Book: Austin and His Friends

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




For all his theories about living his own life and developing his own
individuality, Austin was not a selfish boy. Egoistic he might be, but
selfish he was not. His impulses were always generous and kindly, and
he was full of thought for others. He was for ever contriving delicate
little gifts for those in want, planning pleasant little surprises for
people whom he loved. And now he hoped most ardently that dear Aunt
Charlotte had not been very dull, and for the moment felt quite kindly
towards the Cobbledicks and the MacTavishes as he reflected that, no
doubt, they had helped to make his auntie happy on that afternoon.

At last he came to the entrance of the lane through which he had
passed in the morning. At that moment a crowd of men and boys, most of
them armed with heavy sticks and all looking terribly excited, rushed
past him, and precipitated themselves into the narrow opening. He
asked one of them what was the matter, but the man took no notice and
ran panting after the others. So Austin pursued his way, and in a few
minutes arrived at the garden gate, where to his great surprise he
found Aunt Charlotte waiting for him--the picture of anxiety and
terror.

"Well, auntie!--why, what's the matter?" he exclaimed, as Aunt
Charlotte with a cry of relief threw herself into his arms.

"Oh, my dear boy!" she uttered in trembling agitation. "How thankful I
am to see you! Which way did you come back?"

"Which way? Along the road," said Austin, much astonished. "Why?"

"Thank God!" ejaculated Aunt Charlotte. "Then you're really safe. I've
been out of my mind with fear. A most dreadful thing has happened. Let
us sit down a minute till I get my breath, and I'll tell you all about
it."

Austin led her to a garden seat which stood near, and sat down beside
her. "Well, what is it all about?" he asked.

"My dear, it was like this," began Aunt Charlotte, as she gradually
recovered her composure. "Our friends were just going away--oh, I
forgot to tell you that of course they came; we had a most delightful
time, and dear Lottie--no, Lizzie--I always do forget which is
which--I can't remember, but it doesn't matter--was the life and soul
of the party; however, as I was saying, they were just going away, and
I was there at the gate seeing them off, when the butcher's boy came
running up and warned them on no account to venture into the road, as
Hunt's dog--that's the butcher, you know--I mean Hunt is--had gone
raving mad, and was loose upon the streets. Of course we were all most
horribly alarmed, and wanted to know whether anybody had been bitten;
but the boy was off like a shot, and two minutes afterwards the
wretched dog itself came tearing past, as mad as a dog could be, its
jaws a mass of foam, and snapping right and left. As soon as ever it
was safe our friends took the opportunity of escaping--of course in
the opposite direction; and then a crowd of villagers came along in
pursuit, but not knowing which turning to take till some man or other
told them that the dog had gone up the lane. Then imagine my terror!
For I felt perfectly convinced that you'd be coming home that way, as
the road was hot and dusty, and I know how fond you are of lanes and
fields. Oh, my dear, I can't get over it even now. How was it you
chose the road?"

For a moment Austin did not speak. Then he said very slowly:

"I don't know how to tell you. Of course I _could_ tell you easily
enough, but I don't think you'd understand. Auntie, I intended to come
home by the lane. Twice or three times I tried to cross the stile into
the meadows, and each time I was prevented. Something stopped me.
Something pushed me back. Naturally I wanted to come by the
meadow--the road was horrid--and I wanted to stroll along on the grass
and enjoy myself by the river. But there it was--I couldn't do it. So
I gave up trying, and came by the road after all."

"What _do_ you mean, Austin?" asked Aunt Charlotte. "I never heard
such a thing in my life. What was it that pushed you back?"

"I don't know," replied the boy deliberately. "I only know that
something did. And as the lane is very narrow, and enclosed by
excessively steep banks, the chances are that I should have met the
dog in it, and that the dog would have bitten me and given me
hydrophobia. And now you know as much as I do myself."

"I can't tell what to think, I'm sure," said Aunt Charlotte. "Anyhow,
it's most providential that you escaped, but as for your being
prevented, as you say--as for anything pushing you back--why, my dear,
of course that was only your fancy. What else could it have been? I'm
far too practical to believe in presentiments, and warnings, and
nonsense of that sort. I'd as soon believe in table-rapping. No, my
dear; I thank God you've come back safe and sound, but don't go
hinting at anything supernatural, because I simply don't believe in
it."

"Then why do you thank God?" asked Austin, "Isn't He supernatural?
Why, He's the only really supernatural Being possible, it seems to
me."

