How delightedly did the eye of Christobelle rest upon the matronly form
of Isabel! She was clasped in her arms, as she descended the steps of
the chaise at Brierly.
"Well, I never saw such a beautiful creature in my life! My dear
Christobelle, who would have thought you would turn out so very pretty?
My dear Mr. Boscawen, were you not surprised at Christobelle's beauty,
when you first saw her?"
"I was not so overcome at your sister's handsome face, as I am
astonished at Isabel's neglect of her long-absent husband," replied Mr.
Boscawen, smiling. Isabel flew towards him.
"I can't think how I came to be so wicked; but, indeed, it was the
sight of my sister's face. My dear Boscawen, I have so longed for your
return, and so have the children! I was obliged to tell the dear things
papa was gone a long way off, for some cakes and their pretty aunt, or
they would not have been comforted. I did not know what hour you would
arrive, therefore I was wise enough not to say a word to them about it."
"They shall be summoned after dinner, Isabel. We are hungry travellers
now, and a meal will be most gratefully welcomed."
"My love, ring the bell, and order it in now, if you please, while I
escort my sister to her room. Follow me, dear Christobelle. Well, I
declare I never saw such a change in a human being! You are tall and
handsome, and have such beautiful ringlets! I shall certainly have
ringlets too. I can't fancy you are the little, jumping Chrystal, who
was dressed out so fine at my wedding, five or six years ago. Well--and
don't you think _I_ am changed?"
Isabel was changed. Her sylph-like figure had swelled into a stout
form: her waist had increased materially in breadth, and her dress was
rather disordered.
"The children are so playful, Chrystal, that my collars have always
a ragged appearance; and corsets of any kind are so very painful,
because I am getting large, that I never wear them. Boscawen, though,
does not mind my appearance: he is not particular. He allows me to do
just what I like, and I am so happy! Ah! do you remember my geography
days, Chrystal? How I detested that dreadful map of the world! I am
determined my little Bell shall be happy and ignorant, as I was before
her. She is called Bell after you, dear--not your long name, but simply
Bell. I hope she will be as pretty as you; but what does it signify?
Who can be happier than I am, with my broad waist and rumpled collars?"
The moment the servants had withdrawn, after dessert was placed upon
the table, Isabel continued her happy prattle.
"I have so much to tell you, of one kind or the other, dear Bell, that
I don't know where to begin. What shall I tell first, my dear Boscawen?
Oh! Bell, such things are whispered of Julia!--I don't believe a word
of them--not one word. However, you will find Anna Maria more French
than ever, for the Count de Nolis has been staying every Christmas at
Hatton, and Félicé does lay on the rouge terribly. It's quite amusing
to hear Tom Pynsent boast of his wife's bloom, when it's rouge all the
time. I think I wrote you word, that odd Mrs. Hancock had a paralytic
stroke some time ago?"
"No, indeed, Isabel, I never heard of it."
"Didn't you? Oh! it's the case, I assure you--her mouth is all on one
side. Poor Miss Tabitha is not dead yet, Bell: I don't think she means
to die at all; and Mrs. Ward writes word, she finds fault with every
thing, poor soul, that is said or done. Shall I ring for the darlings,
my dear Boscawen? I am sure Chrystal is dying to see her little boy,
whom she nursed so carefully. Ring the bell twice, my love, and the
little wild things will soon rush in."
"Do not give Tom wine, Isabel; I have a dislike to children taking wine
so early in life."
"No, my dear Boscawen, certainly not. I think, with you, that wine is
very improper for children--but little Tom has such a winning way of
coaxing his poor mother!"
The children soon burst into the room, and ran bounding round the
table. Isabel was all triumphant pleasure. "Now, Charles--my dear
Charles, go quietly to papa, and ask him how he does, and whether the
cakes are come from merry Scotland. Ah, ha, Charley goes for his cakes.
Tom, my beauty, come to mamma; and Bell, go to your aunt--your new
aunt, and admire her pretty hair."
Christobelle endeavoured to attract her little fat niece to her side,
but she hid her face in Isabel's lap.
