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The Two Marys
Then there passed between Milly and Grace a final consultation, several volumes in one glance. “Do you really mean that we are to go with you – to go home with you? Do you really want to have us?” said Grace with quivering lips.
“Oh, my dear, of course, of course I want you! And Anna – well, we need never mind Anna. You will amuse her too. She is very fond of clever people, and you are clever; at least you are clever, my dear,” Mrs Underwood said, patting Grace upon the shoulder; “and you are the little silly one, you will just do for me,” she said, putting her arm through Milly’s. Then her countenance clouded over. The girls did not know what to make of it. They could not hear the voice which was in Mrs Underwood’s ears – her own voice, saying, “I wonder why he should always be going to see the old lady – when he has me?” She gazed into Milly’s face and wondered wistfully whether it would frown at her, and find fault with Geoff for his attention to his mother. “It is nothing, my dear, nothing,” she said, recovering herself; “a little pain that I am quite used to. Go and get ready, like dear children; it will be such a surprise for Geoff.”
Thus Mrs Underwood carried out Miss Anna’s plans. That lady smiled when she heard the arrival, the boxes carried up-stairs, the sound of the young voices in the house. She thought it was all her doing, and that Geoff was a young precisian and his mother a fool, and she herself the only member of the family capable of doing anything in its defence.
CHAPTER XIV
IT was, as his mother foresaw, a great surprise for Geoff, to see Grace and Milly established under her wing when he reached home. They seemed to have each got her corner of the drawing-room, as if they had been there all their lives. The windows with that great distance stretching blue and far underneath, and the smoke, which was London, at their feet, attracted them both – a standing wonder and miracle; but Milly had brought down her little work-basket, and placed it on a corner of Mrs Underwood’s special table, and there she had settled herself as if she belonged to it; while Grace had got to the books which stood in low bookcases on either side of the fireplace. For the first hour Geoffrey really believed, with a wonder which he could hardly restrain, that his mother had broken loose from her life-long bondage to her sister, and that this bold step had really been taken by herself on her own responsibility. It was herself who undeceived him on this point. When the dressing-bell rang, and the girls went up-stairs to prepare for dinner, he put his arm round her and thanked and praised her. “It was like yourself to do it, mother,” he said warmly. “When you follow your own kind heart, you always do what is best.”
“Yes, my dear,” said Mrs Underwood, faltering; “indeed, indeed, I hope it is for the best. At least, that has been my meaning, dear. And Anna said – ”
“Anna?” cried Geoff, with a cloud coming over his face.
“She thought it was the only wise thing. But she is not to be supposed to know anything about it,” his mother said, lowering her voice and holding up a finger at him. “You must be very careful. If she looks as if she did not like it, you are not to take any notice. I was not to tell anybody she had a hand in it; but of course I never meant to conceal it from you.”
Geoff was so angry and disconcerted, and so sick of the domestic fraud into which his mother had been beguiled, that he went off to his room without a word, leaving her sadly put out, but quite unable to divine what could have offended him. However, by the time he had changed his dress, Geoff, all alone in his room, burst out into a sudden laugh. “She is an old witch,” he said to himself; “she is as clever as – the old gentleman himself.” He was ashamed of the artifice, but could not help being diverted by the skill of that unseen helms-woman who managed everything her own way.
Miss Anna came to dinner as usual, leaning on her stick, and she received the girls with stately surprise, as if their presence was quite unlooked for but gradually unbent, and by degrees grew brilliant in her talk, and amused and delighted them. Geoffrey looked on with a mixture of shame, amusement, and contempt, at this pretended thawing and acceptance of what she could not prevent. She acted her part admirably, though now and then he surprised a glance of satisfaction and secret triumph which made him furious. But she kept up her show of reluctance so far that no one was invited into her boudoir that evening. They went back to the drawing-room again after dinner, where Geoffrey found both the girls standing within the half-drawn curtains of the window, looking down upon the London lights. They stood close together, talking low, talking of the great city all muffled and mysterious in mist, and smoke, and darkness, at their feet. When Geoffrey joined them, they stopped their conversation. “I am afraid I have interrupted you,” he said.
