CHAPTER XVI.
AN INVITATION FROM A BROTHER.
It has been remarked by an acute observer that the children of parents who do not love each other are seldom very strongly attached; and the natural bond between Anthony and Edith Derrick had been also weakened by the very great partiality which their grandfather had shown to his heir, and the equally strong partiality which Miss Derrick felt towards her niece. As the old gentleman had been the most important person in the household, Anthony had always had the advantage during his life-time; and now, on Mr. Derrick's death, he felt that he was still more indisputably the master. But the- old gentleman had been sufficiently liberal to Edith, and although Anthony had come in for all the landed estates unencumbered and improving, the personal property had been equally divided between his two daughters, one married and the other unmarried, and his young granddaughter Edith. His poor John's daughter should be no worse off than her aunts, and the provision made for the aunt and niece was ample enough to allow them to keep a handsome separate establishment. So long as Anthony was unmarried, however, they considered that it would be good for him that they should live with him, and not altogether inconvenient for themselves, and accordingly, when he determined on going to Stanmore, from which he had been so long absent, his sister and aunt were quite prepared to accompany him.
Anthony, as the elder brother and the young squire, considered that his sister ought to yield to him on every point in which they differed, while Edith, backed by the authority of her aunt Anne, more self-possessed and less sensitive, felt that she was older for a woman than he was for a man, and was never at all disposed to give in.
She knew how to make her brother feel a little incisive remark quietly made; a slight allusion to his want of success at the university, a hint as to the connection of the family with trade, or any mention of a Lady Clara, whom he had met at their aunt Lady Gower's, and who was believed to have refused him, would amply revenge any of his own blunter attacks upon herself.
The Derricks had not been kept in such ignorance as to their mother as Amy and her friends supposed. Edith was proud of the connection with the Darlington family, and with the Gowers and Pemberleys; but Anthony was painfully sensitive with regard to the hasty and indecorous second marriage. He had some recollection of his mother, and he had never got over the feelings of deep injury which her leaving him had awakened in his heart. This feeling had been kept alive by his grandfather, whose resentment had been strong and deep. When the announcement of Lady Eveline's death arrived Anthony Derrick was young certainly, but quite capable of judging for himself; and he had considered his grandfather quite right in taking no notice of it, and not communicating in any way with the low fellow who had sunk his titled mother into nobody. Of course Mr. Staunton should provide for his own daughter; it was no business of Mr. Derrick's, or of Anthony's.
Recently, indeed since his grandfather's death, he had seen some cause to modify his opinion. In looking over the papers of the deceased, he had come upon a letter or two of his mother's, enquiring as to her children, and the communication as to her death, not marked, as Mr. Derrick's other letters generally were, with the large "A" for "Answered." He wished to make some enquiries and yet shrunk from telling what connection he had with Gerald Staunton, and was surprised one day to hear his name mentioned with admiration by one who was considered an excellent judge of literature.
"Not a great author, by any means," said this Mr. Saville; "his books did not take with the public, although they were carefully written, and very correct as works of art. They wanted less hasty reading than this nineteenth century public will give to anything. But as a critic he was unrivalled. No such subtle or exhaustive criticism or poetry, no such true and pointed judgment of fiction, has ever been seen in England since he left the Palladium. And his magazine articles on social questions and on philology were admirable."
"Do you know him?" asked Anthony, awkwardly.
"Not personally; he was always a retiring scholar, and did not know his own value. I do not think the Palladium knew it till it lost him."
"Can you tell me where this Mr. Staunton is now?" asked Anthony.
"I think he went to Australia and died there, but, as I said, I have no personal knowledge of him whatever. If you Wish to know anything about him you should enquire at the Palladium office. They are sure to know there."
It was not without some hesitation that Anthony made up his mind to enquire at this office. He did not mean to disclose any connection that he had with the poor hack writer, but he felt as if it was his duty to make some enquiry. The editor of the journal was quite accustomed to such questions being asked, and took them as a matter of business.
"I did not know Mr. Staunton at all. It was before my time that he was on the Palladium, but I recollect a short obituary notice appearing in the journal about three years ago, or perhaps not quite so much. It was an accidental death —instantaneous I believe. I'll look over the files and find it for you if you wish for fuller information. It was to Mr. Loder the information was sent, and he is unfortunately out of town, on the continent, in fact; but my impression is that the little girl wrote the 'circumstances to Mr. Loder—our proprietor, you know."
"And what became of the little girl?" asked Anthony nervously.
