The Three Brides

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  However, when the ballot-box came his way, and a simpering youth presented him with a card, begging for his opinion, he spoke so as to be heard by all, "No, thank you, sir. I am requested by the ladies present to state that such competition was never contemplated by their committee and would be repugnant to all their sentiments. They beg that the election may be at once dropped and the money returned."

  Mr. Charnock Poynsett had a weight that no one resisted. There was a moment's silence, a little murmur, apologetic and remonstrant, but the deed was done.

  Only a clear voice, with the thrillings of disappointed vanity and exultation scarcely disguised by a laugh, was heard saying, louder than the owner knew, "Oh, of course Mr. Charnock Poynsett spoiled sport. It would have been awkward between his wife and his old flame."

  "For shame, Gussie," hushed Mrs. Duncombe, "they'll hear."

  "I don't care! Let them! Stuck-up people!"

  Whoever heard, Cecil Charnock Poynsett did, and felt as if the ground were giving way with her.

  CHAPTER XXIV. The Lady Green Mantle

  The night, just like the night before,

  In terrors passed away, Nor did the demons vanish thence

  Before the dawn of day.-MOORE

  The turmoil was over, the gains had been emptied into bags to be counted at leisure, the relics of the sale left to be disposed of through the Exchange and Mart. Terry, looking tired to death, descended from his post as assistant showman; and, with some gentlemen who were to dine at Compton Poynsett, Cecil drove home to dress in haste, and act hostess to a large dinner-party. All the time she felt giddy at the words she had heard-"Mr. Poynsett's old flame." It was constantly ringing in her ears, and one conviction was before her mind. Her cheeks burnt like fire, and when she reached her own room at night, and leant from the window to cool them, they only burnt the more.

  Had she been wilfully deceived? had she been taking the counsel of a jealous woman about her husband? Had not Camilla assured her that the object of his first love was not in the country? Ay; but when that was spoken Camilla herself was in London, and Cecil knew enough of her friend to be aware that she viewed such a subterfuge as ingenious. Even then she had perceived that the person alluded to could only have been a Vivian, and the exclamation of careless spite carried assurance to her that she had been tricked into confidence, and acceptance of the advice of a rival. She had a feverish longing to know more, and obtain explanation and external certainty. But how?

  Raymond was one of the very tired that night. He fell asleep the instant his head touched the pillow; but it was that sobbing, sighing sleep which had before almost swept away, from very ruth, her resolution; and on this night there were faltering words, strangely, though unconsciously, replying to her thoughts. "Camilla, a cruel revenge!" "Poor child! but for you she might have learnt." "My mother!" "Why, why this persistent hatred?" "Cannot you let us alone?" "Must you destroy our home?"

  These were the mutterings at intervals. She listened, and in the darkness her impulse was to throw herself on her husband, tell him all, show him how she had been misled, and promise to give up all to which that true Vivienne had prompted her. She did even try to wake him, but the attempt caused only a more distinct expostulation of "Cannot you let her alone?" "Cannot you let us learn to love one another?" "It may be revenge on me or my mother; but what has she done?" "Don't!-oh, don't!"

  The distress she caused forced her to desist, and she remembered how Raymond had always warned her. The intimacy with Lady Tyrrell had been in the teeth of his remonstrances. He had said everything to prevent it short of confessing his former attachment, and though resentful that the warning had been denied her, she felt it had been well that she had been prevented from putting the question on her first impulse. Many ways of ascertaining the fact were revolved by her as with an aching head she lay hopelessly awake till morning, when she fell into a doze which lasted until she found that Raymond had risen, and that she must dress in haste, unless she meant to lose her character for punctuality. Her head still ached, and she felt thoroughly tired; but when Raymond advised her to stay at home, and recruit herself for the ball, she said the air of the downs would refresh her. Indeed, she felt as if quiet and loneliness would be intolerable until she could understand herself and what she had heard.

