Magnum Bonum; Or, Mother Carey's Brood

“But my dear, my dear, one can’t give these things. Poor Janet always was a headstrong girl, like my poor Nita. I know what you mean, and how one feels that if one had been better oneself,” said poor Miss Ray, ending in utter entanglement, but tender sympathy.

“She might have been a child of many prayers,” said the poor mother.

“Ah! but that she can still be,” said the old lady. “She will turn back again, my dear. Never fear. I don’t think I could die easy if I did not believe she would!”

Jock brought back word that the lawyer had been entirely unaware of the Hermanns’ departure, and thought it looked bad. He had seen them both, and his report was less brilliant than Nita’s. Indeed Jock kept back the details, for Mr. Wakefield had described Mrs. Hermann as much altered, thin, haggard, shabby, and anxious, and though her husband fawned upon her demonstratively before spectators, something in her eyes betokened a certain fear of him. He had also heard that Elvira was still making visits. There was a romance about her, which, in addition to her beauty and future wealth, made people think her a desirable guest. She was always more agreeable with strangers than in her own family; and as to the needful funds, she had her ample allowance; and no doubt her expectations secured her unlimited credit. Her conduct was another pang, but it was lost in the keener pain Janet had given.

As his mother could not bear to face any one else, Jock thought the sooner he could get her home the better, and all they did was to buy some of Armine’s favourite biscuits, and likewise to stop at Rivington’s, where she chose the two smallest and neatest Greek Testaments she could find.

They reached home three hours before they were expected, and she went up at once to her room and her bed, leaving Jock to make the explanations, and receive all Bobus’s indignation at having allowed her to knock herself up by such a foolish expedition.

Chill, fatigue, and, far more, grief after her long course of worry really did bring on a feverish attack, so unprecedented in her that it upset the whole family, and if Mr. Ogilvie had not been almost equally wretched himself, he would have been amused to see these three great sons wandering forlorn about the house like stray chicks who had lost their parent hen, and imagining her ten times worse than she really was.

Babie was really useful as a nurse, and had very little time to comfort them. And indeed they treated her as childish and trifling for assuring them that neither patient, maid, nor doctor thought the ailment at all serious. Bobus found some relief in laying the blame on Jock, but when Armine heard the illness ascribed to a long course of anxiety and harass, he was conscience-stricken, as he thought how often his perverse form of resignation had baffled her pleadings and added to her vexations. Words, impatiently heard at the moment, returned upon him, and compunction took its outward effect in crossness. It was all that Jock could do by his good-humoured banter and repartee to keep the peace between the other two who, when unchecked by regard to their mother and Babie, seemed bent on discussing everything on which they most disagreed.

Babie was a welcome messenger to Jock at least, when she brought word that mother hoped Armine would attend to Percy Stagg, and would take him the book she sent down for him. Her will was law in the present state of things, and Armine set forth in dutiful disgust; but he found the lad so really anxious about the lady, and so much brightened and improved, that he began to take an interest in him and promised a fresh lesson with alacrity.

His next step in obedience was to take out his books; but Bobus had no mind for them, and said it was too late. If Armine had really worked diligently all the autumn, he might have easily entered King’s College, London; but now he had thrown away his chance.

Mr. Ogilvie found him with his books on the table, plunged in utter despondency. “Your mother is not worse?” he asked in alarm.

“Oh no; she is very comfortable, and the doctor says she may get up to-morrow.”

“Then is it the Greek?” said Mr. Ogilvie, much relieved.

“Yes. Bobus says my rendering is perfectly ridiculous.”

“Are you preparing for him?”

“No. He is sick of me, and has no time to attend to me now.”

“Let me see—”

“Oh! Mr. Ogilvie,” said Armine, looking up with his ingenuous eyes. “I don’t deserve it. Besides, Bobus says it is of no use now. I’ve wasted too much time ever to get into King’s.”

“I should like to judge of that. Suppose I examined you—not now, but to-morrow morning. Meantime, how do you construe this chorus? It is a tough one.”

