Lady Rosamond and Joanna Bowater could not fail to be good friends; Herbert was a great bond of union, and so was Mrs. Poynsett. Rosamond found it hard to recover from the rejection of her scheme of the wheeled-chair, and begged Jenny to become its advocate; but Mrs. Poynsett listened with a smile of the unpromising kind—“You too, Jenny?”
“Why not, dear Mrs. Poynsett? How nice it would be to see you in your own corner again!”
“I don’t think my own corner remains.”
“Oh! but it could be restored at once.”
“Do you think so? No, no, Jenny my dear; cracked china is better left on the shelf out of the way, even if it could bear the move, which it can’t.”
Then Jenny understood, and advised Rosamond to bide her time, and wait till the session of parliament, when the house would be quieter; and Rosamond nodded and held her peace.
The only person who held aloof was Cecil, who would not rise to the bait when Raymond tried to exhibit Miss Bowater as a superior intellectual woman.
Unluckily, too, Jenny observed one evening at the five o’clock tea, “I hear that Mrs. Duncombe has picked up some very funny people—a lady lecturer, who is coming to set us all to rights.”
“A wonderful pair, I hear!” said Frank. “Mrs. Clio Tallboys, she calls herself, and a poor little husband, whom she carries about to show the superiority of her sex.”
“A Cambridge professor and a great political economist!” observed Cecil, in a low but indignant voice.
“The Yankee Cambridge!” quoth Frank.
“The American Cambridge is a distinguished university,” returned Cecil.
“Cecil is right, Master Frank,” laughed his mother; “Cam and Isis are not the only streams of learning in the world.”
“I never heard of him,” said Jenny; “he is a mere satellite to the great luminary.”
“They are worth seeing,” added Frank; “she is one of those regular American beauties one would pay to get a sight of.”
“Where did you get all this information?” asked Cecil.
“From Duncombe himself. They met on the Righi; and nothing is more comical than to near him describe the ladies’ fraternization over female doctors and lawyers, till they rushed into each other’s arms, and the Clio promised to come down on a crusade and convert you all.”
“There are two ways of telling a story,” said Cecil.
“No wonder the gentlemen quake!” said Mrs. Poynsett.
“I don’t,” said Frank, boyishly.
“Because you’ve no wife to take you in hand,” retorted Jenny.
“For my part,” said Mrs. Poynsett, “I can’t see what women want. I have always had as many rights as I could exercise.”
“Ah! but we are not all ladies of the manor,” said Jenny, “nor do we all drive coaches.”
“I observe,” said Cecil, with dignity, “that there is supposed to be a license to laugh at Mrs. Duncombe and whatever she does.”
“She would do better to mind her children,” said Frank.
“Children! Has she children?” broke in Anne and Rosamond, both at once.
“Didn’t you know it?” said Jenny.
“No, indeed! I didn’t think her the sort of woman,” said Rosamond. “What does she do with them?”
“Drops them in the gutter,” said Frank. “Literally, as I came home, I heard a squeak, and found a child flat in a little watercourse. I picked it out, and the elder one told me it was Ducky Duncombe, or some such word. Its little boots had holes in them, mother; its legs were purple, and there was a fine smart foreign woman flirting round the corner with young Hornblower.”
“Boys with long red hair, and Highland dresses?” exclaimed Rosamond. “Yes, the same we saw with Miss Vivian!”
“Exactly!” said Frank, eagerly. “She is quite a mother to those poor little wretches; they watch for her at the Sirenwood gate, and she walks with them. The boy’s cry was not for mother or nurse, but for Lena!”
“Pray, did she come at his call?”
“No; but when I carried the brat home, poor Duncombe told me almost with tears, how good she is to them. I fancy he feels their mother’s neglect of them.”
“I’m sure I gave her credit for having none,” said Rosamond.
“Ah!” said Jenny, “you should have heard her condolences with my sister Mary on her last infliction. Fancy Mary’s face!”
“No doubt it was to stem a torrent of nursery discussions,” said Cecil. “Such bad taste!”
“Which?” murmured Rosamond under her breath, with an arched eyebrow.
“Plain enough,” said Frank: “if a woman is a woman, the bad taste is to be ashamed of it.”
“Yes,” said Cecil, “that is the way with men; they would fain keep us down to the level of the nursery.”
“I thought nurseries were usually at the top of the house.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Poynsett, disregarding this mischievous suggestion, “they mean that organization, like charity, should begin at home.”
“You say that meaningly,” said Rosamond. “I have heard very odd stories of domestic affairs at Aucuba Villa, and that she can’t get a servant to stay there.”
“That man, Alexander, has always been there,” said Frank.
“Yes; but he has occasionally to do all the work of the house. Yes, I can’t help it, Cecil, Susan will regale me with cook-stories sometimes; and I have heard of the whole establishment turning out on being required to eat funguses.”
“I shall beware of dining there!” said Rosamond.
“Don’t they dine here to-morrow?” asked Frank.
“No, they are engaged to the Moys,” said Cecil.
“But the Vivians come?”
“Oh yes.”
Every one knew that already; but Frank could not help having it repeated. It was a mere formal necessity to ask them, and had been accepted as such; but there was some amazement when Cecil brought home Lady Tyrrell and Miss Vivian to lunch and spend the afternoon. It might be intended as one of her demonstrations; for though it was understood that any of the inmates were free to bring home friends to luncheon, it was not done—except with a casual gentleman—without notice to the mistress of the house. Cecil, however, comported herself entirely as in that position, explaining that Lady Tyrrell was come to give her advice upon an intended fernery, and would perform her toilette here, so as to have plenty of time. Frank, little knowing what was passing, was working the whole day at his tutor’s for the closely imminent examination; Julius and Raymond were gravely polite; Eleonora very silent; and as soon as the meal was over, Rosamond declared that she should not come out to stand planning in the cold; and though Herbert would have liked nothing better in that company, his Rector carried him off to arrange an Advent service in a distant hamlet; Anne’s horse came to the door; and only Joanna remained to accompany the gardening party, except that Raymond came out with them to mark the limits of permissible alteration.
“How unchanged!” exclaimed Lady Tyrrell. “Time stands still here; only where is the grand old magnolia? How sweet it used to be!”
“Killed by the frost,” said Raymond, shortly, not choosing to undergo a course of reminiscences, and chafing his wife by his repressive manner towards her guest. When he had pointed out the bed of Americans that were to be her boundary, he excused himself as having letters to finish; and as he went away Cecil gave vent to her distaste to the old shrubs and borders, now, of course, at their worst—the azaleas mere dead branches, the roses with a few yellow night-capped buds still lingering, and fuchsias with a scanty bell or two.
Jenny fought for their spring beauty, all the more because Lady Tyrrell was encouraging the wife to criticize the very things she had tried to sentimentalize over with the husband; but seeing that she was only doing harm, she proposed a brisk walk to Eleonora, who gladly assented, though her sister made a protest about damp, and her being a bad walker. The last things they heard was Cecil’s sigh, “It is all so shut in, wherever there is level ground, that the bazaar would be impossible.”
