Book: Austin and His Friends

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




"I am afraid I am scarcely equal to renewing the conversation at the
point where we broke off," said Aunt Charlotte, who now felt her wits
getting more under control. "Indeed, Mr Ogilvie, I have nothing to
reproach you with. I had no right to enquire what your profession was,
and still less have I a right to criticise it. But of course you will
understand that the subject we were speaking of must never be
mentioned again."

The lover sighed. It was not a bad situation, and his long experience
enabled him to make it quite effective. Silently he took his gloves
out of his hat, paused, and then dropped them in again, with the very
faintest and most dramatic gesture of despair. The action was trifling
in the extreme, but it was performed by a play-actor who knew his
business, and Aunt Charlotte felt as though cold water were running
down her back. Then he turned, quite beautifully, to Austin.

"And you, young gentleman. And what have _you_ to say?" he asked in a
carefully choking voice.

"That I like you even better in your present part than as
Sardanapalus," replied Austin, cordially.

"The tribute is two-edged," observed the actor with a shrug. And
certainly he had acted well, and dressed the character to perfection.
But the takings of the performance, alas, had not paid expenses. He
really had a sentiment for the lady he had been wooing, and the
prospect of a solid additional income--for it was clear she was in
very easy circumstances--had smiled upon him not unpleasantly. And
why should she not have married him? He was her equal in birth, they
had been possible lovers in their youth, he had made a name for
himself meanwhile, and, after all, there was no stain upon his honour.
But she had now definitely refused. The little comedy had been played
out. There was nothing for him to do but to make a graceful exit, and
this he did in a way that brought tears to the lady's eyes. "Oh, need
you go?" she urged with fatuous politeness. Austin was more friendly
still; he reminded Mr Ogilvie that having returned so late he had had
no opportunity of enjoying a renewal of their acquaintance, and begged
him to remain a little longer for a chat and a cigarette. But Mr
Ogilvie was too much of an artist to permit an anti-climax. The
catastrophe had come off, and the curtain must be run down quick. So
he wrenched himself away with what dignity he might, and, relapsing
into his natural or Buskin phase as soon as he got outside, comforted
himself with a glass of stiff whiskey and water at the refreshment bar
of the railway station before getting into the train for London.




Chapter the Twelfth


As the weeks rolled on the days began perceptibly to draw in, and the
leaves turned gradually from green to golden brown. It was the fall of
the year, when the wind acquires an edge, and blue sky disappears behind
purple clouds, and the world is reminded that ere very long all nature
will be wrapped in a shroud of grey and silver. Rain fell with greater
frequency, the uplands were often veiled in a damp mist, the hours of
basking in noontide suns by the old stone fountain were gone, and Austin
was fain to relinquish, one by one, those summer fantasies that for so
many happy months had made the gladness of his life. There is always
something sad about the autumn. It is associated, undeniably, with
golden harvests and purple vintages, the crimson and yellow magnificence
of foliage, and a few gorgeous blooms; but these, after all, are no more
than indications that the glory of the year has reached its zenith,
that its labours have attained fruition, and that the death of winter
must be passed through before the resurrection-time of spring.

"Ihr Matten lebt wohl,
Ihr sonnigen Waiden,
Der Senne muss scheiden,
Die Sommer ist bin."

And yet the summer did not carry everything away with it. As the year
ripened and decayed, other fantasies arose to take the place of those
he was losing--or rather, he grew more and more under the obsession of
ideas not wholly of this world, ideas and phases of consciousness
that, as we have seen, had for some time past been gradually gaining
an entrance into his soul. As the beauties of the material world
faded, the wonders of a higher world superseded them. He still lived
much in the open air, drinking in all the influences of the scenery in
earth and sky, and marvelling at the loveliness of the year's
decadence; but, as though in subtle sympathy with nature's phases, it
seemed to him as though his own body had less vitality, and that,
while his mind was as keen and vigorous as ever, he felt less and less
inclined to explore his beloved, fields and woods. Aunt Charlotte
looked first critically and then anxiously at his face, which
appeared to her paler and thinner than before. His stump began to
trouble him again, and once or twice he confessed, in a reluctant sort
of way, that his back did not feel quite comfortable. Of course he
thought it was very silly of his back, and was annoyed that it did not
behave more sensibly. But he didn't let it trouble him over-much, for
he was always very philosophical about pain. Once, when he had a
toothache, somebody expressed surprise that he bore it with such
stoicism, and asked him jokingly for the secret. "Oh," he replied, "I
just fix my attention on my great toe, or any other part of my body,
and think how nice it is that I haven't got a toothache there."