Armine winked out of his eyes the tears that had risen at the belief that he had really in his wilfulness lost the hope of fulfilling the higher aims of his life, and with a trembling voice translated the passage he had been hammering over. A word from Mr. Ogilvie gave him the clue, and when that stumbling-block was past, he acquitted himself well enough to warrant a little encouragement.

“Well done, Armine. We shall make a fair scholar of you, after all.”

“I don’t deserve you should be so kind. I see now what a fool I have been,” said Armine, his eyes filling again, with tears.

“I have no time to talk of that now,” said Mr. Ogilvie. “I only looked in to hear how your mother was. Bring down whatever books you have been getting up at twelve to-morrow; or if it is a wet day, I will come to you.”

Armine worked for this examination as eagerly as he had decorated for Miss Parsons, and in the face of the like sneers; for Bobus really believed it was all waste of time, and did not scruple to tell him so, and to laugh when he consulted Jock, whose acquirements lay more in the way of military mathematics and modern languages than of university requirements.

Perhaps the report that Armine was reading Livy with all his might was one of his mother’s best restoratives,—and still more that when he came to wish her good-night, he said, “Mother, I’ve been a wretched, self-sufficient brute all this time; I’m very sorry, and I’ll try to go on better.”

And when she came downstairs to be petted and made much of by all the four, she found that the true and original Armine had come back, instead of Petronella’s changeling. Indeed, the danger now was that he would overwork himself in his fervour, for Bobus’s continued ill-auguries only acted as a stimulus; nor were they silenced till she begged as a personal favour that he would not torment the boy.

Indeed her presence made life smooth and cheerful again to the young people; there were no more rubs of temper, and Bobus, whose departure was very near, showed himself softened. He was very fond of his mother, and greatly felt the leaving her. He assured her that it was all for her sake, and that he trusted to be able to lighten some of her burdens when his first expenses were over.

“And mother,” he said, on his last evening, “you will let me sometimes hear of my Esther?”

“Oh, Bobus, if you could only forget her!”

“Would you rob me of my great incentive—my sweet image of purity, who rouses and guards all that is best in me? My ‘loyalty to my future wife’ is your best hope for me, mother.”

“Oh, if she were but any one else! How can I encourage you in disobedience to your father and to hers?”

“You know what I think about that. When my Esther ventures to judge for herself, these prejudices will give way. She shall not be disobedient, but you will all perceive the uselessness of withholding my darling. Meanwhile, I only ask you to let me see her name from time to time. You won’t deny me that?”

“No, my dear, I cannot refuse you that, but you must not assume more than that I am sorry for you that your heart is set so hopelessly. Indeed, I see no sign of her caring for you. Do you?”

“Her heart is not opened yet, but it will.”

“Suppose it should do so to any one else?”

“She is a mere child; she has few opportunities; and if she had—well, I think it would recall to her what she only half understood. I am content to be patient—and, mother, you little know the good it does me to think of her and think of you. It is well for us men that all women are not like Janet.”

“Yet if you took away our faith, what would there be to hinder us from being like my poor Janet?”

“Heaven forbid that I should take away any one’s honest faith; above all, yours or Essie’s.”

“Except by showing that you think it just good enough for us.”

“How can I help it, any more than I can help that Belforest was left to Elvira? Wishes and belief are two different things.”

“Would you help it if you could?” she earnestly asked.

He hesitated. “I might wish to satisfy you, mother, and other good folks, but not to put myself in bondage to what has led blindfold to half the dastardly and cruel acts on this earth, beautiful dream though it be.”

“Ah, my boy, it is my shame and grief that it is not a beautiful reality to you.”

“You were too wise to bore us. You have only fancied that since you fell in with the Evelyns.”

“Ah, if I had only bred you up in the same spirit as the Evelyns!”

“It would not have answered. We are of different stuff. And after all, Janet and I are your only black sheep. Jock has his convictions in a strong, practical working order, as real to him as ever his drill and order-book were. Good old fellow, he strikes me a good deal more than all Ogilvie’s discussions.”

“Mr. Ogilvie has talked to you?”

“He has done his part both as cleric and your devoted servant, mother, and, I confess, made the best of his case, as an able man heartily convinced can do. Good night, mother.”

