Читать книгу The Three Brides - Yonge Charlotte Mary - Страница 10

“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—his 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, bornée 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.”

In this mood she rang the bell, and ordered her horses; not however till she had reason to believe the dog-cart on the way down the avenue.  As she came down in her habit, she was met by Frank, returning from his tutor.

“Have I made a mistake, Cecil!  I thought we were to go out together this afternoon!”

“Yes; but Raymond was wanted at Willansborough, and I am going to lunch at Sirenwood.  I want to borrow a book.”

“Oh, very well, I’ll come, if you don’t mind.  Sir Harry asked me to drop in and look at his dogs.”

This was irresistible; and Frank decided on riding the groom’s horse, and leaving him to conduct Anne to the rendezvous in the afternoon—for Charlie had been at Sandhurst for the last week—running in first to impart the change of scheme to her, as she was performing her daily task of reading to his mother.

He did so thus: “I say, Anne, Cecil wants to go to Sirenwood first to get a book, so Lee will bring you to meet us at the Beeches at 2.30.”

“Are you going to luncheon at Sirenwood?” asked Mrs. Poynsett.

“Yes; Cecil wants to go,” said the dutiful younger brother.

“I wish you would ask Cecil to come in.  Raymond put himself into such a state of mind at finding me reading Madame de Sévigné, that I am afraid he carried off her books summarily, though I told him I was glad of a little space for my old favourites.”

Cecil was, however, mounted by the time Frank came out, and they cantered away together, reaching the portico of Sirenwood in about twenty minutes.

Cecil had never been in the house before, having only left her card, though she had often met the sisters.  She found herself in a carpeted hall, like a supplementary sitting-room, where two gentlemen had been leaning over the wide hearth.  One, a handsome benignant-looking old man, with a ruddy face and abundant white whiskers, came forward with a hearty greeting.  “Ah! young Mrs. Poynsett!  Delighted to see you!—Frank Charnock, you’re come in good time; we are just going down to see the puppies before luncheon.  Only I’ll take Mrs. Poynsett to the ladies first.  Duncombe, you don’t know Mrs. Raymond Poynsett—one must not say senior bride, but the senior’s bride.  Is that right?”

“No papa,” said a bright voice from the stairs, “you haven’t it at all right; Mrs. Charnock Poynsett, if you please—isn’t it?”

“I believe so,” replied Cecil.  “Charnock always seems my right name.”

“And you have all the right to retain it that Mrs. Poynsett had to keep hers,” said Lady Tyrrell, as they went up-stairs to her bedroom.  “How is she?”

“As usual, thank you; always on the sofa.”

“But managing everything from it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Never was there such a set of devoted sons, models for the neighbourhood.”

Cecil felt a sense of something chiming in with her sources of vexation, but she only answered, “They are passionately fond of her.”

“Talk of despotism!  Commend me to an invalid!  Ah! how delightfully you contrive to keep your hair in order!  I am always scolding Lenore for coming in dishevelled, and you look so fresh and compact!  Here is my sanctum.  You’ll find Mrs. Duncombe there.  She drove over in the drag with her husband on their way to Backsworth.  I am so glad you came, there is so much to talk over.”

“If our gentlemen will give us time,” said Mrs. Duncombe; “but I am afraid your senator will not be as much absorbed in the dogs as my captain.”

“I did not come with my husband,” said Cecil; “he is gone to Willansborough to meet the architect.”

“Ah, about the new buildings.  I do hope and trust the opportunity will not be wasted, and that the drainage will be provided for.”

“You are longing to have a voice there,” said Lady Tyrrell, laughing.

“I am.  It is pre-eminently a woman’s question, and this is a great opportunity.  I shall talk to every one.  Little Pettitt, the hair-dresser, has some ground there, and he is the most intelligent of the tradesmen.  I gave him one of those excellent little hand-bills, put forth by the Social Science Committee, on sanitary arrangements.  I thought of asking you to join us in ordering some down, and never letting a woman leave our work-room without one.”

“You couldn’t do better, I am sure,” said Lady Tyrrell; “only, what’s the use of preaching to the poor creatures to live in good houses, when their landlords won’t build them, and they must live somewhere?”

