‘Tis true bright hours together told,
And blissful dreams in secret shared,
Serene or solemn, gay or bold,
Still last in fancy unimpaired.
Keble.
To his mother’s surprise, Lucas did not betray any discomfiture at
Sydney’s adventure, nor even at John’s having, of necessity, been left
behind for a week at Fordham after all the other guests were gone. All
he said was that the Friar was in luck.
He himself was much annoyed at the despatch he had received from Japan.
Of course there had been much anxiety as to the way in which Bobus would
receive the tidings of Esther’s engagement; and his mother had written
it to him with much tenderness and sympathy. But instead of replying to
her letter, he had written only to Lucas, so entirely ignoring the whole
matter that except for some casual allusion to some other subject, it
would have been supposed that he had not received it. He desired his
brother to send him out the rest of his books and other possessions
which he had left provisionally in England; and he likewise sent a
manuscript with orders to him to get it published and revise the proofs.
It proved to be a dissertation on Buddhism, containing such a bitter
attack upon Christianity that Jock was strongly tempted to put it in the
fire at once, and had written to Bobus to refuse all assistance in
its publication, and to entreat him to reconsider it. He would not
telegraph, in order that there might be more time to cool down, for
he felt convinced that this demonstration was a species of revenge,
at least so far that there was a certain satisfaction in showing what
lengths the baffled lover might go to, when no longer withheld by the
hope of Esther or by consideration for his mother.
Jock would have kept back the knowledge from her, but she was too uneasy
about Bobus for him not to tell her. She saw it in the same light,
feared that her son would never entirely forgive her, but went on
writing affectionate letters to him all the same, whether he answered
them or not. Oh, what a pang it was that she had never tried to make the
boy religious in his childhood.
Then she looked at Jock, and wondered whether he would harbour any
such resentment against her when he came to perceive what she had seen
beginning at Fordham.
John came back most ominously radiant. It had been very bad weather,
and he and Sydney seemed to have been doing a great quantity of fretwork
together, and to have had much music, only chaperoned by old Sir James,
for Fordham had been paying for his exertions at the wedding by being
confined to his room.
He had sent Babie a book, namely, Vaughan’s beautiful “Silex
Scintillans,” full of marked passages, which went to her heart. She
asked leave to write and thank him, and in return his mother wrote to
hers, “Duke is much gratified by the dear Infanta’s note. He would like
to write to her unless he knows you would not object.”
To which Caroline replied, “Let him write whatever he pleases to
Barbara. I am sure it will only be what is good for her.” Indeed Babie
had been by many degrees quieter since her return.
So a correspondence began, and was carried on till after Easter, when
the whole party came to London for the season. Mrs. Evelyn wished
Fordham to be under Dr. Medlicott’s eye; also to give Sydney another
sight of the world, and to superintend Mrs. Cecil Evelyn’s very
inexperienced debut.
The young people had made a most exquisitely felicitous tour in the
South of France and North of Spain, and had come back to a pleasant
little house, which had been taken for them near the Park. There Cecil
was bent on giving a great house-warming, a full family party. He would
have everybody, for he had prevailed to have Fordham sleeping there
while his room in his own house received its final arrangements; and
Caroline had added to Ellen’s load of obligation by asking her and the
Colonel to come for a couple of nights to behold their daughter dressed
for the Drawing-room.
That would no doubt be a pretty sight, but to others her young matronly
dignity was a prettier sight still, as she stood in her soft dainty
white, receiving her guests, the rosy colour a little deepened, though
she knew and loved them all, and Cecil by her side, already having made
a step out of his boyhood by force of adoration and protection.
But their lot was fixed, and they could not be half so interesting to
Caroline as the far less beautiful young sister, who could only lay
claim to an honest, pleasant, fresh-coloured intelligent face, only
prevented by an air of high-breeding from being milkmaid-like. It was
one of those parties when the ingenuity of piercing a puzzle is required
to hinder more brothers and sisters from sitting together than could be
helped.
So fate or contrivance placed Sydney between the two Johns at the
dinner-table, and Mother Carey, on the other side, felt that some
indication must surely follow. Yet Sydney was apparently quite
unconscious, and she was like the description in “Rokeby:”--
“Two lovers by the maiden sate
Without a glance of jealous hate;
The maid her lovers sat between
With open brow and equal mien;
It is a sight but rarely spied,
Thanks to man’s wrath and woman’s pride.”
Were these to awaken? They seemed to be all three talking together in
the most eager and amiable manner, quite like old times, and Jock’s
bright face was full of animation. She had plenty of time for
observation, for the Colonel liked a good London dinner, and knew
he need not disturb his enjoyment to make talk for “his good little
sister.” Presently, however, he began to tell her that the Goulds and
Elvira had really set out for America, and when her attention was free
again, she found that Jock had been called in by Fordham to explain to
Essie whether she had, or had not, seen Roncesvalles, while Sydney and
John were as much engrossed as ever.
