Fell not, but dangled in mid air,
For from a fissure in the stone
Which lined its sides, a bush had grown,
To this he clung with all his might.
Archbishop Trench.
Lord Fordham made it his most especial and urgent desire that his
brother’s wedding, which was to take place before Lent, should be at his
home instead of at the lady’s. Otherwise he could not be present, for
Kenminster had a character for bleakness, and he was never allowed to
travel in an English winter. Besides, he had set his heart on giving one
grand festal day to his tenantry, who had never had a day of rejoicing
since his great-uncle came of age, forty years ago.
Mrs. Robert Brownlow did not like it at all, either as an anomaly or as
a disappointment to the Kenminster world, but her husband was won over,
and she was obliged to consent. Mother Carey, with her brood, were of
course to be guests, but her difficulty was the leaving Dr. and Mrs.
Lucas. The good old physician was failing fast, and they had no kindred
near at hand, or capable of being of much comfort to them, and she was
considering how to steer between the two calls, when Jock settled it for
her, by saying that he did not mean to go to Fordham, and if Mrs. Lucas
liked, would sleep in the house. There was much amazement and vexation.
He had of course been the first best man thought of, but he fought
off, declaring that he could not afford to miss a single lecture or
demonstration. Friar John’s University studies had given him such a
start that he had to work less hard than his cousin, and could afford
himself the week for which he was invited; but Jock declared that he
could not even lose the thirty-six hours that Armine was to take for the
journey to Fordham and back. Every one declared this nonsense, and even
Mrs. Lucas could not bear that he should remain, as she thought, on her
account; but his mother did not join in the public outcry, and therefore
was admitted to fuller insight, as he was walking back with her, after
listening to the old lady’s persuasions.
“I think she would really be better pleased to spare you for that one
day,” said Caroline.
“May be, good old soul,” said Jock; “but as you know, mother, that’s not
all.”
“I guessed not. It may be wiser.”
“Well! There’s no use in stirring it all up again, after having settled
down after a fashion,” said Jock. “I see clearer than ever how hopeless
it is to have anything fit to offer a girl in her position for the next
ten years, and I must not get myself betrayed into drawing her in to
wait for me. I am such an impulsive fool, I don’t know what I might be
saying to her, and it would not be a right return for all they have been
to me.”
“You will have to meet her in town?”
“Perhaps; but not as if I were in the house and at the wedding. It would
just bring back the time when she bade me never give up my sword.”
“Perhaps she is wiser now.”
“That would make it even more likely that I should say what would be
better left alone. No, mother! Ten years hence, if--”
She thought of Magnum Bonum, and said, “Sooner, perhaps!”
“No,” he said, laughing. “It is only in the ‘Traveller’s Joy’ that all
the bigwigs are out of sight, and the apothecary’s boy saved the Lord
Mayor’s life.”
With that laugh, rather a sad one, he inserted the latch-key and ended
the discussion.
Whether Barbara were really unwilling to go was not clear, for she had
no such excuse as her brother; but she grumbled almost as much as her
aunt at the solecism of a wedding in the gentleman’s home; and for the
only time in her life showed ill-humour. She was vexed with Esther
for her taste in bridesmaid’s attire (hers was given by her uncle);
sarcastic to Cecil for his choice of gifts; cross to her mother about
every little arrangement as to dress; satirical on Allen’s revival of
spirits in prospect of a visit to a great house; annoyed at whatever was
done or not done; and so much less tolerant of having little Lina left
on her hands, that Aunt Carey became the child’s best reliance.
Some of this temper might be put to the score of that pity for Bobus,
which Babie in her caprice had begun to dwell on, most inconsistently
with her former gaiety; but her mother attributed it to an unconfessed
reluctance to meet Lord Fordham again, and a sense that the light
thoughtlessness to which she had clung so long might perforce be at an
end.
So sharp-edged was her tongue, even to the moment of embarkation in the
train, that her mother began to fear how she might behave, and dreaded
lest she should wound Fordham; but she grew more silent all the way
down, and when the carriage came to the station, and they drove past
banks starred by primroses, and with the blue eyes of periwinkles
looking out among the evergreen trailers, she spoke no word. Even Allen
brightened to enjoy that lamb-like March day; and John, with his little
sister on his knee, was most joyously felicitous. Indeed, the tall,
athletic, handsome fellow looked as if it were indeed spring with him,
all the more from the contrast with Allen’s languid, sallow looks,
savouring of the fumes in which he lived.
Out on the steps were Fordham, wrapped up to the ears; Sydney ready to
devour Babie, who passively submitted; and Mrs. Evelyn, as usual, giving
her friend a sense of rest and reliance.
