir Henry Stanton’s wife, she was one of those whom Geoff’s mother had no difficulty in liking, but a cold doubt had been breathed into her mind as to the “influence” which this lady might exercise over her boy. She could not quite get it out of her thoughts. Mary could mean no harm, that was certain, but—and then Lady Stanton would upbraid herself for the evil imagination that could thus believe in evil. So that altogether she was not happy to go to Elfdale. When she was there, however, the family paid her a sort of court, though the girls frankly considered her a hypocrite. What did that matter? “All the people one meets with are humbugs more or less,” Lydia said with superior philosophy. Lydia was the one who saw through everybody, and was always unmasking false pretensions. Laura only acquiesced in the discoveries her sister made, and generally followed her in whatever was going on.
The morning of the birthday dawned brightly and promised to be all that could be desired, and the presents were pretty enough to please any débutante. Laura was nineteen, and so far as the county gaieties went she had been already “out” for nearly a year. Any more splendid introduction into society had been denied to the girls. They had entertained dreams of London, and had practised curtseys for a problematical drawing-room during one whole year, but it had come to nothing, Sir Henry being economical and Lady Stanton shy. It was to their stepmother’s account that Laura and Lydia set down this wrong, feeling convinced that if she had been their real mother she would have managed it somehow. “You’ll see she’ll find some way of doing it when these little things grow up,” the elder sisters said to each other, and they bore her a grudge in consequence, and looked at her with glances of reproaches whenever London was spoken of—though that she was not their real mother could not be held to be poor Mary’s fault. However, all this was forgotten on the merry morning, when with the delights of the garden party and a dance before them they came to breakfast and found Laura’s place at table blocked up with presents. Many of them it is true were not of very much value, but there was a pretty bracelet from Geoff and a locket from his mother, which amply rewarded the young ladies for their determination to have their cousin and his mother invited. The opening of the presents made a little pleasant commotion. The donors were all moved by an agreeable curiosity to see how their gifts were received, and as Laura was lavish in her expressions of delight and Lydia in generous admiration, and the little girls hovered behind in fluttering awe, curiosity, and excitement, a general air of family concord, sympathy, and happiness was diffused over the scene. There was not very much love perhaps in the ill-compacted household. But Sir Henry could not help sharing the infection of the half-real amiability of the moment, and his wife could not but brighten under any semblance of kindness. They sat down quite happily to breakfast and began to chatter about the amusements of the afternoon. Even little Fanny and Annie were allowed to have their say. To them was allotted a share in the croquet, even in the delightful responsibility of arranging the players. All the old fogies, the old-fashioned people, the curate and his sister, the doctor and his niece, the humbler neighbours, were reserved for that pastime which is out of fashion—the girls kept the gayer circle and the more novel amusements for Geoff and their own set. And moved by the general good-nature of the moment Sir Henry made apologies to his guests for the occupations which would occupy his morning. He was an active magistrate, and found in this version of public duty a relief from the idleness of his retired life.
“I have that scamp Bampfylde in hand again,” he said; “he is never out of mischief. Have you ever seen that fellow, Geoff? Wild Bampfylde they call him. I think the keepers have a sneaking kindness for him. There is not a poaching trick he is not up to. I am tired of hearing his name.”
“What did you say was his name?” said Geoff’s mother.
The other Lady Stanton had looked up too with a little start, which attracted Geoff’s attention. He stopped short in the middle of an animated discussion with the girls on the arrangements of the afternoon, to hear what was being said.
“Ah! to be sure—Bampfylde; for the moment I had forgotten,” Sir Henry said. “Yes—that family of course, and a handsome fellow; as fine a man as you could see in the north country. Certainly they are a good-looking race.”
“I suppose it is gipsy blood,” said the elder Lady Stanton, with a sigh. “Poor people! Yes, I say poor people, Sir Henry, for there is no one to care what evil ways they take. So far out of the way among the hills, no teaching, no clergyman; oh, I make every excuse for them! They will not be judged as we are, with our advantages.”