“I should hope so!” muttered Jenny.
“What do you mean to do about this bazaar?” asked Eleonora, as they sped away.
“I don’t know. Those things so often go off in smoke, that I don’t make up my mind till they become imminent.”
“I am afraid this will go on,” said Eleonora. “Camilla means it and she always carries out her plans; I wish I saw the right line.”
“About that?”
“About everything. It seems to me that there never was any one so cut off from help and advice as I am;” then, as Joanna made some mute sign of sympathy, “I knew you would understand; I have been longing to be with you, for there has been no one to whom I could speak freely since I left Rockpier.”
“And I have been longing to have you. Mamma would have asked you to stay with us before, only we had the house full. Can’t you come now?”
“You will see that I shall not be allowed. It is of no use to think about it!” said the girl, with a sigh. “Here, let us get out of this broad path, or she may yet come after us—persuade Mrs. Charnock Poynsett it is too cold to stand about—anything to break up atête-à-tête.”
Jenny saw she really was in absolute fear of pursuit; but hardly yet understood the nervous haste to turn into a not very inviting side-path, veiled by the trees, whose wet leaves were falling.
“Do you mind the damp?” asked the girl, anxiously.
“No, not at all; but—”
“You don’t know what it is never to feel free, but be like a French girl, always watched—at least whenever I am with any one I care to speak to.”
“Are you quite sure it is not imagination?”
“O, Joanna, don’t be like all the rest, blinded by her! You knew her always!”
“Only from below. I am four years younger; you know dear Emily was my contemporary.”
“Dear Emily! I miss her more now than even at Rockpier. But you, who were her friend, and knew Camilla of old, I know you can help me as no one else can.”
Jenny returned a caress; and Eleonora spoke on. “You know I was only eight years old when Camilla married, and I had scarcely seen her till she came to us at Rockpier, on Lord Tyrrell’s death, and then she was most delightful. I thought her like mother and sister both in one, even more tender than dear Emily. How could I have thought so for a moment? But she enchanted everybody. Clergy, ladies, and all came under the spell; and I can’t get advice from any of them—even from Miss Coles—you remember her?”
“Your governess? How nice she was!”
“Emily and I owed everything to her! She was as near being a mother to us as any one could be; and Camilla could not say enough of gratitude, or show esteem enough, and fascinated her like all the rest of us; but she never rested till she had got her off to a situation in Russia. I did not perceive the game at the time, but I see now how all the proposals for situations within reach of me were quashed.”
“But you write to her?”
“Yes; but as soon as I showed any of my troubles she reproved me for self-will and wanting to judge for myself, and not submit to my sister. That’s the way with all at Rockpier. Camilla has gone about pitying me to them for having to give way to my married sister, but saying it was quite time that she took charge of us; and on that notion they all wrote to me. Then she persuaded papa to go abroad; and I was delighted, little thinking she never meant me to go back again.”
“Did she not?”
“Listen! I’ve heard her praise Rockpier and its church to the skies to one person—say Mr. Bindon. To another, such as our own Vicar, she says it was much tooultra, and she likes moderation; she tells your father that she wants to see papa among his old friends; and to Mrs. Duncombe, I’ve heard her go as near the truth as is possible to her, and call it a wearisome place, with an atmosphere of incense, curates, and old maids, from whom she had carried me off before I grew fit for nothing else!”
“I dare say all these are true in turn, or seem so to her, or she would not say them before you.”
“She has left off trying to gloss it over with me, except so far as it is part of her nature. She did at first, but she knows it is of no use now.”
“Really, Lenore, you must be going too far.”
“I have shocked you; but you can’t conceive what it is to live with perpetual falsity. No, I can’t use any other word. I am always mistrusting and being angered, and my senses of right and wrong get so confused, that it is like groping in a maze.” Her eyes were full of tears, but she exclaimed, “Tell me, Joanna, was there ever anything between Camilla and Mr. Poynsett?”
“Why bring that up again now?”
“Why did it go off?” insisted Lenore.
“Because Mrs. Poynsett could not give up and turn into a dowager, as if she were not the mistress herself.”
“Was that all?”
“So it was said.”
“I want to get to the bottom of it. It was not because Lord Tyrrell came in the way.”
“I am afraid they thought so here.”
“Then,” said Eleonora, in a hard, dry way, “I know the reason of our being brought back here, and of a good deal besides.”
“My dear Lena, I am very sorry for you; but I think you had better keep this out of your mind, or you will fall into a hard, bitter, suspicious mood.”
“That is the very thing. I am in a hard, bitter, suspicious mood, and I can’t see how to keep out of it; I don’t know when opposition is right and firm, and when it is only my own self-will.”
“Would it not be a good thing to talk to Julius Charnock? You would not be betraying anything.”
“No! I can’t seem to make up to the good clergyman! Certainly not. Besides, I’ve heard Camilla talking to his wife!”
“Talking?”
“Admiring that dress, which she had been sneering at to your mother, don’t you remember? It was one of her honey-cups with venom below—only happily, Lady Rosamond saw through the flattery. I’m ashamed whenever I see her!”
“I don’t think that need cut you off from Julius.”
“Tell metruly,” again broke in Lenore, “what Mrs. Poynsett really is. She is a standing proverb with us for tyranny over her sons; not with Camilla alone, but with papa.”
“See how they love her!” cried Jenny, hotly.
“Camilla thinks that abject; but I can’t forget how Frank talked of her in those happy Rockpier days.”
“When you first knew him?” said Jenny.
They must have come at length to the real point, for Eleonora began at once—“Yes; he was with his sick friend, and we were so happy; and now he is being shamefully used, and I don’t know what to do!”
“Indeed, Lenore,” said Jenny, in her downright way, “I do not understand. You do not seem to care for him.”
“Of course I am wrong,” said the poor girl; “but I hoped I was doing the best thing for him.” Then, as Jenny made an indignant sound, “See, Jenny, when he came to Rockpier, Camilla had been a widow about three months. She never had been very sad, for Lord Tyrrell had been quite imbecile for a year, poor man! And when Frank came, she could not make enough of him; and he and I both thought the two families had been devotedly fond of each other, and that she was only too glad to meet one of them.”
“I suppose that was true.”
“So do I, as things stood then. She meant Frank to be a sort of connecting link, against the time when she could come back here; but we, poor children, never thought of that, and went on together, not exactly saying anything, but quite understanding how much we cared. Indeed, I know Camilla impressed on him that, for his mother’s sake, it must go no farther then, while he was still so young; and next came our journey on the Continent, ending in our coming back here last July.”
Jenny remembered that Raymond’s engagement had not been made known till August, and Frank had only returned from a grouse-shooting holiday a week or two before the arrival of the brides.
