The Third Autumn
A good man ther was of religion,
That was a poure Persone of a toune;
But rich he was of holy thought and work,
He also was a learned man a clerk.--CHAUCER
Autumn came round again, and brought with it a very different
September from the last.
Willansborough was in a state of commotion. That new Vicar had not
only filled the place with curates, multiplied services in the iron
church, and carried on the building of St. Nicholas in a style of
beauty that was quite affronting to those who were never asked to
contribute to it, but he gave people no peace in their easy
conventional sins, pricked them in their hearts with personal
individual stings, and, worse than all, protested against the races,
as conducted at Wil'sbro'.
And their Member was just as bad! Captain Charnock Poynsett,
instead of subscribing, as part of his duty to his constituents, had
replied by sending his brother Raymond's half-finished letter to the
club, with an equally strong and resolute one of his own, and had
published both in all the local papers.
Great was the fury and indignation of Wil'sbro', Backsworth, and all
the squires around. Of course it was a delirious fancy of poor
Raymond Poynsett, and Miles had been worked upon by his puritanical
wife and ritualistic brother to publish it. Newspapers teemed with
abuse of superstition and pharisaism, and praise of this wholesome,
moral, and 'truly English' sport. Gentlemen, and ladies too, took
the remonstrance as a personal offence, and threatened to visit no
more at Compton; the electors bade him look to his seat, and held
meetings to invite 'Mr. Simmonds Proudfoot,' as he now called
himself, to represent them; and the last week, before the races, the
roughs mobbed him in Water Lane. He rode quietly through them, with
his sailor face set as if against a storm, but when he was out of
the place, he stopped his horse at Herbert Bowater's lodgings, that
his black eye might be washed, and the streams of rotten egg removed
from his coat before he presented himself at home. Not that he had
much fear of startling his wife and mother. It was more from the
Englishman's hatred of showing himself a hero, for Anne was
perfectly happy in the persecution he had brought on himself, for
she never had been so sure before that he was not of the world,
worldly.
The races were exceptionally brilliant, and fully attended, but the
triumph of the roughs had made them more outrageously disgraceful in
their conduct than ever; and when Miles went to the quarter-
sessions, rather doubting whether he should not find himself landed
in Coventry, not only did the calendar of offences speak for itself,
but sundry country gentlemen shook him by the hand, lamenting that
railways and rowdyism had entirely altered races from what they used
to be, that he was in the right, and what they had seen so recently
proved that the only thing to be done was to withdraw from what
respectable people could no longer keep within bounds. Such
withdrawal will not prevent them, but it will hinder the
demoralization from being so extensive as formerly, since no one of
much character to lose will attend them.
Mr. Bowater rejoiced in Miles's triumph. None of that family had
been at these same races. They had all been much too anxious about
Herbert not to view Ember Week in a very different light from that
in which they had thought of it before.
Lent had brought the junior curate back from Strawyers, not much
more than a convalescent, but with his sister to look after him, and
both Rector and senior anxious to spare him; he had gone on well
till the family returned and resumed Jenny, when he was left to his
own devices, namely, 'all work and no play.' He was as fixed as
ever in his resolution of making this a penance year, and believed
himself so entirety recovered as to be able to do without
relaxations. Cricket, riding, dinners, and garden-parties alike he
had given up, and divided his time entirely between church and
parish work and study. Hard reading had never been congenial, and
took a great deal out of him, and in fact, all his theological study
had hitherto been little more than task-work, into which he had
never fully entered, whereas these subjects had now assumed such a
force, depth, and importance, that he did in truth feel constrained
to go to the very foundation, and work through everything again,
moved and affected by them in every fibre of his soul, which
vibrated now at what it had merely acquiesced in before. It was a
phase that had come suddenly on him, when his mind was in full
vigour of development, and his frame and nerves below par, and the
effect could not but be severe. He was wrapped up in these great
realities, and seemed to care for no talk, except discussing them
with Julius or the senior curate, and often treated things of common
life like the dream that they really are.
Julius laid as little parish work on him as possible, only, indeed,
what seemed actually beneficial by taking him out; but it may be
feared, that in his present fervid state he was not nearly so
winning to his young clients as when he was less 'terribly in
earnest,' although the old women were perhaps more devoted to him,
from the tender conviction 'that the poor dear young gentleman would
not be here long.'
