Withered Leaves and Fresh Buds
Lady Rosamond and Joanna Bowater could not fail to be good friends;
Herbert was a great bond of union, and so was Mrs. Poynsett.
Rosamond found it hard to recover from the rejection of her scheme
of the wheeled-chair, and begged Jenny to become its advocate; but
Mrs. Poynsett listened with a smile of the unpromising kind--"You
too, Jenny?"
"Why not, dear Mrs. Poynsett? How nice it would be to see you in
your own corner again!"
"I don't think my own corner remains."
"Oh! but it could be restored at once."
"Do you think so? No, no, Jenny my dear; cracked china is better
left on the shelf out of the way, even if it could bear the move,
which it can't."
Then Jenny understood, and advised Rosamond to bide her time, and
wait till the session of parliament, when the house would be
quieter; and Rosamond nodded and held her peace.
The only person who held aloof was Cecil, who would not rise to the
bait when Raymond tried to exhibit Miss Bowater as a superior
intellectual woman.
Unluckily, too, Jenny observed one evening at the five o'clock tea,
"I hear that Mrs. Duncombe has picked up some very funny people--a
lady lecturer, who is coming to set us all to rights."
"A wonderful pair, I hear!" said Frank. "Mrs. Clio Tallboys, she
calls herself, and a poor little husband, whom she carries about to
show the superiority of her sex."
"A Cambridge professor and a great political economist!" observed
Cecil, in a low but indignant voice.
"The Yankee Cambridge!" quoth Frank.
"The American Cambridge is a distinguished university," returned
Cecil.
"Cecil is right, Master Frank," laughed his mother; "Cam and Isis
are not the only streams of learning in the world."
"I never heard of him," said Jenny; "he is a mere satellite to the
great luminary."
"They are worth seeing," added Frank; "she is one of those regular
American beauties one would pay to get a sight of."
"Where did you get all this information?" asked Cecil.
"From Duncombe himself. They met on the Righi; and nothing is more
comical than to near him describe the ladies' fraternization over
female doctors and lawyers, till they rushed into each other's arms,
and the Clio promised to come down on a crusade and convert you
all."
"There are two ways of telling a story," said Cecil.
"No wonder the gentlemen quake!" said Mrs. Poynsett.
"I don't," said Frank, boyishly.
"Because you've no wife to take you in hand," retorted Jenny.
"For my part," said Mrs. Poynsett, "I can't see what women want. I
have always had as many rights as I could exercise."
"Ah! but we are not all ladies of the manor," said Jenny, "nor do we
all drive coaches."
"I observe," said Cecil, with dignity, "that there is supposed to be
a license to laugh at Mrs. Duncombe and whatever she does."
"She would do better to mind her children," said Frank.
"Children! Has she children?" broke in Anne and Rosamond, both at
once.
"Didn't you know it?" said Jenny.
"No, indeed! I didn't think her the sort of woman," said Rosamond.
"What does she do with them?"
"Drops them in the gutter," said Frank. "Literally, as I came home,
I heard a squeak, and found a child flat in a little watercourse. I
picked it out, and the elder one told me it was Ducky Duncombe, or
some such word. Its little boots had holes in them, mother; its
legs were purple, and there was a fine smart foreign woman flirting
round the corner with young Hornblower."
"Boys with long red hair, and Highland dresses?" exclaimed Rosamond.
"Yes, the same we saw with Miss Vivian!"
"Exactly!" said Frank, eagerly. "She is quite a mother to those
poor little wretches; they watch for her at the Sirenwood gate, and
she walks with them. The boy's cry was not for mother or nurse, but
for Lena!"
"Pray, did she come at his call?"
"No; but when I carried the brat home, poor Duncombe told me almost
with tears, how good she is to them. I fancy he feels their
mother's neglect of them."
"I'm sure I gave her credit for having none," said Rosamond.
"Ah!" said Jenny, "you should have heard her condolences with my
sister Mary on her last infliction. Fancy Mary's face!"
"No doubt it was to stem a torrent of nursery discussions," said
Cecil. "Such bad taste!"
"Which?" murmured Rosamond under her breath, with an arched eyebrow.
