"I should like to go to-night, without telling any one or wishing any one good-bye. No, you need not be afraid, Armie. The time must depend on your brother's plans. St. Cradocke's is too far off for much running backwards and forwards. Have you any notion when you may have to leave us, Jock? You don't go with Sir Philip?"
"No, certainly not," said Jock. Then, with a little hesitation, "In fact, that's all up."
"He has not thrown you over?" said his mother; "or is there any difficulty about your exchange?"
Here Babie broke in, "Oh, that's it! That's what Sydney meant! Oh, Jock! you don't mean that you let it prey upon you-the nonsense I talked? Oh, I will never, never say anything again!"
"What did she say?" demanded Jock.
"Sydney? Oh, that it would break her heart and Cecil's if you persisted, and that she could not prevent you, and it was my duty. Mother, that was the letter I didn't show you. I could not understand it, and I thought you had enough to worry you."
"But what does it all mean?" asked their mother. "What have you been doing to the Evelyns?"
"Mother, I have gone back to our old programme," said Jock. "I have sent in my papers; I said nothing to you, for I thought you would only vex yourself."
"Oh, Jock!" she said, overpowered; "I should never have let you!"
"No, mother, dear, I knew that, so I didn't ask you."
"You undutiful person!" but she held out her arm, and as he came to her, she leant her head against him, sobbing a little sob of infinite relief, as though fortitude found it much pleasanter to have a living column.
"You've done it?" said Armine.
"You will see it gazetted in a day or two."
"Then it is all over," cried Babie, again in tears; "all our dreams of honour, and knighthood, and wounds, and glorious things!"
"You can always have the satisfaction of believing I should have got them," said Jock, but there was a quiver in his voice, and a thrill through his whole frame that showed his mother that it was very sore with him, and she hastened to let him subside into a chair while she asked if it was far to the end of the canto, and as Babie was past reading, she took the book and finished it herself. Nobody had much notion of the sense, but the cadence was soothing, and all were composed by the time the prayer-bell rang.
"Come to my dressing-room presently," she said to Lucas, as he lighted her candle for her.
Just as she had gone up stairs, the front door opened to admit Bobus.
"Oh, you are here!" was his salutation. "So you have done for yourself?"
"How do you know?"
"Your colonel wrote to my uncle. He was at the dinner, and made me come back with him to ask if I knew about it."
"How does he take it?"
"He will probably fall on you, as he did on me to-night, calling it all my fault."
"As how?"
"For looking out for myself. For my part, I had thought it praiseworthy, but he says none of the rest of us care a rush for my mother, and so the only one of us good for anything has to be the victim. But don't plume yourself. You'll be the scum of the earth when he has you before him. Poor old boy, it is a sore business to him, and it doesn't improve his temper. I believe this place is a greater loss to him than to my mother. What are your plans?"
"Rotifer, as before."
"Chacun a son gout," said Bobus, shrugging his shoulders.
"I should have thought you would respect curing more than killing."
"If there were not a whole bag of stones about your neck."
"Magnets," said Jock.
"That's just it. All the heavier."
The brothers went upstairs together, and Jock was kept waiting a little while in the dressing-room, till his mother came out, shutting the door on Barbara.
"The poor Infanta!" she said. "She is breaking her foolish little heart over something she said to you. 'As bad as the woman in the "Black Brunswicker,"' she says, only she didn't mean it. Was it so, Jock?"
"I had pretty well made up my mind before. Mother, are you vexed that I did not tell you?"
"You spared me much. Your uncle would never have consented. But oh, Jock! I'm not a Spartan mother. My heart _will_ bound."
"My colonel said it was right," said Jock; "so did Cameron, and even Sir James, though he did not like it."
"With such an array of old soldiers on our side we may let the young ladies rage," said his mother, but she checked her mirth on seeing how far from a joke their indignation was to her son.
He turned and looked into the fire as he said-
"When did Sydney write that letter, mother?"
"Before meeting you at the wedding. She has not written since."
"I thought not," muttered Jock, his brow against the mantel-piece.