The last visit, though only five years previous to this one, had seemed
in past ages, till the familiar polished oak floor was under foot, and
the low tea-table in the wainscoted hall, before the great wood fire,
looked so homelike and natural, that the newcomers felt as if they had
only left it yesterday. Fordham, having thrown off his wraps, waited on
his guests, looking exceedingly happy in his quiet way, but more fragile
than ever. He had a good deal of fair beard, but it could not conceal
the hollowness of his cheeks, and there were great caves round his
eyes, which were very bright and blue. Yet he was called well, waited
assiduously on little Lina, and talked with animation.
“We have nailed the weathercock,” he said, “and telegraphed to the clerk
of the weather-office not to let the wind change for a week.”
“Meantime we have three delicious days to ourselves,” said Sydney,
“before any of the nonsense and preparation begins.”
“Indeed! As if Sydney were not continually drilling her unfortunate
children!”
“If you call the Psalms and hymns nonsense, Duke--”
“No! no! But isn’t there a course of instruction going on, how to strew
the flowers gracefully before the bride?”
“Well, I don’t want them thrown at her head, as the children did at the
last wedding, when a great cowslip ball hit the bride in the eye. So I
told the mistress to show them how, and the other day we found them in
two lines, singing--
‘This is the way the flowers we strew!’”
“I suppose Cecil is keeping his residence?”
“No. Did you not know that this little Church of ours is not licensed
for weddings? The parish Church is three miles off and a temple of the
winds. This is only a chapelry, there is a special licence, and Cecil is
hunting with the Hamptons, and comes with them on Monday.”
“Special licence! Happy Mrs. Coffinkey!” ejaculated Babie.
“Everybody comes then,” said Sydney; “not that it is a very large
everybody after all, and we have not asked more neighbours than we can
help, because it is to be a feast for all the chief tenants--here in
this hall--then the poor people dine in the great barn, and the children
drink tea later in the school. Come, little Caroline, you’ve done tea,
and I have my old baby-house to show you. Come, Babie! Oh! isn’t it
delicious to have you?”
When Sydney had carried off Babie, and the two mothers stood over the
fire in the bedroom, Mrs. Evelyn said--
“So Lucas stays with his good old godfather. I honour him more than I
can show.”
“We did not like to leave the old people alone. They were my kindest
friends in my day of trouble.”
“You will not let me press him to run down for the one day, if he cannot
leave them for more? Would he, do you think?”
“I believe he would, if you did it,” said Caroline, slowly; “but I ought
not let you do so, without knowing his full reason for staying away.”
They both coloured as if they had been their own daughters, and Mrs.
Evelyn smiled as she said--
“We have outgrown some of our folly about choice of profession.”
“But does that make it safer? My poor boy has talked it over with me. He
says he is afraid of his own impulses, leading him to say what would not
be an honourable requital for all your kindness to him.”
“He is very good. I think he is right--quite right,” said Mrs. Evelyn.
“I am afraid I must say so. For anything to begin afresh between them
might lead to suspense that my child’s constitution might not stand, and
I am very grateful to him for sparing her.”
“Afresh? Do you think there ever was anything?”
“Never anything avowed, but a good deal of sympathy. Indeed, so far as
I can guess, my foolish girl was first much offended and disquieted
with Jock for not listening to her persuasions, and then equally so
with herself for having made them, and now I confess I think shame and
confusion are predominant with her when she hears of him.”
“So that she is relieved at his absence.”
“Just so, and it is better so to leave it; I should be only too happy
to keep her with me waiting for him, only I had rather she did not know
it.”
“My dear friend!” And again Caroline thought of Magnum Bonum. All the
evening she said to herself that Sydney showed no objection to medical
students, when she was looking over the Engelberg photographs with
John, who had been far more her companion in the mountain rambles they
recalled than had Jock in his half-recovered state.
The mother could not help feeling a little pang of jealousy as she owned
to herself that the Friar was a very fine-looking youth, with the air of
a university man, and of one used to good society, and that he did look
most perilously happy. He was the next thing to her own son, but not
quite the same, and she half repented of her candour to Mrs. Evelyn, and
wished that the keen, sensitive face and soldierly figure could be there
to reassert their influence.
There ensued a cheerful, pleasant Saturday, which did much to restore
the ordinary tone between the old friends and to take off the sense of
strangeness. It was evident that Lord Fordham had insensibly become much
more the real head and master of the house than at the time when the
Brownlow party had last been there, and that he had taken on him much
more of the duties of his position than he had then seemed capable of
fulfilling. It might cost much effort, but he had ceased to be the mere
invalid, and had come to take his part thoroughly and effectively, and
to win trust and confidence. It was strange to think how Babie could
ever have called him a muff merely to be pitied.
The Sundays at Fordham were always delightful. The little Church was as
near perfection as might be. It was satisfactory to see that Fordham’s
gentleness and courtesy had dispelled all the clouds, and Barbara had
returned to her ordinary manner; perhaps a little more sedate and gentle
than usual, and towards him she was curiously submissive, as if she had
a certain awe of the tenderness she had rejected.
