Chapter 114
"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.
Armine was to join the Evelyn party when they went to the seaside, as they intended to do on leaving London. It was the fas.h.i.+on 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 Blackc.o.c.k of Kilnaught;" the best ill.u.s.trations 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 courts.h.i.+p.
"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 t.i.tle-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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 continuation 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."