“Oh, I shall tell her that I was— I know what I shall tell her,” Sophy said, recovering herself; “I am not such a silly as that.”
“You are not silly at all, my dear. I wish you were not half so clever,” said John. He turned away with a sick heart. Sophy and those unconscious, terrible revelations of hers were more than the man could bear. The air was fresh outside, the day was young; he seemed to have come out of an oppressive atmosphere of age and sophistication, calculating prudence and artificial life, when he left the child behind him. He was so much overwhelmed by Sophy that for the moment, he did not fully realize the importance of what she had told him, and it was not till he had walked some distance, and reconciled himself to nature in the still brightness of the morning, that he awoke with a sudden sensation which thrilled through and through him to the meaning of what the little girl had said. Her mother—was it possible? no ghost, but a living woman. This was indeed a solution of the problem which he had never thought of. At first, after Madam’s sudden departure from Highcourt, John Trevanion went nowhere without a sort of vague expectation of meeting her suddenly, in some quite inappropriate place—on a railway, in a hotel. But now, after years had passed, he had no longer that expectation. The world is so small, as it is the common vulgarity of the moment to say, but nevertheless the world is large enough to permit people who have lost each other in life to drift apart, never to meet, to wander about almost within sight of each other, yet never cross each other’s paths. He had not thought of that—he could scarcely give any faith to it now. It seemed too natural, too probable to have happened. And yet it was not either natural or probable that Mrs. Trevanion, such as he had known her, a woman so self-restrained, so long experienced in the act of subduing her own impulses, should risk the health of her children and shatter their nerves by secret visits that looked like those of a supernatural being. It was impossible to him to think this of her. She who had not hesitated to sacrifice herself entirely to their interests once, would she be so forgetful now? And yet, a mother hungering for the sight of her children’s faces, severed from them, without hope, was she to be judged by ordinary rules? Was there any expedient which she might not be pardoned for taking—any effort which she might not make to see them once more?
The immediate question, however, was what to do. He could not insist upon carrying the party away, which was his first idea; for various visitors were already on their way to join them, and it would be cruel to interrupt the “koor” which Mrs. Lennox regarded with so much hope. The anxious guardian did as so many anxious guardians have done before—he took refuge in a compromise. Before he returned to the hotel he had hired one of the many villas in the neighborhood, the white board with the inscription à louer coming to him like a sudden inspiration. Whether the appearance which had disturbed them was of this world or of another, the change must be beneficial.
The house stood upon a wooded height, which descended with its fringe of trees to the very edge of the water, and commanded the whole beautiful landscape, the expanse of the lake answering to every change of the sky, the homely towers of Hautecombe opposite, the mountains on either side, reflected in the profound blue mirror underneath. Within this enclosure no one could make a mysterious entry; no one, at least, clothed in ordinary flesh and blood. To his bewildered mind it was the most grateful relief to escape thus from the dilemma before him; and in any case he must gain time for examination and thought.
CHAPTER LI.
Mrs. Lennox was struck dumb with amazement when she heard what her brother’s morning’s occupation had been. “Taken a house!” she cried, with a scream which summoned the whole party round her. But presently she consoled herself, and found it the best step which possibly could have been taken. It was a pretty place; and she could there complete her “koor” without let or hinderance. The other members of the party adapted themselves to it with the ease of youth; but there were many protests on the part of the people in the hotel; and to young Everard the news at first seemed fatal. He could not understand how it was that he met none of the party during the afternoon. In ordinary circumstances he crossed their path two or three times at least, and by a little strategy could make sure of being in Rosalind’s company for a considerable part of every day, having, indeed, come to consider himself, and being generally considered, as one of Mrs. Lennox’s habitual train. He thought at first that they had gone away altogether, and his despair was boundless. But very soon the shock was softened, and better things began to appear possible. Next day he met Mrs. Lennox going to her bath, and not only did she stop to explain everything to him, and tell him all about the new house, which was so much nicer than the hotel, but, led away by her own flood of utterance, and without thinking what John would say, she invited him at once to dinner.
