The Manoeuvring Mother (Vol. 1-3). Lady Charlotte Campbell Bury
"Charles said he meant to call at Hatton," said Miss Spottiswoode, "and I dare say it would really be an accommodation, unless this is the day he promised to ride over to the Farnboroughs. Mr. Tyndal, before you mount your horse, just tell Charles here is room for him, by Miss Wycherly's permission—beg pardon for the trouble."
Mr. Henry Tyndal sprang from his horse, and proceeded to obey her request. Miss Wycherly gathered up the reins, but her hands trembled with anxious curiosity to ascertain the effect of the summons. Mr. Henry Tyndal returned alone.
"Spottiswoode says he is going to Hatton, but he is engaged to ride there with the Farnborough party. It has been an appointment of some days' standing, he says, therefore he cannot come; here he is to answer for himself."
Mr. Charles Spottiswoode appeared equipped for riding, but he excused himself to Miss Wycherly with much politeness—a style of manner so wounding to its object, so unbearably irritating to a self-upbraiding, yet proud, spirit. The colour rose in Miss Wycherly's face.
"I am engaged to ride to Hatton with Lord Farnborough and his daughter," proceeded Mr. Spottiswoode: "Lady Anna commanded me to attend her some time ago, and her ladyship never fails her word, therefore I must not allow her to upbraid me with the most offensive of all failings, that of deceiving expectations. Sophy, you are all the colours of the rainbow."
"Never mind, Charles," replied Miss Spottiswoode, smiling good-naturedly at the remark; "if I mix pink and green too strongly for your taste, pray remonstrate with Lady Anna Herbert; she wears three colours; perhaps your opinion may have some weight with her. I am, you know, incorrigible."
"Will Lady Anna possess more sense than her sex?" asked Mr. Spottiswoode. "Will she relinquish three favourite tints to please?"
"To please you, Charles, I dare say Lady Anna would renounce her darling colours—purple, yellow, and green. Can my dear pink and green be half so prononcée? Miss Wycherly, do speak for me! Charles always upholds Lady Anna's frightful combination."
"I have not upheld Lady Anna, Sophy."
"Yes, you always do, Charles. Every thing is Lady Anna now."
Miss Wycherly's spirit could endure no more; she turned to Lady Spottiswoode.
"We are embarked in this undertaking, and time is precious. If Sophy has settled her interesting topic, may I proceed to Hatton? Mr. Tyndal, Mr. Henry Tyndal, you must not lose sight of us; shall we proceed?"
The lady was perfectly ready to resign the conversation; the Mr. Tyndals were already mounted, and Mr. Spottiswoode bowed his adieu. Miss Wycherly would not appear mortified and unhappy; she returned her lover's salutation with a bow and smile, which equalled his own in apparent indifference; and the party were quickly on their road. Miss Wycherly, as charioteer, had full occupation for her attention, and she was silent during the drive: her heart was heavy; and the fear of having lost Spottiswoode's affection weighed down her spirits and produced a mortal sorrow. Such was the consequence of a fault persisted in, because a false pride could not endure to own its transgression! Such was the suffering produced by a heart resolute to lose the man beloved, ere it would bend to acknowledge its weakness!
Miss Wycherly forgot, in her own misery, the amusement she contemplated in observing her aunt Pynsent's conduct, when she received the visits of congratulation upon her son's intended marriage. In her misery, also, she did not immediately perceive Tom Pynsent and Miss Wetheral comfortably established in the Hatton drawing-room; or did she, for some moments, perceive the Ennismores and Julia also present; while Mr. Pynsent, smilingly and in high spirits, was chatting in turn to the individuals composing the circle, and calling for the congratulations of each person upon the event in prospect.
