Book: Austin and His Friends

F >> Frederic H. Balfour >> Austin and His Friends




"But, my dear aunt, why did you never let me know that I might expect
you?" St Aubyn was saying as Austin entered. "I might have been miles
away, and you'd have had all your journey for nothing."

"My dear, I'm staying with the people at Cleeve Castle, and I thought
I'd just give 'em the slip for an hour or two and take you by
surprise," answered the old lady as she sat down. "No, you needn't
ring--I ordered tea as soon as I came in. They just bore me out of my
life, you see, and they've got a pack o' riffraff staying with 'em
that I don't know how to sit in the same room with. But who's your
young friend over there? Why don't you introduce him?"

"I beg your pardon!" said St Aubyn. "Mr Austin Trevor, a near
neighbour of mine. Austin, my aunt, Lady Merthyr Tydvil."

"Why, of course I know now," said the old lady, nodding briskly. "So
you're Austin, are you? Roger was telling me about you not three weeks
ago. Well, Austin, I like the looks of you, and that's more than I can
say of most people, I can tell you. How long have you been living
hereabouts?"

"Ever since I can remember," Austin said.

"Roger, do touch the bell, there's a good creature," said Lady Merthyr
Tydvil. "That man of yours must be growing the tea-plants, I should
think. Ah, here he is. I'm gasping for something to drink. Did the
water boil, Richards? You're sure? How many spoonfuls of tea did you
put in? H'm! Well, never mind now. I shall be better directly. What
are those? Oh--Nebuchadnezzar sandwiches. Very good. That's all we
want, I think."

She dismissed the man with a gesture as though the house belonged to
her, while St Aubyn looked on, amused.

"I thought I should never get here," she continued. "The driver was a
perfect imbecile, my dear--didn't know the country a bit. And it's not
more than seven miles, you know, if it's as much. I was sure the
wretch was going wrong, and if I hadn't insisted on pulling him up and
asking a respectable-looking body where the house was I believe we
should have been wandering about the next shire at this moment. I've
no patience with such fools."

"And how long are you staying at Cleeve?" asked St Aubyn, supplying
her with sandwiches.

"I've been there nearly a week already, and the trouble lasts three
days more," replied his aunt, as she munched away. "The Duke's a fool,
and she's worse. Haven't the ghost of an idea, either of 'em, how to
mix people, you know. And what with their horrible charades, and their
nonsensical round games, and their everlasting bridge, I'm pretty well
at the end of my tether. Never was among such a beef-witted set of
addlepates since I was born. The only man among 'em who isn't a
hopeless booby's a Socialist, and he's been twice in gaol for inciting
honest folks not to pay their taxes. Oh, they're a precious lot, I
promise you. I don't know what we're coming to, I'm sure."

"But it's so easy not to do things," observed St Aubyn, lazily. "Why
on earth do you go there? I wouldn't, I know that."

"Why does anybody do anything?" retorted the old lady. "We can't all
stay at home and write books that nobody reads, as you do."

Austin looked up enquiringly. He had no idea that St Aubyn was an
author, and said so.

"What, you didn't know that Roger wrote books?" said the old lady,
turning to him. "Oh yes, he does, my dear, and very fine books
too--only they're miles above the comprehension of stupid old women
like me. Probably you've not a notion what a learned person he really
is. I don't even know the names of the things he writes of."

"And you never told me!" said Austin to his friend. "But you'll have
to lend me some of your books now, you know. I'm dying to know what
they're all about."

"They're chiefly about antiquities," responded St Aubyn; "early
Peruvian, Mexican, Egyptian, and so on. You're perfectly welcome to
read them all if you care to. They're not at all deep, whatever my
aunt may say."

During this brief interchange of remarks, Lady Merthyr Tydvil had been
gazing rather fixedly at Austin, with her head on one side like an
enquiring old bird, and a puzzled expression on her face.

"The most curious likeness!" she exclaimed. "Now, how is it that your
face seems so familiar to me, I wonder? I've certainly never seen you
anywhere before, and yet--and yet--who _is_ it you remind me of, for
goodness' sake?"

