XVI. POSSESSION
Vain glorious Elf, said he, dost thou not weete That money can thy wants at will supply; Shields, steeds and armes, and all things for thee meet, It can purvey in twinkling of an eye. Spenser.
Bobus’s opinion that it would be long before anything came of this accession of wealth was for a few days verified in the eyes of the impatient family, for Christmas interfered with some of the necessary formalities; and their mother, still thinking that another will might be discovered, declared that they were not to go within the gates of Belforest till they were summoned.
At last, after Colonel Brownlow had spent a day in London, he made his appearance with a cheque-book in his hand, and the information that he and his fellow-trustee had so arranged that the heiress could open an account, and begin to enter on the fruition of the property. There were other arrangements to be made, those about the out-door servants and keepers could be settled with Richards, but she ought to remove her two sons from the foundation of the two colleges, though of course they would continue there as pupils.
“And Robert,” she said, colouring exceedingly, “if you will let me, there is a thing I wish very much--to send your John to Eton with mine. He is my godson, you know, and it would be such a pleasure to me.”
“Thank you, Caroline,” said the Colonel, after a moment’s hesitation, “Johnny is to stand at the Eton election, and I should prefer his owing his education to his own exertions rather than to any kindness.”
“Yes, yes; I understand that,” said Caroline; “but I do want you to let me do anything for any of them. I should be so grateful,” she added, imploringly, with a good deal of agitation; “please--please think of it, as if your brother were still here. You would never mind how much he did for them.”
“Yes, I should,” said the Colonel, decidedly, but pausing to collect his next sentence. “I should not accept from him what might teach my sons dependence. You see that, Caroline.”
“Yes,” she humbly said. “He would be wise about it! I don’t want to be disagreeable and oppressive, Robert; I will never try to force things on you; but please let me do all that is possible to you to allow.”
There was something touching in her incoherent earnestness, which made the Colonel smile, yet wink away some moisture from his eyes, as he again thanked her without either acceptance or refusal. Then he said he was going to Belforest, and asked whether she would not like to come and look over the place. He would go back and call for her with the pony carriage.
“But would not Ellen like to go?” she said. “I will walk with the boys.”
The Colonel demurred a little, but knowing that his wife really longed to go, and could not well be squeezed into the back seat, he gave a sort of half assent; and as he left the house, Mother Carey gave a summoning cry to gather her brood, rushed upstairs, put on what Babie called her “most every dayest old black hat;” and when Colonel and Mrs. Brownlow, with Jessie behind, drove into the park, it was to see her careering along by the short cut over the hoar-frosty grass, in the midst of seven boys, three girls, and two dogs, all in a most frisky mood of exhilaration.
Distressed at appearing to drive up like the lady of the house, her Serene Highness insisted on stopping at the iron gates of the stately approach. There she alighted, and waited to make the best setting to rights she could of the heiress’s wind-tossed hat and cloak, and would have put her into the carriage, but that no power could persuade her to mount that triumphal car, and all that could be obtained was that she should walk in the forefront of the procession with the Colonel.
There was nobody to receive them but Richards, for the servants had been paid off, and only a keeper and his wife were living in the kitchen in charge. There was a fire in the library, where the Colonel had business to transact with Richards, while the ladies and children proceeded with their explorations. It was rather awful at first in the twilight gloom of the great hall, with a painted mythological ceiling, and cold white pavement, varied by long perspective lines of black lozenges, on which every footfall echoed. The first door that they opened led into a vast and dreary dining-room, with a carpet, forming a crimson roll at one end, and long ranks of faded leathern chairs sitting in each other’s laps. At one end hung a huge picture by Snyders, of a bear hugging one dog in his forepaws and tearing open the ribs of another with his hind ones. Opposite was a wild boar impaling a hound with his tusk, and the other walls were occupied by Herodias smiling at the contents of her charger, Judith dropping the gory head into her bag, a brown St. Sebastian writhing among the arrows; and Juno extracting the painfully flesh and blood eyes of Argus to set them in her peacock’s tail.
“I object to eating my dinner in a butcher’s shop,” observed Allen.
“Yes, we must get them out of this place,” said his mother.
“They are very valuable paintings,” interposed Ellen. “I know they are in the county history. They were collected by Sir Francis Bradford, from whom the place was bought, and he was a great connoisseur.”
“Yes, they are just the horrid things great connoisseurs of the last century liked, by way of giving themselves an appetite,” said Caroline.
“Are not fine pictures always horrid?” asked Jessie, in all simplicity.
The drawing-rooms, a whole suite--antechamber, saloon, music-room, and card-room, were all swathed up in brown holland, hanging even from the picture rods along the wall. Even in the days of the most liberal housekeeper, Ellen had never done more than peep beneath. So she revelled in investigations of gilding and yellow satin, ormolu and marble, big mirrors and Sevres clocks, a three-piled carpet, and a dazzling prismatic chandelier, though all was pervaded with such a chill of unused dampness and odour of fustiness, that Caroline’s first impression was that it was a perilous place for one so lately recovered. However, Ellen believed in no danger till she came on two monstrous stains of damp on the walls, with a whole crop of curious fungi in one corner, and discovered that all the holland was flabby, and all the damask clammy! Then she enforced the instant lighting of fires, and shivered so decidedly, that Caroline and Jessie begged her to return to the fire in the library, while Jessie went in search of Rob to drive her home.
All the rest of the younger population had deserted the state apartments, and were to be heard in the distance, clattering along the passages, banging doors, bawling and shouting to each other, with freaks of such laughter as had never awakened those echoes during the Barnes’ tenure, but Jessie returned not; and her aunt, going in quest of her up a broad flight of shallow stairs, found herself in a grand gallery, with doors leading to various corridors and stairs. She called, and the tramp of the boots of youth began to descend on her, with shouts of “All right!” and downstairs flowed the troop, beginning with Jock, and ending with Armine and Babie, each with some breathless exclamation, all jumbled together--
Jock. “Oh, mother! Stunning! Lots of bats fast asleep.”
Johnny. “Rats! rats!”
Rob. “A billiard-table.”
Joe. “Mother Carey, may Pincher kill your rats?”
Armine. “One wants a clue of thread to find one’s way.”
Janet. “I’ve counted five-and-thirty bedrooms already, and that’s not all.”
Babie. “And there’s a little copper tea-kettle in each. May my dolls have one?”
Bobus. “There’s nothing else in most of them; and, my eyes! how musty they smell.”
Elvira. “I will have the room with the big red bed, with a gold crown at the top.”
Allen. “Mother, it will be a magnificent place, but it must have a vast deal done to it.”
But Mother Carey was only looking for Jessie. No one had seen her. Janet suggested that she had taken a rat for a ghost, and they began to look and call in all quarters, till at last she appeared, looking rather white and scared at having lost herself, being bewildered by the voices and steps echoing here, there, and everywhere. The barrenness and uniformity did make it very easy to get lost, for even while they were talking, Joe was heard roaring to know where they were, nor would he stand still till they came up with him, but confused them and himself by running to meet them by some deluding stair.
“We’ve not got a house, but a Cretan labyrinth,” said Babie.
“Or the bewitched castle mother told us of,” said Allen, “where everybody was always running round after everybody.”
“You’ve only to have a grain of sense,” said Bobus, who had at last recovered Joe, and proceeded to give them a lecture on the two main arteries, and the passages communicating with them, so that they might always be able to recover their bearings.
They were more sober after that. Rob drove his mother home, and the Colonel made the round to inspect the dilapidations, and estimate what was wanting. The great house had never been thoroughly furnished since the Bradfords had sold it, and it was, besides, in manifest need of repair. Damp corners, and piles of crumbled plaster told their own tale. A builder must be sent to survey it, and on the most sanguine computation, it could hardly be made habitable till the end of the autumn.
Meantime, Caroline must remain a tenant of the Pagoda, though, as she told the eager Janet, this did not prevent a stay in London for the sake of the classes and the society, of whom she was always talking, only there must be time to see their way.
The next proposition gave universal satisfaction, Mother Carey would take her whole brood to London for a day, to make purchases, the three elder children each with five pounds, the younger with two pounds a-piece. She actually wanted to take two-thirds of those from Kencroft also, with the same bounty in their pockets, but to this their parents absolutely refused consent. To go about London with a train of seven was bad enough; but that was her own affair, and they could not prevent it; and they absolutely would not swell the number to thirteen. It would be ridiculous; she would want an omnibus to go about in.
“I did not mean all to go about together. The elder boys will go their own way.”
But, as the Colonel observed, that was all very well for boys, whose home had always been in London, but she would find his country lads much in her way. She then reduced her demand by a third, for she really wished for Johnny; but the Colonel’s principles would not allow him to accept so great an indulgence for Rob.
That unlucky fellow had, of course, failed in his examination, and this had renewed the Colonel’s resentment at his laziness and shuffling. He was, however, improved by contact with strangers, looked and behaved less bearishly, and had acquired a will to do better. Still, it was not possible to regret his absence, except because it involved that of his brother; and, with a great effort, and many assurances of her being really needed, Jessie’s company was secured.
Never was the taste of wealth sweeter than in that over-filled railway carriage, before it was light on the winter morning, with a vista of endless possibilities contained in those crackling notes and round gold pieces, Jessie being, of course, as well off as the rest, and feeling the novelty and wonder even more.
Mrs. Acton’s house was to be the place of rendezvous, and she would take charge of the girls for part of the day, the boys wished to shift for themselves; and Allen and Bobus had friends of their own with whom they meant to lunch.
Clara met her friend with an agitated manner, half-laughing, half-crying, as she said--
“Well, Mother Carey dear, you haven’t quite soared above us yet?”
“Petrels never take high flights,” said Carey; “I hope and trust that it may prove impossible to make a fine lady of me. I am caught late, you see.”
“Your daughters are not. You won’t like to have them making excuses for mamma’s friends.”
“Janet’s exclusiveness will not be of that sort, and for warm-hearted little Babie, trust her. Do you know where the Ogilvies can be written to, Clara? Are they at Rome, or Florence?”
“They were to be at Florence by the 14th. Mary has learnt to be such a traveller, that she always drags her brother abroad for however short a time St. Kenelm may give her.”
“I hope I shall catch her in time. We want her for our governess.”
“Now, really, Carey, you are a woman for old friends! But do you think you will get on? You know she won’t spare you.”
“That’s the very reason I want her.”
“It is very generous of you! You always were the best little thing in the world, with a strong turn for being under the lash; so you’re going to keep the slave in the back of your triumphal chariot, like the Roman general.”
“I see, you’re afraid she will teach me to be too proper behaved for you.”
“Precisely so, after her experience of Russian countesses. I don’t know whether she will let you be mistress of your own house.”
“She will make me mistress all the more,” said Caroline; “for she will make me all the more ‘queen o’er myself.’”
Then began the shopping, such shopping extraordinary as none of the family had ever enjoyed except in dreams; and when it was the object of everybody to conceal their purchases from everybody else. Caroline contrived to make time for a quiet luncheon with Dr. and Mrs. Lucas, to which she took her two youngest boys, since Jock was the godson of the house, and had moreover been shaken off by his two elder brothers. Happily he was too good-tempered to grumble at being thrown over, and his mind was in a beatific state of contemplation of his newly-purchased treasures, a small pistol, a fifteen-bladed knife, and a box of miscellaneous sweets, although his mother had so far succumbed to the weakness of her sex as to prevent the weapon from being accompanied by any ammunition.
As to Armine, she wanted to consult Dr. Lucas about the fragile looks and liability to cold that had alarmed her ever since Rob’s exploit. Besides, he was so unlike the others! Had she not seen him quietly make his way into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Lucas kept a box for the Children’s Hospital, and drop into it two bright florins, one of which she had seen Babie hand over to him?
“I do think it is not canny,” she said, as if it had been one of his symptoms.
“Do you want me to prescribe for it?”
“I did try one prescription for having too big a soul; I turned my poor little boy loose into school, and there they half killed him for me, and made the original complaint worse.”
“Happily no prescription, ‘neither life, nor death, nor any other creature,’ can cure that complaint,” said the good old doctor, “though, alas! it is only too apt to dry up from within.”
“Still I can’t help feeling it rather awful to have to do with a being so spiritual as that, and it appears to me to increase on him, so that he never seems quite to belong to me. And precocity is a dangerous sign, is it not?”
“I see,” said the doctor, smiling; “you are going to be a treasure to the faculty, and indulge in anxieties and consultations.”
“Now, Dr. Lucas, you know that we were always anxious about Armine. You remember his father said he needed more care than the rest.”
Dr. Lucas allowed that this was true; but he only recommended flannel, pale ale, moderation in study, and time to recover the effects of the pump.
Both the good old friends were very kind and full of tender congratulation, mingled with a little anxiety, though they were pleased with her good taste and simplicity and absence of all elation. But then she had hardly realised the new position, and seemed to look neither behind nor before. Her only scheme seemed to be to take a house in London for a few months, and then perhaps to go abroad, but of this she could not talk in those old scenes which vividly brought back that castle in the air, never fulfilled, of a holiday in Switzerland with Joe.
On leaving the Lucases, she sent her boys on before her to the nearest bazaar, and was soon at her old home. Kind Mrs. Drake effaced herself as much as possible, and let her roam about the house alone, but furniture had altered every room, so that no responsive chord was touched till she came to the study, which was little changed. There she shut herself in and strove to recall the touch of the hand that was gone, the sound of the voice that was still. She stood, where she had been wont to stand over her husband, when he had been busy at his table and she had run down with some inquiry, and with a yearning ache of heart she clasped her hands, and almost breathed out the words, “O Joe, Joe, dear father! Oh! for one moment of you to tell me what to do, and how to keep true to the charge you gave me--your Magnum Bonum!”
So absolutely had she asked the question, that she waited, almost expecting a reply, but there was no voice and none to answer her; and she was turning away with a sickening sense of mockery at her own folly in seeking the empty shrine whence the oracle of her life had departed, when her eye fell on the engraving over the mantel-piece. It was the one thing for which Mr. Drake had begged as a memorial of Joe Brownlow, and it still hung in its old place. It was of the Great Physician, consoling and healing all around--the sick, the captive, the self-tormenting genius, the fatherless, the widow.
Was this the answer? Something darted through her mind like a pang followed by a strange throb--“Give yourself up to Him. Seek the true good first. The other may lie on its way.”
But it was only a pang. The only too-natural recoil came the next minute. Was not she as religious as there was any need to be, or at least as she could be without alienating her children or affecting more than she felt? Give herself to Him? How? Did that mean a great deal of church-going, sermon-reading, cottage visiting, prayers, meditations, and avoidance of pleasure? That would never do; the boys would not bear it, and Janet would be alienated; besides, it would be hypocrisy in one who could not sit still and think, or attend to anything lengthy and wearisome.
So, as a kind of compromise, she looked at the photograph which hung below, and to it she almost spoke out her answer. “Yes, I’ll be very good, and give away lots of things. Mary Ogilvie shall come and keep me in order, and she won’t let me be naughty, if I ever want to be naughty when I get away from Ellen. Then Magnum Bonum shall have its turn too. Don’t be afraid, dearest. If Allen does not take to it now, I am sure Bobus will be a great chemical discoverer, able to give all his time and spare no expense, and then we will fit up this dear old house for a hospital for very poor people. That’s what you would have done if you had been here! Oh, if this money had only come in time! But here are these horrid tears! If I once begin crying I shall be good for nothing. If I don’t go at once, there’s no saying what Jock mayn’t have bought.”
She was just in time to find Jock asking the price of all the animals in the Pantheon Bazaar, and expecting her to supply the cost of a vicious-looking monkey. The whole flock collected in due time at the station, and so did their parcels. Allen brought with him his chief purchase, the most lovely toy-terrier in the world, whom he presented on the spot to Elvira, and who divided the journey between licking himself and devouring the fragments of biscuit with which Jock supplied him. Allen had also bought a beautiful statuette for himself, and a set of studs. Janet had set herself up with a case of mathematical instruments and various books; Bobus’s purchases were divers chemical appliances and a pocket microscope, also what he thrust into Jessie’s lap and she presently proclaimed to be a lovely little work-case; Jessie herself was hugging a parcel, which turned out to contain warm pelisses for the two nursery boys just above the baby. For the adaptation of their seniors’ last year’s garments had not proved so successful as not to have much grieved the good girl and her mother.
Elvira’s money had all gone into an accordion, and a necklace of large blue beads.
“Didn’t you get anything for your grandfather or your cousins?” said Caroline.
“I wanted it all,” said Elfie; “and you only gave me two sovereigns, or I would have had the bracelets too.”
“Never mind, Elfie,” cried Babie, “I’ve got something for Mr. Gould and for Kate and Mary.”
“Have you, Babie? So have I,” returned Armine; and the two, who had been wedged into one seat, began a whispering conversation, by which the listeners might have learnt that there was a friendly rivalry as to which had made the two pounds provide the largest possible number of presents. Neither had bought anything for self, for the chest of drawers, bath, and broom were for Babie’s precious dolls, not for herself. Mother Carey, uncle and aunt, brothers, sisters, cousins, servants, Mr. Gould, the gardener’s grandson, the old apple-woman, “the little thin girls,” had all been provided for at that wonderful German Bazaar, and the only regret was that gifts for Mr. Ogilvie and Alfred Richards could not be brought within the powers of even two pounds. What had Mother Carey bought? Ah! Nobody was to know till Twelfth-day, and then the first tree cut at Belforest would be a Christmas-tree. Then came a few regrets that everybody had proclaimed their purchases, and therewith people began to grow weary and drop asleep. It was by gaslight that they arrived at home and bundled into the flys that awaited them, and then in the hall at home came Elvira’s cry--
“Where’s my doggie, my Chico?”
“Here; I took him out,” said Jock.
“That’s not Chico; that’s a nasty, horrid, yellow cur. Chico was black. You naughty boy, Jock, you’ve been and changed my dog.”
“Has Midas changed him to gold?” cried Babie.
“Ah,” said Bobus, meaningly.
“You’ve done it then, Bobus! You’ve put something to him.”
“I haven’t,” said Bobus, “but he’s been licking himself all the way home. Well, we all know green is the sacred colour of the Grand Turk.”
“No! You don’t mean it!” said Allen, catching up the dog and holding him to the lamp, while Janet observed that he was a sort of chameleon, for his body, which had been black, was now yellow, and his chops which had been tan, had become black.
Elvira began to cry angrily, still uncomprehending, and fancying Bobus and Jock had played her a trick and changed her dog; Allen abused the horrid little brute, and the more horrid man who had deceived him; and Armine began pitying and caressing him, seriously distressed lest the poor little beast should have poisoned himself. Caroline herself expected to have heard that he was dead the next morning, and would have felt more compassion than regret; but, to her surprise and Allen’s chagrin, Chico made his appearance, very rhubarb-coloured and perfectly well.
“I think,” said Elvira, “I will give Chico to grandpapa, for a nice London present.”
Everybody burst out laughing at this piece of generosity, and though the young lady never quite understood what amused them, and Allen heartily wished Chico among the army of dogs at River Hollow, he did somehow or other remain at the Folly, and, after the fashion of dogs, adopted Jock as the special object of his devotion.
Ellen came in, expecting to regale her eyes with the newest fashions. Or were they all coming down from the dressmaker?
“I had no time to be worried with dressmakers,” said Caroline.
“I thought you went there while the girls were going about with Mrs. Acton.”
“Indeed no. I had just got my new bonnet for the winter.”
“But!”
“And indeed, I have not inherited any more heads.”
Ellen sighed at the impracticability of her sister-in-law and the blindness of fortune. But nobody could sigh long in the face of that Twelfth-day Christmas-tree. What need be said of it but that each member of the house of Brownlow, and each of its dependents, obtained the very thing that the bright-eyed fairy of the family had guessed would be most acceptable.
XVII. POPINJAY PARLOUR
Happiest of all, in that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed. Merchant of Venice.
“It is our melancholy duty to record the demise of James Barnes, Esq., which took place at his residence at Belforest Park, near Kenminster, on the 20th of December. The lamented gentleman had long been in failing health, and an attack of paralysis, which took place on the 19th, terminated fatally. The vast property which the deceased had accumulated, chiefly by steamboat and railway speculations in the West Indies, rendered him one of the richest proprietors in the county. We understand that the entire fortune is bequeathed solely to his grand-niece, Mrs. Caroline Otway Brownlow, widow of the late Joseph Brownlow, Esq., and at present resident in the Pagoda, Kenminster Hill. Her eldest son, Allen Brownlow, Esq., is being educated at Eton.”
