She came, she is gone, we have met,
And meet perhaps never again.—COWPER.
The evening of that day was a scene of welcomes, dinners, and confusion. The Rotherwoods had arrived that evening at the Cliff Hotel just in time for dinner, of which they considerately partook where they were, to save Jane Mohun trouble; but all four of the party came the instant it was over to hear and see all that was going on, and were fervently received by Gillian and Mysie, who were sleeping at their aunt’s to be ready for the morrow, and in spite of all fatigue, had legs wherewith to walk Lord Ivinghoe and Lady Phyllis round the stalls, now closed up by canvas and guarded by police. Phyllis was only mournful not to have assisted in the preparations, and heard all the fun that Mrs. Grinstead had made. But over the wall of Carrara a sight was seen for which no one was prepared—no other than Maura White’s pretty classical face!
“Yes,” she said, “how could I be away from such an occasion? I made Uncle White bring me to London—he had business there, you know—and then I descended on Kalliope, and wasn’t she surprised! But I have a lovely Italian dress!”
Kalliope Henderson looked more alarmed than gratified on the whole. She knew that there had been no idea of Maura’s coming till after it had been known that the Rotherwoods were to open the bazaar, and “made Uncle White” was so unlike their former relations that all were startled, Gillian asking in a tone of reproof how Aunt Adeline spared Maura.
“Oh, we shall be back at Gastein in less than a week. I could not miss such an occasion.”
“I only had her telegram half-an-hour ago,” said Kalliope, in an apologetic tone; and Lord Ivinghoe was to be dimly seen handing Maura over the fence. Moonlight gardens and moonlight sea! What was to be done? And Ivinghoe, who had begun life by being as exclusive as the Marchioness herself! “People take the bit between their teeth nowadays,” as Jane observed to Lady Rotherwood when the news reached her, and neither said, though each felt, that Adeline would not have promoted this expedition, even for the child whom she and Mr. White had conspired to spoil. Each was secretly afraid of the attraction for Ivinghoe.
At St. Andrew’s Rock there was a glad meeting with the Travis Underwoods, who had disposed of themselves at the Marine Hotel, while they came up with a select party of three Vanderkists to spend the evening with Clement, Geraldine, and Lancelot, not to mention Adrian, who had been allowed to sit up to dinner to see his sisters, and was almost devoured by them. His growth, and the improved looks of both his uncle and aunt, so delighted Marilda, that Lancelot declared the Rockquay people would do well to have them photographed “Then” and “Now,” as an advertisement of the place! But he was not without dread of the effect of the disclosure that had yet to be made, though Gerald had apparently forgotten all about it as he sat chaffing Emilia Vanderkist about the hospital, whither she was really going for a year; Sophy about the engineer who had surveyed the Penbeacon intended works, and Francie about her Miranda-Mona in strange hands.
The Vanderkists all began life as very pretty little girls, but showed more or less of the Hollander ancestry as they grow up. Only Franceska, content with her Dutch name, had shot up into a beautiful figure, together with the fine features and complexion of the Underwood twins, and the profuse golden flax hair of her aunt Angela, so that she took them all by surprise in the pretty dress presented by Cousin Marilda, and chosen by Emilia. Sophy was round and short, as nearly plain as one with the family likeness could be, but bright and joyous, and very proud of her young sister. It was a merry evening.
In fact, Lance himself was so much carried away by the spirit of the thing, and so anxious about the performance, that he made all the rest, including Clement, join in singing Autolycus’s song, which was to precede the procession, to a new setting of his own, before they dispersed.
But Lance was beginning to dress in the morning when a knock came to his door.
“A note from Mr. Flight, please, sir.”
The note was—“Circus and Schnetterlings gone off in the night! Shop closed! Must performance be given up?”
The town was all over red and blue posters! But Lance felt a wild hope for the future, and a not ill-founded one for the present. He rushed into his clothes, first pencilling a note—
“Never say die. L. 0. U.”
Then he hurried off, and sent up a message to Miss Franceska Vanderkist, to come and speak to him, and he walked up and down the sitting-room where breakfast was being spread, like a panther, humming Prospero’s songs, or murmuring vituperations, till Franceska appeared, a perfect picture of loveliness in her morning youthful freshness.
“Francie, there’s no help for it. You must take Mona! She has absconded!”
“Uncle Lance!”
“Yes, gone off in the night; left us lamenting.”
“The horrible girl!”
“Probably not her fault, poor thing! But that’s neither here nor there. I wish it was!”
“But I thought—”
“It is past thinking now, my dear. Here we are, pledged. Can’t draw back, and you are the only being who can save us! You know the part.”
“Yes, in a way.”
“You did it with me at home.”
“Oh yes; but, Uncle Lance, it would be too dreadful before all these people.”
“Never mind the people. Be Mona, and only think of Alaster and Angus.”
“But what would mamma say, or Aunt Wilmet? And Uncle Clem?” each in a more awe-stricken voice.
“I’ll tackle them.”
“I know I shall be frightened and fail, and that will be worse.”
“No, it won’t, and you won’t. Look here, Francie, this is not a self-willed freak for our own amusement. The keeping up the Church schools here depends upon what we can raise. I hate bazaars. I hate to have to obtain help for the Church through these people’s idle amusement, but you and I have not two or three thousands to give away to a strange place in a lump; but we have our voices. ‘Such as I have give I thee,’ and this ridiculous entertainment may bring in fifty or maybe a hundred. I don’t feel it right to let it collapse for the sake of our own dislikes.”
“Very well, Uncle Lance, I’ll do as you tell me.”
