RALPH CLAIMS A FRIEND'S PRIVILEGE.
[Illustration] IS the reader acquainted with Ventnor, one of the most
charming of the sheltered resorts that offer to invalids immunity from
the worst perils of winter in our treacherous climate? Screened from
northern winds by the high ridge of Boniface, and open to the southern
sea, which gleams with sunshine, and across which soft breezes play
when London lies under the iron spell of frost, or is shrouded in
dreary fog, it is a place where the weakly and consumptive may hope to
lengthen out their span of life, if not to regain health.
On a bright morning in early May, Edmund and I were strolling along the
sands at Ventnor, walking in the broad sunshine which he loved and I
cheerfully endured for his sake, although the glare and heat dazzled
and stupefied me. We had been in this quiet retreat—far quieter in
those days than now—since the beginning of the year, for, alas! my
brother had come to be counted as one of that class of sufferers known
as "the consumptive." His serious illness had inflicted permanent
injury on his lungs, and the only hope of checking the disease lay in
avoiding the rigours of winter.
But though we had enjoyed the mild climate of Ventnor for so long, and
I had endeavoured to preserve him from every risk of cold, Edmund had
made little progress. His cough still troubled him, he passed restless
nights, he panted painfully when we climbed the hills, and the hectic
colour in his face bore witness that the insidious disease was still
working mischief. Yet in spite of all, he was full of hope, and often
spoke as if he were rapidly regaining strength, and I, too, clung to
hope, refusing to read aright the signs which had so clear a meaning.
During the last few weeks, Edmund had grown weary of Ventnor, and was
impatient to try another change. He was anxious, too, on account of
our rapidly diminishing means, and wanted to get to work again, for he
still hoped to take his degree, although he had missed the examination
in preparing for which he had broken down.
"Dorothy," he said to me now, as we paced the sands, "don't you think
we might go to town next week? I should like to see that doctor again,
and ask him if I may not set to work. I really cannot afford to saunter
away my days here any longer, and I believe I should be better if I
could work."
"Perhaps, dear; but you must not be in too great a hurry," I ventured
to say. "You have been patient so long; you must not spoil all by being
rash now."
"But I am better, very much better," he urged. "It could not hurt me to
begin work again."
"I should like to see you first with a little more flesh on your
bones," I said, laying my hand on his thin arm; "and your appetite
needs to improve, for you must eat more if you work."
"How can a fellow have a healthy appetite when he is allowed to do
nothing?" demanded Edmund. "I should eat fast enough if I worked. We
will go up to town next week, Dorothy."
"Wait till we hear what sort of weather they are having in town," I
suggested. "Write to Ralph Dugdale, and ask his advice."
"He will be sure to say, 'Do not come yet.' He is as much inclined to
coddle me as you are. Not that I would say a word against the dear old
fellow, the best friend I ever had. I can never forget what a sacrifice
he made for me."
Indeed, it seemed that Edmund never would forget how Ralph, in order
to nurse him day and night, had sacrificed his chance of being senior
wrangler. Refusing to leave him to the care of a hired nurse, he had
watched beside his bed till the crisis of the illness had passed, by
which time the examination was close at hand. Consequently, he had
presented himself for it with both mind and body ill-prepared for the
strain, and had come out, not first wrangler, as his college had fondly
hoped, but seventh on the list.
Edmund could hardly forgive himself for having caused his friend's
failure. He had counted on seeing Ralph senior wrangler, and his
disappointment was far greater than Ralph's, who would not allow that
there was any cause to regret his position on the University list.
Perhaps as a woman, with no pretensions to being learned, I could not
rightly estimate the grandeur of the sacrifice Ralph had made, but, in
truth, Edmund's gratitude for the same sometimes struck me as being
excessive.
Edmund continued to talk about going to London. I listened without
opposing the idea. But for the fear of his endangering his health, I
should have liked the thought as well as he did.
I had not forgotten Leonard Glynne, though I had striven hard to do so,
reproaching myself for giving another so many thoughts, when my brother
so strongly claimed my loving consideration. I had quitted Weylea with
a strangely mingled sense of pain and relief. I had fancied that I was
breaking away from the enthralment which I had found at once so sweet
and bitter, and for a time Edmund had absorbed my every thought and
feeling. I believed that if only he were restored to health, I should
desire nothing more. Yet whilst Edmund stood first, and I devoted
myself entirely to him, the thought of Leonard was never far from me.
Edmund's talk about going to London stirred within me a sudden longing
to see Leonard again, or at least to know how he was.