That was the paragraph which David Ogilvie placed before the eyes of his sister in a newspaper lent to him in the train by a courteous fellow-traveller.
“Poor Caroline!” said Mary.
They said no more till the next day, when, after the English service at Florence, they were strolling together towards San Miniato, and feeling themselves entirely alone.
“I wonder whether this is true,” began Mary at last.
“Why not true?”
“I thought Mr. Barnes had threatened the boys that they should remember the Midas escapade.”
“It must have been only a threat. It could only lie between her and the Spanish child; and, if report be true, even the half would be an enormous fortune.”
“Will it be fortune or misfortune, I wonder?”
“At any rate, it puts an end to my chances of being of any service to her. Be it the half or the whole, she is equally beyond my reach.”
“As she was before.”
“Don’t misinterpret me, Mary. I mean out of reach of helping her in any way. I was of little use to her before. I could not save little Armine from those brutal bullies, and never suspected the abuse that engulphed Bobus. I am not fit for a schoolmaster.”
“To tell the truth, I doubt whether you have enough high spirits or geniality.”
“That’s the very thing! I can’t get into the boys, or prevent their thinking me a Don. I had hoped there was improvement, but the revelations of the half-year have convinced me that I knew just nothing at all about it.”
“Have you thought what you will do?”
“As soon as I get home, I shall send in my notice of resignation at Midsummer. That will see out her last boy, if he stays even so long.”
“And then?”
“I shall go for a year to a theological college, and test my fitness to offer myself for Holy Orders.”
A look of satisfaction on his sister’s part made him add, “Perhaps you were disappointed that I was not ordained on my fellowship seven years ago.”
“Certainly I was; but I was in Russia, and I thought you knew best, so I said nothing.”
“You were right. You would only have heard what would have made you anxious. Not that there was much to alarm you, but it is not good for any one to be left so entirely without home influences as I was all the time you spent abroad. I fell among a set of daring talkers, who thought themselves daring thinkers; and though the foundations were never disturbed with me, I was not disposed to bind myself more closely to what might not bear investigation, and I did not like the aspect of clerical squabbles on minutiae. There was a tide against the life that carried me along with it, half from sound, half from unsound, motives, and I shrank from the restraint, outward and inward.”
“Very likely it was wise, and the best thing in the end. But what has brought you to it?”
“I hope not as the resource of a shelved schoolmaster.”
“Oh, no; you are not shelved. See how you have improved the school. Look at the numbers.”
“That is no test of my real influence over the boys. I teach them, I keep them in external order, but I do not get into them. The religious life is at a low ebb.”
“No wonder, with that vicar; but you have done your best.”
“Even if my attempts are a layman’s best, they always get quenched by the cold water of the Rigby element. It is hard for boys to feel the reality of what is treated with such business-like indifference, and set forth so feebly, not to say absurdly.”
“I know. It is a terrible disadvantage.”
“Listening to Rigby, has, I must say, done a good deal to bring about my present intention.”
“By force of contradiction.”
“If that means of longing to be in his place and put the thing as it ought to be put.”
“It is a contradiction in which I most sincerely rejoice, David,” she said; “one of the wishes of my heart fulfilled when I had given it up.”
“You do not know that it will be fulfilled.”
“I think it will, though you are right to take time, in case the decision should be partly due to disappointment.”
“If there can be disappointment where hope has never existed. But if a man finds he can’t have his great good, it may make him look for the greater.”
Mary sighed a mute and thankful acquiescence.
“The worst of it is about you, Mary. It is throwing you over just as you were coming to make me a home.”
“Never mind, Davie. It is only deferred, and at any rate we can keep together till Midsummer. Then I can go out again for a year or two, and perhaps you will settle somewhere where the curate’s sister could get a daily engagement.”
The next day they found the following letter at the post office:--
“The Folly, Jan. 3rd.
“My Dear Mary,--I suppose you may have attained the blessed realms that lie beyond the borders of Gossip, and may not have heard the nine days’ wonder that Belforest had descended on the Folly, and that poor old Mr. Barnes has left his whole property to me. My dear, it would be something awful even if he had done his duty and halved it between Elvira and me, and he has ingeniously tied it up with trustees so as to make restitution impossible. As it is, my income will be not less than forty thousand pounds a year, and when divided among the children they will all be richer than perhaps is good for them.
“And now, my dear old dragon, will you come and keep me in order under the title of governess to Barbara and Elvira? For, of course, the child will go on living with us, and will have it made up to her as far as possible. You know that I shall do all manner of foolish things, but I think they will be rather fewer if you will only come and take me in hand. My trustees are the Colonel and an old solicitor, and will both look after the estate; but as for the rest, all that the Colonel can say is, that it is a frightful responsibility, and her Serene Highness is awe-struck. I could not have conceived that such a thing could have made so much difference in so really good a woman. Now I don’t think you will be subject to gold dust in the eyes, and, I believe, you will still see the same little wild goose, or stormy petrel, that you used to bully at Bath, and will be even more willing to perform the process. As I should have begun by saying, on the very first evening Babie showed her sense by proposing you as governess, and you were unanimously elected in full and free parliament. It really was the child’s own thought and proposal, and what I want is to have those two children made wiser and better than I can make them, as well as that you should be the dear comrade and friend I need more than ever. You will see more of your brother than you could otherwise, for Belforest will be our chief home, and I need not say how welcome he will always be there. It is not habitable at present, so I mean to stay on in the Folly till Easter, and then give Janet the London lectures and classes she has been raving for these two years, and take Jessie also for music lessons, if she can be spared.
“I’m afraid it is a come down for a finisher like you to condescend to my little Babie, but she is really worth teaching, and I would say, make your own terms, but that I am afraid you would not ask enough. Please let it be one hundred and fifty pounds, there’s a good Mary! I think you would come if you knew what a relief it would be. Ever since that terrible August, two years and a half ago, I have felt as if I were drifting in an endless mist, with all the children depending on me, and nobody to take my hand and lead me. You are one of the straws I grasp at. Not very complimentary after all, but when I thought of the strong, warm, guiding hands that are gone, I could not put it otherwise. Do, Mary, come, I do need you so.
“Your affectionate
“C. O. BROWNLOW.”
“May I see it?” asked David.
“If you will; but I don’t think it will do you any good. My poor Carey!”
“Few women would have written such a letter in all the first flush of wealth.”
“No; there’s great sweetness and humility and generosity in it, dear child.”
“It changes the face of affairs.”
“I’m engaged to you.”
“Nonsense! As if that would stand in the way. Besides, she will be at Kenminster till Easter. You are not hesitating, Mary?”
“I don’t think I am, and yet I believe I ought to do so.”
“You are not imagining that I--”
“I was not thinking of you; but I am not certain that it would not be better for our old friendship if I did not accept the part poor Carey proposes to me. I might make myself more disagreeable than could be endured by forty thousand a year.”
“You do yourself and her equal injustice.”
“I shall settle nothing till I have seen her.”
“Then you will be fixed,” he said, in a tone of conviction.
So she expected, though believing that it would be the ruin of her pleasant old friendship. Her nineteen years of governess-ship had shown her more of the shady side of high life than was known to her brother or her friend. She knew that, whatever the owner may be at the outset, it is the tendency of wealth and power to lead to arbitrariness and impatience of contradiction and censure, and to exact approval and adulation. Even if Caroline Brownlow’s own nature should, at five-and-thirty, be too much confirmed in sweetness and generosity to succumb to such temptation, her children would only too probably resent any counter-influence, and set themselves against their mother’s friend, and guide, under the title of governess. Moreover, Mary was too clear-sighted not to feel that there was a lack in the Brownlow household of what alone could give her confidence in the charming qualities of its mistress. Yet she knew that her brother would never forgive her for refusing, and that she should hardly forgive herself for following--not so much her better, as her more prudent, judgment. For she was infinitely touched and attracted by that warmhearted letter, and could not bear to meet it with a refusal. She hoped, for a time at least, to be a comfort, and to make suggestions, with some chance of being attended to. Such aid seemed due from the old friendship at whatever peril thereto, and she would leave her final answer till she should see whether her friend’s letter had been written only on the impulse of the moment, and half retracted immediately after.
The brother and sister crossed the Channel at night, and arrived at Kenminster at noon, on a miserably wet day. At the station they were met by Jock and a little yellow dog. His salutation, as he capped his master, was--
“Please, mother sent me up to see if you were come by this train, because if you’d come to early dinner, she would be glad, because there’s a builder or somebody coming with Uncle Robert about the repairs afterwards. Mother sent the carriage because of the rain. I say, isn’t it jolly cats and dogs?”
Mary was an old traveller, who could sleep anywhere, and had made her toilet on landing, so as to be fresh and ready; but David was yellow and languid enough to add force to his virtuous resolution to take no advantage of the invitation, but leave his sister to settle her affairs her own way, thinking perhaps she might trust his future discretion the more for his present abstinence, so he went off in the omnibus. Jock, with the unfailing courtesy of the Brood, handed Miss Ogilvie into a large closed waggonette, explaining, “We have this for the present, and a couple of job horses; but Uncle Robert is looking out for some real good ones, and ponies for all of us. I am going over with him to Woolmarston to-morrow to try some.”
It was said rather magnificently, and Mary answered, “You must be glad to get back into the Belforest grounds.”
“Ain’t we? It was just in time for the skating,” said Jock. “Only the worst of it is, everybody will come to the lake, and so mother won’t learn to skate. We thought we had found a jolly little place in the wood, where we could have had some fun with her, but they found it out, though we halloed as loud as ever we could to keep them off.”
“Can your mother skate?”
“No, you see she never had a chance at home. Father was so busy, and we were so little; but she’d learn. Mother Carey can learn anything, if one could hinder her Serene Highness from pitching into her. I say, Miss Ogilvie, you’ll give her leave to skate, won’t you?” he asked in an insinuating tone.
“I give her leave!”
“She always says she’ll ask you when we want her to be jolly and not mind her Serene Highness.”
Mary avoided pledging herself, and Jock’s attention was diverted to the dog, who was rising on his hind legs, vainly trying to look out of the window; and his history, told with great gusto by Jock, lasted till they reached home.
The drawing-room was full of girls about their lessons as usual--sums, exercises, music, and grammar all going on at once! but Caroline put an end to them, and sent the Kencroft party home at once in the carriage.
“So you have not dropped the old trade?” said Mary.
“I couldn’t. Ellen is not strong enough yet to have the children on her hands all day. I said I’d be responsible for them till Easter, and I dare say you won’t mind helping me through it as the beginning of everything. Will you condescend? You know I want to be your pupil too.”
“You can be no one’s pupil but your own, my dear! no one’s on earth, I mean.”
“Oh, don’t! I know that, Mary. I’m trying and trying to be their pupil still. Indeed I am! It makes me patient of Robert, and his fearful responsibility, and his good little sister, to know that my husband always thought him right, and meant him to look after me. But as one lives on, those dear voices seem to get farther and farther away, as if one was drifting more out of reach in the fog. I do hate myself for it, but I can’t help it.”
“Is there not a voice that can never go out of reach, and that brings you nearer to them?”
“You dear old Piety, Prudence, and Charity all in one! That is if you have the charity to come and infuse a little of your piety and prudence into me. You know you could always make me mind you, and you’ll make me--what is it that Mrs. Coffinkey says?--a credit to my position before you’ve done. I’ve had your room got ready; won’t you come and take off your things?”
“I think, if you don’t object, I had better sleep at the schoolhouse, and come up here after David’s breakfast.”
“Very well; I won’t try to rob him of you more than can be helped. Though you know he would be welcome here every evening if he liked.”
“Thank you very much, I can help him more at home; but I’ll come for the whole day, for I am sure you must have a great deal on your hands.”
“Well! I’ve almost as many classes as pupils, and then there are so many interruptions. The Colonel is always bringing something to be signed, and then people will come and offer themselves, though I’m sure I never asked them. Yesterday there was a stupendous butler and house-steward who could also act as courier, and would do himself the honour of arranging my household in a truly ducal style. Just as I got rid of him, came a man with a future history of the landed gentry in quest of my coat of arms and genealogy, also three wine merchants, a landscape gardener, and a woman with a pitcher of goldfish. Emma is so soft she thinks everybody is a gentleman. I am trying to get the good old man-servant we had in our old home to come and defend me; not that he is old, for he was a boy whom Joe trained. Oh Mary, the bewilderment of it!” and she pushed back the little stray curly rings of hair on her forehead, while a peal at the bell was heard and a card was brought in. “Oh! Emma! don’t bring me any more! Is it a gentleman?”
“Y--es, ma’am. Leastways it is a clergyman.”
The clergyman turned out to be a Dissenting minister seeking subscriptions, and he was sent off with a sovereign.
“I know it was very weak,” she said; “but it was the only way to stop his mouth, and I must have time to talk to you, so don’t begin your mission by scolding me.”
Terms were settled; Mary would remain at the schoolhouse, but daily come to the Pagoda till the removal to London, when her residence was to begin in earnest.
She took up her line from the first as governess, dropping her friend’s Christian name, and causing her pupils to address herself as Miss Ogilvie, a formality which was evidently approved by Mrs. Robert Brownlow, and likewise by Janet.
That young lady was wonderfully improved by prosperity. She had lost her caustic manner and air of defiance, so that her cleverness and originality made her amusing instead of disagreeable. She piqued herself on taking her good fortune sensibly, and, though fully seventeen, professed not to know or care whether she was out or not, but threw herself into hard study, with a view to her classes, and gladly availed herself of Miss Ogilvie’s knowledge of foreign languages.
Mrs. Coffinkey supposed that she would be presented at court with her dear mamma; but she laughed at courts and ceremonies, and her mother said that the first presentation in the family would be of Allen’s wife when he was a member of parliament. But Janet was no longer at war with Kenminster. She laughed good-humouredly, and was not always struggling for self-assertion, since the humiliations of going about as the poor, plain cousin of the pretty Miss Brownlow were over. Now that she was the rich Miss Brownlow, she was not likely to feel that she was the plain one.
The sense of exile was over when the house in London was taken, and so Janet could afford to be kind to Kenminster; and she was like the Janet of old times, without her slough of captious disdain. Even then there was a sense that the girl was not fathomed; she never seemed to pour out her inner self, but only to talk from the surface, and certainly not to have any full confidence with her mother--nay, rather to hold her cheap.
Mary Ogilvie detected this disloyal spirit, and was at a loss whether to ascribe it to modern hatred of control, to the fact that Caroline had been in her old home more like the favourite child than the mother, or to her own eager naturalness of demeanour, and total lack of assumption. She was anything but weak, yet she could not be dignified, and was quite ready to laugh at herself with her children. Janet could hardly be overawed by a mother who had been challenged by her own gamekeeper creeping down a ditch, with the two Johns, to see a wild duck on her nest, and with her hat half off, and her hair disordered by the bushes.
The “Folly” laughed till its sides ached at the adventure, and Caroline asked Mary if she were not longing to scold her.
“No, I think you will soon grow more cautious about getting into ridiculous positions.”
“Isn’t laughing a wholesome pastime?”
“Not when it is at those who ought to be looked up to.”
“Oh! I’m not made to be looked up to. I’m not going to be a hero to my valet de chambre, or to anybody else, my dear, if that’s what you want of me!”
Mary secretly hoped that a little more dignity would come in the London life, and was relieved when the time came for the move. The new abode was a charming house, with the park behind it, and the space between nearly all glass. Great ferns, tall citrons, fragrant shrubs, brilliant flowers, grew there; a stone-lined pool, with water-lilies above, gold-fish below, and a cool, sparkling, babbling fountain in the middle. There was an open space round it, with low chairs and tables, and the parrot on her perch. Indeed, Popinjay Parlour was the family title of this delightful abode; but it might almost as well have been called Mother Carey’s bower. Here, after an audience with the housekeeper, who was even more overpowering than her Serene Highness, would Caroline retreat to write notes, keep accounts, and hear Armine’s lessons, secure before luncheon from all unnecessary interruption; and here was her special afternoon and evening court.
This first summer she was free to take her own course as to society, for Janet cared for the Cambridge examination far more than for gaiety, and thus she had no call, and no heart for “going out,” even if she had as yet been more known. Some morning calls were exchanged, but she sent refusals on mourning cards to invitations to evening parties, though she took her young people to plays, concerts, and operas, and all that was pleasant. Her young people included Jessie. Colonel and Mrs. Brownlow made her a visit as soon as she was settled, and were so much edified by the absence of display and extravagance, that they did not scruple to trust their daughter to her for the long-desired music-lessons.
Caroline had indeed made no attempt to win her way into the great world; but she had brought together as much as possible of the old society of her former home. On two evenings in the week, the habitues of Joe Brownlow’s house were secure of finding her either in the drawing-room or conservatory; beautiful things, and new books and papers on the tables, good music on the piano, sometimes acted charades, or paper games, according to the humour or taste of the party. If she had been a beautiful duchess, Popinjay Parlour would have been a sort of salon bleu; but it was really a kind of paradise to a good many clever, hardworked men and women. Those of the upper world, such as Kenminster county folks, old acquaintances of her husband, or natural adherents of Midas, who found their way to these receptions, either thought them odd but charming, or else regretted that Mrs. Brownlow should get such queer people together, and turn Hyde Corner House into another Folly.
Mary Ogilvie enjoyed, but not without misgivings. It was delightful, and yet, what with Joe Brownlow and his mother had been guarded, might become less safe with no leader older or of more weight than Carey, who could easily be carried along by what they would have checked. The older and more intimate friends always acted as a wholesome restraint; but when they were not present there was sometimes a tone that jarred on the reverent ear, or dealt with life and its mysteries in a sneering, mocking style. This was chiefly among new-comers, introduced by former acquaintances, and it never went far; but Mary was distressed by seeing Janet’s relish for such conversation. Nita Ray was the chief female offender in this way, and this was the more unfortunate as Sunday was her only free day.
Those Sundays vexed Mary’s secret soul. No one interfered with her way of spending them; but that was the very cause of misgiving. Everybody went to Church in the morning, but just where, and as, they pleased, meeting at luncheon, with odd anecdotes of their adventures, and criticisms of music or of sermons. It was an easy-going meal, lasting long, and haunted by many acquaintances, for whose sake the table was always at its full length, and spread with varieties of delicacies that would endure waiting.
People dropped in, helped themselves, ate and drank, and then adjourned to Popinjay Parlour, where the afternoon was spent in an easy-going, loitering way, more like a foreign than an English Sunday. Miss Ogilvie used to go to the Litany at one of the Churches near; Armine always came with her, and often brought Babie, and Jessie came too, as soon as that good girl had swallowed the fact that the Litany could stand alone.
Janet was apt to be walking with Nita, or else in some eager and amusing conversation in the conservatory; and as to Elvira, she was the prettiest, most amusing plaything that Mrs. Brownlow’s house afforded, a great favourite, and a continual study to the artist friends. Mary used to find her chattering, coquetting, and romping on coming in to the afternoon tea, which she would fain have herself missed; but that her absence gave pain, and as much offence as one so kind as Mrs. Brownlow could take.
Carey argued that most of her guests were people who seldom had leisure to enjoy rest, conversation, and variety of pretty things, and that it would be mere Puritan crabbedness to deny them the pleasures of Popinjay Parlour on the only day they could be happy there. It was not easy to answer the argument, though the strong feeling remained that it was not keeping Sunday as the true Lord’s Day. While abstinence from such enjoyments created mere negative dulness, there must be something wrong.
Otherwise, Mary was on the happiest terms, made her own laws and duties, and was treated like a sister by Caroline, while the children were heartily fond of her, all except Elvira, who made a fierce struggle against her authority, and then, finding that it was all in vain, conformed as far as her innate idleness and excitability permitted.
She behaved better to Miss Ogilvie than to Janet, with whom she kept up a perpetual petty warfare, sometimes, Mary thought, with the pertinacity of a spiteful elf, making a noise when Janet wanted quiet, losing no opportunity of upsetting her books or papers, and laughing boisterously at any little mishap that befell her. The only reason she ever gave when pushed hard, was that “Janet was so ugly, she could not help it,” a reason so utterly ridiculous, that there was no going any further.
Janet, on the whole, behaved much better under the annoyance than could have been expected. She entered enough into the state of affairs to see that the troublesome child could hardly be expelled, and she was too happy and too much amused to care much about the annoyance. There was magnanimity enough about her not to mind midge bites, and certainly this summer was exceptionally delightful with all the pleasures of wealth, and very few of its drawbacks.