Aunt Charlotte had meanwhile grown to have much more respect for
Austin than she had ever felt previously. He was now nearly eighteen,
and his character and mental force had developed very rapidly of late.
In spite of his inconceivable ignorance in some respects--geography,
for instance--he had shown a shrewdness for which she had been totally
unprepared, and a quiet persistence in matters where he felt that he
was right and she was wrong that had begun to impress her very
seriously. Many instances had arisen in which there had been a
struggle for the mastery between them, and in every case not only had
Austin had his own way but she had been compelled to acknowledge to
herself that the wisdom had been on his side and not on hers. It was
not so much that his reasoning powers were exceptionally acute as that
he seemed to have a mysterious instinct, a sort of sub-conscious
intuition, that never led him astray. And then there were those
baffling, inexplicable premonitions that on three occasions had
intervened to prevent some great disaster. The thought of these made
her very pensive, and now that the vicar had set her mind at rest upon
the abstract theory of invisible protectors she felt that she could
harbour speculations about them without danger to her soul's welfare.
That the power at work could scarcely emanate from the devil was now
clear even to her, timid and narrow-minded as she was. Still, with
that illogical shrinking from any tangible proof that her creed was
true that is so characteristic of the orthodox, the whole thing gave
her rather an uncomfortable sensation, and she would vastly have
preferred to believe in spiritual or angelic ministrations as a pious
opinion or casual article of faith than to have it brought home to her
in the guise of knocks and raps. There are millions like her in the
world to-day. Her religion, like everything else about her, was
conventional, though not a whit the less sincere for that.

And so it came about that she felt very much more dependent upon
Austin than Austin did on her, although neither of them was conscious
of the fact. The chief result was that, now they had fallen into their
proper positions, they got on together much better than they had done
before. Austin had really accomplished something towards "educating"
his aunt, as he used humorously to say, and as he represented the
newer and fresher thought it was well that it should be so. I do not
know that he troubled himself very much about the future. In spite of
his delicate health he was full of the joy of life, and he accepted it
as a matter of course that wherever his future might be spent it would
be a happy and a joyous one. What was the use of worrying about a
matter over which he had absolutely no control? The universe was very
beautiful, and he was a part of it. And as the universe would
certainly endure, so would he endure. Why, then, should he concern
himself about what might be in store for him?

"You must take care of yourself, Austin," said Aunt Charlotte to him
one day. "I'm afraid you've been overtaxing your strength, you know.
You never would remain quiet even on the hottest days, and we've had
rather a trying summer, you must remember."

"It's been a lovely summer," replied Austin, who was lying down.

"And how are you feeling, my dear?" asked Aunt Charlotte, anxiously.

"Splendid!" he assured her. "I never felt better in my life."

"But those little pains you spoke of; that weakness in your back----"

"Oh, _that_!" said Austin, slightingly. "I wasn't thinking of my body.
What does one's body matter? I meant _myself_. I'm all right. I
daresay my bones may be doing something silly, but really I'm not
responsible for their vagaries, am I now?"

Aunt Charlotte sighed, and dropped the subject for the time being. But
she was not quite easy in her mind.

One day a great joy came to Austin. He was hobbling about the garden
with his aunt, when all of a sudden he saw Roger St Aubyn approaching
them across the lawn. It was with immense pride that he presented his
friend to Aunt Charlotte, who, as may be remembered, had been just a
little huffy that St Aubyn had never called on her before; but now
that he had actually come the small grievance was forgotten in a
moment, and she welcomed him with charming cordiality.

"It is all the pleasanter to meet you," she said, "as I have now an
opportunity of thanking you for all your kindness to Austin. He is
never tired of telling me how much he has enjoyed himself with you."

"The pleasure has been divided; he certainly has given me quite as
much as ever I have been fortunate enough to give him," replied St
Aubyn, smiling, "What a very dear old garden you have here; I don't
wonder that he's so fond of it. It seems a place one might spend one's
life in without ever growing old."

