The Lady Green Mantle
The night, just like the night before,
In terrors passed away,
Nor did the demons vanish thence
Before the dawn of day.--MOORE
The turmoil was over, the gains had been emptied into bags to be
counted at leisure, the relics of the sale left to be disposed of
through the Exchange and Mart. Terry, looking tired to death,
descended from his post as assistant showman; and, with some
gentlemen who were to dine at Compton Poynsett, Cecil drove home to
dress in haste, and act hostess to a large dinner-party. All the
time she felt giddy at the words she had heard--"Mr. Poynsett's old
flame." It was constantly ringing in her ears, and one conviction
was before her mind. Her cheeks burnt like fire, and when she
reached her own room at night, and leant from the window to cool
them, they only burnt the more.
Had she been wilfully deceived? had she been taking the counsel of a
jealous woman about her husband? Had not Camilla assured her that
the object of his first love was not in the country? Ay; but when
that was spoken Camilla herself was in London, and Cecil knew enough
of her friend to be aware that she viewed such a subterfuge as
ingenious. Even then she had perceived that the person alluded to
could only have been a Vivian, and the exclamation of careless spite
carried assurance to her that she had been tricked into confidence,
and acceptance of the advice of a rival. She had a feverish longing
to know more, and obtain explanation and external certainty. But
how?
Raymond was one of the very tired that night. He fell asleep the
instant his head touched the pillow; but it was that sobbing,
sighing sleep which had before almost swept away, from very ruth,
her resolution; and on this night there were faltering words,
strangely, though unconsciously, replying to her thoughts.
"Camilla, a cruel revenge!" "Poor child! but for you she might have
learnt." "My mother!" "Why, why this persistent hatred?" "Cannot
you let us alone?" "Must you destroy our home?"
These were the mutterings at intervals. She listened, and in the
darkness her impulse was to throw herself on her husband, tell him
all, show him how she had been misled, and promise to give up all to
which that true Vivienne had prompted her. She did even try to wake
him, but the attempt caused only a more distinct expostulation of
"Cannot you let her alone?" "Cannot you let us learn to love one
another?" "It may be revenge on me or my mother; but what has she
done?" "Don't!--oh, don't!"
The distress she caused forced her to desist, and she remembered how
Raymond had always warned her. The intimacy with Lady Tyrrell had
been in the teeth of his remonstrances. He had said everything to
prevent it short of confessing his former attachment, and though
resentful that the warning had been denied her, she felt it had been
well that she had been prevented from putting the question on her
first impulse. Many ways of ascertaining the fact were revolved by
her as with an aching head she lay hopelessly awake till morning,
when she fell into a doze which lasted until she found that Raymond
had risen, and that she must dress in haste, unless she meant to
lose her character for punctuality. Her head still ached, and she
felt thoroughly tired; but when Raymond advised her to stay at home,
and recruit herself for the ball, she said the air of the downs
would refresh her. Indeed, she felt as if quiet and loneliness
would be intolerable until she could understand herself and what she
had heard.
Raymond took the reins of the barouche, and a gentleman who had
slept at the Hall went on the box beside him, leaving room for
Rosamond and her brother, who were to be picked up at the Rectory;
but when they drew up there, only Rosamond came out in the wonderful
bonnet, just large enough to contain one big water-lily, which
suited well with the sleepy grace of her movements, and the glossy
sheen of her mauve silk.
"Terry is not coming. He has a headache, poor boy," she said, as
Julius shut her into the barouche. "Take care of him and baby."
"Take care of yourself, Madam Madcap," said Julius, with a smile, as
she bent down to give him a parting kiss, with perhaps a little
pleading for forgiveness in it. But instead of, as last year,
shuddering, either at its folly or publicity, Cecil felt a keen pang
of desire for such a look as half rebuked, while it took a loving
farewell of Rosamond. Was Camilla like that statue which the
husband inadvertently espoused with a ring, and which interposed
between him and his wife for ever?