After the short afternoon service, Sydney waited to exercise her choir
once more in their musical duties; but Babie, hearing there was to be no
rehearsal of the flower-strewing, declared she had enough of classes at
home, and should take Lina for a stroll on the sunny terrace among the
crocuses, where Fordham joined them till warned that the sun was getting
low.
One there was who would have been glad of an invitation to join in the
practice, but who did not receive one. John lingered with Allen about
the gardens till the latter disposed of himself on a seat with a cigar
beyond the public gaze. Then saying something about seeing whether the
stream promised well for fishing, John betook himself to the bank of the
river, one of the many Avons, probably with a notion that by the merest
accident he might be within distance at the break-up of the choir
practice.
He was sauntering with would-be indifference towards the foot-bridge
that shortened the walk to the Church, but he was still more than
one hundred yards from it, when on the opposite side he beheld Sydney
herself. She was on the very verge of the stream, below the steep,
slippery clay bank, clinging hard with one hand to the bared root of
a willow stump, and with the other striving to uphold the head and
shoulder of a child, the rest of whose person was in the water.
One cry, one shout passed, then John had torn off coat, boots, and
waistcoat, and plunged in to swim across, perceiving to his horror that
not only was there imminent danger of the boy’s weight overpowering her,
but that the bank, undermined by recent floods, was crumbling under her
feet, and the willow-stump fast yielding to the strain on its roots.
And while each moment was life or death to her, he found the current
unexpectedly strong, and he had to use his utmost efforts to avoid being
carried down far below where she stood watching with cramped, strained
failing limbs, and eyes of appealing, agonising hope.
One shout of encouragement as he was carried past her, but stemming the
current all the time, and at last he paddled back towards her, and came
close enough to lay hold of the boy.
“Let go,” he said, “I have him.”
But just as Sydney relaxed her hold on the boy the willow stump gave way
and toppled over with an avalanche of clay and stones. Happily Sydney
had already unfastened her grasp, and so fell, or threw herself
backwards on the bank, scratched, battered, bruised, and feeling half
buried for an instant, but struggling up immediately, and shrieking with
horror as she missed John and the boy, who had both been swept in by the
tree. The next moment she heard a call, and scrambling up the bank, saw
John among the reedy pools a little way down, dragging the boy after
him.
She dashed and splashed to the spot and helped to drag the child to a
drier place, where they all three sank on the grass, the boy, a sturdy
fellow of seven years old, lying unconscious, and the other two sitting
not a little exhausted, Sydney scarcely less drenched than the child.
She was the first to gasp--
“The boy?”
“He’ll soon be all right,” said John, bending over him. “How came--”
“I came suddenly on them--him and his brother--birds’-nesting. In his
fright he slipped in. I just caught him, but the other ran away, and I
could not pull him up. Oh! if you had not come.”
John hid his face in his hands with a murmur of intense thanksgiving.
“You should get home,” he said. “Can you? I’ll see to the boy.”
At this moment the keeper came up full of wrath and consternation, as
soon as he understood what had happened. He was barely withheld from
shaking the truant violently back to life, and averred that he would
teach him to come birds’-nesting in the park on Sunday.
And when, after he had fetched John’s coat and boots, Sydney bade him
take the child, now crying and shivering, back to his mother, and tell
her to put him to bed and give him something hot he replied--
“Ay, ma’am, I warrant a good warming would do him no harm. Come on,
then, you young rascal; you won’t always find a young lady to pull you
out, nor a gentleman to swim across that there Avon. Upon my honour,
sir, there ain’t many could have done that when it is in flood.”
He would gladly have escorted them home, but as the boy could not yet
stand, he was forced to carry him.
“You should walk fast,” said John, as he and Sydney addressed themselves
to the ascent of the steep sloping ground above the river.
She assented, but she was a good deal strained, bruised, and spent, and
her heavy winter dress, muddied and soaked, clung to her and held her
back, and both laboured breathlessly without making much speed.
“I never guessed that a river was so strong,” she said. “It was like a
live thing fighting to tear him away.”
“How long had you stood there?”
“I can’t guess. It felt endless! The boy could not help himself, and
I was getting so cramped that I must have let go if your call had not
given me just strength enough! And the tree would have come down upon
us!”
“I believe it would,” muttered John.
“Mamma must thank you,” whispered Sydney, holding out her hand.
He clasped it, saying almost inwardly--
“God and His Angels were with you.”
“I hope so,” said Sydney softly.
They still held one another’s hands, seeming to need the support in the
steep, grassy ascent, and there came a catch in John’s breath that made
Sydney cry,
“You are not hurt?”
“That snag gave me a dig in the side, but it is nothing.”
As they gained the level ground, Sydney said--
“We will go in by the servants’ entrance, it will make less fuss.”