"That's what I mean to do," said Austin, laughing.

"But yours is magnificent, I'm told," observed Aunt Charlotte. "A
little place like this is nothing in comparison, of course. Still, you
are right; we are both extremely fond of it, and have spent many happy
hours in it during the years that we've lived here."

"And is that Lubin?" asked St Aubyn, noticing the young gardener a
little distance off.

"Yes, that's Lubin," replied Austin, delighted that St Aubyn should
have remembered him. Then Lubin looked up with a respectful smile, and
bashfully touched his cap. "Lubin's awfully clever," he continued, as
they sauntered out of hearing, "and _so_ nice every way. He's what I
call a real gentleman, and knows all sorts of curious things. It's
perfectly wonderful how much more country people know than townsfolk.
Of course I mean about _real_ things--nature, and all that--not silly
stuff you find in history-books, which is of no consequence to anybody
in the world."

"Now, Austin," began Aunt Charlotte, warningly.

"Oh, you needn't be afraid," laughed St Aubyn; "Austin's heresies are
no novelty to me. And a heresy, you must recollect, has always some
forgotten truth at the bottom of it."

"I'm sure I hope so," replied Aunt Charlotte. "But the wind's getting
a trifle chilly, and I think it's about time for tea. Austin isn't
very strong just now, and mustn't run any risks."

So they went indoors and had their tea in the drawing-room, when St
Aubyn let fall the information that he was starting in a few days for
a short tour in Italy. It would not be long, however, before he was
back, and then of course he should look forward to seeing a great deal
of Austin at the Court. Then Aunt Charlotte had to promise that she
would honour the Court with a visit too; whereupon Austin launched out
into a most glowing and picturesque description of the orchid-houses,
and the pool of water-lilies, and the tapestry in the Banqueting Hall,
being extremely curious to know whether his prosaic relative would
experience any of those queer sensations that had so greatly impressed
himself. This suggested a reference to Lady Merthyr Tydvil, who had
taken so great an interest in Austin when last he had been at the
Court; and here Aunt Charlotte chimed in, being naturally anxious to
hear all about the wonderful old lady who had known Austin's father so
well in years gone by, and remembered his mother too. Of course St
Aubyn said, as in duty bound, that he hoped the countess would have
the pleasure of meeting Austin's aunt some day under his own roof, and
Aunt Charlotte acknowledged the courtesy in fitting terms.

So the visit was quite a success, and Austin felt much more at his
ease now that he could talk to his aunt about St Aubyn as one whom
they both knew. She, on her side, was delighted with her new
acquaintance, particularly as he seemed quite familiar with Austin's
ethical and intellectual eccentricities, and did not seem horrified at
them in the very least. The only thing that disturbed her just a
little was the state of the boy's health. His spirits were as good as
ever, and he seemed quite indifferent to the fact that he was not
robust and hale; but there could be no doubt that he was paler and
more fragile than he ought to have been, and the uneasiness he was
fain to acknowledge in his hip and back worried her not a
little--more, in fact, a great deal than it worried Austin himself.

The truth was that his attention was taken up with something wholly
different. The allusions to his unknown mother that had been made by
Lady Merthyr Tydvil, and the cropping-up of the same subject during St
Aubyn's visit, had somehow connected themselves in his mind with the
mysterious appearance of the strange lady at the garden gate on the
evening of the tea-party at the vicarage. Lady Merthyr Tydvil had
recognised a strong resemblance between his mother as she had known
her and himself, and he had noticed the very same thing in the
strange lady. There were the same dark eyes, the same long, pale face,
even (as far as he could judge) the same shade in colour of the hair.
He would have thought little or nothing of this had it not been for
the inexplicable and almost miraculous vanishing of the figure when
there was absolutely nowhere for it to vanish to. Austin knew nothing
of such happenings; with all his reading he had never chanced to open
a single book that dealt with phenomena of this class, much less any
written by scientific and sober investigators, so that the entire
subject was an undiscovered country to him. Had he done so, his
perplexity would not have been nearly so great, and very probably he
might have recognised the fact of his own remarkable psychic powers.
Still, in spite of this disadvantage, the conviction was slowly but
surely forcing itself upon his mind that the lady he had seen was no
one but his own mother. From this to a belief that it was she who had
intervened to save both himself and his Aunt Charlotte from serious
disasters was but a single step; and like Mary of old, in the presence
of an even greater mystery, he revolved all these things silently in
his heart.

