Читать книгу The Three Brides - Charlotte M. Yonge - Страница 11

Table of Contents

“Raymond! Can you spare me a moment before you go into your mother’s room?”

It was Rosamond who, to his surprise, as he was about to go down-stairs, met him and drew him into her apartment—his mother’s own dressing-room, which he had not entered since the accident.

“Is anything the matter?” he said, thinking that Julius might have spared him from complaints of Cecil.

“Oh no! only one never can speak to you, and Julius told me that you could tell me about Mrs. Poynsett. I can’t help thinking she could be moved more than she is.” Then, as he was beginning to speak, “Do you know that, the morning of the fire, I carried her with only one of the maids to the couch under the tent-room window? Susan was frightened out of her wits, but she was not a bit the worse for it.”

“Ah! that was excitement.”

“But if it did not hurt her then, why should it hurt her again? There’s old General M’Kinnon, my father’s old friend, who runs about everywhere in a wheeled-chair with a leg-rest; and I can’t think why she should not do the same.”

Raymond smiled kindly on her, but rather sadly; perhaps he was recollecting his morning’s talk about the occupancy of the drawing-room. “You know it is her spine,” he said.

“So it is with him. His horse rolled over him at Sebastopol, and he has never walked since. I wanted to write to Mary M’Kinnon; but Julius said I had better talk to you, because he was only at home for a fortnight, when she was at the worst, and you knew more about it.”

“Yes,” said Raymond, understanding more than the Irish tongue fully expressed. “I never saw a woman sit better than she did, and she looked as young and light in the saddle as you could, till that day, when, after the rains, the bank where the bridle-path to Squattles End was built up, gave way with the horse’s feet, and down she went twenty feet, and was under the horse when Miles and I got down to her! We brought her on a mattress to that room, not knowing whether she were alive; and she has never moved out of it! It was agony to her to be touched.”

“Yes but it can’t be that now. Was not that three years ago?”

“Not so much. Two and a half. We had Hayter down to see her, and he said perfect rest was the only chance for her.”

“And has not he seen her lately?”

“He died last winter; and old Worth, who comes in once a week to look at her, is not fit for more than a little watching and attention. I dare say we all have learnt to acquiesce too much in her present state, and that more might be done. You see she has never had a lady’s care, except now and then Jenny Bowater’s.”

“I do feel sure she could bear more now,” said Rosamond, eagerly. “It would be such a thing if she could only be moved about that down-stairs floor.”

“And be with us at meals and in the evening,” said Raymond, his face lightening up. “Thank you, Rosamond!”

“I’ll write to Mary M’Kinnon to-morrow, to ask about the chair,” cried Rosamond; and Raymond, hearing the door-bell, hurried down, to find his wife standing alone over the drawing-room fire, not very complacent.

“Where have you been, Raymond?”

“I was talking to Rosamond. She has seen a chair on which it might be possible to move my mother about on this floor.”

“I thought—” Cecil flushed. She was on the point of saying she thought Rosamond was not to interfere in her department any more than she in Rosamond’s; but she kept it back, and changed it into “Surely the doctor and nurses must know best.”

“A fresh eye often makes a difference,” said Raymond. “To have her among us again—!” but he was cut short by the announcement of Mr. and Miss Fuller.

“Poor Mr. Fuller,” as every one called him, was the incumbent of St. Nicholas, Willansborough, a college living always passed by the knowing old bachelor fellows, and as regularly proving a delusion to the first junior in haste for a wife. Twenty-five years ago Mr. Fuller had married upon this, which, as Mr. Bindon said, was rather a reason for not marrying—a town with few gentry, and a petty unthriving manufacture, needing an enormous amount of energy to work it properly, and getting—Mr. Fuller, with force yearly decreasing under the pressure of a sickly wife, ill-educated, unsatisfactory sons, and unhealthy, aimless daughters. Of late some assistance had been obtained, but only from Mr. Driver, the ‘coach’ or cramming tutor, who was directing the studies of Frank and half a dozen more youths, and his aid was strictly limited to a share in the Sunday services.