"No, but Mrs. Evelyn has written such a nice letter, just like herself, though I did not understand it then. I think she was doubtful how much I knew, for she only said how thankworthy it must be to have such a self-sacrificing spirit among my sons, moral courage, in fact, of the highest kind, and how those who were lavish of strong words in their first disappointment would be wiser by-and- by. I was puzzled then. But oh, my dear, this must have been very grievous to you!"
"I couldn't go back, but I did not know how it would be," said Jock, in a choked voice, collapsing at last, and hiding his face on his mother's lap.
"My Jock, I am so sorry! I wish it were not too late. I could not have let you give up so much," and she fondled his head. "I did not think I had been so weak as to let you see."
"No, mother. It was not that you were so weak, but that you were so brave. Besides, I ought to take the brunt of it. I ruined you all by being the prime mover with that assification, and I was the cause of Armie's illness too. I ought to take my share. If ever I can be any good to any one again," he added, in a dejected tone.
"Good!-unspeakably good! This is my first bright spot of light through the wood. If it were but bright to you! I am afraid they have been very unkind."
"Not unkind. _She_ couldn't be that, but I've shocked and disappointed her," and his head dropped again.
"What, in not being a hero? My dear, you are a true hero in the eyes of us old mothers; but I am afraid that is poor comfort. My Jock, does it go so deep as that? Giving up _all_ that for me! O my boy!"
"It is nonsense to talk of giving up," said Jock, rousing himself to a common-sense view. "What chance had I of her if I had gone to India ten times over?" but the wave of grief broke over him again. "She would have believed in me, and, may be, have waited."
"She will believe in you again."
"No, I'm below her."
"My poor boy, I didn't know it had come to this. Do you mean that anything had ever passed between you?"
"No, but it was all the same. Even Evelyn implied it, when he said they must give me up, if we took such different lines."
"Cecil too! Foolish fellow! Jock, don't care about such absurdity. They are not worth it."
"They've been the best of my life," said poor Jock, but he stood up, shook himself, and said, "A nice way this of helping you! I didn't think I was such a fool. But it is over now. I'll buckle to, and do my best."
"My brave boy!" and as the thought of the Magnum Bonum darted into her mind, she said, "You may have greater achievements than are marked by Victoria Crosses, and Sydney herself may own it."
And Jock went to bed, cheered in spite of himself by his mother's pleasure, and by Mrs. Evelyn's letter, which she allowed him to take away with him.
Colonel Brownlow was not so much distressed by Lucas's retirement as had been apprehended. He knew the life of a soldier with small means too well to recommend it. The staff appointment, he said, might mean anything or nothing, and could only last a short time unless Lucas had extraordinary opportunities. It might be as well, he was very like his grandfather, poor John Allen, and might have had his history over again.
The likeness was a new idea to Caroline and a great pleasure to her. Indeed, she seemed to Armine unfeelingly joy
ous, as she accepted Mr. Ogilvie's invitation, and hurried her preparations. There was a bare possibility of a return in the spring, which prevented final farewells, and softened partings a little. The person who showed most grief of all was Mrs. Robert Brownlow, who, glad as she must have been to be free of Bobus and able to recall her daughter, wept over her sister-in-law as if she had been going into the workhouse, with tears partly penitent for the involuntary ingratitude with which past kindness had been received. She was, as Babie said, much more sorry for Mother Carey than Mother Carey for herself.
Yet the relief was all the greater that it was plain that Esther was not happy in her banishment; and that General Hood thought her visit had lasted long enough, while the matter was complicated at home by her sister Eleanor's undisguised sympathy with her cousin Bobus, for whom she would have sent messages if her mother had not, with some difficulty exacted a promise never to allude to him in her letters.
CHAPTER XXXIII. BITTER FAREWELLS.
But he who lets his feelings run In soft luxurious flow Shrinks when hard service must be done And faints at every woe. J. H. Newman.