"Oh, so far as I know, she fell on her feet. She was adopted by some wealthy Australians— squatters, I suppose—and treated like one of the family. Better luck for her than if she had been left in London."
"Are you sure of this?" asked Anthony.
"I'll enquire of Mr. Loder when he returns, or, if it is at all pressing, write to him—poste restante—and get the girl's address, if you wish to communicate with her."
"Oh! no," said Anthony, "I only enquired for my own satisfaction; it really is of no consequence." If Amy Staunton was so well provided for, there was no necessity for his ripping up old sores.
It was with a lighter heart that he left the Palladium office. He had got the information he wished; he had not betrayed himself, and he did not need to do anything. He did not tell Edith anything about the information he had received, because there was no saying what use she might make of it; but on one occasion, when he was at Lady Gower's, now an old woman, but as fond of society and of dress and amusement as she had ever been, he heard her mention the name of Gerald Staunton with pity, but yet with a sort of liking too. She explained to Anthony the circumstances which palliated his mother's conduct, and dwelt upon the fact that it was his apparently dying state that had made Lady Evelyn hasten to Gerald Staunton, and compromise herself so that it was necessary for her to marry him. Lady Gower, on Anthony's communicating to her the information he had received with regard to his half-sister, was as willing as Anthony to believe in the liberality of the unknown Australians, and was perfectly satisfied to leave matters as they stood.
With some relenting thoughts with regard to to his mother and his unknown sister in his heart, and with some annoyance at his aunt and Edith's willingness to accompany him to Stanmore, where he would have preferred to be at perfect liberty, Anthony determined to look into matters on the estate, and to see if more could not be made of it than his grandfather had done.
One of the first farmers whom he went to see was Mr. Copeland, and when he was introduced to George and his Australian wife, he naturally felt more interest in them than he could have done a month before. Politeness might have dictated his questions about Australian life and Australian scenery, but Anthony Derrick always spoke of what interested himself, and if his thoughts had not recently been turned in that direction, he would have asked few questions about the great south land. Old Mr. Copeland was pleased to see the kindly interest the young squire took in George and Jessie, it augured well for Millmount being left in the hands of the family. Jessie was pleased, too, to find that Mr. Derrick really was more amiable than she had thought him. It was a pity he smiled so seldom, for his face was so completely changed when he smiled.
"Perhaps the Squire would like to see some of your views," said Mr. Copeland. "They have brought some good photographs of Australian scenery and Australian friends. Jessie, let Mr. Derrick see them."
Jessie hesitated a little, and it was with a trembling hand that she brought them out on a second and more urgent request from her father-in-law. She was half inclined to select a few and keep back the others.
"Let us see them all," said Mr. Copeland, impatiently; "they are all worth looking at. Here is Branxholm, Mr. Lindsay's head station, Mr. Derrick. We have no view of Gundabook to show you—that's the out-station that George had the management of."
Mr. Derrick turned the different views of Branxholm over and said what was proper about them. "This lady on horseback is not you, Mrs. George; your sister, I suppose?"
"No, this is my sister Isabel," said Jessie, pointing to another carte. "This is Amy Staunton, and this here is my brother Allan." Jessie tried to say the name " Amy Staunton" very distinctly. Anthony Derrick evidently knew the name well; he changed colour and was about to speak.
"She is a poor orphan whose father was accidentally killed as he was going to be tutor to one of their neighbours, and as she had no friends in the colony, or in the world either, by what I can make out, Mrs. George's father and mother took her home. You have got a much better likeness than that, Jessie, my dear; let Mr. Derrick see what a lovely girl she is. I never saw a more beautiful photograph," said Mrs. Copeland.
"Would Mr. Derrick like to see it ?" said Jessie. " Photographs are seldom interesting to folk that don't know who they are meant for."
"Oh, yes! certainly, let me see your Australian beauty by all means," said Mr. Derrick, nervously. He could not help noticing Jessie's strong Scotch accent, and observing that she placed the accent of the word interesting on the penultimate. Was this one of the family of wealthy squatters among whom he had heard that his half-sister was so fortunately placed?
"This is a vignette of Amy, which of course I shows her face more distinctly! but I am very fond of that one on Brownie, it gives her figure and the way she holds her head so well," said a Jessie.