Rosamond talked. She always had a certain embarrassment in tete-a-
tetes with Cecil, and it took form in a flow of words. "Poor Terry!
he turned faint and giddy at breakfast. I thought he had been
indulging at the refreshment-stall, but he says he was saving for a
fine copy of the Faerie Queen that Friskyball told him of at a book-
stall at Backsworth, and existed all day on draughts of water when
his throat grew dry as showman; so I suppose it is only inanition,
coupled with excitement and stuffiness, and that quiet will repair
him. He would not hear of my staying with him."
"I suppose you do not wish to be late?"
"Certainly not," said Rosamond, who, indeed, would have given up
before, save for her bonnet and her principle; and whatever she said
of Lady Rathforlane's easy management of her nurslings, did not
desire to be _too_ many hours absent from her Julia.
"I only want to stay till the Three-year-old Cup has been run for,"
said Cecil. "Mrs. Duncombe would feel it unkind if we did not."
"You look tired," said Rosamond, kindly; "put your feet upon the
front seat--nobody will look. Do you know how much you cleared?"
"Not yet," said Cecil. "I do not know what was made by the raffles.
How I do hate them! Fancy that lovely opal Venetian vase going to
that big bony Scotswoman, Mr. M'Vie's mother."
"Indeed! That is a pity. If I had known it would be raffled for, I
would have sent a private commission, though I don't know if Julius
would have let me. He says it is gambling. What became of the Spa
work-box, with the passion-flower wreath?"
"I don't know. I was so disgusted, that I would not look any more.
I never saw such an obnoxious girl as that Miss Moy."
"_That_ she is," said Rosamond. "I should think she was acting the
fast girl as found in sensation novels."
"Exactly," said Cecil, proceeding to narrate the proposed election;
and in her need of sympathy she even told its sequel, adding,
"Rosamond, do you know what she meant?"
"Is it fair to tell you?" said Rosamond, asking a question she knew
to be vain.
"I must know whether I have been deceived."
"Never by Raymond!" cried Rosamond.
"Never, never, never!" cried Cecil, with most unusual excitement.
"He told me all that concerned himself at the very first. I wish he
had told me who it was. How much it would have saved! Rosamond,
you know, I am sure."
"Yes, I made Julius tell me; but indeed, Cecil, you need not mind.
Never has a feeling more entirely died out."
"Do you think I do not know that?" said Cecil. "Do you think my
husband could have been my husband if he had not felt _that_?"
"Dear Cecil, I am so glad," cried impulsive Rosamond; her gladness,
in truth, chiefly excited by the anger that looked like love for
Raymond. "I mean, I am glad you see it so, and don't doubt him."
"I hope we are both above that," said Cecil. "No, it is Camilla
that I want to know about. I _must_ know whether she told me
truth."
"She told! what did she tell you?"
"That _he_--Raymond--had loved some one," said Cecil in a stifled
voice; "that I little knew what his love could be. I thought it had
been for her sister in India. She told me that it was nobody in the
country. But then we were in town."
"Just like her!" cried Rosamond, and wondered not to be
contradicted.
"Tell me how it really was!" only asked Cecil.
"As far as I know, the attachment grew up with Raymond, but it was
when the brother was alive, and Sir Harry at his worst; and Mrs.
Poynsett did not like it, though she gave in at last, and tried to
make the best of it; but then she--Camilla--as you call her--met the
old monster, Lord Tyrrell, made up a quarrel, because Mrs. Poynsett
would not abdicate, and broke it off."
"She said Mrs. Poynsett only half consented, and that the family
grew weary of her persistent opposition."
"And she made you think it Mrs. Poynsett's doing, and that she is
not possible to live with! O, Cecil! you will not think that any
longer. Don't you see that it is breaking Raymond's heart?"
Cecil's tears were starting, and she was very near sobbing as she
said, "I thought perhaps if we were away by ourselves he might come
to care for me. _She_ said he never would while his mother was by--
that she would not let him."
