CHAPTER XXXII. THE COST.
O well for him who breaks his dream With the blow that ends the strife, And waking knows the peace that flows Around the noise of life. G. MacDonald.
"Jock! say this is not true!"
The wedding had been celebrated with all the splendour befitting a marriage in high life. Bridesmaids and bridesmen were wandering about the gardens waiting for the summons to the breakfast, when one of the former thus addressed one of the latter, who was standing, gazing without much speculation in his eyes, at the gold fish disporting themselves round a fountain.
"Sydney!" he exclaimed, "are not your mother and Fordham here? I can't find them."
"Did you not hear, Duke has one of his bad colds, and mamma could not leave him? But, Jock, while we have time, set my mind at rest."
"What is affecting your mind?" said Jock, knowing only too well.
"What Cecil says, that you mean to disappoint all our best hopes."
"There's no help for it, Sydney," said Jock, too heavy-hearted for fencing.
"No help. I don't understand. Why, there's going to be war, real war, out there."
"Frontier tribes!"
"What of that? It would lead to something. Besides, no one leaves a corps on active service."
"Is mine?"
"It is all the same. You were going to get into one that is."
"Curious reasoning, Sydney. I am afraid my duty lies the other way."
"Duty to one's country comes first. I can't believe Mrs. Brownlow wants to hold you back; she-a soldier's daughter!"
"It is no doing of hers," said Jock; "but I see that I must not put myself out of reach of her."
"When she has all the others! That is a mere excuse! If you were an only son, it would be bad enough."
"Come this way, and I'll tell you what convinced me."
"I can't see how any argument can prevail on you to swerve from the path of honour, the only career any one can care about," cried Sydney, the romance of her nature on fire.
"Hush, Sydney," he said, partly from the exquisite pain she inflicted, partly because her vehemence was attracting attention.
"No wonder you say Hush," said the maiden, with what she meant for noble severity, "No wonder you don't want to be reminded of all we talked of and planned. Does not it break Babie's heart?"
"She does not know."
"Then it is not too late."
But at that moment the bride's aunt, who felt herself in charge of Miss Evelyn, swooped down on them, and paired her off with an equally honourable best man, so that she found herself seated between two comparative strangers; while it seemed to her that Lucas Brownlow was keeping up an insane whirl of merriment with his neighbours.
Poor child, her hero was fallen, her influence had failed, and nothing was left her but the miserable shame of having trusted in the power of an attraction which she now felt to have been a delusion. Meanwhile the aunt, by way of being on the safe side, effectually prevented Jock from speaking to her again before the party broke up; and he could only see that she was hotly angered, and not that she was keenly hurt.
She arrived at home the next day with white cheeks and red eyes, and most indistinct accounts of the wedding. A few monosyllables were extracted with difficulty, among them a "Yes" when Fordham asked whether she had seen Lucas Brownlow.
"Did he talk of his plans?"
"Not much."
"One cannot but be sorry," said her mother; "but, as your uncle says, his motives are to be much respected."
"Mamma," cried Sydney, horrified, "you wouldn't encourage him in turning back from the defence of his country in time of war?"
"His country!" ejaculated Fordham. "Up among the hill tribes!"
"You palliating it too, Duke! Is there no sense of honour or glory left? What are you laughing at? I don't think it a laughing matter, nor Cecil either, that he should have been led to turn his back upon all that is great and glorious!"
"That's very fine," said Fordham, who was in a teasing mood. "Had you not better put it into the 'Traveller's Joy?'"
"I shall never touch the 'Traveller's Joy' again!" and Sydney's high horse suddenly breaking down, she flew away in a flood of tears.
Her mother and brother looked at one another rather aghast, and Fordham said-
"Had you any suspicion of this?"
"Not definitely. Pray don't say a word that can develop it now."
"He is all the worthier."
"Most true; but we do not know that there is any feeling on his side, and if there were, Sydney is much too young for it to be safe to interfere with conventionalities. An expressed attachment would be very bad for both of them at present."
