And we alike must shun regard
From painter, player, sportsman, bard,
Wasp, blue-bottle, or butterfly,
Insects that swim in fashion’s sky.
Scott.
“At home? Then take these. There’s a lot more. I’ll run up,” said Cecil
Evelyn one October evening nearly two years later, as he thrust into
the arms of the parlour-maid a whole bouquet of game, while his servant
extracted a hamper from his cab, and he himself dashed up stairs with a
great basket of hot-house flowers.
But in the drawing-room he stood aghast, glancing round in the firelit
dusk to ascertain that he had not mistaken the number, for though the
maid at the door had a well-known face, and though tables, chairs,
and pictures were familiar, the two occupants of the room were utter
strangers, and at least as much startled as himself.
A little pale child was hurriedly put down from the lap of a tall maiden
who rose from a low chair by the fire, and stood uncertain.
“I beg your pardon,” he said; “I came to see Mrs. Brownlow.”
“My aunt. She will be here in a moment. Will you run and call her,
Lina?”
“You may tell her Cecil Evelyn is here,” said he; “but there is no
hurry,” he added, seeing that the child clung to her protector, too shy
even to move. “You are John Brownlow’s little sister, eh?” he added,
bending towards her; but as she crept round in terror, still clinging,
he addressed the elder one: “I am so glad; I thought I had rushed into a
strange house, and should have to beat a retreat.”
The young lady gave a little shy laugh which made her sweet oval glowing
face and soft brown eyes light up charmingly, and there was a fresh
graceful roundness of outline about her tall slender figure, as she
stood holding the shy child, which made her a wondrously pleasant sight.
“Are you staying here?” he asked.
“Yes; we came for advice for my little sister, who is not strong.”
“I’m so glad. I mean I hope there is only enough amiss to make you stay
a long time. Were you ever in town before?”
“Only for a few hours on our way to school.”
Here a voice reached them--
“Fee, fa, fum,
I smell the breath of geranium.”
And through the back drawing-room door came Babie, in walking attire,
declaiming--
“‘Tis Cecil, by the jingling steel,
‘Tis Cecil, by the pawing bay,
‘Tis Cecil, by the tall two-wheel,
‘Tis Cecil, by the fragrant spray.”
“O Cecil, how lovely! Oh, the maiden-hair. You’ve been making
acquaintance with Essie and Lina?”
“I did not know you were out, Babie,” said Essie. “Was my aunt with
you?”
“Yes. We just ran over to see Mrs. Lucas, and as we were coming home, a
poor woman besought us to buy two toasting-forks and a mousetrap, by
way of ornament to brandish in the streets. She looked so frightfully
wretched, that mother let her follow, and is having it out with her at
the door. So you are from Fordham, Cecil; I see and I smell. How are
they?”
“Duke is rather brisk. I actually got him out shooting yesterday, but he
didn’t half like it, and was thankful when I let him go home again. See,
Sydney said I was to tell you that passion-flower came from the plant
she brought from Algiers.”
“The beauty! It must go into Mrs. Evelyn’s Venice glass,” said Babie,
bustling about to collect her vases.
Lina, with a cry of delight, clutched at a spray of butterfly-like mauve
and white orchids, in spite of her sister’s gentle “No, no, Lina, you
must not touch.”
Babie offered some China asters in its stead, Cecil muttered “Let her
have it;” but Esther was firm in making her relinquish it, and when
she began to cry, led her away with pretty tender gestures of mingled
comfort and reproof.
“Poor little thing,” said Babie, “she is sadly fretful. Nobody but Essie
can manage her.”
“I should think not!” said Cecil, looking after the vision, as if he
did not know what he was saying. “You never told me you had any one like
_that_ in the family?”
“O yes; there are two of them, as much alike as two peas.”
“What! the Monk’s sisters?”
“To be sure. They are a comely family; all but poor little Lina.”
“Will they be long here?”
“That depends. That poor little mite is the youngest but one, and the
nurse likes boys best. So she peaked and pined, and was bullied by
Edmund above and Harry below, and was always in trouble. Nobody but
Johnny and Essie ever had a good word for her. This autumn it came to a
crisis. You know we had a great meeting of the two families at Walmer,
and there, the shock of bathing nearly took out of her all the little
life there was. I believe she would have gone into fits if mother
had not heard her screams, and dashed on the nurse like a vindictive
mermaid, and then made uncle Robert believe her. My aunt trusts the
nurse, you must know, and lets her ride rough-shod over every one in the
nursery. The poor little thing was always whining and fretting whenever
she was not in Essie’s arms or the Monk’s, till the Monk declared she
had a spine, and he and mother gave uncle and aunt no peace till they
brought her here for advice, and sure enough her poor little spine is
all wrong, and will never be good for anything without a regular course
of watching and treatment. So we have her here with Essie to look after
her for as long as Sir Edward Fane wants to keep her under him, and you
can’t think what a nice little mortal she turns out to be now she is
rescued from nurse and those little ruffians of brothers.”