For indeed it was true that he had never advanced in strength or
looks since his return, but rather lost ground, and thus every
change of weather, or extra exertion, told on him, till in August he
was caught in a thunder-storm, and the cold that ensued ran on into
a feverish attack, which barely left him in time for the Ordination,
and then with a depressed system, and nerves morbidly sensitive.
So sensible (or more than sensible) was he of his deficiencies, that
he would willingly have held back, and he was hardly well enough to
do himself justice; but there was no doubt that he would pass, and
it was plain that three more months of the strain of preparation
might leave permanent effects on his health.
As it was, the examining chaplain did not recognize the lean, pale,
anxious man, for the round-faced, rosy, overgrown boy of a year ago.
His scholarship and critical knowledge were fairly above the mark,
in spite of a racking headache; and his written sermon, together
with all that was elicited from him, revealed, all unconsciously to
himself, what treasures he had brought back from the deep waters
which had so nearly closed over him.
So superior had he shown himself, that he was appointed to read the
Gospel, a choice that almost shocked him, knowing that what had made
him excel had been an experience that the younger men had happily
missed. But the mark of approval was compensation to his parents
and sisters for the disappointment of the last year, and the only
drawback was fear of the effect of the long ceremonial, so deeply
felt.
He met them afterwards, very white-faced, with head aching, and
weary almost beyond speech, but with a wonderfully calm, restful
look on his face, such as reminded Jenny of those first hours of his
recovery.
They took him home and put him to bed, and there he lay, hardly
speaking, and generally sleeping. There he still was on the Monday,
when Julius came to inquire after him, and was taken up-stairs at
once by Jenny, with the greeting, "So the son and heir is come,
Julius?"
"Yes, and I never saw my mother more exulting. When Rosamond ran
down to tell her, she put her arms round her neck and cried. She
who never had a tear through all last year. I met your father and
mother half-way, and they told me I might come on."
"I think nothing short of such news would have made mamma leave this
boy," said Jenny; "but she must have her jubilee with Mrs.
Poynsett."
"And I'm quite well," said Herbert, who had been grasping Julius's
hand, with a wonderful look in his eyes; "yes, really--the doctor
said so."
"Yes, he did," said Jenny, "only he said we were to let him alone,
and that he was not to get up till he felt quite rested."
"And I shall get up to dinner," said Herbert, so sleepily, that
Julius doubted it. "I hope to come back before Sunday."
"What does your doctor say to that?"
"He says," replied Jenny, "that this gentleman must be rational;
that he has nothing the matter with him now, but that he is low, and
ripe for anything. Don't laugh, you naughty boy, he said you were
ripe for anything, and that he must--yes, he _must_--be turned out
to grass somehow or other for the winter, and do nothing at all."
"I begin to see what you are driving at, Mrs. Joan, you look so
triumphant."
"_Yes_," said Jenny, blushing a little, and looking quite young
again; "I believe poor mamma would be greatly reconciled to it, if
Herbert were to see me out to Natal."
"Is that to be the way?"
"It would be very absurd to make Archie come home again for me,"
said Jenny. "And everything else is most happily smoothed for me,
you know; Edith has come quite to take my place at home; mamma
learnt to depend on her much more than on me while I was with
Herbert."
"And it has made her much more of a woman," added Herbert.
"Then you know that full statement poor Mr. Moy put forth when he
left the place, on his wife's death, quite removed all lingering
hesitation on papa's part," added Jenny.
"It ought, I am sure!" said Julius.
"So, now, if Herbert will go out with me, it seems to me to be all
right," said Jenny, colouring deeply, as she made this lame and
impotent conclusion.
"My father wishes it," said Herbert. "I believe he meant to see you
to-day to ask leave of absence for me. That is what he wishes; but
I have made up my mind that I ought to resign the curacy--where I
have never been any use to you--though, if I had been well, I meant
to have worked a year with you as a priest."
"I don't like to lose you, but I think you are right. Your
beginning with me was a mistake. There is not enough work for three
of us; but you know Easterby would be delighted to have you at St.
Nicholas. He says his most promising people talk of what you said
to them when they were ill, and he asked me if you could possibly
come to him."
"I think it would be better to begin in a new place, further from
home," said Herbert, quietly.
And both knew what he meant, and how hard it would be to be the
clergyman he had learnt to wish to be, if his mother were at hand to
be distressed by all he did or did not do.