Welcome shone in Mr. Ogilvie's face in the gaslight on the platform as the train drew up, and the Popinjay in her cage was handed out, uttering, "Hic, haec, hoc. We're all Mother Carey's chicks."
Therewith the mother and the two youngest of her chicks were handed to their fly, and driven, through raindrops and splashes flashing in the gas, to a door where the faithful Emma awaited them, and conveyed them to a room so bright and comfortable that Babie piteously exclaimed-
"Oh, Emma, you have left me nothing to do!"
Presently came Mr. Ogilvie to make sure that the party needed nothing. He was like a child hovering near, and constantly looking to assure himself of the reality of some precious acquisition.
Later in the evening, on his way from the night-school, he was at the door again to leave a parish magazine with a list of services that ought to have rejoiced Armine's heart, if he had felt capable of enjoying anything at St. Cradocke's, and at which Babie looked with some dismay, as if fearing that they would all be inflicted on her. He was in a placid, martyr-like state. He had made up his mind that the air was of the relaxing sort that disagreed with him, and no doubt would be fatal, though as he coughed rather less than more, he could hardly hope to edify Bobus by his death-bed, unless he could expedite matters by breaking a blood-vessel in saving someone's life. On the whole, however, it was pleasanter to pity himself for vague possibilities than to apprehend the crisis as immediate. It was true that he was very forlorn. He missed the admiring petting by which Miss Parsons had fostered his morbid state; he missed the occupations she had given him, and he missed the luxurious habits of wealth far more than he knew. After his winters under genial skies, close to blue Mediterranean waves, English weather was trying; and, in contrast with southern scenery, people, and art, everything seemed ugly, homely, and vulgar in his eyes. Gorgeous Cathedrals with their High Masses and sweet Benedictions, their bannered processions and kneeling peasantry, rose in his memory as he beheld the half restored Church, the stiff, open seats, and the Philistine precision of the St. Cradocke's Old Church congregation; and Anglicanism shared his distaste, in spite of the fascinations of the district Church.
He was languid and inert, partly from being confined to the house on days of doubtful character. He would not prepare any work for Bobus, who, with Jock, was to follow in ten days, he would not second Babie's wish to get up a St. Cradocke's number of the 'Traveller's Joy,' to challenge a Madeira one; he did little but turn over a few books, say there was nothing to read, and exchange long letters with Miss Parsons.
"Armine," said Mr. Ogilvie, "I never let my friends come into my parish without getting work out of them. I have a request to make you."
"I'm afraid I am not equal to much," said Armine, not graciously.
"This is not much. We have a lame boy here for the winter, son to a cabinet maker in London. His mind is set on being a pupil-teacher, and he is a clever, bright fellow, but his chance depends on his keeping up his work. I have been looking over his Latin and French, but I have not time to do so properly, and it would be a great kindness if you would undertake it."
"Can't he go to school?" said Armine, not graciously.
"It is much too far off. Now he is only round the corner here."
"My going out is so irregular," said Armine, not by any means as he would have accepted a behest of Petronella's.
"He could often come here. Or perhaps the Infanta would fetch and carry. He is with an uncle, a fisherman, and the wife keeps a little shop. Stagg is the name. They are very respectable people, but of a lower stamp than this lad, and he is rather lost for want of companionship. The London doctors say his recovery depends on sea air for the winter, so here he is, and whatever you can do for him will be a real good work."
"What is the name?" asked Mrs. Brownlow.
"Stagg. It is over a little grocery shop. You must ask for Percy Stagg."
Perhaps Armine suspected the motive to be his own good, for he took a dislike to the idea at once.
"Percy Stagg!" he began, as soon as Mr. Ogilvie was gone. "What a detestable conjunction, just showing what the fellow must be. And to have him on my hands."
"I thought you liked teaching?" said his mother.
"As if this would be like a Woodside boy!"
"Yes," said Babie; I don't suppose he will carry onions and lollipops in his pockets, nor put cockchafers down on one's book."
"Babie, that was only Ted Stokes!"
"And I should _think_ he might have rather cleaner hands, and not leave their traces on every book."