"Should you have objected if he had still been going to India?"
"I would have prevented an engagement, and should have regretted her knowing anything about it. The wear of such waiting might be too great a strain on her."
"Possibly," said Fordham. "And should you consider this other profession an insuperable objection?"
"Certainly not, if he goes on as I think he will; but such success cannot come to him for many years, and a good deal may happen in that time."
Poor Lucas! He would have been much cheered could he have heard the above conversation instead of Cecil's wrath, which, like his sister's, worked a good deal like madness on the brain.
Mr. Evelyn chose to resent the slight to his family, and the ingratitude to his uncle, in thus running counter to their wishes, and plunging into what the young aristocrat termed low life. He did not spare the warning that it would be impossible to keep up an intimacy with one who chose to "grub his nose in hospitals and dissecting rooms."
Naturally Lucas took these as the sentiments of the whole family, and found that he was sacrificing both love and friendship. Sir James Evelyn indeed allowed that he was acting rightly according to his lights. Sir Philip Cameron told him that his duty to a widowed mother ought to come first, and his own Colonel, a good and wise man, commended his decision, and said he hoped not to lose sight of him. The opinions of these veterans, though intrinsically worth more than those of the two young Evelyns, were by no means an equivalent to poor Lucas. The "great things" he had resolved not to seek, involved what was far dearer. It was more than he had reckoned on when he made his resolution, but he had committed himself, and there was no drawing back. He was just of age, and had acted for himself, knowing that his mother would withhold her consent if she were asked for it; but he was considering how to convey the tidings to her, when he found that a card had been left for him by the Reverend David Ogilvie, with a pencilled invitation to dine with him that evening at an hotel.
Mr. Ogilvie, after several years of good service as curate at a district Church at a fashionable south coast watering place, sometimes known as the English Sorrento, had been presented to the parent Church. He had been taking his summer holiday, and on his way back had undertaken to relieve a London friend of his Sunday services. His sister's letters had made him very anxious for tidings of Mrs. Brownlow, and he had accordingly gone in quest of her son.
He ordered dinner with a half humorous respect for the supposed epicurism of a young Guardsman, backed by the desire to be doubly correct because of the fallen fortunes of the family, and he awaited with some curiosity the pupil, best known to him as a pickle.
"Mr. Brownlow."
There stood, a young man, a soldier from head to foot, slight, active, neatly limbed, and of middle height, with a clear brown cheek, dark hair and moustache, and the well-remembered frank hazel eyes, though their frolic and mischief were dimmed, and they had grown grave and steadfast, and together with the firm-set lip gave the impression of a mind resolutely bent on going through some great ordeal without flinching or murmuring. With a warm grasp of the hand Mr. Ogilvie said-
"Why, Brownlow, I should not have known you."
"I should have known you, sir, anywhere," said Jock, amazed to find the Ogre of old times no venerable seignior, but a man scarce yet middle-aged
.
They talked of Mr. Ogilvie's late tour, in scenes well known to Jock, and thence they came to the whereabouts of all the family, Armine's health and Robert's appointment, till they felt intimate; and the unobtrusive sympathy of the old friend opened the youth's heart, and he made much plain that had been only half understood from Mrs. Morgan's letters. Of his eldest brother and sister, Jock said little; but there was no need to explain why his mother was straitening herself, and remaining at Belforest when it had become so irksome to her.
"And you are going out to India?" said Mr. Ogilvie.
"That's not coming off, sir."
"Indeed, I thought you were to have a staff appointment."
"It would not pay, sir; and that is a consideration."
"Then have you anything else in view?"
"The hospitals," said Jock, with a poor effort to seem diverted; "the other form of slaughter." Then as his friend looked at him with concerned and startled eyes, he added, "Unless there were some extraordinary chance of loot. You see the pagoda tree is shaken bare, and I could do no more than keep myself and have nothing for my mother, and I am afraid she will need it. It is a chance whether Allen, at his age, or Armine, with his health, can do much, and some one must stay and get remunerative work."