“Thank you;” and with a final pressure she loosed his hand, and led
the way through the long, flagged, bell-hung passage, and pointed to a
stair.
“That leads to the end of the gallery; you will see a red baize door,
and then you know your way.”
Sydney knew that at this hour on Sunday, servants were not plentiful,
but she looked into the housekeeper’s room where the select grandees
were at tea, and was received with an astounded “Miss Evelyn!” from the
housekeeper.
“Yes, Saunders; I should have been drowned, and little Peter Hollis too,
if it hadn’t been for Mr. Friar Brownlow. He swam across Avon, and has
been knocked by a tree; and Reeves, would you be so very kind as to go
and see about him?”
Reeves, who had approved of Mr. Friar Brownlow ever since his race at
Schwarenbach, did not need twice bidding, but snatched up the kettle
and one of Mrs. Saunders’s flasks, while that good lady administered the
like potion to Sydney and carried her off to be undressed. Mrs. Evelyn
was met upon the way, and while she was hearing her daughter’s story, in
the midst of the difficulties of unfastening soaked garments, there was
a knock at the door. Mrs. Saunders went to it, and a young housemaid
said--
“Oh, if you please, ma’am, Mr. Friar Brownlow says its of no
consequence, but he has broken two of his ribs, and Mr. Reeves thinks
Mrs. Evelyn ought to be informed.”
She spoke so exactly as if he had broken a window, that at first the
sense hardly reached the two ladies.
“Broken what?”
“His ribs, ma’am.”
“Oh! I was sure he was hurt!” cried Sydney. “Oh, mamma! go and see.”
Mrs. Evelyn went, but finding that Reeves and Fordham were with John,
and that the village doctor, who lived close by the park gates, had been
sent for, she went no farther than the door of the patient’s room,
and there exchanged a few words with her son. Sydney thought her very
hard-hearted, and having been deposited in bed, lay there starting,
trembling, and listening, till her brother, according to promise, came
down.
“Well, Sydney, what a brave little woman you have shown yourself! John
has no words to tell how well you behaved.”
“Oh, never mind that! Tell me about him? Is he not dreadfully hurt?”
“He declares these particular ribs are nothing,” said Fordham,
indicating their situation on himself, “and says they laugh at them at
the hospital. He wanted Reeves to have sent for Oswald privately, and
then meant to have come down to dinner as if nothing had happened.”
“Mr. Oswald does not mean to allow that,” said Miss Evelyn.
“Certainly not; I told him that if he did anything so foolish I should
certainly never call him in. Now let me hear about it, Sydney, for he
was in rather too much pain to be questioned, and I only heard that you
had shown courage and presence of mind.”
The mother and brother might well shudder as they heard how nearly their
joy had been turned into mourning. The river was a dangerous one, and
to stem the current in full flood had been no slight exploit; still more
the recovery of the boy after receiving such a blow from the tree.
“Very nobly done by both,” said Fordham, bending to kiss his sister as
she finished.
“Most thankworthy,” said Mrs. Evelyn.
There was a brief space spent silently by both Mrs. Evelyn and her son
on their knees, and then the former went up to the little bachelor-room
where in the throng of guests John had been bestowed, and where she
found him lying, rather pale, but very content, and her eyes filled with
tears as she took his hand, saying--
“You know what I have come for?”
“How is she?” he said, looking eagerly in her face.
“Well, I think, but rather strained and very much tired, so I shall keep
her in her room for precaution’s sake, as to-morrow will be a bustling
day. I trust you will be equally wise.”
“I have submitted, but I did not think it requisite. Pray don’t trouble
about me.”
“What, when I think how it would have been without you? No, I will not
tease you by talking about it, but you know how we shall always feel for
you. Are you in much pain now?”
“Nothing to signify, now it has been bandaged, thank you. I shall soon
be all right. Did she make you understand her wonderful courage and
resolution in holding up that heavy boy all that time?”
Mrs. Evelyn let John expatiate on her daughter’s heroism till steps were
heard approaching, and his aunt knocked at the door. Perhaps she was
the person most tried when she looked into his bright, dark eyes, and
understood the thrill in his voice as he told of Sydney’s bravery and
resolution. She guessed what emotion gave sweetness to his thankfulness,
and feared if he did not yet understand it he soon would, and then what
pain would be in store for one or other of the cousins. When Mrs. Evelyn
asked him if he had really sent the message that his fractured ribs were
of no consequence, his aunt’s foreboding spirit feared they might prove
of only too much consequence; but at least, if he were a supplanter, it
would be quite unconsciously.
As Barbara said, when she came up from the diminished dinner-party to
spend the evening with her friend--
“Those delightful things always do happen to other people!”
“It wasn’t very delightful!” said Sydney.
“Not at the time, but you dear old thing, you have really saved a life!
That was always our dream!”