"That's not a bit true!" said Rosamond, indignantly. "Is it not
what she has most at heart, to see her sons happy? When has she
ever tried to interfere between Julius and me? Not that she could,"
added Rosamond to herself in a happy little whisper, not meant to be
heard, but it was; and with actual though suppressed sobs, Cecil
exclaimed--
"O, Rose, Rose! what do you do to make your husband love you?"
"Do? Be very naughty!" said Rosamond, forced to think of the
exigencies of the moment, and adding lightly, "There! it won't do to
cry. Here are the gentlemen looking round to see what is the
matter."
Ardently did she wish to have been able to put Cecil into Raymond's
arms and run out of sight, but with two men-servants with crossed
arms behind, a strange gentleman in front, the streets of Wil'sbro'
at hand, and the race-ground impending, sentiment was impossible,
and she could only make herself a tonic, and declare nothing to be
the matter; while Cecil, horrified at attracting notice, righted
herself and made protest of her perfect health and comfort. When
Raymond, always careful of her, stopped the carriage and descended
from his perch to certify himself whether she was equal to going on,
his solicitude went to her heart, and she gave his hand, as it lay
on the door, an affectionate thankful pressure, which so amazed him
that he raised his eyes to her face with a softness in them that
made them for a moment resemble Frank's.
That was all, emotion must be kept at bay, and as vehicles thickened
round them as they passed through Wil'sbro', the two ladies betook
themselves to casual remarks upon them. Overtaking the Sirenwood
carriage just at the turn upon the down, Raymond had no choice but
to take up his station with that on one side, and on the other
Captain Duncombe's drag, where, fluttering with Dark Hag's colours,
were perched Mrs. Duncombe and Miss Moy, just in the rear of the
like conveyance from the barracks.
Greetings, and invitations to both elevations were plentiful, and
Rosamond would have felt in her element on the military one. She
was rapidly calculating, with her good-natured eye, whether the
choice her rank gave her would exclude some eager girl, when Cecil
whispered, "Stay with me pray," with an irresistibly beseeching
tone. So the Strangeways sisters climbed up, nothing loth; Lady
Tyrrell sat with her father, the centre of a throng of gentlemen,
who welcomed her to the ground where she used to be a reigning
belle; and the Colonel's wife, Mrs. Ross, came to sit with Lady
Rosamond. The whole was perfect enjoyment to the last. She felt it
a delightful taste of her merry old Bohemian days to sit in the
clear September sunshine, exhilarated by the brilliancy and life
around, laughing with her own little court of officers, exclaiming
at every droll episode, holding her breath with the thrill of
universal expectation and excitement, in the wonderful hush of the
multitude as the thud of the hoofs and rush in the wind was heard
coming nearer, straining her eyes as the glossy creatures and their
gay riders flashed past, and setting her whole heart for the moment
on the one she was told to care for.
Raymond, seeing his ladies well provided for, gave up his reins to
the coachman, and started in quest of a friend from the other side
of the county. About an hour later, when luncheon was in full
progress, and Rosamond was, by Cecil's languor, driven into doing
the honours, with her most sunshiny drollery and mirth, Raymond's
hand was on the carriage door, and he asked in haste, "Can you spare
me a glass of champagne? Have you a scent-bottle?"
"An accident?"
"Yes, no, not exactly. She has been knocked down and trampled on."
"Who? Let me come! Can't I help? Could Rosamond?"
"No, no. It is a poor woman, brutally treated. No, I say, I'll
manage. It is a dreadful scene, don't."
But there was something in his tone which impelled Rosamond to open
the carriage door and spring out.
"Rose, I say it is no place for a lady. I can't answer for it to
Julius."
"I'll do that. Take me."
There was no withstanding her, and, after all, Raymond's tone
betrayed that he was thankful for her help, and knew that there was
no danger for her.