"He'll do worse!" said Armine. "He will be vulgarly stuck up, and excruciate me with every French word he attempts to pronounce."
"But you'll do it, Armie?" said his mother.
"Oh, yes, I will try if it be possible to make anything of him, when I am up to it."
Armine was not "up to it" the next day, nor the next. The third was very fine, and with great resignation, he sauntered down to Mrs. Stagg's.
Percy turned out to be a quiet, gentle, pale lad of fourteen, without cockney vivacity, and so shy that Armine grew shyer, did little but mark the errors in his French exercise, hear a bit of reading, and retreat, bemoaning the hopeless stupidity of his pupil.
A few days later Mr. Ogilvie asked the lame boy how he was getting on.
"Oh, sir," brightening, "the lady is so kind. She does make it so plain in me."
"The lady? Not the young gentleman?"
"The young gentleman has been here once, sir."
"And his sister comes when he is not well?"
"No, sir, it is his mother, I think. A lady with white hair-the nicest lady I ever saw."
"And she teaches you?"
"Oh yes, sir! I am preparing a fable in the Latin Delectus for her, and she gave me this French book. She does tell me such interesting facts about words, and about what she has seen abroad, sir! And she brought me this cushion for my knee."
"Percy thinks there never was such a lady," chimed in his aunt. "She is very good to him, and he is ever so much better in his spirits and his appetite since she has been coming to him. The young gentleman was haughty like, and couldn't make nothing of him; but the lady- she's so affable! She is one of a thousand!"
"I did not mean to impose a task on you," said Mr. Ogilvie, next time he could speak to Mrs. Brownlow.
"Oh! I am only acting stop-gap till Armine rallies and takes to it," she said. "The boy is delightful. It is very amusing to teach French to a mind of that age so thoroughly drilled in grammar."
"A capital thing for Percy, but I thought at least you would have deputed the Infanta."
"The Infanta was a little overdone with the style of thing at Woodside. She and Sydney Evelyn had a romance about good works, of which Miss Parsons completely disenchanted her-rather too much so, I fear."
"Let her alone; she will recover," said Mr. Ogilvie, "if only by seeing
you do what I never intended."
"I like it, teacher as I am by trade."
So each day Armine imagined himself bound to the infliction of Percy Stagg, and compelled by headache, cough, or weather, to let his mother be his substitute.
"She is keeping him going on days when I am not equal to it," he said to Mr. Ogilvie.
"Having thus given you one of my tasks," said that gentleman, "let me ask whether I can help you in any of your studies?"
"I have been reading with Bobus, thank you."
"And now?"
"I have not begun again, though, if my mother desires it, I shall."
"So I should suppose; but I am sorry you do not take more interest in the matter."
"Even if I live," said Armine, "the hopes with which I once studied are over."
"What hopes?"
The boy was drawn on by his sympathy to explain his plans for the perfection of church and charities at Woodside, where he would have worked as curate, and lavished all that wealth could supply in all institutions for its good and that of Kenminster. It was the vanished castle over which he and Miss Parsons had spent so many moans, and yet at the end of it all, Armine saw a sort of incredulous smile on his friend's face.
"I don't think it was impossible or unreasonable," he said. "I could have been ordained as curate there, and my mother would have gladly given land, and means, and all."
"I was not thinking of that, my boy. What struck me was how people put their trust in riches without knowing it."
"Indeed I should have given up all wealth and luxury. I am not regretting that!" exclaimed Armine, in unconscious blindness.
"I did not say you were."
"I beg your pardon," said Armine, thinking he had not caught the words.
"I said people did not know how they put their trust in riches."
"I never thought I did."
"Only that you think nothing can be done without them."
"I don't see how it can."
"Don't you? Well, the longer I live the more cause I see to dread and distrust what is done easily by force of wealth. Of course when the money is there, and is given along with one's self (as I know you intended), it is providential, but I verily believe it intensifies difficulties and temptations. Poverty is almost as beneficial a sieve of motives and stimulus to energy as persecution itself."
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