“That’s the way to do it, my dear. At least, when you make ready, recollect, not that you are facing a multitude, but that you are saving a child’s Christian faith; when you prepare, that you have to do with nobody but Gerald and me; when it comes to ‘One, two, three, and away,’ mind nothing but your music and your cue.”
“But the dress, uncle?”
“The dress is all safe at the pavilion. You must come up and rehearse as soon as you have eaten your breakfast. Oh, you don’t know where. Well, one of us will come and fetch you. Good girl, Francie! Keep up your heart. By the bye, which is Fernan’s dressing-room? I must prepare him.”
That question was answered, for Sir Ferdinand’s door into the corridor was opened.
“Lance! I thought I heard your voice.”
“Yes, here’s a pretty kettle of fish! Our Miranda has absconded, poor child. Happy thing you brought down Francie; nobody else could take the part at such short notice. You must pacify Marilda, silence scruples, say it is her duty to Church, country, and family. Can’t stop!”
“Lance, explain—do! Music-mad as usual!” cried Sir Ferdinand, pursuing him down-stairs in despair.
“I must be music-mad; the only chance of keeping sane just now. There’s an awful predicament! Can’t go into it now, but you shall hear all when this is over.”
Wherewith Lance was lost to view, and presently burst into St. Kenelm’s Vicarage, to the relief of poor Mr. Flight, who had tried to solace himself with those three words as best he might.
“All right. My niece, Franceska Vanderkist, who took the part before, and who has a very good soprano, will do it better as to voice, if not so well as to acting, as the Little Butterfly.”
“Is she here?”
“Yes, by good luck. I shall have her up to the pavilion to rehearse her for the afternoon.”
“Mr. Underwood, no words can say what we owe you. You are the saving of our Church education.”
Lance laughed at the magniloquent thanks, and asked how the intimation had been received.
It appeared that on the previous evening O’Leary had come to him, and, in swaggering fashion, had demanded twenty pounds as payment for his step-daughter’s performance at the masque. Mr. Flight had replied that she had freely promised her services gratuitously for the benefit of the object in view. At this the man had scoffed, talked big about her value and the meanness of parsons, and threatened to withdraw her. Rather weakly the clergyman had said the question should be considered, but that he could do nothing without the committee, and O’Leary had departed, uttering abuse.
This morning “Sweetie Bob,” the errand-boy, had arrived crying, with tidings that the shop and house were shut up; nobody answered his knock; Mother Butterfly had “cut” in the night, gone off, he believed, with the circus, and Miss Lydia too; and there was two-and-ninepence owing to him, besides his—his—his character!
He knew that Mother Butterfly had gone to the magistrates’ meeting the day before, and paid her fine of twenty-five pounds, and he also believed that she had paid up her rent, and sold her shop to a neighbouring pastry-cook, but he had never expected her to depart in this sudden way, and then he began to shed fresh tears over his two-and-ninepence and his character.
Mr. Flight began to reassure him, with promises to speak for him as an honest lad, while Lance bethought himself of the old organist’s description of that wandering star, “Without home, without country, without morals, without religion, without anything,” and recollected with a shudder that turning-point in his life when Edgar had made him show off his musical talent, and when Felix had been sharp with him, and the office of the ‘Pursuivant’ looked shabby, dull, and dreary.
Nothing more could be done, except to make bold assurances to Mr. Flight that Mona’s place should be supplied, and then to hurry home, meeting on his way a policeman, who told him that the circus was certainly gone away, and promised to let him know whither.
He was glad to find that Gerald had not come down-stairs, having overslept himself in the morning after a wakeful night. He was dressing when his uncle knocked at his door.
“Here is a shock, Gerald! I hope it is chiefly to our masque. These people have absconded, and carried off our poor little Mona.”
“What? Absconded? My sister! I must be after them instantly,” cried Gerald, wildly snatching at his coat.
“What good would that do? you can’t carry her off vi et armis.”
“Send the police.”
“No possibility. The fine is paid, the rent and all. They have gone, it seems, with the circus.”
“Ah! Depend upon it that fellow has paid the fine, and bought the poor child into slavery with it. Carried her off in spite of our demurring, and the Vicar’s prosecution. I must save her. I’ll go after and outbid.”
“No hurry, Gerald. A circus is not such a microscopical object but that it can be easily traced. A policeman has promised to find out where, and meanwhile we must attend to our present undertaking.”
Gerald strode up and down the room in a fiery fit of impatience and indignation, muttering furious things, quite transformed from the listless, ironical youth hitherto known to his family.
“Come,” Lancelot said, “our first duty is to do justice to our part; Francie Vanderkist will take Mona.”
“Hang Mona! you care for nothing on earth but your fiddling and songs.”
“I do not see that being frantic will make any difference to the situation. All in our power is being done. Meanwhile, we must attend to what we have undertaken.”
Gerald rushed about a little more, but finally listened to his uncle’s representation that the engrossing employment was good to prevent the peril of disturbing the two whom they were so anxious to spare. Fely came running up with a message that Aunt Cherie and Anna had been sent for to see about the decorations of the art stall, and that they would have to eat their breakfast without them.
Appetite for breakfast was lacking, but Lance forced himself to swallow, as one aware of the consequences of fasting for agitation’s sake, and he nearly crammed Gerald; so that Adrian and Fely laughed, and he excused himself by declaring that he wanted his turkey-cock to gobble and not pipe. For which bit of pleasantry he encountered a glare from Gerald’s Hungarian eyes. He was afraid on one side to lose sight of his nephew, on the other he did not feel equal to encounter a scolding from Marilda, so he sent Adrian and Fely down to the Marine Hotel to fetch Franceska, while he stole a moment or two for greeting Clement, who was much better, and only wanted more conversation than he durst give him.
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