The eldest daughter accompanied the Vicar. Her mother had not health (or perhaps clothes) for a dinner-party, and it was the first time she had ever been in the house. Very shy and in much awe she was! Cecil viewed her as a constituent, and was elaborately civil and patronizing, doing the honours of all the photographs and illustrations on which she could lay hands, and only eliciting alternately ‘Very nice,’ and ‘How sweet!’ A little more was made of the alarms of the fire, and the preparations for clearing the house, and there was a further thaw about the bazaar. It would be such a relief from plain work, and she could get some lovely patterns from her cousin who had a missionary basket; but as to the burnt-out families, the little knowledge or interest she seemed to have about them was rather astounding, unless, as Rosamond suspected, she thought it ‘shop,’ and uninteresting to the great ladies of Compton-Poynsett Hall.

Meanwhile, her father made the apprehended request for the loan of Compton Church during the intervals of services, and when the Rector explained how brief those intervals would be, looked astonished, and dryly complimented him on his energy and his staff, somewhat as if the new broom were at the bottom of these congratulations.

The schools were to be used for services until a temporary iron church could be obtained, for which Julius, to make up for his churlishness in withholding his own church, made the handsomer donation, and held out hopes of buying it afterwards for the use of Squattles End. Then, having Mr. Fuller’s ear to himself, he ventured to say, though cautiously, as to one who had been a clergyman before he was born, “I wish it were possible to dispense with this bazaar.”

Mr. Fuller shrugged his shoulders. “If every one subscribed in the style of this family.”

“They would be more likely to do so, without the appeal to secondary motives.”

“Try them,” said the elder man.

“Exactly what I want to do. I would put up the four walls, begin with what you get from the insurance, a weekly offertory, and add improvements as means came in. This is not visionary. I have seen proof of its success.”

“It may serve in new-fashioned city missions, but in an old-established place like this it would create nothing but offence. When you have been in Orders as long as I have, you will find that there is nothing for it but to let people do what they will, not what one thinks best.”

“Mr. Fuller,” said Julius, eagerly, “will you try an experiment? Drop this bazaar, and I promise you our collection every Sunday evening for the year, giving notice of it to my people, and to such of yours as may be present.”

“I do not despise your offer,” said Mr. Fuller, laying his hand upon his arm. “You mean it kindly, and if I were in your place, or had only my own feelings to consider, I might attempt it. But it would be only mischievous to interfere with the bazaar. Lady Tyrrell—all the ladies, in fact—have set their minds on it, and if I objected there would instantly be a party cry against me, and that is the one thing I have always avoided.”

His tone of superior wisdom, meek and depressed as he always was, tried the Rector’s patience enough to make his forehead burn and bring out his white eyebrows in strong relief. “How about a blessing on the work?” he asked, suppressing so much that he hardly knew this was spoken aloud.

Again Mr. Fuller smiled. He had been a bit of a humorist when he was an Oxford don. “Speak of that to Briggs,” he said, “and he would answer, ‘Cash for me, and the blessing may take care of itself.’ As to the ladies—why, they deafen you about blessings on their humble efforts, and the widow’s mite.”

“Simply meaning that they want their amusement a little—”

“Buttered over,” said Mr. Fuller, supplying the word. “Though you are hard on them, Charnock—I don’t know about the fine ladies; but there are quiet folk who will work their fingers to the bone, and can do nothing else.”

“That’s true,” said Julius; “and one would gladly find a safe outlet for their diligence.”

“You do not trust to it for bringing the blessing,” said Mr. Fuller in a tone that Julius liked even less than the mere hopeless faint-heartedness, for in it there was sarcasm on faith in aught but £ s. d.

The two brothers held another discussion on this matter later that night, on the stairs, as they were on their way to their rooms.

“Won’t you come to this meeting to-morrow, Julius?” asked Raymond.

