"You've hit it again, Jenny. Couple the two descriptions."
"I gather that you don't think the danger great."
"Not at present. The fascination is dual, and is at least a counteraction to the great enchantress."
"That is well! It was not wholesome!"
"Whereas, these two are hearty, honest, well-principled girls, quite genuine."
"Yet you don't say it with all your heart."
"I own I should like to find something they had left undone."
"What, to reduce them to human nature's daily food?"
"Daily indeed! There's just no escaping them. There they are at matins and evensong."
"How shocking! What, gossip afterwards?"
"Ask Rollo whether Mungo and Tartar don't stand at the lych-gate, and if he finds it easy to put an end to the game at play."
"Oh! and he said they never missed a Sunday service, or the school. Do they distract him?"
"Whom would it not distract to see two figures walking in with hunches on their backs like camels, and high-heeled shoes, and hats on the back of their heads, and chains and things clattering all over them?"
"Aren't they lady-like?"
"Oh! they are quite that. Rose says it is all the pink of fashion- only coming it strong-I declare they are infectious!"
"I believe so. I never heard so many nibbles at slang from any of you five, as from the Rector of Compton in the last five minutes. I gather that he is slightly bothered."
"There's so much of it. We are forced to have them to all the meals on Sunday, and their lectures on functions have nearly scared poor Anne to the Pilgrim level again. They have set upon me to get up a choir-concert and a harvest-feast; but happily no one has time for the first at this season, and as to the other, I doubted whether to make this first start after such a rainy summer, and they decide me against it. To have them decorating the church!"
"Awfully jolly," suggested Jenny.
"Even so. They are, if you understand me, technically reverent; they have startled the whole place with their curtsies and crossings in church; but they gabble up to the very porch; and the familiarity with which they discuss High Mass, as they are pleased to call it! I was obliged to silence them, and I must say they took it nicely."
"How do they suit Lena?"
"She likes them. Lady Susan was a great help to her in London, and she feels the comfort of their honesty. They brought her to church with them one or two mornings, but it knocked her up to walk so early. Insensibly, I think they do Lady Tyrrell's work in shutting her up from any of us."
"Spite of croquet, which seems perpetual."
"Chronic and sporadic parties make it so. There are few days without that or something else. Cricket or the band at the barracks."
"People say the neighbourhood has never been so gay since Camilla Vivian's marriage. I sometimes wonder whether anything can be going to happen," said Jenny with a sigh, not guessing at what Julius was thinking of; then changing her tone: "Surely Herbert does not go to it all, and leave you alone? O, Julius! you should not let him."
"Never mind, Jenny, there's no more work now in the holidays than I am sufficient for; and for him, it is quite as guileless play as ever he had twenty years ago. It will soon be over, or I should take it more seriously."
"But it is at such a time!"
"Yes, that is the worst of it. I have thought it over; but while he is in this mood, the making him feel victimized and interfered with has a worse effect than the letting him have his swing."
"What is he doing now, I wonder? Here's his sermon-paper on the table, and a Greek Testament, and Hints on Decorating Churches, with 'Constance Strangeways' on the first leaf-no other book. How long will this saturnalia last?"
"Up to the Ordination, I fear. You know the good people have contrived to put bazaar, races, and ball, all into the Ember Week, and they are the great object of the young ladies' visit. Could you have him home for a quiet week first?"
"It would not be a quiet week; Edith is in the way of most of these affairs; besides, to open fire about these young ladies might just be putting nonsense into an innocent head. Now, I've not seen your Rectory!"
The said Rectory was in a decided state of fresh, not to say raw, novelty outside, though the old trees and garden a little softened its hard grays and strong reds; but it promised to look well when crumbling and weather-stain had done their work. At the door they met the pretty young nurse, with a delicate sea-green embroidered cashmere bundle in her arms.
"Little Lady Green Mantle," exclaimed Jenny.
