“No, I bides with granny.”
Julius made no further attempt at disentangling the pedigree but inquired about his employments. Did he go to school?
“When there ain’t nothing to be done.”
“And what can be done by such a mite?” asked Rosamond.
“Tell the lady,” said the Rector; “what work can you do?”
“Bird-starving.”
“Well!”
“And stoon-picking, and cow-herding, and odd jobs up at Farmer Light’s; but they won’t take I on for a carter-boy not yet ’cause I bean’t not so lusty as some on ’em.”
“Have you learnt to read?”
“Oh yes, very nicely,” interposed Miss Vivian.
“Did you teach him?” said Rosamond.
“No! He could read well before I came to the place. I have only been at home six weeks, you know, and I did not know I was poaching on your manor,” she addedsotto voceto Julius, who could not but answer with warm thanks.
It was discovered that the rain had set in for the night, and an amicable contest ensued between the ladies as to shawl and umbrella, each declaring her dress unspoilable, till it ended in Eleonora having the shawl, and both agreeing to share the umbrella as far as the Sirenwood lodge.
However, the umbrella refused to open, and had to be given to the boy, who set his teeth into an extraordinary grin, and so dealt with the brazen gear as to expand a magnificent green vault, with a lesser leathern arctic zone round the pole; but when he had handed it to Miss Vivian, and she had linked her arm in Lady Rosamond’s, it proved too mighty for her, tugged like a restive horse, and would fairly have run away with her, but for Rosamond’s holding her fast.
“Lost!” they cried. “Two ladies carried away by an umbrella!”
“Here, Julius, no one can grapple with it but you,” called Rosamond.
“I really think it’s alive!” panted Eleonora, drawn up to her tip-toes before she could hand it to Julius, who, with both clinging to his arm, conducted them at last to the lodge, where Julius could only come in as far as it would let him, since it could neither be let down nor left to itself to fly to unknown regions.
A keeper with a more manageable article undertook to convey Miss Vivian home across the park; and with a pleasant farewell, husband and wife plodded their way home, along paths the mud of which could not be seen, only heard and felt; and when Rosamond, in the light of the hall, discovered the extent of the splashes, she had to leave Julius still contending with the umbrella; and when, in spite of the united efforts of the butler and footman, it still refused to come down, it was consigned to an empty coach-house, with orders that little Joe should have a shilling to bring it down and fetch it home in the morning!
My friends would be angered,My minnie be mad.—Scots Song
My friends would be angered,My minnie be mad.—Scots Song
“Whom do you think we met, mother?” said Julius, coming into her room, so soon as he had made his evening toilette, and finding there only his two younger brothers. “No other than Miss Vivian.”
“Ah! then,” broke in Charlie, “you saw what Jenkins calls the perfect picture of a woman.”
“She is very handsome,” soberly returned Julius. “Rose is quite delighted with her. Do you know anything of her?”
“Jenny Bowater was very fond of poor Emily,” rejoined the mother. “I believe that she had a very good governess, but I wish she were in better hands now.”
“I cannot think why there should be a universal prejudice for the sake of one early offence!” exclaimed Frank.
“Oh, indeed!” said Julius, amazed at such a tone to his mother.
“I only meant—mother, I beg your pardon—but you are only going by hearsay,” answered Frank, in some confusion.
“Then you have not seen her?” said Julius.
“I! I’m the last person she is likely to seek, if you mean Camilla.”
“She inquired a great deal after you, mother,” interposed Frank, “and said she longed to call, only she did not know if you could see her. I do hope you will, when she calls on Cecil. I am sure you would think differently. Promise me, mother!”
“If she asks for me, I will, my boy,” said Mrs. Poynsett, “but let me look! You aren’t dressed for dinner! What will Mistress Cecil say to you! Ah! it is time you had ladies about the house again.”
The two youths retreated; and Julius remained, looking anxiously and expressively at his mother.
“I am afraid so,” she said; “but I had almost rather he were honestly smitten with the young one than that he believed in Camilla.”
“I should think no one could long do that,” said Julius.
“I don’t know. He met them when he was nursing that poor young Scotsman at Rockpier, and got fascinated. He has never been quite the same since that time!” said the mother anxiously. “I don’t blame him, poor fellow!” she added eagerly, “or mean that he has been a bit less satisfactory—oh no! Indeed, it may be my fault for expressing my objection too’ plainly; he has always been reserved with me since, and I never lost the confidence of one of my boys before!”
That Julius knew full well, for he—as the next eldest at home—had been the recipient of all his mother’s perplexities at the time of Raymond’s courtship. Mrs. Poynsett had not been a woman of intimate female friends. Her sons had served the purpose, and this was perhaps one great element in her almost unbounded influence with them. Julius was deeply concerned to see her eyes glistening with tears as she spoke of the cloud that had risen between her and Frank.
“There is great hope that this younger one may be worthy,” he said. “She has had a very different bringing up from her sister, and I did not tell you what I found her doing. She was teaching a little pig-herd boy to draw.”
“Ah! I heard Lady Tyrrell was taking to the education of the people line.”
“I want to know who the boy is,” said Julius. “He called himself Reynolds, and said he lived with granny, but was not a son of Daniel’s or Timothy’s. He seemed about ten years old.”
“Reynolds? Then I know who he must be. Don’t you remember a pretty-looking girl we had in the nursery in Charlie’s time? His ‘Fan-fan’ he used to call her.”
“Ah, yes, I remember; she was a Reynolds, for both the little boys could be excited to fury if we assumed that she was a fox. You don’t mean that she went wrong?”
“Not till after she had left us, and seemed to be doing well in another place; but unfortunately she was allowed to have a holiday in the race week, and a day at the course seems to have done the mischief. Susan can tell you all about it, if you want to know. She was as broken-hearted as if Fanny had been her own child—much more than the old mother herself, I fear.”
“What has become of the girl?”
“Gone from bad to worse. Alas! I heard a report that she had been seen with some of the people who appear on the race-course with those gambling shooting-galleries, or something of that sort.”
“Ah! those miserable races! They are the bane of the country. I wish no one would go near them.”
“They are a very pleasant county gathering.”
“To you, mother, and such as you; but you could have your county meeting without doing quite so much harm. If Raymond would only withdraw his subscription.”
“It would be as much as his seat is worth! Those races are the one great event of Wil’sbro’ and Backsworth, the harvest of all the tradespeople. Besides, you know what is said of their expedience as far as horses are concerned.”
“I would sacrifice the breed of horses to prevent the evils,” said Julius.