“Now,” added Eleonora, “Camilla has made me understand that nothing will induce her to let papa consent; and though I know he would, if he were left to himself, I also see how all this family must hate and loathe the connection.”
“May I ask, has Frank ever spoken?”
“Oh no! I think he implied it all to Camilla when she bade him wait till our return, fancying, I suppose, that one could forget the other.”
“But why does she seem so friendly with him?”
“It is her way; she can’t be other than smooth and caressing, and likes to have young men about; and I try to be grave and distant, because—the sooner he is cured of me the better for him,” she uttered, with a sob; “but when he is there, and I see those grieved eyes of his, I can’t keep it up! And papa does like him! Oh! if Camilla would but leave us alone! See here, Jenny!” and she showed, on her watch-chain, a bit of ruddy polished pebble. “Is it wrong to keep this? He and I found the stone in two halves, on the beach, the last day we were together, and had them set, pretending to one another it was only play. Sometimes I think I ought to send mine back; I know he has his, he let me see it one day. Do you think I ought to give it up?”
“Why should you?”
“Because then he would know that it must be all over.”
“Butisit all over? Within, I mean?”
“Jenny, you know better!”
“Then, Lenore, if so, and it is only your sister who objects, not your father himself, ought you to torment poor Frank by acting indifference when you do not feel it?”
“Am I untrue? I never thought of that. I thought I should be sacrificing myself for his good!”
“His good? O, Lenore, I believe it is the worst wrong a woman can do a man, to let him think he has wasted his heart upon her, and that she is trifling with him. You don’t know what a bad effect this is having, even on his prospects. He cannot get his brain or spirits free to work for his examination.”
“How hard it is to know what is right! Here have I been thinking that what made me so miserable must be the best for him, and would it not make it all the worse to relax, and let him see?”
“I do not think so,” returned Jenny. “His spirits would not be worn by doubt ofyou—the worst doubt of all: and he would feel that he had something to strive for.”
Eleonora walked on for some steps in silence, then exclaimed, “Yes, but there’s his family. It would only stir up trouble for them there. They can’t approve of me.”
“They don’t know you. When they do, they will. Now they only see what looks like—forgive me, Lena—caprice and coquetry; they will know you in earnest, if you will let them.”
“You don’t mean that they know anything about it!” exclaimed Eleonora.
Jenny almost laughed. “Not know where poor Frank’s heart is? You don’t guess how those sons live with their mother!”
“I suppose I have forgotten what sincerity and openness are,” said Eleonora, sadly. “But is not she very much vexed?”
“She was vexed to find it had gone so deep with him,” said Jenny; “but I know that you can earn her affection and trust by being staunch and true yourself—and it is worth having, Lena!”
For Jenny knew Eleonora of old, through Emily’s letters, and had no doubt of her rectitude, constancy, and deep principle, though she was at the present time petrified by constant antagonism to such untruthfulness as, where it cannot corrupt, almost always hardens those who come in contact with it. And this cruel idea of self-sacrifice was, no doubt, completing the indurating process.
Jenny knew the terrible responsibility of giving such advice. She had not done it lightly. She had been feeling for years past that “’Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all;” and she knew that uncertainty of the right to love and trust would have been a pang beyond all she had suffered. To give poor Eleonora, situated as she now was, admission to the free wholesome atmosphere of the Charnock family, was to her kind heart irresistible; and it was pleasant to feel the poor girl clinging to her, as people do to those who have given the very counsel the heart craved for.
It was twilight when the walk was over, and the drawing-room was empty; but Anne came to invite them to Mrs. Poynsett’s tea, saying that Cecil had Lady Tyrrell in her own sitting-room. Perhaps Mrs. Poynsett had not realized who was Jenny’s companion, for she seemed startled at their entrance; and Jenny said, “You remember Lenore Vivian?”
“I must have seen you as a child,” said Mrs. Poynsett, courteously. “You are very like your sister.”
This, though usually a great compliment, disappointed Eleonora, as she answered, rather frigidly, “So people say.”
“Have you walked far?”
“To the Outwood Lodge.”
“To-day? Was it not very damp in the woods?”
“Oh no, delightful!”
“Lena and I are old friends,” said Jenny; “too glad to meet to heed the damp.”
Here Raymond entered, with the air of a man who had just locked up a heavy post-bag at the last possible moment; and he too was amazed, though he covered it by asking why the party was so small.
“Rosamond has gone to meet her husband, and Cecil has her guest in her own domains.”
Then Jenny asked after his day’s work—a county matter, interesting to all the magistracy, and their womankind in their degree; and Eleonora listened in silence, watching with quiet heedfulness Frank’s mother and brother.
When Frank himself came in, his face was a perfect study; and the colour mantled in her cheeks, so that Jenny trusted that both were touched by the wonderful beauty that a little softness and timidity brought out on the features, usually so resolutely on guard. But when, in the later evening, Jenny crept in to her old friend, hoping to find that the impression had been favourable, she only heard, “Exactly like her sister, who always had the making of a fine countenance.”
“The mask—yes, but Lena has the spirit behind the mask. Poor girl! she is not at all happy in the atmosphere her sister has brought home.”
“Then I wish they would marry her!”
“Won’t you believe how truly nice and good she is?”
“That will not make up for the connection. My heart sank, Jenny, from the time I heard that those Vivians were coming back. I kept Frank away as long as I could—but there’s no help for it. It seems the fate of my boys to be the prey of those sirens.”
“Well, then, dear Mrs. Poynsett, do pray believe, on my word, that Eleonora is a different creature!”
“Is there no hope of averting it? I thought Camilla would—poor Frank is such insignificant game!”
“And when it does come, don’t be set against her, please, dear Mrs. Poynsett. Be as kind to her—as you were to me,” whispered Jenny, nestling up, and hiding her face.
“My dear, but I knew you! You were no such case.”
“Except that you all were horribly vexed with us, because we couldn’t help liking each other,” said Jenny.
“Ah! my poor child! I only wish you could have liked any one else!”
“Do you?” said Jenny, looking up. “Oh no, you don’t! You would not have me for your supplementary child, if I had,” she added playfully; then very low—“It is because the thought of dear Archie, even ending as it did, is my very heart’s joy, that I want you to let them have theirs!”
And then came a break, which ended the pleading; and Jenny was obliged to leave Compton without much notion as to the effect of her advice, audacious as she knew it to have been.
A light that never was on sea or land.—WORDSWORTH
A light that never was on sea or land.—WORDSWORTH
Nothing could be prettier than Rosamond’s happiness in welcoming her school-boy brothers, and her gratitude to Mrs. Poynsett for inviting them, declaring that she liked boys. Her sons, however, dreaded the inroad of two wild Irish lads, and held council what covers and what horses could most safely be victimized to them, disregarding all testimony in their favour from interested parties. When, therefore, Terence and Thomas de Lancey made their appearance, and were walked in for exhibition by their proud and happy sister, there was some surprise at the sight of two peculiarly refined, quiet boys, with colourless complexions, soft, sleepy, long-lashed, liquid brown eyes, the lowest of full voices, and the gentlest of manners, as if nothing short of an explosion could rouse them.
