Magnum Bonum; Or, Mother Carey's Brood

“Mr. Oswald does not mean to allow that,” said Miss Evelyn.

“Certainly not; I told him that if he did anything so foolish I should certainly never call him in. Now let me hear about it, Sydney, for he was in rather too much pain to be questioned, and I only heard that you had shown courage and presence of mind.”

The mother and brother might well shudder as they heard how nearly their joy had been turned into mourning. The river was a dangerous one, and to stem the current in full flood had been no slight exploit; still more the recovery of the boy after receiving such a blow from the tree.

“Very nobly done by both,” said Fordham, bending to kiss his sister as she finished.

“Most thankworthy,” said Mrs. Evelyn.

There was a brief space spent silently by both Mrs. Evelyn and her son on their knees, and then the former went up to the little bachelor-room where in the throng of guests John had been bestowed, and where she found him lying, rather pale, but very content, and her eyes filled with tears as she took his hand, saying—

“You know what I have come for?”

“How is she?” he said, looking eagerly in her face.

“Well, I think, but rather strained and very much tired, so I shall keep her in her room for precaution’s sake, as to-morrow will be a bustling day. I trust you will be equally wise.”

“I have submitted, but I did not think it requisite. Pray don’t trouble about me.”

“What, when I think how it would have been without you? No, I will not tease you by talking about it, but you know how we shall always feel for you. Are you in much pain now?”

“Nothing to signify, now it has been bandaged, thank you. I shall soon be all right. Did she make you understand her wonderful courage and resolution in holding up that heavy boy all that time?”

Mrs. Evelyn let John expatiate on her daughter’s heroism till steps were heard approaching, and his aunt knocked at the door. Perhaps she was the person most tried when she looked into his bright, dark eyes, and understood the thrill in his voice as he told of Sydney’s bravery and resolution. She guessed what emotion gave sweetness to his thankfulness, and feared if he did not yet understand it he soon would, and then what pain would be in store for one or other of the cousins. When Mrs. Evelyn asked him if he had really sent the message that his fractured ribs were of no consequence, his aunt’s foreboding spirit feared they might prove of only too much consequence; but at least, if he were a supplanter, it would be quite unconsciously.

As Barbara said, when she came up from the diminished dinner-party to spend the evening with her friend—

“Those delightful things always do happen to other people!”

“It wasn’t very delightful!” said Sydney.

“Not at the time, but you dear old thing, you have really saved a life! That was always our dream!”

“The boy is not at all like our dream!” said Sydney. “He is a horrid little fellow.”

“Oh, he will come right now!”

“If you knew the family, you would very much doubt it.”

“Sydney, why will you go on disenchanting me? I thought the real thing had happened to you at last as a reward for having been truer to our old woman than I.”

“I don’t think you would have thought hanging on that bank much reward,” said Sydney.

“Adventures aren’t nice when they are going on. It is only ‘meminisse juvat’, you know. You must have felt like the man in Ruckert’s Apologue, with the dragon below, and the mice gnawing the root above.”

“My dear, that story kept running in my head, and whenever I looked at the river it seemed to be carrying me away, bank, and stump, and all. I’m afraid it will do so all night. It did, when some hot wine and water they made me have with my dinner sent me to sleep. Then I thought of—

          “Time, with its ever rolling stream,           Is bearing them away.”

and I didn’t know which was Time and which was Avon.”

“In your sleep, or by the river?”

“Both, I think! I seem to have thought of thousands of things, and yet my whole soul was one scream of despairing prayer, though I don’t believe I said anything except to bid the boy hold still, till I heard that welcome shout.”

“Ah, the excellent Monk! He is the family hero. I wonder if he enjoys it more than you? Did he really never let you guess how much he was hurt?”

“I asked him once; but he said it was only a dig in the side, and would go off.”

“Ah, well! Allen says it is accident that makes the hero. Now the Monk has been as good as the hyena knight of the Jotapata, who was a mixture of Tyr, with his hand in the wolf’s mouth, and of Kunimund, when he persuaded Amala that his blood running into the river was only the sunset.”

“Don’t,” said Sydney. “I won’t have it made nonsense of!”

“Indeed,” said Babie, almost piteously, “I meant it for the most glorious possible praise; but somehow people always seem to take me for a little hard bit of spar, a barbarian, or a baby; I wish I had a more sensible name!”

