Kitabı oku: «Magnum Bonum; Or, Mother Carey's Brood», sayfa 35
“You don’t? Really now? You think she likes me just a little? How soon can I get down? Have you a train-bill?”
Then during the quest into trains came a fit of humility. “Do you think they will listen to me? You are not the sort who would think me a catch, and I know I am a very poor stick compared with any of you, and should have gone to the dogs long ago but for Jock, ungrateful ass as I was to him last year. But if I had such a creature as that to take care of, why it would be like having an angel about one. I would—indeed I would—reverence, yes, and worship her all my life long.”
“I am sure you would. I think it would be a very happy and blessed thing for you both, and I have no doubt that her father will think so too. Now, here are the others coming home, and you must behave like a rational being, even though you don’t see Essie at tea.”
Mother Carey managed to catch Jock, give a hint of the situation, and bid him take care of his friend. He looked grave. “I thought it was coming,” he said. “I wish they would have done it out of our way.”
“So do I, but I didn’t take measures in time.”
“Well, it is all right as regards them both, but poor Bobus will hardly get over it.”
“We must do our best to soften the shock, and, as it can’t be helped, we must put our feelings in our pocket.”
“As one has to do most times,” said Jock. “Well, I suppose it is better for one in the end than having it all one’s own way. And Evelyn is a generous fellow, who deserves anything!”
“So, Jock, as we can do Bobus no good, and know besides that nothing could make it right for his hopes to be fulfilled, we must throw ourselves into this present affair as Cecil and Essie deserve.”
“All right, mother,” he said. “There’s not stuff in her to be of much use to Bobus if he had her, besides the other objection. It is the hope that he will sorely miss, poor old fellow!”
“Ah! if he had a better hope lighted as his guiding star! But we must not stand talking now, Jock; I must take her to Church quietly with me.”
To Cecil’s consternation, his military duties would detain him all the forenoon of the next day; and before he could have started, the train that brought John back also brought his father and mother, the latter far more eager and effusive than her sister-in-law had ever seen her. “My dear Caroline, I thought you’d excuse my coming, I was so anxious to see about my little girl, and we’ll go to an hotel.”
“I’ll leave you with her,” said Caroline, rushing off in haste, to let Esther utter her own story as best she might, poor child! Allen was fortunately in his room, and his mother sprang down to him to warn him to telegraph to Cecil that Colonel Brownlow was in Collingwood Street; the fates being evidently determined to spare her nothing.
Allen’s feelings were far less keen as to Bobus than were Jock’s, and he liked the connection; so he let himself be infected with the excitement, and roused himself not only to telegraph, but go himself to Cecil’s quarters to make sure of him. It was well that he did so, for just as he got into Oxford Street, he beheld the well-known bay fortunately caught in a block of omnibuses and carts round a tumble-down cab-horse, and some gas-fitting. Such was the impatience of the driver of the hansom, that Allen absolutely had to rush desperately across the noses of half-a-dozen horses, making wild gestures, before he was seen and taken up by Cecil’s side.
“The most wonderful thing of all,” said Cecil afterwards, “was to see Allen going on like that!”
In consequence of his speed, Colonel and Mrs. Brownlow had hardly arrived at Esther’s faltered story, and come to a perception which way her heart lay, when she started and cried, “Oh, that’s his hansom!” for she perfectly well knew the wheels.
So did her aunt and Babie, who had taken refuge in the studio, but came out at Allen’s call to hear his adventures, and thenceforth had to remain easily accessible, Babie to take charge of Lina, who was much aggrieved at her banishment, and Mother Carey to be the recipient of all kinds of effusions from the different persons concerned. There was the mother: “Such a nice young man! So superior! Everything we could have wished! And so much attached! Speaks so nicely! You are sure there will be no trouble with his mother?”
“I see no danger of it. I am sure she must love dear little Esther, and that she would like to see Cecil married.”
“Well, you know her! but you know she might look much higher for him, though the Brownlows are a good old family. Oh, my dear Caroline, I shall never forget what you have done for us all.”
Her Serenity in a flutter was an amusing sight. She was so full of exultation, and yet had too much propriety to utter the main point of her hopes, fears, doubts, and gratitude; and she durst not so much as hazard an inquiry after poor Lord Fordham, lest she should be suspected of the thought that came uppermost.
