It was painful to him to realise that he was returning to wealth and luxury, indeed, monopolising it,-he the helpless, undeserving, indolent son, while all the others, and especially his mother, were left to poverty.
Elfie wanted Mother Carey and all to make their home at Belforest, and still be one family as of old. Indeed, she hung on Mother Carey even more than upon Allen, after her long famine from the motherly tenderness that she had once so little appreciated.
Of such an amalgamation, however, Mrs. Brownlow would not hear, nor would she listen to a proposal of settling on her a yearly income, such as would dispense with economy, and with the manufacture of "pot-boilers."
No, she said, she was a perverse woman, and she had never been so happy as when living on her husband's earnings. The period of education being over, she had a full sufficiency, and should only meddle with clay again for her own pleasure. She was beginning already a set of dining-table ornaments for a wedding-present, representing the early part of the story of Undine. Babie knew why, if nobody else did. Perhaps she should one of these days mould a similar set for Sydney of the crusaders of Jotapata! Then Allen bethought him of putting into Elvira's head to beg, at least, to undertake Armine's expenses at the theological college for a year, and to this she consented thankfully. Armine had been thinking of offering himself as Allen's successor for a year with Sir Samuel; but two days' experience as substitute convinced him that Allen was right in declaring that my Lady would be the death of him. Lucas could manage her, and kept her well-behaved and even polite, but Armine was so young and so deferential that she treated him even worse than she did her first victim! She had begun by insisting on a quarter's notice or the forfeiture of the salary, as long as she thought £25 was of vital importance to Allen, but as soon as she discovered that the young lady was a great heiress, she became most unedifyingly civil, called in great state in Collingwood Street, and went about boasting of having patronised a sort of prince in disguise.
Meantime Dr. Ruthven's offer seemed left in abeyance. Colonel Brownlow had all his son's scruples, and more than his indignation at Lucas's folly in hesitating; and John was so sure that he ought not to accept the proposal, that he would not stir in the matter, nor mention it to Sydney. At last Lucas acted on his own responsibility, and had an interview with Dr. Ruthven, in which he declined the offer for himself, but made it known that his cousin was not only brother to the beautiful Lady Fordham who had been met in Collingwood Street, but was engaged to Lord Fordham's sister. At which connection the fashionable physician rubbed his hands with so much glee, that Jock was the more glad not to have to hunt in couples with him.
The magnificent wedding-dress had been stopped by telegram, just as it was packed for New York, and was despatched to Belforest. Mrs. Wakefield undertook the task imposed upon her, and the wedding was to be grand enough to challenge attention, and not be liable to the accusation of being done in a corner. It might be called hasty, for only a month would have passed since Elvira's arrival, before her wedding-day; but this was by her own earnest wish. She made it no secret that she should never cease to be nervous till she was Allen Brownlow's wife, even though a letter to her cousins at River Hollow had removed all fear of pursuit by Mrs. Gould; she seemed bent on remaining at New York, and complained loudly of "the ungrateful girl," whose personal belongings she retained by way of compensation.
It would have been too much to expect that Elvira should be a wise and clever woman, but she had really learnt to be an affectionate one, and in the school of adversity had parted with much of her selfish petulance and arrogance. Allen, whose love had always been blindly tender, more like a woman's or a parent's love than that of an ordinary lover, was rapturous at the response he at last received. At the same time, he knew her too well to expect from her intellectual companionship, and would be quite content with what she could give.
They were both of them chastened and elevated in tone by their five years' discipline.
The night before the party went down to Belforest, where they were to meet the Evelyns, Allen lingered with his mother after all the rest had gone upstairs.
"Mother," he said, "I have thought a great deal of that dream of yours. I hope that the touch of Midas may not be baneful this time."
"I trust not, my dear; you have had a taste of the stern, rugged nurse."
"And, mother, I know I failed egregiously where the others rose."
"But you were rising."