So it continued all the rest of the dinner-time. Jock was talked to
by Fordham, but John never once turned to his other neighbour. In
the evening, the party divided, for it was very warm, and rather than
inconvenience the lovers of fresh air, Fordham retreated into the inner
drawing-room, where there was a fire. He had asked Babie to bring the
old numbers of the “Traveller’s Joy,” as he had a fancy for making a
selection of the more memorable portions, and having them privately
printed as a memorial of those bright days. Babie and Armine were there
looking them over with him, and the former would fain have referred to
Sydney, but on looking for her, saw she was out among the flowers in
the glass-covered balcony, too much absorbed even to notice her summons.
Only Jock came back with her, and sat turning over the numbers in rather
a dreamy way.
The ladies and the Colonel were sent home in Mrs. Evelyn’s carriage,
where Ellen purred about Esther’s happiness and good fortune all the
way back. Caroline lingered, somewhat purposely, writing a note that she
might see the young men when they came back.
They wished her good-night in their several fashions.
“Good-night, mother. Well, some people are born with silver spoons!”
“Good-night, mother dear. Don’t you think Fordham looks dreadful?”
“Oh, no, Armie; much better than when I came up to town.”
“Good-night, Mother Carey. If those young folks make all their parties
so jolly, it will be the pleasantest house in London! Good-night!”
“Mother,” said Jock, as the cousin, softly humming a tune, sprang up the
stairs, “does the wind sit in that quarter?”
“I am grievously afraid that it does,” she said.
“It is no wonder,” he said, doctoring the wick of his candle with her
knitting-needle. “Did you know it before?”
“I began to suspect it after the accident, but I was not sure; nor am I
now.”
“I am,” said Jock, quietly.
“She is a stupid girl!” burst out his mother.
“No! there’s no blame to either of them. That’s one comfort. She gave me
full warning, and he knew nothing about it, nor ever shall.”
“He is just as much a medical student as you! That vexes me.”
“Yes, but he did not give up the service for it, when she implored him.”
“A silly girl! O Jock, if you had but come down to Fordham.”
“It might have made no odds. Friar was so aggressively jolly after his
Christmas visit, that I fancy it was done then. Besides, just look at us
together!”
“He will never get your air of the Guards.”
“Which is preposterously ridiculous in the hospital,” said Jock,
endeavouring to smile. “Never mind, mother. It was all up with me two
years ago, as I very well knew. Good-night. You’ve only got me the more
whole and undivided, for the extinction of my will-of-the-wisp.”
She saw he had rather say no more, and only returned his fervent embrace
with interest; but Babie knew she was restless and unhappy all night,
and would not ask why, being afraid to hear that it was about Fordham,
who coughed more, and looked frailer.
He never went out in the evening now, and only twice to the House, when
his vote was more than usually important; but Mrs. Evelyn was taking
Sydney into society, and the shrinking Esther needed a chaperon much
more, being so little aware of her own beauty, that she was wont to
think something amiss with her hair or her dress when she saw people
looking at her.
Sydney had no love for the gaieties, and especially tried to avoid their
own county member, who showed signs of pursuing her. Her real delight
and enthusiasm were for the surprise parties, to which she always
inveigled her mother when it was possible. Mrs. Evelyn was not by any
means unwilling, but Cecil and Esther loved them not, and much preferred
seeing the Collingwood Street cousins without the throng of clever
people, who were formidable to Esther, and wearisome to Cecil.
Jock seldom appeared on these evenings. He was working harder than ever.
He was studying a new branch of his profession, which he had meant to
delay for another year, and had an appointment at the hospital
which occupied him a great deal. He had offered himself for another
night-school class, and spent his remaining leisure on Dr. and Mrs.
Lucas, who needed his attention greatly, though Mrs. Lucas had her
scruples, feared that he was overdoing himself, and begged his mother to
prohibit some of his exertions. Dr. Medlicott himself said something
of the same kind to Mrs. Brownlow. “Young men will get into a rush,
and suffer for it afterwards,” he said, “and Jock is looking ill and
overstrained. I want him to remember that such an illness as he had in
Switzerland does not leave a man’s heart quite as sound as before, and
he must not overwork himself.”
“And yet I don’t know how to interfere,” said his mother. “There are
hearts and hearts, you know,” she added.
“Ah! Work may sometimes be the least of two evils,” and the doctor said
no more.
“So Jock will not come,” said Mrs. Evelyn, opening a note declining a
dinner in Cavendish Square.