“Youwould, but—My boy, I suppose this is the right view for a clergyman, but it will never do to force it here. You will lose all influence if you are over-strained.”
“Was St. Chrysostom over-strained about the hippodrome?” said Julius, thoughtfully.
Mrs. Poynsett looked at him as he leant upon the chimney-piece. Here was another son gone, in a different way, beyond her reach. She had seen comparatively little of him since his University days; and though always a good and conscientious person, there had been nothing to draw her out of secular modes of thought; nor had she any connection with the clerical world, so that she had not, as it were, gone along with the tone of mind that she had perceived in him.
He did not return to the subject, and they were soon joined by his elder brother. At the first opportunity after dinner, Frank got Rosamond up into a corner with a would-be indifferent “So you met Miss Vivian. What did you think of her?”
Rosamond’s intuition saw what she was required to think, and being experienced in raving brothers, she praised the fine face and figure so as to find the way to his heart.
“I am so glad you met her in that way. Even Julius must be convinced. Was not he delighted?”
“I think she grew upon him.”
“And now neither of you will be warped. It is so very strange in my mother, generally the kindest, most open-hearted woman in the world, to distrust and bear a grudge against them all for the son’s dissipation—just as if that affected the ladies of a family!”
“I did not think it was entirely on his account,” said Rosamond.
“Old stories of flirtation!” said Frank, scornfully; “but what are they to be cast up against a woman in her widowhood? It is so utterly unlike mother, I can’t understand it.”
“Would not the natural conclusion be that she knew more, and had her reasons?”
“I tell you, Rosamond, I know them infinitely better than she does. She never saw them since Lady Tyrrell’s marriage, when Eleonora was a mere child; now I saw a great deal of them at Rockpier last year. There was poor Jamie Armstrong sent down to spend the winter on the south coast; and as none of his own people could be with him, we—his Oxford friends, I mean—took turns to come to him; and as I had just gone up for my degree, I had the most time. The Vivians had been living there ever since they went on poor Emily’s account. They did not like to leave the place where she died you see; and Lady Tyrrell had joined them after her husband’s death. Such a pleasant house! no regular gaieties, of course, but a few friends in a quiet way—music and charades, and so forth. Every one knew everybody there; not a bit of our stiff county ways, but meeting all day long in the most sociable manner.”
“Oh yes, I know the style of place.”
“One gets better acquainted in a week than one does in seven years in a place like this,” proceeded Frank. “And you may tell Julius to ask any of the clerics if Lenore was not a perfect darling with the Vicar and his wife, and her sister too; and Rockpier is a regular tip-top place for Church, you know. I’m sure it was enough to make a fellow good for life, just to see Eleonora walking up the aisle with that sweet face of hers, looking more like heaven than earth.”
Rosamond made reply enough to set him off again. “Lady Tyrrell would have been content to stay there for ever, she told me, but she thought it too confined a range for Eleonora; there was no formation of character, though I don’t see how it could have formed better; but Lady Tyrrell is a thoroughly careful motherly sister, and thought it right she should see a little of the world. So they broke up from Rockpier, and spent a year abroad; and now Lady Tyrrell is making great sacrifices to enable her father to come and live at home again. I must say it would be more neighbourly to welcome them a little more kindly!”
“I should think such agreeable people were sure to win their way.”
“Ah! you don’t know how impervious our style of old squire and squiress can be! If even mother is not superior to the old prejudice, who will be? And it isveryhard on a fellow; for three parts of my time is taken up by this eternal cramming—I should have no heart for it but for her—and I can’t be going over to Sirenwood as I used to go to Rockpier, while my mother vexes herself about it, in her state. If she were up and about I should not mind, or she would know better; but what can they—Lenore, I mean—think of me, but that I am as bad as the rest?”
“Do you mean that anything has passed between you?”
“No, not with Lenore. Her sister spoke to me, and said it was not right when she had seen nothing but Rockpier; but she as good as promised to stand my friend. And when I get to the office, in two years, I shall have quite enough to begin upon, with what my mother allows us.”
“Then you hope she will wait for that?”
“I feel sure of it—that is, if she is not annoyed by this abominable usage from my family. Oh! Rosamond, you will help us when you get into your own house, and you will get Julius to see it in a proper light. Mother trusts to him almost as much as to Raymond; but it is our misfortune to be so much younger that she can’t believe us grown up.”
“O, Frank,” said Charlie, coming in, “here’s Price come up about the puppies.—What, Rosamond, has he got hold of you? What a blessing for me! but I pity you.”
Frank and Charlie went off together; and Julius was in the act of begging Cecil to illuminate a notice of the services, to be framed and put into the church porch, when Raymond came in from the other room to make up a whist-table for his mother. Rosamond gladly responded; but there was a slight accent of contempt in Cecil’s voice, as she replied, “I never played a game at cards in my life.”
“They are a great resource to my mother,” said Raymond. “Anne, you are too tired to play?—No, Julius, the pack is not there; look in the drawer of the chiffonier.”
Julius handed the list he had been jotting down to Cecil, and followed his brother, with his hands full of cards, unconscious of the expression of dismay, almost horror, with which Anne was gazing after him.
“Oh! let us be resolute!” she cried, as soon as the door was shut. “Do not let us touch the evil thing!”
“Cards?” said Cecil. “If Mrs. Poynsett cannot be amused without them, I suppose we shall have to learn. I always heard she was such an intellectual woman.”
“But we ought to resist sin, however painful it may be,” said Anne, gathering strength; “nay, even if a minister sets the example of defection.”
“You think it wicked,” said Cecil. “Oh no, it is stupid and silly, and an absurd waste of time, but no more.”
“Yes, it is,” said Anne. “Cards are the bane of thousands.”
“Oh yes, gambling and all that; but to play in the evening to amuse an invalid can have no harm in it.”
“An invalid and aged woman ought to have her mind set upon better things,” said Anne. “I shall not withdraw my testimony, and I hope you will not.”
“I don’t know,” said Cecil. “You see I am expected to attend to Mrs. Poynsett; and I have seen whist at Dunstone when any dull old person came there. What a troublesome crooked hand Julius writes—just like Greek! What’s all this? So many services—four on Sunday, two every day, three on Wednesdays and Fridays! We never had anything like this at Dunstone.”
“It is very superstitious,” said Anne.
“Very superfluous, I should say,” amended Cecil. “I am sure my father would consent to nothing of the kind. I shall speak to Raymond about it.”
“Yes,” said Anne; “it does seem terrible that a minister should try to make up for worldly amusements by a quantity of vain ceremonies.”