"Oh, Bell, I'm ashamed of you!--your pretty aunt, too--oh, fie! My dear
Tommy, don't touch mamma's glass. No, no wine, Tommy--papa says no. A
few strawberries, my dear little boy, and a biscuit, but no wine."
Tommy, however, advanced his mother's wineglass to his lips, watching
her countenance with a cunning glance.
"Now, my little, good Tommy, mamma will be angry, very angry, if you do
what she tells you not to do. Bell, my love, go to your aunt, like a
good girl."
Isabel took some pains to persuade her little girl to raise her head,
but her appeals were useless. In the mean time, Tommy had silently
quaffed the remainder of the contents of her glass. Mr. Boscawen rose,
and took him from Isabel's knee.
"My dear Boscawen, what are you going to do with Tommy? he is very good
with me, my love."
"I am going to banish him, Isabel, for disobedience."
"Oh, my dear Boscawen, it was the least little drop of wine in the
world! it was scarcely a teaspoonful--pray don't punish Tommy for that
little drop, my love."
"The disobedience was the same in the action, Isabel. I shall send him
into the nursery. I shall take him there myself."
Isabel's eyes suffused, as Mr. Boscawen left the dining-room with the
crying recreant Tommy. She turned to her sister.
"Oh! Chrystal, was it not severe to carry away that dear child, for one
drop of wine only?"
"Boscawen was quite right, my dear Isabel."
"Do you really think so? Do you really think he was right to banish the
darling child, when it was such a pretty, coaxing trick? Did you see
his little, cunning, dear eyes?"
"Boscawen justly thinks, Isabel, that cunning habits and disobedience
will increase, if it is not checked."
"Oh! I hope it won't increase--dear child--I should be sorry to see him
grow sly." Mr. Boscawen returned. "My love, did Tommy cry? Was he very
much hurt--poor dear? Did you leave him crying?"
"My dear Isabel, you have brought this upon him, by not checking
disobedience in the first instance. You have allowed the child twice to
steal your wine."
"My dear Boscawen--steal! indeed, that sounds dreadful! I hope my
children will never steal! It was indeed my fault! Poor, dear
child!--I dare say he is crying dreadfully now. Let me beg for my
child, Boscawen."
"Let him remain where he is, Isabel: he has been very naughty."
"But I have taught him to steal, and I ought to suffer for him, dear
Boscawen. Let me go to my child, my love!" The tears stood in Isabel's
eyes, and Boscawen was still under their influence. He soothed his lady
as fondly as when in earlier days she wept for the drooping ostrich
feather.
"My dear Isabel, when we retire into the drawing-room, your child shall
come down again. Don't weep, my love. I cannot wonder at your fondness,
but he was very naughty. Wait a few moments, Isabel, and the child
shall join us in the drawing-room. Don't let me see you weep--stay, I
will bring him down to you."
Isabel smiled, and little Tommy was restored to her arms, as he entered
the drawing-room. Mr. Boscawen felt he had acted unwisely by his child;
but how could he resist Isabel in tears? Things were totally changed at
Brierly. A tear from the bright blue eye of Isabel melted Boscawen's
best resolves, and operated against the excellence of his own system
of education. Isabel held the reins of government in her hands. She
never argued with her husband--she never offered a word of opposition
to his wishes--but she ruled by submission, and won his acquiescence
by her tears and gentle self-upbraidings. Fortunately, her children
possessed her own sweet disposition, which defied indulgence, or they
might have suffered through Isabel's inability to check their budding
faults. As it was, they loved her too well to persist in offending a
parent so devoted; and it must have proved a very serious offence, ere
the light-hearted Isabel could lament conduct which was ever palliated
by her affectionate heart. She was indeed the happiest of wives and
mothers.
Mr. Boscawen and Christobelle resumed their occupations instinctively,
as if years had not intervened since they last walked and read together
at Brierly. Isabel was delighted.
"Ah, there you go again!--read, read, talk, talk, all day long. I
like to hear you argue, when I have time to devote to you both; but
the children require so much attention, and the dear little things
love to be with me so often, that dear Boscawen has been a great deal
alone, haven't you, Boscawen? It is such a pleasure to have you here,
Chrystal--my poor, dear husband won't have to endure my ignorance."