It was during the period when he was occupied with this train of
thought that another strange thing occurred. One evening he strolled
into the garden just as the sun was setting. It was one of those lurid
sunsets peculiar to autumn, which look like a distant conflagration
obscured by a veil of smoke. The western sky was aglow with a dull,
murky crimson flecked by clouds of the deepest indigo, from behind
which there seemed to shoot up luminous pulsations like the reflection
of unseen flames. The effect of this red, throbbing light upon the
garden in which he stood was almost unearthly, something resembling
that of an eclipse viewed through warm-coloured glass; beautiful in
itself, yet abnormal, fantastic, suggestive of weird imaginings.
Austin, absorbed in contemplation, moved slowly through the shrubbery
until he reached the lawn; then came to a dead stop. An astounding
vision appeared before him. Standing by the old stone fountain,
scarcely ten yards away, he saw the figure of a youth. The slender
form was partly draped in a loose tunic of some dim, pale, reddish
hue, descending halfway to his knees; on his feet were sandals of the
old classic type; his golden hair was bound by a narrow fillet, and in
his right hand he held a round, shallow cup, apparently of gold,
towards which he was bending his head as though to drink from it.
Austin stood transfixed. So exquisite a being he had never dreamt of
or conceived. The contour of the limbs, the fall of the tunic, the
pose of the head and throat, the ruddy lips, ever so slightly parted
to meet the edge of the vessel he was in the act of raising to them,
were something more than human. The whole thing stood out with
stereoscopic clearness, and seemed as though self-luminous, although
it shed no light on its surroundings. At that moment the youth turned
his head, and met Austin's eyes with an expression that was not a
smile, but something far more subtle, something that bore the same
relation to a smile that a smile does to a laugh--thrilling,
penetrating, indescribable. Austin flung out his hands in rapture.

"Daphnis!" he ejaculated, with a flash of intuition.

He threw himself forward impulsively, in a mad attempt to approach the
wonderful phantasm. As he did so, the colours lost their sheen, and
the figure faded into transparency. By the time he was near enough to
touch it, it was no longer there, and the next instant he found
himself clinging to the cold stone margin of the old fountain, all
alone upon the lawn in the fast gathering twilight, shivering,
panting, marvelling, but exultant in the consciousness of having been
vouchsafed just one glimpse of the being who, so long unseen, had
constituted for many years his cherished ideal of physical and
spiritual beauty.

He leant upon the fountain, in the spot that the vision had occupied.
"And I believe he's always been here--all these many years," mused the
boy, coming gradually to himself again. "He has stood beside me, often
and often, inspiring me with beautiful ideas, though I never guessed
it, never suspected it for a single moment. And now he has shown
himself to me at last. The fountain is haunted, haunted by the
beautiful earth-spirit that has been my guide, that I've dreamt of all
my life without ever having seen him. It's a sacred fountain now--like
the fountains of old Hellas, sacred with the hauntings of the gods.
And he actually drank of the water--or was going to, if I hadn't
frightened him away. Perhaps he's still here, although I can't see him
any more. I wonder whether he knows my mother. It may be that they're
great friends, and keep watch over me together. How wonderful it all
is!"

Then he walked slowly and rather painfully back to the house. He was
in great spirits that night at dinner, though he ate no more than
would have satisfied a bird, greatly to his aunt's disturbance. With
much tact he abstained from saying anything to her about the
extraordinary experience he had just gone through, feeling very justly
that, though she seemed more or less reconciled to the ministry of
angels, Daphnis was frankly a pagan spirit, and would, as such, be
open to grave suspicion from the standpoint of his aunt's orthodoxy.
But it didn't matter much, after all. He was happy in the
consciousness that every day he was getting into nearer touch with a
beautiful world that he could not see as yet, but in the existence of
which he now believed as firmly as in that of his own garden. The
spirit-land was fast becoming a reality to him, and although he had
never beheld the glories of its scenery he had actually had a visit
from two of its inhabitants. That, he thought, constituted the
difference between Aunt Charlotte and himself. She believed in some
place she called heaven, and had a vague notion that it was like a
sort of religious transformation-scene, millions of miles away, up
somewhere in the sky. He, on the contrary, knew that the spirit-world
was all around him, because he had had ocular as well as intuitive
demonstration of its proximity.