"But, any way," added Herbert, "I hope to have some time longer at
Compton before I go. Next Sunday, if I only _can_."
His mind was evidently full of the Feast of the Sunday, and Julius
answered, "Whichever Sunday you are strong enough, of course, dear
fellow. You had better come with him, Jenny, and sleep at the
Rectory."
"Oh! thank you. I should like nothing so much; and I think they
will spare me that one day."
"You will come in for a grand gathering, that is, if poor Cecil
accepts. Miles thinks she ought to be godmother."
"Oh!"
"And no one has said a word of any cloud. It is better he should
know nothing."
"And oh! Julius, is it true that her father has bought Sirenwood for
her?"
"Quite true. You know it was proposed at first, but the trustees
doubted of the title; but when all that was cleared up, it turned
out to be a better investment than Swanslea, and so they settled it,
without much reference to her."
"She will let it, of course?"
"I suppose so."
"You don't think she will come to the christening?"
"I cannot tell; Rose has had one or two very sad letters from her.
She wanted us very much to come to Dunstone, and was much
disappointed that we were prevented. I fancy her heart has turned
to us, and that it is very sore, poor thing."
Julius was right. Cecil did return an answer, whose warmth quite
amazed all but Miles and Anne, who thought nothing too much for
their son; and she gladly came to attend the christening of the
young Raymond. Gladly--yes, she was glad to leave Dunstone. She
had gone home weary and sick of her lodging and convalescence, and
hoping to find relief in the home that had once been all-sufficient
for her, but Dunstone was not changed, and she was. She had not
been able to help outgrowing its narrow opinions and formal
precisions; and when she came home, crushed with her scarcely
realized grief, nothing there had power to comfort her.
There was soothing at first in her step-mother's kindness, and she
really loved her father; but their petting admiration soon grew
oppressive, after the more bracing air of Compton; and their
idolatry of her little brother fretted and tried her all the more,
because they thought he must be a comfort to her, and any slight
from her might be misconstrued. Mr. Venn's obsequiousness, instead
of rightful homage, seemed deprivation of support, and she saw no
one, spoke to no one, without the sense of Raymond's vast
superiority and her own insensibility to it, loving him a thousand
times more than she had loved him in life, and mourning him with an
anguish beyond what the most perfect union would have left. She had
nothing to do. Self-improvement was a mere oppression, and she
longed after nothing so much as the sight of Rosamond, Anne, Julius,
or even Frank, and her amiable wishes prevailed to have them invited
to Dunstone; but at the times specified there were hindrances. Anne
had engagements at home, and Rosamond appeared to the rest of the
family to be a perpetual refuge for stray De Lanceys, while Frank
had to make up for his long enforced absence by a long unbroken
spell of work.
Cecil therefore had seen none of the family till she arrived at
Compton. She was perfectly well, she said, and had become a great
walker, and so, indeed, she showed herself, for she went out
directly after breakfast every morning, and never appeared again
till luncheon time; and would take long rides in the afternoon. "It
was her only chance of sleep," she said, when remonstrated with.
She did not look ill, but there was a restless, worn air that was
very distressing on her young features, and was the more piteous to
her relations, that she was just as constrained as ever in her
intercourse with them. She was eagerly attentive to Mrs. Poynsett,
and evidently so anxious to wait on her that Anne left to her many
little services, but if they were alone together, they were tongue-
tied, and never went deeper than surface subjects. Mrs. Poynsett
never discussed her, never criticized her, never attempted to fathom
her, being probably convinced that there was nothing but hard
coldness to be met with by probing. Yet there was something
striking in Cecil's having made people call her Mrs. Raymond
Poynsett, surrendering the Charnock, which she had once brandished
in all their faces, and going by the name by which her husband had
been best known.
To Anne she was passively friendly, and neither gave nor sought
confidences, and Anne was so much occupied with her baby, and all
the little household services that had grown on her, as well as with
her busy husband, that there was little leisure for them; and though
the meeting with Rosamond was at first the most effusive and
affectionate of all, afterwards she seemed to avoid tetes-a-tetes
with her, and was shyer with her than with Anne.