"Who says my Isabel is ignorant?" said Mr. Boscawen, patting his lady's
shoulder affectionately.
"Yes, dear Boscawen, I am very ignorant, and very unfit for you; but
I do very well to play with the darlings, and superintend every thing
but their education--_that_ you will do, except for poor little Bell:
let her be happy and ignorant, Boscawen. If she is half as happy as her
mother, she will not require knowledge--only her husband and children.
I never wish for any thing beyond you and them." Isabel cast an upward
and affectionate look at Boscawen, who bent his long figure to kiss his
laughing wife.
Mr. Boscawen told Christobelle he had engaged to take her for a day
or two to Hatton. The Pynsents were very anxious to see her, and
Mrs. Pynsent had made it a point with him to bring the "tall, gawky,
good-looking girl" to her, as soon as she had rested a few days at
Brierly. The Charles Spottiswoodes, also, were wishing to see her
again, to contemplate the improvement which five years must have
effected in her appearance. The name of Spottiswoode brought blushes
into the face of Christobelle.
"My dear Bell," exclaimed Isabel, with laughing delight, "how droll
it is to think you have a lover; when I saw you last, you were such
a bit of a girl! Sir John Spottiswoode is just the man I would have
chosen for you--just the very person I should have singled out--is he
not, Boscawen?--just the sort of man, with curling dark hair and high
forehead, that you ought to like, dear Chrystal!"
"_I_ had not dark curling hair, Isabel?" said Boscawen, smiling--"I had
not a high forehead, had I?"
"My dear Boscawen, your hair was always dreadfully wiry, and I thought
you very plain, but I liked you for all that, you know."
"Then why _ought_ Chrystal to choose and love such things, my Isabel?"
"Ah! I dare say I am talking nonsense again," cried the humble Isabel,
"for I should really recommend no one who does not resemble you, dear
Boscawen. I should advise every woman to wait till they could find a
kind, dear man, like yourself, and then they would not care about wiry
hair, or...." Isabel hesitated and coloured.
"Say on, Isabel." Mr. Boscawen looked amused.
"I was going to say, they would not mind great long legs. Don't be
angry, my love, with me."
Mr. Boscawen laughed. "You see, Isabel, the triumph of good sense over
mere personal advantages. You cannot be ignorant, since you chose me
in spite of my deficiencies. I hope all your young acquaintance may
exhibit your indifference to mere good looks. Miss Wetheral, when shall
we visit Hatton? Isabel, will you join the party?"
"I wish I could drive over with you, my love; but Charly is cutting
a double-tooth, and I think little Bell is not quite well. I think I
cannot leave my little ones two days, Boscawen!"
"Then Chrystal and myself will depart to-morrow for Hatton," said
Boscawen, smiling, with gratified feelings, at his wife's love of her
home and her little ones.
"Yes, Bell will amuse you, dear Boscawen, and you will not miss _me_.
You can talk away upon history and the arts and sciences, and enjoy
the novelty of a clever companion, for once. I am only fit to nurse my
children."
"You are only fit to be a very excellent creature, and to be my dear
little roundabout wife," exclaimed Boscawen; and Isabel looked so
happy! It was delightful to witness the joyous expression which
revelled in her looks, whenever she spoke with her husband and
children. It was such a contrast to the Isabel whom Christobelle
remembered, low-spirited, in her dressing-room at Wetheral, pining
over "Burnet's Reformation!" It was such a contrast to the Isabel who
watched in alarm the fond, but searching, glance of her excellent,
elderly husband!--Christobelle told her so, when they were alone. She
laughed.
"I remember, Bell, how frightened I used to be, and there was no cause
for it! Boscawen was always kind, only I was so unwilling to receive
improvement, and then I fancied his anxiety was annoying. When Miss
Tabitha left Brierly, every thing was comfortable to me; for then, you
know, there was no one to point out my faults. But, Chrystal, tell me
now all about John Spottiswoode. Boscawen told me not to be curious,
but I am _very_ curious. I want to know how it all began, and why mamma
is so foolish about Lord Farnborough."