"Is not the training costly?"
"Her Majesty owes me something. Luckily I got my commission by purchase just in time, and I shall receive compensation enough to carry me through my studies. We shall be all together with Friar Brownlow, who takes the same line in the old house in Bloomsbury, where we were all born. That she really does look forward to."
"I should think so, with you to look after her," said Mr. Ogilvie heartily.
"Only she can't get into it till Lady Day. And I wanted to ask you, Mr. Ogilvie, do you know anything about expenses down at your place? What would tolerable lodgings be likely to come to, rent of rooms, I mean, for my mother and the two young ones. Armie has not wintered in England since that Swiss adventure of ours, and I suppose St. Cradocke's would be as good a place for him as any."
"I had a proposition to make, Brownlow. My sister and I invested in a house at St. Cradocke's when I was curate there, and she meant to retire to me when she had finished Barbara. My married curate is leaving it next week, when I go home. The single ones live in the rectory with me, and I think of making it a convalescent home; but this can't be begun for some months, as the lady who is to be at the head will not be at liberty. Do you think your mother would do me the favour to occupy it? It is furnished, and my housekeeper would see it made comfortable for her. Do you think you could make the notion acceptable to her?" he said, colouring like a lad, and stuttering in his eagerness.
"It would be a huge relief," exclaimed Jock. "Thank you, Mr. Ogilvie. Belforest has come to be like a prison to her, and it will be everything to have Armine in a warm place among reasonable people."
"Is Kenminster more unreasonable than formerly?"
"Not Kenminster, but Woodside. I say, Mr. Ogilvie, you haven't any one at St. Cradocke's who will send Armine and Babie to walk three miles and back in the rain for a bit of crimson cord and tassels?"
"I trust not," said Mr. Ogilvie, smiling. "That is the way in which good people manage to do so much harm."
"I'm glad you say so," cried Jock. "That woman is worse for him than six months of east wind. I declare I had a hard matter to get myself to go to Church there the next day."
"Who is _she_?"
"The sister of the Vicar of Woodside, who is making him the edifying martyr of a goody book. Ah, you know her, I see," as Mr. Ogilvie looked amused.
"A gushing lady of a certain age? Oh yes, she has been at St. Cradocke's."
"She is not coming again, I hope!" in horror.
"Not likely. They were there for a few months before her brother had the living, and I could quite fancy her influence bringing on a morbid state of mind. There is something exaggerated about her."
"You've hit her off exactly!" cried Jock, "and you'll unbewitch our poor boy before she has quite done for him! Can't you come down with me on Saturday, and propose the plan?"
"Thank you, I am pledged to Sunday."
"I forgot. But come on Monday then?"
"I had better go and prepare. I had rather you spoke for me. Somehow," and a strange dew came in David Ogilvie's eyes, "I could not bear to see _her_ there, where we saw her installed in triumph, now that all is so changed."
"You would see her the brightest and bravest of all. Neither she nor Babie would mind the loss of fortune a bit if it were not, as Babie says, for 'other things.' But those other things are wearing her to a mere shadow. No, not a shadow-that is dark-but a mere sparkle! But to escape from Belforest will cure a great deal."
So Jock went away with the load on his heart somewhat lightened. He could not get home on Saturday till very late, when dinner had long been over. Coming softly in, through the dimly lighted drawing- rooms, over the deeply piled carpets, he heard Babie's voice reading aloud in the innermost library, and paused for a moment, looking through the heavy velvet curtains over the doorway before withdrawing one and entering. His mother's face was in full light, as she sat helping Armine to illuminate texts. She did indeed look worn and thin, and there were absolute lines on it, but they were curves such as follow smiles, rather than furrows of care; feet rather of larks than of crows, and her whole air was far more cheerful and animated than that of her youngest son. He was thin and wan, his white cheeks contrasting with his dark hair and brown eyes, which looked enormous in their weary pensiveness, as he lent back languidly, holding a brush across his lips in a long pause, while she was doing his work. Barbara's bright keen little features were something quite different as, wholly wrapped up in her book, she read-
"Oh! then Ladurlad started, As one who, in his grave, Has heard an angel's call, Yea, Mariately, thou must deign to save, Yea, goddess, it is she, Kailyal-"
"Are you learning Japanese?" asked Jock, advancing, so that Armine started like Ladurlad himself.
