“Raymond! Can you spare me a moment before you go into your mother’s room?”
It was Rosamond who, to his surprise, as he was about to go down-stairs, met him and drew him into her apartment—his mother’s own dressing-room, which he had not entered since the accident.
“Is anything the matter?” he said, thinking that Julius might have spared him from complaints of Cecil.
“Oh no! only one never can speak to you, and Julius told me that you could tell me about Mrs. Poynsett. I can’t help thinking she could be moved more than she is.” Then, as he was beginning to speak, “Do you know that, the morning of the fire, I carried her with only one of the maids to the couch under the tent-room window? Susan was frightened out of her wits, but she was not a bit the worse for it.”
“Ah! that was excitement.”
“But if it did not hurt her then, why should it hurt her again? There’s old General M’Kinnon, my father’s old friend, who runs about everywhere in a wheeled-chair with a leg-rest; and I can’t think why she should not do the same.”
Raymond smiled kindly on her, but rather sadly; perhaps he was recollecting his morning’s talk about the occupancy of the drawing-room. “You know it is her spine,” he said.
“So it is with him. His horse rolled over him at Sebastopol, and he has never walked since. I wanted to write to Mary M’Kinnon; but Julius said I had better talk to you, because he was only at home for a fortnight, when she was at the worst, and you knew more about it.”
“Yes,” said Raymond, understanding more than the Irish tongue fully expressed. “I never saw a woman sit better than she did, and she looked as young and light in the saddle as you could, till that day, when, after the rains, the bank where the bridle-path to Squattles End was built up, gave way with the horse’s feet, and down she went twenty feet, and was under the horse when Miles and I got down to her! We brought her on a mattress to that room, not knowing whether she were alive; and she has never moved out of it! It was agony to her to be touched.”
“Yes but it can’t be that now. Was not that three years ago?”
“Not so much. Two and a half. We had Hayter down to see her, and he said perfect rest was the only chance for her.”
“And has not he seen her lately?”
“He died last winter; and old Worth, who comes in once a week to look at her, is not fit for more than a little watching and attention. I dare say we all have learnt to acquiesce too much in her present state, and that more might be done. You see she has never had a lady’s care, except now and then Jenny Bowater’s.”
“I do feel sure she could bear more now,” said Rosamond, eagerly. “It would be such a thing if she could only be moved about that down-stairs floor.”
“And be with us at meals and in the evening,” said Raymond, his face lightening up. “Thank you, Rosamond!”
“I’ll write to Mary M’Kinnon to-morrow, to ask about the chair,” cried Rosamond; and Raymond, hearing the door-bell, hurried down, to find his wife standing alone over the drawing-room fire, not very complacent.
“Where have you been, Raymond?”
“I was talking to Rosamond. She has seen a chair on which it might be possible to move my mother about on this floor.”
“I thought—” Cecil flushed. She was on the point of saying she thought Rosamond was not to interfere in her department any more than she in Rosamond’s; but she kept it back, and changed it into “Surely the doctor and nurses must know best.”
“A fresh eye often makes a difference,” said Raymond. “To have her among us again—!” but he was cut short by the announcement of Mr. and Miss Fuller.
“Poor Mr. Fuller,” as every one called him, was the incumbent of St. Nicholas, Willansborough, a college living always passed by the knowing old bachelor fellows, and as regularly proving a delusion to the first junior in haste for a wife. Twenty-five years ago Mr. Fuller had married upon this, which, as Mr. Bindon said, was rather a reason for not marrying—a town with few gentry, and a petty unthriving manufacture, needing an enormous amount of energy to work it properly, and getting—Mr. Fuller, with force yearly decreasing under the pressure of a sickly wife, ill-educated, unsatisfactory sons, and unhealthy, aimless daughters. Of late some assistance had been obtained, but only from Mr. Driver, the ‘coach’ or cramming tutor, who was directing the studies of Frank and half a dozen more youths, and his aid was strictly limited to a share in the Sunday services.
The eldest daughter accompanied the Vicar. Her mother had not health (or perhaps clothes) for a dinner-party, and it was the first time she had ever been in the house. Very shy and in much awe she was! Cecil viewed her as a constituent, and was elaborately civil and patronizing, doing the honours of all the photographs and illustrations on which she could lay hands, and only eliciting alternately ‘Very nice,’ and ‘How sweet!’ A little more was made of the alarms of the fire, and the preparations for clearing the house, and there was a further thaw about the bazaar. It would be such a relief from plain work, and she could get some lovely patterns from her cousin who had a missionary basket; but as to the burnt-out families, the little knowledge or interest she seemed to have about them was rather astounding, unless, as Rosamond suspected, she thought it ‘shop,’ and uninteresting to the great ladies of Compton-Poynsett Hall.
Meanwhile, her father made the apprehended request for the loan of Compton Church during the intervals of services, and when the Rector explained how brief those intervals would be, looked astonished, and dryly complimented him on his energy and his staff, somewhat as if the new broom were at the bottom of these congratulations.
The schools were to be used for services until a temporary iron church could be obtained, for which Julius, to make up for his churlishness in withholding his own church, made the handsomer donation, and held out hopes of buying it afterwards for the use of Squattles End. Then, having Mr. Fuller’s ear to himself, he ventured to say, though cautiously, as to one who had been a clergyman before he was born, “I wish it were possible to dispense with this bazaar.”
Mr. Fuller shrugged his shoulders. “If every one subscribed in the style of this family.”
“They would be more likely to do so, without the appeal to secondary motives.”
“Try them,” said the elder man.
“Exactly what I want to do. I would put up the four walls, begin with what you get from the insurance, a weekly offertory, and add improvements as means came in. This is not visionary. I have seen proof of its success.”
“It may serve in new-fashioned city missions, but in an old-established place like this it would create nothing but offence. When you have been in Orders as long as I have, you will find that there is nothing for it but to let people do what they will, not what one thinks best.”
“Mr. Fuller,” said Julius, eagerly, “will you try an experiment? Drop this bazaar, and I promise you our collection every Sunday evening for the year, giving notice of it to my people, and to such of yours as may be present.”
“I do not despise your offer,” said Mr. Fuller, laying his hand upon his arm. “You mean it kindly, and if I were in your place, or had only my own feelings to consider, I might attempt it. But it would be only mischievous to interfere with the bazaar. Lady Tyrrell—all the ladies, in fact—have set their minds on it, and if I objected there would instantly be a party cry against me, and that is the one thing I have always avoided.”
His tone of superior wisdom, meek and depressed as he always was, tried the Rector’s patience enough to make his forehead burn and bring out his white eyebrows in strong relief. “How about a blessing on the work?” he asked, suppressing so much that he hardly knew this was spoken aloud.
Again Mr. Fuller smiled. He had been a bit of a humorist when he was an Oxford don. “Speak of that to Briggs,” he said, “and he would answer, ‘Cash for me, and the blessing may take care of itself.’ As to the ladies—why, they deafen you about blessings on their humble efforts, and the widow’s mite.”