“His time is very much taken up,” said his mother. “It is one of his
class-nights.”
“So he says. It is a strange question to ask, but I cannot help it. Do
you think he fully enters into the situation?”
“I say in return, Do you remember my telling you that the two cousins
always avoided rivalry?”
“Then he acts deliberately. Forgive me; I felt that unless I was certain
of this virtual resignation of the unspoken hope, I was not acting
fairly in allowing--I cannot say encouraging--what I cannot help
seeing.”
“Dear Mrs. Evelyn! you understand that it is no slight to Sydney, but
you know why he held back; and now he sees that his absence has made
room for John, he felt that there was no chance for him, and that the
more he can keep out of the way the better it is for all parties. Honest
John has never had the least notion that he has come between Jock and
his hopes, and it is our great desire that he should not guess it.”
“Well! what can I say? You are generous people, you and your son; but
young folks’ hearts will go their own way. I had made up my mind to a
struggle with the prejudices of all the family, and I had rather it
had been for Jock; but it can’t be helped, and there is not a shadow of
objection to the other John.”
“No, indeed! He is only not Jock--”
“And I do not think my Sydney was knowingly fickle, but she thought she
had utterly disgusted and offended Jock by her folly about the selling
out, and that it was a failure of influence. Poor child! it was all a
cloud of shame and grief to her. I think he would have dispelled it if
he had come to the wedding, but as he did not--”
“The Adriatic was free,” said Caroline, trying to smile. “I see it all,
dear Mrs. Evelyn. I neither blame you nor Sydney; and I trust all will
turn out right for my poor boy.”
“He deserves it!” said Mrs. Evelyn with a sigh.
There was a good deal more intercourse between Cavendish Square and
Collingwood Street than Mother Carey had expected. Mrs. Evelyn and her
son and daughter fell into the habit of coming, when they went out for a
drive, to see whether Mrs. Brownlow or Barbara would come with them;
and as it was almost avowed that Babie was the object, she almost always
went, and kept Fordham company in the carriage, whilst his mother and
sister were shopping or making calls. He had certainly lost much ground
in these few weeks; he had ceased to ride, and never went out in the
evening; but the doctors still said he might live for months or years
if he avoided another English winter. His mother was taking Sydney into
society, and Esther was always happier when under their wing, being
rather frightened by the admiration of which Cecil was so proud. When
they went out much before Fordham’s bed time, he was thankful for the
companionship of Allen or Armine, generally the former, for Armine
was reading hard, and working after lectures for a tutor; while Allen,
unfortunately, had nothing to prevent him from looking in whenever Mrs.
Evelyn was out, to play chess, read aloud, or assist in that re-editing
of the cream of the “Traveller’s Joy,” which seemed the invalid’s great
amusement. Fordham had a few scruples at first, and when Allen had
undertaken to come to him for the whole afternoon of a garden-party, he
consulted Barbara whether it was not permitting too great a sacrifice of
valuable time.
“You don’t mean that for irony?” said Babie. “It is only so much time
subtracted from tobacco.”
“Will you let me say something to you, Infanta?” returned Fordham, with
all his gentleness. “It seems to me that you are not always quite kind
in your way of speaking of Allen.”
“If you knew how provoking he is!”
“I have a great fellow-feeling for him, having grown up the same sort of
helpless being as he has been. I should be much worse in his place.”
“Never!” cried Babie. “You would never hang about the house, worrying
mother about eating and fiddle-faddles, instead of doing any one useful
thing!”
“But if one can’t?”
“I don’t believe in can’t.”
“Happy person!”
“Oh, Duke, you know I never meant health; you know I did not,” and then
a pang shot across her as she remembered her past contempt of him whom
she now reverenced.
“There are other incapacities,” he said.
“But,” said Babie, half-pleading, half-meditating, “Allen is not stupid.
He used to be considered just as clever as Bobus; and he is so now to
talk to. Can there be any reason but laziness, and want of application,
that makes him never succeed in anything, except in answering riddles
and acrostics in the papers? He generally just begins things, and makes
mother or Armie finish them for him. He really did set to work and
finish up an article on Count Ugolino since we came home from Fordham,
and he has tried all the periodicals round, and they won’t have it, not
even the editors that know mother!”
“Poor fellow! And you have no pity!”
“Don’t you think it is his own fault?”
“It is quite possible that he would have done much better if he had
always had to work for his livelihood. I grant you that even as a rich
man he ought to have avoided the desultory ways, which, as you say, are
more likely to have caused his failures than want of native ability. But
I don’t like to see you hard upon him. You hardly realise how cruelly he
has been treated in return for a very deep and generous attachment,
or how such a grief must make it more difficult for him to exert his
powers.”