"Then you will let me do nothing for you, and I feel myself sneaking into your inheritance, to the exclusion of all the rest, in a back- door sort of way."
"My dear Allen, it can't be helped, you have honestly loved your Elf from her infancy, when she had nothing, and she really loved you at the very worst. Love is so much more than gold, that it really signifies very little which of you has the money. You and she have both gone through a good deal, and it depends upon you now whether the possession becomes a blessing to yourselves and others. Don't vex about our not having a share, you know yourself how much happier we all are without the load, and there will never be any anxiety now. I shall always fall back on you, if I want anything."
"That is right," said Allen, clearing up a good deal as she looked up brightly in his face. "You promise me."
"Of course I do," she said smiling. "I'm not proud."
"And you did make Armine consent to our paying those expenses of his. That was good of you, but the boy only does it out of obedience."
"Yes, he would like a little bit of self-willed penance, but it is much better for him to submit, bodily and mentally."
"Elvira has asked me whether we can't, after all, build the Church and all the rest which he wanted so much, and give it to him."
Caroline smiled, she would not vex Allen by saying how this was merely in the spirit of the story book, endowing everybody with what they wanted, but she said, "Build by all means, and endow, when you have had time to see what is needed, and what is good for the people, but not for Armine's sake, you know. He had much better serve his apprenticeship and learn his work somewhere else. He would tell you so himself."
"I daresay. He would talk of the touch of Midas again. Elvira will be sadly disappointed. She had some fancy of presenting him to it as soon as he was ordained!"
"Getting the fairies meantime to build the whole concern in secret? Dear Elfie, her plans are generous and kind. Tell her, with my love, that her Church must not be a shrine for Armine, but that perhaps he and it will be fit for each other in some five years' time. Meantime, if she wants to make somebody happy, there's that excellent hardworking curate of Eleanor's, who has done more good in Kenminster than I ever saw done there before."
"I don't see why Kencroft should get all the advantages!"
"Ah! You ungrateful boy! Now if Rob had carried off Elfie, you might complain!"
At which Allen could not but laugh.
"And now, good night, Mr. Bridegroom; you want your beauty sleep, though I must say you look considerably younger than you did two months ago.
The wedding was a bright one, involving no partings, only joy and gladness, and the sole drawback to the general rejoicings seemed to be that it was not Mrs. Brownlow herself who was returning to take possession.
But on that very afternoon came a chill on her heart. Her own letter and Elvira's to Janet were returned from America! It was quite probable that the right address might have been in Elvira's lost note, and that Janet might be easily found through the photographer. "But," said her mother, "I do not believe she will ever come home unless I go to fetch her."
"The very thing I was thinking of doing," said Jock. "Letters will hardly find her now, and I have not settled to anything. The dear old Doctor's legacy will find the means."
"And I am sure you want the rest of the voyage. I don't like the looks of you, my Jockey."
"I shall be all right when this is over," said Jock, with an endeavour at laughing; "but I find I am a greater fool than I thought I was, and I had much be
tter be out of the way of it all till it is a fait accompli."
"It" was of course John's marriage. This was the first time Jock had seen the lovers together. In spite of vehement talking and laughing, warm greetings to everyone, and playing at every interval with the little cousins, Jock could not hide from either of the mothers that the sight cost him a good deal, all the more because the showing the Belforest haunts to Sydney had always been a favourite scheme, hitherto unfulfilled; nor was there any avoiding family consult- ations, which resulted in the fixing of the wedding for the middle of September, so that there might be time for a short tour before they settled down to John's work in London.
Mrs. Evelyn begged that Barbara would come to her whilst her mother and brother were away, Armine would be at his theological college, and there was nothing to detain Mrs. Brownlow and her son from the journey, to which both looked forward with absolute pleasure, not only in the hope of the meeting, but in the being together, and throwing off for a time the cares of home and gratifying the spirit of enterprise.