It was Miles that she got on with best. He had never so fully
realized the unhappiness of his brother's married life as those who
had watched it; and he simply viewed her as Raymond's loved and
loving widow and sincere mourner, and treated her with all brotherly
tenderness and reverence for her grief; while she responded with a
cordiality and gratitude which made her, when talking to him, a
pleasanter person than she had ever been seen at Compton before.
But it was not to Miles, but to Rosamond, that she brought an
earnest question, walking in one autumn morning to the Rectory, amid
the falling leaves of the Virginian-creeper, and amazing Rosamond,
who was writing against time for the Indian mail, by asking--
"Rosamond, will you find out if Mrs. Poynsett would mind my coming
to live at Sirenwood?"
"You, Cecil!"
"Yes, I'm old enough. There's no place for me at home, and though I
must be miserable anywhere, it will be better where I have something
to do, of some real use to somebody. I've been walking all round
every day, and seeing what a state it is in--in the hands of
creditors all these years."
"But you would be quite alone!"
"I am quite alone as it is."
"And would your father consent?"
"I think he would. I am a burthen to them now. They cannot feel my
grief, nor comfort it, and they don't like the sight of it, though I
am sure I trouble them with it as little as possible."
"Dear Cecil!" and the ready tears welled up in Rosamond's gray eyes.
"I don't want to talk of it," said Cecil. "If I felt worthy to
grieve it would be less dreadful; but it all seems like hypocrisy.
Rosamond, if you were to lose Julius to-morrow, you would not be as
unhappy as I am."
"Don't, don't!" cried Rosamond, making a gesture of horror. "But
does not coming here make it worse?"
"No, real stabs are better than dull aching; and then you--you,
Rosamond, did know how it really was, and that I would--I would--"
Cecil wept now as Rosamond had longed to see her weep when she had
left Compton, and Rosamond spoke from her tender heart of comfort;
but the outburst did not last long, and Cecil said, recovering
herself--
"After all, my most peaceful times of late have been in walking
about in those woods at Sirenwood; I should like to live there. You
know _he_ always wished it to be the purchase, because it joins
Compton, and I should like to get it all into perfect order and
beauty, and leave it all to little Raymond."
"I should have thought the place would have been full of ghosts."
"I tried. I made the woman let me in, and I sat where poor Camilla
used to talk to me, and I thought I was the better for facing it
out. The question is whether Mrs. Poynsett will dislike it. She
has a right to be consulted."
Perhaps Cecil could not be gracious. Certainly, Raymond would have
been thankful for even this admission.
"You wish me to find out?"
"If you would be so good. I would give it up at once if she has any
feeling against it, and go somewhere else--and of course she has!
She never can forget what I did!"
Rosamond caressed Cecil with that sweetness which saw everything in
the most consoling manner; but when the poor young widow was out of
sight, there was a revulsion of feeling.
"No, Mrs Poynsett must always feel that that wretched marriage broke
her son's heart, and murdered him!--murdered him!" said Rosamond to
herself, clenching that soft fist of hers. "It ought not to be
broached to her!"
But Julius--when she stated it to him rather less broadly, but still
saying that she did not know whether she could bear the sight of
Cecil, except when she was before her eyes, and how could his mother
endure her at all--did not see it in the same light. He thought
Sirenwood gave duties to Cecil, and that she ought not to be
hindered from fulfilling them. And he said his mother was a large-
minded woman, and not likely to have that personal bitterness
towards Cecil that both the ladies seemed to expect, as her rival in
her son's affections, and the means of his unhappiness and death.
He was right; Mrs. Poynsett was touched by finding that Cecil clung
to them rather than to her sublime family, and especially by the
design as to little Raymond, though she said that must never be
mentioned; nothing must bind so young a creature as Cecil, who
really did not know what love was at all.
"She is afraid the sight of her is distressing to you," said
Rosamond.
"Poor child, why should she?" said Mrs. Poynsett. "She was the
victim of an unsuccessful experiment of my dear boy's, and the
unsuspecting instrument of poor Camilla's vengeance. That is all I
see in her."
"Mrs. Poynsett, how can you!" cried Rosamond, impetuously. "With
all I know of her sorrow, I rage at her whenever I am out of sight
of her."
"I can't do that," said Mrs. Poynsett, half smiling, "any more than
I could at a doll. The poor thing was in a false position, and
nobody was more sorry for her than Raymond himself; but you see he
had fancied that marriage must bring the one thing it would not in
that short time."