“I don’t like you to think me hard and unkind,” said Babie, sadly.
“Only a little over just,” said Fordham. “I am sure you could do a great
deal to help and brighten Allen; and,” he added, smiling, “in the name
of spoilt and shiftless heirs, I hope you will try.”
“Indeed I will,” said Babie earnestly, as the footman at the shop door
signalled to the coachman that his ladies were ready.
She found it the less difficult to remember what he had said, because
Allen himself was much less provoking to her. Something was due to the
influence and example of the strenuous endeavour that Fordham made
to keep up to such duties as he had undertaken, not indeed onerous
in themselves, but a severe labour to a man in his state. It had been
intimated to him also that his saturation with tobacco was distressing
to his friend, and he was fond enough of him to abstain from his solace,
except when walking home at night.
Perhaps this had cleared his senses to perceive habits of consideration
for the family, which he had never thought incumbent on himself,
whatever they might be in his brothers; and his eyes were open, as
they had never yet been, to his mother’s straits. It was chiefly indeed
through his fastidiousness. His mother and Babie had existed most of
this time upon their Belforest wardrobe; indeed, the former, always
wearing black, was still fairly provided; but Babie, who had not in
those days been out, was less extensively or permanently provided;
and Allen objected to the style in which she appeared in the enamelled
carriage, “like a nursery governess out for an airing.”
“Or not so smart,” said Babie, merrily putting on her little black hat
with the heron’s plume, and running down stairs.
“She does not care,” said Allen; “but mother, how can you let her?”
“I can’t help it, Allen. We turned out all the old feathers and flowers,
to see if I could find anything more respectable; but things don’t last
in Bloomsbury, and they only looked fit to point a moral, and not at all
to adorn a tail or a head.”
“I should think not. But can’t the poor child have something fresh, and
like other people?”
No; her uncle had given her bridesmaid’s dress, but there had been
expenses enough connected with the journey to Fordham to drain the dress
purse, and the sealskin cap that had been then available could not be
worn in the sun of June. There had been sundry incidental calls for
money. Mother Carey had been disappointed in the sale of a somewhat
ambitious set of groups from Fouque’s “Seasons,” which were declared
abstruse and uninteresting to the public. She had accepted an order for
some very humble work, not much better than chimney ornaments, for which
she rose early, and toiled while Babie was out driving with her friends.
When she had the money for this she would be more at ease, and if it
came to a little more than she durst reckon upon, she could venture on
some extras.
“Babie might earn it for herself; she is full of inventions.”
“There is nothing more strongly impressed on me than that those children
are not to begin being made literary hacks before they are come to
maturity. One Christmas tale a year is the utmost I ought to allow.”
“I wish I could be a literary hack, or anything else,” sighed poor
Allen.
It was the first time he really let himself understand what a burden
he was, and as Fordham was one of those people who involuntarily almost
draw out confidence, he talked it over with him. Allen himself was
convinced, by having really tried, that he was not as availably clever
as others of his family. Whether nature or dawdling was to blame, he
had neither originality nor fire. He could not get his plots or his
characters to work, even when his mother or Babie jogged them on by
remarks: his essays were heavy and unreadable, his jokes hung fire,
and he had so exhausted every one’s patience, that the translations and
small reviewing work which he could have done were now unattainable. He
was now ready to do anything, and he actually meant it, but there seemed
nothing for him to do. Mrs. Evelyn succeeded in getting him two pupils,
little pickles whom their sister’s governess could not manage, and whom
he was to teach for two hours every morning in preparation for their
going to school.
He attended faithfully, but he was not the man to deal with pickles. The
mutual aversion with which the connection began, increased upon further
acquaintance. The boys found out his weak points, and played tricks,
learnt nothing, and made his life a burden to him; and though the lady
mother liked him extremely, and could not think why her sons were so
naughty with him, it would not be easy to say which of the parties
concerned looked with the strongest sense of relief to the close of the
engagement.
The time spent with Fordham was, however, the compensation. There was
sincere liking on both sides, and such helpfulness that Fordham more
than once wished he had some excuse for making Allen his secretary; and
perhaps would have done so if he had really believed such a post would
be permanent.
Armine’s term likewise ended, and his examination being over with much
credit, he wished for nothing better than to resume the pursuits he
had long shared with Fordham. He had not Jock’s facility in forming
intimacies with youths of his own age. His development was too
exclusively on the spiritual and intellectual side to attract ordinary
lads, and his home gave him sufficient interests outside his studies;
and thus Fordham was still his sole, as well as his earliest, friend
outside the family. Their intercourse had never received the check that
circumstances had interposed between others of the two families,
Armine had spent part of almost all his vacations with the Evelyns,
the correspondence had been a great solace to the invalid, and the
friendship grew yearly more equal.