And it was presently manifest that their sister had said rather too little than too much of Terry’s abilities. Not only had he brought home a huge pile of prizes, but no sooner was theséanceafter dinner broken up, than he detained Julius, saying, in a very meek and modest tone, “Rose says you know all the books in the library.”
“Rose undertakes a great deal for me. What is this the prelude to?”
“I wanted to ask if I might just look at any book about the physical geography of Italy, or the History of Venice, or the Phœnicians.”
“Why, Terry?”
“It is for the Prize Essay,” explained the boy; “the subject is the effect of the physical configuration of a country upon the character of a nation.”
Julius drew a long breath, astounded at the march of intellect since his time. “They don’t expect such things of fellows like you!” he said.
“Only of the sixth, but the fifth may go in for it, and I want to get up to the Doctor himself; I thought, as I was coming to such a jolly library, I might try; and if I do pretty well, I shall be put up, if any more fellows leave. Do you think I may use the books? I’m librarian, so I know how to take care of them.”
“You can be trusted for that, you book-worm,” said Julius; “here’s the library, but I fear I don’t know much about those modern histories. My mother is a great reader, and will direct us. Let us come to her.”
Quiet as Terry was, he was neither awkward nor shy; and when Julius had explained his wishes, and Mrs. Poynsett had asked a few good-natured questions, she was charmed as well as surprised at the gentle yet eager modesty with which the low-pitched tones detailed the ideas already garnered up, and inquired for authorities, in which to trace them out, without the least notion of the remarkable powers he was evincing. She was delighted with the boy; Julius guided his researches; and he went off to bed as happy as a king, with his hands full of little dark tarnished French duodecimos, and with a ravenous appetite for the pasture ground he saw before him. Lower Canada had taught him French, and the stores he found were revelry to him.
Cecil’s feelings may be better guessed than described when the return of Mudie’s box was hastened that he might have Motley’sDutch Republic. She thought this studiousness mere affectation; but it was indisputable that Terry’s soul was in books, and that he never was so happy as when turned loose into the library, dipping here and there, or with an elbow planted on either side of a folio.
Offers of gun or horse merely tormented him, and only his sister could drag him out by specious pleas of need, to help in those Christmas works, where she had much better assistance in Anne and the curates—the one for clubs and coals, the other for decorations.
Mrs. Poynsett was Terry’s best friend. He used to come to her in the evening and discuss what he had been reading till she was almost as keen about his success as Frank’s. He talked over his ambition, of getting a scholarship, becoming a fellow, and living for ever among the books, for which the scanty supply in his wandering boyhood had but whetted his fervour. He even confided to her what no one else knew but his sister Aileen, his epic in twenty-four books on Brian Boromhe and the Battle of Clontarf; and she was mother enough not to predict its inevitable fate, nor audibly to detect the unconscious plagiarisms, but to be a better listener than even Aileen, who never could be withheld from unfeeling laughter at the touching fate of the wounded warriors who were tied to stakes that they might die fighting.
Tom was a more ordinary youth, even more lazy and quiet in the house, though out of it he amazed Frank and Charlie by his dash, fire, and daring, and witched all the stable-world with noble horsemanship. Hunting was prevented, however, by a frost, which filled every one with excitement as to the practicability of skating.
The most available water was a lake between Sirenwood and Compton; and here, like eagles to the slaughter, gathered, by a sort of instinct, the entire skating population of the neighbourhood on the first day that the ice was hard enough. Rosamond was there, of course, with both her brothers, whom she averred, by a bold figure of speech, to have skated in Canada before they could walk. Anne was there, studying the new phenomena of ice and snow under good-natured Charlie’s protection, learning the art with unexpected courage and dexterity. Cecil was there but not shining so much, for her father had been always so nervous about his darling venturing on the ice, that she had no skill in the art; and as Raymond had been summoned to some political meeting, she had no special squire, as her young brother-in-law eluded the being enlisted in her service; and she began to decide that skating was irrational and unwomanly; although Lady Tyrrell had just arrived, and was having her skates put on; and Eleonora was only holding back because she was taking care of the two purple-legged, purple-faced, and purple-haired little Duncombes, whom she kept sliding in a corner, where they could hardly damage themselves or the ice.
Cecil had just thanked Colonel Ross for pushing her in a chair, and on his leaving her was deliberating whether to walk home with her dignity, or watch for some other cavalier, when the drag drew up on the road close by, and from it came Captain and Mrs. Duncombe, with two strangers, who were introduced to her as ‘Mrs. Tallboys and the Professor, just fetched from the station.’
The former was exquisitely dressed in blue velvet and sealskin, and had the transparent complexion and delicate features of an American, with brilliant eyes, and a look of much cleverness; her husband, small, sallow, and dark, and apparently out of health. “Are you leaving off skating, Cecil?” asked Mrs. Duncombe; “goodness me, I could go on into next year! But if you are wasting your privileges, bestow them on Mrs. Tallboys, for pity’s sake. We came in hopes some good creature had a spare pair of skates. Gussie Moy offered, but hers were yards too long.”
“I hope mine are not too small,” said Cecil, not quite crediting that an American foot could be as small as that of a Charnock; but she found herself mistaken, they were a perfect fit; and as they were tried, there came a loud laugh, and she saw a tall girl standing by her, whom, in her round felt hat and thick rough coat with metal buttons, she had really taken for one of the Captain’s male friends.
“I wouldn’t have such small feet,” she said; “I shouldn’t feel secure of my understanding.”
“Mrs. Tallboys would not change with you, Gussie,” said Captain Duncombe. “I’d back her any day—”
“What odds will you take, Captain—”
But Mrs. Duncombe broke in. “Bless me, if there aren’t those little dogs of mine! Lena Vivian does spoil them. Send them home, for pity’s sake, Bob.”
“Poor little kids, they are doing no harm.”
“We shall have them tumbling in, and no end of a row! I can’t stand a swarm of children after me, and they are making a perfect victim of Lena. Send them home, Bob, or I shall have to do it.”
The Captain obeyed somewhat ruefully. “Come, my lads, Bessie says you must go home, and leave Miss Vivian in peace.”
“O, Bob, please let us stay; Lena is taking care of us—”
“Indeed I like nothing so well,” protested Lenore; but the Captain murmured something about higher powers, and cheerfully saying he would give the boys a run, took each by an unwilling hand, and raced them into a state of frightened jollity by a short cut, by which he was able to dispose of them in the drag.
The Professor, meanwhile, devoted himself to Mrs. Charnock Poynsett, took her chair for a whirl on the ice; described American sleighing parties; talked of his tour in Europe. He was really a clever, observant man, and Cecil had not had any one to talk Italy to her for a long time past, and responded with all her full precision. The Professor might speak a little through his nose, but she had seldom met any one more polite and accomplished.