"Plain enough," said Frank: "if a woman is a woman, the bad taste
is to be ashamed of it."
"Yes," said Cecil, "that is the way with men; they would fain keep
us down to the level of the nursery."
"I thought nurseries were usually at the top of the house."
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Poynsett, disregarding this mischievous
suggestion, "they mean that organization, like charity, should begin
at home."
"You say that meaningly," said Rosamond. "I have heard very odd
stories of domestic affairs at Aucuba Villa, and that she can't get
a servant to stay there."
"That man, Alexander, has always been there," said Frank.
"Yes; but he has occasionally to do all the work of the house. Yes,
I can't help it, Cecil, Susan will regale me with cook-stories
sometimes; and I have heard of the whole establishment turning out
on being required to eat funguses."
"I shall beware of dining there!" said Rosamond.
"Don't they dine here to-morrow?" asked Frank.
"No, they are engaged to the Moys," said Cecil.
"But the Vivians come?"
"Oh yes."
Every one knew that already; but Frank could not help having it
repeated. It was a mere formal necessity to ask them, and had been
accepted as such; but there was some amazement when Cecil brought
home Lady Tyrrell and Miss Vivian to lunch and spend the afternoon.
It might be intended as one of her demonstrations; for though it was
understood that any of the inmates were free to bring home friends
to luncheon, it was not done--except with a casual gentleman--
without notice to the mistress of the house. Cecil, however,
comported herself entirely as in that position, explaining that Lady
Tyrrell was come to give her advice upon an intended fernery, and
would perform her toilette here, so as to have plenty of time.
Frank, little knowing what was passing, was working the whole day at
his tutor's for the closely imminent examination; Julius and Raymond
were gravely polite; Eleonora very silent; and as soon as the meal
was over, Rosamond declared that she should not come out to stand
planning in the cold; and though Herbert would have liked nothing
better in that company, his Rector carried him off to arrange an
Advent service in a distant hamlet; Anne's horse came to the door;
and only Joanna remained to accompany the gardening party, except
that Raymond came out with them to mark the limits of permissible
alteration.
"How unchanged!" exclaimed Lady Tyrrell. "Time stands still here;
only where is the grand old magnolia? How sweet it used to be!"
"Killed by the frost," said Raymond, shortly, not choosing to
undergo a course of reminiscences, and chafing his wife by his
repressive manner towards her guest. When he had pointed out the
bed of Americans that were to be her boundary, he excused himself as
having letters to finish; and as he went away Cecil gave vent to her
distaste to the old shrubs and borders, now, of course, at their
worst--the azaleas mere dead branches, the roses with a few yellow
night-capped buds still lingering, and fuchsias with a scanty bell
or two.
Jenny fought for their spring beauty, all the more because Lady
Tyrrell was encouraging the wife to criticize the very things she
had tried to sentimentalize over with the husband; but seeing that
she was only doing harm, she proposed a brisk walk to Eleonora, who
gladly assented, though her sister made a protest about damp, and
her being a bad walker. The last things they heard was Cecil's
sigh, "It is all so shut in, wherever there is level ground, that
the bazaar would be impossible."
"I should hope so!" muttered Jenny.
"What do you mean to do about this bazaar?" asked Eleonora, as they
sped away.
"I don't know. Those things so often go off in smoke, that I don't
make up my mind till they become imminent."
"I am afraid this will go on," said Eleonora. "Camilla means it and
she always carries out her plans; I wish I saw the right line."
"About that?"
"About everything. It seems to me that there never was any one so
cut off from help and advice as I am;" then, as Joanna made some
mute sign of sympathy, "I knew you would understand; I have been
longing to be with you, for there has been no one to whom I could
speak freely since I left Rockpier."
"And I have been longing to have you. Mamma would have asked you to
stay with us before, only we had the house full. Can't you come
now?"
"You will see that I shall not be allowed. It is of no use to think
about it!" said the girl, with a sigh. "Here, let us get out of
this broad path, or she may yet come after us--persuade Mrs.
Charnock Poynsett it is too cold to stand about--anything to break
up a tete-a-tete."
