“I am desired by Mrs. Poynsett to say that the ladies’ party already proposed for the 3rd is to undergo a little expansion, and that she much hopes to see you and ---, at 7 p.m., disposed for a few Christmas amusements.”
She was betrothed to one now dead,Or worse, who had dishonoured fled.—SCOTT
She was betrothed to one now dead,Or worse, who had dishonoured fled.—SCOTT
The party set out for Backsworth early in the day. It included Julius, who had asked for a seat in the carriage in order to be able to go on to Rood House, where lived Dr. Easterby, whom he had not seen since he had been at Compton.
“The great light of the English Church,” said Rosamond, gaily; while Anne shuddered a little, for Miss Slater had told her that he was the great fountain-head of all that distressed her in Julius and his curates. But Julius merely said, “I am very glad of the opportunity;” and the subject dropped in the eager discussion of the intended pastimes, which lasted beyond the well-known Wil’sbro’ bounds, when again Julius startled a Anne by observing, “No dancing? That is a pity.”
“There, Anne!” exclaimed Rosamond.
“It was out of kindness to me,” said Anne: and then, with a wonderful advance of confidence, she added, “Please tell me how you, a minister, can regret it?”
“Because I think it would be easier to prevent mischief than when there has to be a continual invention of something original. There is more danger of offence and uncharitableness, to speak plainly.”
“And you think that worse than dancing?” said Anne, thoughtfully.
“Why is dancing bad at all, Anne?” asked Rosamond.
Anne answered at once, “It is worldly.”
“Not half so worldly as driving in a carriage with fine horses, and liveries, and arms, and servants, and all,” said Rosamond from her comfortable corner, nestling under Miles’s racoon-skin rug; “I wonder you can do that!”
“The carriage is not mine,” said Anne.
“The worldliness would be in sacrificing a duty to the luxury and ostentation of keeping one,” said Julius. “For instance, if I considered it due to my lady in the corner there to come out in this style, and put down a curate and a few such trifles with that object. To my mind, balls stand on the same ground; they are innocent as long as nothing right is given up for them.”
“You would not dance?” said Anne.
“Wouldn’t he?” said Rosamond. “I’ve seen him. It was at St. Awdry’s at a Christmas party, in our courting days. No, it wasn’t with me. Oh no! That was the cruel cut! It was with little Miss Marks, whose father had just risen from the ranks. Such a figure she was, enough to set your teeth on edge; when, behold! this reverend minister extracts her from the wall-flowers, and goes through the Lancers with her in first-rate style, I assure you. It had such an effect, do you know, that what does my father do but go and ask her next; and I heard an old lady remarking that there were only two gentlemen in the room, Mr. Charnock and Lord Rathforlane. So you see it was all worldliness after all, Anne.”
“I suppose it was good-nature,” said Anne.
“Indignation, I fancy,” said Julius.
“Now, was he very wicked for it, Anne?”
“N—no, if dancing be not wrong.”
“But why should it?”
“All the bad people danced in the Bible.”
“Miriam—King David, eh?”
“That was part of their religious service.”
“The welcome to the prodigal son?” further suggested Julius. “Does not this prove that the exercise is not sinful in itself?”
“But you would not do it again?” repeated Anne.
“I certainly should not make a practice of it, nor go to balls any more than I would be a sportsman or a cricketer, because I am bound to apply my whole self to the more direct service; but this does not show that there is evil necessarily connected with these amusements, or that they may not safely be enjoyed by those who have time, and who need an outlet for their spirits, or by those who wish to guard these pleasures by presiding over them.”
“Don’t persuade me!” exclaimed Anne. “I gave my word to Mr. Pilgrim that nothing should induce me to dance or play at cards.”
“Mr. Pilgrim had no right—” began Rosamond; but Julius hushed her, saying, “No one wishes to persuade you, Anne. Your retirement during Miles’s absence is very suitable and becoming.”
“Till we live in the Bush, out of the way of it all,” said Anne.
“I wish you could have seen one of our real old Christmas parties; but those can never be again, without mother herself or Mrs. Douglas.”
“Do tell me about those Douglases,” said Rosamond. “Cecil hinted at some romance, but seemed to think you had suppressed the connection because he was an attorney.”
“Not exactly,” said Julius, smiling; “but it is a sad story, though we have no doubt he bore the guilt of others.”
“Something about two thousand pounds!”
“Yes. It was the year that my mother and Raymond were abroad. She had been buying some property near, and sent home an order from Vevay. It did not come, and was inquired for; but as it was an order, not a draft, it was not stopped at the bank; and in about a fortnight more it was presented by a stranger, and paid without hesitation, as it was endorsed “Proudfoot and Moy.” Old Proudfoot was away at Harrogate, and came home to investigate; young Proudfoot denied all knowledge of it, and so did his brother-in-law Moy; but Raymond, working at the other end, found that the waiter at the hotel at Vevay had forgotten to post the letter for more than a week, and it was traced through the post to Wil’sbro’, where the postman remembered delivering a foreign-looking letter to Archie Douglas at the door of the office. It came alone by the afternoon post. His account was this: They were all taking it rather easy in old Proudfoot’s absence; and when a sudden summons came to take the old farmer’s instructions for his will, Archie, as the junior, was told off to do it. He left George Proudfoot and Moy in a private room at the office, with Tom Vivian leaning over the fire talking, as he had a habit of doing in old Proudfoot’s absence. As he opened the office door the postman put the letter into his hand; and recognizing the writing, he ran back, and gave it in triumph to George Proudfoot, exclaiming that there it was at last, but he was in danger of being late for the train, and did not wait to see it opened; and when he came back he was told that it had been merely a letter of inquiry, with nothing in it, and destroyed at once. That was his account; but Proudfoot, Moy, and Vivian all denied any knowledge of this return of his, or of the letter. The night of this inquiry he was missing. Jenny Bowater, who was with an aunt in London, heard that a gentleman had called to see her while she was out for a couple of days; and a week later we saw his name among the passengers lost in theHippolytaoff Falmouth.”
“Poor Jenny! Was she engaged to him?”
“On sufferance. On her death-bed Mrs. Douglas had wrung from Mr. Bowater a promise that if Archie did well, and ever had means enough, he would not refuse consent; but he always distrusted poor Archie, because of his father, and I believe he sent Jenny away to be out of his reach. If any of us had only been near, I think we could have persuaded him to face it out, and trust to his innocence; but Raymond was abroad, Miles at sea, I at Oxford, and nothing like a counsellor was near. If Jenny had but seen him!”
“And has nothing happened to clear him?”
“No. Raymond hurried home, and did his best, but all in vain. George Proudfoot was indeed known to have been in debt to Vivian; but Moy, his brother-in-law, an older man, was viewed as a person whose word was above all question, and they both declared the signature at the back of the order not to be genuine. Archie’s flight, you see, made further investigation impossible; and there was no putting on oath, no cross-examination.”