“I don’t know about our advantages,” said Sir Henry, somewhat grimly; “but I sha’n’t make excuses for them. A pest to the country; not to speak of the tragedy they were involved in—— ”
“Oh, don’t let us speak of that,” said Mary, under her breath.
Sir Henry gave her a look which irritated young Geoff. The young man felt himself his beautiful cousin’s champion, and he would have liked to call even her husband to account for such a glance under frowning eyebrows at so gentle a creature. Sir Henry for his part did not like his wife to show any signs of recollecting her own past history. He did not do very much to make her forget it, and was a cold and indifferent husband, but still he was affronted that she should be able to remember that she had not always been his wife.
“I wish it did not hurt you, Cousin Mary,” said Geoff, interposing, “for I should like to speak of it, to have it all gone into. I am sure there is wrong somewhere. You said yourself about that young Musgrave—— ”
“Oh hush, hush, Geoff!” she said under her breath.
“He cannot be young now,” said the elder lady. “I am very sorry for him too, my dear. It is not given to us to see into men’s hearts, but I never believed that John Musgrave—— I beg your pardon, Mary, for naming him before you, of course it must be painful. And to me too. But it is such a long time ago, and I think if it were all to do over again—— ”
“It would have been done over again and the whole case sifted if John Musgrave had not behaved like a fool, or a guilty man,” said Sir Henry. “It is not a pleasant subject for discussion, is it? I was an idiot to bring up the fellow’s name. I forgot what good memories you ladies have,” he said, getting up and breaking up the party. And there was still a frown upon his face as he looked at his wife.
“What is the matter with papa?” cried the girls in a breath. “You have been upsetting him. You have worried him somehow!” exclaimed Lydia, turning upon her stepmother. “And everything was going so well, and he was in such a good humour. But it is always the way just when we want a little peace and comfort. I never saw such a house as ours! And he is not very unreasonable, not when you know how to manage him—papa.”
As for Mary, she broke down and cried, but smiled again, trying to keep up appearances. “It is nothing,” she said; “your father is not angry. It will all be right in a moment. I suppose I am very silly. Run, little ones, and bring me some eau-de-cologne, quick! You must not think Sir Henry was really annoyed,” she said, turning to Lady Stanton. “He is just a little impatient; you know he has all his old Indian ways; and I am so silly.”
“I don’t think you are silly,” said Lady Stanton, who herself was flushed and excited. “It was natural you should be disturbed, and I too. Sir Henry need not have been so impatient; but we don’t know his motives,” she added hastily, with the habitual apology she made for everybody who was or seemed in the wrong.
“Oh, how tiresome it all is,” cried Lydia, stamping her foot, “when people will make scenes! Come along, Geoff; come with us and let us see what is to be done. Everything has to be done still. I meant to ask papa to give the orders; but when he is put out, it is all over. Do come; there are the hoops to put up, and everything to do. Laura, never mind your tiresome presents. Come along! or the people will be here, and nothing will be done.”
“That is how they always go on,” said Laura, following her sister with her lap full of her treasures, “Come, Geoff. It is so easy to put papa out; and when he is put out he is no good for anything. Do come. I do not think this time, Lydia, it was her fault.”
“Oh, it is always her fault,” said the harsher sister: “and sending these two tiresome children for the eau-de-cologne! She always sends them for the eau-de-cologne. As if that could do any good! like putting out a fire with rose-water. There now, Laura, put your rubbish away, and I will begin settling everything with Geoff.”
