The Three Brides

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  "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 too ultra, 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 me truly," 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."

  "But is it 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 of you-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 nev
er 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.

  CHAPTER XIV. Neither Land Nor Water

  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 the seance after 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 Phoenicians."

  "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's Dutch 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."