“Infanta, his princess, is what Duke always calls you,” said Sydney, drawing her fondly to nestle close to her on the bed in her fire-lit room. “Do you know one of the thoughts I had time for in that dreadful eternity by the river, was how I wished it were you that were going to be a daughter to poor mamma.”

“Esther will make a very kind, gentle, tender one.”

“Oh, yes; but she won’t be quite what you are. We have all been children together, and you have fitted in with us ever since that journey when we talked incessantly about Jotapata.” Then, as Babie made no answer, Sydney gave her a squeeze, and whispered, “I know!”

“Who told you?” asked Babie, with eyes on the fire.

“Mamma, when I was crazy with Cecil for caring for a pretty face instead of real stuff. She thought it would hurt Duke if I went on.”

“Does he care still?” said Babie, in a low voice.

“Oh, Babie, don’t you feel how much?”

“Do you know, Sydney, sometimes I can’t believe it. I’m sure I have no right to complain of being thought a childish, unfeeling little wretch, when I recollect how hard, and cold, and impertinent I was to him three years ago.”

“It was three years ago, and we were very foolish then,” consolingly murmured the wisdom of twenty, not without recollections of her own.

“I hope it was only foolishness,” said Barbara; “but I have only now begun to understand the rights of it, only I could not bear the thoughts of seeing him again. And now he is so kind!”

“Do you wish you had?”

“Not that. I don’t think anything but fuss and worry would have come of it then. I was only fifteen, and my mother could never have let it go on, and even if—; but what I am so grieved and ashamed at is my fancying him not enough of a man for such a self-sufficient ape as I was. And now I have seen more of the world, and know what men are, I see his generosity, and that his patient fight with ill-health to do his best and his duty, is really very great and good.”

“I wish you could tell him so. No, I know you can’t; but you might let him feel it, for you need not be afraid of his ever asking you again. They have had a great examination of his lungs, and there’s only part of one in any sort of order. They say he may go on with great care unless he catches cold, or sets the disease off again, and upon that he made up his mind that it was a very good thing he had not disturbed your peace.”

“As if I should not be just as sorry!” said Babie. “Oh, Sydney, what a sad world it is! And there is he going about as manful, and pleased, and merry about this wedding as if it were his own. And the worst of it is, though I do admire him so, it can’t be real, proper, lover’s love, for I felt quite glad when you said he would never ask me, so it is all wasted.”

The mothers would hardly have liked the subject of the maidens’ talk in their bower, and Barbara bade good-night, feeling as if she should never look at Fordham with the same eyes again; but the light of day restored commonplace thoughts of the busy Monday.

Reeves, having been sent up by his lord with inquiries, found the patient’s toilet so far advanced, that under protest he could only assist in the remainder. So the hero and heroine met on the stairs, and clasped hands in haste to the sound of the bell for morning prayers in the household chapel, to which they carried their thankful hearts.

The Fordham household was not on such a scale that the heads of the family could sit still in dignified ease on the eve of such a spectacle. Every one was busy adorning the hall or the tables, and John would not be denied his share, though as he could neither stoop, lift, nor use his right arm, he was reduced to making up wreaths and bouquets, with Lina to supply him with flowers, since he was the one person with whom she never failed to be happy or good. Fordham was entreated to sit still and share the employment, but his long, thin hands proved utterly wanting in the dexterity that the Monk displayed. He was, moreover, the man in authority constantly called to give orders, and in his leisure moments much more inclined to haunt his Infanta’s winged steps, and erect his tall person where she could not reach. Artistic taste rendered her, her mother, and Allen most valuable decorators, and it might be doubted whether Allen had ever toiled so hard in his life. In pity to the busy servants, luncheon was served up cold on a side table, when Barbara, who had rallied her spirits to nonsense pitch, declared that metaphorically, Fordham and the agent carved the meal with gloves of steel, and that the workers drank the red wine through the helmet barred. In the midst, however, in marched Reeves, with a tray and a napkin, and a regular basin of invalid soup, which he set down before John in his easy chair. There was something so exceedingly ludicrous in the poor Friar’s endeavour to be gratified, and his look of dismay and disgust, that the public fairly shrieked with laughter, in which he would fain have joined, but had to beg pardon for only looking solemn; laughter was a painful matter.

