The Drive To Backsworth
She was betrothed to one now dead,
Or worse, who had dishonoured fled.--SCOTT
The party set out for Backsworth early in the day. It included
Julius, who had asked for a seat in the carriage in order to be able
to go on to Rood House, where lived Dr. Easterby, whom he had not
seen since he had been at Compton.
"The great light of the English Church," said Rosamond, gaily; while
Anne shuddered a little, for Miss Slater had told her that he was
the great fountain-head of all that distressed her in Julius and his
curates. But Julius merely said, "I am very glad of the
opportunity;" and the subject dropped in the eager discussion of the
intended pastimes, which lasted beyond the well-known Wil'sbro'
bounds, when again Julius startled a Anne by observing, "No dancing?
That is a pity."
"There, Anne!" exclaimed Rosamond.
"It was out of kindness to me," said Anne: and then, with a
wonderful advance of confidence, she added, "Please tell me how you,
a minister, can regret it?"
"Because I think it would be easier to prevent mischief than when
there has to be a continual invention of something original. There
is more danger of offence and uncharitableness, to speak plainly."
"And you think that worse than dancing?" said Anne, thoughtfully.
"Why is dancing bad at all, Anne?" asked Rosamond.
Anne answered at once, "It is worldly."
"Not half so worldly as driving in a carriage with fine horses, and
liveries, and arms, and servants, and all," said Rosamond from her
comfortable corner, nestling under Miles's racoon-skin rug; "I
wonder you can do that!"
"The carriage is not mine," said Anne.
"The worldliness would be in sacrificing a duty to the luxury and
ostentation of keeping one," said Julius. "For instance, if I
considered it due to my lady in the corner there to come out in this
style, and put down a curate and a few such trifles with that
object. To my mind, balls stand on the same ground; they are
innocent as long as nothing right is given up for them."
"You would not dance?" said Anne.
"Wouldn't he?" said Rosamond. "I've seen him. It was at St.
Awdry's at a Christmas party, in our courting days. No, it wasn't
with me. Oh no! That was the cruel cut! It was with little Miss
Marks, whose father had just risen from the ranks. Such a figure
she was, enough to set your teeth on edge; when, behold! this
reverend minister extracts her from the wall-flowers, and goes
through the Lancers with her in first-rate style, I assure you. It
had such an effect, do you know, that what does my father do but go
and ask her next; and I heard an old lady remarking that there were
only two gentlemen in the room, Mr. Charnock and Lord Rathforlane.
So you see it was all worldliness after all, Anne."
"I suppose it was good-nature," said Anne.
"Indignation, I fancy," said Julius.
"Now, was he very wicked for it, Anne?"
"N--no, if dancing be not wrong."
"But why should it?"
"All the bad people danced in the Bible."
"Miriam--King David, eh?"
"That was part of their religious service."
"The welcome to the prodigal son?" further suggested Julius. "Does
not this prove that the exercise is not sinful in itself?"
"But you would not do it again?" repeated Anne.
"I certainly should not make a practice of it, nor go to balls any
more than I would be a sportsman or a cricketer, because I am bound
to apply my whole self to the more direct service; but this does not
show that there is evil necessarily connected with these amusements,
or that they may not safely be enjoyed by those who have time, and
who need an outlet for their spirits, or by those who wish to guard
these pleasures by presiding over them."
"Don't persuade me!" exclaimed Anne. "I gave my word to Mr. Pilgrim
that nothing should induce me to dance or play at cards."
"Mr. Pilgrim had no right--" began Rosamond; but Julius hushed her,
saying, "No one wishes to persuade you, Anne. Your retirement
during Miles's absence is very suitable and becoming."
"Till we live in the Bush, out of the way of it all," said Anne.
"I wish you could have seen one of our real old Christmas parties;
but those can never be again, without mother herself or Mrs.
Douglas."
"Do tell me about those Douglases," said Rosamond. "Cecil hinted at
some romance, but seemed to think you had suppressed the connection
because he was an attorney."
"Not exactly," said Julius, smiling; "but it is a sad story, though
we have no doubt he bore the guilt of others."