“Then you think those three had it?”
“We can think nothing else, knowing Archie as we did. Raymond showed his suspicions so strongly, that old Proudfoot threw up all agencies for our property, and there has been a kind of hostility ever since. Poor Vivian, as you know, came to his sad end the next year, but he had destroyed all his papers; and George Proudfoot has been dead four or five years, but without making any sign. Moy has almost risen above the business, and—see, there’s Proudfoot Lawn, where he lives with the old man. He claims to compete with the county families, and would like to contest Wils’bro’ with Raymond.”
“And Jenny?” asked Anne. “Did she bear it as a Christian? I know she would.”
“She did indeed—most nobly, most patiently. Poor girl! at her own home she knew she stood alone in her faith in Archie’s innocence; but they were kind and forbearing, and kept silence, and the knowledge of our trust in him has bound her very close to us.”
“Was that call, when she did not see him, all she ever heard of him?”
“All! except that he left a fragment of paper with the servant, with the one pencil scrawl, ‘A Dieu!’—a capital D to mark the full meaning. She once showed it to me—folded so as to fit into the back of a locket with his photograph.”
“Dear Jenny! And had you traced him on board this ship?”
“No, but his name was in the list; and we knew he had strong fancy for South Africa, whither theHippolytawas bound. In fact he ought to have been a sailor, and only yielded to his mother’s wishes.”
“We knew a Mr. Archibald Douglas once,” said Anne; “he came and outspanned by us when he was going north after elephants. He stayed a fortnight, because his wagon had to be mended.”
“O, Julius! if we could but find him for her again!” cried Rosamond.
“I am afraid Archibald Douglas is not much more individual a name than John Smith,” said Julius, sadly.
“That tells as much against theHippolytaman,” said Rosamond.
“Poor Archie would not be difficult to identify,” said Julius; “for his hair was like mine, though his eyes were blue, and not short-sighted.”
“That is all right, then,” cried Anne; “for we had a dispute whether he were young or old, and I remember mamma saying he had a look about him as if his hair might have turned white in a single night.”
“Julius! Now won’t you believe?” cried Rosamond.
“Had he a Scotch accent?” said Julius.
“No; I recollect papa’s telling him he never should have guessed him to be a Scot by his tongue; and he said he must confess that he had never seen Scotland.”
“Now, Julius!” pleaded Rosamond, with clasped hands, as if Jenny’s fate hung on his opinion.
“How long ago was this?” asked he.
“Four years,” said Anne, with a little consideration. “He came both in going and returning, and Alick was wild to join him if he ever passed our way again. My father liked him so much that he was almost ready to consent; but he never came again. Ivory hunters go more from Natal now.”
“You will trace him! There’s a dear Anne!” exclaimed Rosamond.
“I will write to them at home; Alick knows a good many hunters, and could put Miles into the way of making inquiries, if he touches at Natal on his way home.”
“Miles will do all he can,” said Julius; “he was almost broken-hearted when he found how Archie had gone. I think he was even more his hero than Raymond when we were boys, because he was more enterprising; and my mother always thought Archie’s baffled passion for the sea reacted upon Miles.”
“He will do it! He will find him, if he is the Miles I take him for! How old was he—Archie, I mean?”
“A year older than Raymond; but he always seemed much younger, he was so full of life and animation—so unguarded, poor fellow! He used to play tricks with imitating hand-writing; and these, of course, were brought up against him.”
“Thirty-four! Not a bit too old for the other end of the romance!”
“Take care, Rosie. Don’t say a word to Jenny till we know more. She must not be unsettled only to be disappointed.”
“Do you think she would thank you for that, you cold-blooded animal?”
“I don’t know; but I think the suspense would be far more trying than the quiet resigned calm that has settled down on her. Besides, you must remember that even if Archie were found, the mystery has never been cleared up.”
“You don’t think that would make any difference to Jenny?”
“It makes all the difference to her father; and Jenny will never be a disobedient daughter.”
“Oh! but it will—it must be cleared! I know it will! It is faithless to think that injustice is not always set right!”
“Not always here,” said Julius, sadly. “See, there’s the Backsworth race-ground, the great focus of the evil.”
“Were racing debts thought to have any part in the disaster?”
“That I can’t tell; but it was those races that brought George Proudfoot under the Vivian influence; and in the absence of all of us, poor Archie, when left to himself after his mother’s death, had become enough mixed up in their amusements to give a handle to those who thought him unsteady.”
“As if any one must be unsteady who goes to the races!” cried Rosamond. “You were so liberal about balls, I did expect one little good word for races; instead of which, you are declaring a poor wretch who goes to them capable of embezzling two thousand pounds, and I dare say Anne agrees with you!”
“Now, did I ever say so, Anne?”
“You looked at the course with pious horror, and said it justified the suspicion!” persisted Rosamond.
“That’s better,” said Julius; “though I never even said it justified the suspicion, any more than I said that balls might not easily be overdone, especially bysomepeople.”
“But you don’t defend races?” said Anne.
“No; I think the mischief they do is more extensive, and has less mitigation than is the case with any other public amusement.”
“H’m!” said Rosamond. “Many a merry day have I had on the top of the regimental drag; so perhaps there’s nothing of which you would not suspect me.”
“I’ll tell you what I more than suspect you of,” said Julius, “of wearing a gay bonnet to be a bait and a sanction to crowds of young girls, to whom the place was one of temptation, though not to you.”
“Oh, there would be no end to it if one thought of such things.”
“Or the young men who—”
“Well,” broke in Rosamond, “it was always said that our young officers got into much less mischief than where there was a straight-laced colonel, who didn’t go along with them to give them a tone.”
“That I quite believe. I remember, too, the intense and breathless sense of excitement in the hush and suspense of the multitude, and the sweeping by of the animals—”
“Then you’ve been!” cried his wife.
“As a boy, yes.”
“Not since you were old enough to think it over?” said Anne eagerly.
“No. It seemed to me that the amount of genuine interest in the sport and the animals was infinitesimal compared with the fictitious excitement worked up by betting.”
“And what’s the harm of betting when you’ve got the money?”
“And when you haven’t?”
“That’s another question.”
“Do you approve it at the best?”
“It’s a man’s own concern.”
“That’s arguing against your better sense.”
“Can’t be helped, with two such solemn companions! There would be no bearing you if I didn’t take you down sometimes, when you get so didactic, and talk of fictitious excitement, indeed! And now you are going to Rood House, what will you be coming back?”
Rood House stood about two miles on the further side of Backsworth. It was an ancient almshouse, of which the mastership had been wisely given to Dr. Easterby, one of the deepest theological scholars, holiest men, and bravest champions of the Church, although he was too frail in health to do much, save with his pen, and in council with the numerous individuals who resorted to him from far and wide, and felt the beautiful old fragment of a monastic building where he dwelt a true court of peace and refreshment, whence they came forth, aided by prayer and counsel, for their own share of the combat.
