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 backdoor 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 better 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 consultations, 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.
And all too little to atoneFor 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.”
“No wonder,” said Caroline. “I was a very foolish creature then.”
“I saw you differently too late,” said Janet. “Thus unchecked by any sober word, my imagination went on dwelling on those words, which represented to me an arcanum as wonderful as any elixir of life that alchemists dream of, and I was always figuring to myself the honour and glory of the discovery, and fretting that it was destined to one of my brothers rather than myself. Even then, I had some notion of excelling them, and fretted at our residence at Kenminster because I was cut off from classes and lectures. Then came the fortune, and I saw at the first glance that wealth would hinder all the others, even Robert, from attempting to fulfil the conditions, and I imagined myself persevering and winning the day. As to the concealment of the will, I can honestly say that, to my inexperienced fancy, it appeared utterly unlike my father’s and grandmother’s, and at the moment I hid it, I only thought of the disturbance and discomfort, which scruples of my mother’s would create, and the unpleasantness it would make with Elvira, with whom I had just been quarrelling. When as I grew older, and found the validity of wills did not depend on the paper they were written upon, I had qualms which I lulled by thinking that when my education was safe, and Elvira safely married to Allen, I would look again and then bring it to light, if needful. My mother’s refusal to commit the secret to me on any terms entirely alienated me, I am grieved to say. I have learnt since that she was quite right, and that she could not help it. It was only my ignorance that rebelled; but I was enraged enough to have produced the will, and perhaps should have done so, if I had not been afraid both of losing my own medical training, and of causing Robert to take up that line, in which I knew he could succeed better than anyone.”
“Janet, this must be fancy!”
“No, mother. There’s no poison like a blessing turned into a curse. This is the secret history of what made me such a disagreeable, morose girl.
“Then came the opportunity that enabled me to glance at the book of my father’s notes. Barbara’s eyes made me lock the desk in haste and confusion. It was really and truly accident that I locked the book out instead of in. As you know, Barbara hid away the davenport, and I could not restore the book, when I had pored over it half the night, and found myself quite incompetent to understand the details, though I perceived the main drift. I durst not take the book out of the house, and the loss of my keys cut me off from access to it. Meantime I studied, and came to the perception that a woman alone could never carry out the needful experiments, I must have a man to help me, but I was too much warped by this time to see how my mother was thus justified. I still looked on her as insanely depriving me of my glory, the world of the benefit for a mere narrow scruple. Then I fell in with Demetrius Hermann. How can I tell the story? How he seemed to me the wisest and acutest of human beings, the very man to assist in the discovery, and how I betrayed to him enough by my questions to make him think me a prize, both for my secret and my fortune. He says I deceived him. Perhaps I did. Any way, we are quits. No, not quite, for I loved him as I should not have thought it in me to love anyone, and the very joy and gladness of the sensation made me see with his eyes, or else be preposterously blind. I think his southern imagination made his expectations of the secret unreasonable, and I followed his bidding blindly and implicitly in my two attempts to bring off Magnum Bonum, which I had come to believe my right, unjustly withheld from me. The second attempt, as you know, ended in the general crash.
“Afterwards, all the overtures were made by my husband. I would not share in them. I was too proud and would not come as a beggar, or see him threaten and cringe as unhappily I knew he could do, nor would I be seen by my mother or brothers. I knew they would begin to pity me, and I could not brook that. My mother’s assurance of exposure, if he made any use of the stolen secret, made Demetrius choose to go to America.
“He said it all came out before my military brother. Did that change Lucas’s destination?” said Janet, looking up.
“Ask him?”
“No, indeed,” said Jock, when he understood. “I turned doctor as the readiest way of looking after mother.”
“Did you understand nothing?”
“Only that she had some memoranda of my father’s, that the sc—— that Hermann wanted. I never thought of them again till she told me.”
Mrs. Brownlow started at the next few words.
“My child was born only two days after we landed at New York.”
But a quick interrogative glance kept her silent. “She was very small and delicate, and her father was impatient both of her weakness and mine. I think that was when I began to long for my mother. He made me call her Glykera, after his mother. I had taught him to be bitter against mine.”
“O mother, if you could have seen her,” suddenly exclaimed Janet, “she was the dearest little thing,” and she drew from her bosom a locket with a baby face on one side, and some soft hair on the other, put it into her mother’s hand and hid her face on her shoulder.
“Oh! my poor Janet, you have suffered indeed! How long did you keep the little darling?”
“Two years. You will hear! I was not quite wretched while I had her. Go on, mother. There’s no talking of it.”
