Magnum Bonum; Or, Mother Carey's Brood

“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.

CHAPTER XL. – EVIL OUT OF GOOD

And all too little to atone
For 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?”