"I wish I could tell you," replied Austin, laughing. "Likenesses are
often quite accidental, and it may be----"

"Stuff and nonsense, my dear," interrupted the old lady, brusquely.
"There's nothing accidental about this. You're the living image of
somebody, but who it is I can't for the life of me imagine. What do
you say your name is?"

"My surname, you mean?--Trevor," replied Austin, beginning to be
rather interested.

"Trevor!" cried Lady Merthyr Tydvil, her voice rising almost to a
squeak. "No relation to Geoffrey Trevor who was in the 16th Lancers?"

"He was my father," said Austin, much surprised.

"Why, my dear, my dear, he was a _great_ friend of mine!" exclaimed
the old lady, raising both her hands. "I knew him twenty years ago and
more, and was fonder of him than I ever let out to anybody. Of course
it doesn't matter a bit now, but I always told him that if I'd been a
single woman, and a quarter of a century younger, I'd have married him
out of hand. That was a standing joke between us, for I was old enough
to be his mother, and he was already engaged--ah, and a sweet pretty
creature she was, too, and I don't wonder he fell in love with her. So
you are Geoffrey's son! I can scarcely believe it, even now. But it's
your mother you take after, not Geoffrey. She was a Miss--Miss----"

"Her maiden name was Waterfield," interpolated Austin.

"So it was, so it was!" assented the old lady, eagerly. "What a memory
you've got, to be sure. One of Sir Philip Waterfield's daughters, down
in Leicestershire. And her other name was Dorothea. Why, I remember it
all now as though it had happened yesterday. Your father made me his
confidante all through; such a state as he was in you never saw,
wondering whether she'd have him, never able to screw up his courage
to ask her, now all down in the dumps and the next day halfway up to
the moon. Well, of course they were married at last, and then I
somehow lost sight of them. They went abroad, I think, and when they
came back they settled in some place on the other side of nowhere and
I never saw them again. And you are their son Austin!"

Interested as he was in these reminiscences, Austin could not help
being struck with the wonderful grace of this curious old lady's
gestures. In spite of her skimpy dress and antiquated bonnet, she was,
he thought, the most exquisitely-bred old woman he had ever seen.
Every movement was a charm, and he watched her, as she spoke, with
growing fascination and delight.

"It is quite marvellous to think you knew my parents," he said in
reply, "while I have no recollection of either of them. My mother died
when I was born, and my father a year or two later. What was my mother
like? Did you know her well?"

"She was a delicate-looking creature, with a pale face and dark-grey
eyes," answered the old lady, "and you put me in mind of her very
strongly. I didn't know her very well, but I remember your father
bringing her to call on me when they were first engaged, and a
wonderfully handsome couple they were. No doubt they were very happy,
but their lives were cut short, as so often happens, leaving a lot of
stupid people alive that the world could well dispense with. But I see
you've lost one of your legs! How did that come about, I should like
to know?"

"Oh--something went wrong with the bone, and it had to be cut off,"
said Austin, rather vaguely.

"Dear, dear, what a pity," was the old lady's comment. "And are you
very sorry for yourself?"

"Not in the least," said Austin, smiling brightly. "I've got quite
fond of my new one."

"You're quite a philosopher, I see," said the old lady, nodding; "as
great a philosopher as the fox who couldn't reach the grapes, and he
was one of the wisest who ever lived. And now I think I'll have
another cup of tea, Roger, if there's any left. Give me two lumps of
sugar, and just enough cream to swear by."

The conversation now became more general, and Austin, thinking that
the countess would like to be alone with her nephew for a few minutes
before returning to the Castle, watched for an opportunity of taking
leave. He soon rose, and said he must be going home. The old lady
shook hands with him in the most cordial manner, telling him that in
no case must he ever forget his mother--oblivious, apparently, of the
fact that by no earthly possibility could he remember her; and St
Aubyn accompanied him to the door. "You've quite won her heart," he
said, laughingly, as he bade the boy farewell. "If she was ever in
love with your father, she seems to have transferred her affections to
you. Good-bye--and don't let it be too long before you come again."