Perhaps we should go to Beechwood, and if so, I could easily walk over
to Weylea to see Mrs. Lyell. I had heard very little of Leonard since
I left Weylea. Mrs. Lyell's letters contained only the most casual
references to him, and now for many weeks, Mrs. Lyell had not written
to me, so that I half feared she was ill. Perhaps it was not strange,
but only in accordance with the usual order of coincidences, that after
pondering the causes of Mrs. Lyell's silence, I should, on our return
to our lodgings, find a letter from her awaiting me there.
I opened it eagerly. It was soon evident that Mrs. Lyell had not been
ill. A succession of visitors, whom the spring had brought to town, had
occupied her time, so that her correspondence had fallen into arrears.
She begged me to believe that she had not ceased to feel a warm
interest in my own and my brother's welfare.
Was there a word of Leonard in the letter? My eyes skimmed the pages
in search for his name. Yes, here was something. What was this,—"For
Leonard's sake"?
Unfortunately the paragraph was not calculated to give me pleasure.
"I must tell you," wrote Mrs. Lyell, "that I have made Miss Carsdale's
acquaintance. She called on me, and, for Leonard's sake, I felt obliged
to see her. To my surprise, I found her a very agreeable girl, kind and
gentle in her manners, and by no means so frivolous as I had supposed.
I blame myself now for having misjudged her. Of course she has had a
worldly training, and she dresses more gaily than I think becoming; but
I am sure there is good in her. Since then, she has spent an evening
with me, and she kindly says that she will often run in and read to me,
so that I may not feel too much the loss of your precious services."
And so on.
I could hardly read to the end of the letter, I was so annoyed. Of
course, since Mrs. Lyell was thus taking to Miss Carsdale, there could
be no doubt as to what would soon follow. Strange! I had believed
myself without any personal hope for the future, yet this thought
thrilled me with pain and anger and sorest mortification.
"What is the matter, Dorothy?" asked my brother, who had been watching
me as I read the letter.
"Matter?" I exclaimed, startled by the question. "Oh, nothing. What do
you mean? Why do you ask?"
"Only because I naturally wondered why one moment you were as red as a
lobster and the next as white as that curtain."
"What nonsense, Edmund," I cried, colouring again. "I was nothing of
the kind; I never do change colour like that."
"You mean you have never seen yourself do so," returned Edmund. "I do
wonder what there is in that letter to put you out so."
"Then you may wonder," I said, forcing a laugh, "for I am not going to
satisfy your curiosity."
I left my brother and went upstairs, there to fight a long battle with
myself. I was determined to escape from the dominion of this pain. It
was a hard struggle, but at last I succeeded, as I thought, in putting
from me utterly thought of Leonard Glynne. Henceforth he should be
nothing to me, and if possible, I would not see him again. I would
live for my brother only, and whilst I had Edmund, what did it matter
whether anyone else loved me?
I went back to him conscious of a new proud strength, and my heart
glowed with joy when he said, as he thanked me for some trifling
service, "What a precious old sister you are, Dottie! I could not do
without you now."
Notwithstanding Edmund's impatience to quit Ventnor, we did not go
to London till the end of the month. Mabel and her husband were in
town for a few weeks, and by her arrangement, to which I reluctantly
consented, we joined them at their rooms in Duke street. Mabel had not
seen Edmund since his illness, and she was shocked at the alteration
she perceived in him, and was inclined to blame me for it.
"You should not have let him get so thin, Dorothy," she said. "If I had
been you, I should have given him all sorts of nourishing things."
"No doubt you would have managed better than I," was my reply; "but
indeed I have tried to think of everything. It is impossible to get
Edmund to take much, his appetite is so bad."
"You had better both come back to Burford with me," said Mabel; "I will
nurse Edmund up and soon get him strong."
"I will consign Edmund to your care, if you wish," I replied, "but I
cannot go to Burford."
"What nonsense, Dorothy! Of course I could not have him without you—it
would be impossible with all the claims I have on my time. And you
would see my Percy. Such a darling he has grown. I wish I had brought
him with me, for there is a photographer in Regent street who takes
children's likenesses splendidly. Now, don't look so obstinate. Why
should you not come and stay with me? You ought to do so. People are
beginning to wonder at your keeping away so. It really appears as if we
had quarrelled."
"I cannot help that," I said. "I should be very sorry to quarrel with
you, Mabel, but—"
"I shall be obliged to quarrel with you, if you are so obstinate," said
Mabel, much offended.
As it happened, the question of our going to Burford was indirectly
decided by the physician whom Edmund consulted. His words did not sound
very hopeful as they were repeated to me. The disease was not yet
checked; there was grave cause for anxiety. Edmund had been counselled
to avoid a damp, low-lying neighbourhood, and, if possible, to spend
several weeks amidst the mountains of Switzerland.
"Will you go?" I asked him when he told me what the physician had said.