That was a poser. Aunt Charlotte, having recovered her equanimity,
began to feel argumentative. It was incumbent on her to prove that she
was not inconsistent in attributing Austin's preservation to the
intervention of God, while disclaiming any belief in what she called
the supernatural. And for the moment she did not know how to do it.

"By the supernatural, Austin," she said at last, in a very oracular
tone, "I mean superstition. And I call that story of yours a piece of
superstition and nothing else."

"Auntie, you do talk the most delightful nonsense of any elderly lady
of my acquaintance," cried Austin, as he laughingly patted her on the
back. "It's no use arguing with you, because you never can see that
two and two make four. It's very sad, isn't it? However, the thing to
be thankful for is that I've got back safe and sound, and that we've
both had a delightful afternoon. And now tell me all your adventures.
I'm dying to hear about the vicar, and the Cobbledicks, and the
ingenious Jock and Sandy. Did all your friends turn up?"

"Indeed they did, and a most charming time we had," replied Aunt
Charlotte briskly. "Of course they were astonished to find that you
weren't here to welcome them, and I was obliged to say how unfortunate
it was, but a most stupid mistake had arisen, and that you were
dreadfully sorry, and all the rest of it. Ah, you don't know what you
missed, Austin. The boys were full of fun as usual, and dear
Lizzie--or was it Florrie? well, it doesn't matter--said she was sure
you'd gone to the Court in preference because you were expecting to
meet a lot of girls there who were much prettier than she was. Of
course she was joking, but----"

"The vulgar, disgusting brute!" cried Austin, in sudden anger. "And
these are the creatures you torment me to associate with. Well----"

"Austin, you've no right to call a young lady a brute; it's abominably
rude of you," said Aunt Charlotte severely. "There was nothing vulgar
in what she said; it was just a playful sally, such as any sprightly
girl might indulge in. I assured her you were going to meet nobody but
Mr St Aubyn himself, and then she said it was a shame that you should
have been inveigled away to be bored by----"

"I don't want to hear what the woman said," interrupted Austin, with a
gesture of contempt. "Such people have no right to exist. They're not
worthy for a man like St Aubyn to tread upon. It's a pity you know
nothing of him yourself, auntie. You wouldn't appreciate your Lotties
and your Florries quite so much as you do now, if you did."

"Then you enjoyed yourself?" returned Aunt Charlotte, waiving the
point. "Oh, I've no doubt he's an agreeable person in his way. And the
gardens are quite pretty, I'm told. Hasn't he got a few rather nice
pictures in his rooms? I'm very fond of pictures myself. Well, now,
tell me all about it. How did you amuse yourself all the afternoon,
and what did you talk to him about?"

But before Austin could frame a fitting answer the butcher's boy
looked over the gate to tell them that the rabid dog had been found in
the lane and killed.




Chapter the Fifth


It will readily be understood that Austin was in no hurry to confide
anything about his experiences in the Banqueting Hall to his Aunt
Charlotte. The way in which she had received his straightforward,
simple account of the curious impressions which had determined his
choice of a route in coming home was enough, and more than enough, to
seal his tongue. He was sensitive in the extreme, and any lack of
sympathy or comprehension made him retire immediately into his shell.
His aunt's demeanour imparted an air of reserve even to the
description he gave her of the attractions of Moorcombe Court. Perhaps
the good lady was a trifle sore at never having been invited there
herself. One never knows. At any rate, her attitude was chilling. So
as regarded the incident in the Banqueting Hall he preserved entire
silence. Her scepticism was too complacent to be attacked.

He was aroused next morning by the sweetest of country sounds--the
sound of a scythe upon the lawn. Then there came the distant call of
the street flower-seller, "All a-growing, all a-blowing," which he
remembered as long as he could remember anything. The world was waking
up, but it was yet early--not more than half-past six at the very
latest. So he lay quietly and contentedly in his white bed, lazily
wondering how it would feel in the Banqueting Hall at that early hour,
and what it would be like there in the dead of night, and how soon it
would be proper for him to go and leave a card on Mr St Aubyn, and
what Lubin would think of it all, and how it was he had never before
noticed that great crack in the ceiling just above his head. At last
he slipped carefully out of bed without waiting for Martha to bring
him his hot water, and hopped as best he could to the open window and
looked out. There was Lubin, mowing vigorously away, and the air was
full of sweet garden scents and the early twittering of birds. He
could not go back to bed after that, but proceeded forthwith to dress.