Julius Charnock had, happily for himself, found his way thither when his character and opinions were in process of formation, and had ever since looked to Rood House for guidance and sympathy. To be only fourteen miles distant had seemed to him one great perfection of Compton Poynsett; but of course he had found visits there a far more possible thing to an unoccupied holiday son of the great house than to a busy parish priest, so that this opportunity was very valuable to him.
And so it proved; not so much for the details as for the spirit in which he was aided in looking at everything, from the mighty questions which prove the life of the Church by the vehement emotion they occasion, down to the difficulties of theory and practice that harassed himself—not named, perhaps, but still greatly unravelled.
Those perpetual questions, that have to be worked out again and again by each generation, were before him in dealing with his parish; and among them stood in his case the deeper aspects of the question that had come forward on the drive, namely, the lawfulness and expedience of amusement.
Granting the necessity of pastimes and recreation for most persons, specially the young, there opened the doubtful, because ever-varying, question of the kind and the quantity to be promoted or sanctioned, lest restraint should lead to reaction, and lest abstinence should change from purity and spirituality to moroseness or hypocrisy. And if Julius found one end of the scale represented by his wife and his junior curate, his sister-in-law and his senior curate were at the other. Yet the old recluse was far more inclined to toleration than he had been in principle himself, though the spur of the occasion had led him to relaxations towards others in the individual cases brought before him, when he had thought opposition would do more harm than the indulgence. His conscience had been uneasy at this divergence, till he could discuss the subject.
The higher the aspiration of the soul, the less, of course, would be the craving for diversion, the greater the shrinking from those evil accompaniments that soon mar the most innocent delights. Some spirits are austere in their purity, like Anne; some so fervent in zeal, as to heed nothing by the way, like Mr. Bindon; but most are in an advanced stage of childhood, and need play and pleasure almost as much as air or food; and these instincts require wholesome gratification, under such approval as may make the enjoyment bright and innocent; and yet there should be such subduing of their excess, such training in discipline, as shall save them from frivolity and from passing the line of evil, prevent the craving from growing to a passion, and where it has so grown, tone it back to the limits of obedience and safety.
Alas! perhaps there lay the domestic difficulty of which Julius could not speak; yet, as if answering the thought, Dr. Easterby said, “After all, charity is the true self-acting balance to many a sweet untaught nature. Self-denials which spring out of love are a great safeguard, because they are almost sure to be both humble and unconscious.”
And Julius went away cheered as he thought of his Rosamond’s wells of unselfish affection, confident that all the cravings for variety and excitement, which early habit had rendered second nature, would be absorbed by the deeper and keener feelings within, and that these would mount higher as time went on, under life’s great training.
Pleasant it was to see the triumphant delight of the two sisters over their purchases. Such a day’s English shopping was quite a new experience to Anne; and she had not been cautioned against it, so her enjoyment was as fresh and vivid as a child’s; and they both chattered all the way home with a merriment in which Julius fully shared, almost surprised to see Anne so eager and lively, and—as her cheeks glowed and her eyes brightened—beginning to understand what had attracted Miles.
Mrs. Poynsett had not had quite so pleasant a day, for Cecil knocked at her door soon after luncheon with an announcement that Lady Tyrrell wished for admission. Expecting an exposition of the Clio scheme, she resigned herself, looking with some curiosity at the beautiful contour of face and drooping pensive loveliness, that had rather gained than lost in grace since the days when she had deemed them so formidable.
“This is kind, dear Mrs. Poynsett,” said the soft voice, while the hand insisted on a pressure. “I have often wished to come and see you, but I could not venture without an excuse.”
“Thank you,” was the cold reply.
“I have more than an excuse—a reason, and I think we shall be fully agreed; but first you must let me have the pleasure of one look to recall old times. It is such a treat to see you so unchanged. I hope you do not still suffer.”
“No, thank you.”
“And are you always a prisoner here? Ah! I know your patience.”
“What was the matter on which you wanted to speak to me?” said Mrs. Poynsett, fretted beyond endurance by the soft, caressing tone.
“As I said, I should hardly venture if I did not know we agreed—though perhaps not for the same reasons. We do agree in our love and high opinion of your dear Frank!”
“Well!” repressing a shudder at the ‘dear.’
“I am afraid we likewise agree that, under all circumstances, our two young people are very unfortunately attached, and that we must be hard-hearted, and let it go no further.”
“You mean your sister?”
“My dear Lena! I cannot wonder! I blame myself excessively, for it was all through my own imprudence. You see, when dear Frank came to Rockpier, it was so delightful to renew old times, and they both seemed such children, that I candidly confess I was off my guard; but as soon as I had any suspicion, I took care to separate them, knowing that, in the state of my poor father’s affairs, it would be most unjustifiable to let so mere a youth be drawn into an attachment.”
“Frank is no prize,” said his mother with some irony.
“I knew you would say that, dear Mrs. Poynsett. Pecuniarily speaking, of course, he is not; though as to all qualities of the heart and head, he is a prize in the true sense of the word. But, alas! it is a sort of necessity that poor Lena, if she marry at all, should marry to liberal means. I tell you candidly that she has not been brought up as she ought to have been, considering her expectations or no expectations. What could you expect of my poor father, with his habits, and two mere girls? I don’t know whether the governess could have done anything; but I know that it was quite time I appeared. I tell you in confidence, dear Mrs. Poynsett, there was a heavy pull on my own purse before I could take them away from Rockpier; and, without blaming a mere child like poor dear Lena you can see what sort of preparation she has had for a small income.”
It is hard to say which tried Mrs. Poynsett’s patience most, the ‘dears’ or the candour; and the spirit of opposition probably prompted her to say, “Frank has his share, like his brothers.”
“I understand, and for many girls the provision would be ample; but poor Lena has no notion of economizing—how should she? I am afraid there is no blinking it, that, dear children as they both are, nothing but wretchedness could result from their corning together; and thus I have been extremely sorry to find that the affair has been renewed.”
“It was not an unnatural result of their meeting again.”
“Ah! there I was to blame again; but no one can judge whether an attachment be real between such children. I thought, too, that Frank would be gone out into the world, and I confess I did not expect to find that he had absolutely addressed her, and kept it secret. That is what my poor father feels so much. Eleonora is his special darling, and he says he could have overlooked anything but the concealment.”
Maternal affection assumed the defensive; and, though the idea of concealment on the part of one of her sons was a shock, Mrs. Poynsett made no betrayal of herself, merely asking, “How did it come to light?”
“I extorted the confession. I think I was justified, standing in a mother’s position, as I do. I knew my vigilance had been eluded, and that your son had walked home with her after the skating; and you know very well how transparent young things are.”