"Something about two thousand pounds!"
"Yes. It was the year that my mother and Raymond were abroad. She
had been buying some property near, and sent home an order from
Vevay. It did not come, and was inquired for; but as it was an
order, not a draft, it was not stopped at the bank; and in about a
fortnight more it was presented by a stranger, and paid without
hesitation, as it was endorsed "Proudfoot and Moy." Old Proudfoot
was away at Harrogate, and came home to investigate; young Proudfoot
denied all knowledge of it, and so did his brother-in-law Moy; but
Raymond, working at the other end, found that the waiter at the
hotel at Vevay had forgotten to post the letter for more than a
week, and it was traced through the post to Wil'sbro', where the
postman remembered delivering a foreign-looking letter to Archie
Douglas at the door of the office. It came alone by the afternoon
post. His account was this: They were all taking it rather easy in
old Proudfoot's absence; and when a sudden summons came to take the
old farmer's instructions for his will, Archie, as the junior, was
told off to do it. He left George Proudfoot and Moy in a private
room at the office, with Tom Vivian leaning over the fire talking,
as he had a habit of doing in old Proudfoot's absence. As he opened
the office door the postman put the letter into his hand; and
recognizing the writing, he ran back, and gave it in triumph to
George Proudfoot, exclaiming that there it was at last, but he was
in danger of being late for the train, and did not wait to see it
opened; and when he came back he was told that it had been merely a
letter of inquiry, with nothing in it, and destroyed at once. That
was his account; but Proudfoot, Moy, and Vivian all denied any
knowledge of this return of his, or of the letter. The night of
this inquiry he was missing. Jenny Bowater, who was with an aunt in
London, heard that a gentleman had called to see her while she was
out for a couple of days; and a week later we saw his name among the
passengers lost in the Hippolyta off Falmouth."
"Poor Jenny! Was she engaged to him?"
"On sufferance. On her death-bed Mrs. Douglas had wrung from Mr.
Bowater a promise that if Archie did well, and ever had means
enough, he would not refuse consent; but he always distrusted poor
Archie, because of his father, and I believe he sent Jenny away to
be out of his reach. If any of us had only been near, I think we
could have persuaded him to face it out, and trust to his innocence;
but Raymond was abroad, Miles at sea, I at Oxford, and nothing like
a counsellor was near. If Jenny had but seen him!"
"And has nothing happened to clear him?"
"No. Raymond hurried home, and did his best, but all in vain.
George Proudfoot was indeed known to have been in debt to Vivian;
but Moy, his brother-in-law, an older man, was viewed as a person
whose word was above all question, and they both declared the
signature at the back of the order not to be genuine. Archie's
flight, you see, made further investigation impossible; and there
was no putting on oath, no cross-examination."
"Then you think those three had it?"
"We can think nothing else, knowing Archie as we did. Raymond
showed his suspicions so strongly, that old Proudfoot threw up all
agencies for our property, and there has been a kind of hostility
ever since. Poor Vivian, as you know, came to his sad end the next
year, but he had destroyed all his papers; and George Proudfoot has
been dead four or five years, but without making any sign. Moy has
almost risen above the business, and--see, there's Proudfoot Lawn,
where he lives with the old man. He claims to compete with the
county families, and would like to contest Wils'bro' with Raymond."
"And Jenny?" asked Anne. "Did she bear it as a Christian? I know
she would."
"She did indeed--most nobly, most patiently. Poor girl! at her own
home she knew she stood alone in her faith in Archie's innocence;
but they were kind and forbearing, and kept silence, and the
knowledge of our trust in him has bound her very close to us."
"Was that call, when she did not see him, all she ever heard of
him?"
"All! except that he left a fragment of paper with the servant, with
the one pencil scrawl, 'A Dieu!'--a capital D to mark the full
meaning. She once showed it to me--folded so as to fit into the
back of a locket with his photograph."
"Dear Jenny! And had you traced him on board this ship?"
"No, but his name was in the list; and we knew he had strong fancy
for South Africa, whither the Hippolyta was bound. In fact he ought
to have been a sailor, and only yielded to his mother's wishes."
