“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.