CHAPTER VIII.

THE NEW HOME.

A cold, drizzling rain was falling. We have wintry weather sometimes in July, as was the case now. The lovely summer seemed to have come to an abrupt end, and to have flown for good. At least, it appeared so to those who were turning out of their late happy and prosperous home, to enter on another of which they knew little. Knew nothing, in fact, except that it would have to be one of poverty and labour. For this was the day that Mrs. Raynor and her children were quitting Eagles' Nest.

All superfluous effects had been disposed off, even to their personal trinkets. Charles's watch, that he set store by because it had been his father's, and had only just come into his possession, had to go. Without the sale of these things they could not have paid all their debts and kept sufficient for pressing requirements. A fly took Mrs. Raynor, Alice, and the two younger children to the station, Charles and Alfred having walked on; and a cart conveyed the luggage. The rain beat against the windows of the fly, the wind swept by in gusts, shaking the branches of the trees. Everything looked dreary and wretched, even Eagles' Nest itself. Oh, what a change it was, inwardly and outwardly, from that day, bright with hope and sunshine, when they had entered it only twelve short months before!

Charles was at the fly door when it drew up. "What tickets am I to take?" he asked of his mother: and a blank pause ensued. They were accustomed to first-class; but that would not do now.

"Either second, or--_third_, Charley," spoke poor Mrs. Raynor.

"There is no third-class to this train," replied Charley, glad perhaps to have to say it, as he turned away to the ticket-office.

And so they travelled up to London, Mrs. Raynor leaning back in the carriage with closed eyes, grateful for the rest. It had been a long scuffle to get away: and every one of them had mentally reproached Edina for not coming to their help.

"It is just as though she had deserted us," said Mrs. Raynor. "I suppose she will be at the new house to receive us, as she says; but I think she might have come all the same: she knows how incapable I am."

The "new house" was situated in the southern district of London, some three miles, or so, from the heart of the bustle. It was about five o'clock when they approached it in two cabs, through the dirt and drizzle. The spirits of all were depressed. With the very utmost difficulty Mrs. Raynor kept down her tears.

"I expect to find an empty barn," she said, looking out on the dreary road. "Perhaps there will not be as much as a mattress to sleep on."

The cabs stopped before the door of a convenient, roomy, but old-fashioned-looking house, standing a little back from the road, with a garden behind it. A rosy servant-girl opened the door. She was not as fashionable-looking as the maids they had left, but she was neat and active, and very willing--a remarkably desirable quality in a maid-of-all-work. Edina came forward; a bright smile of welcome on her face as she took all the hands into hers that she could hold, and led the way to the sitting-room. It was quite furnished, and the tea-things stood on the table.

Instead of the empty barn Mrs. Raynor had expected, she found a house plainly but well furnished throughout. The schoolroom, the airy bedrooms, the sitting-rooms, the kitchen, all had their appropriate appointments. Useful furniture, and quite new. Mrs. Raynor halted in the kitchen, which was not underground, and gazed about her. The fire threw its warmth on the red bricks, a kettle was singing away, plates and dishes stood on the dresser shelves, every necessary article seemed at hand.

"I cannot understand it, Edina. You must have obtained the things on credit, after all. Oh, that the school may succeed!--so that we may soon be enabled to pay for them."

"No credit has been asked or given, Mary," was Edina's answer. "The furniture has been bought and paid for, and it is yours."

"Bought by whom?"

"By me. You will not be too proud to accept it from your poor friend, Edina!"

Mrs. Raynor sat down on the nearest wooden chair, and burst into tears.

"You thought, I am sure, that I might have come back to help you away from Eagles' Nest, Mary, but I could not: I had too much to do here," explained Edina. "I find there is an opening in this neighbourhood for a school, and I also found this house, that is so suitable for one, to be let. I took it, and with Frank's help, furnished it, plainly as you see: and then I went about amongst the neighbours, and put an advertisement or two in the papers, asking for pupils. Two boarders, sisters, will enter to-morrow; two more on Monday, and five day-pupils. This is not so bad a beginning, and I dare say others will drop in. I feel sure you will succeed; that you and Alice may get a very good school together in time: and I hope Heaven will bless and prosper you."