He had not many yards to lead her. The regions of thoughtless
gaiety were scarcely separated from the regions of undisguised evil,
and Raymond, on his way back from his friend, had fallen on a
horrible row, in which a toy-selling woman had been set upon, thrown
down and trodden on, and then dragged out by the police, bleeding
and senseless. When he brought Rosamond to the spot, she was lying
propped against a bundle, moaning a little, and guarded by a young
policeman, who looked perplexed and only equal to keeping back the
crowd, who otherwise, with better or worse purposes, would have
rushed back in the few minutes during which Mr. Poynsett had been
absent.
They fell back, staring and uttering expressions of rough wonder at
the advance of the lady in her glistening silk, but as she knelt
down by the poor creature, held her on her arm, bathed her face with
scent on her own handkerchief, and held to her lips the champagne
that Raymond poured out, there was a kind of hoarse cheer.
"I think her arm is put out," said Rosamond; "she ought to go to the
Infirmary."
"Send for a cab," said Raymond to the policeman; but at that moment
the girl opened her eyes, started at the sight of him and tried to
hide her face with her hand.
"It is poor Fanny Reynolds," said he in a low voice to Rosamond,
while the policeman was gruffly telling the woman she was better,
and ought to get up and not trouble the lady; but Rosamond waved off
his too decided assistance, saying:
"I know who she is; she comes from my husband's parish; and I will
take her home. You would like to go home, would you not, poor
Fanny?"
The woman shuddered, but clung to her; and in a minute or two an
unwilling fly had been pressed into the service, and the girl lifted
into it by Raymond and the policeman.
"You are really going with her?" said the former. "You will judge
whether to take her home; but she ought to go to the Infirmary
first."
"Tell Cecil I am sorry to desert her," said Rosamond, as he wrung
her hand, then paid the driver and gave him directions, the
policeman going with them to clear the way through the throng to the
border of the down.
The choice of the cabman had not been happy. He tried to go towards
Backsworth, and when bidden to go to Wil'sbro', growled out an
imprecation, and dashed off at a pace that was evident agony to the
poor patient; but when Rosamond stretched out at the window to
remonstrate, she was answered with rude abuse that he could not be
hindered all day by whims. She perceived that he was so much in
liquor that their connection had better be as brief as possible; and
the name on the door showed that he came from beyond the circle of
influence of the name of Charnock Poynsett. She longed to assume
the reins, if not to lay the whip about his ears; but all she could
do was to try to lessen the force of the jolts by holding up the
girl, as the horse was savagely beaten, and the carriage so swayed
from side to side that she began to think it would be well if there
were not three cases for the Infirmary instead of one. To talk to
the girl or learn her wishes was not possible, among the moans and
cries caused by the motion; and it was no small relief to be safely
at the Infirmary door, though there was no release till after a
fierce altercation with the driver, who first denied, and then
laughed to scorn the ample fare he had received, so that had any
policeman been at hand, the porter and house surgeon would have
given him in charge, but they could only take his number and let him
drive off in a fury.
Poor Fanny was carried away fainting to the accident ward, and
Rosamond found it would be so long before she would be visible
again, that it would be wiser to go home and send in her relations,
but there was not a fly or cab left in Wil'sbro', and there was
nothing for it but to walk.
She found herself a good deal shaken, and walked fast because thus
her limbs did not tremble so much, while the glaring September
afternoon made her miss the parasol she had left in the carriage,
and find little comfort in the shadeless erection on her head. It
was much further than she had walked for a long time past, and she
had begun to think she had parted with a good deal of her strength
before the Compton woods grew more defined, or the church tower came
any nearer.
Though the lane to the Reynolds' colony was not full in her way, she
was glad to sit down in the shade to speak to old Betty, who did not
comport herself according to either extreme common to parents in
literature.
"So Fanny, she be in the 'firmary, be her? I'm sure as 'twas very
good of the young Squire and you, my lady; and I'm sorry her's bin
and give you so much trouble."
Everybody was harvesting but the old woman, who had the inevitable
bad leg. All men and beasts were either in the fields or at the
races, and Rosamond, uncertain whether her patient was not in a
dying state, rejoiced in her recent acquisition of a pony carriage,
and speeding home with renewed energy, roused her 'parson's man'
from tea in his cottage, and ordered him off to take Betty Reynolds
to see her daughter without loss of time.