“I wish you would not call him a minister, it sounds like a dissenter.”
“I think ministers their best name, except pastors.”
“Both are horrid alike,” said Cecil. “I shall teach all the people to call Julius the Rector. That’s better than Mr. Charnock—what Raymond ought to be.”
Anne was struck dumb at this fearful display of worldliness; and Cecil betook herself to the piano, but the moment her husband appeared she showed him the list.
“He has cut out plenty of work,” said Raymond, “but three of them must want a field for their energies.”
“It is preposterous. I want you to speak to him about it.”
“You are not expected to go to them all,” Raymond made answer.
“Then there’s no sense in having them,” responded Cecil. “Evening services are very bad for the people, bringing them out late. You ought to tell him so.”
“He is Rector, and I am not,” said Raymond.
“Mr. Venn did nothing without papa’s consent,” exclaimed
“My dear Cecil, don’t let your loyalty make a Harry the Eighth of your father,” said Raymond; “the clergyman ought to be a free agent.”
“You don’t approve?”
“I don’t approve or disapprove. It is not a matter I know anything about.”
“But I assure you it has been all thought over at Dunstone.”
“Come, my mother wants to go to bed, and you are keeping her waiting.”
Cecil was silenced for the moment, but not daunted; for was it not the foremost duty of the lady of the manor to keep the clergyman in order, more especially when he was her own husband’s younger brother? so she met her brother-in-law with “Julius, when I undertook that notice, I had no notion you were going to have so many services.”
“Is there more than you have time to paint? Then Bindon can do it, or Jenny Bowater.”
“No! it is not time or trouble; but I do not think such a number of services desirable.”
“Indeed!” said he, looking amused.
“Yes. An over number of services frequented by no one only brings the Church into contempt. I heard papa say so. We only had regular Sunday and Saint’s Day services, and I am sure Dunstone was quite as religious a place as there is any need to be.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Julius, an odd look flickering about his face; “but as I am afraid Compton is not as religious a place as there is need to be, I must try, by your leave, all means of making it so. Good night.”
He was gone, and Cecil was not sure that he had not presumed to laugh at her.
Strangers in court do take her for the queen.—Shakespeare
Strangers in court do take her for the queen.—Shakespeare
The first Sunday of Julius Charnock’s ministry was spent in an unexpected manner. In the darkness of the autumn morning there was a knock at the door, and a low hurried call in Anne’s voice at the bedroom door: “Rosamond! Julius, pray look out! Isn’t there a great fire somewhere?”
“Fire! Here?” cried Rosamond, springing up.
“No, not here. A great way off. You could beat it back.”
Rosamond had by this time rushed to the window which looked out the wrong way, found her dressing-gown, and scrambled into it in the dark ere joining Anne in the gallery, from the end window of which the lurid light in the sky, with an occasional flame leaping up, was plainly visible. When Julius joined them he declared it to be at Willansborough, and set off to call up the coachman and despatch the fire-engine, his wife calling after him to send for the soldiers at Backsworth.
Frank and Charlie came rushing down in gratified excitement, declaring that it was tremendous—the church at least—and exulting in the attainment of their life-long ambition, the riding out on the fire-engine. Servants bustled about, exclaiming, tramping, or whisking on the stairs; and Raymond presently appeared to ask whether his mother were ill, and, when reassured on that score, hurrying to ascertain whether she were alarmed, before he started for the scene of action.
“Let me come and stay with her,” said Rosamond, a striking figure, in a scarlet dressing-gown, with a thick plait of black hair hanging down to her waist on either side.
“Thank you, it will be very kind,” said Raymond, running down before her, and meeting Susan waddling out in a fringe of curl-papers, for some mysterious instinct or echo had conveyed to her and her mistress that there was fire somewhere—perhaps at home. Mrs. Poynsett was not a nervous woman, and from the time she saw her eldest son come in, all fright was over, and she could have borne to hear that the house over her head was burning, in the perfect trust that he would save her from all peril; nor had he any difficulty in committing her to Rosamond, when he hurried away to finish dressing and repair to the spot.
Nothing could be seen from her room, but the little ante-room between it and the drawing-room had an excellent view, as the ground fell away from it, and there was an opening among the trees.
“We must get you there!” exclaimed Rosamond, in her excitement, helping her into some garments, and then running out as she heard a step—“Here, Julius, help me;” and without more ado, the mother was transported between them to the broad low couch under the window, and there bestowed in a nest of pillows, shawls, and rugs, that seemed to grow up under Rosamond’s touch.
Then following Julius out into the hall as he met his brother, Rosamond clung to him, entreating, “Please, please don’t run into any dangerous places.”
“Never fear, dearest; I am not likely.”
“Don’t let him, pray!” she said, turning to Raymond. “Make him remember how blind he is.”
“I’ll take good care of him, Rosamond,” said the elder brother kindly; “I’m used to it.”
“And send for the ---th,” she added. “There is nothing like soldiers at a fire.”
“The glare must have given notice,” said Julius, “but we’ll send if needful. Let go, you foolish girl; I’m not leading a forlorn hope.”
Did Raymond, as he mounted his horse, turning from the contact of the white and black heads, admire the reasonableness of the Cecil who had never shown any fears for his safety, nor any tendency to run about the passages in herrobe de chambre, though she was now dressing with all speed?
The women-folk had to depend on their own eyes for intelligence, for every male, not only of the household but of the village, between the ages of five and seventy, started for Wil’sbro’, and a good many females followed their example, including the cook and her suite.
However, Susan remained, to find her mistress flown, and in her fright, give Lady Rosamond as round a scolding as if she had been Charlie, for her rashness in attempting a transit, which Dr. Hayter had pronounced to be as much as her mistress’s life was worth. Having thus relieved her mind, and finding that Mrs. Poynsett was really very comfortable, or else too eager and anxious to find out if she was not, the good woman applied herself to the making of coffee.
Anne and Cecil had found their way to the leads, and were thence summoned to partake of this hasty meal, after which they proposed going to look from the brow of the hill; and Mrs. Poynsett insisted that Rosamond should not stay behind on her account; and, glad to appease the restlessness of anxiety, out went the ladies, to find the best view of the town,—usually a white object in the distance, but now blurred by smoke thick and black in the daylight, and now and then reddened by bursts of flame.
Anne had been reassured as to the need of beating out the fire and trampling down a place to isolate it, as in the bush-fires of her experience; and Rosamond related the achievements of the regiment in quenching many a conflagration in inflammable colonial cities.