“Oh no, no! We can’t help talking of one thing. It is wearisome to other people; but after all it is only a few days. We were wondering where it was that he is lying,” said Milly.
Geoff pointed out to them as well as he could where the spot was.
“We have so often talked of seeing London, and thought what it would be like and what we should like most in it,” said Grace. “We little thought – ”
He seemed to be taken into their confidence as they broke off and stood gazing with brimming eyes towards the place where their father lay.
“And now you will have no association with London but that of pain,” he said.
There was a pause, and then it was Milly who replied, “People have been very kind to us. We can never forget the kindness wherever we may be.”
To this Grace assented with a little reservation. “Yes, we shall never forget Grove Road – your mother and you, Mr Geoffrey.”
“What!” said Geoff, “are you drawing back already? I was Cousin Geoffrey this morning; and I do not think I have done anything to forfeit the name.”
There was a little murmur of apology from both; and there is no telling how long they might have lingered there, with the light and warmth behind them, and the wide world of sky and air, and distant mighty multitudinous life before, had not Mrs Underwood come forward anxiously to see what was going on. She had begun to feel herself deserted, and to remember again what she had once felt and said about the old lady. She had not so much as thought of the old lady since she brought them into the house; but now the murmur of voices behind the curtain; the natural, inevitable manner in which Geoff found his way there, the solitude into which she was herself thrown, brought back all her alarm. “Geoff,” she said, “you must not keep them in the cold: there is a great draught from that window: we always have the curtains drawn. Come in, my dears, come in to the light; there has been so much rain that it is quite cold to-night.”
They came directly, obedient to the call; there was no undutifulness, no resistance. They must have felt they were doing wrong, they obeyed so quickly, she thought. But then Mrs Underwood had a very happy hour. Geoffrey took up the evening paper which had been brought in for him – Miss Anna having previously finished it and sent it with a message that there was nothing in it – while Grace returned to her examination of the books, and Milly settled herself by Mrs Underwood’s side. She was glad to see that he could still think of politics, although they were here. Miss Anna, in order that she might come down gradually from her eminence, had left the door of communication open between her room and this one, and sometimes launched a word at them, stimulating their somewhat languid talk. For neither Mrs Underwood nor Milly were great talkers; they sat together, finding great fellowship in this mere vicinity, now and then exchanging a word as they lent each other the scissors or the thread. And Geoff read his newspaper calmly in this calm interior, where there was still no appearance of any power or passion which might either break old ties or form new.
Thus the soft evening sped along. It gave Mrs Underwood a little tremor to see that when Geoff laid aside his paper he went to the table at which Grace was seated with a number of books round her, and began an earnest conversation. But she reflected within herself that it was not Grace but the little one, and took comfort. Perhaps she would not have been so much consoled had she known what the subject of the conversation was. Grace was so buried in the books which she had collected from the shelves, that she scarcely noticed, till he spoke, the shadow which was hovering between her and the light.
“I want to tell you,” he said – and she started, looking up at him with a little impatience, yet – as remembering the calls of politeness, and that she was his mother’s guest – with a smile – “I have laid the whole matter before the lawyer whose name I gave you to-day,” Geoffrey said.
“The whole matter! – there is no whole matter; nothing but guesses and perhapses. We do not want anything more said about it, Cousin Geoff.”
“But we must have something more said about it, Cousin Grace. Who can tell? It might be dragged to light in the third or fourth generation,” he said with a smile. “Your grandson might question the right of mine, to any small remnant that may be left by that time.”
“I will answer for my grandson,” said Grace.
“But I cannot answer for mine; probably he will be a headstrong, hot-headed fellow. No, it must be settled now. Mr Furnival wants to know what evidence you have, one way or another; if you have anything that throws light on the subject: any clue to the past or information about the family or name? You may trust everything to his hands.”
“But I told you we had no information whatever – none. I never heard the name before. My brother is called Leonard, that is the only thing; and there are one or two memoranda of papa’s.”
“These will be of the utmost value.”
“I don’t think you will find them of any value at all. One is in his little diary that he kept during the voyage. I do not like to give it into any stranger’s hands. No, there is nothing private in it; but only the little things that – that are more hard to look at than great ones,” said Grace. “Little, little things that we did every day – that we never shall do any more.”