The young man obeyed the call unwillingly; but he went with his cousins, having no excuse to stay, and did their work obediently, though his mind was full of very different things. He had put aside the Musgrave business since his visit to Penninghame, not knowing how to act, and he had not spoken of it to his mother; but now it returned upon him with greater interest than ever. Bampfylde he knew was the name of the girl whom John Musgrave had married, whom his brother Walter had loved, and whom the quarrel was about; and she it was who, with her mother, had been accused of helping young Musgrave’s escape. All the story seemed to reopen even upon him with the name; and how much more upon those two ladies who were so much more deeply interested. The two girls and their games had but a slight hold of Geoff’s mind in comparison with this deeper question. He did what they wanted him, but he was distrait and preoccupied; and as soon as he was free went anxiously in search of his mother, who, he hoped, would tell him more about it. He knew all about it, but not as people must do who had been involved in the circumstances, and helped to enact that sad drama of real life. He found his mother very thoughtful and preoccupied too, seated alone in a little sitting-room up-stairs, which was Lady Stanton’s special sanctum. The elder Lady Stanton was very serious. She welcomed her son with a momentary smile and no more. “I have been thinking over that dreadful story,” she said; “it has all come back upon me, Geoff. Sometimes a name is enough to bring back years of one’s life. I was then as Mary is now. No, no, my dear, your good father was very different from Sir Henry; but a stepmother is often not very happy. It used to be the other way, the story-books say. Oh, Geoff, young people don’t mean it—they don’t think; but they can make a poor woman’s life very wretched. It has brought everything back to me. That—and the name of this man.”
“You have never told me much about it, mother.”
“What was the use, my dear? You were too young to do anything; and then, what was there to do? Poor Mr. Musgrave fled, you know. Everybody said that was such a pity. It would have been brought in only manslaughter if he had not escaped and gone away.”
“Then it was madness and cowardice,” said Geoff.
“It was the girl,” said his mother. “No, I am not blaming her; perhaps she knew no better. And his father and all his family were so opposed. Perhaps they thought, to fly away out of everybody’s reach, the two together, was the best way out of it. When young people are so much attached to each other,” said the anxious mother, faltering, half afraid even to speak of such mysteries to her son, “they are tempted to think that being together is everything. But it is not everything, Geoff. Many others, as well as John Musgrave, have lost themselves for such a delusion as that.”
“Is it a delusion?” Geoff asked, making his mother tremble. Of whom could the boy be thinking? He was thinking of nobody—till it suddenly occurred to him how the eyes of that little girl at Penninghame might look if they were older; and that most likely it was the same eyes which had made up to John Musgrave for the loss of everything. After all, perhaps this unfortunate one, whom everybody pitied, might have had some compensation. As he was thinking thus, and his mother was watching him, very anxious to know what he was thinking, Lady Stanton came in suddenly by a private door, which opened from her own room. She had a little additional colour on her cheeks, and was breathless with haste.
“Oh, where is Geoff, I wonder?” she said; then seeing him, ran up to him. “Geoff, there is some one down-stairs you will like to see. If you are really so interested in all that sad story—really so anxious to help poor John—— ”
“Yes, who is it? Tell me who it is, and I will go.”
“Elizabeth Bampfylde is down-stairs,” she said, breathless, putting her hand to her heart. “The mother of the man Sir Henry was speaking of—the mother of—the girl. There is no one knows so much as that woman. She is sitting there all alone, and there is nobody in the way.”
“Mary!” cried the elder lady, “is it right to plunge my boy into it? We have suffered enough already. Is it right to make Geoff a victim—Geoff, who knows nothing about it? Oh, my dear, I know you mean it for the best!”
Mary fell back abashed and troubled.
“I did not mean to harm him, Lady Stanton. I did not think it would harm him. Never mind; never mind, if your mother does not approve. After all, perhaps, she knows no more than we do,” she said, with an attempt at a smile. “The sight of her made me forget myself.”
“Where is she?” said the young man.
“Ah! that is just what overcame me,” said Mary, with a sob, and a strange smile at the irony of fate—“down-stairs in my husband’s room. I have seen her often in the road and in the village—but here, in my house! Never mind, Geoff; it was she that helped him to get out of prison. They were bold, they had no fear of anything; not like us, who are ladies, who cannot stir a step without being watched. Never mind, never mind! it is not really of any consequence. She is sitting there in—in my husband’s room!” Mary said, with a sob and a little hysterical laugh. It was not strange to the others, but simple enough and natural. She alone knew how strange it was. “But stop, stop—oh, don’t pay any attention. Don’t go now, Geoff!”