However, later in the afternoon, when he was looking white and tired, his host came and said—

“Your object is to be about, and not make a sensation when people arrive. Come and rest then;” then landed him on his own sofa in his sitting-room, which was kept sacred from all confusion.

About half an hour later Mrs. Evelyn said—

“Sydney, my dear, Willis is come for the tickets. Are they ready?”

“Oh, mother, I meant to have done them yesterday evening!”

“You had better take them to Duke’s room, it is the only quiet place. He is not there, I wish he were. Willis can wait while you fill them up,” said Mrs. Evelyn, not at all sorry to pin her daughter down for an hour’s quiet, and unaware that the room was occupied.

So Sydney, with a list of names and packet of cards, betook herself to her brother’s writing-table, never perceiving that there was anybody under the Algerine rug, till there was a movement, suddenly checked, and a voice said—

“Can I help?”

“Oh! don’t move. I’m so sorry, I hope—”

“Oh, no! I beg your pardon,” he said, with equal incoherency, and raising himself more deliberately. “Your brother put me here to rest, and I fell asleep, and did not hear you come in.”

“Oh, don’t! Pray, don’t! I am so sorry I disturbed you. I did not know any one was here—”

“Pray, don’t go! Can’t I help you?”

Sydney recollected that in the general disorganisation pen, ink, and table were not easy to secure, and replied—

“It is the people in the village who are to dine here to-morrow. They must have tickets, or we shall have all manner of strangers. The stupid printer only sent the tickets yesterday, and the keeper is waiting for them. It would save time if you would read out the names while I mark the cards; but, please, lie still, or I shall go.” And she came and arranged the cushions, which his movements had displaced, till he pronounced himself quite comfortable.

Hardly a word passed but “Smith James, two; Sennet Widow, one; Hacklebury Nicholas, three;” with a “yes” after each, till they came to “Hollis Richard.”

“That’s the boy’s father,” then said Sydney.

“Have you heard anything of him?” asked John.

“Oh, yes! his mother dragged him up to beg pardon, and return thanks, but mamma thought you would rather be spared the infliction.”

“Besides that, they were not my due,” said John.

“I never thought of the boy.”

“If you did not, you saved him—twice!”

“A Newfoundland-dog instinct. But I am glad the little scamp is not the worse. I suppose he is to appear to-morrow?”

“Oh, yes! and the vicar begs no notice may be taken of him. He is really a very naughty little fellow, and if he is made a hero for getting himself and us so nearly drowned by birds’-nesting on a Sunday in the park, it will be perfectly demoralising!”

“You are as bad as your keeper!”

“I am only repeating the general voice,” said Sydney, with a gleam upon her face, half-droll, half-tender. “Poor little man! I got him alone this morning, while his mother was pouring forth to mine, and I think he has a little more notion where thanks are due.”

“I should like to see him,” said John. “I’ll try not to demoralise him; but he has given me some happy moments.”

The voice was low, and Sydney blushed as she laughed and said—

“That’s like Babie, saying it was delightful.”

“She is quite right as far as I am concerned.”

The hue on Sydney’s cheek deepened excessively, as she said—

“Is George Hollis next?”

They went on steadily after that, and Willis was not kept long waiting. Then came the whirl of arrivals, Cecil with his Hampton cousins, Sir James Evelyn and Armine, Jessie and her General, and the Kenminster party. Caroline found herself in great request as general confidante, adviser, and medium as being familiar with all parties, and it was evidently a great comfort to her sister-in-law to find some one there to answer questions and give her the carte-du-pays. Outwardly, she was all the Serene Highness, a majestic matron, overshadowing everybody, not talkative, but doing her part with dignity, in great part the outcome of shyness, but rather formidable to simple-minded Mrs. Evelyn.

She heard of John’s accident with equanimity amazing to her hostess, but befitting the parent of six sons who were always knocking themselves about. Indeed, John was too well launched ever to occupy much of her thoughts. Her pride was in her big Robert, and her joy in her little Harry, and her care for whichever intermediate one needed it most. This one at the moment was of course pretty, frightened, blushing Esther, who was moving about in one maze and dazzle of shyness and strangeness, hardly daring to raise her eyes, but fortunately graceful enough to look her part well in the midst of her terrors. Such continual mistakes between her and Eleanor were made, that Cecil was advised to take care that he had the right bride; but Ellie, though so like her sister outwardly, was of a very different nature, neither shy nor timid, but of the sturdy Friar texture.