By the time the holidays were coming round, Belforest was not half habitable, and they had to return to the Pagoda. A tenant had been found for it, and such of the old furniture as was too precious to be parted with was to be removed to Belforest. Things were sufficiently advanced there for the rooms to be chosen, and orders given as to the decoration and furniture, and then, gathering up her sons, Caroline meant to start for the Rhine, Switzerland, and Italy. Old nurse was settled in a small pair of rooms, with Emma to wait on her, and promises from Jessie to attend to her comforts; but the old woman had failed so much in their absence, and had fretted so much after “Mrs. Joseph” and the children, that it was hard to leave her again.
Everything that good taste and wealth could do to make a place delightful was at work. The “butcher’s shop” was relegated to a dim corner of the gallery, and its place supplied from the brushes of the artists whom Caroline viewed with loving respect; the drawing-room was renovated, a forlorn old library resuscitated into vigorous life, a museum fitted with shelves, drawers, and glass cases which Caroline said would be as dangerous to the vigorous spirit of natural history as new clothes to a Brownie, and a billiard and gun room were ceded to the representations of Allen, who comported himself as befitted the son and heir.
Caroline would not part with her room-mate, little Barbara, and was to have for herself a charming bedroom and dressing-room, with a balcony and parapet overlooking the garden and park, and a tiny room besides, for Babie to call her own.
Janet chose the apartments which had been Mr. Barnes’, and which being in the oldest part of the house, and wainscoted with dark oak, she could take possession of at once. There was one room down stairs with very ugly caryatides, supporting the wooden mantelpiece, and dividing the panels, one of which had a secret door leading by an odd little stair to the bedroom above--that in which Mr. Barnes had died.
It had of course another door opening into the corridor, and it was on these rooms that Janet set her affections. To the general surprise, Elvira declared that this was the very room she had chosen, with the red velvet curtains and gold crown, the day they went over the house, and that Mother Carey had promised it to her, and she would have it.
No one could remember any such promise, and the curtains of crimson moreen did not answer Elfie’s description; but she would not be denied, and actually put all her possessions into the room.
Janet, without a word, quietly turned them out into the passage, and Elfie flew into one of those furious kicking and screaming passions which always ended in her being sent to bed. Caroline felt quite shaken by it, but stood firm, though, as she said, it went to her heart to deny the child who ought to have had equal shares with herself, and she would have been thankful if Janet would have given way.
Of this, however, Janet had no thoughts, strong in the conviction that the child could not make the same reasonable use of the fittings of the room as she could herself, and by no means disposed not “to seek her own.”
She had numerous papers, notes of lectures, returned essays from her society, and the like to dispose of, and she rejoiced in placing them in the compartments of the great bureau, in the lower room. The lawyers had cleared all before her, and the space was delightful. All personals must have been carried off by the servants as perquisites, for she found no traces of the former occupant till she came to a little bed-side table. The drawer was not locked, but did not open without difficulty, being choked with notes and letters in envelopes, directed to J. Barnes, Esquire. This perhaps accounted for the drawer not having been observed and emptied. Janet shook the contents out into a basket, and was going to take them to her uncle, but thought it could do no harm first to see whether there were anything curious or interesting in them.
Several were receipted bills; but then she came to her mother’s handwriting, and read her conciliatory note, which whetted her curiosity; and looking further she got some amusement out of the polite notes and offers of service, claims to old family friendship, and congratulations which had greeted Mr. Barnes, and he had treated with grim disregard.
Presently, thrust into an envelope with another letter, and written on a piece of note-paper, was something that made her start as if at the sting of a viper. No! it could not be a will! She knew what wills were like. They were sheets of foolscap, written by lawyers, while this was only an old man’s cramped and crooked writing. Perhaps, when he was in a rage, he had so far carried out his threat, that Allen should remember King Midas as to make a rough draft of a will, leaving everything to Elvira de Menella, for there at the top was the date, plainly visible, the very April when the confession had been made. But no doubt he had never carried out his purpose so far as to get it legally drawn out and attested. As Mr. Richards had said, he had never been in health to take any active measures, and probably he had rested satisfied with this relief to his feelings.
Should she show it to her mother and uncle, and let them know their narrow escape? No. Mother Carey and Allen made quite fuss enough already about that little vixen, and if they discovered how nearly she had been the sole heiress, they would be far worse. Besides, her mother might have misgivings, as to this unhappy document being morally though not legally, binding. Suppose she were seized with a fit of generosity, and gave all up! or even half. Elfie, the little shrew, to have equal rights! The sweets of wealth only just tasted to be resigned, and the child, overweening enough already, to be set in their newly-gained place!
The sagacity of seventeen decided that mother had better not be worried about it for her own sake, and that of everyone else. So what was to be done. No means of burning it were at hand, and to ask for them might excite suspicion. The safest way was to place it in one of the drawers of the bureau, lock it up, and keep the key.
XVIII. AN OFFER FOR MAGNUM BONUM
They had gold and gold and gold without end, Gold to lay by and gold to spend, Gold to give and gold to lend, And reversions of gold in futuro. In gold his family revelled and rolled, Himself and his wife and his sons so bold, And his daughters who sang to their harps of gold O bella eta dell’ oro.
Four years of wealth had not made much external alteration in Mrs. Joseph Brownlow. As she descended the staircase of her beautiful London house, one Monday morning, late in April, between flower-stands filled with lovely ferns and graceful statues, she had still the same eager girlish look. It was true that her little cap was of the most costly lace, her hair manipulated by skilful hands, and her thin black summer dress was of material and make such as a scientific eye alone could have valued in their simplicity. But dignity still was wanting. Silks and brocades that would stand alone, and velvets richly piled only crushed and suffocated the little light swift figure, and the crisp curly hair was so much too wilful for the maid, that she had been even told that madame’s style would be to cut it short, and wear it a l’ingenue, which she viewed as insulting; and altogether her general air was precisely what it had been when her dress cost a twentieth part of what it did at present.
Her face looked no older. It was thin, eager, bright, and sunny, yet with an indescribable wistfulness in the sparkling eyes, and something worn in the expression, and, as usual, she moved with a quiet nimbleness peculiar to herself.
The breakfast-table, sparkling with silver and glass, around a magnificent orchid in the centre, and a rose by every plate, was spread in the dining-room, sweet sounds and scents coming in through the widely-opened glass doors of the conservatory, while a bright wood fire, still pleasant to look at, shone in the grate.
As she rang the bell, Bobus came in from the conservatory, book in hand, to receive the morning kiss, for which he had to bend to his little mother. He was not tall, but he had attained his full height, and had a well-knit sturdy figure which, together with his heavy brow and deep-set eyes, made him appear older than his real age--nineteen. His hair and upper lip were dark, and his eyes keen with a sense of ready power and strong will.
“Good morning, Bobus; I didn’t see you all day yesterday,” said his mother.
“No, I couldn’t find you before you went out on Saturday night, to tell you I was going to run down to Belforest with Bauerson. I wanted to enlighten his mind as to wild hyacinths. They are in splendid bloom all over the copses, and I thought he would have gone down on his knees to them, like Linnaeus to the gorse.”
“I’m afraid he didn’t go on his knees to anything else.”
“Well, it is not much in his line.”
“Then can he be a nice Sunday companion?”
“Now, mother, I expected credit for not scandalising the natives. We got out at Woodgate, and walked over, quite ‘unknownst,’ to Kenminster.”
“I was not thinking of the natives, but of yourself.”
“As you are a sensible woman, Mother Carey, wasn’t it a more goodly and edifying thing to put a man like Bauerson in a trance over the bluebells, than to sit cramped up in foul air listening to the glorification of a wholesale massacre.”
“For shame, Bobus; you know I never allow you to say such things.”
“Then you should not drag me to Church. Was it last Sunday that I was comparing the Prussians at Bazeille with--”
“Hush, my dear boy, you frighten me; you know it is all explained. Fancy, if we had to deal with a nation of Thugs, and no means of guarding them--a different dispensation and all. But here come the children, so hush.”
Bobus gave a nod and smile, which his mother understood only too well as intimating acquiescence with wishes which he deemed feminine and conventional.
“My poor boy,” she said to herself, with vague alarm and terror, “what has he not picked up? I must read up these things, and be able to talk it over with him by the time he comes back from Norway.”
There, however, came the morning greeting of Elvira and Barbara, girls of fourteen and eleven, with floating hair and short dresses, the one growing up into all the splendid beauty of her early promise, the other thin and brown, but with a speaking face and lovely eyes. They were followed by Miss Ogilvie, as trim and self-possessed as ever, but with more ease and expansiveness of manner.
“So Babie,” said her brother, “you’ve earned your breakfast; I heard you hammering away.”
“Like a nuthatch,” was the merry answer.
“And Elfie?” asked Mrs. Brownlow.
“I’m not so late as Janet,” she answered; and the others laughed at the self-defence before the attack.
“It is a lazy little Elf in town,” said Miss Ogilvie; “in the country she is up and out at impossible hours.”
“Good morning, Janet,” said Bobus, at that moment, “or rather, ‘Marry come up, mistress mine, good lack, nothing is lacking to thee save a pointed hood graceless.’”
For Janet was arrayed in a close-fitting pale blue dress, cut in semblance of an ancient kirtle, and with a huge chatelaine, from which massive chains dangled, not to say clattered--not merely the ordinary appendages of a young lady, but a pair of compasses, a safety inkstand, and a microscope. Her dark hair was strained back from a face not calculated to bear exposure, and was wound round a silver arrow.
Elfie shook with laughter, murmuring--
“Oh dear! what a fright!” in accents which Miss Ogilvie tried to hush; while Babie observed, as a sort of excuse, “Janet always is a figure of fun when she is picturesque.”
“My dear, I hope you are not going to show yourself to any one in that dress,” added her mother.
“It is perfectly correct,” said Janet, “studied from an old Italian costume.”
“The Marchioness of Carabbas, in my old fairy-tale book. Oh, yes, I see!” and Babie went off again in an ecstatic fit of laughter.
“I hope you’ve got boots and a tail ready for George,” added Bobus. “Being a tiger already, he may serve as cat.”
Therewith the post came in, and broke up the discourse; for Babie had a letter from Eton, from Armine who was shut up with a sore throat.
Her mother was less happy. She had asked a holiday for the next day for her two Eton boys and their cousin John, and the reply had been that though for two of the party there could be no objection, her elder boy was under punishment for one of the wild escapades to which he was too apt to pervert his excellent abilities.
“Are not they coming, mother?” asked Babie. “Armie does not say.”
“Unfortunately Jock has got kept in again.”
“Poor Jock!” said Bobus; “sixpence a day, and no expectations, would have been better pasture for his brains.”
“Yes,” said his mother with a sigh, “I doubt if we are any of us much the better or the wiser for Belforest.”
“The wiser, I’m sure, because we’ve got Miss Ogilvie,” cried Babie.
“Do I hear babes uttering the words of wisdom?” asked Allen, coming into the room, and pretending to pull her hair, as the school-room party rose from the breakfast-table, and he met them with outstretched hands.
“Ay, to despise Lag-last,” said Elvira, darting out of his reach, and tossing her dark locks at him as she hid behind a fern plant in the window; and there was a laughing scuffle, ended by Miss Ogilvie, who swept the children away to the school-room, while Allen came to the table, where his mother had poured out his coffee, and still waited to preside over his breakfast, though she had long finished her own.
Allen Brownlow, at twenty, was emphatically the Eton and Christchurch production, just well made and good-looking enough to do full justice to his training and general getting up, without too much individual personality of his own. He looked only so much of a man as was needful for looking a perfect gentleman, and his dress and equipments were in the most perfect quietly exquisite style, as costly as possible, yet with no display, and nothing to catch the eye.
“Well, Bobus,” he said, “you made out your expedition. How did the place look?”
“Wasting its sweetness,” said his mother; “it is tantalising to think of it.”
“It could hardly be said to be wasted,” said Bobus; “the natives were disporting themselves all over it.”
“Where?” asked Allen, with displeased animation.
“O, Essie and Ellie were promenading a select party about the gardens. I could almost hear Mackintyre gnashing his teeth at their inroads on the forced strawberries, and the park and Elmwood Spinney were dotted so thick with people, that we had to look sharp not to fall in with any one.”
“Elmwood Spinney!” exclaimed Allen; “you don’t mean that they were running riot over the preserves?”
“I don’t think there were more than half-a-dozen there. Bauerson was quite edified. He said, ‘So! they had on your English Sunday quite falsely me informed.’ There were a couple of lovers spooning and some children gathering flowers, and it had just the Arcadian look dear to the German eye.”
“Children,” cried Allen, as if they were vipers. “That’s just what I told you, mother. If you will persist in throwing open the park, we shall not have a pheasant on the place.”
“My dear boy, I have seen them running about like chickens in a farmyard.”
“Yes, but what’s the use, if all the little beggars in Kenminster are to be let in to make them wild! And when you knew I particularly wished to have something worth asking Prince Siegfried down to.”
“Never mind, Allen,” put in Janet; “you can ask him to shoot into the poultry yard. The poor things are just as thick there, and rather tamer, so the sport will be the more noble.”
“You know nothing about it, Janet,” said Allen, in displeasure.
“But Allen,” said his mother, apologetically, though she felt with Janet, “the woods are locked up.”
“Locked! As if that was any use when you let a lot of boys come marauding all over the place!”
“Really, Allen,” said his mother, “when I remember what we used to say about old Mr. Barnes, I cannot find it in my heart to play the same game!”
“It is quite a different thing.”
“How?”
“He did it out of mere surliness.”
“I don’t suppose it makes much difference to the excluded whether it is done out of mere surliness, or for the sake of the preserves.”
“Mother!” Allen spoke as if the absurdity of the argument were quite too much for him; but his brother and sister both laughed, which nettled him into adding--
“Well! All I have to say is, that if Belforest is to be nothing but a people’s park for all the ragamuffins in Kenminster, there will soon not be a head of game in the place, and I shall be obliged to shoot elsewhere!”
Poor Caroline! If there was a thing she specially hated, it was a battue, both for the thing itself, and all the previous preparation of preserving, and of prosecuting poachers; and yet sons have their mothers so much in their power by that threat of staying away from home, that she could not help faltering, “Oh, Allen, I’ll do my best, and tell the keepers to be very careful, and lock the gates of all the preserves.”
Allen saw she was vexed, and spoke more kindly, “There, never mind, mother. It is more than can be expected that ladies should see things in a reasonable light.”
“What is the reasonable light?” asked Bobus.
Allen did not choose to hear, regarding Bobus not indeed as a woman, but as something as little capable of appreciating his reason. It was Janet who took up the word. “The reasonable light is that the enjoyment of the many should be sacrificed to the vanity of the few, viz., that all Kenminster should be confined to dusty roads all the year round in order that Allen may bring down the youngest son of the youngest son of a German prince for one day to fire amongst some hundreds of tame pheasants who come up expecting to be fed.”
“Oh, yes,” said Allen, “we all know that you are a regular out-and-out democrat, Janet.”
“I confess, without being a democrat,” said his mother, “that I do wonder that you gentlemen, who wish the game laws to continue, should so work them as to be more aggravating than ever.”
“It is a simple question of the rights of property,” said Allen. “If I do a thing, I like it to be well done, and not half-and-half.”
Caroline rose from the table, dreading, like many a mother, a regular skirmish about game-preserving, between those who cared to shoot, and those who did not. Like other ladies, she could never understand exaggerated preserving, nor why men who loved sport should care to have game multiplied and tamed so as apparently to spoil all the zest of the chase; but she had let Allen and his uncle do what ever they told her was right by the preserves, except shutting up the park and all the footpaths. Colonel Brownlow, whose sporting instincts were those of a former generation, was quite satisfied; Allen never would be so; and it was one of the few bones of contention in the family.
For Allen was walking through Oxford in a quiet, amiable way, not troubling himself more about study than to secure himself from an ignominious pluck, and doing whatever was supposed to be “good form.”
His brother accused him of carrying his idolatry of “good form” to a snobbish extent, but Allen could carry it out so naturally that no one could have suspected that he had not been to the manner born. If he did appreciate the society of people with handles to their names, he comported himself among them as their easy equal; and he was so lavish as to be a very popular man. He had no vicious tastes or tendencies, and was too gentlemanly and quiet ever to come into collision with the authorities. At home, except when his notions of “good form” were at variance with strong opinions of his mother’s, nothing could be more chivalrously deferential than his whole demeanour to her; and the worst that could be said of him was that he managed to waste a large amount of time and money with very little to show for it. His profession was to be son and heir to a large fortune, and he took to the show part of the affair very kindly.
But was this being the man his father had expected him to be? The thought would come across Caroline at times, but not very often, as she floated along easily in the stream of life. Most of the business troubles of her property were spared her by her trustees, and her income was so large that even Allen’s expenditure had not yet been felt as an inconvenience. As to the responsibilities, she contributed largely to county subscriptions, gave her clergyman whatever he asked, provided Christmas treats and summer teas for their school-children, and permitted Miss Ogilvie and Babie to do whatever they pleased among the poor when they were at home. But she was not very much at Belforest. She generally came there at Midsummer and at Christmas, and filled the house with friends. All kinds of amusements astonished the neighbourhood, and parties of the newest kinds, private theatricals, tableaux, charades, all that taste or ingenuity could devise were in vogue.
But before the spring east winds the party were generally gone to some more genial climate, and the early autumn was often spent in Switzerland. Pictures, art, and scenery were growing to be necessaries of life, and to stay at home with no special diversion in view seemed unthought of. The season was spent in London, not dropping the artist society on the one hand, but adding to it the amount of intercourse into which she was drawn by the fact of her being a rich and charming woman, having a delightful house, and a son and daughter who might be “grands partis.” Allen liked high life for her, so she did not refuse it; but probably her social success was all the greater from her entire indifference, and that of her daughter, to all the questions of exclusiveness and fashion. If they had been born duchesses they could not have been less concerned about obtaining invitations to what their maid called “the first circles,” and they would sometimes reduce Allen to despair by giving the preference to a lively literary soiree, when he wanted them to show themselves among the aristocracy at a drum.
Engagements of all kinds grew on them with every season, and in this one especially, Caroline had grown somewhat weary of the endeavour to satisfy both him and Janet, and was not sorry that her two eldest sons were starting on a yacht voyage to Norway, where Allen meant to fish, and Bobus to study natural history. She had her interview with the housekeeper, and proceeded to her own place in Popinjay Parlour, a quiet place at this time of day, save for the tinkling of the fountain and the twitterings of the many little songsters in the aviary, whom the original parrot used patronisingly to address as “Pretty little birds.”
Janet was wandering about among the flowers, evidently waiting for her, and began, as she came in--
“I wanted to speak to you, mother.”
“Well, Janet,” said Caroline, reviewing in one moment every unmarried man, likely or unlikely, who had approached the girl, and with a despairing conviction that it would be some one very unlikely indeed!
“You know I am of age, mother.”
“Certainly. We drank your health last Monday.”
“I made up my mind that till I was of age I would go on studying, and at the same time see something of the world and of society.”
“Certainly,” said Caroline, wondering what her inscrutable daughter was coming to.
“And having done this, I wish to devote myself to the study of medicine.”
“Be a lady doctor, Janet!”
“Mother, you are surely above all the commonplace, old world nonsense!”
“I don’t think I am, Janet. I don’t think your father would have wished it.”
“He would have gone on with the spirit of the times, mother; men do, while women stand still.”
“I don’t think he would in this.”
“I think he would, if he knew me, and the issues and stake, and how his other children are failing him.”
“Janet!”--and the colour flushed into her mother’s face--“I don’t quite know what you mean; but it is time we came to an understanding.”
“I think so,” returned Janet.
“Then you know--”
“I heard what papa said to you. I kept the white slate till you thought of it,” said Janet, in a tone that sounded soft from her.
“And why did you never say so, my dear?”
“I can hardly tell. I was shy at first; and then reserve grows on a person; but I never ceased from thinking about it through all these years. Mother, you do not think there is any chance of the boys taking it up as my father wished?”
“Certainly not Allen,” said Caroline with a sigh. “And as to Bobus, he would have full capacity; but a great change must come over him, poor fellow, before he would fulfil your father’s conditions.”
“He has no notion of the drudgery of the medical profession,” said Janet; “he means to read law, get up social and sanitary questions, and go into parliament.”
“I know,” said her mother, “I have always lived in hopes that sanitary theories would give him his father’s heart for the sufferers, and that search into the secrets of nature would lead him higher; but as long as he does not turn that way of himself it would be contrary to your father’s charge to hold this discovery out to him as an inducement.”