“That’s first-rate,” remarked Cecil.
“The eucharis and maiden-hair, is it not? I must keep some sprays for
our hairs to-night.”
“Is any one coming to-night?”
“The promiscuous herd. Oh, didn’t you know? Our Johns told mother it
would be no end of kindness to let them bring in a sprinkling of their
fellow-students--poor lads that live poked up in lodgings, and never see
a lady or any civilisation all through the term. So she took to having
them on Thursday once a fortnight, and Dr. Medlicott was perfectly
delighted, and said she could not do a better work; and it is such fun!
We don’t have them unmitigated, we get other people to enliven them. The
Actons are coming, and I hope Mr. Esdale is coming to-night to show
us his photographs of the lost cities in Central America. You’ll stay,
won’t you?”
“If Mrs. Brownlow will let me. I hope your toasting-fork woman has not
spirited her away?”
“Under the eyes of your horse and man.”
“Are you all at home? And has Allen finished his novel?”
Babie laughed, and said--
“Poor Ali! You see there comes a fresh blight whenever it begins to
bud.”
“What has that wretched girl been doing now?”
“Oh, don’t you know? The yacht had to be overhauled, so they went to
Florence instead, and have been wandering about in all the resorts of
rather shady people, where Lisette can cut a figure. Mr. Wakefield is
terribly afraid that even poor Mr. Gould himself is taking to gambling
for want of something to do. There are always reports coming of Elfie
taking up with some count or baron. It was a Russian prince last
time, and then Ali goes down into the very lowest depths, and can’t do
anything but smoke. You know that’s good for blighted beings. I cure my
plants by putting them into his room surreptitiously.”
“You are a hard-hearted little mortal, Babie. Ah, there’s the bell!”
Mrs. Brownlow came in with the two Johns, who had joined her just as she
had finished talking to the poor woman; Jock carried off his friend to
dress, and Babie, after finishing her arrangements and making the
most of every fragment of flower or leaf, repaired with a selection of
delicate sprays, to the room where Esther, having put her little sister
to bed, was dressing for dinner. She was eager to tell of her alarm at
the invasion, and of Captain Evelyn’s good nature when she had expected
him to be proud and disagreeable.
“He wanted to be,” said Babie, “but honest nature was too strong for
him.”
“Johnny was so angry at the way he treated Jock.”
“O, we quite forget all that. Poor fellow! it was a mistaken reading of
noblesse oblige, and he is very much ashamed of it. There, let me put
this fern and fuchsia into your hair. I’ll try to do it as well as Ellie
would.”
She did so, and better, being more dainty-fingered, and having more
taste. It really was an artistic pleasure to deal with such beautiful
hair, and such a lovely lay figure as Esther’s. With all her queenly
beauty and grace, the girl had that simplicity and sedateness which
often goes with regularity of feature, and was hardly conscious of the
admiration she excited. Her good looks were those of the family, and
Kenminster was used to them. This was her first evening of company,
for on the only previous occasion her little sister had been unwell,
sleepless and miserable in the strange house, and she had begged
off. She was very shy now, and could not go down without Barbara’s
protection, so, at the last moment before dinner, the little brown fairy
led in the tall, stately maiden, all in white, with the bright fuchsias
and delicate fern in her dark hair, and a creamy rose, set off by a few
more in her bosom.
Babie exulted in her work, and as her mother beheld Cecil’s raptured
glance and the incarnadine glow it called up, she guessed all that would
follow in one rapid prevision, accompanied by a sharp pang for her son
in Japan. It was not in her maternal heart not to hope almost against
her will that some fibre had been touched by Bobus that would be
irresponsive to others, but duty and loyalty alike forbade the slightest
attempt to revive the thought of the poor absentee, and she must steel
herself to see things take their course, and own it for the best.
Esther was a silent damsel. The clash of keen wits and exchange of
family repartee were quite beyond her. She had often wondered whether
her cousins were quarrelling, and had been only reassured by seeing them
so merry and friendly, and her own brother bearing his part as
naturally as the rest. She was more scandalised than ever to-day, for
it absolutely seemed to her that they were all treating Captain Evelyn,
long moustache and all, like a mere family butt, certainly worse than
they would have treated one of her own brothers, for Rob would have
sulked, and Joe, or any of the younger ones, might have been dangerous,
whereas this distinguished-looking personage bore all as angelically
as befitted one called by such a charming appellation as the Honourable
Cecil Evelyn.
“How about the shooting, Cecil? Sydney said you had not very good
sport.”
“Why--no, not till I joined Rainsforth’s party.”
“Where was your moor?”
“In Lanarkshire,” rather unwillingly.
“Eh,” said Allen, in a peculiar soft languid tone, that meant diversion.
“Near L---?”
“Yes.”
Then Jock burst out into laughter inexplicable at first, but Allen made
his voice gentler and graver, as he said, “You don’t mean Kilnaught?”
and then he too joined Jock in laughter, as the latter cried--
“Another victim to McNab of Kilnaught! He certainly is the canniest of
Scots.”