After a hurried toilet, he bumped his way downstairs; intercepted the
dairyman, from whom he extorted a great draught of milk, and then
went into the garden. How sweet it was, that breath of morning air!
Lubin had just finished mowing the lawn, and the perfume of the cool
grass, damp with the night's dew, seemed to pervade the world. No one
else was stirring; there was nothing to jar his nerves; everything was
harmonious, fresh, beautiful, and young. And the harmony of it all
consisted in this, that Austin was fresh, and beautiful, and young
himself.

"Well, and how did ye fare at the Court?" asked Lubin, as Austin
joined him. "Was it as fine a place as you reckoned it would be?"

"Oh, Lubin, it was lovely!" cried Austin, enthusiastically. "I do wish
you could see it. And the garden! Of course this one's lovely too, and
I love it, but the garden at the Court is simply divine. It's on a
great scale, you know, and there are huge orchid-houses, and flaming
carnations, and stained tulips, and gilded lilies, and a wonderful
grass terrace, and--"

"Ay, ay, I've heard tell of all that," interrupted Lubin. "But how
about the ghosts? Did you see any o' them, as you was so anxious
about?"

"No--I didn't see any; but they're there all the same," returned
Austin. "I felt them, you know. But only in one place; that great
room, they say, was a Banqueting Hall once upon a time. You know,
Lubin, I'm going back there before long. Mr St Aubyn asked me to come
again, and I intend to go into that room again to see if I feel
anything more. It was the very queerest thing! I never felt so strange
in my life. The place seemed actually full of them. I could feel them
all round me, though I couldn't see a thing. And the strangest part of
it is that I've never felt quite the same since."

"How d'ye mean?" asked Lubin, looking up.

"I don't know--but I fancy I may still be surrounded by them in some
sort of way," replied Austin. "It's possibly nothing but imagination
after all. However, we shall see. Now this morning I want to go a long
ramp into the country--as far as the Beacon, if I can. It's going to
be a splendid day, I'm sure."

"I'm not," said Lubin. "The old goose was dancing for rain on the
green last night, and that's a sure sign of a change."

"Dancing for rain! What old goose?" asked Austin, astonished.

"The geese always dance when they want rain," replied Lubin, "and what
the goose asks for God sends. Did you never hear that before? It's a
sure fact, that is. It'll rain within four-and-twenty hours, you mark
my words."

"I hope it won't," said Austin. "And so your mother keeps geese?"

"Ay, that she does, and breeds 'em, and fattens 'em up against
Michaelmas. And we've a fine noise o' ducks on the pond, too. They
pays their way too, I reckon."

"A noise o' ducks? What, do they quack so loud?"

"Lor' bless you, Master Austin, where was you brought up? Everybody
hereabouts know what a noise o' ducks is. Same as a flock o' geese,
only one quacks and the other cackles. Well, now I'm off home, for its
peckish work mowing on an empty belly, and the mother'll be looking
out for me. Geese for me, ghosts for you, and in the end we'll see
which pans out the best."

So Lubin trudged away to his breakfast and left Austin to his
reflections. The predicted rain held off in spite of the terpsichorean
importunity of Lubin's geese, and Austin passed a lovely morning on
the moors; but next day it came down with a vengeance, and for six
hours there was a regular deluge. However, Austin didn't mind. When it
was fine he spent his days in the fields and woods; if it rained, he
sat at a window where he could watch the grey mists, and the driving
clouds, and the straight arrows of water falling wonderfully through
the air. His books, too, were a resource that never failed, and if he
was unable personally to participate in beautiful scenes, he could
always read about them, which was the next best thing after all.

The weather continued unsettled for some days, and then it cleared up
gloriously, so that Austin was able to lead what he called his Daphnis
life once more. The rains had had rather a depressing effect upon his
general health, and once or twice he had fancied that something was
troubling him in his stump; but with the return of the sun all such
symptoms disappeared as though by magic, and he felt younger and
lighter than ever as he stepped forth again into the glittering air.
More than a week had elapsed since his day at the Court, and he began
to think that now he really might venture to go and call. So off he
set one sunny afternoon, and with rather a beating heart presented
himself at the park gates.

Here, however, a disappointment awaited him. The lodge-keeper shook
his head, and announced that Mr St Aubyn was away and wouldn't be back
till night. Austin could do nothing but leave a card, and hope that he
might be lucky enough to meet him by accident before long.