"We knew a Mr. Archibald Douglas once," said Anne; "he came and
outspanned by us when he was going north after elephants. He stayed
a fortnight, because his wagon had to be mended."
"O, Julius! if we could but find him for her again!" cried Rosamond.
"I am afraid Archibald Douglas is not much more individual a name
than John Smith," said Julius, sadly.
"That tells as much against the Hippolyta man," said Rosamond.
"Poor Archie would not be difficult to identify," said Julius; "for
his hair was like mine, though his eyes were blue, and not short-
sighted."
"That is all right, then," cried Anne; "for we had a dispute whether
he were young or old, and I remember mamma saying he had a look
about him as if his hair might have turned white in a single night."
"Julius! Now won't you believe?" cried Rosamond.
"Had he a Scotch accent?" said Julius.
"No; I recollect papa's telling him he never should have guessed him
to be a Scot by his tongue; and he said he must confess that he had
never seen Scotland."
"Now, Julius!" pleaded Rosamond, with clasped hands, as if Jenny's
fate hung on his opinion.
"How long ago was this?" asked he.
"Four years," said Anne, with a little consideration. "He came both
in going and returning, and Alick was wild to join him if he ever
passed our way again. My father liked him so much that he was
almost ready to consent; but he never came again. Ivory hunters go
more from Natal now."
"You will trace him! There's a dear Anne!" exclaimed Rosamond.
"I will write to them at home; Alick knows a good many hunters, and
could put Miles into the way of making inquiries, if he touches at
Natal on his way home."
"Miles will do all he can," said Julius; "he was almost broken-
hearted when he found how Archie had gone. I think he was even more
his hero than Raymond when we were boys, because he was more
enterprising; and my mother always thought Archie's baffled passion
for the sea reacted upon Miles."
"He will do it! He will find him, if he is the Miles I take him
for! How old was he--Archie, I mean?"
"A year older than Raymond; but he always seemed much younger, he
was so full of life and animation--so unguarded, poor fellow! He
used to play tricks with imitating hand-writing; and these, of
course, were brought up against him."
"Thirty-four! Not a bit too old for the other end of the romance!"
"Take care, Rosie. Don't say a word to Jenny till we know more.
She must not be unsettled only to be disappointed."
"Do you think she would thank you for that, you cold-blooded
animal?"
"I don't know; but I think the suspense would be far more trying
than the quiet resigned calm that has settled down on her. Besides,
you must remember that even if Archie were found, the mystery has
never been cleared up."
"You don't think that would make any difference to Jenny?"
"It makes all the difference to her father; and Jenny will never be
a disobedient daughter."
"Oh! but it will--it must be cleared! I know it will! It is
faithless to think that injustice is not always set right!"
"Not always here," said Julius, sadly. "See, there's the Backsworth
race-ground, the great focus of the evil."
"Were racing debts thought to have any part in the disaster?"
"That I can't tell; but it was those races that brought George
Proudfoot under the Vivian influence; and in the absence of all of
us, poor Archie, when left to himself after his mother's death, had
become enough mixed up in their amusements to give a handle to those
who thought him unsteady."
"As if any one must be unsteady who goes to the races!" cried
Rosamond. "You were so liberal about balls, I did expect one little
good word for races; instead of which, you are declaring a poor
wretch who goes to them capable of embezzling two thousand pounds,
and I dare say Anne agrees with you!"
"Now, did I ever say so, Anne?"
"You looked at the course with pious horror, and said it justified
the suspicion!" persisted Rosamond.
"That's better," said Julius; "though I never even said it justified
the suspicion, any more than I said that balls might not easily be
overdone, especially by _some_ people."
"But you don't defend races?" said Anne.
"No; I think the mischief they do is more extensive, and has less
mitigation than is the case with any other public amusement."
"H'm!" said Rosamond. "Many a merry day have I had on the top of
the regimental drag; so perhaps there's nothing of which you would
not suspect me."