“Dinner is rather a weak point,” she said, “but there is something to eat always, if you don’t mind taking your chance.”
“I would not mind, however little there might be,” he said, beaming. “I thought you had gone away, and I was in despair.”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Lennox said. But then she began to think what John would say.
John did not say very much when, in the early dusk, Everard, in all the glories of evening dress, made his appearance in the drawing-room at Bonport, which was furnished with very little except the view. But then the view was enough to cover many deficiencies. The room was rounded, almost the half of the wall being window, which was filled at all times, when there was light enough to see it, with one of those prospects of land and water which never lose their interest, and which take as many variations, as the sun rises and sets upon them, and the clouds and shadows flit over them, and the light pours out of the skies, as does an expressive human face. The formation of the room aided the effect by making this wonderful scene the necessary background of everything that occurred within; in that soft twilight the figures were as shadows against the brightness which still lingered upon the lake. John Trevanion stood against it, black in his height and massive outline, taking the privilege of his manhood and darkening for the others the remnant of daylight that remained. Mrs. Lennox’s chair had been placed in a corner, as she liked it to be, out of what she called the draught, and all that appeared of her was one side of a soft heap, a small mountain, of drapery; while on the other hand, Rosalind, slim and straight, a soft whiteness, appeared against the trellis of the veranda. The picture was all in shadows, uncertain, visionary, save for the outline of John Trevanion, which was very solid and uncompromising, and produced a great effect amid the gentle vagueness of all around. The young man faltered on the threshold at sight of him, feeling none of the happy, sympathetic security which he had felt in the company of the ladies and the children. Young Everard was in reality too ignorant of society and its ways to have thought of the inevitable interviews with guardians and investigations into antecedents which would necessarily attend any possible engagement with a girl in Rosalind’s position. But there came a cold shiver over him when he saw the man’s figure opposite to him as he entered, and a prevision of an examination very different from anything he had calculated upon came into his mind. For a moment the impulse of flight seized him; but that was impossible, and however terrible the ordeal might be it was evident that he must face it. It was well for him, however, that it was so dark that the changes of his color and hesitation of his manner were not so visible as they would otherwise have been. Mrs. Lennox was of opinion that he was shy—perhaps even more shy than usual from the fact that John was not so friendly as, in view of what Mr. Everard had done for the children, he ought to have been. And she did her best accordingly to encourage the visitor. The little interval before dinner, in the twilight, when they could not see each other, was naturally awkward, and, except by herself, little was said; but she had a generally well-justified faith in the effect of dinner as a softening and mollifying influence. When, however, the party were seated in the dining-room round the shaded lamp, which threw a brilliant light on the table, and left the faces round it in a sort of pink shadow, matters were little better than before. The undesired guest, who had not self-confidence enough to appear at his ease, attempted, after a while, to entertain Mrs. Lennox with scraps of gossip from the hotel, though always in a deprecating tone and with an apologetic humility; but this conversation went on strangely in the midst of an atmosphere hushed by many agitations, where the others were kept silent by thoughts and anxieties too great for words. John Trevanion, who could scarcely contain himself or restrain his inclination to take this young intruder by the throat and compel him to explain who he was, and what he did here, and Rosalind, who had looked with incredulous apathy at the telegram her uncle had received from Mrs. Trevanion’s lawyers, informing him that nothing had happened to her, so far as they were aware, sat mute, both of them, listening to the mild chatter without taking any part in it. Mrs. Lennox wagged, if not her head, at least the laces of her cap, as she discussed the company at the table d’hôte. “And these people were Russians, after all?” she said. “Why, I thought them English, and you remember Rosalind and you, Mr. Everard, declared they must be German; and all the time they were Russians. How very odd! And it was the little man who was the lady’s husband! Well, I never should have guessed that. Yes, I knew our going away would make a great gap—so many of us, you know. But we have got some friends coming. Do you mean to take rooms at the Venat for Mr. Rivers, John? And then there is Roland Hamerton—”