Meantime, a quadrille was being got up. Such a performance and such partners had never been seen in light that shone on water or on land, being coupled by their dexterity in the art. They were led off by Mrs. Duncombe and the Reverend James Bindon. Mrs. Tallboys paired with Terry De Lancey, Lady Tyrrell with Herbert Bowater, Lady Rosamond with one of the officers. Tom was pounced on by the great ‘Gussy Moy,’ who declared, to his bitter wrath, that she preferred little boys, turning her back on Mr. Strangeways and two or three more officers, as she saw them first solicitous to engage Eleonora Vivian—who, however, was to skate with Charlie.
A few wistful glances were cast towards the Wil’sbro’ road, for Frank had been obliged by the cruel exigencies of the office to devote this magnificent frosty day to the last agonies of cram. This, however, had gone on better for the last fortnight—owing, perhaps, to some relaxation of Eleonora’s stern guard over her countenance in their few meetings since Jenny’s departure.
“And after all,” as Charlie said, with the cheeriness of one who has passed his own ordeal, “a man who had taken such a degree as Frank could not depend on a few weeks of mere cramming.”
Frank did come speedily up the road just as the quadrille was in full force; and perhaps the hindrance had stood him in good stead; for when the performance ceased in the twilight, and voices were eagerly talking of renewing it as afackel-tanzin the later evening, and only yielding at the recollection of dinner engagements, it was not Charlie who was taking off Eleonora’s skates; and when, after fixing grand plans for the morrow, Lady Tyrrell mounted her pony-carriage and looked for her sister, she heard that Miss Vivian was walking home.
Yes, Miss Vivian was walking home; and there was a companion by her side feeling as if that dark, hard gravelled road were the pebbly beach of Rockpier.
“When do you go to London?” she asked.
“To-morrow afternoon. Wish me well through, Lenore.”
“Indeed I do.”
“Say it again, Lenore! Give me the elixir that will give me power to conquer everything.”
“Don’t say such exaggerated things.”
“Do you think it is possible to me to exaggerate what a word from you is to me?” said Frank, in a low voice of intense feeling.
“O Frank! it is wiser not to say such things.”
“Wise! what is that to me? It is true, and you have known it—and why will you not allow that you do, as in those happy old days—”
“That’s what makes me fear. It would be so much better for you if all this had never begun.”
“It has begun, then!” murmured Frank, with joy and triumph in the sound. “As long as you allow that, it is enough for me.”
“I must! It is true; and truth must be somewhere!” was whispered in a strange, low, resolute whisper.
“True! true that you can feel one particle of the intensity—Oh! what words can I find to make you understand the glow and tenderness the very thought of you has been!”
“Hush, hush!—pray, Frank. Now, if I do own it—”
“It—what? Let me hear! I’m very stupid, you know!” said Frank, in a voice of exulting comprehension, belying his alleged stupidity.
“What you have been to me—”
“Have been—eh?” said this cruel cross-examiner.
“Do not let us waste time,” said Eleonora, in a trembling voice; “you know very well.”
“Do I?”
“Now, Frank!”
“If you only knew what it would be worth to me to hear you say it!”
“I’m afraid it would be only worth pain and grief to you, and anger from every one,” said she, in a low dejected voice, “far more than I am worth.”
“You? Trust me to judge of that, Lenore. Would not you be worth all, and more than all, that flesh or spirit could feel! I could face it all for one look from you!” said Frank, with fervour from his heart of hearts.
“You make me more and more afraid. It is all too wretched to lead any one into. Since I knew the whole truth, I have tried to spare you from it.”
“That is why you have been so cold, and held so cruelly aloof all this time, so that if I had not caught one ray now and then, you would have broken my heart, Lenore; as it is, I’ve been wretched beyond description, hardly able to sleep by night or speak rationally by day. How had you the heart to serve me so, like a stony Greek statue?”
“I thought it must be right. It seemed to break my own heart too.”
“That’s the woman’s way of showing a thing is right; but why I can’t see. If you did hate me, it might be all very well to throw me over; but if not, why torture two as well as one? Are you afraid of my people? I’ll manage them.”
“You little know—”
“Know what?”
“All that made it cruel in Camilla to throw us together.”
“Cruel! when it was the crowning joy of my past life, and is to be the crowning joy of the future?”
“How can it? Frank, you must know the causes your mother has for abhorring any connection with our unhappy family.”
“My mother has too much sense to think a little extravagance among the men of a family can affect the daughters. I know the outer world is afraid of her, but she is the tenderest and most indulgent of mothers to us. No fear of her!”
“Ah! but that’s not all.”
“You mean that she has not taken much to your sister. I know; and I’m very sorry; but bring them together, and it would soon be got over. Besides, it is not your sister, but you. What do you mean?” rather disconcerted.
“Then you really did not know of the old engagement between Camilla and your eldest brother?”
“Oh, oh! So she consented once! Then she will do so again.”
“Listen! Camilla broke it off because your mother could not resign her position to her.”
He gave a whistle of dismay, then recovering himself with a laugh, said, “Fourth sons don’t have such expectations founded on them. Don’t fear, dearest; that can’t be all the story, though no doubt it was part of it. My mother would rather go into a hermitage than stand in the way of Raymond’s happiness. Some one must have made mischief.”
“It was not all,” said the girl; “it was Lord Tyrrell’s coming in the way. Yes, my father told me so; he held it up to me as an example of what one ought to do for one’s family.”
“Then she was coerced?”
“I don’t know; but such a marriage for me, with some one who would redeem the property, is their scheme for me. Even if your mother and brother could tolerate the thought of one of us, my poor dear father will never dare to consent as long as she is with him.”
“Nay, Lenore; have I not often heard her say she prefers happiness to ambition? Whatever she may have done, she has come to think differently. She has well-nigh told me so.”
“Yes, at Rockpier,” sighed Eleonora. “Hark!” The sound of the ponies’ bells and hoofs was heard; Lenore put her hand on his arm, and drew him aside on the grass, behind a clump of trees, hushing him by a silent pressure as he tried to remonstrate. He clasped her hand, and felt her trembling till the tinkling and tramp were gone by.
“You frightened darling!” were his first words, when she let him speak. “Who would have thought you would be so shy? But we’ll have it out, and—”
“It is not that,” interrupted Lenore, “not maidenly shyness. That’s for girls who are happy and secure. No; but I don’t want to have it all overthrown at once—the first sweetness—”
“It can’t be overthrown!” he said, holding arm and hand in the intense grasp.
“Not really, never; but there is no use in attempting anything till I am of age—next autumn, the 7th of November.”
“Say nothing till then!” exclaimed Frank, in some consternation.
“We are only where we were before! We are sure of each other now. It will be only vexation and harass,” said she, with the instinct of a persecuted creature.
“I couldn’t,” said Frank. “I could not keep it in with mother! It would not be right if I could, nor should I feel as if I were acting fairly by your father.”