“And Jock?” said Janet, smiling. “You don’t expect it of the born soldier--nor of Armine?”
“I am not sure about Armine, though he may not be strong enough to bear the application.”
“Armine will walk through life like Allen,” scornfully said Janet; “besides he is but fourteen. Now, mother, why should not I be worthy?”
“My dear Janet, it is not a question of worthiness; it is not a thing a woman could work out.”
“I do not ask you to give it to me now, nor even to promise it to me,” said Janet, with a light in those dark wells, her eyes; “but only to let me have the hope, that when in three years’ time I am qualified, and have passed the examinations, if Bobus does not take it up, you will let me claim that best inheritance my father left, but which his sons do not heed.”
“My child, you do not know what you ask. Remember, I know more about it than only what you picked up on that morning. It is a matter he could not have made sure of without a succession of experiments very hard even for him, and certainly quite impossible for any woman. The exceeding difficulty and danger of the proof was one reason of his guarding it so much, and desiring it should only be told to one good as well as clever--clever as well as good.”
“Can you give me no hint of the kind of thing,” said Janet, wistfully.
“That would be a betrayal of his trust.”
Janet looked terribly disappointed.
“Mother,” said she, “let me put it to you. Is it fair to shut up a discovery that might benefit so many people.”
“It is not his fault, Janet, that it is shut up. He talked of it to several of the most able men he was connected with, and they thought it a chimera. He could not carry it on far enough to convince them. I do not know what he would have done if his illness had been longer, or he could have talked it out with any one, but I know the proof could only be made out by a course of experiments which he could not commit to any one not highly qualified, or whom he could not entirely trust. It is not a thing to be set forth broadcast, while it might yet prove a fallacy.”
“Is it to be lost for ever, then?”
“I shall try to find light as to the right thing to be done about it.”
“Well,” said Janet, drawing a long breath, “three years of study must come, any way, and by that time I may be able to triumph over prejudice.”
There was no time to reply, for at that moment the letters of the second delivery were brought in; and the first that Caroline opened told her that the cold which Armine had mentioned on Saturday seemed to be developing into an attack of a rather severe hybrid kind of illness, between measles and scarlatina, from which many persons had lately been suffering.
Armine was never strong, and his illnesses were always a greater anxiety than those of other people, so that his mother came to the immediate decision of going to Eton that same afternoon and remaining there, unless she found that it had been a false alarm.
She did not find it so; and as she remained with her boy, Janet’s conversation with her could not be resumed. There was so much chance of infection that she could not see any of the family again. Both the Johns sickened as soon as Armine began to improve, and Miss Ogilvie took the three girls down to Belforest. After the first few days it was rather a pleasant nursing. There was never any real alarm; indeed, Armine was the least ill of the three, and Johnny the most, and each boy was perfectly delighted to have her to attend to him, her nephew almost touchingly grateful. The only other victim was Jock’s most intimate friend, Cecil Evelyn, whose fag Armine was. He became a sharer of her attentions and the amusements she provided. She received letters of grateful thanks from his mother, who was, like herself, a widow, but was prevented from coming to him by close attendance on her mother-in-law, who was in a lingering state of decay when every day might be the last.
The eldest son, Lord Fordham, was so delicate that he was on no account to be exposed to the infection, and the boys were exceedingly anxious that Cecil should join them in the expedition that their mother projected making with them, to air them in Switzerland before returning to the rest of the family. But Mrs. Evelyn (her husband had not lived to come to the title) declined this. Fordham was in the country with his tutor, and she wished Cecil to come and spend his quarantine with her in London before joining him. The boys grumbled very much, but Caroline could hardly wonder when she talked with their tutor.
He, like every one else, liked, and even loved personally that perplexing subject, John Lucas Brownlow, alias Jock. The boy was too generous, honourable, truthful, and kindly to be exposed to the stigma of removal; but he was the perplexity of everybody. He could not be convinced of any necessity for application, and considered a flogging as a slight risk quite worth encountering for the sake of diversion. He would execute the most audacious pranks, and if he was caught, would take it as a trial of skill between the masters and himself, and accept punishment as amends, with the most good humoured grace in the world. Fun seemed to be his only moving spring, and he led everybody along with him, so as to be a much more mischievous person than many a worse lad.
The only exceptions in the house to his influence seemed to be his brother and cousin. Both were far above the average boy. Armine, for talent, John Friar Brownlow at once for industry and steadiness. They had stood out resolutely against more than one of his pranks, and had been the only boys in the house not present on the occasion of his last freak--a champagne supper, when parodies had been sung, caricaturing all the authorities; and when the company had become uproarious enough to rouse the whole family, the boys were discovered in the midst of the most audacious but droll mimicry of the masters.
As to work, Jock was developing the utmost faculties for leaving it undone, trusting to his native facility for putting on the steam at any crisis; and not believing in the warnings that he would fail in passing for the army.
What was to be done with him? Was he to be taken away and sent to a tutor? His mother consulted himself as he sat in his arm-chair.
“Like Rob!” he said, and made up a face.
“Rob is doing very well in the militia.”
“No; don’t do that, mother! Never fear, I’ll put on a spurt when the time comes!”
“I don’t believe a spurt will do. Now, seriously, Jock--”
“Don’t say, seriously, mother: it’s like H.S.H.”
“Perhaps if I had been like her, you would not be vexing me so much now.”
“Come, come, mother, it’s nothing to be vexed about. My tutor needn’t have bothered you. I’ve done nothing sneaking nor ungentlemanly.”
“There is plenty of wrong without that, Jock. While you never heed anything but fun and amusement I do not see how you are to come to anything worth having; and you will soon get betrayed into something unworthy. Don’t let me have to take you away in disgrace, my boy; it would break my heart.”
“You shan’t have to do that, mother.”
“But don’t you think it would be wiser to be somewhere with fewer inducements to idleness?”
“Leave Eton? O no, mother! I can’t do that till the last day possible. I shall be in the eight another year.”
“You will not be here another year unless you go on very differently. Your tutor will not allow it, if I would.”
“Has he said so?”
“Yes; and the next half is to be the trial.”
Jock applied himself to extracting a horsehair from the stuffing of the elbow of his chair; and there was a look over his face as near sullenness as ever came to his gay, careless nature.
Would he attend? or even could he?
When his bills came in Caroline feared, as before, that he was the one of all her children whom Belforest was most damaging. Allen was expensive, but in an elegant, exquisite kind of way; but Jock was simply reckless; and his pleasures were questionable enough to be on the borders of vices, which might change the frank, sweet, merry face that now looked up to her into a countenance stained by dissipation and licence!
A flash of horror and dismay followed the thought! But what could she do for him, or for any of her children? Censure only alienated them and made them worse, and their love for her was at least one blessing. Why had this gold come to take away the wholesome necessity for industry?
XIX. THE SNOWY WINDING-SHEET
Cold, cold, ‘tis a chilly clime That the youth in his journey hath reached; And he is aweary now, And faint for lack of food. Cold! cold! there is no sun in heaven. Southey.
Very merry was the party which arrived at the roughly-built hotel of Schwarenbach which serves as a half-way house to the Altels.
Never had expedition been more enjoyed than that of Mrs. Brownlow and her three boys. They had taken a week by the sea to recruit their forces, and then began their journey in earnest, since it was too late for a return to Eton, although so early in the season that to the Swiss they were like the first swallows of the spring, and they came in for some of the wondrous glory of the spring flowers, so often missed by tourists.
In her mountain dress, all state and ceremony cast aside, Caroline rode, walked, and climbed like the jolly Mother Carey she was, to use her son’s favourite expression, and the boys, full of health and recovery, gambolled about her, feeling her companionship the very crown of their enjoyment.
Johnny, to whom all was more absolutely new than to the others, was the quietest of the three. He was a year older than Lucas, as Jock was now called to formal outsiders, while Friar John, a reversal of his cousin’s two Christian names, was a school title that sometimes passed into home use. Friar John then had reached an age open to the influences of beautiful and sublime scenery, and when the younger ones only felt the exhilaration of mountain air, and longings to get as high as possible, his soul began to expand, and fresh revelations of glory and majesty to take possession of him. He was a very different person from the rough, awkward lad of eight years back. He still had the somewhat loutish figure which, in his mother’s family, was the shell of fine-looking men, and he was shy and bashful, but Eton polish had taken away the rude gruffness, and made his manners and bearing gentlemanly. His face was honest and intelligent, and he had a thoroughly good, conscientious disposition; his character stood high, and he was the only Brownlow of them all who knew the sweets of being “sent up for good.” His aunt could almost watch expression deepening on his open face, and he was enjoying with soul and mind even more than with body. Having had the illness later and more severely than the other two, his strength had not so fully returned, and he was often glad to rest, admire, and study the subject with his aunt, to whose service he was specially devoted, while the other two climbed and explored. For even Armine had been invigorated with a sudden overflow of animal health and energy, which made him far more enterprising and less contemplative than he had ever been before.
They four had walked up the mountain after breakfast from Kandersteg, bringing their bags for a couple of nights, the boys being anxious to go up the Altels the next day, as their time was nearly over and they were to be in school in ten days’ time again. After luncheon and a good rest on the wooden bench outside the door, they began to stroll towards the Daubensee, along a path between desolate boulders, without vegetation, except a small kind of monkshood.
“I call this dreary,” said the mother. “We don’t seem to get a bit nearer the lake. I shall go home and write to Babie.”
“I’ll come back with you,” said Johnny. “My mother will be looking for a letter.”
“Not giving in already, Johnny,” said Armine. “I can tell you I mean to get to the lake.”
“The Friar is the slave of his note-book,” said Jock. “When are we to have it--‘Crags and Cousins,’ or ‘From Measles to Mountains’?”
“I don’t want to forget everything,” said Johnny, with true Kencroft doggedness.
“Do you expect ever to look at that precious diurnal again?”
“He will leave it as an heirloom to his grandchildren!”
“And they will say how slow people were in the nineteenth century.”
“There will have been a reaction by that time, and they will only wonder how anybody cared to go up into such dreary places.”
“Or perhaps they will have stripped them all, and eaten the glaciers up as ices and ice-creams!”
“I think I’ll set up that as my pet anxiety,” said their mother, laughing; “just as some people suffer from perplexity as to what is to become of the world when all the coal is used up! You are not turning on my account, are you, Johnny? I am quite happy to go back alone.”
“No, indeed. I want to write my letter, and I have had enough,” said John.
“Tired!” said Armine. “Poor old monk! Swiss air always makes me feel like a balloon full of gas. I could go on, up and up, for ever!”
“Well, keep to the path, and don’t do anything imprudent,” she said, turning back, the boys saying, “We’ll only have a look down the pass! Here, Chico! Chico! Chick! Chick!”
Chico, the little dog so disdainfully rejected by Elvira, had attached himself from the first to Jock. He had been in the London house when they spent a day there, and in rapture at the meeting had smuggled himself, not without his master’s connivance, among the rugs and wrappers, and had already been the cause of numerous scrapes with officials and travellers, whence sometimes money, sometimes politeness, sometimes audacity, bought off his friends as best they could.
There was a sort of grave fascination in the exceeding sternness of the scene--the grey heaps of stone, the mountains raising their shining white summits against the blue, the dark, fathomless, lifeless lake, and the utter absence of all forms of life. Armine’s spirit fell under the spell, and he moved dreamily on, hardly attending to Jock, who was running on with Chico, and alarming him by feints of catching him and throwing him into the water.
They came to the gap where they expected to look over the pass, but it was blotted out by a mist, not in itself visible though hiding everything, and they were turning to go home when, in the ravine near at hand, the white ruggedness of the Wildstrube glacier gleamed on their eyes.
“I didn’t know it was so near,” said Jock. “Come and have a look at it.”
“Not on it,” said Armine, who had somewhat more Swiss experience than his brother. “There’s no going there without a guide.”
“There’s no reason we should not get on the moraine,” said Jock; and they presently began to scramble about among the rocks and boulders, trying to mount some larger one whence they might get a more general view of the form of the glacier. Chico ran on before them, stimulated by some reminiscence of the rabbit-holes of Belforest, and they were looking after him and whistling him back; Armine heard a sudden cry and fall--Jock had disappeared. “Never mind!” he called up the next instant. “I’m all right. Only, come down here! I’ve twisted my foot somehow.”
Armine scrambled round the rock over which he had fallen, a loose stone having turned with him. He had pulled himself up, but even with an arm round Armine’s neck, he could not have walked a step on even ground, far less on these rough debris, which were painful walking even for the lightest, most springy tread.
“You must get to the inn and bring help,” he said, sinking down with a sigh.
“I suppose there’s nothing else to be done,” said Armine, unwillingly. “You’ll have a terrible time to wait, unless I meet some one first. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Not too quick till you get off this place,” said Jock, “or you’ll be down too, and here, help me off with this boot first.”
This was not done quickly or easily. Jock was almost sick with the pain of the effort, and the bruise looked serious. Armine tried to make him comfortable, and set out, as he thought, in the right direction, but he had hardly gone twenty steps before he came to a sudden standstill with an emphatic “I say!” then came back repeating “I say, Jock, we are close upon the glacier; I was as near as possible going down into an awful blue crack!”
“That’s why it’s getting so cold,” said Jock. “Here, Chick, come and warm me. Well, Armie, why ain’t you off?”
“Yes,” said Armine, with a quiver in his voice, “if I keep down by the side of the glacier, I suppose I must come to the Daubensee in time.”
“What! Have we lost the way?” said Jock, beginning to look alarmed.
“There’s no doubt of that,” said Armine, “and what’s worse, that fog is coming up; but I’ve got my little compass here, and if I keep to the south-west, and down, I must strike the lake somewhere. Goodbye, Jock.”
He looked white and braced up for the effort. Jock caught hold of him. “Don’t leave me, Armie,” he said; “you can’t--you’ll fall into one of those crevasses.”
“You’d better let me go before the fog gets worse,” said Armine.
“I say you can’t; it’s not fit for a little chap like you. If you fell it would be ever so much worse for us both.”
“I know! But it is the less risk,” said Armine, gravely.
“I tell you, Armie, I can’t have you go. Mother will send out for us, and we can make no end of a row together. There’s a much better chance that way than alone. Don’t go, I say--”
“I was only looking out beyond the rock. I don’t think it would be possible to get on now. I can’t see even the ridge of stones we climbed over.”
“I wish it was I,” said Jock, “I’ll be bound I could manage it!” Then impatiently--“Something must be done, you know, Armie. We can’t stay here all night.”
Yet when Armine went a step or two to see whether there was any practicability of moving, he instantly called out against his attempting to go away. He was in a good deal of pain, and high-spirited boy as he was, was thoroughly unnerved and appalled, and much less able to consider than the usually quieter and more timid Armine. Suddenly there was a frightful thunderous roar and crash, and with a cry of “An avalanche,” the brothers clasped one another fast and shut their eyes, but ere the words “Have mercy” were uttered all was still again, and they found themselves alive!
“I don’t think it was an avalanche,” said Armine, recovering first. “It was most likely to be a great mass of ice tumbling off the arch at the bottom of the glacier. They do make a most awful row. I’ve heard one before, only not so near. Anyway we can’t be far from the bottom of the glacier, if I only could crawl there.”
“No, no;” cried Jock, holding him tight; “I tell you, you can’t do it.”
Jock could not have defined whether he was most actuated by fears for his brother’s safety or by actual terror at being left alone and helpless. At any rate Armine much preferred remaining, in all the certain misery and danger, to losing sight of his brother, with the great probability of only being further lost himself.
“I wonder whether Chico would find mother,” he said.
Jock brightened; Armine found an envelope in his pocket, and scribbled--
“On the moraine. Jock’s ankle sprained--Come.”
Then Jock produced a bit of string, wherewith it was fastened to the dog’s collar, and then authoritatively bade Chico go to mother.
Alas! cleverness had never been Chico’s strong point, and the present extremity did not inspire him with sagacity. He knew the way as little as his masters did, and would only dance about in an unmeaning way, and when ordered home crouch in abject entreaty. Jock grew impatient and threatened him, but this only made him creep behind Armine, put his tail between his legs, hold up his little paw, and look piteously imploring.
“There’s no use in the little brute,” sighed Jock at last, but the attempt had done him good and recalled his nerve and good sense.
“We are in for a night of it,” he said, “unless they find us; and how are they ever to do that in this beastly fog?”
“We must halloo,” said Armine, attempting it.
“Yes, and we don’t know when to begin! We can’t go on all night, you know,” said Jock; “and if we begin too soon, we may have no voice left just at the right time.”
“It is half-past seven now,” said Armine, looking at his watch. “The food was to be at seven, so they must have missed us by this time.”
“They won’t think anything of it till it gets dark.”
“No. Give them till half-past eight. Somewhere about nine or half-past it may be worth while to yodel.”
“And how awfully cold it will be by that time. And my foot is aching like fun!”
Armine offered to rub it, and there was some occupation in this and in watching the darkening of the evening, which was very gradual in the dense white fog that shut them in with a damp, cold, moist curtain of undeveloped snow.
The poor lads were thinly clad for a summer walk, Jock had left his plaid behind him, and they were beginning to feel only too vividly that it was past supper-time, when they could dimly see that it was past nine, and began to shout, but they soon found this severe and exhausting.
Armine suggested counting ten between each cry, which would husband their powers and give them time to listen for an answer. Yet even thus there was an empty, feeble sound about their cries, so that Jock observed--
“It’s very odd that when there’s no good in making a row, one can make it fast enough, and now when it would be of some use, one seems to have no more voice than a little sick mouse.”
“Not so much, I think,” said Armine. “It is hunger partly.”
“Hark! That sounded like something.”
Invigorated by hope they shouted again, but though several times they did hear a distant yodel, the hope that it was in answer to themselves soon faded, as the sound became more distant, and their own exertions ended soon in an utter breakdown--into a hoarse squeak on Jock’s part and a weak, hungry cry on Armine’s. Jock’s face was covered with tears, as much from the strain as from despair.
“There!” he sighed, “there’s our last chance gone! We are in for a night of it.”
“It can’t be a very long night,” Armine said, through chattering teeth. “It’s only a week to the longest day.”
“Much that will matter to us,” said Jock, impatiently. “We shall be frozen long before morning.”
“We must keep ourselves awake.”
“You little ass,” said poor Jock, in the petulant inconsistency of his distress; “it is not come to that yet.”
Armine did not answer at once. He was kneeling against the rock, and a strange thrill came over Jock, forbidding him again to say--“It was not come to that,” but a shoot of aching pain in his ankle presently drew forth an exclamation.
Armine again offered to rub it for him, and the two arranged themselves for this purpose, the curtain of damp woolliness seeming to thicken on them. There was a moon somewhere, and the darkness was not total, but the dreariness and isolation were the more felt from the absence of all outlines being manifest. They even lost sight of their own hands if they stretched out their arms, and their light summer garments were already saturated with damp and would soon freeze. No part of their bodies was free from that deadly chill save where they could press against one another.
They were brave boys. Jock had collected himself again, and for some time they kept up a show of mirth in the shakings and buffetings they bestowed on one another, but they began to grow too stiff and spent to pursue this discipline. Armine thought that the night must be nearly over, and Jock tried to see his watch, but decided that he could not, because he could not bear to believe how far it was from day.
Armine was drowsily rubbing the ankle, mechanically murmuring something to himself. Jock shook him, saying--
“Take care, don’t doze off. What are you mumbling about leisure?”
“O tarry thou the Lord’s leisure. Be strong and--Was I saying it aloud?” he broke off with a start.
“Yes; go on.”
Armine finished the verse, and Jock commented--
“Comfort thine heart. Does the little chap mean it in a fix like this?”
“Jock,” said Armine, now fully awake, “I do want to say something.”
“Cut on.”
“If you get out of this and I don’t--”
“Stop that! We’ve got heat enough to last till morning.”
“Will they find us then? These fogs last for days and turn to snow.”
“Don’t croak, I say. I can’t face mother without you.”
“She’ll be glad enough to get you. Please listen, Jock, while I’m awake. I want you to give her and all of them my love, and say I’m sorry for all the times I’ve vexed them.”
“As if you had ever--”
“And please Jock, if I was nasty and conceited about the champagne--”
“Shut up, I can’t stand this,” cried Jock, chiefly from force of habit, for it was a tacit agreement among the elder brothers that Armine must not be suffered to “be cocky and humbug,” by which they meant no implication on his sincerity, but that they did not choose to hear remonstrances or appeals to higher motives, and this had made him very reticent with all except his sister Barbara and Miss Ogilvie, but he now persisted.