"Erin-go-bragh," said Julius. "Rose clung to her colours in spite of all predictions about 'the good people.' Asleep of course," as Jenny took her and uncovered her face. "She won't exhibit her eyes, but they are quite proper coloured."
"Yes, I see she is like Raymond!"
"Do you? They all say she is a perfect Charnock, though how they know I can't guess. There," after a little more baby-worship, "you may take her Emma."
"Is that the under-nurse?" asked Jenny, rather surprised by her juvenility.
"The sole one. My mother and Susan are rather concerned, but Rose asserts that experience in that department is always associated with gin; and she fell in love with this girl-a daughter of John Gadley's, who is much more respectable than he of the 'Three Pigeons.' I suppose it is not in the nature of things for two women to have the same view of nursery matters, unless one have brought up the other."
"Or even if she have. Witness mamma's sighs over Mary's nurses."
"I thought it was the common lot. You've not seen the dining-room." And the full honours were done. They were pleasant rooms, still unpapered, and the furniture chiefly of amber-coloured varnished deal; the drawing-room, chiefly with green furniture, with only a few brighter dashes here and there, and a sociable amount of comfortable litter already. The study was full of new shelves and old books, and across the window-sill lay a gray figure, with a book and a sheet of paper.
"You here, Terry! I thought you were gone with Rose," said Julius, as the boy rose to greet Miss Bowater.
"She said I need not, and I hate those garden-parties," said Terry; and they relieved him of their presence as soon as Jenny had paid her respects to the favourite prints and photographs on the walls.
"He has a passion for the history of Poland just now," said Julius. "Sobieski is better company than he would meet at Duddingstone, I suspect-poor fellow! Lord Rathforlane has been so much excited by hearing of Driver's successes as a coach, as to desire Terry to read with him for the Royal Engineers. The boys must get off his hands as soon as possible, he says, and Terry, being cleverest, must do so soonest; but the boy has seen the dullest side of soldiering, and hates it. His whole soul is set on scholarship. I am afraid it is a great mistake."
"Can't you persuade him?"
"We have both written; but Rose has no great hopes of the result. I wish he could follow his bent."
"Yes," said Jenny, lingering as she looked towards Church-house, "the young instinct ought not to be repressed."
Julius knew that she was recollecting how Archie Douglas had entreated to go to sea, and the desire had been quashed because he was an only son. His inclination to speak was as perilous as if he had been Rosamond herself, and he did not feel it unfortunate that Jenny found she must no longer stay away from home.
CHAPTER XXII. Times Out of Joint
Alte der Meere, Komm und hore; Meine Frau, die Ilsebill, Will nicht als ich will!
Life at Compton Poynsett was different from what it had been when the two youngest sons had been at home, and Julius and Rosamond in the house. The family circle had grown much more stiff and quiet, and the chief difference caused by Mrs. Poynsett's presence was that Raymond was deprived of his refuge in her room. Cecil had taken a line of polite contempt. There was always a certain languid amount of indifferent conversation, 'from the teeth outward,' as Rosamond said. Every home engagement was submitted to the elder lady with elaborate scrupulousness, almo
st like irony. Visitors in the house or invitations out of it, were welcome breaks, and the whirl of society which vaguely alarmed Joanna Bowater was a relief to the inhabitants of the Hall.
Anne's companionship was not lively for her mother-in-law, but she was brightening in the near prospect of Miles's return, and they had established habits that carried them well through the evening. Anne covered screens and made scrap-books, and did other work for the bazaar; and Mrs. Poynsett cut out pictures, made suggestions, and had associations of her own with the combinations of which Anne had little notion. Or she dictated letters which Anne wrote, and through all these was a kindly, peaceful spirit, most unlike the dreary alienation in which Cecil persevered.
To Cecil this seemed the anxious desire for her lawful rights. She had been used to spend the greater part of the evening at the piano, but her awakened eyes perceived that this was a cover to Raymond's conversations at his mother's sofa; so she sat tying knots in stiff thread at her macrame lace pillow, making the bazaar a plea for nothing but work. Raymond used to arm himself with the newspapers as the safest point d'appui, and the talk was happiest when it only languished, for it could do much worse.