“Simply meaning that they want their amusement a little—”
“Buttered over,” said Mr. Fuller, supplying the word. “Though you are hard on them, Charnock—I don’t know about the fine ladies; but there are quiet folk who will work their fingers to the bone, and can do nothing else.”
“That’s true,” said Julius; “and one would gladly find a safe outlet for their diligence.”
“You do not trust to it for bringing the blessing,” said Mr. Fuller in a tone that Julius liked even less than the mere hopeless faint-heartedness, for in it there was sarcasm on faith in aught but £s. d.
The two brothers held another discussion on this matter later that night, on the stairs, as they were on their way to their rooms.
“Won’t you come to this meeting to-morrow, Julius?” asked Raymond.
“I don’t see that I should be of any use, unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you would make what seems to me the right proposal, and I could be any support in it.”
“What’s that?”
“To use the insurance to put up the mere shells and plain indispensable fittings of the church and town-hall, then make the drainage of Water Lane and Hall Street the first object for the rates, while the church is done by subscription and voluntary effort.”
“You put the drainage first—even before the church?” said Raymond, smiling, with an elder brother’s satisfaction in such an amount of common sense.
“Of course I do,” said Julius. “An altar and four walls and chairs are all that ought to be sought for. Little good can be done to people’s souls while their bodies are in the feverish discomfort of foul air and water. This is an opportunity not to be wasted, while all the houses are down, town-hall and all.”
“The very thing I told Briggs and the others this morning,” said Raymond; “but I could not get a hearing; they said there never had been any illness worth mentioning, and in fact scouted the whole matter, as people always do.”
“Yes, they take it as a personal insult when you mention the odorous—or odious, savours sweet,” said Julius. “I heard a good deal of that when we had the spell of cholera at St. Awdry’s.”
“I shall work on at it, and I trust to get it done in time,” said Raymond; “but it will not be at once. The subject is too new to them, and the irritation it produces must subside before they will hear reason. Besides, the first thing is to employ and feed these paper-makers.”
“Of course.”
“That will pretty well absorb this first meeting. The ladies will manage that, I think; and when this is provided for, I will try what I can do at the committee; but there is no good in bringing it forward at this great public affair, when every ass can put in his word. Everything depends on whom they choose for the new mayor. If Whitlock comes in, there is some chance of sense and reason being heard. Good night.”
As Raymond said, the more immediate object of the meeting fixed for the ensuing day, was to provide for the employment of the numerous women thrown out of employment by the destruction of the paper-mills. A subscription was in hand, but not adequate to the need; and moreover, it was far more expedient to let them maintain themselves.
How this was to be done was the question. Cecil told her husband that at Dunstone they made the women knit stockings; and he replied by recommending the suppression of Dunstone. How strange it was that what she had been used to consider as the source of honour should be here held in what seemed to her disesteem!
Lady Tyrrell’s ponies were tinkling up to the door of the hotel where the meeting was to be held, and her gracious smile recalled Cecil’s good-humour; Raymond saw them to their seats, and then had to go and take the chair himself on the platform—first, however, introducing his wife to such of the ladies present as he recollected.
She thought he wanted her to sit between melancholy white faced Mrs. Fuller and a bony spinster in a poke-bonnet whom he called Miss Slater; but Cecil, concluding that this last could have no vote, and that the Vicarage was secure, felt free to indulge herself by getting back to Lady Tyrrell, who had scarcely welcomed her before exclaiming, “Mrs. Duncombe, I did not know you were returned.”
“I came back on the first news of your flare-up,” said the newcomer. “I only came down this morning. I would not have missed this meeting for anything. It is a true woman’s question. A fair muster, I see,” looking round with her eye-glass, and bowing to several on the platform, especially to Raymond, who returned the bow rather stiffly.
“Ah! let me introduce you,” said Lady Tyrrell. “Mrs. Raymond Charnock Poynsett.”
“I am very glad to see you embarked in the cause,” said the lady, frankly holding out her hand. “May we often meet in the same manner, though I honestly tell you I’m not of your party; I should go dead against your husband if we only had a chance.”
“Come, you need not be so aggressive,” laughed Lady Tyrrell; “you haven’t a vote yet. You are frightening Mrs. Poynsett.” It was true. Even Cecil Charnock was born too late to be one of the young ladies who, in the first decades of the reformed Parliament, used to look on a Liberal as alusus naturæ, whom they hardly believed to be a gentleman. But a lady who would openly accost the Member’s bride with a protest against his politics, was a being beyond her experience, and the contemplation fairly distracted her from her husband’s oratory.
She would have taken Miss Slater for the strong-minded female far rather than this small slim person, with the complexion going with the yellower species of red hair and chignon, not unlike a gold-pheasant’s, while the thin aquiline nose made Cecil think of Queen Elizabeth. The dress was a tight-fitting black silk, with a gorgeous many-coloured gold-embroidered oriental mantle thrown loosely over it, and a Tyrolean hat, about as large as the pheasant’s comb, tipped over her forehead, with cords and tassels of gold; and she made little restless movements and whispered remarks during the speeches.
There was to be a rate to renew the town-hall. The rebuilding of the paper-mills and dwelling-houses was fairly covered by the insurance; but the Vicar, in his diffident apologetic voice, stated that the church had been insufficiently insured, and moreover, that many more sittings were needed than the former building had contained. He then read the list of subscriptions already promised, expressed hopes of more coming in, invited ladies to take collecting cards, and added that he was happy to announce that the ladies of the congregation had come forward with all the beneficence of their sex, and raised a sum to supply a new set of robes.
Here the chairman glanced at his wife, but she was absorbed in watching Mrs. Duncombe’s restless hands; and the look was intercepted by Lady Tyrrell’s eyes, which flashed back sympathetic amusement, with just such a glance as used to pass between them in old times; but the effect was to make the Member’s face grave and impassive, and his eyes fix on the papers before him.
The next moment Cecil was ardently gazing at Mr. Fuller as he proceeded to his hopes of the bazaar to be held under the most distinguished patronage, and of which he spoke as if it were the subject of anticipations as sanguine as any the poor man could ever appear to indulge in. And there was, in fact, the greatest stamping and cheering there had yet been, perhaps in compliment to the M.P.’s young bride—at least, so Lady Tyrrell whispered, adding that everybody was trying to see her.
Then Mr. Charnock Poynsett himself took up the exposition of the third branch of the subject, the support of the poor families thrown out of work at the beginning of winter. There could be no employment at the paper-mills till they were repaired; and after the heavy losses, they could not attempt to keep their people together by any payment. It had been suggested that the readiest way of meeting the difficulty, would be to employ the subscriptions already promised in laying in a stock of material to be made up into garments, and then dispose of them out to the women at their homes; and appointing a day once a week when the work should be received, the pay given, and fresh material supplied, by a party of volunteer ladies.