The skating! The mother at once understood that Frank was only postponing the explanation till after his examination; and besides, she had never been ignorant of his attachment, and could not regard any display thereof more or less as deception towards herself. The very fact that Lady Tyrrell was trying to prejudice her beforehand, so as to deprive him of the grace of taking the initiative towards his own mother, enlisted her feelings in his defence, so she coldly answered, “I am sorry if Sir Harry Vivian thinks himself unfairly treated; but I should have thought my son’s feelings had been as well known in the one family as in the other.”
“But,dearMrs. Poynsett,” exclaimed Lady Tyrrell, “I am sure you never encouraged them. I am quite enough aware—whatever I may once have been—of the unfortunate contrast between our respective families.”
Certainly there was no connection Mrs. Poynsett less wished to encourage; yet she could not endure to play into Camilla’ hands, and made reply, “There are many matters in which young men must judge for themselves. I have only once see Miss Vivian, and have no means of estimating my son’s chance of happiness with her.”
Her impenetrability ruffled Lady Tyrrell; but the answer was softer than ever. “Dear Mrs. Poynsett, what a happy mother you are, to be able so freely to allow your sons to follow their inclinations! Well! since you do not object, my conscience is easy on that score; but it was more than I durst hope.”
To have one’s approval thus stolen was out of the question and Mrs. Poynsett said, “Regret is one thing, opposition another. Sir Harry Vivian need not doubt that, when my son’s position is once fixed, he will speak openly and formally, and it will then be time to judge.”
“Only,” said Lady Tyrrell, rising, “let this be impressed on your son. Eleonora cannot marry till she is of age, and my father cannot sanction any previous entanglement. Indeed it is most unfortunate, if her affections have been tampered with, for me, who have outgrown romance, and know that, in her position, a wealthy match is a necessity. I have spoken candidly,” she repeated; “for I like Frank too well to bear that he should be trifled with and disappointed.”
“Thank you!”
The ladies parted, liking one another, if possible, less than before.
Mrs. Poynsett’s instinct of defence had made her profess much less distaste to the marriage than she really felt; she was much concerned that another son should be undergoing Raymond’s sad experiences, but she had no fear that Lady Tyrrell would ever allow it to come to a marriage, and she did not think Frank’s poetical enthusiasm and admiration for beauty betokened a nature that would suffer such an enduring wound as Raymond’s had done.
So she awaited his return, without too much uneasiness for amusement in Rosamond’s preparations. One opening into the conservatory was through her room, so that every skilful device, or gay ornament, could be exhibited to her; and she much enjoyed the mirth that went on between the queen of the revels and her fellow-workers.
Cecil did not interfere, being indeed generally with her friends at Sirenwood, Aucuba Villa, or the working-room, in all of which she had the pleasure of being treated as a person of great consideration, far superior to all her natural surroundings, and on whom hinged all the plans for the amelioration of Willansborough.
Sometimes, however, it happens that the other side of a question is presented; and thus it was on the day before the entertainment, when Rosamond had taken her brother Tom to have his hair cut, and to choose some false moustaches, and the like requisites for their charades.
They went first to Pettitt’s, the little hair-dresser, where Tom was marvellously taken with the two Penates, and could hardly be dragged into the innermost recesses, where in the middle of a sheet, with apeignoiron his shoulders, he submitted to the clipping of his raven-black locks, as Mr. Pettitt called them, on the condition of his sister looking on.
Presently they heard some feet enter the outer shop, and Mrs. Duncombe’s voice asking for Mr. Pettitt; while his mother replied that he would wait on her immediately, but that he was just now engaged with the Honourable Mr. De Lancey. “Could she show them anything?”
“Oh no, thank you, we’ll wait! Don’t let us keep you, Mrs. Pettitt, it is only on business.”
“Ay!” said the other voice—female, and entirely untamed. “He’s your great ally about your gutters and drains, isn’t he?”
“The only landowner in Wil’sbro’ who has a particle of public spirit!” said Mrs. Duncombe.
Whereat good-natured Lady Rosamond could not but smile congratulation to the hair-cutter, who looked meekly elevated, while Tom whispered, “Proverb contradicted.”
But the other voice replied, “Of course—he’s a perfumer, learned in smells! You’d better drop it, Bessie! you’ll never make anything of it.”
“I’ll never drop what the health and life of hundreds of my fellow-creatures depend on! I wish I could make you understand, Gussie!”
“You’ll never do anything with my governor, if that’s your hope—you should hear him and the mum talking! ‘It’s all nonsense,’ he says; ‘I’m not going to annoy my tenants, and make myself unpopular, just to gratify a fashionable cry.’ ‘Well,’ says mumsey, ‘it is not what was thought the thing for ladies in my time; but you see, if Gussie goes along with it, she will have the key to all the best county society.’ ‘Bother the county society!’ says I. ‘Bessie Duncombe’s jolly enough—but such a stuck-up set as they all are at Compton, I’ll not run after, behaving so ill to the governor, too!’ However—”
“There’s a proverb about listeners!” said Rosamond, emerging when she felt as if she ought to hearken no longer, and finding Mrs. Duncombe leaning with her back to the counter, and a tall girl, a few degrees from beauty, in a riding-habit, sitting upon it.
They both laughed; and the girl added, “If you had waited a moment, Lady Rosamond, you would have heard that you were the only jolly one of all the b’iling!”
“Ah! we shall see where you are at the end of Mrs. Tallboys’ lectures!” said Mrs. Duncombe.
“On what?” asked Rosamond. “Woman’s rights, or sanitary measures? for I can’t in the least understand why they should be coupled up together.”
“Nor I!” said Miss Moy. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t have our own way, just as well as the men; but what that has to do with drains and gutters, I can’t guess.”
“I’m the other way,” said Rosamond. “I think houses and streets ought to be made clean and healthy; but as for woman’s rule, I fancy we get more of it now than we should the other way.”
“As an instance,” said Mrs. Duncombe, “woman is set on cleansing Wil’sbro’. Man will not stir. Will it ever be done till woman has her way?”
“Perhaps, if woman would be patient, man would do it in the right way, instead of the wrong!” quoth Rosamond.
“Patient! No, indeed! Nothing is to be done by that! Let every woman strive her utmost to get the work done as far as her powers go, and the crusade will be accomplished for very shame!”
Just then Tom, looking highly amused, emerged, followed by Mr. Pettitt, the only enlightened landlord on whom Mrs. Duncombe had been able to produce the slightest impression. He had owned a few small tenements in Water Lane, which he was about to rebuild, and which were evidently the pivot of operations.
At the door they met Cecil, and Rosamond detained her a moment in the street to say, “My dear Cecil, isthatMiss Moy coming on Wednesday?”
“Of course she is. We greatly want to move her father. He has the chief house property there.”