"It would, if she had not been a little foolish donkey."
"Or if Camilla Tyrrell had let her alone! It is of no use to rake
up these things, my dear Rosamond. Let her come to Sirenwood, and
do such good as she can there, if it can comfort her. It was for my
sake that the unconscious girl was brought here to have her life
spoilt, and I would not stand in the way of what seems to be any
relief."
"But is it no pain?" persisted Rosamond.
"No, my dear. I almost wish it was. I shall never get on with her;
but I am glad she should come and be near you all; and Miles likes
her."
Mr. Charnock demurred at first, and wanted to saddle Cecil with her
old governess as a companion, but when he found that Mrs. Poynsett
and Miles made no objection, and remembered that she would be under
their wing, and would be an inestimable adviser and example to Anne,
he consented; and Cecil's arrangements were made with startling
rapidity, so that she was in possession before Christmas, which she
insisted on spending there. Dunstone had stereotyped hospitalities,
which she could not bear, and would not prevent, and now that her
first year of widowhood was over, the sorrow was not respected,
while it seemed to her more oppressive than ever.
So there she was in vehement activity; restless rather than
religious in her beneficence still, though the lesson she had had
showed itself in her constantly seeking the advice of Miles, who
thought her the most sensible woman in the world, except his Nan.
Whether this constant occupation, furnishing, repairing, planning,
beautifying her model cottages, her school chapel, and all the rest,
were lessening the heartache, no one knew, but the sharp black eyes
looked as dry and hard, the lines round the mouth as weary as ever;
and Rosamond sometimes thought if Sirenwood were not full of ghosts
to her, she was much like a ghost herself who came
"Hovering around her ancient home,
To find no refuge there."
There was another who could not help seeing her somewhat in that
light, and this was Eleonora Vivian, who had come to Compton to be
with Frank, when he was at last able to enjoy a well-earned holiday,
and with ears restored to their natural powers, though he always
declared that his eight months of deafness had done him more good
than anything that had ever befallen him in his life. It had thrown
him in on his real self, and broken all the unfortunate associations
of his first year in London. His first few months, while he was
still in need of care, had been spent with Miles and Anne, and that
tender ministry to him which his sister-in-law had begun in his
illness had been with him when he was tired, dispirited, or beset by
the trials of a tardy convalescence. As his interpreter, too, and
caterer for the pleasures his infirmity allowed, Anne had been
educating herself to a degree that 'self' improvement never would
have induced.
And when left alone in London, he was able to take care of himself
in all ways, and had followed the real leadings of his disposition,
which his misdirected courtship had interrupted for the time,
returning to the intellectual pursuits which were likely to be
beneficial, not only as pleasures, but in an economical point of
view; and he was half shy, half proud of the profits, such as they
were, of a few poems and essays which he certainly had not had it in
him to write before the ordeal he had undergone.
Eleonora's elder sister, Mrs. Fanshaw, had come home from India with
her husband, newly made a Major-General. Frank had gone to Rockpier
early in January, to be introduced to them, and after spending a day
or two there, to escort Lena to Compton. Mrs. Poynsett needed but
one glance to assure her that the two were happier than their wooing
had ever made them before, save in that one brief moment at Cecil's
party. Eleonora looked more beautiful, and the look of wistful pain
had left her brow, but it had made permanent lines there, as well
had seemed likely, and though her laugh would never have the abandon
of Rosamond's, still it was not so very rare, and though she was
still like a beautiful night, it was a bright moonlight one.
A few private interviews made the cause of the change apparent. The
sister, Mary Fanshaw, had something of Camilla's dexterity, but
having been early married to a good man, she had found its use
instead of its abuse; and though Lena's trust had come very slowly,
she had given it at last, and saw that her elders could deal with
her father as she could never do. Sir Harry respected the General
enough to let himself be restrained by him, and the husband and wife
were ready to take the charge--removing, however, from Rockpier, for
the religious atmosphere of which they were unprepared, and which
General Fanshaw thought very dull. Affairs were in course of being
wound up on the sale of Sirenwood, and the General had talked to
Frank, as one of the family, in a way that had proved to him his own
manhood more than anything that had happened to him. Out of the
wreck, nothing remained to the old man, and the portion which had
been secured by the mother's marriage settlements to younger
children, though hitherto out of reach, was felt by the daughters to
be due to the creditors, so that only two thousand pounds apiece had
been secured to each of them; and this the General consulted Frank
about appropriating for Sir Harry's use during his lifetime, himself
retaining the management, so as to secure the attendance of the
favourite valet, the keeping of a horse, and a fair amount of menus
plaisirs.