“Geoff! my dear Geoff!” cried his mother running to the door after him, but for once Geoff paid no attention. He hurried down-stairs, clearing them four or five steps at a time. The ladies could not have followed him if they would. The door of Sir Henry’s business room stood open, and he could see an old woman seated like a statue, in perfect stillness, on a bench against the wall. She wore a large grey cloak with a hood falling back upon her shoulders, and a white cap, and sat with her hands crossed in her lap, waiting. She raised her eyes quickly when he came in with a look of anxiety and expectation, but when she found it was not the person she expected, bowed her fine head resignedly and relapsed into quiet. The delay which is always so irksome did not seem to affect her. There was something in the pose of the figure which showed that to be seated there quite still and undisturbed was not disagreeable to her. She was not impatient. She was an old woman and glad to rest; she could wait.
“You are waiting for Sir Henry?” Geoff said, in his eagerness. “Have you seen him? Can I do anything for you?”
“No, sir. I hope you’ll forgive me rising. I have walked far and I’m tired. Time is not of so much consequence now as it used to be. I can bide.” She gave him a faint smile as she spoke, and looked at him with eyes undimmed, eyes that reminded him of the child at Penninghame. Her voice was fine too, large and melodious, and there was nothing fretful or fidgety about her. Except for one line in her forehead everything about her was calm. She could bide.
And this is a power which gives its possessor unbounded superiority over the impatient and restless. Geoff was all curiosity, excitement, and eagerness. “I don’t think Sir Henry will have any time for you to-day,” he said; “tell me what it is. I will do all I can for you. I should like to be of use to you. Sir Henry is going to his luncheon presently. I don’t think you will see him to-day.”
Just at this moment a servant came in with the same information, but it was given in a somewhat different tone. “Look here, old lady,” said the man, “you’ll have to clear out of this. There’s a party this afternoon, and Sir Henry he hasn’t got any time for the likes of you. So march is the word.—I beg your lordship ten thousand pardons. I didn’t see as your lordship was there.”
“You had better learn to be civil to every one,” said Geoff, indignantly; “beg her pardon, not mine. You are—Mrs. Bampfylde, I think? May I speak to you, since Sir Henry cannot see you? I have very urgent business—— ”
She rose slowly, paying no attention to the man—looking only at Geoff. “And you are the young lord?” she said with an intent look. There was a certain dignity about her movements, though she seemed to set herself in motion with difficulty, stiffly, as if the exertion cost her something. “I’ve had a long walk,” she added, with a faint smile and half apology for the effort, “there’s where age tells. And all my trouble for nothing!”
“If I can be of any use to you I will,” said Geoff. Then he paused and added, “I want you to do something for me.”
“What is it that old ’Lizabeth Bampfylde could do for a fine young gentleman? Your fortune?—ay, I’ll give you your fortune easy; a kind tongue and a bright eye carries that all over the world. And you look as if you had a kind heart.”
“It is not my fortune,” he said with an involuntary smile.
“You’re no believer in the likes of that? May be you have never met with one that had the power. It runs in families; it runs in the blood. There was one of your house, my young lord, that I could have warned of what was coming. I saw it in his face. And, oh that I had done it! But he would not have been warned. Oh! what that would have saved me and mine, as well as you and yours!”
“You think of my brother then when you see me?” he said, eager at once to follow out this beginning. She looked at him again with a scrutinizing gaze.
“What had I to do with your brother, young gentleman? He never asked me for his fortune any more than you; he did not believe in the likes of me. It is only the silly folk and the simple folk that believe in us. I wish they would be guided by us that are our own flesh and blood—and then they would never get into trouble like my boy.”
“What has he done?” asked Geoff, thinking to conciliate. He had followed her out of the house, and was walking by her side through the shrubberies by the back way.