Christobelle recapitulated her story to Isabel, who wondered, and
was pleased, and wept, by turns, as her sister recounted all her
sufferings. She clasped her arms round Christobelle.
"Never mind, Chrystal, never mind; and every thing will end as
it should do. Every body knows mamma's matches have turned out
shockingly; and John Spottiswoode is so loved by all his relations, so
good to his mother and sister, that you are fortunate in attracting
him; but you are so very handsome, dear Chrystal, you would attract
every one, high and low. People are now scandalizing poor Julia, and
pointing at her and Colonel Neville; but I will never believe that
Julia would do wrong, though I dare say she is very unhappy, poor dear
girl."
"What does Boscawen think, Isabel?"
"Oh, Boscawen never thought _that_ match would answer. He did not like
the Dowager's manners and character; and he said to me, at Julia's
wedding, that if my sister fell from her high estate, the two mothers
would answer for it hereafter. He said, too, that Julia was the victim
of two machinating Machiavels. Of course, he meant mamma and the
Dowager. Lord Selgrave was always disliked as a cruel, disagreeable
boy, I hear; so he would have made you a sad husband, in spite of being
Earl of Farnborough, and a trumpery Duke in expectancy."
Isabel's remarks only corroborated the observations of Spottiswoode,
and Christobelle believed herself indeed saved from ruin, though she
paid a severe penalty for her escape, in the angry prohibition of
her mother's disappointed views. Her present pain, she felt assured,
was far more bearable than the misery of an unhappy matrimony; and
she was grateful beyond expression to know that she was given to a
man, so loved and so well appreciated as Spottiswoode was, among her
nearest friends. Their approbation must be balm to her heart; and,
when her mother heard how all lips concurred to praise him, would she
continue her ungenerous dislike to her presence? Would she persist in
holding back her consent, and still pertinaciously revenge upon her
head her dismissal of a man so little respected as Lord Farnborough?
Christobelle hoped not in fear and trembling; she _would_ hope. As her
dear father observed, she had a right to hope that her prayers would be
heard and answered, if she persevered in the path of principle.
Christobelle's spirits were considerably improved, by viewing the happy
lot of Isabel, in the enjoyment of those tranquil domestic scenes which
were so adapted to her taste and nature. In Mr. Boscawen, she met the
highly-informed mind which imparted knowledge with a flow so gentle,
that it did not startle or confound the listening neophite. His was a
mind which fertilized as it stole along, improving all, and delighting
every ear, but the ear of Isabel. To her the stream of his intellect
flowed by, without a wish to understand, or kindle under its influence,
one spark of sympathetic fire. Yet she gloried in her husband, and
their life was peaceful and happy.
It is temper which creates the bliss of home, or disturbs its comfort.
It is not in the collision of intellect, that domestic peace loves
to nestle. Her home is in the forbearing nature--in the yielding
spirit--in the calm pleasures of a mild disposition, anxious to give
and receive happiness. In the sweet humility of Isabel, and in the
indulgent forbearance of Boscawen, peace dwelt undisturbed by rival
animosity; and she did not suffer those alarms which chase her timid
presence from the hearth of the contentious, and from the bosom of the
envious. Such was the blessed comfort and true charm of Brierly.
Isabel was all bustle and kindness, as her husband and sister
prepared to depart for Hatton. "Had dear Boscawen forgotten his
shaving-apparatus?--his tooth-brush? Was he sure he had his eye-glass?
She hoped they would return very soon; but, at any rate, till they made
their appearance again, she should live in the nursery. Dear Boscawen
was to be sure and remember every thing that was said of Chrystal, for
she was sure every one would admire her pretty face; and Chrystal was
particularly to be amused with Tom Pynsent's remarks upon Anna Maria's
borrowed bloom. Where was Charly and Bell? They had begged to ride as
far as the Lodges, and she would put on her hat and meet them."
Isabel ran off to the nursery, and returned with her three children.