It was also made plain to Frank that Lena's filial duties and
scruples need no longer stand in the way of the marriage. Mrs.
Fanshaw had two girls almost come out, and perhaps she did not wish
them to be overshadowed by the aunt, who, however retiring, could
not help being much more beautiful. So all that remained was that
Mrs. Poynsett should be willing to supplement Frank's official
income with his future portion. She was all the more rejoiced, as
this visit showed her for the first time what Lena really was when
brought into the sunshine without dread of what she might hear or
see, or of harm being done by her belongings; and her gratitude for
the welcome with which she was received was most touching.
The rest of her family were in course of removing to their new home,
where Mrs. Fanshaw would be mistress of the house, and so Eleonora's
stay at Compton was prolonged till the general migration to London,
which was put off till Easter. Just before this, Herbert Bowater
came back from Natal, and walked from Strawyers with all his happy
dogs, as strong and hearty and as merry as ever; his boyish outlines
gone, but wholesome sunburn having taken the place of his rosiness,
and his bonny smile with its old joyousness. He had married Jenny
and Archie himself, and stayed a month on their ostrich farm, which
he declared was a lesson on woman's rights, since Mrs. Ostrich was
heedless and indifferent as to her eggs, but was regularly hunted
back to the duties by her husband, who always had two wives, and
regularly forced them to take turns in sitting; a system which
Herbert observed would be needful if the rights of women were to
work. He had brought offerings of eggs and feathers to Lady
Rosamond, and pockets full of curiosities for all his village
friends; also, he had been at the Cape, had seen Glen Fraser,
rejoiced the inhabitants with his accounts of Anne, and brought home
a delightful budget for her.
But the special cause of his radiance was a letter he brought from
his father to Mr. Bindon. The family living, which had decided his
own profession, had fallen vacant, and his father, wishing perhaps
not to be thought cruel and unnatural by his wife, had made no
appointment until Herbert's return, well knowing that he would
decide against himself: and feeling that, as things stood, it would
be an awkward exercise of patronage to put him in at once. Herbert
had declared that nothing would have induced him to accept what he
persuaded his father to let him offer to James Bindon, whom he had
found to have an old mother in great need of the comfortable home,
which, without interest, or any talent save for hard work, he could
scarcely hope to secure to her.
"And you, Herbert," said Julius, "can I ask you to come back to me,
now that we shall have a fair amount to do between us?"
Herbert smiled and shook his head, as he took out an advertisement
for a curate in one of the blackest parishes of the Black Country.
"I've written to answer that," he said.
Julius did not try to hinder him. What had been exaggerated had
parsed away, and he was now a brave man going forth in his strength
and youth to the service he had learnt to understand; able still
keenly to enjoy, but only using pleasure as an incidental episode
for the delight of others, and as subordinate to the true work of
his life.
He asked for his fellow-worker, Mrs. Duncombe. There were tidings,
but disappointing ones. She had written a long letter to Julius,
full of her reasons for being received into the Roman Communion,
where she rapturously declared she had for the first time found
peace. Anne and Rosamond took the change most bitterly to heart,
but Julius, though believing he could have saved her from the
schism, by showing her the true beauty and efficiency of her own
Church, could not wonder at this effect of foreign influences on one
so recently and imperfectly taught, and whose ardent nature required
strong forms of whatever she took up. And the letters she continued
to write to Julius were rapturous in the cause of the Pope and as to
all that she had once most contemned. She had taken her children
with her, but her husband remained tolerant, indifferent, and so
probably he would do while his health lasted.
Early in the summer Frank and Eleonora were married, and a pretty
little house in the outskirts of London found for them, suiting with
the grace of the one and the poetry of the other. It was a small,
quiet household, but could pleasantly receive those literary friends
of Frank's whom he delighted to present to his beautiful and
appreciative wife, whose sweetness and brightness grew every day
under the influence of affection and confidence. The other augury
of poor Lady Tyrrell, that their holidays would be spent at Compton
Hall, was fulfilled, but very pleasantly for both parties, for it
was as much home to Lena as to Frank.
