The Long Vacation Part 50

Whatever she was going to ask was cut short by Ivinghoe's suddenly striking on the table so as to make all the cups and saucers ring as he exclaimed--

"If ever there lived a treacherous Greek minx!" Then, "I beg your pardon, mother."

He was off: they saw him dash out of the house. There was a train due nearly at this time, as all recollected.

"Papa, had not you better go with him?" said Lady Rotherwood.

"He will get on much better by himself, my dear," and Lord Rotherwood threw himself back in his chair and laughed heartily and merrily, to the amazement and mystification of the two girls. "You will have a beauty on your hands, my lady."

"Well, as long as it is not that horrid White girl--" said her ladyship, breaking off there.

"A very sorry Rebecca," said her lord, laughing the more.

But the Marchioness rose up, and the two cousins had to accept the signal.

The train, after the leisurely fashion of continental railways, kept Ivinghoe fuming at the station, and rattled along so as to give travellers a full view of the coast, more delightful to them than to the youth, who had rushed off with intentions, he scarce knew what, of setting right the consequences of Maura's--was it deception, or only a thought, of which the wish was father?

He reached the station that led to the works at Rocca Marina. The sun was high, the heat of the day coming on, and as he strode along, the workmen were leaving off to take their siesta at noontide. On he went, across the private walks in the terraced garden, not up the broad stone steps that led to the house, but to a little group of olive trees which cut off the chaplain's house from the castle gardens, and where stood a great cork tree, to whose branches a hammock had been fastened, and seats placed under it. As he opened the gate a little dog's bark was heard, and he was aware of a broad hat under the tree. Simultaneously a small Maltese dog sprang forward, and Francie's head rose from leaning over the little table with a start, her cheeks deeper rose than usual, having evidently gone to sleep over the thin book and big dictionary that lay before her.

"Oh!" she said, "it is you. Was I dreaming?"

"I am afraid I startled you."

"No--only"--she still seemed only half awake--"it seemed to come out of my dream."

"Then you were dreaming of me?"

"Oh no. At, least I don't know," she said, the colour flushing into her face, as she sat upright, now quite awake and alive to the question, between truthfulness and maidenly modesty.

"You were--you were; you don't deny it!" And as she hung her head and grew more distressfully redder and redder, "You know what that means."

"Indeed--indeed--I couldn't help--I never meant! Oh--"

It was an exclamation indeed, for Uncle Clement's head appeared above the hammock, where he too had been dozing over his book, with the words--

"Halloo, young people, I'm here!"

Franceska would have fled, but Ivinghoe held her hand so tight that she could not wrench it away. He held it, while Clement struggled to the ground, and then said--

"Sir, there is no reason you or all the world should not know how I love this dearest, loveliest one. I came here this morning hoping that she may grant me leave to try to win her to be my own."

He looked at Francie. Her head drooped, but she had not taken her hand away, and the look on her face was not all embarra.s.sment, but there was a rosy sunrise dawning on it.

All Clement could say was something of "Your father."

"He knows, he understands; I saw it in his eyes," said Ivinghoe.

To Clement the surprise was far greater than it would have been to his sister, and the experience was almost new to him, but he could read Francie's face well enough to say--

"My dear, I think we had better let you run in and compose yourself, or go to your aunt, while I talk to Lord Ivinghoe."

Trembling, frightened, Francie was really glad to be released, as her lover with one pressure said--

"I shall see you again, sweetest."

She darted away, and Clement signed to Ivinghoe to sit down with him on the bench under the tree.

"I should like this better if you had brought your father's full a.s.sent," he said.

"There was no time. I only read his face; he will come to-morrow."

"No time?"

"Yes, to catch the train. I hurried away the moment I learnt that--that her affections were not otherwise engaged. I never saw any one like her.

She has haunted me ever since those days at Rockquay; but--but I was told that she cared for your nephew, and I could not take advantage of him in his absence. And now I have but three days more."

"Whoever told you was under a great error," said Clement gravely, "and you have shown very generous self-command; but the advantages of this affair are so much the greatest on one side, that you cannot wonder if there is hesitation on our part, till we explicitly know that our poor little girl would not be unwelcome to your parents."

"I know that no one can compare with her for--for everything and anything," stammered Ivinghoe, breaking from his mother's language into his father's, "and my father admires her as much as I do--almost."

"But what will he and your mother say to her being absolutely penniless?"

"Pish!"

"And worse--child to a spendthrift, a man of no connection, except on his mother's side."

"She is your niece, your family have bred her up, made her so much more than exquisitely lovely."

"She is a good little girl," said Clement, "but what are we? No, Ivinghoe, I do not blame you for speaking out, and she will be the happier for the knowledge of your affection, but it will not be right of us to give free consent, without being fully a.s.sured of that of Lord and Lady Rotherwood."

Ivinghoe could only protest, but Clement rose to walk to the house, where his sister was sitting under the pergola in the agitation of answering Gerald's letter, and had only seen Francie flit by, calling to her sister in a voice that now struck her as having been strange and suppressed.

Clement trusted a good deal to his sister's quicker perceptions and habit of observation to guide his opinion in the affair that had burst on him, and was relieved that when Ivinghoe, like the well-bred young man that he was, went up to her, and taking her hand said, "I have been venturing to put my fate into the hands of your niece," she did not seem astonished or overwhelmed, but said--

"She is a dear good girl; I do hope it will be for her happiness--for both."

"Thank you," he said fervently. "It will be the most earnest desire of my life."

Geraldine thought it best to go in quest of Francie, whom she found with Anna, incoherent and happy in the glory of the certainty that she was loved, after the long trial of suppressed, unacknowledged suspense. No fears of parents, no thought of inequalities had occurred to trouble her--everything was absorbed in the one thought--"he really did love her." How should she thank G.o.d enough, or pray enough to be worthy of such joy? There was no room for vexation or wonder at the delay, nor the attentions paid to Maura. She hushed Anna, who was inclined to be indignant, and who was obliged afterwards to pour out to her aunt all her wonder, though she allowed that on his side there was nothing to be really called flirtation, it was all Maura--"she was sure Maura was at the bottom of it."

"My dear, don't let us be uncharitable; there is no need to think about it. Let us try to be like Francie, and swallow all up in gladness. Your mother--"

"Oh, I can't think what she will do for joy. It will almost make her well again."

"But remember, we don't know what his parents will say."

And with that sobering thought they had to go down to luncheon, where Francie sat blushing and entranced, too happy to speak, and Ivinghoe apparently contented to look at her. Afterwards he was allowed to take possession of her for the afternoon, so as to be able to tease her about what she was dreaming about him. After all it had probably been evoked by the dog's bark and his step; for she had thought a wolf was pursuing her, and that he had come to save her. It was quite enough to be food for a lover.

Clement would have wished to keep all to themselves, at least till the paternal visit was over, but Ivinghoe's days were few, and he made sure of bringing his parents on the morrow. An expedition had been arranged to the valley where some of the Benista family were reported to live, since the snows had departed enough for safety; but this must needs be deferred, and there was no doubt that the "reason why" would be sought out.