“Indeed I want you to forgive me, Jock. You don’t know how often I’ve thought all sorts of horridness about you.”
Jock laughed, “Not more than I deserved, I’ll be bound. How can you be so absurd! If anyone wants forgiveness, it is I. I say, Armie, this is all nonsense. You don’t really think you are done for, or you would not take it so coolly.”
“Of course I know Who can bring us through if He will,” said Armine. “There’s the Rock. I’ve been asking Him all this time--every moment--only I get so sleepy.”
“If He will; but if He won’t?”
“Then there’s Paradise. And Himself and father,” said Armine, still in a dreamy tone.
“Oh, yes; that’s for you! But how about a mad fellow like me? It’s so sneaking just to take to one’s prayers because one’s in a bad case.”
“Oh, Jock! He is always ready to hear! More ready than we to pray!”
“Now don’t begin to improve the occasion,” broke out Jock. “By all the stories that ever were written, I’m the one to come to a bad end, not you.”
“Don’t,” said Armine, with an accent of pain that made Jock cry, hugging him tighter. “There, never mind, Armie; I’ll let you say all you like. I don’t know what made me stop you, except that I’m a beast, and always have been one. I’d give anything not to have gone on playing the fool all my life, so as to be able to mind this as little as you do.”
“I don’t seem awake enough to mind anything much,” said the little boy, “or I should trouble more about Mother and Babie; but somehow I can’t.”
“Oh!” wailed Jock, “you must! You must get out of it, Armie. Come closer. Shove in between me and the rock. Here, Chico, lie down on the top of us! Mother must have you back any way, Armie.”
The little fellow was half-dozing, but words of prayer and faith kept dropping from his tongue. Pain, and a stronger vitality alike, kept Jock free from the torpor, and he used his utmost efforts to rouse his brother; but every now and then a horrible conviction of the hopelessness of their condition came over him.
“Oh!” he groaned out, “how is it to be if this is the end of it? What is to become of a fellow that has been like me?”
Armine only spoke one word; the Name that is above every name.
“Yes, you always cared! But I never cared for anything but fun! Never went to Communion at Easter. It is too late.”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Armine, rousing up, “not too late! Never! You are His! You belong to Him! He cares for you!”
“If He does, it makes it all the worse. I never heeded; I thought it all a bore. I never let myself think what it all meant. I’ve thrown it all away.”
“Oh! I wish I wasn’t so stupid,” cried Armine, with a violent effort against his exhaustion. “Mother loves us, however horrid we are! He is like that; only let us tell Him all the bad we’ve done, and ask Him to blot it out. I’ve been trying--trying--only I’m so dull; and let us give ourselves more and more out and out to Him, whether it is here or there.”
“That I must,” said Jock; “it would be shabby and sneaking not.”
“Oh, Jock,” cried Armine, joyfully, “then it will all be right any way;” and he raised his face and kissed his brother. “You promise, Jock. Please promise.”
“Promise what? That if He will save us out of this, I’ll take a new line, and be as good as I know how, and--”
Armine took the word, whether consciously or not: “And manfully to fight under His banner, and continue Christ’s faithful soldiers and servants unto our lives’ end. Amen!”
“Amen,” Jock said, after him.
After that, Jock found that the child was repeating the Creed, and said it after him, the meanings thrilling through him as they had never done before. Next followed lines of “Rock of Ages,” and for some time longer there was a drowsy murmur of sacred words, but there was no eliciting a direct reply any more; and with dull consternation, Jock knew that the fatal torpor could no longer be broken, and was almost irritated that all the words he caught were such happy, peaceful ones. The very last were, “Inside angels’ wings, all white down.”
The child seemed almost comfortable--certainly not suffering like himself, bruised and strained, with sharp twinges rending his damaged foot; his limbs cramped, and sensible of the acute misery of the cold, and the full horror of their position; but as long as he could shake even an unconscious murmur from his brother, it seemed like happiness compared with the utter desolation after the last whisper had died away, and he was left intolerably alone under the solid impenetrable shroud that enveloped him, and the senseless form he held on his breast. And if he tried to follow on by that clue which Armine had left him, whirlwinds of dismay seemed to sweep away all hope and trust, while he thought of wilfulness, recklessness, defiance, irreverence, and all the yet darker shades of a self-indulgent and audacious school-boy life!
It was a little lighter, as if dawn might be coming, but the cold was bitterer, and benumbing more than paining him. His clothes were stiff, his eyelashes white with frost, he did not feel equal to looking at his watch, he would not see Armine’s face, he found the fog depositing itself in snow, but he heeded it no longer. Fear and hope had alike faded out of his mind, his ankle seemed to belong to some one else far away, he had left off wishing to see his mother, he wanted nothing but to be let alone!
He did not hear when Chico, finding no comfort, no sign of life in his masters, stood upon them as they lay clasped together in the drift of fine small snow, and in the climax of misery he lifted up the long and wretched wailing howlings of utter dog-wretchedness.
XX. A RACE
Speed, Melise, speed! such cause of haste Thine active sinews never braced, Bend ‘gainst the steepy hill thy breast, Burst down like torrent from its crest. Scott.
“Hark!”
The guides and the one other traveller, a Mr. Graham, who had been at the inn, were gathered at the border of the Daubensee, entreating, almost ready to use force to get the poor mother home before the snow should efface the tracks, and render the return to Schwarenbach dangerous.
Ever since the alarm had been given there had been a going about with lights, a shouting and seeking, all along the road where she had parted with her sons. It was impossible in the fog to leave the beaten track, and the traveller told her that rewards would be but temptations to suicide.
Johnny had fortunately been so tired out that he had gone to bed soon after coming in, and had not been wakened by the alarm till eleven o’clock. Then, startled by the noises and lights, he had risen and made his way to his aunt. Substantial help he could not give--even his German was halting, but he was her stay and help, and she would--as she knew afterwards--have been infinitely more desolate without him. And now, when all were persuading her to wait, as they said, till more aid could be sent for to Kandersteg, he knew as well as she did that it was but a kindly ruse to cover their despair, and was striving to insist that another effort in daylight should be made.
He it was who uttered the “Hark,” and added, “That is Chico!”
At first the tired, despairing guides did not hear, but going along the road by the lake in the direction from which the sound came, the prolonged wail became more audible.
“It is on the moraine,” the men said, with awe-struck looks at one another.
They would fain not even have taken John with them, but with a resolute look he uttered “Ich komm.”
Mr. Graham, an elderly man, not equal to a moraine in the snow, stayed with the mother. He wanted to take her back to prepare for them, as he said--in reality to lesson any horrors there might be to see.
But she stood like a statue, with clasped hands and white face, the small feathery snow climbing round her feet and on her shoulders.
“O God, spare my boys! Though I don’t deserve it--spare them!” had been her one inarticulate prayer all night.
And now--shouts and yodels reach her ears. They are found! But how found! The cries are soon hushed. There is long waiting--then, through the snow, John flashes forward and takes her hand. He does not speak--only as their eyes meet, his pale lips tremble, and he says, “Don’t fear; they will revive in the inn. Jock is safe, they are sure.”
Safe? What? that stiff, white-faced form, carried between two men, with the arm hanging lifelessly down? One man held the smaller figure of Armine, and kept his face pressed inwards. Kind words of “Liebe Frau,” and assurances that were meant to be cheering passed around her, but she heard them not. Some brandy had, it seemed, been poured into their mouths. They thought Jock had swallowed, Armine had not.
At intervals on the way back a little more was administered, and the experienced guides had no doubt that life was yet in him. When they reached the hotel the guides would not take them near the stove, but carried them up at once by the rough stair to the little wood-partitioned bedrooms. There were two beds in each room, and their mother would have had them both together; but the traveller, and the kindly, helpful young landlady, Fraulein Rosalie, quietly managed otherwise, and when Johnny tried to enforce his aunt’s orders, Mr. Graham, by a sign, made him comprehend why they had thus arranged, filling him with blank dismay.
A doctor? The guides shook their heads. They could hardly make their way to Leukerbad while it was snowing as at present, and if they had done so, no doctor could come back with them. Moreover the restoratives were known to the mountaineers as well as to the doctors themselves, and these were vigorously applied. All the resources of the little way-side house were put in requisition. Mr. Graham and Johnny did their best for Jock, his mother seemed to see and think of nothing but Armine, who lay senseless and cold in spite of all their efforts.
It was soon that Jock began to moan and turn and struggle painfully back to life. When he opened his eyes with a dazed half-consciousness, and something like a word came from between his lips, Mr. Graham sent John to call the mother, saying very low, “Get her away. She will bear it better when she sees this one coming round.”
John had deep and reverent memories connected with Armine. He knew--as few did know--how steadfastly that little gentle fellow could hold the right, and more than once the two had been almost alone against their world. Besides, he was Mother Carey’s darling! Johnny felt as if his heart would break, as with trembling lips he tried to speak, as if in glad hope, as he told his aunt that Jock was speaking and wanted her, while he looked all the time at the still, white, inanimate face.
She looked at him half in distrust.
“Yes! Indeed, indeed,” he said, “Jock wants you.”
She went; Johnny took her place. The efforts at restoration were slackening. The attendants were shaking their heads and saying, “der Arme.”
Mr. Graham came up to him, saying in his ear, “She is engrossed with the other. He will not let her go. Let them do what is to be done for this poor little fellow. So it will be best for her.”
There was a frantic longing to do something for Armine, a wild wonder that the prayers of a whole night had not been more fully answered in John’s mind, as he threw himself once more over the senseless form, propped with pillows, and kissed either cheek and the lips. Then suddenly he uttered a low cry, “He breathed. I’m sure he did; I felt it! The spoon! O quick!”
Mr. Graham and the Fraulein looked pitifully at one another at the delusion; but they let the lad have the spoon with the drops of brandy. He had already gained experience in giving it, and when they looked for disappointment, his eyes were raised in joy.
“It’s gone down,” he said.
Mr. Graham put his hand on the pulse and nodded.
Another drop or two, and renewed rubbing of hands and feet. The icy cold, the deadly white, were certainly giving way, the lips began to quiver, contract, and gasp.
Was it for death or life? They would not call his mother for that terrible, doubtful minute; but she could not long stay away. When Jock’s fingers first relaxed on hers, she crept to the door of the other room, to see Armine upheld on Johnny’s breast, with heaving chest and working features, but with eyes opening: yes, and meeting hers.
Johnny always held that he never had so glad a moment in all his life as that when he saw her countenance light up.
The first word was “Jock!”
Armine’s full perceptions were come back, unlike those of Jock, who was moaning and wandering in his talk, fancying himself still in the desolation of the moraine, with Armine dead in his arms, and all the miseries, bodily, mental and spiritual, from which he had suffered were evidently still working in his brain, though the words that revealed them were weak and disjointed. Besides, he screamed and moaned with absolute and acute pain, which alarmed them much, though Armine was sufficiently himself to be able to assure them that there had been no hurt beyond the strain.
It was well that Armine was both rational and unselfish, for nothing seemed to soothe Jock for a moment but his mother’s hand and his mother’s voice. It was plain that fever and rheumatism had a hold upon him, and what or who was there to contend with them in this wayside inn? The rooms, though clean, were bare of all but the merest necessaries, and though the young hostess was kind and anxious, her maids were the roughest and most ignorant of girls, and there were no appliances for comfort--nothing even to drink but milk, bottled lemonade, and a tisane made of yellow flowers, horrible to the English taste.
And Jock, ill as he was, did not fill his mother with such dread for the future as did Armine, when she found him, quiet indeed, but unable to lie down, except when supported on John’s breast and in his arms--with a fearful oppression and pain in his chest, and every token that the lungs were suffering. He had not let them call her. Jock’s murmurs and cries were to be heard plainly through the wooden partition, and the little fellow knew she could not be spared, and only tried to prevent John and Mr. Graham from alarming her. “She--can’t--do--any--good,” he gasped out in John’s ear.
No, nobody could, without medical skill and appliances. The utmost that the house could do was to produce enough mustard to make two plasters, and to fill bottles with hot water, to warm stones, and to wrap them in blankets. And what was this, in such cold as penetrated the wooden building, too high up in the mountains for the June sun as yet to have full power? The snow kept blinding and drifting on, and though everyone said it could not last long at that time in the summer, it might easily last too long for Armine’s fragile life. Here was evening drawing on and no change outside, so that no offer of reward could make it possible for any messenger to attempt the Gemmi to fetch advice from Leukerbad.
Caroline could not think. She was in a dull, dreary state of consternation, and all she could dwell on was the immediate need of the moment, soothing Jock’s terrors, and, what was almost worse, his irritable rejection of the beverages she could offer him, and trying to relieve him by rubbing and hot applications. If ever she could look into Armine’s room, she was filled with still greater dismay, even though a sweet, patient smile always met her, and a resolute endeavour to make the best of it.
“It--does--not--make--much--difference,” gasped Armine. “One would not like anything.”
John came out in a character no one could have expected. He showed himself a much better nurse, and far more full of resource than the traveller. It was he who bethought him of keeping a kettle in the room over the inevitable charcoal, so as slightly to mitigate the chill of the air, or the fumes of the charcoal, which were equally perilous and distressing to the labouring lungs. He was tender and handy in lifting, tall and strong, so as to be efficient in supporting, and then Armine and he understood one another. They had never been special companions; John had too much of the Kencroft muscularity about him to accord with a delicate, imaginative being like Armine, but they respected one another, and made common cause, and John had more than once been his little cousin’s protector. So when they were so much alone that all reserves were overcome, Armine had comfort in his cousin that no one else in the place could have afforded him. The little boy perfectly knew how ill he was, and as he lay in John’s arms, breathed out his messages to Babie as well as he could utter them.
“And please, you’ll be always mother’s other son,” said Armine.
“Won’t I? She’s been the making of me every way,” said John.
“If ever--she does want anybody--” said Armine, feeling, but not uttering, a vague sense of want of trust in others around her.
“I will, I will. Why, Armie, I shall never care for any one so much.”
“That’s right.”
And again, after an interval, Armine spoke of Jock, saying, “You’ll help him, Johnny. You know sometimes he can be put in mind--”
John promised again, perhaps less hopefully, but he saw that Armine hoped.
“Would you mind reading me a Psalm,” came, after a great struggle for breath. “It was so nice to know Babie was saying her Psalms at night, and thinking of us.”
So the evening wore away and night came on, and John, after full six-and-twenty hours’ wakeful exertion and anxiety, began to grow sleepy, and dozed even as he held his cousin whenever the cough did not shake the poor little fellow. At last, with Armine’s consent, or rather, at his entreaty, Mr. Graham, though knowing himself a bad substitute, took him from the arms of the outwearied lad, who, in five minutes more, was lying, dressed as he was, in the soundest of dreamless slumbers.
When he awoke, the sun was up, an almost midsummer sun, streaming on the fast-melting snow with a dazzling brilliancy. Armine was panting under the same deadly oppression on his pillows, and Mother Carey was standing by him, talking to Mr. Graham about despatching a messenger to Leukerbad in search of one of the doctors, who were sure to be found at the baths. How haggard her face looked, and Armine gasped out--
“Mother, your hair.”
The snow had been there; the crisp black waves on her brow were quite white. Jock had fallen into a sort of doze from exhaustion, but moaning all the time. She could call him no better, and Armine’s sunken face told that he was worse.
John went in search of more hot water, and on the way heard voices which made him call Mr. Graham, who knew more of the vernacular German patois than himself, to understand it. He thought he had caught something about English, and a doctor at Kandersteg. It was true. A guide belonging to the other side of the pass, who had been weather-bound at Kandersteg, had just come up with tidings that an English party were there, who had meant to cross the Gemmi but had given it up, finding it too early in the season for the kranklicher Milord who was accompanied by his doctor.
“An English doctor! Oh!” cried John, “there’s some good in that. Some one must take a note down to him at once.”
But after some guttural conversation of which he understood only a word or two, Mr. Graham said--
“They declare it is of no use. The carriage was ordered at nine. It is past seven now.”
“But it need not take two hours to go that distance downhill, the lazy blackguards!” exclaimed John.
“In the present state of the path, they say that it will,” said Mr. Graham. “In fact, I suspect a little unwillingness to deprive their countrymen of the job.”
“I’ll go,” said John, “then there will be no loss of time about writing. You’ll look after Armine, sir, and tell my aunt.”
“Certainly, my boy; but you’ll find it a stiffish pull.”
“I came in second for the mile race last summer at Eton,” said Johnny. “I’m not in training now; but if a will can do it--”
“I believe you are right. If you don’t catch him, we shall hardly have lost time, for they say we must wait an hour or two for the Gemmi road to get clear of snow. Stay; don’t go without eating. You won’t keep it up on an empty stomach. Remember the proverb.”
Prayer had been with him all night, and he listened to the remonstrance as to provender enough to devour a bit of bread, put another into his pocket, and swallow a long draught of new milk. Mr. Graham further insisted on his taking a lad to show him the right path through the fir woods; and though Johnny looked more formed for strength than speed, and was pale-cheeked and purple-eyed with broken rest, the manner in which he set forth had a purpose-like air that was satisfactory--not over swift at the outset over the difficult ground, but with a steadfast resolution, and with a balance and knowledge of the management of his limbs due to Eton athletics.
Mr. Graham went up to encourage Mrs. Brownlow. She clasped her hands together with joy and gratitude.
“That dear, dear boy,” she said, “I shall owe him everything.”
Jock had wakened rational, though only to be conscious of severe suffering. He would hardly believe that Armine was really alive till Mr. Graham actually carried in the boy, and let them hold each other’s hands for a moment before placing Armine on the other bed.
Indeed it seemed that this might be the poor boys’ last meeting. Armine could only look at his brother, since the least attempt to speak increased the agonised struggle for breath, which, doctor or no doctor, gave Mr. Graham small expectation that he could survive another of these cold mountain nights.
Their mother was so far relieved to have them together that it was easier to attend to them; and Armine’s patient eyes certainly acted as a gentle restraint upon Jock’s moans, lamentations, and requisitions for her services. It was one of those times that she only passed through by her faculty of attending only to present needs, and the physical strength and activity that seemed inexhaustible as long as she had anything to do, and which alone alleviated the despair within her heart.
Meantime John found the rock slippery, the path heavy, and his young guide a drag on him. The path through the fir woods which had been so delightful two days (could it be only two days?) ago, was now a baffling, wearisome zigzag; yet when he tried to cut across, regardless of the voice of his guide, he found he lost time, for he had to clamber, once fell and rolled some distance, happily with no damage as he found when he picked himself up, and plodded on again, without even stopping to shake himself.
At last came an opening where he could see down into the Kandersteg valley. There was the hotel in clear sunshine, looking only too like a house in a German box of toys, and alas! there was also a toy carriage coming round to the front!
Like the little foot-page of old ballads, John “let down his feet and ran,” ran determinately on, down the now less precipitous slope--ran till he was beyond the trees, with the summer sun beating down on him, and in sight of figures coming out from the hotel to the carriage.
Johnny scarce ventured to give one sigh. He waved his hat in a desperate hope of being seen. No, they were in the carriage. The horses were moving!
But he remembered a slight steep on the further road where they must go slower. Moreover, there were a few curves in the horse-road. He set his teeth with the desperate resolution of a moment, clenched his hands, intensified his mental cry to Heaven, and with the dogged determination of Kencroft dashed on, not daring to look at the carriage, intent only on the way.
He was past the inn, but his breath was short and quick; his knees were failing, an invisible hand seemed to be on his chest making him go slower and slower; yet still he struggled on, till the mountain tops danced before his eyes, cascades rushed into his ears, the earth seemed to rise up and stop him; but through it all he heard a voice say, “Hullo, it’s the Monk! What is the matter?”
Then he knew he was on the ground on his face, with kind but tormenting hands busy about him, and his heart going so like a sledge hammer, that the word he would have given his life to utter, would not come out of his lips, and all he could do was to grasp convulsively at something that he believed to be a garment of the departing travellers.
“Here, the flask! Don’t speak yet,” said a man’s voice, and a choking stimulant was poured into his mouth. When the choking spasm it cost him was over, his eyes cleared, and he could at least gasp. Then he saw that it was his housemate, Evelyn, at whom he was clutching, and who asked again in amaze--
“What is up, old fellow?”
“Hush, not yet,” said the other voice; “let him alone till he gets his breath. Don’t hurry, my boy,” he added, “we will wait.”
Johnny, however, felt altogether absorbed in getting out one panting whisper, “A doctor.”