Then at length she opened her own gate and walked in at the drawing-
room window. Terry started up from the sofa, and Anne from a chair
by his side, exclaiming at her appearance, and asking if there had
been any accident.
"Not to any of us, but to a poor woman whom I have been taking to
the Infirmary," she said, sinking into a low chair. "Where's
Julius?"
"He went to see old George Willett," said Anne. "The poor old man
has just heard of the death of his daughter at Wil'sbro'."
"And you came to sit with this boy, you good creature. How are you,
master?"
"Oh, better, thanks," he said, with a weary stretch. "How done up
you look, Rose! How did you come?"
"I walked from Wil'sbro'."
"Walked!" echoed both her hearers.
"Walked! I liked my two legs better than the four of the horse that
brought me there, though 'twasn't his fault, poor beast, but the
brute of a driver, whom we'll have up before the magistrate. I've
got the name; doing his best to dislocate every bone in the poor
thing's body. Well, and I hope baby didn't disturb you?"
"Baby has been wonderfully quiet. Julius went to see after her
once, but she was out."
"I'll go and see the young woman, and then come and tell my story."
But Rosamond came back almost instantly, exclaiming, "Emma must have
taken the baby to the Hall. I wish she would be more careful. The
sun is getting low, and there's a fog rising."
"She had not been there when I came down an hour ago," said Anne;
"at least, not with Mrs. Poynsett. They may have had her in the
housekeeper's room. I had better go and hasten her home."
Julius came in shortly after, but before he had heard the tale of
Fanny Reynolds, Anne had returned to say that neither child nor
nurse had been at the Hall, nor passed the large gate that morning.
It was growing rather alarming. The other servants said Emma had
taken the baby out as usual in the morning, but had not returned to
dinner, and they too had supposed her at the Hall. None of the
dependants of the Hall in the cottages round knew anything of her,
but at last Dilemma Hornblower imparted that she had seen my lady's
baby's green cloak atop of a tax-cart going towards Wil'sbro'.
Now Emma had undesirable relations, and Rosamond had taken her in
spite of warning that her uncle was the keeper of the 'Three
Pigeons.' The young parents stood looking at one another, and
Rosamond faintly said, "If that girl has taken her to the races!"
"I'm more afraid of that fever in Water Lane," said Julius. "I have
a great mind to take the pony carriage and see that the girl does
not take her there."
"Oh! I sent it with Betty Reynolds," cried Rosamond in an agony.
"At that moment the Hall carriage came dashing up, and as Raymond
saw the three standing in the road, he called to the coachman to
stop, for he and his friend were now within, and Cecil leaning back,
looking much tired. Raymond's eager question was what Rosamond had
done with her charge.
"Left her at the Infirmary;--but, oh! you've not seen baby?"
"Seen--seen what! your baby?" asked Raymond, as if he thought
Rosamond's senses astray, while his bachelor friend was ready to
laugh at a young mother's alarms, all the more when Julius answered,
"It is too true; the baby and her nurse have not been seen here
since ten o'clock; and we are seriously afraid the girl may have
been beguiled to those races. There is a report of the child's
cloak having been seen on a tax-cart."
"Then it was so," exclaimed Cecil, starting forward. "I saw a
baby's mantle of that peculiar green, and it struck me that some
farmer's wife had been aping little Julia's."
"Where? When?" cried Rosamond.
"They passed us, trying to find a place. I did not show it to you
for you were talking to those gentlemen."
"Did you see it, Brown?" asked Julius, going towards the coachman.
"Our baby and nurse, I mean."
"I can't tell about Miss Charnock, sir," said the coachman, "but I
did think I remarked two young females with young Gadley in a tax-
cart. I would not be alarmed, sir, nor my lady," he added, with the
freedom of a confidential servant, who, like all the household,
adored Lady Rosamond. "It was a giddy thing in the young woman to
have done; and no place to take the young lady to. But there--there
were more infants there than a man could count, and it stands to
reason they come to no harm."