“We tried both practising and lecturing, feeling our way meantime towards the Magnum Bonum. We found, however, in the larger cities that people were quite as careful about qualifications as at home, and that we wanted recommendations. I could have got some practice among women if Demetrius would have rested long enough anywhere, but he liked lecturing best. I had been obliged to perceive that he had very little real science, and indeed I had to give him the facts and he put them in his flowery language. While as to Magnum Bonum, he had gained enough to use it in a kind of haphazard way, for everything. I trembled at what he began doing with it, when in the course of our wanderings we got out of the more established regions into the south-west. In Texas we found a new township, called Burkeville, without a resident medical man, and the fame of his lectures had gone far enough for him to be accepted. There we set up our staff, and Demetrius—it makes me sick to say so—tried to establish himself as the possessor of a new and certain cure. I was persuaded that he did not know how to manage it, I tried to make him understand that under certain conditions it might be fatal, but he thought I was jealous. He had had one or two remarkable successes, his fame was spreading, he was getting reckless, and I could not watch as carefully as I sometimes did, for my child was ill, and needed all my care. The favourite of all the parish was the minister’s daughter, a beautiful, lively, delicate girl, loved and followed like a sort of queen by the young men, of whom there were many, while there were hardly any other young women, none to compare with her. Demetrius had lost some patients, it was a sickly season, and I fancy there was some mistrust and exasperation against him already, for he was incompetent, and grew more averse to consulting me when his knowledge was at fault. I need not blame him. Everyone at home knows that I do not always make myself agreeable, and I had enough to exacerbate me, with my child pining in the unhealthy climate, and my father’s precious secret used with the rough ignorance of an empiric. I knew enough of the case of this Annie Field to be sure that there were features in it which would make that form of treatment dangerous. I tried to make him understand. He thought me jealous of his being called in rather than myself. Well—she died, and such a storm of vengeance arose as is possible in those lawless parts. I knew and heeded nothing of it, for my little Glykera was worse every day, and I thought of nothing else, but it seems that reports unfavourable to us had come from some one of the cities where we had tried to settle, and thus grief and rage had almost maddened one of Annie’s lovers, a young man of Irish blood, a leader among the rest. On the day of her funeral all the ruffianism in the place was up in arms against us. My husband had warning, I suppose, for I never saw or heard of him since he went out that morning, leaving me with my little one moaning on my lap. She was growing worse every hour, and I knew nothing else, till my door was burst open by a little boy of eight or ten years old, crying out, ‘Mrs. Hermann, Mrs. Hermann, quick, they are coming to lynch you! come away, bring the baby. If father can’t stop them, there’s no place safe but our house.’
“And indeed upon the air came the sound of a great, horrible, yelling roar unspeakably dreadful. It seems never to have been out of my ears since. I do not know whether an American mob would have proceeded to extremities with a lonely woman and dying child, but there was an Irish and Spanish element of ferocity at Burkeville, and the cold, hard Englishwoman was unpopular, besides that, I was supposed to share in the irregular practice that had had such fatal effects. But with that horrible sound, one did not stop to weigh probabilities. I gathered up my child in her bed-clothes, and followed the boy out at the back door, blindly. And where do you think I found myself? where but in the minister’s house? His wife, whose daughter had just been carried out to her grave, rose up from weeping and praying, to take me into the innermost chamber, where none could see me, and when she saw my darling’s state, to give me all the help and sympathy a good woman could. Oh! that was my first true knowledge of Christian charity.
“Mr. Field himself was striving at the very grave itself to turn away the rage of these men against those whom they held his daughter’s murderers, but he was as nothing against some fifty or sixty gathered, I suppose, some by real or fancied wrongs, some from mere love of violence. Any way, when he found himself powerless against the infuriated speeches of the young Irish lover, he put his little boy over the graveyard wall, and sent him off to take me to the last place where the mob would look for me, the very room where Annie died. Those howls and yells round the empty house, perhaps, too, the shaking of my rapid run, hastened the end with my precious child. I do not believe she could have lived many hours, but the fright brought on shudderings and convulsions, and she was gone from me by nine that evening. They might have torn me to pieces then, and I would have thanked them! I cannot tell you the goodness of the Fields. It could not comfort me then, but I have wondered over it often since.” (There were blistered, blotted tear marks here.) “They knew it was not safe for me to remain, for there had been wild talk of a warrant out against us for manslaughter. They would have had me leave my little darling’s form to their care, but they saw I dreaded (unreasonably I now think) some insult from those ruffians for her father’s sake. Mr. Field said I should lay my little one to her rest myself. They found a long basket like a cradle. We laid her there in her own night-dress, looking so sweet and lovely. Mr. Field himself went out and dug the little grave, close to Annie’s, and there by moonlight we laid her, and the good man put one of the many wreaths from Annie’s grave upon hers, and there we knelt and he prayed. I don’t know what denomination his may be, but a Christian I know he is. Cruel as the very sight of me must have been, they kept me in bed all the next day; and the minister went to see what he could save for me. Finding no one, the mob had wreaked their vengeance on our medicine bottles and glasses, smashed everything, and made terrible havoc of all our books, clothes and furniture. Almost the only thing Mr. Field had found unhurt was mother’s little Greek Testament, which I had carried about, but utterly neglected till then. Mr. Field saw my name in it, brought it to me, and kindly said he was glad to restore it; none could be utterly desolate whose study lay there. I was obliged to tell him how you had sent it after me with that entreaty, which I had utterly neglected, and you can guess how he urged it on me.”