Mrs. Raynor was looking up in her rather helpless manner. "I--I don't understand, Edina. Did you buy the furniture, or did Frank?"

"Not Frank, poor fellow: he has need of help himself. Be at rest, Mary: I bought it, and I have made it over to you by a deed of gift. The house is taken in your name, and I am responsible for the first half-year's rent."

"Oh, Edina! But I thought you had no money--except the small income Dr. Raynor secured to you."

"Please don't disparage my income," said Edina, gaily. "It is fifty pounds a-year: quite enough for me. As to the money, I had a hundred pounds or two by me that my dear father left me over and above the income. In laying it out for you and yours in your hour of need, Mary, I think it well spent."

"And we used to call Edina mean and stingy!" thought Mrs. Raynor in her repentant heart. "At least, Charles and Alice did."

With the next week, all the expected pupils had entered; four boarders and five day-pupils. Another day-pupil, not expected, made six. It was a very good opening, affording hope of ultimate success.

"What do you think of it, Charley?" asked Mrs. Raynor, on the third evening, as they sat together after the little boarders and Kate and Robert were in bed, Edina being out.

"Oh, I think it's first-rate," answered Charley, half seriously, half mockingly. "You and Alice will be making a fortune by-and-by."

The remark did not please Alice. _She_, at least, was not reconciled to the new home and its duties.

"_You_ may think it first-rate," she retorted. "It is widely different from Eagles' Nest. We were gentlepeople there; we are poor governesses here."

Charley made no response. The very name of Eagles' Nest would give him an unpleasant turn.

"And it is nothing but work all day," went on Alice. "Lessons this hour, music that, writing the next. Oh, it is wearisome!"

"Don't grumble, my dears," interposed Mrs. Raynor. "It might have been so much worse. After the strange turn our affairs took, we might now be without a roof over our heads or a morsel of bread to eat. So far as I can see, we should have been, but for Edina."

The tears were raining down Mrs. Raynor's cheeks. Alice started up and threw her arms round her in repentance. "Forgive me, dear mamma, forgive me! I was wrong to speak so repiningly."

"You were wrong, dear Alice. In dwelling so much upon the advantages we have lost, you overlook the mercies remaining to us. And they are mercies. We are together under one roof; we have the prospect of making a fair living."

"Yes," acquiesced Charley, throwing regrets behind him. "It is a very nice home indeed, compared with what might have been."

"And I think we may yet be very happy in it," said Mrs. Raynor.

Alice strove to think so too, and put on a cheerful face. But the old days were ever present with her; and she never recalled the past hopes connected with William Stane, but her heart turned sick and faint in its despair.

"It will be your turn next, Charles," observed Edina, taking the opportunity of speaking to him the following morning, when they were alone.

"My turn?" repeated Charles, vaguely: conscious that he knew what she meant, but not choosing to acknowledge it.

"To do something for yourself," added Edina. "You cannot intend to live upon your mother."

"Of course I do not, Edina. How stupid you are."

"And the question is, what is that something to be?" she continued, passing over his compliment to herself.

"I should like to go into the army, Edina."

Edina shook her head. Her longer experience of life, her habits of forethought, enabled her to see obstacles that younger people did not see.

"Even if you had the money to purchase a commission, Charley----"

"But I did not think of purchasing. I should like to get one given to me."

"Is there a chance of it?"

Charles did not reply. He was standing before the window, gazing abstractedly at a young butcher boy, dashing about in a light cart for his morning orders. There was not very much chance of it, he feared, but there might be a little.

"Let us suppose that you had the commission, Charley, that it arrived here for you this very day direct from the Horse Guards--or whatever place may issue them," pursued Edina. "Would it benefit you?"

"Benefit me!"

"I mean, could you take it up? How would you find your necessary outfit? Regimentals cost a great deal: and there must be many other preliminary expenses. This is not all----"

"I could get things on credit," interrupted Charles, "and pay as I went on."

"But this would not be the only impediment, Charley. I have heard that it takes every officer more than his pay to live. I have often thought that were I an officer it should not take me more; but it may be that I am mistaken there. You would not have anything besides your pay, Charley."