Lady Spottiswoode gazed in astonishment at the sudden and powerful change: who could have surmised that the "empty, horrible Wetherals" were now to receive a thousand attentions and affectionate solicitudes from Mrs. Pynsent!—that "the bird from the Wetheral nest" was to be wooed to its gilded cage by all the gentle lures that Mrs. Pynsent could devise!—that sweet was henceforth to be bitter, and the bitter sweet! Lady Spottiswoode gazed, and gazed again.
"Well, you are all come to say pretty things to me," said Mrs. Pynsent, addressing the newly-arrived party, "and you are all moonstruck!—not a word from one of you: why, Pen, you are all of a heap!—Well, Tyndal lads, what have you to say?—here am I, full of bustle and happiness. Tom is going to get married at last, and he has made his old mother happy. We are all happy. I tell Bobby he ought to fall down and worship Miss Wetheral, for taking Tom—but here, just come this way, Lady Spottiswoode." Mrs. Pynsent lowered her voice.—"I didn't much like the idea of a Wetheral, once, you remember; but that's all ended—we won't remember old grievances."
"Certainly not," replied her ladyship—"one has often reason to discard opinions."
"To be sure—can't be for ever harping upon one string." She turned to her niece.
"Why, you look as if you had lost your love. What's the matter, woman?—cheer up. Get a good husband, Pen; and don't pay these sort of visits with such a long face!"
Miss Wycherly could not command a portion of the ever-ready spirits which had never failed her before; her mind was too oppressed, even to make an effort. Her aunt's observations were unheard or unnoticed, as she turned towards her cousin Tom, who came up, red-faced and happy, to demand her felicitations.
"All right, at last, Cousin Pen: all fears and tribulations are over. There is nothing like fair dealing, and I have won a wife, after a devilish sharp run, though a short one. Now say something in your own fashion upon it, Cousin Pen; something, as Spottiswoode says of you, sharp, short, and sensible."
Miss Wycherly put her hand to her eyes, and, for a few moments, she made no reply. Tom Pynsent believed the trembling of her hands proceeded from fatigue.
"I have told you, Cousin Pen, a woman should not drive four-in-hand; it's something out of reason. A pair is very pretty handling; but your little figure perched upon a box, with four horses, won't answer. Your hands are all in a shake, now."
"Let Pen alone, Tom," said Mrs. Pynsent. "My niece is a Wycherly, and the Wycherlys never gave in till they were fairly under ground."
"I am ill, aunt; very ill—a glass of water; any thing just to revive me; my heart is bursting." Miss Wycherly became unable to speak, and the company surrounded her, offering every species of condolence and remedy. A glass of water was procured, and the cold sparkling draught refreshed her. She felt that an effort must be made; and it was made under sickness of heart and prostration of mind, but the effort had a beneficial effect, for it roused the sufferer from a blighting sense of misery to the recollection of present events, and she was enabled to smile and speak to her cousin with some degree of coherence.
"Tom, I do wish you happy, and I suppose I am fatigued, for I have driven fourteen miles, but I never was so ill before."
"You are ill," observed Julia Wetheral, who had seated herself near Miss Wycherly: "it must be something extraordinary which could overpower you, Penelope. You must have felt fatigue in mind and body with those gay horses."
Miss Wycherly endeavoured to form a playful reply, but a flood of tears burst forth.
"Say nothing to me, now, Julia—let me be perfectly silent for a quarter of an hour, and I shall recover."
Every one returned to their former seats, except Julia, who remained silently at Miss Wycherly's side, and the company again resumed their interrupted conversation. Mrs. Pynsent had her private thoughts respecting her niece's sudden illness, which she whispered to Lady Ennismore.
"Pen is never ill, and never tired with driving—she would drive six-in-hand, and laugh at it. I hope Pen hasn't taken a fancy to Tom: my sister Hancock never could bear the idea of cousins marrying."
Lady Ennismore smiled graciously.—"You are more acute, Mrs. Pynsent, than myself: you have, no doubt, excellent reasons for your suppositions."
"Lord, I never suppose any thing, Lady Ennismore, or see any thing till it's all over; only Pen's illness,