He shook his head. "How can I, when our funds are getting so low? And
yet I believe mountain air is just what I want."
"Oh, do take all the money, Edmund," I said; "your health is of more
consequence than anything else. I will seek a situation at once, so you
need not trouble about me."
"As if I should think of going to Switzerland without you," he replied.
"It would be better to stay at home if I could not have you to comfort
and cheer me." His words made me glad; but yet how I longed for the
means of taking him to Switzerland.
"Edmund," I began, "if I said a word to Mabel, I have no doubt Mr.
Steinthorpe would be glad to provide the money for your expenses in
Switzerland."
"Thank you, Dorothy," he said, dryly, "but I would rather not go in
that way. There would be no pleasure in going if I knew that I was
travelling at his cost."
"But when it is for your health, and your future usefulness depends on
it," I ventured to say.
"I see, you are less proud for me than for yourself," he returned,
laughingly; "but no, Dorothy, I cannot think of it."
It was useless to say more, so the subject was allowed to drop.
Two days later, Mabel and I coming in from a shopping expedition found
Ralph Dugdale in the hall, about to take his departure from the house.
Mabel begged him to stay and take tea, but he declined. He had been
having a long talk with Edmund, he said, and must now hurry away to
catch a train for Beechwood. But ere he quitted the house, he drew me
on one side, and said, hastily, in a voice too low to reach the others,—
"Miss Carmichael, I think you will agree with me that your brother
ought to go to Switzerland, since the doctor so strongly advises it.
I have been showing him how easily this could be managed, if only he
would allow me to act as a friend, as a brother should. But he has some
ridiculous scruples, which I trust to you to sweep away. You will take
my side in the matter, will you not? You must feel that your brother's
health is of the utmost importance."
"Yes, yes," I replied, not at all clear as to his meaning, but very
glad to learn that there was any chance of my brother's going to
Switzerland.
"Thank you, thank you; then I rely on your help. I shall come in again
very soon to talk things over with you."
So saying, Mr. Dugdale pressed my hand with a grateful warmth the
occasion hardly seemed to require, and departed.
As soon as I was alone with my brother, I asked him what Ralph Dugdale
wanted him to do.
"Oh, I hardly like to tell you," said Edmund, in a tone that showed he
was much moved; "but it is just like the dear, generous, unselfish old
fellow. Of course, he used many words in making his proposition, till
it seemed as if he were asking a favour rather than bestowing one, but
to put it baldly, he wants me to go to Switzerland at his expense. As
if I had not cost him enough already! But I cannot, I will not think of
this."
I was silent, musing for awhile on this rather startling idea. I knew
that the Dugdales were wealthy people. I had heard Edmund say that
Ralph had a handsome income of his own. The sum Edmund needed doubtless
was to him small, and he could lay it at his friend's disposal without
inconvenience.
"Edmund," I said, presently, "I can fancy how you feel about it, but do
you know I believe that you would be giving Ralph Dugdale the greatest
pleasure if you accepted his kindness? He is very much attached to you;
nothing would please him more than to see you well again."
"I know that," said Edmund, hoarsely, "but still I cannot altogether
relish the idea of being under a pecuniary obligation to him."
"But still you would rather be under such an obligation to him than to
Howard Steinthorpe?"
"Why, yes—that 'goes without saying,' as the French remark. Dugdale
is my friend, and Steinthorpe, though my brother-in-law, is hardly a
friend."
"Just so. Ralph is far more of a brother to you. I suppose that if
I were a rich woman, you would not be too proud to receive a little
pecuniary help from me in your present circumstances?"
"Well, perhaps not; but then you are my sister, you see."
"And does not such a friend as Ralph come closer than a brother? David
and Jonathan were more than brothers. Jonathan was a rich young prince,
whilst David had but lately been following the sheep, yet their great
love for each other must have made them feel on an equality. Jonathan
was ready to risk his father's displeasure and make any sacrifice for
the sake of his friend. What would a money gift have been between them?
Certainly not worth debating. There must be 'give and take' in all true
friendship."
"Well done, Dorothy," cried Edmund, clapping his hands; "I had no idea
you could draw such a parallel. Why, you are quite a preacher!"
"I wish I were," I said, laughing, "for then I might hope to convince
you that we need grace, as Mrs. Lyell would say, to receive generously
as well as to give generously."
"Why, that is just what Ralph has been saying! He has been trying to
convince me that I should evince more generosity in accepting his offer
than he does in making it. I believe he has primed you what to say."
"Thank you for the insinuation that I am not capable of thinking for
myself," I said. "But now, Edmund dear, since both I and Mr. Dugdale
see your duty so clearly, you will try to see it as we do, will you
not?"
"I will think about it," said Edmund.