Tommy was a soldier, and a drum was appended to his neck. Charly had
a new fiddle in his hand, and little Bell was sorted with a trumpet,
that she might approach as nearly as possible to her brother's style of
amusements. Isabel placed them in the carriage. "Now, Charly and Tommy,
don't make a great noise; and don't snatch your sister's trumpet from
her, my loves. Papa will put you out at the Lodge, and mamma will be
ready to take you. Charly, don't squeeze your aunt's pretty dress; and,
Bell, my love, don't push back your bonnet--I don't like to see little
girls push back their bonnet. Chrystal, give my love to every body, and
say I could not leave the little ones; I should have done nothing but
think of them. My dear Boscawen, come back very soon; and, Chrystal,
don't stay long."
"Any thing more, Isabel?" demanded Boscawen. "Any thing about curled
heads and high foreheads?"
"Ah, you are laughing at me, now, wicked man! I believe I talk a
great deal of nonsense, but little Bell will not have her mother's
infirmities, I hope."
"I hope she will possess all of them," replied Boscawen, "and only
inherit half her mother's sweet temper. She will then have enough to
raise my pride."
Isabel laughed gaily, and blushed at her husband's energetic speech;
but she kissed her hand, with such a happy expression of countenance,
as they drove from the door! How pleasing was the sight, and how it
tended to raise the spirits of Christobelle!
The children did not make more noise than usual, as they drove to the
Lodge; and little Bell only lost her trumpet and her temper once,
during the transit. They were then deposited with the Lodge-keeper
till their mamma should join them, and Mr. Boscawen proceeded on his
journey. They stopped to change horses at Bridgnorth, and, as they
remained some minutes at the Crown, Christobelle remembered the
appearance of Thompson, at her first visit there, and the cause of
her sudden recal home. It was after the luckless elopement of Clara,
that she was hurried to Wetheral, to be the companion of her mother,
under circumstances most annoying to herself, connected with the very
marriage she had promoted so anxiously. Christobelle was now herself
the object of her anger, for declining to enter into an engagement,
hateful to her heart and principles! How and when would her mother's
soul be divested of its ambitious worldly anxieties?
Christobelle's reception at Hatton was gratifying to her feelings in
the highest degree. She was surrounded by affectionate greetings and
congratulations. Mrs. Pynsent wrung her hand with kind violence.
"Hollo, Miss Bell, so we have got you back again, and I won't ask where
Sir Jacky is, because and because. Got your blushes still, Miss Bell!
So much the better--and I'll be bound you have brought back your good
heart. No, not your heart, but your good temper. Here, Bobby, come and
look at our new beauty. I tell you what, Miss Bell, you are a finer
girl than any of your sisters; not even that unfortunate, poor Lady
Kerrison came up to you in good looks."
"Come, come, I'll match my little wife with the best of you," exclaimed
Tom, more good-humoured, more red-faced than ever. "I'll match my
little wife's bloom even against the handsome 'Bell.' Bell's fine
colour comes and fades away again in an instant; but Anna Maria's
cherry cheeks are everlasting. Look at them!" Tom Pynsent dragged his
laughing wife before Christobelle.
"Ay, ay," replied Mrs. Pynsent, winking her eye, "we know Anna Maria's
bloom is the right sort--renewable at pleasure. Look at Bobby, screwing
up his eyes.--What's the matter, Bobby?"
Mr. Pynsent never did, and never could appear to advantage, under the
ridicule which his lady's address always threw around him; but he
did not observe the _de haut en bas_ manner, or else long custom had
taken away all feeling upon the extraordinary nature of her remarks.
Probably he had long felt assured the evil was irremediable. His own
manner was very courteous, but Mr. Pynsent was not a man of many words.
He surrendered all speech quietly into the hands of his lady, and
contented himself with silently listening to the remarks of others,
without adventuring his own. Mr. Pynsent took no notice of her question.
"What's the matter, Bobby?" repeated Mrs. Pynsent. "Can't you admire
Miss Bell, without screwing up your poor old pair of greys? It's a fair
face to look upon, isn't it, after gazing upon poor Sal. Miss Bell,
poor Sally Hancock is in a precious pickle."
"I heard of it from Isabel."
"You never saw such a poor thing!--all over with Sal, Miss Bell; but
the poor creature is so cast down! She has a room here now, to be
amused by the children, and watch their antics; and, luckily, you know,
she can't speak plain, to put bad words in their mouths. Poor Sally! I
could not let her remain at Lea, in that state; and I think she is very
comfortable here with the children and Bobby."