“Yes, yes, he is,” cried Evelyn. “What’s the matter? Not Brownlow!”
“Both--oh,” sobbed John in the agony of contending with the bumping, fluttering heart which would not let him fetch breath enough to speak.
“You will tell us presently. Don’t be afraid. We will wait,” said the voice of the man who, as John now felt, was supporting him. “Hush, Cecil, another minute, and he will be able to tell us.”
Indeed the rushing of every pulse was again making it vain for Johnny to try to utter anything, and he shut his eyes in the realisation that he had succeeded and found help. If his heart would have not bumped and fluttered so fearfully, it would have been almost rest, as he was helped up by those kind, strong arms. It was really for little more than five seconds before he gathered his powers to say, still between gasps--
“Out all night--the moraine--fog--snow--Jock--very bad--Armine--worse--up there.”
“At Schwarenbach?”
“Yes. Oh, come! They are so ill.”
“I am sure Dr. Medlicott will do all he can for them,” said another voice, which John saw proceeded from a very tall, slight youth, with a fair, delicate, girlish face. “Had he not better get into the carriage and return to the hotel?”
“By all means.”
And John found himself without much volition lifted and helped into the carriage, where Cecil Evelyn scrambled up beside him, and put an arm round him.
“Poor old Monk, you are dead beat,” he said, as the carriage turned, the other two walking beside it. “Did you come that pace all the way down?”
“Only after the wood.”
“Well, ‘twas as plucky a thing as I ever saw. But is Skipjack so bad?”
“Dreadful! Light-headed all yesterday--horrid pain! But not so bad as Armine. If something ain’t done soon--he’ll die.”
“Poor little Brownlow! You’ve come to the right shop. Medlicott is first rate. Did you know it was we?”
“No--only--an English doctor,” said John.
“Mother sent us abroad with him, because they said Fordham must have Swiss air; and poor old Granny still goes on in the same state,” said Cecil. “We got here on Tuesday evening, and saw your names; but then the fog came, and it snowed all yesterday, and the doctor said it would not do for Fordham to go so high. And the more I wanted them to come up with you, the more they would not. Were they out in that snow?”
Here came an order from the doctor not to make his friend talk, and Johnny was glad to obey, and reserve his breath for the explanation. He did not hear what passed between the other two, as they walked behind the carriage.
“A fine fellow that! Is he Cecil’s friend?”
“No, I wish he were. However, it can’t be helped now, in common humanity; and my mother will understand.”
“You mean that it was her wish that we should avoid them.”
“She thinks the influence has not been good for Cecil.”
“That was the reason you gave up the Gemmi so easily.”
“It was. But, as I say, it can’t be helped now, and no harm can be done by going to see whether they are really so ill.”
“Brownlow is the name. I wonder if they are any relation to a man I once knew--a lecturer at one of the hospitals?”
“Not likely. These are very rich people, with a great house in Hyde Park regions, and a place in the country. They are always asking Cecil there; only my mother does not fancy it. It is not a matter of charity after the first stress. They can easily have advice from England, or anywhere they like.”
By this time they reached the hotel, and John alighted briskly enough, and explained the state of affairs in a few words.
“My dear boy,” said Dr. Medlicott, “I’ll go up at once, as soon as I can get at our travelling medicine-chest. Luckily we have what is most likely to be useful.”
“Thank you,” said Johnny, and therewith he turned dizzy, and reeled against the wall.
“It is nothing--nothing,” he said, as the doctor having helped him into a sitting-room, laid his hand on his pulse. “Don’t delay about me! I shall be all right in a minute.”
“They are getting down the boxes. No time is lost,” said the doctor, quietly. “See whether they can let us have some soup, Cecil.”
“I couldn’t swallow anything,” said Johnny, imploringly.
“Have you had any breakfast this morning?”
“Yes, a bit of bread and a drink of milk. There was not time for more.”
“And you had been searching all one night, and nursing the next?”
“Most of it,” was the confession. “But I shall be all right--if there is any pony I could ride upon.”
“You shall by-and-by; but first, Reeves,” as a servant with grizzled hair and moustache brought in a neatly-fitted medicine-chest, “I give this young gentleman into your care. He is to lie down on my bed for half an hour, and Mr. Evelyn is not to go near him. Then, if he is awake--”
“If--” ejaculated John.
“Give him a basin of soup--Liebig, if you can’t get anything here.”
“Liebig!” broke out John. “Oh, please take some. There’s nothing up there but old goat, and nothing to drink but milk and lemonade, like beastly hair-oil; and Jock hates milk.”
“Never fear,” said Dr. Medlicott; “Liebig is going, and a packet of tea. Mrs. Evelyn does not send us out unprovided. If you eat your soup like a good boy, you may then ride up--not walk--unless you wish to be on your mother’s hands too.”
“She’s my aunt; but it is all the same. Tell her I’m coming.”
“I shall go with you, doctor,” said Cecil. “I must know about Brownlow.”
“Much good you’ll do him! But I’d rather leave this fellow in Fordham’s charge than yours.”
So Johnny had no choice but to obey, growling a little that it was all nonsense, and he should be all right in five minutes, but that expectation continued, without being realised, for longer than Johnny knew. He awoke with a start to find the Liebig awaiting him; and Lord Fordham’s eyes fixed on him, with (though neither understood it) the generous, though melancholy envy of an invalid youth for a young athlete.
“Have I been asleep?” he asked, looking at his watch. “Only ten minutes since I looked last? Well, now I am all right.”
“You will be when you have eaten this,” said Lord Fordham.
Johnny obeyed, and ate with relish.
“There!” said he; “now I am ready for anything.”
“Don’t get up yet. I’ll go and order a horse for you.”
When Lord Fordham came back from doing so, he found his patient really fast asleep, and with a little colour coming into the pale cheeks. He stole back, bade that the pony should wait, went on writing his letter, and waited till one hour, two, three hours had passed, and at last the sleeper woke, greatly disgusted, willing to accept the bath which Lord Fordham advised him to take, and which made him quite himself again.
“You’ll let me go now,” he said. “I can walk as well as ever.”
“You will be of more use now, if you ride,” said Lord Fordham. “There, I hear our luncheon coming in. You must eat while the pony is coming round.”
“If it won’t lose time--thank you,” said Johnny, recovered enough now to know how hungry he was, “But I ought not to have stayed away. My aunt has no one but me.”
“And you can really help her?” said Lord Fordham, with some experience of his brother’s uselessness.
“Not well, of course,” said Johnny; “but it is better than nobody; and Armine is so patient and so good, that I’m the more afraid. Is not it a very bad sign,” he added, confidentially; for he was quite won by the youth’s kind, considerate way, and evident liking and sympathy.
“I don’t know,” faltered Lord Fordham. “My brother Walter was like that! Is this the little fellow who is Cecil’s fag?”
“Yes; Jock asked him to take him, because he was sure never to bully him or lick him when he wouldn’t do things.”
This not very lucid description rejoiced Lord Fordham.
“I am glad of that,” he said. “But I hope the little boy will get over this. My mother had a very excellent account of Dr. Medlicott’s skill; and you know an illness from a misadventure is not like anything constitutional.”
“No; but Armine is always delicate, and my aunt has had to take care of him.”
“Do you live with them?”
“O no; I have lots of people at home. I only came with them because I had had these measles at Eton; and my aunt is--well, the very jolliest woman that ever was.”
Lord Fordham smiled.
“Yes, indeed she is. I don’t mean only kind and good-natured. But if you just knew her! The whole world and everything else have just been something new and glorious ever since I knew her. I seem to myself to have lived in a dark hole till she made it all light.”
“Ah! I understand that you would do anything for her.”
“That I would, if there was anything I could do,” said Johnny, hastily finishing his meal.
“Well, you’ve done something to-day.”
“That--oh, that was nothing. I shouldn’t have made such a fool of myself if I hadn’t been seedy before. I hear the pony,” he added. “Excuse me.” And, with a murmured grace, he rose. Then, recollecting himself, “No end of thanks. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”
“Don’t; I’ve done nothing,” said Lord Fordham, wringing his hand. “I only hope--”
The words stuck in his throat, and with a sigh he watched the lad ride off.
XXI. AN ACT OF INDEPENDENCE
Soldier now and servant true; Earth behind and heaven in view. Isaac Williams.
Marmaduke Alwyn Evelyn, Viscount Fordham, was the fourth bearer of that title within ten years. His father had not lived to wear it, and his two elder brothers had both died in early youth. His precarious existence seemed to be only held on a tenure of constant precaution, and if his mother ventured to hope that it might be otherwise with the two youngest of the family, it was because they were of a shorter, sturdier, more compact form and less transparent complexion than their elders, and altogether seemed of a different constitution.
More delicate from the first than the two brothers who had gone before him, Lord Fordham had never been at school, had studied irregularly, and had never been from under his mother’s wing till this summer, when she was detained by the slow decay of his grandmother. Languor and listlessness had beset the youth, and he had been ordered mountain air, and thus it was that Mrs. Evelyn had despatched both her sons to Switzerland, under the attendance of a highly recommended physician, a young man bright and attractive, who had over-worked himself at an hospital, and needed thorough relaxation. Rightly considering Lucas Brownlow as the cause of most of Cecil’s Eton follies, she had given her eldest son a private hint to elude joining forces with the family, and he was the most docile and obedient of sons. Yet was it the perversity of human nature that made him infinitely more animated and interested in John Brownlow’s race and the distressed travellers on the Schwarenbach than he had been since--no one could tell when?
Perhaps it was the novelty of being left alone and comparatively unwatched. Certain it was that he ate enough to rejoice the heart of his devoted and tyrannical attendant Reeves; and that he walked about in much anxiety all the afternoon, continually using his telescope to look up the mountain wherever a bit of the track was visible through the pine woods.
In due time Cecil rode back the pony which John had taken up. The alacrity with which the long lank bending figure stepped to meet him was something unwonted, but the boy himself was downcast and depressed.
“I’m afraid you’ve nothing good to tell.”
Cecil shook his head, and after some more seconds broke out--
“It’s awful!”
“What is?”
“Brownlow’s pain. I never saw anything like it!”
“Rheumatism? If that is from the exposure, I hope it will not last long.”
“No. They’ve sent for some opiates to Leukerbad, and the doctor says that is sure to put him to sleep.”
“Medlicott stays there?”
“Yes. He says if little Armine is any way fit, he must move him away to-morrow at all risks from the night-cold up there, and he wants Reeves to see about men to carry him, that is if--if to-night does not--”
Cecil could not finish.
“Then it is as bad as we heard?”
“Quite,” said Cecil, “or worse. That dear little chap, just fancy!” and his eyes filled with tears. “He tried to thank me for having been good to him--as if I had.”
“He was your fag?”
“Yes; Skipjack asked me to choose him because he’s that sort of little fellow that won’t give into anything that goes against his conscience, and if one of those fellows had him that say lower boys have no business with consciences, he might be licked within an inch of his life and he’d never give in. He did let himself be put under a pump once at some beastly hole in the country, for not choosing to use bad language, and he has never been so strong since.”
“Mother would be glad that at least you allowed him the use of his conscience.”
“I’m glad I did now,” said Cecil, with a sigh, “though it was a great nuisance sometimes.”
“Was the Monk, as you call him, one of that set?”
“Bless you, no, he’s a regular sap, as steady as old time.”
“I wonder if he is the son of the doctor whom Medlicott talks of.”
“No; his father is alive. He is a colonel, living near their place. The other two are the doctor’s sons; their mother came into the property after his death. Their Maximus was in college at first, and between ourselves, he was a bit of a snob, who couldn’t bear to recollect it.”
“Not your friend?”
“No, indeed. The eldest one, who has left these two years, and is at Christchurch.”
“I am sure the one who came down here was a gentleman.”
“So they are, all three of them,” said Cecil, who had never found his brother so ready to hear anything about his Eton life, since in general accounts of the world, from which he was debarred, so jarred on his feelings that he silenced it with apparent indifference, contempt, or petulance. Now, however, Cecil, with his heart full of the Brownlows, could not say more of them than Fordham was willing to hear; nay, he even found an amused listener to some of his good stories of courageous pranks.
Fordham was not yet up the next morning when there was a knock at his door, and the doctor came in, answering his eager question with--
“Yes, he has got through this night, but another up in that place would be fatal. We must get them down to Leukerbad.”
“Over that long precipitous path?”
“It is the only chance. I came down to look up bearers, and rig up a couple of hammocks, as well as to see how you are getting on.”
“Oh! I’m very well,” said Lord Fordham, in a tone that meant it, sitting up in bed. “We might ride on to Leukerbad with Reeves, and get rooms ready.”
“The best thing you could do,” said Dr. Medlicott, joyfully. “When we are there we can consider what can be done next; and if you wish to go on, I could look up some one there in whose charge to leave them till they could get advice from home; but it is touch and go with that little fellow.”
“I’m in no particular hurry,” said Lord Fordham, answering the doctor’s tone rather than his words. “I would not do anything hasty or that might add to their distress. Are there likely to be good doctors at this place?”
“It is a great watering-place, chiefly for rheumatic complaints, and that is all very well for the elder boy. As to the little one, he is in as critical a state as I ever saw, and--His mother is an excellent linguist, that is one good thing.”
“Yes; it would be very trying for her to have a foreigner to attend the boy in such a state, however skilled he might be,” said Lord Fordham. “I think we might make up our minds to stay with them till they can get some one from England.”
Dr. Medlicott caught at the words.
“It rests with you,” he said. “Of course I am your property and Mrs. Evelyn’s, but I should like to tell you why this is more to me than a matter of common humanity. I went up to study in London, a simple, foolish lad, bred up by three good old aunts, more ignorant of the world than their own tabby cat. Of course I instantly fell in with the worst stamp of fellows, and was in a fair way of being done for, body and soul, if one of the lecturers, after taking us to task for some heartless, disgusting piece of levity, seeing perhaps that it was more than half bravado on my part and nearly made me sick, managed to get me alone. He talked it out with me, found out the innocent-hearted fool I was, cured me of my false shame at what the good old souls at home had taught me, showed me what manhood was, found a good friend and a better lodging for me, in short, was the saving of me. He died three months after I first knew him, but whatever is worth having in me is owing to him.”
“Was he the father of these boys?”
“Yes; I saw a likeness in the nephew who came down yesterday, and I see it in both the others.”
“Of course you would wish to do all that is possible for them?”
“I should feel it the greatest honour. Still my first duty is to you, and you have told me that your mother wished you to keep your brother out of the way of his schoolfellow.”
“My mother would not wish to deprive her worst enemy of your care in such need as this,” said Lord Fordham, smiling. “Besides if this friend of Cecil’s were ever so bad, he couldn’t do him much harm while he is ill, poor boy. We will at any rate stay to get them through the next few days, and then we can judge. I will settle it with my mother.”
“I knew you would say so,” rejoined the doctor. “Thank you. Then it seems to me that the right course will be to write to Mrs. Evelyn, inclosing a note to Dr. Lucas--who it seems is Mrs. Brownlow’s chief reliance--asking him to find someone to send out. She, can send it on to him if she disapproves of our remaining together longer than is absolutely necessary, or if Leukerbad disagrees with you. Meantime, I’ll go and see whether Reeves has found any men to carry the poor boys.”
Unfortunately it was too early in the season for the hotels to have marshalled their full establishment, and such careful and surefooted bearers as the sufferers needed could not be had in sufficient numbers, so that Dr. Medlicott was forced to decide on leaving the elder patient for a night at Schwarenbach. The move might be matter of life or death to Armine; but Jock was better, the pain could be somewhat allayed by anodynes, the fever was abating, and he would rather gain than lose by another day of rest, provided he would only accept his fate patiently, and also if he could be properly attended to. If Mr. Graham would stay with him--
So breakfast was eaten, bills were paid, horses hired, and the whole cavalcade started from Kandersteg in time to secure the best part of a bright hot day for the transit.
They met Mr. Graham, who had been glad to escape as soon as Mrs. Brownlow had found other assistance, so that the doctor was disappointed in his hope of a guardian for Jock. Lord Fordham offered to lend Reeves, but that functionary absolutely refused to separate himself from his charge, observing--
“I am responsible for your lordship to your mamma, and it does not lie within my province to leave you on any account.”
Reeves always called Mrs. Evelyn “your mamma” when he wished to be particularly authoritative with his young gentlemen. If they were especially troublesome he called her “your ma.”
“And after all,” said the doctor, “I don’t know what sort of preparations the young gentlemen would make if we let them go by themselves. A bare room, perhaps--with no bed-clothes, and nothing to eat till the table d’hote”
Reeves smiled. He had found the doctor much less of a rival than he had expected, and he was a kind-hearted man, so long as his young lord was made the first object; so he declared his willingness to do anything that lay in his power for the assistance of the poor lady and her sons. He would gladly sit up with them, if it were in the same house with his lordship.
No one came out to meet the party. John was found with Armine, who had been taken back at night to his own room; Mrs. Brownlow, as usual, with Jock, who would endure no presence but hers, and looked exceedingly injured when, sending Cecil in to sit with him, the doctor called her out of the room.
It was a sore stroke on her to hear that her charges must be separated; and there was the harrowing question whether she should stay with one or go with the other.
“Please, decide,” she said.
“I think you should be with the most serious case.”
“And that, I fear, means my little Armine. Yes, I will do as you tell me. But what can be done for Jock?--poor Jock who thinks he needs me most. And perhaps he does. You know best, though, Dr. Medlicott, and you shall settle it.”
“That is a wise nurse,” said he, kindly; “I wish I could take your place myself, but I must be with the little fellow myself; and I am afraid we can only leave his brother to your nephew for this one night. Should you be afraid to be sole nurse?” he added, as Johnny came to Armine’s door.
“I think I know what to do, if Jock can stand having me,” said Johnny, stoutly, as soon as he understood the question.
“Mother!” just then shouted Jock, and as Johnny obeyed the call, he began--“I want my head higher--no--I say not you--Mother Carey!”
“She is busy with the doctor.”
“Can’t she come and do this? No, I say,” and he threw the nearest thing at hand at him.
“Come,” said Cecil, “I’m glad you can do such things as that.”
But Jock gave a cry of pain, and protested that it was all John’s fault for making him hurt himself instead of fetching mother.
“You had better let me lift you,” said John, “you know she is tired, and I really am stronger.”
“No, you shan’t touch me--a great clumsy lout.”
In the midst of these amenities, the doctor appeared, and Jock looked slightly ashamed, especially when the doctor, instead of doing what was wanted, directed John where to put an arm, and how to give support, while moving the pillow, adding that he was a handy fellow, more so than many a pupil after half a year’s training at the hospital, and smiling down Jock’s growls and groans, which were as much from displeasure as from pain. They were followed by some despairing sighs at the horrors of the prospect of being moved.
“Ah! what will you give me for letting you off?” said the Doctor.
Jock uttered a sound of relief, then, rather distrustfully, asked--“Why?”
“We can only get bearers enough for one; and as it is most important to move your brother, while you will gain by a night’s rest, he must have the first turn.”
“And welcome,” said Jock; “my mother will stay with me.”
“That’s the very point,” said Dr. Medlicott. “I want you not only to give her up, but to do so cheerfully.”
“I’m sure mother wants to stay with me. Armine does not need her half so much.”
“He does not require the same kind of attention; but he is in so critical a state that I do not think I ought to separate her from him.”
“Why, what is the matter with him?” asked Jock, startled.
“Congestion of the right lung,” said the doctor, seeing that he was strong enough to bear the information, and feeling the need of rousing him from his monopolising self-absorption.
“People get over that, don’t they?” said Jock, with an awestruck interrogation in his voice.
“They do; and I hope much from getting him into a warmer atmosphere, but the child is so much reduced that the risk is great, and I should not dare not to have his mother with him.” Then, as Jock was silent, “I have told you because you can make a great difference to their comfort by not showing how much it costs you to let her go.”
Jock drew the bed clothes over his face, and an odd stifled sound was heard from under them. He remained thus perdu, while directions were being given to John for the night, but as the doctor was leaving the room, emerged and said--
“Bring him in before he goes.”
In a short time, for it was most important not to lose the fine weather, the doctor carried Armine in swathed in rugs and blankets, a pale, sunken, worn face, and great hollow eyes looking out at the top.
The mother said something cheerful about a live mummy, but the two poor boys gazed at one another with sad, earnest, wistful eyes, and wrung one another’s hands.
“Don’t forget,” gasped Armine, labouring for breath.
And Jock answered--
“All right, Armie; good-bye. I’m coming to morrow,” with a choking, quivering attempt at bravery.