“You are right, Frank. Forgive me! You don’t know what it is to have to be always saving one’s truth only by silence. Speak when you think right.”
“And I believe we shall find it far easier than you think. I’m not quite a beggar—except for you, my Lena. I should like to go home this minute, and tell mother and Charlie and Rose, that I’m—I’m treading on air; but I should only be fallen upon for thinking of anything but my task-work. So I’ll take a leaf out of your book, you cautious Lenore, and wait till I come down victorious, happy and glorious—and I shall now. I feel as if you had given me power to scale Olympus, now I know I may carry your heart with me. Do you remember this, Lena?” He guided her hand to the smooth pebble on his chain. She responded by putting her own into his.
“My talisman!” he said. “It has been my talisman of success many a time. I have laid my hand on it, and thought I was working for you. Mine! mine! mine! Waters cannot quench love—never fear.”
“Hush!” as the light of the opening hall door was seen, and Lady Tyrrell’s voice was heard, saying, “I thought we passed her; I am sure she was near.”
Eleonora withdrew her arm, patted Frank back, waved him into silence, and went forward, saying, “Here I am, Camilla; I walked home.”
Her voice was calm and self-contained as ever—the unassailable dignity just as usual. The hall was full of officers, standing about the fire and drinking tea, and Eleonora’s well-worn armour was instantly on, as her sister asked where she had been, since others had walked home and had not overtaken her.
“I came by the lower road,” said she.
“Indeed! I never saw you.”
“I saw you pass—or rather heard you.”
“And did not let me pick you up! Did you hide yourself?”
“It was much warmer to walk.”
“So you seem to have found it, to judge by your cheeks,” said Lady Tyrrell.
And Mr. Strangeways and one or two others could not restrain a murmured exclamation on the exceeding loveliness of that deepened colour and brightened eye; but Lenore only knew that an equally bright and keen eye was watching her heedfully, and knew that she was suspected, if not read through and through.
She mingled in the discussion of the skating, with those outward society-senses that she learnt to put on, and escaped as soon as possible to her own room.
Again she almost fell on the ground in her own little oratory chamber, in a tumult of gladness that was almost agony, and fear that was almost joy.
She wanted to give thanks that Frank had become so wholly and avowedly hers, and for that deep intense affection that had gone on, unfed, uncherished, for years; but the overflow of delight was checked with foreboding—there was the instinctive terror of a basilisk eye gazing into her paradise of joy—the thanksgiving ran into a half-despairing deprecation.
And she knew that Frank was under Camilla’s spell, and admired and trusted her still; nor had she been able to utter a word of caution to undeceive him. Should she have the power on the morrow? Camilla really loved skating, and surrounded as she was sure to be, there was hope of escaping her vigilant eye once more. To-morrow there would be another meeting with Frank! perhaps another walk with him!
That anticipation was soothing enough to bring back the power of joyful gratitude, and therewith of hopeful prayer.
A lady a party of pleasure made,And she planned her scheme full well,And day and night the party filledThe head of the demoiselle.—FABER
A lady a party of pleasure made,And she planned her scheme full well,And day and night the party filledThe head of the demoiselle.—FABER
Though Frank had no reason to expect that the tidings of his success would be hailed with much satisfaction at home, yet his habit of turning to his mother for sympathy would have been too much for his prudence, but for the fact that Terry De Lancey had dragged into her room a massive volume of prints from the Uffizi Gallery, and was looking it over with her, with a zest she had not seen since the days when her father gloried in his collection.
His victory could only be confided to Charlie, who might laugh, but fully appreciated the repose of mind with which he could now encounter the examiners, and promised to do his part to cover the meetings of the lovers the next day. But even then the chances of another performance on the lake, or of a walk among the icicles afterwards, were departing. Thaw was setting in and by breakfast-time there was a down-pouring rain. Frank lingered about Cecil in hopes of a message to serve as an excuse for a rush to Sirenwood; but she proved to be going to drive to the working-room, and then to lunch at Mrs. Duncombe’s, to meet the Americans and the ladies from Sirenwood, according to a note sent over in early morning at first sight of the wet.
Thereupon Frank found he had a last reference to make to his tutor, and begged for a lift. A touch of warmth in Cecil would have opened the flood-gates of his confidence, but she was exercised about a mistake in the accounts, and claimed his aid in tracking a defective seven-pence. When she heard him utter the monstrous statement that a hundred and five farthings were almost nine shillings, she looked at him with withering compassion, as sure to fail, and a small loss to Her Majesty; nor would she listen to any of his hints that he was very curious to see her working-room.
His question to the tutor judiciously lasted till twelve, when he dropped in to consult Captain Duncombe about horse-hire in London; and that gentleman, who had been undergoing a course of political economy all the morning, eagerly pounced on him for a tour of his stables, which lasted till luncheon was due, and he could casually enter the dining-room, where Lady Tyrrell held out her hand good-naturedly to him, laughing at the blankness he could not entirely conceal. “Only me!” she said. “It can’t be helped! Poor Lenore caught such a dreadful sore throat last night, that I have shut her up in her room with a mustard poultice.”
“Indeed! I am very sorry.”
“You may well look horrified! You were the guilty party, I suspect. Taking her all across the park under those dank trees!”
He coloured up to the eyes, little expecting to be thus convicted; but Mrs. Duncombe came to his aid. “My impartiality would impute the damage to her standing about with those wretched little dogs of mine.”
“It is your climate,” said Mrs. Tallboys. “In our dry atmosphere there would be no risk with a far lower temperature.”
“I hope it is nothing serious,” said Frank, anxiously.
“I hope so too,” said Lady Tyrrell, looking archly into his face, which had not learnt such impenetrability as poor Lenore’s.
“No; but really?” he said, in anxiety that would not be rallied away.
“This is the way,” said Lady Tyrrell. “Young gentlemen persuade young ladies to do the most imprudent things—saunter about in the cold after skating, and dawdle under trees, and then wonder when they catch cold.—Do they do such things in your country, Mrs. Tallboys, and expect the mammas and elder sisters to be gratified?”
“Mammas and elder sisters are at a discount with you, are not they?” said Mrs. Duncombe.
“Our young women are sufficient to protect themselves without our showing tacit distrust, and encumbering them with guardianship,” returned the Professor.
“Mr. Charnock wishes we had reached that point,” said Lady Tyrrell.
She had put him completely out of countenance. He had not supposed her aware of his having been Lenore’s companion, and was not certain whether her sister had not after all confided in her, or if he himself had not been an unconscious victim. The public banter jarred upon him; and while Cecil was making inquiries into the extent of the young ladies’ privileges in America, he was mentally calculating the possibilities of rushing up to Sirenwood, trying to see Lenore in spite of her throat, and ascertaining her position, before his train was due; but he was forced to resign the notion, for Raymond had made an appointment for him in London which must not be missed; and before luncheon was over the dog-cart, according to agreement with Charlie, called for him.