Austin brandished his leg with more than usual haughtiness as he
thudded his way home along the road. He always gave it a sort of
additional swing when he was excited or pleased, and on this
particular occasion his gait was almost defiant. It must be confessed
that, never having known either of his parents, he had not hitherto
thought much about them. There was one small and much-faded photograph
of his father, which Aunt Charlotte kept locked up in a drawer, but
of his mother there was no likeness at all, and he had no idea
whatever of her appearance. But now he began to feel more interest in
them, and a sense of longing, not unmixed with curiosity, took
possession of him. What sort of a woman, he wondered, could that
unknown mother have been? Well, physically he was himself like her--so
Lady Merthyr Tydvil had said; and so much like her that it was through
that very resemblance that all these interesting discoveries had been
made. Then his thoughts reverted to what Aunt Charlotte had told him
about his mother's dying words, and how bitterly she had grieved at
not living to bring him up herself. And yet she was still
alive--somewhere--though in a world removed. Of course he couldn't
remember her, having never seen her, _but she had not forgotten
him_--of that he felt convinced. That was a curious reflection. His
mother was alive, and mindful of him. He could not prove it,
naturally, but he knew it all the same. He realised it as though by
instinct. And who could tell how near she might be to him? Distance,
after all, is not necessarily a matter of miles. One may be only a few
inches from another person, and yet if those inches are occupied by an
impenetrable wall of solid steel, the two will be as much separated
as though an ocean rolled between them. On the other hand, Austin had
read of cases in which two friends were actually on the opposite sides
of an ocean, and yet, through some mysterious channel, were sometimes
conscious, in a sub-conscious way, of each other's thoughts and
circumstances. Perhaps his mother could even see him, although he
could not see her. It was all a very fascinating puzzle, but there was
some truth underlying it somewhere, if he could only find it out.




Chapter the Tenth


Austin returned in plenty of time to spend a few minutes loitering in
the garden after he had dressed for dinner. It was a favourite habit
of his, and he said it gave him an appetite; but the truth was that he
always loved to be in the open air to the very last moment of the day,
watching the colours of the sky as they changed and melted into
twilight. On this particular evening the heavens were streaked with
primrose, and pale iris, and delicate limpid green; and so absorbed
was he in gazing at this splendour of dissolving beauty that he forgot
all about his appetite, and had to be called twice over before he
could drag himself away.

"Well, and did you have an interesting visit?" asked Aunt Charlotte,
when dinner was halfway through. "You found Mr St Aubyn at home?"

Austin had been unusually silent up till then, being somewhat
preoccupied with the experiences of the afternoon. He wanted to ask
his aunt all manner of questions, but scarcely liked to do so as long
as the servant was waiting. But now he could hold out no longer.

"Yes--even more interesting than I hoped," he answered. "I had plenty
of delightful chat with St Aubyn, and then a visitor came in. It's
that that I want to talk about."

"A visitor, eh?" said Aunt Charlotte, her attention quickening. "What
sort of a visitor? A lady?"

"Yes, an old lady," replied Austin, "who----"

"Did she come in an open fly?" pursued Aunt Charlotte, helping herself
to sauce.

"Why, how did you know? I believe she did," said Austin. "She had
driven over from Cleeve."

"Well, then, I must have seen her," said Aunt Charlotte. "A
queer-looking old person in a great bonnet. I happened to be walking
through the village, and she stopped the fly to ask me the way to the
Court, and I remember wondering who she could possibly be. I suppose
it was she whom you met there."

"What, was it _you_ she asked?" exclaimed Austin, opening his eyes.
"She told us the driver didn't know the way, and that she'd
enquired--oh dear, oh dear, how funny!"

"What's funny?" demanded Aunt Charlotte, abruptly.

"Oh, never mind, I can't tell you, and it doesn't matter in the
least," said Austin, beginning to giggle. "Only I shouldn't have known
it was you from her description."