However, the Colonel, with whom that possibility was a very secondary matter, could speak out: “I like the lad; he is a good, simple, honest fellow, well-principled, and all one could wish. I don’t mind trusting little Essie with him, and he says his brother is sure to give him quite enough to marry upon, so they’ll do very well, even, if—How about that affair which was hinted of at Belforest, Caroline? Will it ever come off?”
“Probably not. Poor Lord Fordham’s health does not improve, and so I am very thankful that he does not fulfil Babie’s ideal.”
“Poor young man!” said Ellen, with sincere compassion but great relief.
“That’s the worst of it,” said the father, gravely. “I am afraid it is a consumptive family, though this young fellow looks hearty and strong.”
“He has always been so,” said Caroline. “He and his sister are quite different in looks and constitution from poor Fordham, and I believe from the elder ones. They are shorter and sturdier, and take after their mother’s family.”
“I told you so, papa,” said Ellen. “I was sure nothing could be amiss with him. You can’t expect everybody to look like our boys. Well, Caroline, you have always been a good sister; and to think of your having done this for little Essie! Tell me how it was? Had you suspected it?”
It was all very commonplace and happy. Colonel and Mrs. Brownlow were squeezed into the house to await Mrs. Evelyn’s reply, and Cecil and Esther sat hand-in-hand all the evening, looking, as Allen and Babie agreed, like such a couple of idiots, that the intimate connection between selig and silly was explained.
Mrs. Robert Brownlow whiled away the next day by a grand shopping expedition, followed by the lovers, who seemed to find pillars of floor-cloth and tracery of iron-work as blissful as ever could be pleached alley. Nay, one shopman flattered Cecil and shocked Esther by directing his exhibition of wares to them, and the former was thus excited to think how soon they might be actually shopping on their own account, and to fix his affections on an utterly impracticable fender as his domestic hearth. Meanwhile Caroline had only just come in from amusing Mrs. Lucas with the story, when a cab drove up, and Mrs. Evelyn was with her, with an eager, “Where are they?”
“Somewhere in the depths of the city, with her mother, shopping. Ought I to have told you?”
“Of course I trust you. She must be nice—your Friar’s sister; but I could not stay at home, and Duke wished me to come—”
“How is he?”
“So very happy about this—the connection especially. I don’t think he could have borne it if it had been the Infanta. How is that dear Babie?”
“Quite well. I left her walking with Lina in the Square gardens.”
“As simple and untouched as ever?”
“As much as ever a light-hearted baby.”
“Ah! well, so much the better. And let me say, once for all, that you need not fear any closer intercourse with us. My poor Duke has made up his mind that such things are not for him, and wishes all to be arranged for Cecil as his heir. Not that he is any worse. With care he may survive us all, the doctors say; but he has made up his mind, and will never ask Babie again. He says it would be cruel; but he does long for a sight of her bright face!”
“Well, we shall be brought into meeting in a simple natural way.”
“And Babie? How does she look? I am ashamed of it; but I can’t help thinking more about seeing her than this new cousin. I can fancy her—handsome, composed, and serene.”
“That may be so ten or twenty years hence! but now she is the tenderest little clinging thing you ever saw.”
“And my ideal would have been that Cecil should have chosen some one superior; but after all, I believe he is really more likely to be raised by being looked up to. He has been our boy too long.”
“Quite true; I have watched him content with the level my impertinent children assign him here, but now trying to be manly for Essie’s sake. You have not told me of Sydney.”
“So angry at the folly of passing over Babie, that I was forced to give her a hint to be silent before Duke. She collapsed, much impressed. Forgive me, if it was a betrayal; but she is two years older now, and would not have been a safe companion unless warned. Hark! Is that the door-bell?”
Therewith the private interview period set in, and Babie made such use of her share of it, that when Lina was produced in the drawing-room before dinner she sat on Cecil’s knee, and gravely observed that she had a verse to repeat to him—
“The phantom blackcock of Kilnaught
Is a marvellous bird yet uncaught;
Go out in all weather,
You see not a feather,
Yet a marvellous work it has wrought,
That phantom blackcock of Kilnaught.”
“What is that verse you are saying, Lina?” said her mother.
Lina trotted across and repeated it, while Cecil shook his head at wicked Babie.
“I hope you don’t learn nursery rhymes, about phantoms and ghosts, Lina?” said Mrs. Robert Brownlow.