So he turned back and made for the meadow by the river side, feeling
sure that he would be safe from rabid dogs that time at any rate. And
certainly no mysterious influences intervened to prevent him sitting
on the stile for a rest, and indulging in pleasant thoughts. Then he
pulled out his pocket-volume of the beloved Eclogues, and read the
musical contest between Menalcas and Damaetas with great enjoyment.
Why, he wondered, were there no delightful shepherd-boys now-a-days,
who spent their time in lying under trees and singing one against the
other? Lubin was much nicer than most country lads, but even Lubin was
not equal to improvising songs about Phyllis, and Delia, and the
Muses. Then he looked up, and saw a stranger approaching him across
the field.

He was a big, stoutish man, with a fat face, a frock-coat tightly
buttoned up, a large umbrella, and a rather shabby hat of the shape
called chimney-pot. A somewhat incongruous object, amid that rural
scene, and not a very prepossessing one; but apparently a gentleman,
though scarcely of the stamp of St Aubyn. At last he came quite near,
and Austin moved as though to let him pass.

"Don't trouble yourself, young gentleman," said the newcomer, in a
good-humoured, offhand way. "Can you tell me whether I'm anywhere near
a place called Moorcombe Court?"

"Yes--it's not far off," replied Austin, immediately interested. "I've
just come from there myself."

"Really, now!" was the gentleman's rejoinder. "And how's me friend St
Aubyn?"

So he was Mr St Aubyn's friend--or claimed to be. "I really
suspected," said Austin to himself, "that he must be a bailiff." From
which it may be inferred that the youth's acquaintance with bailiffs
was somewhat limited. Then he said, aloud:

"I believe he's quite well, thank you, but I'm afraid you'll not be
able to see him. He's gone out somewhere for the day."

"Dear me, now, that's a pity!" exclaimed the stranger, taking off his
hat and wiping his hot, bald head. "Dear old Roger--it's years since
we met, and I was quite looking forward to enjoying a chat with him
about old times. Well, well, another day will do, no doubt. You don't
live at the Court, do you?"

"I? Oh, no," said Austin. "I only visit there. It is such a charming
place!"

"Shouldn't wonder," remarked the other, nodding. "Our friend's a rich
man, and can afford to gratify his tastes--which are rather expensive
ones, or used to be when I knew him years ago. I must squeeze an hour
to go and see him some time or other while I'm here, if I can only
manage it."

"Then you are not here for long?" asked Austin, wondering who the man
could be.

"Depends upon business, young gentleman," replied the stranger.
"Depends upon how we draw. We shall have a week for certain, but after
that----"

"How you draw?" repeated Austin, politely mystified.

"Yes, draw--what houses we draw, to be sure," explained the stranger.
"What, haven't you seen the bills? I'm on tour with 'Sardanapalus'!"

A ray of light flashed upon Austin's memory. "Oh! I think I
understand," he ventured hesitatingly. "Are you--can you perhaps
be--er--Mr Buckskin?"

"For Buckskin read Buskin, and you may boast of having hazarded a
particularly shrewd guess," replied the gentleman. "Bucephalus Buskin,
at your service; and, of course, the public's."

"Ah, now I know," exclaimed Austin. "The greatest actor in Europe, on
or off the stage."

"Oh come, now, come; spare my blushes, young gentleman, draw it a
_little_ milder!" cried the delighted manager, almost bursting with
mock modesty. "Greatest actor in Europe--oh, very funny, very good
indeed! Off the stage, too! Oh dear, dear, dear, what wags there are
in the world! And pray, young gentleman, from whom did you pick up
that?"

"I think it must have been the milkman," replied Austin simply.

"The milkman, eh? A most discriminating milkman, 'pon my word. Well,
it's always encouraging to find appreciation of high art, even among
milkmen," observed Mr Buskin. "Only shows how much we owe the growing
education of the masses to the drama. Talk of the press, the pulpit,
the schoolroom----"

"I believe he was quoting an advertisement," interpolated Austin.

"An ad., eh?" said the mummer, somewhat disconcerted. "Oh, well, I
shouldn't be surprised. Of course _I_ have nothing to do with such
things. That's the business of the advance-agent. And did he really
put in that? I positively must speak to him about it. A good fellow,
you know, but rather inclined to let his zeal outrun his discretion.
It's not good business to raise too great expectations, is it, now?"

Austin, in his innocence, scarcely took in the meaning of all this.
But it was clear enough that Mr Buskin was a great personage in his
way, and extremely modest into the bargain. His interest was now very
much excited, and he awaited eagerly what the communicative gentleman
would say next.