Jock had one secret. He had reason to think that Bobus would have a kind of vacation at the time, and he telegraphed to Japan what their intended voyage was to be, with a hope he durst not tell, that his favourite brother would not throw away the opportunity of meeting them in America.
CHAPTER XL. EVIL OUT OF GOOD.
And all too little to atone For knowing what should ne'er be known. Scott.
The season at Saratoga was not yet over, the travellers were told at New York, though people were fast thronging back into "the city." Should they go on thither at once, or try to find the photographer nearer at hand? It was on a Friday that they landed, and they resolved to wait till Monday, Jock thinking that a rest would be better for his mother.
The early autumn sun glowed on the broad streets as they walked slowly through them, halting to examine narrowly every display of portraits at a photographer's door.
It was a right course; they came upon some exquisitely-finished ones, among which they detected unmistakably the coloured likeness of Elvira de Menella. They went into the studio and asked to look at it. "Ah, many ask that," they were told, "though the sensation was a little gone by."
"What sensation?" Jock asked, while his mother trembled so much that she had to sit down on one of the velvet chairs.
"I guess you are a stranger, sir, from England? Then no doubt you have not heard of the great event of the season at Saratoga, the sudden elopement of this young lady, a beautiful English heiress, on the eve of marriage, these very portraits ordered for the bridesmaids' lockets."
"Whom did she elope with?" asked Jock.
"That's the remarkable part of it, sir. Some say that she was claimed in secret by a lover to whom she had been long much attached; but we are better informed. I can state to a certainty that she only fled to escape the tyranny of an aunt. She need only have appealed to the institutions of the country."
"Very true," said Jock. "Let me ask if your informant was not the lady who coloured this photograph, Mrs. Harte?" "Yes." "And is she here?"
"No, sir," with some hesitation.
"Can you give me her address? I am her brother. This lady is her mother, and we are very anxious to find her."
The photographer was gained by the frank address and manner. "I am sorry," he said, "but the truth is that there was a monster excitement about the disappearance of the girl, and as Mrs. Harte was said to have been concerned, there was constant resort to the studio to interview her; and I cannot but think she treated me ill, sir, for she quitted me at an hour's notice."
"And left no address?" exclaimed her mother, grievously disappointed.
"Not with me, madam; but she was intimate with a young lady employed in our establishment, and she may know where to find her."
And, through a tube, the photographer issued a summons, which resulted in the appearance of a pleasant-looking girl, who, on hearing that Mrs. Harte's mother and brother were in search of her, readily responded that Mrs. Harte had written to her a month ago from Philadelphia, asking her to forward to her any letters that might come to the room she usually occupied at New York. She had found employment, and there could be no doubt that she would be heard of there.
It was very near now. There was something very soothing in the services of that Sunday of waiting, when the Church seemed a home on the other side the sea, and on the Monday they were on their way, hearing, but scarcely heeding, the talk in the cars of the terrible yellow-fever visitation then beginning at New Orleans.
They arrived too late to do anything, but in early morning they were on foot, breakfasting with the first relay of guests at the hotel, and inquiring their way along the broad tree-planted streets of the old Quaker city.
It was again at a photograph shop that they paused, but as they were looking for the number, the private door opened, and there issued from it a grey figure, with a black hat, and a bag in her hand. She stood on the step, they on the side-walk. She had a thin, worn, haggard face, a strange, grey look about it, but when the eyes met on either side there was not a moment's doubt.
There was not much demonstration. Caroline held out her hand, and Janet let hers be locked tight into it. Jock took her bag from her, and they went two or three paces together as in a dream, till Jock spoke first.
"Where are we going? Can we come back with you, Janet, or will you come to the hotel with us?"
"I was just leaving my rooms," she said. "I was on my way to the station."
"You will come with me," said Caroline under her breath; and Janet passively let herself be led along, her mother unconsciously holding her painfully fast.
So they reached the hotel, and then Jock said, "I shall go and read the papers; send a message for me if you want me. You had rather be left to yourselves."