Armine was to join the Evelyn party when they went to the seaside, as
they intended to do on leaving London. It was the fashion to say he
looked pale and overworked, but he had really attained to very fair
health, and was venturing at last to look forward in earnest to a
clerical life; a thought that began to colour and deepen all his more
intimate conversations with his friend, who could share with him many
of the reflections matured in the seclusion of ill-health. For they were
truly congenial spirits, and poor Fordham was more experienced in the
lore of suffering and resignation than his twenty-seven years seemed to
imply.
Meantime, the work of editing the “Traveller’s Joy” was carried on.
Some five-and-twenty copies were printed, containing all the favourite
papers--a specimen from each contributor, from a shocking bad riddle
of Cecil’s to Dr. Medlicott’s commentary upon the myths of the nursery;
from Armine’s original acrostic on the “Rhine and Rhone,” down to the
“Phantom Blackcock of Kilnaught;” the best illustrations from Mrs.
Brownlow’s sketches, and Dr. Medlicott’s clever pen-and-ink outlines
were reproduced; and, with much pains and expense, Fordham had procured
photographs of all the marked spots, from Schwarenbach even to Fordham
Church, so that Cecil and Esther considered it a graceful memorial of
their courtship.
“So very kind of Duke,” they said.
Esther had quite forgotten all her dread of him, and never was happier
than when he was listening to all that had amused her in the gaieties
which she liked much better in the past than in the present.
The whole was finished at last, after many a pleasant discussion and
reunion scene, and the books were sent to the binder. Fordham was eager
for them to come home, and rather annoyed at some delays which made it
doubtful whether they would be received before he, with his mother and
sister, were to leave town. It was late, and June had come in, and the
weight of London air was oppressing him and making him weaker, and his
mother, anxious to get him into sea air, had made no fresh engagements.
It was a surprise to meet him at All Saints on St. Peter’s day.
“Come with us, Infanta,” he said, pausing at the door of the carriage.
“I am to have my drive early to-day, as the ladies are going to this
great garden-party.”
Sydney said she would walk home with Mrs. Brownlow, and be taken up when
Babie was set down.
Fordham gave the word to go to the binder’s.
“I should have thought you had better have gone into some clearer air,”
said his mother, for he looked very languid.
“There will be time for a turn in the park afterwards,” he said; “and
the books were to be ready yesterday, if there is any faith in binders.”
The books were ready, and Fordham insisted on having them deposited
on the seat beside him, in spite of all offers of sending them; and a
smiling--
“Oh, Duke, your name should have been Babie,” from his mother.
They then drove to Cecil’s house, where Mrs. Evelyn went in to let
Esther know her hour of starting; but where Cecil came running down, and
putting his head into the carriage, said--
“Come in, mamma; here’s the housemaid been bullying Essie, and she wants
you to help her. These two can go round the park by themselves, can’t
they?”
“Those are the most comical pair of children,” said Fordham, laughing,
as the carriage moved on. “Will Esther ever make a serene highness?”
“It is not in her,” said Babie. “It might have been in Jessie, if her
General was not such a horrid old martinet as to hinder the development;
but Essie is much nicer as she is.”
Meantime, Fordham’s fingers were on the knot of the string of his
parcel.
“Oh, you are going to peep in? I am so glad.”
“Since mamma is not here to laugh at me.”
“You’ll tell her you did it to please the Babie!”
“There, it is you that are doing it now,” as her vigorous little fingers
plucked far more effectively at the cord than his thin weak ones.
Out came at last one of the choice dark green books, with a clematis
wreath stamped on the cover, and it was put into Barbara’s lap.
“How pretty! This is mother’s own design for the title-page! And oh--how
capital! Dr. Medlicott’s sketch of the mud baths, with Jock shrinking
into a corner out of the way of the fat Grafin! You have everything.
Here is Armine’s Easter hymn!”
“I wished to commemorate the whole range of feeling,” said Fordham.
“I see; you have even picked out the least ridiculous chapter of
Jotapata. I wish some one had sketched you patiently listening to the
nineteen copy-books. It would have been a monument of good nature. And
here is actually Sydney’s poem about wishing to have been born in the
twelfth century:--”
“Would that I lived in time of faith,
When parable was life,
When the red cross in Holy Land
Led on the glorious strife.
Oh! for the days of golden spurs,
Of tournament and tilt,
Of pilgrim vow, and prowess high,
When minsters fair were built;
When holy priest the tonsure wore,
The friar had his cord,
And honour, truth, and loyalty
Edged each bold warrior’s sword.”