It occurred to her that the best place whence to see it was the tower of the church, which, placed upon a little knoll, was standing out in full relief against the lurid light. She found the key at the sexton’s, and led the way up the broken stone stair to the trap-door, where they emerged on the leads, and, in spite of the cold wind and furious flapping of the flag above their heads, stood absorbed in the interest of the sight.
There was a black mass in the open space, whence rose fitful clouds of smoke, the remnants of the fire, which had there done its worst; and beyond was a smoky undefined outline, with tongues of flame darting up, then volumes of dense white smoke, denoting a rush of water from the engines. Black beings flitted about like ants round a disturbed nest; Rosamond hoped she detected some scarlet among them, and Cecil lamented over not having brought her opera-glass. Even without this, it was possible to make out two long lines of men between the fire and the river, and at times they fancied they heard the shouting, but the wind generally carried it away. The cold was bitter, and they had to hold together and keep a tight grip upon their garments against the gusts that seemed to rock the tower; but they could not bear to turn away, though the clock beneath pealed out hour after hour; for still, as the flames were subdued in one place they broke out in another; but gradually smoke became predominant, and then grew thinner, and as some of the black specks began to straggle into the road as if returning to Compton, the desire to hear became more pressing than that to see, and the three ladies began to descend—a slow and weary process, cutting them off from the view, and lasting so long, that the road was no longer deserted when they finally emerged into the churchyard.
Young Mr. Bowater, grimed, dusty, hatless, and his hair on end, and Rollo following with his feathery tail singed, hurried up at once. “I’m not fit to touch, Lady Rosamond,” as he showed a black hand, and bowed to the others.
“Where’s Ju—where’s my husband?” exclaimed Rosamond.
“Just behind, riding home with Raymond and the rest of them. Wasn’t it a magnificent flare-up? But there was no loss of life; and this dog was of as much use as two men—carried whatever I told him.”
“Good old man! You’ve suffered too!” said Rosamond. “Pah! you’re like a singed horse; but never mind, you’re a hero.”
“And where is Mr. Charnock Poynsett?” said Cecil, retreating from the dog, which her sisters-in-law were vehemently patting.
“He was arranging with the mayor. Church, paper-mills, and town-hall got the worst of it. It was well he came down; old Briggs, the mayor, lost his head, and Fuller never had one. Every one gave contrary orders till he came down, and then, didn’t we work!”
The curate stretched his stalwart limbs, as if they were becoming sensible of the strain they had undergone.
“Did you say the church was burnt?” asked Cecil.
“Yes; and a very good thing too! Hideous place, where you couldn’t do right if you died for it! The fire began there—stoves no doubt—and there it would have stopped if any one had had any sense; but there they would run and gape, and the more I tried to get them to form a chain and drench the warehouses, the more they wouldn’t do it. And when the flame once got hold of the paper—did you see it?—it was not a thing to forget. I verily believe the whole town would have gone if the Charnocks hadn’t come and got a little discipline into the asses. It was just life and death work, fighting the fire to hinder it from getting across Water Lane, and then it would have been all up with High Street. The tongues broke out like live things ready to lick up everything; and it was like killing dragons to go at them with the hose and buckets. I declare my arms are fit to drop out of their sockets. And the Rector devoted himself to carrying out bed-ridden old women. I forgot to tell you, Lady Rosamond, he has broken his—There now, I never meant to frighten you—broken his spectacles.”
“You did it on purpose,” she said, laughing at her own start.
“No, indeed, I did not.”
“And is it quite out now?”
“Yes; when the Backsworth engines and the soldiers came up, it was like the Prussians at Waterloo.”
“Oh, then it was done,” said Rosamond. “Take care! my grandfather was in the Light Division.”
“And my uncle in the Guards,” said the curate. But before the Waterloo controversy could be pursued, four or five figures on horseback came round the knoll, and Raymond and Julius sprang off their horses, introducing the three officers who followed their example.
One was Rosamond’s old acquaintance, the Colonel, a friend of her father; but she had little attention to spare for them till she had surveyed her husband, who looked nothing worse than exceedingly dusty, and at fault without his spectacles.
Inquiries were made for Frank and Charlie. They were walking home. They had worked gallantly. The flames were extinguished, but the engines must go on playing on them for some time longer. No lives lost, and very few casualties, but the paper-mills were entirely destroyed, and about twenty tenements, so that great distress was to be apprehended.
Such intelligence was being communicated as the party stood together in a group, when there was a light tinkling of bells, and two ladies in a light open carriage, drawn by two spirited ponies, dashed round the knoll; and at the moment something must have gone wrong with them, for there was a start, a pull, a call of “Raymond! Raymond!”
Throwing his bridle to Herbert Bowater, he sprang to the horses’ heads.
“Mr. Poynsett! Thank you! I beg your pardon,” said the lady, recovering herself; and Rosamond instantly perceived that she must be Lady Tyrrell, for she was young-looking, very handsome, and in slight mourning; and her companion was Miss Vivian. Julius, holding his surviving glass to his eye, likewise stepped forward. “Thank you, it was so stupid,” the lady ran on. “Is not there something wrong with the traces? I don’t know how they got themselves harnessed, but there was no keeping at home.”
“I think all is right,” said Raymond, gravely, making the examination over to a servant. “Let me introduce my wife, Lady Tyrrell.”
The lady held out her hand. “I hope we shall be excellent neighbours.—My sister.—You remember little Lena,” she added to the brothers. “She stole a march on us, I find. I heard of your encounter on Friday. It was too bad of you not to come in and let us send you home; I hope you did not get very wet, Lady Rosamond.—Ah! Mr. Strangeways, I did not know you were there,” she proceeded, as the youngest of the officers accosted her; “come over and see us. You’re better provided now; but come to luncheon any day. I am sure to be at home at half-past one; and I want so much to hear of your mother and sisters.” And with a universal bow and smile she nourished her whip, her ponies jangled their bells, and the ladies vanished.
“Stunning pair that!” was young Strangeways’ exclamation.
“Most beautiful!” murmured Cecil, in a low voice, as if she was quite dazzled. “You never said she was like that,” she added reproachfully to Julius.
“Our encounter was in the dark,” he answered.
“Oh, I did not mean the young one, but Lady Tyrrell. She is just like a gem we saw at Firenze—which was it?”
“Where?” said Raymond, bewildered.
“Firenze—Florence,” she said, deigning to translate; and finding her own reply. “Ah, yes, the Medusa!” then, as more than one exclaimed in indignant dismay, she said, “No, not the Gorgon, but the beautiful winged head, with only two serpents on the brow and one coiled round the neck, and the pensive melancholy face.”