"I'll tell you what I more than suspect you of," said Julius, "of
wearing a gay bonnet to be a bait and a sanction to crowds of young
girls, to whom the place was one of temptation, though not to you."
"Oh, there would be no end to it if one thought of such things."
"Or the young men who--"
"Well," broke in Rosamond, "it was always said that our young
officers got into much less mischief than where there was a
straight-laced colonel, who didn't go along with them to give them a
tone."
"That I quite believe. I remember, too, the intense and breathless
sense of excitement in the hush and suspense of the multitude, and
the sweeping by of the animals--"
"Then you've been!" cried his wife.
"As a boy, yes."
"Not since you were old enough to think it over?" said Anne eagerly.
"No. It seemed to me that the amount of genuine interest in the
sport and the animals was infinitesimal compared with the fictitious
excitement worked up by betting."
"And what's the harm of betting when you've got the money?"
"And when you haven't?"
"That's another question."
"Do you approve it at the best?"
"It's a man's own concern."
"That's arguing against your better sense."
"Can't be helped, with two such solemn companions! There would be
no bearing you if I didn't take you down sometimes, when you get so
didactic, and talk of fictitious excitement, indeed! And now you
are going to Rood House, what will you be coming back?"
Rood House stood about two miles on the further side of Backsworth.
It was an ancient almshouse, of which the mastership had been wisely
given to Dr. Easterby, one of the deepest theological scholars,
holiest men, and bravest champions of the Church, although he was
too frail in health to do much, save with his pen, and in council
with the numerous individuals who resorted to him from far and wide,
and felt the beautiful old fragment of a monastic building where he
dwelt a true court of peace and refreshment, whence they came forth,
aided by prayer and counsel, for their own share of the combat.
Julius Charnock had, happily for himself, found his way thither when
his character and opinions were in process of formation, and had
ever since looked to Rood House for guidance and sympathy. To be
only fourteen miles distant had seemed to him one great perfection
of Compton Poynsett; but of course he had found visits there a far
more possible thing to an unoccupied holiday son of the great house
than to a busy parish priest, so that this opportunity was very
valuable to him.
And so it proved; not so much for the details as for the spirit in
which he was aided in looking at everything, from the mighty
questions which prove the life of the Church by the vehement emotion
they occasion, down to the difficulties of theory and practice that
harassed himself--not named, perhaps, but still greatly unravelled.
Those perpetual questions, that have to be worked out again and
again by each generation, were before him in dealing with his
parish; and among them stood in his case the deeper aspects of the
question that had come forward on the drive, namely, the lawfulness
and expedience of amusement.
Granting the necessity of pastimes and recreation for most persons,
specially the young, there opened the doubtful, because ever-
varying, question of the kind and the quantity to be promoted or
sanctioned, lest restraint should lead to reaction, and lest
abstinence should change from purity and spirituality to moroseness
or hypocrisy. And if Julius found one end of the scale represented
by his wife and his junior curate, his sister-in-law and his senior
curate were at the other. Yet the old recluse was far more inclined
to toleration than he had been in principle himself, though the spur
of the occasion had led him to relaxations towards others in the
individual cases brought before him, when he had thought opposition
would do more harm than the indulgence. His conscience had been
uneasy at this divergence, till he could discuss the subject.
The higher the aspiration of the soul, the less, of course, would be
the craving for diversion, the greater the shrinking from those evil
accompaniments that soon mar the most innocent delights. Some
spirits are austere in their purity, like Anne; some so fervent in
zeal, as to heed nothing by the way, like Mr. Bindon; but most are
in an advanced stage of childhood, and need play and pleasure almost
as much as air or food; and these instincts require wholesome
gratification, under such approval as may make the enjoyment bright
and innocent; and yet there should be such subduing of their excess,
such training in discipline, as shall save them from frivolity and
from passing the line of evil, prevent the craving from growing to a
passion, and where it has so grown, tone it back to the limits of
obedience and safety.
Alas! perhaps there lay the domestic difficulty of which Julius
could not speak; yet, as if answering the thought, Dr. Easterby
said, "After all, charity is the true self-acting balance to many a
sweet untaught nature. Self-denials which spring out of love are a
great safeguard, because they are almost sure to be both humble and
unconscious."