“Make them coerce the landlords,” said Mrs. Duncombe; “that’s the only way.  Upheave the masses from beneath.”

“But that’s an earthquake,” said Cecil.

“Earthquakes are sometimes wholesome.”

“But the process is not so agreeable that we had not rather avert it,” said Lady Tyrrell.

“All ours at Dunstone are model cottages,” said Cecil; “it is my father’s great hobby.”

“Squires’ hobbies are generally like the silver trough the lady gave her sow,” said Mrs. Duncombe; “they come before the poor are prepared, and with a spice of the autocrat.”

“Come, I won’t have you shock Mrs. Charnock Poynsett,” said Lady Tyrrell.  “You illogical woman!  The poor are to demand better houses, and the squires are not to build them!”

“The poor are to be fitly housed, as a matter of right, and from their own sense of self-respect,” returned Mrs. Duncombe; “not a few favourites, who will endure dictation, picked out for the model cottage.  It is the hobby system against which I protest.”

“Without quite knowing what was conveyed by it in this instance?” said Lady Tyrrell.  “I am sure there is nothing I wish more than that we had any power of improvement of the cottages here; but influence is our only weapon.”

“By the bye, Mrs. Poynsett,” continued Mrs. Duncombe, “will you give a hint to Mrs. Miles Charnock that it will never do to preach to the women at the working-room?  I don’t mean holding forth,” she added, seeing Cecil’s look of amazement; “but improving the occasion, talking piously, giving tracts, and so forth.”

“I thought you gave sanitary tracts!” said Lady Tyrrell.

“That is quite different.”

“I doubt whether the women would see the distinction.  A little book is a tract to them.”

“I would abstain rather than let our work get a goody reputation for indoctrinating sectarianism.  It would be all up with us; we might as well keep a charity school.”

“I don’t think the women dislike it,” said Cecil.

“Most likely they think it the correct thing, the grain which they must swallow with our benefits; but for that very reason it injures the whole tone, and prevents them learning independence.  Put it in that light; I know you can.”

“I don’t think Anne would understand,” said Cecil, somewhat flattered.

“I doubt whether there are three women in the neighbourhood who would,” said Lady Tyrrell.

“People always think charity—how I hate the word!—a means of forcing their own tenets down the throats of the poor,” said Mrs. Duncombe.  “And certainly this neighbourhood is as narrow as any I ever saw.  Nobody but you and—shall I say the present company?—has any ideas.  I wonder how they will receive Clio Tallboys and her husband?”

“Ah! you have not heard about them,” said Lady Tyrrell.  “Most delightful people, whom Mrs. Duncombe met on the Righi.  He is a Cambridge professor.”

“Taillebois—I don’t remember the name,” said Cecil, “and we know a great many Cambridge men.  We went to a Commencement there.”

“Oh, not Cambridge on the Cam! the American Cambridge,” said Mrs. Duncombe.  “He is a quiet, inoffensive man, great on political economy; but his wife is the character.  Wonderfully brilliant and original, and such a lecturer!”

“Ladies’ lectures would startle the natives,” said Lady Tyrrell.

“Besides, the town-hall is lacking,” said Mrs. Duncombe; “but when the Tallboys come we might arrange a succession of soirées, where she might gather her audience.”

“But where?” said Lady Tyrrell.  “It would be great fun, and you might reckon on me; but where else?  Mrs. Charnock Poynsett has to think of la belle mère.”

“She has given up the management of all matters of society to me,” said Cecil with dignity; “you may reckon on me.”

“No hope of the Bowaters, of course,” said Mrs. Duncombe.

“Miss Bowater is coming to stay with us,” volunteered Cecil.

“To be near that unlucky Life Guardsman manqué,” said Mrs. Duncombe.

“Come, I’ll not have honest Herbert abused,” said the other lady.  “He is the only one of the Bowaters who has any go in him.”

“More’s the pity, if he can’t use it.  Is his sister coming to help the Reverend Julius to drill him?”

“On Mrs. Poynsett’s account too, I fancy,” said Lady Tyrrell; “Jenny Bowater is her amateur companion.  Indeed, I believe it was no slight disappointment that her sons’ appreciation did not quite reach the pitch of the mother’s.”