“It is too late now,” said Rosamond; “but do you think it can be pleasant to Jenny Bowater to meet her?”
“I know nothing of the old countrified animosities and gossipings, which you have so heartily adopted,” replied Cecil, proudly. “Firstly, I ignore them as beneath me; secondly, I sacrifice them all to a great cause. If Miss Bowater does not like my guests, let her stay away.”
Here Mrs. Duncombe stood on the step, crying out, “Well, Cecil, how have you sped with Mrs. Bungay?”
“Horrid woman!” and no more was heard, as Cecil entered Mr. Pettitt’s establishment.
“That might be echoed,” said Tom, who was boiling over at the speech to his sister. “I knew that ape was an intolerable little prig of a peacock, but I didn’t think she could be such a brute to you, Rosie! Is she often like that, and does your parson stand such treatment of you?”
“Nonsense, Tom!” said Rosamond; “it doesn’t often happen, and breaks no bones when it does. It’s only the ignorance of the woman, and small blame to her—as Mrs. M’Kinnon said when Corporal Sims’s wife threw the red herring’s tail at her!”
“But does Julius stand it?” repeated Tom, fiercely, as if hesitating whether to call out Julius or Mrs. Charnock Poynsett.
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Tom! I’d rather stand a whole shower of red herrings’ tails at once than bother Julius about his brother’s wife. How would you and Terry like it, if your wives took to squabbling, and setting you together by the ears? I was demented enough to try it once, but I soon saw it was worse than anything.”
“What? He took her part?”
“No such thing! Hold your tongue, Tommy, and don’t talk of married folk till you’re one yourself!”
“Papa never meant it,” repeated the indignant Tom. “I’ve a great mind to write and tell him how you are served!”
“Now, Tom,” cried Rosamond, stopping short, “if you do that, I solemnly declare I’ll never have you here again! What could papa do? Do you think he could cure Raymond’s wife of being a ridiculous little prig? And if he could—why, before your letter got to Meerut, she will be gone up to London; and by the time she comes back we’ll be safe in our own Rectory. Here, come in, and get our string and basket at Mrs. Bungay’s.”
“I’ll pay her out!” muttered Tom, as he followed his sister into Mrs. Bungay’s shop, one of much smaller pretensions, for the sale of baskets, brushes, mats, &c.
The mistress, a stout, red-faced woman, looked as if she had been ‘speaking a bit of her mind,’ and was at first very gruff and ungracious, until she found they were real customers; and moreover, Tom’s bland Irish courtesy perfectly disarmed her, when Rosamond, having fixed her mind on a box in the very topmost pigeon-hole, they not only apologized for the trouble they were giving, but Tom offered to climb up and bring it down, when she was calling for the errand-boy in vain.
“It’s no trouble, sir, thank you; I’d think nothing of that for you, my lady, nor for Mr. Charnock—which I’m sure I’ll never forget all he did for us at the fire, leading my little Alferd out like a lamb! I beg your ladyship’s pardon, ma’am, if I seemed a bit hasty; but I’ve been so put about—and I thought at first you’d come in on the same matter, which I’m sure a lady like you wouldn’t ever do—about the drains, and such like, which isn’t fit for no lady to speak of! As if Water Lane weren’t as sweet and clean as it has any call to be, and as if we didn’t know what was right by our tenants, which are a bad lot, and don’t merit no money to be laid out on them!”
“So you have houses in Water Lane, Mrs. Bungay? I didn’t even know it!”
“Yes, Lady Rosamond! My husband and I thought there was no better investment than to buy a bit of land, when the waste was inclosed, and run ’em up cheap. Houses always lets here, you see, and the fire did no damage to that side. But of course you didn’t know, Lady Rosamond; a real lady like you wouldn’t go prying into what she’s no call to, like that fine decked-out body Duncombe’s wife, which had best mind her own children, which it is a shame to see stravaging about the place! I know it’s her doing, which I told young Mrs. Charnock Poynsett just now, which I’m right sorry to see led along by the like of her, and so are more of us; and we all wish some friend would give her a hint, which she is but young—and ’tis doing harm to Mr. Charnock Poynsett, Lady Rosamond, which all of us have a regard for, as is but right, having been a good customer, and friend to the town, and all before him; but we can’t have ladies coming in with their fads and calling us names for not laying out on what’s no good to nobody, just to satisfy them! As if Wil’sbro’ hadn’t been always healthy!”
Tom was wicked enough to put in a good many notes of sympathy, at the intervals of the conjunctivewhiches, and to end by declaring, “Quite right, Mrs. Bungay! You see how much better we’ve brought up my sister! I say—what’s the price of that little doll’s broom?”
“What do you want of it, Tom?”
“Never you mind!”
“No mischief, I hope?”
“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,“To play them such a trick,After we’ve brought them out so far,And made them trot so quick.”The carpenter said nothing, but“The butter’s spread too thick.”—LEWIS CARROLL
“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,“To play them such a trick,After we’ve brought them out so far,And made them trot so quick.”The carpenter said nothing, but“The butter’s spread too thick.”—LEWIS CARROLL
A telegram arrived from Frank, in the midst of the preparations on Wednesday, announcing that ‘he was all right, and should be at Hazlitt’s Gate at 8.10 p.m.’
At 6.30 children of all sizes, with manes of all colours, were arriving, and were regaled in the dining-room by Anne, assisted by Jenny and Charlie. Anne had a pretty pink colour in her cheeks, her flaxen locks were bound with green ribbons, and green adorned her white dress, in which she had a gracious, lily-like look of unworldly purity. She thoroughly loved children, was quite equal to the occasion, and indeed enjoyed it as much as the recent Christmas-tree in the village school.
Such of Cecil’s guests as were mothers for the most part came with their children; but Lady Tyrrell, her sister, and others, who were unattached, arrived later, and were shown to the library, where she entertained them on the specified refreshment, biscuits and coffee, and enthroned Mrs Tallboys in the large arm-chair, where she looked most beautiful and gorgeous, in a robe of some astonishing sheeny sky-blue, edged with paly gold, while on her head was a coronal of sapphire and gold, with a marvellous little plume. The cost must have been enormous, and her delicate and spirituelle beauty was shown to the greatest advantage; but as the audience was far too scanty to be worth beginning upon, Cecil, with a sigh at the folly of maternal idolatry, went to hunt up her ladies from gazing at the babyish amusements of their offspring; and Miss Moy, in spite of her remonstrance, jumped up to follow her; while Mrs. Duncombe, the onlygoodmother in this new sense, remained, keeping guard lest curiosity, and the echo of piano music, which now began to be heard, should attract away any more of the ladies.