“Yes, to-morrow,” said poor Mother Carey, bending over him. “My boy--my poor good boy, if I could but cut myself in two! I can’t tell you how thankful I am to you for being so good about it. That dear good Johnny will do all he can, and it is only till tomorrow. You’ll sleep most of the time.”
“All right, mother,” was again all that Jock could manage to utter, and the kisses that followed seemed to him the most precious he had known. He hid his face again, bearing his trouble the better because the lull of violent pain quelled by opiates, so that his senses were all as in a dream bound up. When he looked up again at the clink of glass, it was Cecil whom he saw measuring off his draught.
“You!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, Medlicott said I might stay till four, and give the Monk a chance of a sleep. That fellow can always snooze away off hand, and he is as sound as a top in the next room; but I was to give you this at two.”
“You’re sure it’s the right stuff?”
“I should think so. We’ve practice enough in the family to know how to measure off a dose by this time.”
“How is it you are out here still? This is Thursday, isn’t it? We meant to have been half way home, to be in time for the matches.”
“I’m not going back this half, worse luck. They were mortally afraid these measles would make me get tender in the chest, like all the rest of us, so I’ve got nothing to do but be dragged about with Fordham after churches and picture galleries and mountains,” said Cecil, in a tone of infinite disgust. “I declare it made me half mad to look at the Lake of Lucerne, and recollect that we might have been in the eight.”
“Not this year.”
“No, but next.”
In this contemplation Cecil was silent, only fondling Chico, until Jock, instead of falling asleep again, said, “Evelyn, what does your doctor really think of the little chap?”
Cecil screwed up his face as if he had rather not be asked.
“Never you think about it,” he said. “Doctors always croak. He’ll be all right again soon.”
“If I was sure,” sighed Jock; “but you know he has always been such a religious little beggar. It’s a horrid bad sign.”
“Like my brother Walter,” said Cecil gravely. “Now, Duke can be ever so snappish and peevish; I’m not half so much afraid for him.”
“You never heard anything like the little fellow that night,” said Jock, and therewith he gave his friend by far the most connected account of the adventure that had yet been arrived at. He even spoke of the resolution to which he had been brought, and in a tone of awe described how he had pledged himself for the future.
“So you see I’m in for it,” he concluded; “I must give up all our jolly larks.”
“Then I shan’t get into so many rows with my mother and uncle,” said Cecil, by no means with the opposition his friend had anticipated.
“Then you’ll stand by me?” said Jock.
“Gladly. My mother was at me all last Easter, telling me my goings on were worse to her than losing George or Walter, and talking about my Confirmation and all. She only let me be a communicant on Easter Day, because I did mean to make a fresh start--and I did mean it with all my heart; only when that supper was talked of, I didn’t like to stick out against you, Brownlow; I never could, you know, and I didn’t know what it was coming to.”
“Nor I,” said Jock; “that’s the worst of it. When a lark begins one doesn’t know how far one will get carried on. But that night I thought about the Confirmation, and how I had made the promise without really thinking about it, and never had been to Holy Communion.”
“I meant it all,” said Cecil, “and broke it, so I’m worst.”
“Well!” said Jock, “if I go back from the promise little Armie made me make about being Christ’s faithful soldier and servant I could never face him again--no, nor death either! You can’t think what it was like, Evelyn, sitting in the dead stillness--except for an awful crack and rumbling in the ice, and the solid snow fog shutting one in. How ugly, and brutish, and horrid all those things did look; and how it made me long to have been like the little fellow in my arms, or even this poor little dog, who knew no better. Then somehow came now and then a wonderful sense that God was all round us, and that our Lord had done all that for my forgiveness, if I only meant to do right in earnest. Oh! how to go on meaning it!”
“That’s the thing,” said Cecil. “I mean it fast enough at home, and when my mother talks to me and I look at my brothers’ graves, but it all gets swept away at Eton. It won’t now, though, if you are different, Brownlow. I never liked any fellow like you I knew you were best, even when you were worst. So if you go in for doing right, I shan’t care for anyone else--not even Cressham and Bulford.”
“If they choose to make asses of themselves they must,” said Jock. “It will be a bore, but one mustn’t mind things. I say, Evelyn, suppose we make that promise of Armine’s over again together now.”
“It is only the engagement we made when we were sworn into Christ’s army at our baptism,” said the much more fully instructed Cecil. “We always were bound by it.”
“Yes, but we knew nothing about it then, and we really mean it now,” said Jock. “If we do it for ourselves together, it will put us on our honour to each other, and to Christ our Captain, and that’s what we want. Lay hold of my hand.”
The two boys, with clasped hands, and grave, steadfast eyes, with one voice, repeated together--
“We, John Lucas Brownlow and Cecil Fitzroy Evelyn, promise with all our hearts manfully to fight under Christ’s banner, and continue His faithful soldiers and servants to our lives’ end. Amen.”
Then Cecil touched Lucas’s brow with his lips, and said--
“Fellow-soldiers, Brownlow.”
“Brothers in arms,” responded Jock.
It was one of those accesses of deep enthusiasm, and even of sentiment, which modern cynicism and false shame have not entirely driven out of youth. Their hearts were full; and Jock, the stronger, abler, and more enterprising had always exercised a fascination over his friend, who was absolutely enchanted to find him become an ally instead of a tempter, and to be no longer pulled two opposite ways.
“Ought we not to say a prayer to make it really firm? We can’t stand alone, you know,” he said, diffidently.
“If you like; if you know one,” said Jock.
Cecil knelt down and said the Lord’s Prayer and the collect for the Fourth Epiphany Sunday.
“That’s nice,” was Jock’s comment. “How did you know it?”
“Mother made us learn the collects every Sunday, and she wrote that in my little book. I always begin the half with it, but afterwards I can’t go on.”
“Then it doesn’t do you much good,” was the not unnatural remark.
“I don’t know,” said Cecil, hesitating; “may be all this--your getting right, I mean, is the coming round of prayers--my mother’s, I mean, for if you take this turn, it will be much easier for me! Poor mother! it’s not for want of her caring and teaching.”
“My mother doesn’t bother about it.”
“I wish she did,” said Cecil. “If she had gone on like mine, you would have been ever so much better than I.”
“No, I should have been bored and bothered into being regularly good-for-nothing. You don’t know what she’s really like. She’s nicer than anyone--as jolly as any fellow, and yet a lady all over.”
“I know that,” said Cecil; “she was uncommonly jolly to me at Eton, and I know my mother and she will get on like a house on fire. We’re too old to have a scrimmage about them like disgusting little lower boys,” he added, seeing Jock still bristling in defence of Mother Carey.
This produced a smile, and he went on--
“Look here, Skipjack, we will be fellow-soldiers every way. My Uncle James can do anything at the Horse Guards, and he shall have us set down for the same regiment. I’ll tell him you are my good influence.”
“But I’ve been just the other way.”
“Oh, but you will be--a year or two will show it. Which shall it be? Do you go in for cavalry or infantry? I like cavalry, but he’s all for the other.”
Jock was wearied enough not to have much contribution to make to the conversation, and he thus left Cecil such a fair field as he seldom enjoyed for Uncle James’s Indian and Crimean campaigns, and for the comparative merits of the regiments his nephew had beheld at reviews.
He was interrupted by a message from the guide that there was a cloud in the distance, and the young Herr had better set off quickly unless he wished to be weather-bound.
Johnny was on his feet as soon as there was a step on the stairs, and was congratulated on his ready powers of sleeping.
“It’s in the family,” said Jock. “His brother Rob went to sleep in the middle of the examination for his commission.”
“Then I should think he could sleep on the rack,” said Cecil.
“I’m sure I wish I could,” rejoined Jock.
“What a sell for the torturers, to get some chloroform!” said John. And so Cecil departed amid laughter, which gave John little idea how serious the talk had been in his absence.
The rain came on even more rapidly than the guide had foretold, and it was a drenched and dripping object that rode into the court of the tall hotel at Leukerbad, and immediately fell into the hands of Dr. Medlicott and Reeves, who deposited him ignominiously in bed, in spite of all his protestations and murmurs. However, he had the comfort of hearing that his little fag was recovering from the exhaustion of the journey. He had at first been so faint that the doctor had watched, fearing that he would never revive again, and he had not yet attempted to speak; but his breathing was certainly already less laboured, and the choking, struggling cough less frequent. “He really seems likely to have a little natural sleep,” was Lord Fordham’s report somewhat later, on coming in to find Cecil sitting up in bed to discuss a very substantial supper. “I hope that with Reeves and the doctor to look to him, his mother may get a little rest to-night.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Only for a moment or two, poor thing; but I never did see such eyes or such a wonderful sad smile as she tried to thank us with. Medlicott is ready to do anything for her husband’s sake; I am sure anyone would do the same for hers. To get such a look is something to remember!”
“Well done, Duke!” ejaculated Cecil under his breath, for he had never seen his senior so animated or so enthusiastic. “Then you mean to stay, and let Medlicott look after them?”
“Of course I do,” said Fordham, in a much more decided tone than he had used in the morning. “I’m not going to do anything so barbarous as to leave them to some German practitioner; and when we are here, I don’t see why they should have advice out from home--not half so good probably.”
“You’re a brick, Duke,” uttered Cecil; and though Fordham hated slang, he smiled at the praise.
“And now, Duke, be a good fellow, and give me some clothes. That brute Reeves has not brought me in one rag.”
“Really it is hardly worth while. It is nearly eight o’clock, and I don’t know where your portmanteau was put. Shall I get you a book?”
“No; but if you’d get me a pen and ink, I want to write to mother.”
Such a desire was not too frequent in Cecil, and Fordham was glad enough to promote it, bringing in his own neat apparatus, with only a mild entreaty that his favourite pen might be well treated, and the sheets respected. He had written his own letter of explanation of his first act of independence, and he looked with some wonder at his brother’s rapid writing, not without fear that some sudden pressure for a foolish debt might have been the result of his tete-a-tete with his dangerous friend. Cecil’s letters were too apt to be requests for money or confessions of debts, and if this were the case, what would be Mrs. Evelyn’s view of the conduct of the whole party in disregarding her wishes?
Had he been with his mother, he would have probably been called into consultation over the letter, but he was forced to remain without the privilege here offered to the reader:--
“Baden Hotel, Leukerbad, June 14.
“Dearest Mother,--Duke has written about our falling in with the Brownlows, and how pluckily Friar caught us up. It was a regular mercy, for the little one couldn’t have lived without Dr. Medlicott, and most likely Lucas is in for a rheumatic fever. He has been telling me all about it, and how frightful it was to be all night out on the edge of the glacier in a thick fog with his ankle strained, and how little Armine went on with his texts and hymns and wasn’t a bit afraid, but quite happy. You never would believe what a fellow Brownlow is. We have had a great talk, and you will never have to say again that he does me harm.
“Mammy, darling, I want to tell you that I was a horrible donkey last half, worse than you guessed, and I am sorrier than ever I was before, and this is a real true resolution not to do it again. Brownlow and I have promised to stand by one another about right and wrong to our lives’ end. He means it, and what Brownlow means he does, and so do I. We said your collect, and somehow I do feel as if God would help us now.
“Please, dearest mother, forgive me for all I have not told you.
“Duke is very well and jolly. He is quite smitten with Mrs. Brownlow, and, what is more, so is Reeves, who says she is ‘such a lady that it is a pleasure to do anything for her.’
“Your loving son,
“C. F. E.”
Cecil’s letter went off with his brother’s in early morning; but it was such a day as only mails and postmen encounter. Mountains, pine-woods, nay, even the opposite houses, were blotted out by sheets of driving rain, and it was impossible to think of bringing Jock down! Dr. Medlicott heard and saw with dismay. What would the mother say to him--nay, what ought he to have done? He could hardly expect her not to reproach him, and he fairly dreaded meeting her eyes when they turned from the streaming window.
But all she said was, “We did not reckon on this.”
“If I had--” began the doctor.
“Please don’t vex yourself,” said she; “you could not have done otherwise, and perhaps the move would have hurt him more than staying there. You have been so very kind. See what you have done here!”
For Armine, after some hours that had been very distressing, had sunk into a calm sleep, and there was a far less oppressed look on his wan little face.
The doctor would have had her take some rest, but she shook her head. The only means of allaying the gnawing anxiety for Jock, and the despairing fancies about his suffering and Johnny’s helplessness, was the attending constantly to Armine.
“Anyway, I will see him to-day,” said Dr. Medlicott, impelled far more by the patient silence with which she sat, one hand against her beating heart, than he would have been by any entreaty. But how she thanked him when she found him really setting forth! She insisted on his taking a guide, as much for his own security as to carry some additional comforts to the prisoners, and she committed to him two little notes, one to each boy, written through a mist of tears. Yes; tears, unusual as they were with her, were called forth as much by the kindness she met with as by her sick yearning after the two lonely boys. And when she knew the doctor was on his way, she could yield to Armine’s signs of entreaty, lie back in her chair and sleep, while Reeves watched over him.
When the doctor, by a strong man’s determination, had made his way up the pass, he found matters better than he had dared to expect. The patient was certainly not worse, and the medicine had kept him in a sleepy, tranquil state, in which he hardly realised the situation. His young attendant was just considering how to husband the last draught, when the welcome, dripping visitor appeared. The patient was not in bad spirits considering, and could not but feel himself reprieved by the weather. He was too sleepy to feel the dulness of his present position, and even allowed that his impromptu nurse had done tolerably well. Johnny had been ready at every call, had rubbed away an attack of pain, hurt wonderfully little in lifting him, and was “not half a bad lot altogether”--an admission of which doctor and nurse knew the full worth.
Johnny himself was pleased and grateful, and had that sort of satisfaction which belongs to the finding out of one’s own available talent. He had done what was pronounced the right thing; and not only that, but he had liked the doing it, and he declared himself not afraid to encounter another night alone with his cousin. He had picked up enough vernacular German to make himself understood, and indeed was a decided favourite with Fraulein Rosalie, who would do anything for her dear young Herr. It was possible to get a fair amount of sleep, and Dr. Medlicott felt satisfied that the charge was not too much for him, and indeed there was no other alternative. The doctor stayed as long as he could, and did his best to enliven the dulness by producing a pocketful of Tauchnitzes, and sitting talking while the patient dozed. Johnny showed such intelligent curiosity as to the how and why of the symptoms and their counteraction, that after some explanation the doctor said, “You ought to be one of us, my friend.”
“I have sometimes thought about it,” said John.
“Indeed!” cried the doctor, like an enthusiast in his profession; and John, though not a ready speaker, was drawn on by his notes of interest to say, “I don’t really like anything so much as making out about man and what one is made of.”
“Physiology?”
“Yes,” said the boy, who had been shy of uttering the scientific term. “There’s nothing like it for interest, it seems to me. Besides, one is more sure of being of use that way than in any other.”
“Capital! Then what withholds you? Isn’t it swell enough?”
Johnny laughed and coloured. “I’m not such a fool, but I am not sure about my people.”
“I thought your uncle was Joseph Brownlow.”
“My aunt would be delighted, but it is my own people. They would say my education--Eton and all that--was not intended for it.”
“You may tell them that whatever tends to make you more thoroughly a man and gentleman, and less of a mere professional, is a benefit to your work. The more you are in yourself, the higher your work will be. I hope you will go to the university.”
“I mean to go up for a scholarship next year; but I’ve lost a great deal of time now, and I don’t know how far that will tell.”
“I think you will find that what you may have lost in time, you will have gained in power.”
“I do want to go in for physical science, but there’s another difficulty. One of my cousins does so, but the effect on him has not made my father like it the better--and--and to tell the truth--” he half mumbled, “it makes me doubt--”
“The effect on his faith?”
“Yes.”
“If faith is unsettled by looking deeper into the mysteries of God’s works it cannot have been substantial faith, but merely outward, thoughtless reception,” said the doctor, as he met two thoughtful dark eyes fixed on him in inquiry and consideration.
“Thank you, sir,” after a pause.
“Had this troubled you?”
“Yes,” said John; “I couldn’t stand doubt there. I would rather break stones on the road than set myself doubting!”
“Why should you think that there is danger?”
“It seems to be so with others.”
“Depend upon it, Doubting Castle never lay on the straight road. If men run into it, it is not simple study of the works of creation that leads them there; but either they have only acquiesced, and never made their faith a living reality, or else they are led away by fashion and pride of intellect. One who begins and goes on in active love of God and man, will find faith and reverence not diminished but increased.”
“But aren’t there speculations and difficulties?”
“None which real active religion, and love cannot regard as the mere effects of half-knowledge--the distortions of a partial view. I speak with all my heart, as one who has seen how it has been with many of my own generation, as well as with myself.”
Johnny bent his head, and the young physician, somewhat surprised at finding himself saying so much on such points, left that branch of the subject, and began to talk to him about his uncle.
XXII. SHUTTING THE STABLE DOOR
Presumptuous maid, with looks intent, Again she gazed, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. Grey.
“Hurrah! It’s Johnny!”
“Georgie. Recollect yourself.”
“But, mamma, it was Johnny.”
“Johnny does not come till evening. Sit still, children, or I shall have to send you to dine in the nursery.”
“Somebody did pass the window, mamma, but I thought it was Rob,” said Jessie, now grown into a very fine-looking, tall, handsome maiden, with a grandly-formed head and shoulders, and pleasant soft brown eyes.
“It was Johnny,” reiterated little George; and at that moment the dining-room door opened, and the decorum of the luncheon dinner entirely giving way, the three little ones all precipitated themselves towards the entering figure, while Jessie and her mother rose at their two ends of the table, and the Colonel, no luncheon eater, came in from the study.
“What, Johnny, already!”
“The tidal train was earlier than I expected, so I have another half-day.”
“Well! are you all well?”
“Quite well. Why--how you are grown! I thought it was Rob when you passed my window,” said his father.
“So did I at first,” added Jessie, “but Rob is much broader.”
“Yes,” said his mother. “I am glad you are come back, Johnny; you look thin and pale. Sit down. Some mutton or some rabbit-pie? No, no, let Jessie help you; you shan’t have all the carving; I’m sure you are tired; you don’t look at all well.”
“I was crossing all night, you know,” said Johnny laughing, “and am as hungry as a hunter, that’s all. What a blessing to see a nice clean English potato again without any flummery!”
“Ah! I thought so,” said his mother; “they didn’t know how to feed you. It was an unfortunate business altogether.”
“How did you leave those poor boys, Johnny?” asked his father.
“Better,” said Johnny. “Jock is nearly well,--will be quite so after the baths; and Armine is getting better. He sat up for an hour the day before I came away.”
“And your aunt?” said his father.
“Wonderful,” said John, with a quiver of feeling on his face. “You never saw anything like her. She keeps up, but she looks awfully thin and worn. I couldn’t have left her, if Dr. Medlicott and Lord Fordham and his man had not all been bent on saving her whatever they could.”
Her Serene Highness virtuously forbore a sigh. She never could believe those chains with which Caroline bound all men to her service to be either unconscious or strictly proper. However, she only said--
“It was high time that you came away; you were quite knocked up with being left a week alone with Lucas in that horrid place. I can’t think how your aunt came to think of it.”
“She didn’t think,” said John, bluntly. “It was only a week, and it couldn’t be helped. Besides it was rather jolly.”
“But it knocked you up.”
“Oh! that was only a notion of the doctor and my aunt. They said I was done up first because I caught cold, and I was glad to wait a day or two longer at Leukerbad, in hopes Allen and Bobus would have come out before I went.”
“They come out! Not they!” said the Colonel. “‘Tis not the way of young men nowadays to give up anything for their fathers and mothers. No, no, Bobus can’t spare a week from his reading-party, but must leave his mother to a set of chance acquaintance, and Allen--whom poor Caroline always thinks the affectionate one, if he is nothing else--can’t give up going to gape at the sun at midnight, and Rob was wanting to make one of their freight of fools, but I told him it was quite enough to have one son wandering abroad at other people’s expense, when it couldn’t be helped; and that I wouldn’t have another unless he was prepared to lay down his share in the yacht, out of his pay and allowance. I’m glad you are come home, Johnny; it was quite right to come as soon as your aunt could spare you, poor thing! She writes warmly about you; I am glad you were able to be of use to her, but you ought not to waste any more time.”
“No. I wrote to my tutor that I would be at Eton to-morrow night, in time to begin the week’s work.”
“Papa!” cried out Mrs. Brownlow, “you will never let him start so soon? He is so pulled down, I must have him at home to get him right again; and there are all his clothes to look over!”