"Where are the children? Where is Tom, and where is Moll and Bab?"
asked Tom Pynsent. "Bell must see the children--Bell will want to see
the children--I thought I heard them screaming just now, somewhere."
"They were fighting over a brush just now in the second hall," replied
his mother, "and they nearly killed the baby. I expected the poor
little thing would have got a broken head in the scuffle, but he fought
like a fury, and sent his fist into Moll's eye."
"They do fight dreadfully," observed Anna Maria.
"Let them alone, I won't have them checked," cried their grandmother;
"when they have had thumps enough, they will be quiet. Moll is worse
than the baby; but their spirits are so high, I won't have them cowed."
"Bell," said Tom Pynsent, with a tone and look of honest pride, "you
have pretty scamps for your relations. Tom rides a Shetland after the
hounds, and Moll runs up a tree like a young squirrel. Bab and the baby
are improving, too, by their example. Tally ho! I hear them!" he ran
to the door, and opened it. "Tally ho, there! Tom and Moll, bring the
litter this way!"
The four children burst into the drawing-room like a pack of hounds,
and the baby, a stout child of a year old toddling in, he fell down,
and the others ran over him. Tom Pynsent caught up the sturdy boy.
"Don't give tongue, you young rascal, but fight 'em, Bill--here, double
your fists at them all."
The child mechanically closed his little fists, and his father placed
him before Miss Bab.
"Battle her well, Bill, rattle her."
The child, who had not yet cast his cap, dealt a blow at his sister,
which Miss Bab returned by knocking him down. The child did not attempt
to cry at the blow, but, rising from the floor, he again doubled his
infantine fists for the battle. Tom Pynsent was delighted.
"Well done, Bill, well done, my sharp lad! Come, that's enough at a
time! Live to fight another day, Bill!"
"Come to your granny, my sharpshooter," cried Mrs. Pynsent; "I have
something in my pocket for stout-hearted men!"
Billy toddled to his grandmother, who drew a box of sugarplums from
her capacious pocket, and rewarded his prowess by a shower of sweets.
Tom and Moll were likewise engaged in a controversy, which threatened
to end in an engagement. They were quarrelling over Christobelle's
parasol, Moll demanding it to walk with, and be a lady, like aunt Bell,
while Tom insisted upon shouldering it like a bayonet, as the Count de
Nolis had taught him. The dispute ran very high.
"Tom, dear, don't let the children fight," said Anna Maria, as she
examined the make and material of her sister's silk pelisse, "they have
been fighting all day."
"Aunt Bell, mayn't I have it?" screamed little Moll, as she struggled
with her brother for the possession of the parasol.
"I will have it first!" roared Tom, dragging the handle from her grasp.
Mr. Boscawen extricated the parasol from their hands, and kept
possession of it during their stay in the drawing-room, but no one else
attempted to release Christobelle's property from the struggle. Tom
Pynsent called their attention from their defeat.
"Now, Tom, catch papa if you can, and show your aunt whether your legs
are as stout as your lungs. Moll! Bab! Bill! now for it!"
The drawing-room became a scene of dreadful confusion. Tom Pynsent,
delighted to show off his children, and always the foremost to give
them pleasure, threaded the mazes of the tables and chairs, while the
little ones raced screaming and hallooing after him. Mr. Boscawen
sought a retreat from their deafening shouts by quitting the room,
and even Anna Maria half closed her eyes, as she assured her sister
they made really more noise that day than ever, in compliment, she
supposed, to her arrival. Mrs. Pynsent sat with the box of sugarplums
on her lap, enjoying the din of voices, and inciting them forward,
by clapping her hands and exclaiming:--"Hurrah, my lads and lasses,
catch him! Round the chair, Bill!--down you go--up again--well done,
my hearty! Halloo there, Moll! Bab, you be hanged!" Mr. Pynsent looked
overpowered, but he said nothing.
Such were the sports of Hatton. The commotion continued till both
parties, the chaser and the chased, became wearied with their
exertions, and then the children wished to go and ride their
rocking-horses. Mrs. Pynsent loaded them with sweetmeats and good
advice, as she dismissed each from her presence.