This was, in fact, what he had been instructed to propose by the kindly souls who ordinarily formed the St. Nicholasbureau de charité, who had instructed him to be their mouthpiece. There was due applause as the mayor seconded his resolution; but in the midst a clear, rather high-pitched voice rose up close to Cecil, saying, “Mr. Chairman, allow me to ask what sale is anticipated for these garments?”
“I am told that there is a demand for them among the poor themselves,” said Raymond, judiciously concealing how much he was taken aback by this female interference.
“Allow me to differ. A permanent work society numbering a few women otherwise unemployed may find a sufficient sale in the neighbourhood under the patronage of charitable ladies; but when you throw in ninety-five or one hundred pair of hands depending on their work for their livelihood, the supply must necessarily soon go beyond any demand, even fictitious. It will not do to think of these women like fancy knitters or embroiderers whose work is skilled. Most of them can hardly mend their own clothes, and the utmost that can be expected of them is the roughest slop work.”
“Do you wish any expedient to be proposed?” asked the chairman, in a sort of aside.
“Yes, I have one. I spent yesterday in collecting information.”
“Will Captain Duncombe move it?” suggested Raymond.
“Oh no! he is not here. No, it is no use to instruct anybody; I will do it myself, if you please.”
And before the astonished eyes of the meeting, the gold-pheasant hopped upon the platform, and with as much ease as if she had been Queen Bess dragooning her parliament, she gave what even the astounded gentlemen felt to be a sensible practical exposition of ways and means.
She had obtained the address of a warehouse ready to give such rough work as the women could be expected to do; but as they were unaccustomed to work at home, and were at present much crowded from the loss of so many houses, and could besides be little depended on for working well enough without superintendence, her plan was to hire a room, collect the women, and divide the superintendence between the ladies; who should give out the work, see that it was properly done, keep order, and the like. She finished off in full order, by moving a resolution to this effect.
There was a pause, and a little consultation among the gentlemen, ending by Raymond’s absolutely telling Mr. Fuller that it was a very sensible practical arrangement, and that itmustbe seconded; which the Vicar accordingly did, and it was carried without opposition, as in truth nothing so good had been thought of; and the next thing was to name a committee of ladies, a treasurer and auditor of accounts. There would be no work on Saturdays, so if the ladies would each undertake half a day once a fortnight, the superintendence need not be a burthen.
Mrs. Duncombe and Miss Slater undertook the first start and preliminary arrangements, then each would take her half day in rotation. Lady Tyrrell and her sister undertook two, Cecil two more, and others were found to fill up the vacant space. The chairman moved a vote of thanks to the lady for her suggestion, which she acknowledged by a gracious bow, not without triumph; and the meeting broke up.
Some one asked after Captain Duncombe as she descended into private life. “There’s a wonderful filly that absorbs all his attention. All Wil’sbro’ might burn as long as Dark Hag thrives! When do I expect him? I don’t know; it depends on Dark Hag,” she said in a tone of superior good-natured irony, then gathered up the radiant mantle and tripped off along the central street of the little old-fashioned country town, with gravelled not paved side-walks.
“Isn’t she very superior?” said Cecil, when her husband had put her on horseback.
“I suppose she is very clever.”
“And she spoke capitally.”
“If she were to speak. What would your father think of her?”
But for the first time Cecil’s allegiance had experienced a certain shock. Some sort of pedestal had hitherto been needful to her existence; she was learning that Dunstone was an unrecognized elevation in this new country, and she had seen a woman attain to a pinnacle that almost dazzled her, by sheer resource and good sense.
All the discussion she afterwards heard did not tend to shake her opinion; Raymond recounted the adventure at his mother’s kettle-drum, telling of his own astonishment at the little lady’s assurance.
“I do not see why she should be censured,” said Cecil. “You were all at a loss without her.”
“She should have got her husband to speak for her,” said Mrs. Poynsett.
“He was not there.”
“Then she should have instructed some other gentleman,” said Mrs. Poynsett. “A woman spoils all the effect of her doings by putting herself out of her proper place.”
“Perfectly disgusting!” said Julius.
Cecil had decidedly not been disgusted, except by the present strong language; and not being ready at repartee, she was pleased when Rosamond exclaimed, “Ah! that’s just what men like, to get instructed in private by us poor women, and then gain all the credit for originality.”
“It is the right way,” said the mother. “The woman has much power of working usefully and gaining information, but the one thing that is not required of her is to come forward in public.”
“Very convenient for the man!” laughed Rosamond.
“And scarcely fair,” said Cecil.
“Quite fair,” said Rosamond, turning round, so that Cecil only now perceived that she had been speaking in jest. “Any woman who is worth a sixpence had rather help her husband to shine than shine herself.”
“Besides,” said Mrs. Poynsett, “the delicate edges of true womanhood ought not to be frayed off by exposure in public.”
“Yes,” said Raymond. “The gain of an inferior power of man in public would be far from compensated by the loss in private of that which man can never supply.”
“Granted,” said Rosamond slyly though sleepily, “that it always is an inferior power of man, which it does not seem to have been in the actual case.”
“It was a point on which she had special knowledge and information,” said Mrs. Poynsett.
“And you were forced to thank her,” said Cecil.
“Yes, in common civility,” said Raymond; “but it was as much as I could do to get it done, the position was a false one altogether.”
“In fact, you were all jealous,” said Rosamond.
At which everybody laughed, which was her sole intention; but Cecil, who had said so much less, really thought what Rosamond said in mere play. Those extorted thanks seemed to her a victory of her sex in a field she had never thought of; and though she had no desire to emulate the lady, and felt that a daughter of Dunstone must remembernoblesse oblige, the focus of her enthusiasm was in an odd state of shifting.
On the evening of the party at Strawyers, Mrs. Poynsett lay on her sofa, thinking, with a trying recurrence, of that unfortunate and excellent German Dauphine, who was pronounced by the Duchess of Orleans to have died of her own stupidity.
After a fortnight had brought no improvement, but rather the reverse, to poor Anne’s wan looks and feeble languid deportment, Mrs. Poynsett had insisted on her seeing the doctor; and had been assured by him that there was nothing amiss, and that if Mrs Miles Charnock could only be roused and occupied she would be perfectly well, but that her pining and depression might so lower her tone as to have a serious effect on her health.
There was no hope of her husband’s return for at least a year, likely eighteen months. What was to be done with her? What could be a more unpropitious fate than for a Colonial girl, used to an active life of exertion and usefulness, and trained to all domestic arts, to be set down in a great English household where there was really nothing for her to do, and usefulness or superintendence would have been interfering; besides, as Miles had thoughts of settling at the Cape, English experience would serve her little.
She had not cultivation enough for any pursuit to interest her. She was not musical, could not draw; and when Mrs. Poynsett had, by way of experiment, asked her to read aloud an hour a day, and selected theLives of the Lindsays, as an unexceptionable and improving book, full of Scottish history, and even with African interest, she dutifully did her task as an attention to her invalid mother-in-law, but in a droning husky tone, finding it apparently as severe a penance as it was to her auditor.