“Good-bye, Mr. Frank,” said Mrs. Duncombe; “will you have an old shoe thrown after you for luck?”
“The time is not come for that yet,” said Cecil, gravely.
“Tending in that direction. Eh, Charnock?” said the Captain. “Here’s to your success—now, and in what’s to come!”
“Thank you, Captain,” said Frank, shaking his hand, liking the hearty voice. “Lady Tyrrell, won’t you give me your good wishes?” he asked, half diffidently.
“For the examination—yes, certainly,” she replied. “It is safer not to look too far into your wishing-well.”
“And—and will you give my—my best regards to Le—to Miss Vivian, and say I grieve for her cold, and trust to her—to her good wishes—” he uttered, quick and fast, holding her hand all the time.
“Yes, yes,” she said quickly; “but last messages won’t do when trains are due.”
“Not due yet,” said Frank; “but I must go home. I’ve not seen my mother to-day, and I shall not have a moment.—Good-bye, Cecil; have you any commands for Raymond?”
“No, thank you,” said Cecil, gravely; and with a bow to the Americans, he was gone.
“That is one of your products of the highest English refinement?” said Mrs. Tallboys, whom in his preoccupation he had scarcely noticed.
“How does he strike you?” said Cecil. “He is my brother-in-law, but never mind that.”
“He looks fitted for the hero of a vapid English novel. I long to force him to rough it, and to rub off that exquisite do-nothing air. It irritates me!”
“Frank Charnock has done a good deal of hard work, and is not to lead the life of an idle man,” said Captain Duncombe. “I know I should not like to be in his shoes if he succeeds—grinding away in an office ten months out of the twelve.”
“In an office! I should like to set him to work with an axe!”
“Well, those dainty-looking curled darlings don’t do badly in the backwoods,” said Lady Tyrrell.
“Ah! I understand! You stand up for him because there’s a littletendressefor your sister,” said the plain-spoken American.
“Poor fellow! I am afraid he is far gone. It is an impossible thing, though, and the sooner he can be cured of it the better,” said Lady Tyrrell. “I am sorry that walk took place yesterday.—Did he mention it at home, Cecil?”
“You are a very inconsistent woman, Lady Tyrrell,” broke in Mrs. Duncombe in her abrupt way. “Here you are come to uphold the emancipation of woman, and yet, when we come to your own sister taking one poor walk—”
“I beg your pardon, Bessie,” said Lady Tyrrell, with her most courteous manner. “I never said I was come to uphold the emancipation of woman; only to subject myself to Mrs. Tallboys’ influence—she has to make a convert of me.”
For, of course, Lady Tyrrell was only drawn into the controversy as a matter of amusement, and possibly as something specially distasteful to the house of Charnock Poynsett; and Cecil was a good deal influenced by the fascination of her example, as well as by the eagerness of Mrs. Duncombe and the charms of the Americans; and above all, they conspired in making her feel herself important, and assuming that she must be foremost in all that was done. She did not controvert the doctrines of Dunstone so entirely as to embrace the doctrines of emancipation, but she thought that free ventilation was due to every subject, most especially when the Member’s wife was the leading lady in bringing about such discussion. The opposition made in the town to Mrs. Duncombe’s sanitary plans, and the contempt with which they had been treated as ladies’ fancies, had given a positive field of battle, with that admixture of right and wrong on either side which is essential to championship. And in truth Cecil was so much more under the influence of Camilla Tyrrell and Bessie Duncombe than under that of any other person, that she was ready to espouse any cause that they did.
How to arrange for the intended instruction was the difficulty, since Wil’sbro’ was without a town-hall, and, moreover, the inhabitants were averse to all varieties of change, either as to the claims of women, the inequality of social laws, the improvement of education, or the comprehension of social science—the regular course which Mrs. Clio W. Tallboys was wont to lecture.
The matter could only be managed by arranging a series ofsoiréesat different houses. Mrs. Duncombe’s rooms were far too small; but if some person of more note—‘some swell’ as she said—would make the beginning, there would be no difficulty in bringing others to follow suit.
“You must do it, Lady Tyrrell,” said Mrs. Duncombe.
“I! If there’s nobody else; but it would come much better from another quarter,” nodding at Cecil.
“Don’t you wish you may get it?” muttered the slang-loving Bessie.
“That’s one point in which we leave you far behind,” said Mrs. Tallboys. “We issue our invitations quite independently of the other members of the household. Each has a separate visiting list.”
“There need be no difficulty,” said Cecil; “all matters of visiting are in my hands. It is necessary in our position; and if Lady Tyrrell thinks it proper that I should give the first party, I will do so.”
“Bravo, what fun!” cried Mrs. Duncombe, clapping her hands. “You won’t get into a jolly row, though?” she added, anxiously.
“I am perfectly sure of my ground,” said Cecil, with the dignity of one to whom a ‘row’ was unheard of. “It is the simple duty of a Member to come forward in promoting free discussion of opinions.”
“You are a public-spirited woman, Cecil,” said Lady Tyrrell. “When you have made the first move, I’ll follow. Then whom shall we ask next?”
“Mrs. Moy,” said Bessie. “She is a nonentity herself, but if Gussie were to be strongly bitten she could do more than any one else, and make her father reform that nest of horrors in Water Lane!”
“I’m afraid the freedom side will bite her more than the sanitary side,” said Lady Tyrrell.
“She is capital fun, though, and a great ally of ours,” said Mrs. Duncombe; “and the rooms at Proudfoot Lawn are worth anything!”
Other details were fixed, even to the day of Cecil’s opening party, which must take place on the first practicable day; but there was none to be found till the Wednesday week, the day before Raymond would return home. Cecil did not recollect this till the day had been unanimously agreed on, and it was with a little alarm; but after what she had asserted about her freedom of action, she could not retract before the eyes of the American lady; and, as she said to herself, she could receive her own ladies’ party, without interfering with any one else, in the library, so that no one had a right to object. However, she had a certain anticipation of opposition, which caused her to act before announcing her intention; and thus it was that Rosamond found her dropping a number of notes through the slit in the lid of the post-box. “Another dinner?” was the question.
“No, this is asoiréein the library, entirely for ladies; Mrs. Tallboys is to explain her views in the evenings at the Principal houses in the neighbourhood. She will begin here on Wednesday week.”
“Why, that’s before Raymond comes back!”
“This is entirely for women.”
“Women! women’s rights! How have you got Mrs. Poynsett to consent?”
“I havecarte blanchein these matters.”
“Do you mean that you have not consulted her? Does Raymond know? Oh! Yes, I see I have no right to ask; but, Cecil, for your own sake, I entreat you to consider what you are about, before running into such a frightful scrape!” and Rosamond impulsively caught the hand that was still putting in a letter; but Cecil stood still, not withdrawing or moving a muscle, perfectly impassive. Rosamond went on more eagerly, “Oh yes, I know you don’t like me—I’m only a poor battered soldier’s daughter, quite an unworthy associate for a Charnock of the Charnocks; but I can’t help begging you to consider the consequences of sending out invitations to hear this strange woman hold forth in Mrs. Poynsett’s own house, in your husband’s absence.”