“I don’t see that I should be of any use, unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you would make what seems to me the right proposal, and I could be any support in it.”

“What’s that?”

“To use the insurance to put up the mere shells and plain indispensable fittings of the church and town-hall, then make the drainage of Water Lane and Hall Street the first object for the rates, while the church is done by subscription and voluntary effort.”

“You put the drainage first—even before the church?” said Raymond, smiling, with an elder brother’s satisfaction in such an amount of common sense.

“Of course I do,” said Julius. “An altar and four walls and chairs are all that ought to be sought for. Little good can be done to people’s souls while their bodies are in the feverish discomfort of foul air and water. This is an opportunity not to be wasted, while all the houses are down, town-hall and all.”

“The very thing I told Briggs and the others this morning,” said Raymond; “but I could not get a hearing; they said there never had been any illness worth mentioning, and in fact scouted the whole matter, as people always do.”

“Yes, they take it as a personal insult when you mention the odorous—or odious, savours sweet,” said Julius. “I heard a good deal of that when we had the spell of cholera at St. Awdry’s.”

“I shall work on at it, and I trust to get it done in time,” said Raymond; “but it will not be at once. The subject is too new to them, and the irritation it produces must subside before they will hear reason. Besides, the first thing is to employ and feed these paper-makers.”

“Of course.”

“That will pretty well absorb this first meeting. The ladies will manage that, I think; and when this is provided for, I will try what I can do at the committee; but there is no good in bringing it forward at this great public affair, when every ass can put in his word. Everything depends on whom they choose for the new mayor. If Whitlock comes in, there is some chance of sense and reason being heard. Good night.”

As Raymond said, the more immediate object of the meeting fixed for the ensuing day, was to provide for the employment of the numerous women thrown out of employment by the destruction of the paper-mills. A subscription was in hand, but not adequate to the need; and moreover, it was far more expedient to let them maintain themselves.

How this was to be done was the question. Cecil told her husband that at Dunstone they made the women knit stockings; and he replied by recommending the suppression of Dunstone. How strange it was that what she had been used to consider as the source of honour should be here held in what seemed to her disesteem!

Lady Tyrrell’s ponies were tinkling up to the door of the hotel where the meeting was to be held, and her gracious smile recalled Cecil’s good-humour; Raymond saw them to their seats, and then had to go and take the chair himself on the platform—first, however, introducing his wife to such of the ladies present as he recollected.

She thought he wanted her to sit between melancholy white faced Mrs. Fuller and a bony spinster in a poke-bonnet whom he called Miss Slater; but Cecil, concluding that this last could have no vote, and that the Vicarage was secure, felt free to indulge herself by getting back to Lady Tyrrell, who had scarcely welcomed her before exclaiming, “Mrs. Duncombe, I did not know you were returned.”

“I came back on the first news of your flare-up,” said the newcomer. “I only came down this morning. I would not have missed this meeting for anything. It is a true woman’s question. A fair muster, I see,” looking round with her eye-glass, and bowing to several on the platform, especially to Raymond, who returned the bow rather stiffly.

“Ah! let me introduce you,” said Lady Tyrrell. “Mrs. Raymond Charnock Poynsett.”

“I am very glad to see you embarked in the cause,” said the lady, frankly holding out her hand. “May we often meet in the same manner, though I honestly tell you I’m not of your party; I should go dead against your husband if we only had a chance.”

“Come, you need not be so aggressive,” laughed Lady Tyrrell; “you haven’t a vote yet. You are frightening Mrs. Poynsett.” It was true. Even Cecil Charnock was born too late to be one of the young ladies who, in the first decades of the reformed Parliament, used to look on a Liberal as a lusus naturæ, whom they hardly believed to be a gentleman. But a lady who would openly accost the Member’s bride with a protest against his politics, was a being beyond her experience, and the contemplation fairly distracted her from her husband’s oratory.

