"So it was! It was to give you the chance of redeeming it, and keeping it in the family. It is to be sold, you know, as soon as you are of age, and can give your consent. I can't buy it. Mine is only a jointure, a life income, and you know that you might as well think of Mary buying Golconda; but you-you-with such beauty as yours-might easily make a connection that would save it."
There was only a choked sound.
"I know you feel the situation painfully, after having been mistress so long."
"Camilla, you know it is not that!"
"Ah, my dear, I can see farther than you avow. You can't marry till you are twenty-one, you know; but you might be very soon engaged, and then we should see our way. It only depends on yourself. Plenty of means, and no land to tie him down, ready to purchase and to settle down. It would be the very thing; and I see you are a thoroughly sensible girl, Lena."
"Indeed! I am not even sensible enough to know who is to be this purchaser."
"Come, Lena, don't be affected. Why! he was the only poor creature you were moderately gracious to."
"I! what do you mean?"
Lady Tyrrell laughed again.
"Oh!" in a tone of relief, "I can explain all that to you. All the Strangeways family were at Rockpier the winter before you came, and I made great friends with Margaret Strangeways, the eldest sister. I wanted very much to hear about her, for she has had a great deal of illness and trouble, and I had not ventured to write to her."
"Oh! was that the girl young Debenham gave up because her mother worried him so incessantly, and who went into a Sisterhood?"
"It was she who broke it off. She found he had been forced into it by his family, and was really attached elsewhere. I never knew the rights of it till I saw the brother to-night."
"Very praiseworthy family confidence!"
"Camilla, you know I object to that tone."
"So do most young ladies, my dear-at least by word."
"And once for all, you need have no fancies about Mr. Lorimer Strangeways. I am civil to him, of course, for Margaret's sake; and Lady Susan was very kind to me; but if there were nothing else against him, he is entirely out of the question, for I know he runs horses and bets on them."
"So does everybody, more or less."
"And you! you, Camilla, after what the turf has cost us, can wish me to encourage a man connected with it."
"My dear Lena, I know you had a great shock, which made the more impression because you were such a child; but you might almost as well forswear riding, as men who have run a few horses, or staked a few thousands. Every young man of fortune has done so in his turn, just by way of experiment-as a social duty as often as not."
"Let them," said Eleonora, "as long as I have nothing to do with them."
"What was that pretty French novel-Sybille, was it?-where the child wanted to ride on nothing but swans? You will be like her, and have to condescend to ordinary mortals."
"She did not. She died. And, Camilla, I would far rather die than marry a betting man."
"A betting man, who regularly went in for it! You little goose, to think that I would ask you to do that! As you say we have had enough of that! But to renounce every man who has set foot on a course, or staked a pair of gloves, is to renounce nine out of ten of the world one lives in."
"I do renounce them. Camilla, remember that my mind is made up for ever, and that nothing shall ever induce me to marry a man who meddles with the evils of races."
"Meddles with the evils? I understand, my dear Lena."
"A man who makes a bet," repeated Eleonora.
"We shall see," was her ladyship's light answer, in contrast to the grave tones; "no rules are without exceptions, and I only ask for one."
"I shall make none."
"I confess I thought you were coming to your senses; you have been acting so wisely and sensibly ever since you came home, about that young Frank Charnock."
Lady Tyrrell heard a little rustle, but could not see that it was the clasping of two hands over a throbbing heart. "I am very glad you are reasonable enough to keep him at a distance. Poor boy, it was all very well to be friendly with him when we met him in a place like Rockpier, and you were both children; but you are quite right not to let it go on. It would be mere madness."
"For him, yes," murmured the girl.
"And even more so for you. Why, if he had any property worth speaking of, it would be a wretched thing to marry into that family! I am sure I pity those three poor girls! Miles's wife looks perfectly miserable, poor thing, and the other two can't conceal the state of things. She is just the sort of woman who cannot endure a daughter-in-law."
"I thought I heard Lady Rosamond talking very affectionately of her."