And Julius went away cheered as he thought of his Rosamond's wells
of unselfish affection, confident that all the cravings for variety
and excitement, which early habit had rendered second nature, would
be absorbed by the deeper and keener feelings within, and that these
would mount higher as time went on, under life's great training.
Pleasant it was to see the triumphant delight of the two sisters
over their purchases. Such a day's English shopping was quite a new
experience to Anne; and she had not been cautioned against it, so
her enjoyment was as fresh and vivid as a child's; and they both
chattered all the way home with a merriment in which Julius fully
shared, almost surprised to see Anne so eager and lively, and--as
her cheeks glowed and her eyes brightened--beginning to understand
what had attracted Miles.
Mrs. Poynsett had not had quite so pleasant a day, for Cecil knocked
at her door soon after luncheon with an announcement that Lady
Tyrrell wished for admission. Expecting an exposition of the Clio
scheme, she resigned herself, looking with some curiosity at the
beautiful contour of face and drooping pensive loveliness, that had
rather gained than lost in grace since the days when she had deemed
them so formidable.
"This is kind, dear Mrs. Poynsett," said the soft voice, while the
hand insisted on a pressure. "I have often wished to come and see
you, but I could not venture without an excuse."
"Thank you," was the cold reply.
"I have more than an excuse--a reason, and I think we shall be fully
agreed; but first you must let me have the pleasure of one look to
recall old times. It is such a treat to see you so unchanged. I
hope you do not still suffer."
"No, thank you."
"And are you always a prisoner here? Ah! I know your patience."
"What was the matter on which you wanted to speak to me?" said Mrs.
Poynsett, fretted beyond endurance by the soft, caressing tone.
"As I said, I should hardly venture if I did not know we agreed--
though perhaps not for the same reasons. We do agree in our love
and high opinion of your dear Frank!"
"Well!" repressing a shudder at the 'dear.'
"I am afraid we likewise agree that, under all circumstances, our
two young people are very unfortunately attached, and that we must
be hard-hearted, and let it go no further."
"You mean your sister?"
"My dear Lena! I cannot wonder! I blame myself excessively, for it
was all through my own imprudence. You see, when dear Frank came to
Rockpier, it was so delightful to renew old times, and they both
seemed such children, that I candidly confess I was off my guard;
but as soon as I had any suspicion, I took care to separate them,
knowing that, in the state of my poor father's affairs, it would be
most unjustifiable to let so mere a youth be drawn into an
attachment."
"Frank is no prize," said his mother with some irony.
"I knew you would say that, dear Mrs. Poynsett. Pecuniarily
speaking, of course, he is not; though as to all qualities of the
heart and head, he is a prize in the true sense of the word. But,
alas! it is a sort of necessity that poor Lena, if she marry at all,
should marry to liberal means. I tell you candidly that she has not
been brought up as she ought to have been, considering her
expectations or no expectations. What could you expect of my poor
father, with his habits, and two mere girls? I don't know whether
the governess could have done anything; but I know that it was quite
time I appeared. I tell you in confidence, dear Mrs. Poynsett,
there was a heavy pull on my own purse before I could take them away
from Rockpier; and, without blaming a mere child like poor dear Lena
you can see what sort of preparation she has had for a small
income."
It is hard to say which tried Mrs. Poynsett's patience most, the
'dears' or the candour; and the spirit of opposition probably
prompted her to say, "Frank has his share, like his brothers."
"I understand, and for many girls the provision would be ample; but
poor Lena has no notion of economizing--how should she? I am afraid
there is no blinking it, that, dear children as they both are,
nothing but wretchedness could result from their corning together;
and thus I have been extremely sorry to find that the affair has
been renewed."
"It was not an unnatural result of their meeting again."
"Ah! there I was to blame again; but no one can judge whether an
attachment be real between such children. I thought, too, that
Frank would be gone out into the world, and I confess I did not
expect to find that he had absolutely addressed her, and kept it
secret. That is what my poor father feels so much. Eleonora is his
special darling, and he says he could have overlooked anything but
the concealment."