"Why, what did she say?" Aunt Charlotte was getting suspicious.

"My dear auntie, she didn't know who you were, of course," replied
Austin, "and she bore high testimony to the respectability of your
appearance, that's all. Only it's so funny to think it was you. It
never occurred to me for a moment."

"What did she _say_, Austin?" repeated Aunt Charlotte, sternly. "I
insist upon knowing her exact words. Of course it doesn't really
matter what a poor old thing like that may have said, but I always
like to be precise, and it's just as well to know how one strikes a
stranger. It wasn't anything rude, I hope, for I'm sure I answered her
quite kindly."

The servant was out of the room. "No, auntie, I don't think it was
rude, but it was so comic----"

"Do stop giggling, and tell me what it was," interrupted Aunt
Charlotte, impatiently.

"Well, she only said you were a respectable-looking body," replied
Austin, as gravely as he could. "And so you are, you know, auntie,
though, perhaps, if I had to describe you I should put it in rather
different words. I'm sure she meant it as a compliment."

"Upon my word, I feel extremely flattered!" exclaimed Aunt Charlotte,
reddening. "A respectable-looking body, indeed! Well, it's something
to know I look respectable. And who was this very patronising old
person, pray? Some old nurse or other, I should say, to judge by her
appearance."

"She was the Countess of Merthyr Tydvil, St Aubyn's aunt," said
Austin, enjoying the joke.

"The Countess of Merthyr Tydvil!" echoed Aunt Charlotte, amazed.

"And she's staying with the Duke at Cleeve Castle," added Austin. "But
that's not the point. Just fancy, auntie, she actually knew my father!
She knew him before he was married, and they were tremendous friends.
It all came out because she said I was so like somebody, and she
couldn't think who it could be, and then she asked what my surname
was, and so on, till we found out all about it. Wasn't it curious? Did
you ever hear of her before?"

"Indeed I never knew of her existence till this moment," answered Aunt
Charlotte, beginning to get interested. "Your father had any number of
friends, and of course we didn't know them all. Well, it is curious, I
must say. But she didn't say you were like your father, did she?"

"No--my mother," replied Austin. "She didn't know her much, but she
remembers her very well. She said she was a very lovely person, too."

"Your father was good-looking in a way," said Aunt Charlotte, falling
into a reminiscent mood, "but not in the least like you. He used to go
a great deal into society, and no doubt it was there he met this Lady
Merthyr Tydvil, and any number of others. Did she tell you anything
about him--anything, I mean, that you didn't know before?"

"No, I don't think she did, except that she was very fond of him and
would like to have married him herself. But as she was married
already, and he was engaged to somebody else, of course it was too
late."

"What! She told you that?" cried Aunt Charlotte, scandalized. "What a
shameless old hussy she must be!"

"Not a bit of it," retorted Austin. "She's a sweet old woman, and I
love her very much. Besides, she only meant it in fun."

"Fun, indeed!" sniffed Aunt Charlotte, primly. "She may call me a
respectable-looking body as much as she likes now. It's more than I
can say for her."

"Auntie, you _are_ an old goose!" exclaimed Austin, with a burst of
laughter. "You never could see a joke. She called you a
respectable-looking body, and you called her a queer old woman like a
nurse. Now you say she's a shameless old hussy, and so, on the whole,
I think you've won the match."

Aunt Charlotte relapsed into silence, and did not speak again until
the dessert had been brought in. Austin helped himself to a plateful
of black cherries, while his aunt toyed with a peach. At last she
said, in rather a hesitating tone:

"Well, you've told me your adventures, so there's an end of that. But
I've had a little adventure of my own this afternoon; though whether
it would interest you to hear it----"

"Oh, do tell me!" said Austin, eagerly. "An adventure--you?"

"I'm not sure whether adventure is quite the correct expression,"
replied Aunt Charlotte, "and I don't quite know how to begin. You see,
my dear Austin, that you are very young."

"It isn't anything improper, is it?" asked Austin, innocently.