“What has he done? Something, nothing. He’s taken a fish in the river, or a bird out of the wood. They’re God’s creatures, not yours, or Sir Henry’s. But the rich and the great, that have every dainty they can set their face to, make it a crime for a poor lad when he does that.”
Geoff did not make any answer, for he had a respect for game, and would not commit himself; but he said, “I will do anything I can for your son, if you will help me. Yes, you can help me, and I think you know you can, Mrs. Bampfylde.”
“I am called ’Lizabeth,” said the old woman, with dignity, as if she had said, I am called Princess. Her tone had so much effect upon Geoff that he cried, “I beg your pardon,” instinctively, and faltered and coloured as he went on—
“I want to know about what happened when I was a child—about my brother’s death—about—the man who caused it. They tell me you know more than any one else. I am not asking for idle curiosity. You know a great deal, or so I have heard, about John Musgrave.”
“Hus—sh!” she cried, “it is not safe to say names—you never know who may hear.”
“But all the world may hear,” said Geoff. “I am not afraid. I want him to come home. I want him to be cleared. If you know anything that can help him, tell me. I will never rest now till I have got that sentence changed and he is cleared.”
The old woman looked at him, growing pale, with a sort of alarmed admiration. “You’re a bold boy,” she said, “very bold! It’s because you’re so young—how should you know? When a man has enemies we should be careful how we name him. It might bring ill-luck or more harm.”
“I don’t believe much in ill-luck, and I don’t believe in enemies at all,” said Geoff, with the confidence of his years.
“Oh!” she cried, with a long moan, wringing her hands. “Oh, God help you, innocent boy!”
“No,” Geoff repeated, more boldly still, “neither in enemies nor in ill-luck, if the man himself is innocent. But I believe in friends. I am one; and if you are one—if you are his friend, his true friend, why, there is nothing we may not do for him,” the young man cried, standing still to secure her attention. She paused too for a moment, gazing at him, with a low cry now and then of wonder and distress; her mind was travelling over regions to which young Geoff had no clue, but his courage and confidence had compelled her attention at least. She listened while he went on repeating his appeal; only to tell him what she knew, what she remembered—to tell him everything. It seemed all so simple to Geoff; he went on with his pleadings, following through the winding walk. It was all he could do to keep up with her large and steady stride as she went on quickening her pace. The stiffness had disappeared, and she walked like one accustomed to long tramping over moor and hill.
“My young lord,” she exclaimed abruptly, stopping him in the midst of a sentence, “you’ve talked long enough; I know all you can say now; and here’s the bargain I’ll make. If my lad gets free, I’ll take his advice—and if he consents, and you have a mind to come up to the fells and see me where I bide—— ”
“Certainly I will come,” cried Geoff, feeling a delightful gleam of adventure suddenly light up his more serious purpose. “Certainly I will come; only tell me where I shall find you—— ”
“You’re going too fast, my young gentleman. I said if my lad gets free. Till I have talked to him I’ll tell you nothing. And my bit of a place is a lonely place where few folk ever come near.”
“I can find it,” said Geoff. “I do not mind how lonely it is. I will come—to-morrow, whenever you please.”
“Not till my lad comes to fetch you,” said ’Lizabeth, with a gleam of shrewd humour crossing her face for a moment. “I must see my lad first, and hear what he says, and then I’ll send him to show you the way.”
“It would be better not to make it dependent on that chance,” said Geoff prudently. “He might not care to come; I don’t know your son; why should he take so much trouble for me? He may decline to do it, or he may dislike my interference, or—— ”
“Or he may not get free,” said ’Lizabeth, stopping short, and dismissing her young attendant almost imperiously. “Here you and me part paths, my young lord. It will be soon enough to say more when my lad is free.”
Geoff was left standing at the outer gate, startled by the abruptness of his dismissal, but incapable he felt of resisting. He gazed after her as she sped along the road with long swift steps, half-appalled, greatly excited, and with a touch of amusement too. “I am to cheat justice for her in the first place, and elude the law,” he said to himself as he watched her disappearing along the dusty road.