“The boy is not at all like our dream!” said Sydney. “He is a horrid
little fellow.”
“Oh, he will come right now!”
“If you knew the family, you would very much doubt it.”
“Sydney, why will you go on disenchanting me? I thought _the real thing_
had happened to you at last as a reward for having been truer to our old
woman than I.”
“I don’t think you would have thought hanging on that bank much reward,”
said Sydney.
“Adventures aren’t nice when they are going on. It is only ‘meminisse
juvat’, you know. You must have felt like the man in Ruckert’s Apologue,
with the dragon below, and the mice gnawing the root above.”
“My dear, that story kept running in my head, and whenever I looked at
the river it seemed to be carrying me away, bank, and stump, and all.
I’m afraid it will do so all night. It did, when some hot wine and water
they made me have with my dinner sent me to sleep. Then I thought of--
“Time, with its ever rolling stream,
Is bearing them away.”
and I didn’t know which was Time and which was Avon.”
“In your sleep, or by the river?”
“Both, I think! I seem to have thought of thousands of things, and
yet my whole soul was one scream of despairing prayer, though I don’t
believe I said anything except to bid the boy hold still, till I heard
that welcome shout.”
“Ah, the excellent Monk! He is the family hero. I wonder if he enjoys it
more than you? Did he really never let you guess how much he was hurt?”
“I asked him once; but he said it was only a dig in the side, and would
go off.”
“Ah, well! Allen says it is accident that makes the hero. Now the Monk
has been as good as the hyena knight of the Jotapata, who was a mixture
of Tyr, with his hand in the wolf’s mouth, and of Kunimund, when he
persuaded Amala that his blood running into the river was only the
sunset.”
“Don’t,” said Sydney. “I won’t have it made nonsense of!”
“Indeed,” said Babie, almost piteously, “I meant it for the most
glorious possible praise; but somehow people always seem to take me for
a little hard bit of spar, a barbarian, or a baby; I wish I had a more
sensible name!”
“Infanta, his princess, is what Duke always calls you,” said Sydney,
drawing her fondly to nestle close to her on the bed in her fire-lit
room. “Do you know one of the thoughts I had time for in that dreadful
eternity by the river, was how I wished it were you that were going to
be a daughter to poor mamma.”
“Esther will make a very kind, gentle, tender one.”
“Oh, yes; but she won’t be quite what you are. We have all been children
together, and you have fitted in with us ever since that journey when
we talked incessantly about Jotapata.” Then, as Babie made no answer,
Sydney gave her a squeeze, and whispered, “I know!”
“Who told you?” asked Babie, with eyes on the fire.
“Mamma, when I was crazy with Cecil for caring for a pretty face instead
of real stuff. She thought it would hurt Duke if I went on.”
“Does he care still?” said Babie, in a low voice.
“Oh, Babie, don’t you feel how much?”
“Do you know, Sydney, sometimes I can’t believe it. I’m sure I have no
right to complain of being thought a childish, unfeeling little wretch,
when I recollect how hard, and cold, and impertinent I was to him three
years ago.”
“It was three years ago, and we were very foolish then,” consolingly
murmured the wisdom of twenty, not without recollections of her own.
“I hope it was only foolishness,” said Barbara; “but I have only now
begun to understand the rights of it, only I could not bear the thoughts
of seeing him again. And now he is so kind!”
“Do you wish you had?”
“Not that. I don’t think anything but fuss and worry would have come of
it then. I was only fifteen, and my mother could never have let it
go on, and even if--; but what I am so grieved and ashamed at is my
fancying him not enough of a man for such a self-sufficient ape as I
was. And now I have seen more of the world, and know what men are, I
see his generosity, and that his patient fight with ill-health to do his
best and his duty, is really very great and good.”
“I wish you could tell him so. No, I know you can’t; but you might let
him feel it, for you need not be afraid of his ever asking you again.
They have had a great examination of his lungs, and there’s only part of
one in any sort of order. They say he may go on with great care unless
he catches cold, or sets the disease off again, and upon that he made up
his mind that it was a very good thing he had not disturbed your peace.”
“As if I should not be just as sorry!” said Babie. “Oh, Sydney, what a
sad world it is! And there is he going about as manful, and pleased, and
merry about this wedding as if it were his own. And the worst of it is,
though I do admire him so, it can’t be real, proper, lover’s love, for
I felt quite glad when you said he would never ask me, so it is all
wasted.”
The mothers would hardly have liked the subject of the maidens’ talk in
their bower, and Barbara bade good-night, feeling as if she should never
look at Fordham with the same eyes again; but the light of day restored
commonplace thoughts of the busy Monday.
Reeves, having been sent up by his lord with inquiries, found the
patient’s toilet so far advanced, that under protest he could only
assist in the remainder. So the hero and heroine met on the stairs, and
clasped hands in haste to the sound of the bell for morning prayers in
the household chapel, to which they carried their thankful hearts.