  Raymond took the reins of the barouche, and a gentleman who had slept at the Hall went on the box beside him, leaving room for Rosamond and her brother, who were to be picked up at the Rectory; but when they drew up there, only Rosamond came out in the wonderful bonnet, just large enough to contain one big water-lily, which suited well with the sleepy grace of her movements, and the glossy sheen of her mauve silk.

  "Terry is not coming. He has a headache, poor boy," she said, as Julius shut her into the barouche. "Take care of him and baby."

  "Take care of yourself, Madam Madcap," said Julius, with a smile, as she bent down to give him a parting kiss, with perhaps a little pleading for forgiveness in it. But instead of, as last year, shuddering, either at its folly or publicity, Cecil felt a keen pang of desire for such a look as half rebuked, while it took a loving farewell of Rosamond. Was Camilla like that statue which the husband inadvertently espoused with a ring, and which interposed between him and his wife for ever?

  Rosamond talked. She always had a certain embarrassment in tete-a-tetes with Cecil, and it took form in a flow of words. "Poor Terry! he turned faint and giddy at breakfast. I thought he had been indulging at the refreshment-stall, but he says he was saving for a fine copy of the Faerie Queen that Friskyball told him of at a book- stall at Backsworth, and existed all day on draughts of water when his throat grew dry as showman; so I suppose it is only inanition, coupled with excitement and stuffiness, and that quiet will repair him. He would not hear of my staying with him."

  "I suppose you do not wish to be late?"

  "Certainly not," said Rosamond, who, indeed, would have given up before, save for her bonnet and her principle; and whatever she said of Lady Rathforlane's easy management of her nurslings, did not desire to be too many hours absent from her Julia.

  "I only want to stay till the Three-year-old Cup has been run for," said Cecil. "Mrs. Duncombe would feel it unkind if we did not."

  "You look tired," said Rosamond, kindly; "put your feet upon the front seat-nobody will look. Do you know how much you cleared?"

  "Not yet," said Cecil. "I do not know what was made by the raffles. How I do hate them! Fancy that lovely opal Venetian vase going to that big bony Scotswoman, Mr. M'Vie's mother."

  "Indeed! That is a pity. If I had known it would be raffled for, I would have sent a private commission, though I don't know if Julius would have let me. He says it is gambling. What became of the Spa work-box, with the passion-flower wreath?"

  "I don't know. I was so disgusted, that I would not look any more. I never saw such an obnoxious girl as that Miss Moy."

  "That she is," said Rosamond. "I should think she was acting the fast girl as found in sensation novels."

  "Exactly," said Cecil, proceeding to narrate the proposed election; and in her need of sympathy she even told its sequel, adding, "Rosamond, do you know what she meant?"

  "Is it fair to tell you?" said Rosamond, asking a question she knew to be vain.

  "I must know whether I have been deceived."

  "Never by Raymond!" cried Rosamond.

  "Never, never, never!" cried Cecil, with most unusual excitement. "He told me all that concerned himself at the very first. I wish he had told me who it was. How much it would have saved! Rosamond, you know, I am sure."

  "Yes, I made Julius tell me; but indeed, Cecil, you need not mind. Never has a feeling more entirely died out."

  "Do you think I do not know that?" said Cecil. "Do you think my husband could have been my husband if he had not felt that?"

  "Dear Cecil, I am so glad," cried impulsive Rosamond; her gladness, in truth, chiefly excited by the anger that looked like love for Raymond. "I mean, I am glad you see it so, and don
't doubt him."

  "I hope we are both above that," said Cecil. "No, it is Camilla that I want to know about. I must know whether she told me truth."

  "She told! what did she tell you?"

  "That he-Raymond-had loved some one," said Cecil in a stifled voice; "that I little knew what his love could be. I thought it had been for her sister in India. She told me that it was nobody in the country. But then we were in town."

  "Just like her!" cried Rosamond, and wondered not to be contradicted.

  "Tell me how it really was!" only asked Cecil.

  "As far as I know, the attachment grew up with Raymond, but it was when the brother was alive, and Sir Harry at his worst; and Mrs. Poynsett did not like it, though she gave in at last, and tried to make the best of it; but then she-Camilla-as you call her-met the old monster, Lord Tyrrell, made up a quarrel, because Mrs. Poynsett would not abdicate, and broke it off."