And I could get no more from him on the subject till Ralph Dugdale came
again a few days later, when, through our combined persuasions, he
consented to accept Ralph's kindness on condition that he might look
upon the sum advanced as a loan, and repay it whenever he found himself
in a position to do so.
"It is very horrid of you to suggest such a thing, Carmichael," said
Ralph Dugdale, "but I suppose I must let you have your own way."
And then we began to discuss the merits of different mountain resorts,
and the routes thither. Ralph strongly advised our sojourning at a
certain pension, perched on a mountain side, at no great distance
from Lauterbrunnen. The house commanded a magnificent prospect, and
as it stood neatly five thousand feet above the sea-level, the air
was peculiarly fine. In such an atmosphere, and surrounded by such
scenery, it seemed to Ralph almost impossible that Edmund should not
grow strong. My heart grew light with hope as I listened to his words.
What a good, true friend he was! I felt as if I could never be grateful
enough to him for all he was doing for my brother.
[Illustration: "I HAVE A GREAT MIND TO RUN OVER
TO THE CONTINENT WITH YOU."]
"I tell you what, Carmichael," he said, presently, "I have a great mind
to run over to the Continent with you, and see you comfortably settled
in your mountain home."
My heart gave a bound of delight. If only he did this, the last shadow
of anxiety would be lifted from my mind, for, unaccustomed to foreign
travelling, I was fearful lest I should fail to take proper care of
Edmund on the journey. I looked quickly at Ralph, and my eyes must have
expressed the pleasure his words gave me, for he met my glance with a
smile so full of meaning that I felt sure he understood me perfectly.
But Edmund at once began to protest against his friend's taking the
trouble to accompany us.
"Dorothy and I are quite capable of taking care of each other," he said.
"You mean beggar!" ejaculated Dugdale. "Will you allow no one else
to have the pleasure of seeing the mountains, or do you grudge me
your sister's company? You know very well that my time is of little
importance just now, since I am only reading in a desultory fashion,
till I see more clearly what my future career should be."
So Edmund's mouth was stopped. When Ralph took his departure, I went
dawn with him into the hall, for I wanted to thank him for his kindness
to my brother. As we descended the stairs, he remembered a message from
Grace—her love, and she hoped to come and see me in a day or two, since
I had decided that it was impossible for me to go to Beechwood.
Ralph talked so briskly as he prepared to go that I could hardly say
what I wished to him. He cut my thanks short by saying with one of his
quick, keen glances, "Then you will not object to my company on the
journey?"
"Oh, I shall be so glad of it! You will be the greatest comfort," I
cried, eagerly.
Such a glad, bright look came into his eyes then. He had taken my hand,
and he retained it in his for a few moments as he looked at me. Very
pleasant was his face at that moment; I could not but be conscious of
the pleasure that irradiated it.
I said to myself, "Here is a man whose greatest delight is in doing
deeds of kindness."
When I returned to Edmund, he began warmly to extol his friend. Was
there ever a more noble, generous-hearted fellow? There was not his
equal in the world, either for goodness or cleverness, of that Edmund
was certain. He would be in Parliament some day, and, if human merit
ever met with its due reward, he would be made Prime Minister.
I could not help laughing a little at my brother's enthusiasm for his
friend. This vexed Edmund. He was quickly irritated in these days.
"Of course you cannot appreciate him," he said, angrily; "I might have
known that."
"Indeed, I do appreciate him," I said, rather warmly. "I have the
highest esteem for Ralph Dugdale, and I am very glad for your sake that
he talks of going with us to Switzerland."
"But you are not glad for your own sake," said Edmund. "You are like
most women—you cannot appreciate true manly worth; you would prefer a
curled and scented darling with no brains to speak of."
"Why, how you talk, Ted!" I exclaimed, laughing. "Pray, when have I
shown any liking for curled and scented darlings? Happily, I have
seldom met with such, and I cannot believe that they are as a rule
popular with my sex. Take my word for it, there is no quality women
more admire in men than true manliness. Do you suppose that the Arthur
West, whom Grace mourns so faithfully, was a 'curled and scented
darling?'"
What was there in my words to make Edmund start and look so annoyed?
"Certainly not," he said, constrainedly. "Mrs. West is utterly
different from every other woman I have met with."
"Of course she is much better than most women," I replied. "She is
coming to see me in a day or two, Ralph says."
Again a curious change passed over Edmund's face.
"Do you not like Grace?" I asked, rather anxiously. "You know you need
not see her when she comes, if you would rather not."
"What extraordinary things you say, Dorothy!" exclaimed Edmund,
frowning. "Could anyone know Mrs. West and not like her?"
I said no more, but, wondering at Edmund's odd humours, went off to
find Mabel, and tell her of the plans we had made.
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