Jenny saw she really was in absolute fear of pursuit; but hardly yet
understood the nervous haste to turn into a not very inviting side-
path, veiled by the trees, whose wet leaves were falling.
"Do you mind the damp?" asked the girl, anxiously.
"No, not at all; but--"
"You don't know what it is never to feel free, but be like a French
girl, always watched--at least whenever I am with any one I care to
speak to."
"Are you quite sure it is not imagination?"
"O, Joanna, don't be like all the rest, blinded by her! You knew
her always!"
"Only from below. I am four years younger; you know dear Emily was
my contemporary."
"Dear Emily! I miss her more now than even at Rockpier. But you,
who were her friend, and knew Camilla of old, I know you can help me
as no one else can."
Jenny returned a caress; and Eleonora spoke on. "You know I was
only eight years old when Camilla married, and I had scarcely seen
her till she came to us at Rockpier, on Lord Tyrrell's death, and
then she was most delightful. I thought her like mother and sister
both in one, even more tender than dear Emily. How could I have
thought so for a moment? But she enchanted everybody. Clergy,
ladies, and all came under the spell; and I can't get advice from
any of them--even from Miss Coles--you remember her?"
"Your governess? How nice she was!"
"Emily and I owed everything to her! She was as near being a mother
to us as any one could be; and Camilla could not say enough of
gratitude, or show esteem enough, and fascinated her like all the
rest of us; but she never rested till she had got her off to a
situation in Russia. I did not perceive the game at the time, but I
see now how all the proposals for situations within reach of me were
quashed."
"But you write to her?"
"Yes; but as soon as I showed any of my troubles she reproved me for
self-will and wanting to judge for myself, and not submit to my
sister. That's the way with all at Rockpier. Camilla has gone
about pitying me to them for having to give way to my married
sister, but saying it was quite time that she took charge of us; and
on that notion they all wrote to me. Then she persuaded papa to go
abroad; and I was delighted, little thinking she never meant me to
go back again."
"Did she not?"
"Listen! I've heard her praise Rockpier and its church to the skies
to one person--say Mr. Bindon. To another, such as our own Vicar,
she says it was much too ultra, and she likes moderation; she tells
your father that she wants to see papa among his old friends; and to
Mrs. Duncombe, I've heard her go as near the truth as is possible to
her, and call it a wearisome place, with an atmosphere of incense,
curates, and old maids, from whom she had carried me off before I
grew fit for nothing else!"
"I dare say all these are true in turn, or seem so to her, or she
would not say them before you."
"She has left off trying to gloss it over with me, except so far as
it is part of her nature. She did at first, but she knows it is of
no use now."
"Really, Lenore, you must be going too far."
"I have shocked you; but you can't conceive what it is to live with
perpetual falsity. No, I can't use any other word. I am always
mistrusting and being angered, and my senses of right and wrong get
so confused, that it is like groping in a maze." Her eyes were full
of tears, but she exclaimed, "Tell me, Joanna, was there ever
anything between Camilla and Mr. Poynsett?"
"Why bring that up again now?"
"Why did it go off?" insisted Lenore.
"Because Mrs. Poynsett could not give up and turn into a dowager, as
if she were not the mistress herself."
"Was that all?"
"So it was said."
"I want to get to the bottom of it. It was not because Lord Tyrrell
came in the way."
"I am afraid they thought so here."
"Then," said Eleonora, in a hard, dry way, "I know the reason of our
being brought back here, and of a good deal besides."
"My dear Lena, I am very sorry for you; but I think you had better
keep this out of your mind, or you will fall into a hard, bitter,
suspicious mood."
"That is the very thing. I am in a hard, bitter, suspicious mood,
and I can't see how to keep out of it; I don't know when opposition
is right and firm, and when it is only my own self-will."
"Would it not be a good thing to talk to Julius Charnock? You would
not be betraying anything."
"No! I can't seem to make up to the good clergyman! Certainly not.
Besides, I've heard Camilla talking to his wife!"
"Talking?"
"Admiring that dress, which she had been sneering at to your mother,
don't you remember? It was one of her honey-cups with venom below--
only happily, Lady Rosamond saw through the flattery. I'm ashamed
whenever I see her!"