She would have taken Miss Slater for the strong-minded female far rather than this small slim person, with the complexion going with the yellower species of red hair and chignon, not unlike a gold-pheasant’s, while the thin aquiline nose made Cecil think of Queen Elizabeth. The dress was a tight-fitting black silk, with a gorgeous many-coloured gold-embroidered oriental mantle thrown loosely over it, and a Tyrolean hat, about as large as the pheasant’s comb, tipped over her forehead, with cords and tassels of gold; and she made little restless movements and whispered remarks during the speeches.

There was to be a rate to renew the town-hall. The rebuilding of the paper-mills and dwelling-houses was fairly covered by the insurance; but the Vicar, in his diffident apologetic voice, stated that the church had been insufficiently insured, and moreover, that many more sittings were needed than the former building had contained. He then read the list of subscriptions already promised, expressed hopes of more coming in, invited ladies to take collecting cards, and added that he was happy to announce that the ladies of the congregation had come forward with all the beneficence of their sex, and raised a sum to supply a new set of robes.

Here the chairman glanced at his wife, but she was absorbed in watching Mrs. Duncombe’s restless hands; and the look was intercepted by Lady Tyrrell’s eyes, which flashed back sympathetic amusement, with just such a glance as used to pass between them in old times; but the effect was to make the Member’s face grave and impassive, and his eyes fix on the papers before him.

The next moment Cecil was ardently gazing at Mr. Fuller as he proceeded to his hopes of the bazaar to be held under the most distinguished patronage, and of which he spoke as if it were the subject of anticipations as sanguine as any the poor man could ever appear to indulge in. And there was, in fact, the greatest stamping and cheering there had yet been, perhaps in compliment to the M.P.’s young bride—at least, so Lady Tyrrell whispered, adding that everybody was trying to see her.

Then Mr. Charnock Poynsett himself took up the exposition of the third branch of the subject, the support of the poor families thrown out of work at the beginning of winter. There could be no employment at the paper-mills till they were repaired; and after the heavy losses, they could not attempt to keep their people together by any payment. It had been suggested that the readiest way of meeting the difficulty, would be to employ the subscriptions already promised in laying in a stock of material to be made up into garments, and then dispose of them out to the women at their homes; and appointing a day once a week when the work should be received, the pay given, and fresh material supplied, by a party of volunteer ladies.

This was, in fact, what he had been instructed to propose by the kindly souls who ordinarily formed the St. Nicholas bureau de charité, who had instructed him to be their mouthpiece. There was due applause as the mayor seconded his resolution; but in the midst a clear, rather high-pitched voice rose up close to Cecil, saying, “Mr. Chairman, allow me to ask what sale is anticipated for these garments?”

“I am told that there is a demand for them among the poor themselves,” said Raymond, judiciously concealing how much he was taken aback by this female interference.

“Allow me to differ. A permanent work society numbering a few women otherwise unemployed may find a sufficient sale in the neighbourhood under the patronage of charitable ladies; but when you throw in ninety-five or one hundred pair of hands depending on their work for their livelihood, the supply must necessarily soon go beyond any demand, even fictitious. It will not do to think of these women like fancy knitters or embroiderers whose work is skilled. Most of them can hardly mend their own clothes, and the utmost that can be expected of them is the roughest slop work.”

“Do you wish any expedient to be proposed?” asked the chairman, in a sort of aside.

“Yes, I have one. I spent yesterday in collecting information.”

“Will Captain Duncombe move it?” suggested Raymond.

“Oh no! he is not here. No, it is no use to instruct anybody; I will do it myself, if you please.”

And before the astonished eyes of the meeting, the gold-pheasant hopped upon the platform, and with as much ease as if she had been Queen Bess dragooning her parliament, she gave what even the astounded gentlemen felt to be a sensible practical exposition of ways and means.

She had obtained the address of a warehouse ready to give such rough work as the women could be expected to do; but as they were unaccustomed to work at home, and were at present much crowded from the loss of so many houses, and could besides be little depended on for working well enough without superintendence, her plan was to hire a room, collect the women, and divide the superintendence between the ladies; who should give out the work, see that it was properly done, keep order, and the like. She finished off in full order, by moving a resolution to this effect.

