Magnum Bonum; Or, Mother Carey's Brood Part 115

"Do you know, Duke, I would sometimes give worlds to think of things as I used in those old times."

"You a world-wearied veteran!"

"Don't laugh at me. It was when Bobus was at home. His common sense made all we used to care for seem so silly, that I have never been able to get back my old way of looking at things."

"I am afraid glamour once dispelled does not return. Yet, after all, truth is the greater. And I am sure that poor Bobus never loosened my Infanta's hold on the real truth."

"I don't know," she said, looking down; "he or his books made me afraid to think about it, and like to laugh at some things--no, I never did before you. You hushed me on the very borders of that kind of flippancy, and so you don't guess how horrid I am, or have been, for you have made things true and real to me again."

"'Fancy may die, but Faith is there,'" said Fordham. "I think you will never shut your eyes to those realities again," he added, gently. "It is there that we shall still meet. And my Infanta will make me one promise."

"I would promise you any thing."

"Never knowingly to read those sneering books," he said, laying his hand on hers. "Current literature is so full of poisoned shafts that it may not be possible entirely to avoid them; and there may sometimes be need to face out a serious argument, but you will promise me never to take up that scoffing style of literature for mere amus.e.m.e.nt?"

"Never, Duke, I promise," she said. "I shall always see your face, and feel your hand forbidding me."

Then as he leant back, half in thankfulness, half in weariness, she went on looking over the book, and read a preface, new to her.

"I have put these selections together, thinking that to the original 'Travellers' it may be a joy to have a memorial of happy days full of much innocent pleasure and wholesome intercourse. Let me here express my warm grat.i.tude for all the refreshments afforded by the friends.h.i.+ps it commemorates, and which makes the name most truly appropriate. As a stranger and pilgrim whose journey may be near its close, let me be allowed thus to weave a parting garland of some of the brightest flowers that have bloomed on the wayside, and in dedicating the collection to my dear companions and fellow-wanderers in the scenes it records, let me wish that on the highway of life that stretches before them, they may meet with many a 'Traveller's Joy,' as true as they have been to the Editor.

"F----"

Babie, with eyes full of tears, was looking up to speak, when the carriage, having completed the round, again stopped, and Mrs. Evelyn came down, escorted by Cecil, with hearty thanks.

"Essie's nice clean, fresh, country notions were scouted by the London housemaid," she said. "I am happy to say the child held her own, though the woman presumed outrageously on her gentleness, and neither of the two had any notion how to get rid of her."

"Arcadia had no housemaids," said Fordham, rallying.

"If not, it must have been nearly as bad as Jock's twelfth century,"

said Babie, in the same tone.

"Ah! I see!" said Mrs. Evelyn, laughing.

And there was a little playful banter as to which had been the impatient one to open the parcel, each pretending to persuade her that it had been a mere yielding to the other. Thus they came to Collingwood Street, where Babie would have taken out her book.

"No, no, wait," said Fordham. "I want to write your name in it first.

I'll send it this evening. Ali and Armie are coming to me while these good people are at their d.u.c.h.ess's."

"Our last gaiety, I am thankful to say," returned his mother, as Barbara felt a fervent squeeze of the hand, which she knew was meant to remind her of the deeper tone of their conversation.

It was a very hot day, and in the cool of the evening the two Johns beguiled Mrs. Brownlow and Babie into a walk. They had only just come home when there was a hurried peal at the bell, and Armine, quite pale, dashed up stairs after them.

"Mother, come directly! I've got a hansom."

"Fordham?" asked John.

Armine sighed an affirmative.

"Allen sent me for mother. He said one of you had better come. It's a blood-vessel. We have sent for Medlicott, and telegraphed for the others. But oh! they are so far off!"

Mrs. Brownlow gave Barbara one kiss, and put her into Jock's arms, then sprang into the cab, followed by John, and was driven off. The other three walked in the same direction, almost unconsciously, as Armine explained more fully.