"Very excitedly, as one who felt it her duty to stand up for her out-of-doors, whatever she may do indoors. I saw victory in those plump white shoulders, which must have cost a battle; but whatever Lady Rosamond gains, will make it all the worse for the others. No, Eleonora, I have known Mrs. Poynsett's rancour for many years, and I would wish no one a worse lot than to be her son's fiancee, except to be his wife."
"She did not seem to object to these marriages."
"The sons took her by surprise. Besides, Raymond's was the very parti mothers seek out for their sons. Depend upon it, she sent him off with her blessing to court the unexceptionable cousin with the family property. Poor Raymond, he is a dutiful son, and he has done the deed; but, if I am not much mistaken the little lady is made of something neither mother nor son is prepared for, and he has not love enough to tame her with."
"That may be seen at a glance. He can't help it, poor fellow; he would have had it if he could, like anything else that is proper."
There was a moment's silence; then the exclamation, "Just look there!"
One of the hats was nodding on the box in a perilous manner.
"It is only James," said Lady Tyrrell; "as long as it is not the coachman, it matters the less. There's no danger."
"You will not keep him, though!"
"I don't know. He is much the best looking and handiest of the men; and your page, Master Joshua, is no great acquisition yet."
"I wish you would not call him mine; I wish you would send him back to his grandmother. I can't bear his being among those men."
"Very complimentary to my household! They are not a bit worse than the company he came from! You don't believe in rural simplicity, eh?"
"I believe that taking that boy from his home makes us responsible."
"And do I hinder you from catechizing him to your heart's content? or sending him to the school of design?"
Again Eleonora was silent. Perhaps the balancing of the footman's head occupied her mind. At any rate, no more was said till the sisters had reached their home. Then, at the last moment, when there was no time left for a reply, Eleonora cleared and steadied her voice, and said, "Camilla, understand two things for truth's sake. First, I mean what I say. Nothing shall ever induce me to marry a man who bets. Next, I never have forgotten Frank Charnock for one moment. If I have been cold and distant to him, it is because I will not draw him near me to be cruelly scorned and disappointed!"
"I don't mind the why, if the effect is the same," were Lady Tyrrell's last words, as the door opened.
Eleonora's little white feet sped quickly up the steps, and with a hasty good night, she sped across the hall, but paused at the door. "Papa must not be disappointed," she whispered to herself, and dashed her hand over her eyes; and at the moment the lock turned, and a gray head appeared, with a mighty odour of smoke. "Ah! I thought my little Lena would not pass me by! Have you had a pleasant party, my dear? Was young Strangeways there?"
She had nestled in his arms, and hoped to avoid notice by keeping her head bent against him, as she hastily responded to his questions; but he detected something.
"Eh? Camilla been lecturing? Is that it? You've not been crying, little one? It is all right, you know! You and I were jolly enough at Rockpier; but it was time we
were taken in hand, or you would have grown into a regular little nun, among all those black coats."
"I wish I were."
"Nonsense! You don't know life! You'll tell another story one of these days; and hark childie, when you've married, and saved the old place, you'll keep the old room for the old man, and we'll have our own way again."
She could but kiss him, and hide her agitation in caresses, ere hurrying up the stairs she reached her own rooms, a single bed- chamber opening into a more spacious sitting-room, now partially lighted by the candles on the toilette-table within.
She flung herself down on a chair beyond the line of light, and panted out half aloud, "Oh! I am in the toils! Oh for help! Oh for advice! Oh! if I knew the right! Am I unfair? am I cold and hard and proud? Is she telling me true? No, I know she is not-not the whole truth, and I don't know what is left out, or what is false! And I'm as bad-making them think I give in and discard Frank! Oh! is that my pride-or that it is too bad to encourage him now I know more? He'll soon scorn me, and leave off-whatever he ever thought of me. She has taken me from all my friends-and she will take him away! No one is left me but papa; and though she can't hurt his love, she has got his confidence away, and made him join against me! But that one thing I'll never, never do!"