The doctor’s chief prescription was horse exercise; but what would a constitutional canter be to one accustomed to free rides through the Bush? And she would generally be alone; for even if Charlie, her nearest approach to an ally, had not been going away from home in a few weeks, it could not be expected that he could often ride with her.
It was plain that every one of the whole family was giving continual shocks to Mr. Pilgrim’s disciple, even when they felt most innocent; and though the mother was sometimes disposed to be angry, sometimes to laugh at the little shudder and compression of the lips she began to know, she perceived what an addition this must be to the unhappiness of the poor lonely stranger.
“She must be set to some good work,” thought Mrs. Poynsett; “Julius might let her go to his old women. She might get on with them better than with the old women here. And there’s Cecil’s working affair, it would be just the thing to give her an object. I think I can get through this evening. I’ve made Susan bring my desk, with all Miles’s letters from his first voyage. Shall I suppress the ball?”
Therewith Cecil made her entrance, in glossy white satin and deep lace, beautiful to behold, set off with rainbow glistening opals. She made a quiet complacent show of herself, as one not vain of fine clothes, but used to an affectionate family appreciation of her best attire; and it was the most friendly childlike bit of intimacy that had yet been attained between her and Mrs. Poynsett.
And when she sat down to wait for the others, Mrs. Poynsett ventured on telling her the prescription and her own perplexity, hoping for a voluntary offer to employ Anne at Willansborough; but Cecil only pitied her for having ‘no resources’; and when Mrs. Poynsett ventured to suggest finding a niche for her in the work-room, the answer was—“Our days are all disposed of.”
“You have two, I think?”
“True; but it would never do for me to give up one of my times. If I seemed to slacken, every one else would.”
“What will you do when the Session begins?”
“I shall make some arrangement. I do not think Anne could ever take my place; she would have no authority.”
Anne herself here entered, took her knitting, and sat down, apparently unaware of the little pluming gesture by which Cecil unconsciously demanded attention to her bridal satin. One white-gloved gentleman after another dropped in, but none presumed on a remark; Jenkins announced the carriages; but Rosamond had not appeared, and after an excursion up-stairs, Julius returned, declaring that the first carriage must not wait for her, they would come afterwards in the van, for there was something amiss in the dress, she had not had it on since the wedding.
“And she came in so late,” said Cecil.
“That was my fault,” he said. “We came through the village to leave a message at the doctor’s;” and he then insisted that the other pair should set off, taking Frank and Charlie, and prevent dinner from being kept waiting; at which the boys made faces, and declared that it was a dodge of his to join Jenny’s party in the schoolroom, instead of the solemn dinner; but they were obliged to submit; and it was not till twenty minutes later, that in glided something white, with blue cashmere and swan’s-down over it, moving, as usual, with languid grace.
“Poor Julius!” smiled Rosamond with her dawdling dignity. “Every single thing turned out a misfit! As it is, there’s a monstrous hole in my glove, which demands the benevolent fiction of my having torn it by the way. There, one second for the effect!—Good-bye, dear Mrs. Poynsett;—good-bye, Anne. Come, you monument of patience and resignation!”
For one moment she had slipped back her little mantle, then drawn it on, as, taking her husband’s arm, she left the room; but that moment had set Anne’s cheeks aflame, and left Mrs. Poynsett in a startled state of uncertainty, hoping her glance had been mistaken, wondering what could have beenmoreamiss, and feeling incapable of entering on the subject with that severe young judge, of narrow experience.
Never had her eldest son failed to come and bid her good night on his way to his own room: it was the great break in her long sleepless hours, and she used to call it a reversal of the relations of those days when he used to watch for her kiss on her way to bed. Nor did he fail her now, but came and stood over her with his fragmentary tidings.
“An immense party—oh yes, there was he persuading them not to wait. Mr. Bowater took Rosamond in to dinner, Cecil went with Sir Harry Vivian. Yes, Lady Tyrrell was there, wonderfully handsome, but her expression strikes me as altered; there is the sort of pathetic look that, as Cecil said, is like the melancholy Medusa—I wonder if it is genuine. She seems greatly disposed to cultivate Cecil—I wonder what she does it for.”
“Is Cecil attracted? I fancied she was.”
“Yes, a good deal; and I fear the Wil’sbro’ business will throw them together. It is unlucky on Frank’s account likewise. I see we shall have it all over again there.”
“I have great hope in his office taking him away. How was it with them to-night?”
“What I should call arrant coquetry, such as even Camilla never indulged in. The girl kept out of his way—was absolutely chill and repelling half the evening—throwing herself at the officers from Backsworth, till at last Frank obtained a waltz, and after that they were perfectly inseparable.”
“If she coquets, she will soon disgust him! Did Cecil enjoy herself?”
“Oh yes: Phil Bowater opened the ball with her, and she dances very nicely—so quietly, Mrs. Bowater remarked it. As to Rosamond, she was in her native element—isindeed, for she would not hear of coming away when we did.”
“And Julius?”
“Standing in a doorway, with others of his kind, absently talking, and watching Rosamond out of the tail of his eye. I say, mother,” lowering his voice, “can’t you give Rosamond a hint about her dress? Cecil says she can’t go out with her again likethat. Ah,” as he heard a sigh, “I should not have worried you at night.”
“No, you have not. Tell Cecil I will see about it. Rosamond will take it best from an old woman like me.”
Mrs. Poynsett was quite conscious that Cecil had more high breeding and refinement than Rosamond, who was essentially the Irish Colonel’s daughter, and that the cold temperament of the one irritated the warm nature of the other. More than one flash had revealed Rosamond’s contempt for Cecil’s assumptions and intolerance for her precision—besides, she was five years older, and had not an ideal in Dunstone.
After revolving what form of remonstrance would be least offensive during half the night and day, Mrs. Poynsett was not prepared for the appearance, about noon, of her son Julius, when, coming to what she termed the confidential side of her couch, he asked hesitatingly, and colouring, “Mother, I want you to tell me, was there anything amiss in Rose’s dress last night?”
“You did not perceive—”
“I’m not used to the style of thing. Is it not the way with what you call full dress?”
“To a certain degree—” she began.
He caught her up. “And here has Cecil been putting my poor Rose into a perfect agony! It is only woman’s censorious nonsense, isn’t it, mother? Mere folly to think otherwise! I knew you would set my mind at rest; and if you would tell Cecil that you will not have Rosamond insulted, it would be as well.”
“Stay, Julius,” as he was walking off complacently, “I grieve, but I must confess that I was going to speak to Rosamond myself.”
He looked very blank.
“Mind, I am certain that it is only an innocent following of what she has been brought up to;” and as he signed a sort of hurt acquiescence, as if trying to swallow the offence, she added, “When do you go out again?”
“Not till Monday, when we dine at Colonel Ross’s. He is an old friend of Lord Rathforlane.”
“Then I am inclined to let it cool. Sometimes advice that has been resented does its work.”
“You don’t think the interference justifiable?”
“Not from that quarter.”
“And can it be needful to attend to it?”