“He revenges the wrongs of Scotland on innocent young Guardsmen.”
“Well, I’m sure there could not be a more promising advertisement.”
“That’s just it!” said Jock. “Moor and moss. How many acres of heather?”
“How was I to expect a man of family to be a regular swindler?”
“Hush! hush, my dear fellow! Roderick Dhu was a man of family. It is the
modern form.”
“But I saw his keeper.”
“Oh!” cried Allen. “I know! Old Rory! Tells you a long story in broad
Scotch, of which you understand one word here and there about his Grace
the Deuke, and how many miles--miles Scots--he walked.”
“I can see Evelyn listening, and saying ‘yes,’ at polite intervals!”
“How many birds did you actually see?”
“Well, I killed two brace and a half the first day.”
“Hatched under a hen, and let out for a foretaste.”
“And there was one old blackcock.”
“That blackcock! There are serious doubts whether it is a phantom bird,
or whether Rory keeps it tame as a decoy. You didn’t kill it?”
“No.”
“If you had, you might have boasted of an achievement,” said Allen.
“The spell would have been destroyed,” added Jock. “But you did not let
him finish. Did you say you saw the blackcock?”
“I am not sure; I think I heard it rise once, but the keeper was always
seeing it.”
Everybody but Essie was in fits of laughing at Cecil’s frank air of
good-humoured, self-defensive simplicity, and Armine observed--
“There’s a fine subject for a ballad for the ‘Traveller’s Joy,’ Babie.
‘The Phantom Blackcock of Kilnaught!’”
Babie extemporised at once, amid great applause--
“The hills are high, the laird’s purse dry,
Come out in the morning early;
McNabs are keen, the Guards are green,
The blackcock’s tail is curly.
“The Southron’s spoil ‘tis worthy toil,
Come out in the morning early;
Come take my house and kill my grouse,
The blackcock’s tail is curly.
“Come out, come out, quoth Rory stout,
Come out in the morning early,
Sir Captain mark, he rises! hark,
The blackcock’s tail is curly.”
“Repetition, Babie,” said her mother; “too like the Montjoie S. Denis
poem.”
“It saves so much trouble, mother.”
“And a recall to the freshness and innocence of childhood is so
pleasing,” added Jock.
“How much did the man of family let his moor for?” asked Allen.
There Cecil saw the pitiful and indignant face opposite to him, would
have sulked, and began looking at her for sympathy, exclaiming at last--
“Haven’t you a word to say for me, Miss Brownlow?”
“I don’t like it at all. I don’t think it is fair,” broke from Essie, as
she coloured crimson at the laugh.
“He likes it, my dear,” said Babie.
“It is a gentle titillation,” said Allen.
“He can’t get on without it,” said the Friar.
“And comes for it like the cattle to the scrubbing-stones,” said the
Skipjack.
“Yes,” said Armine; “but he tries to get pitied, like Chico walking on
three legs when some one is looking at him.”
“You deal in most elegant comparisons,” said the mother.
“Only to get him a little more pitied,” said Jock. “He is as grateful as
possible for being made so interesting.”
“Hark, there’s a knock!” cried Allen. “Can’t you instruct your cubs not
to punish the door so severely, Jock? I believe they think that the more
row they make, the more they proclaim their nobility!”
“The obvious derivation of the word stunning,” said Mother Carey, as she
rose to meet her guests in the drawing-room, and Cecil to hold the door
for her.
“Stay, Evelyn,” said Allen. “This is the night when unlicked cubs do
disport themselves in our precincts. A mistaken sense of philanthropy
has led my mother to make this house the fortnightly salon bleu of St.
Thomas’s. But there’s a pipe at your service in my room.”
“Dr. Medlicott is coming,” said Babie, who had tarried behind the
Johns, “and perhaps Mr. Grinstead, and we are sure to have Mr. Esdale’s
photographs. It is never all students, medical or otherwise. Much better
than Allen’s smoke, Cecil.”
“I am coming of course,” he said. “I was only waiting for the Infanta.”
It may be doubted whether the photographs, Dr. Medlicott, or even Jock
were the attraction. He was much more fond of using his privilege of
dropping in when the family were alone, than of finding himself in the
midst of what an American guest had called Mrs. Brownlow’s surprise
parties. They were on regular evenings, but no one knew who was coming,
from scientific peers to daily governesses, from royal academicians to
medical students, from a philanthropic countess to a city missionary.
To listen to an exposition of the microphone, to share in a Shakespeare
reading, or worse still, in a paper game, was, in the Captain’s eyes,
such a bore that he generally had only haunted Collingwood Street on
home days and on Sundays, when, for his mother’s sake and his own, an
exception was made in his favour.