“This is an original poem, Aunt Ellen,” replied Babie, gravely.
“More original than practical,” said John. “You haven’t accounted for the pronoun?”
“Oh, never mind that. Great poets are above rules. I want Essie to promise us bridesmaids blackcock tails in our hats.”
“My dear!” said her aunt, in serious reproof, shocked at the rapidity of the young lady’s ideas.
“Or, at least,” added Babie, “if she won’t, you’ll give us blackcock lockets, Cecil. They would be lovely—you know—enamelled!”
“That I will!” he cried. “And, Mother Carey, will you model me a group of the birds? That would be a jolly present!”
“Better than Esther’s head, eh? I have done that three times, and you shall choose one, Cecil.”
Nothing would serve Cecil but an immediate expedition to the studio, to choose as well as they could by lamp-light.
And during the examination, Mrs. Evelyn managed to say to Caroline, “I’m quite satisfied. She is as bright and childish as you told me.”
“Essie?”
“No, the Infanta.”
“If she is not a little too much so.”
“Oh no, don’t wish any difference in those high spirits!”
“She makes it a cheerful house, dear child; and even Allen has brightened lately.”
“And, Jock? He looks hard-worked, but brisk as ever.”
“He does work very hard in all ways; but he thoroughly enjoys his work, and is as much my sunshine as Babie. There are golden opinions of him in the Medical School; indeed there are of both my Johns.”
“They are quite the foremost of the young men of their year, and carry off most of the distinctions, besides being leaders in influence. So Dr. Medlicott told us,” said Mrs. Evelyn; “and yet he said it was delightful to see how they avoided direct rivalry, or else were perfectly friendly over it.”
“Yes, they avoid, when it is possible, going in for the same things, and indeed I think Jock has more turn for the scientific side of the study, and the Friar for the practical. There is room for them both!”
“And what a contrast they are! What a very handsome fellow John has grown! So tall, and broad, and strong, with that fine colour, and dark eyes as beautiful as his sister’s!”
“More beautiful, I should say,” returned Caroline; “there is so much more intellect in them—raising them out of the regular Kencroft comeliness. True, the great charm of the stalwart Friar, as we call him, is—what his father has in some degree—that quiet composed way that gives one a sense of protection. I think his patients will feel entire trust in his hands. They say at the hospital the poor people always are happy when they see one of the Mr. Brownlows coming, whether it be the big or the little one.”
“Not so very little, except by comparison; and I am glad Jock keeps his soldierly bearing.”
“He is a Volunteer, you know, and very valuable there.”
“But he has not an ounce of superfluous flesh. He puts me in mind of a perfectly polished, finished instrument!”
“That is just what used to be said of his father. Colonel Brownlow says he is the most like my poor young father of all the children.”
“He is the most like you.”
“But he puts me most of all in mind of my husband, in all his ways, and manner; and our old friends tell me that he sets about things exactly like his father, as if it were by imitation. I like to know it is so.”
CHAPTER XXXVI. – OF NO CONSEQUENCE
Fell not, but dangled in mid air,
For from a fissure in the stone
Which lined its sides, a bush had grown,
To this he clung with all his might.
Archbishop Trench.
Lord Fordham made it his most especial and urgent desire that his brother’s wedding, which was to take place before Lent, should be at his home instead of at the lady’s. Otherwise he could not be present, for Kenminster had a character for bleakness, and he was never allowed to travel in an English winter. Besides, he had set his heart on giving one grand festal day to his tenantry, who had never had a day of rejoicing since his great-uncle came of age, forty years ago.
Mrs. Robert Brownlow did not like it at all, either as an anomaly or as a disappointment to the Kenminster world, but her husband was won over, and she was obliged to consent. Mother Carey, with her brood, were of course to be guests, but her difficulty was the leaving Dr. and Mrs. Lucas. The good old physician was failing fast, and they had no kindred near at hand, or capable of being of much comfort to them, and she was considering how to steer between the two calls, when Jock settled it for her, by saying that he did not mean to go to Fordham, and if Mrs. Lucas liked, would sleep in the house. There was much amazement and vexation. He had of course been the first best man thought of, but he fought off, declaring that he could not afford to miss a single lecture or demonstration. Friar John’s University studies had given him such a start that he had to work less hard than his cousin, and could afford himself the week for which he was invited; but Jock declared that he could not even lose the thirty-six hours that Armine was to take for the journey to Fordham and back. Every one declared this nonsense, and even Mrs. Lucas could not bear that he should remain, as she thought, on her account; but his mother did not join in the public outcry, and therefore was admitted to fuller insight, as he was walking back with her, after listening to the old lady’s persuasions.