“My dear Julius, it is not a style of dress I could ever have worn, nor have let my daughters have worn, if I had had any.”
“Conclusive, that!” said Julius, getting up, more really angered with his mother than he had been since his childhood.
However, he conquered himself by the time he had reached the door, and came back to say, “I beg your pardon, mother, I know you would not say so without need.”
“Thank you, my boy!” and he saw tears in her eyes, the first time he was conscious of having brought them. As he bent down to kiss her, she rallied, and cheerfully said, “I have no doubt it will all come right—Rosamond is too nice not to feel it at once.”
No such thing; Rosamond was still furious. If he disapproved, she would submit to him; but he had seen nothing wrong, had he?
“My dear Rose, I told you I was no judge: you forget what my eyes are; and my mother—”
“You have been to your mother?”
“My dear, what could I do?”
“And you think I am going to insult my own mother and sisters to please any woman’s finical prudish notions’? Pray what did Mrs. Poynsett say?”
The excuse of custom, pleaded by Mrs. Poynsett, only made Rosamond fiercer. She wished she had never come where she was to hear that her own mother was no judge of propriety, and her husband could not trust her, but must needs run about asking everybody if she were fit to be seen. Such a tempest Julius had never seen outside a back street in the garrison town. There seemed to be nothing she would not say, and his attempts at soothing only added to her violence. Indeed, there was only one thing which would have satisfied her, and that was, that she had been perfectly right, and the whole world barbarously wrong; and she was wild with passion at perceiving that he had a confidence in his own mother which he could not feel in hers.
Nor would he insist that Raymond should force Cecil to apologize. “My dear,” he said, “don’t you know there are things easier to ask than to obtain?”
To which Rosamond replied, in another gust, that she would never again sit down to table with Cecil until she had apologized for the insult, not to herself, she did not care about that, but to the mother who had seen her dresses tried on: Julius must tell Raymond so, or take her away to any cottage at once. She would not stay where people blamed mamma and poisoned his mind against her! She believed he cared for them more than for her!
Julius had sympathized far longer with her offended feeling than another could have done; but he was driven to assert himself. “Nonsense, Rose, you know better,” he said, in a voice of displeasure; but she pouted forth, “I don’t know it. You believe every one against me, and you won’t take my part against that nasty little spiteful prig!”
“Cecil has behaved very ill to you,” said Julius, granting her rather over much; “but she is a foolish conceited child, who does not deserve that Raymond should be worried about her. I foresee plenty of grievances from her; but, Rosie, we must and will not let her come between us and Raymond. You don’t know what a brother he has been to me—I hardly think I could have got through my first year at school but for him; and I don’t think my sweet Rose could wish to do me such an ill turn as to stir up a feud with such a brother because his wife is provoking.”
The luncheon-bell began to sound, and she sobbed out, “There then, go down, leave me alone! Go to them, since you are so fond of them all!”
“I don’t think you could come down as you are,” said Julius, gravely; “I will bring you something.”
“It would choke me—choke me!” she sobbed out.
Julius knew enough of the De Lancy temperament to be aware that words carried them a long way, and he thought solitude would be so beneficial, that he summoned resolution to leave her; but he had not the face to appear alone, nor offer fictions to excuse her absence, so he took refuge in his dressing-room, until he had seen Cecil and Anne ride away from the hall door together.
For the two sisters-in-law had held a little indignation meeting, and Rosamond’s misdemeanour had so far drawn them together, that Cecil had offered to take Anne to see the working party, and let her assist thereat.
The coast being clear, Julius went down, encountering nothing worse than the old butler, who came in while he was cutting cold beef, and to whom he said, “Lady Rosamond is rather knocked up; I am going to take her something up-stairs.”
Jenkins received this as the result of a dance, but much wanted to fetch a tray, which Julius refused, and set off with an ale-glass in one hand, and in the other the plates with the beef and appliances, Jenkins watching in jealous expectation of a catastrophe, having no opinion of Mr. Julius’s powers as a waiter. He was disappointed. The downfall was deferred till the goal was reached, and was then most salutary, for Rosamond sprang to pick up the knife and fork, laughed at his awkwardness, refused to partake without him, produced implements from her travelling-bag, and was as merry as she had been miserable.
Not a word on the feud was uttered; and the pair walked down to the village, where she was exemplary, going into all those more distasteful parts of her duties there, which she sometimes shirked.
And on her return, finding her long-expected letter from Miss M’Kinnon awaiting her, she forgot all offences in her ardour to indoctrinate everybody with the hopes it gave of affording Mrs. Poynsett a change of room, if not even greater variety. Unfortunately, this eagerness was not met with a corresponding fervour. There was in the household the acquiescence with long-established invalidism, that sometimes settles down and makes a newcomer’s innovations unwelcome. Raymond had spoken to the old doctor, who had been timid and discouraging; Susan resented the implication that the utmost had not been done for her dear mistress; and Mrs. Poynsett herself, though warmly grateful for Rosamond’s affection, was not only nervously unwilling to try experiments, but had an instinctive perception that there was one daughter-in-law to whom her increased locomotion would scarcely be welcome, and by no means wished to make this distaste evident to Raymond. Cecil would not have been so strong against the risk and imprudence, if her wishes had been the other way. Moreover, she had been warned off from interference with the Rector’s wife in the village, and she did not relish Rosamond’s making suggestions as to her province, as she considered the house—above all, when she viewed that lady as in a state of disgrace. It was nothing less than effrontery; and Cecil became stiffer and colder than ever. She demanded of her mother-in-law whether there had been any promise of amendment.
“Oh! Julius will see to all that,” said Mrs. Poynsett.
“It is a woman’s question,” returned Cecil.
“Not entirely.”
“Fancy a clergyman’s wife! It Mrs. Venn had appeared in that way at Dunstone!”
“You would have left it to Mr. Venn! My dear, the less said the sooner mended.”
Cecil was silenced, but shocked, for she was far too young and inexperienced to understand that indecorous customs complied with as a matter of course, do not necessarily denote lack of innate modesty—far less, how they could be confounded with home allegiance; and as to Anne, poor Rosamond was, in her eyes, only too like the ladies who impeded Christiana on her outset.
So her ladyship retreated into languid sleepy dignity towards both her sisters-in-law; and on Monday evening showed herself, for a moment, moredecolletée, if possible, than before. Mrs. Poynsett feared lest Julius were weak in this matter; but at night she had a visit from him.
“Mother,” he said, “it will not happen again. Say no more.”
“I am only too thankful.”
“What do you think settled it? No less than Lady Tyrrell’s admiration.”
“What could she have said?”
“I can’t make out. Rose was far too indignant to be comprehensible, when she told me on the way home; but there was something about adopting the becoming, and a repetition of—of some insolent praise.” And his mother felt his quiver of suppressed wrath. “If Rose had been what that woman took her for, she would have been delighted,” he continued; “but—”
“It was horrible to her!” said his mother. “And to you. Yes, I knew it would right itself, and I am glad nothing passed about it between us.”