He followed Babie with unusual alacrity, and found Mrs. Brownlow shaking
hands with a youth whom Jock upheld as a genius, but who laboured under
the double misfortune of always coming too soon, and never knowing what
to do with his arms and legs. He at once perceived Captain Evelyn to
be an “awful swell,” and became trebly wretched--in contrast to Jock’s
open-hearted, genial young dalesman, who stood towering over every one
with his broad shoulders and hearty face, perfectly at his ease (as he
would have been in Buckingham Palace), and only wondering a little that
Brownlow could stand an empty-headed military fop like that; while Cecil
himself, after gazing about vaguely, muttered to Babie something about
her cousin.
“She is gone to see whether Lina is asleep, and will be too shy to come
down again if I don’t drag her.”
So away flew Babie, and more eyes than Cecil Evelyn’s were struck when
in ten minutes’ time she again led in her cousin.
Mr. Acton, who was talking to Mrs. Brownlow, said in an undertone--
“Your model? Another niece?”
“Yes; you remember Jessie?”
“This is a more ideal face.”
It was true. Esther had lived much less than her elder sister in
the Coffinkey atmosphere, and there was nothing to mar the peculiar
dignified innocence and perfect unconsciousness of her sweet maidenly
bloom. She never guessed that every man, and every woman too, was
admiring her, except the strong-minded one who saw in her the true inane
Raffaelesque Madonna on whom George Eliot is so severe.
Nor did the lady alter her opinion when, at the end of a very curious
speculation about primeval American civilisation, Captain Evelyn and
Miss Brownlow were discovered studying family photographs in a corner,
apparently much more interested whether a hideous half-faded brown
shadow had resembled John at fourteen, than to what century and what
nation those odd curly-whirleys on stone belonged, and what they were
meant to express.
Babie was scandalised.
“You didn’t listen! It was most wonderful! Why Armie went down and
fetched up Allen to hear about those wonderful walled towns!”
“I don’t go in for improving my mind,” said Cecil.
“Then you should not hinder Essie from improving hers! Think of letting
her go home having seen nothing but all the repeated photographs of her
brothers and sisters!”
“Well, what should she like to see?” cried Cecil. “I’m good for anything
you want to go to before the others are free.”
“The Ethiopian serenaders, or, may be, Punch,” said Jock. “Madame
Tussaud would be too intellectual.”
“When Lina is strong enough she is to see Madame Tussaud,” said Essie
gravely. “Georgie once went, and she has wished for it ever since.”
“Oh, we’ll get up Madame Tussaud for her at home, free gratis, for
nothing at all!” cried Armine, whose hard work inspirited him to fun and
frolic.
So in the twilight hour two days later there was a grand exhibition of
human waxworks, in which Babie explained tableaux represented by the
two Johns, Armine, and Cecil, supposed to be adapted to Lina’s capacity.
With the timid child it was not a success, the disguises frightened her,
and gave her an uncanny feeling that her friends were transformed; she
sat most of the time on her aunt’s lap, with her face hidden, and barely
hindered from crying by the false assurance that it was all for her
pleasure.
But there was no doubt that Esther was a pleased spectator of the show,
and her gratitude far more than sufficient to cover the little one’s
ingratitude.
Those two drifted together. In every gathering, when strangers had
departed they were found tete-a-tete. Cecil’s horses knew the way to
Collingwood Street better than anywhere else, and he took to appearing
there at times when he was fully aware Jock would be at the night-school
or Mutual Improvement Society.
Though strongly wishing, on poor Bobus’s account, that it should not go
much farther under her own auspices; day after day it was more borne in
upon Mrs. Brownlow that her house held an irresistible attraction to
the young officer, and she wondered over her duty to the parents who
had trusted her. Acting on impulse at last, she took council with John,
securing him as her companion in the gaslit walk from a concert.
“Do you see what is going on there?” she asked, indicating the pair
before them.
“What do you mean? Oh, I never thought of that!”
“I don’t think! I have seen. Ever since the night of the Phantom
Blackcock of Kilnaught. He did his work on Essie.”
“Essie rather thinks he is after the Infanta.”
“It looks like it! What could have put it into her head? It did not
originate there!”
“Something my mother said about Babie being a viscountess.”
“You know better, Friar!”
“I thought so; but I only told her it was no such thing, and I believe
the child thought I meant to rebuke her for mentioning such frivolities,
for she turned scarlet and held her peace.”
“Perhaps the delusion has kept her unconscious, and made her the
sweeter. But the question is, whether this ought to go on without
letting your people know?”
“I suppose they would have no objection?” said John. “There’s no harm in
Evelyn, and he shows his sense by running after Jock. He hasn’t got
the family health either. I’d rather have him than an old stick like
Jessie’s General.”
“Yes, if all were settled, I believe your mother would be very well
pleased. The question is, whether it is using her fairly not to let her
know in the meantime?”
“Well, what is the code among you parents and guardians?”
“I don’t know that there is any, but I think that though the crisis
might be pleasing enough, yet if your mother found out what was going
on, she might be vexed at not having been informed.”