"The most sensible thing that has been said yet," muttered the
friend; but Rosamond was by no means pacified. "Gadley's cart!
They'll go to that horrid public-house in Water Lane where there's
typhus and diphtheria and everything; and there's this fog--and that
girl will never wrap her up. Oh! why did I ever go?"
"My dear Rose," said Julius, trying to speak with masculine
composure, "this is nonsense. Depend upon it, Emma is only anxious
to get her home."
"I don't know, I don't know! If she could take her to the races,
she would be capable of taking her anywhere! They all go and drink
at that beer-shop, and catch--Julius, the pony carriage! Oh! it's
gone!"
"Yes," said Julius in explanation. "She sent Betty Reynolds into
Wil'sbro' in it."
"Get in, Rosamond," cried Cecil, "we will drive back till we find
her."
But this was more than a good coachman could permit for his horses'
sake, and Brown declared they must be fed and rested before the
ball. Cecil was ready to give up the ball, but still they could not
be taken back at once; and Rosamond had by this time turned as if
setting her face to walk at once to the race-ground until she found
her child, when Raymond said, "Rose! would you be afraid to trust to
King Coal and me? I would put him in at once and drive you till you
find Julia."
"Oh! Raymond, how good you are!"
The coachman, glad of this solution, only waited to pick up Anne,
and hurried on his horses, while the bachelor friend could not help
grunting a little, and observing that it was plain there was only
one child in the family, and that he would take any bet 'it' was at
home all right long before Poynsett reached the parsonage.
"Maybe so," said Raymond, "but I would do anything rather than leave
her mother in the distress you take so easily."
"Besides, there's every chance of her being taken to that low
public-house," said Cecil. "One that Mr. Poynsett would not allow
our servants to go to during the bazaar, though it is close to the
town-hall, and all the others did."
"Let us hope that early influence may prevent contamination,"
solemnly said the friend.
Cecil turned from him. "I still hope she may be at home," she said;
"it is getting very chill and foggy. Raymond, I hope you may not
have to go."
"You must lie down and get thoroughly rested," he said, as he helped
her out; and only waiting to equip himself for the evening dance, he
hurried to the stables to expedite the harnessing of the powerful
and fiery steed which had as yet been only experimentally driven by
himself and the coachman.
Rosamond was watching, and when King Coal was with difficulty pulled
up, she made but one spring to the seat of the dog-cart; and Julius,
who was tucking in the rug, had to leap back to save his foot, so
instantaneous was the dash forward. They went like the wind,
Rosamond not caring to speak, and Raymond had quite enough on his
hands to be glad not to be required to talk, while he steered
through the numerous vehicles they met, and she scanned them
anxiously for the outline of Emma's hat. At last they reached
Wil'sbro', where, as they came to the entrance of Water Lane,
Rosamond, through the hazy gaslight, declared that she saw a tax-
cart at the door of the 'Three Pigeons,' and Raymond, albeit
uncertain whether it were _the_ tax-cart, could only turn down the
lane at her bidding, with difficulty preventing King Coal from
running his nose into the vehicle. Something like an infant's cry
was heard through the open door, and before he knew what she was
about, Rosamond was on the pavement and had rushed into the house;
and while he was signing to a man to take the horse's head, she was
out again, the gaslight catching her eyes so that they glared like a
tigress's, her child in her arms, and a whole Babel of explaining
tongues behind her. How she did it neither she nor Raymond ever
knew, but in a second she had flown to her perch, saying hoarsely,
"Drive me to Dr. Worth's. They were drugging her. I don't know
whether I was in time. No, not a word"--(this to those behind)--
"never let me see any of you again."
King Coal prevented all further words of explanation by dancing
round, so that Raymond was rejoiced at finding that nobody was run
over. They were off again instantly, while Rosamond vehemently
clasped the child, which was sobbing out a feeble sound, as if quite
spent with crying, but without which the mother seemed dissatisfied,
for she moved the poor little thing about if it ceased for a moment.