“So am I; she quite separates you from Cecil and Anne, and indeed all her anger is with Lady Tyrrell. She will have it there was malice in inciting her to shock old friends and annoy you—a sort of attempt to sympathize her into opposition.”
“Which had a contrary effect upon a generous nature.”
“Exactly! She thinks nothing too bad for that woman, and declares she is a serpent.”
“That’s dear Rosamond’s anger; but I imagine that when I occur to Camilla’s mind, it is as the obstructive old hag, who once stood in her way; and so, without any formed designs, whatever she says of me is coloured by that view.”
“Quite possible; and I am afraid the sister is just such another. She seems quite to belong to Mrs. Duncombe’s set. I sat next her at dinner, and tried to talk to her, but she would only listen to that young Strangeways.”
“Strangeways! I wonder if that is Susan Lorimer’s son?”
“Probably, for his Christian name is Lorimer.”
“I knew her rather well as a girl. She was old Lord Lorimer’s youngest daughter, and we used to walk in the Square gardens together; but I did not see much of her after I married; and after a good while, she married a man who had made a great fortune by mining. I wonder what her son is like?”
“He must be the man, for he is said to be the millionaire of the regiment. Just the match that Lady Tyrrell would like.”
“Ah! that’s well,” said Mrs. Poynsett.
“From your point of view,” said Julius, smiling.
“If he will only speak out before it has had time to go deep with Frank!”
At that very moment the two sisters in question were driving home in the opposite corners of the carriage in the dark.
“Really, Lenore,” was Lady Tyrrell saying, “you are a very impracticable girl.”
There was a little low laugh in answer.
“What blast has come and frozen you up into ice?” the elder sister added caressingly; but as she felt for Eleonora’s hand in the dark, she obtained nothing but the cold handle of a fan. “That’s just it!” she said, laughing; “hard ivory, instead of flesh and blood.”
“I can’t help it!” was the answer.
“But why not? I’m sure you had admiration enough to turn any girl’s head.”
No answer.
Lady Tyrrell renewed her address still more tenderly—“Lenore, darling, it is quite needful that you should understand your position.”
“I am afraid I understand it only too well,” came in a smothered voice.
“It may be very painful, but it ought to be made clear before you how you stand. You know that my father was ruined—there’s no word for it but ruined.”
“Yes.”
“He had to give up the property to the creditors, and live on an allowance.”
“I know that.”
“And, of course, I can’t bear speaking of it; but the house is really let to me. I have taken it as I might any other house to let.”
“Yes,” again assented Eleonora.
“And do you know why?”
“You said it was for the sake of the old home and my father!” said the girl, with a bitter emphasis on thesaid.
“So it was! It was to give you the chance of redeeming it, and keeping it in the family. It is to be sold, you know, as soon as you are of age, and can give your consent. I can’t buy it. Mine is only a jointure, a life income, and you know that you might as well think of Mary buying Golconda; but you—you—with such beauty as yours—might easily make a connection that would save it.”
There was only a choked sound.
“I know you feel the situation painfully, after having been mistress so long.”
“Camilla, youknowit is not that!”
“Ah, my dear, I can see farther than you avow. You can’t marry till you are twenty-one, you know; but you might be very soon engaged, and then we should see our way. It only depends on yourself. Plenty of means, and no land to tie him down, ready to purchase and to settle down. It would be the very thing; and I see you are a thoroughly sensible girl, Lena.”
“Indeed! I am not even sensible enough to know who is to be this purchaser.”
“Come, Lena, don’t be affected. Why! he was the only poor creature you were moderately gracious to.”
“I! what do you mean?”
Lady Tyrrell laughed again.
“Oh!” in a tone of relief, “I can explain all that to you. All the Strangeways family were at Rockpier the winter before you came, and I made great friends with Margaret Strangeways, the eldest sister. I wanted very much to hear about her, for she has had a great deal of illness and trouble, and I had not ventured to write to her.”
“Oh! was that the girl young Debenham gave up because her mother worried him so incessantly, and who went into a Sisterhood?”
“It was she who broke it off. She found he had been forced into it by his family, and was really attached elsewhere. I never knew the rights of it till I saw the brother to-night.”
“Very praiseworthy family confidence!”
“Camilla, you know I object to that tone.”
“So do most young ladies, my dear—at least by word.”
“And once for all, you need have no fancies about Mr. Lorimer Strangeways. I am civil to him, of course, for Margaret’s sake; and Lady Susan was very kind to me; but if there were nothing else against him, he is entirely out of the question, for I know he runs horses and bets on them.”
“So does everybody, more or less.”
“And you! you, Camilla, after what the turf has cost us, can wish me to encourage a man connected with it.”
“My dear Lena, I know you had a great shock, which made the more impression because you were such a child; but you might almost as well forswear riding, as men who have run a few horses, or staked a few thousands. Every young man of fortune has done so in his turn, just by way of experiment—as a social duty as often as not.”
“Let them,” said Eleonora, “as long as I have nothing to do with them.”
“What was that pretty French novel—Sybille, was it?—where the child wanted to ride on nothing but swans? You will be like her, and have to condescend to ordinary mortals.”
“She did not. She died. And, Camilla, I would far rather die than marry a betting man.”
“A betting man, who regularly went in for it! You little goose, to think that I would ask you to do that! As you say we have had enough of that! But to renounce every man who has set foot on a course, or staked a pair of gloves, is to renounce nine out of ten of the world one lives in.”
“I do renounce them. Camilla, remember that my mind is made up for ever, and that nothing shall ever induce me to marry a man who meddles with the evils of races.”
“Meddles with the evils? I understand, my dear Lena.”
“A man who makes a bet,” repeated Eleonora.
“We shall see,” was her ladyship’s light answer, in contrast to the grave tones; “no rules are without exceptions, and I only ask forone.”
“I shall make none.”
“I confess I thought you were coming to your senses; you have been acting so wisely and sensibly ever since you came home, about that young Frank Charnock.”
Lady Tyrrell heard a little rustle, but could not see that it was the clasping of two hands over a throbbing heart. “I am very glad you are reasonable enough to keep him at a distance. Poor boy, it was all very well to be friendly with him when we met him in a place like Rockpier, and you were both children; but you are quite right not to let it go on. It would be mere madness.”
“For him, yes,” murmured the girl.
“And even more so for you. Why, if he had any property worth speaking of, it would be a wretched thing to marry into that family! I am sure I pity those three poor girls! Miles’s wife looks perfectly miserable, poor thing, and the other two can’t conceal the state of things. She is just the sort of woman who cannot endure a daughter-in-law.”
“I thought I heard Lady Rosamond talking very affectionately of her.”
“Very excitedly, as one who felt it her duty to stand up for her out-of-doors, whatever she may do indoors. I saw victory in those plump white shoulders, which must have cost a battle; but whatever Lady Rosamond gains, will make it all the worse for the others. No, Eleonora, I have known Mrs. Poynsett’s rancour for many years, and I would wish no one a worse lot than to be her son’sfiancée, except to be his wife.”