"Shall you be at Sirenwood to-morrow, Cecil?" asked Mrs. Poynsett, as she was wheeled to her station by the fire after dinner. "Will you kindly take charge of a little parcel for me? One of the Miss Strangeways asked me to look for some old franks, so Anne and I have been turning out my drawers."
"Are they for sale?" asked Raymond.
"Yes," said Cecil. "Bee Strangeways is collecting; she will pay for all that are new to her, and sell any duplicates."
"Has she many?" asked Mrs. Poynsett, glad of this safe subject.
"Quantities; and very valuable ones. Her grandfather knew everybody, and was in the Ministry."
"Was he?" said Raymond, surprised.
"Lord Lorimer?" said Mrs. Poynsett. "Not when I knew them. He was an old-fashioned Whig, with some peculiar crotchets, and never could work with any Cabinet."
"Beatrice told me he was," said Cecil, stiffly.
"I rather think he was Master of the Buckhounds for a little while in the Grey Ministry," said Mrs. Poynsett, "but he gave it up because he would not vote with ministers on the poor laws."
"I knew I was not mistaken in saying he was in the Ministry," said Cecil.
"The Master of the Buckhounds is not in the Cabinet, Cecil," said her husband.
"I never said he was. I said he was in office," returned the infallible lady.
Mrs. Poynsett thought it well to interrupt by handing in an envelope franked by Sir Robert Peel; but Cecil at once declared that the writing was different from that which Bee already owned.
"Perhaps it is not the same Sir Robert," said Mrs. Poynsett.
"She got it from the Queen, and they are all authenticated. The Queen newspaper, of course" (rather petulantly).
"Indisputable," said Raymond; "but this frank contained a letter from the second Sir Robert to my father."
Mrs. Poynsett made a sign of acquiescence, and Cecil pouted in her dignified way, though Mrs. Poynsett tried to improve matters by saying, "Then it appears that Miss Strangeways will have a series of Peel autographs, all in fact but the first generation."
Common sense showed she was right, but Cecil still felt discontented, for she knew she had been resisted and confuted, and she believed it was all Mrs. Poynsett's doing instead of Raymond's.
And she became as mute as Anne for the next half-hour, nor did either Raymond or his mother venture on starting any fresh topic, lest there might be fresh jarring.
Only Anne presently came up to Mrs. Poynsett and tenderly purred with her over some little preparation for Miles.
Certainly Anne was the most improved in looks of all the three brides, who had arrived just a year ago. The thin, scraggy Scotch girl, with the flabby, washed-out look alternating with angular rigidity was gone, but the softening and opening of her expression, the light that had come into her eyes, and had made them a lovely blue instead of pale gray; the rose-tint on her cheeks, the delicate rounded contour of her face, the improved carriage of her really fine figure, the traces of style in the braiding of her profuse flaxen hair, and the taste that was beginning to conquer in the dress, were all due to the thought that the Salamanca might soon be in harbour. She sat among them still as a creature whose heart and spirit were not with them.
That some change must come was felt as inevitable by each woman, and it was Mrs. Poynsett who began, one forenoon when her son had brought a lease for her to sign. "Raymond," said she, "you know Church-house is to be vacant at Michaelmas. I wish you would look at it, and see what repairs it wants, and if the drawing-room windows could be made to open on the lawn."
"Are you hoping to tempt Miles to settle there?"
"No, I fear there is no hope of that; but I do not think an old broken-backed invalid ought to engross this great house."
"Mother, I cannot hear you say so! This is your own house!"
"So is the other," she said, trying to smile, "and much fitter for my needs, with Susan and Jenkins to look after me."
"There is no fit place for you but this. You said that once."
"Under very different circumstances. All the younger boys were still under my wing, and needed the home, and I was strong and vigorous. It would not have been acting right by them to have given up the place; but now they are all out in the world, and I am laid by, my stay here only interferes with what can be much better managed without me or my old servants."