They were soon within Dr. Worth's iron gates, where Raymond could
give the horse to a servant, help his sister-in-law down, and speak
for her; for at first she only held up the phial she had clutched,
and gazed at the doctor speechlessly.
He looked well both at the bottle and the baby while Raymond spoke,
and then said, "Are you sure she took any, Lady Rosamond?"
"Quite, quite sure!" cried Rosamond. "The spoon was at her lips,
the dear little helpless darling!"
"Well, then," said the doctor, dryly, "it only remains to be proved
whether an aristocratic baby can bear popular treatment. I dare say
some hundred unlucky infants have been lugged out to the race-course
to-day, and come back squalling their hearts out with fatigue and
hunger, and I'll be bound that nine-tenths are lulled with this very
sedative, and will be none the worse."
"Then you do not think it will hurt her?"
"So far from it, that, under the circumstances, it was the best
thing she could have. She has plainly been exhausted, and though I
would not exactly recommend the practice in your nursery, I doubt if
she could have taken nourishment till she had been composed. She
will sleep for an hour or two, and by that time you can get her
home, and feed her as usual. I should be more anxious about Lady
Rosamond herself," he added, turning to Raymond. "She looks
completely worn out. Let me order you a basin of soup."
But Rosamond would not hear of it, she must get baby home directly.
Raymond advised a fly, but it was recollected that none was
attainable between the races and the ball, so the little one was
muffled in shawls and cloaks almost to suffocation, and the doctor
forced a glass of wine on her mother, and promised to look in the
next day. Still they had a delay at the door, caused by the
penitent Emma and her aunt, bent on telling how far they had been
from intending any harm; how Emma, when carrying the baby out, had
been over-persuaded by the cousins she had never disappointed
before; how they had faithfully promised to take her home early,
long before my lady's return; how she had taken baby's bottle, but
how it had got broken; how impossible it had been to move off the
ground in the throng; and how the poor baby's inconsolable cries had
caused the young nurse to turn aside to see whether her aunt could
find anything to prevent her from screaming herself into
convulsions.
Nothing but the most determined volubility on Mrs. Gadley's part
could have poured this into the ears of Raymond; Rosamond either
could not or would not heed, pushed forward, past the weeping Emma,
and pulled away her dress with a shudder, when there was an attempt
to draw her back and make her listen.
"Don't, girl," said Raymond. "Don't you see that Lady Rosamond
can't attend to you? If you have anything to say, you must come
another time. You've done quite enough mischief for the present."
"Yes," said the doctor, "tell your brother to put them both to bed,
and keep them quiet. I should like to prescribe the same for you,
Mr. Poynsett; you don't look the thing, and I suppose you are going
to take the ball by way of remedy."
Raymond thanked the doctor, but was too much employed in enveloping
his passengers to make further reply.
It was quite dark, and the fog had turned to misty rain, soft and
still, but all pervading, and Rosamond found it impossible to hold
up an umbrella as well as to guard the baby, who was the only
passenger not soaked and dripping by the time they were among the
lighted windows of the village.
"Oh, Raymond! Raymond!" she then said, in a husky dreamy voice,
"how good and kind you have been. I know there was something that
would make you very, very glad!"
"Is there?" he said. "I have not met with anything to make me glad
for a long time past!"
"And I don't seem able to recollect what it was, or even if I ought
to tell," said Rosamond, in the same faint, bewildered voice, which
made Raymond very glad they were at the gate, where stood Julius.
But before Rosamond would descend into her husband's arms, she
opened all her child's mufflings, saying, "Kiss her, kiss her,
Raymond--how she shall love you!" And when he had obeyed, and
Rosamond had handed the little one down to her father, she pressed
her own wet cheek against his dripping beard and moustache, and
exclaimed, "I'll never forget your goodness. Have you got her safe,
Julius? I'll never, never go anywhere again!"