“Indeed!” asked Mrs. Duncombe; “I thought there had been a foolish affair with poor young Douglas.”

“Celà n’empêche pas.  By the bye, have you finished Fleurange?”

“Oh, you are quite welcome to it.  It is quite as goody as an English tale in one volume.”

This opened the way to Cecil’s desire to borrow Lanfrey, not concealing the reason why; and she was gratified by the full sympathy of both ladies, who invited her in self-defence to join in their subscription to Rolandi, to which she eagerly agreed, and would have paid her subscription at once if there had not been a term to be finished off first.

The gong summoned them to luncheon, and likewise brought down Miss Vivian, who shook hands rather stiffly, and wore a cold, grave manner that did not sit badly on her handsome classical features.  The countenance was very fine, but of the style to which early youth is less favourable than a more mature development; and she was less universally admired than was her sister.  Her dress was a dark maroon merino, hanging in simple, long, straight folds, and there was as little distortion in her coiffure as the most moderate compliance with fashion permitted; and this, with a high-bred, distinguished deportment, gave an air almost of stern severity.  This deepened rather than relaxed at the greeting from Frank—who, poor fellow! had an uncontrollably wistful eager look in his face, a sort of shy entreaty, and was under an incapacity of keeping up a conversation with anybody else, while trying to catch the least word of hers.

She, however, seemed to have more eyes and ears for her father than for any one else, and he evidently viewed her as the darling and treasure of his life.  His first question, after performing the duties of a host, was, “Well, my little Lenore, what have you been doing?”

“The old story, papa,” raising her clear, sweet voice to reach his rather deaf ears.

“Got on with your drawing?—The child is competing with a club, you must know.”

“Not exactly, papa: it is only a little society that was set on foot at Rockpier to help us to improve ourselves.”

“What is your subject this month?” Frank asked.

“A branch of blackberries,” she answered briefly.

“Ah!” said Lady Tyrrell, “I saw your pupil bringing in a delicious festoon—all black and red fruit and crimson and purple leaves.  He is really a boy of taste; I think he will do you credit.”

“The new Joshua Reynolds,” said Frank, glad of an excuse to turn towards Eleonora.  “Rosamond mentioned her discovery.”

“You might have seen him just now figuring as Buttons,” said Lady Tyrrell.  “Degradation of art, is it not?  But it was the only way to save it.  Lenore is teaching him; and if his talent prove worth it we may do something with him.  Any way, the produce of native genius will be grand material for the bazaar.”

“Card-board prettinesses!” said Mrs. Duncombe; “you spoil him with them; but that you’ll do any way—make him fit for nothing but a flunkey.”

“Unappreciated zeal!” said Lady Tyrrell, glancing at her sister, who flushed a little, and looked the more grave.

“Eh, Lenore,” said her father, “wasn’t it to please you that Camilla made me take your pet to make havoc of my glasses?”

“You meant it so, dear papa,” said Eleonora, calling up a smile that satisfied the old gentleman.  “It was very kind in you.”

Fresh subjects were started, and on all the talk was lively and pleasant, and fascinated Cecil, not from any reminiscence of Dunstone—for indeed nothing could be more unlike the tone that prevailed there: but because it was so different from that of Compton Poynsett, drifting on so unrestrainedly, and touching so lightly on all topics.

By the close of the meal, rain had set in, evidently for the afternoon.  Frank offered to ride home, and send the carriage for Cecil; but the Duncombes proposed to take her and drop her at home; and to this she consented, rather to Frank’s dismay, as he thought of their coach appearing at his mother’s door.

Lady Tyrrell took her up to resume her hat; and on the way, moved by distaste to her double surname, and drawn on by a fresh access of intimacy, she begged to be called Cecil—a privilege of which she had been chary even in her maiden days; but the caressing manner had won her heart, and spirit of opposition to the discouragement at home did the rest.

The request was reciprocated with that pensive look which was so touching.  “I used to be Camilla to all the neighbourhood, and here I find myself—miles’—no, leagues further off—banished to Siberia.”