Maternal affection assumed the defensive; and, though the idea of
concealment on the part of one of her sons was a shock, Mrs.
Poynsett made no betrayal of herself, merely asking, "How did it
come to light?"
"I extorted the confession. I think I was justified, standing in a
mother's position, as I do. I knew my vigilance had been eluded,
and that your son had walked home with her after the skating; and
you know very well how transparent young things are."
The skating! The mother at once understood that Frank was only
postponing the explanation till after his examination; and besides,
she had never been ignorant of his attachment, and could not regard
any display thereof more or less as deception towards herself. The
very fact that Lady Tyrrell was trying to prejudice her beforehand,
so as to deprive him of the grace of taking the initiative towards
his own mother, enlisted her feelings in his defence, so she coldly
answered, "I am sorry if Sir Harry Vivian thinks himself unfairly
treated; but I should have thought my son's feelings had been as
well known in the one family as in the other."
"But, _dear_ Mrs. Poynsett," exclaimed Lady Tyrrell, "I am sure you
never encouraged them. I am quite enough aware--whatever I may once
have been--of the unfortunate contrast between our respective
families."
Certainly there was no connection Mrs. Poynsett less wished to
encourage; yet she could not endure to play into Camilla' hands, and
made reply, "There are many matters in which young men must judge
for themselves. I have only once see Miss Vivian, and have no means
of estimating my son's chance of happiness with her."
Her impenetrability ruffled Lady Tyrrell; but the answer was softer
than ever. "Dear Mrs. Poynsett, what a happy mother you are, to be
able so freely to allow your sons to follow their inclinations!
Well! since you do not object, my conscience is easy on that score;
but it was more than I durst hope."
To have one's approval thus stolen was out of the question and Mrs.
Poynsett said, "Regret is one thing, opposition another. Sir Harry
Vivian need not doubt that, when my son's position is once fixed, he
will speak openly and formally, and it will then be time to judge."
"Only," said Lady Tyrrell, rising, "let this be impressed on your
son. Eleonora cannot marry till she is of age, and my father cannot
sanction any previous entanglement. Indeed it is most unfortunate,
if her affections have been tampered with, for me, who have outgrown
romance, and know that, in her position, a wealthy match is a
necessity. I have spoken candidly," she repeated; "for I like Frank
too well to bear that he should be trifled with and disappointed."
"Thank you!"
The ladies parted, liking one another, if possible, less than
before.
Mrs. Poynsett's instinct of defence had made her profess much less
distaste to the marriage than she really felt; she was much
concerned that another son should be undergoing Raymond's sad
experiences, but she had no fear that Lady Tyrrell would ever allow
it to come to a marriage, and she did not think Frank's poetical
enthusiasm and admiration for beauty betokened a nature that would
suffer such an enduring wound as Raymond's had done.
So she awaited his return, without too much uneasiness for amusement
in Rosamond's preparations. One opening into the conservatory was
through her room, so that every skilful device, or gay ornament,
could be exhibited to her; and she much enjoyed the mirth that went
on between the queen of the revels and her fellow-workers.
Cecil did not interfere, being indeed generally with her friends at
Sirenwood, Aucuba Villa, or the working-room, in all of which she
had the pleasure of being treated as a person of great
consideration, far superior to all her natural surroundings, and on
whom hinged all the plans for the amelioration of Willansborough.
Sometimes, however, it happens that the other side of a question is
presented; and thus it was on the day before the entertainment, when
Rosamond had taken her brother Tom to have his hair cut, and to
choose some false moustaches, and the like requisites for their
charades.
They went first to Pettitt's, the little hair-dresser, where Tom was
marvellously taken with the two Penates, and could hardly be dragged
into the innermost recesses, where in the middle of a sheet, with a
peignoir on his shoulders, he submitted to the clipping of his
raven-black locks, as Mr. Pettitt called them, on the condition of
his sister looking on.
Presently they heard some feet enter the outer shop, and Mrs.
