‘Not necessarily. The mental torment, unrelieved by “sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care,” had reached the stage when it became unendurable. People are not necessarily mad when they elect to face the problem of the Great Hereafter.’
‘I cannot but think that they are,’ said she, ‘or they would remain to confront the ills of life, rather [248] ]than be false to every duty and callous to the suffering of those whom they leave behind. But the idea is hateful to me. I cannot bear to discuss it.’
The days of dreamy delight in the land of the Pharaohs came all too swiftly to an end. The season had advanced. If they wished to see the glorious greenery of England in the spring, they could not afford to linger among the ruins of the past, however stupendous or awe-striking. It was determined to make one halt, and one only. As there were three women of the party, what doubt could there be of the decision? They were to visit Paris! A short sojourn in Malta produced a cry of delight from the girls as they walked from Nix Mangiare stairs to the Strada Reale. A drive to St. Paul’s Bay, a fleeting vision of the drawbridges and fortifications, of narrow streets and lofty houses; mule-carts, mantillas, and water-carriers; priests with sombre robes and broad-leafed hats. There was so much to see, and but little time in which to do it. The Governor’s Palace was visited, reminiscent of Grand Masters; L’Isle Adam, and doubtless de Beaumanoir, so hard and unrelenting, in the case of the noble and unhappy Rebecca; the ramparts where, guarded by iron railings, were fosses of awful depth, besides old-world towers and batteries, which the Moors in past centuries had good cause to dread. Another day was granted in favour of a visit to the Church of St. John.
‘Oh, we should be disgraced,’ said Hermione—‘have to hide our heads in shame—if we dared to say that we had spent a day in Malta and had not [249] ]been inside that most lovely church! Think of the Knights of Malta! Why, we are standing on their marble tombstones! De Rohan—think of the motto: “Ni prince, ni roi, Rohan je suis.” Isn’t that it? Perhaps Bois-Guilbert lies not far off—no, he can’t be; he was a Templar, Far from respectable, I daresay; but one can’t help loving him—can you now? Rebecca preferred Wilfred, probably because he was fair and she was dark. I’ve noticed that contrasts in complexion tend that way.’
‘If such nonsense is the outcome of your visit to Malta, we need not have lost a day,’ said Mrs. Banneret. ‘Pray bring your thoughts more into harmony with the surroundings. Listen to that wonderful music—the organ is heavenly, and that soaring soprano might be the voice of an angel. I wonder at you, my dear!’
‘Oh, mother dear, forgive me!’ pleaded the penitent; ‘I did not intend to be irreverent; but whether it is the lovely air, or the intoxication of travel, I can’t say, for one’s tongue seems to run along of itself. I won’t offend again.’ And here tears dimmed the bright eyes of the sensitive maiden, as mother and child embraced over one of the few differences which ever ruffled the calm of their deep mutual love.
Mr. Banneret making his appearance with the two younger girls, explanations were deferred, and the party made their way homeward.
Only a short stay, limited to the time necessary for the purchase of articles de Paris and the indispensable shoes and gloves, was made in Paris, [250] ]the all-important dress question being left to a more convenient season, when it and the leisurely Continental tour could be thoroughly enjoyed. At present the parents, although indulgent to the border-line of prudence, were actuated by motives unconnected with the enjoyment of picture galleries, gardens of Armida, or military reviews, where the striking uniforms of Zouaves and Spahis delighted the girls. Mrs. Banneret yearned with all the intensity of the maternal heart to see her boys again.
The head of the family had not said much on the subject, and, save the sharer of his joys and sorrows, none had heard him open his heart upon a matter which nevertheless lay very near it—had indeed caused him more anxiety than he cared to express. ‘How are these boys of mine likely to turn out?’ was a query which arose in his mind at early dawn, when he always awoke; sometimes, although not often, in the watches of the night; occasionally during the day with insistent pertinacity. He had seen so many cases where early moral training, a good example, a liberal education, good society, and good advice had been all too powerless to stem the downward current of indolence, extravagance, and dissipation. The fatal knowledge that for them, at least, there was no necessity for industry, self-denial, or economy, overbore all old-fashioned arguments, as they considered them to be.
‘The governor,’ thus referred to in latter-day speech, ‘had made “pots of money”—it had been all right for him to work and slave in the queer [251] ]early times that old buffers yarned about. He was bound to do it, of course, or go under. But they were not—that made all the difference. They were sorry to disagree with him—he wasn’t half bad, the old governor—in fact, a dashed good sort. But he wasn’t up to date! He had no idea of how a chap had to chuck the coin about, to keep in the front rank, nowadays. He must have the necessaries of life. Think of what polo costs! You couldn’t get a decent pony under fifty or sixty quid; then you must have a boy—a smart one too; two ponies were little enough—safer to have four, in case of accidents. Fellah must be decently dressed if he goes out at all—and tailors, if they were any good, charged such infernal prices! He’d a fairish allowance, but last Cup Day made a hole in it’—and so on—and so on.