Cecil was by no means prepared for the scene. The drawing-room was crowded—chiefly indeed with ladies and children, but there was a fair sprinkling of gentlemen—and all had their faces turned towards the great glass doors opening into the conservatory, which was brilliantly lighted and echoing with music and laughter. Cecil tried to summon some of the ladies of her own inviting, announcing that Mrs. Tallboys was arrived; but this appeared to have no effect. “Yes, thank you,” was all she heard. Penetrating a little farther, “Mrs. Tallboys is ready.” “Thank you, I’ll come; but my little people are so anxious to have me with them.”—“Mrs. Tallboys is waiting!” to the next; who really did not hear, but only responded, “Did you ever see anything more charming?”
By this time Cecil could see over the heads of the front rank of children. She hardly knew the conservatory. All the veteran camellia and orange-trees, and a good many bay and laurel boughs besides, were ranged along the central alley, gorgeous with fairy lamps and jewels, while strains of soft music proceeded from some unseen quarter. “Very pretty!” said Cecil, hastily, trying another of her intended guests with her intelligence. “Really—yes, presently, thank you,” was the absent answer. “There is some delightful mystery in there.”
Cecil found her attempts were vain, and was next asked, as one of the household, what delicious secret was going on there; and as it hurt her feelings to be left out, she pressed into the conservatory, with some vague intention of ordering Anne, if not Rosamond, to release her grown-up audience, and confine their entertainment to the children; but she found herself at once caught by the hand by a turbaned figure like a prince in theArabian Nights, who, with a low salaam, waved her on.
“No, thank you. I’m looking for—”
But retreat was impossible, for many were crowding up in eager curiosity; moreover, a muslin bandage descended-on her eyes. “Don’t!” she expostulated; “I’m not at play—I’m—” but her words were lost.
“Hush! the Peri’s cave is near,No one enters scatheless here;Lightly tread and lowly bend,Win the Peri for your friend,”
“Hush! the Peri’s cave is near,No one enters scatheless here;Lightly tread and lowly bend,Win the Peri for your friend,”
sung a voice to the mysterious piano accompaniment; and Cecil found both hands taken, and was forced to move on, as she guessed the length of the conservatory, amid sounds of suppressed laughter that exceedingly annoyed her, till there was a pause and repetition of the two last lines with an attempt to make her obey them. She was too impatient and angry to perceive that it would have been much better taste to enter into the humour of the thing; and she only said with all her peculiar cold petulance, just like sleet, “Let me go, if you please; I am engaged. I am waited for.”
“Peri gracious,She’s contumacious;Behold, every hair shall bristleWhen she hears the magic whistle!”
“Peri gracious,She’s contumacious;Behold, every hair shall bristleWhen she hears the magic whistle!”
and a whistle, sharp, long, and loud, sounded behind her, amid peals of merriment. She turned sharply round, but still the whistle was behind her, and rang out again and again, till she was half deafened, and wholly irate; while the repetition of
“Bend, bend, lowly bend,Win the Peri for your friend,”
“Bend, bend, lowly bend,Win the Peri for your friend,”
forced on her the conviction that on no other condition should she be set free, though the recognition of Terry’s voice made the command doubly unpalatable, and as she made the stiffest and most reluctant of courtesies, a voice said,
“Homage done, you may beOf this merry company;”
“Homage done, you may beOf this merry company;”
and with a last blast of the whistle the bandage was removed, and she found herself in the midst of a half circle of laughing children and grown people; in front of her a large opening, like a cavern, hung with tiny lamps of various colours, in the midst of which stood the Peri, in a Persian pink robe, white turban, and wide white trousers, with two oriental genies attendant upon her.
A string was thrust into Cecil’s hand, apparently fastened to her, and accounting for some sharp pulls she had felt during the whistling. She drew it in front in sharp haste, to be rid of the obnoxious instrument; but instead of a whistle, she found in her hand a little dust-pan and brush, fit for a baby-house, drawn through a ring, while the children eagerly cried, “What have you got? What have you got?”
“Some nonsense. I do not approve of practical jokes,” began Cecil; but the song only replied,
“Away, away,In the cave no longer stay;Others come to share our play;”
“Away, away,In the cave no longer stay;Others come to share our play;”
and one of the genies drew her aside, while another blindfolded victim was being introduced with the same rites, only fare more willingly. The only way open to here was that which led to the window of the dining-room, where she found Anne with the children who had had their share, and were admiring their prizes. Anne tried to soothe her by saying, “You see every one is served alike. They thought it would be newer than a tree.”
“Did you mean togivemethis?” asked a little girl, in whose hands Cecil had thrust her dust-pan, without a glance at it.
“Oh the ring!” said Anne. “You must keep that, Mrs. Poynsett thought you would like it. It is a gem—some Greek goddess, I think.”
“Is this her arrangement?” asked Cecil, pointing to the dust-pan.
“Oh no! she knew nothing about that, nor I; but you see every one has something droll. See what Mr. Bowater has!”
And Herbert Bowater showed that decidedly uncomplimentary penwiper, where the ass’s head declares “There are two of us;” while every child had some absurdity to show; and Miss Moy’s shrieks of delight were already audible at a tortoise-shell pen-holder disguised as a hunting-whip.
“I must go to my friends,” said Cecil, vouchsafing no admiration of the ring, though she had seen enough to perceive that it was a beautifully engraved ruby; and she hurried back to the library, but only to find all her birds flown, and the room empty! Pursuing them to the drawing-room, she saw only the backs of a few, in the rearmost rank of the eager candidates for admission to the magic cave.
Lady Tyrrell alone saw her, and turned back from the eager multitude, to say in her low, modulated voice, “Beaten, my dear. Able strategy onla belle mère’spart.”
“Where’s Mrs. Tallboys?”
“Don’t you see her blue feather, eagerly expectant? Just after you were gone, Edith Bowater came in, and begged us to come and see the conservatory lighted up; and then came a rush of the Brenden children after their aunt, exclaiming wildly it was delicious—lights, and a fairy, and a secret, and every one got something, if they were ever so old. Of course, after that there was nothing but to follow the stream.”
“It is a regular plot for outwitting us! Rosamond is dressed up for the fairy. They are all in league.”
“Well, we must put a good face on it for the present,” said Lady Tyrrell. “Don’t on any account look as if you were not in perfect accordance. You can show your sentiments afterwards, you know.”
Cecil saw she must acquiesce, for Mrs. Tallboys was full in the midst. With an infinitely better grace than her hostess, she yielded herself to the sports, bowed charmingly to the Peri, whirled like a fairy at the whistling, and was rewarded with a little enamel padlock as a brooch, and two keys as ear-rings; indeed she professed, with evident sincerity, that she was delighted with these sports of the old country, and thought the two genies exquisite specimens of the fair, useless, gentle English male aristocracy.
Mrs. Duncombe, too, accepted the inevitable with considerable spirit and good-humour, though she had a little passage-at-arms with Julius; when showing him the ivory card-case that had fallen to her lot, she said, “So this is the bribe! Society stops the mouth of truth.”