Fordham had seemed tired at first, but as it became cooler, had roused himself, seated himself at his writing-table, and made one by one the inscriptions in the volumes, including all their party of travellers, even Janet and Bobus; Reeves, who had been their binder, Mrs. Evelyn's maid, and one or two intimate friends--such as Mr. Ogilvie and his sister--and almost all had some kind little motto or special allusion written below the name, and the date. It had thus taken a long time, and Fordham leant back so weary that Allen wanted him to leave the addressing of the books, when wrapped up, to him and Armine; but he said there were some he wished to direct himself, and he was in the act of asking Bobus' right address, when a cough seized him, and Allen instantly saw cause to ring for Reeves. The last thing that Armine had seen was a wave of the hand to hasten his own departure, as Allen despatched him for his mother, and gave orders for the summoning of others more needed, but who might not be fetched so promptly.

Then Jock had time to question whether Barbara ought to go on with him and Armine to the door, but there was a sound in her "Let me! I must!"

that they could not withstand; and they walked on in absolute silence, except that Jock said Reeves knew exactly what to do.

Dr. Medlicott's carriage was at the door, and on their ringing, they were silently beckoned into the dining-room, where their mother came to them. She could not speak at first, but the way in which she kissed Barbara told them how it was. All had been over before she reached the house. Dr. Medlicott had come, but could do nothing more than direct Allen how to support the sufferer as he sank, with but little struggle, while a sudden beam of joy and gladness lit up his face at the last.

There had been no word from the first. By the time the flow of blood ceased, the power of speech was gone, and there was thus less reason to regret the absence of the nearest and dearest.

Mrs. Brownlow said she must await their return with Allen, who was terribly shocked and overcome by this his first and sudden contact with death. John, too, had better remain for his sister's sake, but the others had better go home.

"Yes, my child, you must go," she said, laying her hand on the cold ones of Barbara, who stood white, silent, and stunned by the shock.

"Oh, don't make me," said a dull, dreamy, piteous voice.

"Indeed you must, my dear. It would only add to the pain and confusion to have you here now. They may like to have you to-morrow. Remember, he is not here. Take her, Jock. Take care of her."

The coming of Sir James Evelyn at that moment gave Babie the impulse of movement, and Dr. Medlicott hurrying out to offer the use of his carriage, made her cling to Jock, and then to sign rather than speak her desire to walk with her brothers.

Swiftly and silently they went along the streets on that June night in the throng of carriages carrying people to places of amus.e.m.e.nt, the wheels surging in their ears with the tramp and scuffle of feet on the pavement like echoes from some far-off world. Now and then there was a m.u.f.fled sound from Armine, but no word was spoken till they were within their own door.

Then Jock saw for one moment Armine's face perfectly writhen with suppressed grief; but the boy gave no time for a word, hurrying up the stairs as rapidly as possible to his own room.

"Will not you go to bed? Mother will come to you there," said Jock to his sister, who was still quite white and tearless.

"Please not," was her entreaty. "Suppose they sent for me!"

He did not think they would, but he let her sit in the dark by the open window, listening; and he put his arm round her, and said, gently--

"You are much honoured, Babie. It is a great thing to have held so pure and true a heart, not for time, but eternity."

"Don't, Jock. Not yet! I can't bear it," she moaned; but she laid her head on his shoulder, and so rested till he said--

"If you can spare me, Babie, I think I must see to Armie. He seemed to me terribly overcome."

"Armine has lost his very best and dearest friend," she said, pressing her hands together. "Oh yes, go to him! Armie can feel, and I can't! I can only choke!"

Jock apprehended a hysterical struggle, but there only came one long sob like strangulation, and he thought the pent up feeling might better find its course if she were left alone, and he was really anxious about Armine, remembering what the loss was to him, that it was his first real grief, and that he had had a considerable share of the first shock of the alarm.

His soft knock was unheard, and as he gently pushed open the door, he saw Armine kneeling in the dark with his head bowed over his prayer-desk, and would have retreated, but he had been heard, and Armine rose and came forward.

The light on the stairs showed a pale, tear-stained face, but calm and composed; and it was in a steady, though hushed, voice that he said--

"Can I be of any use?"