There was a pause, and then he said, insisting gently, “You must not think me troublesome and pertinacious; but you may be sure it will be handled with reverence, and given back to you without delay.”
“You can’t think how little it is, it is nothing,” she said; but finally she consented to bring all the scraps together and place them in Geoff’s hands. They were not much when they were put together. First, the entry in the diary: “Same name in directory at old address. To go first thing and enquire.” Then the still more hieroglyphical notes written on the same paper which contained the address, “Left July ’45. U.A. died ’55. Due with interest for twenty years – but forgiven;” and the repeated 3 Grove Road, written over his blotting-book, and repeated on at least two pieces of paper. Geoff folded them carefully up, and sealed them into a packet. His mind was heavy, but his heart was light. He saw moral confirmation indisputable in these scraps of writing. It seemed to him that in no way could his mother retain her fortune against a claim so certain; but he saw at the same time that there could be no legal proof, and that his aunt would be triumphant and retain hers. Was not this the best solution of the matter that could be? He did not see his way yet about his own work and ability to make up to his mother for what she must lose; therefore his mind was troubled and in difficulty still; but to know that when he came home at night he should find Milly shyly smiling at Mrs Underwood’s side, taking her place as if in her own home, beguiled the young man out of all his cares. Whatever happened, nothing could take from him this sweet evening, and other sweet evenings like it.
A week of close domestic intercourse, long evenings spent together, how rapidly acquaintance grows under such circumstances! They made the most delightful family party, moving from one room to another in the long delicious evenings, cheerful, though still subdued by the recent grief which was so ready to revive in the girls’ eyes at any chance allusion. This made a tenderness in their intercourse which nothing else could have done. Even Miss Anna was tender of the young mourners, and it was she who most steadily exerted her powers to cheer them, and win from them smiles, and even laughter, and a hundred little returns towards amusement, towards the brighter impulses of life. But perhaps what they enjoyed most was to stand behind the half-drawn curtain in the evenings, and gaze out on London, and talk, with tears which no one rebuked, which Geoff, their only companion, if any reliance could be placed upon his voice, was often very near sharing. They told him about their father, about the household at home, about their first glorious morning in London, when they had gone to Westminster and feared no evil; and Geoff listened with sympathy, with tender curiosity, with all the youthful freemasonry which understands almost without a word. While these talks were going on, Mrs Underwood, stranded as it were outside, would sit fidgeting in her chair, longing to interfere, thinking within herself of the old lady left alone, and scarcely able to restrain her trembling anxiety, lest things should go too far, and her doom be sealed. Miss Anna, on the contrary, watched over the young people, going and coming with that little pat of her stick upon the floor, and restraining her sister. “You simpleton,” she would say in a whisper, “don’t you see everything is going to a wish? What could you desire more? They are getting acquainted; they are getting on as fast as possible.” “Oh, but Anna!” poor Mrs Underwood would say, getting up and sitting down again. “My boy, my boy!” “Oh, hold your tongue, you silly woman! Your boy is happier than he ever was in his life,” said the imperious sister, sitting down to keep watch over Geoff’s tranquillity. Mrs Underwood dared not stir, with Miss Anna guarding her like this; but she moaned within herself and shook her head. It was all a conspiracy to take her son from her. She liked the little one well enough – nay, very much, as she sat on the low chair, and talked a little now and then, and was always ready with the scissors. Mrs Underwood had a way of losing hers, and she had never had a daughter to find them for her, to know by instinct when she wanted them for her work as Milly did. That was all very pleasant. And it might be good as a family arrangement; Anna thought so, and Anna knew best; but to tell her that her boy had never been so happy – though she had devoted herself to him all her life – this was indeed too much to bear.
CHAPTER XV
A WEEK after their settlement at Grove Road, while the girls were expecting every day to receive at least by telegraph some news from their mother, Geoffrey made his appearance in the middle of the day, and with a face of much serious meaning. He asked his mother and her guests to come with him to Miss Anna’s room; and then having gathered them all around him, he took out some papers and made a little speech to them with great seriousness. “I thought it was of the utmost importance that we should all know exactly how we stood,” he said, “and I put the whole case into Mr Furnival’s hands. We all trust him who know him, and Grace and Milly were willing to take him on my word. He has had all the facts before him for some days; with such scraps of evidence as you could furnish us with,” he added, turning to Grace: “and he took counsel’s opinion. I informed him that it would be in any case an amicable suit to settle our respective rights. I have brought you their opinions now.”