“You have gone on now,” said her mother, looking up at her.
Janet’s reply was to produce the little book from her handbag, showing marks of service, and then to open it at the fly leaf. There Caroline herself had written “Janet Hermann,” with the reference to St. Luke xv. 20. She had not dared to write more fully, but the good minister of Burkeville had, at Janet’s desire, put his own initials, and likewise written in full:
“Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes from tears, for thy work shall be rewarded, saith the Lord, and they shall come again from the land of the enemy. And there is hope in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children shall come again to their own border.”
“He might have written it for me,” said Caroline. “My child—one at least is come to me.”
“Or you have gone into her far country to seek her,” said Janet.
“Can I write to this good man?” asked Caroline. “I do long to thank him.”
“O yes. I wrote to him only the day before yesterday.”
There was but little more of the narrative. “At night he borrowed a waggon, and drove me to a station in time to take the early train for the north-east, supplying me with means for the journey, and giving me a letter to a family relation of his, in New York State. I was most kindly sheltered there for a few days while I looked out for advertisements. I found, however, that I must change my name, for the history of the Burkeville affair was copied into all the papers, and there were warnings against the two impostors, giving my maiden name likewise, as that in which my Zurich diploma had been made out. This cut me off from all medical employment, and I had to think what else I could do, not that I cared much what became of me. Seeing a notice that an assistant was wanted to colour and finish photographs, I thought my drawing, though only schoolroom work, might serve. I applied, showed specimens, and was thought satisfactory. I sent my address to Mr. Field, who had promised to let me know in case my husband made any attempt to trace me, or if I could find my way back to him, but up to this time I have heard absolutely nothing. The few white days in my life are, however, when I get a cheering, comforting letter from him. How I should once have laughed their phraseology to scorn, but then I did not know what reality meant, and they are the only balm of my life now, except mother’s little book, and what they have led me to.
“But you see why I cannot come with Elvira. Not only do I not dare to meet my mother, but it might bring down upon her one whom she could not welcome. Besides, it is clearly fit that I should strive to meet him again; I would try to be less provoking to him now.”
“I see, my dear,” said Caroline. “But why did you never draw on Mr. Wakefield all this time?”
“I never thought we ought to take that money,” said Janet. “I could maintain myself, and that was all I wanted. Besides I was ashamed to bid him use a false name, and I durst not receive a letter under my own, nor did I know whether Demetrius might go on applying.”
“He did once, saying that you were unwell, but Mr. Wakefield declined to let him be supplied with out your signature.”
Janet eagerly asked the when and the where.
“I am glad,” said her mother, “to find that you change of name was not in order to elude him, as feared at first.”
“No,” said Janet, “he never knew he was cruel, but he had made a mistake altogether in me. I was a disappointment to begin with, owing to my own bad management, you see, for if I had brought off the book, and destroyed the will, his speculation would have succeeded. And then, for his comfort, he should have married a passive, ignorant, senseless, obedient oriental, and he did not know what to do with a cold, proud thing, who looked most hard when most wretched, who had understanding enough to see his blunders, and remains of conscience enough to make her sour. Poor Demetrius! He had the worst of the bargain! And now—” She turned the leaf of the manuscript, and showed, with a date three days back:
“Mr. Field has written to me, sending a cutting of an advertisement of a month back of a spiritualist from Abville, which he thinks may be my husband’s. I am sure it is, I know the Greek idiom put into English. It decides me on what I had thought of before. I shall offer my services as nurse or physician, or whatever they will let me be in that stress of need. I may find him, or if he have fled, I may, if I live, trace him. At any rate, by God’s grace, I may thus endeavour to make a better use of what has never yet been used for His service.
“And in case I should add no further words to this, let me conclude by telling my dear, dear mother that my whole soul and spirit are asking her forgiveness, and by sending my love to my brothers, and sister, whom I love far better now than ever I did when I was with them. And to Elvira too—perhaps she is my sister by this time.