“The solitary poetical composition of our family,” said Fordham,
“chiefly memorable, I fear, for the continuation it elicited.”
“Would that I lived in days of yore,
When outlaws bold were rife,
The days of dagger and of bowl,
Of dungeon and of strife.
Oh! for the days when forks were not,
On skewers came the meat;
When from one trencher ate three foes:
Oh! but those times were sweet!
When hooded hawks sat overhead,
And underfoot was straw
Where hounds and beggars fought for bones
Alternately to gnaw.”
“That was Jock’s, I believe. How furious it did make us. Good old
Sydney, she has lived in her romance ever since.”
“Wisely or unwisely.”
“Can it be unwisely, when it is so pure and bright as hers, and gives
such a zest to common things?”
“Glamour sometimes is perplexing.”
“Do you know, Duke, I would sometimes give worlds to think of things as
I used in those old times.”
“You a world-wearied veteran!”
“Don’t laugh at me. It was when Bobus was at home. His common sense made
all we used to care for seem so silly, that I have never been able to
get back my old way of looking at things.”
“I am afraid glamour once dispelled does not return. Yet, after all,
truth is the greater. And I am sure that poor Bobus never loosened my
Infanta’s hold on the real truth.”
“I don’t know,” she said, looking down; “he or his books made me afraid
to think about it, and like to laugh at some things--no, I never did
before you. You hushed me on the very borders of that kind of flippancy,
and so you don’t guess how horrid I am, or have been, for you have made
things true and real to me again.”
“‘Fancy may die, but Faith is there,’” said Fordham. “I think you will
never shut your eyes to those realities again,” he added, gently. “It
is there that we shall still meet. And my Infanta will make me one
promise.”
“I would promise you any thing.”
“Never knowingly to read those sneering books,” he said, laying his hand
on hers. “Current literature is so full of poisoned shafts that it may
not be possible entirely to avoid them; and there may sometimes be need
to face out a serious argument, but you will promise me never to take up
that scoffing style of literature for mere amusement?”
“Never, Duke, I promise,” she said. “I shall always see your face, and
feel your hand forbidding me.”
Then as he leant back, half in thankfulness, half in weariness, she went
on looking over the book, and read a preface, new to her.
“I have put these selections together, thinking that to the original
‘Travellers’ it may be a joy to have a memorial of happy days full of
much innocent pleasure and wholesome intercourse. Let me here express my
warm gratitude for all the refreshments afforded by the friendships
it commemorates, and which makes the name most truly appropriate. As
a stranger and pilgrim whose journey may be near its close, let me be
allowed thus to weave a parting garland of some of the brightest flowers
that have bloomed on the wayside, and in dedicating the collection to
my dear companions and fellow-wanderers in the scenes it records, let
me wish that on the highway of life that stretches before them, they
may meet with many a ‘Traveller’s Joy,’ as true as they have been to the
Editor.
“F----”
Babie, with eyes full of tears, was looking up to speak, when the
carriage, having completed the round, again stopped, and Mrs. Evelyn
came down, escorted by Cecil, with hearty thanks.
“Essie’s nice clean, fresh, country notions were scouted by the London
housemaid,” she said. “I am happy to say the child held her own, though
the woman presumed outrageously on her gentleness, and neither of the
two had any notion how to get rid of her.”
“Arcadia had no housemaids,” said Fordham, rallying.
“If not, it must have been nearly as bad as Jock’s twelfth century,”
said Babie, in the same tone.
“Ah! I see!” said Mrs. Evelyn, laughing.
And there was a little playful banter as to which had been the impatient
one to open the parcel, each pretending to persuade her that it had
been a mere yielding to the other. Thus they came to Collingwood Street,
where Babie would have taken out her book.
“No, no, wait,” said Fordham. “I want to write your name in it first.
I’ll send it this evening. Ali and Armie are coming to me while these
good people are at their Duchess’s.”
“Our last gaiety, I am thankful to say,” returned his mother, as Barbara
felt a fervent squeeze of the hand, which she knew was meant to remind
her of the deeper tone of their conversation.
It was a very hot day, and in the cool of the evening the two Johns
beguiled Mrs. Brownlow and Babie into a walk. They had only just come
home when there was a hurried peal at the bell, and Armine, quite pale,
dashed up stairs after them.
“Mother, come directly! I’ve got a hansom.”
“Fordham?” asked John.
Armine sighed an affirmative.
“Allen sent me for mother. He said one of you had better come. It’s
a blood-vessel. We have sent for Medlicott, and telegraphed for the
others. But oh! they are so far off!”
