"The lady? Not the young gentleman?"
"The young gentleman has been here once, sir."
"And his sister comes when he is not well?"
"No, sir, it is his mother, I think. A lady with white hair-the nicest lady I ever saw."
"And she teaches you?"
"Oh yes, sir! I am preparing a fable in the Latin Delectus for her, and she gave me this French book. She does tell me such interesting facts about words, and about what she has seen abroad, sir! And she brought me this cushion for my knee."
"Percy thinks there never was such a lady," chimed in his aunt. "She is very good to him, and he is ever so much better in his spirits and his appetite since she has been coming to him. The young gentleman was haughty like, and couldn't make nothing of him; but the lady- she's so affable! She is one of a thousand!"
"I did not mean to impose a task on you," said Mr. Ogilvie, next time he could speak to Mrs. Brownlow.
"Oh! I am only acting stop-gap till Armine rallies and takes to it," she said. "The boy is delightful. It is very amusing to teach French to a mind of that age so thoroughly drilled in grammar."
"A capital thing for Percy, but I thought at least you would have deputed the Infanta."
"The Infanta was a little overdone with the style of thing at Woodside. She and Sydney Evelyn had a romance about good works, of which Miss Parsons completely disenchanted her-rather too much so, I fear."
"Let her alone; she will recover," said Mr. Ogilvie, "if only by seeing you do what I never intended."
"I like it, teacher as I am by trade."
So each day Armine imagined himself bound to the infliction of Percy Stagg, and compelled by headache, cough, or weather, to let his mother be his substitute.
"She is keeping him going on days when I am not equal to it," he said to Mr. Ogilvie.
"Having thus given you one of my tasks," said that gentleman, "let me ask whether I can help you in any of your studies?"
"I have been reading with Bobus, thank you."
"And now?"
"I have not begun again, though, if my mother desires it, I shall."
"So I should suppose; but I am sorry you do not take more interest in the matter."
"Even if I live," said Armine, "the hopes with which I once studied are over."
"What hopes?"
The boy was drawn on by his sympathy to explain his plans for the perfection of church and charities at Woodside, where he would have worked as curate, and lavished all that wealth could supply in all institutions for its good and that of Kenminster. It was the vanished castle over which he and Miss Parsons had spent so many moans, and yet at the end of it all, Armine saw a sort of incredulous smile on his friend's face.
"I don't think it was impossible or unreasonable," he said. "I could have been ordained as curate there, and my mother would have gladly given land, and means, and all."
"I was not thinking of that, my boy. What struck me was how people put their trust in riches without knowing it."
"Indeed I should have given up all wealth and luxury. I am not regretting that!" exclaimed Armine, in unconscious blindness.
"I did not say you were."
"I beg your pardon," said Armine, thinking he had not caught the words.
"I said people did not know how they put their trust in riches."
"I never thought I did."
"Only that you think nothing can be done without them."
"I don't see how it can."
"Don't you? Well, the longer I live the more cause I see to dread and distrust what is done easily by force of wealth. Of course when the money is there, and is given along with one's self (as I know you intended), it is providential, but I verily believe it intensifies difficulties and temptations. Poverty is almost as beneficial a sieve of motives and stimulus to energy as persecution itself."
"There are so many things one can't do."
"Perhaps the fit time is not come for their being done. Or you want more training for doing them. Remember that to bring one's good desires to good effect, there is a _how_ to be taken into account. I know of a place where the mere knowledge that there are unlimited means to bestow seems to produce ingratitude and captiousness for whatever is done. On the other hand, I have seen a far smaller gift, that has cost an effort, most warmly and touchingly received. Again, the power of at once acting leads to over-haste, want of consideration, domineering, expectation of adulation, impatience of counsel or criticism."
"I suppose one does not know till one has tried," said Armine, "but I should mind nothing from Mr. or Miss Parsons."
"I did not allude to any special case, I only wanted to show you that riches do not by any means make doing good a simpler affair, but rather render it more difficult not to do an equal amount of harm."
"Of course," said Armine, "as this misfortune has happened, it is plain that we must submit, and I hope I am bowing to the disappointment."
"By endeavouring to do your best for God with what is left you?"
"I hope so, but with my health there seems nothing left for me but unmurmuring resignation."
Mr. Ogilvie was amused at Armine's notion of unmurmuring resignation, but he added only, "Which would be much assisted by a little exertion."
"I did exert myself at home, but it is all aimless now."
"I should have thought you still equally bound to learn and labour to do your duty in Him and for Him. Will you think about what I have said?"
"Yes, Mr. Ogilvie, thank you. I know you mean it kindly, and no one can be expected to enter into my feeling of the uselessness of wasting my time over classical studies when I know I shall never be able to be ordained."
"Are you sure you are not wasting it now?"
It was not possible to continue the subject. Mr. Ogilvie had failed in both his attempts to rouse Armine, and had to tell his mother, who had hoped much from this new influence. "I think," he said, "that Armine is partly feeling the change from invalidism to ordinary health. He does not know it, poor fellow; but it is rather hard to give up being interesting."
Caroline saw the truth of this when Armine showed himself absolutely nettled at his brothers, on their arrival, pronouncing that he looked much better-in fact quite jolly, an insult which he treated with Christian forgiveness.
Bobus had visited Belforest. His mother had never intended this, and still less that he should walk direct from the station to Kencroft, surprising the whole family at luncheon, and taking his seat among them quite naturally. Thereby he obtained all he had expected or hoped, for when the meal was over, he was able, though in the presence of all the family, to take Esther by both hands, and say in his resolute earnest voice, "Good-bye, my sweet and only love. You will wait for me, and by-and-by, when I have made you a home, and people see things differently, I shall come for you," and therewith he pressed on her burning, blushing, drooping brow four kisses that felt like fire.
Her mother might fret and her father might fume, but they were as powerless as the parents of young Lochinvar's bride, and the words of their protest were scarcely begun when he loosed the girl's hands, and, turning to her mother, said, "Good-bye, Aunt Ellen. When we meet again, you will see things otherwise. I ask nothing till that time comes."
This was not the part of his visit of which he told his mother, he only dwelt on a circumstance so opportune that he had almost been forgiven even by the Colonel. He had encountered Dr. Hermann, who had come down to make another attempt on the Gracious Lady, and had thus found himself in the presence of a very different person. An opening had offered itself in America, and he had come to try to obtain his wife's fortune to take them out. The opportunity of making stringent terms had seemed to Bobus so excellent that he civilly invited Demetrius to dine and sleep, and sent off a note to beg his uncle to come and assist in a family compact. Colonel Brownlow, having happily resisted his impulse to burn the letter unread as an impertinent proposal for his daughter, found that it contained so sensible a scheme that he immediately conceived a higher opinion of his namesake than he had ever had before.