“I know,” said Julius, shortly; while the other gentlemen entered into an argument, some defending the beauty of the younger sister, some of the elder; and it lasted till they entered the park, where all were glad to partake of their well-earned meal, most of the gentlemen having been at work since dawn without sustenance, except a pull at the beer served out to the firemen.
Cecil was not at all shy, and was pleased to take her place as representative lady of the house; but somehow, though every one was civil and attentive to her, she found herself effaced by the more full-blown Rosamond, accustomed to the same world as the guests; and she could not help feeling the same sense of depression as when she had to yield the head of her father’s table to her step-mother.
Nor could she have that going to church for the first time in state with her bridegroom she had professed to dread, but had really anticipated with complacency; for though Julius had bidden the bells to be rung for afternoon service, Raymond was obliged to go back to Wil’sbro’ to make arrangements for the burnt-out families, and she had to go as lonely as Anne herself.
Lady Tyrrell and her sister were both at Compton Church, and overtook the three sisters-in-law as they were waiting to be joined by the Rector.
“We shall have to take shelter with you,” said Lady Tyrrell, “poor burnt-out beings that we are.”
“Do you belong to Wil’sbro’?” said Rosamond.
“Yes; St. Nicholas is an immense straggling parish, going four miles along the river. I don’t know how we shall ever be able to go back again to poor old Mr. Fuller. You’ll never get rid of us from Compton.”
“I suppose they will set about rebuilding the church at once,” said Cecil. “Of course they will form a committee, and put my husband on it.”
“In the chair, no doubt,” said Lady Tyrrell, in a tone that sounded to Rosamond sarcastic, but which evidently gratified Cecil. “But we will have a committee of our own, and you will have to preside, and patronize our bazaar. Of course you know all about them.”
“Oh yes!” said Cecil, eagerly. “We have one every year for the Infirmary, only my father did not approve of my selling at a stall.”
“Ah! quite right then, but you are a married woman now, and that is quite a different thing. The stall of the three brides. What an attraction! I shall come and talk about it when I make my call in full form! Good-bye again.”
Cecil’s balance was more than restored by this entire recognition to be prime lady-patroness of everything. To add to her satisfaction, when her husband came home to dinner, bringing with him both the curates, she found there was to be a meeting on Tuesday in the Assembly-room, of both sexes, to consider of the relief of the work-people, and that he would be glad to take her to it. Moreover, as it was to be strictly local, Rosamond was not needed there, though Raymond was not equally clear as to the Rector, since he believed that the St. Nicholas parishioners meant to ask the loan of Compton Poynsett Church for one service on a Sunday.
“Then I shall keep out of the way,” said Julius. “I do not want to have the request made to me in public.”
“You do not mean to refuse?” said Cecil, with a sort of self-identification with her constituents.
“The people are welcome to attend as many of our services as they like; but there is no hour that I could give the church up to Mr. Fuller on a Sunday.”
“Nor would the use of St. Nicholas be very edifying for our people,” added Mr. Bindon.
His junior clenched it by saying with a laugh, “I should think not! Fancy old Fuller’s rusty black gown up in our pulpit!”
“I rejoice to say that is burnt,” rejoined Mr. Bindon.
“What bet will you take that a new one will be the first thing subscribed for?” said the deacon, bringing a certain grave look on the faces of both the elder clergy, and a horror-stricken one upon Anne’s; while Cecil pronounced her inevitable dictum, that at Dunstone Mr. Venn always preached in a gown, and “we” should never let him think of anything nonsensical.
Rosamond was provoked into a display of her solitary bit of ecclesiastical knowledge—“A friar’s gown, the most Popish vestment in the church.”
Cecil, thoroughly angered, flushed up to the eyes and bit her lips, unable to find a reply, while all the gentlemen laughed. Frank asked if it were really so, and Mr. Bindon made the well-known explanation that the Geneva gown was neither more nor less than the monk’s frock.
“I shall write and ask Mr. Venn,” gasped Cecil; but her husband stifled the sound by saying, “I saw little Pettitt, Julius, this afternoon, overwhelmed with gratitude to you for all the care you took of his old mother, and all his waxen busts.”
“Ah! by the bye!” said Charlie, “I did meet the Rector staggering out, with the fascinating lady with the long eyelashes in one arm, and the moustached hero in the other.”
“There was no pacifying the old lady without,” said Julius. “I had just coaxed her to the door, when she fell to wringing her hands. Ah! those lovely models, that were worth thirty shillings each, with natural hair—that they should be destroyed! If the heat or the water did but come near them, Adolphus would never get over it. I could only pacify her by promising to go back for these idols of his heart as soon as she was safe; and after all, I had to dash at them through the glass, and that was the end of my spectacles.”
“Where was Pettitt himself?”
“Well employed, poor little fellow, saving the people in those three cottages of his. No one supposed his shop in danger, but the fire took a sudden freak and came down Long Street; and though the house is standing, it had to be emptied and deluged with water to save it. I never knew Pettitt had a mother till I found her mounting guard, like one distracted, over her son’s bottles of perfumery.”
“And dyes?” murmured Raymond under his breath; but Frank caught the sound, and said, “Ah, Julius! don’t I remember his inveigling you into coming out with scarlet hair?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen him since,” said Julius, laughing. “I believe he couldn’t resist such an opportunity of practising his art. And for my part, I must say for myself, that it was in our first holidays, and Raymond and Miles had been black and blue the whole half-year from having fought my battles whenever I was called either ‘Bunny’ or ‘Grandfather.’ So when he assured me he could turn my hair to as sweet a raven-black as Master Poynsett’s, I thought it would be pleasing to all, forgetting that he could not dye my eyes, and that their effect would have been some degrees more comical.”
“For shame, Julius!” said Rosamond. “Don’t you know that one afternoon, when Nora had cried for forty minutes over her sum, she declared that she wanted to make her eyes as beautiful as Mr. Charnock’s. Well, what was the effect?”
“Startling,” said Raymond. “He came down in shades of every kind of crimson and scarlet. A fearful object, with his pink-and-white face glowing under it.”
“And what I had to undergo from Susan!” added Julius. “She washed me, and soaped me, and rubbed me, till I felt as if all the threshing-machines in the county were about my head, lecturing me all the time on the profanity of flying against Scripture by trying to alter one’s hair from what Providence had made it. Nothing would do; her soap only turned it into shades of lemon and primrose. I was fain to let her shave my head as if I had a brain fever; and I was so horribly ashamed for years after, that I don’t think I have set foot in Long Street since till to-day.”