Mrs. Brownlow gave Barbara one kiss, and put her into Jock’s arms, then
sprang into the cab, followed by John, and was driven off. The other
three walked in the same direction, almost unconsciously, as Armine
explained more fully.
Fordham had seemed tired at first, but as it became cooler, had roused
himself, seated himself at his writing-table, and made one by one the
inscriptions in the volumes, including all their party of travellers,
even Janet and Bobus; Reeves, who had been their binder, Mrs. Evelyn’s
maid, and one or two intimate friends--such as Mr. Ogilvie and his
sister--and almost all had some kind little motto or special allusion
written below the name, and the date. It had thus taken a long time,
and Fordham leant back so weary that Allen wanted him to leave the
addressing of the books, when wrapped up, to him and Armine; but he said
there were some he wished to direct himself, and he was in the act
of asking Bobus’ right address, when a cough seized him, and Allen
instantly saw cause to ring for Reeves. The last thing that Armine
had seen was a wave of the hand to hasten his own departure, as Allen
despatched him for his mother, and gave orders for the summoning of
others more needed, but who might not be fetched so promptly.
Then Jock had time to question whether Barbara ought to go on with him
and Armine to the door, but there was a sound in her “Let me! I must!”
that they could not withstand; and they walked on in absolute silence,
except that Jock said Reeves knew exactly what to do.
Dr. Medlicott’s carriage was at the door, and on their ringing, they
were silently beckoned into the dining-room, where their mother came
to them. She could not speak at first, but the way in which she kissed
Barbara told them how it was. All had been over before she reached the
house. Dr. Medlicott had come, but could do nothing more than direct
Allen how to support the sufferer as he sank, with but little struggle,
while a sudden beam of joy and gladness lit up his face at the last.
There had been no word from the first. By the time the flow of blood
ceased, the power of speech was gone, and there was thus less reason to
regret the absence of the nearest and dearest.
Mrs. Brownlow said she must await their return with Allen, who was
terribly shocked and overcome by this his first and sudden contact
with death. John, too, had better remain for his sister’s sake, but the
others had better go home.
“Yes, my child, you must go,” she said, laying her hand on the cold ones
of Barbara, who stood white, silent, and stunned by the shock.
“Oh, don’t make me,” said a dull, dreamy, piteous voice.
“Indeed you must, my dear. It would only add to the pain and confusion
to have you here now. They may like to have you to-morrow. Remember, he
is not here. Take her, Jock. Take care of her.”
The coming of Sir James Evelyn at that moment gave Babie the impulse
of movement, and Dr. Medlicott hurrying out to offer the use of his
carriage, made her cling to Jock, and then to sign rather than speak her
desire to walk with her brothers.
Swiftly and silently they went along the streets on that June night
in the throng of carriages carrying people to places of amusement, the
wheels surging in their ears with the tramp and scuffle of feet on the
pavement like echoes from some far-off world. Now and then there was a
muffled sound from Armine, but no word was spoken till they were within
their own door.
Then Jock saw for one moment Armine’s face perfectly writhen with
suppressed grief; but the boy gave no time for a word, hurrying up the
stairs as rapidly as possible to his own room.
“Will not you go to bed? Mother will come to you there,” said Jock to
his sister, who was still quite white and tearless.
“Please not,” was her entreaty. “Suppose they sent for me!”
He did not think they would, but he let her sit in the dark by the open
window, listening; and he put his arm round her, and said, gently--
“You are much honoured, Babie. It is a great thing to have held so pure
and true a heart, not for time, but eternity.”
“Don’t, Jock. Not yet! I can’t bear it,” she moaned; but she laid her
head on his shoulder, and so rested till he said--
“If you can spare me, Babie, I think I must see to Armie. He seemed to
me terribly overcome.”
“Armine has lost his very best and dearest friend,” she said, pressing
her hands together. “Oh yes, go to him! Armie can feel, and I can’t! I
can only choke!”
Jock apprehended a hysterical struggle, but there only came one long sob
like strangulation, and he thought the pent up feeling might better
find its course if she were left alone, and he was really anxious about
Armine, remembering what the loss was to him, that it was his first real
grief, and that he had had a considerable share of the first shock of
the alarm.
His soft knock was unheard, and as he gently pushed open the door,
he saw Armine kneeling in the dark with his head bowed over his
prayer-desk, and would have retreated, but he had been heard, and Armine
rose and came forward.
The light on the stairs showed a pale, tear-stained face, but calm and
composed; and it was in a steady, though hushed, voice that he said--
“Can I be of any use?”
“I am sorry to have disturbed you. I only came to see after you. This is
a sore stroke on you, Armie.”