“I thought there was something going on,” said Miss Anna, “something underhand, a conspiracy, concealed from me.”
“Conspiracies are not in my way,” Geoffrey said. “Perhaps you would like me to read what they say. It confirms my own opinion – though perhaps my advice would have been different.”
He spread out his papers on the table, and the women round him turned their eyes to him with expressions as different as their characters: his mother proud of the position her boy was assuming, yet a little nervous as to how Anna would take it, and suspicious of the look which she thought she detected him directing towards Milly; Grace a little reserved, holding her head erect, looking at him with an interest which had not much curiosity in it, but a rising impulse of resistance – although she could not tell as yet what it was she was to resist; Milly with milder interest and a gentle admiration of Geoff which was like a shy shadow of his mother’s. But Miss Anna, all alert, turned eagerly towards him as if she would have snatched the papers out of his hands, her dark eyes blazing, her whole figure full of energy and latent wrath, which she was ready to pour out upon him should the lawyers’ opinion go against her own.
“I need not read it word for word,” said Geoff; “I will give it afterwards to my cousin Grace. The lawyers think, after close consideration, that there is – no case – .” (Here there was a movement on the part of Miss Anna and a quick “I told you so.”) “Wait a little,” said Geoffrey, “They say there is scarcely any case to go to a jury; but they say also that if it did go to a jury the strong moral probability and the touching character of all the circumstances might lead to a verdict for the claimants notwithstanding the weakness of the evidence. Law would be against it; but the jury might be for it.”
“I understand that reasoning,” said Miss Anna: “most men are fools, and jurymen are men – therefore it is likely that fools being the judges, the verdict would be preposterous. Is that all your wiseacres have got to say?”
“Not quite,” said Geoff; “the lawyers advise a compromise.”
“A compromise? I object – I object at once. I will not hear of it. Let it go into court. If I am compelled to yield to the sentiment of a dozen British idiots, I must do so; but consent to rob myself, for no reason? oh no, no! I will never do that.”
“Aunt Anna, you are not the only person concerned.”
“I am,” she said; “I have the largest share. I am the eldest. Your mother has never gone against me in her life, and she will not now.”
“Anna,” said Mrs Underwood tremulously, “I always have followed your advice – oh, always, it is quite true; but Geoff, you know – Geoff is a man now; and he has been bred up to the law, and he ought to know better, far better than we do.”
“Should he? but he doesn’t; he’s a poor weak sentimental creature not strong enough to be either one thing or another, a swindler or an honest man. He naturally takes refuge in compromises. I haven’t known him so long without knowing that. I believe the lawyer’s opinion is his own, it is so like him. A compromise? no! I will have no compromise,” cried Miss Anna, striking her stick upon the floor.
“And we reject it too,” cried Grace – “we will have nothing, nothing! we settled upon all that before we came here. If we had not decided so, we should never have come.”
“Let it go to a jury if you like,” said Miss Anna, paying no attention to this. “I am not afraid. I take the risk of sentiment. Yes, of course, they are a pack of sentimental fools: two pretty girls in deep mourning will get anything out of a British jury. Still I’ll risk it. But nothing, nothing in the world will make me consent to a compromise.”
Grace had risen to her feet, with her usual eagerness of impulse, “Do you not hear me – do you not understand me, Miss Anna? We will take nothing; we will have no compromises, no more talk even, not a word said. We will have nothing, nothing to do with it! We have a right to be heard as well as you – ”
“And I think I also have a right to be heard,” cried Geoff – he was calm between the excitement of the others; “I am not without a voice. Whatever you say, justice must be done, and justice suggests this course. Yes, Aunt Anna, whatever you say, I have a right to be heard. It is for our own comfort, without thought of them.”
“I want no such comfort,” she cried. “I gave in to your mother’s nonsense, and allowed them to be asked here. I allowed them to be asked because they were – ”
“Aunt Anna! do you wish me to tell them in so many words why you wanted them – ?”