“How unjust and unkind!” cried Cecil.

“My dear, you have yet to learn the gentle uncharitableness of prejudice.  It is the prevailing notion that my married life was a career of dissipation.  Ah! if they only knew!”

“The drag is round,” said Mrs. Duncombe’s voice at the door, in all its decisive abruptness, making both start.

“Just ready,” called Lady Tyrrell; adding, in a lower tone, “Ah! she is startling, but she is genuine!  And one must take new friends when the old are chilly.  She is the only one—”

Cecil’s kiss was more hearty than any she had given at Compton, and she descended; but just as she came to the door, and was only delaying while Frank and Captain Duncombe were discussing the merits of the four horses, the Compton carriage appeared in the approach, and Raymond’s head within.  Lady Tyrrell looked at Cecil, and saw it was safe to make a little gesture with the white skin of her fair brow, expressing unutterable things.

Mrs. Duncombe lost no time in asking if any steps were being taken for improving the drainage; to which Raymond replied, “No, that was not the business in hand.  This was the architecture of the town-hall.”

“Splendour of municipality above, and fever festering below,” said Mrs. Duncombe.

“Wilsborough is not unhealthy,” said Raymond.

She laughed ironically.

“The corporation have been told that they have an opportunity,” said Raymond; “but it takes long to prepare people’s minds to believe in the expedience of such measures.  If Whitlock could be elected mayor there would be some chance, but I am afraid they are sure to take Truelove; and as things are at Wilsborough, we must move all at once or not at all.  Individual attempts would do more harm than good.”

“Ah! you fear for your seat!” said the plain-spoken lady.

Raymond only chose to answer by a laugh, and would not pursue the subject so treated.  He was politeness itself to all; but he withstood Lady Tyrrell’s earnest entreaties to come in and see some Florentine photographs, growing stiffer and graver each moment, while his wife waxed more wrathful at the treatment which she knew was wounding her friend, and began almost to glory in having incurred his displeasure herself.  Indeed, this feeling caused the exchange of another kiss between the ladies before Sir Harry handed Cecil into the carriage, and Raymond took the yellow paper books that were held out to her.

Looking at the title as they drove off, he said quietly, “I did not mean to deprive you, Cecil; I had ordered Lanfrey from Bennet for you.”

She was somewhat abashed, but was excited enough to answer, “Thank you.  I am going to join Lady Tyrrell and Mrs. Duncombe in a subscription to Rolandi’s.”

He started, and after a pause of a few moments said gently, “Are you sure that Mr. and Mrs. Charnock would like to trust your choice of foreign books to Mrs. Duncombe?”

Taking no notice of the point of this question, she replied, “If it is an object to exchange books at home faster than I can read them properly, I must look for a supply elsewhere.”

“You had better subscribe alone,” he replied, still without manifest provocation.

“That would be uncivil now.”

“I take that upon myself.”

Wherewith there came a silence; while Cecil swelled as she thought of the prejudice against her friend, and Raymond revolved all he had ever heard about creatures he knew so little as women, to enable him to guess how to deal with this one.  How reprove so as not to make it worse?  Ought not his silent displeasure to suffice?  And in such musings the carriage reached home.

It had been an untoward day.  He had been striving hard against the stream at Willansborough.  The drainage was not only scouted as an absurd, unreasonable, and expensive fancy, but the architect whom he had recommended, in the hope that he would insist on ground-work which might bring on the improvement, had been rejected in favour of a kinsman of Mr. Briggs, the out-going mayor, a youth of the lower walk of the profession—not the scholar and gentleman he had desired, for the tradesman intellect fancied such a person would be expensive and unmanageable.

Twin plans for church and town-hall had been produced, which to Raymond’s taste savoured of the gimcrack style, but which infinitely delighted all the corporation; and where he was the only cultivated gentleman, except the timid Vicar, his reasonings were all in vain.  The plan was accepted for the town-hall, and the specifications were ordered to be made out for competition, and a rate decided on.  The church was to wait for subscription and bazaar; the drains, for reason in Wil’sbro’, or for the hope of the mayoralty of Mr. Whitlock, a very intelligent and superior linendraper.