John considered a moment, and then proposed that if things looked “like
it” at the end of the week, he should go down on Saturday and give a
hint of preparation to his father, letting him understand the merits of
the case. However, in the existing state of affairs, a week was a long
time, and that very Sunday brought the crisis.
The recollection of former London Sundays, of Mary Ogilvie’s quiet
protests, and of the effect on her two eldest children, had strengthened
Mrs. Brownlow’s resolution to make it impossible to fill the afternoon
with aimless visiting and gossiping; and plenty of other occupations had
sprung up.
Thus on this particular afternoon she and Barbara were with their Girls’
Friendly Society Classes, of which Babie took the clever one, and she
the stupid. Armine was reading with Percy Stagg, and a party of School
Board pupil-teachers, whom that youth had brought him, as very anxious
for the religious instruction they knew not how to obtain. Jock had
taken the Friar’s Bible Class of young men, and Allen had, as a great
favour, undertaken to sit with Dr. and Mrs. Lucas till he could look
in on them. So that Esther and Lina were the sole occupants of the
drawing-room when Captain Evelyn rang at the door, knowing very well
that he was only permitted up stairs an hour later in time for a cup of
tea before evensong. He did look into Allen’s sitting-room as a matter
of form, but finding it empty, and hearing a buzz of voices elsewhere,
he took licence to go upstairs, and there he found Esther telling her
little sister such histories of Arundel Society engravings as she could
comprehend.
Lina sprang to him at once; Esther coloured, and began to account for
the rest of the family. “I hear,” said Cecil, as low tones came through
the closed doors of the back drawing-room, “they work as hard here as my
sister does!”
“I think my aunt has almost done,” said Essie, with a shy doubt whether
she ought to stay. “Come, Lina, I must get you ready for tea.”
“No, no,” said Cecil, “don’t go! You need not be as much afraid of me
as that first time I walked in, and thought I had got into a strange
house.”
Essie laughed a little, and said, “A month ago! Sometimes it seems a
very long time, and sometimes a very short one.”
“I hope it seems a very long time that you have known me.”
“Well, Johnny and all the rest had known you ever so long,” answered
she, with a confusion of manner that expressed a good deal more than the
words. “I really must go--”
“Not till you have told me more than that,” cried Cecil, seizing
his opportunity with a sudden rush of audacity. “If you know me, can
you--can you like me? Can’t you? Oh, Essie, stay! Could you ever love
me, you peerless, sweetest, loveliest--”
By this time Mrs. Brownlow, who had heard Cecil’s boots on the stairs,
and particularly wished to stave matters off till after the Friar’s
mission, had made a hasty conclusion of her lesson, and letting her
girls depart, opened the door. She saw at once that she was too late;
but there was no retreat, for Esther flew past her in shy terror, and
Cecil advanced with the earnest, innocent entreaty, “Oh, Mrs. Brownlow,
make her hear me! I must have it out, or I can’t bear it.”
“Oh,” said she, “it has come to this, has it?” speaking half-quaintly,
half-sadly, and holding Lina kindly back.
“I could not help it!” he went on. “She did look so lovely, and she is
so dear! Do get her down, that I may see her again. I shall not have a
happy moment till she answers me.”
“Are you sure you will have a happy moment then?”
“I don’t know. That’s the thing! Won’t you help a fellow a bit, Mrs.
Brownlow? I’m quite done for. There never was any one so nice, or so
sweet, or so lovely, or so unlike all the horrid girls in society! Oh,
make her say a kind word to me!”
“I’ll make her,” said little Lina, looking up from her aunt’s side. “I
like you very much, Captain Evelyn, and I’ll run and make Essie tell you
she does.”
“Not quite so fast, my dear,” said her aunt, as both laughed, and Cecil,
solacing himself with a caress, and holding the little one very close
to him on his knee, where her intentions were deferred by his watch and
appendages.
“I suppose you don’t know what your mother would say?” began Mrs.
Brownlow.
“I have not told her, but you know yourself she would be all right. Now,
aren’t you sure, Mrs. Brownlow? She isn’t up to any nonsense?”
“No, Cecil, I don’t think she would oppose it. Indeed, my dear boy, I
wish you happiness, but Esther is a shy, startled little being, and away
from her mother; and perhaps you will have to be patient.”
“But will you fetch her--or at least speak to her?” said he, in a tone
not very like patience; and she had to yield, and be the messenger.
She found Esther fluttering up and down her room like a newly-caught
bird. “Oh, Aunt Carey, I must go home! Please let me!” she said.
“Nay, my dear, can’t I help you for once?” and Esther sprang into her
arms for comfort; but even then it was plain to a motherly eye that
this was not the distress that poor Bobus had caused, but rather the
agitation of a newly-awakened heart, terrified at its own sensations.
“He wants you to come and hear him out,” she said, when she had kissed
and petted the girl into more composure.