"I should think it would take," continued Mr Buskin, warming to his
subject. "It's a most magnificent spectacle when it's properly done--as
we do it. There's a scene in the third act--the Banquet in the Royal
Palace--that's something you won't forget as long as you live. A
gorgeous hall, brilliantly illuminated--the whole Court in glittering
costumes--the tables covered with gold and silver plate. Peals of
thunder, and a frightful tempest raging outside. In the midst of the
revels a conspiracy breaks out--enter Pania, bloody--Sardanapalus
assumes a suit of armour, and admires himself in a looking-glass--and
then the rival armies burst in, and a terrific battle ensues----"

"What, in the dining-room?" asked the astonished Austin.

"Well, well, the poet allows himself a bit of licence there, I admit;
but that only gives us an opportunity of showing what fine
stage-management can do," said Mr Buskin complacently. "It's a
magnificent situation. You'll say you never saw anything like it since
you were born, you just mark my words."

"It certainly must be very wonderful," remarked Austin. "But I'm
afraid I'm rather ignorant of such matters. What _is_ 'Sardanapalus,'
may I ask?"

"What, never heard of Byron's 'Sardanapalus'?" exclaimed the actor,
throwing up his hands. "Why, it's one of the finest things ever put
upon the boards. Full of telling effects, and not too many bothering
lengths, you know. The Poet Laureate, dear good man, worried my life
out a year ago to let him write a play upon the subject especially for
me. The part of Sardanapalus was to be devised so as to bring out all
my particular--er--capabilities, and any little hints that might occur
to me were to be acted upon and embodied in the text. But I wouldn't
hear of it. 'Me dear Alfred,' I said, 'it isn't that I underrate your
very well-known talents, but Byron's good enough for _me_. Hang it
all, you know, an artist owes something to the classics of his
country.' So now, if that uneasy spirit ever looks this way from the
land of the eternal shades, he'll see something at least to comfort
him. He'll see that one actor, at least, not unknown to Europe, has
vindicated his reputation as a playwright in the face of the British
public."

Austin felt immensely flattered at such confidences being vouchsafed
to him by the eminent exponent of Lord Byron, and said he was certain
that the theatre would be crammed. Mr Buskin shrugged his shoulders,
and replied he was sure he hoped so.

"And now," he added, "I think I'll be walking back. And look you here,
young gentleman. We've had a pleasant meeting, and I'd like to see
you again. Just take this card"--scribbling a few words on it in
pencil--"and the night you favour us with your presence in the house,
come round and see me in me dressing-room between the acts. You've
only to show that, and they'll let you in at once. I'd like your
impressions of the thing while it's going on."

Austin accepted the card with becoming courtesy, and offered his own
in exchange. Mr Buskin shook hands in a very cordial manner, and the
next moment was making his way rapidly in the direction of the town.

"What a very singular gentleman," thought Austin, when he was once
more alone. "I wonder whether all actors are like that. Scarcely, I
suppose. Well, now I'm to have a glimpse of another new world. Mr St
Aubyn has shown me one or two; what will Mr Buskin's be like? It's all
extremely interesting, anyhow."

Then he stumped along to the river side, giving a majestic twirl to
his wooden leg with every step he took through the long grass. How he
would have loved a bathe! The pool where he had so enjoyed himself
with Lubin was not far off--the pool of Daphnis, as he had christened
it; but he hesitated to venture in alone. So he lay down on the bank
and watched the yellow water-lilies from afar, dreaming of many
things. How clever Lubin was, and what a lot he knew! Why geese should
dance for rain he couldn't even imagine; but the rain had actually
come, and it was all a most suggestive mystery. How many other curious
connections there must be among natural occurrences that nobody ever
dreamt of! It was in the country one learnt about such things; in the
fields and woods, and by the side of rivers. Nature was the great
school, after all. History and geography were all very well in their
way, but what food for the soul was there in knowing whether Norway
was an island or a peninsula, or on what date some silly king had had
his crown put on? What did it matter, after all? Those were the facts
he despised; facts that had no significance for him whatever, that
left him exactly as they found him first. The sky and the birds and
the flowers taught him lessons that were worth more than all the
histories and geographies that were ever written. The schoolroom was a
desert, arid and unsatisfying; whereas the garden, the enclosed space
which held stained cups of beauty and purple gold-eyed bells, that was
a jewelled sanctuary. Lubin was nearer the heart of things than
Freeman and Macaulay, though they would have disdained him as a clod.
Virgil and Theocritus were greater philosophers than either Comte or
Hegel. Daphnis and Corydon represented the finest flower, the purest
type of human evolution, and Herbert Spencer was nothing better than a
particularly silly old man.

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