“I think she would really be better pleased to spare you for that one day,” said Caroline.
“May be, good old soul,” said Jock; “but as you know, mother, that’s not all.”
“I guessed not. It may be wiser.”
“Well! There’s no use in stirring it all up again, after having settled down after a fashion,” said Jock. “I see clearer than ever how hopeless it is to have anything fit to offer a girl in her position for the next ten years, and I must not get myself betrayed into drawing her in to wait for me. I am such an impulsive fool, I don’t know what I might be saying to her, and it would not be a right return for all they have been to me.”
“You will have to meet her in town?”
“Perhaps; but not as if I were in the house and at the wedding. It would just bring back the time when she bade me never give up my sword.”
“Perhaps she is wiser now.”
“That would make it even more likely that I should say what would be better left alone. No, mother! Ten years hence, if—”
She thought of Magnum Bonum, and said, “Sooner, perhaps!”
“No,” he said, laughing. “It is only in the ‘Traveller’s Joy’ that all the bigwigs are out of sight, and the apothecary’s boy saved the Lord Mayor’s life.”
With that laugh, rather a sad one, he inserted the latch-key and ended the discussion.
Whether Barbara were really unwilling to go was not clear, for she had no such excuse as her brother; but she grumbled almost as much as her aunt at the solecism of a wedding in the gentleman’s home; and for the only time in her life showed ill-humour. She was vexed with Esther for her taste in bridesmaid’s attire (hers was given by her uncle); sarcastic to Cecil for his choice of gifts; cross to her mother about every little arrangement as to dress; satirical on Allen’s revival of spirits in prospect of a visit to a great house; annoyed at whatever was done or not done; and so much less tolerant of having little Lina left on her hands, that Aunt Carey became the child’s best reliance.
Some of this temper might be put to the score of that pity for Bobus, which Babie in her caprice had begun to dwell on, most inconsistently with her former gaiety; but her mother attributed it to an unconfessed reluctance to meet Lord Fordham again, and a sense that the light thoughtlessness to which she had clung so long might perforce be at an end.
So sharp-edged was her tongue, even to the moment of embarkation in the train, that her mother began to fear how she might behave, and dreaded lest she should wound Fordham; but she grew more silent all the way down, and when the carriage came to the station, and they drove past banks starred by primroses, and with the blue eyes of periwinkles looking out among the evergreen trailers, she spoke no word. Even Allen brightened to enjoy that lamb-like March day; and John, with his little sister on his knee, was most joyously felicitous. Indeed, the tall, athletic, handsome fellow looked as if it were indeed spring with him, all the more from the contrast with Allen’s languid, sallow looks, savouring of the fumes in which he lived.
Out on the steps were Fordham, wrapped up to the ears; Sydney ready to devour Babie, who passively submitted; and Mrs. Evelyn, as usual, giving her friend a sense of rest and reliance.
The last visit, though only five years previous to this one, had seemed in past ages, till the familiar polished oak floor was under foot, and the low tea-table in the wainscoted hall, before the great wood fire, looked so homelike and natural, that the newcomers felt as if they had only left it yesterday. Fordham, having thrown off his wraps, waited on his guests, looking exceedingly happy in his quiet way, but more fragile than ever. He had a good deal of fair beard, but it could not conceal the hollowness of his cheeks, and there were great caves round his eyes, which were very bright and blue. Yet he was called well, waited assiduously on little Lina, and talked with animation.
“We have nailed the weathercock,” he said, “and telegraphed to the clerk of the weather-office not to let the wind change for a week.”
“Meantime we have three delicious days to ourselves,” said Sydney, “before any of the nonsense and preparation begins.”
“Indeed! As if Sydney were not continually drilling her unfortunate children!”
“If you call the Psalms and hymns nonsense, Duke—”
“No! no! But isn’t there a course of instruction going on, how to strew the flowers gracefully before the bride?”