The Fordham household was not on such a scale that the heads of the
family could sit still in dignified ease on the eve of such a spectacle.
Every one was busy adorning the hall or the tables, and John would not
be denied his share, though as he could neither stoop, lift, nor use his
right arm, he was reduced to making up wreaths and bouquets, with Lina
to supply him with flowers, since he was the one person with whom she
never failed to be happy or good. Fordham was entreated to sit still and
share the employment, but his long, thin hands proved utterly wanting
in the dexterity that the Monk displayed. He was, moreover, the man in
authority constantly called to give orders, and in his leisure moments
much more inclined to haunt his Infanta’s winged steps, and erect his
tall person where she could not reach. Artistic taste rendered her,
her mother, and Allen most valuable decorators, and it might be doubted
whether Allen had ever toiled so hard in his life. In pity to the busy
servants, luncheon was served up cold on a side table, when Barbara, who
had rallied her spirits to nonsense pitch, declared that metaphorically,
Fordham and the agent carved the meal with gloves of steel, and that
the workers drank the red wine through the helmet barred. In the midst,
however, in marched Reeves, with a tray and a napkin, and a regular
basin of invalid soup, which he set down before John in his easy
chair. There was something so exceedingly ludicrous in the poor Friar’s
endeavour to be gratified, and his look of dismay and disgust, that
the public fairly shrieked with laughter, in which he would fain have
joined, but had to beg pardon for only looking solemn; laughter was a
painful matter.
However, later in the afternoon, when he was looking white and tired,
his host came and said--
“Your object is to be about, and not make a sensation when people
arrive. Come and rest then;” then landed him on his own sofa in his
sitting-room, which was kept sacred from all confusion.
About half an hour later Mrs. Evelyn said--
“Sydney, my dear, Willis is come for the tickets. Are they ready?”
“Oh, mother, I meant to have done them yesterday evening!”
“You had better take them to Duke’s room, it is the only quiet place. He
is not there, I wish he were. Willis can wait while you fill them up,”
said Mrs. Evelyn, not at all sorry to pin her daughter down for an
hour’s quiet, and unaware that the room was occupied.
So Sydney, with a list of names and packet of cards, betook herself to
her brother’s writing-table, never perceiving that there was anybody
under the Algerine rug, till there was a movement, suddenly checked, and
a voice said--
“Can I help?”
“Oh! don’t move. I’m so sorry, I hope--”
“Oh, no! I beg your pardon,” he said, with equal incoherency, and
raising himself more deliberately. “Your brother put me here to rest,
and I fell asleep, and did not hear you come in.”
“Oh, don’t! Pray, don’t! I am so sorry I disturbed you. I did not know
any one was here--”
“Pray, don’t go! Can’t I help you?”
Sydney recollected that in the general disorganisation pen, ink, and
table were not easy to secure, and replied--
“It is the people in the village who are to dine here to-morrow. They
must have tickets, or we shall have all manner of strangers. The stupid
printer only sent the tickets yesterday, and the keeper is waiting for
them. It would save time if you would read out the names while I mark
the cards; but, please, lie still, or I shall go.” And she came and
arranged the cushions, which his movements had displaced, till he
pronounced himself quite comfortable.
Hardly a word passed but “Smith James, two; Sennet Widow, one;
Hacklebury Nicholas, three;” with a “yes” after each, till they came to
“Hollis Richard.”
“That’s the boy’s father,” then said Sydney.
“Have you heard anything of him?” asked John.
“Oh, yes! his mother dragged him up to beg pardon, and return thanks,
but mamma thought you would rather be spared the infliction.”
“Besides that, they were not my due,” said John.
“I never thought of the boy.”
“If you did not, you saved him--twice!”
“A Newfoundland-dog instinct. But I am glad the little scamp is not the
worse. I suppose he is to appear to-morrow?”
“Oh, yes! and the vicar begs no notice may be taken of him. He is really
a very naughty little fellow, and if he is made a hero for getting
himself and us so nearly drowned by birds’-nesting on a Sunday in the
park, it will be perfectly demoralising!”
“You are as bad as your keeper!”
“I am only repeating the general voice,” said Sydney, with a gleam upon
her face, half-droll, half-tender. “Poor little man! I got him alone
this morning, while his mother was pouring forth to mine, and I think he
has a little more notion where thanks are due.”
“I should like to see him,” said John. “I’ll try not to demoralise him;
but he has given me some happy moments.”
The voice was low, and Sydney blushed as she laughed and said--
“That’s like Babie, saying it was delightful.”
“She is quite right as far as I am concerned.”
The hue on Sydney’s cheek deepened excessively, as she said--
“Is George Hollis next?”
They went on steadily after that, and Willis was not kept long waiting.