"I say, you young Tommy, don't suck your fingers, but look to that poor
morsel of a Bill, and don't run over him. If he falls, pick him up, and
wipe his nose, like a little gentleman. Here, my Moll in the wad, look
at your torn frock, and don't thump Bab upon the back so hard. Never
mind, Bab, here's six sugarplums for that thump, and you must give it
Moll well, to-morrow. What, Bill, old boy! you must have sugarplums,
too, must you? There then, and toddle after them, my sharpshooter. Go
all of you to old aunt Hancock."
When the children were gone, Christobelle had time to give her
attention to Anna Maria. The elegance of Miss Wetheral had in a
great degree lost its tone, but Mrs. Tom Pynsent was fashionably
French still in her dress and appearance. Rouging very highly gave an
unnatural brilliance to her eyes, and her figure had become enlarged,
though not in the same proportion with Isabel: Christobelle thought
her handsome and striking, but she was not the pale, still, and
interestingly elegant woman, who had volunteered her affections to the
stout, good-looking, red-faced Tom Pynsent. Many might have considered
Anna Maria improved by the change which had gradually taken place in
her appearance; but Christobelle had admired her so greatly in her
more youthful days, that her eye could not reconcile itself to her
present style. There was, she thought, something too garish in the
deeply-rouged cheek and glittering eye of her sister.
Her affection for her husband was quite unchanged: she still spoke of
him with powerful affection, and dilated upon his unvaried kindness and
good temper with vivacity. During Christobelle's long absence, Tom
had never changed towards her in indulgence and interest. Mrs. Pynsent
was all that could be desired in a mother-in-law, for her warm heart
never fancied she could do enough for those she loved; and poor Mr.
Pynsent was in nobody's way. Anna Maria doted upon her children, and
she confessed herself to be "the happiest woman in the world, when the
children did not fight, but they certainly did fight furiously, and Tom
and his mother encouraged it."
Christobelle asked after the health of Félicé.
"Oh, Félicé is very well, but she cannot comprehend a word of English,
stupid girl, and I am losing my French. Every body borrows Félicé, and
she travels all round the county before any public meeting takes place.
Félicé is always borrowed by Pen Spottiswoode before the races, and,
when she appears, you would declare her clothes were cut out by the
Lidham cook, instead of Félicé. Pen never dressed well, you know, Bell."
"Miss Bell," cried Mrs. Pynsent, from a distant corner of the
drawing-room, "have you heard any tidings from Bedinfield? because
there is a rod in pickle for somebody in that quarter. Your poor sister
has made a sorry concern of that grand match, which was to her so
desirable. Not much better a business than Lady Kerrison's! Report is
saying the deuce and all of poor Miss Julia and that colonel. That
dowager never was liked by any one, for her acquaintance was always a
blight upon the poor soul who made it."
Christobelle asked if her sister had been in Shropshire, since their
removal into Scotland.
"No, my dear; Lady Ennismore has never suffered her son to bring your
sister into Shropshire, since her return to England. She has her own
reasons for it. I know what I could call her, only I have promised
Sally Hancock never to use large words, now her own mouth is stopped,
poor thing! If your sister elopes with that moustache fellow, it will
be the fault of those who married her to such a poor creature as my
lord."
"Have you heard any thing in _particular_ about Julia, my dear Anna
Maria?" asked Christobelle, in a low voice.
"Reports only," was her reply, "but they begin to assume a form. There
are very strange reports about Colonel Neville, but we do not hear from
Julia; she has never written to me since I went to the altar with her,
and I was tired with writing unanswered letters. Papa told us when he
returned with you from Bedinfield, that it was vain to hope she would
ever be withdrawn from the dowager; and if she did discover treachery,
it would only make her wretched, without a hope of escape. Lord
Ennismore is devoted to his mother, and Julia would suffer, he thought,
by any complaints on her side. We hear Lord Ennismore is in a poor way,
but we know nothing: Julia might as well be in another hemisphere,
since we neither meet nor correspond. How miserably Clara and Julia
have been in their choice, Bell! I cannot be too thankful I won my dear
Tom at last."