Miles's geniality made all at ease that came near him, and Anne,
though never a conversational person, was a quietly kind hostess,
much beloved by all who had experienced her gentleness, and she had
Frank and Lena to give distinction in their different ways to her
London parties, as at Compton, Rosamond never failed to give
everything a charm where she assisted in planning or receiving.
Rosamond would never cease to love society. Even had she been a
grandmother she would have fired at the notion of a party, enjoy,
and render it enjoyable; and the mere announcement of a new face
would be as stimulating to her as it was the reverse to Anne. But
she had grown into such union with her husband, and had so forgotten
the Rathforlane defence, as to learn that it was pleasanter to do as
he liked than to try to make him like what she did, and a look of
disapproval from him would open her eyes to the flaws in any scheme,
however enchanting at first.
She was too necessary an element in all hospitalities of Cecil or of
Anne not to get quite as much diversion as so thorough a wife and
mother could find time for, since Julia did not remain by any means
an only child, and besides her permanent charge of Terence, relays
of De Lanceys were constantly casting up at the Rectory for
mothering in some form or other.
Cecil depended on her more than on any one else for sympathy, not
expressly in feeling, but in all her pursuits. In three years' time
Sirenwood was in perfect order, the once desolate garden blazed with
ribbons, triangles and pattipans of verbena, scarlet geranium and
calceolaria, with intervals of echiverias, pronounced by Tom to be
like cabbages trying to turn into copper kettles; her foliage plants
got all the prizes at horticultural shows, her poultry were
incomparable at their exhibitions, her cottages were models, her
school machinery perfect, and if a pattern in farming apparatus were
wanted, people went to Mrs. Raymond Poynsett's steward. She had
people of note to stay with her every winter, went to London for the
season, and was made much of, and all the time she looked as little,
and pinched, and weary, and heart-hungered as ever, and never seemed
to thaw or warm, clinging to no one but to Miles for counsel, and to
Rosamond for the fellow-feeling it was not always easy to give--when
it was apparently only about an orchid or a churn--and yet Rosamond
tried, for she knew it was starvation for sympathy.
The Charnock world murmured a little when, after a succession of De
Lancey visitors for four months, the Rectory was invaded by
Rosamond's eldest brother, Lord Ballybrehon, always the most hair-
brained of the family, and now invalided home in consequence of a
concussion of the brain while pigsticking in India. He was but a
year older than Rosamond, and her favourite of all, whose scrapes
she had shared, befriended, defended, and scolded in turn, very
handsome, very lazily daring, droll and mischievous, a sort of
concentration of all the other De Lanceys. His sister loved him
passionately, he fascinated the Rector, and little Julia was the
adorer of Uncle Bally.
But Rosamond was rather aghast to find Bally making such love as
only an Irishman could do to the prim little widow at Sirenwood,
dismayed and a little bit ashamed of her unspoken conviction that
Bally, after all his wild freaks and frolics, had come to have an
eye to the needs of the Rathforlane property; and what were her
feelings when, instead of finding the wild Irishman contemned, she
perceived that he was believed in and met fully half way? The
stiffness melted, the eyes softened and sparkled, the lips parted in
soft agitated smiles, the cheeks learnt to blush, and Cecil was
absolutely and thoroughly in love!
Yes, she had found her heart and was won--won in spite of the
Dunstone dislike to the beggarly title--in spite of Miles's well-
considered cautions--in spite of all her original self. And if
Ballybrehon began from mere desire to try for the well-endowed
widow, he had the warm loving nature that was sure to kindle and
reciprocate the affection he evoked, enough to make him a kind
husband.
And yet, could any one have wished Cecil Poynsett a more trying life
than one of her disposition must needs have with impetuous,
unpunctual, uncertain, scatter-brained, open-handed Ballybrehon,
always in a scramble, always inviting guests upon guests without
classification, and never remembering whom he had invited!
Rosamond herself declared she should be either in a rage or worn to
fritters by a month of it. How Cecil liked it never appeared. Some
thought that they squabbled and worried each other in private, but
it is certain that, as Terry said, Bally had turned the block into
living flesh and blood, and Lady Ballybrehon was wondrously
livelier, brighter, and sweeter ever since she had been entirely
conquered by the tyrant love, and had ceased to be the slave of her
own way.