“One moment, Bobus, my dear; I want one promise from you, to your old Mother Carey. Call it a superstition and a charm if you will, but promise. Take this Greek Testament, keep it with you, and read a few verses every night. Promise me.”

“Dear mother, I am ready to promise. I have read those poems and letters several times in the original.”

“But you will do this for me, beginning again when you have finished? Promise.”

“I will, mother, since it comforts you,” said Bobus, in a tone that she knew might be trusted.

The other little book, with the like request, in urgent and tender entreaty, was made up into a parcel to be forwarded as soon as Mr. Wakefield should learn Janet Hermann’s address. It was all that the mother could do, except to pray that this living Sword of the Spirit might yet pierce its way to those closed hearts.

Nor was she quite happy about Barbara. Hitherto the girl had seemed, as it were, one with Armine, and had been led by his precocious piety into similar habits and aspirations, which had been fostered by her intercourse with Sydney and the sharing with her of many a blissful and romantic dream.

All this, however, was altered. Petronella had drawn Armine aside one way, and now that he was come back again, he did not find the same perfectly sympathetic sister as before. Bobus had not been without effect upon her, as the impersonation of common sense and antagonism to Miss Parsons. It had not shown at the time, for his domineering tone and his sneers always impelled her to stand up for her darling; but when he was “poor Bobus” gone into exile and bereft of his love, certain poisonous germs attached to his words began to grow. There was no absolute doubt—far from it—but there was an impatience of the weariness and solemnity of religion.

To enjoy Church privileges to the full, and do good works under Church direction, had in their wandering life been a dream of modern chivalry which she had shared with Sydney, much as they had talked of going on a crusade. And now she found these privileges very tedious, the good works onerous, and she viewed them somewhat as she might have regarded Coeur de Lion’s camp had she been set down in it. Armine would have gone on hearing nothing but “Remember the Holy Sepulchre,” but Barbara would soon have seen every folly and failure that spoiled the glory of the army—even though she might not question its destination—and would have been unfeignedly weary of its discipline.

So she hung back from the frequent Church ordinances of St. Cradocke’s, being allowed to do as she pleased about everything extra; she made fun of the peculiarities of the varieties of the genus Petronella who naturally hung about it, and adopted the popular tone about the curates, till Jock told her “not to be so commonplace.” Indeed both he and Armine had made friends with them, as he did with every one; and Armine’s enjoyment of the society of a new, young, bright deacon, who came at Christmas, perhaps accounted for a little of her soreness, and made Armine himself less observant that the two were growing apart.

Her mother saw it though, and being seconded by Jock, found it easier than of old to keep the tables free from sceptical and semi-sceptical literature; but this involved the loss of much that was clever, and there was no avoiding those envenomed shafts that people love to strew about, and which, for their seeming wit and sense, Babie always relished. She did not think—that was the chief charge; and she was still a joyous creature, even though chafing at the dulness of St. Cradocke’s.

“Gould and another versus Brownlow and another, to be heard on the 18th,” Mr. Wakefield writes. “So we must leave our peaceful harbour to face the world again!”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” cried Barbara. “I am fairly tingling to be in the thick of it again!”

“You ungrateful infant,” said Armine, “when this place has done every one so much good!”

“So does bed; but I feel as if it were six in the morning and I couldn’t get the shutters open!”

“I wonder if Mr. Ogilvie will think me fit to go in for matriculation for the next term?” said Armine.

“And I ought to go up for lectures,” said Jock, who had been reading hard all this time under directions from Dr. Medlicott. “I might go on before, and see that the house is put in order before you come home, mother.”

“Home! It sounds more like going home than ever going back to Belforest did!”

“And we’ll make it the very moral of the old times. We’ve got all the old things!”

“What do you know about the old times—baby that you are and were?” said Jock.

“The Drakes move to-morrow,” said his mother. “I must write to your aunt and Richards about sending the things from Belforest. We must have it at its best before Ali comes home.”

“All right!” said Babie. “You know our own things have only to go back into their places, and the Drake carpets go on. It will be such fun; as nice as the getting into the Folly!”