"I say, Miss Bell," cried Mrs. Pynsent from her corner, where she sat
knitting, "I say, Miss Bell, when does Sir Jacky return to us?" Anna
Maria smiled at her sister's confusion. Christobelle hesitated for a
moment to reply.
"Miss Bell, Sir Jacky is a great favourite of mine, and I want to hear
a little about him. Come here, Miss Bell, come nearer to me, I want to
ask a question."
Christobelle approached Mrs. Pynsent, amused at the idea of her
intended jokes, which could not offend, since only Anna Maria was
now present. The two gentlemen had sought for Mr. Boscawen when the
children dispersed. She, therefore, seated herself near her.
"What have you to say to me, Mrs. Pynsent, that is not kind and
pleasant at all times?"
"I have this to say," she replied, with a seriousness foreign to her
usual manner, "I have to say, that, much as I liked you as a girl, I
love you far better than ever, _now_, because you had the sense to
refuse a young coroneted rascal some time ago, and choose a man who
will be a jewel to you. You showed sense and spirit in refusing to be
manœuvred into wickedness, to lead the abominable life which two of
your sisters have been doomed to suffer; and you showed a right woman's
warm heart, in taking a man whom I like and respect next to my own Tom
for comeliness and godliness. When a young woman marries such a tight
lad as Jacky Spottiswoode, she knows she will be happy to the day of
her death, and be respected among her friends. Now, Miss Bell, what do
you say to that?"
Christobelle said nothing. Tears filled her eyes, and spoke volumes
for her. She was affected with the idea that all her friends, except
_one_, approved the connexion she was about to form. Mrs. Pynsent's
remarks affected her still more, because they were spoken with unusual
quietness of manner and phrase, and her words ever came from the
fountain of her heart in all truth and sincerity. She spoke, too, the
sentiments of those around her; Christobelle judged so, by Mrs. Pynsent
assuring her of the respect of her friends. It was a deep gratification
to think her attachment was sanctioned by those she loved and honoured;
and it was a grateful pride to feel assured the finger of scorn or
ridicule had never pointed observations offensive to the high character
of her beloved Spottiswoode. Was it to be wondered at that she sat
silent by the side of Mrs. Pynsent, enjoying feelings too blessed for
utterance? She saw her agitation, and forbore to notice it; but Mrs.
Pynsent was not wanting in real delicacy to those who did not offend
her notions of right; and to Christobelle she had ever shown peculiar
kindness. She addressed her daughter.
"I say, Anna Maria, we'll have old Sally Hancock to spend the evening
with us, to compliment Miss Bell. It's all over with Sal now, so she
won't shock the company. You need not be afraid of Sally Hancock any
more, for she can't speak, if she was dying for it. I can see her poor
eyes glare up sometimes; you won't mind Sally Hancock. She likes to
watch the children, and when they don't pull her crutch from her, they
are great friends. Moll and Bab often imitate her walk, but Sally
Hancock only laughs at them."
"I wish the children would not fight so much," remarked Anna Maria.
"Fiddle diddle! my Tom fought Pen Spottiswoode like a dragon when he
was their age, and he is all the better for it. I don't like to keep
down their spirits. How would our little Moll climb the sycamore,
if she hadn't a fearless spirit? Well, look at Bobby, between those
two great monsters upon the lawn! Boscawen looks such a long animal,
compared with Bobby. Don't you think Bobby is worn into half a goose,
Miss Bell? He looks trussed for the spit."
"I think Mr. Pynsent looking very well--better than your letters
insinuated, Mrs. Pynsent."
"Poor Bobby! no, he's nothing better than half a goose now; but Sally
Hancock and myself remember him a smart lad. There goes the half-hour
bell!"
"Come, then, Bell, we will depart, for my toilette is a long affair,"
said her sister, rising.
"I say," called Mrs. Pynsent, as they left the room, "I say, Anna
Maria, don't let Bell into the secrets of the prison-house."
"Oh! Bell knows all about _that_!" replied the laughing Anna Maria.
"Tom is the only person who does not know my secret. Every body knows I
only rouge to please Tom."