“Oh, must I? I don’t want. Oh, if I could go home! They were so angry
before. And I only said ‘if,’ and never meant--”
“That was the very thing, my dear,” said her aunt with a great throb of
pain. “You were quite right not to encourage my poor Bobus; but this
is a very different case, and I am sure they would wish you to act
according as you feel.”
Esther drew a great gasp; “You are sure they would not think me wrong?”
“Quite sure,” was the reply, in full security that her mother would be
rapturous at the nearly certain prospect of a coronet. “Indeed, my dear,
no one can find any fault with you. You need not be afraid. He is good
and worthy, and they will be glad if you wish it.”
Wish was far too strong a word for poor frightened Esther; she could
only cling and quiver.
“Shall I tell him to go and see them at Kencroft?”
“Oh, do, do, dear Aunt Carey! Please tell him to go to papa, and not
want to see me till--”
“Very well, my dear child; that will be the best way. Now I will send
you up some tea, and then you shall put Lina to bed; and you and I will
slip off quietly together, and go to St. Andrew’s in peace, quite in a
different direction from the others, before they set out.”
Meantime Cecil had been found by Babie tumbling about the music and
newspapers on the ottoman, and on her observation--
“Too soon, sir! And pray what mischief still have your idle hands found
to do?”
“Don’t!” he burst out; “I’m on the verge of distraction already! I can’t
bear it!”
“Is there anything the matter? You’re not in a scrape? You don’t want
Jock?” she said.
“No, no--only I’ve done it. Babie, I shall go mad, if I don’t get an
answer soon.”
Babie was much too sharp not to see what he meant. She knew in a kind of
intuitive, undeveloped way how things stood with Bobus, and this gave a
certain seriousness to her manner of saying--
“Essie?”
“Of course, the darling! If your mother would only come and tell
me,--but she was frightened, and won’t say anything. If she won’t, I’m
the most miserable fellow in the world.”
“How stupid you must have been!” said Babie. “That comes of you, neither
of you, ever reading. You couldn’t have done it right, Cecil.”
“Do you really think so?” he asked, in such piteous, earnest tones that
he touched her heart.
“Dear Cecil,” she said, “it will be all right. I know Essie likes you
better than any one else.”
She had almost added “though she is an ungrateful little puss for doing
so,” but before the words had time to come out of her mouth, Cecil had
flown at her in a transport, thrown his arms round her and kissed her,
just as her mother opened the door, and uttered an odd incoherent cry of
amazement.
“Oh, Mother Carey,” cried Cecil, colouring all over, “I didn’t know what
I was doing! She gave me hope!”
“I give you hope too,” said Caroline, “though I don’t know how it might
have been if she had come down just now!”
“Don’t!” entreated Cecil. “Babie is as good as my sister. Why, where is
she?”
“Fled, and no wonder!”
“And won’t she, Esther, come?”
“She is far too much frightened and overcome. She says you may go to her
father, and I think that is all you can expect her to say.”
“Is it? Won’t she see me? I don’t want it to be obedience.”
“I don’t think you need have any fears on that score.”
“You don’t? Really now? You think she likes me just a little? How soon
can I get down? Have you a train-bill?”
Then during the quest into trains came a fit of humility. “Do you think
they will listen to me? You are not the sort who would think me a catch,
and I know I am a very poor stick compared with any of you, and should
have gone to the dogs long ago but for Jock, ungrateful ass as I was to
him last year. But if I had such a creature as that to take care of,
why it would be like having an angel about one. I would--indeed I
would--reverence, yes, and worship her all my life long.”
“I am sure you would. I think it would be a very happy and blessed thing
for you both, and I have no doubt that her father will think so too.
Now, here are the others coming home, and you must behave like a
rational being, even though you don’t see Essie at tea.”
Mother Carey managed to catch Jock, give a hint of the situation, and
bid him take care of his friend. He looked grave. “I thought it was
coming,” he said. “I wish they would have done it out of our way.”
“So do I, but I didn’t take measures in time.”
“Well, it is all right as regards them both, but poor Bobus will hardly
get over it.”
“We must do our best to soften the shock, and, as it can’t be helped, we
must put our feelings in our pocket.”
“As one has to do most times,” said Jock. “Well, I suppose it is better
for one in the end than having it all one’s own way. And Evelyn is a
generous fellow, who deserves anything!”
“So, Jock, as we can do Bobus no good, and know besides that nothing
could make it right for his hopes to be fulfilled, we must throw
ourselves into this present affair as Cecil and Essie deserve.”
“All right, mother,” he said. “There’s not stuff in her to be of much
use to Bobus if he had her, besides the other objection. It is the hope
that he will sorely miss, poor old fellow!”
“Ah! if he had a better hope lighted as his guiding star! But we must
not stand talking now, Jock; I must take her to Church quietly with me.”
To Cecil’s consternation, his military duties would detain him all the
forenoon of the next day; and before he could have started, the train
that brought John back also brought his father and mother, the latter
far more eager and effusive than her sister-in-law had ever seen her.