“I can stand it better, now. I have given him up to God as he bade me,”
said Armine. “It had been a weary, disappointed, struggling life, and
he never wished it to last.” The tears were choking him, but they were
gentle ones. “He thought it might be like this--and soon--only he hoped
to get home first. And I can give thanks for him, what he has been to
me, and what he will be to me all my life.”
“That is right, Armie. John did great things for us all when he caught
the carriage.”
“And how is Babie?”
“Poor child, she seems as if she could neither speak nor cry. It is half
hysterical, and I was going to get something for her to take. Perhaps
seeing you may be good for her.”
“Poor little thing, she is almost his widow, though she scarcely knows
it,” said Armine, coming down with his brother.
They found Babie still in the same intent, transfixed, watching state;
but she let Armine draw her close to him, and listened as he told her,
in a low tender voice of the talks he had had with Fordham, who had
expressed to his young friend, as to no one else, his own feelings as to
his state, and said much that he had spared others, who could not
listen with that unrealising calmness that comes when sorrow, never yet
experienced, is almost like a mere vision. And as Babie listened, the
large soft tears began to fall, drop by drop, and the elder brother’s
anxiety was lessened. He made them eat and drink for one another’s sake,
and watched over them with a care that was almost parental, till at
nearly half-past twelve o’clock the other three came home.
They said Mrs. Evelyn had come fully prepared by the telegram, and under
an inexplicable certitude which made it needless to speak the word to
her. She was thankful that Marmaduke had been spared the protracted
weeks of struggle in which his elder brothers’ lives had closed, and she
said--
“We knew each other too well to need last words.”
Indeed she was in the exalted state that often makes the earlier hours
and days of bereavement the least distressing, and Sydney was absorbed
in the care of her. Neither had been nearly so much overcome as Cecil
and Esther, who had been hunted up with difficulty. He seemed to be as
much shocked and horrified as if his brother had been in the strongest
possible health; and poor Esther felt it wicked and unfeeling to have
been dancing, and cried so bitterly that the united efforts of her aunt
and brother could not persuade her that what was done in simple duty and
obedience need give no pang, and that Mrs. Evelyn never thought of the
incongruity.
It was only her husband’s prostration with grief and desolation that
drew her off, to do her best with her pretty childish caresses and
soothings; and when the two had been sent to their own home, Mrs. Evelyn
was so calm that her friend felt she might be left with her daughter for
the night, and returned, bringing her tender love to “Our Babie,” as she
called the girl.
She clung very much to Barbara in the ensuing days. The presence of
every one seemed to oppress her except that of her own children, and the
two youngest Brownlows, for had not Armine been the depository of
all Fordham’s last messages? What she really seemed to return to as a
refreshment after each needful consultation with Sir James on the dreary
tasks of the mourners, was to finish the packing of those “Traveller’s
Joys” which lay strewn about Fordham’s sitting-room, open at the fly
leaves, that the ink might dry.
Esther was very gentle and sweet, taking it quite naturally that Babie
should be a greater comfort to her mother-in-law than herself; and
content to be a very valuable assistant herself, for the stimulus made
her far more capable than she had been thought to be. She managed almost
all the feminine details, while Sir James attended to the rest.
She answered all the notes, and wrote all the letters that did not
necessarily fall on her husband and his mother; and her unobtrusive
helpfulness made her a daughter indeed.
All the young men went to the funeral; but Mrs. Brownlow felt that
it was a time for friends to hold back till they were needed, when
relations had retreated; so she only sent Babie, whom Mrs. Evelyn and
Sydney could not spare, and she followed after three weeks, when Allen
was released from his unwelcome work.
She found Mrs. Evelyn feeling it much more difficult to keep up than
it had been at first, now that she sorely missed the occupation of her
life. For full twenty years she had had an invalid on her mind, and
Cecil’s marriage had made further changes in her life. It was not the
fault of the young couple. They did not love their new honours at all.
Apart from their affection, Cecil hated trouble and responsibility,
and could not bear to shake himself out of his groove, and Esther was
frightened at the charge of a large household. Their little home was
still a small paradise to them, and they implored their mother to allow
things to go on as they were, and Cecil continue in the Guards, while
she reigned as before at Fordham; letting the Cavendish Square house,
which Essie viewed with a certain nervous horror.
Mrs. Evelyn had so far consented that the change need not be made for at
least a year. Her dower house was let, and she would remain as mistress
of Fordham till the term was over, by which time the young Lady Fordham
might have risen to her position, and her Lord be less unwilling to face
his new cares.
“And they will be always wanting me to take the chair,” said he, in a
deplorable voice that made the others laugh in spite of themselves; and
he was so grateful to his mother for staying in his house, and letting
him remain in his regiment, that he seemed to have quite forgotten that
the power was in his own hands.