“That is as you choose to take it,” he said.
“Exactly. When we want to go deep into eternal verities you silence us with frivolous din and dainty playthings for fear of losing your slaves.”
“I don’t grant that.”
“Then why hinder an earnest discussion by all this hubbub?”
“Because this was not the right place or time.”
“It never is the right time for the tyrants to let their slaves confer, or to hear home-truths.”
“On the contrary, my curiosity is excited. I want to hear Mrs. Tallboys’ views.”
“Then when will you dine with us? Next Wednesday?”
“Thank you. Wednesday has an evening service.”
“Ah! I told you it was never the right time! Then Thursday? And you’ll trust your wife with us?”
“Oh yes, certainly.”
“It is a bargain, then? Seven o’clock, or there will be no time.”
Julius’s attention suddenly wandered. Was not a whisper pervading the room of a railway accident? Was not Frank due by that night’s train?
There were still so many eager to visit the magic cave, that Julius trusted his wife would remain there sheltered from the report; Jenny Bowater was behind a stand of trees, acting orchestra; but when Terry came to the outskirts of the forest in search of other knights of the whistle, Julius laid a hand on him, and gave instructions in case any rumour should reach Rosamond to let her know how vague it was, tell her that he was going to ascertain the truth, and beg her to keep up the game and cause no alarm.
Next encountering Anne, he begged her to go to his mother and guard her from any alarm, until there was some certainty.
“Can’t we send all these people away?” she asked.
“Not yet. We had better make no unnecessary disturbance. There will be time enough if anything be amiss. I am going down to Hazlitt’s Gate.”
Anne was too late. Charlie had not outgrown the instinct of rushing to his mother with his troubles; and he was despairingly telling the report he had heard of a direful catastrophe, fatal to an unknown quantity of passengers, while she, strong and composed because he gave way, was trying to sift his intelligence. No sooner did he hear from Anne that Julius was going to the station, than he started up to accompany him—the best thing he could do in his present state. Hardly, however, had he closed the door, before he returned with fresh tears in his eyes, leading in Eleonora Vivian, whom he had found leaning against the wall outside, white and still, scarce drawing her breath.
“Come,” he said; and before she knew what he was doing, she was at Mrs. Poynsett’s side. “Here, mother,” he said, “take her.” And he was gone.
Mrs. Poynsett stretched out her arms. The hearts of the two women who loved Frank could not help meeting. Eleonora sank on her knees, hiding her face on the mother’s breast, with two tender arms clasped round her.
Anne was kneeling too, but she was no longer the meek, shy stranger. Now, in the hour of trouble, she poured forth, in a voice fervent and sweet, a prayer for protection and support for their beloved one, so that it might be well with him, whatever might be his Heavenly Father’s Will.
As she paused, Mrs. Poynsett, in a choked voice, said, “Thank you, dear child;” when there were steps in the hall. Anne started up, Lenore buried her face on Mrs. Poynsett’s bosom, the mother clasped her hands over her convulsively, then beheld, as the door opened, a tall figure, with a dark bright face full of ineffable softness and joy. Frank himself, safe and sound, with his two brothers behind him. They stayed not to speak, but hastened to spread the glad tidings; while he flung himself down, including both his mother and Lenore in one rapturous embrace, and carrying his kiss from one to the other—conscious, if no one else was, that this first seal of his love was given in his mother’s arms.
Lenore did indeed extricate herself, and stand up as rosy red as she had been pale; but she had no room for any thought beyond his mother’s trembling “Not hurt, my dear?”
“Not hurt! Not a scratch! Thank God! Oh! thank God!” answered Frank, quivering all over with thankfulness, though probably far more at the present joy than the past peril.
“Yes—oh, thanks for His mercy!” echoed Anne, giving fervent hand and tearful cheek to the eager salutation, which probably would have been as energetic to Clio or old Betty at that moment!
“But there’s blood on your wristband,” cried the mother. “You are hurt!”
“No; it’s not mine. I didn’t know it. It is from the poor fellow I helped to carry into the public-house at Knoll, just this side Backsworth, a good deal hurt, I’m afraid. Something had got on the lines, I believe. I was half asleep, and knew nothing till I found ourselves all crushed up together in the dark, upside-down, my feet above my head. There was but one man in my carriage, and we didn’t get foul of one another, and found we were all right, when we scrambled out of the window. So we helped out the others, and found that, besides the engineer and stoker—who I don’t suppose can live, poor fellows!—there was only this man much damaged. Then, when there seemed no more to be done, I took my bag and walked across country, to reach home before you heard. But oh, this is worth anything!”
He had to bend down for another embrace from his mother whose heart was very full as she held his bright young healthful face between her hands, though all she said was, “You have walked eleven miles and more! You must be half starved!—Anne, my dear, pray let him have something. He can eat it here.”
“I’ll see,” said Anne, hastening away.
“Oh, don’t go, Lenore,” cried Frank, springing up. “Stay, I’ve not seen you!—Mother, how sweet of you! But I forgot! You don’t know! I was only waiting till I was through.”
“I understand, my dear boy.”
“But how? How did you find out? Was it only that you knew she was the precious darling of my heart? and now you see and own why,” cries Frank, almost beside himself with excitement and delight.
“It was Lady Tyrrell who told me,” said Mrs. Poynsett, sympathizing too much with the lovers to perceive that her standpoint of resistance was gone from her.
“Yes,” said Lenore. “She knew of our walk, and questioned me so closely that I could not conceal anything without falsehood.”
“After she met me at Aucuba Villa?” asked Frank.
“Yes. Did you tell her anything?”
“I thought she knew more than I found afterwards that she did,” said Frank; “but there’s no harm done. It is all coming now.”
“She told my father,” said Eleonora, sadly, “and he cannot understand our delay. He is grieved and displeased, and thinks I have not been open with him.”
“Oh! that will be all right to-morrow,” said Frank. “I’ll have it out with a free heart, now there’s no fear but that I have passed; and I’ve got the dearest of mothers! I feel as if I could meet him if he were a dozen examiners rolled into one, instead of the good old benevolent parent that he is! Ha! Anne—Susan—Jenkins—thank you—that’s splendid! May I have it here? Super-excellent! Only here’s half the clay-pit sticking to me! Let me just run up and make myself decent. Only don’t let her run away.”
Perhaps Clio would have scorned the instinct that made a Charnock unable to enjoy a much-needed meal in the presence of mother and of love till the traces of the accident and the long walk had been removed. His old nurse hurried after—ostensibly to see that his linen was at hand, but really to have her share of the petting and congratulation; and Lenore stood a little embarrassed, till Mrs. Poynsett held out her arms, with the words, “My dear child!” and again she dropped on her knee by the couch, and nestled close in thankful joy.
