Chapter XIII: Ralph Claims a Friend's Privilege

IS the reader acquainted with Ventnor, one of the most charming of the sheltered resorts that offer to invalids immunity from the worst perils of winter in our treacherous climate? Screened from northern winds by the high ridge of Boniface, and open to the southern sea, which gleams with sunshine, and across which soft breezes play when London lies under the iron spell of frost, or is shrouded in dreary fog, it is a place where the weakly and consumptive may hope to lengthen out their span of life, if not to regain health.

On a bright morning in early May, Edmund and I were strolling along the sands at Ventnor, walking in the broad sunshine which he loved and I cheerfully endured for his sake, although the glare and heat dazzled and stupefied me. We had been in this quiet retreat—far quieter in those days than now—since the beginning of the year, for, alas! my brother had come to be counted as one of that class of sufferers known as "the consumptive." His serious illness had inflicted permanent injury on his lungs, and the only hope of checking the disease lay in avoiding the rigours of winter.

But though we had enjoyed the mild climate of Ventnor for so long, and I had endeavoured to preserve him from every risk of cold, Edmund had made little progress. His cough still troubled him, he passed restless nights, he panted painfully when we climbed the hills, and the hectic colour in his face bore witness that the insidious disease was still working mischief. Yet in spite of all, he was full of hope, and often spoke as if he were rapidly regaining strength, and I, too, clung to hope, refusing to read aright the signs which had so clear a meaning.

During the last few weeks, Edmund had grown weary of Ventnor, and was impatient to try another change. He was anxious, too, on account of our rapidly diminishing means, and wanted to get to work again, for he still hoped to take his degree, although he had missed the examination in preparing for which he had broken down.

"Dorothy," he said to me now, as we paced the sands, "don't you think we might go to town next week? I should like to see that doctor again, and ask him if I may not set to work. I really cannot afford to saunter away my days here any longer, and I believe I should be better if I could work."

"Perhaps, dear; but you must not be in too great a hurry," I ventured to say. "You have been patient so long; you must not spoil all by being rash now."

"But I am better, very much better," he urged. "It could not hurt me to begin work again."

"I should like to see you first with a little more flesh on your bones," I said, laying my hand on his thin arm; "and your appetite needs to improve, for you must eat more if you work."

"How can a fellow have a healthy appetite when he is allowed to do nothing?" demanded Edmund. "I should eat fast enough if I worked. We will go up to town next week, Dorothy."

"Wait till we hear what sort of weather they are having in town," I suggested. "Write to Ralph Dugdale, and ask his advice."

"He will be sure to say, 'Do not come yet.' He is as much inclined to coddle me as you are. Not that I would say a word against the dear old fellow, the best friend I ever had. I can never forget what a sacrifice he made for me."

Indeed, it seemed that Edmund never would forget how Ralph, in order to nurse him day and night, had sacrificed his chance of being senior wrangler. Refusing to leave him to the care of a hired nurse, he had watched beside his bed till the crisis of the illness had passed, by which time the examination was close at hand. Consequently, he had presented himself for it with both mind and body ill-prepared for the strain, and had come out, not first wrangler, as his college had fondly hoped, but seventh on the list.

Edmund could hardly forgive himself for having caused his friend's failure. He had counted on seeing Ralph senior wrangler, and his disappointment was far greater than Ralph's, who would not allow that there was any cause to regret his position on the University list.

Perhaps as a woman, with no pretensions to being learned, I could not rightly estimate the grandeur of the sacrifice Ralph had made, but, in truth, Edmund's gratitude for the same sometimes struck me as being excessive.

Edmund continued to talk about going to London. I listened without opposing the idea. But for the fear of his endangering his health, I should have liked the thought as well as he did.

I had not forgotten Leonard Glynne, though I had striven hard to do so, reproaching myself for giving another so many thoughts, when my brother so strongly claimed my loving consideration. I had quitted Weylea with a strangely mingled sense of pain and relief. I had fancied that I was breaking away from the enthralment which I had found at once so sweet and bitter, and for a time Edmund had absorbed my every thought and feeling. I believed that if only he were restored to health, I should desire nothing more. Yet whilst Edmund stood first, and I devoted myself entirely to him, the thought of Leonard was never far from me. Edmund's talk about going to London stirred within me a sudden longing to see Leonard again, or at least to know how he was.