At home in his own private drawer Mr. Derrick had a miniature of his mother taken before her marriage, and except that the expression on the vignette was more lively and joyous, there was almost absolute identity between the faces. Amy's eyes were rather darker, and her eyebrows more defined; but the likeness was even more remarkable than when it had ed Mrs. Hammond and had prejudiced her against the desolate orphan. Mr. Derrick could not speak; he looked at both likenesses long and attentively, Jessie and George knew of the relationship, and held their breath till he should say. something, while he old people though he was simply a great connoisseur who was struck with the beauty of the portraits and the excellence of the execution, which was so creditable to Australia.
"I knew you would admire them," said Mrs. Copeland. "Poor child, it is well she fell into such kind hands. Is not she a sort of governess at your father's, Jessie, my dear, getting a regular salary now? Though she was so young, her father, who was a bookish man, had given her a first-rate education, and she was clever enough to be of great use to Jessie's young sisters."
"And to Allan and me too," said Jessie, quietly.
"When did her father meet with this sad death?" asked Mr. Derrick.
"More than three years ago. My brother Allan happened to come up to the spring-cart that had been upset, and the body and poor Amy were taken to Branxholm. Mr. Staunton was buried at the end of our garden, and Amy has been like a sister among us ever since."
"It was a shame that the people Mr. Staunton was going to did not take her home; and the English aunt, too, should have done something for the," said Mrs. Copeland; "but it was only their loss and your gain."
"What is your address—I mean your father's address—this Miss Staunton's address?" said Mr. Derrick, hesitating and stammering. "I must write to her. She should have written to me when she was left thus. I feel very much hurt that she did not, I cannot understand why she did not. Now, at least, I am my own master and can do as I like. I must have her brought back to England without delay."
Jessie looked aghast at this proposal. What would become of poor Allan, whose life she could not bear to think of as separated from Amy's, if this wealthy and powerful Squire summoned her home immediately? It was so much beyond Amy's own anticipations, and ran so directly counter to Jessie's wishes, that it was impossible to acquiesce in it without some demur.
"Oh! my father and mother and all of them will never consent to part with Amy. I am very sorry indeed that I mentioned her name if you fancy you can take her from them."
"What relation is the young lady to you, Mr. Derrick?'" asked Mrs. Copeland, astonished at the young Squire's eagerness and Jessie's reluctant acquiescence. "How can you claim her? I thought she had only that one aunt in England"
"She is my mother's daughter, my half-sister," said the young; "so I have some authority to call her back to England, Mrs. George. Of course I can understand that your family have become attached to her, and that it will cost them some pain to part with her; but that does not lessen my desire to see and to know my sister. My claims on Miss Staunton are paramount, as you must acknowledge."
"Oh, George!" said Jessie, looking at her husband, with tears in her eyes. " What will they all say to me about this?"
"My dear Mrs. George," said Mr. Derrick, not with absolute sincerity, "it would have come to the same thing whether you had informed me on the subject or not. I heard lately through a friend, at least through an acquaintance, that Mr. Staunton had been accidentally killed, and had left one daughter in Australia. I have already made some enquiries, and ere long would have come to the knowledge of my sister's whereabouts. The result would have been the same, only that the sight of these likenesses, and your expressions of affection and regret, give me a much more favourable impression of my unknown sister than I could have obtained from any other quarter."
"But if you had not got such a favourable impression you might have been satisfied with writing a kind friendly letter, offering help if she needed it, and not been so set upon having her home," said Jessie.
"No; I think under all circumstances I should have written for her. You say she is educated, but she must have been very young when her education was broken off." Mr. Derrick was ignorant of his sister's exact age and ashamed to confess his ignorance.
"She was only thirteen when her father died."
"And now she is sixteen or seventeen," said Anthony, who could work that little sum. "There is no time to be lost, I must write by the first opportunity. You know more about the Australian mails than I can be supposed to do."
"The Southampton mail has gone for this month, but the Marseilles mail closes the day after to-morrow," said George. "Would it not be better to think over it and write next month," said Jessie, who thought the matter was altogether too suddenly gone into.
"I am certain that my mind is made up," said Anthony Derrick, taking out his note-book. "You will allow me to take down the address, and as a particular favour I beg that you will let me have those two photographs to show to my sister and aunt, and afterwards to get copied for myself I wish to compare them with a miniature I have at home; the likeness is perfectly wonderful. Neither my sister Edith nor myself have any resemblance to our mother, but this is her very image. And photographs never flatter, so I suppose she is even prettier than this represents, Mrs. George."
"Oh! yes, far prettier, though it is a good likeness; but this you know is what she looks at one time—and Amy's face changes so much. She looks whiles perfectly beautiful, doesn't she, George?"