Presently however, she raised herself, and said sadly, almost coldly, “I am afraid you have been surprised into this.”
“I must love one who so loves my boy,” was the ardent answer.
“I couldn’t help it!” said the maiden, again abandoning herself to the tenderness. “Oh! it is so good of you!”
“My dear, dear daughter!”
“Only please give me one mother’s kiss! I have so longed for one.”
“Poor motherless child! My sweet daughter!”
Then after a pause Eleonora said, “Indeed, I’ll try to deserve better; but oh! pray forgive me, if I cost him much more pain and patience than I am worth.”
“He thinks you well worth anything, and perhaps I do,” said Mrs Poynsett, who was conquered, won over, delighted more than by either of the former brides, in spite of all antecedents.
“Then will you always trust me?” said Eleonora, with clasped hands, and a wondrous look of earnest sincerity on her grave open brow and beautiful pensive dark blue eyes.
“Imust, my dear.”
“And indeed I don’t think I could help holding tohim, because he seems my one stay and hope here; and now I know it is all right with you, indeed it is such happiness as I never knew.”
She laid her head down again in subdued joy and rest: but the pause was broken by Frank’s return; and a moment after, in darted the Peri in her pink cashmere costume, with a glow transforming her usually colourless face. “Dear, dear Frank, I’m so glad!” she cried, bestowing her kiss; while he cried in amazement, “Is it Rose? Is there a fancy ball?”
“Only Aladdin’s Cave. I’m just out of it; and while Jenny is keeping up games, and Edith is getting up a charade, I could dash in to see that Frank was all there, and more too. The exam, is safe, eh?”
“I trust so,” said Frank; “the list will not come just yet; but I am told I am certain of a pass—indeed, that I stand high as to numbers.”
“That’s noble!—Now, Mrs. Poynsett, turn him out as soon as he has eaten his dinner. We want any one who can keep up a respectable kind of a row. I say, will you two do Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess? You look just like it.”
“Must we go?” asked Frank, reluctantly; and there was something in the expression of his face, a little paler than usual, that reminded his mother that the young man had for the first time seen sudden and violent death that day, and that though his present gladness was so great, yet that he had gone through too much in body and mind for the revels of the evening not either to jar, or to produce a vehement reaction, if he were driven into them. So she answered by pleading the eleven miles’ walk; and the queen of the sports was merciful, adding, “But I must be gone, or Terry will be getting up his favourite tableau of the wounded men of Clontarf, or Rothesay, or the Black Bull’s Head, or some equally pleasing little incident.”
“Is it going on well?” asked Mrs. Poynsett.
“Sweetly! Couldn’t be better. They have all amalgamated and are in the midst of the ‘old family coach,’ with Captain Duncombe telling the story. He is quite up to the trick, and enjoys turning the tables on his ladies.”
“And Camilla?” asked Lenore, in a hesitating, anxious tone
“Oh! she’s gone in for it. I think she is the springs! I heard her ask where you were, and Charley told her; so you need not be afraid to stay in peace, if you have a turn that way. Good-bye; you’d laugh to see how delighted people are to be let off the lecture.” And she bent over Lenore with a parting kiss, full of significance of congratulation.
She returned, after changing her dress, to find a pretty fairy tableau, contrived by the Bowater sisters, in full progress, and delighting the children and the mothers. Lady Vivian contrived to get a word with her as she returned.
“Beautifully managed, Lady Rosamond. I tell Cecil she should enjoy a defeat by such strategy.”
“It is Mrs. Poynsett’s regular Christmas party,” said Rosamond, not deigning any other reply.
“I congratulate her on her skilful representatives,” said Lady Tyrrell. “May I ask if we are to see the hero of the day? No? What! you would say better employed? Poor children, we must let them alone to-night for their illusion, though I am sorry it should be deepened; it will be only the more pain by and by.”
“I don’t see that,” said Rosamond, stoutly.
“Ah! Lady Rosamond, you are a happy young bride, untaught what isl’impossible.” Rosamond could not help thinking that no one understood it better than she, as the eldest of a large family with more rank and far more desires than means; but she disliked Lady Tyrrell far too much for even her open nature to indulge in confidences, and she made a successful effort to escape from her neighbourhood by putting two pale female Fullers into the place of honour in front of the folding doors into the small drawing-room, which served as a stage, and herself hovered about the rear, wishing she could find some means of silencing Miss Moy’s voice, which was growing louder and more boisterous than ever.
The charade which Rosamond had expected was the inoffensive, if commonplace,Inspector, and the window she beheld, when the curtain drew up, was, she supposed, the bar of an inn. But no; on the board were two heads, ideals of male and female beauty, one with a waxed moustache, the other with a huge chignon, vividly recalling Mr. Pettitt’s Penates. Presently came by a dapper professor, in blue spectacles and a college cap, who stood contemplating, and indulging in a harangue on entities and molecules, spirit and matter, affinities and development, while the soft deep brown eyes of the chignoned head languished, and the blue ones of the moustached one rolled, and the muscles twitched and the heads turned till, by a strong process of will explained by the professor, they bent their necks, erected themselves, and finally started into life and the curtain fell on them with clasped hands!
It rose to show the newly-animated pair, Junius Brutus and Barberina his wife, at the breakfast table, with a boar’s head of brawn before them, while the Lady Barberina boldly asserted her claims to the headship of the house. Had she not lately been all head?
The pathetic reply was, “Would it were so still, my dear. All head and no tongue, like our present meal.”
The lady heaved up the boar’s head to throw at him, and the scene closed.
Next, Brutus was seen awkwardly cleaning his accoutrements, having enlisted, as he soliloquized, to escape from woman.
Enter a sergeant with a rich Irish brogue, and other recruits, forming the awkward squad. The drill was performed with immense spirit, but only one of the soldiers showed any dexterity; but while the sergeant was upholding him as ‘the very moral of a patthern to the rest,’ poor Brutus was seized with agonizing horror at the recognition of Barberina in this disguise!
“Why not?” she argued. “Why should not woman learn to use the arms of which man has hitherto usurped the use?”
Poor Brutus stretched out his arms in despair, and called loudly for the professor to restore him to his original state of silent felicity in the barber’s window.
“Ye needn’t do that, me boy,” quoth the sergeant with infinite scorn. “Be ye where ye will, ye’ll never be aught but a blockhead.”
Therewith carriages were being announced to the heads of families; and with compliments and eager thanks, and assurances that nothing could have been more delightful, the party broke up.
Captain Duncombe, while muffling his boys, declared that he never saw a cleverer hit in his life, and that those two De Lancey brothers ought to be on the stage; while Miss Moy loudly demanded whether he did not feel it personal; and Mrs. Tallboys, gracefully shaking hands with Anne and Rosamond, declared it a grand challenge where the truth had been unconsciously hit off. Cecil was nowhere to be seen.