"If you say such things as that I won't utter another word," rejoined
his aunt. "I simply state the fact--that you are very young."

"And I hope I shall always remain so," Austin said.

"That being the case," resumed his aunt, impressively, "a great many
things happened long before you were born."

"I've never doubted that for a moment, even in my most sceptical
moods," Austin assured her seriously.

"Well, I once knew a gentleman," continued Aunt Charlotte, "of whom I
used to see a great deal. Indeed I had reasons for believing that--the
gentleman--rather appreciated my--conversation. Perhaps I was a little
more sprightly in those days than I am now. Anyhow, he paid me
considerable attention----"

"Oh!" cried Austin, opening his eyes as wide as they would go. "Oh,
auntie!"

"Of course things never went any further," said Aunt Charlotte,
"though I don't know what might have happened had it not been that I
gave him no encouragement whatever."

"But why didn't you? What was he like? Tell me all about him!"
interrupted Austin, excitedly. "Was he a soldier, like father? I'm
sure he was--a beautiful soldier in the Blues, whatever the Blues may
be, with a grand uniform and clanking spurs. That's the sort of man
that would have captivated you, auntie. Was he wounded? Had he a
wooden leg? Oh, go on, go on! I'm dying to hear all about it."

"That he had a uniform is possible, though I never saw him wear one,
and it may have been blue for anything I know; but that wouldn't imply
that he was in the Blues," replied his aunt, sedately. "No; the
strange thing was that he suddenly went abroad, and for
five-and-twenty years I never heard of him. And now he has written me
a letter."

"A letter!" cried Austin. "This _is_ an adventure, and no mistake. But
go on, go on."

"I never was more astounded in my life," resumed his aunt. "A letter
came from him this afternoon. He recalls himself to my remembrance,
and says--this is the most singular part--that he was actually staying
quite close to here only a short time ago, but had no idea that I was
living here. Had he known it he would most certainly have called, but
as he has only just discovered it, quite accidentally, he says he
shall make a point of coming down again, when he hopes he may be
permitted to renew our old acquaintance."

"Now look here, auntie," said Austin, sitting bolt upright. "Let him
call, by all means, and see how well you look after being deserted for
five-and-twenty years; but I don't want a step-uncle, and you are not
to give me one. Fancy me with an Uncle Charlotte! That wouldn't do,
you know. You won't give me a step-uncle, will you? Please!"

"Don't be absurd, my dear; and do, for goodness' sake, keep that
dreadful leg of yours quiet if you can. It always gives me the jumps
when you go on jerking it about like that. Of course I should never
dream of marrying now; but I confess I do feel a little curious to see
what my old friend looks like after all these years----"

"Your old admirer, you mean," interpolated Austin. "To think of your
having had a romance! You can't throw stones at Lady Merthyr Tydvil
now, you know. I believe you're a regular flirt, auntie, I do indeed.
This poor young man now; you say he disappeared, but _I_ believe you
simply drove him away in despair by your cruelty. Were you a 'cruel
maid' like the young women one reads about in poetry-books? Oh,
auntie, auntie, I shall never have faith in you again."

"You're a very disrespectful boy, that's what _you_ are," retorted
Aunt Charlotte, turning as pink as her ribbons. "The gentleman we're
speaking of must be quite elderly, several years older than I am, and,
for all I know, he may have a wife and half-a-dozen grown-up children
by this time. You let your tongue wag a very great deal too fast, I
can tell you, Austin."

"But what's his name?" asked Austin, not in the least abashed. "We
can't go on for ever referring to him as 'the gentleman,' as though
there were no other gentlemen in the world, can we now?"

"His name is Ogilvie--Mr Granville Ogilvie," replied his aunt. "He
belongs to a very fine old family in the north. There have been
Ogilvies distinguished in many ways--in literature, in the services,
and in politics. But there was always a mystery about Granville,
somehow. However, I expect he'll be calling here in a few days, and
then, no doubt, your curiosity will be gratified."