"Then I am safe not to be disappointed in her. When you write to your parents, Mrs. George, will you desire them to accept my best, thanks for their kindness to one who will soon be so dear to me; and now let me have the address; the day for the mail I cannot forget."
There was no help for it, George gave the adddress, Mr. Derrick shook hands warmly with Mrs. George Copeland, and again thanked her for her kindness, and, taking the photographs with him, returned to Stanmore, prepared to astonish his aunt and sister with his news. He had told them nothing about his previous enquiries, so that when he laid the portraits on the table they were as much surprised as he expected. Miss Derrick thought it must have been something taken of his mother, and was surprised at the good preservation of the photograph. The old rides taken at Brighton with Lady Eveline came back to her mind as she looked.
"I never saw Lady Eveline ride on such a horse as that, and I did not think that the habits were so long in the waist then; but it is a good likeness, and so is this. Is not the hat surprisingly modern, Edith ? to think of its being worn so long ago; the old fashions come round again very quickly."
"My dear aunt, this is not my mother at all," said Anthony.
"The scenery is curious, too," said Edith, "I never saw such trees as those in my life."
"There were none such at Brighton that I ever saw," said aunt Anne. "Where did you come by these likenesses of Lady Eveline, Anthony ?"
"I told you they are not likenesses of Lady Eveline at all. This is a scene in Australia, and the girl on horseback is Amy Staunton, our half—sister, Edith. The vignette shows the likeness still better." "Amy Staunton! Anthony, Australia! how came they here?" asked sister and aunt almost in a breath.
"I got them at Copeland's at Millmount; you know they have a daughter-in-law from Australia, and she knows our sister, and has these portraits. Did you ever see such a likeness?"
"It is wonderful, certainly," said Aunt Anne, " but it is a likeness that does not please me. Your poor papa suffered too much in that marriage; a selfish, worldly, unprincipled thing it was in Lady Eveline to marry him when her heart was given to another, all because your papa was rich, and then so shortly after his death to marry that Gerald Staunton in such unbecoming, such indecent haste. Your poor grandpapa felt it terribly; as for you two poor dears, whom she deserted, you were too young to feel the disgrace; but I can assure you it preyed upon me. And this is her daughter and his!"
"Let me look at her again, Anthony," said Edith. "I suppose you think her pretty."
"Beautiful, Edith, and I hear she is as good as she is beautiful. I 'am going to write to her tomorrow to invite her to return to England to live with us. Here is the address, 'To the care of Mr. Hugh Lindsay, Branxholm, South Australia.' She has been living with these good people, Mrs. George Copeland's relatives, for more than three years, and they are as fond of her as if she was their own daughter. I wish you had seen Mrs. George's face when I said I would send for Amy. I expect you to write to her as well as myself to unite with me in the invitation."
"Indeed! Anthony," said Edith, "I am not quite prepared for such a sudden step as this; let us think over it for a while."
"I think there is no time to be lost," said Anthony.
"After living apart all our lives what does it signify if we delay communication with this girl, whom I never heard of before, for a few weeks or months?" said Edith.
"Now that we know where she is, we must take some notice of her; and Mrs. George Copeland of course writes by this mail, so we must also communicate with her."
"Mrs. George Copeland, aunt. Is that the vulgar-looking woman who sat beside the old people at church, who Mrs. Harcourt says came from Botany Bay or some such place? I have no idea of bringing a sister from such society and introducing her everywhere, a sister whom I never saw, and who cares nothing about either of us. Why does not her father take care of her? It is no business of ours be take her from him"
"Her father is dead years ago, Edith. You might see by her face and air, if you were not blinded by prejudice, that this girl is not vulgar, whenever her companions may have been. Mrs, George Copeland tells me she is well educated."
"An admirable judge certainly. Mrs. Harcourt was talking about her yesterday be aunt, saying that though it appeared to be a marriage below George Copeland's rank, she seemed to be humble and discreet, and the old people were satisfied with her. And to think of fetching a, girl brought up in a style inferior to that of our own tennants to take the position of my sister, he revive all the old stories about our poor mother that people have quite forgotten, would be unjust to me, and very painful to aunt Anne"
"But it would be unjust to her and very painful to me not to do it," sold Anthony "If ever I set my heart on anything you are sure to oppose it for oppositions sake. I am very certain that Amy is far more amiable then you are, and will be more of a sister to me. You may write or not if you please, but I certainly shall despatch my letter tomorrow, She is certainly very handsome handsome; you cannot deny that. I have the best authority for believing her to be amiable. As for the people among whom she has been living, she cannot have got much harm from them in three or four years. Her father was a gentleman and a man of genius, and her mother was Lady Eveline Darlington. My mind is made up on the matter, and I shall act as I please, however disagreeable you may choose to make yourself about it. I believe it is all jealousy; you do not like the notion of a younger and prettier sister cutting you out."