“She did not seem to object to these marriages.”
“The sons took her by surprise. Besides, Raymond’s was the verypartimothers seek out for their sons. Depend upon it, she sent him off with her blessing to court the unexceptionable cousin with the family property. Poor Raymond, he is a dutiful son, and he has done the deed; but, if I am not much mistaken the little lady is made of something neither mother nor son is prepared for, and he has not love enough to tame her with.”
“That may be seen at a glance. He can’t help it, poor fellow; he would have had it if he could, like anything else that is proper.”
There was a moment’s silence; then the exclamation, “Just look there!”
One of the hats was nodding on the box in a perilous manner.
“It isonlyJames,” said Lady Tyrrell; “as long as it is not the coachman, it matters the less. There’s no danger.”
“You will not keep him, though!”
“I don’t know. He is much the best looking and handiest of the men; and your page, Master Joshua, is no great acquisition yet.”
“I wish you would not call him mine; I wish you would send him back to his grandmother. I can’t bear his being among those men.”
“Very complimentary to my household! They are not a bit worse than the company he came from! You don’t believe in rural simplicity, eh?”
“I believe that taking that boy from his home makes us responsible.”
“And do I hinder you from catechizing him to your heart’s content? or sending him to the school of design?”
Again Eleonora was silent. Perhaps the balancing of the footman’s head occupied her mind. At any rate, no more was said till the sisters had reached their home. Then, at the last moment, when there was no time left for a reply, Eleonora cleared and steadied her voice, and said, “Camilla, understand two things for truth’s sake. First, I mean what I say. Nothing shall ever induce me to marry a man who bets. Next, I never have forgotten Frank Charnock for one moment. If I have been cold and distant to him, it is because I will not draw him near me to be cruelly scorned and disappointed!”
“I don’t mind the why, if the effect is the same,” were Lady Tyrrell’s last words, as the door opened.
Eleonora’s little white feet sped quickly up the steps, and with a hasty good night, she sped across the hall, but paused at the door. “Papa must not be disappointed,” she whispered to herself, and dashed her hand over her eyes; and at the moment the lock turned, and a gray head appeared, with a mighty odour of smoke. “Ah! I thought my little Lena would not pass me by! Have you had a pleasant party, my dear? Was young Strangeways there?”
She had nestled in his arms, and hoped to avoid notice by keeping her head bent against him, as she hastily responded to his questions; but he detected something.
“Eh? Camilla been lecturing? Is that it? You’ve not been crying, little one? It is all right, you know! You and I were jolly enough at Rockpier; but it was time we were taken in hand, or you would have grown into a regular little nun, among all those black coats.”
“I wish I were.”
“Nonsense! You don’t know life! You’ll tell another story one of these days; and hark childie, when you’ve married, and saved the old place, you’ll keep the old room for the old man, and we’ll have our own way again.”
She could but kiss him, and hide her agitation in caresses, ere hurrying up the stairs she reached her own rooms, a single bed-chamber opening into a more spacious sitting-room, now partially lighted by the candles on the toilette-table within.
She flung herself down on a chair beyond the line of light, and panted out half aloud, “Oh! I am in the toils! Oh for help! Oh for advice! Oh! if I knew the right! Am I unfair? am I cold and hard and proud? Is she telling me true? No, I know she is not—not the whole truth, and I don’t know what is left out, or what is false! And I’m as bad—making them think I give in and discard Frank! Oh! is that my pride—or that it is too bad to encourage him now I know more? He’ll soon scorn me, and leave off—whatever he ever thought of me. She has taken me from all my friends—and she will take him away! No one is left me but papa; and though she can’t hurt his love, she has got his confidence away, and made him join against me! But that one thing I’ll never, never do!”
She started up, and opened a locked purple photograph-album, with ‘In Memoriam’ inscribed on it—her hands trembling so that she could hardly turn the key. She turned to the likeness of a young man—a painful likeness of a handsome face, where the hard verities of sun-painting had refused to veil the haggard trace of early dissipation, though the eyes had still the fascinating smile that had made her brother Tom, with his flashes of fitful good-nature, the idol of his little sister’s girlhood. The deadly shock of his sudden death had been her first sorrow; and those ghastly whispers which she had heard from the servants in the nursery, and had never forgotten, because of the hushed and mysterious manner, had but lately started into full force and meaning, on the tongues of the plain-spoken poor.
She gazed, and thought of the wrecked life that might have been so rich in joys; nay, her tenderness for her father could not hide from her how unlike his old age was from that of Mr. Bowater, or of any men who had done their service to their generation in all noble exertion. He had always indeed been her darling, her charge; but she had never known what it was to look up to him with the fervent belief and enthusiasm she had seen in other girls. To have him amused, loitering from reading-room to parade or billiard-room, had been all that she aspired to, and only lately had she unwillingly awakened to the sense how and why this was—and why the family were aliens in their ancestral home.
“And Camilla, who knew all—knew, and lived through the full force of the blight and misery—would persuade me that it all means nothing, and is a mere amusing trifle! Trifle, indeed, that breaks hearts and leads to despair and self-destruction and dishonour! No, no, no—nothing shall lead me to a gamester! though Frank may be lost to me! He will be! he will be! We deserve that he should be! I deserve it—if family sins fall on individuals—I deserve it! It is better for him—better—better. And yet, can he forget—any more than I—that sunny day—? Oh! was she luring him on false pretences? What shall I do? How will it be? Where is my counsellor? Emily, Emily, why did you die?”
Emily’s portrait—calm, sweet, wasted, with grave trustful eyes—was in the next page. The lonely girl turned to it, and gazed, and drank in the soothing influence of the countenance that had never failed to reply with motherly aid and counsel. It rested the throbbing heart; and presently, with hands clasped and head bent, Eleonora Vivian knelt in the little light closet she had fitted as an oratory, and there poured out her perplexities and sorrows.
Since for your pleasure you came here,You shall go back for mine.—COWPER
Since for your pleasure you came here,You shall go back for mine.—COWPER
“How like Dunstone you have made this room!” said Raymond, entering his wife’s apartment with a compliment that he knew would be appreciated.
Cecil turned round from her piano, to smile and say, “I wish papa could see it.”
“I hope he will next spring; but he will hardly bring Mrs. Charnock home this winter. I am afraid you are a good deal alone here, Cecil. Is there no one you would like to ask?”
“The Venns,” suggested Cecil; “only we do not like them to leave home when we are away; but perhaps they would come.”
Raymond could not look as if the proposal were a very pleasing one. “Have you no young-lady friends?” he asked.
“We never thought it expedient to have intimacies in the neighbourhood,” said Cecil.
“Well, we shall have Jenny Bowater here in a week or two.”
“I thought she was your mother’s friend.”
“So she is. She is quite young enough to be yours.”
“I do not see anything remarkable about her.”
“No, I suppose there is not; but she is a very sensible superior person.”
“Indeed! In that commonplace family.”