“Pettitt is a queer little fellow,” said Herbert. “The most truculent little Radical to hear him talk, and yet staunch in his votes, for he can’t go against those whose hair he has cut off from time immemorial.”
“I hope he has not lost much,” said Julius.
“His tenements are down, but they were insured; and as to his stock, he says he owes its safety entirely to you, Julius. I think he would present you with both his models as a testimonial, if you could only take them,” said Raymond.
Cecil had neither spoken nor laughed through all this. She was nursing her wrath; and after marching out of the dining-room, lay in wait to intercept her husband, and when she had claimed his attention, began, “Rosamond ought not to be allowed to say such things.”
“What things?”
“Speaking in that improper way about a gown.”
“She seems to have said what was the fact.”
“It can’t be! It is preposterous! I never heard it before.”
“Nor I; but Bindon evidently is up in those matters.”
“It was only to support Rosamond; and I am quite sure she said it out of mere opposition to me. You ought to speak to Julius.”
“About what?” said Raymond.
“Her laughing whenever I mention Dunstone, and tell them the proper way of doing things.”
“There may be different opinions about the proper way of doing things.” Then as she opened her eyes in wonder and rebuke, he continued, in his elder-brotherly tone of kindness, “You know I told you already that you had better not interfere in matters concerning his church and parish.”
“We always managed things at Dunstone.”
Hang Dunstone! was with some difficulty suppressed; but in an extra gentle voice Raymond said, “Your father did what he thought his duty, but I do not think it mine, nor yours, to direct Julius in clerical matters. It can only lead to disputes, and I will not have them.”
“It is Rosamond. I’m sure I don’t dispute.”
“Listen, Cecil!” he said. “I can see that your position may be trying, in these close quarters with a younger brother’s wife with more age and rank than yourself.”
“That is nothing. An Irish earl, and a Charnock of Dunstone!”
“Dunstone will be more respected if you keep it in the background,” he said, holding in stronger words with great difficulty. “Once for all, you have your own place and duties, and Rosamond has hers. If you meddle in them, nothing but annoyance can come of it; and remember, I cannot be appealed to in questions between you and her. Julius and I have gone on these nine-and-twenty years without a cloud between us, and I’m sure you would not wish to bring one now.”
Wherewith he left her bewildered. She did not perceive that he was too impartial for a lover, but she had a general sense that she had come into a rebellious world, where Dunstone and Dunstone’s daughter were of no account, and her most cherished notions disputed. What was the lady of the manor to do but to superintend the church, parsonage, and parish generally? Not her duty? She had never heard of such a thing, nor did she credit it. Papa would come home, make these degenerate Charnocks hear reason, and set all to rights.
Young Mrs. Charnock Poynsett had plenty of elasticity, and her rebuffs were less present to her mind in the morning than to that of her husband, who had been really concerned to have to inflict an expostulation; and he was doubly kind, almost deferential, giving the admiration and attention he felt incumbent on him to the tasteful arrangements of her wedding presents in her own sitting-room.
“And this clock I am going to have in the drawing-room, and these Salviati glasses. Then, when I have moved out the piano, I shall put the sofa in its place, and my own little table, with my pretty Florentine ornaments.”
Raymond again looked annoyed. “Have you spoken to my mother?” he said.
“No; she never goes there.”
“Not now, but if ever she can bear any move it will be her first change, and I should not like to interfere with her arrangements.”
“She could never have been a musician, to let the piano stand against the wall. I shall never be able to play.”
“Perhaps that might be contrived,” said Raymond, kindly. “Hereyou know is your own domain, where you can do as you please.”
“Yes; but I am expected to play in the evening. Look at all those things. I had kept the choicest for the drawing-room, and it is such a pity to hide them all up here.”
Raymond felt for the mortification, and was unwilling to cross her again, so he said, “I will ask whether my mother would object to having the piano moved.”
“This morning?”
“After eleven o’clock—I never disturb her sooner; but you shall hear before I go to Backsworth.”
“An hour lost,” thought Cecil; but she was too well bred to grumble, and she had her great work to carry on of copying and illustrating her journal.
Mrs. Poynsett readily consented. “Oh yes, my dear, let her do whatever she likes. Don’t let me be a bugbear. A girl is never at home till she has had her will of the furniture. I think she will find that moving out the piano betrays the fading of the rest of the paper, but that is her affair. She is free to do just as she likes. I dare say the place does look antediluvian to young eyes.”
So Raymond was the bearer of his mother’s full permission; and Cecil presided with great energy over the alterations, which she carried out by the aid of the younger servants, to the great disgust of their seniors. She expected the acclamations of her contemporaries; but it happened that the first of them to cross the room was Julius, on his way to his mother’s room after luncheon, and he, having on a pair of make-shift glasses, till the right kind could be procured from London, was unprepared for obstacles in familiar regions, stumbled over an ottoman, and upset a table with the breakage of a vase.
He apologized, with much regret; but the younger brothers made an outcry. “What has come to the place? Here’s the table all over everything!”
“And where are the bronzes?”
“And the humming-birds? Miles’s birds, that he brought home after his first voyage.”
“And the clock with the two jolly little Cupids? Don’t you remember Miles and Will Bowater dressing them up for men-of-war’s men? Mother could not bring herself to have them undressed for a year, and all the time the clock struck nohow!”
“This is an anatomical study instead of a clock,” lamented Frank. “I say, Cecil, do you like your friends to sit in their bones, like Sydney Smith?”
“I never saw such a stupid old set of conservatives!” broke in Rosamond, feeling for Cecil’s mortification. “In an unprejudiced eye the room looks infinitely better, quite revivified! You ought to be much obliged to Cecil for letting you see all her beautiful things.”
“Why don’t you favour us with yours?” said Charlie.
“I know better! Mine aren’t fit to wipe the shoes of Cecil’s! When I get into the Rectory you’ll see how hideous they are!” said Rosamond, with the merriest complacency. “Couvre-pieds to set your teeth on edge, from the non-commissioned officers’ wives; and the awfullest banner-screen you ever saw, worked by the drum-major’s own hands, with Her Majesty’s arms on one side, and the De Courcy ones on the other, and glass eyes like stuffed birds’ to the lion and unicorn. We nearly expired from suppressed laughter under the presentation.”
Then she went round, extorting from the lads admiration for Cecil’s really beautiful properties, and winning gratitude for her own cordial praise, though it was not the artistic appreciation they deserved. Indeed, Cecil yielded to the general vote for the restoration of the humming-birds, allowing that, though she did not like stuffed birds in a drawing-room, she would not have banished them if she had known their history.