“My dear Caroline, I thought you’d excuse my coming, I was so anxious to
see about my little girl, and we’ll go to an hotel.”
“I’ll leave you with her,” said Caroline, rushing off in haste, to let
Esther utter her own story as best she might, poor child! Allen was
fortunately in his room, and his mother sprang down to him to warn him
to telegraph to Cecil that Colonel Brownlow was in Collingwood Street;
the fates being evidently determined to spare her nothing.
Allen’s feelings were far less keen as to Bobus than were Jock’s, and he
liked the connection; so he let himself be infected with the excitement,
and roused himself not only to telegraph, but go himself to Cecil’s
quarters to make sure of him. It was well that he did so, for just as he
got into Oxford Street, he beheld the well-known bay fortunately caught
in a block of omnibuses and carts round a tumble-down cab-horse, and
some gas-fitting. Such was the impatience of the driver of the hansom,
that Allen absolutely had to rush desperately across the noses of
half-a-dozen horses, making wild gestures, before he was seen and taken
up by Cecil’s side.
“The most wonderful thing of all,” said Cecil afterwards, “was to see
Allen going on like that!”
In consequence of his speed, Colonel and Mrs. Brownlow had hardly
arrived at Esther’s faltered story, and come to a perception which way
her heart lay, when she started and cried, “Oh, that’s his hansom!” for
she perfectly well knew the wheels.
So did her aunt and Babie, who had taken refuge in the studio, but
came out at Allen’s call to hear his adventures, and thenceforth had
to remain easily accessible, Babie to take charge of Lina, who was much
aggrieved at her banishment, and Mother Carey to be the recipient of all
kinds of effusions from the different persons concerned. There was the
mother: “Such a nice young man! So superior! Everything we could have
wished! And so much attached! Speaks so nicely! You are sure there will
be no trouble with his mother?”
“I see no danger of it. I am sure she must love dear little Esther, and
that she would like to see Cecil married.”
“Well, you know her! but you know she might look much higher for him,
though the Brownlows are a good old family. Oh, my dear Caroline, I
shall never forget what you have done for us all.”
Her Serenity in a flutter was an amusing sight. She was so full of
exultation, and yet had too much propriety to utter the main point of
her hopes, fears, doubts, and gratitude; and she durst not so much as
hazard an inquiry after poor Lord Fordham, lest she should be suspected
of the thought that came uppermost.
However, the Colonel, with whom that possibility was a very secondary
matter, could speak out: “I like the lad; he is a good, simple, honest
fellow, well-principled, and all one could wish. I don’t mind trusting
little Essie with him, and he says his brother is sure to give him quite
enough to marry upon, so they’ll do very well, even, if--How about that
affair which was hinted of at Belforest, Caroline? Will it ever come
off?”
“Probably not. Poor Lord Fordham’s health does not improve, and so I am
very thankful that he does not fulfil Babie’s ideal.”
“Poor young man!” said Ellen, with sincere compassion but great relief.
“That’s the worst of it,” said the father, gravely. “I am afraid it is a
consumptive family, though this young fellow looks hearty and strong.”
“He has always been so,” said Caroline. “He and his sister are quite
different in looks and constitution from poor Fordham, and I believe
from the elder ones. They are shorter and sturdier, and take after their
mother’s family.”
“I told you so, papa,” said Ellen. “I was sure nothing could be amiss
with him. You can’t expect everybody to look like our boys. Well,
Caroline, you have always been a good sister; and to think of your
having done this for little Essie! Tell me how it was? Had you suspected
it?”
It was all very commonplace and happy. Colonel and Mrs. Brownlow were
squeezed into the house to await Mrs. Evelyn’s reply, and Cecil and
Esther sat hand-in-hand all the evening, looking, as Allen and Babie
agreed, like such a couple of idiots, that the intimate connection
between selig and silly was explained.
Mrs. Robert Brownlow whiled away the next day by a grand shopping
expedition, followed by the lovers, who seemed to find pillars of
floor-cloth and tracery of iron-work as blissful as ever could be
pleached alley. Nay, one shopman flattered Cecil and shocked Esther
by directing his exhibition of wares to them, and the former was thus
excited to think how soon they might be actually shopping on their own
account, and to fix his affections on an utterly impracticable fender
as his domestic hearth. Meanwhile Caroline had only just come in from
amusing Mrs. Lucas with the story, when a cab drove up, and Mrs. Evelyn
was with her, with an eager, “Where are they?”
“Somewhere in the depths of the city, with her mother, shopping. Ought I
to have told you?”
“Of course I trust you. She must be nice--your Friar’s sister; but I
could not stay at home, and Duke wished me to come--”
“How is he?”
“So very happy about this--the connection especially. I don’t think he
could have borne it if it had been the Infanta. How is that dear Babie?”
“Quite well. I left her walking with Lina in the Square gardens.”
“As simple and untouched as ever?”
“As much as ever a light-hearted baby.”