“Thank you for your solicitude,” said Cecil, dropping in her envelope the instant the obstructive hand was removed, and going on her way with dignified self-possession; while Rosamond, in a tumult of indignation, which made her scarcely comprehensible, rushed up to her husband at his writing, and poured out her story.
Clio advocating female supremacy in Mrs. Poynsett’s own house, without notice to her! Should she be warned in time to stop the letters? Should Raymond be written to? Rosamond was for both, Julius for neither. He said that either way would begin a system that could never be forgiven; and that they had better consider themselves as practically at the Rectory, and not interfere.
“How can you be so cold-blooded?” cried she.
“I do not want to do worse harm. My mother will learn what is to happen sooner or later; and then she can put a stop to it in any way she chooses.”
“I wish she would send in Mrs. Crabtree with her tawse!” said Rosamond. “But is it right by Raymond to let his wife bring this Yankee muse to talk her nonsense in his very rooms?”
“You have argued with her?”
“Or with a block—a stock—a stone!” raved Rosamond.
“Then depend upon it, to inform against her would be far worse than letting any amount of absurdity be talked. I should like to know how you would get over being so served!”
“Don’t make comparisons, sir! Poor things! they would not be the worse for a little of our foolishness!”
Things settled themselves according to Julius’s prediction; for Mr. Bowater, coming up with his son Herbert to see his old friend, said, “What grand doings are you having here? What is Raymond’s wife up to? Ladies’conversazione—that’s a new thing in these parts!”
“I gave such matters up to her,” said Mrs. Poynsett. “Young people like a little freedom of action; and there are changes in the neighbourhood since I was laid up.” It was a temporizing speech, to avoid showing her total ignorance.
Mr. Bowater cleared his throat. “Young folk may like freedom of action, but it don’t always follow that it is good for them. I hope she won’t get Raymond into a scrape, that’s all—committing him and herself to a course of lectures by that Yankee woman on woman’s rights.”
“It does not commit him; it is before he comes home, on Wednesday,” said Herbert.
“Never mind that; what a woman does her husband does. Look here, Mrs. Poynsett, I brought over Jenny’s note in my pocket; see, here are two—one to accept, and one to refuse, just as you choose.”
“Oh! accept, by all means,” cried Mrs. Poynsett; “don’t leave the wrong one!”
Then she changed the conversation, so decidedly, that Mr. Bowater could not resume his warning; but after taking leave of her, he met Rosamond in the avenue, and could not help saying, “Pray, was my old friend aware of Mrs. Raymond’s doings?”
“Have you told her? Oh! I am so glad!”
“Then it is as you said, Herbert. Mrs. Raymond had left her in ignorance! The impudent baggage! That’s what the world is coming to!”
“But what regular game Mrs. Poynsett was!” said Herbert. “You could not make out in the least that she had been left in the lurch; and I’m sure she has a plan, by the way in which she desired Jenny and Edie to come.”
“Only make her understand that the Wil’sbro’ folks are in a ticklish state,” said Mr. Bowater; “they are sulking already, because they say the ladies have been stirring him up to put them to expense about the drains.”
“Wil’sbro’ isn’t sweet,” said Herbert.
“There’s been nothing amiss in my time,” returned his father. “Perfectly healthy in all reason! Ay! you may laugh, young folks, but I never heard of any receipt to hinder people from dying; and let well alone is a safe maxim.”
“If it be well,” said Rosamond. “However, Raymond says whatever is done must be by general consent, and that small private attempts do more harm than good.”
“He had better take care what he says. If they fancy he is in league with that ridiculous Duncombe woman against their pockets, Moy is on the watch to take advantage of it; and all the old family interest will not save his seat.”
When Rosamond reached home she found Anne beside her mother-in-law, provided with a quire of note-paper and pile of envelopes. “My dear, I want your help,” she said. “Till my accident I always had a children’s party at Christmas; and now I have so many young people to manage it for me, I think we might try again, and combine it with Cecil’s ladies’ party, on Wednesday.”
“Hurrah!” cried Rosamond. “You mean that we should have plenty of fun—and, in fact, drum out the rights of woman.”
“At any rate, present a counter attraction. You and Charlie and your brothers, with the Bowaters, might do something?”
“Trust me!” cried Rosamond. “Oh! I am so thankful to Mr. Bowater. Julius and I had our blood boiling; and I said as much or more to Cecil than woman could, but she minded me no more than the old white cockatoo; and Julius said our telling would only make more mischief.”
“He was quite right,” said his mother. “Let there not be one word of opposition, you know; only swamp it. You could get up some charades, and have something going on all the evening.”
“Trust me for that! Oh! if my darling Aileen were but here! But Tom is the very model of an actor, and Terry is grand, if only we can keep him out of the high tragedy line. King Lear is the mildest thing he condescends to!”
“Could you manage a Christmas-tree? The taking up a room beforehand is inconvenient; but I should like to offer some little substantial bait, even to the grown-up;” and her eyes twinkled merrily.
“I know a better thing,” said Rosamond; “an enchanted grove with a beneficent witch. We did it at St. Awdry’s, with bon-bons and trumpery, in a little conservatory, hardly large enough to turn round in. If I may have the key of the conservatory, I’ll manage.”
“You shall have what you please; and perhaps you would kindly go and choose the things at Backsworth. There is a very good fancy shop there.”
“Thank you, thank you! How sweet!—Now, Anne, you will see what you shall see!”
“Is there to be dancing?” asked Anne, humbly yet resolutely.
“There shall not be, my dear, if it will spoil the evening for you,” said Mrs. Poynsett.
“I promised,” said Anne.
At that moment the servants came in with the preparations for the afternoon tea, closely followed by the ever punctual Cecil.
Mrs. Poynsett asked her whether she would require the barouche on the morrow, since Rosamond and Anne would want it to go to Backsworth, to obtain requisites for a children’s entertainment to take place on Wednesday.
“Some friends of mine are coming on Wednesday,” said Cecil
“Indeed! In Raymond’s absence?”
“This is not a dinner, but a ladies’ party.”
“Then it will combine the better.”
“Certainly not,” replied Cecil. “Mine is simply intellectual—only a few intelligent women to meet Mrs. Tallboys in the library. It will be quite apart from any amusements Rosamond may like to have for the children in the drawing-room.”
“Pray, will they require nothing but this feast of reason and flow of soul?—for the housekeeper will need warning.”
“They will have dined. Nothing but coffee will be wanted.”
“For how many?”
“About twelve or fourteen, thank you. Excuse me—I have something to finish in my own room.”
They were very glad to excuse her, and the following note was concocted to serve both for those she might have invited and those she might not; and it was copied by the two daughters for all the acquaintance who had young folks in their houses. An appearance of want of unanimity was carefully avoided, and it stood thus:—