This lasted till Charlie spied a carriage coming up the drive, which could be seen a long way off, so that there was the opportunity for a generalsauve qui peut. Cecil represented that Rosamond ought to stay and receive her bridal visits; but she was unpersuadable. “Oh no! I leave all that for you! My time will come when I get into the Rectory. We are going in the dog-cart to the other end of the parish.—What’s its name—Squattlesea Marsh, Julius?”
“Squattlesford!” said Charlie. “If Julius means to drive you, look out for your neck!”
“No, it’s the other way, I’m going to drive Julius!—Come along, or we shall be caught!”
Cecil stood her ground, as did Anne, who was too weary and indifferent to retreat, and Frank, who had taken another view of the carriage as it came nearer.
“I must apologize for having brought nothing but my father’s card,” said Lady Tyrrell, entering with her sister, and shaking hands: “there’s no such thing as dragging him out for a morning call.”
“And Mr. Charnock Poynsett is not at home,” replied Cecil. “He found so much county business waiting for him, that he had to go to Backsworth.”
“It is the better opportunity for a little private caucus with you,” returned Lady Tyrrell, “before the meeting to-morrow. I rather fancy the gentlemen have one of their own.”
“Some are to dine here to-night,” said Cecil.
“We ladies had better be prepared with our proposals,” said Lady Tyrrell.
At the same time Frank drew near Miss Vivian with a large book, saying, “These are the photographs you wished to see.”
He placed the book on the ottoman, and would thus have secured a sort oftête-à-tête; but Eleonora did not choose to leave Mrs Miles Charnock out, and handed her each photograph in turn, but could only elicit a cold languid “Thank you.” To Anne’s untrained eye these triumphs of architecture were only so many dull representations of ‘Roman Catholic churches,’ and she would much rather have listened to the charitable plans of the other two ladies, for the houseless factory women of Wil’sbro’.
The bazaar, Lady Tyrrell said, must be first started by the Member’s wife; and there should be an innermost committee, of not more than three, to dispose of stalls and make arrangements.
“You must be one,” said Cecil. “I know no one yet.”
“You will, long before it comes off. In fact, I am as great a stranger as yourself. Ah! there’s an opportunity!” as the bell pealed. “The Bowaters, very likely; I saw their Noah’s ark as I passed the Poynsett Arms, with the horses taken out. I wonder how many are coming—worthy folks!”
Which evidently meant insufferable bores.
“Is there not a daughter?” asked Cecil.
“You need not use the singular, though, by the bye, most of them are married.”
“Oh, pray stay!” entreated Cecil, as there were signs of leave-taking.
“I should do you no good. You’ll soon learn that I am a sort of Loki among the Asagötter.”
Cecil laughed, but had time to resume her somewhat prim dignity before the lengthened disembarkation was over, and after all, produced only four persons; but then none were small—Mrs. Bowater was a harsh matron, Mr. Bowater a big comely squire, the daughters both tall, one with an honest open face much like Herbert’s, only with rather less youth and more intelligence, the other a bright dark glowing gipsy-faced young girl.
Eleonora Vivian, hitherto gravely stiff and reserved, to poor Frank’s evident chagrin, at once flashed into animation, and met the elder Miss Bowater with outstretched hands, receiving a warm kiss. At the same time Mr. Bowater despatched Frank to see whether his mother could admit a visitor; and Lady Tyrrell observed, “Ah! I was about to make the same petition; but I will cede to older friends, for so I suppose I must call you, Mr. Bowater—though my acquaintance is of long standing enough!”
And she put on a most charming smile, which Mr. Bowater received with something inarticulate that might be regarded as a polite form of ‘fudge,’ which made Cecil think him a horribly rude old man, and evidently discomposed his wife very much.
Frank brought back his mother’s welcome to the Squire; but by this time Eleonora and Miss Bowater had drawn together into a window, in so close and earnest a conversation that he could not break into it, and with almost visible reluctance began to talk to the younger sister, who on her side was desirous of joining in the bazaar discussion, which had been started again in full force; until there was a fresh influx of visitors, when Lady Tyrrell decidedly took leave with her sister, and Frank escorted them to their carriage, and returned no more.
In the new shuffling of partners, the elder Miss Bowater found herself close to Anne, and at once inquired warmly for Miles, with knowledge and interest in naval affairs derived from a sailor brother, Miles’s chief friend and messmate in his training and earlier voyages. There was something in Joanna Bowater’s manner that always unlocked hearts, and Anne was soon speaking without her fence of repellant stiffness and reserve. Certainly Miles was loved by his mother and brothers more than he could be by an old playfellow and sisterly friend, and yet there was something in Joanna’s tone that gave Anne a sense of fellow-feeling, as if she had met a countrywoman in this land of strangers; and she even told how Miles had thought it right to send her home, thinking that she might be a comfort to his mother. “And not knowing all that was going to happen!” said poor Anne, with an irrepressible sigh, both for her own blighted hopes, and for the whirl into which her sore heart had fallen.
“I think you will be,” said Joanna, brightly; “though it must be strange coming on so many. Dear Mrs. Poynsett is so kind!”
“Yes,” said Anne, coldly.
“Ah! you don’t know her yet. And Lady Rosamond! She is delightful!”
“Have you seen her!”
“We met them just now in the village, but my brother is enchanted. And do you know what was Julius’s first introduction to her? It was at a great school-feast, where they had the regimental children as well as the town ones. A poor little boy went off in an epileptic fit, and Julius found her holding him, with her own hand in his mouth to hinder the locking of the teeth. He said her fingers were bitten almost to the bone, but she made quite light of it.”
“That was nice!” said Anne; but then, with a startled glance, and in an undertone, she added, “Are they Christians?”
Joanna Bowater paused for a moment between dismay and desire for consideration, and in that moment her father called to her, “Jenny, do you remember the dimensions of those cottages in Queckett’s Lane?” and she had to come and serve for his memory, while he was indoctrinating a younger squire with the duties of a landlord.
Meanwhile Mrs. Bowater was, for the tenth time, consulting her old friend upon Mrs. Hornblower’s capabilities of taking care of Herbert, and betraying a little disappointment that his first sermon had not yet been heard; and when his voice was complimented, she hoped Julius would spare it—too much exertion could not be good for so young a man, and though dear Herbert looked so strong, no one would believe how much sleep he required. Then she observed, “We found Camilla Vivian—Lady Tyrrell I mean—calling. Have you seen her?”