Perhaps we should go to Beechwood, and if so, I could easily walk over to Weylea to see Mrs. Lyell. I had heard very little of Leonard since I left Weylea. Mrs. Lyell's letters contained only the most casual references to him, and now for many weeks, Mrs. Lyell had not written to me, so that I half feared she was ill. Perhaps it was not strange, but only in accordance with the usual order of coincidences, that after pondering the causes of Mrs. Lyell's silence, I should, on our return to our lodgings, find a letter from her awaiting me there.

I opened it eagerly. It was soon evident that Mrs. Lyell had not been ill. A succession of visitors, whom the spring had brought to town, had occupied her time, so that her correspondence had fallen into arrears. She begged me to believe that she had not ceased to feel a warm interest in my own and my brother's welfare.

Was there a word of Leonard in the letter? My eyes skimmed the pages in search for his name. Yes, here was something. What was this,—"For Leonard's sake"?

Unfortunately the paragraph was not calculated to give me pleasure.

"I must tell you," wrote Mrs. Lyell, "that I have made Miss Carsdale's acquaintance. She called on me, and, for Leonard's sake, I felt obliged to see her. To my surprise, I found her a very agreeable girl, kind and gentle in her manners, and by no means so frivolous as I had supposed. I blame myself now for having misjudged her. Of course she has had a worldly training, and she dresses more gaily than I think becoming; but I am sure there is good in her. Since then, she has spent an evening with me, and she kindly says that she will often run in and read to me, so that I may not feel too much the loss of your precious services." And so on.

I could hardly read to the end of the letter, I was so annoyed. Of course, since Mrs. Lyell was thus taking to Miss Carsdale, there could be no doubt as to what would soon follow. Strange! I had believed myself without any personal hope for the future, yet this thought thrilled me with pain and anger and sorest mortification.

"What is the matter, Dorothy?" asked my brother, who had been watching me as I read the letter.

"Matter?" I exclaimed, startled by the question. "Oh, nothing. What do you mean? Why do you ask?"

"Only because I naturally wondered why one moment you were as red as a lobster and the next as white as that curtain."

"What nonsense, Edmund," I cried, colouring again. "I was nothing of the kind; I never do change colour like that."

"You mean you have never seen yourself do so," returned Edmund. "I do wonder what there is in that letter to put you out so."

"Then you may wonder," I said, forcing a laugh, "for I am not going to satisfy your curiosity."

I left my brother and went upstairs, there to fight a long battle with myself. I was determined to escape from the dominion of this pain. It was a hard struggle, but at last I succeeded, as I thought, in putting from me utterly thought of Leonard Glynne. Henceforth he should be nothing to me, and if possible, I would not see him again. I would live for my brother only, and whilst I had Edmund, what did it matter whether anyone else loved me?

I went back to him conscious of a new proud strength, and my heart glowed with joy when he said, as he thanked me for some trifling service, "What a precious old sister you are, Dottie! I could not do without you now."

Notwithstanding Edmund's impatience to quit Ventnor, we did not go to London till the end of the month. Mabel and her husband were in town for a few weeks, and by her arrangement, to which I reluctantly consented, we joined them at their rooms in Duke street. Mabel had not seen Edmund since his illness, and she was shocked at the alteration she perceived in him, and was inclined to blame me for it.

"You should not have let him get so thin, Dorothy," she said. "If I had been you, I should have given him all sorts of nourishing things."

"No doubt you would have managed better than I," was my reply; "but indeed I have tried to think of everything. It is impossible to get Edmund to take much, his appetite is so bad."

"You had better both come back to Burford with me," said Mabel; "I will nurse Edmund up and soon get him strong."

"I will consign Edmund to your care, if you wish," I replied, "but I cannot go to Burford."

"What nonsense, Dorothy! Of course I could not have him without you—it would be impossible with all the claims I have on my time. And you would see my Percy. Such a darling he has grown. I wish I had brought him with me, for there is a photographer in Regent street who takes children's likenesses splendidly. Now, don't look so obstinate. Why should you not come and stay with me? You ought to do so. People are beginning to wonder at your keeping away so. It really appears as if we had quarrelled."

"I cannot help that," I said. "I should be very sorry to quarrel with you, Mabel, but—"

"I shall be obliged to quarrel with you, if you are so obstinate," said Mabel, much offended.

As it happened, the question of our going to Burford was indirectly decided by the physician whom Edmund consulted. His words did not sound very hopeful as they were repeated to me. The disease was not yet checked; there was grave cause for anxiety. Edmund had been counselled to avoid a damp, low-lying neighbourhood, and, if possible, to spend several weeks amidst the mountains of Switzerland.

"Will you go?" I asked him when he told me what the physician had said.

