"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 continu
ation 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."
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