"Dear old Skipjack! Skipped here again!" and they were all about him. "Have you had any dinner?"
"A mouthful at the station. If there is any coffee and a bit of something cold, I'd rather eat it promiscuously here. No dining-room spread, pray. It is too jolly here," said Jock, dropping into an armchair. "Where's Bob?"
"Dining at the school-house."
"And what's that Mariolatry?"
"Mariately," said Babie. "An Indian goddess. It is the 'Curse of Kehama,' and wonderfully noble."
"Moore or Browning?"
"For shame, Jock!" cried the girl. "I thought you did know more than examination cram."
"It is the advantage of having no Mudie boxes," said his mother. "We are taking up our Southey."
"And, Armie, how are you?"
"My cough is better, thank you," was the languid answer. "Only they won't let me go beyond the terrace."
"For don't I know," said his mother, "that if once I let you out, I should find you croaking at a choir practice at Woodside?"
Then, after ordering a refection for the traveller, came the question what he had been doing.
"Dining with Mr. Ogilvie. It is quite a new sensation to find oneself on a level with the Ogre of one's youth, and prove him a human mortal after all."
"That's a sentiment worthy of Joe," said Babie. "You used to know him in private life."
"Always with a smack of the dominie. Moreover, he is so young. I thought him as ancient as Dr. Lucas, and, behold, he is a brisk youth, without a grey hair."
"He always was young-looking," said his mother. "I am glad you saw him. I wish he were not so far off."
"Well then, mother, here's an invitation from Mahomet to the mountain, which Mahomet is too shy to make in person. That house which he and his sister bought at his English Sorrento has just been vacated by his married curate, and he wants you to come and keep it warm till he begins a convalescent home there next spring."
"How very kind!"
&
nbsp; "Oh! mother, you couldn't," burst out Armine in consternation.
"Would it be an expense or loss to him, Jock?" said his mother, considering.
"I should say not, unless he be an extremely accomplished dissembler. If it eased your mind, no doubt he would consent to your paying the rates and taxes."
"But, mother," again implored Armine, "you said you would not force me to go to Madeira, with the Evelyns!"
"Are they going to Madeira?" exclaimed Jock, thunderstruck.
"Did you not hear it from Cecil?"
"He has been away on leave for the last week. This is a sudden resolution."
"Yes, Fordham goes on coughing, and Sydney has a bad cold, caught at the wedding. Did you see her?"
"Oh yes, I saw her," he mechanically answered, while his mother continued-
"Mrs. Evelyn has been pressing me most kindly to let Armine go with them; but as Dr. Leslie assures me it is not essential, and he seems so much averse to it himself-"
"You know, mother, how I wish to hold my poor neglected Woodside to the last," cried Armine. "Why is my health always to be made the excuse for deserting it?"
"You are not the only reason," said his mother. "It is hard to keep Esther in banishment all this time, and I am in constant fear of a row about the shooting with that Gilbert Gould."
"Has he been at it again!" exclaimed Jock, fiercely.
"You are as bad as Rob," she said. "I fully expect a disturbance between them, and I had rather be no party to it. Oh, I shall be very thankful to get away, I feel like a prisoner on parole."
"And I feel," said Armine, "as if all we could do here was too little to expiate past carelessness."
"Mind, you are talking of mother!" said Jock, firing up.
"I thought she felt with me," said Armine, meekly.
"So I do, my dear; I ought to have done much better for the place, but our staying on now does no good, and only leads to perplexity and distress."
"And when can you come, mother?" said Jock. "The house is at your service instanter."
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