“Ah! well, so much the better. And let me say, once for all, that you
need not fear any closer intercourse with us. My poor Duke has made up
his mind that such things are not for him, and wishes all to be arranged
for Cecil as his heir. Not that he is any worse. With care he may
survive us all, the doctors say; but he has made up his mind, and will
never ask Babie again. He says it would be cruel; but he does long for a
sight of her bright face!”
“Well, we shall be brought into meeting in a simple natural way.”
“And Babie? How does she look? I am ashamed of it; but I can’t help
thinking more about seeing her than this new cousin. I can fancy
her--handsome, composed, and serene.”
“That may be so ten or twenty years hence! but now she is the tenderest
little clinging thing you ever saw.”
“And my ideal would have been that Cecil should have chosen some one
superior; but after all, I believe he is really more likely to be raised
by being looked up to. He has been our boy too long.”
“Quite true; I have watched him content with the level my impertinent
children assign him here, but now trying to be manly for Essie’s sake.
You have not told me of Sydney.”
“So angry at the folly of passing over Babie, that I was forced to give
her a hint to be silent before Duke. She collapsed, much impressed.
Forgive me, if it was a betrayal; but she is two years older now, and
would not have been a safe companion unless warned. Hark! Is that the
door-bell?”
Therewith the private interview period set in, and Babie made such use
of her share of it, that when Lina was produced in the drawing-room
before dinner she sat on Cecil’s knee, and gravely observed that she had
a verse to repeat to him--
“The phantom blackcock of Kilnaught
Is a marvellous bird yet uncaught;
Go out in all weather,
You see not a feather,
Yet a marvellous work it has wrought,
That phantom blackcock of Kilnaught.”
“What is that verse you are saying, Lina?” said her mother.
Lina trotted across and repeated it, while Cecil shook his head at
wicked Babie.
“I hope you don’t learn nursery rhymes, about phantoms and ghosts,
Lina?” said Mrs. Robert Brownlow.
“This is an original poem, Aunt Ellen,” replied Babie, gravely.
“More original than practical,” said John. “You haven’t accounted for
the pronoun?”
“Oh, never mind that. Great poets are above rules. I want Essie to
promise us bridesmaids blackcock tails in our hats.”
“My dear!” said her aunt, in serious reproof, shocked at the rapidity of
the young lady’s ideas.
“Or, at least,” added Babie, “if she won’t, you’ll give us blackcock
lockets, Cecil. They would be lovely--you know--enamelled!”
“That I will!” he cried. “And, Mother Carey, will you model me a group
of the birds? That would be a jolly present!”
“Better than Esther’s head, eh? I have done that three times, and you
shall choose one, Cecil.”
Nothing would serve Cecil but an immediate expedition to the studio, to
choose as well as they could by lamp-light.
And during the examination, Mrs. Evelyn managed to say to Caroline, “I’m
quite satisfied. She is as bright and childish as you told me.”
“Essie?”
“No, the Infanta.”
“If she is not a little too much so.”
“Oh no, don’t wish any difference in those high spirits!”
“She makes it a cheerful house, dear child; and even Allen has
brightened lately.”
“And, Jock? He looks hard-worked, but brisk as ever.”
“He does work very hard in all ways; but he thoroughly enjoys his work,
and is as much my sunshine as Babie. There are golden opinions of him in
the Medical School; indeed there are of both my Johns.”
“They are quite the foremost of the young men of their year, and carry
off most of the distinctions, besides being leaders in influence. So Dr.
Medlicott told us,” said Mrs. Evelyn; “and yet he said it was delightful
to see how they avoided direct rivalry, or else were perfectly friendly
over it.”
“Yes, they avoid, when it is possible, going in for the same things, and
indeed I think Jock has more turn for the scientific side of the study,
and the Friar for the practical. There is room for them both!”
“And what a contrast they are! What a very handsome fellow John has
grown! So tall, and broad, and strong, with that fine colour, and dark
eyes as beautiful as his sister’s!”
“More beautiful, I should say,” returned Caroline; “there is so much
more intellect in them--raising them out of the regular Kencroft
comeliness. True, the great charm of the stalwart Friar, as we call him,
is--what his father has in some degree--that quiet composed way that
gives one a sense of protection. I think his patients will feel entire
trust in his hands. They say at the hospital the poor people always are
happy when they see one of the Mr. Brownlows coming, whether it be the
big or the little one.”
“Not so very little, except by comparison; and I am glad Jock keeps his
soldierly bearing.”
“He is a Volunteer, you know, and very valuable there.”
“But he has not an ounce of superfluous flesh. He puts me in mind of a
perfectly polished, finished instrument!”
“That is just what used to be said of his father. Colonel Brownlow says
he is the most like my poor young father of all the children.”
“He is the most like you.”
“But he puts me most of all in mind of my husband, in all his ways, and
manner; and our old friends tell me that he sets about things exactly
like his father, as if it were by imitation. I like to know it is so.”