“Let them try henceforth to think not unkindly of
“JANET HERMANN.”
This had been enclosed in an envelope addressed to Mrs. Joseph Brownlow, to the care of Wakefield and Co., solicitors.
“You see I cannot go back with you, mother dear,” she said, “though you have come to seek me.”
“Not yet,” said Caroline, handing the last page to Jock, who had come back again from one of his excursions.
“Look here, Janet,” said Jock, “mother will not forbid it, I know. If you will wait another day for me to arrange for her, I will go with you. This is a place specially mentioned as in frightful need of medical attendance, and I already doubted whether I ought not to volunteer, but if you have an absolute call of duty there, that settles it. Mother, do you remember that American clergyman who dined with us? I met him just now. He begged me with all his heart to persuade you to come and stay with his family. I believe he is going to bring his wife to call. I am sure they would take care of you.”
“I don’t want care. Jock, Jock, why should I not go and help? Do you think I can send my children into the furnace without me?”
Jock came and sat down by her with his specially consoling caress. “Mother dear, I don’t think you ought. We are trained to it, you see, and it is part of our vocation, besides, Janet has a call. But your nursing would not make much difference, and besides, you don’t belong only to us—Armine and Babie need their home. And suppose poor Bobus came back. No, I am accountable to them all. They didn’t send me out in charge of my Mother Carey that I should run her into the jaws of Yellow Jack. I can’t do it, mother. I should mind my own business far less if I were thinking about you. It would be just like your coming after me into a general engagement.”
“Lucas is quite right,” said Janet. “You know, mother, this is a special kind of nursing, that one does not understand by the light of nature, and you are not strong enough or tough enough for it.”
“I flattered myself I was pretty tough,” said her mother, with trembling lip. “What sort of a place is it? Could not I—even if you won’t let me nurse—be near enough to rest you, and feed you, and disinfect you? That is my trade, Jock will allow, as a doctor’s wife and mother. And I could collect things and send them to the sick. Would not that be possible, my dears?”
Jock said he would find out. And then he told them he had found a Church with a daily service, to which they went.
And then those three had a wonderfully happy evening together.
How the field of combat layBy the tomb’s self; how he sprang from ambuscade—Captured Death, caught him in that pair of hands.Browning.
“John,” said Sydney, as they were taking their last walk together as engaged people on the banks of their Avon, “There’s something I think I ought to tell you.”
“Well, my dearest.”
“Don’t they say that there ought not to be any shadow of concealment of the least little liking for any one else, when one is going to be married,” quoth Sydney, not over lucidly.
“I’m sure I can safely acquit myself of any such shadow,” said John, laughing. “I never had the least little liking for anybody but Mother Carey, and that wasn’t a least little one at all!”
“Well, John, I’m very much ashamed of it, because he didn’t care for me, as it turned out; but if he had, as I once thought, I should have liked him,” said Sydney, looking down, and speaking with great confusion out of the depths of her conscience, stirred up by much ‘Advice to Brides,’ and Sunday novels, all turning on the lady’s error in hiding her first love; and then perhaps because the effect on John was less startling than she had expected, she added with another effort, “It was Lucas Brownlow.”
“Jock!” cried John. “The dear fellow!”
“Yes—I did think it, when he was in the Guards, and always about with Cecil. It was very silly of me, for he did not care one fraction.”
“Why do you think so?” said John hoarsely.
“Well, I know better now, but when he made up his mind to leave the army, I fancied it was no better than being a recreant knight, and I begged and prayed him to go out with Sir Philip Cameron, and as near as I dared told him it was for my sake. But he went on all the same, and then I was quite sure he did not care, and saw what a goose I had made of myself. Oh! Johnny, it has been very hard to tell you, but I thought I ought, and I hope you’ll never think of it more, for Lucas just despised my foolish forwardness, and you know you have every bit of my heart and soul. What is the matter, John? Oh! have I done harm, when I meant to do right?”
“No, no, my darling, don’t be startled. But do you mean that you really thought Jock’s disregard of your entreaties came from indifference?”
“It was all one mixture of pain and anger,” said Sydney. “I can’t define it. I thought it was one’s duty to lead a man to be courageous and defend his country, and of course he thought me such a fool. Why, he has never really talked to me since!”
“And you thought it was indifference,” again repeated John, with an iteration worthy of his father.
“O John, you frighten me. Wasn’t it? Did you know this before?”