It must not be supposed, however, that he sank into a state of mystic
contemplation that unfitted him for every-day life. On the contrary,
he took more interest in his physical surroundings than ever. It was
now October, and he threw himself with almost feverish energy into the
garden-work belonging to that month. There were potted carnations to
be removed into warmth and shelter, hyacinths and tulips for the
spring bloom to be planted in different beds, roses and honeysuckles
to be carefully and scientifically pruned, and dead leaves to be
plucked off everywhere. His fragile health prevented him from helping
in the more onerous tasks, but he followed Lubin about indefatigably,
watching everything he did with eager vigilance, whether he was
planting ranunculuses and anemones, or clipping hedges, or trimming
evergreens; while he himself was fain to be content with pruning and
budding, and directing how the plants should be most fitly set. He
said he wanted the show of flowers next year to be a triumph of
gardencraft. The garden was a sort of holy of holies to him, and he
tended it, and planned for it, and worked in it more enthusiastically
than he had ever done before. This interest in common things was
gratifying to Aunt Charlotte, who distrusted and discouraged his
dwelling on what she called the uncanny side of life; but she was
anxious, at the same time, that he should not overtax his strength,
and gave secret orders to Lubin to see that the young master did not
allow his ardour to outrun the dictates of discretion.

One afternoon, Austin, who was feeling unusually tired, was lying in
an easy-chair in the drawing-room with a book. He had been all the
morning standing about in the garden, and after lunch Aunt Charlotte
had put her foot down, and peremptorily forbidden him to go out any
more that day. Austin had tried to get up a small rebellion,
protesting that there were a lot of jonquils to be planted, and that
Lubin would be sure to stick them too close together if he were not
there to look after him; but his aunt was firm, and Austin was
compelled on this occasion to submit. So there he lay, very calm and
comfortable, while Aunt Charlotte knitted industriously, close by.

"You see, my dear, you're not strong--not nearly so strong as you
ought to be," she said, as she glanced at his drawn face. "I intend to
take extra care of you this winter, and if you're not good about it I
shall have to call in the doctor. I feel I have a great
responsibility, you know, Austin. Oh, if only your poor mother were
here, and could look after you herself!"

"How do you know she doesn't?" asked Austin.

"My dear!" exclaimed Aunt Charlotte, rather shocked.

"Well, you can't be sure," retorted Austin, "and I believe myself she
does. I'm sure of one thing, anyhow--and that is that if she came into
the room at this moment I should recognise her at once."

"You? Why, you never saw her in your life!" said Aunt Charlotte. "You
shouldn't indulge such fancies, Austin. You could only think it might
possibly be your mother, from the descriptions you've heard of her. Of
course you could never be certain."

"How is it she never had her likeness taken?" enquired Austin, laying
his book aside.

"She did have her likeness taken once; but she didn't care for it, and
I don't think she kept any copies," replied Aunt Charlotte. "It was
just a common cabinet photograph, you know, done by some man or other
in a country town. There may be one or two in existence, but I've
never come across any. I've often wished I could."

"There are a lot of old trunks up in the attic, full of all sorts of
rubbish," suggested Austin. "It might be amusing to go up and grub
about among them some day. One might find wonderful heirlooms, and
jewels, and forgotten wills. I should like to hunt there awfully. I'm
sure they haven't been touched for a century."

"In that case it isn't likely we should find your mother's photograph
among them," retorted Aunt Charlotte briskly.

Austin laughed. "But may I?" he persisted.

"My dear, of course you may if you like," replied Aunt Charlotte. "I
don't suppose there are any treasures or secrets to be unearthed;
probably you'll find nothing but a lot of old bills, and school-books,
and such-like useless lumber. There _may_ be some forgotten
photographs--I couldn't swear there aren't; but if you do find
anything of interest I shall be much surprised."

Austin was on his legs in a moment. "Just the thing for an afternoon
like this!" he cried impulsively. "I'll go up now, and have a look
round. Don't worry, auntie; I won't fatigue myself, I promise you. I
only want to see if there's anything that looks as though it might be
worth examining."

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