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_ The question now arose what was to be done with the children. I
explained to Ernest that their expenses must be charged to the
estate, and showed him how small a hole all the various items I
proposed to charge would make in the income at my disposal. He was
beginning to make difficulties, when I quieted him by pointing out
that the money had all come to me from his aunt, over his own head,
and reminded him there had been an understanding between her and me
that I should do much as I was doing, if occasion should arise.
He wanted his children to be brought up in the fresh pure air, and
among other children who were happy and contented; but being still
ignorant of the fortune that awaited him, he insisted that they
should pass their earlier years among the poor rather than the rich.
I remonstrated, but he was very decided about it; and when I
reflected that they were illegitimate, I was not sure but that what
Ernest proposed might be as well for everyone in the end. They were
still so young that it did not much matter where they were, so long
as they were with kindly decent people, and in a healthy
neighbourhood.
"I shall be just as unkind to my children," he said, "as my
grandfather was to my father, or my father to me. If they did not
succeed in making their children love them, neither shall I. I say
to myself that I should like to do so, but so did they. I can make
sure that they shall not know how much they would have hated me if
they had had much to do with me, but this is all I can do. If I
must ruin their prospects, let me do so at a reasonable time before
they are old enough to feel it."
He mused a little and added with a laugh:-
"A man first quarrels with his father about three-quarters of a year
before he is born. It is then he insists on setting up a separate
establishment; when this has been once agreed to, the more complete
the separation for ever after the better for both." Then he said
more seriously: "I want to put the children where they will be well
and happy, and where they will not be betrayed into the misery of
false expectations."
In the end he remembered that on his Sunday walks he had more than
once seen a couple who lived on the waterside a few miles below
Gravesend, just where the sea was beginning, and who he thought
would do. They had a family of their own fast coming on and the
children seemed to thrive; both father and mother indeed were
comfortable well grown folks, in whose hands young people would be
likely to have as fair a chance of coming to a good development as
in those of any whom he knew.
We went down to see this couple, and as I thought no less well of
them than Ernest did, we offered them a pound a week to take the
children and bring them up as though they were their own. They
jumped at the offer, and in another day or two we brought the
children down and left them, feeling that we had done as well as we
could by them, at any rate for the present. Then Ernest sent his
small stock of goods to Debenham's, gave up the house he had taken
two and a half years previously, and returned to civilisation.
I had expected that he would now rapidly recover, and was
disappointed to see him get as I thought decidedly worse. Indeed,
before long I thought him looking so ill that I insisted on his
going with me to consult one of the most eminent doctors in London.
This gentleman said there was no acute disease but that my young
friend was suffering from nervous prostration, the result of long
and severe mental suffering, from which there was no remedy except
time, prosperity and rest.
He said that Ernest must have broken down later on, but that he
might have gone on for some months yet. It was the suddenness of
the relief from tension which had knocked him over now.
"Cross him," said the doctor, "at once. Crossing is the great
medical discovery of the age. Shake him out of himself by shaking
something else into him."
I had not told him that money was no object to us and I think he had
reckoned me up as not over rich. He continued:-
"Seeing is a mode of touching, touching is a mode of feeding,
feeding is a mode of assimilation, assimilation is a mode of
recreation and reproduction, and this is crossing--shaking yourself
into something else and something else into you."
He spoke laughingly, but it was plain he was serious. He
continued:-
"People are always coming to me who want crossing, or change, if you
prefer it, and who I know have not money enough to let them get away
from London. This has set me thinking how I can best cross them
even if they cannot leave home, and I have made a list of cheap
London amusements which I recommend to my patients; none of them
cost more than a few shillings or take more than half a day or a
day."
I explained that there was no occasion to consider money in this
case.
"I am glad of it," he said, still laughing. "The homoeopathists use
aurum as a medicine, but they do not give it in large doses enough;
if you can dose your young friend with this pretty freely you will
soon bring him round. However, Mr Pontifex is not well enough to
stand so great a change as going abroad yet; from what you tell me I
should think he had had as much change lately as is good for him.
If he were to go abroad now he would probably be taken seriously ill
within a week. We must wait till he has recovered tone a little
more. I will begin by ringing my London changes on him."
He thought a little and then said:-
"I have found the Zoological Gardens of service to many of my
patients. I should prescribe for Mr Pontifex a course of the larger
mammals. Don't let him think he is taking them medicinally, but let
him go to their house twice a week for a fortnight, and stay with
the hippopotamus, the rhinoceros, and the elephants, till they begin
to bore him. I find these beasts do my patients more good than any
others. The monkeys are not a wide enough cross; they do not
stimulate sufficiently. The larger carnivora are unsympathetic.
The reptiles are worse than useless, and the marsupials are not much
better. Birds again, except parrots, are not very beneficial; he
may look at them now and again, but with the elephants and the pig
tribe generally he should mix just now as freely as possible.
"Then, you know, to prevent monotony I should send him, say, to
morning service at the Abbey before he goes. He need not stay
longer than the Te Deum. I don't know why, but Jubilates are seldom
satisfactory. Just let him look in at the Abbey, and sit quietly in
Poets' Corner till the main part of the music is over. Let him do
this two or three times, not more, before he goes to the Zoo.
"Then next day send him down to Gravesend by boat. By all means let
him go to the theatres in the evenings--and then let him come to me
again in a fortnight."
Had the doctor been less eminent in his profession I should have
doubted whether he was in earnest, but I knew him to be a man of
business who would neither waste his own time nor that of his
patients. As soon as we were out of the house we took a cab to
Regent's Park, and spent a couple of hours in sauntering round the
different houses. Perhaps it was on account of what the doctor had
told me, but I certainly became aware of a feeling I had never
experienced before. I mean that I was receiving an influx of new
life, or deriving new ways of looking at life--which is the same
thing--by the process. I found the doctor quite right in his
estimate of the larger mammals as the ones which on the whole were
most beneficial, and observed that Ernest, who had heard nothing of
what the doctor had said to me, lingered instinctively in front of
them. As for the elephants, especially the baby elephant, he seemed
to be drinking in large draughts of their lives to the re-creation
and regeneration of his own.
We dined in the gardens, and I noticed with pleasure that Ernest's
appetite was already improved. Since this time, whenever I have
been a little out of sorts myself I have at once gone up to Regent's
Park, and have invariably been benefited. I mention this here in
the hope that some one or other of my readers may find the hint a
useful one.
At the end of his fortnight my hero was much better, more so even
than our friend the doctor had expected. "Now," he said, "Mr
Pontifex may go abroad, and the sooner the better. Let him stay a
couple of months."
This was the first Ernest had heard about his going abroad, and he
talked about my not being able to spare him for so long. I soon
made this all right.
"It is now the beginning of April," said I, "go down to Marseilles
at once, and take steamer to Nice. Then saunter down the Riviera to
Genoa--from Genoa go to Florence, Rome and Naples, and come home by
way of Venice and the Italian lakes."
"And won't you come too?" said he, eagerly.
I said I did not mind if I did, so we began to make our arrangements
next morning, and completed them within a very few days. _
Read next: CHAPTER LXXX
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