“Nice you call that?” said her mother. “All I remember is the disgrace we got into and the fright I was in! I wonder what the old home will bring us?”

“Life and spirit and action,” cried Babie. “Oh, I’m wearying for the sound of the wheels and the flow of people!”

“Oh, you little Cockney!”

“Of course. I was born one, and I am thankful for it! There’s nothing to do here.”

“Babie!” cried Armine, indignantly.

“Well, you and Jock have read a great deal, and he has plunged into night-schools.”

“And become a popular lecturer,” added Armine.

“And you and mother have cultivated Percy Stagg, and gone to Church a great deal—pour passer le temps.”

“Ah, you discontented mortal!” said her mother, rising to write her letters. “You have yet to learn that what is stagnation to some is rest to others.”

“Oh yes, mother, I know it was very good for you, but I’m heartily glad it is over. Sea and Ogre are all very well for once in a way, but they pall, especially in an east wind English fog!”

“My Babie, I hope you are not spoilt by all the excitements of our last few years,” said the mother. “You won’t find life in Collingwood Street much like life in Hyde Corner.”

“No, but it will be life, and that’s what I care for!”

No, Barbara, used to constant change, and eager for her schemes of helpfulness, could not be expected to enjoy the peacefulness of St. Cradocke’s as the others had done. To Armine, indeed, it had been the beginning of a new life of hope and vigour, and a casting off of the slough of morbid self-contemplation, induced by his invalid life, and fostered at Woodside. He had left off the romance of being early doomed, since his health had stood the trial of the English winter, and under Mr. Ogilvie’s bracing management, seconded by Jock’s energetic companionship, he had learnt to look to active service, and be ready to strive for it.

To Jock, the time had been a rest from the victory which had cost him so dear, and though the wounds still smarted, there had been nothing to call them into action; and he had fortified himself against the inevitable reminders he should meet with in London. He had been studying with all his might for the preliminary examination, and eagerness in so congenial a pursuit was rapidly growing on him, while conversations with Mr. Ogilvie had been equally pleasant to both, for the ex-schoolmaster thoroughly enjoyed hearing of the scientific world, and the young man was heartily glad of the higher light he was able to shed on his studies, and for being shown how to prevent the spiritual world from being obscured by the physical, and to deal with the difficulties that his brother’s materialism had raised for him. He had never lost, and trusted never to lose, hold of his anchor in the Rock; but he had not always known how to answer when called on to prove its existence and trace the cable. Thus the winter at St. Cradocke’s had been very valuable to him personally, and he had been willing to make return for the kindness for which he felt so grateful, by letting the Vicar employ him in the night-schools, lectures, and parish diversions—all in short for which a genial and sensible young layman is invaluable, when he can be caught.

And for their mother herself, she had been sheltered from agitation, and had gathered strength and calmness, though with her habitual want of self-consciousness she hardly knew it, and what she thanked her old friend for was what he had done for her sons, especially Armine. “He and I shall be grateful to you all the rest of our lives,” she said, with her bright eyes glistening.

David Ogilvie, in his deep, silent, life-long romance, felt that precious guerdons sometimes are won at an age which the young suppose to be past all feeling—guerdons the more precious and pure because unconnected with personal hopes or schemes. He still knew Caroline to be as entirely Joseph Brownlow’s own as when he had first perceived it, ten years ago, but all that was regretful jealousy was gone. His idealisation of her had raised and moulded his life, and now that she had grown into the reality of that ideal, he was content with the sunshine she had brought, and the joy of having done her a real service, little as she guessed at the devoted homage that prompted it.

CHAPTER XXXIV. – BLIGHTED BEINGS

     Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning,     Allen-a-Dale has no farrow for turning,     Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,     Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning.                                                   Scott.

The little family raft put forth from the haven of shelter into the stormy waves. The first experience was, as Jock said, that large rooms and country clearness had been demoralising, or, as Babie averred, the bad taste and griminess of the Drake remains were invincible, for when the old furniture and pictures were all restored to the old places, the tout ensemble was so terribly dingy and confined that the mother could hardly believe that it was the same place that had risen in her schoolgirl eyes as a vision of home brightness. Armine was magnanimously silent, but what would be the effect on Allen, who had been heard of at Gibraltar, and was sure to return before the case was heard in court?