Colonel Brownlow gave the odd little chuckling noise that meant to all the family that he did not see the force of mamma’s objections, and John asseverated that he was perfectly well, and that his Eton garments were all at Hyde Corner, where he should take them up. Meantime, he thought he ought to walk to Belforest to report to his cousins, and carry a key which his aunt had sent by him to Janet.
“They will be coming in this evening,” said his mother; “you had better stay and rest.”
“I must go over, thank you,” said John. “There is a book Armine wants to have sent out to him. Jessie, will you walk with me?”
“And me!” cried George.
“And me!” cried Edmund.
“And me, Lina go!” cried the smallest voice.
But the Colonel disconcerted the petitioners by announcing that he had business at Belforest, and would drive Johnny over in the dogcart. So Jessie had to console herself by agreeing with her mother that Johnny looked much more manly, yes, and had an air and style about him which both admired very much, though, while Mrs. Brownlow deemed it the true outcome of the admixture of Friar and Brownlow, Jessie gave more credit to Eton and Belforest, for Jessie was really fond of her aunt, to whom she had owed most of her extra gaieties. Moreover, Mrs. Brownlow, though often chafing secretly, had the power of reticence, and would not set the minds of her children against one who was always doing them kindnesses. True, these favours were more than she could easily brook, since her pride and independence were not, like her husband’s, tempered by warm affection. It was his doing that the expenses of Johnny’s education had been accepted, and that Esther and Ellen had been sent by their aunt to a good school; thus gratitude, unpalatable though it were, prevented unguarded censure. She abstained from much; and as there was no quick intuition in the family, even Jessie, the most in her confidence, only vaguely knew that mamma thought Aunt Caroline too clever and fly-away; but mamma was grave and wise, and it was very nice to have an aunt who was young and lively, and always had pleasant things going on in her house. Jessie always had her full share, not indeed appreciating the intellect, but possessing beauty and charm enough to be always appreciated there. “Sweetly pretty,” as Mrs. Coffinkey called her, was exactly what she was, for she was thoroughly good and unselfish, and a happy, simple nature looked out through her brown smiling eyes. She was very fond of her cousins, had shared all the anxieties of the last fortnight to the utmost, and was a good deal disappointed at being baulked of the walk with her brother, in which she would have heard so much more about Armine, Jock, and Aunt Caroline, than would be communicated in public.
Johnny, however, was glad of the invitation, even though a little shy of it. The tete-a-tete drive was an approach to the serious business of life, since it was evidently designed to give opportunity for answering a letter which he had thought out and written while laid up at Leukerbad by a bad cold and the reaction from his exertions at Schwarenbach.
Still his father did not speak till they had driven up the hill, and were near the gates of Belforest. Then he said--
“That was not a bad letter that you wrote me, Johnny.”
Johnny flushed with pleasure. The letter had cost him much thought and pains, and commendation from his father was rare.
“But it will take a great deal of consideration.”
“Yes,” said Johnny. “You don’t disapprove, do you, papa?”
“Well,” said the Colonel, in his ponderous way, “you have advantages, you know, and you might do better for yourself.”
There was a quivering impulse on Johnny’s lips to say that it was not to himself that he wanted to do good; but when his father was speaking in that deliberate manner, he was not to be interrupted, and there was nothing for it but to hear him out.
“Your aunt is providing you with the best of educations, you have good abilities and industry, and you will be a well-looking fellow besides,” added the Colonel, glancing over him with an approving eye of fatherly satisfaction; “and it seems to me that you could succeed in some superior line. Your mother and I had always hoped to see you at the bar. Every opportunity for distinction is given you, and I do not understand this sudden desire to throw them up for a profession of much greater drudgery and fewer chances of rising, unless it were from some influence of your aunt.”
“She never spoke of it. She does not know that I have thought of it, nor of my letter to you.”
“Then it is simply from enthusiasm for this young doctor?”
“Not exactly,” said John, “but I always wished I could be like my uncle. I remember hearing mamma read a bit of one of the letters of condolence which said ‘His was one of the most beautiful lives I have ever known,’ and I never forgot it. It stayed in my mind like a riddle, till I gradually found out that the beauty was in the good he was always doing--”
“Ah!” said the Colonel, in a tone betokening that he was touched, and which encouraged John to continue,--
“Besides, I really do like and enter into scientific subjects better than any others; I believe it is my turn.”
“Perhaps--you do sometimes put me in mind of your uncle. But why have you only spoken of it now?”
“I don’t think I really considered what I should be,” said John. “There was quite enough to think of with work, and cricket, and all the rest, till this spring, when I have been off it all, and then when I talked it over with Dr. Medlicott, he settled my mind about various things that I wanted to know.”
“Did he persuade you?”
“No more than saying that I managed well for Jock when I was left alone with him, and that he thought I had the makings of a doctor in me. He loves his profession of course, and thinks it a grand one. Yes, papa, indeed I think it is. To be always learning the ways of God’s working, for the sake of lessening all the pain and grief in the world--”
“Johnny! That’s almost what my brother said to me thirty years ago, and what did it come to? Being at the beck and call night and day of every beggar in London, and dying at last in his prime, of disease caught in their service.”
“Yes,” said John, with a low, gruff sound in his voice, “but is not that like being killed in battle?”
“The world doesn’t think it so, my boy,” said the soldier. “Well! what is it you propose to do?”
“I don’t suppose it will make much difference yet,” said John, “except that at Oxford I should go in more for physical science.”
“You don’t want to give up the university?”
“Oh, no! Dr. Medlicott said a degree there is a great help, besides that, all the general study one can get is the more advantage, lifting one above the mere practitioner.”
“That is well,” said the Colonel. “If you are to go to the university, there is no need to dwell further on the matter at present. You will have had time to see more of the world, and you will know whether this wish only comes from enthusiasm for a pleasant young man who has been kind to you, or if it be your real deliberate choice, and if so, your mother will have had time to reconcile herself to the notion. At any rate we will say no more about it for the present. Though I must say, Johnny,” he added, as he turned his horse’s head between the ribbon borders of the approach, “you have thought and spoken like a sensible lad, and so like my dear brother, that I could not deny you.”
If Johnny could hardly believe in the unwonted commendation which made his heart throb, and sent a flood of colour into his cheeks. Colonel Brownlow was equally amazed at the boy’s attainment of a manly and earnest thought and purpose, so utterly unlike anything he had hitherto seen in the stolid Rob, or the easy-going Allen, or even in Bobus, who--whatever there might be in him--never thought it worth while to show it to his uncle.
However, discussion was cut short by a little flying figure which came rushing across the garden, and Babie with streaming hair clung to her cousin, gasping--
“Oh! Johnny, Johnny, tell me about Armie and Jock.”
“They are ever so much better, Babie,” said Johnny, lifting the slim little thing up in his arms, as he had lifted his own five-year-old brother; “I’ve got a thick parcel of acrostics for you, Armie makes them in bed, and Lord Fordham writes them out.”
“Will you come to the rosary, Uncle Robert?” said Babie, recovering her manners, as Johnny set her down. “It is the coolest place, and they are sitting there.”
“Why, Babie, what a sprite you look,” said Johnny. “You look as if you were just off the sick-list too!”
“I’m all right,” said Babie, shaking her hair at him, and bounding on before with the tidings of their coming, while her uncle observed in a low voice--
“Poor little thing! I believe she has been a good deal knocked up between the heat and the anxiety; there was no making her eat or sleep. Ah! Miss Elfie, are you acting queen of roses?” as Babie returned together with Elvira, who with a rich dark red rose over one ear, and a large bouquet at her bosom, justified the epithet at which she bridled, and half curtsied in her graceful stately archness, as she gave her hand in greeting, and exclaimed--
“Ah, Johnny! are you come? When is Mother Carey going to send for us?”
“When they leave Leukerbad I fancy,” said John. “That’s a tiresome place for anyone who does not need to lead the life of a hippopotamus.”
“It can’t be more tiresome than this is,” said Elvira, with a yawn. “Lessons all day, and nobody to come near us.”
“Isn’t this a dreadful place?” said John, merrily, as he looked into the rosary, a charming bowery circle of fragrance, inclosed by arches of trellis-work on which roses were trained, their wreaths now bearing a profusion of blossoms of every exquisite tint, from deep crimson or golden-yellow, to purest white, while their more splendid standard sisters bloomed out in fragrant and gorgeous magnificence under their protection.
At the shady end there was a little grass plat round a tiny fountain, whose feather of spray rose and plashed coolness. Near it were seats where Miss Ogilvie and Janet were discovered with books and work. They came forward with greetings and inquiries, which Johnny answered in detail.
“Yes, they are both better. Armine sat by the window for an hour the day before I came away.”
“Will they be able to come back to Eton after the holidays?” asked his father.
“Certainly not Armine, but Jock seems to be getting all right. If he was to catch rheumatism he did it at the right place, for that’s what Leukerbad is good for. Oh, Babie, you never saw such a lark! Fancy a great room, and where the floor ought to be, nothing but muddy water or liquid mud, with steps going down, and a lot of heads looking out of it, some with curly heads, some in smoking-caps, some in fine caps of lace and ribbons.”
“Oh! Johnny; like women!”
“Like women! They are women.”
“Not both together.”
“Yes, I tell you, the whole boiling of them, male and female. There’s a fat German Countess, who always calls Jock her liebes Kind, and comes floundering after him, to his very great disgust. The only things they have to show they are human still, and not frogs, are little boards floating before them with their pocket-handkerchiefs and coffee-cups and newspapers.”
“Oh! like the little blacks in the dear bright bays at San Ildefonso,” cried Elvira.
“You don’t mean that they have no clothes on?” said Babie, with shocked downrightness of speech that made everybody laugh; and Johnny satisfied her on that score, adding that Dr. Medlicott had made a parody of Tennyson’s “Merman,” for Jock’s benefit, on giving him up to a Leukerbad doctor, who was to conduct his month’s Kur. It was to go into the “Traveller’s Joy,” a manuscript magazine, the “first number of which was being concocted and illustrated amongst the Leukerbad party, for the benefit of Babie and Sydney Evelyn. As a foretaste, Johnny produced from the bag he still carried strapped on his shoulder, a packet of acrostics addressed to Miss Barbara Brownlow, and a smaller envelope for Janet.
“Is it the key?” asked Colonel Brownlow.
“Yes,” said Janet, “the key of her davenport, and directions in which drawer to find the letters you want. Do you like to have them at once, Uncle Robert?”
“Thank you--yes, for then I can go round and settle with that fellow Martin, which I can’t do without knowing exactly what passed between him and your mother.”
Janet went off, observing--“I wonder whether that is a possibility;” while Miss Ogilvie put in an anxious inquiry for Mrs. Brownlow’s health and spirits, and a good many more details were elicited than Johnny had given at home. She had never broken down, and now that she was hopeful, was, in spite of her fatigue, as bright and merry as ever, and was contributing comic pictures to the “Traveller’s Joy,” while Lord Fordham did the sketches. Those kind people were as careful of her as any could be.
“And what are her further plans?” asked Miss Ogilvie. “Has she been able to form any?”
“Hardly,” said Johnny. “They must stay at Leukerbad for a month for Jock to have the course of waters rightly, and indeed Armine could hardly be moved sooner. I think Dr. Medlicott wants them to keep in Switzerland till the heat of the weather is over, and then winter in the south.”
“And when may I go to Armine?”
“When shall we get away from here?” asked Babie and Elfie in a breath.
“I don’t quite know,” said John. “There is not much room to spare in the hotel where they are at Leukerbad, and it is a dreadfully slow place. Evelyn is growling like a dozen polar bears at it.”
“Why isn’t he gone back with you to Eton?”
“I believe it was settled that he was not to go back this half, for fear of his lungs, and you see he is a swell who takes it easily. He would have been glad enough to return with me though, and would scarcely have endured staying, but that he is so fond of Jock.”
“What is there to be done there?”
“Nothing, except to wade in tepid mud. Fordham has routed out a German to read Faust with, and that puts Evelyn into a sweet temper. They go on expeditions, and do sketching and botany, which amuses Armine; but they get up some fun over the queer people, and do them for the mag., but it is all deadly lively, not that I saw much of it, for we only got down from Schwarenbach on Monday, and they kept me in bed all the two next days; but Jock and Evelyn hate it awfully. Indeed Jock is so down in the mouth altogether I don’t know what to make of him, and just when the German doctors say the treatment makes people particularly brisk and lively.”
“Perhaps what makes a German lively makes an Englishman grave,” sagely observed Babie.
“Jock grave must be a strange sight,” said the Colonel; “I am afraid he can’t be recovering properly.”
“The doctor thinks he is,” said John; “but then he doesn’t know the nature of the Skipjack. But,” he added, in a low voice, “that night was enough to make any one grave, and it was much the worst to Jock, because he kept his senses almost all the time, and was a good deal hurt besides to begin with. His sprain is still so bad that he has to be carried upstairs and to go to the baths in a chair.”
“And do you think,” said the Colonel, “that this young lord is going to stay on all this time in this dull place for the sake of an utter stranger?”.
“Jock and Evelyn were always great friends at Eton,” said John. “Then my uncle did something, I don’t know what, that Medlicott is grateful for, and they have promised to see Armine through this illness. The place agrees with Fordham; they say he has never been so well or active since he came out.”
“What is he like?” inquired Babie.
“Like, Babie? Like anything long and limp you can think of. He sits all in a coil and twist, and you don’t think there’s much of him; but when he gets up and pulls himself upright, you go looking and looking till you don’t know where’s the top of him, till you see a thin white face in washed-out hair. He is a good fellow, awfully kind, and I suppose he can’t help being such a tremendous--” John hesitated, in deference to his father, for a word that was not slang, and finally chose “don.”
“Oh,” sighed Babie, “Armie said in his note he was jolly beyond description.”
“Well, so he is,” said John; “he plays chess with Armie, and brings him flowers and books, and waits on him as you used to do on a sick doll. And that’s just what he is; he ought to have been a woman, and he would have been much happier too, poor fellow. I’d rather be dead at once than drag about such a life of coddling as he does.”
“Poor lad!” said his father. “Did Janet understand that I was waiting for those letters, I wonder?”
“You had better go and see, Babie,” said Miss Ogilvie. “Perhaps she cannot find them.”
Babie set off, and John proceeded to explain that Mrs. Evelyn was still detained in London by old Lady Fordham, who continued to be kept between life and death by her doctors. Meantime, the sons could dispose of themselves as they pleased, while under the care of Dr. Medlicott, and were not wanted at home, so that there was little doubt but that they would remain with Armine as long as he needed their physician’s care.
All the while Elfie was flitting about, pelting Johnny with handfuls snatched from over-blown roses, and though he returned the assault at every pause, his grey travelling suit was bestrewn with crimson, pink, cream, and white petals.
At last the debris of a huge Eugenie Grandet hit him full on the bridge of his nose, and caused him to exclaim--
“Nay, Elfie, you little wretch; that was quite a good rose--not fair game,” and leaping up to give her chase in and out among the beds, they nearly ran against Janet returning with the letters, and saying “she was sorry to have been so long, but mother’s hoards were never easy places of research.”
Barbara came more slowly back, and looked somewhat as if she had had a sharper rebuke than she understood or relished.
Poor child! she had suffered much in this her first real trouble, and a little thing was enough to overset her. She had not readily recovered from the petulant tone of anger with which Janet told her not to come peeping and worrying.
Janet had given a most violent start when she opened the door of her mother’s bedroom where the davenport stood; and Janet much resented being startled; no doubt that was the reason she was so cross, thought Barbara, but still it was very disagreeable.
That room was the child’s also. She had been her mother’s bed-fellow ever since her father’s death, and she felt her present solitude. The nights were sultry, and her sleep had been broken of late.
That night she was in a slumber as cool as a widely-opened window would make it, but not so sound that she was not haunted all the time by dread for Armine.
Suddenly she was awakened to full consciousness by seeing a light in the room. No, it was not the maid putting away her dresses. It was Janet, bending over her mother’s davenport.
Babie started up.
“Janet! Is anything the matter?”
“Nothing! Nonsense! go to sleep, child.”
“What are you about?”
“Never mind. Only mother keeps her things in such a mess; I was setting them to rights after disturbing them to find the book.”
There was something in the tone like an apology.
Babie did not like it, but she well knew that she should be contemptuously put down if she attempted an inquiry, far less a remonstrance, with Janet. Only, with a puzzled sort of watch-dog sense, she sat up in bed and stared.
“Why don’t you lie down?” said Janet.
Babie did lie down, but on her back, her head high up on the pillow, and her eyes well open still.
Perhaps Janet did not like it, for she gave an impatient shuffle to the papers, shut the drawer with a jerk, locked it, took up her candle, and went away without vouchsafing a “good-night.”
Babie lay wondering. She knew that the davenport contained all that was most sacred and precious to her mother, as relics of her old life, and that only dire necessity would have made her let anyone touch it. What could Janet mean? To speak would be of no use. One-and-twenty was not likely to listen to thirteen, though Babie, in her dreamy wakefulness, found herself composing conversations in which she made eloquent appeals to Janet, which she was never likely to utter.
At last the morning twitterings began outside, doves cooed, peacocks miawed, light dawned, and Babie’s perceptions cleared themselves. In the wainscoted room was a large closet, used for hanging up cloaks and dresses, and fortunately empty. No sooner did the light begin to reflect itself in its polished oak-panelled door, than an idea struck Babie, and bounding from her bed, she opened the door, wheeled in the davenport, shut it in, turned the big rusty key with both hands and a desperate effort, then repairing to her own little inner room, disturbed the honourable retirement of the last and best-beloved of her dolls in a pink-lined cradle in a disused doll’s house, and laying the key beneath the mattress, felt heroically ready for the thumbscrew rather than yield it up. She knew Armine would say she was right, and be indignant that Janet should meddle with mother’s private stores. So she turned over on the pillow, cooled by the morning breeze, and fell into a sound sleep, whence she was only roused by the third “Miss Barbara,” from her maid.
She heard no more of the matter, and but for the absence of the davenport could really have thought it all a dream.
She was driving her two little fairy ponies to Kenminster with Elvira, to get the afternoon post, when a quiet, light step came into the bedroom, and Janet stood within it, looking for the davenport, as if she did not quite believe her senses. However, remembering Babie’s eyes, she had her suspicions. She looked into the little girl’s room and saw nothing, then tried the closet door, and finding it locked, came to a tolerably correct guess as to what had become of it, and felt hotly angry at “that conceited child’s meddling folly.”
For the awkward thing was that the clasped memorandum-book, containing “Magnum Bonum,” was in her hand, locked out of, instead of into, its drawer.
When searching for the account-book for her uncle, it had, as it were, offered itself to her; and though so far from being green, with “Garden” marked on it, it was Russia leather, and had J. B. upon it. She had peeped in and read “Magnum Bonum” within the lid. All day the idea had haunted her, that there lay the secret, in the charge of her little thoughtless mother, who, ignorant of its true value, and deterred by uncomprehended words and weak scruples, was withholding it from the world, and depriving her own family, and what was worst of all, her daughter, of the chances of becoming illustrious.
“I am his daughter as much as hers,” thought she. “Why should she deprive me of my inheritance?”
Certainly Janet had been told that the great arcanum could not be dealt with by a woman; but this she did not implicitly believe, and she was in consequence the more curious to discover what it really was, and whether it was reasonable to sacrifice the best years of her life to preparing for it. The supposed unfairness of her exclusion seemed to her to justify the act, and thus it was that she had stolen to the davenport when she supposed that her little sister would be asleep, and finding it impossible to attend or understand with Babie’s great brown eyes lamping on her, she had carried off the book.
She had been reading it even till the morning light had surprised her, and had been able to perceive the general drift, though she had leaped over the intermediate steps. She had just sufficient comprehension of the subject for unlimited confidence that the achievement was practicable, without having knowledge enough to understand a tithe of the difficulties, though she did see that they could hardly be surmounted by a woman unassisted. However, she might see her way by the time her studies were completed, and in the meantime her mother might keep the shell while she had the essence.
However, to find the shell thus left on her hands was no slight perplexity. Should she, as eldest daughter left in charge, demand the desk, Barbara would produce her reasons for its abstraction, and for this Janet was not prepared. Unless something else was wanted from it, so as to put Babie in the wrong, Janet saw no alternative but to secure the book in her own bureau, and watch for a chance of smuggling it back.
Thus Babie escaped all interrogation, but she did not release the captive davenport, and indeed she soon forgot all about it in her absorption in Swiss letters.