“Well, I don’t want them thrown at her head, as the children did at the last wedding, when a great cowslip ball hit the bride in the eye. So I told the mistress to show them how, and the other day we found them in two lines, singing—
‘This is the way the flowers we strew!’”
“I suppose Cecil is keeping his residence?”
“No. Did you not know that this little Church of ours is not licensed for weddings? The parish Church is three miles off and a temple of the winds. This is only a chapelry, there is a special licence, and Cecil is hunting with the Hamptons, and comes with them on Monday.”
“Special licence! Happy Mrs. Coffinkey!” ejaculated Babie.
“Everybody comes then,” said Sydney; “not that it is a very large everybody after all, and we have not asked more neighbours than we can help, because it is to be a feast for all the chief tenants—here in this hall—then the poor people dine in the great barn, and the children drink tea later in the school. Come, little Caroline, you’ve done tea, and I have my old baby-house to show you. Come, Babie! Oh! isn’t it delicious to have you?”
When Sydney had carried off Babie, and the two mothers stood over the fire in the bedroom, Mrs. Evelyn said—
“So Lucas stays with his good old godfather. I honour him more than I can show.”
“We did not like to leave the old people alone. They were my kindest friends in my day of trouble.”
“You will not let me press him to run down for the one day, if he cannot leave them for more? Would he, do you think?”
“I believe he would, if you did it,” said Caroline, slowly; “but I ought not let you do so, without knowing his full reason for staying away.”
They both coloured as if they had been their own daughters, and Mrs. Evelyn smiled as she said—
“We have outgrown some of our folly about choice of profession.”
“But does that make it safer? My poor boy has talked it over with me. He says he is afraid of his own impulses, leading him to say what would not be an honourable requital for all your kindness to him.”
“He is very good. I think he is right—quite right,” said Mrs. Evelyn. “I am afraid I must say so. For anything to begin afresh between them might lead to suspense that my child’s constitution might not stand, and I am very grateful to him for sparing her.”
“Afresh? Do you think there ever was anything?”
“Never anything avowed, but a good deal of sympathy. Indeed, so far as I can guess, my foolish girl was first much offended and disquieted with Jock for not listening to her persuasions, and then equally so with herself for having made them, and now I confess I think shame and confusion are predominant with her when she hears of him.”
“So that she is relieved at his absence.”
“Just so, and it is better so to leave it; I should be only too happy to keep her with me waiting for him, only I had rather she did not know it.”
“My dear friend!” And again Caroline thought of Magnum Bonum. All the evening she said to herself that Sydney showed no objection to medical students, when she was looking over the Engelberg photographs with John, who had been far more her companion in the mountain rambles they recalled than had Jock in his half-recovered state.
The mother could not help feeling a little pang of jealousy as she owned to herself that the Friar was a very fine-looking youth, with the air of a university man, and of one used to good society, and that he did look most perilously happy. He was the next thing to her own son, but not quite the same, and she half repented of her candour to Mrs. Evelyn, and wished that the keen, sensitive face and soldierly figure could be there to reassert their influence.
There ensued a cheerful, pleasant Saturday, which did much to restore the ordinary tone between the old friends and to take off the sense of strangeness. It was evident that Lord Fordham had insensibly become much more the real head and master of the house than at the time when the Brownlow party had last been there, and that he had taken on him much more of the duties of his position than he had then seemed capable of fulfilling. It might cost much effort, but he had ceased to be the mere invalid, and had come to take his part thoroughly and effectively, and to win trust and confidence. It was strange to think how Babie could ever have called him a muff merely to be pitied.
The Sundays at Fordham were always delightful. The little Church was as near perfection as might be. It was satisfactory to see that Fordham’s gentleness and courtesy had dispelled all the clouds, and Barbara had returned to her ordinary manner; perhaps a little more sedate and gentle than usual, and towards him she was curiously submissive, as if she had a certain awe of the tenderness she had rejected.
After the short afternoon service, Sydney waited to exercise her choir once more in their musical duties; but Babie, hearing there was to be no rehearsal of the flower-strewing, declared she had enough of classes at home, and should take Lina for a stroll on the sunny terrace among the crocuses, where Fordham joined them till warned that the sun was getting low.