“We must give up old associations, and try what a revolution will do,” Mother Carey said.

“Hurrah!” cried Babie; “I was feeling totally overpowered by that awful round table, but I thought it was the very core of mother’s heart.”

“So did I,” said the mother herself, “when I remember how we used to sit round with the lamp in the middle, and spin the whole table when we wanted a drawer on the further side. But it won’t bring back those who sat there! and now the light falls anywhere but where it is wanted, and our goods get into each other’s way! Yes, Babie, you may dispose of it in the back drawing-room and bring in your whole generation of little tables.”

There was opportunity for choice, for the house was somewhat overfull of furniture, since besides the original plenishing of the Pagoda, all that was individual property had been sent from Belforest, and this included a great many choice and curious articles, small and great, all indeed that any one cared much about, except the more intrinsically valuable gems of art. It had been all done between Messrs. Wakefield, Gould, and Richards, who had sent up far more than Mrs. Brownlow had marked, assuring her that she need not scruple to keep it.

So by the time twilight came on the second evening, when the whole family were feeling exceedingly bruised, weary, and dusty, such a transformation had been effected that each of the four, on returning from the much needed toilet, stood at the door exclaiming—“This is something like;” and when John arrived, a little later, he looked round with—

“This is almost as nice as the Folly. How does Mother Carey manage to make things like herself and nobody else?”

Allen’s comment a few days later was—“What’s the use of taking so much trouble about a dingy hole which you can’t make tolerable even if you were to stay here.”

“I mean it to be my home till my M.D. son takes a wife and turns me out.”

“Why, mother, you don’t suppose that ridiculous will can hold water?”

“You know I don’t contest it.”

“I know, but they will not look at it for a moment in the Probate Court.”

Some chance friend whom he had met abroad had suggested this to Allen, and he had gradually let his wish become hope, and his hope expectation, till he had come home almost secure of a triumph, which would reinstate his mother, and bring Elvira back to him, having learnt the difference between true friends and false.

It was a proportionate blow when no difficulty was made about proving the will. As the trustees acted, Mrs. Brownlow had not to appear, but Allen haunted the Law Courts with his uncle and saw the will accepted as legal. Nothing remained but another amicable action to put Elvira de Menella in possession.

He was in a state of nervous excitement at every postman’s knock, making sure, poor fellow, that Elvira’s first use of her victory would be to return to him. But all that was heard of was a grand reception at Belforest, bands, banners, horsemen, triumphal arches, banquet, speeches, toasts, and ball, all, no doubt, in “Gould taste.” The penny-a-liner of the Kenminster paper outdid himself in the polysyllables of his description, while Colonel Brownlow briefly wrote that “all was as insolent as might be expected, and he was happy to say that most of the county people and some of the tenants showed their good feeling by their absence.”

Over this Mrs. Brownlow would not rejoice. She did not like the poor girl to be left to such society as her aunt would pick up, and she wrote on her behalf to various county neighbours; but the heiress had already come to the house in Hyde Corner, chaperoned by her aunt, who, fortified by the trust that she was “as good as Mrs. Joseph Brownlow,” had come to fight the battle of fashion, with Lady Flora Folliott for an ally.

The name of George Gould, Esquire, was used on occasion, but he was usually left in peace at his farm with his daughter Mary, with whom her step-mother had decided that nothing could be done. Kate was made presentable by dress and lessons in deportment, and promoted to be white slave, at least so Armine and Barbara inferred, from her constrained and frightened manner when they met her in a shop, though she was evidently trying to believe herself very happy.

Allen was convinced at last that he was designedly given up, and so far from trying to meet his faithless lady, dejectedly refused all society where he could fall in with her, and only wandered about the parks to feed his melancholy with distant glimpses of her on horseback, while Armine and Barbara, who held Elvira very cheap, were wicked enough to laugh at him between themselves and term him the forsaken merman.