If Anthony Derrick had designed to prejudice his sister against Amy he could not have taken a more successful course of action. Her mind had not been prepared for the news, as his had been, and she was naturally surprised at Anthony's rapid proceeding upon his discovery. Her habitual opposition to her brother, too, came into play; but when Anthony carefully pointed out that this unknown sister might be more loved and admired in society, as well as by himself, and attributed her objection to jealousy, he raised the very spirit which he decried.
"It is all very proper that you should wish to do something for her, but if she is comfortable with these Australian people, I don't see why you should take her away from them," said aunt Anne. "Considering all the unfortunate family circumstances connected with this girl, I think a far better plan would be to enter into correspondence with her, and discover through her letters if she is amiable and affectionate. You can invite her by-and-by, if you think it advisable. I certainly do not augur well of her character from her parentage. Lady Eveline, I grieve to say, was far from truthful, and this Mr. Staunton was a very questionable person. My dear Anthony, you may be disappointed and deceived."
"My dear aunt," said Anthony, in determination with the opposition he met with, "do you not see that it is of the greatest consequence that my sister should be taken away from the undoubtedly vulgar people with whom she is living? At her age she cannot yet have imbibed much mischief; but every month's delay is dangerous now. You speak of conducting a correspondence with Australia, as if it were with London; you have no idea of the time it takes to send letters half round the world. The girl would be old and past improvement before we could hope to know her character in that way. No, my first plan is the best and the wisest, and as it is at my expense that she will be brought and as she will look to me solely for her comfort and happiness, for I ask neither you nor Edith to do anything for her, but to write a civil letter and give her a civil reception, I think I have a right to take my own way in the matter."
"I don't think a civil letter would satisfy you," said Edith, "nothing less than a gushing welcome like your own could come up to your expectations, so I will let it alone. Write your own letter;. perhaps by the time the young lady arrives aunt and I will grow accustomed to the ' idea, and be able to satisfy you with our reception of her. If not, thank goodness we too are independent and can find another residence."
"I hope you may not have cause to regret your determination," said aunt Anne.
"I am not at all afraid," said Anthony.
"I suppose you would like us to call on this Mrs. George Copeland to thank her for her kindness to our sister," said Edith.
"No," said Anthony, shortly, "I have thanked her, and that is quite enough. I do not care to trouble you about a matter that appears to be quite personal to myself. Besides you are not to be trusted to do a gracious thing graciously."
If Jessie Copeland had heard the conversation which was held by Amy's brother and sister and their aunt, with regard to her favourite little friend, she would have regretted still more the revelations she had made. Although Mr. Derrrick's eagerness and interest had satisfied her conscience, she could not help grieving to think of what Allan would feel; but if she had thought that Edith and her aunt were not willing to welcome her, she would have felt guilty with regard to Amy too. In a worldly point of view, it was a great chance for Amy to be taken up in this way by her wealthy brother, and to live in the beautiful house of Stanmore; but then she would be lost to Allan. Husband and wife speculated on the chances of the young people having come to an understanding, and being either engaged or married. Jessie thought it unlikely, as she had had no hint on the subject, while George thought a great deal might he done in three months, when the liking was mutual and the young people constantly together. Old letters were taken out and read over with particular attention, but no conclusion could be come to.
It was a strange letter that Jessie penned to Amy on the following day—full of apologies, congratulations, hope, fear, surmises, recollections, anticipations. Amidst her bewilderment, she could not help looking forward with pleasure to seeing Amy again if she accepted her brother's invitation, and hearing the news from home more fully and minutely than could be done by letter, for surely, though Jessie saw more distinctly than the Branxholm people were likely to do the great social gap that separated the Derricks from their tenants. Amy would always feel affectionately towards her, and her great relations would not be so cruel as to prevent her from visiting at Millmount.
Mr. Derrick called early on the following day, when Jessie was in the middle of her letter, and rather confused her ideas. He was colder and stiffer to herself than on the preceding day, but he was as apparently determined to send for Amy. He asked her many questions with regard to Branxholm and her parents there, and gathered from her sincere answers all he wanted to know with regard the position and education of the family. All that he heard and saw convinced him that there should be no delay, so he wrote his letter on his return, and despatched it at once.
END OF VOL. I.