Duncombe's voice asking for Mr. Pettitt; while his mother replied
that he would wait on her immediately, but that he was just now
engaged with the Honourable Mr. De Lancey. "Could she show them
anything?"
"Oh no, thank you, we'll wait! Don't let us keep you, Mrs. Pettitt,
it is only on business."
"Ay!" said the other voice--female, and entirely untamed. "He's
your great ally about your gutters and drains, isn't he?"
"The only landowner in Wil'sbro' who has a particle of public
spirit!" said Mrs. Duncombe.
Whereat good-natured Lady Rosamond could not but smile
congratulation to the hair-cutter, who looked meekly elevated, while
Tom whispered, "Proverb contradicted."
But the other voice replied, "Of course--he's a perfumer, learned in
smells! You'd better drop it, Bessie! you'll never make anything of
it."
"I'll never drop what the health and life of hundreds of my fellow-
creatures depend on! I wish I could make you understand, Gussie!"
"You'll never do anything with my governor, if that's your hope--you
should hear him and the mum talking! 'It's all nonsense,' he says;
'I'm not going to annoy my tenants, and make myself unpopular, just
to gratify a fashionable cry.' 'Well,' says mumsey, 'it is not what
was thought the thing for ladies in my time; but you see, if Gussie
goes along with it, she will have the key to all the best county
society.' 'Bother the county society!' says I. 'Bessie Duncombe's
jolly enough--but such a stuck-up set as they all are at Compton,
I'll not run after, behaving so ill to the governor, too!' However--"
"There's a proverb about listeners!" said Rosamond, emerging when
she felt as if she ought to hearken no longer, and finding Mrs.
Duncombe leaning with her back to the counter, and a tall girl, a
few degrees from beauty, in a riding-habit, sitting upon it.
They both laughed; and the girl added, "If you had waited a moment,
Lady Rosamond, you would have heard that you were the only jolly one
of all the b'iling!"
"Ah! we shall see where you are at the end of Mrs. Tallboys'
lectures!" said Mrs. Duncombe.
"On what?" asked Rosamond. "Woman's rights, or sanitary measures?
for I can't in the least understand why they should be coupled up
together."
"Nor I!" said Miss Moy. "I don't see why we shouldn't have our own
way, just as well as the men; but what that has to do with drains
and gutters, I can't guess."
"I'm the other way," said Rosamond. "I think houses and streets
ought to be made clean and healthy; but as for woman's rule, I fancy
we get more of it now than we should the other way."
"As an instance," said Mrs. Duncombe, "woman is set on cleansing
Wil'sbro'. Man will not stir. Will it ever be done till woman has
her way?"
"Perhaps, if woman would be patient, man would do it in the right
way, instead of the wrong!" quoth Rosamond.
"Patient! No, indeed! Nothing is to be done by that! Let every
woman strive her utmost to get the work done as far as her powers
go, and the crusade will be accomplished for very shame!"
Just then Tom, looking highly amused, emerged, followed by Mr.
Pettitt, the only enlightened landlord on whom Mrs. Duncombe had
been able to produce the slightest impression. He had owned a few
small tenements in Water Lane, which he was about to rebuild, and
which were evidently the pivot of operations.
At the door they met Cecil, and Rosamond detained her a moment in
the street to say, "My dear Cecil, is _that_ Miss Moy coming on
Wednesday?"
"Of course she is. We greatly want to move her father. He has the
chief house property there."
"It is too late now," said Rosamond; "but do you think it can be
pleasant to Jenny Bowater to meet her?"
"I know nothing of the old countrified animosities and gossipings,
which you have so heartily adopted," replied Cecil, proudly.
"Firstly, I ignore them as beneath me; secondly, I sacrifice them
all to a great cause. If Miss Bowater does not like my guests, let
her stay away."
Here Mrs. Duncombe stood on the step, crying out, "Well, Cecil, how
have you sped with Mrs. Bungay?"
"Horrid woman!" and no more was heard, as Cecil entered Mr.
Pettitt's establishment.
"That might be echoed," said Tom, who was boiling over at the speech
to his sister. "I knew that ape was an intolerable little prig of a
peacock, but I didn't think she could be such a brute to you, Rosie!