“No, most certainly not. I did know thus much, that in giving up the army Jock had given up his dearest hopes; but I thought it was some fine fashionable lady, whom he was well rid of, though he didn’t know it. And he never said a word to betray it, even when I came home brimful and overflowing with happiness. And you know it was his doing that my way has been smoothed. Oh! Sydney, I don’t know how to look at it!”
“But indeed, John dear, I couldn’t help loving you best. You saved me, you know, and I feel to fit in, and understand you best. I can’t be sorry as it has turned out.”
“That’s very well,” said John, trying to laugh, “for you couldn’t be transferred back to him, like a bale of goods. And I could not have helped loving you; but that I should have been a robber, Jock’s worst enemy!”
“I can’t be sorry you did not guess it,” said Sydney. “Then I never should have had you, and somehow—”
“And you thought him wanting in courage,” recurred John.
“Only when I was wild and silly, talking out of the ‘Traveller’s Joy.’ It was hearing about his going into that dreadful place that stirred it all up in my mind, because I saw what a hero he is.”
“God grant he may come safe out of it!” said John. “I’ll tell you what, Sydney, though, it is a shame, when I am the gainer: I think your romance went astray; more faith and patience would have waited to see the real hero come out, and so you have missed him and got the ordinary, jog-trot, commonplace fellow instead.”
“Ah! but love must be at the bottom of faith and patience,” said Sydney, “and that was scared away by shame at my own forwardness and foolishness. And now it is all gone to the jog-trot! I want no better hero!”
“What a confession for the maiden of the twelfth century!”
“I’m very glad you don’t feel moved to start off to the yellow fever.”
“Do you know, Sydney, I do not know what I don’t feel moved to sometimes, I cannot understand this silence!”
“But you said the telegram that he was mending was almost better than if he had never been ill at all.”
“So I thought then; but why do we not hear, if all is well with them?”
Three weeks since, a telegram had been received by Allen, containing the words, “Janet died at 2.30 A.M. Lucas mending.”
It had been resolved not to put off the wedding, as much inconvenience would have been caused, and poor Janet was only cousin to John, and had been removed from all family interests so long, even Mrs. Robert Brownlow saw no impropriety, since Barbara went to Belforest for a fortnight, returning to Mrs. Evelyn on the afternoon of the wedding-day itself to assist in her move to the Dower House. Esther, who had never professed to wish for a hero, had been so much disturbed by the recent alarms of war, that she was only anxious that her guardsman should safely sell out in the interval of peace; and he had begun to care enough about the occupations at Fordham to wish to be free to make it his chief dwelling-place.
The wedding was as quiet as possible. Sydney was disappointed of the only bridesmaid she cared much about, and Barbara felt a kind of relief in not having a second time to assist at the destruction of a brother’s hopes. She was very glad to get back to Fordham, reporting that Allen and Elvira were so devotedly in love that a third person was very much de trop; though they had been very kind, and Elvira had mourned poor Janet with real gratitude and affection. Still they did not take half so much alarm at the silence as she did, and she was relieved to be with the Evelyns, who were becoming very anxious. The bridegroom and bride could not bear to go out of reach of intelligence, and had limited their tour to the nearest place on the coast, where they could hear by half a day’s post.
No news had come except that seven American papers had been forwarded to Barbara, giving brief accounts of the pestilence in the southern cities. The numbers of deaths in Abville were sensibly decreased, one of these papers said. The arrival of an English physician, Dr. Lucas Brownlow, and his sister had been noticed, and also that the sister had succumbed to the disease, but that he was recovering. These were all, however, only up to the date of the telegram, and the sole shadow of encouragement was in the assurances that any really fatal news would have been telegraphed. Mrs. Evelyn and Barbara were very loving companions during this time. Together they looked over those personal properties of Duke’s which rather belonged to his mother than his heir. Mrs. Evelyn gave Barbara several which had special associations for her, and together they read over his papers and letters, laughing tenderly over those that awoke droll remembrances, and perfectly entering into one another’s sympathies.
“Yet, my dear,” said Mrs. Evelyn, “I do not know whether I ought to let you dwell on this: you are too young to be looking back on a grave when all life is before you.”
“Nay,” said Babie, “it was he that showed me how to look right on through life! You cannot tell how delightful it is to me to be brought near to him again, now I can understand him so much better than ever I did when he was here.”
“Yet it was always his fear that he might sadden your life.”
“Sadden? oh no! It was he who put life into my hands, as something worth using,” said Babie. “Don’t you know it is the great glory and quiet secret treasure of my heart, that, as Jock said that first night, I have that love not for time but eternity.”
And their thoughts could not but go back to the travellers in America, and all the possibilities, for were not whole families swept off by the disease, without power of communication?
However, at last, four days after the wedding, Barbara received a letter.