Then came the whirl of arrivals, Cecil with his Hampton cousins, Sir
James Evelyn and Armine, Jessie and her General, and the Kenminster
party. Caroline found herself in great request as general confidante,
adviser, and medium as being familiar with all parties, and it was
evidently a great comfort to her sister-in-law to find some one there to
answer questions and give her the carte-du-pays. Outwardly, she was all
the Serene Highness, a majestic matron, overshadowing everybody, not
talkative, but doing her part with dignity, in great part the outcome of
shyness, but rather formidable to simple-minded Mrs. Evelyn.
She heard of John’s accident with equanimity amazing to her hostess,
but befitting the parent of six sons who were always knocking themselves
about. Indeed, John was too well launched ever to occupy much of her
thoughts. Her pride was in her big Robert, and her joy in her little
Harry, and her care for whichever intermediate one needed it most. This
one at the moment was of course pretty, frightened, blushing Esther,
who was moving about in one maze and dazzle of shyness and strangeness,
hardly daring to raise her eyes, but fortunately graceful enough to
look her part well in the midst of her terrors. Such continual mistakes
between her and Eleanor were made, that Cecil was advised to take
care that he had the right bride; but Ellie, though so like her sister
outwardly, was of a very different nature, neither shy nor timid, but of
the sturdy Friar texture.
She was very unhappy at the loss of her sister, and had an odd little
conversation with Babie, who showed her to her room, while the rest of
the world made much of the bride.
“Ellie, the finery and flummery is to be done in Aunt Ellen’s
dressing-room,” explained Babie; “but Essie is to sleep here with you
to-night.”
Poor Ellie! her lip quivered at the thought that it was for the last
time, and she said, bluntly--
“I didn’t want to have come! I hate it all!”
“It can’t be helped,” said Barbara.
“I can’t think how you and Aunt Carey could give in to it!”
“It was the real article, and no mistake,” said Babie.
“Yes; she is as silly about him as possible. A mere fine gentleman! Poor
Bobus has more stuff in him than a dozen of him!”
“He is a real, honest, good fellow,” said Babie. “I’m sorry for Bobus,
but I’ve known Cecil almost all my life, and I can’t have him abused.
I do really believe that Essie will be happier with a simple-hearted
fellow like him, than with a clever man like Bobus, who has places
in his mind she could never reach up to, and lucky for her too,” half
whispered Babie at the end.
“I thought you would have cared more for your own brother.”
“Remember, they all said it would have been wrong. Besides, Cecil has
been always like my brother. You will like him when you know him.”
“I can’t bear fine folks.”
“They are anything but fine!” cried Babie indignantly.
“They can’t help it. That way of Lord Fordham’s, high-breeding I suppose
you call it, just makes me wild. I hate it!”
“Poor Ellie. You’ll have to get over it, for Essie’s sake.”
“No, I shan’t. It is really losing her, as much as Jessie--”
“Jessie looks worn.”
“No wonder. Jessie was a goose. Mamma told her to marry that old man,
and she just did it because she was told, and now he is always ordering
her about, and worries and fidgets about everything in the house. I wish
one’s sisters would have more sense and not marry.”
Which sentiment poor Ellie uttered just as Sydney was entering by an
unexpected open door into the next room, and she observed, “Exactly! It
is the only consolation for not having a sister that she can’t go and
marry! O Ellie, I am so sorry for you.”
This somewhat softened Ellie, and she was restored to a pitch of
endurance by the time Essie was escorted into the room by both the
mothers.
That polished courtesy of Fordham’s which Ellie so much disliked
had quite won the heart of her mother, who, having viewed him from a
distance as an obstacle in Esther’s way, now underwent a revulsion
of feeling, and when he treated her with marked distinction, and her
daughter with brotherly kindness, was filled with mingled gratitude,
admiration and compunction.
When, after dinner, Fordham had succeeded in rousing his uncle and the
other two old soldiers out of a discussion on promotion in the army, and
getting them into the drawing-room, the Colonel came and sat down by his
“good little sister” to confide to her, under cover of Sydney’s music,
that he was very glad his pretty Essie had chosen a younger man than her
elder sister’s husband.
“Very opinionated is Hood!” he said, shaking his head. “Stuck out
against Sir James and me in a perfectly preposterous way.”
Caroline was not prepossessed in favour of General Hood, either by his
conversation with herself at dinner, or by the startled way in which
Jessie sat upright and put on her gloves as soon as he came in; but she
did not wish to discuss him with the Colonel, and asked whether John had
gone to bed.
“Is he not here? I thought he had come in with the young ones? No? then
he must have gone to bed. Could Armine or any of them show me the way to
his room?--for I should like to know how the boy really is.”
“I doubt if Armine knows which is his room. I had better show you, for
he is not unlikely to be lying down in Fordham’s sitting-room. Otherwise
you must prepare for many stairs. I suppose you know how gallantly he
behaved,” she added, as they left the room.