“Poor Jenny has had an episode that removes her from the commonplace. Did you ever hear of poor Archie Douglas?”
“Was not he a good-for-nothing relation of your mother?”
“Not that exactly. He was the son of a good-for-nothing, I grant, whom a favourite cousin had unfortunately married, but he was an excellent fellow himself; and when his father died, she had Mrs. Douglas to live in that cottage by the Rectory, and sent the boy to school with us; then she got him into Proudfoot’s office—the solicitor at Backsworth, agent for everybody’s estates hereabouts. Well, there arose an attachment between him and Jenny; the Bowaters did not much like it, of course; but they are kind-hearted and good-natured, and gave consent, provided Archie got on in his profession. It was just at the time when poor Tom Vivian was exercising a great deal more influence than was good among the young men in the neighbourhood; and George Proudfoot was rather a joke for imitating him in every respect—from the colour of his dog-cart to the curl of his dog’s tail. I remember his laying a wager, and winning it too, that if he rode a donkey with his face to the tail, Proudfoot would do the same; but then, Vivian did everything with a grace and originality.”
“Like his sister.”
“And doubly dangerous. Every one liked him, and we were all more together than was prudent. At last, two thousand pounds of my mother’s money, which was passing through the Proudfoots’ hands, disappeared; and at the same time poor Archie fled. No one who knew him could have any reasonable doubt that he did but bear the blame of some one else’s guilt, most likely that of George Proudfoot; but he died a year or two back without a word, and no proof has ever been found; and alas! the week after Archie sailed, we saw his name in the list of sufferers in a vessel that was burnt. His mother happily had died before all this, but there were plenty to grieve bitterly for him; and poor Jenny has been the more like one of ourselves in consequence. He had left a note for Jenny, and she always trusted him; and we all of us believe that he was innocent.”
“I can’t think how a person can go about as usual, or ever get over such a thing as that.”
“Perhaps she hasn’t,” said Raymond, with a little colour on his brown cheek. “But I’m afraid I can’t make those visits with you to-day. I am wanted to see the plans for the new town-hall at Wil’sbro’. Will you pick me up there?”
“There would be sure to be a dreadful long waiting, so I will luncheon at Sirenwood instead; Lady Tyrrell asked me to come over any day.”
“Alone? I think you had better wait for me.”
“I can take Frank.”
“I should prefer a regular invitation to us both.”
“She did not mean to make a formal affair.”
“Forms are a protection, and I do not wish for an intimacy there, especially on Frank’s account.”
“It would be an excellent match for Frank.”
“Indeed, no; the estate is terribly involved, and there are three daughters; besides which, the family would despise a younger son. An attachment could only lead to unhappiness now, besides the positive harm of unsettling him. His tutor tells me that as it is he is very uneasy about his examination—his mind is evidently preoccupied. No, no, Cecil, don’t make the intercourse unnecessarily close. The Vivians have not behaved well to my mother, and it is not desirable to begin a renewal. But you shall not lose your ride, Cecil; I’ll ask one of the boys to go with you to the Beeches, and perhaps I shall meet you there.”
“He talks of my lonely life,” said Cecil, to herself, “and yet he wants to keep me from the only person who really understands me, all for some rancorous old prejudice of Mrs. Poynsett’s. It is very hard. There’s no one in the house to make a friend of—Rosamond, a mere garrison belle; and Anne,bornéeand half a dissenter; and as soon as I try to make a friend, I am tyrannized over, and this Miss Bowater thrust on me.”
She was pounding these sentiments into a sonata with great energy, when her door re-opened, and Raymond again appeared. “I am looking for two books of Mudie’s. Do you know where they can be? I can’t make up the number.”
“They are here,” said Cecil; “Lanfrey’sVie de Napoleon; but I have not finished them.”
“The box should have gone ten days ago. My mother has nothing to read, and has been waiting all this time for the next part ofMiddlemarch,” said Raymond.
“She said there was no hurry,” murmured Cecil.
“No doubt she did; but we must not take advantage of her consideration. Reading is her one great resource, and we must so contrive that your studies shall not interfere with it.”
He waited for some word of regret, but none came; and he was obliged to add, “I must deprive you of the books for the present, for she must not be kept waiting any longer; but I will see about getting them for you in some other way. I must take the box to the station in the dog-cart.” He went without a word from her. It was an entirely new light to her that her self-improvement could possibly be otherwise than the first object with everyone. At home, father and mother told one another complacently what Cecil was reading, and never dreamt of obstructing the virtuous action. Were her studies to be sacrificed to an old woman’s taste for novels?
Cecil had that pertinacity of nature that is stimulated to resistance by opposition; and she thought of the Egyptian campaign, and her desire to understand the siege of Acre. Then she recollected that Miss Vivian had spoken of reading the book, and this decided her. “I’ll go to Sirenwood, look at it, and order it. No one can expect me to submit to have no friends abroad nor books at home. Besides, it is all some foolish old family feud; and what a noble thing it will be for my resolution and independence to force the two parties to heal the breach, and bridge it over by giving Miss Vivian to Frank.”
In this mood she rang the bell, and ordered her horses; not however till she had reason to believe the dog-cart on the way down the avenue. As she came down in her habit, she was met by Frank, returning from his tutor.
“Have I made a mistake, Cecil! I thought we were to go out together this afternoon!”
“Yes; but Raymond was wanted at Willansborough, and I am going to lunch at Sirenwood. I want to borrow a book.”
“Oh, very well, I’ll come, if you don’t mind. Sir Harry asked me to drop in and look at his dogs.”
This was irresistible; and Frank decided on riding the groom’s horse, and leaving him to conduct Anne to the rendezvous in the afternoon—for Charlie had been at Sandhurst for the last week—running in first to impart the change of scheme to her, as she was performing her daily task of reading to his mother.
He did so thus: “I say, Anne, Cecil wants to go to Sirenwood first to get a book, so Lee will bring you to meet us at the Beeches at 2.30.”
“Are you going to luncheon at Sirenwood?” asked Mrs. Poynsett.
“Yes; Cecil wants to go,” said the dutiful younger brother.
“I wish you would ask Cecil to come in. Raymond put himself into such a state of mind at finding me reading Madame de Sévigné, that I am afraid he carried off her books summarily, though I told him I was glad of a little space for my old favourites.”
Cecil was, however, mounted by the time Frank came out, and they cantered away together, reaching the portico of Sirenwood in about twenty minutes.
Cecil had never been in the house before, having only left her card, though she had often met the sisters. She found herself in a carpeted hall, like a supplementary sitting-room, where two gentlemen had been leaning over the wide hearth. One, a handsome benignant-looking old man, with a ruddy face and abundant white whiskers, came forward with a hearty greeting. “Ah! young Mrs. Poynsett! Delighted to see you!—Frank Charnock, you’re come in good time; we are just going down to see the puppies before luncheon. Only I’ll take Mrs. Poynsett to the ladies first. Duncombe, you don’t know Mrs. Raymond Poynsett—one must not say senior bride, but the senior’s bride. Is that right?”