“No.”
“Well, she really seems improved!”
“Mr. Bowater has been telling me she is handsomer than ever!”
“Oh yes! That’s all gentlemen think of; but I meant in other ways. She seems full of the rebuilding of St. Nicholas, and to be making great friends with your new daughter. You don’t think,” lowering her voice, “that Raymond would have any objection to meeting her?”
“Certainly not!”
“I did not suppose he would, but I thought I would just ask you. It would be rather marked not to invite him for the 3rd, you know; and Jenny was always so fond of poor Emily, kept up a correspondence with her to the last. It was the first time she had met the little one since they came back. Not that she is little now, she is very tall and quite handsomeevenby the side of Edith. We just saw Lady Rosamond—a sweet face—and Herbert perfectly raves about her!”
“She is a most unselfish warm-hearted creature!” said Mrs. Poynsett.
“I am so glad! And Miles’s wife, I hope she will come. Poor thing, she looks very poorly.”
“Yes, I am very anxious about her. If she is not better in a day or two, I shall insist on her having advice.”
“Poor dear, I don’t wonder! But she had better come to Strawyers; Jenny will cheer her if any one can, and we shall have a nice lively party, I hope! She will only mope the more if she never goes out.”
“I am afraid she is hardly equal to it; besides, poor child,” added Mrs. Poynsett, “she seems to have been strictly brought up, and to think our ways rather shocking; and Miles wrote to me not to press her to go into society till he comes home.”
“Ah! well, I call that a mistake!” puffed out good-humoured Mrs. Bowater. “Very bad for the poor girl’s spirits. By the bye, I hope Julius does not object to Herbert’s dancing—not at a public ball, you know, but at home—for if he did, I would try to arrange something else, it would be so hard for the poor boy to have to look on.”
“I don’t know, I don’t think he could,” said the mother, considering.
“You see, we thought of a dinner-party for as many as possible. Frank and Charlie won’t mind dining in the schoolroom, I know, and having the rest for a dance in the evening; but if Julius did think it unclerical—Jenny says he won’t, and papa laughs, and says, ‘Poh! poh! Julius is no fool;’ but people are so much more particular than they used to be, and I would not get the dear boy into a scrape for the world.”
Mrs. Poynsett undertook to ascertain his opinions on this knotty point, and to let her know if they were adverse; and then she begged for a visit from Jenny, whose brother had no accommodation for her in his lodgings. She could not be spared till after the entertainment on the 3rd, nor till a visit from her married sister was over; but afterwards, her mother was delighted that she should come and look after Herbert, who seemed as much on the maternal mind as if he had not batted his way through Eton, and boated it through Oxford.
Mrs. Poynsett obtained her word with Julius in good time that evening. He laughed a little. “Poor Herbs! when will people understand that it is the spirit of the thing, the pursuit, not the individual chance participation in any particular amusement, that is unclerical, as they are pleased to call it?”
“What do you think of Herbert?”
“A boy, and a very nice boy; but if he doesn’t get his healthful play somehow, he will burst out like a closed boiler some day.”
“A muscular Christian on your hands?”
“Not theoretically, for he has been well taught; but it’s a great animal that needs to work off its steam, and if I had known it, I would not have undertaken the problem of letting him do that, without setting up bad habits, or scandalizing the parish and Bindon—who is young the other way, and has no toleration. We had this morning’s service in a state of siege from all the dogs. Herbert thought he had shut them safely up, but they were all at his heels in the churchyard; and though he rated them home, and shut all the doors, we heard them whining and scratching at each in turn.”
“I thought I should have died of it,” said Rosamond, entering. “His face grew red enough to set his surplice on fire, and Mr. Bindon glared at him, and he missed his verse in the Psalm; for there was the bull terrier, crouching and looking abject at the vestry-door, just restrained by his eye from coming further.”
“What shall you do about it, Julius?” asked his mother, much amused.
“Oh, that will remedy itself. All dogs learn to understand the bell.”
And then the others began to drop in, and were told of the invitation that was coming.
“I say, Rosamond,” cried Charlie, “can brothers and sisters-in-law dance together?”
“That depends on how the brothers-in-law dance,” returned Rosamond. “Some one, for pity’s sake, play a waltz!—Come along Charlie! the hall is a sweet place for it!—Whistle, Julius!—Frank, whistle!”
And away she whirled. Frank, holding out his hands, was to his surprise accepted by Cecil, and disappeared with her into the hall. Julius stood by the mantelpiece, with the first shadow on his brow his mother had seen since his arrival. Presently he spoke in a defensive apologetic tone: “She has always been used to this style of thing.”
“Most naturally,” said the mother.
“Not that they ever did more than their position required, and Lady Rathforlane is a truly careful mother. Of course some things might startle you stay-at-home people; but in all essentials—”
“I see what you mean.”
“And what seems like rattle is habit.”
“Simplegaieté de cœur!”
“So it is better to acquiesce till it subsides of itself. You see it is hard, after such a life of change and variety, to settle down into a country parsonage.”
“What are you saying there?” said Rosamond, tripping in out of breath.
“That I don’t know how you are to put up with a pink-eyed parson, and a hum-drum life,” said Julius, holding out a caressing hand.
“Now that’s hard,” pleaded she; “only because I took a frolic with Baby Charles! I say, Julius, shall we give it up altogether and stay at home like good children? I believe that is what would suit the told Rabbit much better than his kid gloves,”—and her sweet face looked up at him with a meek candid gaze.
“No,” he said, “that would not do. The Bowaters are our oldest friends. But, Rosie, as youarea clergyman’s wife, could you not give up round dances?”
“Oh no, no! That’s too bad. I’d rather never go to a dance at all, than sit still, or be elbowed about in the square dances. You never told me you expected that!”—and her tones were of a child petulant at injustice.
“Suppose,” he said, as a delightful solution, “you only gratified Frank and Charlie by waltzing with them.”
She burst into a ringing laugh. “My brothers-in-law! How very ridiculous! Suppose you included the curates?”
“You know what I mean,” he said gravely.
“Oh, bother the parson’s wife! Haven’t I seen them figuring away by scores? Did we ever have a regimental ball that they were not the keenest after?”
“So they get themselves talked of!” said Julius, as Anne’s quiet entrance broke up the dialogue.
Mrs. Poynsett had listened, glad there was no appeal to her, conscious that she did not understand the merits of the case, and while she doubted whether her eldest son had love enough, somewhat afraid lest his brother had not rather too much for the good of his lawful supremacy.