  "She said Mrs. Poynsett only half consented, and that the family grew weary of her persistent opposition."

  "And she made you think it Mrs. Poynsett's doing, and that she is not possible to live with! O, Cecil! you will not think that any longer. Don't you see that it is breaking Raymond's heart?"

  Cecil's tears were starting, and she was very near sobbing as she said, "I thought perhaps if we were away by ourselves he might come to care for me. She said he never would while his mother was by- that she would not let him."

  "That's not a bit true!" said Rosamond, indignantly. "Is it not what she has most at heart, to see her sons happy? When has she ever tried to interfere between Julius and me? Not that she could," added Rosamond to herself in a happy little whisper, not meant to be heard, but it was; and with actual though suppressed sobs, Cecil exclaimed-

  "O, Rose, Rose! what do you do to make your husband love you?"

  "Do? Be very naughty!" said Rosamond, forced to think of the exigencies of the moment, and adding lightly, "There! it won't do to cry. Here are the gentlemen looking round to see what is the matter."

  Ardently did she wish to have been able to put Cecil into Raymond's arms and run out of sight, but with two men-servants with crossed arms behind, a strange gentleman in front, the streets of Wil'sbro' at hand, and the race-ground impending, sentiment was impossible, and she could only make herself a tonic, and declare nothing to be the matter; while Cecil, horrified at attracting notice, righted herself and made protest of her perfect health and comfort. When Raymond, always careful of her, stopped the carriage and descended from his perch to certify himself whether she was equal to going on, his solicitude went to her heart, and she gave his hand, as it lay on the door, an affectionate thankful pressure, which so amazed him that he raised his eyes to her face with a softness in them that made them for a moment resemble Frank's.

  That was all, emotion must be kept at bay, and as vehicles thickened round them as they passed through Wil'sbro', the two ladies betook themselves to casual remarks upon them. Overtaking the Sirenwood carriage just at the turn upon the down, Raymond had no choice but to take up his station with that on one side, and on the other Captain Duncombe's drag, where, fluttering with Dark Hag's colours, were perched Mrs. Duncombe and Miss Moy, just in the rear of the like conveyance from the barracks.

  Greetings, and invitations to both elevations were plentiful, and Rosamond would have felt in her element on the military one. She was rapidly calculating, with her good-natured eye, whether the choice her rank gave her would exclude some eager girl, when Cecil whispered, "Stay with me pray," with an irresistibly beseeching tone. So the Strangeways sisters climbed up, nothing loth; Lady Tyrrell sat with her father, the centre of a throng of gentlemen, who welcomed her to the ground where she used to be a reigning belle; and the Colonel's wife, Mrs. Ross, came to sit with Lady Rosamond. The whole was perfect enjoyment to the last. She felt it a delightful taste of her merry old Bohemian days to sit in the clear September sunshine, exhilarated by the brilliancy and life around, laughing with her own little court of officers, exclaiming at every droll episode, holding her breath with the thrill of universal expectation and excitement, in the wonderful hush of the multitude as the thud of the hoofs and rush in the wind was heard coming nearer, straining her eyes as the glossy creatures and their gay riders flashed past, and setting her whole heart for the moment on the one she was told to care for.

  Raymond, seeing his ladies well provided for, gave up his reins to the coachman, and started in quest of a friend from the other side of the county. About an hour later, when luncheon was in full progress, and Rosamond was, by Cecil's languor, driven into doing the honours, with her most sunshiny drollery and mirth, Raymond's hand was on the carriage door, and he asked in haste, "Can you spare me a glass of champagne? Have you a scent-bottle?"

  "An accident?"

  "Yes, no, not exactly. She has been knocked down and trampled on."

  "Who? Let me come! Can't I help? Could Rosamond?"

  "No, no. It is a poor woman, brutally treated. No, I say, I'll manage. It is a dreadful scene, don't."

  But there was something in his tone which impelled Rosamond to open the carriage door and spring out.