She started up, and opened a locked purple photograph-album, with 'In Memoriam' inscribed on it-her hands trembling so that she could hardly turn the key. She turned to the likeness of a young man-a painful likeness of a handsome face, where the hard verities of sun-painting had refused to veil the haggard trace of early dissipation, though the eyes had still the fascinating smile that had made her brother Tom, with his flashes of fitful good-nature, the idol of his little sister's girlhood. The deadly shock of his sudden death had been her first sorrow; and those ghastly whispers which she had heard from the servants in the nursery, and had never forgotten, because of the hushed and mysterious manner, had but lately started into full force and meaning, on the tongues of the plain-spoken poor.
She gazed, and thought of the wrecked life that might have been so rich in joys; nay, her tenderness for her father could not hide from her how unlike his old age was from that of Mr. Bowater, or of any men who had done their service to their generation in all noble exertion. He had always indeed been her darling, her charge; but she had never known what it was to look up to him with the fervent belief and enthusiasm she had seen in other girls. To have him amused, loitering from reading-room to parade or billiard-room, had been all that she aspired to, and only lately had she unwillingly awakened to the sense how and why this was-and why the family were aliens in their ancestral home.
"And Camilla, who knew all-knew, and lived through the full force of the blight and misery-would persuade me that it all means nothing, and is a mere amusing trifle! Trifle, indeed, that breaks hearts and leads to despair and self-destruction and dishonour! No, no, no-nothing shall lead me to a gamester! though Frank may be lost to me! He will be! he will be! We deserve that he should be! I deserve it-if family sins fall on individuals-I deserve it! It is better for him-better-better. And yet, can he forget-any more than I-that sunny day-? Oh! was she luring him on false pretences? What shall I do? How will it be? Where is my counsellor? Emily, Emily, why did you die?"
Emily's portrait-calm, sweet, wasted, with grave trustful eyes-was in the next page. The lonely girl turned to it, and gazed, and drank in the soothing influence of the countenance that had never failed to reply with motherly aid and counsel. It rested the throbbing heart; and presently, with hands clasped and head bent, Eleonora Vivian knelt in the little light closet she had fitted as an oratory, and there poured out her perplexities and sorrows.
CHAPTER X. A Truant
Since for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine.-COWPER
"How like Dunstone you have made this room!" said Raymond, entering his wife's apartment with a compliment that he knew would be appreciated.
Cecil turned round from her piano, to smile and say, "I wish papa could see it."
"I hope he will next spring; but he will hardly bring Mrs. Charnock home this winter. I am afraid you are a good deal alone here, Cecil. Is there no one you would like to ask?"
"The Venns," suggested Cecil; "only we do not like them to leave home when we are away; but perhaps they would come."
Raymond could not look as if the proposal were a very pleasing one. "Have you no young-lady friends?" he asked.
"We never thought it expedient to have intimacies in the neighbourhood," said Cecil.
"Well, we shall have Jenny Bowater here in a week or two."
"I thought she was your mother's friend."
"So she is. She is quite young enough to be yours."
"I do not see anything remarkable about her."
"No, I suppose there is not; but she is a very sensible superior person."
"Indeed! In that commonplace family."
"Poor Jenny has had an episode that removes her from the commonplace. Did you ever hear of poor Archie Douglas?"
"Was not he a good-for-nothing relation of your mother?"
"Not that exactly. He was the son of a good-for-nothing, I grant, whom a favourite cousin had unfortunately married, but he was an excellent fellow himself; and when his father died, she had Mrs. Douglas to live in that cottage by the Rectory, and sent the boy to school with us; then she got him into Proudfoot's office-the solicitor at Backsworth, agent for everybody's estates hereabouts. Well, there arose an attachment between him and Jenny; the Bowaters did not much like it, of course; but they are kind-hearted and good- natured, and gave consent, provided Archie got on in his profession. It was just at the time when poor Tom Vivian was exercising a great deal more influence than was good among the young men in the neighbourhood; and George Proudfoot was rather a joke for imitating him in every respect-from the colour of his dog-cart to the curl of his dog's tail. I remember his laying a wager, and winning it too, that if he rode a donkey with his face to the tail, Proudfoot would do the same; but then, Vivian did everything with a grace and originality."