"Oh, I know what he'll be like," said Austin. "A lean, brown
traveller, with his face tanned by tropic suns and Arctic snows to the
colour of an old saddle-bag. His hair, of course, prematurely grey. On
his right cheek there'll be a lovely bright-blue scar, where a
charming tiger scratched him just before he killed it with unerring
aim. I know the sort of person exactly. And now he comes to say that
he lays his battered, weather-worn old carcase at the feet of the
cruel maid who spurned it when it was young and strong and beautiful.
And the cruel maid, now in the full bloom of placid maternity--I mean
maturity----"

"Hold your tongue or I'll pull your ears!" exclaimed Aunt Charlotte,
scarlet with confusion. "You'll make me sorry I ever said anything to
you on the subject. Mr Ogilvie, as far as I can judge from his letter,
is a most polished gentleman. There's a quaint, old-world courtesy
about him which one scarcely ever meets with at the present day. Just
remember, if you please, that we're simply two old friends, who are
going to meet again after having lost sight of each other for
five-and-twenty years; and what there is to laugh about in that I
entirely fail to see."

"Dear auntie, I won't laugh any more, I promise you," said Austin.
"I'm sure he'll turn out a most courtly old personage, and perhaps
he'll have an enormous fortune that he made by shaking pagoda-trees in
India. How do pagodas grow on trees, I wonder? I always thought a
pagoda was a sort of odalisque--isn't that right? Oh, I mean
obelisk--with beautiful flounces all the way up to the top. It seems a
funny way of making money, doesn't it. Where is India, by the bye?
Anywhere near Peru?"

"Your ignorance is positively disgraceful, Austin," said Aunt
Charlotte, with great severity. "I only hope you won't talk like that
in the presence of Mr Ogilvie. I expect you're right in surmising that
he's been a great traveller, for he says himself that he has led a
very wandering, restless life, and he would be shocked to think I had
a nephew who didn't know how to find India upon the map. There, you've
had quite as many cherries as are good for you, I'm sure. Let us go
and see if it's dry enough to have our coffee on the lawn, while
Martha clears away."

Now although Austin was intensely tickled at the idea of Aunt Charlotte
having had a love-affair, and a love-affair that appeared to threaten
renewal, the fact was that he really felt just a little anxious. Not
that he believed for a moment that she would be such a goose as to
marry, at her age; that, he assured himself, was impossible. But it is
often the very things we tell ourselves are impossible that we fear the
most, and Austin, in spite of his curiosity to see his aunt's old flame,
looked forward to his arrival with just a little apprehension. For some
reason or other, he considered himself partly responsible for Aunt
Charlotte. The poor lady had so many limitations, she was so hopelessly
impervious to a joke, her views were so stereotyped and conventional--in
a word, she was so terribly Early Victorian, that there was no knowing
how she might be taken in and done for if he did not look after her a
bit. But how to do it was the difficulty. Certainly he could not prevent
the elderly swain from calling, and, of course, it would be only proper
that he himself should be absent when the two first came together. A
_tete-a-tete_ between them was inevitable, and was not likely to be
decisive. But, this once over, he would appear upon the scene, take
stock of the aspirant, and shape his policy accordingly. What sort of a
man, he wondered, could Mr Ogilvie be? He had actually passed through
the town not so very long ago; but then so had hundreds of strangers,
and Austin had never noticed anyone in particular--certainly no one who
was in the least likely to be the gentleman in question. There was
nothing to be done, meanwhile, then, but to wait and watch. Perhaps the
gentleman would not want to marry Aunt Charlotte after all. Perhaps, as
she herself had suggested, he had a wife and family already. Neither of
them knew anything at all about him. He might be a battered old
traveller, or an Anglo-Indian nabob, or a needy haunter of Continental
pensions, or a convict just emerged from a term of penal servitude. He
might be as rich as Midas, or as poor as a church-mouse. But on one
thing Austin was determined--Aunt Charlotte must be saved from herself,
if necessary. They wanted no interloper in their peaceful home. And he,
Austin, would go forth into the world, wooden leg and all, rather than
submit to be saddled with a step-uncle.

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