and friendship. Sir James Evelyn indeed allowed that he was acting rightly according to his lights. Sir Philip Cameron told him that his duty to a widowed mother ought to come first, and his own Colonel, a good and wise man, commended his decision, and said he hoped not to lose sight of him. The opinions of these veterans, though intrinsically worth more than those of the two young Evelyns, were by no means an equivalent to poor Lucas. The 'great things' he had resolved not to seek, involved what was far dearer. It was more than he had reckoned on when he made his resolution, but he had committed himself, and there was no drawing back. He was just of age, and had acted for himself, knowing that his mother would withhold her consent if she were asked for it; but he was considering how to convey the tidings to her, when he found that a card had been left for him by the Reverend David Ogilvie, with a pencilled invitation to dine with him that evening at an hotel.
Mr. Ogilvie, after several years of good service as curate at a district Church at a fashionable south coast watering place, sometimes known as the English Sorrento, had been presented to the parent Church. He had been taking his summer holiday, and on his way back had undertaken to relieve a London friend of his Sunday services. His sister's letters had made him very anxious for tidings of Mrs. Brownlow, and he had accordingly gone in quest of her son.
He ordered dinner with a half humorous respect for the supposed epicurism of a young Guardsman, backed by the desire to be doubly correct because of the fallen fortunes of the family, and he awaited with some curiosity the pupil, best known to him as a pickle.
'Mr. Brownlow.'
There stood, a young man, a soldier from head to foot, slight, active, neatly limbed, and of middle height, with a clear brown cheek, dark hair and moustache, and the well-remembered frank hazel eyes, though their frolic and mischief were dimmed, and they had grown grave and steadfast, and together with the firm-set lip gave the impression of a mind resolutely bent on going through some great ordeal without flinching or murmuring. With a warm grasp of the hand Mr. Ogilvie said-
'Why, Brownlow, I should not have known you.'
'I should have known you, sir, anywhere,' said Jock, amazed to find the Ogre of old times no venerable seignior, but a man scarce yet middle-aged.
They talked of Mr. Ogilvie's late tour, in scenes well known to Jock, and thence they came to the whereabouts of all the family, Armine's health and Robert's appointment, till they felt intimate; and the unobtrusive sympathy of the old friend opened the youth's heart, and he made much plain that had been only half understood from Mrs. Morgan's letters. Of his eldest brother and sister, Jock said little; but there was no need to explain why his mother was straitening herself, and remaining at Belforest when it had become so irksome to her.
'And you are going out to India?' said Mr. Ogilvie.
'That's not coming off, sir.'
'Indeed, I thought you were to have a staff appointment.'
'It would not pay, sir; and that is a consideration.'
'Then have you anything else in view?'
'The hospitals,' said Jock, with a poor effort to seem diverted; 'the other form of slaughter.' Then as his friend looked at him with concerned and startled eyes, he added, 'Unless there were some extraordinary chance of loot. You see the pagoda tree is shaken bare, and I could do no more than keep myself and have nothing for my mother, and I am afraid she will need it. It is a chance whether Allen, at his age, or Armine, with his health, can do much, and some one must stay and get remunerative work.'
'Is not the training costly?'
'Her Majesty owes me something. Luckily I got my commission by purchase just in time, and I shall receive compensation enough to carry me through my studies. We shall be all together with Friar Brownlow, who takes the same line in the old house in Bloomsbury, where we were all born. That she really does look forward to.'
'I should think so, with you to look after her,' said Mr. Ogilvie heartily.
'Only she can't get into it till Lady Day. And I wanted to ask you, Mr. Ogilvie, do you know anything about expenses down at your place? What would tolerable lodgings be likely to come to, rent of rooms, I mean, for my mother and the two young ones. Armie has not wintered in England since that Swiss adventure of ours, and I suppose St. Cradocke's would be as good a place for him as any.'