"Oh, I expect I should get along."

"Taken at the best, you would have nothing to spare. I had thought you might choose some calling which would enable you to help them here at home."

"Of course. It is what I should wish to do."

"Alfred must be educated; and little Robert as he comes on. Your mother may not be able to do this. And I do not see that you will have it in your power to aid her if you enter the army."

Charles began scoring the window-pane with a pencil that he held, not knowing what to answer. In truth, his own intentions and views as to the future were so vague and purposeless, that to dwell on it gave him nightmare.

"What should you propose, Edina?"

"A situation," replied Edina, promptly, "in some good city house."

But for the obligations they were just now under to Edina, Mr. Charles Raynor would have abused her well for the suggestion. It suited neither himself nor his pride. A situation in some city house! That meant a clerk, he supposed. To write at desks and go on errands!

"I wish you wouldn't talk so, Edina," he peevishly said, wishing he might box her ears. "Did you ever hear of a Raynor becoming a tradesman?"

"Did you ever hear of a Raynor with no means of living?" retorted Edina. "No profession, and no money? Circumstances alter cases, Charley."

"Circumstances can't make a common man a gentleman; and they can't make a gentleman take up the rôle of a common man."

"Can't they! I think they often do. However, Charley, I will say no more just now, for I perceive you are not in the humour for it. Consider the matter with yourself. _Don't_ depend upon the commission, for indeed I do not see that you have a chance of one. Put it out of your thoughts, if you can, and look to other ways and means. I shall be leaving you in a day or two, you know; by that time you will perhaps have decided on something."

Edina went into the schoolroom, and Charles stood where he was. Alfred came in with his Latin books. Mrs. Raynor was going to send Alfred to a day-school close by; but it did not open for another week or two, and meanwhile Charles made a show of keeping him to his Latin.

"What am I to do this morning, Charley?"

"Copy that last exercise over again, lad. It was so badly written yesterday that I could not read it."

Alfred's pen went scratching over the copy-book. Charles remained at the window, deep in thought. He had no more wish to be living on his mother than any other good son has; but he did not see where he could go, or what he could do. The doubt had lain on his mind during these recent days more than was agreeable to its peace. His whole heart was set upon a commission; but in truth he did not feel much more sanguine of obtaining one than Edina seemed to feel.

He wished he was something--wished it there as he stood. _Anything_, rather than remain in this helpless position. Wished he was a doctor, like Frank; or a banker, like that wretch, George Atkinson; or a barrister, like that other wretch, Stane. Had he been brought up to one of these callings he should at least have a profession before him. As it was, he felt incapable: he was fit for nothing, knew nothing. If he could get a commission given to him, he should be on his legs at once; and _that_ required no special training.

But for Charles Raynor's inexperience, he might have found that a candidate for a commission in the army does require a special training now. In his father's young days the case was otherwise. The major had been very fond of talking of those days; Charles had thence gathered his impressions, and they remained with him.

Yes, he said to himself, making a final score on the window-pane, he must get the commission; and the sooner the better. Not to lose time, he thought it might be well to see about it at once. An old acquaintance of his father's, one Colonel Cockburn, had (as Charles was wont to put it to himself) some interest in high quarters: his brother, Sir James Cockburn, being one of the Lords of the Admiralty. Of course, reasoned Charles, Sir James must be quite able to give away posts indiscriminately in both army and navy; and it was not likely he would refuse one to his brother, if the latter asked for it. So if he, Charles, could only get Colonel Cockburn to interest himself, the affair was done.

"Are you going out?" questioned Alfred, as Charles began to brush his coat and hat.

"Yes, I am going to see Colonel Cockburn," was the reply. "No good putting it off any longer. When you have finished copying that exercise, youngster, you can do another. And mind you stick at it: don't go worrying the mother."

Away went Charles, on the top of a passing omnibus. Colonel Cockburn's club was the Army and Navy. Charles possessed no other address of his; and to that building he found his way, and boldly entered.

"Colonel Cockburn, sir?" was the answer to his inquiry. "I don't think he is in town."

"Not in town!" cried Charles, his ardour suddenly damped. "Why do you think that?"