“Geoff, Geoff!” cried his mother, in alarm.
The girls paid but little attention to this quarrel as it raged. They did not comprehend even what it was about. “We had better go away as this is not our affair,” Grace said, with a stately little bow. And Milly, too, rose to go with her sister – when the conflict around suddenly ceased, and the two girls, who seemed to have been pushed aside by the other more energetic emotions, suddenly became again the centre of the scene, and the chief persons in it. What was it? only the entrance of old Simmons with a yellow envelope in his hand.
The others stopped short in their conflict. They acknowledged with a little awe the presence of something greater which had come into their midst. They looked on in silence while the girls, clinging together, read their telegram. Then there was a little pause.
“We must go home at once,” said Grace, as well as she could speak for tears. “We do not require to wait. There are steamers every day, I suppose. Would you answer this for us, Cousin Geoffrey? and say we want no one. We will come.”
It required some power of divination to make out the last words, which were almost choked with the weeping to which Milly had entirely given way.
“Go at once?” said Miss Anna, “without an escort – without seeing anything?”
The girls gave her, both together, an indignant look; and then they turned and went out of the room, moving in one step, like one creature, with a soft sweep as of wings. So at least Geoffrey thought, looking after them with the tenderest pity in his eyes. They did not walk but disappeared, flying to be alone and get some comfort from their tears.
“What does the telegram say – who sends it – is it long or short – is it from the mother herself, is it – ?” Miss Anna put out her hand and tried to take it from Geoff. Both the ladies were full of curiosity. Mrs Underwood, indeed, in sympathy with the trouble of the girls, dried her eyes as she looked up eagerly for news – but Miss Anna owned no trace of tears. She was full of interest and keen curiosity. “Give it me. The very wording of it will tell us something more about them,” she cried.
Geoff’s first movement was to hurry away, carrying this communication with him; but he paused as a new idea took possession of him. He was too good a man to be altogether a free agent. He paused, and looked at the mother upon whom he knew he was about to inflict a great blow. She was not a wise woman, and the instinct of curiosity which had possession of her at the moment was not one to please that critical faculty which is so exaggerated in youth. He did not like to see in her eyes even a shadow of the hungry appetite for news which burned in her sister’s. Nevertheless, he read the telegram slowly.
“Your terrible news just received. Mother utterly prostrated. Wire if wish me to come for you – otherwise return first ship.”
The name of the sender was a strange one – it was evidently an uncle or some relation who could speak with authority. Geoff paid no attention to what the ladies said, but went on. “Mother, I am going to say something which will vex you. You must try to remember that I am old enough to take care of myself. I am going with them, to take them to their mother.”
“Geoff – Geoff – by sea! – to America!” Mrs Underwood gasped; she could not get her breath.
“Of course it must be by sea if he goes to America,” said Miss Anna. “There is no land passage invented yet.”
“It is my plain duty,” said Geoff, colouring a little, “if, as I believe, they are our near relations; and in any case there is a question between us which they are too young in their generosity to settle. We cannot take advantage of the generosity of two children, mother – ”
“Oh, Geoff! but for you to go – to go to America – a long voyage, and at this time of the year – ”
“The equinoctials coming on,” put in Miss Anna quickly.
“The equin – , yes; nothing but storms and shipwrecks, and every kind of danger. If you mean me never to have a night’s rest more – to go distracted every wind that blows – to have neither peace nor comfort of my life! Oh, Geoff! all that, for them that you never had seen a fortnight ago! and me, your mother, that have never had another thought but you for eight-and-twenty years – ”
“Surely, mother,” cried poor Geoff, “there is no need to put it so tragically. I am not going to abandon you. I am only going to do what half the men of my age do for pleasure – and I shall have a real motive in it. In the first place, a duty to Grace and Milly: if they were your children, how should you like them to go over the sea all alone, when a great idle fellow calling himself their cousin was here doing nothing? And then this business, which otherwise may worry us for years, which we never can be sure about – for if these dear girls, in the generosity of their hearts, refuse to have anything to do with it, who can tell that their mother, their brothers will be of the same mind?”