"I don't think that need cut you off from Julius."
"Tell me _truly_," again broke in Lenore, "what Mrs. Poynsett really
is. She is a standing proverb with us for tyranny over her sons;
not with Camilla alone, but with papa."
"See how they love her!" cried Jenny, hotly.
"Camilla thinks that abject; but I can't forget how Frank talked of
her in those happy Rockpier days."
"When you first knew him?" said Jenny.
They must have come at length to the real point, for Eleonora began
at once--"Yes; he was with his sick friend, and we were so happy;
and now he is being shamefully used, and I don't know what to do!"
"Indeed, Lenore," said Jenny, in her downright way, "I do not
understand. You do not seem to care for him."
"Of course I am wrong," said the poor girl; "but I hoped I was doing
the best thing for him." Then, as Jenny made an indignant sound,
"See, Jenny, when he came to Rockpier, Camilla had been a widow
about three months. She never had been very sad, for Lord Tyrrell
had been quite imbecile for a year, poor man! And when Frank came,
she could not make enough of him; and he and I both thought the two
families had been devotedly fond of each other, and that she was
only too glad to meet one of them."
"I suppose that was true."
"So do I, as things stood then. She meant Frank to be a sort of
connecting link, against the time when she could come back here; but
we, poor children, never thought of that, and went on together, not
exactly saying anything, but quite understanding how much we cared.
Indeed, I know Camilla impressed on him that, for his mother's sake,
it must go no farther then, while he was still so young; and next
came our journey on the Continent, ending in our coming back here
last July."
Jenny remembered that Raymond's engagement had not been made known
till August, and Frank had only returned from a grouse-shooting
holiday a week or two before the arrival of the brides.
"Now," added Eleonora, "Camilla has made me understand that nothing
will induce her to let papa consent; and though I know he would, if
he were left to himself, I also see how all this family must hate
and loathe the connection."
"May I ask, has Frank ever spoken?"
"Oh no! I think he implied it all to Camilla when she bade him wait
till our return, fancying, I suppose, that one could forget the
other."
"But why does she seem so friendly with him?"
"It is her way; she can't be other than smooth and caressing, and
likes to have young men about; and I try to be grave and distant,
because--the sooner he is cured of me the better for him," she
uttered, with a sob; "but when he is there, and I see those grieved
eyes of his, I can't keep it up! And papa does like him! Oh! if
Camilla would but leave us alone! See here, Jenny!" and she showed,
on her watch-chain, a bit of ruddy polished pebble. "Is it wrong to
keep this? He and I found the stone in two halves, on the beach,
the last day we were together, and had them set, pretending to one
another it was only play. Sometimes I think I ought to send mine
back; I know he has his, he let me see it one day. Do you think I
ought to give it up?"
"Why should you?"
"Because then he would know that it must be all over."
"But _is_ it all over? Within, I mean?"
"Jenny, you know better!"
"Then, Lenore, if so, and it is only your sister who objects, not
your father himself, ought you to torment poor Frank by acting
indifference when you do not feel it?"
"Am I untrue? I never thought of that. I thought I should be
sacrificing myself for his good!"
"His good? O, Lenore, I believe it is the worst wrong a woman can
do a man, to let him think he has wasted his heart upon her, and
that she is trifling with him. You don't know what a bad effect
this is having, even on his prospects. He cannot get his brain or
spirits free to work for his examination."
"How hard it is to know what is right! Here have I been thinking
that what made me so miserable must be the best for him, and would
it not make it all the worse to relax, and let him see?"
"I do not think so," returned Jenny. "His spirits would not be worn
by doubt of _you_--the worst doubt of all: and he would feel that
he had something to strive for."
Eleonora walked on for some steps in silence, then exclaimed, "Yes,
but there's his family. It would only stir up trouble for them
there. They can't approve of me."
"They don't know you. When they do, they will. Now they only see
what looks like--forgive me, Lena--caprice and coquetry; they will
know you in earnest, if you will let them."
"You don't mean that they know anything about it!" exclaimed
Eleonora.
Jenny almost laughed. "Not know where poor Frank's heart is? You
don't guess how those sons live with their mother!"