She was very unhappy at the loss of her sister, and had an odd little conversation with Babie, who showed her to her room, while the rest of the world made much of the bride.

“Ellie, the finery and flummery is to be done in Aunt Ellen’s dressing-room,” explained Babie; “but Essie is to sleep here with you to-night.”

Poor Ellie! her lip quivered at the thought that it was for the last time, and she said, bluntly—

“I didn’t want to have come! I hate it all!”

“It can’t be helped,” said Barbara.

“I can’t think how you and Aunt Carey could give in to it!”

“It was the real article, and no mistake,” said Babie.

“Yes; she is as silly about him as possible. A mere fine gentleman! Poor Bobus has more stuff in him than a dozen of him!”

“He is a real, honest, good fellow,” said Babie. “I’m sorry for Bobus, but I’ve known Cecil almost all my life, and I can’t have him abused. I do really believe that Essie will be happier with a simple-hearted fellow like him, than with a clever man like Bobus, who has places in his mind she could never reach up to, and lucky for her too,” half whispered Babie at the end.

“I thought you would have cared more for your own brother.”

“Remember, they all said it would have been wrong. Besides, Cecil has been always like my brother. You will like him when you know him.”

“I can’t bear fine folks.”

“They are anything but fine!” cried Babie indignantly.

“They can’t help it. That way of Lord Fordham’s, high-breeding I suppose you call it, just makes me wild. I hate it!”

“Poor Ellie. You’ll have to get over it, for Essie’s sake.”

“No, I shan’t. It is really losing her, as much as Jessie—”

“Jessie looks worn.”

“No wonder. Jessie was a goose. Mamma told her to marry that old man, and she just did it because she was told, and now he is always ordering her about, and worries and fidgets about everything in the house. I wish one’s sisters would have more sense and not marry.”

Which sentiment poor Ellie uttered just as Sydney was entering by an unexpected open door into the next room, and she observed, “Exactly! It is the only consolation for not having a sister that she can’t go and marry! O Ellie, I am so sorry for you.”

This somewhat softened Ellie, and she was restored to a pitch of endurance by the time Essie was escorted into the room by both the mothers.

That polished courtesy of Fordham’s which Ellie so much disliked had quite won the heart of her mother, who, having viewed him from a distance as an obstacle in Esther’s way, now underwent a revulsion of feeling, and when he treated her with marked distinction, and her daughter with brotherly kindness, was filled with mingled gratitude, admiration and compunction.

When, after dinner, Fordham had succeeded in rousing his uncle and the other two old soldiers out of a discussion on promotion in the army, and getting them into the drawing-room, the Colonel came and sat down by his “good little sister” to confide to her, under cover of Sydney’s music, that he was very glad his pretty Essie had chosen a younger man than her elder sister’s husband.

“Very opinionated is Hood!” he said, shaking his head. “Stuck out against Sir James and me in a perfectly preposterous way.”

Caroline was not prepossessed in favour of General Hood, either by his conversation with herself at dinner, or by the startled way in which Jessie sat upright and put on her gloves as soon as he came in; but she did not wish to discuss him with the Colonel, and asked whether John had gone to bed.

“Is he not here? I thought he had come in with the young ones? No? then he must have gone to bed. Could Armine or any of them show me the way to his room?—for I should like to know how the boy really is.”

“I doubt if Armine knows which is his room. I had better show you, for he is not unlikely to be lying down in Fordham’s sitting-room. Otherwise you must prepare for many stairs. I suppose you know how gallantly he behaved,” she added, as they left the room.

“Yes, Mrs. Evelyn told me. I am glad he has not lost his athletics in his London life. I always tell his mother that John is the flower of the flock.”

“A dear good brave fellow he is.”

“Yes, you have been the making of him, Caroline. If we don’t say much about it, we are none the less sensible of all you have been to our children. Most generous and disinterested!”