He shook his head. "How can I, when our funds are getting so low? And yet I believe mountain air is just what I want."

"Oh, do take all the money, Edmund," I said; "your health is of more consequence than anything else. I will seek a situation at once, so you need not trouble about me."

"As if I should think of going to Switzerland without you," he replied. "It would be better to stay at home if I could not have you to comfort and cheer me." His words made me glad; but yet how I longed for the means of taking him to Switzerland.

"Edmund," I began, "if I said a word to Mabel, I have no doubt Mr. Steinthorpe would be glad to provide the money for your expenses in Switzerland."

"Thank you, Dorothy," he said, dryly, "but I would rather not go in that way. There would be no pleasure in going if I knew that I was travelling at his cost."

"But when it is for your health, and your future usefulness depends on it," I ventured to say.

"I see, you are less proud for me than for yourself," he returned, laughingly; "but no, Dorothy, I cannot think of it."

It was useless to say more, so the subject was allowed to drop.

Two days later, Mabel and I coming in from a shopping expedition found Ralph Dugdale in the hall, about to take his departure from the house. Mabel begged him to stay and take tea, but he declined. He had been having a long talk with Edmund, he said, and must now hurry away to catch a train for Beechwood. But ere he quitted the house, he drew me on one side, and said, hastily, in a voice too low to reach the others,—

"Miss Carmichael, I think you will agree with me that your brother ought to go to Switzerland, since the doctor so strongly advises it. I have been showing him how easily this could be managed, if only he would allow me to act as a friend, as a brother should. But he has some ridiculous scruples, which I trust to you to sweep away. You will take my side in the matter, will you not? You must feel that your brother's health is of the utmost importance."

"Yes, yes," I replied, not at all clear as to his meaning, but very glad to learn that there was any chance of my brother's going to Switzerland.

"Thank you, thank you; then I rely on your help. I shall come in again very soon to talk things over with you."

So saying, Mr. Dugdale pressed my hand with a grateful warmth the occasion hardly seemed to require, and departed.

As soon as I was alone with my brother, I asked him what Ralph Dugdale wanted him to do.

"Oh, I hardly like to tell you," said Edmund, in a tone that showed he was much moved; "but it is just like the dear, generous, unselfish old fellow. Of course, he used many words in making his proposition, till it seemed as if he were asking a favour rather than bestowing one, but to put it baldly, he wants me to go to Switzerland at his expense. As if I had not cost him enough already! But I cannot, I will not think of this."

I was silent, musing for awhile on this rather startling idea. I knew that the Dugdales were wealthy people. I had heard Edmund say that Ralph had a handsome income of his own. The sum Edmund needed doubtless was to him small, and he could lay it at his friend's disposal without inconvenience.

"Edmund," I said, presently, "I can fancy how you feel about it, but do you know I believe that you would be giving Ralph Dugdale the greatest pleasure if you accepted his kindness? He is very much attached to you; nothing would please him more than to see you well again."

"I know that," said Edmund, hoarsely, "but still I cannot altogether relish the idea of being under a pecuniary obligation to him."

"But still you would rather be under such an obligation to him than to Howard Steinthorpe?"

"Why, yes—that 'goes without saying,' as the French remark. Dugdale is my friend, and Steinthorpe, though my brother-in-law, is hardly a friend."

"Just so. Ralph is far more of a brother to you. I suppose that if I were a rich woman, you would not be too proud to receive a little pecuniary help from me in your present circumstances?"

"Well, perhaps not; but then you are my sister, you see."

"And does not such a friend as Ralph come closer than a brother? David and Jonathan were more than brothers. Jonathan was a rich young prince, whilst David had but lately been following the sheep, yet their great love for each other must have made them feel on an equality. Jonathan was ready to risk his father's displeasure and make any sacrifice for the sake of his friend. What would a money gift have been between them? Certainly not worth debating. There must be 'give and take' in all true friendship."

"Well done, Dorothy," cried Edmund, clapping his hands; "I had no idea you could draw such a parallel. Why, you are quite a preacher!"

"I wish I were," I said, laughing, "for then I might hope to convince you that we need grace, as Mrs. Lyell would say, to receive generously as well as to give generously."

"Why, that is just what Ralph has been saying! He has been trying to convince me that I should evince more generosity in accepting his offer than he does in making it. I believe he has primed you what to say."

"Thank you for the insinuation that I am not capable of thinking for myself," I said. "But now, Edmund dear, since both I and Mr. Dugdale see your duty so clearly, you will try to see it as we do, will you not?"