"He has not been here for a day or two, sir: so we conclude he is either absent or ill. The colonel is sometimes laid up with gout for a week together."

"Can you tell me where he lives? I'll go and see him."

"In St. James's Street," replied the man, giving at the same time the number of the house.

To St. James's Street proceeded Charles, found the house in which the colonel occupied rooms, and saw the landlady. Colonel Cockburn was at Bath: had gone to stay with a brother who was lying there ill.

"What a dreadful bother!" thought Charles. "Cockburn must have a whole regiment of brothers!" And he stood in indecision.

"Will the colonel be back soon?" inquired he.

"I don't know at all," was the landlady's answer. "Should he be detained in Bath, he may not come back before October. The colonel always leaves London the end of July. Sometimes he leaves earlier than that."

"What on earth am I to do?" cried Charles, half aloud, his vivid hopes evaporating considerably. "My business with him was urgent."

"Could you write to him?" suggested the landlady.

"I suppose I must--if you have his address. But I ought to see him."

She took an envelope from the mantelpiece, on which was written an address in the Crescent, Bath. Charles copied it down, and went out. He stood a moment, considering what he should do. The day was so fine and the town so full of life, that to go off to that pokey old southern suburb seemed a sin and a shame. So he decided to make a day of it, and began with the Royal Academy.

Time slips away in the most wonderful manner when sight-seeing, and the day was over before Charles thought it half through. When he reached home, it was past nine. The children were in bed; his mother also had gone to bed with headache; Edina and Alice were sewing by lamplight. Alice was at some fancy work; Edina was mending a torn pinafore: one of a batch that required repairing.

While taking his supper, Charles told them of his ill-luck in regard to Colonel Cockburn. And when the tray went away, he got paper and ink and began to write to him.

"He is sure to have heard of our misfortunes--don't you think so, Edina? I suppose I need only just allude to them."

"Of course he has heard of them," broke in Alice, resentfully. "All the world must have heard of them."

Charley went on writing. The first letter did not please him; and when it was nearly completed he tore it up and began another.

"It is always difficult to know what to say in this kind of application: and I don't think I am much of a letter-writer," observed he, candidly.

Alice grew tired, nodded over her embroidery, and at length said good-night and went upstairs. Edina sent the servant to bed, and stitched on at another pinafore.

"I think that will do," said Charley: and he read the letter aloud.

"It will do very well," acquiesced Edina. "But, Charley, I foresee all sorts of difficulties. To begin with, I am not at all sure that you are eligible for a commission: I fancy you ought to go first of all to Sandhurst or Woolwich."

"Not a bit of it," replied Charley, full of confidence. "What other difficulties do you foresee, Edina?"

"I wish you would give up the idea."

"I dare say! What would you have me do, if I did give it up?"

"Pocket your pride, and find a situation."

Charles tossed his head. Pride was almost as much in the ascendant with him as it ever had been. He thought how old and silly Edina was growing. But he remembered what she had done for them, and would not quarrel with her.

"Time enough to talk of that, Edina, when I have had Colonel Cockburn's answer."

Edina said no more for a few moments. She rose; shook out Robert's completed pinafore, and folded it. "I had a scheme in my head, Charley; but you don't seem inclined to hear anything I may say upon the subject."

"Yes, I will," replied Charley, opening his ears at the rather attractive word "scheme." "I will hear that."

"I cannot help thinking that if George Atkinson were applied to, he would give you a post in his bank. He ought to do it. After turning you out of Eagles' Nest----"

"I wouldn't apply to him; I wouldn't take it," interrupted Charles, fiercely, his anger aroused by the name. "If he offered me the best post in it to-morrow, I would fling it back in his face. Good-night, Edina: I'm off. I don't care to stay to hear of suggested obligations from _him_."

On the day of Edina's departure for Trennach, the morning post brought Colonel Cockburn's answer to Charles. It was very short. Edina, her bonnet on, stood to read it over his shoulder. The colonel intimated that he did not quite comprehend Charles's application; but would see him on his return to London.

"So there's nothing for it but to wait--and I hope he won't be long," remarked Charles, as he folded the briefly-worded letter. "You must see there's nothing else, Edina."