This was a speech to make Caroline tingle all over, and be glad both that she was a little in advance, and at the door of Fordham’s room, where John was not. Indeed, he proved to be lying on his bed, waiting for some one to help him off with his coat, and he was gratified and surprised to the utmost by his father’s visit, for in truth John was the one of all the sons who most loved and honoured his father.

If that evening were a whirl, what was the ensuing day, when all who stood in the position of hosts or their assistants were constantly on the stretch, receiving, entertaining, arranging, presiding over toilettes, getting people into their right places, saving one another trouble. If Mrs. Joseph Brownlow was an invaluable aid to Mrs. Evelyn, Allen was an admirable one to Lord Fordham, for his real talent was for society, and he had shaken himself up enough to exert it. There might have been an element of tuft-hunting in it, but there was no doubt that he was doing a useful part. For Robert was of no use at all, Armine was too much of a mere boy to take the same part, and John was feeling his injury a good deal more, could only manage to do his part as bridegroom’s man, and then had to go away and lie down, while the wedding-breakfast went on. In consequence he was spared the many repetitions of hearing how he had saved Miss Evelyn from a watery grave, and Allen made a much longer speech than he would have done for himself when undertaking, on Rob’s strenuous refusal, to return thanks for the bridesmaids.

That which made this unlike other such banquets, was that no one could help perceiving how much less the bridegroom was the hero of the day to the tenants than was the hectic young man who presided over the feast, and how all the speeches, however they began in honour of Captain Evelyn, always turned into wistful good auguries for the elder brother.

There was no worship of the rising sun there, for when Lord Fordham, in proposing the health of the bride and bridegroom, spoke of them as future possessors, in the tone of a father speaking of his heir apparent, there was a sub-audible “No, no,” and poor Cecil fairly and flagrantly broke down in returning thanks.

Fordham’s own health had been coupled with his mother’s, and committed to a gentleman who knew it was to be treated briefly; but this did not satisfy the farmers, and the chief tenant rose, saying he knew it was out of course to second a toast, but he must take the opportunity on this occasion. And there followed some of that genuine native heartfelt eloquence that goes so deep, as the praise of the young landlord was spoken, the strong attachment to him found expression, and there were most earnest wishes for his long life, and happiness like his brother’s.

Poor Fordham, it was very trying for him, and he could only command himself with difficulty and speak briefly. He thanked his friends with all his heart for their kindness and good wishes. Whatever might be the will of God concerning himself, they had given him one of the most precious recollections of his life, and he trusted that when sooner or later he should leave them, they would convey the same warm and friendly feelings to his successor.

There were so many tears by that time, and Mrs. Evelyn felt so much shaken, that she made the signal for breaking up. No one was more relieved than Barbara. She must go to her room to compose herself before she could bear a word from any one, and as soon as she could gain the back stair, she gathered up her heavy white silk and dashed up, rushing along the gallery so blinded by tears under her veil that she would have had a collision if a hand had not been put out as some one drew aside to let her fly past if she wished; but as the mechanical “beg pardon” was exchanged, she knew Fordham’s voice and paused. “I was going to look after the wounded Friar,” he said, and then he saw her tearful eyes, and she exclaimed, “I could not help it! I could not stay. You would say such things. O, Duke! Duke!”

It was the first time she had used the familiar old name, but she did not know what she said. He put her into a great carved chair, and knelt on one knee by her, saying, “Poor Rogers, I wish he had let it alone. It was hard for my mother and Cecil.”

“Then how could you go on and break all our hearts!” sobbed Babie.

“It will make a better beginning for Cecil. I want them to learn to look to him. I thought every one knew that each month I am here is like an extra time granted after notice, and that it was no shock to any one to look forward to that fine young couple.”

“Oh, don’t! I can’t bear it,” she exclaimed, weeping bitterly.

“Don’t grieve, dearest. I have tried hard, but I find I cannot do my work as it ought to be done. People are very kind, but I am content, when the time comes, to leave it to one to whom it will not be such effort and weariness. This is really one of the most gladsome days of my life. Won’t you believe it?”

“I know unselfish people are happy.”

“And do you know that you are giving me the sweetest drop of all, today?” said Fordham, giving one shy, fervent kiss to the hand that clasped the arm of the chair just as sounds of ascending steps caused them to start asunder and go their separate ways.