Is she often like that, and does your parson stand such treatment of
you?"
"Nonsense, Tom!" said Rosamond; "it doesn't often happen, and breaks
no bones when it does. It's only the ignorance of the woman, and
small blame to her--as Mrs. M'Kinnon said when Corporal Sims's wife
threw the red herring's tail at her!"
"But does Julius stand it?" repeated Tom, fiercely, as if hesitating
whether to call out Julius or Mrs. Charnock Poynsett.
"Don't be so ridiculous, Tom! I'd rather stand a whole shower of
red herrings' tails at once than bother Julius about his brother's
wife. How would you and Terry like it, if your wives took to
squabbling, and setting you together by the ears? I was demented
enough to try it once, but I soon saw it was worse than anything."
"What? He took her part?"
"No such thing! Hold your tongue, Tommy, and don't talk of married
folk till you're one yourself!"
"Papa never meant it," repeated the indignant Tom. "I've a great
mind to write and tell him how you are served!"
"Now, Tom," cried Rosamond, stopping short, "if you do that, I
solemnly declare I'll never have you here again! What could papa
do? Do you think he could cure Raymond's wife of being a ridiculous
little prig? And if he could--why, before your letter got to
Meerut, she will be gone up to London; and by the time she comes
back we'll be safe in our own Rectory. Here, come in, and get our
string and basket at Mrs. Bungay's."
"I'll pay her out!" muttered Tom, as he followed his sister into
Mrs. Bungay's shop, one of much smaller pretensions, for the sale of
baskets, brushes, mats, &c.
The mistress, a stout, red-faced woman, looked as if she had been
'speaking a bit of her mind,' and was at first very gruff and
ungracious, until she found they were real customers; and moreover,
Tom's bland Irish courtesy perfectly disarmed her, when Rosamond,
having fixed her mind on a box in the very topmost pigeon-hole, they
not only apologized for the trouble they were giving, but Tom
offered to climb up and bring it down, when she was calling for the
errand-boy in vain.
"It's no trouble, sir, thank you; I'd think nothing of that for you,
my lady, nor for Mr. Charnock--which I'm sure I'll never forget all
he did for us at the fire, leading my little Alferd out like a lamb!
I beg your ladyship's pardon, ma'am, if I seemed a bit hasty; but
I've been so put about--and I thought at first you'd come in on the
same matter, which I'm sure a lady like you wouldn't ever do--about
the drains, and such like, which isn't fit for no lady to speak of!
As if Water Lane weren't as sweet and clean as it has any call to
be, and as if we didn't know what was right by our tenants, which
are a bad lot, and don't merit no money to be laid out on them!"
"So you have houses in Water Lane, Mrs. Bungay? I didn't even know
it!"
"Yes, Lady Rosamond! My husband and I thought there was no better
investment than to buy a bit of land, when the waste was inclosed,
and run 'em up cheap. Houses always lets here, you see, and the
fire did no damage to that side. But of course you didn't know,
Lady Rosamond; a real lady like you wouldn't go prying into what
she's no call to, like that fine decked-out body Duncombe's wife,
which had best mind her own children, which it is a shame to see
stravaging about the place! I know it's her doing, which I told
young Mrs. Charnock Poynsett just now, which I'm right sorry to see
led along by the like of her, and so are more of us; and we all wish
some friend would give her a hint, which she is but young--and 'tis
doing harm to Mr. Charnock Poynsett, Lady Rosamond, which all of us
have a regard for, as is but right, having been a good customer, and
friend to the town, and all before him; but we can't have ladies
coming in with their fads and calling us names for not laying out on
what's no good to nobody, just to satisfy them! As if Wil'sbro'
hadn't been always healthy!"
Tom was wicked enough to put in a good many notes of sympathy, at
the intervals of the conjunctive whiches, and to end by declaring,
"Quite right, Mrs. Bungay! You see how much better we've brought up
my sister! I say--what's the price of that little doll's broom?"
"What do you want of it, Tom?"
"Never you mind!"
"No mischief, I hope?"