"Like his sister."
"And doubly dangerous. Every one liked him, and we were all more together than was prudent. At last, two thousand pounds of my mother's money, which was passing through the Proudfoots' hands, disappeared; and at the same time poor Archie fled. No one who knew him could have any reasonable doubt that he did but bear the blame of some one else's guilt, most likely that of George Proudfoot; but he died a year or two back without a word, and no proof has ever been found; and alas! the week after Archie sailed, we saw his name in the list of sufferers in a vessel that was burnt. His mother happily had died before all this, but there were plenty to grieve bitterly for him; and poor Jenny has been the more like one of ourselves in consequence. He had left a note for Jenny, and she always trusted him; and we all of us believe that he was innocent."
"I can't think how a person can go about as usual, or ever get over such a thing as that."
"Perhaps she hasn't," said Raymond, with a little colour on his brown cheek. "But I'm afraid I can't make those visits with you to-day. I am wanted to see the plans for the new town-hall at Wil'sbro'. Will you pick me up there?"
"There would be sure to be a dreadful long waiting, so I will luncheon at Sirenwood instead; Lady Tyrrell asked me to come over any day."
"Alone? I think you had better wait for me."
"I can take Frank."
"I should prefer a regular invitation to us both."
"She did not mean to make a formal affair."
"Forms are a protection, and I do not wish for an intimacy there, especially on Frank's account."
"It would be an excellent match for Frank."
"Indeed, no; the estate is terribly involved, and there are three daughters; besides which, the family would despise a younger son. An attachment could only lead to unhappiness now, besides the positive harm of unsettling him. His tutor tells me that as it is he is very uneasy about his examination-hi
s mind is evidently preoccupied. No, no, Cecil, don't make the intercourse unnecessarily close. The Vivians have not behaved well to my mother, and it is not desirable to begin a renewal. But you shall not lose your ride, Cecil; I'll ask one of the boys to go with you to the Beeches, and perhaps I shall meet you there."
"He talks of my lonely life," said Cecil, to herself, "and yet he wants to keep me from the only person who really understands me, all for some rancorous old prejudice of Mrs. Poynsett's. It is very hard. There's no one in the house to make a friend of-Rosamond, a mere garrison belle; and Anne, bornee and half a dissenter; and as soon as I try to make a friend, I am tyrannized over, and this Miss Bowater thrust on me."
She was pounding these sentiments into a sonata with great energy, when her door re-opened, and Raymond again appeared. "I am looking for two books of Mudie's. Do you know where they can be? I can't make up the number."
"They are here," said Cecil; "Lanfrey's Vie de Napoleon; but I have not finished them."
"The box should have gone ten days ago. My mother has nothing to read, and has been waiting all this time for the next part of Middlemarch," said Raymond.
"She said there was no hurry," murmured Cecil.
"No doubt she did; but we must not take advantage of her consideration. Reading is her one great resource, and we must so contrive that your studies shall not interfere with it."
He waited for some word of regret, but none came; and he was obliged to add, "I must deprive you of the books for the present, for she must not be kept waiting any longer; but I will see about getting them for you in some other way. I must take the box to the station in the dog-cart." He went without a word from her. It was an entirely new light to her that her self-improvement could possibly be otherwise than the first object with everyone. At home, father and mother told one another complacently what Cecil was reading, and never dreamt of obstructing the virtuous action. Were her studies to be sacrificed to an old woman's taste for novels?
Cecil had that pertinacity of nature that is stimulated to resistance by opposition; and she thought of the Egyptian campaign, and her desire to understand the siege of Acre. Then she recollected that Miss Vivian had spoken of reading the book, and this decided her. "I'll go to Sirenwood, look at it, and order it. No one can expect me to submit to have no friends abroad nor books at home. Besides, it is all some foolish old family feud; and what a noble thing it will be for my resolution and independence to force the two parties to heal the breach, and bridge it over by giving Miss Vivian to Frank."
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