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?