Mrs Underwood had fallen into tears and broken exclamations. She was incapable of any connected words. “Oh Geoff – my boy – all I have – all I have in the world!” and “a sea voyage – a sea voyage to America,” was all she said.
Miss Anna got up to her feet, and struck her stick emphatically upon the floor. “Listen, Mary! I have said your son was soft, and a dawdle like yourself. I retract. He’s a clever fellow, and sees the rights of a matter when it’s put before him. There, Geoff! go, and you have my blessing. I’ll give you a hundred pounds, too, if you want it, that you may have a pleasant trip. Your mother’s talking nonsense. I never knew her lose a night’s rest, except when you were teething; and then that was your doing, not hers, for you squalled all night. Go, my boy, and success to you. It’s the wisest thing you ever thought of in your life.”
“Oh, Anna!” cried her sister, “how can you be so cruel?” She had dried her eyes at these accusations, and sat up with a flushed countenance. “If you knew, if you only knew half what a mother goes through! Do you think I have always told you when I lay awake thinking of him – or any one? Geoff, I have never denied you anything; but I think this will break my heart!”
“Mother,” said Geoff, half pleading, half angry, “I run no more risk than half the women’s sons in England – no risk at all; you make me feel a fool to talk like this.”
“Never mind,” said Miss Anna, while Mrs Underwood relapsed into weeping; “I’ll bring her round. Go off at once, there is plenty of time, and see about your berths. You’ll find her quite reconciled to it when you come back.”
“But, Aunt Anna, I don’t understand the change on your part. You who rejected all idea of a compromise – ”
Aunt Anna laughed. “I have no objection to one kind of compromise. Bring us back that little dove-eyed thing as Mrs Geoff. I’d rather have had the other; but you could never have managed her. Settle my money upon Milly in her marriage settlements; and don’t mind about our absence from the ceremony. Go and see Niagara, and all that, and bring us back your wife – that’s the kind of compromise I want; that’s all I stipulate for, Geoff.”
“If I can, Aunt Anna.”
“Pooh – can! With a week under the same roof, and a fortnight in the same ship. Rubbish! If you can’t, you are a poorer creature than I thought. Go, go, off with you, Geoff – before your mother comes to herself.”
“Where is Geoff going? Oh, Anna, help me, help me! don’t let him go. Geoff!” cried Mrs Underwood.
Upon which Miss Anna confronted her sister with her most imposing looks. “Mary! don’t be a fool. The boy is doing precisely what he ought to do. I never had such a good opinion of him before; let him alone. He is fifty times better able to take care of himself than you are to take care of him. Here’s the telegram; let us see what it says.”
“It says, I suppose, just what he read to us, Anna,” said the other, frightened into some degree of self-denial, and with a little curiosity re-awakening in her blurred overflowing eyes.
“A thing never says anything to you when it’s read aloud. Here it is. ‘Stephen Salisbury, Quebec, to Grace Yorke, Montague Hotel, London.’ (Then it was sent on from the hotel.) ‘Terrible news received; mother prostrated; wire if wish me to come.’ Of course it must be the mother’s brother. The people must be well off, Mary. There cannot be any doubt about that. You see he says he will come if they want him; and even the message shows it. The man would never have sent such a long message if he had not been well off.”
“I always knew that,” said Mrs Underwood feebly, “from what Grace and Milly said. Why shouldn’t their uncle (if it is their uncle) come for them? I don’t know why they should be in such a hurry to get away?”
“It is a great deal better that Geoff should go with them,” Miss Anna said. “Pluck up a heart; or if you can’t do that, get a little common-sense, Mary; common-sense will do just as well. Why should anything happen to a Cunard steamer because your boy happens to be in it more than another? Do you think God has a special spite against you?”
“Oh, Anna!” cried her sister, horrified; “me? I know God is merciful and good: but – ”
“But you would rather not trust Geoff in His hands, lest He should take a cruel advantage? That is the way of people like you.”
“I never said so; I never thought so. I – I hope I have always put my trust in God.”
“But you think, all the same, if He had a chance like this, that He would like to do you an ill turn? Oh, I understand what you mean. I have heard a great many people – pious, devout people – speak just like you.”
