Magnum Bonum

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

"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.