"I do not see that. If any one moves, it should be ourselves."
"You are wanted on the spot continually. If Sirenwood were in the market, that might not be so much amiss."
"I do not think that likely. They will delay the sale in the hope of Eleonora's marrying a rich man; besides, Mr. Charnock has set his mind upon Swanslea. I hope this is from nothing Cecil has said or done!"
"Cecil wishes to part then? She has said nothing to me, but I see she has to you. Don't be annoyed, Raymond; it is in the nature of things."
"I believe it is all Lady Tyrrell's doing. The mischief such a woman can do in the neighbourhood!"
"Perhaps it is only what any friend of Cecil would advise."
"It is the very reverse of what I intended," said Raymond, shading his face.
"My dear Raymond, I know what you meant, and what you wish; but I am also certain it is for no one's happiness to go on in this way."
He groaned.
"And the wife's right comes first."
"Not to this house."
"But to this man. Indeed I see more hope of your happiness now than I did last year."
"What, because she has delivered herself over bound hand and foot to Camilla Vivian?"
"No, because she is altered. Last year she was merely vexed at my position in the house. Now she is vexed at my position with you."
"Very unjustly."
"Hardly so. I should not have liked your father to be so much devoted to his mother. Remember, jealousy is a smoke that cannot exist without some warmth."
"If she had any proper feeling for me, she would show it by her treatment of you."
"That would be asking too much when she thinks I engross you."
"Mother, while you show such marvellous candour and generosity, and she-"
"Hush! Raymond, leave it unsaid! We cannot expect her to see more than her own side of the question. She has been put into an avowedly trying position, and does not deserve hard judgment for not being happy in it. All that remains is to relieve her. Whether by my moving or yours is the question. I prefer the Church-house plan."
"Either way is shame and misery to me," broke out Raymond in a choked voice.
"Nonsense," said his mother, trying to be cheerful. "You made an impracticable experiment, that's all. Give Cecil free scope, let her feel that she has her due, and all will come right."
"Nothing can be done till after the Wil'sbro' business," said Raymond, glad of the reprieve. He could not b
ear the prospect of banishment for his mother or himself from the home to which both were rooted; and the sentence of detachment from her was especially painful when she seemed his only consolation for his wife's perverseness. Yet he was aware that he had been guilty of the original error, and was bound to give such compensation to his wife as was offered by his mother's voluntary sacrifice. He was slow to broach the subject, but only the next morning came a question about an invitation to a dull house.
"But," said Cecil, "it is better than home." She spoke on purpose.
"I am sorry to hear you say so."
"I can't call it home where I am but a guest."
"Well, Cecil, my mother offers to leave the home of her life and retire into Church-house."
Cecil felt as if the screw she had been long working had come off in her hands. She frowned, she gazed, collecting her senses, while Raymond added, "It is to my intense grief and mortification, but I suppose you are gratified."
"Uh, it would never do!" she exclaimed, to his surprise and pleasure.
"Quite right," he returned. "Just what I felt. Nothing can make me so glad as to see that you think the idea as socking as I do."
"Our going to Swanslea would be much better-far more natural, and no one could object. We could refurnish, and make it perfect; whereas nothing can be done to this place, so inconveniently built and buried in trees. I should feel much freer in a place of my own."
"So that is what you meant when I thought you were thinking of my mother?"
"I am obliged to take thought for myself when you take heed to no one but her," said Cecil; and as the carriage was at that moment announced, she left him. Which was the most sick at heart it would be hard to say, the wife with the sense that she was postponed in everything to the mother, the husband at the alienation that had never before been so fully expressed. Cecil's errand was a council about the bazaar; and driving round by Sirenwood, Lady Tyrrell became her companion in the carriage. The quick eyes soon perceived that something had taken place, and confidence was soon drawn forth.
"The ice is broken; and by whom do you think?"
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