  "Rose, I say it is no place for a lady. I can't answer for it to Julius."

  "I'll do that. Take me."

  There was no withstanding her, and, after all, Raymond's tone betrayed that he was thankful for her help, and knew that there was no danger for her.

  He had not many yards to lead her. The regions of thoughtless gaiety were scarcely separated from the regions of undisguised evil, and Raymond, on his way back from his friend, had fallen on a horrible row, in which a toy-selling woman had been set upon, thrown down and trodden on, and then dragged out by the police, bleeding and senseless. When he brought Rosamond to the spot, she was lying propped against a bundle, moaning a little, and guarded by a young policeman, who looked perplexed and only equal to keeping back the crowd, who otherwise, with better or worse purposes, would have rushed back in the few minutes during which Mr. Poynsett had been absent.

  They fell back, staring and uttering expressions of rough wonder at the advance of the lady in her glistening silk, but as she knelt down by the poor creature, held her on her arm, bathed her face with scent on her own handkerchief, and held to her lips the champagne that Raymond poured out, there was a kind of hoarse cheer.

  "I think her arm is put out," said Rosamond; "she ought to go to the Infirmary."

  "Send for a cab," said Raymond to the policeman; but at that moment the girl opened her eyes, started at the sight of him and tried to hide her face with her hand.

  "It is poor Fanny Reynolds," said he in a low voice to Rosamond, while the policeman was gruffly telling the woman she was better, and ought to get up and not trouble the lady; but Rosamond waved off his too decided assistance, saying:

  "I know who she is; she comes from my husband's parish; and I will take her home. You would like to go home, would you not, poor Fanny?"

  The woman shuddered, but clung to her; and in a minute or two an unwilling fly had been pressed into the service, and the girl lifted into it by Raymond and the policeman.

  "You are really going with her?" said the former. "You will judge whether to take her home; but she ought to go to the Infirmary first."

  "Tell Cecil I am sorry to desert her," said Rosamond, as he wrung her hand, then paid the driver and gave him directions, the policeman going with them to clear the way through the throng to the border of the down.

  The choice of the cabman had not been happy. He tried to go towards Backsworth, and when bidden to go to Wil'sbro', growled out an imprecation, and dashed off at a pace that was evident agony to the poor patient; but when Rosamond stretched out at the window to remonstrate, she was answered with rude abuse that he could not be hindered all day by whims. She perceived that he was so much in liquor that their connection had better be as brief as possible; and the name on the door showed that he came from beyond the circle of influence of the name of Charnock Poynsett. She longed to assume th
e reins, if not to lay the whip about his ears; but all she could do was to try to lessen the force of the jolts by holding up the girl, as the horse was savagely beaten, and the carriage so swayed from side to side that she began to think it would be well if there were not three cases for the Infirmary instead of one. To talk to the girl or learn her wishes was not possible, among the moans and cries caused by the motion; and it was no small relief to be safely at the Infirmary door, though there was no release till after a fierce altercation with the driver, who first denied, and then laughed to scorn the ample fare he had received, so that had any policeman been at hand, the porter and house surgeon would have given him in charge, but they could only take his number and let him drive off in a fury.

  Poor Fanny was carried away fainting to the accident ward, and Rosamond found it would be so long before she would be visible again, that it would be wiser to go home and send in her relations, but there was not a fly or cab left in Wil'sbro', and there was nothing for it but to walk.

  She found herself a good deal shaken, and walked fast because thus her limbs did not tremble so much, while the glaring September afternoon made her miss the parasol she had left in the carriage, and find little comfort in the shadeless erection on her head. It was much further than she had walked for a long time past, and she had begun to think she had parted with a good deal of her strength before the Compton woods grew more defined, or the church tower came any nearer.

  Though the lane to the Reynolds' colony was not full in her way, she was glad to sit down in the shade to speak to old Betty, who did not comport herself according to either extreme common to parents in literature.

  "So Fanny, she be in the 'firmary, be her? I'm sure as 'twas very good of the young Squire and you, my lady; and I'm sorry her's bin and give you so much trouble."