'I had a proposition to make, Brownlow. My sister and I invested in a house at St. Cradocke's when I was curate there, and she meant to retire to me when she had finished Barbara. My married curate is leaving it next week, when I go home. The single ones live in the rectory with me, and I think of making it a convalescent home; but this can't be begun for some months, as the lady who is to be at the head will not be at liberty. Do you think your mother would do me the favour to occupy it? It is furnished, and my housekeeper would see it made comfortable for her. Do you think you could make the notion acceptable to her?' he said, colouring like a lad, and stuttering in his eagerness.
'It would be a huge relief,' exclaimed Jock. 'Thank you, Mr. Ogilvie. Belforest has come to be like a prison to her, and it will be everything to have Armine in a warm place among reasonable people.'
'Is Kenminster more unreasonable than formerly?'
'Not Kenminster, but Woodside. I say, Mr. Ogilvie, you haven't any one at St. Cradocke's who will send Armine and Babie to walk three miles and back in the rain for a bit of crimson cord and tassels?'
'I trust not,' said Mr. Ogilvie, smiling. 'That is the way in which good people manage to do so much harm.'
'I'm glad you say so,' cried Jock. 'That woman is worse for him than six months of east wind. I declare I had a hard matter to get myself to go to Church there the next day.'
'Who is _she_?'
'The sister of the Vicar of Woodside, who is making him the edifying martyr of a goody book. Ah, you know her, I see,' as Mr. Ogilvie looked amused.
'A gushing lady of a certain age? Oh yes, she has been at St. Cradocke's.'
'She is not coming again, I hope!' in horror.
'Not likely. They were there for a few months before her brother had the living, and I could quite fancy her influence bringing on a morbid state of mind. There is something exaggerated about her.'
'You've hit her off exactly!' cried Jock, 'and you'll unbewitch our poor boy before she has quite done for him! Can't you come down with me on Saturday, and propose the plan?'
'Thank you, I am pledged to Sunday.'
'I forgot. But come on Monday then?'
'I had better go and prepare. I had rather you spoke for me. Somehow,' and a strange dew came in David Ogilvie's eyes, 'I could not bear to see _her_ there, where we saw her installed in triumph, now that all is so changed.'
'You would see her the brightest and bravest of all. Neither she nor Babie would mind the loss of fortune a bit if it were not, as Babie says, for 'other things.' But those other things are wearing her to a mere shadow. No, not a shadow-that is dark-but a mere sparkle! But to escape from Belforest will cure a great deal.'
So Jock went away with the load on his heart somewhat lightened. He could not get home on Saturday till very late, when dinner had long been over. Coming softly in, through the dimly lighted drawing- rooms, over the deeply piled carpets, he heard Babie's voice reading aloud in the innermost library, and paused for a moment, looking through the heavy velvet curtains over the doorway before withdrawing one and entering. His mother's face was in full light, as she sat helping Armine to illuminate texts. She did indeed look worn and thin, and there were absolute lines on it, but they were curves such as follow smiles, rather than furrows of care; feet rather of larks than of crows, and her whole air was far more cheerful and animated than that of her youngest son. He was thin and wan, his white cheeks contrasting with his dark hair and brown eyes, which looked enormous in their weary pensiveness, as he lent back languidly, holding a brush across his lips in a long pause, while she was doing his work. Barbara's bright keen little features were something quite different as, wholly wrapped up in her book, she read-
'Oh! then Ladurlad started, As one who, in his grave, Has heard an angel's call, Yea, Mariately, thou must deign to save, Yea, goddess, it is she, Kailyal-'
'Are you learning Japanese?' asked Jock, advancing, so that Armine started like Ladurlad himself.
'Dear old Skipjack! Skipped here again!' and they were all about him. 'Have you had any dinner?'
'A mouthful at the station. If there is any coffee and a bit of something cold, I'd rather eat it promiscuously here. No dining-room spread, pray. It is too jolly here,' said Jock, dropping into an armchair. 'Where's Bob?'