One there was who would have been glad of an invitation to join in the practice, but who did not receive one. John lingered with Allen about the gardens till the latter disposed of himself on a seat with a cigar beyond the public gaze. Then saying something about seeing whether the stream promised well for fishing, John betook himself to the bank of the river, one of the many Avons, probably with a notion that by the merest accident he might be within distance at the break-up of the choir practice.
He was sauntering with would-be indifference towards the foot-bridge that shortened the walk to the Church, but he was still more than one hundred yards from it, when on the opposite side he beheld Sydney herself. She was on the very verge of the stream, below the steep, slippery clay bank, clinging hard with one hand to the bared root of a willow stump, and with the other striving to uphold the head and shoulder of a child, the rest of whose person was in the water.
One cry, one shout passed, then John had torn off coat, boots, and waistcoat, and plunged in to swim across, perceiving to his horror that not only was there imminent danger of the boy’s weight overpowering her, but that the bank, undermined by recent floods, was crumbling under her feet, and the willow-stump fast yielding to the strain on its roots. And while each moment was life or death to her, he found the current unexpectedly strong, and he had to use his utmost efforts to avoid being carried down far below where she stood watching with cramped, strained failing limbs, and eyes of appealing, agonising hope.
One shout of encouragement as he was carried past her, but stemming the current all the time, and at last he paddled back towards her, and came close enough to lay hold of the boy.
“Let go,” he said, “I have him.”
But just as Sydney relaxed her hold on the boy the willow stump gave way and toppled over with an avalanche of clay and stones. Happily Sydney had already unfastened her grasp, and so fell, or threw herself backwards on the bank, scratched, battered, bruised, and feeling half buried for an instant, but struggling up immediately, and shrieking with horror as she missed John and the boy, who had both been swept in by the tree. The next moment she heard a call, and scrambling up the bank, saw John among the reedy pools a little way down, dragging the boy after him.
She dashed and splashed to the spot and helped to drag the child to a drier place, where they all three sank on the grass, the boy, a sturdy fellow of seven years old, lying unconscious, and the other two sitting not a little exhausted, Sydney scarcely less drenched than the child. She was the first to gasp—
“The boy?”
“He’ll soon be all right,” said John, bending over him. “How came—”
“I came suddenly on them—him and his brother—birds’-nesting. In his fright he slipped in. I just caught him, but the other ran away, and I could not pull him up. Oh! if you had not come.”
John hid his face in his hands with a murmur of intense thanksgiving.
“You should get home,” he said. “Can you? I’ll see to the boy.”
At this moment the keeper came up full of wrath and consternation, as soon as he understood what had happened. He was barely withheld from shaking the truant violently back to life, and averred that he would teach him to come birds’-nesting in the park on Sunday.
And when, after he had fetched John’s coat and boots, Sydney bade him take the child, now crying and shivering, back to his mother, and tell her to put him to bed and give him something hot he replied—
“Ay, ma’am, I warrant a good warming would do him no harm. Come on, then, you young rascal; you won’t always find a young lady to pull you out, nor a gentleman to swim across that there Avon. Upon my honour, sir, there ain’t many could have done that when it is in flood.”
He would gladly have escorted them home, but as the boy could not yet stand, he was forced to carry him.
“You should walk fast,” said John, as he and Sydney addressed themselves to the ascent of the steep sloping ground above the river.
She assented, but she was a good deal strained, bruised, and spent, and her heavy winter dress, muddied and soaked, clung to her and held her back, and both laboured breathlessly without making much speed.
“I never guessed that a river was so strong,” she said. “It was like a live thing fighting to tear him away.”
“How long had you stood there?”
“I can’t guess. It felt endless! The boy could not help himself, and I was getting so cramped that I must have let go if your call had not given me just strength enough! And the tree would have come down upon us!”
“I believe it would,” muttered John.
“Mamma must thank you,” whispered Sydney, holding out her hand.
He clasped it, saying almost inwardly—
“God and His Angels were with you.”
“I hope so,” said Sydney softly.
They still held one another’s hands, seeming to need the support in the steep, grassy ascent, and there came a catch in John’s breath that made Sydney cry,
“You are not hurt?”
“That snag gave me a dig in the side, but it is nothing.”
As they gained the level ground, Sydney said—
“We will go in by the servants’ entrance, it will make less fuss.”
“Thank you;” and with a final pressure she loosed his hand, and led the way through the long, flagged, bell-hung passage, and pointed to a stair.