"I will think about it," said Edmund.

And I could get no more from him on the subject till Ralph Dugdale came again a few days later, when, through our combined persuasions, he consented to accept Ralph's kindness on condition that he might look upon the sum advanced as a loan, and repay it whenever he found himself in a position to do so.

"It is very horrid of you to suggest such a thing, Carmichael," said Ralph Dugdale, "but I suppose I must let you have your own way."

And then we began to discuss the merits of different mountain resorts, and the routes thither. Ralph strongly advised our sojourning at a certain pension, perched on a mountain side, at no great distance from Lauterbrunnen. The house commanded a magnificent prospect, and as it stood neatly five thousand feet above the sea-level, the air was peculiarly fine. In such an atmosphere, and surrounded by such scenery, it seemed to Ralph almost impossible that Edmund should not grow strong. My heart grew light with hope as I listened to his words. What a good, true friend he was! I felt as if I could never be grateful enough to him for all he was doing for my brother.

"I tell you what, Carmichael," he said, presently, "I have a great mind to run over to the Continent with you, and see you comfortably settled in your mountain home."

My heart gave a bound of delight. If only he did this, the last shadow of anxiety would be lifted from my mind, for, unaccustomed to foreign travelling, I was fearful lest I should fail to take proper care of Edmund on the journey. I looked quickly at Ralph, and my eyes must have expressed the pleasure his words gave me, for he met my glance with a smile so full of meaning that I felt sure he understood me perfectly.

But Edmund at once began to protest against his friend's taking the trouble to accompany us.

"Dorothy and I are quite capable of taking care of each other," he said.

"You mean beggar!" ejaculated Dugdale. "Will you allow no one else to have the pleasure of seeing the mountains, or do you grudge me your sister's company? You know very well that my time is of little importance just now, since I am only reading in a desultory fashion, till I see more clearly what my future career should be."

So Edmund's mouth was stopped. When Ralph took his departure, I went dawn with him into the hall, for I wanted to thank him for his kindness to my brother. As we descended the stairs, he remembered a message from Grace—her love, and she hoped to come and see me in a day or two, since I had decided that it was impossible for me to go to Beechwood.

Ralph talked so briskly as he prepared to go that I could hardly say what I wished to him. He cut my thanks short by saying with one of his quick, keen glances, "Then you will not object to my company on the journey?"

"Oh, I shall be so glad of it! You will be the greatest comfort," I cried, eagerly.

Such a glad, bright look came into his eyes then. He had taken my hand, and he retained it in his for a few moments as he looked at me. Very pleasant was his face at that moment; I could not but be conscious of the pleasure that irradiated it.

I said to myself, "Here is a man whose greatest delight is in doing deeds of kindness."

When I returned to Edmund, he began warmly to extol his friend. Was there ever a more noble, generous-hearted fellow? There was not his equal in the world, either for goodness or cleverness, of that Edmund was certain. He would be in Parliament some day, and, if human merit ever met with its due reward, he would be made Prime Minister.

I could not help laughing a little at my brother's enthusiasm for his friend. This vexed Edmund. He was quickly irritated in these days.

"Of course you cannot appreciate him," he said, angrily; "I might have known that."

"Indeed, I do appreciate him," I said, rather warmly. "I have the highest esteem for Ralph Dugdale, and I am very glad for your sake that he talks of going with us to Switzerland."

"But you are not glad for your own sake," said Edmund. "You are like most women—you cannot appreciate true manly worth; you would prefer a curled and scented darling with no brains to speak of."

"Why, how you talk, Ted!" I exclaimed, laughing. "Pray, when have I shown any liking for curled and scented darlings? Happily, I have seldom met with such, and I cannot believe that they are as a rule popular with my sex. Take my word for it, there is no quality women more admire in men than true manliness. Do you suppose that the Arthur West, whom Grace mourns so faithfully, was a 'curled and scented darling?'"

What was there in my words to make Edmund start and look so annoyed?

"Certainly not," he said, constrainedly. "Mrs. West is utterly different from every other woman I have met with."

"Of course she is much better than most women," I replied. "She is coming to see me in a day or two, Ralph says."

Again a curious change passed over Edmund's face.

"Do you not like Grace?" I asked, rather anxiously. "You know you need not see her when she comes, if you would rather not."

"What extraordinary things you say, Dorothy!" exclaimed Edmund, frowning. "Could anyone know Mrs. West and not like her?"

I said no more, but, wondering at Edmund's odd humours, went off to find Mabel, and tell her of the plans we had made.

====================