“Yes, Mrs. Evelyn told me. I am glad he has not lost his athletics in
his London life. I always tell his mother that John is the flower of the
flock.”
“A dear good brave fellow he is.”
“Yes, you have been the making of him, Caroline. If we don’t say much
about it, we are none the less sensible of all you have been to our
children. Most generous and disinterested!”
This was a speech to make Caroline tingle all over, and be glad both
that she was a little in advance, and at the door of Fordham’s room,
where John was not. Indeed, he proved to be lying on his bed, waiting
for some one to help him off with his coat, and he was gratified and
surprised to the utmost by his father’s visit, for in truth John was the
one of all the sons who most loved and honoured his father.
If that evening were a whirl, what was the ensuing day, when all who
stood in the position of hosts or their assistants were constantly
on the stretch, receiving, entertaining, arranging, presiding over
toilettes, getting people into their right places, saving one another
trouble. If Mrs. Joseph Brownlow was an invaluable aid to Mrs. Evelyn,
Allen was an admirable one to Lord Fordham, for his real talent was for
society, and he had shaken himself up enough to exert it. There might
have been an element of tuft-hunting in it, but there was no doubt that
he was doing a useful part. For Robert was of no use at all, Armine was
too much of a mere boy to take the same part, and John was feeling
his injury a good deal more, could only manage to do his part as
bridegroom’s man, and then had to go away and lie down, while the
wedding-breakfast went on. In consequence he was spared the many
repetitions of hearing how he had saved Miss Evelyn from a watery grave,
and Allen made a much longer speech than he would have done for himself
when undertaking, on Rob’s strenuous refusal, to return thanks for the
bridesmaids.
That which made this unlike other such banquets, was that no one could
help perceiving how much less the bridegroom was the hero of the day to
the tenants than was the hectic young man who presided over the feast,
and how all the speeches, however they began in honour of Captain
Evelyn, always turned into wistful good auguries for the elder brother.
There was no worship of the rising sun there, for when Lord Fordham,
in proposing the health of the bride and bridegroom, spoke of them
as future possessors, in the tone of a father speaking of his heir
apparent, there was a sub-audible “No, no,” and poor Cecil fairly and
flagrantly broke down in returning thanks.
Fordham’s own health had been coupled with his mother’s, and committed
to a gentleman who knew it was to be treated briefly; but this did not
satisfy the farmers, and the chief tenant rose, saying he knew it was
out of course to second a toast, but he must take the opportunity on
this occasion. And there followed some of that genuine native heartfelt
eloquence that goes so deep, as the praise of the young landlord was
spoken, the strong attachment to him found expression, and there were
most earnest wishes for his long life, and happiness like his brother’s.
Poor Fordham, it was very trying for him, and he could only command
himself with difficulty and speak briefly. He thanked his friends with
all his heart for their kindness and good wishes. Whatever might be
the will of God concerning himself, they had given him one of the most
precious recollections of his life, and he trusted that when sooner or
later he should leave them, they would convey the same warm and friendly
feelings to his successor.
There were so many tears by that time, and Mrs. Evelyn felt so much
shaken, that she made the signal for breaking up. No one was more
relieved than Barbara. She must go to her room to compose herself before
she could bear a word from any one, and as soon as she could gain the
back stair, she gathered up her heavy white silk and dashed up, rushing
along the gallery so blinded by tears under her veil that she would have
had a collision if a hand had not been put out as some one drew aside to
let her fly past if she wished; but as the mechanical “beg pardon” was
exchanged, she knew Fordham’s voice and paused. “I was going to look
after the wounded Friar,” he said, and then he saw her tearful eyes,
and she exclaimed, “I could not help it! I could not stay. You would say
such things. O, Duke! Duke!”
It was the first time she had used the familiar old name, but she did
not know what she said. He put her into a great carved chair, and knelt
on one knee by her, saying, “Poor Rogers, I wish he had let it alone. It
was hard for my mother and Cecil.”
“Then how could you go on and break all our hearts!” sobbed Babie.
“It will make a better beginning for Cecil. I want them to learn to look
to him. I thought every one knew that each month I am here is like an
extra time granted after notice, and that it was no shock to any one to
look forward to that fine young couple.”
“Oh, don’t! I can’t bear it,” she exclaimed, weeping bitterly.
“Don’t grieve, dearest. I have tried hard, but I find I cannot do my
work as it ought to be done. People are very kind, but I am content,
when the time comes, to leave it to one to whom it will not be such
effort and weariness. This is really one of the most gladsome days of my
life. Won’t you believe it?”
“I know unselfish people are happy.”
“And do you know that you are giving me the sweetest drop of all,
today?” said Fordham, giving one shy, fervent kiss to the hand that
clasped the arm of the chair just as sounds of ascending steps caused
them to start asunder and go their separate ways.