There was a pause, and a little consultation among the gentlemen, ending by Raymond’s absolutely telling Mr. Fuller that it was a very sensible practical arrangement, and that it must be seconded; which the Vicar accordingly did, and it was carried without opposition, as in truth nothing so good had been thought of; and the next thing was to name a committee of ladies, a treasurer and auditor of accounts. There would be no work on Saturdays, so if the ladies would each undertake half a day once a fortnight, the superintendence need not be a burthen.

Mrs. Duncombe and Miss Slater undertook the first start and preliminary arrangements, then each would take her half day in rotation. Lady Tyrrell and her sister undertook two, Cecil two more, and others were found to fill up the vacant space. The chairman moved a vote of thanks to the lady for her suggestion, which she acknowledged by a gracious bow, not without triumph; and the meeting broke up.

Some one asked after Captain Duncombe as she descended into private life. “There’s a wonderful filly that absorbs all his attention. All Wil’sbro’ might burn as long as Dark Hag thrives! When do I expect him? I don’t know; it depends on Dark Hag,” she said in a tone of superior good-natured irony, then gathered up the radiant mantle and tripped off along the central street of the little old-fashioned country town, with gravelled not paved side-walks.

“Isn’t she very superior?” said Cecil, when her husband had put her on horseback.

“I suppose she is very clever.”

“And she spoke capitally.”

“If she were to speak. What would your father think of her?”

But for the first time Cecil’s allegiance had experienced a certain shock. Some sort of pedestal had hitherto been needful to her existence; she was learning that Dunstone was an unrecognized elevation in this new country, and she had seen a woman attain to a pinnacle that almost dazzled her, by sheer resource and good sense.

All the discussion she afterwards heard did not tend to shake her opinion; Raymond recounted the adventure at his mother’s kettle-drum, telling of his own astonishment at the little lady’s assurance.

“I do not see why she should be censured,” said Cecil. “You were all at a loss without her.”

“She should have got her husband to speak for her,” said Mrs. Poynsett.

“He was not there.”

“Then she should have instructed some other gentleman,” said Mrs. Poynsett. “A woman spoils all the effect of her doings by putting herself out of her proper place.”

“Perfectly disgusting!” said Julius.

Cecil had decidedly not been disgusted, except by the present strong language; and not being ready at repartee, she was pleased when Rosamond exclaimed, “Ah! that’s just what men like, to get instructed in private by us poor women, and then gain all the credit for originality.”

“It is the right way,” said the mother. “The woman has much power of working usefully and gaining information, but the one thing that is not required of her is to come forward in public.”

“Very convenient for the man!” laughed Rosamond.

“And scarcely fair,” said Cecil.

“Quite fair,” said Rosamond, turning round, so that Cecil only now perceived that she had been speaking in jest. “Any woman who is worth a sixpence had rather help her husband to shine than shine herself.”

“Besides,” said Mrs. Poynsett, “the delicate edges of true womanhood ought not to be frayed off by exposure in public.”

“Yes,” said Raymond. “The gain of an inferior power of man in public would be far from compensated by the loss in private of that which man can never supply.”

“Granted,” said Rosamond slyly though sleepily, “that it always is an inferior power of man, which it does not seem to have been in the actual case.”

“It was a point on which she had special knowledge and information,” said Mrs. Poynsett.

“And you were forced to thank her,” said Cecil.

“Yes, in common civility,” said Raymond; “but it was as much as I could do to get it done, the position was a false one altogether.”

“In fact, you were all jealous,” said Rosamond.

At which everybody laughed, which was her sole intention; but Cecil, who had said so much less, really thought what Rosamond said in mere play. Those extorted thanks seemed to her a victory of her sex in a field she had never thought of; and though she had no desire to emulate the lady, and felt that a daughter of Dunstone must remember noblesse oblige, the focus of her enthusiasm was in an odd state of shifting.