The mother knew not how she reached her bedroom, but once there, and with the door locked, she turned with open arms. "Oh! Janet, one kiss!" and Janet slid down on the floor before her, hiding her face in her dress and sobbing, "Oh! mother, mother, I am not worthy of this!"
Then Caroline flung herself down by her, and gathered her into her arms, and Janet rested her head on her shoulder for some seconds, each sensible of little save absolute content.
"And you have come all this way for me?" whispered Janet, at last raising her head to gaze at the face.
"I did so long after you! My poor, poor child, how you have suffered," said Caroline, drawing through her fingers the thin, worn, bony, hard-worked hand.
"I deserved a thousand times more," said Janet. "But it seems all gone since I see you, mother. And if you forgive, I can hope God forgives too."
"My child, my child," and as the strong embrace, and the kiss was on her brow, Janet lay still once more in the strange rest and relief. "It is very strange," she said. "I thought the sight of you would wither me with shame, but somehow there's no room for anything but happiness."
Renewed caresses, for her mother was past speaking.
"And Lucas is with you? Not Babie?"
"No, Babie is left with Mrs. Evelyn."
"So poor little Elvira came safe home?"
"Yes, and is Mrs. Allen Brownlow. Poor child, you rescued her from a sad fate. She believed to the last you were coming with her, and she lost your note, or you would have heard from us sooner."
Janet went on asking questions about the others. Her mother dreaded to put any, and only replied. Janet asked where they had been living, and she answered:
"In the old house, while the two Johns have been studying medicine."
"Not Lucas?" cried Janet, sitting upright in her surprise.
"Yes, Lucas. The dear fellow gave up all his prospects in the army, because he thought it would be more helpful to me for him to take this line, and he has passed so well, Janet. He has got the silver medal, and his essay was the prize one."
"And-" Janet stood up and walked to the window, as she said "and you have told him-"
"Yes. But, Janet, it was too late. Some hints
of your father's had been followed up, and the main discovery worked out, though not perfected."
Janet's eyes glistened for a moment as they used to do in angry excitement, and she asked, "Could he bear it?"
"He was chiefly concerned lest I should be disappointed. Then he reminded me that the benefit to mankind had come all the sooner."
"Ah!" said Janet with a gasp, "there's the difference!" She did not explain further, but said, "It has not poisoned his life!"
Then seeking in her bag, she took out a packet. "I wish you to know all about it, mother," she said. "I wrote this to send home by Elvira, but then my heart failed me. It was well, since she lost my note. I kept it, and when I did not hear from you, I thought I would leave it to be posted when all was over with me. I should like you to read it, and I will tell you anything else you like to know."
There came the interruption of the hotel luncheon, after which a room was engaged for Janet, and the use of a private parlour secured for the afternoon and evening. Jock came and went. He was very much excited about the frightful reports he heard of the ravages of yellow fever in the south, and went in search of medical papers and reports. Janet directed him where to seek them. "I was just starting to offer myself as an attendant," she said. "I shall still go, to-morrow."
"You? Oh, Janet, not now!" was her mother's first exclamation.
"You will understand when you have read," quietly said Janet.
All that afternoon, according to her manifest wish, her mother was reading that confession of hers, while she sat by replying to each question or comment, in the repose of a confidence such as had not existed for fifteen years.
"Magnum Bonum," wrote Janet. "So my father named it. Alas! it has been Magnum Malum to me. I have thought over how the evil began. I think it must have been when I brooded over the words I caught at my father's death-bed, instead of confessing to my mother that I had overheard them. It might be reserve and dread of her grief, but it was not wholly so. I did not respect her as I ought in my childish conceit. I was an old-fashioned girl. Grandmamma treated her like a petted eldest child, and I had not learnt to look up to her with any loyalty. My uncle and aunt too, even while seeming to uphold her authority, betrayed how cheaply they held her."
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