"I suppose I have forgotten what sincerity and openness are," said
Eleonora, sadly. "But is not she very much vexed?"
"She was vexed to find it had gone so deep with him," said Jenny;
"but I know that you can earn her affection and trust by being
staunch and true yourself--and it is worth having, Lena!"
For Jenny knew Eleonora of old, through Emily's letters, and had no
doubt of her rectitude, constancy, and deep principle, though she
was at the present time petrified by constant antagonism to such
untruthfulness as, where it cannot corrupt, almost always hardens
those who come in contact with it. And this cruel idea of self-
sacrifice was, no doubt, completing the indurating process.
Jenny knew the terrible responsibility of giving such advice. She
had not done it lightly. She had been feeling for years past that
"'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at
all;" and she knew that uncertainty of the right to love and trust
would have been a pang beyond all she had suffered. To give poor
Eleonora, situated as she now was, admission to the free wholesome
atmosphere of the Charnock family, was to her kind heart
irresistible; and it was pleasant to feel the poor girl clinging to
her, as people do to those who have given the very counsel the heart
craved for.
It was twilight when the walk was over, and the drawing-room was
empty; but Anne came to invite them to Mrs. Poynsett's tea, saying
that Cecil had Lady Tyrrell in her own sitting-room. Perhaps Mrs.
Poynsett had not realized who was Jenny's companion, for she seemed
startled at their entrance; and Jenny said, "You remember Lenore
Vivian?"
"I must have seen you as a child," said Mrs. Poynsett, courteously.
"You are very like your sister."
This, though usually a great compliment, disappointed Eleonora, as
she answered, rather frigidly, "So people say."
"Have you walked far?"
"To the Outwood Lodge."
"To-day? Was it not very damp in the woods?"
"Oh no, delightful!"
"Lena and I are old friends," said Jenny; "too glad to meet to heed
the damp."
Here Raymond entered, with the air of a man who had just locked up a
heavy post-bag at the last possible moment; and he too was amazed,
though he covered it by asking why the party was so small.
"Rosamond has gone to meet her husband, and Cecil has her guest in
her own domains."
Then Jenny asked after his day's work--a county matter, interesting
to all the magistracy, and their womankind in their degree; and
Eleonora listened in silence, watching with quiet heedfulness
Frank's mother and brother.
When Frank himself came in, his face was a perfect study; and the
colour mantled in her cheeks, so that Jenny trusted that both were
touched by the wonderful beauty that a little softness and timidity
brought out on the features, usually so resolutely on guard. But
when, in the later evening, Jenny crept in to her old friend, hoping
to find that the impression had been favourable, she only heard,
"Exactly like her sister, who always had the making of a fine
countenance."
"The mask--yes, but Lena has the spirit behind the mask. Poor girl!
she is not at all happy in the atmosphere her sister has brought
home."
"Then I wish they would marry her!"
"Won't you believe how truly nice and good she is?"
"That will not make up for the connection. My heart sank, Jenny,
from the time I heard that those Vivians were coming back. I kept
Frank away as long as I could--but there's no help for it. It seems
the fate of my boys to be the prey of those sirens."
"Well, then, dear Mrs. Poynsett, do pray believe, on my word, that
Eleonora is a different creature!"
"Is there no hope of averting it? I thought Camilla would--poor
Frank is such insignificant game!"
"And when it does come, don't be set against her, please, dear Mrs.
Poynsett. Be as kind to her--as you were to me," whispered Jenny,
nestling up, and hiding her face.
"My dear, but I knew you! You were no such case."
"Except that you all were horribly vexed with us, because we
couldn't help liking each other," said Jenny.
"Ah! my poor child! I only wish you could have liked any one else!"
"Do you?" said Jenny, looking up. "Oh no, you don't! You would not
have me for your supplementary child, if I had," she added
playfully; then very low--"It is because the thought of dear Archie,
even ending as it did, is my very heart's joy, that I want you to
let them have theirs!"
And then came a break, which ended the pleading; and Jenny was
obliged to leave Compton without much notion as to the effect of her
advice, audacious as she knew it to have been.